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"--killer's demand was delivered to over fifty media outlets at 9 a.m. eastern standard time. The FBI has requested a publication ban until they verify that it is not a hoax, but fledgling network TNC has announced plans to air it in a special broadcast at ten this morning--"
I glanced at the car stereo clock: 9:43.
"Do you think any of the radio stations will carry it?" I said. "Or should I call Evelyn, get her to watch, maybe tape it?"
Jack was already steering onto the off-ramp.
"Where--?"
"Place with TVs. Lots of 'em."
Before us was a wall of television screens, all tuned to the nearest TNC affiliate. Between us and those screens was another wall--one of flesh and bone--as we stood in the midst of a mob seven or eight people deep, all crowded into the department store's home electronics department. Even the staff was there, in the first row, having weaseled through the crowd on the pretense of "monitoring the volume levels."
The store was already warm, and the added crush of bodies wasn't helping. Nor was the overpowering cologne on the young man to my left. I supposed the strong musky scent was intended to provoke some hormonal response, to make him irresistible to women, but it reminded me of the raccoon's nest I'd cleaned from the boathouse this summer.
"This is a special TNC broadcast--" a man's voice intoned.
As the crowd hushed, I lifted onto my tiptoes and leaned right to see past the head of a mountainous man in front of me. The announcer seemed to be explaining how the letter had been delivered, but I caught only a smattering of words through the whispers of the couple to my right. The text version of the newsman's words scrolled across the screen, and if I could just lean a little more to the right, I'd be able to--The man stepped squarely in front of me.
A hand reached around my waist and Jack tugged me over, squeezing me in front of him for a perfect view.
"Thanks," I whispered. "Can you still see the--?"
"Don't need to."
I knew he wasn't just saying that to be polite. He would have been content to continue on to see Little Joe, and get the update later. We were here for me.
After five minutes of recapping the delivery of this letter, and the contents of the one from the day before, the newscaster finally revealed the main prize--lifting a sheet of paper with such care and gravitas that you'd think it was the original Declaration of Independence.
"'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Citizen,'" he read. "'I will keep this brief. You already know that your law-enforcement agencies cannot protect you, so there is no need for me to spell out the danger faced by each of you, and your loved ones. My demand is simple. In return for a one-time cash payment, I will end the killings. I don't ask for a lot. It is perhaps the cheapest insurance policy you will ever buy. The cost: one dollar.
"'As an act of faith, all I ask is that the president of the United States appear on CNN before noon today and promise me that I will be paid one dollar for each adult citizen. If noon passes without that promise, I will make my own promise: one dead citizen by 12:01. And that is only the beginning.'"
There the letter ended. When the announcer stopped reading, the crowd didn't budge, either waiting for more or too stunned to move. Jack put his hand against the small of my back and prodded me out. We were in the parking lot before I spoke.
"One dollar for every adult? That's...hundreds of millions."
Jack nodded and reached for his keys.
"How would he transport that much money? You can't just pack it in a suitcase."
"Doesn't matter. Two hundred dollars. Two hundred million. Same thing. Can't be paid."
It took a moment to realize what he meant. "Because the U.S. government has a policy of refusing to bargain with terrorists. He must know that. Does he expect them to make an exception?"
"Maybe. Could just be a game."
"Asking for money he knows he'll never see? What kind of game is that?"
"Helter Skelter," Jack said, and pulled open the car door.
As we drove to see Little Joe, I remembered what Lucy had said at the lodge, about a hitman turned serial killer, and how tough that would make things on the investigators. We'd dismissed that possibility. These were cold, clean kills, with none of the earmarks of random serial killings.
But, in setting up his calculated plan to hide the murder of Leon Kozlov, the killer must have encountered something he'd never experienced as a contract killer--the thrill of fear, the power that came with chaos and the chance to play God.
Jack said it did happen. Usually it was the new hitmen who succumbed and, even then, they didn't fit the textbook definition of a serial killer, picking and hunting down victims, acting on some inner urge. They just didn't give a shit who they killed.
If you're willing to kill five innocent people to eliminate one potential problem, then what's to stop you from killing umpteen more to get what you want? "What you want" could be two hundred million or it could be the thrill of playing Death. Or it could be a last burst of glory before you slide into your golden years. Doesn't matter. You're just shifting pieces around a board, patiently moving toward your endgame while the rest of the world holds its breath and awaits your next move.
