Once outside, he followed Lucy, the two of them limping toward their piece-of-shit car parked across the street.
“You were supposed to distract him,” Donaldson said.
“He was onto you, D. Nothing I could do about it.”
“We gotta come up with a better plan for next time.”
“Don’t need to. While he was busy with you, I helped myself.”
“Food?” Donaldson’s mouth began to water at the thought of it.
“Better.”
“Cash?”
“Register was locked, but I got these.” Lucy reached into her dress, pulled out a long, accordion string of cards.
Scratch-off lottery tickets.
“Goddamn it, girl, no one ever wins at those things. Why didn’t you grab something we could actually use?”
Then Lucy did something that Donaldson hadn’t seen in all the time they’d been institutionalized.
She began to cry.
Donaldson didn’t know how to react. Once upon a time, he’d tried his damnedest to kill this girl. And she’d returned the favor. But these last few years, rehabilitating, plotting, planning their revenge, Donaldson realized he’d formed a relationship with Lucy that was as intimate as any he’d ever had. Looking at her, so obviously distressed, he felt bad for his comment.
They climbed painfully into the front seats of the Monte Carlo, and Donaldson gave her one of the car keys.
“Look. Let’s scratch these babies off. Maybe we’ll win the lottery after all.”
After spending ten excruciating minutes scratching off all seventeen cards, they’d only won a single free ticket.
“I hate you,” Donaldson told Lucy.
It grew cold, and with no money for a motel, they were forced to sleep in the car, the situation only compounded by the fact that Lucy had lost the Ativan, the drug that helped them to sleep. Without it, it would be damn near impossible to drift off.
Donaldson didn’t believe in karma, but when he considered the many people he’d ruthlessly murdered, he wondered if sitting there shivering, hungry, and in terrible pain might actually be what he deserved.
April 1, 7:30 A.M.
I didn’t have any seizures that night, because I didn’t sleep.
Too much on my mind.
Insomnia and I were old, familiar enemies.
Even though Phin was still angry, he’d insisted on staying in my room and had only fallen asleep an hour before dawn. Now, as the sun came up, he was still sleeping in the easy chair, Duffy at his feet.
I read Andrew Z. Thomas long into the morning.
The Scorcher was a violent little potboiler that had surprisingly held my interest, despite the fact that it had no hero to root for. But having read it, I still wasn’t sure what it was supposed to teach me. When I’d finished The Scorcher, I dove into The Divine Comedy, and the only thing I learned from that one was that Dante was nuts. Thinking up tortures for sinners and then writing an epic poem about it struck me as the ultimate in poor taste. That so many religions and people took what Dante said about hell as a universal truth was a scary proposition.
After the reading binge, I walked Duffy in the backyard.
When he finally pooped, I stared at the pile, wondering what my next course of action should be. Arriving at no pleasant way to solve the problem, I put on a latex glove and played pinch and squish, which was every bit as revolting as it sounded, the smell so bad I actually took off my sports bra and tied it over my nose and mouth. After a thorough examination, I deemed the ring wasn’t there. It had been a disgusting waste of time.
On the plus side, it was so terrible, I didn’t see how changing a baby’s diaper could be any worse.
When I walked back inside, Phin was up.
“Let’s take your blood pressure,” he said, sleep still pulling on his voice.
“Later.”
“Now.”
I was too tired to fight with him, so I took a seat while he pumped and calculated.
“One sixty-five over one ten. It’s gotten worse.”
“I feel fine.”
“We need to take you to the ER, Jack. This is a serious—”
“Feel.”
“What?”
I grabbed his hand, placed it on my belly. “Feel. She hears your voice, and she’s saying good morning.”
Phin held his palm there, our child’s little feet tapping against him. For that brief, crystal moment, I could picture being married to him, and the white picket fence fantasy hit me full force. No more chasing killers or carrying guns. Just the three of us, being stupidly, happily domestic.
Phin pulled his hand away. “I’m calling the doctor, asking him what to do about your blood pressure.”
“Can you just sit with me a little, first?”
He left, and I felt a pang of guilt dead center in my chest, questioning yet again why I simply hadn’t said yes to his proposal.
Waddling back to my office, I plopped down behind my desk and stared at my computer. I considered opening up Notepad to jot some things down, but instead went analogue and took out a piece of paper and a pen.
I made a list of data points on the first murder.
Vic Name: Jessica Shedd
Location where body found: Kinzie Street railroad bridge, hanging over the water
Time of Death: March 31, approx 1:30–2:30 A.M.
Cause of Death: blood loss, with extensive premortem mutilation
Found 6:40 A.M. by jogger
Book found in plastic bag wired to ribcage
Writing on bag: For Jack D—This one was a real swinger—LK
Book: The Scorcher by Andrew Z. Thomas
1 page dog-eared: page 102
1st letter “p” on the page circled
Dante line: A little spark is followed by a great flame.
Something occurred to me. I grabbed my Kindle and found the corresponding page which had been earmarked. Then I backspaced until I came to the beginning of that chapter. Wrote it down.
Chapter 31
Relevance of excerpt…unknown.
Okay, next murder.
Vic Name: Reginald Marquette
Location where body found: Shedd Aquarium
Time of Death: March 31, approx 1:00–2:00 P.M.
I went online and logged into the Chicago PD database, checked the police report to see if the coroner had determined cause of death. Yep.
Cause of Death: potassium chloride poisoning, postmortem mutilation
Witnesses say body dropped in cardboard box at entrance to aquarium at approx. 2:00 P.M.
Book found in plastic bag in the stomach
Prints on bag belong to Luther Kite
Prints on book belong to Andrew Z. Thomas
Writing on bag: JD, He devoured this book in one sitting, LK
Book: The Killer and His Weaponby Andrew Z. Thomas
1 page dog-eared: page 151, in part 1
1st letter “p” on the page circled
Another Dante line: Remember tonight…for it is the beginning of always.
I studied the similarities first.
Obviously, a victim named Shedd and a crime scene at the Shedd Aquarium. Two Thomas books. Two Dante quotes. Two notes to me written on plastic bags. Fingerprints from both Kite and Thomas.
As for differences…
One younger, single woman; one older, married guy.
She was a claims adjuster; he was a professor.
She was tortured; he died relatively fast and painlessly.
I checked their birth dates and addresses, but didn’t notice anything that linked them.
I scribbled Two different murderers? on the pad, and then called up Phil Blasky at the county morgue.
“Phil, Jack Daniels.”
“Hey, Jack. How’s retirement treating you?”
“You’re bullshitting me, right?”
“Absolutely. Calling about these Kite murders?”
“Yeah. Style seems different. One was torture, one was poison.”
“You thinking two different killers?” he asked.