Simmons took up the tapping of her pen again. “Well, I guess what they say about you is true.”
“And what’s that?” Nick asked putting his guard up slightly in preparation for her answer.
“That you’ve got a gift for this kind of work. More than I’d thought you would. I did my checking and most of the praise comes from your skills as an interviewer, but it appears you’ve got a great eye and can apply it to a scene as well.”
“Thanks. Did I get it right?” Nick asked, accepting the compliment without much gushing or fanfare.
“We’ll have to wait until I hear from Cavanaugh or Spangler, but I concur with your initial thinking to some degree.”
“What am I missing?” Nick asked.
“I’ve spent the better part of four years developing the Ferryman’s profile. Early on I looked hard at the possibility of a woman due to the height factor and some other indicators. I worked up a full list of potential physical and psychological aspects.”
“And what made you change your mind?” Nick asked, sensing there was a but coming.
“He attacked me.”
“Attacked you?” Nick asked wide-eyed.
“I told you I was targeted when I first began my investigation. I got a similar message to yours. I told you he killed my parents. What I didn’t tell you was that he tried to kill me too.”
Nick watched Simmons break eye contact. Her pale skin became almost translucent and she immediately redirected her energy, busying herself separating out the files in front of her into different stacks based on the date of attack.
“Wait, you’re telling me you went head to head with this madman?”
“Not something I like to talk about.”
“Tough. You’re going to talk about it to me. I need to know everything there is about this guy.”
“Let’s just say my profile was wrong and it almost cost me my life,” Simmons said, lifting up her shirt just enough to expose her left side, above the hipline. She absently ran her index finger across the three inches of jagged ridges of white scar tissue.
Nick nodded at the gesture. “What was it?”
“Knife.”
“Looks like we could be twins,” Nick said, allowing a slight grin to form. He yanked up his shirt, revealing a similar marking. His still had a red discoloration to the puffy scar left by the dead man that had given it to him.
Simmons smiled and the color in her cheeks returned to normal.
“I took one in the gut a little while back,” Nick clarified.
“Seems like we’ve got more in common than I previously thought,” Simmons said.
“You said your profile was wrong? How so?” Nick asked.
“I was correct about the Ferryman’s stature. He was just slightly taller than me. I’d put him at about 5’5” with a wiry frame. My workup had the Ferryman pegged as a female. I had a lead and was looking hard at a stripper at one of the clubs in downtown Dallas.”
“A stripper?” Nick asked.
“Yeah. It seemed a good fit. She’d been brutally assaulted by a homeless man a few years prior. Beyond that, she came from a broken home. And when I say broken, I mean it was demolished. She had a history of abuse that would make a prisoner of war cringe.”
“So, what happened?” Nick asked, totally engrossed.
“I was doing surveillance on her club, trying to learn her patterns and see where she went after work. I was set up about a block down the street.” Simmons paused, and her breathing became more rapid. “A guy in a hoodie walked by my car and flicked something through my open window. At first I thought it was just an asshole trying to be funny, until I picked it up.”
“What was it?”
“A nickel,” Simmons said.
“A nickel? Like the ones he leaves behind?”
“Exactly. A Buffalo nickel with the Indian head carved out to look like a skull with Medusa-like snakes for hair. His calling card. The death token he marks his victims with. At this point, I’d collected enough from several victims to recognize it immediately.”
“I don’t mean to interrupt, but what the hell’s a Buffalo nickel?” Nick asked.
“It used to be a fairly common practice to deface a coin. The Buffalo nickel was popular because of the design. The large Native American profile on one side and the buffalo on the other gave artists a larger platform to manipulate than other coins. People used to engrave and modify the coin.”
“I’m not tracking. So why does he use it? It must hold some significance,” Nick said, confused.
“It’s known by another name. These altered coins are commonly referred to as a hobo nickel.”
Simmons paused and opened a thick case file. She fished out a photograph which was tightly focused on one of these coins. Nick examined the picture closely. The face of the coin had been converted into a skull. The blood of some unsuspecting victim was painted onto the etched surface.
“So, the connection is what? What am I missing?” Nick asked laying the photo on the table. The vacant eyes of the skull taunted him.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t see it at first either. He primarily targets the homeless. Thus, the sick bastard’s sense of humor using the hobo nickel as his tribute.”
“All the victims have been homeless?” Nick asked.
“Yes, for the most part but with some exceptions. A lot of conjecture has been made as to why,” Simmons said.
“Pentlow wasn’t homeless,” Nick interjected.
“Not by our definition, but after you arrested him, his wife left him and moved out of state. His house was foreclosed on. So, technically he was homeless. But like I said, he does make some exceptions. Like in the case of my parents.”
“Okay. Sorry I didn’t mean to cut you off. I’d just been meaning to ask you about the coin,” Nick said.
“No worries. It’s a lot to take in.”
“Back to that night, what happened when you realized he’d tossed the coin into your car?” Nick asked.
“I gave chase, of course. The little bastard was quick. He tore off through a nearby warehouse. I called it in to my partner who was set up on the other side of the nightclub.”
Nick listened as Simmons recounted the incident. As she relived the intensity of that night, her cheeks flushed, the color complimenting the red of her hair.
“He completely caught me off guard when I entered the warehouse. It was fast. Really fast. He must’ve been waiting for me behind the door because he grabbed my ponytail as I ran into the room. I can still remember that pain. I thought he’d snapped my neck.”
Simmons absentmindedly rubbed the back of her neck as she recalled the moment.
“I thought he punched me in the ribs. It took me a minute to realize I’d been stabbed.”
“I can say with genuine assuredness that I completely understand what you mean,” Nick added.
“I was able to grab his knife hand while the knife was still inside. I fought hard to keep him from using it on me again. At some point during the tussle, he struck me hard in the side of my head in the temple area. Just before I lost consciousness, I managed to pull down the bandana that masked his face.”
“So that’s how you know it was a man?”
“All I saw was the scruff of a beard. So, either the Ferryman is a man or the bearded lady,” Simmons said, adding some levity to offset the intensity of the retelling.
“Any other details about his appearance?”
“He wore these red tinted sunglasses. It’s all I remember before I blacked out,” Simmons said softly.
“How come he didn’t kill you?”
“I ask myself that every day. I’m guessing my partner must’ve spooked him.”
“He didn’t see anything?” Nick asked.
“Nothing.”
Both were silent.
“Crazy, right? How quickly life can turn on a dime, or our case, a nickel,” Simmons said.
“You couldn’t be more right about that,” Nick said.
&n
bsp; He thought of Izzy and how many times she’d been there for him during those times of turmoil. Life had thrown him a massive curveball, and now he needed to figure out what the world would be like without her. Although their personal relationship had stalled out, just knowing that she was out there somehow always made him feel safe.
Izzy wouldn’t be there to save his ass this time. Nick didn’t like the thought and he involuntarily shuddered, shaking it off.
Chapter 17
“Mr. Lawrence?”
“Yes,” Nick answered into his cell phone.
“It’s Doctor Whitmore over here at Pine Woods. I know that you are out of town on vacation, but I need you to come here right away,” the doctor said.
Nick heard the tension in the physician’s voice and it concerned him greatly. “I’m back. My trip was cut short. What is it, Doc?”
“Your mother passed away,” Whitmore said.
“What?” Nick said, suddenly unsteady.
Nick looked down at his watch. He’d lost all track of time. It was almost 9:15 p.m. He’d left Simmons back at the office a few hours before, after taking a stack of files home with him. He was trying to get up to speed on years of investigative efforts in a matter of hours.
He’d been absorbed in case file after case file, devouring the information like a pig after the pour of a slop bucket. Time slipped away while he sat on the worn leather-backed chair in his quaint study. An office space that would soon most likely be converted into a baby room. His mind was racing, and all of these thoughts came crashing down on him haphazardly, making it impossible to comprehend the doctor’s words.
He heard the sound of the doctor’s voice but understood none of what was being said.
“What? I—don’t—I mean how—when?” Nick babbled.
“I’d rather discuss this with you in person. When can I expect you?” Whitmore asked calmly.
Nick snapped into focus and was already moving through the condo grabbing his jacket and keys.
“I’m on the way and will be there shortly.”
“I’ll be here to greet you when you arrive,” Whitmore said.
Nick ended the call, dropped his phone into his pocket, and dashed madly out the door into the brisk night air. He barely registered the icy wind that pelted against his face. The only thought on his mind was his mother and how he’d failed to be there at the end.
Nick made fast work of the distance between his house and his mother’s assisted living facility, weaving the Jetta in and out of the minimal suburban traffic.
The doctor had delivered the initial blow, but he had a hard time accepting it. Even though he knew deep down that he was already too late, he still felt an undeniable compunction to get there quickly. A self-preserving thought resonated that if he got there fast enough he could reverse things or prove the doctor wrong. It was irrational thinking and even though he was aware of its lunacy, he continued his maniacal trek.
Nick continued his reckless operation of the small German four-door as he accelerated into the parking area of Pine Woods Retirement Center, slamming on the brakes and skidding to a stop in front of the main entrance.
Nick left the car running and ran to the entrance. The automated sliding doors opened too slowly, and Nick pried at them, forcing the mechanics to work at his desperate speed. He rushed into the main lobby and was greeted by the familiar face of Doctor Whitmore.
“Mr. Lawrence, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I still don’t understand. She was fine the other day. I stopped in to see her before I left on my trip,” Nick said through ragged breaths.
“She was. We’re still running some tests and I’ll hopefully have more for you once I have those results, but prelims are indicating heart failure. You know that she’s been in a weakened state for quite some time now,” Whitmore said.
“Why would you let me go on vacation? Why would you tell me that she’d be in good hands?” Nick’s anger seeped through gritted teeth.
“Mr. Lawrence, there would’ve been nothing you could have done even if you were here. I understand you’re upset. Please, take a moment to calm down before we go to see your mother. Would you like some water?”
Nick said nothing. He took long slow breaths trying to regain his composure. The doctor stood by patiently waiting and didn’t interrupt. It was obvious to Nick that the man was comfortable with death and people’s adverse reaction to it. Nick was too, but not when it came to family. His spiraled mood was compounded by the thought of his mother dying alone at Pine Woods. And the image of it made him sick.
“Can I see her?” Nick asked. His voice had returned to its homeostasis.
“Of course. When I realized you were in town I had staff leave her. We wanted to wait for you. If it provides any consolation, your mother looks at peace.”
The doctor turned and proceeded to walk into the restricted wing of the facility reserved for residents who required additional care. Nick’s mother’s dementia had dictated the move to this section of the hospital months ago.
He followed one step behind the doctor. Although Nick towered a good six inches taller than Whitmore, he couldn’t seem to keep pace with the man’s stride. It was as if Nick’s shoes were encased in concrete, each step harder than its predecessor.
The doctor broke the silence. “At least she had one visitor today.”
“What do you mean visitor?” Nick asked.
“An attorney. He wanted to verify the conditions of your mother’s room.”
“Verify the conditions? You’re not making any sense.”
“It’s okay Mr. Lawrence. I take no offense in you ensuring your mother’s receiving the best treatment,” Whitmore said.
Nick stopped dead in his tracks and the doctor in turn did the same, turning to face him.
“I didn’t send an attorney,” Nick said.
“I don’t understand?”
“I said I didn’t send an attorney. I have one that assisted me in setting up power of attorney and things of that nature, but I didn’t send anyone to check up on the living conditions at Pine Woods,” Nick said. His words came out rapid fire and a new panic seized him.
Nick took up a light jog toward his mother’s room, and it was the doctor who now lagged behind.
Nick entered the room and quickly eyed the two nurses that were alongside the bed where his mother lay. Her pearl-white hair was spread out gracefully across the pillow. The light that washed over her from above gave her a heavenly appearance. Her hands were folded across her stomach, and had the doctor not advised him otherwise, Nick would have assumed she was sleeping. Peaceful.
“Everybody get out now!” Nick said in a commanding yet controlled voice.
“Mr. Lawrence, what are you doing? You can’t order them out. This is a treatment facility. There are tests to run and protocols to follow,” Whitmore said, catching his breath as he spoke.
“Everything stops, and everybody needs to step out of this room,” Nick reiterated.
Whitmore stood still, staring wide-eyed at Nick.
“We’re going to be following my protocols now.”
“Mr. Lawrence, I understand you’re upset, but what are you talking about?” Whitmore asked exasperatedly.
“This room is now a crime scene.”
Chapter 18
He heard a woman’s voice speaking softly, but with an air of command in the hallway just outside the room. It sounded like Izzy. The thought was immediately dashed from his mind, knowing she would never again come through another door. In the threshold of the doorway stood his new partner.
Simmons approached, stopping a foot in front of Nick who was seated on a stool beside his mother.
“I’m so sorry Nick. How’re you holding up?”
“As good as can be expected. Did you get hold of crime scene?” Nick asked.
“I called Cavanaugh and his team,” Simmons said.
“I thought you guys didn’t see eye to eye?”
“I don’t see ey
e to eye with many people. And besides, Cavanaugh and Spangler have done the two most recent scenes. I’d rather keep some level of continuity in the processing,” Simmons said.
“Makes sense,” Nick said, staring at his lifeless mother.
He was devoid of emotion, an empty shell, running on autopilot.
His shoulders hunched at the massive weight that they carried, albeit an invisible one. Simmons placed her hand between Nick’s shoulder blades. The sensation of her touch brought him into focus, and he turned his head up to look at her.
“It’s not your fault,” Simmons said softly.
The words stabbed at him with a ferocity more devastating than the knife he’d been impaled with months before. An intense tightness gripped his chest like an unseen trash compactor, squeezing his heart. Without thinking, and no words spoken, he slumped, crashing his head into Simmons’s small waistline. Nick felt her arms shift to a loose, but welcome, embrace as his body shook uncontrollably. He resisted the emotional release and the discord conjured up an awkward whimper. The sound escaped his throat and its trumpeting brought him back from the abyss.
He sat upright and wiped his eyes, releasing her. Nick stood, creating more distance from Simmons.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“No need to apologize.” Simmons eyed Nick as if evaluating him.
Nick nodded and rubbed his face, attempting to remove any trace of his collapse.
“I understand if this too much, too personal. And I won’t judge you in any way if you want to come off the case.”
“Are you kidding me?” Nick said with a steely look.
“I’m just saying that I would get it if you did. I took a leave of absence after the death of my parents. I had to hit the reset button. I almost didn’t come back,” Simmons said.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Nick said.
“All right. Just remember the offer stands.”
“I appreciate it.”
Nick broke eye contact with the green-eyed agent and cast his eyes downward, again taking in the sight of his mother’s lifeless body. Seeing her in that bed and knowing that her last few days had been spent alone, without a visit from her only living son, sent a ripple of guilt that he knew would never leave. I’ve failed you in life, he thought, but not in death.
The Rabbit's Hole Page 9