Smoke Page 4

  Billy, Dickie and Nathan were in the main hallway on level D at the Feller Neuropsychiatric Institute. It was part of the county hospital known to the patients, law enforcement, and the community at large as “Schizo Central.” The Fellers were rich. Their daughter thought she was an angel and jumped off the Coronado Bridge during the dry season.

  Billy had been locked in here for a month. That in itself was humiliating, and hanging around with Dickie and Nathan did nothing for your self-esteem. They were eccentric, to say the least. Everybody else wore their street clothes, but Dickie preferred his stained, washed-out gray bathrobe and smashed corduroy slippers. His age, forty, coupled with his roundness, premature baldness and permanently puzzled face reminded Billy of Danny DeVito in One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  “Another ridiculous day,” Nathan said. “Hmm, I wonder. Should I stand in line for my cocktail of mind-numbing meds or play chess with Billy and beat him nine times in a row?”

  Nathan was a primitive stick figure, all arms and legs with knots in unexpected places. His long, pinched, pimpled face only had two expressions. Impatience and contempt.

  Dickie groaned. “My mom is coming today. I wish she wouldn’t. She gets on my case for every little thing.”

  Nathan snorted. “It’s not every little thing, dickless. You do inane shit.” Dickie hacked into his dad’s office calendar and added things like EAT DINNER WITH PUTIN and BUILD CAGE FOR THE WOLVERINE and BUY MORE LUBE. He hacked into the Mount Laughlin Observatory and put the rings of Saturn around Mars, deleted one of Neptune’s moons and changed the Big Dipper into a woman with big boobs. He hated a nurse named Olga. He got into her Amazon account and ordered three hundred pounds of kitty litter, a stainless-steel refrigerator, three lawn tractors and fifty pairs of G-string panties.

  “Why do you keep calling it an investigation, Billy?” Nathan said. “You’re not talking about that serial killer thing, are you? What a bunch of paranoid bullshit.”

  “It’s not paranoid and it’s not bullshit,” Billy said. “William Crowe is AMSAK. He’s murdered seventeen women, maybe more.”

  Nathan scoffed, his favorite thing to do. “I see. You know this Crowe person is guilty but no one else does? The police are clueless? You’ve solved the case while you’re locked up in the loony bin?”

  That last remark stung. Billy didn’t belong in a goddamn hospital with a bunch of nonfunctional crazy people. His mom, Gretta, told him repeatedly that he had to face reality, but whose reality? What’s to say her reality was any more valid than yours or anybody else’s? You’re paranoid, Billy. She’d been telling him that since he was in grade school. Why was it paranoid to prepare for bad shit in advance when you knew that sooner or later bad shit was going to happen? Maybe you don’t see the hurricane, but you know damn well it’s coming. So what if it’s summertime? Fill your sandbags and put up your storm shutters while you have the chance.

  Billy’s interest in serial killers began when he read several articles by Thomas Hargrove, a retired investigative reporter who founded the nonprofit Murder Accountability Project. The Project compiled and analyzed data on homicides. Hargrove examined FBI databases and discovered thousands of unsolved murders were linked to at least one other case by DNA. Using an algorithm developed by the Project, he concluded there were approximately 2,100 serial murderers at large at any given time. Michael Arntfield, a retired police detective, wrote a dozen books about serial killers. He estimated there were three to four thousand. Billy believed the higher number. It fit with his worldview. There was danger everywhere and everyone was capable of evil.

  Billy was big on home security, one of many things his mom rolled her eyes at. He’d hidden weapons around the house. A nunchaku in the den, darts in the medicine cabinet, a hunting slingshot in the hallway closet and a Crosman air gun under the couch cushions in the living room. Billy felt most secure in the basement. His room and the bathroom were finished. The rest was a vast graveyard for cardboard boxes filled with junk. He’d installed a booby trap. A length of piano wire stretched across the basement stairs about ankle height. As a reminder to himself and his family, he’d put a sign up marking the hazardous stair: DEER CROSSING.

  The thing that worried Billy was that there were no other exits except the stairs. If he couldn’t hide from an intruder, he’d be vulnerable. His interest in camouflage and deception led him to the art of trompe l’oeil paintings. They were so realistic they tricked the eye. Like gates, stairs or doors painted with such detailed accuracy, people mistakenly tried to use them, sometimes with injurious results. Billy made a trade with an art student named Raffi. He would do all Raffi’s term papers, and in return Raffi would paint a wooden stairway on a concrete wall. It looked absolutely real. Run into that, asshole.

  One of the hospital rules drove Billy crazy. Patients on level D were not allowed to use electronic devices. There was some rationale about protecting patients’ privacy. Like you’d take pictures of—what exactly? Mrs. Longfield talking to Gary Cooper? Dickie eating a hot dog sideways? Nathan digging in his ear with a pencil? Billy was cut off from the world. He really missed his sister, Irene. She came to see him on weekends. She was a junior at Palomino High. She got excellent grades and was the All State catcher on the girls’ softball team. Irene was pipestem skinny and her arms were unusually long. Her percentage of throwing out base stealers was higher than J. T. Realmuto of the Phillies, who led the major leagues. Irene acted like he was normal. Or what was normal for Billy. She was honest, said what she thought, gave him good advice and didn’t take any shit. Her love was assumed.

  His mother came to see him three times in three weeks. Gretta had nothing to say and neither did he. For ten awful, teeth-grinding minutes, they sat there, Gretta desperately trying to make small talk. At long, long last, she would glance at her watch, smile anemically and say she had to get back to court. She was so transparent it was laughable. Why didn’t she just say it? I have to get the fuck out of here. Come to think of it, why didn’t he? You look like a sitting chair made of plutonium, Mom. Why don’t you just go?

  Foremost in Billy’s mind was Ava. He urgently needed to talk to her. She was all he could think about. She was the only person other than himself who knew Crowe was AMSAK. Crowe had killed Ava’s twin sister, Hannah. They knew where he lived and worked. They had the killer’s complete record. They’d been tracking him for weeks. The problem was how to nail him. Billy hadn’t talked to Ava in five days. She must be going crazy, he thought. Maybe she had new evidence. Maybe she’d given up the chase. Maybe she’d forgotten him.

  Nathan had somehow secreted a cell phone into the unit. Now it was the only connection to anything beyond the hospital walls. But Nathan was a prick. He rationed phone use like the last morsels of gull meat on a lifeboat lost in the Aegean. Billy thought about waiting for the right moment, but there was no right moment with Nathan. He was a round-the-clock asshole. Might as well go for it.

  “Nathan, I need to use your phone,” Billy said.

  “My phone?” Nathan said, like everybody had one. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’ve used up your allotted minutes.”

  “What allotted minutes?” He’d never heard this one before.

  “The minutes I’ve allotted you.”

  “You’ve never said anything about allotments.”

  “Try again, oh, say, Monday afternoon after five.”

  “Come on, Nathan, it’s important.”

  Nathan sneered. “What is it this time, Chicken Little? The neo-Nazis are planning to attack Hawaii? There was something in your aftershave that gave you syphilis? The Deep State is trying to silence you with a poison suppository?” Billy stopped himself from replying. Nathan was making his I’m-not-going-to-talk-about-this-anymore face. Pushing him was futile. He’d get angry and restrict your phone usage even more.

  At Dickie’s insistence, they were walking in tandem. It was never explained. “Dickie, could we for once walk side by side?” Billy said. “We look like a
string of pack mules.” Dickie stopped, scowled and folded his arms across his chest. Billy bumped into him and Nathan bumped into Billy. “Never mind,” Billy said.

  They went into the restroom together. A mistake. There was nothing weird going on, but Dickie and Nathan were so embarrassing. Nathan washed his hands before he took a piss. Ask him why and he’d say, “It depends on what you want to keep clean.” Dickie always stood at the urinal with his pants down to his ankles. It was uncomfortable, shoulder to shoulder with a full-grown man, naked down to his gym socks with more hair on his butt cheeks than Bigfoot.

  “Could you not do that?” Billy said, nodding at Dickie’s pants.

  “I have to,” Dickie said. “You know very well I have extra sweat glands under my scro—”

  “Forget it.” Billy moved down a couple of urinals.

  “Aww, man, something’s wrong with my zipper!” Nathan exclaimed. He had tucked “Sergeant Pepper” back into his pants prematurely, leaving a large, delta-like stain around the crotch of his cargo shorts. Billy and Dickie howled with laughter.

  “What a moron!” Dickie said, delighted. “What are you gonna do when we go to group? You don’t have time to change!”

  Nathan was easily embarrassed. His face was flushed, his acne flashing bright red. “Oh, my God, what am I going to do?” he bawled. Dickie kept laughing. Nathan was nearly in tears, furiously dabbing at himself with a wad of paper towels, his voice strangled. “I’m so stupid! I’m so stupid! Somebody help me!”

  “Calm down, I can fix it,” Billy said. “Come here. Stand close to the sink.”

  “What are you going to do?” Nathan said warily.

  “This I’ve gotta see,” Dickie said.

  Billy turned on the faucet on high, cupped his hand under the water and splashed three quick handfuls on Nathan. Nathan sputtered, backing away with his hands up, the front of his pants were soaked. Dickie was in hysterics.

  “What the hell did you do?” Nathan shouted. “How could you do this to me, Billy? You’ll never use my phone again. Never!”

  “Shut up and do what I tell you,” Billy said.

  They went to the common room, other patients milling around, drinking lousy coffee and waiting for the group to start. Nathan looked like he’d been thrown overboard.

  “What happened to you?” someone said.

  “Can you believe it?” Nathan said. “The whole faucet blew up on me!” Everybody laughed, but they bought it.

  “That was really cool,” Dickie whispered. Billy looked pointedly at Nathan.

  He shrugged. “Fine. Use the phone already.”

  Billy found the phone hidden in the fire extinguisher box behind the hose. He went to his room and stood behind the open door.

  “Where’ve you been?” Ava said. “I’ve called you and called you. Who’s Nathan, by the way?”

  “Sorry, it’s a long story. What’s happening?”

  “Crowe’s on the move. He’s left Sacramento. He’s broken his parole.”

  Billy was flabbergasted. “What? When?”

  “A couple of hours ago. He comes out of the house, okay? He’s carrying a duffel bag and he’s not wearing his ankle monitor.”

  “That’s incredible. Why do you think—”

  “Will you let me finish?” she said impatiently. “Then his wife, Shareen, comes out, and she’s pissed, right? She wants to go with him, but he doesn’t want her to. They argued, like a real yelling match, and then she gets in the backseat and won’t get out. Right now, Crowe’s heading south on 185.”

  Billy was alarmed. “You’re following them?”

  “Gotta go,” she said. The call ended.

  Billy stood behind the door thinking. Crowe had broken parole and not in a smart way. If he removed the anklet, the monitoring system would pick it up and his parole officer would be notified. Then law enforcement would be alerted and every cop in the area would be looking for him. A serial killer is obsessive. They go to extremes. They risk everything. That’s what Crowe was doing, Billy thought. He wouldn’t be taking a chance like this if it wasn’t for the irresistible urge to kill another victim. He didn’t want to do it on his home ground so he was going hunting someplace else.

  Billy was puzzled. If Ava knew Crowe had broken parole, why didn’t she call the police? The realization floored him. Ava didn’t want Crowe getting busted for a parole violation, she wanted to catch him in the act or worse yet, kill him. Frantically, Billy began dialing her back when the door swung wide. It was Rutger, supposedly “staff” but he was really a security guy. He looked like Mr. Clean with hair.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Billy. Hand it over.”

  “Not yet, please, just one more call,” Billy pleaded. Rutger didn’t answer. He stuck out a hand that was more like a catcher’s mitt. There was no way to resist. Billy gave him the phone and Rutger left. “Damn it to hell!” Billy shouted. What if Crowe caught Ava? What would happen then? He’d kill her, that’s what would happen. Billy stepped out into the hall. He looked right and left. He had to escape. The only question was how.

  He talked it over with Dickie and Nathan but all they came up with were a bunch of bullshit movie ideas. No, they couldn’t make a disguise out of art supplies, there were no staff uniforms to steal, there were no loose ceiling tiles or air-conditioning ducts and no way to make a ladder out of bedsheets or break one of the windows embedded with wire mesh.

  “The only way out is the front door,” Billy said.

  Nathan scoffed. “Good luck with that.”

  To get to the front door, you went down the main hallway to the nursing station. At least two nurses were there all the time, and one of them had to buzz you in or out. Strong-arming was not an option. Billy couldn’t strong-arm anyone even if he wanted to. His body was like a stalk of steamed asparagus. Anyway, the nurses were behind Plexiglas and inaccessible. All they had to do was touch the alarm and Rutger would come running.

  But okay, let’s say you somehow got past all that and reached the sliding glass door. A nurse would sound an alarm. It was loud, like something you’d hear from an earthquake sensor in Japan. But even if you managed to get through the door, you’d only be in the lobby. There was a reception desk with a uniformed guard behind it. The guard also had an alarm so by the time you got out of the building, multiple alarms would be screaming, The Asshole has escaped! Be on the lookout. The Asshole has escaped! The entire security team would show up before you got off the hospital grounds.

  “You’re sunk,” Nathan said. “Forget about the whole thing.”

  Billy thought a moment. “Dickie, when did you say your mom’s coming?”

  “At three,” Dickie said dolefully.

  “What’s she like?”

  “She’s seventy-two. She uses a walker and she has eyes like a Komodo dragon.”

  “I met her. She’s a very frightening person,” Nathan said.

  “Is she usually on time?” Billy asked.

  “Right down to the second,” Dickie said. “Even with the walker.”

  “Tell me more.”

  Three minutes to three. Billy, Nathan and Dickie were in the main hallway, trying to look nonchalant. The nursing station was forty feet away. Nurse Olga gave Dickie a dirty look and went back to her computer. Dickie was whistling, rocking on his heels with his hands behind his back.

  “Why don’t you play the tuba, Dickie?” Nathan said. “That way you can be more inconspicuous.” He turned to Billy. “This is a terrible idea. It’s laughable. You’ll never make it!”

  “Shut up, Nathan.”

  “Oh, by the way. How are you going to pay me for my phone?”

  They heard a buzz, the sliding door opened, and there was Dickie’s mom as described. She stumped in, the walker ahead of her, a mean, vengeful look on her face. She caught Dickie’s eye and grimaced.

  “Here I go,” Billy whispered. He took off, sprinting past the nursing station, brushing Dickie’s mom aside.

  “Where are you going, bust
er?” she shouted.

  Billy sprinted past the security guard at the front desk. “Hey!” the guard yelled. Billy kept going, across the endless lobby and through double doors to freedom. It startled him, breathing real air, feeling the sun on his face. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where the parking lot was, but he got his bearings and took off again. As he turned a corner, he glanced back. Rutger and the security guard racing after him. Billy was in terrible shape. Playing chess and standing in line for your meds was not good exercise. By the time he got to the parking lot, he was sweating, wheezing and holding his side, a stitch stabbing him in the kidney.

  Now all he had to do was find Dickie’s mom’s car, which Dickie described as a “Chevy or Ford, a pukey green color and so old it still has a radio antenna.” The parking lot wasn’t full, but there were still a lot of cars. Rutger and the guard were coming. Billy ran and rubbernecked. Come on, let me get lucky, where the hell is it? His lungs were burning up. He stopped and crouched behind a car.

  “Billy,” Rutger called out. “Come on back now, before you get into real trouble.” He and the guard were walking along the different aisles. “Come on, kiddo. This is nuts.” Billy was done in. He couldn’t go on. “Come on, Billy, I’m starting to get pissed!” Rutger said. Billy thought about Ava and how she might be in danger and how she might need his help right now, right this minute. Damn it, Billy, think of something! And then he did. Dickie’s mom was using a walker. She’d have parked in one of the handicapped spaces. He must have run right by them. Billy took a couple of heaving breaths, hunched down and duck-walked until his back couldn’t take it anymore. Then he stood up and started running.

  “Over there!” Rutger hollered. Billy saw the pukey green car with a radio antenna. He got there, looked underneath the right wheel well and found the small magnetic box right where Dickie said it would be. He fumbled to get it open. “Come on, goddammit!”

  Rutger left the guard behind and was coming on fast, pumping his arms, his sneakers whacking the pavement. “Billy, don’t do it!” he yelled. Billy got in the car, stuck the key in the ignition, the engine sputtering to life just as Rutger grabbed the door handle and swung it open. His big paw clamped on Billy’s shoulder. Billy slammed the shifter in reverse and backed up fast, tearing himself loose from Rutgers’s grasp, wheeling around and driving away. He drove frantically for five blocks, made several random turns and stopped.