Driven Read online

  “Mr. Gasman is in an important meeting and won’t be available for another half hour. If you like, you can wait over there.” She extended her gaze to a black leather couch behind a table of loosely strewn magazines.

  Gavin looked at his watch and shook his head. It was already four-thirty. “I think Mr. Gasman would like to know Detective Pierce is here now, but by five I’ll be at the Times and he’ll have lost his exclusive. And I can assure you, he wouldn’t be very happy to hear that.”

  The receptionist paused, then held up a finger. “Let me see how the meeting’s going,” she said and disappeared through a heavy oakveneer door that closed with a loud click.

  “If I know Gasman, he’ll be right out. Let me do the talking. He has a nose like a bloodhound when it comes to a story, and there’s a lot here we don’t want him to know, at least not yet,” Gavin said.

  “No sweat,”Amy replied. “Like I’ve told you all along, you won’t even know I’m here.” Gavin rolled his eyes.

  Moments later the door opened again. Gasman looked first to the couch, then quickly to the receptionist counter where Gavin and Amy were still standing.

  “Whoa!” he said with a broad smile. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “A coin flip,” Gavin said. “Best two out of three.”

  “And who won the first toss?”

  “You did.”

  Gasman laughed nervously. “You’re such a kidder. And who is your new partner? Quite an improvement over the old model,” he said, surveying Amy.

  “None of your business,” Gavin replied, then pulled out the sketch. Gasman’s gaze locked on the envelope like a dog anticipating a steak. He reached for it, but Gavin pulled it away. “Don’t smudge. Only touch the edges.”

  Gasman nodded eagerly, slowly taking it with a tweezerlike hold on the top edge. His eyes widened. “Oh…”

  “I should have figured you’d have strange worship habits,” Gavin deadpanned.

  Gasman ignored the joke, transfixed on the sketch. “Is this for real?”

  “Would I make it up?”

  “You couldn’t. If I told the art department to draw me the scariest dude they could, it would look like Little Miss Muffet compared to this. This is gold, baby. If this mug goes on the front page we’ll sell out.”

  “Your priorities are so predictable.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s why they pay me the big bucks. Let me make a copy of this and then we’ll sit and talk,” Gasman said, leading them through the doorway he’d entered by. They followed him down a corridor lined with framed photos of faces and awards, some old, some new. The hallway emptied into a large, florescent-lighted room buzzing with activity. Support columns rose over dozens of cubicle offices. The partitioned walls rose only about waist high, affording a good view, and most of the occupants’ necks craned toward Amy as they walked by.

  Gasman’s office, though nothing to brag about, was a step above the others they had passed. At least he had a door, and his partitioned walls were permanent, with glass on top to help keep the sound down. He pulled a seat away from the wall for Amy and pointed Gavin to its match, then walked around his desk and sat down, quickly locating a yellow pad. He looked at them and smiled.

  “Now then. Does it have a name?”

  Gavin cleared his throat, looked at Amy, then back to Gasman. “Uh, we have a name we’d like to try.”

  “Try?” Gasman said, tilting his head slightly.

  “We think it might be an alias or nickname.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “Krogan.”

  “Krogan? That’s it? No first name?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Fantastic. He kind of looks like a Krogan.” Gasman eyed the sketch on his desk. “Krogan the Terrible. Krogan the Hun. Hulk Krogan. Man, oh, man. That name, this face… Oh, baby! There is a God.”

  Gavin rolled his eyes. “Earth to Gasman. I’d like you to subtly present the name as a possible alias, not a billboard for a monster movie. If the name is wrong, it might confuse someone who really does know whatever his correct name is.”

  “Sure, sure. No problem. Whatever you say. What makes you think Krogan might be his name?”

  “I’d rather not reveal that information at this time,” Gavin said.

  “Come on, Pierce. You promised me details. Are you gonna give me the story or not?” Gasman whined. “You know me; I’ll work with ya. What happened? Did your witness get her memory back? Did she finally confess? Was she calling his name in her sleep? At least tell me what you’re afraid of.”

  “Forget it, Gasman. Take it or leave it.”

  Gavin spent the next half hour sharing information and updating Gasman on the condition of Chris and Karianne. Gasman continued to beg for more hard details, but Gavin refused. There were simply too many loose ends. And the last thing he wanted was to have to explain to the lieutenant why Karianne Stordal, a Norwegian flight attendant, had been speaking ancient Hebrew, a language she didn’t know, while being interviewed under hypnosis.

  “I don’t want any surprises,” Gavin said, echoing the lieutenant’s warning as he and Amy left Gasman at his desk staring at the sketch.

  “Hey, Pierce, you won’t mind if I make copies of this for holiday presents?” His laughter followed them down the hall.

  A moment later Gavin and Amy were descending the broad, weathered granite steps of The Daily Post building.

  “So now what?” Amy asked.

  “What do you say we get something to eat and then go boot up your machine and see what we can find on the name Krogan.”

  “Do you think you can stand my cooking two nights in a row?” Amy asked.

  GAVIN SUNK into overstuffed cushions, sipping green tea at Amy’s small Manorhaven home while she busied herself in the kitchen. He had asked if he could help, or at least watch, but was chased out with a wooden spoon. Fine. He would use this time to rest; with the restless sleep he’d been having lately and the pounding of the pavement all day, he wouldn’t mind a small nap and the promise of awakening to what looked to be a delicious dinner.

  “Hey,” Amy called from the kitchen. “While you’re doing nothing, why don’t you call your answering machine and see if you got a return call from that Reverend Buchanan.”

  “Funny, I was just thinking of that.”With a sigh, he reached for the phone and after a short series of codes and beeps found his machine empty.

  “Zippo,” he said.

  “Well, you still have the paper I gave you with his phone number, don’t you?”

  Gavin smiled to himself. He liked her feistiness. “I don’t need your paper. I remember the number.” Surreptitiously he pulled Amy’s paper out of his wallet and dialed up Samantha’s Farm again.

  “Hello?” answered a deep, raspy voice.

  “Is… is this Samantha’s Farm?” Gavin said.

  “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

  “Is this Reverend Buchanan?” Gavin said.

  There was a pause. “And who might you be?”

  “Detective Gavin Pierce. I called you last night but got your machine.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember. I was wondering what somebody with your area code wanted with us. I don’t believe you mentioned you were a detective.”

  By that, Gavin figured the man had not intended to return the call he’d made last night. “I was hoping I might be able to ask you a few questions.”

  “About?”

  “I’m looking for information on a case.”

  A moment of silence. “Well, I’m just an old dairy farmer, Detective. I don’t know how I could help.”

  Gavin exhaled. “Well, to get right to the point, I think I’m after the same man that killed your family in Norway five years ago. This guy has the exact—”

  “I’m sorry, Detective. I don’t know how you found me, but this is not a subject I can talk about, except to tell you I can’t help you.”

  “Sir, whatever your fears are, I can assure you complete protection.
Besides, you are one of many whom this man has affected, myself included. He won’t even remember you. Five years is a long time.”

  “Detective, you are correct when you say I am one of many. More correct than you know. But you are very wrong about five years being a long time. Time means nothing to the one you’re after… I’ve already said too much. I truly feel for whatever harm you’ve been caused and I’ll keep you in prayer. Again, I’m very sorry. Good-bye.”

  “Wait! Please. There’ll be a sketch of a suspect in tomorrow’s Post. Won’t you at least confirm if it’s the same man who assailed you?”

  “Sorry.”

  “But why? What harm—”

  “I won’t recognize the face.”

  Gavin paused. “How do you know that if you don’t look?”

  “I know.”

  “How?”

  “Anything I have to tell you would be of no use to you, so please, let me go.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know. Good-bye, Detective.”

  “But—”

  Click.

  “Hello? Hello?” Gavin said through gritted teeth. He hung up, feeling like he now knew less than before he’d called. What had the reverend meant by “More correct than you know”? He knows of others? And what did he mean about time meaning nothing to Krogan? Gavin cursed. He hadn’t even been able to ask if the man knew the name Krogan.

  Gavin picked up the phone again and hit the redial button. The machine picked up. He disconnected halfway through the little girl’s message. He would have thrown the phone if it were his own. He was going to talk again to the Reverend Jesse J. Buchanan. But next time he would not get hung up on.

  “Did you reach him?” Amy asked from the kitchen.

  “I spoke to him,” Gavin said. “But I didn’t reach him. Not yet.”

  21

  Krogan was awakened by the sound of the forklift working at the lumberyard next to his shack of a house. Judging from the angle of the sunlight coming around the yellowed window shades, it was morning. He didn’t remember going to sleep. He rarely did. His mouth was terribly dry; his tongue felt swollen and stuck in place.

  Before rolling out from under the single thin blanket he paused, checking for any new pains he should be aware of. There were none. In fact, the soreness he’d had for the last couple of days was almost gone. No new aches meant nothing interesting in the newspaper.

  He groaned as he sat up on the bloodstained mattress. As thirsty as he was, he didn’t want water. Only more liquor would be able to cut through the tacky dryness he felt. He reached for an empty vodka bottle on the floor, the stretch aggravating his bruised ribcage, and held it upside down over his open mouth, hoping for a few stray drops. Nothing. Maybe the refrigerator. He dropped the bottle behind him and heard it roll as he walked stiffly to the kitchen, his bare feet sporadically sticking to months, maybe years, of spilt liquor that added an additional glaze to an already thickly painted pine floor. He glanced lazily at the table as he passed it; a half-full quart of malt beer with a cigarette butt floating in it failed to lure him.

  The unleveled refrigerator was old and made a loud hum he no longer heard. He yanked open its door and squinted into the cold shadows. The unlatched interior freezer door above slowly opened by itself as it always did, revealing frozen baitfish, their eyes bulging redly from exploded blood vessels. Below them in the fridge sat a bottle of ketchup without the cap, a few open Chinese take-out containers, a half-eaten apple pie broken from random fingerings, and some Tabasco sauce, also without a cap. Nothing to drink. He cursed and threw the door closed, then turned to the beer on the table. Without pausing, he grabbed its neck and guzzled it down, then spit the butt in the direction of a dented tin garbage can.

  He wondered what day it was. Through the window he could see the forklift busy at work. It wasn’t Sunday, then. When had he last checked the lobster traps? Ah… today’s date would be on the newspaper. He opened the front door and stepped onto the small porch. The warm sunlight felt good on his bare mass, but annoyed his unadjusted pupils. With narrowed eyes he searched for the paper and found it laying on the cracked and buckled concrete path that divided the lawn of uncut grass and weeds. With much less difficulty than yesterday, he walked down the porch steps and retrieved the paper. It was bound by a single green rubber band, which he immediately broke off. The paper unfolded in his hands: Friday, August 29.

  Krogan turned the paper over and was instantly startled out of his morning daze. The likeness he saw was astonishing for a sketch, so much so that he thought he could have been looking at a photo. He wanted to find a mirror and compare. He was so completely fascinated with the drawing that he didn’t at first notice the headline. When he did, he was stunned a second time. Above his face, which took up three quarters of the front page, was his name in giant, bold print: “GHOST DRIVER OR KROGAN?”

  He quickly crushed the paper closed. He felt exposed and reflexively crouched, snapping his gaze back and forth as if he’d been physically spotted. To his right, a couple hundred feet down the street, a large, yellow utility truck was parked. The boom was stretched up over thirty feet to an electric transformer and a man with a yellow hard-hat was in the bucket. To his left, the forklift was still at work behind a tall, rusted chain-link fence. Nobody seemed to have noticed him.

  With the paper tightly clenched in his right fist he went back into the house and closed the door. In the bathroom he reopened the paper and held it up next to the cracked medicine-cabinet mirror. He stared at himself, then at the sketch, then at himself again, and finally decided they hadn’t done as good a job as he’d first thought. He laughed and spit at the mirror for being so stupidly concerned. He was the one who was in control, not them. He was the hunter, the trapper, the executioner. And if they caught him— which they would not, could not—he would still be in control.

  He left the bathroom and plopped into an old, overstuffed chair with pea-sized burn holes all over the arm rests. Leaning his head back and looking at the cracked plaster ceiling, he tried to remember the past few days. He could imagine someone seeing him good enough to give a description, but how had they gotten his name?

  He opened the paper to the story on page three and began to read:

  KROGAN?

  The Ghost Driver now has a face and possibly even a name. Police have revealed an artist’s rendering of the serial killer who uses motor vehicles as his choice of murder weapons and who turns accomplices into victims. Among others, the Ghost Driver was responsible for the recent crash at the Hempstead Harbor Marina that took the lives of Lori Hayslip and Michael Clayborne and left Mr. Clayborne’s wife, Amber, in Glen Cove Hospital, where she remains in a coma.

  Police have also uncovered a possible alias or nickname for the Ghost Driver: Krogan. Details have not yet been released on how the police obtained this possible alias. Detective Gavin Pierce, who heads up the task force assigned to this case, has detailed only that someone has come forward with the name.

  Anyone with information regarding the Ghost Driver should contact either The Daily Post or Detective Gavin Pierce at police headquarters in Mineola at 212-555-1455. The killer should be regarded as extremely dangerous.

  Krogan threw his head back and laughed loudly. “You don’t have a clue, do ya, Cop?” he said. He noted the byline for the story—a Mel Gasman. “And Newsboy called me by name. He wants to be contacted. He thinks being contacted is a good thing.”

  He continued to laugh as he threw the newspaper down on an avalanching pile of old papers at the side of the chair. Heading to the bedroom, he found a wrinkled gray T-shirt and pair of jeans crumpled over a pair of worn work boots at the foot of the bed. The wrinkles in the shirt vanished as he pulled it down over his massive chest and shoulders. He took a moment to stare at himself in an old, cracked mirror leaning against the wall, flexing his muscles hard and long until they started to cramp. The tension and pain felt good as the veins running down the sides of his neck swelled. He looke
d into his eyes, two silver streaks cutting diagonally across the bridge of his nose like frozen lightning. The eyes of a warrior, he thought. A hunter.

  He pulled the boots on over his bare feet and thought again of how the newsboy had called him by name—a name the newsboy was unworthy to speak, much less write publicly for the world to see. He had to be taught a lesson. A lesson the world at large would heed and remember.

  He closed his eyes and envisioned himself holding a long pole in the air with the newsboy impaled on it, clearly beaten, clearly punished. He knew the hunt would be pleasurable. He would not simply drive into this one. That was too simple. He would play with this newsboy as a cat plays with its prey. He would enjoy his supremacy—his utter dominance. He didn’t know how, but he knew the hunt would be special. And, most important, fun.

  He stretched across the bed and reached for the windowshade bottom, then tugged and released. The weak spring gave up when the shade reached the halfway point. Between the shade and dirty windowpane a large spider had spun an impressive web. The spider was busy wrapping up a recent catch. Krogan watched approvingly.

  Peering through the clouded glass and the bare branches of a dead tree outside, he could see the electric company bucket truck was still there with its boom stretched out to the pole. He stared at the man and the truck for several minutes and then refocused on the spider, which had clearly conquered the weaker bug. Foolish prey deserve to die; that’s what they’re there for, Krogan thought. To die. He rolled onto his back and laughed softly before getting up and going to the kitchen. The day would belong to him.

  On a cast-iron radiator under the kitchen window he found a Yellow Pages phone book and flicked the pages until he reached the listings for Aircraft Charter, Rental and Leasing Service. Sweeping his arm across the table and knocking a few beer cans onto the floor, he pulled the phone to the table’s edge and dialed.

  “Executive Airways. This is Cheryl. Can I help you?”

  “How much advance notice do you need for a flight to Albany in a Learjet?”

  “We could have you in the air in an hour, sir.”