The Storm Murders (38 page)

“I said ‘first.’ There’s more.”

“Okay, Detective, show me what you’ve got. So far, not much.”

“So, a lesser detective, shall we say, could look upon that killing and think that it was a copycat. But even a lesser detective wouldn’t hold that thought for long, because the previous killings were not public. There’s been no public suggestion of a series of deaths, and the business of the fingers being cut off may not even be known publicly. So the inferior detective would have to assume that a surrogate was brought into all this to execute Agent Sivak and to make it look as though he was part of that series, if only to provide the initial killer with an alibi because he was elsewhere for the latest crime. The inferior detective would conclude that the murders were botched.”

Dreher was holding
É
mile’s gaze, less dismissive of him now. “What do you mean,” he asked finally, “by
inferior
detective?”

“Because a superior detective would get it. That the surrogate was intentionally provided with improper instructions. That the whole point of those two murders was to make them look botched. They were meant to appear botched.”

Dreher looked over at Sandra and smiled. “Your husband,” he said. “I find him interesting. You must enjoy having him around the house. How do you figure all this,
É
mile? I’m curious.”

“Up until now, all the murders have been meticulous. Almost perfect.”

“Why only almost perfect? Who’s been caught?”

“
Touch
é
.
But I’m saying
almost perfect
because the cases are still being investigated. If they were perfect they would’ve disappeared off everyone’s radar screen by now.”

“They’re being investigated,” Dreher objected, “because I’m investigating them.”

“And that’s why they’re almost perfect. Because you couldn’t let them go. You created these perfect little murders, but you admire them so much you have to keep involving other police, and to keep even famous retired detectives from Canada investigating them, to show off how brilliant they all were and how devious you are.”

“That would be an indulgence,” Dreher contended. “Here’s a tip,
É
mile. Not that it can do you any good now. One does not
indulge
in murder. The proper killer needs a sound reason, a logical strategy, a platform.”

“Of course,” Cinq-Mars agreed, and allowed a note of derision to enter his own tone, “I was getting to that. But let’s not lose sight of the fact—the
fact
—that ego was involved in your gambit. The killer did not hide in attics merely to get a handle on police procedure. The killer could have walked in the front door and shown his badge to manage that. The killer hid in attics in order to expose police departments as incompetent. And that was done, largely, out of ego.”

“Marginally,” Dreher protested. “Marginally for ego. A pattern had to be created, for the simple reason that it could be repeated, for
repetition
has strategic value. That police reputations were damaged in the process was a bonus. Mind you, an ingenious bonus, even if I do say so myself. Ego was not being served,
É
mile. You’ve got that wrong. Everything, everything, is purely strategic.”

“Bullshit.”

“
É
mile. Please. There’s a lady present. Besides, I’m the one holding the gun, remember?”

The conversation was allowing time to slide by, and that was all he cared about. He could tell though, that Dreher was enjoying himself. For the killer, prolonging the inevitable was a pleasure. He imagined that the man had conducted these conversations with each of his victims, explaining himself, pontificating, exulting in his genius for subterfuge and strategy, the whole time listening to their desperate pleas and laments. Taking his time to inflict the highest degree of psychological anguish, rather than physical pain, was a critical aspect pertaining to his style for murder.

“Vira was killed,” Cinq-Mars explained, “in the way that she was killed, because she was getting close.”

“That’s your fault, Cinq-Mars. Her blood is on
your
hands. Take that to the grave. Anything that happens to you today may be unfortunate, but it is well-deserved. You must agree.”

“My fault?” Cinq-Mars repeated.

“You and that fucker assistant of yours. Everardo Flores. Who is he anyway?”

He understood. “Had she interviewed people in Alabama, Vira would have gleaned more information about a self-appointed claims adjustor who promptly showed up on the doorsteps of storm victims who just happened to be in the FBI witness protection program. He then assassinated them. That’s all the pattern required. Staying behind in the attic was done for two reasons. Ego, which took pleasure from damaging the reputations of legitimate and solid officers of the law, and danger, a joy in itself.”

“Don’t forget now, hiding in the attic extends the pleasure of the kill.”

“Okay. Also, our killer is drawn to high-risk like the proverbial moth to the flame. Why else are you here today? You could have sent your Alabama killer, used him one more time. I assume that your plan is to eliminate him soon enough?”

Dreher mulled it over. “Actually,” he revealed, “that is the plan. And won’t I be the hero for that one? In a gun battle, most likely. I’ll kill the man responsible for slaying an FBI agent in Alabama and shooting the husband and wife team of
É
mile and Sandra Cinq-Mars all the way up in Canada. Such a shame. For the world to lose their revered detective. Are you surprised? It’s true. He’s here now. Not
here here.
But in the environment. Lives close by, actually. I hired a somewhat local. Upper New York State. So you see, as you may have guessed—”

“I have guessed. It’s Exit Strategy 101.”

“Oh, come on, give me a little more credit than that!”

“I won’t. I’m sorry. It’s too basic. Create a foil—”

“Over years! For years I had him waiting in the wings! It’s brilliant,
É
mile! Give me that much credit, at least! If you don’t, then I’ll know that you’re too ego-obsessed yourself to speak the truth where and when the truth is warranted.”

“So now you want the truth.” Cinq-Mars shook his head. And looked over at Sandra. To her, he said, “He wants the truth.” And back at Dreher. “You know what they say about the truth.”

Merlin took that moment to pull his head up a little, and he struggled on the cushions to push his front end upright. Sandra comforted him and kept him still. The movement though interested Rand Dreher.

“Did that dog eat all his food?”

“He doesn’t chow down as rapidly as some big dogs do. Anyway, you fed him early.”

“Then he might not expire. Too bad your own prognosis is decidedly more bleak. As for the truth,
É
mile, don’t kid yourself, I can take anything you can dish out. You, on the other hand, will melt if you hear what I know. But we don’t have all day. The time has come to get on with it.”

Cinq-Mars thought fast, to keep him interested in talking. “Didn’t you want to know how I knew that you were here when I got home?”

Briefly, he pointed with his free hand at him. “You’re right. I’m curious. What tipped you off? Educate me. I won’t want to make the same mistake twice.”

“Merlin tipped me off. That was your error. He left more food in his bowl than was there before I left the house. That told me that somebody visited. Also, his temperament seemed decidedly subdued. So, Rand, you were outwitted by a dog.”

Dreher chortled. “I suppose you expect me to be mortified by that insult? I’m far more mortified by your response. Look what you did. You took your wife and ran out to the barn. Why? That seems so stupid to me. Even when you thought someone was on the premises, you thought you’d be safe in the barn. Or is it because, like most people, you were too proud to act on your basic animal instinct? You needed proof before you were willing to run.”

“Something like that, I suppose,” Cinq-Mars conceded. “Unlike you, I don’t aspire to perfection in what I do. I just take what comes.”

“
É
mile! God! Don’t give me that humble-jumble crap! You’re a goddamn power-hungry, fear-mongering, asshole-reaming
cunt
of a detective and the vast majority of your peers say so. I checked you out, don’t forget, before this all began. There’s your public reputation, and then there’s your reputation according to those who
know
you. So don’t spoon-feed me any of your hyper-ego in the form of humility horse manure—no offense to horses—because I’m not buying it.”

“Fine. I didn’t run because—” He hesitated.

“Because why,
É
mile. Don’t be so damn proud. Share your ignorance with us lesser mortals.”

“Because I didn’t want to catch you. I wanted to outwit you.”

Popping back out of his chair, Rand Dreher waved his gun around, as if consumed by a rant and intending to theatrically deliver more upon the stage of their living room. But he stopped short, as if he understood in a trice that he was being baited.

Interpreting the change in him that way, Cinq-Mars switched tacks.

“I’ll grant you,”
É
mile said. “This is not about hating cops, although that’s at least a small part of it, and this is not about your ego, although that is a part of it, too. Has to be. But I’ll grant you, Rand, that neither of those things is compelling enough for a man like yourself. They are only the side benefits you’ve picked up over time, similar to getting an extra week’s vacation after putting in twenty years on the job, that sort of thing. So the real question here is, what’s your angle? Because—grant me this much intelligence, Rand, this much investigative acumen—you’re no bottom-feeder. I recall our talk about the swamp. That was a good talk. You were defending the intelligence of sludge—”

“Slime, actually,” Dreher corrected him.

“Slime. You indicated your sympathy for slime, and by osmosis for all beings bent to a criminal or warped mentality, yet you are not a bottom-feeder yourself. Don’t get me wrong. I’m in a difficult situation here, but I’m not sucking up to you. I’m too proud for that. So I’m telling you, I do not number you among the elite intelligentsia and certainly not among the angels. You have your horrific attributes—you’re a killer, Rand—but you don’t dwell in slime. You may be sympathetic to their plight but you do not live among the swamp bugs. You’re in this for your own benefit. If I’m to die today, the least you can do is let me in on that part. What’s in it for you? What do you get out of all this?”

Standing above them both, the gun at his side, Rand Dreher gazed from one to the other. For the first time, his victims saw the killer in him. He had a finger on the trigger of his gun, but now, and really for the first time, he had his mind on the trigger of his intent. He was contemplating killing them soon, they could tell.

“Don’t overestimate me,
É
mile. Do you know why I kill couples the way I do? Hatred. It’s that simple. I hate couples. I hate that you don’t share your DNA, that you keep it in-house, so to speak. I hate that you presume to rise up out of the morass and swamp-muck to live behind your white picket fences and tidy wee homes. We should all be down in the swamp, Cinq-Mars, down low in the muck and mire, slurping each other’s shit. I
hate
all you shithead couples who presume to adapt to civility. Who have manners when you screw. It’s against fucking nature. I protest.”

He paced before them, and Sandra began to tremble.

“Out of respect for our fine chats,
É
mile,” Dreher went on, “I might grant you that dying wish. Why not? But first, let’s take care of business. Sandra, I’m going to ask you to stand and to face your husband. Let’s see if you can do so without making a fuss or falling over. It’ll be better that way, I promise.”

She did so reluctantly, feeling dizzy now, transported, as if this was not a real moment. Not a dream, but not a real time or place, either. What allowed her to remain upright, for she was surprised that she could, was Dreher moving away from her, not toward her, which gave her a measure of relief. But after he visited his coat he returned. Blocked by his wife’s body,
É
mile was not able to observe what the man extracted from a pocket, then he and his wife held to one another’s gaze, silently beseeching one another to be brave and to have faith. His gaze was meant to remind her that he had summoned help.

Dreher told Sandra, “Clasp a wrist behind your back with the other hand.”

She dreaded doing so, but he poked her with the pistol and she obeyed. He then bound her wrists tightly with what felt like thin strong cord—the treasure seized from his coat pocket—and she was ordered to remain standing.

“
É
mile. Your turn. Stand up.”

Doing so, he exhibited the posture of an older man with a failing back. He slowly straightened. Dreher ordered Sandra to sit in the hardbacked chair
É
mile abandoned, and she did so and he knotted
É
mile’s wrists behind him. Told to remain standing, he was relieved, given the cramping just above his hips.

Dreher chose to sit again.

“There’s something you must understand. I’ll tell you now so that you can deal with it, get over the shock, then make an informed decision. I know what your decision will be. How do I know, you ask?”

Not having a clue what he was driving at,
É
mile shrugged.

“Because everyone else has made exactly the same decision when offered the same identical choice.”

By everyone else, he presumed the man meant everyone he had slaughtered.

“What’s that?”
É
mile asked.

“When it comes time to cut off your ring finger—we’ll do it the old-fashioned way, not like in Alabama, so you will be dead first—yes, you may thank me for that—you’re welcome—when it comes time to slice and dice, Sandra will do it.”

“What?”

“What’s he talking about?” Sandra asked. A tremor entered her voice.

“Sorry, dear,” Dreher explained, “but you’re going to have to cut off
É
mile’s ring finger. End this fucking marriage once and for all.”