Jack rubbed his eyes wearily. “This morning I told Noyle that there would probably be a fourth murder.”
“I don’t think there are any probablies about it, Jack. So far our killers have duplicated the original rite. Noyle would be stupid not to expect a fourth murder.”
“Noyle is stupid,” Jack said. “He’s convinced the two killers are just crackheads or psychotics.”
“There are at least three killers, remember. There’s also someone out there who thinks he’s a prelate, and you can bet that right now he’s preparing for the fourth murder.”
“Great,” Jack said. “In a way I’m glad Noyle took me off the case; it’s his problem now.” He stood up, fishing in his pockets. Onto the bar he emptied a bunch of change, keys, and scraps of paper. What a slob, Faye thought. But I still love him.
“I’m out of cigarettes,” he said, “and if I don’t have one soon, I’ll die.”
“You might die if you do have one soon.”
“Please don’t confuse me with facts.” Jack plucked quarters out of the mass of change, then disappeared for the cigarette machine.
Faye remained lulled on the bar, thinking. “Can I ask you something, Craig?”
“Of course.” Craig was deftly juggling four shooter glasses around a lit Marlboro 100 in his mouth. “People ask me things all the time.”
“Should I bow out?”
“I can’t advise you on that one. But I can say that it never pays to give up.” Craig spoke and juggled at the same time.
“You’re a big help, Craig. I hope you drop those glasses.”
“I’ve dropped many. How do you think I got to be so good?” Craig grinned. “Think about that.”
Faye smirked at him. He was saying that fulfillment came though trial and error. She’d dropped a few glasses herself in life.
“But here’s something for you to consider. There’s a minor variation on the men’s room wall, so you know it’s true.”
“Graffiti is the voice of truth?” she asked sarcastically.
“You never seen our men’s room.”
“Okay, Craig. What?”
He expertly juggled each shooter glass down to the bartop. “A woman’s got to do what she’s got to do.”
Faye’s frown deepened. When she sipped her beer again, she noticed a slip of paper Jack had removed from his pocket. She blinked.
Then she picked it up and looked at it hard. The piece of paper was filled with scrawl, but right on top—
Jack returned, tamping a fresh pack of Camels.
“What…is…this?” Faye asked, the impossibility of what she saw stretching her words like tallow.
Jack glanced at the slip of paper. “Those are the directions I told you about, the directions to the rich guy’s house.”
“Rich guy,” Faye repeated.
“Yeah, the rich guy. I already told you, the guy who invited Veronica to his estate for some kind of retreat. I copied them down when I broke into Ginny’s apartment.”
“You broke into Ginny’s apartment?” Craig asked, incredulous.
“Don’t ask,” Jack said.
But Faye was tugging on his sleeve, urgent to the point of almost tearing his shirt. “Jack, Jack, listen to me!”
“Are you all right, Faye?”
“Shut up and listen!” She pointed to the world Jack had written above the directions. The word was Khoronos. “What’s that? Why did you write that?”
Now Jack looked totally cruxed. “That’s his name.”
“Whose name?”
“The rich guy,” he close to yelled. “I already told you.”
“You never told me his name!”
“So what?”
“The rich guy’s name is Khoronos?”
“Yes! Big deal! What’s the matter with you?”
Her eyes leveled on him. “Like those other names, Jack. Fraus. Faux. They weren’t names, they were words. Khoronos isn’t a name either. It’s a Greek word.”
Jack tapped out a Camel. “What are you talking about?”
She paused to catch her breath. He didn’t understand. “Let me ask you something… Do you have any reason to believe that Veronica’s disappearance might have something to do with the Triangle case?”
Jack looked at her absurdly. “That’s ridiculous. They’re totally unrelated.”
Then Faye Rowland enlightened him. “Khoronos is Greek for aorista.”
Chapter 34
Logic was not a thing one generally considered during times of anguish — too easily usurped by emotion and, of course, poor judgment. In other words, Jack Cordesman began to act before he began to think. Foot to the floor, he smoked and fumbled with maps as he drove, drifting in and out of his lane. Ginny’s directions were not difficult, yet he found difficulty in applying them to the county map grid. He felt something fighting against him.
Upon Fay’s revelation at the bar, Jack was up and out. Impossible, he thought. Completely impossible. But he was not daunted by such formalities as common sense. She’d dragged at his shirt in the parking lot, yelled at him, tried to reason with him, but for naught. “You can’t go there by yourself!” she’d shouted.
“Why not?”
“Those people are killers!”
“If they are, I’ll deal with them,” he’d stated very flatly.
“Let the police handle it!”
“I am the police. Besides, they wouldn’t believe any of it, anyway. Noyle? Olsher? No way.”
“Take some people with you, then! Someone to back you up!”
“No.”
“At least let me go with you!”
“No,” he’d said, and gotten into the car, closed the door, and driven away. He saw her shrink in the rearview as he pulled off. She watched after him, standing in the middle of the street. She looked very sad just then. She looked crushed.
I’m a prick, he thought now. I’m a cold, inconsiderate fucker. Now that he had a fair idea where he was headed, wisps of logic did indeed resurface. First, this could very well be a mistake and a tremendous overreaction. The odds were astronomical. Perhaps he’d written the name down wrong. Perhaps Ginny had. Second, even if it wasn’t a mistake, Faye was right. Jack should have backup, or he should’ve at least tried to get some, not that his credibility these days was particularly convincing among his superiors. He was going off half cocked and then some.
The unmarked’s tires hummed over the blacktop. The car devoured as much road as he could give it. He passed trucks and semi-rigs heading for the interstate; the long open fields to left and right blurred by. It was a pretty night, starry and warm. The moon followed him like a watcher.
What am I going to do when I get there? This was a sound inquiry. What did he think he was going to do? Bust down Khoronos’ door? Infiltrate his estate like some black-bag commando? Was he the knight in shining armor traveling through hell and high water to rescue the damsel in distress? Or am I about to make a prime ass of myself?
And suppose these guys were killers? Killers generally had weapons. All Jack had was his Smith Model 49, a five-shot J-frame peashooter, and he had no extra rounds. In the trunk was a parkerized Remington 870 with a folding stock which he hated (because it kicked worse than a pissed-off mule) and an old Webley revolver (which kicked worse) that he only kept around because it was fun to take to the range. The shotgun would be difficult to maneuver in close quarters, and the Webley, though it chambered a big.455 load, was an antique. Big, clunky, and about thirty years overdue for a major breakdown.