L a Requiem (1999) (24 page)

"I picked it up from someone who works in his office. It's all the talk, Dolan, and it took me about twenty minutes to find out. I guess you people didn't exactly break your asses doing the background work."

"Take it easy, I said."

I listened to her breathe. I guess she listened to me.

She said, "You okay?"

"I'm pissed off about Dersh. I'm pissed off that all of this is going to come out and hurt Ward's family."

"You want to go have a drink?"

"Dolan, I'm doing okay on my own."

She didn't say any more for a while. I thought about getting the next beer, but didn't. Pinocchio was watching me.

She said, "I was going to call you."

"Why?"

"We found Edward Deege."

"He have anything?"

"If he had anything, we won't know it. He was dead."

I leaned back and stared out the French doors. Sometimes the gulls will swing past, or hover on the wind, but now the sky was empty.

She said, "Some construction guys found him in a Dumpster up by the lake. It looks like he was beaten to death."

"You don't know what happened?"

"He probably got into a beef with another homeless guy. You know how that goes. Maybe he was robbed, or maybe he snatched somebody's stash. Hollywood Division is working on it. I'm sorry."

"What are you going to do about Ward?"

"I'll tip Stan Watts and let him follow up. Stan's a good guy. He'll try to go easy."

"Great."

"It's the only chance Dersh has."

"Great."

"You sure about that drink?"

"I'm sure. Maybe some other time."

When Dolan finally spoke again, her voice was quiet.

"You know something, World's Greatest?"

"What?"

"You're not just mad about Ward."

She hung up, leaving me to wonder what she meant.

Chapter 20

That Day

The pain burns through him the way his skin burned when he was beaten as a child, burns so hot that his nerves writhe beneath his skin like electric worms burrowing through his flesh. It can get so bad that he has to bite his own arms to keep from screaming.

It is all about control.

He knows that.

If you can control yourself, they cannot hurt you.

If you can command yourself, they will pay.

The killer fills the first syringe with Dianabol, a methan-drostenolone steroid he bought in Mexico, and injects it into his right thigh. The next he fills with Somatropin, a synthetic growth hormone also from Mexico that was made for use with cattle. He injects this into his left thigh, and enjoys the burning sensation that always accompanies the injection. An hour ago, he swallowed two androstene tablets to increase his body's production of testosterone. He will wait a few more minutes, then settle onto the weight bench and work until his muscles scream and fail and only then will he rest. No pain, no gain, and he must gain strength and size and power, because there is still murder to be done.

He admires his naked body in the full-length mirror, and flexes. Rippling muscles. Cobblestone abs. Tattoos that desecrate his flesh. Pretty. He puts on the sunglasses. Better.

The killer lies back on the weight bench and waits for the chemicals to course through his veins. He is pleased that the police have finally found Edward Deege's body. That is part of his plan. Because of the body, they will question the neighbors. Evidence he has placed will be discovered, and that is part of the plan also; a plan that he has crafted as carefully as he crafts his body, and his vengeance.

He cautions himself to be patient.

The military manuals say that no plan of action ever survives first contact with the enemy. One must be adaptable. One must allow the plan to evolve.'

His plan has already morphed several times -- Edward Deege being one such morph -- and will morph again. Take Dersh. All the attention on Dersh annoyed him until he realized that Dersh could become part of the plan, just like Deege. It was an epiphany. One sweet moment when, through Dersh, the plan changed from death to lifelong imprisonment. Humiliation. Shame.

Adaptability is everything.

He himself is morphing. Everyone thinks him so quiet. Everyone thinks him so contained.

He is what he needs to be.

The killer relaxes, letting his thoughts drift, but they do not drift to Dersh or the plan or his vengeance; they drift back to that horrible day. He should know better. He always goes back to that day as if to torture himself. Better to play the constant chess game of his plan than wallow in hurt, but for so many years hurt was all he had. His hurt defines him.

He feels the tears which he has never allowed anyone to see, and clenches shut his eyes. The wet creeps from beneath the sunglasses, leaving a trail of acid memories.

He feels the beating. The belt snaps against him until .his skin is numb. Fists pound his shoulders and back. He screams and begs and cries, but the people who love him most are the ones who hate him most. There's no place like home. Running. Walking. A trip on a bus. He escapes from a place where kindness and cruelty are one and the same, and love and loathing are indistinguishable. He is outside a diner when a man approaches. A kindly man who recognizes his pain. The man's hand touches his shoulder. Words of consolation and friendship. The man cares. Comfort. The rest follows so easily. Love. Dependence. Betrayal. Revenge. Regret.

He remembers that day so vividly. He can see every image as if the movie of his life were broken frame by frame, each picture stark and clear, colors brilliant and sharp. The day the hated ones took the man from him. Took him, destroyed him, killed him. That day, after all these years and all these changes, burns so deeply that every cell is branded.

He was fucked up for years until he gained control over himself. Mastered his feelings, and life. Mastered himself, contained himself, prepared himself so that he can do this:

The tears stop and he opens his eyes. He wipes away the residue, and sits up.

Control.

He is in control.

His loss must be repaid, and he has the means for that now. No longer weak, no longer helpless.

He has a plan of vengeance against the one who hurt him the most, and a list of the conspirators.

He is killing them one by one because payback is a motherfucker, and he is the baddest motherfucker to ever walk with the angels through the streets of this city.

The military calls this "mission commitment."

His mission commitment is second to none.

They will pay.

He rolls off the bench and flexes his muscles in the mirror until the skin pulls tight, his veins bulge, and the bright red arrows glow hotly on his deltoids.

Dersh.

Pike's Dream

He ran without a trail because it was harder that way. Dead branches from fallen trees raked at his legs like claws reaching from the earth. The brown leaves that covered the forest floor made for slippery footing as he dodged and twisted around the trees and vines and sinkholes that made him work to maintain his balance. He couldn't fall into a runner s rhythm because he was climbing over deadfalls and jumping over downed limbs as much as he was running, but that was why he did it this way. The Marine Corps Fitness Manual that he bought from a secondhand bookstore called this type of running "fartlek training," which was something the Swedish Alpine troops thought up, and was the grueling basis behind the Corps s legendary obstacle course. The Fitness Manual said tough training was necessary to build tough men.

Joe Pike, age fourteen.

He loved the smell of the winter woods, and the peace that came from being by himself. He spent as much time as he could here, reading and thinking and following the exercise dicta of the Manual, which had become his bible. There was joy in exhaustion, and a sense of accomplishment in sweat. Joe had decided to join the Marines on his seventeenth birthday. He thought about it every day, and dreamed about it at night. He saw himself standing tall in his dress uniform, or sneaking through the Asian jungles in the war that was waging half a world away (though he was only fourteen, and that war would probably end soon). He enjoyed a thousand different fantasies of himself as a Marine, but, in truth, he mostly saw himself getting on a bus that would take him away from his father. He had his own war right here at home. The one in Vietnam couldn't be any worse.

Joe was still tall for his age, and beginning to fill. He hoped that if he looked old enough when he was sixteen, he might be able to get his mother to fake the papers so that he could join the Corps even sooner. She might do that for him.

If she lived long enough.

Joe pushed himself harder as he neared the end of his run. His breath plumed in the cold air, but he was slick with sweat and didn't feel the cold even though all he wore were red gym shorts and high-top Keds and a sleeveless green tee shirt. He had followed the creek upstream for almost an hour, then turned around, and now he was almost back where he'd begun when he heard the laughter and stopped. The creek ran along the bottom of a slope beneath a gravel road, and, as Pike watched, two boys and a girl appeared at the top of the slope and made their way down a well-worn trail toward the creek.

Pike slipped between the trees.

They were older than Joe, the boys bigger, and Joe thought they might be seniors at the high school where he was a freshman. That would make them about seventeen.

The larger boy was a tall kid with a coarse red face and zits. He was leading the way, pushing low-hanging branches aside and carrying a feed sack with something in it. The other boy brought up the rear. He had long hair like a hippie, and a wispy mustache that looked silly, but his shoulders and thighs were thick. A cigarette dangled from his lips. The girl was built like a pear, with a wide butt. Her features were all jammed together in the center of a Pillsbury doughboy face, her eyes two narrow slits that looked mean. She carried a one-gallon gas can like Joe used to fill his lawn mower, and she was laughing. "We don't have to walk all the way to Africa, Daryl. There ain't nobody around."

When she said his name, Joe recognized the boy with the sack. Daryl Haines was a high school dropout who worked at the Shell station. For a while, he had worked at the Pac-a-Sac convenience store, selling cigarettes and Slurpees, but he'd been caught filching money from the cash register and been fired. He was eighteen, at least, and might even be older. Once, Daryl had gassed up the Kingswood, but Mr. Pike discovered gas splattered on the paint. He'd gotten the red ass and raised nine kinds of hell. Now, when Mr. Pike rolled into the Shell, he pumped his own gas and Daryl kept the fuck away from his car. He'd pointed out Daryl to Joe once, and said, "That kid's a piece of shit."

Now, Joe heard Daryl say, "Just take it easy, baby. I know where I'm goin'."

The girl laughed again, and her little slit eyes looked worse than mean, they looked evil, "I ain't gonna wait all day for my fun, Daryl. Just so's you don't chicken out."

The kid in the rear made a chicken sound. "Bawk-bawk-bawk."The cigarette bounced up and down when he made the sound.

Daryl hit the brakes and glared. "You want me to hand you your ass, you dumb fuck?"

The other kid showed both palms. "Hey, no, man. I didn't mean nothing"

"Dumbfuck."

Now the girl went, "Bawk-bawk-bawk,"looking at the cigarette boy.

Daryl liked that, and they continued on the trail.

Joe let them get ahead, then followed. He moved carefully, taking his time to avoid twigs and branches, staying off leaves where possible, and, where not, working his toes under the crispy top layer to put his weight on the damp matter beneath. Pike spent so much time in the woods that he had learned its ways, easily tracking and stalking the whitetail deer that fed through the area. He found comfort in being so much apart of this place that he was invisible. Once, his father had chased him into the woods behind their house, but Joe had slipped away and his father couldn't find him. To be hidden was to be safe.

They didn't go far.

Daryl led them up the creek to a small clearing. It was a popular spot for drinking par ties, the ground scarred with the remains of bonfires and beer cans. The girl said, "Well, all right! Take it out of the bag and let's see the show!"

The kid with the cigarette said something Pike couldn't hear, and laughed. Yuk-yuk-yuk. Like Jughead.

Daryl put the sack on the ground and took out a small black cat. He held it by the scruff of the neck and the back legs, saying, "You better not scratch me, you sonofabitch."

Pike slipped down into the creek bed, and eased along the soft earth there to work closer. The cat was grown, but small, so Pike thought it was probably a female. It made itself smaller against Daryl, its yellow eyes wide with fear. Frightened by the bag, and these people, but by the woods, too. Cats didn't like unknown places, where something might hurt them. The little cat made a squeaking mew that Joe found sad. It only had one ear, and Pike wondered how it had lost the other.

The girl unscrewed the can,'grinning as if she'd just won a prize. "Splash it real good with this, Daryll"

The cigarette boy said, "Shoulda got gasoline."

The girl snapped, "Turpentine is better! Don't you know anything?"

She said it as if she'd done this a hundred times. Pike thought she probably had.

For the first time in two hours, Joe Pike felt the cold. They were going to burn this animal. Set it on fire. Listen to it scream. Watch it twist and writhe until it died.

Daryl said, "Get the can. C'mon, quick, before the bastard bites me."

Daryl held the cat to the ground as far from himself as he could, while the cigarette boy took the can and splashed turpentine on the cat. When the turpentine hit it, the cat hunched and tried to get away.

The girl said, "I wanna light it."Her eyes bright and ugly.

Daryl said, "Well, Jesus, don't set me on fire."

The cigarette kid fumbled some safety matches out of his shirt pocket, dropping most of them. The girl snatched one up, and tried to strike it on the zipper of her jeans.

Daryl said, "Hurry up, goddamnit. I can't hold this sonofabitch forever!"

Joe Pike stared at the two larger boys and the ugly girl. His chest rose and fell as if he was still running.

The first match broke, and the girl said, "Shit!"

She picked up a second, scratched it on her zipper, and it burst into flame.

The cigarette boy said, "All right!"

Daryl said, "Hurry."

Joe pulled a deadfall limb from the mud. It was about three feet long and a couple of inches thick. The sucking sound it made coming out of the mud made them look, and then he stepped up out of the creek bed.

The cigarette boy jumped back, almost tripping over his own feet. "Hey!"

The three of them stared at Joe, and then the moment of their surprise passed.

The match burned the girl's fingers, and she dropped it. "Shit, it's just some kid."

Daryl said, "Get out of here, fuckface, before I kick your ass."