Cody McFadyen - Abandoned

“The symphorophilia is what really clinches it,” James had remarked. “The statistical probability that someone else would have that particular paraphilia at that location combined with all the other factors is next to nil. He was Dali.”

The victims were the worst. Three women, all missing for a various number of years, most of them in worse shape than Heather Hollister. The husbands of these women were rounded up. Some broke quickly, some broke slow, but all of them broke. They were cowards at the core, narcissists whose biggest regret was being caught. They each had the same story, just sung to a different tune.

There were no clues to the locations of the Oregon or Nevada buildings. That’s okay. Tommy, Kirby, and I found them ourselves. It took a little work, but we have them, and we’ll provide an anonymous tip once we’ve done what we need to do.

I asked for time off, and it was given without any fuss. I think AD Jones was too relieved at my request to be suspicious. I hope. Director Rathbun wanted to do a press conference first, but he relented when I insisted I was in no shape to get in front of the cameras.

“Fine,” he said. “Go home; rest. Get yourself together. But don’t let the hair grow in too much before the conference. It’s a great image. We’ll use it to our advantage.”

It wasn’t all a lie. I did take a day or two to rest. Then I sent Bonnie packing and pulled in Tommy and Kirby and told them everything: what I knew, what I suspected, what I was unsure of. They were skeptical at first, until I told them about the thing I’d seen. After that, they shut up and listened.

Tommy had been the one to figure out that Dali was tracking the GPS chip in my phone. It’s how Dali knew that I was closing in on the LA location. Once again, simplicity had been his brilliance. He knew the techs at the FBI would check out my belongings for bugs, so instead of installing one, he just figured out how to track what was already there.

Tommy had used his knowledge and technical contacts to reverse-engineer the GPS. This enabled us to track Dali. We counted on him taking no chances, and he didn’t disappoint. Declared dead or not, he kept the tracker active, wanting to be sure that he knew where I was. Pragmatism was his higher power and, I had to admit, it had served him pretty well, until now.

He’d been busy, spending time in Nevada and then in Oregon. It was pretty simple to figure out the addresses of the other locations. He was in Nevada now, and we were getting ready to go see him. To end this.

To kill him.

I long to kill him. I want to watch the life go out of his eyes. His death will be like water pouring down a parched and dusty throat. Will it quench my thirst? I don’t know. But it will keep him from coming after the people I love. That’ll have to be enough.

“I’m going to give Raymond your phone,” Kirby says. “He’ll carry it around with him while he’s watching Bonnie; that way it’ll look like you’re still here in LA.”

“Good. Are we ready?”

“I am,” Tommy says.

“The family that slays together, stays together,” Kirby chirps, then giggles.

Tommy and I don’t laugh.

We leave in the afternoon so we can arrive around dinnertime. The dark is better for what we’re after. There isn’t much talking; even Kirby keeps relatively silent. I watch California turn into the desert, feel the change of the temperature in spite of the air-conditioning. Watch as nothing turns back into the overwhelming something of Las Vegas. It appears as it always does, like some Flying Dutchman of a city. Mammon pricked his finger and let a drop of blood fall onto the sand. Up sprang Las Vegas.

There are two locations. One is the storage facility where he’s kept his Nevada victims. The other is a house, titled to a name that surprised me, even as it confirmed what I suspected about Dali based on what I’d seen. The reverse GPS confirms that Dali is at home.

We rent no hotel. No paper trails, thank you very much. Besides, we won’t need one. If you’re going to commit murder, better to come in and leave with the night. A page from Dali’s playbook of simplicity.

We do stop to eat at a diner on the outskirts of the suburb Dali’s home is in. I have a cup of coffee and a slice of toast. Tommy has even less; he skips the toast. Kirby has a T-bone steak, two eggs sunny-side up, hash browns, toast, orange juice, and coffee.

“What?” she asks, noticing that I’m staring at her. “Girl’s gotta eat. Who knows when we’ll get a chance again?”

I’m sure she’s right. She certainly has more experience at this than I do. My stomach, though, seems to contain the last bastion of my conscience. I stick to my coffee and toast.

Kirby finishes and sighs in satisfaction. “Good stuff. So—we ready to go kill someone?”

“It’s the third house down,” Tommy says.

We are parked on a suburban street, hidden under the nighttime shade of a rare tree. The homes are all adobe exteriors with rock and cactus front yards. Water is at a premium in Vegas.

“Small place,” Kirby says. “Good cover. Never a smart idea to flash those ill-gotten gains around.”

“Dali will have cameras,” I say, “but not too many. No reason to feel insecure here, and, again, too much concern for security makes you stand out. This is a safe house, probably used only when Dali is in town. The primary residence will be in Los Angeles.”

“How should we approach?” Tommy asks Kirby.

She grins, winks. “I’m for the direct method. I’ll go knock on the door. It’s not likely Dali knows who I am, right?”

“There’s no guarantee of that.”

She shrugs, pats the gun hidden under her light jacket. “If Dali doesn’t answer, then I’ll just have to pull out Big Red here and let myself in.”

“Kirby,” I caution. “We can’t afford to draw attention to ourselves.”

She rolls her eyes. “Relax, boss lady. Professional here, remember? This is a throwaway vehicle with false plates. You two pull those stocking caps over your faces, and we’re golden. Trust me.”

I don’t trust her, I don’t trust any of this, but I have no choice. Kirby is the assassin of the group. She’s been killing for a long time and by all accounts is very good at it.

“Fine.” I sigh. “We’ll follow your lead.”

“Just relax and wait to hear from me. Either I’ll give you a chirp on the cell phones or you’ll see me kicking the door in. Okay?” She winks one more time and exits the car.

“Crazy,” Tommy mutters.

“Yeah.”

We watch her saunter up to the door of the house and knock. A few moments pass. Then another few. Sweat beads on my head, annoying me.

The door opens. We can’t see the occupant, but we do see Kirby reach into her jacket, push forward, and disappear into the home.

“Jesus,” I breathe.

The lack of hesitation. Given who Kirby is, what she does, it’s a disturbing glimpse into just how quickly a person could die.

About five minutes pass before my cell phone rings.

“I got Dali secured,” Kirby says. “I left the front door unlocked, so just park in the driveway and come on in. No worries, right?” She hangs up.

I stare at the house. No turning back now. “Well?” Tommy asks me. “Let’s go.”

The home is not what I expected. I had pictured a kind of suburban gulag. No decorations on the walls, a single carton of milk in the refrigerator, freeze-dried microwavable food in the cupboard.

Instead, I find various paintings, photographs hung in tasteful frames. Most of it is good. Some of it is very good, particularly the photographs, which are a mix of subjects, from people to landscapes. The floors are honey-colored hardwood, inviting and warm. Throw rugs are tossed in tasteful and useful places. The furniture is clean and just less than new.