Show of Evil

 'I'll call you from the airport. Just get on it, Buddy.' Vail turned to Naomi. 'Call Hawk Permar and tell him we need the chopper. There's going to be three of us and we're going about thirty miles southeast of Indianapolis, a town called Winthrop. If he starts bitching, tell him I'll personally throw in a two-hundred-dollar bonus.'

 'Three passengers?' St Clare said. 'You, me, and Flaherty. We're going down there to find that son of a bitch and bring him back.'

They were airborne, swinging south from the airport and following Interstate 65 towards Indianapolis. The pilot, Matt Permar, who had earned the nickname Hawk flying choppers in Vietnam, was grumbling about not getting enough sleep as he followed the interstate straight towards Indianapolis. A chunky, good-humoured man, he was an excellent pilot who loved to gripe - a hangover from his army days.

'What'ya mumblin' about?' St Claire asked.

'Cockamamie DA, never does anything at normal hours. It's always the middle of the night or dawn. Always spur of the moment - '

'Blah, blah, blah,' said Vail. 'You can always say no.'

'You pay too well,' Hawk answered.

'Then stop bellyaching,' Vail said.

'Bellyaching is good. Bellyaching is normal. I love to bellyache. If I didn't bellyache, I'd be a fruitcake by now.'

'Ain't nobody ever told ya, Hawk. You are a fruitcake,'

St Claire said, and stuffed a wad of tobacco under his lip.

The gripe session was cut short by the squawk of the radio. It was Harris, who was still on duty.

'I got some bad news from Winthrop, Marty,' he said, his voice getting hoarse from lack of sleep.

'I'm prepared for that. Lay it on me.'

'Molly Arrington's dead, Martin. Spread-eagled on her bed, body mutilated, probably was raped. The weirdest thing about it is, he pumped her full of enough morphine to kill her even if he hadn't cut her up. He also printed in blood on her torso the words "I'm waiting". Does any of that make sense to you?'

Vail was thinking about Molly. Gentle Molly, who had never hurt a soul in her life. 'Nothing that bastard does makes any sense,' he said angrily.

'He stole her car, probably been on the road at least two, maybe three hours. There's nothing you can do there, Marty. The creep could be anywhere.'

Vail did not answer immediately. He thought about the message.

'I'm waiting.' And then suddenly it did make sense. There was only one place Stampler could go. He couldn't go back to Chicago and by now the whole country knew the story. He would go back to where it had started. Vail grabbed the sectional map and traced a path with his finger south from Shelbyville. His finger finally found what he was looking for.

'I know where to find him,' he said. 'We'll pass on Winthrop. Head for Crikside, Kentucky.'

'Huh?' Hawk said.

'Where?' Harris said.

'Crikside, spelling C-r-i-k-s-i-d-e. Call the Kentucky HP and fill them in. Hold on a minute.' He made an arch with his thumb and forefinger and measured the distance south of Indianapolis.

'About one hundred and seventy-five miles and we're still one hundred miles from Indianapolis. How about it, Matt, how long?'

'What, two hundred and seventy-five miles? Hour and a half, maybe two. What's the weather like down there?'

'Who cares?' said Vail.

'I care!' Hawk hunched down in his seat and shoved the throttles forward. 'I know the weather's for shit,' he said.

'Just keep flying south towards Louisville.'

'You really think that's where the son-bitch's headin'?' St Claire said.

'There's no place else left for him to go,' Vail said. 'He had this thing planned out perfectly. He sneaked out of the halfway house. His plan was to kill Jane and me while Rebecca killed Shoat. She sneaks back to her place, he sneaks back into the halfway house, and we would be his alibi.'

'How about Rebecca takin' off Shoat's head?'

'She collected trophies, remember?' said Flaherty. 'It's what serial killers do, just like hunters collect antlers or animal heads. That was her trophy, Harve. She was going to send it to Abel, the way she left the photo of Linda Balfour when she killed Alex Lincoln.'

'Stampler only made one mistake,' said Vail.

'The call to the hospital,' said Flaherty.

'Right,' agreed Vail. 'And he underestimated Jane Venable. When he couldn't kill her, he was on the run, his plan was blown. His face is on every TV station in the country by now. My guess is, he's playing head games with me now.'

'And he killed Molly Arrington -' Flaherty started to say.

'To goad me. He's finished and he knows it.' Vail finished the sentence. 'He's going to make catching him as tough as he can. Let's say he snatched the doctor's car at eleven, eleven-thirty. That put him in Shelbyville at around two A.M., about the time a waitress spotted the car parked in a handicapped zone. Winthrop's just outside the outskirts of Shelbyville. He could've walked to Arrington's house from there in, say, half an hour. That puts him at Arrington's at between two-thirty and three. An hour to do his dirty work and get out with her car. From there to Louisville is about a hundred miles, say another two hours.'

'So he was in Louisville maybe half an hour ago,' Hawk calculated.

'It's another one hundred and twenty miles to Crikside. If he gets through the weather he could be in Crikside, say, two and a half, three hours from now. With luck we may just catch him while he's still on the road.'

'We gotta stop and refuel,' Hawk said.

'Do it in Louisville,' said Vail.

'Mind if I ask a question?' Flaherty said.

'What's that?' Vail answered.

'We don't even have a warrant for Stampler. Is this legal?'

'I'm making a citizen's arrest,' said Vail.

'Citizen's arrest?'

'That's right. I'm arresting him for stealing Molly Arrington's car. We'll charge him with the rest of his sins when we get him back to Chicago.'

'Citizen's arrest.' St Claire laughed. 'You sound like Barney Fife.'

'Sounds like kidnapping to me,' grumbled Hawk.

'Well, keep that notion to yourself,' Vail said.

The radio squawked to life again. Harris's calm voice reported the latest developments. 'We've alerted the Kentucky state cops and the sheriff of the county, but they got traffic problems down there. They got themselves a spring snowstorm and a lot of traffic problems.'

'A snowstorm! I knew it. I knew it!' Hawk howled.

'Just keep flying,' said Vail.

'They aren't all steamed up over the possibility that he might have killed a woman and he might be on his way to Crikside,' Harris continued. They said they'll get somebody over to check it out by noon or one o'clock.

'Shit,' Vail snapped.

'I got some more bad news,' Harris went on. 'Indiana HP popped the trunk on that car. The doctor's body was inside. Broken neck.'

'That makes three so far he's personally killed,' Vail said bitterly.

'One other thing, Arrington's car is a '93 black Camaro two-door, licence: J32 576. Got that?'

'Got it.'

'And be careful, you're flying into the Cumberland Mountains down there. Good luck.'

'Thanks for the help, Buddy. Over and out.'

'Snow and mountains,' Hawk groaned.'Two of my favourite things. All we need now's a little ground fire to make this a dream vacation.'

Thirty-Nine

The chopper swung over the low ridge and dropped down closer to the road. Snow flurries splattered against the windshield. Below them the two-lane blacktop was still discernible although the snow was beginning to cover it. They had seen only three cars in the last twenty minutes. Hawk's gaze jumped from window to windshield as he roared two hundred feet over the rugged terrain. Beside him, Vail was navigating from a roadmap. They were following the state road that led to Crikside. Behind them, St Claire and Flaherty also scanned the road, Flaherty with a pair of binoculars. Hawk glanced at the clock.