at
first hopeful, then incredulous. The author tried to claim a
supernatural connection between the Hobo Spider and some old
murders. The website, an online tabloid, was hardly a trustworthy
source.
Even so...Butterfly Killer.
He set the phone down and entered keywords
for a new search. A fresh set of links filled his screen, all of
them irrelevant except for one: “Butterfly Killer Cocoons 10th
Victim.”
An old newspaper article appeared. The
accompanying photo showed a body wound in stark white string. The
scene bore an uncanny resemblance to the crime scene Briggs had
visited during the night—body curled within its cocoon, wedged
against the wall of a boxcar. The coat draped over the victim’s
face didn’t hide the pool of blood underneath. The article
indicated that a knife had been thrust through his mouth. Just like
the victims of the Hobo Spider.
The cases were never solved, but the last
murder took place in 1942. The killer was undoubtedly dead by now.
Even if he weren’t, he’d be too old to commit these crimes. So,
what? A copycat? Or some weird family thing, son inheriting from
father?
Briggs sent the page to print and sat back,
gnawing an abused thumbnail. There had to be a connection. He
picked up the phone and speed-dialed the FBI contact for the
case.
“Parker. Briggs, here. I got something for
you to check into and you’re not going to believe it…”
Chapter 7
Junkyard strode away from Lennie, too
agitated to deal with her questions or even her presence. She might
have good reasons for riding the rails, but that wouldn’t stop her
from getting killed. He didn’t want to go through that again.
He should get away—leave Lennie, Jim, and
this whole damn city behind. The killer wasn’t going to strike in
broad daylight in the middle of a crowded city. Junkyard should be
on a train somewhere, moving on. Alone.
But he had lied to Lennie. He did owe Jim,
though not for money or food, the way she might have thought. He
couldn’t leave the simple hobo unprotected. Once you started taking
care of someone on the road, you might as well adopt him for
life.
The first time he had met Jungle Jim,
Junkyard was still Douglas Harding, the photos from his brother’s
police file fresh in his memory. Doug had only to blink to see
Austin’s face stained black with blood. Absolute terror lingered in
those lifeless eyes; Austin might have died of it before the knife
ever touched him. When Doug slept, Austin’s dead face pleaded with
him, lips moving around the blade until the blood ran fresh.
So Doug didn’t sleep. He grew hag-ridden and
wild with rage, stalking through hobo jungles like a mean drunk
looking for someone to pound. Most hobos avoided him. The few who
got in his way never challenged him a second time.
One cold November night, Doug crashed a
riverside jungle near Fergus Falls. Beet harvest was over and the
last of the temporary help waited to catch out for a place to
winter over. The rage was bad that day, swelling in Doug’s chest
until he thought his rib cage would burst. In the dark, he saw a
lone man hunched over a trashcan fire to warm his hands, his jacket
collar pulled up and hat pulled down so only a bushy black beard
showed between. Doug snarled something at him, he couldn’t remember
what, and hoped the man was the sort to fight back.
The man lifted his head and glared at Doug
across the fire. He drew himself straight, slowly, so that Doug
could appreciate the full extent of him. The long shadows cast by
the firelight made him look seven feet tall, but Doug figured he
couldn’t be more than six foot six. Red and black plaid flannel
hugged a pillar of a neck. The fabric of his jacket strained around
broad shoulders and thick arms. If he had an ax, he might be Paul
Bunyan.
Doug nodded. Should be a good fight.
The man crossed his arms over his chest and
looked Doug over. No doubt he saw Doug as some scrawny upstart, not
even six-foot tall—easy meat. Doug smiled.
first hopeful, then incredulous. The author tried to claim a
supernatural connection between the Hobo Spider and some old
murders. The website, an online tabloid, was hardly a trustworthy
source.
Even so...Butterfly Killer.
He set the phone down and entered keywords
for a new search. A fresh set of links filled his screen, all of
them irrelevant except for one: “Butterfly Killer Cocoons 10th
Victim.”
An old newspaper article appeared. The
accompanying photo showed a body wound in stark white string. The
scene bore an uncanny resemblance to the crime scene Briggs had
visited during the night—body curled within its cocoon, wedged
against the wall of a boxcar. The coat draped over the victim’s
face didn’t hide the pool of blood underneath. The article
indicated that a knife had been thrust through his mouth. Just like
the victims of the Hobo Spider.
The cases were never solved, but the last
murder took place in 1942. The killer was undoubtedly dead by now.
Even if he weren’t, he’d be too old to commit these crimes. So,
what? A copycat? Or some weird family thing, son inheriting from
father?
Briggs sent the page to print and sat back,
gnawing an abused thumbnail. There had to be a connection. He
picked up the phone and speed-dialed the FBI contact for the
case.
“Parker. Briggs, here. I got something for
you to check into and you’re not going to believe it…”
Chapter 7
Junkyard strode away from Lennie, too
agitated to deal with her questions or even her presence. She might
have good reasons for riding the rails, but that wouldn’t stop her
from getting killed. He didn’t want to go through that again.
He should get away—leave Lennie, Jim, and
this whole damn city behind. The killer wasn’t going to strike in
broad daylight in the middle of a crowded city. Junkyard should be
on a train somewhere, moving on. Alone.
But he had lied to Lennie. He did owe Jim,
though not for money or food, the way she might have thought. He
couldn’t leave the simple hobo unprotected. Once you started taking
care of someone on the road, you might as well adopt him for
life.
The first time he had met Jungle Jim,
Junkyard was still Douglas Harding, the photos from his brother’s
police file fresh in his memory. Doug had only to blink to see
Austin’s face stained black with blood. Absolute terror lingered in
those lifeless eyes; Austin might have died of it before the knife
ever touched him. When Doug slept, Austin’s dead face pleaded with
him, lips moving around the blade until the blood ran fresh.
So Doug didn’t sleep. He grew hag-ridden and
wild with rage, stalking through hobo jungles like a mean drunk
looking for someone to pound. Most hobos avoided him. The few who
got in his way never challenged him a second time.
One cold November night, Doug crashed a
riverside jungle near Fergus Falls. Beet harvest was over and the
last of the temporary help waited to catch out for a place to
winter over. The rage was bad that day, swelling in Doug’s chest
until he thought his rib cage would burst. In the dark, he saw a
lone man hunched over a trashcan fire to warm his hands, his jacket
collar pulled up and hat pulled down so only a bushy black beard
showed between. Doug snarled something at him, he couldn’t remember
what, and hoped the man was the sort to fight back.
The man lifted his head and glared at Doug
across the fire. He drew himself straight, slowly, so that Doug
could appreciate the full extent of him. The long shadows cast by
the firelight made him look seven feet tall, but Doug figured he
couldn’t be more than six foot six. Red and black plaid flannel
hugged a pillar of a neck. The fabric of his jacket strained around
broad shoulders and thick arms. If he had an ax, he might be Paul
Bunyan.
Doug nodded. Should be a good fight.
The man crossed his arms over his chest and
looked Doug over. No doubt he saw Doug as some scrawny upstart, not
even six-foot tall—easy meat. Doug smiled.
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