Venator Read online

"Who said I’d ever want to set my baby toe in the squaller that I’m sure is your home."

  "Now that’s pretty harsh."

  "I can’t believe you're hitting on me. I mean, you just broke up with your little girlfriend."

  "She wasn’t my girlfriend."

  "Oh, excuse me. Fuck buddies?"

  "Friends with benefits."

  "So, why no relationship?"

  "That’s a little personal."

  "I thought that’s what you wanted."

  "What?"

  "To get personal," Provo grinned.

  "I can’t believe you're hitting on me. You just broke up with your boyfriend!" Eric smiled.

  "He wasn’t my boyfriend. You know, this is getting a little childish, Eric. We’re not in high school for God’s sake."

  "So what are you saying?"

  "I’m attracted to you, you big dufuss. I don’t know why, I could do so much better than you."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’m pretty attracted to you too, although I wish I’d stop dating white girls. They’re nothing but trouble."

  "Who said you'd ever get the chance to date me, Detective?"

  "What happened to calling me Eric?"

  "You know how the old saying goes about shitting where you eat."

  "You mean relationships in the workplace?"

  "Yep, they’re always a bad idea. I mean look at your situation."

  "What situation? I have a situation?"

  "If your little girlfriend stared anymore daggers in my direction, I’d start resembling Swiss cheese."

  "Oh c’mon. You can’t be serious."

  "Look, Eric. She still has the hots for you. I know you must have pretty deep feelings for her too. So, if you want to try to work things out, now is the time, especially while she’s jealous."

  "And what if I have my eyes on someone else?"

  "A co-worker, perhaps?"

  "Well, I don’t plan on working there too much longer. I’m going to be a jazz musician, you know."

  "Is that right?" Provo said, playing along.

  "Yep. Got it all figured out. Me and the boys start playing some gigs around town, develop a name for ourselves, cut an album and start touring."

  "So how are you going to fit your new love interest into this busy lifestyle?"

  "Well, I know she really loves her work. And I know that with that love comes long hours, so there isn’t much time to be spent with her. It would be hard to make things work. And who’s to say she’s even interested in me? What do you think I should do? Just forget about it? Move on with my life?"

  "I can’t say for sure. But if she’s as great as you think she is, I’m sure she’d make time for you."

  "You think so?"

  "Sure."

  "So how do I get the ball rolling?"

  "If I were you, I’d ask her to sit in on one of your shows."

  "That’s not a bad idea. Thanks Provo."

  "You’re welcome, Eric."

  The unmarked cruiser sped off the exit ramp and headed toward the mall. Eric and Provo saw the flashing police lights in the parking lot. The red glow filled the interior of the car.

  "Ready to get back to work?" Provo asked.

  "In just a second. Let me run something by you first."

  "Shoot."

  "Do you think you might want to check my band out one night? Come over to my house, wade through the squaller and enjoy some fine jazz music?"

  Provo cut her eyes at Eric as he stopped the cruiser in the mall parking lot.

  "Sorry, can we finish this later, Detective?" Provo slipped out of the car before Eric could say anything.

  "White girls," he muttered.

  Eric hauled himself out of the cruiser and ducked under the yellow police tape surrounding the crime scene. Provo was two steps ahead of him, flashing her credentials and asking questions.

  "Hey, Eric. What’s shaking?" A gravely voice asked.

  "Jay Will, you sorry son of a bitch, how the hell are you?"

  "I’m good, partner. Who's your lady friend?"

  "A fed."

  "Gotcha," the man said, eyeing her. "Listen, I put in the call to Richmond when I got here. I knew you had probably antied up for this I-95 killer gig, so..."

  "Good looking out, Jay Will. So fill me in."

  "Well, it looks like your lady friend is already getting the dirt on the knife attack."

  "He used a knife?"

  "Not exactly, something with a long blade, machete or a sword."

  "Shit, this guy’s a real sicko."

  "Listen," Jay Will said. " If I were you, I’d step inside and talk to Sheila."

  "Who's Sheila?"

  "She works with mall security."

  "Yeah? Well they did a real bang up job with this one."

  "Oh, I’m not arguing with you. But, check it out, there’s always someone watching." Jay Will pointed toward the corner of the mall. The parking lot lights glinted off a surveillance camera.

  "Sheila?" Eric asked.

  "Sheila," Jay Will answered. "Oh and Eric?"

  "Yeah?"

  "She loves a big black man."

  Eric shook Jay Will’s hand and pulled him in for a hug, "I owe you one, my man."

  "No doubt, but uh, you think I could get girlfriend's digits over there."

  "She’d eat you alive, brother."

  "That’s what I’m hoping for."

  Eric walked toward Provo and grabbed her elbow.

  "There you are, Detective. I thought I’d lost you."

  "No worries, Special Agent. I wouldn’t leave you alone in this part of town."

  "So gallant. But what happened to calling me Provo?"

  "Well, we are working here and besides, I’ve got something you may want to see."

  "Right now? I thought you said we were working."

  "You’re something else alright."

  "That’s what they tell me."

  31

  I was wondering how long it would take you to get around to talking to me?" A large woman said with her back to Eric and Provo. She lumbered over and sat in front of a bank of monitors.

  "Sheila?" Eric asked.

  "That’s right," the woman said with a mouth full of food. She turned around to face them and nearly choaked.

  "Excuse me," she fumbled. "I wasn’t expecting such a handsome man this evening."

  "That was rather blunt," Provo whispered.

  "Pardon me?" Sheila managed while wiping some crumbs off of her blouse.

  "Nothing," Eric said walking over to her. "My partner and I were wondering if you got a good look at the attack tonight?"

  "You could do so much better," she muttered under her breath.

  "I’m sorry?" Provo asked, walking over to them.

  "I was just saying that I have what you're looking for right here," Sheila offered, making eye contact with Eric.

  He smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Please, show me."

  "My pleasure."

  Provo wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  Sheila perked up and moused over to a start up menu. She clicked a few times and a video feed began to play.

  Eric looked at Provo.

  She mouthed the words, "I’ll leave you two alone."

  Eric's eyes opened wide in alarm.

  "I’ll just be outside," Prove said and headed for the door.

  Before Eric could open his mouth, Sheila latched on to his hand. "That’ll be just fine, sweetie. I’ll take good care of your friend here."

  "I’m sure you will," Provo said, savoring the moment. She winked sarcastically at Eric and slipped out the door.

  32

  Furman looked at Tony’s trembling profile. The naked man was bound to a wooden chair with thick rings of duck tape. The basement was dark except for a lone bulb hanging from an electrical cord. Furman’s breath clung to the inside of his mask in thick condensation. His nose filled with the smell of the plastic lining. Frye’s hand skittered over the rough features of his skul
l mask. Real bone. Real eye sockets. Real Death.

  He pushed record on the video camera and stepped in front of the lens. Death leaned with his back against a pane of one way glass that looked out into the basement. The white skull stared dumbly at the camera and the jaw worked, creaking open and closed. He raised a gloved fist and knocked on the window pane. Through the glass, the camera recorded Tony as he jumped and then struggled against his constraints. Death pressed his face against the window. The bone scratched against the glass with a sickening sound.

  Death left the frame. Tony was slowly began to tire in his struggle. Death reappeared behind Tony, his long scythe catching the soft auburn light. Tony was relaxing again. Death began stroking his victim's head. Tony squirmed manically as his chair was turned to face the camera. Death stood behind him and slowly sliced into the man with his scythe. Tony screamed bloody murder and somewhere behind the bone white features of Death, Furman thought that those walls would never hear enough of that bittersweet sound.

  33

  Death has eaten another meal, killing is a pleasure due to his rotten zeal, he must be stopped, he must be put down, hardly finding air due the blood in which we drown." Tatum put the sheet of paper down on the table next to him, "Where are we on this?"

  "He suffers from multiple personality syndrome," Provo answered. "He has separated himself from the killer he called Death. In his mind, Death is to blame, he assigns the guilt to this fantastic figure whom he regards as his better. The bottom line is, he will not stop. He will become more bold, more brazen and more flamboyant. Deep down he wants this to end, but his other personality, Death, won’t allow him. He feels trapped and these messages he’s sending us are called for help."

  "In other words, we wait for him to make a mistake?" Tatum asked.

  "Unfortunately, yes."

  "Unacceptable. I want other options."

  "Well, there is something else."

  Tatum leaned against the table and crossed his arms.

  "Our perp is going after young thin blonde men. I propose we bait him with an agent."

  "But we don’t know where he hunts. It would be like hitting the lottery for our agent to even fall within the radar of this guy."

  "I disagree. He has never attacked more than a few miles away from I-95. I believe that he chooses his victims in a public place very near the interstate and follows them, perhaps all week. Getting a feeling for there routine and when he’s comfortable, on Friday and near the interstate, he attacks when they’re most vulnerable. The key would be to place agents fitting his desired profile in public places along 95 between DC and Charlotte. Then keep a lookout for our white male in a black van following the agent."

  "You’re still talking about a lot of area here, Provo."

  "Yes sir, I know. But its worth a shot."

  "Alright, put together a short list of public places where you think we could attract our boy’s attention. And I’ll go about finding our bait."

  "Sir?"

  Tatum looked up at Provo.

  "I’d like to volunteer."

  34

  The cellar door flew open and clattered to the ground. The black night cried forth a deluge of rain. Water cascaded down the concrete steps of the root cellar and splashed around Death’s ankles.

  The dark figure hauled a bloody carcass up from the basement and into the night. Death pulled what was left of Tony through the mud and toward the ice house. The red eyes of Furman Frye peered out from behind the boney mask and nervously scanned the night. The rain was loud and could easily mask the approach of footsteps. No, he reminded himself. To attack Death would be foolhardy, even for the Indian warriors that stalked the Frye clan down through the ages. Even now, Furman was aware of the red man’s eyes on his body. The painted tribesmen lurking just out of sight. But they would not move any closer, of this Furman was sure. He was Death, cloaked in black with the white bone face. No, they would not risk a confrontation with Death. They would wait until Frye was alone and unarmed.

  He squeezed a wet fist around the handle of his long scythe and drug Tony into the ice house. Once inside, Furman removed the mask of Death and laid it to one side. His sweaty face was now tightening up in the cool air. Furman began the task of removing the meat from Tony’s body.

  How long had he been at this? Furman wasn’t sure. Death had always been a part of his life. The death of his mother and sister had been traumatic. Sending him to the verge of lunacy. But Furman was able to keep a fleeting hold on reality and survive, hadn’t he?

  Then came the animals. The daily sacrifice in his little green castle hidden in the cypress trees. Furman started out small and worked his way up. The biggest thing he’d ever killed, cut up and then eaten had been a small alligator, perhaps twice the size of a dog.

  At this point in his life, with no one else to occupy his father’s attention, Furman had become a sort of toy. His father used him over and over again, in inconceivable ways that even today, made Furman feel small and weak. A feeling he loathed, a feeling he doctored by assuming the mantle of Death. Death was a juggernaut, unstoppable, unyielding, exact.

  Furman removed Tony’s skull from the torso with a sick snap and broke it open like a cantaloup. He drained the contents into a white bucket and scrapes the inside of the cranium clean, much like children do when making a jack-o-lantern. Furman admired the broken skull and thougt about sending it to that nice police officer’s boy. Perhaps the child would receive it in time for Halloween, could wear it search of candy. Yes, that would be quite nice.

  Furman packaged the bloody meat in white butcher's paper and placed it among the large ice blocks that were covered in hay. That done, he carried two buckets full of entrails to the wooden hatch that concealed the Indian tunnel. Furman surveyed the ceiling of the ice house and admired his handiwork. There were hundreds of drying bones suspended from the ceiling that lazily clink together. The sound was rhythmic and soothing.

  Frye lumbered through the tunnel with a heavy bucket in each hand. He unconsciously clenched his bottom tight as he made his way through the dark. His father came to mind again. The man had been dead many years but still, he held a tight grip over his son.

  Furman could hear the soft breathing of his father in his ear. The stale breath oozing past his nostrils. The thick sweat accumulating on his neck. The heavy hands on his shoulders, his waist, his legs and his face. Furman felt his throat drowning in thick fluid and gagged in order to expel the phantom mucus.

  Then the soft light of the moon saved him from the dark. The rain stopped and everything was silent. Furman exited the tunnel and made his way under the thick foliage and onto the riverbank. He set the buckets down and found a comfortable spot beside the river.

  He reached his hand into the first bucket and pitched a handful of entrails into the river. Furman listened intently for their approach. The once placid water moved more roughly. Another handful of innards landed in the water with a plop. He wondered how close they would come this time.

  The first gator Furman saw was fairly small but he had a big appetite. Furman lured him onto the bank in front of him with soft mounds of fleshy organs. Frye had one bucket left when a big gator came out of the water. Easily ten feet long and well over 500 pounds, Furman emptied the last bucket and watched the massive reptile gorge itself on the free meal.

  While observing this display, Furman’s belly rumbled. He thought about dining on what was left of Saul. He had a little charcoal left in the grill and enough meat to make a couple of steaks. Bake a potato and Furman could watch the new tape of Tony and Death. That would make a nice evening. He could sleep in and tomorrow, get a start on that new skull mask for the boy.

  Furman smiled happily and turned his back on the gator. He considered putting on his mask, just until he made it through the tunnel, back across the yard and into the house. But he'd left it in the ice house. Furman cursed himself when the darkness swallowed him again. He’d lost his appetite.

  35

 
Eric and Provo made it back to the FBI regional headquarters in Richmond at a little past 2 in the morning.

  "Looks like everyone’s gone for the night," Eric muttered.

  "Nope, there still in there. Hard at work," Provo sighed. "I’ve had enough for one day, how about you?"

  "Yeah, I’m bushed. Can our report wait until morning?"

  "It's already done, I phoned it into Tatum while Sheila was giving you her number."

  "Is it my fault that I’m an attractive African-American stud with no attachments?"

  "No," Provo laughed. "I guess not. Listen, I need to get some beauty sleep or I won’t be worth shit tomorrow." She reached for the door handle.

  "What? No goodnight kiss?"

  "I’m not that kind of girl, Detective."

  "Call me Eric, we’re not at work."

  "Eric, If I kissed you right now there is no way you and I would be getting any sleep tonight."

  "Is that right?" Eric whispered, leaning in close to her.

  "To hell with it." She pulled his face to hers.

  Eric’s big hand found Provo’s thigh. He gripped the firm muscle and she quivered.

  "Are you sure about this?" she asked.

  "Mmhm."

  Eric’s cell phone rang abruptly.

  Provo jumped, "Shit."

  "God dammit," Eric cursed. He answered it.

  "Eric? It’s Em," she said with a tint of fear in her voice.

  "What is it? What’s wrong?"

  "I... I found a blue rose beside my front door," She moaned in terror.

  "Are you inside the house?" Eric demanded as he gunned the accelerator and tore out of the parking lot.

  "No, I did like you said and got back in my car. The engine is running and I’ve got the doors locked."

  "Good. Stay there. I’m going to call Jay Will. I’ll be there in 10 minutes, tops."

  "Thank you, Eric," Emily said, staring to cry.

  "Get yourself together girl! I want you paying close attention to what is going on around you, understand?"

  "Yeah... Yes, I understand."

  "Now I’m going to give you over to Special Agent Provo. You are to stay on the line with her until Jay Will or I get there, okay?"