by James Hunt
“Every living thing dies, Grant,” Dennis answered. “It’s the only certainty of this world. But it’s what we do during that life that makes the difference.”
Grant shut his eyes, that sourness spreading from the back of his throat and over his tongue. “And is that what you’re doing, Dennis? Making a difference?”
“You’ve never agreed with my methods, Grant,” Dennis said. “No one has, but I’ve done more for society than anyone I know, including you. You think saving the weak makes you strong? A gardener plucks the weeds and prunes the dead leaves so the plant can survive. You serve the few, and I serve the many.”
“You serve yourself,” Grant said. “Don’t pretend that this is anything more than that. You’re a killer, Dennis. Plain and simple.”
“And you’re a detective,” Dennis said. “They can strip you of your badge, they can call you a killer on the news, and they can label you a criminal, but that won’t stop you.” He laughed, a triumphant tone to it. “That’s why we play the game, Grant! This, right now, this is why we exist. And it’s the reason that I’ve reached the end of my journey.”
Grant frowned.
“I hope to see you soon, Grant,” Dennis said. “And I truly mean that.”
The call ended, and Grant lowered the phone from his ear. He knew that trying to call the number back was useless. Dennis constantly switched out his phones to avoid detection. The burner he just used was most likely already in the trash.
Grant had expected the call to go differently. He had expected Dennis to be upset, but it sounded as though he was glad, ecstatic even, about the prospect of being finished. And Grant was positive the killer planned to go out with a bang.
44
It was a blinding white light that overwhelmed Missy’s senses the moment she opened her eyes. Panic flooded through her, the kind of panic that anyone would experience should they wake up and not be able to see.
She squirmed on the hospital bed, and then shrieked when a pair of hands grabbed her arm. It wasn’t forceful or painful, but her trauma-riddled brain had already been overloaded with so much pain that any touch was dangerous.
“Missy, it’s all right, everything’s fine.”
It was a woman’s voice, which helped calm her a little.
“You’re in a hospital. You’re safe.” The nurse smiled, gently stroking Missy’s forearm. She had a kind face. And she was short. Barely over five feet. Almost as wide as she was tall.
“W-where a-am I?” Missy asked, her voice cracking amidst the stutter.
“You’re at Portland General,” the nurse said, speaking slowly, and nodded along to her own words as if she were reassuring herself that the statement was correct. “Been here all day.”
Missy frowned, her sluggish brain struggling to recall how she got here. She gently placed her fingers against her temple and squeezed her eyes shut hard. Fragments of the past few days splintered away from her memories, which blurred together in some horrific instant replay.
“Ms. Kelvin?”
Missy raised her head and saw the police badge and the arm that belonged to the man who held it. He was tall, lanky, the physical opposite of the nurse that had gently held her arm and told her that she was safe. But she still didn’t feel safe.
“My name is Detective Smith.” He put the badge away and replaced it with a pen and small notebook. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Missy stared at the notebook, something about it turning over a memory in her brain. The way he put the pencil to paper and scribbled something. It was the sound too. She’d heard it before. She’d heard it when she was with him. Late at night, trapped in that cage, unable to tune him out, nothing else for her to listen to except his scribbling.
“Ms. Kelvin, are you all right?”
She was trembling now, the vibrations so violent that her teeth chattered together. It was like she was back in that cage, in the cold, stripped down to her underwear while he sat there and stared at her. She hadn’t realized how awful it was just to be stared at, someone watching you like an animal, saying nothing, for hours. It was maddening.
“She needs to rest,” the nurse said, scolding the detective. “Can’t you see what she’s been through?”
“He’s still out there,” Missy said, still trembling. “In the woods. He’s still out there. You can’t see him, but he’s there. I know he’s there.”
Despite the scowl from the nurse, the detective continued. “That’s what I need to ask about, Missy.” He was standing next to her now, but he didn’t try to sit on the bed. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but if there’s anything useful that you can tell me. Anything that you can remember.” He tried a smile, but it didn’t have the same warming effect as the nurse’s.
Missy opened her mouth to speak, but only tears fell and she buried her face in her forearms. While she sobbed, people told her that it was all right, that she didn’t have to answer questions, even though she wanted to, which only made her inability to do so trigger even more tears.
Eventually both the detective and the nurse left the room, leaving Missy to relive her trauma alone. She tucked her knees into her chest and wrapped her arms around them tightly. She rocked back and forth, eyes shut, reminding herself of what the nurse had told her. She was safe. She was out of the forest. She was out of the cage. She was safe. Safe.
“Missy.”
Missy slowly lifted her face and cracked her eyes open. There was another man. He was big, nearly as wide and tall as the door. He was dressed in a fine suit, which fit him awkwardly because of his size. He looked like he should have been in football pads, or in the center of a wrestler’s ring.
“My name is Chad Hickem.” He didn’t smile as he walked toward the foot of the bed. He kept his hands in his pockets and gestured back toward the door. “I know that you were having some trouble speaking with the detective, but I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
Missy frowned.
Hickem removed his hands from his pockets, reached for a chair that was near the table, and took a seat near the foot of the bed. He crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. “I’ve been looking for the man who abducted you. What he did to you, he’s done to other people.” He pointed at her. “But you were one of the lucky ones. You’re still alive.”
If it was meant to be a consolation, then Missy didn’t feel like that was the case. “I don’t feel very fucking lucky.”
The sound of her own voice surprised her, and she sucked her lips back into her mouth. But the words brought Hickem out of his relaxed composure, and he leaned closer. He clasped his big hands together, hands that looked like they could crack her skull like a walnut if they wanted to.
“No,” Hickem said. “I bet you’re afraid. And angry.”
Hickem studied her the same way that the man had watched her. But there was something different in Hickem’s gaze. There was life behind those eyes, a soul. The man that had taken her, locked her in that cage, he didn’t have any life behind his eyes. Missy wasn’t even sure if that man knew what a soul was.
“I’m angry too.” Hickem reached into his jacket pocket and removed his phone. He worked his big thumbs over the screen, and then flipped the screen around so she could see it. “I need to know if you saw this man.”
Missy had expected to see him, but she was relieved to find that it wasn’t. She didn’t recognize him at first because he was thinner and more ragged than the handsome man in the photograph that Hickem showed her. She nodded. “Yes— I think.”
Hickem’s expression brightened. “Is he the one who brought you here?”
Missy shut her eyes, trying to organize all of those fragments in her head that had been scattered across her memory like shattered glass. And each time she picked up one of the sharp pieces, it pricked blood.
“Missy,” Hickem said, his voice stern. “I need to know if this was the man that found you. And I need to know if he was hurt during your escape.”
; “I… I don’t…” Missy shook her head, trying to force the pieces to make sense, but they just wouldn’t fit together. The last thing she remembered was falling to the ground in the woods, and then the blinding white light here… Except no. There was something else. “We came in a car.”
Hickem perked up. “What kind of car?”
“Old, the seats were cloth and worn. It was a sedan.” Missy remembered looking up at him from the back seat. “He was driving so fast.”
“And was he hurt?” Hickem asked.
Missy shook her head. “No. He looked okay. Tired, scared too. But I think he was fine.”
Hickem exhaled, looking relieved at the news. “Thank you, Missy. You’ve been very helpful.” He stood and headed for the door.
“Wait,” Missy said, calling after him. “I thought you wanted to know about the man who took me?”
Hickem paused at the door, and then turned around. “I do. But the only way I’m going to find the man who kidnapped you is to find the man who saved you.”
Hickem moved swiftly out of the room, ignoring the woman’s questions as he met up with his team in the hallway. “It was him. He dropped her off in a car. Check the security footage and see if we can figure out what he was driving.”
A series of ‘yes sirs’ followed the order and the team scattered. Hickem dialed the senator’s office and waited patiently as the receptionist transferred his call to the secure line.
“Have you got him?” Senator Hunt asked.
“Not yet, sir. But he’s running out of leash.”
“It’s been three months.”
“I’m aware of the timeline, sir. But I was hoping to discuss his—”
“No.” The answer practically exploded from the senator’s lips. “And I don’t want you bringing it up again. He sealed his fate the moment he squeezed that trigger, Director Hickem.”
Hickem clenched his jaw. “I’ll update you when I know more, sir.” He ended the call, not bothering to wait for a goodbye. He’d hoped that he’d be able to change the senator’s mind, but he wasn’t going to budge, not unless public opinion could be swayed. And what efforts had been made had been smashed into a brick wall.
Once the mob caught the scent of blood in the air, it was impossible to throw them off the trail. They wouldn’t be satisfied until they had their pound of flesh.
“Director Hickem?”
He turned, pocketing the phone. “What’s up, Doc?”
Without skipping a beat, the doctor opened a file and went into his medical spiel. He must have heard the joke more than once.
“Missy Kelvin is dehydrated, suffering a failing of the kidneys and liver. She hasn’t had proper nutrition in days. Her blood had traces of adrenaline and other amphetamines to keep her alert and awake, which has thrown off her REM cycles and caused hallucinations.”
“Doc, I didn’t pay close attention in biology class, so if you could just give me the Cliff Notes version, I’d appreciate it.”
The doctor shut the folder and crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s barely hanging on. And if she’d gotten here a moment later, then she would have died.”
Hickem nodded. It was the third woman in the past month that Grant had pulled from the mouth of the beast. “I need you to fill out a report for me.” He spun around and snapped his fingers at an agent in the hall. “Mike.” He turned back around. “My agent is going to ask you to fill it out and then sign it.” He stepped away, leaving Mike to handle the doctor.
“And what exactly is this for?” the doctor shouted.
“To save a man’s life,” Hickem said.
Hickem headed toward the security office where he’d sent his team. Nearly every head turned as Hickem moved swiftly down the hallways. He could hear the whispers among the staff and patients. They must have recognized him from the news reports.
But they didn’t know the whole story, and they didn’t care. All that mattered to them was filling the gaps in their days with some fodder to keep their minds off the mundane aspects of their own lives. Serial killers and the FBI were always exciting news cycles.
The moment Grant pulled that trigger, it changed things for all of them. For better or worse, Grant was now in the same lot as Dennis Pullman.
The federal agents were at the desk, reviewing the footage while the overweight security guard stood off to the side, eyeing his chair longingly.
“Find it?” Hickem asked, hovering over his agent’s shoulder.
“Not yet, sir.” The agent cleared his throat and cast a glare to the security guard. “The video tapes are not dated, so it’s a bit of a wild goose chase.”
“I-I’ve been meaning to get to it.” The big security guard tugged at the collar of his shirt, the fat from his neck spilling over. “There are only three guys on staff, so it’s pretty long hours, and we’ve got more to do than just—”
“Wait.” Hickem grabbed the agent’s shoulder. “Go back.” He kept his eyes glued to the screen. “There! Stop.” The screen paused, and he pointed to a blur that was coming out from behind an ambulance and hurried through the double sliding doors of the E.R. “You see that?”
The agent hit a few keys, adjusted the frame speed of the playback, then hit play.
The picture moved forward in jerky fragments, but it was slow enough for the agent to freeze the image of the guy coming into the frame. It was a man, carrying a woman, and while the captured image didn’t provide a positive ID, Hickem would bet his last dollar that he was staring at the first images of Chase Grant in over eight weeks.
“Where are the other cameras?” Hickem turned toward the security guard, who stood frozen in shock. He snapped his fingers. “Hey!”
“Uh—Um, where are you trying to look? Inside, outside—”
“The parking lot,” Hickem said. “He must have known that there would be cameras around the E.R.’s entrance, so he parked a little farther down. Do you have something else in the parking lot that gives a wider view?”
“Y-yes.” The guard walked over to the shelves of tapes and fished out the ones for the lot. “I think its this one.”
Hickem snatched the tape out of the guard’s hands and then had his agent play the tape. They fast-forwarded to the same time stamp that was on the video with Grant carrying the woman into the lobby. An old and rusted sedan pulled up just out of the range of the E.R. camera, and a man got out of the driver’s seat and then grabbed a woman from the backseat.
“Get a description of the vehicle and license plate to our boys over in Cyber and have them track the vehicle’s movements. He’s probably ditched the car, but it might help narrow our search field.” He leaned closer to the agent’s ear, so only he could hear. “And I don’t want local PD catching wind of this. I want us to bring him in, and I’d like for him to still be breathing when we do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hickem stepped out of the room and headed for the E.R. lobby, where the rest of his team was waiting for him, when a hand clamped down around his wrist, causing him to turn.
“Hey, you’re the FBI Director, right?” There was a wild excitement in his eyes. “You’re going after those killers, right?”
“We’re involved with several cases, so if you’ll excuse me—”
“Listen, don’t even give him a chance, okay?” The nurse blocked Hickem’s path. “I mean you guys do that shit all the time, right? Cause an accident or something? The only justice that guy deserves is to be put six feet under the ground. He killed a mother, and then a cop? Do everyone a favor and just take him out.”
“Move.” Hickem straightened, making sure that the little pissant saw every inch of Hickem’s six-foot seven, two-hundred-and fifty-pound frame. “Now.”
The nurse stepped aside but continued to holler at Hickem from down the hall. “Just make sure you get him, okay? My wife hasn’t had a good night’s sleep ever since she saw those videos!”
“Then she shouldn’t have watched them.” Hickem turned the corner, leaving the s
elf-righteous nurse alone with his thoughts on how he should conduct national security matters and deal with his wife’s poor sleeping schedule.
All six members of his team in the lobby stood when they saw Hickem head toward them. They were his best, the group of agents that he trusted the most. “We found his car, and we’re tracking him through CCTV. I want a sweep of every seedy, cheap motel in the area. He’s mostly likely staying on the city’s outskirts, a little off grid and away from potential camera stops. And he’ll have paid in cash, so this is just about pounding the pavement.” He clapped his hands together. “Let’s get to work.”
Again the agents scattered at their leader’s order, and Hickem hoped that he’d be able to find Grant in time before someone decided to take the law into their own hands.
45
The glow from the television screen cast a dull glaze over the rest of the room, the downtrodden blue tint fighting against the yellow hue of the dimly lit lamp on the nightstand.
The cheap television set in the motel room received only six channels. Out of those six channels, only two worked. The first working channel was public access, and the second was the local news. And because Grant wasn’t interested in the local flora and fauna as was currently being described by a local Jack Hanna, Grant chose the news.
He kept the television on as background noise while he forced himself to read Dennis’s notebook, keeping an ear out for any of the day’s exploits while he searched for any pivotal information in the daily ramblings of the most dangerous serial killer in the history of the country.
From the descriptions that Grant read, he could tell that Dennis was struggling to balance his normal routine with the desires bubbling up within him. Because Grant had foiled Dennis’s past three hunting attempts, the man was blocked up. He needed a release, and he needed one quickly.
But Dennis was as much a creature of habit as anyone else, despite the man’s claims of righteous behavior and talent. And as clever as Dennis was, he wasn’t immune to the irritation and frustration of failure. No matter how much he had claimed to “evolve.”