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  PRAISE FOR JAMES HANKINS

  “This outstanding crime thriller from Hankins . . . grabs the reader by the scruff of the neck and never lets go.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review) on Shady Cross

  “[A] fine, offbeat novel . . . crammed with crackling dialogue and characters who are . . . all too true to life.”

  ―Booklist on Shady Cross

  “One thing about James Hankins—you are always surprised—having read all his books, each one is unique, creative, and different. He always hooks you from the beginning, keeping you in suspense—you never know what’s coming . . .”

  —Must Read Books on The Prettiest One

  “The Prettiest One engrosses readers with enough twists and turns to keep them on their toes . . .”

  —Wicked Local: Gloucester

  “A thrill ride that takes you on a journey that is not for the ‘faint of heart.’ Wonderful character development, believable storyline, a true page turner, with an ending that I was not expecting . . . Five stars!”

  —Poised Pen Productions/Authors on the Air on The Prettiest One

  “A prosecutor and a homeless man team up against a murderous conspiracy in this rollicking thriller . . . The two settle into an entertaining dynamic as . . . Hankins surrounds them with a crackerjack cast of bristling thugs, weaselly lowlifes and beady-eyed feds, and he ties the story together with pitch-perfect dialogue, mordant humor and action scenes poised exquisitely between menace and chaos . . . A complex, entertaining thriller.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review) on Brothers and Bones

  OTHER TITLES BY JAMES HANKINS

  The Prettiest One

  Shady Cross

  Brothers and Bones

  Jack of Spades

  Drawn

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by James Hankins

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477819906

  ISBN-10: 1477819908

  Cover design by Rex Bonomelli

  For Susan, Rick, Barbara, Chris, and John, who have been there for me from my very beginning.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Death.

  There had been plenty of time for Jason Swike to think about it since awakening five days ago chained to the wall of an old horse corral in a deserted, ramshackle stable. And there were things he now knew.

  Death is cruel.

  It hadn’t given him anything to eat; not a morsel in five days. And nothing to drink but a single bottle of Dasani water on each of the last four days, left for him while he slept.

  The water was drugged. He knew that. He could tell because every time he drank it he passed out shortly thereafter. He didn’t want to drink it. He would prefer to appear defiant and stronger than he was, but it was stiflingly hot in the stable and he was so damn thirsty. So he drank it. Every day. And the drug stayed in his system a long time, first knocking him out and then keeping him groggy for hours—neither necessarily a bad thing, given his horrific situation. And whenever the inevitable finally occurred, perhaps his foggy state of mind would spare him the worst of it. He was woozy even now. If he was lucky, he would be asleep when Death arrived.

  Because Death is terribly cruel.

  He knew that for a fact, because . . .

  Death enjoys what it does.

  He could hear it working, not far away, enjoying itself. He knew that to be true because . . .

  Death likes to whistle while it works.

  Though he had yet to see it, he could hear it whistling an old tune while doing what Death does. The song was “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

  And when the whistled tune reached the point where the familiar lyrics were “Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,” Jason’s darkest fears were confirmed.

  Because Death has a name.

  At least this Death did. It had been all over the news for nearly a year. Headlines and magazine covers screamed it. And though it was known around the country, it was most feared in Massachusetts, where Death had been hunting lately. Latching on to the grisly details of the slayings, the media had dubbed Death’s latest human incarnation Crackerjack—because serial killers with catchy monikers grab more viewers and sell more papers than ordinary killers do. And from what Jason had read about him, the name fit him like a tailor-made suit. Men—for some reason, only men—turning up broken, literally broken, with numerous bones in their bodies cracked, snapped, twisted, or crushed . . . bones in their hands, legs, feet, arms, chests . . . and finally, after what must have been hours of agony, the death blow . . . a blunt instrument to the head, caving in the skull. So the name Crackerjack seemed fitting. The killer himself seemed to approve, as he apparently had taken to whistling the old song while he tortured his victims—not caring, it seemed, that the media spelled his name as one word rather than two, the way the popular snack food was spelled. The whistling was something the world at large didn’t kno
w about him, Jason realized, because the only people who ever heard him do it were dead. And Jason realized something else.

  Death has a sense of humor . . .

  . . . because when the song reached the one in “For it’s one . . . two . . . three strikes you’re out,” the whistling stopped abruptly and Jason heard a loud thump, followed by a scream. And he knew with terrible certainty what would follow, with the two and again with the three: each strike would be punctuated by another sickening thump, and another scream. Yes, Crackerjack had clearly taken his media-given nickname to heart, incorporating it into his work. What a funny guy Death was, Jason now knew. And he knew something else, too, something the public had learned over the past eleven months.

  Death has an odd sense of whimsy . . .

  . . . because in addition to broken bones and fractured skulls, Crackerjack’s victims had all been found with their faces adorned with skillfully rendered designs, like the ones folks paid for at amusement parks and carnivals—superheroes and fairies, wild animals and cartoon characters.

  The whole nasty, twisted business sold a lot of newspapers.

  It was sad.

  And creepy.

  And terrifying for Jason, because there was one more thing he knew for certain: When the screaming not far away stopped . . .

  Death would come whistling for him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jason knew who was screaming not far away. His name was Ian Cobb. Sometime earlier that day, while Jason had been dozing, Crackerjack had brought the man in and chained him up in the horse stall next to Jason’s. He’d probably been unconscious, the way Jason had been upon his arrival. When he had woken up, he’d sounded loopy. And even though Jason’s own mind was fuzzy, as it was most of the time now, he’d tried his best to explain the situation to the new captive.

  At first, Cobb cycled through the same range of emotions that Jason had—confusion, anger, and fear. There was a brief moment of something resembling panic, but he’d calmed himself down soon enough and they’d started talking.

  Which wasn’t easy for Jason. Twelve ounces of water per day was far from enough to keep his throat from becoming a desert road. His tongue felt too large for his mouth. But he talked anyway, pushing past the curtains of fog in his mind to describe his four long, hot, hungry, thirsty, sweaty days in this stable before Cobb had arrived. Jason listened, too, trying to pay attention as Cobb talked a little about his life and asked questions about Jason’s. But it was difficult to concentrate. His brain felt like sludge.

  “I heard all about you on the news,” Cobb had said. “There were a lot of stories about you.”

  “Is there a reward?” Jason had asked in a voice that cracked like dry twigs.

  It was a weak attempt at a joke. He didn’t imagine there would be a reward in connection with his disappearance. Not like there had been for the killer’s fourth victim, the handsome, charismatic twenty-four-year-old lead singer of a popular local Boston band that some music magazines had predicted was on the verge of breaking out. The one whose father had become a celebrity in his own right, the owner of a succession of hip and trendy and wildly successful restaurants that boasted a virtual who’s who of the rich and famous as a clientele. When it became clear the young man was truly missing and not simply sleeping off a bender somewhere, the father offered $100,000 for information leading to his safe return. When the poor kid was found at a rest area off 91 North with a crushed skull, twenty-two broken bones, and a face painted to resemble a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, the reward doubled . . . though, with a safe return no longer an option, the money was offered for information leading to Crackerjack’s arrest and successful prosecution.

  And Crackerjack became a household name.

  “No reward,” Cobb had admitted to Jason, “but the media talked all about you . . . and your wife and son.”

  Mention of his family had caused a tightness in Jason’s chest. Sophie and Max were the main reasons he wasn’t more hesitant to drink the drug-laced water left for him every day. The foggier his mind was, the less he could think about them . . . about how much he missed them, about how they might be handling his disappearance. He blinked and felt as though tears wanted to fall, but there didn’t seem to be enough moisture in his body to produce them.

  “Your wife’s in a wheelchair?” Cobb had asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And your son has some sort of—”

  “I’d rather not talk about my family.”

  A pause. “Sure. Sorry. I just . . . sorry.”

  They were quiet for a moment, and sleep was threatening to drag Jason into its dark depths again when, finally and inevitably, talk turned to their captor. Neither man had gotten a look at him. The last thing both remembered before waking up in the stable had been walking to their cars in deserted parking lots. Then . . . nothing.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Cobb had asked. “Crackerjack.”

  “Has to be.”

  “How many guys has he killed?”

  “He’s up to ten, right? In less than a year, I think.”

  Neither of them mentioned the shattered condition of the bodies discovered in landfills, ditches, and dumpsters around Massachusetts.

  “When he comes for me,” Cobb had said, “I’ll be ready. The bastard won’t kill me without a fight.”

  Jason had told himself the same thing for the first few days, but he knew he wouldn’t put up much of a struggle at this point. He was too weak. The muscles in his arms and legs had been cramping and erupting into spasms nearly nonstop for days. A relentless pounding assaulted his head from inside his skull. He hurt . . . everywhere. And he was tired. God, he was so very tired.

  “I’ll be ready,” Cobb said again.

  Jason had nodded then, knowing the gesture couldn’t be seen, and let his chin drop to his chest. He couldn’t hold his head up anymore.

  He’d closed his eyes and was asleep when Death came for Ian Cobb.

  It was the whistling that had awoken him . . . that and Cobb’s screaming.

  That tune—“Take Me Out to the Ball Game”—floating through the stable. The lyrics had come unbidden to his mind. “For it’s one—”

  That terrible thump, that scream.

  “Two—”

  Another thump, another scream. Two strikes. Jason rose to his knees, grabbed the chains tethering him to the stable wall, and yanked with every ounce of strength he could muster. It wasn’t close to enough.

  Too soon came the third thump—three strikes you’re out—and this time Jason heard a bone snap. Bile filled his throat. Screams filled his ears. Then the screams died away.

  Jason slumped to the floor. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, Crackerjack had held him for nearly five days without touching him, without even showing his face, but had begun his torture of Ian Cobb within hours of taking him. Had he forgotten about Jason? But no, a bottle of water appeared every day.

  Not far away, Cobb moaned unintelligibly. No, wait . . . there were decipherable words. Mumbled, pleading words. “No . . . more,” he said. “Please . . . no more . . . no more . . . no more . . .”

  Jason closed his eyes. Cobb was still moaning and pleading, so Jason put his hands over his ears. And though he wasn’t a religious man, and he doubted anyone was listening, he prayed for Ian Cobb.

  And himself.

  And he prayed for his wife and son.

  What else could he do until Death came for him, too?

  CHAPTER THREE

  With his hands over his ears and his eyes closed, with fever-charged blood pounding through his head, Jason didn’t hear the sudden commotion. But he felt it, felt the vibration in the stable wall as something slammed into it. Then a crash and a desperate, animal grunt. He opened his eyes as two people hurtled into his corral, one almost carrying the other over his shoulder as he charged forward, legs pumping, propelling him like a linebacker driving a receiver out of bounds. Jason barely had time to blink before they landed on him in a heap. Something
banged painfully off his knee and clattered to the stained cement floor.

  A hammer.

  Cobb’s desperate voice came from the top of the pile. “Help me, Jason.” Sandwiched between them, on his back atop Jason, was the second man. He wore a black ski mask pulled down over his head. Jason tried to crawl out from beneath them.

  “The hammer . . .” Cobb gasped as he fought.

  It was happening so fast. The writhing bodies. The blood roaring in his ears. Cobb pleading for help.

  “Please, Jason . . .”

  One moment, Jason had been huddled in a ball, his eyes and ears closed, and the next a life-and-death struggle with a serial killer was taking place literally on top of him.

  “Hurry . . .”

  The hammer had come to rest not far from his hand. He reached for it, falling short for a moment as the chain on his wrist snagged on something and became taut. He strained and the chain slipped free, at last allowing his fingers to close around the hammer’s smooth wooden handle.

  “I don’t know how long I can hold him,” Cobb screamed. “Hit him.”

  Without considering what he was about to do, Jason flung his arm out to the side, the hammer clenched in his fist.

  “For God’s sake, Jason . . . put him down.”

  He swung the hammer hard and heard a sharp crack as its blunt tip connected with the ski mask. It was a sickening sound, but without hesitation he swung again, another crack, this one sounding a little less sharp and a little . . . wetter. He might have swung again, he wasn’t sure, before the struggle ceased. The man was still.

  Jason dropped the hammer. A warm stickiness touched his cheek and he knew blood was dripping through the mask even before he smelled its coppery scent. He turned his head and tried to shove the man off, but his dead weight, combined with Cobb’s, was too much. Finally, Cobb rolled off the pile and Jason slithered out from beneath the man, his motion causing the mask to slide from the face. He dragged himself away from the body.

  Because that’s what the man was now. Nothing more than a body. Lifeless as a stone. Jason looked down into staring, empty eyes. The side of the man’s head beneath the wiry, penny-red hair was caved in. Blood pooled beneath it.