In Laymon's Terms

The last group of bodies was perhaps the most disturbing. They fit the M.O. perfectly, just like the last group—four blondes of varying shapes and sizes, but they were not all businessmen. They were all fathers. The killer had gone to great lengths to make sure that was the only thing they had in common, and Nick had been the one to deliver the news to each sobbing wife, sometimes with children clinging to her legs. The embarrassment of how they were found, cocks erect, was enough to cause family shame for years. It didn’t seem random that way. It hadn’t been...but the point was not the erection, or the sex. It had been a way to lure the killer’s victims, and that was all. An underlying factor to contend a build up to the rest. Sex was a key. Conspiracy was a key. A game was being played...but who were the players? What was at stake?

The third group was more than just Aces, more than just a wild card. Each body had been scrubbed raw, again, facing east, but posed as if they were praying, in various forms of recital: one man’s arms were outstretched, heavenward. One man was kneeling, hands pressed in a steeple, clouded eyes glazed empty at the sky. Another man’s forehead was pressed to the dirt.

The last man had a screaming, tortured, twisted mouth, eyes profoundly expressive in their cataracts, a delicate weave of snail-slime etching down each cheek pronounced—as if Nick would not have known the man had been crying without it. They suffered this time, thought Nick. Their tongues had been sewn to the roofs of their mouths, holding in a glutton of thick, rich oil that had been filled from the belly all the way up the esophagus. He wondered if the point of death had been choking on the stuff, but it seemed to fit a statement more than a cruel death. It was almost a work of political art.

The Joker held a different book this time. It had been a composition journal, with the word “Jihad” burned into the cover, and the names of dead children printed upon each page, he’d later found out from a friend who was able to translate the Middle-Eastern dialect. There was not a fingerprint, side-print, or other indicator to go on. The evidence was clean.

The Aces had names and dates scribbled onto the face of each card with a nursery rhyme. They mocked:

George, George

George of the Jungle

Strong as he can be!

George, George—George of the Jungle...

Nick didn’t have to guess that the Joker would be etched with “Watch out for that tree” and fish-hooked to the last victim. It was this clue that truly scared him. He knew the Feds would be looking for him soon. He was saddened, thinking of the men the killer chose to be the Jokers. They were the everyday man. The worker bees. The most important men in any society that worked...The clues were thicker, but his brain felt like molasses. He had four dead businessmen every time—the government? A working class man pointing...showing the way: East. Showing Conspiracy. Showing the President...No, he thought. The President’s Father...That could have been the key with the father connection. But why the oil? Why the holy war? What was the killer getting at? Who were the dead children to him? If it really had to do with Bush Senior, why bring it into the light now?

Mara finished her shift at the Dime Dame and headed over to Big Al’s Big Tattoos. She didn’t look back at the place, knowing it would be her last night stripping, knowing she’d never have to work another day in her life. The feeling was uplifting—almost as uplifting as she felt the day she’d gotten the job. The thought of cheating the system, stripping to pay for college had amused her to no end, and being a perpetual student gave her great joy in not ever having to venture into modern society. She never had to become a card-carrying citizen. She got around taxes, didn’t own anything—save the little barn her father had left her in Frederick—and squandered her money as she pleased.

The tattoo was the final straw, though, and she knew after getting it she couldn’t go back to work. The artwork spanned her entire body, grand finale right on her shoulder blades in the form of two upside down flags. It didn’t matter, Mara thought to herself. She’d be dead in a few weeks. They were on to her. Tonight Al would finish her up, and all she had to do was lay low and heal...That, and pay Gun his money. Gun was just that...a gun. He didn’t come cheap, but he was stupid enough to get involved for the right sum, hidden in a secure safe deposit box. The key had already been placed in an envelope, ready to mail.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Al said, looking at her skeptically.

“Yes,” she snapped. “It’s a little late to change my mind—you’ve done most of the work!”

“But the flags—I mean—it’s too fucking patriotic...or activist or something.”