To Pay in Blood

by

Debbie Kluge

Note:  This is in response to the Anthology Challenge suggested by Shar back in September.  My items were one of Dotty's recipe cards, a deck of playing cards, and a dolphin.

Part I

Friday, March 15, 1985

The man named Dwyer picked his way carefully down the alleyway toward the bright lights at the far end.  The cold, damp, late winter wind swirled down alley fitfully, making him shiver in the darkness despite his heavy coat.  Lightning flashed ominously overhead and he could hear the low rumble of thunder in the distance.  In the strobe-like flashes of light, he could see the piles of refuse that filled the broken down doorways and lined the buildings in the god-forsaken place.  The stench was indescribable.

Ahead, he could see them standing at the end of this dead end cesspool, their silhouettes reminding him of frightened cattle huddling together fearfully as the smell of death saturated the enclosed space.  He walked silently into the light and came to a stop before the object of everyone's attention.  Staring down at the horror at his feet, he could feel the dread transform into deadly certainty.  Another one.  That made eight.

Circling carefully, his eyes searched the bloody mess, knowing that somewhere he would find it.  The calling card . . . the token that he had seen seven times before.  Pausing suddenly with his back to the others, he leaned over and peered more closely, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his pen.  Crouching down, he used it to snag the item.  Lifting it carefully, he gazed at it without surprise before rising once more.  In some distant corner of his mind, Dwyer wondered what she had looked like . . . who she had been . . . before she had met the monster.  Maybe they would never know.

Turning, he looked at the men standing at the edge of the lights, as far away from the flayed flesh and bones as they could get and still be said to be doing their job.

One of them . . . the young one . . . swallowed convulsively a couple of times before he finally said, "Is it . . ."

"Yes."

"You're sure?" the older one questioned.

"I'm sure."

Friday, March 29, 1985

"Mother, are you sure about this?" Amanda King asked, eyeing the recipe card doubtfully.

"Absolutely!" Dotty enthused.  "I got this recipe from Martha Grissom, whose mother always made it for her women's club when Martha was growing up in South Carolina.  I think it sounds wonderful, and you won't have to worry about anyone bringing anything like it to your office potluck."

"Well, that's true," Amanda agreed hesitantly, staring at the card again.  "But, Mother, where in heaven's name am I going to get some of these ingredients?"

"Why don't you check that gourmet market down on Kirby?  If they don't have them, I'll bet Mr. Leblanc can order them for you."  When her daughter still showed a marked lack of enthusiasm, Dotty planted her hands on her hips and added pointedly, "You were the one who said you wanted something different, missy.  If you're so concerned about it, why don't you just take your poppy seed cake?  You know everyone likes that."

A steely glint suddenly appeared in Amanda's eye and she replied firmly, "No, this will be perfect.  I'll stop and talk to Mr. Leblanc about it on the way home from work tonight."  Amanda could still hear Francine's snide voice explaining that she was in charge of the potluck being held for the head of Purchasing, who was retiring at the end of April.

"I thought we'd try something a bit more upscale . . . you know, something that isn't the same old thing.  I know you have your old favorites, Amanda, but do you think you could manage something along those lines?  If not, I can give you the names of several very good gourmet shops where you can buy something . . ."

Amanda snorted softly.  As if she would be caught dead bringing something purchased to a potluck!  No, Francine wanted something different, so different was what she was going to get.  Tucking the recipe card into her purse, she turned to her mother.  "I'd better get going.  I've got a lot to do today."

"Will you be late?"

"Not so far as I know, but if something comes up, I'll be sure to call."

Dotty nodded.  "All right.  You have a good day, dear."

"I will, Mother."

Half an hour later, Amanda entered the front door of International Federal Film, smiling contentedly.  The weather was being truly remarkable for the end of March . . . 70 degrees and sunny with a definite touch of spring in the air.  Enjoy it while you can, Amanda, she told herself ruefully.  You know it won't last. 

As she opened the door, she heard Mrs. Marston's voice clearly.  "I'm sorry, but there is no one here by that name.  I can't help you!"  Her tone warned Amanda that it wasn't the first time she'd told the stranger standing at her desk this, and her patience was obviously beginning to wear thin.  Stepping up quickly, Amanda intervened.

"Good morning, Mrs. Marston! Isn't it just a gorgeous day?"  Turning to the stranger, she smiled pleasantly and said, "Hello."

The man relaxed noticeably and returned the smile.  "Hello."

Amanda looked from one to the other and then asked, "Is there a problem?"

"This gentleman insists that he's here to see someone by the name of Conrad Quaid," the Agency receptionist replied stiffly.  "I've explained to him several times that we have no one here by that name, but he is being extremely persistent."

The stranger looked at Amanda apologetically.  "You see, I'm new to the city.  I'm a sales representative for a large firm out on the west coast and my company has just recently begun expanding into this area.  This is my first trip to D.C., so I'm rather fumbling in the dark."  He bent down and began rummaging in the briefcase sitting at his feet.  Amanda saw Mrs. Marston stiffen and reach under the desk toward the weapon that was mounted there.  She shook her head hastily, gesturing to Mrs. Marston to wait.  As the man searched, Amanda assessed him.  A few inches taller than she, he had neatly cut medium brown hair that was showing traces of gray, particularly around his temples.  His eyes were brown behind his gold wire frame glasses, his face was pleasant if somewhat non-descript, and the neat three-piece suit he wore showed off his slender build to nice effect.  Amanda could see absolutely nothing threatening about him at all.  He straightened with a portfolio in his hand, which he opened and showed to her.  "This was all the information they gave me."

Amanda scanned the information quickly and then shook her head.  "It would have helped if they had given you the name of the company.  What did you say your company sold?"

"Computer parts," he replied, looking even more apologetic.  "Not much help, is it?"

"No, I'm afraid not."  Amanda stood there for a moment, tapping her lips thoughtfully with one finger.  Then she stepped to the desk and smiled at the woman behind it.  "May I use your phone for a moment, Mrs. Marston?  It won't take a minute."  Reluctantly, the woman nodded.  Amanda picked up the receiver and dialed quickly.  She waited for a moment and when the party on the other end answered, she said, "Hello, Mother, it's me.  No, no, there's nothing wrong.  I just need for you to do me a favor.  On the shelves in the den there should be a directory of government offices and employees.  Would you get it and look something up for me?  I'll hold on."  She smiled at the man waiting patiently.  "This is a shot in the dark, but you never know.  Yes, Mother, I'm still here.  Quaid.  Conrad.  No, I don't know what office he works in.  That's the problem.  Q-U-A-I-D.  Yes.  Oh, he is?  Wonderful!  Where does he work?" Amanda wedged the phone against her shoulder and gestured to Mrs. Marston for something to write with.  "Uh huh.  Yes, I've got it.  Can you get the address for me?  Uh huh.  Oh!  Well, that explains it.  Yes, Mother, that's exactly what I needed.  Thank you.  I'll see you tonight.  Yes, I will.  Yes.  Yes, Mother.  M-Mother, I really need to go.  Okay.  Thank you."  With a sigh she hung up the phone and turned to the stranger with a smile.  "They just got the street name wrong.  Here's the correct address and the name of the office he works for.  That should help."

The man smiled at her gratefully.  "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this," he exclaimed.  "Can you tell me where this is from here?"

Catching Mrs. Marston's continuing frown, Amanda took the man's arm and turned him toward the door.  "Here, let me show you."  She led him out of the building and down the sidewalk to the street, pointing and giving him directions to his destination.  When she finished, she smiled again.  "I don't think you'll have any trouble finding it now."

"Thank you so much!  I can't tell you how much I appreciate this.  Being in a strange city and not knowing anyone  . . ."

She laughed.  "I know exactly what you mean.  I'm just glad I could help."

"I'm so sorry.  I should have introduced myself.  I'm Thomas Carlyle from San Francisco."

"It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Carlyle.  My name is Amanda King."

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mrs. King . . . or is it Miss?"  There was a hopeful lilt in his voice as he asked the question that caused Amanda to flush slightly as she replied, "It's Mrs."

"Oh.  Well . . . I'd say your husband is a very lucky man."

There was a sad note in his voice that made her blush becomingly.  "Oh, well . . . you see, I . . . well . . . my husband and I . . ."  She trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

"Divorced?" he asked knowingly and then flushed slightly himself.

"Was it that obvious?" she asked, refusing to look him in the eye.

Carlyle laughed.  "Only to someone who's been down that road himself.  Don't worry, Mrs. King.  I know exactly how you feel.  In a world of couples, it's awkward to be unpaired at our age.  No matter how thoroughly we've made peace with it, those around us always seem to feel uncomfortable."

"Oh, I know exactly what you mean!" she replied eagerly.  "It's like they just aren't sure how to relate to us."

"Or they're afraid that whatever caused our problems might be catching," he added ironically.  "Oh, well.  I don't know about you, but looking back on it, it was still the best choice for me.  I'm afraid that my ex and I don't get along very well."

Amanda nodded, privately astonished at this conversation.  What was she doing, talking to a total stranger about her failed marriage?  He's easy to talk to, she realized.  He honestly seems to listen . . . something that not many men I've met lately seem to do. 

"Well, I'm luckier than most, I guess.  My ex-husband and I get along very well . . . better than we did during the last years of our marriage, actually.  Which is a really good thing since we have two sons."

"That has to be tough," he replied sympathetically.  "We didn't have any children, thank heavens.  It would have made our situation a whole lot worse."  He glanced at his watch and then said regretfully, "Well, I suppose I had better get going or I'm going to be late.  Thank you so much for all of your help.  It's wonderful to know there are still friendly people in this world."

"I'm just glad I could help. I hope the rest of your day goes better."

"I'm sure it will.  I believe you've turned it around."  He opened the door to a car parked by the curb and got in.  Starting the engine, he waved one more time and then pulled out into traffic.

Amanda nodded and waved back as she started back up the sidewalk again.  A moment later, she walked back in the front door of the I.F.F. building and stopped dead.  Confronting her were Mrs. Marston, two uniformed guards, Lee Stetson, and a man with an FBI badge that she'd never met before.  All of them had guns drawn and were frowning at her forbiddingly.

"What the hell were you doing, walking out with him like that?" Lee demanded, holstering his gun with a bit more violence than Amanda thought necessary.  "You had no idea who he was!"

"He was a computer parts salesman from San Francisco by the name of Thomas Carlyle," Amanda replied, bewildered.  "He just needed a little help."

"And he just happened to pick this building to get his directions from, is that it?"

"They gave him the wrong address.  It happens all the time!" she replied, starting to sound irritated.  "If Mrs. Marston had just asked a few questions, she would have realized it.  No criticism intended," she added to the woman as an afterthought.

"Yes, or that could be a cover story and he was actually here to case the building!  Dammit, Amanda, don't you realize that he could have shoved you into that car and been gone before any of us could have done anything to help you?"

"He was very insistent, Mrs. King," Mrs. Marston said repressively.

Amanda looked at all of them, her disgust unmistakable.  "Well, I don't blame him.  Most salesmen are paid on commission.  If I was in his position, I wouldn't want to go back to my employer and tell them I couldn't find the man they sent me 3,000 miles to see, either.  We work for the government and are paid by tax dollars.  I don't think it's too much to ask that we be polite and helpful to the public, do you?  It was just Mr. Carlyle's bad luck that he had to pose his questions to a building full of spies who jump at their own shadows.  You're all paranoid and need to get a life!"  With a final glare and a low mutter about people's manners, she snatched up her badge and marched off toward the elevator.

"We are not paranoid!" Lee finally shot back, but by that time, it was too late.  She was gone.  "Dammit, Amanda, one of these days . . ."

Mrs. Marston had the grace to look embarrassed as she glanced up at Lee apologetically.  "Maybe she was right, Mr. Stetson.  I really didn't give the man much time to explain."

Still staring at the closed door, he muttered in frustration,  Then he sighed.  "It's all right, Mrs. Marston.  I saw the initial encounter and I don't blame you for being distrusting.  Better to be safe than sorry."

Lee glanced at the man standing beside him and saw that he was still staring after Amanda.  Finally, he looked up and grinned.  "So that's your partner?" 

"She is not my partner!"  Lee replied irritably. 

Adam Dwyer caught Mrs. Marston's fleeting grin and laughed out loud.  "Maybe not, but I get the feeling she doesn't let you get away with a thing."

"No, not much."

Obviously deciding it might be a good idea to change the subject, Adam asked, "So are you in?"

"Yeah.  Where and when?"

"Well, I was thinking . . ."

Lee looked disgusted.  "I should have known.  Okay, at my place then . . . 8:00 o'clock tonight.  But you have to bring the beer.  We are not going to pillage my wine cellar for a poker game.  Who else have you invited?"

"Bart Wallace from State said he'd play.  And Camden and Warfield from the CIA."

"What about Max?"

The animation drained from the other man's face.   "Transferred to New York," Adam muttered.

Lee looked at him for a long moment before saying quietly, "He was your partner, Adam . . . for over four years.  What happened?"

"It's a long story," the man replied with a haunted expression.  Then he seemed to shake himself and forced a ghost of a smile.  "Look, why don't you ask Melrose if he wants to sit in?  He's always a good one to have at a poker game."

"You mean he always loses."  Lee contemplated pushing the man a bit harder for an answer but decided to let it wait until later.  Behind him, the phone on Mrs. Marston's desk rang and he heard her low murmur.  Then she interrupted.

"Agent Dwyer, I have your office on the phone."

"Thank you," he replied, stepping up to accept the receiver she was holding out to him.  "I'll let the others know, Lee.  You said 8:00?  You're still at the place in Georgetown, right?"

"Yeah.  Just remember, you bring the beer."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was 11:45 when Lee wandered into the bullpen searching for Amanda.  Following the confrontation in the main lobby, he'd decided that it might be better to wait for a while before approaching her.  For such a sweet, gentle, agreeable woman, Amanda could be decidedly opinionated, and she had no hesitation about letting him know when she thought he'd crossed the line.  By now, he figured she would have had the chance to cool down enough that he could offer his apologies by taking her to lunch.

When he arrived, he saw that she was on the phone, so he took the opportunity to stick his head in the door of his Section Chief's office.  When Billy looked up inquiringly, Lee grinned.  "Poker.  My place.  Eight tonight.  You in?"

Melrose started to grin.  "Who's playing?"

"Dwyer from the Bureau.  A couple of guys from the CIA and one from State."

"Sure.  Why not?  Jeanine and the kids are at her mother's so I don't have much incentive to head home right away.  It's a lot better than quarterly activity reports.  Can I bring anything?"

"Dwyer's on beer detail.  If you want to bring something to eat, feel free.  I doubt I have much at home."

Billy nodded and waved him out the door.  "If I'm going to play tonight, you need to quit bothering me so I can get this stuff done."

Lee laughed and tossed him a chipper wave as he left the office.  Crossing to Amanda, he grinned and hiked one hip up on the corner of her desk.  "Hi."

She looked up and returned the smile, her earlier irritation obviously forgotten.  "Hi yourself."

"I was wondering if you'd be interested in getting a sandwich.  I'd like to get out of here for a while, and I thought you might like to come along."

"That sounds nice.  Do you want to go now?"

"If you're ready."

She reached down into her desk, pulled out her purse, and rose.  "I'm ready."  Together, the two of them left the bullpen and strode down the hall.

"So, what are you working on today?" Lee asked her as they stood waiting for the elevator.

"I'm doing some background research for Fred Fielding."

Lee frowned.  "Why are you working for Fielding?"

Amanda shrugged. "Because Mr. Melrose asked me to.  I don't mind."

"Billy didn't say anything to me about it.  You're supposed to be working with me, not Fielding."

"Well, you don't need my help right now and Mr. Fielding evidently does.  After all, I'm just a civilian aide.  I help out wherever I'm needed.  Really, Lee, I don't mind."

The elevator door opened, and they stepped in, shoving the coats aside to enter and then rearranging them again while they rose out of the depths of the secret complex.  The mutual silence was companionable and not the least bit strained.  As they stepped into the entryway, they both spotted an arrangement of yellow roses sitting on one corner of the reception desk.

"Mrs. Marston, what beautiful flowers!" Amanda exclaimed.

The woman looked up and gave her an enigmatic smile.  "They are lovely, aren't they?  Actually, I'm glad you like them, Mrs. King, because they're for you.  They were just delivered."

"For me?" she responded, looking bewildered.  "Who would be sending me flowers?"

"There's a card," the older woman said, gesturing at the arrangement.  She carefully concealed her smile at the scowl that settled on Scarecrow's face as he gazed accusingly from the flowers to his companion.

As Amanda extracted the card from the middle of the arrangement and opened it, Lee crowded against her back so he could read it over her shoulder.  "Carlyle . . . that guy from this morning?  He's sending you flowers?"

"He got that account," she said, looking pleased as she read the brief note.  "He wanted to thank me for my help.  That was so thoughtful.  He didn't need to do this."

"No, he didn't," Lee commented a trifle sourly.  When Amanda looked up at him indignantly, he added swiftly, "But it was really good of him."

"Nice save," Mrs. Marston mouthed silently at him while Amanda wasn't looking.  He just glared back at her.

"Come on, Amanda, let's go."

Amanda gestured at the flowers.  "I really should – "

"You go on," Mrs. Marston broke in smoothly.  "They'll be fine here until you get back."

Pressing his hand into the small of her back, Lee steered Amanda toward the door.  "Yeah.  What do you say we go to Emelio's?"

She looked up at him, startled.  "I thought you said we were just going for a sandwich."

"I think I'm suddenly in the mood for something a bit more . . . elegant."

Mrs. Marston chuckled openly as the door closed behind the two.  Never thought I'd live to see the day, she thought to herself.  Scarecrow . . . jealous over attention paid to our suburban housewife.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I'll take two," Lee said, tossing a pair of cards face down onto the table and accepting two new ones.

"One," Billy indicated to the dealer.

The rest of the men around the table called for cards and then Adam Dwyer said, "Dealer takes two.  Place your bets, gentlemen."

The men contemplated their cards, considering their next moves. 

"Check," Camden said.

"I'll go ten," Warfield responded.

Lee picked up a couple of chips and tossed them into the center of the table.  "I'll see your ten  and raise you twenty."

Billy shook his head and tossed his cards onto the table.  "Too rich for me."

"Me, too," Wallace agreed.

Lee grinned at the man across the table from him.  "It's thirty to you, Adam.  How about it?"

The FBI agent contemplated Lee for a long moment and then tossed a stack of chips into the middle of the table.  "I'll see your thirty and up you another ten."

"That does it for me," Camden said, shaking his head.

"Me, too," Warfield agreed.

Lee looked at Adam speculatively and then tossed more chips into the pile.  "I'll up it another twenty."

Adam stared at Lee for a long moment, and then shoved another stack of chips into the pile.  "I'll call.  Let's see what you've got, hotshot."

"Read 'em and weep."  Lee spread his hand out onto the table.  "Four ladies."

Adam shook his head, throwing his cards onto the table in disgust.  "Why do I even bother?  I swear, I must have made the down payment on that hotrod of yours several times over by now."

Lee just laughed and drew the pile of chips toward him.  Picking up his beer, he took a long swallow and then asked idly, "So what have you been working on, Adam?  I haven't seen you around much recently."

The same haunted look Lee had seen earlier that day flitted across the other man's face , and for a long moment Lee wondered if he was going to answer.  Finally, Dwyer sighed and said, "Have you seen the newspaper stories about the serial killer and all the bodies that have been found out west?"

"You mean the one that the media boys have latched on to so ferociously?" Warfield asked, leaning back into his chair.

"They're calling the perp 'The Butcher', aren't they?" Camden added.

Dwyer nodded, his mouth tight.  "Yeah.  It's an apt name, too."

"That one's yours?" Billy asked, reaching for his beer.  He took a long pull on the bottle and added sympathetically, "That's gotta be tough."

"You have no idea," Dwyer said wearily.  After a long moment, he scrubbed at his face and then reached for his beer.  "The first confirmed case we have of it goes back to August of '82."

"Geezus, almost three years?" Wallace murmured.

"Yeah, and the profilers are convinced that if we ever manage to nail him, we're gonna find that it's a long way from his first.  The shrinks all agree that this kind takes a long time to develop and we've just seen the tip of the iceberg."

"I haven't really been following this," Lee commented, watching the other man closely.  "How many deaths are we talking here?"

"That we know of?  Eight confirmed as sure things, and another five that I'd stake my reputation are his work, but that the brass aren't willing to admit to."

"Good Lord," Lee commented softly.  "What's missing on those five?"

Dwyer shrugged his shoulders.  "The guy tends to leave a calling card.  We didn't find it on those five, but I'm convinced that doesn't mean anything.  Our boy's still responsible for them.  Three of them predated the murders we've definitely identified as belonging to our boy, and the profilers say he probably developed his calling card after he'd been at it for a while.  And the other two, the sites where the bodies were dumped had been disturbed prior to discovery.  Anything could have happened.  Calling card or not, you can't miss the guy's handiwork."

"You're sure the perp's male?" Billy asked.

"No doubt about it," Adam said with conviction.  "I don't think a woman could have done it.  Murder weapon's a knife . . . short, stubby blade . . . heavy and very sharp.  Does a lot of damage but doesn't go deep enough to kill quickly.  The victims all bled heavily before they died."  The man swallowed convulsively.  "Then, we think in an effort to keep the victims from being identified, he cuts off the head, hands and feet.

"No finger, palm or footprints and no dental records," Lee replied, looking a little sick.

Dwyer nodded.  "He's a sadistic bastard, too.  The medical examiner's convinced that his victims are still alive when he starts the amputations."

"Christ!" Camden muttered and suddenly set his beer bottle back down on the table.

"You don't know anything about the victims?" Billy demanded.

"Damned little," Dwyer said, staring blindly down at the table.  "They were all women and as far as we can tell, none of them were molested before they were killed.  Do you know, we haven't even been able to come up with possibles of missing persons for our victims?  In every instance, the body we've found doesn't even remotely match anyone that's gone missing from the area."

"So he's picking his target in one place and then moving her to another . . . can we say, probably before he kills her?" Lee said quietly, thinking aloud.

"Absolutely," Dwyer answered immediately.  "She's killed where she's found.  The quantity of blood at the scene confirms that.  We're pretty well convinced now that he's really mobile and he's moving them long distances before he kills them.  We've found bodies in California, Oregon, Washington, Colorado, Wyoming, Nevada, Arizona, and Kansas."

"No duplicates?" Billy asked.

"No, not among the confirmed cases.  If you take into account the other five, you do get some duplication along the west coast, but there's no evidence you could use to make a case that that's where he comes from.  And I'll tell you something else.  He's moving eastward.  The earliest bodies found were all restricted to the west coast area . . . California, Washington and Oregon . . . but then he started moving outward and the one we found earlier this month was in Kansas City."

"Great," Lee said sourly.  "Just what we need . . . a serial killer on top of everything else."

"There's just no way to work something like that," Warfield said in frustration.  "No handle to get hold of."

"Tell me about it," Dwyer agreed bitterly.  "I've been on this one since the very beginning . . . over three years . . . and I swear I'm no closer than I was the day I started."  He suddenly looked up and locked eyes with Lee.  "It was more than Max could take.  He stuck with it for almost two years, but finally . . ."  Dwyer shook his head, his eyes falling once more.  "You know his wife and daughters disappeared like this." 

"You mean you think this guy . . ." Wallace began in horror, but Dwyer shook his head sharply.

"No!  Nothing like that.  They just vanished.  One day they were there and the next they weren't."

"I didn't know that," Lee said, shaken.  The memory of his lost parents flashed through his mind, and he shuddered.  "Did he ever find out . . ."

"Yes.  It took about a year, though.  This was before we started working together.  Turns out it was a car wreck.  Max was working out of the L.A. office and they were living in Pomona at the time.  She and the kids were taking a 'scenic' route back from visiting friends and went off the road into a wild canyon back in the San Gabriel mountains.  She was coming back early and wasn't expected home for a couple of days so the search was late in starting.  It was late in the fall, and in the intervening time, the weather turned and it began to snow in the mountains.  It covered all traces of the wreck.  Bad luck all the way around.  The car was found by some back country hikers late the following summer.  It was really tough.  And working this case just brought it all back.  He kept envisioning the families wondering what had happened to their wives and daughters . . . it finally just got to be more than he could take.  He asked for a transfer, knowing that I'd stick with it."

Lee shook his head.  "God, Adam, I'm sorry."

Adam leaned back and closed his eyes.  After a moment, he shrugged wearily.  "Way the cards fall.  What can you do?"

"The best you can," Billy Melrose said sadly.  "It's all any of us can do."