Chapter 20

Gotta change my M.O. again, my modus operandi, the killer thought. The feds are closing in. They've gotta be getting close. I've been seen stalking filthy squaws. Twice. So they have my description, a general description that fits probably a million men. So the description isn't a big problem. But they know I target squaws that attend or work at colleges. That's gotta change, too.

He'd changed his M.O. a while back by selecting his victims while visiting a college for his work, but not taking them during the visit. He had four future victims lined up for return visits, for visits when he couldn't be put on a list of vendors visiting the college during, shortly before, or shortly after a Native American woman was raped and scalped. He knew where the future victims lived. He knew their habits. But time was his enemy. Two of the four victims had changed addresses and habits.

Like the Indian Princess, he thought bitterly. Filthy, dirty bitch! Fuckin' a white man. Cheatin' on me! She's mine! Mine!

He took a deep breath and told himself to calm down. Her time would come. As sure as the sun rises and sets everyday her time would come.

So, he pondered, his last change to his M.O. had not work out very well for him, but the new change would work. Genius, it was pure genius!

He looked in the side-view mirror and smiled. My home away from home. I won't take 'em at their home anymore. I'll bring 'em to mine.

"He, he."

The killer was pulling a small travel trailer behind a pickup truck.

A huge lighted sign loomed to his right off the highway. Quinault Beach Resort and Casino, the sign read. The killer's destination.

No more college bitches. Injun maidens work in Injun casinos, too.

The Quinault Indian Nation, he mused, the Quinault and Queets tribes and descendants of five other coastal tribes, the Quileute, Hoh, Chehalis, Chinook, and Cowlitz. The canoe people. The people of the cedar tree.

"And one dirty, filthy squaw for me. He, he. A breed maybe."

The large parking lot at the side of the resort and casino provided long spaces for RV's, and the killer pulled his pickup truck and travel trailer into one of them.

"Time to hunt," he whispered.

Five minutes after entering the casino, he'd spotted three possible candidates. He felt like a kid in a candy store. Which one would make it easy for him? Which one would share his home away from home with him? He'd take her to a secluded beach along the Pacific Coast or into an ancient Northwest rainforest.

Take her in my home away from home, my mobile longhouse.

The dirty bitch will be right at home in my white man's longhouse.

For a while. Until I take her scalp and send her to on her journey to the happy hunting grounds.

"He, he."

Gonna get me another scalp tonight.

"He, he, he."

Peter Cornwall sat in his home in Denver holding his cell phone in his hand. He'd opened the phone, and then closed it three times over the last hour without making the call. David Silverman was a friend, a colleague, and Wilson had told Peter that he should warn David. "Tell your friend to get out of Dodge," Wilson had said. That had been two days ago, and still Peter had not called his friend.

Holier than thou, prick, Peter thought yet again.

But Peter knew better. Wilson wasn't a holier than thou prick. Clint Wilson was a good guy, a white hat, who was trying to defend himself from a very bad guy, a black hat, and according to Wilson, he'd even warned the bad guy to back off or face the consequences.

Well, the black hat was about to come face to face with the consequences. Peter had no problem with that. If he'd been Wilson, the black hat would've faced the consequences weeks ago. Peter's conflict came from warning his friend that trouble was coming his way, or leaving well enough alone. David was a big boy who knew how to take care of himself. Also, Wilson had told Peter that David wouldn't be harmed. But what Wilson didn't know was David's zeal to follow the unwritten code of the protection profession. David just might take a bullet for his principal.

That decided it for Peter. He opened the phone and dialed David Silverman's cell phone number.

"Silverman, here," David said.

"It's Peter Cornwall, David. Got a minute to talk?"

David chuckled. "Depends. The call girl my principal is shtupping as we speak might cut the minute short. I've got to admit that patting her down for a weapon made my day, though."

"How dedicated are you to your current principal?" Peter said, ignoring his friend's attempt at humor.

"Huh?" David said.

"Would you take a bullet for him?"

"Peter, you're acting the shlemiel."

David was prone to dotting his English with Yiddish slang.

"Your principal, David, is he a mentsh, a man deserving respect, a good guy?" Peter said.

David laughed. "Hardly. He's a chaser, a pig. Vos iz?"

"If the occasion arises, don't take a bullet for him. Okay?"

The silence on the other end of the line stretched out.

Finally, David said, "Tell me more."

"Can't. Conflict of interest. David, do you ever get tired of protecting pigs?"

"I do, Peter. I have a list of names – chasers – I won't protect again, not for any amount of kosher gelt, that's legal money by the way, boychik."

"Put your current principal on that list, underline his name and follow it with an exclamation point or two," Peter said. "I don't have a list, but when I hang up from talking with you, I'm going to call my agent and tell him to start screening potential principals for degrees of piggishness. I'll pass on the worst of them. I don't need all the money I'm making every year. I don't spend a good chunk of it anyway. Life's too short to spend it protecting pigs."

David laughed. "Piggishness, huh? No such word."

"Maybe not, but pig and piggish are. Gotta run, David. Promise me that you won't take a bullet for a chaser – ever."

"Made that promise to myself years ago, Peter. I'm not a complete putz. Degrees of piggishness, huh? Not a bad way of looking at it. Maybe I'll instruct my agent accordingly."

When Peter ended the call, he felt better. The conflict that had raged inside him for two days had been resolved.

Before he could call his agent, his cell phone rang.

"Mr. Cornwall, its Special Agent Janice Green. You asked me to call you if the serial killer raped and murdered another Native American woman. We believe he might have struck again the night before last on the Quinault Indian Nation lands in Washington State."

"Why might?"

"Some dramatic changes in pattern. No university or college nearby. The victim worked for the Quinault Beach Resort and Casino. And instead of controlling the victim at her home, he took her elsewhere and dumped her body. Otherwise the pattern is the same."

"He raped her and scalped her?"

"Yes. And the timing fits. As you know, he was seen in Portland, Oregon. We're guessing that he drove immediately to Washington from Portland. The victim was half Quinault and half Chinook."

"Sounds like the same man to me. You say she worked in the Indian resort and casino?"

"Yes, she was a change girl, very pretty. Twenty-one years old. She isn't pretty anymore."

"He might have spotted her in the casino. Aren't those places full of video cameras?"

"They are. We're reviewing all the tapes as we speak."

"To isolate all clean-shaven white men about six feet tall?"

"Yes."

"Thanks for calling," Peter said. "But unfortunately I'm no longer Dr. Johnson's protector. In the future, please confer with Mr. Clint Wilson on this case. I'll call him for you and pass on this information, though."

"I'd appreciate that, Mr. Cornwall."

Loni and I were at the shooting range blasting away at paper targets when my cell phone rang.

"Clint, it's Peter Cornwall," I heard after I said hello.

"Hello, Peter. I received your final bill in my e-mail box this afternoon. I'll send the check out in the morning, or would you rather I deposit the money directly in your account?"

"Direct deposit would be best, but that's not why I'm calling. I heard from the FBI. The serial killer struck again the night before last in Washington State."

"Which means that Leah is probably safe for at least a week."

"Yes. The killer has altered his pattern." Peter went on to describe what he'd been told about the latest killing. "I told Special Agent Green to contact you in the future instead of me, but I offered to pass this information to you because I wanted to speak to you anyway on some other matters. First, I called my friend and, in an around about way, I warned him. He'll be more alert than normal, but I didn't give him any details. My major concern was the possibility that he'd purposefully take a bullet for his principal. David takes his job seriously, so that was a possibility."

"Oh." I paused and then said, "I understand better now. I hadn't considered that possibility," I said. And I hadn't. I was too busy being self-righteous.

"David and I had a philosophical discussion about that part of our job," Peter said. "He assured me that he'd decided years ago that he wouldn't purposefully take a bullet for a principal if the principal was a chaser. Chaser is Yiddish slang for pig. An extremely derogatory term. David considers your nemesis a chaser."

"Pig fits," I said. "Listen, Peter. I'm glad you called. I owe you an apology. I was ... well, I went too far. Loni tells me I go too far too often."

"Apology accepted." He cleared his throat. "The other reason I called was to apologize to you. Your moral-high-ground stance angered me, but upon reflection, I decided you were partially correct. I do accept assignments from what you refer to as bad guys. Too many of them. I've decided to instruct my agent to screen my future possible principals, and I'll refuse to protect the worst of them. In other words, I'll only protect principals that wear medium gray to white hats."

"That's good to hear, Peter," I said.

"Back to the serial killer, the FBI is reviewing video tapes from the casino where the killer's last victim worked," Peter said. "They're isolating all the six-foot-tall, clean-shaven white men they find in the videos. I suggest you call them and offer to have Leah review the still photos they'll make from the videos of these men. At worse, she'll be able to eliminate some of them, and at best, she might recognize the man who stalked her. Either way, she'll help."

"Good idea!" I said. "I'll call Agent Green as soon as we hang up."

"Do that, and for what it's worth, I hope you're successful with whatever you have to do to get your nemesis off your back."

Which should be tomorrow, I thought.

"Thank you, Peter. If I called to hire your services in the future, would you respond positively?"

"I would," he said.

I didn't know if I'd ever make the call, but I wanted to know if calling him would be an option.

"I'm glad to hear that, too, Peter," I said.

"Now I'm out of the loop, I won't be aware when or if there is progress or resolution on the serial killer case. Would you be so kind as to keep me informed?"

"I would."

We said our goodbyes, and I hung up.

Loni asked about the call. I told her about it.

"So, you and Peter kissed and made up," she said.

"No, we only agreed to no longer disagree," I said as I sent a new target downrange. "For him, I'm still too sanctimoniously smug about his profession protecting bad guys. For me, he's still too morally wrong for hiding behind the code of his profession that allows him to protect bad guys." I put a new clip in my pistol, pulled the muffs over my ears and clear goggles over my eyes. "Will I hire him again in the future? Maybe for a short-term emergency Greg and his men can't handle for some reason or other. Will he work for me if asked? Yes." I raised the pistol, settled the sights on the target and pulled the trigger. I emptied the clip in about six seconds. Dropped the clip from the pistol and smiled. "How about that? Nothing but tens. Best shooting I've ever done."

Loni brought the target back. Looked at it and smiled at me. "You're right, sweet cheeks. A perfect score."

"Sweet cheeks?" I said. "You've referred to me as sweet cheeks before. What does sweet cheeks mean?"

Nothing sweeter than your cheeks when I'm hanging on to them, you sexy man you, she said silently.

I love the way you smile with your eyes, I said.

Winston thought about the discipline of war. He thought about the chain of command. He thought about commanders, those lofty officers who made critical decisions that put men like him in places not dissimilar to the place he now occupied. It had always been Winston's belief that a commander had to trust his soldiers to act with courage and wisdom to compensate for the commander's mistakes. He had always believed commanders needed men like him to balance their ignorance, incompetence, and stupidity. How else could battles and wars be won? Captain Gregory Benton had been an exception, but then Greg hadn't been all that high up the chain of command. Greg had been in the trenches like Winston, just a little higher up the chain. Greg had to act with courage and wisdom no less than Winston.

For the first time in his long career as a trained killer, Winston believed his commander was not ignorant, or incompetent, or stupid. Clint Wilson wasn't looking toward promotion, didn't want to move ever higher up that chain of command. He was already as high as it got. He was his own man, complete in himself. A man who knew his limitations and stayed within them. A man to be admired and respected.

Winston also knew that Clint Wilson hadn't ordered him to this place. Winston had volunteered for the job. Winston had looked Greg Benton in the eye and told him flat out that no one could do the job better than Winston Barrows. And Greg Benton, because he wasn't ignorant, or incompetent, or stupid, had agreed with him. So had Greg and Winston's commander, the boss.

The boss had wanted to meet with him before Winston left for the mission. What took place during the meeting was not what Winston had expected. The boss had not asked for the meeting to give him a pep talk. The boss had asked for the meeting because he wanted to learn more about Winston and his family. Commanders did not do that. The last thing a commander wanted to know was detailed knowledge about the personal life of a soldier and his family, especially just before a commander was about to send the soldier on a dangerous mission. Commanders did not present solutions for a soldier's family problems, elegant solutions that the commander worked out with the soldier.

"God, I love this job," Winston whispered.

The place was a patio. Renting the furnished high-rise apartment that offered a patio deck with the correct line of sight was one of the largest expenses of the mission. Winston had tricked out his gillie suit so it blended perfectly with the potted plants and furniture on the patio. He couldn't be seen from the air or from viewpoints higher than the patio floor where he lay. For that matter, someone walking out onto the patio wouldn't see him, not immediately, and perhaps not at all if Winston didn't move or the person didn't step on him. Not moving was Winston's greatest skill. That and waiting. The parapet wall was short enough that it wasn't an impediment. The barrel of the rifle barely broke between the vertical elements of the painted metal railing at the front of the patio. The other two sides of the patio were solid walls. The desired line of sight was the sidewalk in front of the Trump International Hotel and Tower where the target had moved at the advice of his protector, advice the target had followed without argument because of the snake.

Winston laughed; he laughed but he didn't move. A fuckin' snake. The boss had put a fuckin' rattlesnake in the target's bed. But the snake wasn't placed in the bed to kill. It had been de-fanged. The snake was a warning. A last warning. A warning the target had not heeded.

Winston laughed again, this time moving slightly. The fuckin' snake had gummed him!

The boss lady had told Winston about the snake, not Greg or the boss. The boss lady was something else again. So beautiful it made his throat hurt to look at her. Supermodel beautiful, he'd thought when he first saw her, and later he'd found out that his snap description had been accurate. She had been a supermodel. Zane. Zane had strutted runways the world over. Her face and form had graced the covers of magazines that Winston had never read but had heard about, had glanced at in waiting rooms while in doctors and dentists' offices. Not Playboy, though. Or Hustler. He'd read those, and Zane had not stooped to that level. But the boss lady wasn't just a supermodel. She was also a doctor, a psychologist. She was beautiful and smart. Scary smart. Scary, scary smart. Like Iris.

Truth be told, he'd gone up on that mountain behind Refuge in a gillie suit to protect the boss lady, not the boss. He'd volunteered for this mission for the boss lady, not the boss. He'd been hired to protect her, and protect her he would. He'd do whatever it took to keep her safe.

Winston had not expected to like Dr. Loni Masterson, but he did. He more than liked her; he loved her. He wasn't in love with her, though. He knew what he was, knew what she was. He was old enough to be her father.

Terry ... now Terry he could love like a man loved a woman. He was probably already in love with her. Terry was like him; only Terry loved the boss, not the boss lady. Winston and Terry had something in common – platonic love for a woman and a man other than each other. That Winston, a highly trained and effective killer, was a romantic had surprised Terry.

A mental image formed in the theater of his mind. Terry was naked, looking up at him but not seeing him, her eyes fixed in what Winston called a thousand-yard stare. Her body had stiffened, her hips up off the bed, her fingernails digging into his back as the exquisite rush of an orgasm momentarily sent her away to that place of pure pleasure, the place Winston had visited only moments before.

She hadn't cried out. Winston liked that about her.

He closed his eyes and opened them to shake off the memory.

The shot wouldn't be difficult, only 375 yards with a 70-foot drop from the patio to the sidewalk. There had been a better shooting perch available, but Winston had elected not to use it. When a .50 caliber hollow-point bullet hit the target, the better location for the shot would be the first place the protector would look.

But the shot did present some problems, not the least of which was the erratic winds whirling and swirling through the valley formed by high buildings both sides of the street. That's why Winston had selected the morning time slot. Less wind in the early morning hours. He'd take out the target when he left the hotel to go to his office, not when he returned in the evening. Besides, the time of the target's return to the hotel in the evening was even more erratic than the winds.

Wind wasn't the biggest problem, though. The boss had been adamant. No collateral damage.

"We don't hurt good guys. Got it?" the boss had said.

Winston got it.

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Long Life and Telepathy

Paul Phenomenon

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