The Killing League Read online

  Dawson examined him.

  “Turn around.”

  The boy was momentarily caught off guard by Dawson’s sudden change in conversation. He did a pirouette, working to put his goods in the best light.

  Dawson took another deep drag of the joint. The two remained silent for several moments.

  “Well?” the boy said.

  “Kinda skinny,” Dawson said.

  “Not where it counts,” the boy said.

  A small smile crept across Dawson’s face. He nodded toward the passenger side of the rig.

  “Door’s unlocked,” he said.

  •

  Less than an hour later the young prostitute was on his belly, his head turned to the side. His eyes were wide and lifeless. His tongue was sticking out.

  Dawson pulled the big rig over to the shoulder of the highway. He was on State Highway 75 - known locally in Florida as “Alligator Alley.” Just off the shoulder were deep canals, covered with vegetation.

  Dawson got out of the truck, put the hood of his Peterbilt up and he stood in front of it, smoking a cigarette.

  A car drove by, the only other vehicle on the highway, and Dawson moved to the other side of the truck, blocking any view of him.

  After the car disappeared up ahead, Dawson opened the passenger door of his truck.

  He looked down at the dead boy on the bed, inside his sleeper compartment.

  “Time to feed the gators boy,” he said, and slung the boy over his shoulder. He walked down the shoulder of the freeway to the canal. He hoisted the boy up in his hands like a weightlifter doing a clean and jerk. He held the boy in both hands over his head then threw him deep into the marsh.

  A loud splash and then the quiet of the swamp.

  Dawson waited, smoking his cigarette.

  When he heard a second splashing sound, he smiled as the alligators began to take care of his disposal needs.

  4.

  Nicole

  The man crouched in front of Nicole Candela, his hands moving in a circular motion, the right hand holding a knife.

  Nicole, her back against the wall, leaned forward, her hands also rotating in a circular pattern. The man blocked the path to the room’s small door, and Nicole had nowhere to run. Sweat ran down her face as the man inched toward her. She felt a slight pain in her left leg where Kostner’s punji stick had buried itself. Despite surgery and rehab, it sometimes still ached. She was never sure if the pain was real or one of her many phantoms.

  It was the slightest disturbance of air in the room, the most subtle intake of breath that set Nicole in motion. When her assailant took the tiniest bit of breath, she bent slightly at the knees, saw his right arm shooting at her with the knife out ready to slash. She brought her left arm up, tapped the outside of his right arm near the elbow and pushed it across her body. She brought her right arm up, hooked the man’s knife hand, then pinned her left forearm against his tricep.

  Keeping her feet shoulder length apart, she applied pressure and felt the man’s arm start to hyperextend, and in seconds would break-

  “Okay, okay Nicky!” the man said.

  Nicole dropped her arms and stepped back. Her instructor shook his arm loose, and tossed the rubber knife across the room into the equipment basket.

  Eric Anderson smiled at her and she thought again of how he was one of those men difficult to put an age on, but Nicole guessed he was nearly fifty. He had a shaved head, and bright blue eyes. He was shorter than she was, but thick and powerful. He moved like a boxer.

  “Good, very good,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Nicole said, a small smile on her face.

  Anderson showed her several ways to tighten her trapping technique and make her footwork more efficient.

  As she gathered her equipment up and headed for the door, Anderson walked with her.

  “You’re doing well, Nicky,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

  “I feel good,” she said. “This training is tough, but when I leave I feel great.”

  They had been working together for several years, and from the beginning she had fallen in love with the martial art.

  She had chosen Pekiti Tirsia for good reason. A fighting art originally from the Philippines, she learned that it is not a sport. There are no tournaments. It is a warrior art that teaches practitioners not just how to defend against multiple attackers, whether they use hands, clubs, knives or guns, but how to kill.

  The other thing that attracted her to Pekiti Tirsia was that it includes a lot of work with knives. In fact, the literal translation of the name was “to cut into small pieces.” Ever since her attack, she had been very, very fond of knives.

  “It will become even more and more natural,” Anderson said. “When it matters, you won’t think about it. Your mind reverts to the lowest denominator. You’ll perform by sheer instinct only those moves you’ve practiced thousands of times. You know them so well, they happen almost by themselves. That’s why we train.”

  “I understand,” she said. And she did. More than her instructor could ever know. Because she had been in that type of situation. And she knew firsthand that, yes, you really did revert to the simplest things you knew. It was difficult just to think, let alone act.

  They gave each other the traditional Pekiti Tirsia goodbye, a closed fist against the heart and said “Mumbuhi,” which means “health.”

  She walked out to her car, threw her gym bag in the backseat, and got behind the wheel.

  She checked her watch. There was just enough time to go home, let out her dog, and get to the most important night of her life.

  5.

  The Butcher

  A floor drain finally caught up to its workload and devoured the last batch of swirling blood.

  The flow had slowed to steady drips with the occasional gush that sent a stream of thicker, darker blood toward the floor. The blood emerged from a corpse hung from a thick ceiling beam into which a huge metal eye hook had been screwed. The body belonged, or once belonged, to a middle-aged woman. Now, it was in the possession of a craftsman, who stood before his meat-cutting saw, its blade still spinning.

  Roy Skittlecorn appeared like the stereotypical image of his profession. He was a butcher, and very much looked the part. He had on an apron, its front smeared with blood. He had thick black hair, slicked back, and his hands were large with bulging knuckles. They, too, were covered with blood.

  A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

  His thick fingers were wrapped around an elongated piece of flesh, with a jagged circle of bone protruding from the middle.

  The AC/DC song “If You Want Blood,” boomed from the stereo that sat on a wide, metal shelf.

  Skittlecorn took another drag from the cigarette, set it back in its ashtray, and pushed the severed leg onto the table saw’s blade.

  He’d heard of people using hacksaws and sawzalls to chop up bodies. He had a name for them: amateurs. A sawzall, even with a new blade, made a mess of things. His technique was a work of art. He watched as the blade sliced through the leg in a perfect, smooth cut. He set the piece next to the others, all lined up in neat groups. A wave of contentment washed over him. Life is never better when work is going so well, he thought.

  He turned his attention back to the leg, and pushed it onto the blade. The sound of the diamond-coated cutting tool drowned out the words to the Butcher’s favorite song.

  6.

  Mack

  Mack was surprised and more than a little disappointed to see him. FBI Assistant Director Paul Whidby stood near the back of the small group who had waited to speak with Mack upon the completion of his lecture.

  Whidby looked exactly the same to Mack, even though he hadn’t laid eyes on the man in several years. A career politician, Whidby looked the part. A tall, handsome black man in an expensive suit and tie, perfect teeth, the arrogant posture of a man who thought he owned the room.

  Mack hid the surprise at Whidby’s presence, and the sick feeling i
n the pit of his stomach. Mack caught the eye of his old partner, Ellen Reznor, who seemed to transmit a what-are-ya-gonna-do expression to him.

  The last student thanked him for the speech, leaving Mack, Whidby and Reznor alone.

  Whidby approached him. Mack noted that the man made no pretense of offering a handshake.

  “Interesting speech,” Whidby said.

  “Thanks,” Mack said. That really means a lot to me, he thought, but held back from actually letting the sarcasm fly.

  “I see semi-retirement hasn’t stifled your creativity,” Whidby said.

  Mack almost smiled at the thinly veiled insult. Whidby had always been the first to attack Mack’s theories as pure speculation. Only when a case was cracked and Mack proved right did Whidby ever get on board. And he did so only then to try to take credit.

  “And you haven’t lost your knack for missing the obvious,” Mack said.

  Reznor held up her hands and literally stepped between the two men. “Guys, no pissing match here, please,” she said. “Just say hello, and go on your separate ways.”

  “Clearly, no one consulted me on letting you give these presentations,” Whidby said. “I would have told them to save their money.”

  Mack nodded. “I’m not surprised no one consults you, Paul. Sounds like the value of your input hasn’t increased over the years.”

  “But I found out it’s part of your extremely generous retirement package,” Whidby said. “These little seminars or whatever they’re called.”

  “All right, good to see you,” Mack said and brushed past Whidby. He was halfway down the auditorium stairs to the exit doors, when Whidby called out.

  “Hey Mack, I’m just curious,” he said. “Were you drunk when you came up with all these theories?”

  Mack stopped, but Reznor put her hand in the middle of his back.

  “Keep going, he’s not worth it,” Reznor said.

  Mack felt his face burn.

  Now he remembered why he left the Bureau, or more accurately, why he’d let Whidby force him out.

  7.

  Lady of the Evening

  The Fort Walton MotorLodge sat on Florida Highway 30, a half mile from an outlet mall featuring Kenneth Cole, Adidas and Off the 5th.

  In Room 232 Amanda Dekins sat on a bed. Her skin was tan but looked gray in the early morning light. Her hair was frazzled.

  She stood, put on her micro skirt, knee boots and tube top. She went to the dead man’s pants and emptied his wallet of the cash.

  Amanda looked back at the bed. She went to the night table, picked up the small bottle of clear liquid laced with Rohypnol, and tucked it into her small black purse.

  She looked at the john.

  His face still had a look of utter and complete surprise.

  Or at least, what was left of his face.

  She looked at her handiwork. It really was unbelievable. It was an old excuse when you were questioned by the cops for something you may or may not have done. You claimed you couldn’t remember. That way, you didn’t have to give any fucking details that would trip you up later.

  But this…thing…she was doing now? She really couldn’t remember. It was like, she’d slip the mickey into the loser’s drink, and when he passed out, she’d use whatever was handy. In this case, she’d pinched a steak knife from the restaurant where the poor slob had taken her to dinner. She remembered waiting for him to pass out, then stabbing him the first time, right in his big white belly.

  But this black cloud just drenched her mind with rage and she really didn’t remember anything after that. She sort of came to awhile later, breathing hard, looking at the flabby white guy she’d cut into pieces of meat like they’d just seen at the Sizzler.

  Amanda stuffed the money into her purse and realized that she couldn’t remember when she stopped fucking the johns and began killing them instead. It didn’t matter. Business had never been better.

  8.

  Nicole

  Nicole Candela was nervous. She wasn’t scared. She’d been scared before and knew what real fear was. This wasn’t it.

  But looking at the empty dining room of her restaurant, which was about to open its doors for the first time ever, she felt an anxiety that was very close to genuine fear. What if the dining room remained empty? What if none of her friends actually showed up? What if they all drove together and got stuck in some monumental traffic jam?

  There was sure to be a critic or two coming tonight as well. They would note the totally empty dining room and the whole thing would be over before it even got started.

  All right, she thought, let’s get it under control, Nicky. She circled the small room, with its bare oak timbers and old world plaster. It was a rustic setting, with wide plank floors and soft linen window treatments. She’d kept the tables fewer in number than the room would allow, which she knew was bad business. Conventional business wisdom said you were supposed to cram as many as possible into the space. But she hated restaurants where you couldn’t move your arm for fear of elbowing another diner in the ribs.

  With her restaurant, she decided she was going to create a place she would like, and eliminate all of the things she hated about other restaurants, whether it was technically good for business or not.

  She crossed the dining area and stood in the wine cellar as she called it, even though it was actually a small anteroom off the dining room, and it was stocked with her favorites. She’d handpicked them, going not for flashy names but for regional vintages that she’d explored herself.

  She thought back on that period in her life. It had been after she sold her first and only interview to People magazine — it had been a business decision. She hated opening up her private life, talking about what had happened between her and Jeffrey Kostner in those dark woods, but she needed the money for her dream. It had been $800,000 for a two-day interview.

  The money had put her through a grueling education at the Culinary Institute of California, followed by a long sojourn through Europe and Asia, healing her mind and body while educating herself on local and regional cuisine.

  The little bit of money leftover had been just enough to start the restaurant.

  She made her way into the kitchen.

  The smell of food being prepped met her like a gentle wave. Lemon. Garlic. Onion. The slight heat of the ovens. She had a staff of four. Most were friends from her graduating class at the Institute. Combined with three wait staff, a hostess, and herself, it was a small affair. But then again, that was the point.

  Everything she had worked so hard for was now riding on the success of Thicque.

  She had chosen the name of her restaurant as a joke. It was a French bastardization of the word Thick — which is where she liked to be nowadays. Right in the thick of things. She still never felt all that comfortable alone. So she surrounded herself with other chefs, food, customers, and more than a few sharp knives.

  “Nicky, where’s the sole?” Paolo Gerrar was her sous chef, a young understudy recently graduated from the Culinary Institute of Nevada.

  “The walk-in. Below the eggs,” she said.

  “Who’s ready to kick some ass?” a man said behind her.

  Nicole turned to face Jay Lucerne, her business partner and unofficial co-manager of the restaurant. They had met years ago in culinary circles and Jay had put up 49% of the money for the restaurant. It was the way Nicole liked it; he had almost as much at stake as she did, but ultimately she had control. Control was something very important in her life, although she and her therapist were working to let a little bit more of it go whenever possible.

  “I’m ready,” Nicole said.

  Lucerne smiled. He was a round little man dressed impeccably as always. Nicole knew that Lucerne had approached the director of the Institute to find out who was the top chef in her graduating class. Nicole’s name was at the top of the list. Lucerne had introduced himself and a friendship had developed, ultimately resulting in their business venture.

  He ca
me over and Nicole gave him a hug, liking as always the feel of his taut little belly.

  Nicole closed her eyes and did a silent prayer. After all she’d been through she desperately wanted the night, and the restaurant, to be a smashing success.

  9.

  Family Man

  Dinner was roast beef, mashed potatoes and soggy green beans. Brent Tucker looked down the long dining room table at his wife. Mrs. Brent Tucker looked nothing like the slinky, raven-haired hottie he’d married fifteen years ago. No, the woman sitting opposite him and their four children looked like her mother — tired, pudgy and unattractive. At times like this, Tucker couldn’t believe that he’d ever had the temerity to stick his dick inside that flabby bag of body odor.

  And what had it gotten him? This crummy house that always smelled of mildew, these four little fuckers with their incessant yelling and crying, and a dead-end job that would guarantee twenty more years of the same goddamn thing.

  Tucker looked at his plate with dread, and let the comments from around the table merely scratch the surface of his consciousness.

  “And then Mr. Backman said if I don’t do well on my math test—” one of the little shits was saying.

  “Asparagus always makes me feel too full,” another one said.

  “You’re full of it all right,” a third said.

  Tucker stood up, collected some dishes and went out to the kitchen. He put the dishes in the sink and walked quickly from the kitchen up the stairs to his study. He shut the door and threw the deadbolt to secure his privacy. There was no way any of “them” would be able to intrude here.

  He went behind his desk and sat down in the big, brown leather chair. He reached into the desk and pulled out a key, swiveled in his chair to a small cabinet and unlocked it.

  He pulled out a thick manila folder and spun back around to his desk. He dumped the contents of the folder onto his desktop.

  Driver’s licenses, necklaces, rings, a few clips of hair and a tooth lay in a small jumble on his desk’s leather blotter.