Scratched Off Read online

  The tarp was already in place, eager to do its job, and the GHB—Gamma Hydroxy Butyrate—should be wearing off soon. He had plenty of bleach and running water available for the cleanup.

  Scalpel, kitchen knife, or hunting dagger?

  Andrew Novak frowned. So many decisions needed to be made. There ought to be a manual about how to kill people most efficiently. It wasn’t a bad idea. Perhaps he would jot down some thoughts after dealing with Old Jimbo out there. He understood that it wasn’t wise to kill someone he knew, but this man so richly deserved it, he just had to make an exception. Besides, few people knew of their real relationship anyway. To them, he was simply one of the hundreds of students who passed through Professor James Lurch’s classroom every year.

  Investigators would also need to find enough of him to identify the body before digging deep into the man’s past. They wouldn’t have to dig far to find evidence of shady dealings. Lurch might fancy himself a mastermind, but his work was more consistent with a third-rate hack. His main advantage was unbridled access to a horde of talented but naïve young people trying to make it somewhere in the virtual world.

  Within a month of Andrew’s arrival in California, Lurch had approached him with a special opportunity to earn some money. The job involved hacking into several large credit card companies and planting a spy program that reported customers’ spending habits. Sixty-seven percent of the customers paid their bills online, so they also had the opportunity to use a second program to track back to each person’s home IP address. Once on the home computers or laptops, they had carte blanche to steal whatever information they desired. The plan had worked like a charm, probably earning Lurch millions, but the helpers earned only a pitiful flat fee and a stern warning to keep their mouths shut.

  You should have paid us fairly.

  He flung the thought at the man chained to the wall and waited impatiently for him to awaken. Spotting a lottery ticket over on one of his work benches, he picked up the scalpel, perched on a stool, and gently scratched the surface with the dull side of the blade. His heartrate quickened with anticipation as he slowly revealed the player’s cards.

  “Where am I?” The chains rattled as the victim suddenly realized his plight. “Who are you?” The tone sat somewhere between plea and demand.

  Abandoning the lottery ticket, Andrew stood and watched the man’s blindfolded head swivel back and forth as he attempted to gather information through his ears.

  “What do you want? Is it money? I have money! Lots of it. Millions. Let me go and it’s yours!”

  “It’s already mine.”

  “Mr. Novak? Is that you? What’s going on?” For a moment, the questions sounded hopeful before the man’s addled brain gathered the pieces to the puzzle and started compiling a picture. “Talk to me. Let’s make a deal.” The words were soothing.

  The blindfold didn’t seem necessary anymore. Three long strides closed the distance between them. The smell of sweat and fear struck him as he got within inches of the man. Pressing one hand firmly over the blindfold, Andrew swiped the scalpel through the thin straps on either side. The victim yelped as the blade inflicted two shallow cuts on either side of his temple and down each cheek.

  “Are you insane? You can’t treat—”

  Andrew buried the scalpel in the man’s right side, ending the righteous speech.

  The man moaned and muttered some curses.

  Breathing hard, Andrew leaned close, keeping the mask in place so he wouldn’t be tempted to spit on the man. The inside of his nitrile gloves felt slick with sweat, but he gripped the handle of the scalpel and yanked it free, eliciting a grunt of pain.

  “You asked me what I want. Do you still want to know?” Andrew asked. Without waiting for a reply, he said one word. “Erin.”

  The man’s eyes watered with tears, and his body stiffened with recognition.

  “That wasn’t my fault,” he protested.

  Massive willpower kept Andrew from striking with the blade again. He would finish the job, but not before the man confessed to all his sins. He didn’t want the professor too delirious with pain to appreciate what was happening to him and why.

  “How many did you hurt?” he growled the question. Behind the mask, his cheeks flushed. He couldn’t even bring himself to say the word for what Lurch had done to Erin Thompson.

  “I didn’t kill her,” whimpered Lurch.

  Andrew slapped the man with his left hand, trying to get him to focus.

  “No. She took care of that after you ruined her life.” Tucking the scalpel beneath Lurch’s chin, Andrew applied gentle pressure and repeated his question. “How many?”

  “Four? Five? I can’t remember! You’re making me nervous!”

  “Sixteen,” Andrew supplied. “And those are only the ones I know about. What’d you do? Sleep with every female student who needed a grade boost?”

  “Please. I have a wife and three kids.”

  Andrew laughed bitterly.

  “You haven’t been home in weeks. When I contacted you to discuss an ‘exciting deal,’ you were ‘touring’ Thailand.”

  “I have a problem. I admit that, but my family doesn’t know.” Lurch fell quiet for a moment. “Will you tell them?”

  “Your wife sends her regards,” said Andrew. It was a lie, but the shock and horror on Lurch’s face justified it in full. In truth, Andrew had had no contact with Rebecca Lurch, but he made a mental note to send her an insurance payout to make up for her years of suffering at the hands of this louse.

  “I’ll change,” Lurch promised. “Please. Let me go.”

  The scalpel wasn’t cutting it for him anymore. He needed something stronger, more decisive. Walking over to the dental chair, Andrew considered the tools available to him. A kitchen knife would make a nice statement, but his patience was waning. The man’s evil presence was tainting the air down here. Andrew would have to address the ventilation issues before the next job. Selecting the hunting knife, Andrew tested the blade’s sharpness on a scrap of paper kept for that purpose. It sliced cleanly into the flimsy sheet.

  “I’m glad you feel remorse for your actions,” said Andrew. “Killing you is ‘just a matter of practicality though. You see where I’m coming from, don’t you?’”

  The man paled as he recognized the words. It was the same speech he gave to each student he roped—or duped—into criminal activities then cheated out of money or success.

  “I made you what you are,” said Lurch softly. “You lacked direction when I first met you. I honed your skills and taught you a better way to use them.”

  “You showed me how to make money,” Andrew admitted. “But you don’t get to claim anything else.” He studied the dagger. The short blade gleamed in the harsh fluorescent lights. “I’m going to end your reign of terror once and for all.” He locked eyes with the man. “Right now.”

  ***

  Day 1: Early morning.

  I killed for the first time today. It was messier than anticipated, but nothing a good amount of bleach and water couldn’t handle. The tarp wasn’t necessary until it came time to remove the body, and by then, I’d washed most of the blood down the drain.

  He deserved it. I ought to carve that message into his body, but I guess it’s too late for that. The dogs have disposed of most of him, but I’ll have to bury the bones somewhere. If I leave the body in an open field in the middle of these woods, nature will reclaim its own if given enough time. The hard work still lies ahead of me, but I must endure. Dragging the bones about won’t be easy, especially since I’ll need to drive them far away from here.

  I rid the world of one piece of refuse, and it felt great. Scary, but great. I was once his victim. This brand of scum had a definite preference for female company physically, but he was equal opportunity cruel when it came to taking advantage of lost college kids. My early works disappeared only to reappear under his name. When I confronted him, he laughed and told me I was paying my dues and would reap the rewards one day
.

  He was right.

  I’m now in control of his extensive secret bank accounts. There’s freedom in financial security, but I cannot spend the money as I wish. When the work is complete, I will retire to a warm, comfortable place where I can be at peace.

  But there’s still work to do.

  I would do it again if I could. It’s his fault. If he’d left me alone, I probably wouldn’t have even known of his crimes.

  I’m not a monster. I didn’t make him suffer to the extent he deserved. I might have to be a monster one day. One cannot fight monsters without risking a walk in their shoes. Vigilantes have a code, but it’s not perfect.

  I’m not perfect yet, but I will be.

  I don’t think one can truly prepare the mind to end another. There’s intoxicating power in the idea and euphoria in the process. Watching life flicker, then slowly fade is almost … magical. There’s no other word for it.

  I’m a killer, a murderer, a marked man.

  But I don’t care.

  It’s addictive.

  I must do this again, but I’m not sure knives are the way to go. They’re slow. It’s not about the pain. It’s about justice. The weapon this round was a hunting dagger. I started with a scalpel, but that wasn’t satisfying or quick. I would have been at it for hours, unless I went straight for an artery. Next time, I’ll try the guns. They seem too easy though, like cheating. A knife forces one to get up close and personal and earn the kill. This kill was personal. The next will likely not be, but I need to make it so.

  I should make the rest of the body disappear, but what would that accomplish? There’s no risk. I will gather a following and be worshiped, if only from afar. Maybe I’ll send the head to the police. A head will keep them busy. They must have something. I can’t work in anonymity forever. On the other hand, I can’t make it too easy for them so early in the game. Maybe just a finger? Can they work with that? I’ll have to see if there are any left.

  What’s a show without an audience?

  The world needs me.

  I’m a hunter, a fixer, a warrior. If I have to take down the deserving one at a time, I’ll do it. It’s the ultimate man vs. the universe story. People are horrible to each other. The news is filled with tales of hardship and tragedy. I know I’ll add to that, but it’s for the greater good. People need to be purified.

  How do I know?

  I won on a scratch-off ticket today. The amount was just $5.00—the price of the ticket—but the win proves I’m on the right track. The ticket was called Fortune and Glory. You can win a trip to Hollywood or up to $50,000. I’ve never won that big, but the amount doesn’t matter. It’s the principle. Most of the good things in my life have been marked by a win.

  The difficulty will be in choosing only one victim at a time. There might be some innocent blood shed along the way. I can’t make this too easy on the police. They can’t learn I have a type or a pattern. But I definitely do.

  Evildoers will die.

  Chapter 2:

  Mystery Dust

  State Game Lands Number 219

  Warren Township, Pennsylvania

  A cool breeze carried the scent of blood, smoke, and vomit to Sheriff Cayden West. The drive up from Towanda had taken him a little over a half-hour. The unusually pleasant late October air had lured him into riding with the widows open for the last leg of the trip. He scowled, closed the windows, and climbed out of his truck. He was getting too old to be tromping around forests to find dead bodies, not that he would ever admit such aloud. If his wife had her way, he’d be living the boring life in Florida. That plan would have to wait. He had a job to do. The unlovely scents told him he didn’t have far to go. The sound of retching also led the way. Following his senses, the sheriff made his way over to the others.

  It didn’t take much to tell what had caught everybody’s attention. A clear plastic bag had been nailed to the trunk of an American beech tree. Condensation obscured the view slightly, but Sheriff West had no trouble seeing that it held a head. Below the bag, words had been carved into the tree trunk with crude block letters.

  HE DESERVED THIS!

  I’m not sure anybody deserves to wind up in a bag on a tree.

  He stepped on a stick as he approached.

  The deputy whirled.

  “Sheriff!” The one-word greeting from Deputy Amos Pitts broke into the sheriff’s thoughts. The young man sounded about ready to cry with relief.

  At the deputy’s feet sat a sullen man smoking a cigarette. From the amount of butts piled up next to him, the man had probably been chain smoking since calling in the gruesome find.

  That explained the smell of smoke. Sheriff West considered scolding the man for smoking in a wooded area but doubted he would hear any of it. A few steps closer revealed the source of the vomit smell.

  “What do we have?” West asked the deputy.

  A quick survey of the surrounding area revealed the blood source to be a dead turkey.

  “Heck of a thing to find on Halloween, sir,” said the deputy. “It’s a head, but it gets worse.”

  The sheriff fixed the deputy with a pointed stare.

  “Worse than a head in a tree?” he inquired.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Deputy Pitts. “I think we have most of a body—or more, but whoever left us the gifts wanted us to work for it.”

  West was about to voice another question when it died on his lips. A new sight caught his attention as he got close enough to touch the plastic bag with the head. He blinked, then stared, and blinked some more.

  The trees on either side as far as he could see held more plastic bags. The nearest one on his left held a hand and part of an arm, but no fingers. Morbid curiosity made him walk over and peer closely into the bag. Most of the flesh was gone, and what was left showed teeth marks.

  Bile rose inside him.

  No wonder the man had lost his breakfast.

  “Take the witness to the parking lot and interview him,” the sheriff ordered, stabbing a finger toward the civilian. “And call the State Police and the FBI.”

  Deputy Pitts hustled to obey. He helped the man up and led him away. Seeing the pile of cigarette leavings, the sheriff snapped a picture of them with his phone and pulled out a sealable sandwich bag from his pocket to preserve them in. He highly doubted the man was their perpetrator, but stranger things had happened. Normally, he would leave possible evidence in place, but not when it might spark a forest fire if left unattended.

  This is way beyond us.

  Placing hands on hips, Sheriff West scanned the trees left and right of the one featuring the head. He had never seen a body dump in person, let alone one so bizarre. The only dead bodies he’d seen were at motor vehicle accidents or in funeral homes. In this state, the sheriff and his deputies were little more than glorified court employees there to serve bench warrants and transport prisoners around the county. His department had made about three arrests in the course of the last five years, and those were for crimes that happened in his presence or that of a deputy.

  West shook his head. He would gladly hand this case off to somebody with greater resources. Processing the evidence on this case was going to cost that somebody a bundle. Nevertheless, before that handoff could happen, the sheriff and his people were in for a long day. He checked his cell phone for a signal and found none. The troops would have to be rallied from his radio.

  The sheriff took one last look at the ominous plastic bags marking dozens of trees in the area. Then, he headed for the parking lot. The State Police could probably send help within the hour, but he didn’t know exactly how long it would take the FBI people to arrive. If he remembered correctly, they had a field office in Philadelphia on the lower east side of the state. This being the upper east side of the state, it could take three and a half hours or more for them to show up, assuming they could dispatch an agent immediately.

  He made a mental note to call his wife too. Charlotte would want to help once she realized he would be s
tuck in the forest most of the day. She and her quilting club could at least provide food for the law enforcement personnel who descended upon the land today. He wanted her nowhere near the sight of the plastic bags, but the parking lot below should be safe enough.

  ***

  FBI Special Agent Samuel Kerman unfolded his long legs from the passenger space and hoped they would hold him once he exited the white Ford Focus. He couldn’t really complain about the amount of legroom up front, but the long drive from Philadelphia left him stiff. It would have been nicer if they had stopped once or twice or if he could have pushed the seat back all the way. The amount of stuff in the back prevented any seat movement except forward, and the driver was too excited to stop along the way.

  Mira Stratham bounded out of the car like a caffeinated cat, ripped open the back door, and rummaged through the tools of her trade.

  For the hundredth time this morning, Sam wished he hadn’t taken the train to work today. If he had driven, they might have added a half-hour to their travel time, but it would have been a much more enjoyable experience. He ran a weary hand down his face to boost the circulation and studiously avoided leaning down and checking his reflection in the rearview mirror. He wished he’d remembered his sunglasses. The sun felt great shining down through his close-cropped brown hair, but it was murder on the eyes. Midway through a luxurious stretch, a pair of pale blue cloth booties sailed over the car’s roof and struck him on the chin. He caught them as they bounced off.

  “Put those on,” ordered Mira. In response to his expression, she continued, “I know they’re not stylish, but if you’re coming with me, you’re doing so on my terms. And lose the tie, even if it does match those lovely sea green eyes.”