Evil Like Me Page 21

  Petty saw Wilcox reach for his gun. “Who is number four?” she asked Proust. He blinked and loosened his tie. Something was wrong. He froze.

  “You expecting someone?” Wilcox asked leaning an eye to the crack in the curtain.

  “He’s here,” squeaked out Proust’s tight lips. “Number four—” Proust gagged. His eyes widened, and blood left his head.

  “Who’s here?” Wilcox asked as he whirled around. “And who is number four? Petty, can you do something.” But Proust was catatonic. His pale face began to deform, melt like wax. The hideous smile they saw so many times before was growing on Proust’s face. It was pure terror.

  “What’s happening to him?” Wilcox gasped. Petty could not help the man dying in front of her. Then the trembling stopped. The raspy breathing stopped. The bulging eyes and twisting facial muscles froze. Proust fell back into the sofa with his arms and legs locked and back arched beyond normal limits. Petty grabbed the man’s wrist. No pulse. Wilcox returned to the curtain. He already knew what Petty was going to say.

  “He is dead, Tony.”

  On her last word the lamp flickered and went out. Wilcox opened the curtain and saw the old sedan parked in front of Elda’s stone house. It sat empty in the middle of the road. The man in the flat-brimmed hat was gone.

  Twenty-Nine

  “Courage is a peculiar kind of fear.”

  Charles Kennedy

  *

  “He’s dead. What just happened?” Wilcox asked as he scanned the front yard and Dewar Avenue. Except for him holding a gun, Petty did not know the danger outside.

  “This is how they die, Tony.”

  “The brain lesions.”

  “I won’t know for sure until autopsy, but yes. Why the gun?” she asked.

  “We’ve got company.”

  Petty joined him at the window and leaned an eye to the sliver in the curtain.

  “He showed up when Proust started shaking.”

  “There’s more going on here than I’m ready to accept medically,” Petty muttered.

  Wilcox grabbed her arm and walked her to dark stairs in the entry. “Do me a favor. Do not ask questions. Do exactly what I say. If the guy out there did this to Proust, he knows we’re in here. There’s a good chance he wants to get rid of Proust and eliminate witnesses.”

  Wilcox aimed Petty up the tight staircase. They eased down the dark hall to the last bedroom. Inside, soft moonlight came in the only window. He pulled her close in a dark corner and held his gun on the doorway. When a damp gust lifted the curtains, he realized the window was open and their visitor could be in the house.

  “Did you recognize our visitor?” she whispered.

  He nodded and touched his lips. He fits the description Keller gave me at the bank, Wilcox thought. A big man in a long coat and flat-brimmed hat. Nobody wears hats like that. And it’s the car I saw at the Sterick building.

  “Best you return to Memphis.” The raspy voice sent a hot, stale odor across the bedroom. They followed the words back to the tall shadow across the dark room. He stood in the corner by the window.

  How could I miss him? Wilcox thought. He wasn’t there a minute ago.

  Wilcox moved his gun to the stranger. “Unless you can stop a bullet, I suggest you identify yourself,” he ordered as he pulled the hammer back.

  “Major T. L. Cankor.”

  “What in the hell are you doing here, Cankor?”

  “Government business. Defense Intelligence Agency.”

  “Bullshit. Why would the DIA hide in a goddamn bedroom?”

  “Hello Dr. Petty,” he said. “I think you know why, Detective Wilcox. The Stargate Project is a top secret, government program. I should ask you why you’re trespassing on private property.”

  “Seems I keep running into Stargate employees,” Wilcox scoffed. “I find that interesting since the goddamn government killed the program twenty years ago. You’re all lying bastards. Tell me Cankor, why is it when you psychos show up people die?”

  “It’s psychics, detective,” he sneered.

  “What did you do to Proust?” Wilcox snapped back.

  “I saw a car outside. It should not be here. I suspected burglary and tried the doors and windows. I would have run-off or apprehend the intruder. This is a protected government site, Detective Wilcox.” Cankor pointed. “I climbed a tree. This window was unlocked. Simple as that. I had nothing to do with Dr. Proust’s death.”

  “I didn’t say he was dead.”

  Cankor ran fingers down his lapels and stepped toward them undeterred by the gun. “You think you’re a smart guy, Wilcox. The fact is you are over your head. I suggest you two forget what you saw here tonight. Leave Henryetta and return to Memphis. I will pretend you did not break into this government-secured crime scene. The DIA will take care of Dr. Proust.”

  “You know what I think?” Wilcox said. “I think you had something to do with Proust dying tonight. Here’s the problem. I don’t care if you did it with a gun, a knife, a baseball bat, or some weird, psycho, bullshit weapon. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a homicide, I’m a cop with a gun, and you’re a person of interest.”

  “You know nothing.” Cankor stepped closer. Wilcox raised his gun. “There are bad people in this world. Stargate is a way to stop them. The day we fall behind is the day you will be speaking another language or dead. I suggest you stay out of our way.”

  “When innocent people die, someone’s lost their way Cankor. Looks like the DIA is killing remote viewers and their families. I’ll bet my pension you had something to do with Middleton’s and Tantabaum’s deaths, and the three innocent people in the wrong place that night. You gotta be one sick son-of-a-bitch to kill little, old ladies and college students.”

  “Wild speculation with no proof wastes time, Detective Wilcox. I suggest you …”

  “You’re boot print is in the garden, Cankor. I bet there’s a mountain of photographs taken that day. Five homicides don’t happen often around here. I’m sure we can confirm the eroded boot print out there happened the night of the killings. I’ll bet we have pictures of muddy tracks on Elda Middleton’s front porch and in the house. I’ll bet we have your DNA and prints, Cankor. No, you’re as dumb as any other scumbag feeding on society.”

  “I spoke with Alfred Baldwin,” Petty said. “He’s worried about the national killing spree and misuse of psychic-weapons. Is he looking for you, Major Cankor?

  “DIA, not DOJ, is in charge here. We’re the watchdog, Dr. Petty. Alfred Baldwin and his people will soon be managed by us. No need for you to be concerned.”

  “Admit it. You are killing remote viewers, Cankor,” Wilcox pressed.

  “You know the answer to that question. You met the killer on Main Street. You saw him at the Sterick building,” Cankor spoke hypnotically as he eased around the bed.

  “Don’t move another step, Cankor. I only need one excuse,” Wilcox threatened.

  In the dark bedroom they could not see Cankor close his eyes for the first time. And they could not see the odd, flat smile of demented concentration. An invisible force pulled Petty from Wilcox’s side and held her against the wall. Wilcox struggled, but could not even turn his head. Frozen in place, his gun dropped from his open hand and slid to Cankor’s feet.

  “I suppose cooperation is a foreign concept to you people.” Cankor sighed as he raised his hand and watched Wilcox and Petty slide down the wall to the floor unable to move or speak.

  “I’m tired of this house.” Cankor looked around the bedroom and out the front window. He turned back to Wilcox and Petty, two flies entangled in an impossible web. “And I’m tired of people like you, always so judgmental. So pushy. Pathetic weaklings in my way like Elda.”

  Cankor huffed and closed his eyes a second time. He touched his forehead and his flat smile returned to his callous face. Within seconds Wilcox and Petty began to tremble. Blood started to leave their heads. Their muscles started to cramp. The overwhelming sense of terror crept in and their
bodies responded.

  Thirty

  “It is man who makes truth great, not truth making man great.”

  Confucius

  *

  “Leave them alone.”

  The words floated into the dark room. Petty and Wilcox were paralyzed on the floor.

  Cankor opened his eyes. He knew the voice well. “I will not,” he spewed.

  “You know my capabilities.”

  Cankor turned to the paltry figure standing in the doorway. “They’ve not been tested for a while. Are you sure you want to risk it?”

  “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  Cankor’s rage churned, but when he tried to move only his coat swayed.

  “We cannot do this anymore.”

  Cankor tugged at his legs. He was bound to the floor. “You are evil like me.”

  Wilcox could only stare at his gun a few feet away. Petty struggled to turn her head. She had to see the one in the doorway. “Who—are—you?”

  The shadow leaned into the room and turned from Cankor. “I am Hunter Keller, Dr. Petty.”

  On Keller’s last word Cankor’s boots broke free. He spun and dove out the open window.

  Wilcox broke free. Without a word he scooped up his gun and dove after Cankor. Sliding on his belly down the wet porch roof, he grabbed at shingles and dug boot toes stopping at the edge. His head hung over the side of the twenty-foot drop as he watched his gun disappear into Elda’s hedges and the old sedan fishtail down Dewar.

  In the bedroom Hunter Keller helped Dr. Petty from the floor. It was the first time she saw the one accused of killing so many—she stared and wondered what just happened. Although Hunter Keller was a man, she saw a boy. He reached for her hand as if to give her a secret. A ribbon of moonlight touched his face and she saw his eyes. At that moment she knew he was different, and Hunter Keller’s eyes would always say more than words.

  He whispered, “No one can find me. People will die.”

  *

  At two in the morning they pulled into Bald Knob Wildlife Reserve north of Little Rock. Wilcox picked another lock and swung open the gate as Petty shook her head—the risk of two counts of illegal entry. Staying in an Oklahoma or Arkansas hotel was not an option, and Highway 64 and Interstate 40 to Memphis were monitored. A night in the woods made sense.

  “Who the hell closes a damn wildlife reserve—animals need a break?” Wilcox muttered as he drove into the empty woods. “Since when are their hours of operation—never heard of it. You gotta have campers all over. How do they round em all up in a place that’s gotta be twenty-five square miles of nothin’.”

  Petty ignored him and Hunter Keller was asleep. The storms moved out as the cold air filled the night and they snaked two miles into the dark woods. They found a small clearing with a weathered picnic table. Wilcox started a fire. They ate from a bag of random groceries picked up in Beebe—their only gas stop. Although the convoluted route from Henryetta to Bald Knob added miles and time, Wilcox had a plan. They would go to Jonesboro in the morning and then Memphis in the late afternoon. He would not lose Keller along the way.

  “Why enter from the north? And why Memphis late tomorrow?” Petty asked.

  “Because they’re watchin’ highways, hotels, the police station, morgue, and your place and my place,” Wilcox huffed. He threw a rock in the woods like a major league pitcher taking out a batter. His frustration over the mounting, unsolved deaths with no end in sight was getting to him. “For a brilliant, forensic doctor, I wonder about common sense. Maybe you haven’t noticed our passenger attracts attention and people die.”

  “We’re all tired, Tony.”

  Leaning on the car puffing on his cigarette he studied the squirrelly little guy sitting at the picnic table. Keller did not look like a serial killer, but they never do. Wilcox met him on South Main two weeks earlier. Keller stirred-up his gut like every other guilty slime ball. Wilcox had razor-sharp instincts he didn’t understand, his gut was always right. Now he stared at the killer who slept on his backseat all the way from Dewar. Driving in silence for hours, Wilcox stewed over the facts he understood and set aside those he could not explain—like what happened in the bedroom at Elda Middleton’s house.

  “You always sleep after a fight,” Wilcox poked.

  “What’re you doing?” Petty whispered as she nudged him at the edge of the car.

  He could not hide his ire any more. Too many were dead. He glared at the one his gut said to hunt the last two weeks, the one who always got away leaving bodies behind. Now, there he sat, his head down, a blanket draped over his boney shoulders, and his hair shooting in all directions.

  What are you doing now? Wilcox wondered as he lit another smoke.

  “Blocking,” Keller answered. He moved his gaze to the empty diet coke can on the table.

  Did you just read my mind? I don’t believe that shit. You’re playing games. Wilcox walked over to the table and sat on the edge. Like a hungry bear he hovered over the twig of a man. “What the hell is ‘blocking’?”

  “Preventing others from reading his thoughts, or locating him,” Petty said.

  “Something like that,” Keller said.

  “Are you blocking now?” Wilcox asked.

  “Not now. No one’s close enough to be a problem.” He slipped his hoodie over his head and pulled the blanket over his chest.

  “I’m supposed to believe this crap? Do you believe this crap, Petty?”

  “I don’t know, Tony. I’m still trying to figure out what happened on Dewar.”

  “Simple. Hypnosis. The power of suggestion. That Cankor guy hypnotized us, made us believe we couldn’t move. Keller shows up and we snap out of it. They do it in Vegas acts—hypnotize a whole audience.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Petty muttered.

  “What you should be thinking about is that another remote viewer—Proust—got killed and this guy shows up. Seems to happen a lot.” Wilcox turned back to Keller. “It’s best you start talkin’ to me. It’s not looking good for you.”

  “I’m not what you think I am,” he whispered still staring at his coke can.

  “The evidence against you is indisputable and overwhelming,” Wilcox slapped the can into the woods and leaned closer.

  “Nice touch, Tony,” Petty scoffed. “You think you’re in your interrogation room at the police station? Do you really think you’re going to scare him into a confession? Give me a break. You’re better than that. You have nothing but a gut feeling. There’s a lot more you cannot explain, nobody can explain.” Petty approached the table. “You have no real evidence, and you know it. You don’t even have enough to hold him an hour. He could leave right now.”

  “You’re wrong. I can put this guy at every homicide. That’s enough.”

  “No it’s not, Tony. What you have is all circumstantial. So he’s in pictures? No prosecutor’s going to touch it if that’s all you have. I know the evidence. You don’t have any. I suggest you stop pushing him around and start listening to him. He didn’t have to come to Dewar to save us—hypnosis or not. Let the man talk. Maybe you will get answers to questions. You can’t explain a lot. It’s time to listen.”

  “Why were you at my homicides, Keller? Why were you with the truck driver outside Blytheville, and why were you at the Sterick building, and at Broken Bow, and Middleton’s house? Did you kill your parents?”

  “Slow it down, Tony,” Petty said.

  “Are you gonna tell me you’re innocent? Are you gonna tell me you were at all those crime scenes to help the poor bastards? If that’s your story, you gotta be one miserable guy because you failed every damn time. They’re all dead, Keller.” Wilcox yelled.

  Keller cringed and sunk into his blanket. Wilcox jumped off the table, found a tree, and slammed his fist into the trunk. Petty pulled his arms to his sides and said, “Don’t do this to yourself, Tony. We can figure it out.” She reached in his breast pocket and pulled out his silver flask and unscrewed the cap. “Take a few swallow
s and come back when you have control of your emotions. We have an opportunity to get a lot of answers from a remote viewer. There is more going on here than we have dared to imagine.”

  Wilcox nodded and tilted his flask. After he swallowed, his eyes met Petty’s. His pupils dilated and brow relaxed. She put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. “I don’t approve, but …”

  “I know what you know,” Keller said. They turned back to him. Keller was now standing by the popping fire with his back to the dark depths of the woods.

  “What does that mean?” Wilcox asked as the rage bubbled inside. Petty turned his head with a soft hand to his jaw. They looked at each other again. “Okay. I won’t shoot him,” he said and then winked.

  They sat at the picnic table across from the fire and Keller. Wilcox stared at the skinny paradox in the hoodie. “You say you know what we know. Tell us what you mean by that statement. We can take it a lot of ways.”

  “It is more efficient to tell you what you do not know,” Keller said.

  “Okay. More efficient,” Wilcox said, his ire moving to curiosity.

  “Our time together is limited. This night is not over. More danger is ahead.” Keller looked down on the fire and spoke like a prophet. “Tomorrow night it will happen.”

  “What will happen tomorrow night?” Wilcox asked.

  Petty interrupted. “Hunter, help us understand by starting where you think you should.”

  He nodded. “The government’s psychic-weapons program never ended.”

  “We know,” Wilcox snapped. “Most people with brains know governments lie.”

  “You know, but you do not believe,” Keller said.

  “Why does that matter?” Wilcox asked.

  “It puts you at a disadvantage. Like the others, you are outside my reality, what I have lived with all my life. Unless you believe, you will never find the truth you seek.”

  Keller turned to the dark woods and looked deep. Wilcox followed his line of sight, but saw nothing. Keller spoke without emotion. “You know my parents were remote viewers, but you do not know I am the reason they are dead.”

  “You killed your parents? Are you confessing?” Wilcox pressed.