The Killing League (12 page)

Nicole laughed out loud.

Over time, however, the therapist had convinced her to give it a try, despite her cynicism. She had gone back to her childhood, picked out ten or so of her favorite memories. Like the time her Mom and Dad had surprised her with an electric scooter on her birthday. The time she had finally scored a goal in soccer. The afternoon tea she had shared with her favorite Grandmother weeks before the elderly woman had passed away.

Nicole eventually added more pictures, short notes she would write about special days, even if it was just a hike through the mountains with a friend or an especially beautiful sunrise.

The book had now become almost two hundred pages, and Nicole was a believer.

Now, she flipped through the pages at random, and found herself smiling, as usual. She had added a page of things collected over the last few months, including the grand opening of Thicque.

She turned as she always did to the two pictures in the book of Wallace Mack. One was a clipping from a newspaper that showed his tired face. It had been snapped at a press conference.

The other photograph was taken of the two of them walking along the beach in Santa Monica. It was well after the publicity of the shocking case had gone away. Mack had frequently visited Nicole, trying to help her through her pain. Ultimately, she had pushed him away because even though she suspected she had fallen in love with him, and she surmised he had fallen in love with her too, the memories he stirred up were too much for Nicole. She had needed a break from Mack. From the case. From the memories of Jeffrey Kostner.

So they had separated for a brief time.

They had never gotten back together.

Now, Nicole flipped through the pages. She wasn’t quite sure why she had turned again to the book. She rarely questioned the need, only that the vague sense of darkness that used to blossom inside her like ink in water was known to hang around, waiting for an opening.

Maybe it had been just one of those days when a person feels like they need to smile, Nicole thought. One of those days when you can see the clouds looming and need a shot of sunshine to make sure at least a little warmth will seep through the day.

Or maybe deep down, she knew something bad was going to happen.

44.

The Butcher

Roy Skittlecorn was not a traveler. In the last twenty years he had left home only once, and that was for a wedding.

He liked routine. He enjoyed getting up in the morning and knowing exactly how the day would go. No surprises, no control turned over to someone else.

He explained to his two employees that he would have to attend a meat distribution emergency meeting and that he would return within a matter of days. The shop was run like a military operation, and they could handle it while he was gone.

Now, Skittlecorn asked at the Holiday Inn of Omaha’s front desk about his conference, and was directed to the KL meeting room.

There were two empty seats at the front of the room facing the big television screen. A big guy stood by the door, and a skanky looking woman was lounging at the back, smoking a cigarette. She glared at him. He stared at her. She looked like a whore. A used up piece of meat, over tenderized. And way too skinny. Cut up, she would amount to nothing.

He walked to the front and sat next to an older lady who glanced at him, without smiling. Now she was more like it. Thick, big boned. He pictured her meaty leg sliced up and placed in plastic wrapping paper. Plenty of ham hocks out of that one.

He wondered if all of these people had the same hobby as his. Or if it was really just the cops, here to arrest him.

The slow rage that had been building in him ever since he’d gotten the note, ever since they’d violated the sanctuary of his shop, was building. And now that he was here, now that he’d followed their directions this far, the rage was threatening to ignite. Of course, he hadn’t been allowed to bring any of his tools onto the plane, but he could always find some. Or go old school.

Just get a hacksaw from a hardware store, and grind it out. He’d start with that filthy bitch at the back of the room. Maybe she’d learn not to stare at someone with a dirty look.

After that, maybe he’d—

Just then, the giant television screen came to life. The black was replaced with gray. Skittlecorn heard movement at the back of the room and turned to see the security guard move to the conference room door and shut and lock it.

When he turned back to face the screen, the gray was gone.

In its place…

…was a man.

Skittlecorn looked at him. So this was the guy? This was the asshole who had broken into his shop and left that stupid note?

He looked more closely.

The guy was in his late forties or early fifties. He had short gray hair, almost a buzz cut, and dark eyes. He wore a shirt and tie.

He looked kind of like someone you’d see in a commercial for toothpaste or Cialis.

The man began to speak.

45.

Mack

“That’s bullshit!” Mack said. He pressed the phone tighter against his ear, as if he hadn’t heard right. He absolutely couldn’t believe what Ellen Reznor was telling him.

“They have no record of your requests,” she reiterated.

“But that’s impossible!” he said. He paced around his office. “I received responses from both of them. They both said they would look into my request and get back to me. You saw the messages.”

He had forwarded to Reznor his correspondence, or lack thereof, between himself, the Georgia Trucking Commission and the Charleston Municipal Hospital.

“I showed all of that to the directors of both the hospital and the trucking commission,” Reznor said. “Both claimed that although the emails had come from them, there was no record of who sent them, or a request actually being placed.”

Mack plopped into his office chair. “What am I missing?”

“I’m not sure what happened, but they’re both now fully tasked with your requests and I expect we’ll hear from them quite quickly,” she said. “I used that famous Reznor charm that’s kept me single for so long.”

Mack knew what she meant. No one wanted to be on the wrong side of Ellen Reznor.

He tapped the keyboard on his computer and the screen came to life. “If it had just been one of them that claimed they’d never received my response, I wouldn’t be so pissed off. But both? That just doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s what I thought,” Reznor said. “The only common denominator is you.”

“Yeah, me,” Mack said.

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

“What are you thinking?” Reznor said.

Mack dropped his gaze back to his computer. He thought about the strange things Janice had been saying of late, about a strange man watching her.

He looked again at his computer screen.

“Do you think Whidby is tracking everything I do? On my computer?” he said.

He could almost hear the notion strike Reznor.

“Yeah,” Reznor said. “He probably is. You’re still using a Bureau computer, right? Bureau email? Bureau databases?”

“Yes, yes and yes,” Mack said.

“Mack, Paul Whidby would never reroute your requests, or deliberately fuck up your investigations. The man never puts his own agenda ahead of everyone else’s.” The sarcasm dripped through the phone line.

“Maybe we should have someone take a quick look into my access logs and Bureau email,” Mack said. He realized he was gripping the phone like he was trying to choke it. He relaxed. He would
not
let Whidby get to him.

“I know just the right person,” Reznor said.

46.

The Commissioner

“Welcome, friends, and thank you for joining me here at this lovely establishment.” The man on the screen smiled at the people in the room.

“You’re probably wondering why I picked this interesting location. Omaha, Nebraska? Sure, it’s storied in American history, especially in terms of the expansion of the West. You know, cattle and cowboys and Indians, that sort of thing.”

He smiled, almost a boyish grin of sorts.

“But that’s not the reason I chose Nebraska. It’s because Omaha is the closest city to the actual center of the contiguous United States. And I wanted to give everyone the same starting point. No unfair advantages, understand?”

He paused, to let the idea sink in.

“You’re also probably wondering about the rest of the people in the room.”

He swiveled his head, as if he were looking up and down the row of chairs to emphasize his point.

“The fact is, every person in this room, save for our rent-a-cop security guard in the back, is as equally accomplished in our “art” as the next person.”

The man on the screen held up his hands.

“Don’t worry, we won’t get into specifics right now, especially with our friend at the back of the room,” he said. “Let me just assure you that if you’re wondering whether or not I am serious, I am. Each of you is wondering about your secret hobby, and if every other person in the room has a similar hobby. I am here to tell you unequivocally, yes, they all share the same passion and enthusiasm for that particular endeavor.”

He paused and took a deep breath.

“You’re also wondering what this whole deal is. Well, I will tell you a little bit at a time, but you’ve probably guessed by now that it is a competition. Only one of you will win. This is officially the start of Round One.”

He held up a little bell and rang it, then laughed.

“Hey, we’re all here to have fun, right? Because we love what we do?”

He paused again, then took a deep breath.

“Each of you has a packet at the back of the room. In it, you will find your Round One target. You are to do what you do best in regard to this individual. If you are successful, you will be automatically advanced to Round Two. If you fail, you will either be dead or in prison. Either way, you will not advance to Round Two.”

He raised his voice a notch, and this time, his tone lost its joviality.

“You may feel an urge, or at least a thought, of going to the proper authorities with our little game,” he said. “That would be highly ill-advised. You know and I know what kinds of things you have been doing in your own little parts of the world. The authorities would have a great time with that.”

He stood and clapped his hands together.

“Now, gather your packets and go. I will be watching!”

The screen dissolved to black.

Only a logo appeared.

KL.

A RECORD CROWD

47.

Las Vegas

Although the casinos of Las Vegas run their very own, separate tight ships, they do occasionally collaborate. In fact, some of the casino owners are good friends, lending advice, capital, and expertise to each other when needed.

For instance, professional cheaters who are “discovered” have their identities and methods immediately sent to every major casino on the strip.

One other way the casinos work together is by sharing the odds for every major sporting event. The odds are determined by a group of professional oddsmakers based in Las Vegas. They follow specific formulas for determining odds, and then those odds are sent out to professional sports books around the world.

At the exact time the man on the television screen in Omaha, Nebraska told his contestants that the competition had started, every odds board in every casino in Las Vegas posted a new sporting event on their big boards, located under the heading “miscellaneous.”

The event was called “The Killing League.”

And it listed eight participants.

Florence Nightmare

Truck Drivin’ Man.

The Butcher

Family Man

Lady of the Evening

Blue Blood

The Messiah

The Commissioner

And then the odds popped up:

Florence Nightmare.
10-1
.

Truck Drivin’ Man.
20-1
.

The Butcher.
30-1
.

Family Man.
15-1
.

Lady of the Evening.
7-1
.

Blue Blood.
5-1
.

The Messiah.
5-1
.

The Commissioner.
3-1
.

The betting quickly began.

The odds circulating through the casinos in Las Vegas also found their way to the online gambling capitol of the world, the Cayman Islands.

The information, sent via encrypted data streams from casino computers to servers based initially in the Cayman Islands, was immediately posted to every offshore “online” casino in the Caribbean.

From there, bets came pouring in.

WILD CARD

48.

Robertson State Prison

The computer room at Robertson State Prison in Robertson, Alabama was on the second floor. Located between two security stations, few prisoners used the library because it entailed being searched twice.

The room’s current sole occupant was a slight man with brown hair, graying at the temples. His shoulders were stooped and his gray eyes were hidden behind thick glasses.

His hands were long and slender and they flew across the computer keyboard.

His name was Leonard Goldberg and he had been at Robertson for nine years. His sentence was life, received for the murders of thirteen young men and women across eight different states.

Goldberg was a man of many talents, however, and he had never used a computer before coming to prison. But once he began, he had never stopped. He had pored over software manuals, read every book on computer technology and programming he could get his hands on.