Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (51 page)

My second wake-up call came less than an hour later. An urgent message to meet Agents Stubbs and Cherry downstairs at the hotel taxi rank. I threw on clothes. Raked back unkempt hair. Got bundled into the back of a waiting limousine.

The first rays of dawn were glimmering off the highest floors of the mountainous hotels. Turning the streets into gullies and chasms. We careened out of the hotel driveway. Headed north along The Strip at a lightning’s pace.

‘One of you boys going to tell me what all the excitement’s about?’ I asked as I buckled up.

‘Fuck off.’ They said in unison.

Our driver ran a stop light. Then another. And the next. We raced on to the sound of honked consternation. Two minutes later, he scraped alloys against the curb hard enough to rattle teeth and we jumped out onto a wood-decked sidewalk. We were outside the
Treasure Island Hotel
. Looking like we’d emerged into a swashbuckling musical. I followed Stubbs and Cherry across a large wooden jetty onto the hotel property. Passed a replica Spanish galleon moored in a smallish waterfront of fake cliffs and caves. We made our way through all the petty pirate paraphernalia to the sixth floor.

The sixth floor landing was crowded with law enforcement personnel: heavy-lidded PD Officers rubbing shoulders with yawning Deputies from the Sheriff’s Department. Waxy-haired Feds with lapel microphones. Jackets that looked like hotel management, wringing hands and worrying about lawsuits.

Whatever it was that was going on here it was big.

The air had a palpable taste of dread.

We turned left and made our way down one of those never-ending corridors. Passed solemn-faced Deputies standing guard at regular intervals – until we came to an open doorway. Cherry waved me in. I left my FBI escorts out in the corridor and entered the room.

Aside from an unmade bed and a random scattering of clothing, nothing looked out of place in the room on the sixth floor. No corpse on the bed. No Wong fouling the air. Yet another one of those cloned hotel accommodations. Same style of drapes. Same generic furniture. Same everything as everywhere else. In a town famous for its variety there wasn’t a whole lot of it on show.

‘Gabe!’

I back-peddled. Looked through the open connective doorway that led to the adjoining guest room. Sonny was waving from about three rooms down. All the connecting doors in between were wide open.

‘How’s the face?’ She called as I approached.

‘Put it this way: I won’t be entering any beauty pageants any time soon.’

Sonny grinned. ‘You had coffee yet?’

I smiled back. Cracked a lip. ‘Do I look like I’ve had coffee yet?’

‘Makes two of us.’

Sonny summoned an attending junior from the Sheriff’s Department. Asked him to fetch us brews from downstairs.

‘Got to have caffeine.’ She said as she handed me a pair of Latex gloves. ‘Expressly this time in the morning.’

I felt bad for Sonny. And her kids. It was hard juggling career and family. Especially at the weekends. And especially with a serial killer on the loose.

‘Looks like both of us didn’t get much in the way of sleep.’ I said. ‘Did you hear about Jackson?’

Sonny handed me a pair of elasticated slippers.

145

^{___________________________}

Have you ever disliked someone so much that you wished them dead?

This time,
The Undertaker
had gone to town and painted it red. The scale and escalation of his kill pattern was hard to take in. All told, there were five new victims on the sixth floor of the
Treasure Island Hotel
in Las Vegas: three boys and two girls. The oldest barely out of his mid-twenties, the youngest barely out of her teens.

More dead kids.

I advanced slowly. Feet making crackling sounds as I went.

The killer had pushed the twin beds apart: one underneath the window, the other against the mirrored closet. This had given him a rectangular space about five feet wide in which to position his five victims.

Five.
The number was yet to snag on any of my cognitive hooks.
Five dead kids.

They were all sat upright. Cross-legged on the plush hotel carpeting. Facing one another to form a circle. The killer had leaned them against one another like a macabre balancing act. Then forced them to lock blood-soaked hands. The arrangement reminded me of children engaged in an innocent childhood game:
Spin the Bottle
. A snapshot at a party. Or something one of those trendy but grisly artists do these days with the willing but deceased.

And they were all as naked as they day they were born.

I moved a step or two closer. I didn’t want to. But I didn’t have a choice.

A familiar ring of rose petals surrounded the group. I could see smudged ash crosses on their foreheads. On the floor in the middle of the group lay a mound of unused hypodermics. It looked like a glassy camp fire. I felt like a sneak– like I was invading a private séance. These kids looked as though they were meditating. That maybe the crackling of my plastic slippers would disturb them at any moment and our worst fears would be for nothing.

But these kids were all as dead as doorknobs. Just children. Away from home. Maybe for the first time. Trying their luck in the casinos, or maybe at a convention. Youthful bodies hardening with rigor. Destined to return home in black plastic body bags.

Up until this moment I had thought the killer’s arrangement of Mark and Sarah back at the
Bellagio
as the pinnacle of his MO evolution. I was wrong.

‘Your boy’s got some balls.’ I heard Sonny say. ‘Why do you think he did this?’

‘For impact.’ I said. ‘To show he means business. Sonny, overpowering and then killing five young and healthy people singlehandedly, and in one fell swoop, takes precision, timing and a whole lot of effort. You’re right: it takes balls
.
But to then arrange their corpses like this takes more than that. It takes madness.’

‘All the same …’

I knew what she was thinking. ‘He uses a quick-acting anesthetic.’ I said as I walked around the group. ‘That’s why there’s no signs of a struggle.’ I pointed out fingertip burn marks. ‘He’s also handy with a Taser.’

I looked around the room. There was a collection of liquor bottles on a table. Drinking glasses. Bags of potato chips and candy bars. Empty beer bottles crowding the nightstand.

‘They were also having a party. No doubt making plenty of noise. Intoxicated. Probably didn’t realize until too late what was going on. These kids knew each other.’

‘The connecting doors were all open when we got here.’ Sonny confirmed. ‘We’re running checks. Fortunately, there is some good news.’

I looked up.

‘This was originally a party of six.’

‘He missed one?’

‘Purely by chance. His name’s Brandon Chu. He was downstairs all night from around eleven. In the poker lounge with a few regulars. When he came back upstairs just after six this morning he walked smack-bang into this.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Right now, down the hall. Scared shitless. See this one?’ Sonny pointed to one of the female victims. The girl had shoulder-length, vinyl-black hair and slight oriental features. She was painfully thin, I saw; ribs like slats on a blind. ‘They were an item, she and Chu. As you can imagine, he’s pretty torn up.’

‘I’ll bet he is. Did he see anything?’

‘No. The ME reckons they were all killed sometime between one and two. Give or take. The killer also left this.’

Sonny held up a clear plastic evidence bag.

I took it.

Agent Cherry poked his head around the door. ‘CSU’s here.’

‘Let’s go chase up those coffees,’ Sonny said. ‘There’s nothing more we can do for these kids.’

We were all set to leave when the room phone rang.

I looked at Sonny.

She looked at me.

We both wore the same puzzled expression.

‘Expecting any calls, Sonny?’

 
‘Not on a weekend. You?’

‘Not me. I’m not even from around here.’

‘Maybe it’s Housekeeping.’

‘I guess.’

I let the phone ring several times more, wondering how long it would go on for and if it would ever end. When it didn’t, Sonny picked up.

Immediately I saw by her reaction that it wasn’t the Front Desk offering a complimentary upgrade.

‘It’s for you,’ she said, holding out the receiver. ‘It’s
him
.’

146

^{___________________________}

‘How do you like your wake-up call?’ It was the same inhuman
Speak & Spell
monotone from yesterday.

‘Who is this?’

‘You know who I am. We’ve already been introduced.’

‘The crackpot stalker.’

‘Is that the best you can do? I much prefer our working title. The one Harry gave you.’

My blood ran cold.

I made
the
signal
to Sonny. She nodded and rushed out of the room.

‘You’re probably wondering how I know about that.’ The monster with the synthesized voice said. ‘Would you believe me if I said I heard it from the horse’s mouth?’

I sank a hand in a pocket. Fingered the credit-card piece of plastic in the evidence bag found at the Hoagland crime scene.

‘You killed Harry.’ I breathed.

‘He had it coming.’ The voice grated. ‘Now do you know who I am?’

147

^{___________________________}

I don’t believe things turn out the way they do because of random chance. I believe purpose and planning play their part. As I heard
The Undertaker’s
synthesized tone coming down the line, I knew he’d seen me arrive at the hotel and knew he’d murdered my best friend and partner, Harry Kelso.