Speaking Evil

by Jason Parent

  “Woah!” The man’s arms shot up. “I-I-I didn’t do this! I just came to help!” Apparently, he was just a construction worker.

  Beside her, Bruce had his weapon drawn and was examining the cab. She knew Frank was somewhere out of view, watching her back or flank. She kept her weapon raised. “What do you mean by ‘help’?”

  “Help you, the police!” the man sputtered. “This truck, the crane—they were stolen from our site nearby. When I heard all the noise, I came running. I’m the only guy who knows how to operate it other than Joe, and they shot him.”

  “You can lower your arms, but keep your hands in front of you. No sudden movements.” Sam lowered the gun but kept it in her hand by her side. “Explain.”

  The man removed his hard hat and used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow. “My name’s Phil Dempsey. I’m a crane operator with GXC Demolition. We’re working a site about eight blocks that way.” He pointed to his right. “Not even an hour ago, two cops, an old guy and a young guy, come on site with a little kid. And the younger guy—at least I think he’s younger—is wearing this weird Indian, uh, Native American mask. Says he’s wearing it for the kid, for what reason, I don’t know. But the two men have badges and they look legit.”

  He shrugged. “Anyway, they ask Joe—that’s Joseph Botticelli—if they wouldn’t mind showing the kid how the crane works. Mind you, they ain’t got no business being onsite, but them being cops, Joe entertains them. No actual operation, mind you. He just lets the kid play with the joysticks and work the pedals while everything is off.”

  Phil tipped his head and sighed. “Then they ask Joe for his keys, for the crane, and for the truck. Joe, me, and everyone think they’re joking until they pull out their guns. This young cop just smiles and pumps a round into Joe’s knee. At that point, the rest of us are keeping our distance, and Joe’s down, fumbling in his pockets for his keys. He hands them to the young cop, who shoots him in the face. We all run then. Those cops and that boy, they drive off with the crane.”

  Sam bounced on her feet, wanting Phil to tell her everything but to do it without mincing words. “Did you get a good look at any of them?”

  “The old guy and the kid, yeah. Like I said, the other cop was wearing a mask. And once they drew their sidearms, all the fun and games were over. You know what I mean?”

  Sam’s mind began to spin. Two out of three obviously hadn’t cared whether they would be recognized. Maybe only those two had been brainwashed. And the third? He could have been Wainwright. She shook her head. Questions better left for later.

  Phil raised his arms in exasperation. “We were still waiting on the cops when I heard the noise over here and came running, figuring I might be needed.” He looked up at the crane on the bed and shook his head. “It’s counterbalanced to support the weight of the wrecking ball, but the outriggers aren’t positioned right. The boom could have snagged a streetlight or powerlines, or—” He sighed. “About a hundred things could have gone wrong, tipped this thing over, and injured everyone within range of that four-ton wrecking ball. Though I’m guessing hurting innocent people was the last thing on their minds. It’s amazing they even got it to work, unless one of them had experience. I mean, that kid couldn’t even reach the pedals...”

  As Phil trailed off, Sam searched for a lead on Michael’s whereabouts in his story. Finding none, she glanced about for Frank and Bruce. “You guys find anything?”

  “No,” Bruce said from right behind her, much closer than she’d thought. “I suggest we keep moving.”

  “They’re not here,” Frank called from around the truck.

  “They came back this way,” Phil said. “One of the cops, anyway, and the kid. I saw them coming and hid around the corner of that building.” He pointed behind him. “They got into a black Jeep and drove off.”

  Sam scowled. She turned to Bruce, so mad she couldn’t even speak. She wondered if he’d known the kid they were chasing was not Michael but perhaps the missing child from the hospital. She had half a mind to go back to the rubble and start digging, but just because Phil hadn’t seen Michael didn’t necessarily mean Wainwright’s goons hadn’t picked him up. Or may have killed him. She tried to keep her emotions in check while talking to Phil, who was not to blame. “Did you get a license plate?”

  Phil nodded. “Some of it. Rhode Island plate, W F dash nine. There were two more numbers, but I’m not sure. Next one might have been a six or an eight.”

  Sam met his eyes. “You’re sure on the first three?”

  Phil nodded again.

  She grabbed her portable radio and called into dispatch. “Put out a BOLO on a black Jeep Wrangler, Rhode Island license plate beginning with W F nine. Any sightings, report back immediately to Detective Samantha Reilly. Do not engage.”

  “We should head back to your car.” Bruce grabbed her by the elbow. “Get on the wire and be ready when—”

  “Take your fucking hand off me!” Sam’s face was hotter than a leather car seat in summer. Whipping her arm away from her former partner’s touch, she wheeled on Phil, who jumped.

  Nostrils flaring, she asked in a low tone, “Did the men posing as officers say anything to you or your coworkers that could suggest where they might have come from?”

  Phil’s eyes rolled upward. “Uh...” He tapped his chin. “No, I can’t really think of anything.”

  “Did they say anything at all?”

  “Other than what I already told you, no. Not really.” He shrugged. “The old cop seemed like he was lost in his own thoughts, kinda spacey and muttering to himself, ya know? And the younger one... well, he was kinda hard to read on account of the mask and all, but he didn’t really say much neither. I got the sense he was just there trying to humor the kid.” Crow’s feet spread from the corners of his eyes. “It was the kid that did most of the talking. He was just so excited about getting to drive another big machine, like it was for his birthday or something. He kind of reminded me of my own boy, actually, except that he didn’t seem all that concerned when his dad or whoever shot Joe.”

  Sam was about to thank the man for his time and head back to the rubble when something he’d said repeated in her brain. “Say that again?”

  “What?” Phil squinted. “I just mean that my son is scared to death of blood. He’d be—”

  “No, I mean what the kid said, something about getting to drive another big machine.”

  “Oh! Yeah, the kid was bragging about how he got to drive a train earlier. A real one too.”

  “Train?” Frank stepped up beside her and Bruce. “There aren’t any trains in Fall River. No subway. The commuter rail from Boston was supposed to be extended into Fall River in the next couple of years, but you know how those things are always getting delayed.”

  “Any chance they’ve already started work on the station?” Sam asked.

  Phil chimed in, surprising Sam, who’d almost forgotten he was there as her mind tinkered with the details. “Yeah, they broke ground on the station, but there wouldn’t be any trains there yet. That’s a long way off.”

  “What about an old station?” Sam asked. “Trains must have come through here back in the city’s glory days.”

  “That’s even before my time,” Bruce said. He stared into space, eyes narrowing on some invisible target. “But I do know where there’s an abandoned train depot. Down near Battleship Cove, across from the Port Authority. There’s a lot of traffic by there, so it’s not an ideal place to hide, but once on the lot, you could probably get lost on it.”

  Sam looked at Frank, Bruce’s voice stirring her ire.

  Frank pursed his lips. “It’s the only lead we’ve got right now.”

  “You two go.” Sam spun around. “I’m heading back to look for Michael.”

  “He could be anywhere by now,” Bruce called, stopping her in her tracks. “If he hasn’t tried to get a hold of you, he’s probably with them. And if he’s not with them, the best way to keep it that way is to take the son
of a bitch down once and for all.”

  Somewhere out there was a boy who needed her. But Bruce’s words rang true. Michael would need her all the more if he was with Wainwright. With no other clues to where he might have gone, following the one possible lead they had seemed her best choice. Either that, or she could go shift through the rubble, unsure if she would be able to handle what she might find. The thought turned her stomach, so she coerced herself to believe he’d gotten out, that there might still be something she could do for him.

  A blue Honda was approaching from the west, rolling slowly forward as the light turned green. Pulling her badge from her belt, Sam held it up as she stepped in front of the vehicle. The car jerked to a stop.

  “Sorry, miss, but we’re going to need your car.”

  The twenty-something behind the wheel started to protest, but then she grabbed her purse and phone and stepped out of the car. “But how will I get it back?”

  “We’ll bring it to you.” Sam hopped behind the wheel. Frank, she was happy to see, took the passenger seat, while Bruce slid into the back. Any hostility she’d harbored for Frank seemed a distant memory, overshadowed by the animosity for the man she’d once considered a second father. Squeezing the wheel tightly and wishing it were Bruce’s neck, she spun the car around then sped toward Battleship Cove.

  CHAPTER 39

  Michael dropped to the ground as the handlebar for the zip line swung through the air where his head had been. His side hit earth first, and he barrel-rolled from his back to his stomach. Dirt flew in his face as he pushed himself up, the metal instrument displacing the topsoil only a hairline from his hand. He scrambled to his feet and turned to face Dylan, squaring off with his hands before remembering the stick knife he’d put in his back pocket. Reaching for it, his hand found empty space. He glanced about the underbrush and saw the barbaric weapon inches from Dylan’s feet.

  Dylan didn’t seem to notice it. Blood darkened the skin under his nostrils and outlined his teeth. One hand hung by his side, clutching the handlebar, while the other hugged his torso just under his ribs.

  “Stay... back,” he said through wheezes, his voice barely more than a whisper. He coughed, and blood ran like drool from the corner of his mouth. “I can’t believe... you pushed me.”

  Seeing Dylan struggling to stand, to even breathe, made his anger leak away, replaced by grief and something akin to shock at what he’d done. “Dylan, you’re hurt bad. Put the bar down, and we’ll get you help.”

  Dylan laughed at that, but only before the laughter brought about a coughing fit and more blood from his mouth. His eyelids fluttered, and he bent over. “No way, man... I... I thought we were... friends.”

  “Give it up, already.” Michael snarled, unsure if his anger was toward Dylan or himself. He kept his hands out in front of him. “I checked your phone. Are you going to tell me your own father brainwashed you? Why’d you have to be part of it, Dylan? Is he really your father? I don’t even know the jerk.”

  “My father... called me?” Dylan’s eyes rolled up. He blinked away tears. “Dad... He can be a real dick sometimes, but... I guess you already know that. Always talking about some sort of... rite of passage, vision quest thing. Taking this Native American thing way too seriously. Before that was some Liberian tribal ritual. Made me eat—”

  Michael didn’t think Dylan’s face could get any paler, but just then, it blanched as if some distant memory had scared the rest of his life out of him. He leaned over, using the zipline grip line as a cane for support. His voice softer, seemingly talking more to himself than Michael, he said, “He thinks... I’m too soft.” He raised his hand to his face and studied it, but Michael was unsure of what he saw there. “Maybe I am.”

  “I thought he wanted to use me.” Michael began to circle as Dylan did, the latter still making no effort to raise his weapon.

  “Does he? I... I don’t know. Stay back!” Dylan feinted to his right, causing Michael to jump, but the braced-faced boy made no move to attack. “I think... he’s run out of reasons to keep me around.”

  “Come on, man.” Michael stepped to his left, sneaking a glance down at the stick knife, which was almost within reach. He hoped he wouldn’t need it, but he didn’t know if Dylan was severely hurt or just playing up his injuries, truly ignorant of his father’s games or playing one of his own. “You can stop this, then. He doesn’t care about you. He’s just using you or trying to like he is me, Sam, that doctor lady, all those masked patients. We’re all just pieces in his game. Put the bar down, and we’ll get you help. Maybe we could even figure out a way to still be friends.”

  A sad smile crept over his face. “Ishmael... floats alone... my friend. Maybe... you’re Starbuck.” The bar fell from his hand. “I’m sorry, Michael.” Then, he, too, fell.

  Michael hurried to his side. He looked at Dylan’s hand, still clutched over a wound spouting dark blood, the tip of a branch poking through his fingers. He tried to pull it out, but between his weakened condition and his hands repeatedly slipping on the blood everywhere, he soon gave up.

  Face white as death, Dylan peered up at Michael. He smiled, a smile that was warm and friendly and reminiscent of the first one he’d given Michael—the smile of a friend. “I told—” He coughed several times, his eyelids fluttering once more as he began to sway. “I told you... you were... a badass.”

  “Get up!” Michael cried. “The hospital, it’s only a short walk—”

  Dylan’s head swiveled slowly to the side, and Michael understood what Dylan must have already known. He was dying. He crouched, tried to pull his friend to his feet, which only spurred more coughing, then sat beside him. Lying there on the cold dirt, his chest expanding and contracting, Dylan seemed to be at peace. Michael’s own mind was still too frantic to figure out how to help his friend or even to know whether he should.

  “Dylan, please. I have to know.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Were you for real?”

  He looked into Dylan’s eyes and saw that if the boy had had any answers to give, they would no longer be forthcoming.

  CHAPTER 40

  Sam, Frank, and Bruce parked in the lot at Heritage State Park among a scattering of other vehicles, hoping to give her quarry no hint she was after them. The park lay just around a bend in the road from the abandoned train depot. From where they sat, she could peek through the chain-link fence into the depot’s entrance, her view hindered only by a hodgepodge of disconnected antique train cars in various degrees of disrepair, a carnival of autumn colors and rust. No one appeared to be at home, but she couldn’t see beyond the cars closest to her.

  Besides the hangar-sized lot itself, several restaurants, small businesses, docks, a city park, a decommissioned battleship, and a submarine called the cove home—not an ideal place for a confrontation if there was to be one. Sam wasn’t so confident they had the right place, given the bustling neighborhood and that Wainwright might prefer naval warships to the depot. He was probably insane enough to take a shot at them.

  As she and her tagalongs made their way to the enclosed lot’s fence, Frank separated from the group to go toward the front. The security hut at the entrance appeared to be empty, their first sign that they might have hit upon the right location.

  The second sign came when someone opened fire on Frank. He went down fast out of sight, though he hadn’t appeared to have been hit. He must’ve taken cover behind the security hut. Only when shots sounded from his direction did her concern truly lessen.

  She called in backup. Even if a bad apple had spoiled them, as Frank believed, she trusted her department to come through for her. Bruce, impetuous as ever, was already straddling the top of the fence before the call had ended, muttering something about how Wainwright would just escape again if they waited.

  In a voice louder than she’d intended, Sam admonished him—some of the masked shooters might be victims. She hoisted herself up and over the fence and followed Bruce into danger, not voicing but partially sharing his con
cerns after what had happened at Brentworth.

  Train cars dotted the lawn like tombstones in a forgotten cemetery, no rails beneath them. Sam briefly wondered how they’d gotten there as she slid along the side of the burnt husk of a cargo car. Some were rusted and decayed, while several were in relatively good condition despite them being decades, maybe even centuries, old. Some had the logos of railways Sam had never heard of, while others bore the insignia of a circus or railroad shipper. They were lined up like dominos, zigzagging through a weedy gravel landscape home to rats and God knew what else. The broken beer bottles and syringes strewn all about the ground indicated a different kind of rat that would hopefully scurry away upon police arrival.

  As she made her way toward the sounds of gunfire, Sam spotted a fancy-looking dining car that appeared to be the source of the cacophony of shots. Bruce signaled with a nod his intent to head around the back of it. She approached from the side, breaking cover and planning to circle to the front in the hope of getting the drop on whoever was still firing at Frank. But as she neared the car, a masked face appeared in the window. Spotting her, it quickly dipped out of sight.

  Sam wasted no time sprinting back to cover. Glass shattered and bullets kicked up dirt in front of her. She swung around the end of the car she’d originally approached from, pressing her back flat against it as she caught her breath and steeled herself to fire back.

  What sounded like a firework finale came from the back of the train car, and Sam knew Bruce had encountered some trouble of his own. He’d be no help to her, but at least they had the shooters pinned on three sides—so long as all three of the good guys remained standing. She sprang around the corner and opened fire on the spot in the window where she thought her target had been. Her aim had been deadly accurate, except the masked shooter had moved. He let out his own barrage of bullets. They clinked off the metal of the train, dangerously close. Still, Sam held her ground. She fired just one shot at her assailant, causing him to duck behind the relative safety of the car’s wall.