The Trees Beyond the Grass (A Cole Mouzon Thriller) (3 page)

CHAPTER 4

TONY FELT A
slight prick in his neck as he swung closed the red-painted wooden front door. “What the…hell?” He turned to see Poinsett with an empty needle in her hand. “You fucking bitch! I’ll kill you.”

Poinsett had acted too soon. He swung around with his right arm and backhanded her with his broad right hand. She fell to the brown shag carpet floor and tried to crawl away. Leaning down, he grabbed her left leg and pulled her from beneath an aged yellow table.

Poinsett panicked at the idea that she could become the victim. Standing over her, he whipped off his cap, throwing it to the floor and revealing his shaven head. “So you like it rough, huh?”

He unbuckled his belt and yanked it free of his jean’s loops when she kicked and spat back. “Go to hell.”

As he bent down to grab her legs again, he stumbled, falling hard to his knees. Poinsett pulled out a scalpel she had hidden in the strap of her bra during the car ride earlier and sliced the air, landing her last swipe across his left cheek. Tony screamed in pain and rolled to retreat. She jumped up and was on him, stabbing him below the ribs and in his stomach. He grabbed her right wrist, bending it back and forcing the blade to fall. He chased and within a second he had a hold of it, jabbing it like an ice pick into her. Then his body failed him.

Tony was helpless within a minute of being stabbed by Poinsett’s needle. He felt his body go lifeless and tumble down like a large tree that had been chopped low at its base. His head caught the corner of his glass-topped coffee table as he fell, causing a throbbing gash that consumed his head.

Standing before him, Poinsett stared down, grinning. He wasn’t dead. It was worse than death; he was alive and trapped in his body like in a dream. He could see and hear everything Poinsett was saying. He could feel everything, he just couldn’t respond. “Sorry Tony, you won’t be getting laid tonight. Guess you kind of figured that out by now.” She shrugged her shoulders, pinching them at her neck. “I know you can hear me. You’ve been given a very strong tranquilizer, a muscle relaxant used by hunters to take down their prey.” She held the grin tight and narrowed her eyes.
That’s what Tony is, prey.

“I told you that you weren’t worthy of life, of the stolen years you lived, Tony. And now it’s time for it to end. I’m here to take back what is mine.” Tony watched in horror as Poinsett cleaned the scalpel with the bottom of her now-disheveled sundress and dropped to her knees to straddle his body at his hips, pinning him between her thighs. Slipping her smirk to one side, she told him, “Tony, I’m not going to lie. This is going to hurt.” Tony’s eyes welled up with fear, tears cresting their inner frames. Pure hatred could be read in them as Poinsett used the blade to slice vertically up his red polo shirt in rough repetitive movements until it was completely cut, lying in two limp pieces on either side of his frame. His eyes revealed his racing thoughts.
What the fuck is she doing? God, please help me, please!

POINSETT’S LEFT HAND
ran up his solid stomach, her eyes admiring his six-pack with its slight tuft of hair at the navel. “You know, it’s a shame I didn’t get to enjoy you. I’m sure that you would have at least been good at that.” Pulling back and sitting erect, she added, “But…perhaps not. Looks can be deceiving, can’t they?” Grinning, she cut a swath of his shirt off and wrapped her arm, creating a red bow.

She waved her finger at him. “Tsk, tsk, Tony. You shouldn’t have done that.” Poinsett thought to herself that he was sexy in a ‘dirty mechanic on some lonely road’ type of way. His face was covered in salt-and-pepper scruff and chiseled, slight smile marks created brackets on either side of his broad lips. But she had no interest in his attributes. She was on the hunt and it invigorated her. It was far better than any sex she’d had. Her heart pounded as she drew the scalpel across Tony’s upper groin; she was enjoying this power over him.

Tony looked on in horror, then pain, as she drove the blade deep into his left ribs, close to his sternum. She was carving. Unlike Whitney, Tony was conscious and Poinsett enjoyed the panic playing out in his eyes. The fast pulsing of her heart was a high; the feeling euphoric and addictive. Tony likely wanted to scream out in pain, but his mouth wouldn’t move. She smiled as more tears filled his eyes from the pain and shock of it all. He was dying, and the sight of him coming to this obvious realization excited her.

After a long top-to-bottom and rounded stroke, she stopped. Blood flowed everywhere. A pulsing artery had been hit and blood splattered across her face. Poinsett leaned back and down to admire her work, wiping her upper lip with the back of her hand and smearing some of the blood. A grin. A very large grin appeared on her face. Tony lay there watching and gasping for air. One of his lungs had been punctured and he was slowly downing in his own blood collecting in his lungs..

Poinsett pushed herself partially up to roll Tony onto his stomach and the brown shag carpet that covered his floor. Bubbles of blood burst from his mouth as the internal puddle of blood sloshed around and out. On his left lower back she found what she was looking for. Pronounced and clear, the mark had been put there and made small enough to not be seen in day to day life, but obvious to those hunting for it.

It was a brand, like a cattle brand. A square with a ‘P’ in its middle. Poinsett carved along the edges of the square, then underneath the skin to remove the tag. Tony was obviously still alive, as rasps of panicked air came out as she cut. She had no concern; he would be dead long before the toxin wore off.

Poinsett sat up from Tony’s flaccid body. Stepping over him, she noticed his breaths were all but nonexistent. After several minutes of watching, she found a large serrated knife in the kitchen and continued her work on his body before snapping a photo with her phone and walking to the front door. “Hunter and prey, you just pulled the wrong stick,
”
she exclaimed as she closed the door behind her. As with Whitney, a photo of her prize would be placed on Tony’s Facebook page within the hour. It announced to the world her success and the failure of the prey. His friends would be shocked, the police would be called, and some lowly police department would work to capture the killer. But they would never succeed in stopping Poinsett.

CHAPTER 5

TULSA

“AGENT LEAS, LET
me repeat the question. Did you or did you not strangle my client immediately before he gave you the taped confession that you now hang your hat on for his guilt in the death of Pam Rubert?”

Agent David Leas couldn’t recall how he had ended up in Judge P. Jenson Rhode’s Tulsa County witness box on this Friday morning as Hal Grady, David Flint’s hired gun of a defense attorney, worked to have the recorded confession of Mr. Flint excluded as being coerced out of him by fear and force. At forty-three,
I’m too old for this shit,
blinked in his mind. He lifted his left hand and ran his fingers through the shaggy coal-black hair that accented his Latino features.

If he was honest with himself, he had been a little rough with Flint. A bloody nose and dislocated jaw was the least he deserved. He had murdered Miss Rubert and her two children after slipping into their house dressed as a UPS man. The reason was still unclear, but he had three other murders previously, all done the same way: tied with a phone cord or other wire, gagged, and then their throats sliced from jaw to jaw. He made the mother watch as the two children were killed first… That was his high—their fear.

Leas had pieced together the pattern, the method of the victims being selected. Flint used laundromats to discover them, then followed them home and returned the next day in uniform. So, Leas had staked out the most logical next locations for Flint’s selection. He had gotten lucky on his second location and noticed Flint, following him as he similarly followed his next selected victim, and then laid a trap. As he waited in the spare room of Rita Drankle’s home the next day, Flint came knocking, claiming he had a package and needed a drink of water, if possible. As soon as he slipped into Mrs. Drankle’s home and attempted to pin her to the ground, Leas was on him.

“Yes, but…” Leas wanted to add,
but the bastard deserved it
. He’d killed children…a mother. The anger in Leas had collided with his personal anger and spilled over into his work. It hadn’t been the first time he swung one too many times on a suspect. And he suspected it wouldn’t be his last.

The attorney pushed again. “So you admit that you physically assaulted my client, and then and only then did you ‘beat’ that statement out of him.”

“Now wait a damn second. I did not beat him.” Leas’ temper flared.

Okay, maybe I did just a little. But, Miss Rubert…and Maria deserved to get a few stings in on a cold-hearted killer like Flint.

“Then you strangled him, deprived him of oxygen and made him fear for his life if he didn’t say exactly what you wanted him to, correct?” The attorney grinned, obviously enjoying the cross-examination.

Leas squirmed at the direct verbal assault. “No! That man over there killed Miss Rubert, her kids, and three others, and he knows it. Hell, you know it, you snake! That’s why he confessed!”

“Objection!”

Just as the venomous attorney spat out his objection and coiled to strike again a ringing came from Leas’ tan slacks pocket, buzzing against his side. Clasping his hand over its location he looked up to the disapproving eyes of the judge.

The judge spoke in slow words. “Sustained. Agent Leas, one more outburst like that out of you and I will put
you
in jail, do you understand me? And didn’t I tell you to turn off your phones? Bailiff, collect Agent Leas’ phone and don’t give it back to him until we are done here.” A large officer in a black uniform with a holstered pistol swaggered up to the witness box and put out his hand. Digging deep into his navy blazer pocket, he withdrew his phone and handed it over, still buzzing from the call. The judge continued, “Now answer the question.”

Looking across the room to see the bailiff switching the phone off, Leas spoke as he stood halfway up and leaned out of the witness box. “He confessed…and he laughed when he did it, laughed at their deaths and their pain.” Leas settled back into his seat.

The attorney turned to the center bench and the large black-robed judge behind it. “Your Honor, as you can see the confession is coerced. I respectfully request that the statement be suppressed based upon the admission of Agent Leas that it was obtained by force, fear of injury, and that because of that, it is unreliable.”

The judge looked to his side to peer at Leas and then turned to address the lawyer standing before him. He rubbed his chin. “I don’t like this, but I have no option under the testimony presented in this hearing today. The evidence is clear. Mr. Flint was strangled immediately before giving the statement. Under those circumstances I find the statement unreliable and it shall be suppressed. Trial is scheduled for a month from now, counsel. I expect real discussions on trying to resolve this case prior to it proceeding. The court is adjourned.”

DEFENSE COUNSEL HAD
done his homework, twisting a tale of a FBI drunk suffering from the death of his young wife into the defense, and it resulted in the loss of the defendant’s admission to killing multiple women. Leas could still see the DAs’ faces, bowed down as he testified, clearly not liking what they heard. His drinking had not interfered with the investigation of Flint and his five roadside murders.
It hadn’t
. But the loss of his admission meant the jury would be less likely to convict at the trial next month.

Halfway through the courtroom doors, the local prosecutor grabbed the jacket sleeve of Leas’ right arm and spun him into the wall, preparing to hit him. Before Leas could respond, another young suit interjected, tearing the two men apart and pushing them into a side room of the courthouse. Agent Leas was looking down, straightening his black jacket’s lapel, when the attorney began speaking. “Do you have any
fucking
clue what you have done? If this shit gets loose he’s going to kill again and that blood will be on your hands. What the hell are we supposed to do now?” The narrow-faced prosecutor shoved his finger into Leas’ face, pacing the room as if he actually wanted an answer.

Leas gave the man a stern stare and said, “Here’s something novel, you could do your job and prove he’s the murderer just by using the evidence that links him to it.” Leas’ thick black eyebrows were raised as he delivered the last few words.

The prosecutor looked over his glasses with disdain at Leas’ response. “No, you… You shut your fucking mouth. Do
my
job? That’s ballsy coming from you, Agent. You know, they warned me about you. A fucking drunk. That’s what they said. All fucked up since your wife’s murder back in D.C., taking it out on every suspect you come across. I’ll have your badge for this royal fuck-up.” Leas’ thick arms tensed under his too-big jacket as he fought to restrain himself. He knew he had screwed the pooch on this one, but he couldn’t control himself. The guy was a killer, and he could prove it, with or without an admission.

“Just get the hell out. I’m done with you. Go pour yourself into one of those bottles of whiskey that you reek of. And if I ever catch you sniffing around one of my cases again, so help me God, you’ll be the one getting the shit beat out of you.”

“Actually counsel, he has to get on a plane.” The other suit piped in and handed the prosecutor a stack of files with what appeared to be a plane ticket on top of the rubber-band bound collection. The attorney looked at the top document for a moment and then turned to Leas again. “Well, lucky fuck. They want you down in Dallas,
tomorrow
. You’re someone else’s problem now.” The files shoved into his hands, Leas looked down briefly at the ticket and promptly walked out of the courthouse without a word.

Jumping into his rented blue Kia Sofia, Leas went directly to his dank first-floor hotel room. He hated motor lodges because rooms that opened to the parking lot always posed a danger in his line of work. Opening the door, he discovered the whiskey he had desperately needed since stepping into the courthouse was gone, consumed just hours before he took the stand and forgotten. The silver-grey and brown pinstriped wallpaper and thin-sheeted bed demanded whiskey if they were to be endured one more night. He had eyed an old bar on the corner of the block three days earlier when he arrived for his testimony, but the suits stuck around like flies on a steaming pile, leaving no opportunity to restock the single bottle he’d grabbed on the way from the airport.

Outside again, he was immediately miserable. For May, it was unusually hot and steamy in Tulsa. He had worked the case against Flint five months earlier when snow dusted the ground and heat was the last thing he needed to worry about. But now, his clothes stuck to him, grasping at his slight chest and arm hair with every movement down the sidewalk.
Damn it’s hot
. D.C. would have its heat, but not for another month if the city was lucky. Leas just wanted to be back there, where getting a drink didn’t require a steam bath and a dusting of red clay. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough, but for now, he needed that drink.

Stepping into the empty corner bar, he grabbed the red-cushioned stool closest to the door. His placement was a habit from his days working the beat in Philly for seven years, before the FBI picked him up because he had made a reputation for himself as the ‘hunter of hunters.’ It was Philly where he met his wife Maria, who loved him even if his job required him to work off hours and never see her. When he was around, he was still mentally working the case, trying to get into the minds of killers. But she never complained.

It was one of those killers who took her life, and he hated himself for it. Alcohol helped numb the pain of loss—he could live, even if there wasn’t much to live for, so long as he was in a consistent state of intoxication. In the past few years the alcohol had taken over, and with it, his temper against killers.

“Hey sugar, buy a lady a drink?” A crane of a woman with what appeared to be a Dolly Parton wig piled upon her head had moved in on the stool beside him, placing her hand on his knee and repositioning the shoestring strap of her red top onto her shoulder with the other.

Leas decided to play along. “What would you like?” The woman was nothing he would have chased after before Maria. But, now… Knob Creek told him he needed to get laid, and it didn’t matter how or with whom. Anything to make him forget. The script played out for thirty or so minutes before he escorted ‘Bridget’ back toward his room.

They diverted their path slightly to hit a small liquor store in the direction of the hotel. Looking over at the woman as the Indian clerk behind the counter rung up the fresh bottle of Knob, he thought,
She doesn’t look like a Bridget—maybe a Betsy or Mercedes, but not a Bridget
. The saggy skin under her arms suggested she had lost weight by trading one oral fixation for another, further evidenced by the two Virginia Slims she puffed down between the bar and the door to his room.

He was grateful for the dense mallard-green velveteen curtains at the windows, permitting him to imagine something much better than what Bridget was.
All things are beautiful in the dark
. The only indicator of her true lacking was when her raspy smoker’s voice tried to add drama to the event, moaning an “oh baby” that sounded more like a demon crowing from a small child’s mouth than any seductive measure.

The deed was done in less than ten minutes. He placed a fifty on the night stand after flicking on the bedside lamp, giving her the clue it was time to go. She was smart enough to gather her things and take the money as he walked towards the bathroom, leaving without question.

Alone, he sat naked at the edge of the bed. Leas wondered how he had come to this place of murder, cheap sex, and booze. The thought of Maria seeing what he had just done made him sick in that moment. He swung back two more chugs until the whiskey took the pain away with its dry sting. A shower and half a bottle later, he was passed out for the night, wishing it was him who had died.