Leviathan

by Nicholas Gagnier

  Hardwick enters, gun in front of him. I take lead over Royce in following. Checking his six, the detective shores up the rear as we descend into the house’s darkness. There is no furniture, and the floorboards have rotted into a game where its loser plunges through to the basement.

  “Royce, take the ground floor,” I whisper.

  “You want me to take the basement?”

  “No,” I tell Hardwick, “you cover upstairs.”

  Splitting off, my partner grumbles something but doesn’t argue. Royce accompanies me into the kitchen before circling back to the living room. We each poke around corners, scanning for troublesome signs.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s here,” he remarks.

  “Shh. Keep looking,” I whisper, “I’m heading down.”

  Both hands grip the handle of my weapon until nails pierce my palm and the bottom of my closed fist trembles. In the kitchen’s corner, I take the first steps down through a rotting entryway.

  Stairs, if the platforms of wood leading down can even be called that, worsen with each iteration. Their structural integrity creaks under my shoe, and I wish my guardian angel were here. He’s not, so I remove the thick flashlight I nabbed from my SUV’s glove compartment, switching it on.

  It will have to do in his absence.

  There is little of interest caught up in the initial beam of light as I reach the bottom. It canvasses every corner, stopping on something assembled in the farthest righthand crevice. I am unable to make out the inscriptions in the glare against concrete walls- only the rock and rosary laid beneath.

  Another shrine.

  Just like the one in Los Angeles.

  The beam drifts across the left adjacent wall, revealing something else which lines up with Barker’s information.

  Is Emily Rickard there?

  Yes. Behind a steel door with an industrial padlock on it.

  The aforementioned door is two inches thick, lounging in the lazy light cast on its grey surface with a yellow and black bar across the center. Before I go to work on that, I let the beam swing back, so I can examine the shrine.

  There are no photos on a clothesline this time, but the rosary is laid out the same way; symmetrically looped, placed down in the shape of an S. The cross dangles off the flat boulder it calls home.

  And just above it, words are diligently etched in the wall overlooking it.

  There go the ships, and Leviathan, which you formed to play in it.

  Leviathan.

  We are the beast of the sea.

  Reminded of my conversation with the priest, eyes and light drift once more. A berth of illumination cuts along the unfinished floor behind me to reveal a second set of footprints alongside my own. They are fresh; large enough they could only belong to a man.

  West, for his carefully crafted public image, had a troubled youth. He never divulged much, but what I can tell you is his faith was challenged at some point. God put a trial in front of him- a Leviathan, so to speak. Something which would make him doubt his creator to no end.

  Those footprints lead right up to the steel door with a yellow padlock on it.

  Is Emily Rickard there?

  Yahweh is our weapon.

  Yelling Hardwick’s name, calling him down below, I train my weapon on the padlock. Firing three times, the mechanism is blown apart and I rush forward, yanking its carcass off the mangled bracket.

  I’m coming for you, kiddo.

  Hardwick should make his appearance any second, I think, pulling open the heavy door. Royce will follow him like a lost puppy, and we will bring Emily Rickard home.

  We have almost won.

  To the absence of heavy feet pounding down the basement stairs, nor any of the dramatic entrance I expected, I frown.

  There is no time.

  Maybe they found something upstairs.

  The door scrapes along the ground. It requires all my strength to open, feet digging into the ground as arms heave on the handle.

  As my eyes fall upon the room’s contents where I expected a little girl, huddled in the fetal position crying for her mother, I am disappointed. To the true revelation in front of me- pushing my heart down, my jaw agape- I have been naive. At the sight of a bulky object with glowing red numbers in a countdown toward oblivion, I know I have failed.

  “Bomb!” I scream.

  It is too late. The device counter reaches zero as I fully recognize it for its destructive potential. The heat brushes my arms and face, vaulting me onto my back in front of the door. Further reinforcing the idea I signed up to Hell, I am surprised worse harm does not befall me at the hands of flying asbestos and drywall, blown from every direction toward me.

  I may hallucinate it, but something comes between the blast and flesh which should be burned clean off. Like a blanket of smoke, it takes less than a second to completely envelop me. At first, I assume it’s part of being blown to smithereens; but the explosion passes, and I sit up to a settling white cloud. Winded, I try calling Hardwick’s name, followed by Royce. If that blast didn’t alert them and every law enforcement agent in a three block radius, my hoarse voice is hardly a comparable sound.

  What happened to them?

  Leftover heat rises from the floor; walls around me have been reduced to layers of broken plaster and ash. I crawl through debris on hands and knees, trying not to inhale the cloud’s idea of oxygen.

  Trying not to think about how close I came to death.

  “Knox!”

  What the fuck was that thing?

  No time to think of it now. The voice above calls my name through dust and creaking floors. I scramble for the stairs, pulling soot with me as knees scrape the ground.

  The bomb wasn’t powerful enough to level the building- only harm people in close proximity to the door. Clothes and hair bleached by the powder and residue, I reach the ground floor, clawing up the final steps. Hardwick and Royce are there to help me as I collapse on grimy kitchen tiles, sending a small cloud of lint into the air, while I cough out the chemical cocktail of surviving certain death.

  “Jesus, Knox,” Hardwick remarks, “You’re one lucky woman. Here, Royce! Help me get her outside.”

  Their arms lift me. Both men grunt through efforts to pull me past the front door, back into the street.

  Was it Tim who saved me?

  I sent him away, but he could still be around somewhere. The man who calls himself Death has endlessly bragged about having powers. I have never seen them, but nothing else explains why I’m still breathing.

  From there, my mind moves to Barker. Lowered to the sidewalk outside, white streaks through my hair, I am sure rage burns right through my coated skin.

  He lied to me.

  “You okay?” my partner asks, looking back at the house. Hardwick lifts his radio, telling beta and delta teams there is nothing here. Sagged on its foundations, the place will soon be crawling with forensics teams and FBI agents alike.

  “Yeah,” I reply, staring off into the crevices of neglected tarmac. “I want to talk to the suspect again.”

  “What?” Hardwick asks, “He lied to us, Knox! Sent us right into West’s trap. What on Earth makes you think he’ll start telling the fucking truth now?”

  “Oh, he’ll tell me,” I muse, clenching teeth.

  “What?” Hardwick asks, kneeling down in front of me. Radio over his knee, he studies my valiant attempt to avoid his gaze. “What happened to being better than West?”

  I am done being the bigger person.

  “What would you have me do, Stephen?”

  My partner doesn’t so much as flinch, only raising his left eyebrow a matter of degrees. There is no compromising his morals, no matter how many partners he loses, or how many kids go missing.

  “I would have you finish this thing, Ramona; the right way. You can torture Barker until you’re blue in the face. It won’t fucking work.”

  My eyes close under the weight of avoidance.

  “I know.”

  “Pro
mise me, Knox. Don’t sink to their level. That’s how they win.”

  He’s not wrong.

  “Promise me, Ramona. I want your word. Yours too, Ryan.”

  The detective squints back at the compromised structure as Hardwick did calling off the strike.

  “Won’t lie, Steve. Would feel pretty fucking good to smack that little motherfucker right about now. But okay, I guess.”

  “I’m serious. Both of you. Knox?”

  I nod, but the gesture is a lie.

  “I won’t go near him.”

  I might utter the words to get Hardwick off my back; but inside, I am on fire.

  No matter what I promise my world-weary partner, none of it outweighs my sunken lower lip.

  I am not a monster.

  The final time I met the man who calls himself Death, I was twenty-eight years old. My aunt was frozen in an arrangement which will forever haunt me, hand over her resigning heart. Rupturing blood vessels were suspended in time as I turned to face the man who has followed me since I was five years old.

  Hello, Ramona.

  I wonder if I will ever be free of his morbid presence.

  Hell, maybe I already am.

  Hardwick escorted me home. Presuming I would do something crazy, I let his Escalade tail my larger Durango. He smiled at me as I parked the car and waved on my way up the steps to my apartment. Royce made no mention of stopping by; for that, I’m thankful.

  When my partner is out of my sight, and I am greeted by the home I shared with Maya for so many years, I can’t stay here. She is gone, along with my guardian angel- protective darkness in the Ivy City house notwithstanding.

  I turn around, locking the door behind me, returning to my SUV. Hardwick is gone and Royce is nowhere to be seen.

  I am not yet ready to confront Patrick Barker, because I don’t have the moral backing I need. Something either spooked Hardwick, or his convictions are so strong they will cost Emily Rickard her life.

  I do not accept that ending.

  I need someone to tell me it’s acceptable.

  And I know exactly who.

  The tiny brownstone cottage in Alexandria is modest for any public servant, never mind one who manages an entire arm of federal law enforcement. The bungalow is dark, as would be any home with reasonable owners at five in the morning. But seeing as I have slept seven hours in the four days since Maya died, my thoughts are running altogether.

  Judgement may not be fully intact.

  Walking up to the FBI Director’s door in the middle of the night is an idea Stephen Hardwick might support even less than torturing Patrick Barker. I defer to my exhausted confidence, raising my fist and rapping on the front door.

  No need for overkill, Ramona.

  A light beyond the hallway precedes John Hazel appearing on the doorstep in his bathrobe, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Knox? What on Earth?”

  I have to justify the intrusion, and quickly.

  “I’m very sorry for disturbing you and your family, sir. But a decision of the utmost urgency needs to be made, and I don’t really trust anybody but you to make it.”

  “Ah,” he chuckles, stepping onto the porch. “Not the first time an agent has shown up in the wee hours. Won’t be the last, I promise you. What’s Hardwick’s take?”

  “The suspect gave us faulty intel, leading our team into a trap. Forensics is on it now, but I can already tell you it was a low-grade bomb. Pretty crass for an operation as big as West’s is. Hardwick told me to stay away from him.”

  “So what’s the call, Knox?”

  I sigh, because this is signing away my soul.

  “I can get the truth out of him, John. But...conventional methods will not work. We have to go outside the box here, if we want to save Emily Rickard.”

  “Outside the box? So you want to torture the man!”

  “No, sir,” I reply, wishing these words never needed to be said. “I don’t believe torture works. Ever. But sometimes....some pressure, a little fear? Goes a long way.

  “We’ve already had a couple moments I’m really grateful to have had with you, John. And please realize what I’m asking you is not a matter of ego or...ass-kissing, I guess. It’s a choice. Respect for the chain of command. I believe this decision rests with you. If you tell me to leave Patrick Barker alone, I will. But if you let me do this, sir, I can bring this girl home.”

  Intimidation is not a tool outside John Hazel’s tool box. Driving back from Alexandria, I have all the moral support I need to confront Patrick Barker, track down Jordan West, and return Emily to her parents.

  Making my way to the fourth floor, the night guard is almost asleep at his station. My presence forces him to be alert. I tell him I want to speak the prisoner in cell six.

  “Should I have him brought to the interrogation room?”

  I tell the guard no.

  “Just open the cell, and close it once I’m inside.”

  “Not really the protocol, ma’am.”

  I smirk.

  “I don’t give a damn about your protocol. John Hazel gave me the authority to question Patrick Barker. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you call him? Sure he’ll be so happy to be woken up for the second time in an hour!”

  The guard relents, opening the cell from his console, and goes back to the portable antenna TV where he fell asleep watching the only black and white channel it allots him.

  When Patrick Barker sees me, his eyes go wide and he knows I’m in a very different mood than I was twelve hours ago.

  “Hello, Patrick,” I say, advancing into the cell; its door closes behind me. A camera above us watches Patrick’s every move, as he scrambles into the cell’s corner. I reach above, unplugging the device from where its visuals go.

  Sadly, there’s not far to go when trying to escape the confines of an eight-by-ten foot metal box.

  “Surprised to see me?”

  The former altar boy’s hands tremble as I unholster my gun, and flip it upside down in my palm so the barrel rests against the wrist.

  Pulling back my arm as far as I can, I launch the metal handle into Barker’s jaw. The sound of bone in his chin shattering makes me ill, but I cannot afford to look weak. He whimpers, collapsing in the corner, raising hands to defend his terrified expression.

  “Try to kill me, asshole?” I roar, hitting him again, hearing teeth break and his jaw shattered. “Where is Emily Rickard?”

  Not awaiting excuse or response, I smack him with the gun’s handle again. From the way his head launches back, I almost think his neck has snapped. He still breathes, so I release my hold on him; his body drops to the floor, blood spilling off his lips.

  “Where is Emily Rickard?”

  Barker’s face is bloodied; his skulls hangs over his shoulder, tongue falling out of a mangled mouth. Leaning beside him, I clench my teeth; hating every fucking second of this.

  “You can make it stop, Patrick,” I pant, “You don’t have to do this for him. For...Jordan West. You can start over in Witness Protection. You can help bring a little girl home.”

  Rather than display empathy towards words from my mouth, Barker lapses into maniacal laughter. His bottom teeth show more than the top ones do, and his eyes are emptier than any dark hole I ever mistook myself for.

  Readying a third swing at the grown altar boy who sent me hurtling toward a bomb in Ivy City- which would have killed me if not for a blanket of shadow protecting me- he opens his mouth. He bestows information that could finally be framed as useful, if it didn’t shake the foundations of my being like Jordan West’s homemade incendiary device did.

  Seeing my expression, he returns to cackling laughter. I have to turn my back on him, pounding on the door.

  Screaming at the guard to open it.

  The automated cell door obeys my wishes, but its massive, turning hinges only open to more darkness. There is only the wind tunnel sound has become. Passing the guard, he asks if I’m alright but I want to be sick.
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  I want to burn the fucking world down.

  It has to be a lie.

  You’re something else, you know that?

  Barker has to be lying, but has no reason to.

  Look, I know I might come off suave and unapproachable but I’m not a lost cause, Ramona.

  The answer was beaten out of him.

  Reaching the cell block door I confidently entered only minutes earlier, armed with John Hazel’s blessing, doubts pierce me like bullets.

  More than ever, I miss my guardian angel.

  Opening the door, there’s only one voice I hear; it belongs to Patrick Barker, speaking the same syllables over and over again until they finally mean nothing.

  Ask Ryan Royce.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I don’t know what to do.

  Exiting the holding area, I close the door behind me. Agents, sleepy-eyed analysts and all other ilk cast hellos and complementary smiles in my direction.

  I return only blank ones, innards consumed with Barker’s words. My intestines twisted like his bloodied smile, I replay the words which would capture my attention, now and for all time. Nausea subsides, then surfaces; dips, finally raging up my throat.

  Finally able to separate my spine and the opaque glass of the door, I try to consider all courses of action. Taking my first steps into a hallway which stretches forever in front of me, I need a plan.

  Do I tell Hazel?

  Not yet.

  I need more evidence than the word of a child abductor. Barker could be trying to throw off West’s scent, and the DCPD detective has everything going against him. He would be too easy a suspect; and yet, I can’t shake the feeling Barker is telling the truth.

  Wetness manifests where Royce kissed my neck last night, told me the sorts of things all men say when they’re tired and sentimental from intercourse. My lips crack where ours met, and I feel sick again.

  Should I bring in Hardwick?

  Stephen is a good man, the detective said at dinner, but never tell that dude anything unless the intel’s solid. He will rip you the fuck apart.