The Watcher in the Wall (15 page)

Rodney wanted to put Marcus Smart on the job, the crew’s usual hitter, experienced muscle. But Marcus had to meet his parole officer, wasn’t supposed to leave the state. So Rodney had scanned across the studio to where Donovan was sweeping out the back room. He’d studied Donovan awhile. Donovan kept sweeping, tried to make out like he wasn’t hanging on Rodney’s next words.

“You want to make a quick five bills, rookie?” Rodney called over, and Donovan looked up, set the broom down, nonchalant.

“Go talk to this asshole,” Rodney continued. “Get loud if you have to. Just bring back our money, or leave this dude in the ground. You think you can do that?”

Across the table from Rodney, Marcus snorted. “You’re really sending this kid, huh?” he said. “You really think the fucking
janitor
has what it takes?”

Rodney stared over at Donovan again. Donovan stood tall, tried to make like he fit in. Tried to make like he was good for the job, like he wasn’t scared shitless. Like this wasn’t what he’d been waiting for since he’d signed on with the crew.

“What about the product?” he asked Rodney. “You want me to bring that back, too?”

Rodney made the jack-off motion. “This isn’t Rico Jordan’s crew,” he said. “That creepy shit ain’t our business anymore. But outstanding debts
will
be paid. You think you can handle this?” He gestured to the broom. “Or you want to be the guy who pushes brooms in the clubhouse instead?”

Donovan told Rodney he would do it. Loaded up his old Lincoln, hit the I-90 and drove. Did the speed limit, kept his eye on the shoulder for cops, the rearview mirror. Couldn’t stop his gaze drifting to the glove box, his uncle’s borrowed Smith & Wesson, his hunting shotgun in the trunk. Couldn’t help feeling nervous, feeling like maybe he wasn’t cut out for this shit after all. Feeling like maybe he really was meant to sweep up after guys like Rodney and Marcus his whole life.

Just get this money,
he told himself, drumming his hands on the
steering wheel.
Make this cornball pay up, and you’re part of the crew. You can do this.

<
57
>

Dylan Price was ready.

I bought the webcam, like you said,
he told Gruber.
Swiped a bunch of cash out of my dad’s wallet to pay for it. Kind of poetic, right?

Excellent,
Gruber wrote back.
The bastard deserves it. What about the rest of the supplies? Did you get the rope like I told you?

The rope, yeah,
Dylan wrote.
The yellow kind, right? What else do I need?

G:
Just a place to set everything up.

D:
Why with the hanging, though? I mean, wouldn’t it be just as easy to slit our wrists? Why do we have to hang ourselves?

G:
We just have to. It’s important. Hanging is REALLY important.

D:
LOL. Okay, whatever. I’ll find a place.

D:
Maybe I can try the attic or something.

G:
When will you be ready?

D:
I’m ready today, LOL. I would jump in front of a freight train in five minutes if I lived near the tracks.

G:
Don’t do it. Wait for me. I need to watch you or I won’t have the guts to do it myself.

D:
I’m JK, don’t worry.

D:
I don’t want to wait long. My fucking dad is going to find out I stole that money, and then he’ll probably kick my ass or something. I want to be out of here before that, if possible.

G:
Okay. So when?

A long pause. Gruber imagined Dylan sitting at his computer, calculating how much longer he wanted to stay on this earth.

D:
How about Friday? My mom and dad are going out of town to some conference in D.C.

Gruber smiled to himself.
Friday
is excellent.

He sent the message. Leaned back in his chair, felt a pang in his stomach, hunger gnawing away. Was about to wander into the kitchen, scrounge up what was left of the groceries, wondered when the hell Rico’s guy would be here with the money. He’d told Gruber he needed a day or two to move some cash around. Rico was dead, but sure, they could do business. Just the little matter of those outstanding payments.

“The product will more than cover it,” Gruber had told him. “Give me a little something to live on up front and you can have the footage, sell it how you like, pocket the proceeds. Cover my debts and keep whatever you earn. It’s quality footage. You’re guaranteed to make money.”

The guy—Rodney was his name—had insisted on doing business in person. “Guess you can understand how trust ain’t exactly forthcoming around here,” he’d told Gruber. “Your word’s worth about as much as the paper it’s printed on, after you did Rico so dirty.”

Gruber tried to explain. Told Rodney he’d been running for his life, the cops on his ass. Anyway, it was just as easy to send the footage online. Send the payment the same way.

But Rodney was unmoved. “Nah, we don’t play that way,” he’d told
Gruber. “We deal in cash and hard product. Tangible shit. I’ll send my boy up tomorrow. Be ready.”

That was yesterday. Tonight, Gruber was hungry. The fridge was just about empty, the cupboards the same. If Rodney’s guy didn’t get here soon, Gruber figured he might starve to death.

He found half of a frozen burrito, a plastic cup of guacamole gone brown. Was just fiddling with the oven when the headlights flashed through the kitchen, tires on wet pavement outside.

Gruber went to the window, pulled open the curtains. A white boat of a car was parked at the curb, a Cadillac or a Lincoln or something, something big and American and near prehistoric. Gruber watched the door open, couldn’t see much of the driver as he climbed from the car, started up the walk toward the house.

Rico’s guy. Rodney. Had to be.

Gruber pushed the burrito away. Turned off the oven, seeing better meals in his future already. Went to the front door, unlocked it. Swung it open as the guy reached the stoop.

“Rodney, right?” Gruber said, smiling, thinking,
Maybe a steak
.

The guy didn’t smile back. He was young, Gruber saw, might have still been a teenager. Tall and lean, wore his bravado like a mask, his face hard everywhere but his eyes. He scowled, spat on the concrete.

“Nah, I ain’t Rodney,” he said. “But I
am
here for that money.”

<
58
>

Windermere called up
the Cleveland PD, asked around. Connected with a detective named Balint who said he was the guy who’d put Rico Jordan away.

“Sure, I remember Rico,” he told Windermere. “How could I not? Guy was built like a lineman, a solid two-fifty pounds. We made sure we brought numbers when we came to haul him in, I’ll tell you.”

“We heard Rico was into some dirt,” Windermere said. “Amateur video hour, snuff stuff.”

“
King
of the snuff films,” Balint said. “Obtained and distributed. There were rumors he produced the shit, too, but we could never pin that on him. Fortunately, the kiddie porn was enough to put him away, and I guess his fellow inmates did the rest.”

“You remember Rico hanging out with a guy named Gruber?” Windermere asked. “Probably a bit of a loner, used to lurk around high schools. Might even have drawn some complaints?”

Balint grunted, mulled it over. “Kind of a portly guy?” he said. “Ungainly, bad haircut? Worked at the gas station, down by Riverside High?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Last picture I saw, the guy was fifteen. He’d be about twenty-six, twenty-seven when you met him.”

“Coke-bottle glasses. Real thick and greasy, made his eyes look way big, like a bug?”

“That’s the guy,” Windermere said. “You know anything about him, anybody who could tell us where he might have gone?”

Balint gave it another moment’s consideration. “If it’s the same guy we’re talking about, he was a minor player at best. There was the high school situation, yeah, and we pegged him buying some video off of Rico, some suicide stuff. People jumping off bridges and the like, the sicker the better. We nabbed a few of those guys, but most of them slipped through the net. I guess this guy was one of them.”

“What about the high school angle? Anybody who’d remember him?”

“Nah,” Balint said. “You get perverts like that three deep around the school yard. They all blur together, you know? Lonely white men with bad social skills. Who can tell them apart?”

“Tell me about it,” Windermere said.

“Anyway, why the sudden interest? This guy haul off and do something crazy? Like I said, he was minor when we heard about him.”

“He’s major now,” Windermere said. “Rico have any friends? Anyone who might have followed up on my guy?”

“If they followed up, your boy wouldn’t be breathing,” Balint told her. “Rico Jordan’s crew wasn’t exactly the type to forgive and forget, you know?”

“Yeah, I figured.” Windermere thanked Balint, ended the call. Climbed back in the rental car and gave Stevens the head shake and the frown.

“No dice,” she said. “Cleveland PD knows Rico, sure, but they didn’t think enough of Randall Gruber to pay him much notice. As far as they’re aware, he’s long gone.”

Stevens pursed his lips. “So that dries up that lead.”

“If only we had an alias on the guy, a location,” Windermere said. “We’ve got nothing, partner.”

“So how do we find him?” Stevens said. “This is a pretty cold trail we’re running.”

Windermere nodded. “And while we’re chasing our tails, Gruber’s out there somewhere, trolling for another victim.”

“Exactly,” Stevens said, and the conversation died there. Windermere stared out the windshield of the rental car, the night beyond, bare trees and blowing wind, pale streetlights and shadows.

He’s out there,
she thought.
Somewhere in all that darkness. He’s out there, and he’s going to kill another kid.

She fumbled in her pocket. Found another cigarette.

<
59
>

The cornball didn’t
have the money. As far as Donovan could tell, the guy didn’t have shit but the videos he was peddling. And Rodney had already made it clear he didn’t want those.

“I’m here for the money,” Donovan told Gruber. Tried to keep his voice deep, flat, hard, like Rodney’s. Like Marcus. “Twenty-five hundred dollars, plus interest. Call it four. You pay what you owe, and I get out of your face, get it?”

Randall Gruber was an ugly motherfucker. Short, chubby, going
bald, the hint of a pervert’s mustache and a pair of greasy glasses. He stood in the middle of his filthy living room and laughed and gestured at the mess.

“Do you see four thousand dollars lying around?” he asked Donovan. “I can’t even afford breakfast tomorrow. Why the hell do you think I called you people in the first place?”

Donovan followed Gruber’s eyes, surveyed the house. The tiny living room, empty junk-food wrappers everywhere, a grimy carpet, no light. The kitchen was more of the same, an ancient, stained stove, a pile of dishes in the sink. Somebody’s half-eaten burrito.
Filthy, man. Savage.

“Guess you should have thought of that,” Donovan told him. “Man, you were stone-clear of us, dude. Rico checked in on your moms, your stepfather, didn’t nobody know where you were. The way Rodney figured it, that money you owed was a lost fucking cause. But you—”

“Hold up.” Gruber lifted a hand. “What did you say about my stepfather? You said Rico found Earl?”

Donovan glared at him. “So? Who cares, B? I’m here about that money.”

Gruber was silent for a long moment. “It doesn’t matter. I’m flat broke. The only way I can pay you is with this.”

He dug in his pocket, came out with a portable hard drive, about the size of a wallet. Donovan knew there were movies on there, the kind of movies Rico Jordan used to make, the sick shit that had landed him in jail and then in the grave. Back when Rico ran the crew, those movies were relevant. But Rico was gone, and Rodney didn’t fuck with that kind of depravity. For what it was worth, neither did Curtis Donovan.

He hesitated. Heard Marcus laughing at him. Saw Rodney handing
back the broom. Fuck that. He ignored the hard drive. Reached for his uncle’s Smith & Wesson instead.

“I guess that’s where you’re wrong,” he told Gruber. “That little hard drive right there isn’t the only way out.”

<<<

The kid wasn’t used
to the gun; Gruber could see that. The way he fumbled, pulling it from his waistband, the nervous way his hand shook, the doubt in his eyes. Gruber wasn’t afraid of this kid, of the threat. He was angry.

“What the hell do you think you’re going to do with that?” he said. “How is that going to get your money back, shit stain?”

The kid flinched a little. Drew himself up. “They told me, come back with the money,” he said. “Said if you didn’t
have
the money, I should leave you to rot.”

“I’m giving you the goddamn money.” Gruber held out the hard drive again. “You take this footage, sell it, you’ll make a hell of a lot more than four grand, I’m telling you. Just leave me a cut so I can pay my fucking bills, and you can walk out of here and leave me alone.”

The kid hesitated. Worked his mouth like he was thinking it over. “They don’t do that shit anymore,” he said finally. “Those little movies you’re into, that’s not really their style. Sorry, dude.”

He raised the revolver. Leveled it direct at Gruber’s face, left him staring down the barrel. Gruber felt the frustration surging through him like magma, something awful. Figured, young as he was, scared as he was, the kid still might just talk himself into pulling the trigger. Proving himself. Might just stay blind to this mint fucking deal.

Shit.

Gruber’s gaze drifted. Fell on Earl’s picture on the wall, Sarah’s. DarlingMadison and Dylan Price. He had an idea.

“Look,” he said. “Put the gun down. You want the money, right?”

The kid didn’t answer. Didn’t lower the gun.

“I have these two projects,” Gruber told him. “Kids I’m working on. They’re almost ready to go. You get what I’m saying?”