Inhuman: Detective Chase hunts an animal who protects his own

by Nathan Senthil

  “They aren’t Americans, are they?”

  “No. Australian and South African, and they were both robbed of their tickers, too. Anyway, why do you think he spared the other three?”

  “Where do they live?”

  “California, Florida, and North Dakota.”

  “I guess he stopped choosing victims in the U.S.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “A new article was published recently in PETA about someone named Barnabas. And I think Tyrel already got him.”

  “Missing person’s report was filed?”

  “Yes. In Lexington, Kentucky.”

  “Huh?” Gabriel’s eyes widened.

  A surge of energy shot throughout his body. They were close.

  “Yup. He struck at home after a long time. Didn’t Shane say Tyrel enjoys prolonging the torture of his victims? Now that guy will probably still be alive, though I’m not sure if he could really be called alive—”

  “Doesn’t matter, and stop talking. If we play this right, we can still save him and catch Tyrel.”

  “Okay. What do you need?”

  “Email me the vic’s demographics.”

  “Already on it…” Conor dragged on. “Wait… this can’t be right. It doesn’t fit the pattern.”

  “What doesn’t fit the pattern?”

  “This time, Tyrel took two at the same time.”

  “Two?” Gabriel was confused. Was Tyrel becoming unstable?

  “Y-yes.” Conor’s voice shook. “The son of a bitch also got Barnabas’s eight-year-old, Agnes.”

  Chapter 37

  March 26, 2019. 11:47 A.M.

  “Yay!” the boy yelped.

  “That’s just lucky,” Tyrel mumbled, embarrassed.

  “No, it isn’t.” The boy’s smile vanished, eyes narrowed as he gripped the controller. “Bet I can kill you again.”

  “You’re on, kid.” Tyrel selected rematch on the sixty-inch TV.

  Just as the ambitious, nimble-fingered boy won the first round, the front door opened. The boy’s mother waltzed in, chatting on the phone. A brand-new handbag hung from the crook of her elbow, and she was holding an envelope. Its cover displayed the logo of Europa, which Tyrel knew was a clinic that performed breast enhancements.

  “Mom,” the boy yelled. “I beat Uncle Tom in Mortal Kombat.”

  She dropped the bag onto the floor and contorted her face, which drained white in seconds.

  “I-I will call you back,” she said into the phone, and cut the call.

  “Why don’t you pause the match, kid?” Tyrel stood. “Let me talk to my sister in private.” He grabbed the woman’s arm and led her to the side, away from the kid.

  “Your boy isn’t afraid of the ski mask. I told him it’s from a video game. He’s seen my face, but I don’t mind since cops don’t care much about child witnesses.” Tyrel stared at her. “That is, if there are going to be cops.”

  “No, no. There ain’t gonna be cops.” The woman started toward the boy.

  Tyrel blocked her path. “Let’s do business, and then you get your son.”

  “I knew it,” she whispered.

  “Knew what?”

  A cry of pain made him turn toward the TV. The boy’s player was dismantling Tyrel’s again in a shocking display of ultra-realistic violence that made even Tyrel flinch. The game’s Blu-ray box said 18+, but this irresponsible parent had still bought it for her eight-year-old.

  The woman said, “I knew I would get in trouble the minute I received a text from my bank saying I had three hundred thousand in my account. I knew I didn’t get it from the Almighty.”

  “Not the Almighty.” Tyrel walked to the kid. “From his new enemy. My old pal.”

  “Please don’t hurt my baby. I will give you your money back. I mean, most of it. I spent a thousand on some—”

  “Don’t care.” He touched the boy’s shoulder. “I’m taking my nephew for an ice cream.”

  “Sweet,” the boy shouted, and Tyrel plugged his ears with his fingers.

  Couldn’t the kid say anything without being overexcited? Tyrel’s brain vibrated every time he opened his little siren mouth.

  “Please…” The woman held Tyrel’s hand, her eyes watering her cheeks.

  Tyrel squeezed her ice-cold fingers and lowered himself.

  “Wipe your stupid face,” he whispered. “You don’t want the kid to see you cry.”

  When she had cleaned her face, he said, “You’ve got thirty minutes. Keep this simple, and I let you off scot-free for spending my money. If you go to the cops, I’ll sell your boy into slavery.”

  She covered her ears and marched to her bedroom. Moments later, she came out with a checkbook and headed out.

  * * *

  With the boy riding shotgun, Tyrel drove out of Helen’s neighborhood. He removed the mask and stuffed it into the stolen car’s glove compartment. Mr. Bunny had taught him to always use stolen cars, not just stolen plates, as other variables could be used to issue a BOLO. When the deed is done, dump the car in the shadiest part of the city, leave the keys in the ignition, and let nature take its course.

  “Why you never visited before, Uncle?”

  “Busy,” Tyrel said.

  He felt the boy’s stare boring through his cheek.

  “I travel a lot.”

  “Oh.” The boy bit his nail. “How come you’re visiting now?”

  Tyrel held the boy’s thin wrist and pulled the finger out of his mouth.

  “Don’t put it in there. You’ll catch germs.” He let go. “A friend of mine has mistakenly deposited money into your mom’s bank account. That’s why I’m visiting her now.”

  “That’s silly. Is your friend dumb?”

  Tyrel laughed. “He was the smartest and coolest guy ever.”

  Mr. Bunny had become infamous overnight by killing the loved ones of important people in the system. Tyrel loved Mr. Bunny’s balls for kindling shit like that. Just as he had planned, the whole country was mobilized to hunt for him. The FBI and New York’s Major Case Squad had partnered the same day. But whatever they did, Mr. Bunny was always a mile ahead. Tyrel followed the news with popcorn, rooting for his master.

  “He was?” the boy said. “What happened to him?”

  “Someone humiliated him. So he… um… hurt himself real bad.”

  “Who?”

  “A homeless man,” Tyrel said.

  “There it is,” the boy screeched, and pointed at the huge ice cream cup in Zesto’s logo.

  Tyrel maneuvered the car through the drive-through, avoiding cameras, and parked in front of the counter. The boy ordered three desserts. Tyrel paid the bill and joined the traffic again, taking the long way back.

  “What did this homeless man do, Uncle Tom?” The boy stuffed his face and dripped the seat with cold treats.

  “He stole something that meant a lot to my friend.”

  Initially Tyrel was pissed when the media reported that Mr. Bunny was a fat and ugly white supremacist named George, because Tyrel knew Mr. Bunny was slim and beautiful. He had thought Gabriel couldn’t catch his mentor and had framed someone else to save his head.

  But that wasn’t the case.

  The day George surrendered and fessed up to the murders, an assistant district attorney named Noah Smith had been arrested on charges of drug possession and drug-related killings.

  And Tyrel knew this Noah was Mr. Bunny.

  But the news reported a different story. Supposedly Noah had planned a life of crime at a young age and staged his twin brother’s murder so he could use him to fake his own death in the future. Gabriel had pitched a convoluted story to rip Mr. Bunny of his life’s work, and everyone believed it.

  “I hope you find this homeless man soon.” The boy dropped the last empty cup in the leg space.

  “Now why would I wanna do that?”

  “Because he hurt your friend real bad? Don’t you want to restore his honor?” the boy said, with all the seriousness
in the world.

  What? Tyrel should have a talk with his mother about those video games. And no, he didn’t want to restore Mr. Bunny’s honor. Noah wouldn’t like Tyrel murdering anyone for something as petty and predictable as revenge.

  Tyrel just nodded and hoped the boy would drop the subject. He did, but picked up another.

  “Why did he send you the money, Uncle?”

  “To make the world a better place.”

  True to his word, Mr. Bunny had emailed Tyrel, stating that $300,000 was deposited in an account, with the account holder’s address, and that Tyrel must withdraw it all at once before the IRS got involved. Now so many animals owed their lives to Noah’s charity.

  “Look. It’s Mom,” the boy shouted.

  “Kiddo. The mask,” Tyrel said.

  The boy retrieved it from the glove box and passed it to him.

  Tyrel eased the car to a stop near the curb. His senses worked in full force. He scanned the dark corners, bushes, the windows, and terraces. No sign of the police, and kids were playing street hockey. Wouldn’t the cops have cleared the road if they were here? An eerie quiet would signal their presence, right?

  Helen strode toward the car and placed the bag in the backseat.

  “Go on, Nephew.” Tyrel opened the door for him and unclipped the seatbelt. “Shoo. Get out, Mr. Million Questions.”

  “Let’s play Mortal Kombat, Uncle Tom,” the boy whined, but got down.

  “Enough for today,” Tyrel put the car in gear. “Bye, now.”

  He kept checking all his mirrors for a police SUV to jump on him, for a cop to deploy a spike strip under his wheels, for a SWAT helicopter to bombard the car. But nothing happened. He breathed a sigh of relief, removed the mask, and scrammed.

  * * *

  Adrenaline rushes mostly ended with Tyrel feeling horny. He caught himself fantasizing about Shane’s lips, his tongue on his neck and earlobes, and Tyrel slipped his hand to his crotch. He needed a drink and some company. Then he would go home and feed Barnabas.

  He drove to the pub where he picked up men and idled in his usual spot. Noah had warned him about the dangers of parking tickets and how Son of Sam had been caught. But Tyrel had no change to fill the meter.

  He exited the car, climbed into the backseat, and opened the bag. He pulled a bill from a hundred-dollar wad. To get change, he would need to buy a drink in the bar and come back to fill the meter.

  Then something about the bag hit him hard.

  Why hadn’t he counted the money? Mothers could be indifferent to their children. Tyrel had firsthand experience with that. What if he’d overestimated Helen’s love for her boy?

  He drew open the zipper further and categorized the stacks by their denominations. Then he began counting the number of wads, and the worry about being ticketed disappeared from his thoughts.

  A shadow moved and froze his fervent math. With sudden fear drying his throat, he turned back and looked up. A man in a brown hoodie was walking away from the car.

  Had he just caught Tyrel with all this cash? Of course he had.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  He wrestled the urge to follow the man and kill him. Noah wouldn’t approve of such impulsive actions.

  Tyrel jumped back into the driver’s seat and moved the car, any idea of a drink or sex forgotten. He angled the rearview mirror and peered into it. The brown hoodie was standing in the middle of the road, staring at Tyrel’s car.

  Chapter 38

  April 13, 2019. 09:21 A.M.

  As they journeyed to their new destination, Bill asked a lot of questions, but not one pertained to the case. Once they entered Louisville, any road they traveled on was swamped with patrol officers and SWAT.

  Gabriel first assumed that a high-profile convict had escaped. But when he noticed military personnel in the crowd, he thought different. Maybe an industrial accident or a natural calamity?

  As they turned onto a crowded bridge that crossed the Ohio River, he spotted a banner reading THUNDER OVER LOUISVILLE. Gabriel did some online sleuthing while stuck in traffic. They were smack-dab in the middle of an annual pyrotechnic festival and airshow that marked the beginning of the Kentucky Derby.

  After a K9 unit and bomb squad cleared their car, Emma continued on I-64 to New Albany, a border city between Kentucky and Indiana, where Helen lived.

  “Who is this Barnabas?” Emma said.

  “He owns several animal farms in Lexington,” Gabriel said. “Beef and veal are his signature products.”

  “Why did Tyrel pick him?”

  “According to the PETA article, Barnabas was indicted several times for animal abuse. They released a video online that was recorded from a spy-cam at his farm. It’s not exactly fun to watch.”

  “Then I won’t.” Emma swallowed. “What happened in it?”

  “Some asshole workers tossed firecrackers into fistulated cows.”

  “What’s a fistulated cow?”

  “They drill a huge hole into the cow’s belly for some medical purpose.”

  “So they kill the cows.”

  “No. That’s not it. They drill a hole that’s wide enough to insert an arm, but not deadly enough to kill them. And the cows live like that until they are slaughtered.”

  “What?” Emma frowned. “Is that even legal?”

  “I don’t know. But bursting crackers in the holes isn’t.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “That wasn’t the first time Barnabas has been accused of animal cruelty. He’s been indicted twenty-one times, and his license has been revoked three times.”

  “Then how is he even allowed to raise cows?”

  “He bought the witnesses, PETA claims. They also point out that his cousin used to be the governor. So…”

  “Shit. But his money and political power isn’t going to save him from Tyrel, are they?”

  “Nope.” Gabriel shook his head. “We are.”

  “What if I don’t wanna?”

  “You may not want to save Barnabas, but what about his daughter?”

  “Damn it.” Emma punched the steering wheel, and the car honked.

  “Don’t fret, Em,” Bill said, from the backseat. “He isn’t really going to kill and… um… consume the girl.”

  “What makes you say that?” Emma said.

  “Well, she’s just a little kid.”

  “You never heard about Albert Fish!” Emma took a slow breath. “Just… I don’t wanna talk about Agnes. Let’s concentrate on how we are gonna find this crazy bastard. Gabe, why do you think Noah chose Helen’s account to deposit the money?”

  “Randomly?” he said. “A complete stranger who can’t lead us to Tyrel.”

  They drove in silence for a few minutes, before Bill tried to fight the gloom. Abducted children always did that to cops.

  “I’d say Tyrel is hiding in San Francisco,” he said.

  “Because he’s gay?” Emma eyed the rearview mirror with a poker face.

  “Also because he’s most likely a vegan. Those self-righteous assholes live there with electric-car drivers and tree huggers.”

  “Stop flapping your jaws,” Emma said. “Do you even… why do you say offensive shit like this?”

  “Well, they are soft, aren’t they? So I put them all together.”

  “We just came from a town where our soft gay vegan has literally dug a cemetery, singlehandedly. He is a cannibalistic serial killer who can beat you to a pulp with one hand tied behind his back. Is that what soft means in your dictionary? That tells you everything you need to know about stereotypes—”

  “We’re here.” Gabriel pointed at the map in the dashboard.

  The car jolted to a halt as if the tires were glued to the road, and Bill’s face crashed into Emma’s seat. The house in front of them was an old gray mortar eyesore from the last century.

  “You want me to come?” Bill caressed and inspected his nose. “We know she isn’t the one we’re after. And I’m tired.”

  �
��It’s all right. You take a nap.” Gabriel opened the door.

  Plastic toys were strewn about on unruly grass. He picked up a blue stuffed animal that was missing an eye. They climbed the steps that exposed the red bricks underneath. A shiny and expensive lock, quite a contrast to the building and the lawn, protected the house.

  Gabriel knocked and waited.

  The door parted three inches. A hefty new chain bound the thin doorframe to a thinner door, and an anemic woman peeked from within.

  “Helen?” Gabriel said.

  “Who are you?”

  Emma shouldered him to the side and spoke into the opening.

  “Police, ma’am. Open up.”

  “Got any ID?”

  Life generally didn’t imitate fiction, and people weren’t often this distrustful of strangers.

  Emma produced her ID. “Open the door.”

  “What do you want?” Helen returned the badge to Emma.

  “All right, now you are stopping detectives from doing their duty. That’s against the law. If I kick this flimsy door open, I’d be doing you a favor right now.”

  A moment of hesitation. Then Helen finally budged.

  “Please put it away before you shoot your toes off.” Emma plodded inside.

  Gabriel stopped near Helen, who was holding a big revolver. No, not holding. More like struggling to keep it from falling. It was a powerful weapon, which made Gabriel think the recoil would break her thin wrist.

  “I have a permit, you know?”

  “I do.” Gabriel gave her the doll.

  He followed Emma and plunked himself on the couch in the living room. A puny kid sat Indian style on the floor in front of a TV and played Xbox. At last, Helen joined them.

  “I had… they didn’t believe me.” Helen sniffled, looking at the carpet.

  “Say what?” Emma said.

  “We had a break-in recently, and my child was taken. The IRS didn’t believe my statement. They said no abductor takes a kid for an ice cream and brings him back home.”

  “Please elaborate,” Emma said.

  Gabriel’s phone rang. Conor. He swiped the red button.

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  Helen said a masked intruder had held her son captive and blackmailed her into giving him $300,000 that someone had deposited in her account. She told the same to the IRS, who interviewed her two days after she had withdrawn the cash. Her words tumbled out as if she’d been wanting someone to hear her side.