My phone rang at 7.12 a.m. I was jogging up the steps, returning from my morning run. I noticed someone had rented the Martins’ place to the west. There was a red Toyota sedan under the house, a couple of beach towels hanging over the deck rail in back, two pairs of flip flops, large and small. A few pieces of clothing hung on the line beside the house - a woman’s blouse, shorts. Beside them were several men’s tees, X-large at least, trumpeting Auburn University.
I strode across my floor and grabbed the phone, still catching my breath.
Jeremy said, “I think I’ve done myself proud, Carson, with that little request of yours. Naturally it’s not here, but I know where it is…”
“You sound out of breath, brother.”
“I just finished running.”
“You sure you haven’t been marching the old soldier? Now that li’l Ava skipped out on you, it’s probably a regular occurrence, right? WHOOPS, IT’S SEVEN FORTY-THREE, TIME TO FLOG THE DOLPHIN! WHOOPS, IT’S EIGHT NINETEEN, TIME TO MILK THE MAMMOTH. WHOOPS, IT’S NINE OH-TWO…Eat to keep your strength up, Carson. And switch hands to help avoid carpal tunnel.”
My brother’s sense of sexual innuendo had been frozen in the adolescent phase, about the time he murdered our father.
“Can it. What have you got, Jeremy?”
“It’s bigger than a breadbox, sharper than a hound’s tooth, and oh, the things it has seen in its short lifetime…”
“Come on, Jeremy, I don’t have time for -”
“The final mask of Trey Forrier.”
I froze. Trey Forrier was a serial torturer and killer locked away in the same institution as Jeremy. Like many psychopathic killers - Hexcamp among them - Forrier preferred the personal involvement afforded by a knife. It wasn’t known how many victims he’d truly murdered over the years, there having been several unsolved killings with similar methodology.
Forrier’s delusions had reached a strange point where he created a crude mask before each attack. Whether he wore the masks himself or preferred them to watch during the savagery was never known. Evidence at his small basement apartment indicated he’d created four masks, but only three had been found at murder scenes. No one knew what had become of the final mask, and Forrier only smiled wearily when asked.
He’d been caught perhaps seven years ago. I was in college at the time, studying psychology, and followed the case. Forrier had worked for years as a sort of itinerant dishwasher and low-level restaurant help, and was described as a “total loner” and a “daydreamer”. He had no friends. I recollected that he had some form of physical malformation, but couldn’t recall it exactly. I also recalled his vigorous initial protestations of innocence, but when the death penalty had been lifted in return for life at the institute, Forrier acquiesced, smiling and avowing to whatever crimes the prosecution assigned him. It had been an odd case and I suspected the mask of Trey Forrier, wielded properly, would secure my entrance into the world of big-time collectors of serial-killer memorabilia.
“You can’t be serious, Jeremy,” I rasped, my breath dry in my throat.
“Brother, I am as serious as a shark in a kiddie pool. See you soon.”
The phone clicked dead. I blew out a long breath and started to slump until I heard an insane shrieking outside my window.
I bolted for the door, the sound outside horrendous. The door opened to a wheeling cloud of gulls, keening, swooping, diving. I heard a chuckle and looked down to Danbury’s Audi. She was sitting on the hood, a bag of bait shrimp in one hand, pitching shrimp into the air with the other. The birds were frenzied.
Danbury tossed the rest of the shrimp, provoking a final shrill battle, then slid from the hood.
“A familiar sight,” I said, stepping down the stairs.
“You feed the gulls too?” She pulled off her sunglasses and dropped them into the pocket of a white linen shirt. Her blonde hair floated on the breeze.
“I meant shrimp pecked apart by hungry, screeching critters.”
She thought a moment, smiled. “Like the media on the attack? Goodness, that’s a metaphor, pogie. You never cease to amaze me.”
“I’m real busy, Ms Danbury,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do.”
“Can I come inside?”
“No.”
She wiggled her fingers at me. “I’ve got shrimp hands, Ryder. You’d make me drive all the way back to Mobile with my hands reeking of half-rotted shrimp? You’re more of a gentleman than that.”
I pointed beneath the house. “There’s a hose beside the fish-cleaning table. A bar of soap, too. Good talking to you, Ms D.”
Unruffled, she walked to the table, washed her hands. “Did you find out anything new on the woman in the motel? I hear she’s a nun. This case is turning weird, Ryder.”
She looked at me for reaction. But I’d heard yesterday that Marie Gilbeaux’s name was being released by the authorities upstate. That was standard; it couldn’t be held tight anymore. The press conference was scheduled for this afternoon. I tried to look like a man stifling a yawn. “Everyone’s getting that news today. Your source didn’t give you much more than squat. Again.”
Danbury finished washing and shook water from her hands. She studied the grungy towel hanging from a nail on the table, then wiped her hands dry on her walking shorts.
“It’s out of my control, you know. What information I’m given. Or fed.”
She looked at me for a comment. I wanted to ask, Fed? What do you mean? Instead, I stretched my back, said, “Where’s Funt?”
“Funt?”
“Your video monkey. Shouldn’t he be here taping all this exciting news?”
“His name’s Borgurt Zipinski. Borg’s not my videographer, he’s the station’s. Freelance, really, but on retainer. The day I rate a fulltime videographer is the day I blow out of Mobile with stars in my eyes. Besides,” she said, smiling, “you’d probably make Borg do something colorful with his camera.”
She walked to her car; it was a good walk. “We need to have a tête-à-tête soon, Ryder,” she said through the open window, dropping the sunglasses to her eyes. “Talk about this funny little case.” The white teeth smiled at me. “No comment, right?”
Danbury slipped the car in gear. “You’re getting good at that no-comment action, pogie, making an art of it. Art. Now there’s an interesting word.”
She laughed and sped away in a spray of sand and shells.