by James Hunt
Unable to move, unable to see, she writhed and thrashed in the darkness, bucking her hips, rolling left and right. Her body was met with resistance in every direction.
Mary opened her mouth to scream, but there was only a breathless whisper that burned her throat. She closed her mouth and smacked her lips to garner some spit, but she was too dehydrated.
Suddenly, the rumbling of the floor ended, and the inertia of a stop rolled her to her side. A door slammed shut, and Mary hyperventilated, struggling to free herself before the footsteps that crunched against gravel were on top of her.
A lock turned, hinges groaned, and then light blinded her. Hands groped her body as she turned away from the brightness, handling her roughly, and she was lifted from the back of a trunk.
Pulled by her arms, Mary caught glimpses of sky and dull colored buildings, and the back of a car as her backside was dragged across concrete. She glanced up at the man who had bound her but saw only the back of his head, along with his broad shoulders and muscular back.
A door opened and Mary was pulled inside, the door swinging shut behind her, and flung on her back to the dusty concrete.
Mary watched the man pace, his figure blurred, coming in and out of focus as she struggled to remain awake. “Please… let me go.”
The man stopped, then slowly turned so Mary could get a good look at his face. His expression was stern, his head bald and muscular. He looked like a jack-o’-lantern with skin.
“I won’t hurt you.” The pumpkin stepped closer, staring down at Mary with a sense of fascination, and then squatted low to be closer to her. “I’m here to help you.”
Mary trembled and turned her face away as the man brushed his fingers through her hair. The tips were rough and callous, scratching her scalp.
“I’m going to take care of you now. Until he’s ready.” The pumpkin stood, then disappeared.
Alone, Mary glanced at her surroundings. She was in a warehouse like structure, surrounded by empty boxes and old and rusted machinery.
The pumpkin returned with a bottle of water. He brought the rim to her lips and tilted it back.
Mary slurped the water, draining half the bottle before the pumpkin removed the rim from her lips, sending more of it down the front of her shirt. She coughed, then caught her breath. When she looked up, the pumpkin was staring down at her, but he wasn’t looking at her face.
“You spilled water on yourself,” he said
Mary shivered, wanting to cover herself, but unable to move.
“I can’t have you in wet clothes.” He slowly reached for the buttons at the top of her blouse and exposed her cleavage. “I think I might like you better without the shirt anyway.” He slammed his finger down the middle of the shirt, ripping it open, and Mary screamed.
The pumpkin pressed his palm over her mouth and moved so close that she could smell the sour stench of his body. It curdled her stomach like bad milk.
“I can’t kill you, but so long as you’re still conscious, he said that I can do whatever I want.” He exhaled a hot breath of excitement and then sniffed her hair. “God, I’ve wanted you for so long.”
Frozen with fear, Mary kept her eyes locked on him. She pinched her eyebrows together. Some of those scattered fragments of her memory came back. She knew this man. She’d seen him before, but she couldn’t remember where.
The pumpkin kept one hand clamped over Mary’s mouth, his other hand unbuckling his pants. She shivered again, though he mistook the fear for excitement.
“I’ll try and be gentle,” he said.
Mary thrashed back and forth, but he was too strong. He dropped his pants to the floor, and with his hand still over her mouth, she opened as wide as she could and bit down hard.
The pumpkin screamed, and blood flooded Mary’s mouth as the man retreated. She turned her head toward the door and screamed. “Help! Help me! Please help!”
The man lunged for her once more, clamping his hands around her throat. “You fucking bitch!” He snarled, the muscles along his forearm rippling from the tight grip.
Air was choked from Mary’s lungs. She gaped her mouth open like a fish, a heavy pressure forming in her head. Her vision blurred, and then black spots appeared in her plane of vision. Consciousness slowly slipped away and the dark veil came over her once more.
6
Grant followed Mocks and the warden through the prison halls toward Pullman’s cell, and while Mocks didn’t seemed fazed by the catcalls on their walk past the inmates, Grant struggled to keep his composure.
“Hey, baby! Why don’t you come in here and warm me up!”
“I can give you the ride of your life!”
Eventually the words blended into the overall howls and screams and general noise of the prison until all of it was unintelligible.
“It’s right up here, Lieutenant.” The warden gestured to an open cell door, two officers standing on either side.
Grant was the first inside, followed by Mocks, while the warden hung back at the entrance.
“We checked it the moment you guys called.” The warden crossed his arms. “We didn’t find anything that didn’t pass inspection.”
The eight-by-eight cell was a simple set-up. A cot was along the left wall, and a single sheet was neatly folded over the mattress complete with a paper thin pillow. Three books were stacked at the foot of the bed. A six-inch hole in the back of the cell marked the toilet. But like Mocks, Grant’s attention was pulled toward the right wall, where three drawings hung by strips of tape.
“He took up sketching a few years ago,” the warden said. “One of the rehabilitation programs had a class.” He laughed. “Fucking tax dollars at work.”
The first sketch was of a house, the second an unmarked grave, and the third looked like a cabin in the woods. The sketches were clean and neat but provided no detail to give away their true identities.
“You think it’s a message?” Mocks asked.
Grant studied the drawings. “He wouldn’t have left them here if they weren’t.” And he was willing to bet that those three drawings represented the three locations where the kidnappers were currently holding their victims.
Mocks turned back to the warden. “How often do you perform inspections?”
“We like to keep it irregular, but we try and hit them at least once a week,” the warden answered. “And I don’t know if this makes a difference, but Pullman has never had an infraction against him. No contraband. Not so much as a titty magazine.”
“Yeah, well, good titty magazines are hard to come by.” Mocks picked up one of the books. “Grant, take a look at these.”
Grant peeled his attention away from the drawings and examined the first title that Mocks handed him. “The study of cryptography.” He frowned, then read the next title. “Intro to Chemistry.”
“I guess he just wanted some light reading.” Mocks flashed the third title at him. It was Mein Kampf.
“When did he request these?” Grant asked.
The warden shrugged. “I’d have to check the lists.”
Mocks dropped the trash back on the cot. “We’ll need to review everything he’s requested since his imprisonment. Books, letters, transcript from visitors, medical issues, all of it.”
The warden cocked his eyebrow up. “You want to know how many shits he took too?”
“If you kept track,” Mocks answered. “I also want a list of the guards that have come into contact with him since his time here.”
“Lieutenant, I can assure you—”
“Three people have been abducted, Warden, by an inmate under your supervision,” Mocks said. “You can’t assure me of anything.”
Grant stepped back toward the drawings and peeled them off the wall, tucking them inside the book on cryptography.
With nothing else but dust in the cell, Grant and Mocks headed back toward the conference room while the warden went to collect their requested files.
“What’s the odds that Warden Big Balls has a guar
d working for him that’s been helping Dennis?” Mocks asked.
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Grant answered, opening the book on cryptography and examining the sketch of the house.
“He’s no Picasso, but those don’t look half bad,” Mocks said. “They mean anything to you?”
“Not yet,” Grant answered. “Where are we at with confirming the names Dennis gave us?”
“The Chief is working on that now.” Mocks exhaled, and he could tell that she was anxious. “I should have brought my Pop-Tarts with me from the office.”
Williams was still in the conference room when they returned, but Hofster hadn’t come back yet. “Find anything?”
Grant lifted the books that contained the pictures. “A couple things.”
“The warden is pulling more files for us on Pullman’s activities since he’s been incarcerated,” Mocks said. “He say anything else?”
“Nothing,” Williams said.
Hofster returned, barging into the room like a raging bull. “We have confirmation on the names. Kelly Sears is a twenty-seven year old sales executive who didn’t show up for work this morning. Mary Sullivan is a wife and mother of two who works at a call center in downtown Seattle, who also didn’t show up for work.” He paused, clearing his throat. “And Susie Mullins is a student at Hawthorne Elementary School. She wasn’t in class today.”
“Oh my God,” Williams said.
“Families have been notified?” Grant asked.
“We have units sitting down with them now,” Hofster answered. “We need to move this party back to the precinct. You have what you need, Lieutenant?”
“Working on it, sir,” Mocks answered.
“Work faster,” Hofster said. “We roll out in five.”
The warden made good on his promise, and his men carried out the boxes of copied letters and reading lists to their car. “We’ll work with Mr. Williams on getting you the personnel files for the guards. We’ll have to scan them since the originals can’t leave the premises.”
“What about Dennis’s medical files?” Grant asked.
“I’ve had to request special approval for you all to see those,” the warden answered. “It might take a little extra time.”
“I can help with that,” Williams said. “My team was planning on searching those files anyway. We can scan you copies as we go through it.”
“Appreciate it,” Mocks said.
“Keep me updated,” Williams said, shaking everyone’s hands. “And thank you for your help with this, Grant.”
“Of course.” With the pleasantries finished and the car still being loaded, Grant separated himself from the rest of the group and called Sam.
“Hey, are you all right?” Sam asked.
“I’m fine,” Grant answered. “Just finished up.”
“Where are you?”
“Washington State Penitentiary.”
“What?”
“There was an incident this morning,” Grant answered, his voice oddly calm considering the uncertainty of what he was about to walk into. “Three people were abducted.”
“Oh my God,” Sam replied.
“We think the perp is someone I busted ten years ago when I still worked Homicide,” Grant said.
“Wait,” Sam said, gathering her thoughts. “I thought you said you were at a prison— how could he be connected to the abductions if he’s still in jail?”
Grant glanced down to the cryptography book. “I have a few ideas, but nothing concrete.”
A horn honked, and Grant saw Mocks waving from the car. The guards had finished loading the boxes.
Grant knew that Sam could take care of herself. She was a U.S. Marshal, and a damned good one at that. But after Dennis had said her name, after what he’d known about the engagement… “Listen, do me a favor and just stay at the apartment for today, all right? I’m going to have Mocks send a unit over to keep an eye on things.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “Keep me updated?”
“I will. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Grant hung up, pocketed the phone, and then climbed into the SUV’s back seat next to Mocks.
“Sam all right?” Mocks asked.
“Yeah,” Grant answered. “Listen, I need a favor—”
“I’ve already got my best unit outside your apartment building.” Mocks reached over and squeezed Grant’s hand. “She’s my family too.”
Grant exhaled, grateful for the small piece of mind that Mocks had given him. And for what they’d have to do next, Grant knew that he’d need it.
7
Arnold Waffer sat in the driver’s seat of his sedan, which was parked on the side of the street next to the cemetery. He curled his thin fingers around the steering wheel, his nails long and yellow. His eyes, nose, and mouth were crowded together at the center of his face, making the rest of his head appear larger than it was. He kept his black, beady eyes focused on the old caretaker, waiting for his chance to make a move.
Arnold checked the time, and then glanced behind him toward the trunk where he’d placed the girl. He’d need to give her another round of chloroform soon. He didn’t want to do it now though. Someone might see. But if that old man wouldn’t play along, then he’d have to improvise. And he hated to improvise.
It was why he had prepared so much, so he wouldn’t have to deviate from the plan. And it was such a good plan too. He and Dennis had come up with it together. He was so lucky to have found Dennis. All of those wasted years tormenting himself for who he was and what he wanted. It wasn’t until he started writing to Dennis that he finally understood that there was nothing wrong with him. He was special.
It was society that was wrong. They had told Arnold that he was sick and evil. But Dennis explained that there was no evil. There were just people. People who lived and then died.
The girl in that trunk represented his evolution, his ascension to a higher purpose. Arnold had watched that little girl for a long time. She didn’t have a good life. She lived with parents who didn’t care about her, who didn’t love her, who neglected her. She didn’t have any friends at school either. She was an outcast. Alone. Just like him.
Like the girl, Arnold had hated his family growing up. His mother was particularly bad. She beat him for no reason other than she was upset. And what made it even more confusing was when his mother started to kiss him. Kiss him in places that he didn’t know you were supposed to kiss. She told him that it was all right, that it was what they were supposed to do.
Coming to terms with his childhood and his condition were only two of the myriad of things that Dennis had helped him with. He owed so much to Dennis. And this was how he would repay him.
With time running short and the caretaker still standing out in the open, Arnold grabbed his sunglasses off the dash and pulled his Mariners cap down low as he stepped from the sedan.
Dennis had told him that it was important to hide himself, not to be conspicuous. That’s why Arnold also wore a non-descript hoodie. It was all about blending in.
Arnold passed an elderly woman, walking slowly with her cane after she had dropped a bouquet of flowers onto one of the graves. She had sat there for a long time, talking to nobody. She was wiping her eyes now.
The caretaker had his back to Arnold as he approached, and Arnold tossed a quick glance to the old woman heading for the exit in the opposite direction. He didn’t think she could see or hear anything, so he figured he was in the clear.
“Excuse me,” Arnold asked, raising his voice slightly to not sneak up and startle the old timer. “Do you work here?”
It was a stupid question. Of course the old man worked there, he was wearing a jumpsuit for crying out loud and raking leaves. But Arnold had to make himself appear normal. And normal people asked stupid questions.
“Yes, can I help you?” The old man had a stoop in his back and a white mustache. Matching tufts of white hair protruded from his cap, and his pair of watery red eyes made him look li
ke he was crying, probably because of all the dead people.
“I was visiting my mother’s grave, and I saw someone had sprayed some graffiti on it,” Arnold said.
“Damn kids.” The old man frowned, huffing as he flipped the rake around and pounded it against the ground like a staff. “They think they can just come in here and do whatever they want.”
Arnold raised his hands. “No, it’s okay. I was just hoping we might be able to clean it off?”
The old man’s expression softened. “Of course. Where’s the plot?”
“On the north end of the property,” Arnold answered, gesturing ahead to ensure that he and the old man passed the shed where no one could see them.
“Let me just drop this off and grab a few things,” the old man said and then trudged forward, Arnold falling in behind him. “When did she pass?”
“Hmm? Oh, a few years ago,” Arnold answered, forgetting about his dead mother. His mother died ten years ago. It was a drug overdose. Arnold had never brought her flowers. Not that he didn’t want to. He just didn’t see the point.
“It’s nice that she has a son who still comes by to see her,” the old man said, keeping his head down as he trudged forward. His breathing had become labored, and Arnold wondered if the guy would die before he even got to the shed. “It’s a shame how little people come to visit. I’ll go weeks without seeing a visitor.”
Arnold only half paid attention to the old man’s words. He was too busy glancing around making sure that they’d be alone. He then checked his watch, knowing that he’d have to make this quick.
The old man reached for his keys, his arthritic fingers struggling with the lock for the shed. “Where did you say your mother’s plot was again?”
“The north section of the graveyard,” Arnold answered, growing impatient.
“Ah, yes, that was it.” The old man cackled, finally inserting the key into the shed’s lock and pushed the door inward. “My mind is about as slow as my body—”