The Appointment Killer Page 2

  The crawl space. There are metal vents built into the cinder blocks. Even if the water reaches that high it will flow out through the vents.

  There was a small wooden door high up in the wall beside the furnace, and a stepladder to help reach it. Rubio felt sick as he imagined finding the ladder missing; if it was gone, he didn’t think he’d be able to climb inside the crawl space. After reaching the spot, his hands groped beneath the water. When he touched the top of the ladder, confirming its presence, he yelped with joy.

  Opening his mouth had been a mistake, and water rushed in and gagged him. While coughing, Rubio unfolded the step ladder, then saw the latch on the crawl space door. A feeling of despair came over him, as he imagined that his tormentor had sealed this small door as well.

  CLICK! went the latch, and its release sent the door falling toward Rubio. He was laughing as he caught it. “You didn’t think of everything, you bastard,” he said out loud.

  There was nothing in the crawl space, unless you counted the spiderwebs that were prevalent. The space was wide, but its ceiling was less than four feet off the ground. There were six rectangular vents that were five inches high and eleven inches wide. They were interspersed at irregular positions in their cinder block walls. Daylight was filtering through the vents, illuminating the space.

  Rubio wriggled inside while scraping his elbows and knees, then attempted to put the door back in place to slow the flow of the water. It was no use. The door’s only handle was on the same side as the latch and you couldn’t set it in its frame if you turned it around.

  Rubio gave up and lay on his back. He was exhausted. A former smoker who had never exercised, Rubio was in okay shape for sixty-six. However, the combination of fear, exertion, and adrenaline had left him feeling drained.

  When the water began flowing into the crawl space, he turned over and scuttled to the nearest vent. As he looked through it, hoping to find a neighbor he could shout to for help, he realized that something was wrong.

  Plastic squares had been sealed over the vents from outside; while they let in light, they did not allow air to flow in, nor water to flow out. Rubio was trapped, caged, imprisoned in his own basement. He spent the last hours of his life in a state of escalating terror, as the water rose ever higher. In his final moments, Rubio was no different than a trapped rat. If it would have helped, he would have gnawed his arm off.

  Craig Rubio died on Friday, June 28th. He was the first victim of The Appointment Killer. He would not be the last.

  Chapter Two

  WHITE PLAINS, NEW YORK, SUNDAY, JUNE 30th, 10:49 p.m.

  Mike Heskett hated summer.

  It wasn’t the bugs and the heat that bothered him most; no, what Heskett hated were the added demands of parenting. He had two daughters, who were fourteen and sixteen. Both of them wanted to go to some sort of fancy overpriced camp for the summer. Guess who got stuck paying the bill every year?

  When he was a kid, Heskett had been lucky if he got dinner every night, forget about luxuries like summer camp. He was divorced from their mother and had to pay alimony and child support, all on a retail manager’s salary.

  He damned himself for ever being stupid enough to get married in the first place. He had known it wasn’t for him, and that he wouldn’t do well in a “committed relationship,” but after Claire became pregnant, it just seemed the thing to do.

  From that moment on, life had never been the same. Still, he lasted for nearly six years. That was when Claire caught him in bed with their neighbor, a girl named Tiffany who was eighteen. He always believed that Claire was angrier that he had cheated with a younger woman than she would have been if the woman had been her own age. Despite the fact that Claire was better looking than Tiffany had been, Heskett had found the girl irresistible and had seduced her. She wasn’t the first young girl he’d had trouble controlling himself around.

  Water under the bridge, Heskett thought, as he stared at his face in the bathroom mirror. He was forty-three, and he was not aging well. He was overweight, balding, and had some weird skin thing going on that made him look blotchy.

  Claire on the other hand had never looked hotter. She was forty-one and the mother of two teen girls. She looked twenty-five and like the girls’ older sister. Heskett never wanted her more, and whenever he stopped by with the excuse of seeing the kids, she was always wearing some short skirt or low-cut blouse. She was also dating some rich bastard who worked on Wall Street. The guy had taken her on exotic vacations and bought her a Mercedes for Christmas. A freakin’ Mercedes!

  It killed Heskett to see how well she was doing, and he wanted to bed her more than he’d ever wanted anyone. The one time he tried to get her to sleep with him again, Claire had shot him down so viciously that he knew he’d never attempt it a second time.

  Contrary to what the poet George Herbert wrote, living well was not the best revenge. Letting others know that you lived well, while rubbing it in their faces, that was the best revenge.

  Heskett was supposed to spend every other weekend with his daughters. He was game, but they weren’t, and whenever he stopped by, they refused to go anywhere with him. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t really care. They were a pair of airheads whom he had nothing in common with, and to top it off they nagged him often. Whenever he was behind on the child support, it wasn’t Claire who called to complain, no, it was his daughters. Maybe Claire put them up to it, or maybe not, but they nagged him until he caught up.

  When he arrived home earlier, there was a message from them telling him about the summer camp. They refused to spend time with him, and yet, they expected him to shell out thousands of dollars to send them to camp.

  He couldn’t afford it if he wanted to, and there was talk about the store he managed being shut down. If he lost his job, he knew he’d have a hard time getting another one.

  Unemployment, alimony, child support, and all other worldly concerns ended for Mike Heskett after he reached for his electric toothbrush, which sat in its charging port atop the vanity. It had been rigged to deliver a massive electric shock by the same killer who had drowned Craig Rubio.

  As Heskett’s body fell, his head struck the side of the bathtub. Although he was already dead, the impact with the tub caused a scalp fracture and blood seeped from the wound. This would cause the cops who found him to believe his death was an accident. In truth, Heskett was the second victim of a murderer bent on delivering retribution and gaining revenge.

  Chapter Three

  NEW YORK CITY, MONDAY, JULY 8th

  Ted Marx stared at the email message on his laptop screen as he read it for the fourth time.

  I HAVE KILLED TWO PEOPLE AND WILL KILL AGAIN. I HAVE SENT LETTERS TELLING THEM THAT THEY WERE GOING TO DIE, AND THEN I KILLED THEM. THE FIRST ONE WAS A MAN NAMED CRAIG RUBIO; THE SECOND, MICHAEL HESKETT. THEY ARE BOTH DEAD; HOWEVER, I’VE YET TO KILL THE THIRD MAN, WHOSE NAME IS LUIS CANTRELL. HE IS SCHEDULED TO DIE TOMORROW, AND HE WILL, WITH OTHERS TO FOLLOW.

  The message gave details about Rubio’s and Heskett’s deaths, while also stating that they received black letters informing them of their impending demise. It also told Ted Marx where he could find the third man slated to die, Luis Cantrell. The message continued.

  I HAVE NOT RECEIVED THE RECOGNITION THAT I DESERVE, AND SO I HAVE DECIDED TO CONTACT YOU, MR. MARX. I THINK WE CAN HELP EACH OTHER. REVEALING THIS STORY TO THE PUBLIC WOULD GREATLY INCREASE YOUR VIEWERSHIP. IF YOU DON’T ACT ON THIS, I’LL HAVE TO FIND SOMEONE ELSE.

  Marx was alone in his apartment in Midtown Manhattan. He was thirty-eight but looked older because of the years he’d spent drinking and drugging. Despite that, he was still handsome. Between the ages of eleven and nineteen he was the star of a popular sit-com and a teen idol. His good looks and infectious smile caused female hearts of all ages to flutter; to top it off, he was a talented singer. During the years the show ran, Ted Marx also had four hit records.

  When the show went off the air, Marx went on to have three failed
series in as many years. Since acting was no longer any fun, and he never really liked singing, despite his talent at it, Marx decided he’d had enough. He retired at the age of twenty-two and spent the next decade partying, while getting involved in a number of alcohol and drug-related scandals.

  During this same period, Ted Marx was active on social media as he conversed often with his fans. In truth, he used the social interaction to hook up with some of his sexier female admirers. Bored with the partying life, Marx decided to reinvent himself while also finding a way to become relevant again. He needed money, as his jet-setting lifestyle had whittled down his once considerable wealth.

  His old series was popular in Japan at the time. Marx toured the country and lived there for a year, making decent money, and spending it as fast as it came in.

  After returning to America, he tried to get producers interested in him again, with no success. On a whim while bored, he launched a ViewTube channel and began giving his opinion on daily events. His irreverent and often hilarious take on things attracted an audience. Within six months he had over a million subscribers.

  That led to a show on cable TV which aired once a week. It didn’t last because Marx argued constantly with the producer and often missed filming because he was drunk or hungover. However, the number of subscribers to his ViewTube channel kept climbing and currently surpassed four million viewers. Marx loved cranking out the videos and was always looking for ways to make his numbers grow.

  After reading the email again, Marx grabbed his phone and called his assistant.

  Jason Warwick, Marx’s assistant, was with a woman named Heather Gray. The two were in a coffee shop on Eighth Avenue and talking over old times. Those times had not been good; it was something that Heather was apologizing for.

  Jason Warwick was twenty-seven and a year older than Heather. He had dark hair, green eyes, a slim, but athletic build and wore glasses. When he was younger, he had been nerdy. Heather had often referred to him as a “dweeb” in earlier years and had teased him without mercy.

  Heather was a stunning redhead with green eyes. She had contacted Jason out of the blue weeks earlier by email and asked to meet with him. He agreed, mainly out of curiosity, and was shocked when Heather apologized for her previous treatment of him when they were teens. The conversation had taken place in the same coffee shop they were seated in this evening.

  “Where is this coming from,” Jason had asked her then. “This kinder, gentler Heather? Do you want to borrow money?”

  Heather had laughed. “No, I don’t want money. Jason, I became an alcoholic when I was fourteen. After I was… after I was raped at sixteen, the drinking became worse, and I began lashing out at the world. At times you were one of my targets.”

  Understanding had flashed in Jason’s eyes. “You’re in AA, and you’re going about making amends, is that what this is?”

  Heather nodded. “Yes, but I’m sincere. I treated you badly back then.”

  “You were a bitch.”

  “I see you don’t sugarcoat things. Yeah, I was a bitch, and drinking made me bitchier.”

  “So, what, you want forgiveness?”

  “I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry.”

  “Okay, you’ve done it; you can check me off your list now.”

  Heather stared at him. “You hate me, don’t you?”

  “Heather, you’re the one that always hated me.”

  “I didn’t hate you, Jason, you were just one more handy target that I used to vent my anger on.”

  “It felt like hate.”

  A tear had leaked from Heather’s right eye then, to roll down her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

  Jason stood, said, “Good luck with your sobriety,” and walked away.

  A second email from Heather came a few weeks later, asking to see him again. Jason ignored it for days, then responded. Since then, they’ve met for coffee twice, although Jason wasn’t sure why. The thought came that Heather Gray was attracted to him, but that seemed ridiculous to Jason. He certainly found her attractive, but he always felt like the old Heather was right below the surface.

  When Marx phoned him, Heather had just suggested that they go see a movie. Before Jason could respond, his phone rang.

  “I’m sorry, Heather, but it’s important. Mr. Marx is calling.”

  “Take it. You can’t keep the great man waiting.”

  Jason answered and Marx told him that he needed to find out if two men named Craig Rubio and Michael Heskett had died recently, and if so, how did they die. He also wanted to know if the contact information he’d been given really belonged to a guy named Luis Cantrell. Jason told Marx that he would get back to him shortly. When the call ended, he sent Heather an apologetic smile.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to do a little work. Mr. Marx thinks he might be on to a story.”

  “Oh, okay, but why don’t we meet back here on Saturday, say eight o’clock?”

  “All right, I guess.”

  “Or, you could come over to my apartment later. My roommate won’t be home for days.”

  Jason cocked his head and stared at her. Beautiful women didn’t ask him to their apartments; beautiful women turned him down in favor of more beautiful men.

  “What’s going on, Heather?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jason stared at her a little longer, then shook his head. “I’ll meet you here Saturday night.”

  Heather’s hand found his and gave it a squeeze. “I look forward to it.”

  After Jason verified that everything written in the killer’s email was true, Marx told him to book a flight for them. He was headed to see Luis Cantrell. Cantrell lived in a small town called Howesburg, in western Pennsylvania.

  “Make it an early flight, Jason. I think we’re on the verge of something big here.”

  Chapter Four

  HOWESBURG, PENNSYLVANIA, TUESDAY, JULY 9th

  Ted Marx never used a camera operator as he liked to film himself by utilizing a handheld camera with a stabilizer. His assistant, Jason Warwick, was also his driver, as Marx had lost his license due to too many drunk driving charges. Since he couldn’t drive and didn’t trust himself not to be tempted to do so, Marx let Jason use the car, a blue BMW, as if it were his own.

  Jason carried a camera as well, but he was relegated to filming background materials, such as scenes of the places they visited.

  When they landed at the Pittsburgh airport, it was Jason who drove them to see Luis Cantrell. They arrived at Cantrell’s townhouse at 7:22 a.m.

  Cantrell was getting dressed and ready for the day, with his tie hanging loosely about his neck. He was a supervisor in an office. When he opened his door and looked at Marx and Jason, a quizzical expression came over him as he wondered who they were, and why the older one was aiming a camera at him.

  “Mr. Cantrell, I’m Ted Marx.”

  “Who?”

  “Ted Marx, perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

  “There was a Ted Marx that had a TV show a long time ago, you look like him a little, only much older.”

  Marx’s smile faltered. Although he was only in his thirties, he did appear older, and he hated being referred to as if he were a has-been.

  “That’s me, but I’ve moved on to bigger and better things. I have a news show on the internet now that focuses on current events.”

  “I don’t watch anything but sports anymore, and why are you here, and so early? I was headed to work.”

  “Did you receive a letter yesterday? It would be a black envelope with a black letter inside; the words would be written in white.”

  “You sent that nonsense?”

  “No, but what did it say?”

  “It said I was going to die today. I thought it was some weird life insurance ad and that I would be contacted by a salesman soon.”

  “That was no sales gimmick, Mr. Cantrell. You’ve been targeted by a serial killer.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true. The man
has killed two people already. If I were you, I’d call the police.”

  Cantrell did just that. The police were skeptical until they learned that an autopsy performed the day before revealed that Michael Heskett had been murdered. Heskett was earlier believed to have died accidentally from a slip-and-fall accident in his bathroom. After it was determined that he was electrocuted, a detective visiting his apartment uncovered the rigged electric toothbrush charger. There was now a homicide investigation active. Heskett’s case was not linked to the murder of Hopewell, New Jersey resident Craig Rubio, but Ted Marx expected that to change.

  Luis Cantrell was taken to the small town’s police station where he would be protected. The call had also gone out to the FBI.

  Ted Marx stayed at the station with Cantrell while Jason was sent out to get shots of the town, or, “local color,” as Marx referred to it.

  At one o’clock, the cops sent out for food. Luis Cantrell ordered a cheeseburger and French fries, a meal he often ate for lunch.

  Bruce Mueller walked out the back door of the Howesburg Diner and headed for his car. In his hands was a cardboard box loaded down with food for the police station. Bruce was thirty-two and had worked at the diner since he was seventeen; he still lived at home with his parents.

  After sitting the box on the roof of his car, Bruce placed a hand in his pocket to grab his keys. While looking down, he was startled to see a twenty-dollar bill go tumbling along the ground. A glance behind him showed that no one else was in the parking lot. Figuring that it was his lucky day, Bruce left his car and gave chase. It wasn’t a particularly breezy day, but it took Bruce three tries to corral the elusive bill. He finally did so by stepping on it and trapping it. As he bent over to pick it up, another bill went floating by, and it was another twenty.