Game (Jasper Dent #2)(52)

“I’m calling from the sheriff’s office,” he explained when she asked why the number was blocked. “You’re not going to believe what just happened.”

In rushed, run-on sentences, he told her all of it: the possible connection between her Ugly J discovery and the Impressionist, then about the phone call from Morales, followed by the photo.

“… so I’m headed back to New York, and this time it’s official. I’m going to help them nail the Hat-Dog Killer to the wall.”

“But, Jazz…” Connie protested. “This isn’t just about Hat-Dog anymore. If the Ugly J stuff is connected—”

“I know,” he said. “There’s a chance this all ties into the Impressionist somehow.”

“More than that. It ties into the guy behind the Impressionist. Your dad.”

Jazz went silent for a moment. “Yeah. I know.”

“What if your dad is Hat-Dog? What if he’s doing all of this to draw you out? So that he can”—torture maim kill—“hurt you?”

Jazz chuckled without mirth. “He can’t be Hat-Dog. He was in Wammaket when those killings started. And if Billy wanted to hurt me, he wouldn’t have to go through all this trouble. He could just come at me. He knows where I live.”

“And he knows there are a million FBI agents watching your house on a regular basis.” It wasn’t a million, but Connie didn’t feel like being accurate right now. Her boyfriend was talking about walking into the lion’s den while wearing raw-steak underwear.

“So he’s not the Hat-Dog Killer. But maybe they know each other. Or knew each other.”

“What, did they meet at a serial killer convention or something?” Connie stretched out on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

“No, Miss Sarcasm. But Billy traveled a lot. And I’ve been thinking—it wouldn’t be too much of a coincidence if he’d met someone like him along the way. And sometimes serial killers take on partners or allies. It doesn’t happen a lot and it doesn’t last for long, but what if Hat-Dog is someone out there who owes Billy a favor? Or who just thinks it’s funny to do stuff for Billy? Hat-Dog could be the one who sent the Impressionist to Lobo’s Nod. The one who arranged Billy’s escape from Wammaket.” Jazz’s words came faster and faster. “This could be the linchpin to everything Billy’s been up to, to everything he’s planning as he goes forward. I have to go to New York, Con. I have to find this guy and make him talk. He could be the only way I have to get to Billy.”

“And what will you do then?” she asked quietly. “What do you do when you finally see him face-to-face, on the outside? With no prison guards?”

“I’ll figure that out when the time comes,” he said, and she wished he’d said it with some kind of passion or heat. Some rage or violence in his voice. Those were all things she could deal with, things she could say something about.

But Jazz’s voice in that moment had gone cold and dead. She hated when he did that. Hated when he reached for the knob in his soul that read COMPASSION and dialed it all the way down to zero. She could handle anger. Soullessness? That was beyond her comprehension.

She rolled over and flipped open her laptop, which lay on her bedside table. The desktop image was of her and Jazz in one of their rare scenes together in last year’s production of The Crucible. Reverend Hale takes Tituba’s hands and implores her to give up the names of the devil’s children in Salem. Powerful scene—man of God begs slave woman to do evil in the name of good. She hated it, all of a sudden.

“If you kill him, he wins.”

“No, Connie. If I kill him, he’s dead.”

“Don’t go chasing…”

She closed her eyes. “Just promise me you’ll be careful in New York, okay?”

“Please stick to the rivers…”

“When am I ever not careful?” he teased, suddenly a Real Boy again.

“You mean other than letting an NYPD detective lie you into going to New York? And other than letting a serial killer into your house? Do you need more examples?”

He laughed. “I guess not. Don’t worry, Con. It’s all good. I’m going to be surrounded by FBI agents and cops. I’ll be the safest guy in New York.”

“If anything happens to you, I’ll kick your ass so hard you’ll poop from the front,” she threatened.

“That sounds like something Howie would say.”

“I think he did once.”

“Okay. I have to go pack. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

No sooner had she put the phone down than a mocking chortle assailed her. Twisting around, she saw that Whiz had quietly opened her door at some point and was now laughing at her. “I love you,” he mimicked, and made smooching noises.

“Stop spying on me, Wisdom!” she shouted, and threw a pillow at him.

He ducked. “I’m gonna tell Mom and Dad that you’re talking to your boyfriend.” He drew out the word boyfriend into something almost salacious. Connie couldn’t believe how her brother could—in the same day, in a matter of hours—go from sweet and concerned to mega-brat. Had she been such a shapeshifting creep at his age?

“And I’m gonna tell them that you’re spying on me in my underwear,” she said.