Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (46 page)

‘Isn’t that paradoxical?’ Mike Shakes said. ‘I mean, come on, I’ve seen those movies and they never end well, either for the villain or the protagonist.’

I saw Glenda Hoyt frown mountain ridges.

‘Does our killer’s words appear in Chapter’s paper?’ I asked.

‘I can’t say for definite without referencing it.’ She answered. ‘But from what I remember, your killer’s message – if you could save a million lives by taking one, would you? – sounds a lot like Chapter to me.’

My brain hit a brick wall and bounced back.

‘Okay. Let’s rewind. You say Chapter used to be at Princeton. What happened to him?’

‘He found religion,’ Bill said. ‘Inevitable, with a name like that. The last we heard he’d shacked up with a New Age commune out in sunny California.’

‘So, do we think there’s a connection, other than plagiarism?’ I looked around the blank faces looking back at me. ‘Anyone?’

‘It’s possible the killer could have been one of his students.’ Someone conjectured.

‘Get us names of everyone who attended even one of Chapter’s lectures during the last ten years he was at Princeton.’ I said. ‘See if any of them are on the hotel guest lists.’

The Fed nodded. Made a note.

‘Chapter could be the killer.’ Glenda speculated.

‘In that case we need to find out if he’s still in that commune.’ I said. ‘Check if he has alibis. See if he’s brainwashing anyone who might carry his torch.’

Glenda nodded. ‘Will do.’

 
‘This message,’ one of the Feds began, ‘maybe it means he’s going to kill millions.’

‘Not by lethal injection.’ One of his colleagues countered. ‘At his present kill rate it would take over three thousand years.’

I looked around the room. ‘Anything else?’

Glenda Hoyt strummed manicured nails on the table. ‘Maybe he’s the voyeur. The baby-killer. Maybe he’s the one trying to prevent genocide.’

129

^{___________________________}

The room exploded into noisy debate. I sat back and let it take its course. I am no good with paradoxes. I don’t hide it. The thought of time travel has me jumping backwards through hoops. In my black-and-white world I deal with facts, not fantasy.

I heard Mike Shakes emit a nervous chuckle. ‘Is brain-storming supposed to mash mine up?’

The debate rolled around the table for about five minutes. I heard words like
paranormal, savior, psychotic
and
delusional
being tossed about. It was like sitting at a tennis match as fantastical ideas were slammed back and forth across the room.

I banged on the table. The Feds quieted down. Looked my way.

‘Glenda,’ I said, ‘let me get this straight. You’re saying he might be killing people to prevent more from being killed?’

‘If he believes he has predictive capabilities, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I know it sounds far-fetched. And I don’t believe he can do it for one minute. But we have to assume that maybe he does. So all I’m saying is: it’s not important what we believe. It’s important what
he
believes.’

‘Glenda’s right.’ I said. ‘We need to think like him. If he believes it, so should we.’

But I was having a hard time believing my own words, never mind
The Undertaker’s
. I wasn’t sure how the thought of chasing a psychic serial killer sat within my frame of logic. Decided I didn’t like it.

One of the Feds leaned forward, ‘So what does he believe he’s saving millions from?’

Now it was Bill’s turn to chime in: ‘It’s irrelevant. Because his thinking is flawed. You can’t change the future. Just like you can’t change the past. If he believes he’s eliminating those responsible for a crime not yet committed, then he’s on an erroneous mission. It’s a self-serving prophesy.’

I was out of my depth. Wouldn’t you be? Thoughts swimming round in circles, barely treading water. I couldn’t understand how anyone could kill an innocent child on the whim she might grow up to be a killer. Sunday School had taught me about an eye for an eye. But for the life of me I couldn’t see any godliness in us all ending up blind.

Glenda Hoyt had the last word:

‘Bill, I see where you’re coming from. And I agree. Whatever steps he takes today to try and change things, they’re just going to create that future anyway. It’s unavoidable. His killings won’t achieve a thing. He’s on a fool’s errand.’

130

^{___________________________}

Rochelle Lewis lives twenty miles south-east of Las Vegas. On an edge-of-town circular in a newish housing development in Boulder City. I’d never been to Rochelle’s place. Never quite gotten around to it. I didn’t even know if she’d be home. Or even if she still lived there. Listings had no telephone number registered to the property.

I commandeered a cab heading south. Watched the eye-watering Strip sail past. With its Christmas tree hotels and its flashing neon billboards blazing away the night.

Up until ten months ago, Rochelle Lewis had lived in LA. She’d lived there all her forty-five years. No reason to change that. An elementary school teacher with a good pension to look forward to. Not much in the way of family. But enough to keep her rooted. Then something had happened to make her up sticks and seek solitude in another State. I had no idea if she was still teaching. Or if she was still alive. Last time I’d spoken with Rochelle she’d tried to claw out my eyes.

We passed McCarran airport. Took the cloverleaf interchange onto Interstate 215. Headed east through the darkened desert towards Henderson at a breezy fifty-five.

Two years ago, Rochelle Lewis had made three mistakes. The first mistake was she’d met a man one night. It had been an ordinary meeting in an ordinary bar. A chance encounter. Just a few drinks. A few expertly-aimed compliments. The second mistake was she’d moved him in the very next day. He’d led her to believe he was a traveling salesman. Working for a company supplying piano accessories to outlets along the West Coast. He’d even had a van full of piano parts and pedals to prove it. He’d used Rochelle’s place as somewhere to crash for a few weeks whenever he was in LA. Used Rochelle in more ways than that. The third mistake had ruined her life.

Rochelle had known her part-time boyfriend as Travis Kimball.

But I knew him by another name.

131

^{___________________________}

None of the names on the sheet of paper given to Jamie by Captain Ferguson looked remotely like that of a killer. No Charles Manson or Jeffrey Dahmer. No red circles highlighting suspicious entries. Nothing that stood out like Hannibal Lecter at a Sunday barbecue. Just sixty or so innocent-looking Ramada guests with partial credit card numbers attached.

Jamie screwed up her face until it hurt.

She knew a similar list was being put together in Vegas. But without it to cross-reference against, these sixty or so ever-so-ordinary-looking names might as well have been her own Christmas card list.

She was about to call it a night when her laptop announced she had new email. She maximized the mail screen. Scanned the new arrivals. Only one had a red flag against it. High priority. She clicked the message. The sender information said it was from the online rose vendor. Her heart rate quickened. There was a text document attached. The title was:
‘Requested Buyer’s List’
.

With jumping beans in her belly, Jamie printed the document out to hard copy.

132

^{___________________________}

The cab rubbed against the curb and came to a quiet stop five or six houses down the street from Rochelle’s place. I gave the driver a fifty and asked him to stay put. Walked the rest of the way on my toes. If Rochelle was home I didn’t want her spooked and out the back door before I’d rung the bell.

It was a clear, crisp night in Nevada. The kind that causes Californian coats to let the cold in. I ignored it. Walked beneath a vast black velvet heaven sprinkled with diamonds. The breath smoking from my lips. I could hear the wound on my scalp complaining with each step. I ignored that too. Kept my gaze locked on Rochelle’s place as I moved in and out of shadows. The house looked exactly like its neighbors: single-floor, side awnings, shingle and shrubbery out front. Nothing special. Good place to stay hidden, I thought.

There was a pick-up parked underneath the sunshade, I saw. Down the side of the house. A dark-painted Ford with Alabama plates. In good condition. But not even last year’s model.

I stopped at the threshold. Suddenly wary about speaking with Rochelle again, face to face. Our last get-together hadn’t gone down well. I looked up and down the quiet street. Took a deep breath. Then ventured through the open gates.

There were lights on inside the house. The muffled sounds of a TV coming from within. Sounded like somebody was watching a sports game. I peered through the glass in the front door. Looking for signs of Rochelle. Nothing. Just coats on hooks and scatterings of shoes. I grabbed a peek through the large front window. Saw a small untidy living room with blue upholstery and green carpeting. Magazine skyscrapers. Hillsides of clothes. There was a TV set in one corner. Showing a rerun of Wednesday’s game between the
Cowboys
and the
Colts
. Nobody watching. An opened bottle of
Coors
standing look-out on the arm of a chair.

The side gate wasn’t locked. I popped the latch and snuck through. It creaked but no one noticed.

The back yard was dark; I went slowly, letting eyes adjust. The area was mostly rough-cut gravel and Yuccas – worn-down bristles on a balding brush. There was a large plastic hopper pushed up against the rear wall, probably for housing outdoor stuff. I could taste gasoline. An old rotary clothes dryer was stooped in one corner, looking like a broken satellite antenna. An uncoiled hose snaking across the yard. Random pots of paint and a pair of workman’s boots near the back door.

I realized I was holding my breath. Slowly let it out.

What was I expecting from Rochelle? She hadn’t been co-operative the first time round. In fact, she’d gone out of her way to be obstructive and dumb. Was I hoping she’d mellowed during the last twelve months – that she’d help fill in the gaping holes in a case I wasn’t supposed to be working? Why should she? I’d helped ruin her life. Sent the man she loved into hiding.

There were two windows at the rear of Rochelle’s place: one was in darkness, the other glowed with pinkish light. I snatched a glance into the lit window. Saw a master bedroom with red-painted walls and red bedding on an unmade bed. There was a Dali print above the headboard: elephants with spindly legs. A red bulb glowing behind a red shade. It looked like a boudoir. To one side I could see a brighter light coming from an en suite. I detected movement. Pulled back a little from the window as a woman came out of the bathroom. She was an African-American in her forties. With a shaven head and a nose-piercing. She hadn’t had the shaven head a year ago. She’d had the nose-piercing. Rochelle Lewis. Slightly heavier than she was last time I’d seen her. She was in her underwear. I pulled back some more.