by Nenny May
“You’ve gotta’ have something else Quinn. There’s gotta’ be anything we can do?” Adam Walker felt helpless and sick to his stomach. It wasn’t indigestion, he knew that now. It was good old fashion regret.
“You can go in there and talk to your friends. They need someone right now, as for me, I’m going to file this case and see what I can gather precedence wise. There’s a storm coming and boy do we gotta’ be ready for it.” Paige Quinn said with a nod. Feeble, Walker could do nothing but watch as she turned on her stiletto-heels and sauntered out the translucent doors. For the love of God!
Running a hand through his hair, Walker retraced his steps to where he’d been told to wait outside for a seemingly useless Paige Quinn to further bury them in their own shit. She was helping, a fraction of him liked to think. But sincerely, was she? He’d gotten her involved and the best she could do was a life sentence for Madison and a reduced sentence for Gates if he completely denied Madison? His breaths had been restricted to short forced puffs as he pounded up the flight of stairs... had they taken a left turn or right turn by the water cooler? His situation had left him slaphappy.
“Excuse me, authorised personnel only.” Blared a voice. Walker whipped around, paused in his stride, his hands shoved into his pockets.
“I’m here to talk with Detective Gates.” Walker squared up to the officer by the door... unless he’d taken the wrong turn and this wasn’t where Gates was held. Wouldn’t that be incredibly disconcerting? He knew he shouldn’t have taken a left by the cooler!
“Authorised personnel only.” The man repeated. From where Adam stood the man almost seemed animated with his pudgy stomach and dark rimmed glasses.
“I’m here with his lawyer, Paige Quinn and I need to see him.” At this the man seemed even more uninterested, if that were possible.
“Look sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises as you are beginning to consist a nuisance to the corporate body that is the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“He’s my friend and he could be charged for a crime he didn’t commit.” Adam continued, flaring his hands in unreserved frustration. Was this it; had he completely gone bat-shit-crazy? Had he absolutely lost control of the situation? Their neighbour’s son was gone. Protests ran rampant through the streets outside Cotswold that may or may not be looking at a month long shut down as nation-wide parents and kids’ alike sought justice for the ten-ten-year-old boys kidnapped and killed by Hemmings. And now, Madison Miller could be facing life in prison at best and Gates, it was clear he couldn’t walk out of this without a sentence.
Goddamnit!
. . .
“Alexander Hemmings?” Spencer Black echoed. In his office, the special ops agent seemed squirmy. It didn’t help that he was in a bit of a sticky-wicket with this case. He couldn’t exactly say he’d been prepared to take the brief, it had just sort of landed in his lap and boy was he going to get a big bonus if he could crack this one. Think about the rounds of moonshine he could offer his boys at the downtown bar up yonder.
“Yes. Apparently both of their stories seem to involve the name Alexander Hemmings.” Officer Charlie Wallace explained. The interrogating officer had been of the pleasure of sitting with the detained suspects Madison Miller and former detective Ryan Gates because Wallace could bet all his darn here gold pennies that Gates wasn’t going back to the force.“Although their stories differed, they both involved the same man. Alexander Hemmings and they both believe he’s with the eleventh kid.”
Spencer Black leaned back in his seat, his face hardened. If this Hemmings guy was with the eleventh kid, there could still be a murder. Shit! This was still a race against time, with the life of a ten-year-old on the line. “And what did they have to say about this Hemmings person?”
“In Miss. Miller’s case, she was a bit stubborn to cooperate. She did say that she was the mind behind the crimes, but she had the boy with a friend. Took a lot of time and persuasion, but she finally budged with the name Alexander Hemmings. As for Gates, he had very little to say on the matter and just told us to investigate the name Alexander Hemmings.”
“And is there anyone looking into this third party?” Spencer Black was more than troubled by the situation. If there was indeed a third-party, he would need to convince yet another judge to grant an arrest warrant and he doubted he could find another willing one within the city of Charlotte. He hadn’t even thought of how much more he would need to plunge into a full fledged investigation of this Hemmings person.
“At the moment, no... And it’s not for the reason you’re thinking.” Officer Wallace leaned forward in his seat, his hands pressed downward, fingers sprawled against Spencer Blacks’ wooden desk. “It’s because there was a little more we were able to get out of Miss. Miller. She said Hemmings is under special orders to release the boy in twenty-four hours if he’s not investigated or kill him if he is.”
“And you birdbrains are listening to the claims of a serial-killer? We have the upper hand here! We can trap him like a little rat and grab the boy.” Spencer was startled to hear his fellow officer speak this way. This was all wrong, all of it. Wallace should have gotten someone looking into Alexander Hemmings, following the deranged nutcase. To Spencer, anyone that worked for a woman conniving enough to plan, kidnap and murder ten innocent ten-year-old boys was a lunatic and deserved the highest punishment.
“What if we look into him and he kills the boy? We’ve got to play our cards right, Spencer.” Argued Wallace. Here’s the thing, Spencer wasn’t brick-headed. He’d looked at things from Wallace’s perspective... Okay he exactly hadn’t, but he wasn’t exactly closed to the idea. If they cornered Hemmings, he could kill the boy and if they didn’t he could flee their jurisdiction.
“Twenty-four-hours?” Black asked again. “That’s all she gets, if the boy isn’t released we’re cornering that rat bastard and getting back that boy.”
. . .
Chapter Thirteen
I f there was anywhere Alexander Hemmings would have liked to be, it would have been in Maryland and not in Harris Houston Road, still in Charlotte with a boy he now wanted nothing to do with. A boy he couldn’t bring himself to kill. Wouldn’t that shatter the entire purpose? He’d committed each murder for Ethan Daniels, for his inner ten-year-old-self that he saw in Ethan Daniels. Killing Ethan would be like killing his inner ten-year-old; a boy that was a tad different, but more than anything just wanted to fit-in and not play the classic ‘let’s see how much playground sand the recess freak could fit in his mouth’. He wasn’t a freak! And all he’d wanted was to get through fifth grade damn it!
But as he sat there, his heart aching in his chest and left leg restlessly tapping on the egg-white tiled floors of the much too disconcerting waiting area of the brightly colored blue and yellow room, adjacent to a man that seemed all too familiar in the nastiest ways, he couldn’t help but feel like things had taken a turn for the worst. He broke the silence with a chuckle; he didn’t particularly know what he was doing. The situation to him was about as clear as an overcast night. The head of the man adjacent to him rose like an ostrich out of the sand. His stomach sunk. It was him. And all of a sudden something shimmered beyond the overcast night. And this might have all been in Hemmings head, but it seemed to guide him towards a certain thing he had to do.
If it was any consolation, age had not been pleasant to the schools heartthrob. Once the reason Cotswold Elementary’s fifth grade girls would linger behind in class and try to sneak a conversation with the Cotswold sweetheart, it seemed with time, he’d become the headliner for balding middle-aged men in his ripe twenties. Hemmings wasn’t any better in the hair department, but his was a strategic choice for his... lifestyle.
How was it possible that after years of trolling the internet, years of rummaging through the records, he hadn’t been able to come across even just one of the men that had altered his perspective on life and the day he’d reserved to getting his passport picked up, he’d stum
bled into Bert Lance; the same Bert Lance that had shoved him into the classroom doors and tugged away his seat right when Hemmings was about to sit. Once or twice would have been a hoot, but every chance he got was a bit much.
The fact that the man could sit at ease by Hemmings riled his blood-pressure. Hemmings had single-handedly sent fear streaking through the streets of Charlotte! If Bert knew what was what, he would be trembling in Hemmings wake. Was this a sign that there was more he had to do in Charlotte before taking his leave? It had to be.
His fingers trembled. He knew this feeling, the weight on his chest, the almost empty-hollowness of his thoughts. This wasn’t the place, neither was it the time, but Bert Lance had to die and Hemmings would be darned if he thought he could fight the urge that tugged on his fingers to reach for his .38 special. No, he had to be different this time. Those murders were a pattern reserved for Ethan Daniel’s bullies. These were his bullies and he was going to ensure they got a little bit of a more... grotesque murder. The kind where Hemmings would watch as their bodies gradually drained of blood; drop after drop and then he would bathe their corpses in the ruby pool.
“Quite the wait, huh?” Hemmings asked. “I got better service at Travel Visa Pro down by McCullough. You here for a pick up?”
“From the way you sound, I would think you’d wanna pick me up. Listen, Buddy, don’t take this the wrong way, or, do, I don’t really care. But don’t talk to me.” Hemmings features hardened. His head dropped, his fingers picking at a scab wound on his wrist. Fuck special deaths, Lance needed to die and Hemmings was going to enjoy hearing the piece of shit beg for his last breath.
Despite the possessive insistence of the voice in his head beckoning him to tug out his .38 special, Hemmings remained rooted in place. And he’d sat there even after the honey-blonde receptionist had called for Mr. Lance. In a sense, Hemmings was overflowing with pride, there had only been a handful of times he’d been able to ignore the voice in his head. Was he actually ignoring it? Or was he postponing his impulsive reaction to the requests of the dominating voice? He was inclined to believe the latter.
Though after ‘Mr. Lance’ had stepped out into the glare of the afternoon sun, through the translucent doors, Hemmings had risen from his seat; left, then right, he’d cracked his neck and reached a hand beneath his shirt to his belt buckle where he’d had his loyal weapon. Initially, he’d trailed his former classmate at a distance. But when he’d unlocked his car, Hemmings dashed into action slipping into the front seat of Bert Lance’s Mitsubishi-Eclips-Cross. “What the fuck, Man?” Blared a startled Bert as he turned to meet the barrel of Hemmings .38 special. “If this is about what I said, I didn’t mean it, I was just having a bad day and I lashed out at you.” Hemmings chuckled.
“You always seem to be having a bad day don’t you? I guess everyday back in elementary school you were having a bad day too? I mean why else would you take pains to making me seem like the class freak?” Hemmings was itching to pull the trigger. He wanted more than anything to stain the car with Bert Lance’s blood, but he knew, first came Bert then came the others. He would get to kill Bert, in due time. But he needed to know where the others were. They ought to have kept in touch. Bert could know one and one, could know two others. Certainly Hemmings was going to bring them down like flies.
“Shit, you still hung up on that? Look I’m sorry! I was a kid, I’ve changed now, I have a family.” There was a twitch in Bert’s eyes. Hemmings was a calculated person, he couldn’t miss this. His former classmate was looking for a way out. In a taunting manner, Hemmings gradually cocked the weapon, releasing the safety.
“How many kids?” Alexander Hemmings asked.
“What?” Bert’s eyes continued to twitch. Did this man not fear the barrel of a loaded gun?
“I said how many kids you got?” Hemmings pressed it further onto Bert Lance’s head.
“Two.” Hemmings smiled. It wasn’t a toothy grin, but a small smile.
“I’m going to make you bathe in the blood of your children.” There was blankness in Hemmings stare, and an uncomfortable shrill to his words. It was then that Bert Lance knew he was waist-deep in shit. “But first, drive.” This man was crazy as a loon! Thought a prickly Bert Lance. If this man believed that he would drive him to kidnap his own kids, kill them and bathe in their blood, he was mistaken. If he put that car in drive he was heading for the police department on Concord Mills. And if he died along the way, at least he wouldn’t get to his kids...
“You’re behind them murders aren’t you? You sick bastard! You’ve been killing those children haven’t you?” Bert Lance had only been spit-balling, although a piece of him was prone to believing with the current state of the nation, that this man whatever his name was, could be behind the murders of the ten-Cotswold-elementary-ten-year-old-boys. Hemmings smile was yet to fade, and with it came a throaty laugh.
“It’s not everyday people figure that out so quickly. You’re a smart one; I’m definitely going to enjoy killing you.” Bert glanced at his car horn. “Blare the horn, Bert, I dare you. Let’s keep in mind you have a very modern car with your home location bookmarked into your GPS. My gun has a silencer, I can kill you, shove you into the front seat and drive to your home and dump your body in front of your kids.”
“What is with you and kids?” Hemmings shrugged.
“I guess I never grew up.” Hemmings pushed the start up button for the car. It hummed to life. “Now don’t make me repeat ma’ self. Drive. We’re going to go to a new place and you’re going to parent a new kid... at least until I get tired of you and kill you.”
Hemmings had a plan one he was just itching to play out. Forget sexual fantasies, he had murder fantasies to relish in the day he brought those boys, these men, Bert, Ricky, Ernie and the likes to their knees pleading as he force-fed them playground sand until their eyes burned and he would make them wash it down with toilet water as their own kids watched from the corner... or maybe he would murder their kids, point blank execution style and he would make each of them watch. He ought to have enough room in Momma Hemmings old home to house ten grown men and multiple children.
Fuck-biscuits! What was he going to do with Ethan Daniels?
. . .
As at the time Madison Miller’s phone blared with what seemed to be the last call the slick-device would receive from Alexander Hemmings, it had been in Adam Walker’s custody and it had been pitch black outside, the night standing as an inky canopy freckled with the fewest stars. He’d been taking a leisurely stroll through Hartness Avenue. At the time, he’d been relishing in the soft, cool breeze, he’d had his head in the clouds. With the day he’d had, it would be out of the ordinary for his mind to be as calm as a meadow field. The sharp tunes had startled him; pierced through his concerns. The night wasn’t particularly quiet, there were cars whooshing past here and there and fellow pedestrians roaming the streets, but he hadn’t been expecting the skin-prickling sound or the trembling vibrations in his back pocket. He’d picked up the dancing phone and pressed it to his ear, he’d said nothing, but merely listened.
“Both suspects behind the murder of the ten-ten-year-old Cotswold Elementary boys have been apprehended.” Alexander Hemmings quoted the evenings headlines. He hadn’t been in the comfort of his own home when he’d trudged up the basement stairs to the headlines hung in a bold red banner beneath a reporter’s grim features. No, he’d been in his dear late Momma’s house doing away with—as he’d explained to a curious Ethan Daniels—the big bad man. “I didn’t think she would do it,” He coughed a laugh to himself. For a girl who’d run lily-livered to the police after his first official call, he’d had his reservations about her turning herself in for Ethan. He wasn’t even her son! This was rich! “I do wish she could come to the phone; at least to hear the bad-news directly from the source...” He trailed off. Adam could hear footsteps in the background, one quickly accompanied by a muffled grunt. What the hell? “That would defeat the purpose of her going down
for my...her crimes.”
“What do you need her to know, I’ll pass the message along.” Adam grumbled behind clenched teeth. Perched in place his eyes trailed the gradually flowing traffic of cars. He was tempted, to just let his eyes flutter shut and for a moment return to a simpler time, to a time with Sarah Walker and his ebbed crush on Madison Miller. A time without kidnapped children, a time without murderers making snide comments into the phone.
“Hmm... What do I need her to know? You know, now that you mentioned it, I don’t think she’s been made aware of the change in our... Original arrangement. Ethan Daniels will no longer be returned a day after she turns herself in. He will however be returned alive and all in good time. He is still quite an asset to me.”
“Can we talk about this, please, she’s already getting charged with a life sentence.” Adam pleaded. He knew pleading with someone as mad as a hatter was futile, and yet he’d tried because he’d do anything to not feel enormously powerless. Physically he’d been drained from the events that shadowed his bumpy extraction from the Mecklenburg County Detention Center on E 4th St. Run well-dry on ideas as to how to get in contact with Ryan or Madison in the absence of Paige Quinn as a go-between, Adam had set off the way he’d come. It wasn’t like they were going to let him back in after his rather unpleasant outburst. He’d returned to the late Rebecca Gates cottage-on-providence-home, or at least what was left of it from the combined thrashing of Madison Miller and the men-in-black-looking-agents. At the time the cloudiness of the night seemed to chase him. He’d done what he could here and there; picking up flung clothes and straightening out the bedding. And where he couldn’t effectively organize, he’d involved the assistance of Bethany Gates, Ryan Gates aunt.