The Killing League

78.

Blue Blood

During the murders, the arrest, and the media circus that followed, Mrs. Frances Knowles did the unthinkable regarding her now infamous son.

She admitted his guilt.

Unlike most serial killer parents, who staunchly defend their children against their alleged crimes by steadfastly proclaiming their innocence, Frances Knowles admitted that her son was a monster.

“I always knew something was wrong with him,” she told a reporter from People magazine. “There were always dead animals around the house and lots of weird pornography. People being tortured, that sort of stuff,” she said. “Deep down I always thought I’d given birth to some sort of devil. No wonder his father ran away from us.”

Although she never expressed sympathy for any of her son Timothy’s victims, she did express relief and gratitude to the judge and jury that sentenced her son to death by lethal injection.

“I never should have had him in the first place,” she said.

Douglas Hampton knew all about parents who were quite fond of pointing out their children’s faults. From an early age, his mother had lamented how worthless he was, that he wasn’t deserving of the Hampton name. Later, he realized that she was furious with her husband and was taking it out on their son. But that realization was too late. The seeds of a black hatred were sown in his very soul. And when the first faint stirrings of sexuality appeared, those seeds ignited and blossomed like a mushroom cloud inside him.

Now, he stood on the doorstep of Frances Knowles’s pathetic little house in some godforsaken little town in Ohio. He had a briefcase in his hand and was dressed in a nice Armani suit, a charcoal pinstripe.

He rang the doorbell and waited. When there was no response, he banged his fist on the flimsy wooden door and called out to her. “Hello, Mrs. Knowles?”

Hampton heard movement, and then the door opened. The old woman stared at him.

“I’m with Brochman, Evans and Leverett,” he said, naming the high-powered law firm that, according to the Commissioner’s notes, her son had hired to defend him at his trial.

She stared at him without speaking or registering his comment.

“The good news is, I have a substantial check for additional revenues generated by your interview with People magazine,” he said. “The bad news is, you have to sign a few forms.”

He gave his best smile and when she looked into his eyes he kept them as wide open and friendly as he could. If he had been able to “think” a little twinkle into them, he would have done so.

Hampton knew that the woman had never been able to escape her son’s notoriety. According to his notes, Frances Knowles was approached at least once a month, either in person or on the phone, for an interview. She had declined them all.

However, the woman had recently called a repairman to look at the boiler in her house. The Commissioner figured that she needed money.

Hampton watched the old lady struggle with her decision.

“Okay, why don’t you come in,” she said.





79.

Nicole

Nicole stood in the kitchen at Thicque. Everyone had left for the night, but she had dawdled, wanting to enjoy the satisfaction of another great evening. She loved it here. This was her place and even now, over the soft sounds of jazz from the sound system, she could still hear the voices and laughter of the people who had come here for a great meal, good wine and the company of good friends.

Sometimes that’s how she hoped her restaurant felt to people who came here, like a friend you’ve just met but feel like you’ve known all your life.

The thought of friends triggered a brief flare of anger in her mind over Kurt. When the investigator had told Nicole her new “friend” was actually married, it had briefly thrown her for a loop. Especially because he had clearly given off the vibe that he was interested in Nicole as more than just a friend. Despite that she hadn’t been looking at him in a romantic sense, it made her upset that he had lied to her. Well, he hadn’t lied, but he clearly omitted the fact that he was married. If it wasn’t being dishonest, it was grossly misrepresenting.

She went through the dining room, straightened a few chairs that weren’t quite lined up perfectly with the others. Lifted one of the linen curtains whose bottom hem had snagged imperceptibly on the wooden window sill.

Satisfied, Nicole went back into the kitchen. She turned off the stereo, pulled a stool up to the small stainless steel table situated near the dining room door.

This was where she kept her travel notes, files, menu plans and other paperwork that wasn’t private. In fact, she encouraged her kitchen staff to peruse recipes, her descriptions of meals she’d had while traveling abroad and suggest menu items or cooking methods. So far, no one had-

A noise sent a tingle of fear down the back of Nicole’s neck.

She slid off the stool, went to the knife rack and pulled out a seven-inch blade, sharpened to a razor’s edge.

Where had it come from?

Near the back door. She calmed her nerves. The back door opened up onto a small parking area next to an alley. Occasionally, homeless people paraded through the lot, looking for aluminum cans, spare change, or a place to sleep for the night.

She made her way toward the door, the knife held in her right hand. She used the Pekiti Tirsia grip — knife handle in her palm, the blade reversed, sticking out to the right of her hand so that she could punch across someone’s throat, and the knife’s edge would slice the jugular.

Nicole could hear her heart beat rapidly, but still under control.

It was all about control. Staying alert. Using the edge of fear as an ally, not a detractor.

She stepped into the small hallway alcove near the back door. The sound, subtle, reached Nicole’s ear.

It was a buzzing.

She lowered the knife.

It came from her purse.

It had to be her phone.

She reached into her purse and pulled her phone from its small pocket and looked at the screen.

Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at the name displayed with no identifying image.

Wallace Mack.





80.

Blue Blood

He’d lived his whole life outside the rules. Whether it was the Hampton name, the Hampton money, his good looks, or most likely a combination of all three, he had never allowed himself to be ruled as the masses.

No, it was and always had been a different world for Douglas Hampton. A different world with rules mostly made up by him.

So he wasn’t at all surprised when the idea came to him that The Commissioner’s rules did not necessarily have to be followed. Everyone else seemed to have no problem abiding by the a*shole’s plan. But he, Douglas Hampton, had no intention of playing by the rules.

After dispatching Mrs. Knowles, he hopped onto the freeway and found himself back at the Omaha Holiday Inn, the original meeting place of all the “contestants.”

He went to the front desk. The young woman working looked vaguely like the same woman who’d been there for the meeting, but he couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter, she smiled at him and he could tell from the way the polyester slacks fit her full hips and the way she thrust her breasts out a little more after looking him over that he could get what he wanted.

“Hello, Kimberly,” he said, managing to read her nametag without actually directing his eyes toward it. “I was wondering if you could help me. I attended a business meeting here a few days ago and need to send a thank-you note to the meeting’s organizer. Can you help me?”

“Certainly!” she said and began typing on the computer. She asked him for the date and time of the meeting.

Kimberley frowned and Douglas Hampton felt a surge of anger flash through his body. She was going to tell him that the information was either gone or she couldn’t share it with him. The anger fired inside him and he wanted to twist her fat lips right off her face, but he buried the fury. He needed this woman to help him.

The woman jotted something down on a yellow post-it note and handed it to him. It was the name of a company. Alpha Delta Entertainment.

Without even thinking twice, Hampton knew it was a phony.

“Is there a phone number to go with it?” he asked.

Kimberley clicked again on the keyboard. She shook her head, trying to get her reddish brown hair to cascade over her shoulders. Hampton almost laughed when it didn’t work, as he watched the hair get hung up on the cheap white shirt.

“Mmmm, no,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“So you never spoke to anyone?” he said.

“No, it was all taken care of via email, most likely,” she said.

Douglas Hampton thought of the woman back in Hampton Industries who worked in the legal department as a researcher. He’d banged her a couple times, and she fell in love with him. Tried to impress him with how great she was at anything Internet related. She’d told him that with an email address she could pretty much find out anything.

“I’m sure I already have the email address, but let me hear which one it was,” he said.

She hesitated and Hampton could almost see the debate going on her little walnut-sized brain. She looked up at him, and he gave his favorite smile, a sort of boyish grin that said come on, let’s have some fun.

She smiled back at him, blushed a little, and looked back down at her computer.

And then, like almost every woman he’d ever interacted with in his entire life, she ultimately gave him what he wanted.





81.

Mack

Adelia arrived in the morning, after breakfast, and Mack grabbed his suitcase, took it upstairs to his bedroom.

He flung it open, and began throwing in clothes. He figured this time of year Los Angeles was not much different than Florida, just not as humid.

Mack had no choice but to go to Los Angeles. He knew with every fiber of his being Nicole was on the list of targets. Whidby wouldn’t listen to him, wouldn’t provide any special protection for Nicole, so Mack would do it himself.

He picked through his shirts, and imagined maybe taking Nicole out to dinner and what she would be wearing. He caught himself and felt like a fool. What the f*ck? He had to get his head straight.

Reznor would not be coming with him. He was on his own. The Bureau still didn’t believe his theory, so they had no intention of dispatching personnel to follow up on his “wild” ideas. That was all Whidby.

Mack showered and shaved, then packed his toiletries. He zipped up his suitcase and carried it downstairs.

“How long are you going to be gone?” Adelia said. She stood in the kitchen, wiping down the countertops.

“Not sure, maybe a week,” he said.

“Be careful, Mack. You’ve been out of the action for awhile now.”

He smiled. “Believe me, I know.”

“Don’t worry about things back here,” Adelia said. “I’ve got it all under control.” The few times a year Mack traveled, Adelia moved into the guest apartment downstairs and stayed full-time to take care of Janice.

“Oh, I never worry about you and Janice,” Mack said.

“Good, that’s what you pay me for,” she said.

Mack set his suitcase by the back door and walked down to the pool deck where Janice sat at the small table, drawing on a sketch pad. Her head was bowed. Mack could see she was concentrating.

He walked up to her.

“Janice,” he said. She jerked upright and looked at him, eyes startled.

“What!” she said. “Oh.” She cocked her head, and seemed to recognize him.

“I’m going to go on a short trip, I should be back in a few days, okay?”

She looked out the corner of her eye at the drawing, and tried to cover it with her arm.

“Yes, okay, that is good,” she said.

“Is it okay if I give you a hug?” he said.

She shrugged her shoulders.

Mack bent down and put his arms around her and hugged her. He tried to look at her drawing, but she covered it with her arm.

Mack walked back upstairs, into his office and opened the safe that sat behind his desk. He pulled out his Glock .45 and a box of ammo. Even though he hadn’t carried it in a long time, he went to the range on a semi-regular basis. If he didn’t shoot occasionally, the gun would feel totally foreign to his hand when he needed it most. Not a good situation.

Now, he shrugged on his shoulder holster and found his carry license that still permitted him to wear his gun through the airport and onto the plane.

He slipped the gun into its holder and felt a small tremor of anticipation.

He didn’t like the feeling of being hunted.

Maybe it was time for him to become the hunter.





82.

Family Man

Brent Tucker was not too worried. Yeah, Mack was an FBI agent, but from what he’d read in the background information supplied by the Commissioner, the guy was now mostly a desk jockey. Not exactly Charles Bronson.

Besides, he was just supposed to kill the sister, not Wallace Mack.

The Commissioner had been very clear on that one.

This was probably going to be pretty easy, he thought. He killed perfectly healthy people all the time. A cripple should be even easier. At least then, the vulnerability is obvious.

Tucker knew firsthand how family could be exploited. He thought of his wife and how she would do anything for the snotty little rugrats. She was so stupid. It’s not like they were loyal to her, he thought. They lied, were lazy and just took, took, took. Yet his cow of a wife would lay down her life for every single one of them.

But then again, Becky always wanted to have kids, that maternal instinct and everything. Tucker didn’t consider them human beings, he considered them camouflage. Whenever a killer who had a family was discovered, that was always the first expression of surprise. But he was married! He was a father! How could someone who is married with children go around killing people?

Quite easily, Tucker thought.

As he was about to prove now.

The great thing about Florida homes are their pools and waterfront location. If you could possibly afford it, you always tried to buy a home on the water. Property values never fell if you were on the water.

Because of the incredible heat, nearly every home had a pool. And those pools were almost always screened in, to keep out mosquitoes and other insects.

Tucker reviewed all of these facts in his mind as he paddled the kayak he had stolen from the public park just down the street. The Commissioner had provided excellent notes.

He guided the kayak with difficulty, he’d never paddled one before, and ran it up against Mack’s dock. He climbed out, up the rip rap onto the wooden walk from the dock to the back of the house.

The Commissioner had written that while most Florida homes had good alarm systems, they rarely accounted for an approach from the water, unless it was a big mansion in Palm Beach.

Tucker went to the pool area, took out a box cutter, and sliced a small slit in the screen.

He pushed through, turned around, and bent the flapping piece of screen back into place.

Then, he slowly climbed the stairs to the lanai, and the home’s wall of windows and sliding glass doors.

•

Adelia Williams was in love. Her husband, Oscar, was a good man, and before he enlisted in the Marines to become a sniper, he had been a high school star running back.

Even back then when they were just high school sweethearts, Adelia had shown her love and support by attending nearly every single one of her boyfriend’s football games. She had watched so much football that she knew what a chop block was. What a slant and go route was. She knew the value of a stiff arm, and an illegal use of the helmet.

So when she looked up from wiping down the glass-topped dining table and saw the man standing in the opening to the doorway holding a box cutter, she didn’t think twice.

She charged him. Her husband had taught her one of the first rules of fighting — never wait for the other guy to hit first.

And goddamn it, this was her house, too. She practically lived here. She loved Janice and no way was she going to let someone hurt her. She could have screamed for Mack who was upstairs, but that would also have given the attacker time to get to Janice. Somehow, Adelia knew this man wasn’t a thief. He was here for Janice.

The man was caught off guard by Adelia’s rush. She read in his eyes that he thought she would cower, beg for her life.

Yeah, well, f*ck that, she thought.

He swung the knife at her, but she caught his wrist and rammed her other hand into his chest, knocking him backward. She followed, driving her legs forward and the man backpedaled until he ran out of floor.

The lanai’s railing caught him in the lower back and he went over. Adelia watched him fall, saw him bend unnaturally backward as the pool ladder’s hand railing, specially designed for Janice, caught his spine and Adelia heard a crack that sounded like a gunshot.

The man slid down the side of the ladder and landed on the edge of the pool.

His shoulders and head slipped into the pool, his face underwater.

He didn’t drown.

No bubbles escaped his mouth.

Because he wasn’t breathing.

He was already dead.

She heard footsteps behind her, racing toward the lanai. She whirled.

It was Mack.

He had a gun in his hand, a look of grim determination on his face.

“Where is he?” he said.

She waved a hand over the railing.

“Chillin’ in the pool.”