Mr Steroids turns away from the door and opens it for me, but I am not fool enough to go first and present him with a chance to get some revenge. All the time we’ve been in the office, I’ve been watching him from the corner of my eye as he fought the urge to massage his wrist.
‘Watch your security tape again and you’ll see he made first contact. I just made a more telling one.’
While I could use some fancy line about his man’s poor chances, I’ve always thought actions speak louder than words.
I give Mr Steroids a push into the wall he is walking towards and then stand back with my fists in front of my face.
He bounces off the wall, turns and gives a roar as he launches himself forward, his ham-sized hands rising to match mine. My judgement about him is correct and I can see he fancies his chances in a straight fist fight.
Swinging my leg forward I kick him under the knee, my boot lifting the kneecap enough to tear cartilage and sinew. He gives another roar, only this one is filled with pain instead of rage.
He hops on one leg with his injured knee held between both hands. His eyes stay on me as he awaits the next blow.
I put him out of his misery by thumping the heel of my hand against his exposed chin. The blow drops him into an unconscious heap.
Young hasn’t moved from his chair.
‘I’ve joined your sordid little website and you’ve got my joining fee.’ I point at the unconscious Mr Steroids. ‘Consider that me getting a bang for my buck. Like I said earlier, I’m not here to cause you any problems. But if I wanted to, I could cause you a lot of big ones. Understand?’
I don’t wait for his answer.
Once I’m back in my car, I send the names and email addresses to Alfonse so he can start tracking them down.
12
The Watcher turns from the side road and falls in behind the car, intent on following his next target, prepared to follow him until an opportunity presents itself.
This is what he does when stalking his prey. Observe routines, plan and wait his chance.
He’s four cars behind Paul Johnson as he turns north towards Panchtraik Reservoir. He knows the man works on the reservoir as a technician, managing the flow of water over the turbine blades.
Darkness is falling as he leaves town. Once he’s on the open road, the other three cars accelerate past the slow-driving Johnson leaving the two of them behind. He eases off the gas until he’s a half mile or so back.
Tail lights are visible in the distance and he knows where Johnson is going, so it’s safer to hang back rather than alarm him.
Twenty miles from town, he sees hazard lights come on. The gap between the two cars closes. Fast.
His heart thumps and he can feel his right foot pressing down harder. Taking a deep breath, he calms himself and eases off the gas a little. If this is to be the opportunity, then great, but he’s not going to blow everything by pouncing too soon.
The knife used on the Niemeyer slut has been dumped and his random selection has thrown up a framing hammer for Johnson. It lies in the passenger footwell on top of a few other tools put there as camouflage.
His hand caresses the shaft of the hammer as he approaches Johnson’s car. He’s pulled as far off the road as he can and the Watcher can see the back end of the car is jacked up at one side.
The opportunity is just too perfect to be passed up.
He draws to a halt and parks twenty feet behind the lame Chevy. Johnson rises to his feet and shields his eyes from the Watcher’s headlights with one hand. The other holds a wheel wrench against his leg.
The Watcher climbs out and fixes a smile onto his face. ‘You need some help there, buddy?’
‘I’m fine changing the wheel, but if you could pull your car a bit closer the light would be a big help.’
‘Sure thing.’ He pulls his car nearer to Johnson’s, resisting the urge to floor the gas and crush his target between the two cars.
He chats to Johnson as he removes the wheel and replaces it with the spare. It’s one of those narrow space-savers and looks odd where once there was a fat tyre.
Johnson puts down the wheel wrench and turns to start lowering the jack.
The wheel wrench speaks to the Watcher so he relegates the framing hammer until another time and slips his fingers around the wrench.
A look both ways to check for headlights reveals nothing.
The first blow lands on Johnson’s temple, just below the greying hair. He falls onto his back.
Ten more times the tyre iron smashes into the target’s face. He counts the blows then adds another to make it a round dozen. Odd numbers are just that as far as he’s concerned. Odd.
He pulls back Johnson’s cuff and checks for a pulse.
There isn’t one, so he begins the clean-up before someone comes. His muscles burn as he hauls Johnson’s body into the trunk of his own car. He’s heavier than expected and the virus has weakened him more than he cares to acknowledge.
The jack and wheel wrench are tossed on top of the body. Sometimes it’s safer to leave the murder weapon with the victim rather than get caught trying to dispose of it.
Next he strips to his jockey shorts and dresses in the spare clothes kept in his trunk.
He turns south until he finds a side road where he hides his car and opens the trunk. It only takes him a minute to don the ghillie suit before setting off at a run towards a decent vantage point.
The only thing he carries is a pair of night-vision binoculars and a desire to further progress the pattern.
Hunkering down in a clump of sagebrush, he wriggles until he’s comfortable. A rock is picked from beneath his chest and placed to one side. It may be a long wait but he’s in no hurry. All that matters is having a good view of Johnson’s car.
13
By the time I pull into Alfonse’s drive I am tired, hungry and more than a little irritable. Long drives are part of the American way of life but they’ve been the hardest thing for me to get used to.
Driving mile after mile on arrow-straight roads where the biggest dangers are speed traps and the soporific effect of tyres on asphalt always grates on my nerves. Being a man of action, the two-hour drive each way felt like a waste of time, despite the fact I’d gotten pretty much all the information I’d hoped to get.
I enter the house and find Alfonse beavering away at his laptop. He doesn’t speak, but he does nod his head towards the kitchen. The mixed smells of coffee and chilli were already drawing me in like some kind of culinary mermaid.
After fixing myself a large bowl of chilli and filling two mugs with coffee, I sit down at the opposite side of his paper-strewn desk.
Alfonse pushes his laptop away and stretches without leaving his seat.
I swallow a mouthful of chilli. ‘What you got?’
‘I’ve traced nine of her last ten clients, and read through the messages she received through the site. They’re all about the last visit or fantasies for the next one.’ A shrug. ‘It all seemed rather mundane. At least as far as that kind of thing can be.’
‘Do any of her clients seem like a possible?’
‘Not at all. Judging by the message history the clients are ones she’s seen a number of times before.’ He passes me a sheaf of papers with all the details on. ‘I also found a database she had created on each of her clients and their sexual preferences.’
‘You’ve been busy.’ It may be stating the obvious, but it’s as close to praise as either of us is comfortable with.
He gives a small nod of acknowledgement and leaves me to finish my chilli while I read the notes.