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  Novels by Tom Savage

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  SCAVENGER

  TOM SAVAGE

  Scavenger

  Copyright © 2000, 2013 by Tom Savage

  eISBN: 978-0-9891491-1-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information, address Writers House LLC at 21 West 26th Street, New York, NY 10010.

  FOR ANN ROMEO

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Other Books By This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue: Start Game

  Article # 1: Newspaper

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Article # 2: Mask

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Article #3: Word

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Article #4: Photograph

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Article #5: The Family Man

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Epilogue: Game Over

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As ever, I am grateful to my family, my friends, and my colleagues at Murder Ink for their support of my work.

  Stuart Krichevsky, literary agent extraordinaire, has worked his usual wonders for me, and this book—to say nothing of my career—would not exist without him. And his associate, Paula Balzer, provided constant help.

  Two editors worked with me on this one, Danielle Perez and Doug Grad, and I thank them and everyone else at Dutton for their care and guidance.

  Finally, the only rose without a thorn is friendship, and I can prove it. I have dedicated this book to Ann Romeo, but I must also acknowledge her contribution to it. For the long sessions listening to several variations of the story, for reading and commenting on the manuscript, for encouraging me to try something so different from my other novels, and for suggesting the perfect title, I thank her most of all.

  scavenger:

  1. an animal that feeds on dead or decaying matter

  2. a person or animal that searches through refuse for usable articles

  —The Random House Dictionary

  PROLOGUE

  START GAME

  It was nearly dawn now, but still he continued to read. He was sitting in his favorite armchair in the living room of the house on the hill, glancing over occasionally as the pine trees beyond the windows became visible and took form. The big brass floor lamp beside the chair was almost unnecessary at this point, as the ever-increasing light in the eastern sky above the valley and the distant hills would soon be pouring in on him. It didn’t matter: he was going to finish the book again, and then he would go to bed. Who knows? he thought. Maybe today I’ll actually sleep.

  Sleep.

  He had known from the moment he’d first heard about this book that it would be important to him. That had been late yesterday afternoon. He kept the radio in the ancient home entertainment center switched on most afternoons, tuned to National Public Radio. Yesterday he had listened with growing interest to an interview with the author. It had been an animated discussion, and it had proved to be most enlightening. When the program was over, he’d driven down the hill into the village, arriving at the tiny bookstore on Main Street just at closing time. He’d tapped on the window, flashing his very best smile. The bookseller recognized him, unlocked the door, and sold him the last copy in stock. He’d known the man would open the door, because people were always overly solicitous of him. There had been a desire, quickly suppressed, to read the novel right there in the parked car. He had driven home again with what he thought was admirable restraint.

  He started reading the book over his solitary dinner at the head of the long table in the dining room, oblivious of the silent comings and goings of his servant. He ate little from the succession of plates Ivan placed before him, and they were eventually removed and carried back into the kitchen. But the wineglass at his elbow was kept full, and he drank frequently from it as he read. When his meal was over, he carried the glass with him into the living room. Ivan placed the bottle on the end table beside him, built a fire in the big stone fireplace, and retired to his rooms on the top floor.

  He finished the book sometime after midnight. He thought about what he’d just read for a long time, staring into the dwindling flames in the fireplace as the big living room grew steadily colder around him. Then, at nearly two o’clock in the morning, he got up to stoke the fire, poured himself another glass of wine, and settled down in the armchair to read the book again.

  It was the plot of the novel that had attracted him, the thinly veiled fictional version of an actual series of events. Five families in various parts of America had been murdered over a period of two years, the last incident being eleven years ago. Twenty-four people in all, and seven pets. One killer, according to official FBI reports, dubbed “The Family Man” by some clever journalist or other. There had never been any real suspects in the case. The Family Man was never apprehended, and now, so many years later, he was generally believed to be dead. It was the only way the experts could explain his silence, because no serial killer in history had simply stopped before: it went against everything that was known about them. There was a compulsion to kill in these people that did not go away. So, presumed dead. But no one, not even the federal agents involved, knew this for certain.

  The novel he was now reading stuck to general facts, changing names and locales just enough to keep it in the realm of fiction. The random sociopath in the story was never referred to as The Family Man, but the inspiration for the story was patently clear. The author of the novel knew a lot, an uncomfortable amount, about the real story. The writer had obviously followed the case, studied it.

  As he progressed through the now-familiar material, he felt the excitement growing within him. He began rereading the last chapter, rapt, amazed. Yes, he knew it was a work of fiction, but even so, how on earth could this man know these things? He waited, putting his thoughts on hold while he turned the final pages, read the final words.

  He closed the book and sat there with it on his lap, staring down at the glossy dust jacket. Then he opened the back co
ver of the book and reread the brief author biography on the back flap. The small, square, black-and-white photograph above the biography was now the object of his fascination.

  It was a good face, he decided. This man would be in his mid-thirties. Handsome, certainly, but more than that. The large, serious, dark eyes stared out at the world, filled with a distinct, innate intelligence. There was a definite spark in them. The strong chin and the wide shoulders under the sports jacket and T-shirt denoted a man of more than usual power and endurance. The voice on the radio yesterday had been pleasantly low-pitched and remarkably clear. A man who was sure of himself, who wouldn’t scare easily. Yes.…

  He took in the face and the shoulders and the full, soft dark hair. A single lock was out of place, as if the wind had suddenly blown it down toward the thick eyebrows. He decided that the man was fairly tall, and his musculature would be well defined. He closed his eyes for a moment, removing the suit and tie in his mind, visualizing how this man would look naked.

  Tied up.

  Screaming.

  He opened his eyes, raising his right hand to his chest to soothe his pounding heart. Don’t be foolish, he told himself. I can’t indulge in such fantasies; not now. Not yet. The point is that he is the one. I have found him at last.

  There had been many times over the years when he had despaired of ever finding this man. It was a subject that had consumed him utterly, something he’d wanted, needed, ever since—well, he wouldn’t think about that. Not just now.

  He glanced again at the picture, and at the brief biography below it. New York City …

  Okay, he told himself. New York City. So be it. If that is where this man is, I shall plan accordingly.

  He closed the book and studied the front cover again. It was a hazy, indistinct artist’s rendering in deep brown and sepia tones, an extreme close-up of a man’s face. The face was half in shadow, so that all one could really see were the outline and one side of the nose and the large, staring right eye that dominated everything. The eye had a wicked gleam to it. The title of the novel was splashed across the book just below the staring eye in embossed, bright red letters, crudely painted to simulate a finger dipped in blood.

  DARK DESIRE

  At the bottom, the author’s name appeared in smaller lettering, in a plain typeface, discreetly white.

  MARK STEVENSON

  Yes, he thought again, smiling to himself. Mark Stevenson is obviously the one. The name makes perfect sense, now that I think about it.

  He wanted to play the piano. It was his usual reaction, the thing he always wanted to do in moments of great excitement, moments of triumph. He looked across the room at the corner by the big window where the beautiful black mahogany Bechstein concert grand stood waiting for him, as it always did. But no, he reluctantly told himself. Not now. It was far too early in the morning, and he would probably wake Ivan. No, the music would have to wait.

  He stared at the piano for a long time. Then, as ever, he looked up at the wall of framed photographs and posters beside it. His parents smiled out from most of the pictures, in various stages of their celebrated careers. There were a couple of pictures of his brother with his cello and his sister with her violin, and one small photo of himself, many years ago, sitting at a Steinway piano at the Institute, awkward in his first formal clothes at his first and only recital. The posters announced his parents’ many appearances in America and Europe: Lincoln Center, Carnegie Hall, Heinz Hall, the Kennedy Center, Albert Hall, Covent Garden, La Fenice, La Scala.…

  The life-sized painting was on the big wall behind him, and he had to turn around in the armchair to look at it. His mother was wearing a low-cut red satin gown, her dark hair up, her famous Fabergé ruby necklace, a gift from his father, flashing at her throat. She smiled serenely out from the picture, her elegant hands poised above the keyboard of the Bechstein. The piano was part of the legend that had sprung up about her. It had always been shipped to wherever she was appearing: she had refused to touch any other instrument.

  Now the Bechstein was his, and he thought about his mother whenever he played it.

  He returned his attention to the book. He stared at the cover again for a long time, and then he picked it up from his lap and hugged it to his chest. He stood up, turned off the brass lamp, and made his way over to the staircase, giving the painting of his mother a last, brief glance as he passed it. He carried the book with him. It is time for bed, he told himself. I must rest now so that I will awake refreshed. There is much to do, much to think about, starting tomorrow. Today, he amended, glancing at his watch as he climbed the stairs.

  Today he would begin planning his little game. And it would be perfect: he would see to that. He would plan every move, every moment, as only he could possibly plan it. It would take him weeks, perhaps even months, to prepare, but that was no matter. He’d waited a long time already, more than ten years. He could be patient awhile longer.

  He paused for another long moment at the top of the stairs, smiling to himself. Then he went down the hall and into his mother’s bedroom. Everything was there, just as it had been before she died. He went over to her vanity table, staring at the articles laid out upon it. There was a big silver hand mirror lying beside her combs and brushes. He picked it up and gazed into it, studying his own reflection. Smiling again and nodding to himself, he carried the mirror out of the room and down the hall to his own bedroom.

  Yes, he thought again. It will be a perfect game.

  The sun finally rose to fill the gray, overcast January sky as best it could, but by that time he was asleep, dreaming of New York City. Dreaming of the game. Dreaming of Mark Stevenson.

  Naked.

  Tied up.

  Screaming.

  Bleeding.…

  ARTICLE # 1

  NEWSPAPER

  FRIDAY

  1

  “Congratulations, Mark!”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “Such a wonderful book. Scared the hell out of me!”

  “Yes, well—”

  “So wonderful!”

  “Thanks.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Stevenson. Could you look over here a sec?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “Say cheese!”

  Click. Click. Click.

  “Oh, there you are, Mark! Mazel tov, darling!”

  “Thank you, um, Jackie.…”

  He smiled at the slim, dark-haired woman as she pecked his cheek and sailed on through the crowd. He hoped her name was indeed Jackie, but he couldn’t really remember. He was beginning to think the party would go on forever. A quick glance at his watch—ten thirty-seven—informed him that he’d been standing in the packed room for nearly an hour now, grinning vacuously around at the people, mostly strangers, who were constantly surging forward to shake his hand and/or kiss him. The cocktail party had begun at six, followed by dinner at seven, followed by the long, long awards ceremony itself, the ostensible reason behind these festivities. And he’d had the good—or, perhaps, bad—luck to win one of the damned things. The big one, in fact: Best Mystery Novel of the Year. Despite his intense discomfort around crowds, to say nothing of strangers, he’d been obliged to come here tonight. So here he was, smiling and thank-you-ing and you’re-so-very-kind-ing as he searched the packed room for Tracy.

  “Hey, Stevenson! How’s my fellow laureate!”

  He turned in the direction of the raucous voice. Jared McKinley, his friend—and tonight’s winner in the Best True Crime category—was at his elbow, brandishing his award statuette in one hand and a large glass in the other, grinning from ear to ear. He was extremely tall, seeming to take up enough room for two men, and he had a voice to match. Judging from his glazed eyes, it wasn’t his first large glass of the evening, Mark decided, and it probably wouldn’t be his last.

  “Hi, Jared. How are you doing?”

  “Fan-fuckin’-tastic!” the big, handsome Scotsman boomed, causing several heads to turn their way. Jared was alw
ays the center of attention. He threw back his head and laughed, executed a rather sloppy little timestep, and waved his award statuette in Mark’s face. “Where’s yours?”

  “In Tracy’s purse,” Mark replied. “You haven’t seen her around anywhere, have you?”

  “Nope. Don’t worry, she can’t have gone far in this madhouse. Are we still on for tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” Mark said. “I’m looking forward to it. I could use it, after tonight.”

  The two writers lived near each other in Greenwich Village, and they’d joined the local health club together. Twice a week, rain or shine, they rode the stationary bicycles, worked out on the exercise machines, and did serious time in the sauna and steam room. The idea was that each man would spur the other into staying in shape, and so far it was working. Three years now, and Mark felt better than he had when he was twenty, sixteen years ago. Quitting smoking had helped considerably. And he had finally recovered from the divorce. There was something else in his past, of course, something that would never go away, but for once he wasn’t thinking about it.

  Now, at the party, Mark and his friend were joined by the proprietor of a local mystery bookstore, who congratulated them both and asked them to drop in soon to autograph more first editions of their books. The two men smiled, thanked him, and promised him that they would.

  When the bookstore owner was gone, Jared said, “Hey, man, we’re celebrities now. About fuckin’ time!”

  Mark shrugged. “It’s no big deal, Jared. You were a good writer before tonight, and so was I. This is all very nice, but—”

  “Oh, sure!” Jared McKinley’s hearty laugh resounded through the ballroom. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re the one who’s on the New York Times’ bestseller list. Not that I’m envious, you understand. It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Hey, any word from Hollywood?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Mark glanced around self-consciously. “I’ll tell you all about it at the club tomorrow. Three o’clock?”