• • •
It takes him five minutes to get the screws out of the windowpane in his suite on the twelfth floor, and even then, the window will only crack open six inches—suicide prevention measures.
But it’s all he needs.
He reaches down into his duffle bag and lifts out the bubble-wrapped package. Sitting on the windowsill, he has to press his face into the glass to get a decent look down the twelve floors to Michigan Avenue.
Lots of cars out, but pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk is fairly light.
He shoves the package through the opening in the window and watches it fall.
• • •
Three minutes later, Luther pushes through the revolving doors and walks outside.
A fine drizzle is falling.
He moves twenty feet up the sidewalk and stops where the package has finally come to rest after a hard bounce that had nearly taken it into Michigan Avenue.
Reaches down, lifts it, cuts through the packing tape with his Harpy.
It takes him a moment to unwrap the numerous layers, but he finally gets down to the device, which looks intact.
Moment of truth.
He slides the release button to power it up.
He smiles.
Damn sturdy piece of engineering.
March 31, 9:00 P.M.
I stared at my computer screen, looking at the crime scene photos Herb had e-mailed me, trying to make sense of it.
Two people killed for no apparent reason, beyond sending me some kind of message.
But what was the message? For me to be afraid?
Got that. Loud and clear.
“Hungry?” Phin asked, poking his head through the door. He was still mad at me, and had refused to accept my apologies or even discuss what happened earlier.
I could have gone for some ice cream, or nachos, or sardines—better yet, all of the above mashed into a single bowl—but I told him, “I’m okay.”
He left without replying.
I’d walked Duffy when I got home from Violet’s, but he hadn’t given up the goods. I wondered if feeding a dog a box of laxatives was dangerous. I also wondered, after the ring appeared, if I’d even want to wear it knowing where it had been.
Assuming I said yes to Phin’s proposal.
Assuming that proposal was even still on the table.
I turned back to the monitor, staring at the photograph of the large cardboard box labeled FISH FOOD.
There had been another book, this one the Andrew Z. Thomas thriller The Killer and His Weapon, found in a baggie in Marquette’s stomach. The baggie read:
JD, HE DEVOURED THIS BOOK IN ONE SITTING, LK
Luther Kite had again bent over a corner to bookmark a section from chapter one, page 151, and another letter p had been circled—this time, the one in the word pleasure.
The Killer and His Weapon ~ Andrew Z. Thomas
He saw it at once—a revelation.
Walls coming down all around him.
Restraints unlocking.
Chains falling away.
Good and evil, these contrived lenses through which humanity viewed itself, was a fraud. There was no law. No law but that to which he chose to hold himself. Anything less was weakness. Adherence to illusion. He was above all, above everything, the God of his own world, and in that moment he knew how he would live henceforth. To which code of ethics he would subscribe and none other.
The world was wide and life was short and there was so much beauty to be had.
He would honor his will.
Seek the means to his pleasure.
He rose up from the rock where he’d been sitting, lost in thought for the last seven hours, and roared from the top of the twelve-thousand-foot mountain, the sun blinding in his eyes, awash in pure mountain light, his voice reverberating off the surrounding peaks, racing down into the vast green forest. He had never in all his life felt so strong, so filled with joy, so invincible.
Tonight, he thought, as he started down the mountain, so light on his feet he half-believed he could take flight, glide down over the valley like some terrible bird.
Yes.
He would begin his new life tonight.
Remember tonight…for it is the beginning of always.
Start by embracing that impulse he’d shunned just yesterday when they’d stopped by his campfire to say hello.
Start by killing that young couple in the tent across the stream.
151
I read the page again and again, and then went back and reread the excerpt from The Scorcher, trying to understand why these pages had been marked. What was Luther telling me? Were these clues? Or was he just playing mind games?
There had been witnesses at the aquarium who saw Luther drop off the cardboard box. He’d been wearing a blue work uniform and driving a white van, though no one could recall the make, model, or license plate number.
Herb had already interviewed both of the families of the victims, and at first blush, there didn’t appear to be any connection between the two, other than the curious fact that Marquette had been dumped at the Shedd Aquarium, and the first victim had been named Jessica Shedd. But Jessica had no association with the aquarium at all.
It puzzled me in a needling sort of way, like I was missing something as it stared right in my face.
Fingerprints found on the box belonged to Luther Kite.
Fingerprints found on the book belonged to Andrew Z. Thomas.
I mulled that over. Had Luther somehow gotten one of Andrew’s personal copies in an attempt to make it seem like Thomas was involved? Or perhaps Thomas wasn’t locked up in Violet’s basement, as the literary agent had suggested, but in Kite’s.
The thought of being the captive of a psychopath since 2004 made me shiver.
I had another thought. I’d forgotten to take a picture of the plastic bag that read JACK D—THIS ONE WAS A REAL SWINGER—LK in black marker. Since I had a sample of Thomas’s handwriting from the letter he’d sent his agent, it was possible to compare the two and determine if they matched. If they did, that was pretty solid evidence that Andrew Z. Thomas was still alive.
I texted Herb, asking for pics of both bags.
Then I reread the Scorcher excerpt, my eyes lingering on the last line of the page.
“A little spark is followed by a great flame.”
That sounded like a quote I’d heard before.
I Googled it.
Hmm.
It was from Dante Alighieri, writer of The Divine Comedy. Curious, I went through the remainder of the text, feeding each sentence into Google, but the remaining hits were all bootleg e-book excerpts from The Scorcher. I repeated the process with the second book and came up with similar results until I searched on the line: Remember tonight…for it is the beginning of always.
Dante again.
I doubted that was a coincidence. I perused Dante’s Wikipedia page, wondering what connection a poet from the Middle Ages might possibly have to these murders. Then I surfed over to Amazon.com and found a free copy of The Divine Comedy for my Kindle app. I also checked out the page for The Scorcher, which was $12.99—a ridiculous price for an e-book, especially one so old. But I bought it—even cognizant of the fact that the royalties went straight to Violet King’s beer-and-cigarette fund—and then spent ten minutes scanning through the several hundred customer reviews.
The Scorcher averaged three stars. Many were five-star praises, but an equal number were one-star wonders from people who seemed shocked that a thriller about a serial killer who burned his victims alive contained scenes of graphic violence.
Halfway into the fourth page of reviews, I came across one that made me do a double-take.