by Elle Gray
“Is that all of them?” he asks.
“Why don’t you come over here and check?” I crack.
“Clever,” he sneers. “Now, step away from my car.”
Keeping my hands where he can see them, I move to the side, drawing his eyes toward me and away from the corner of the cabin where Blake is crouched.
“Let Marcy go,” I tell him. “You don’t need her.”
“Au contraire,” he says. “She’s my get out of jail free card. She comes with me.”
“I know what you’re going to do to her,” I reply. “I won’t let you take her.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“Why is she so important to you?”
“Other than making sure you don’t try to kill me?”
“With what weapon?” I shout.
“For all I know, you’ve got a rocket launcher up your backside.”
“And you had the nerve to call me an idiot.”
“I’m paranoid,” he says. “Not an idiot.”
“That’s debatable.”
“You know, you really shouldn’t be insulting the man with his gun to the head of the woman you’re trying to rescue!” he shouts. “That’s not real smart.”
His back is to Blake, and his eyes are on me. Seeing her opportunity, Blake rushes him from behind, moving swiftly and silently. But before she reaches him, he seems to sense her coming and spins, bringing his gun to bear.
As he does, I’m already in motion. Tucker loses his grip on Marcy, and she falls to the ground like a limp rag. I lose sight of Blake, but he gets off a couple of shots. I hear her grunt. He steps to one side, and I see Blake fall. The rage in me takes over, and as Tucker starts to pivot back toward me, I launch myself. Driving my shoulder into his midsection, I lift him off the ground, then slam him back down into the dirt.
He’s already trying to scramble away from me, but a quick glance at Blake lying still upon the ground fuels my rage. I’m quicker than Tucker is, and I’m on him in an instant. I climb on top of him, pinning his arms beneath my knees. I throw the first punch, feeling the satisfying crunch of his nose collapsing beneath my fist. I throw the second punch and watch as blood sprays from his mouth.
My arm is still burning from the bullet wound, but I don’t care. I keep throwing punch after punch, my fists landing with a sound like I’m slapping wet meat. Images of Blake, and Marcy, and Veronica all flash through my mind, fueling my fists. Tucker is limp beneath me, but I keep throwing punches. But then I feel a hand on my shoulder. Another hand catching my fist as I draw it back.
“It’s over, Pax,” Blake says softly. “Stop. It’s over.”
I turn my head, and through the tears that are welling in my eyes, I see her face, disbelief washing over me. She looks down pointedly, a small but pained smirk on her face. I see the two bullets trapped in the vest. She’s breathing heavily and grimacing each time. She’s probably got a cracked rib or two, but she’s fine.
I look down and see the pulp I’ve made of Tucker’s face. He’s out cold, his breath coming out in choked gasps. He’s going to be feeling this beating for a long time, but he’s going to survive. I climb off him and turn to Marcy. She’s sitting up, looking dazed. I don’t know what Tucker gave her, but she’s clearly not in her right mind. Blake is kneeling beside her, rubbing Marcy’s back, and removing the zip ties binding her arms and legs together.
I pull a pair of handcuffs off my belt and lock Tucker’s hands behind his back. I get to my feet and have to resist the urge to kick Tucker in the face.
“You’re shot,” Blake says.
I look down at my arm, at the sleeves soaked in blood. “I’m good.”
“So what now?” she asks.
I blow out a long breath, grimacing as I try to flex my arm. The pain seems to be getting more intense, and I know there is a trip to the hospital in my future. At least I’ll be able to keep an eye on Marcy while I’m there.
I slide my phone out of my pocket and hit the button for Commissioner Gray. I look at Blake.
“Now I fulfill a promise,” I tell her as I press the phone to my ear. “And we wash our hands of this case once and for all.”
“Gray,” he answers on the third ring.
“It’s Paxton,” I tell him. “We have your serial killer in custody.”
“I knew you were the right man for the job,” he says, his voice chipper. “Not that I expected any less, but excellent work, Paxton.”
“Thank you, Commissioner. But before I tell you what I’ve got, I need some assurances.”
Blake cocks her head and looks at me curiously. I give her a thumbs-up, which only seems to confuse her even more.
“What kind of assurances?” he asks, his voice growing suspicious.
“I want Detective TJ Lee to be given credit,” I reply firmly. “He’s good police, and he was trying to work this case hard. He deserves to be one of those you single out for recognition and advancement. Promise me that and I’ll give you everything I have.”
There’s a long pause on the line as he, most likely, is considering the political calculus of it all. I mean what I say though. If he doesn’t give me what I want, I’ll call Lee directly and dump this all in his lap. Thankfully though, it doesn’t come to that.
“Deal. Lee will be taken care of,” Gray says. “So, tell me what you’ve got.”
And so I do. I tell him everything, starting with where he can find definitive evidence of Tucker’s guilt, in the form of six hearts in six neatly labeled jars. Halfway through my story, I catch sight of Marcy listening in. She seems to be coming back to her senses, slowly but surely. Even as out of it as she is, I can see Marcy mentally filing the story away in her mind, working out how to tell it. Blake is whispering softly to her and smiling.
We all made it. We all survived.
And I can’t wait to read about it in the Dispatch.
Epilogue
One Month Later…
Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle
“So I just had the strangest meeting with my bosses,” Blake says, her face filling up the screen on my tablet.
“Yeah? Do tell.”
Her smile is wide and brighter than the sun. Thunder rumbles outside, and through my office windows, I can see the clouds lighting up as another winter storm rolls through the city. Drops of rain start to beat against the glass, pebbling on the surface of it and glittering in the light from my office like small diamonds.
After the apprehension of Dr. David Tucker, the hearts were found in his home, and he’s been incarcerated ever since. Gray stayed true to his word and took care of Lee, as I asked. He also helped keep all of us out of his reports as much as he could. He couldn’t, unfortunately, eliminate us entirely though.
For one thing, Nick was wounded at the incident at my condo, and that had to be included in the official reports. He’s fine. He’s one hundred percent recovered and is back to work. He carries himself a bit like Clint Eastwood now these days though. Somehow got to thinking he’s Dirty Harry. I think it’s the scar.
Anyway, once word got out that the Arrington Investigations team was involved with tracking down another serial killer, we’ve been inundated with work and calls from newsrooms around the country. I let Brody field all of the interview requests. He’s gotten pretty media-savvy. Or at least, more media-savvy than me, anyway, even with my family’s business. Mostly because I don’t want to deal with it.
The reports all say Tucker continues to recover from injuries suffered during his apprehension. All I can hope is that he’s in excruciating pain every minute of every day. He deserves no less. If there were a way to ensure he suffered even more, I would have done it with a smile on my face.
I have wondered from time to time, though, if I would have stopped, had Blake not intervened. Would I have continued pulverizing Tucker until I killed him with my bare hands?
The fact that I don’t know the answer to that question concerns me. It tells me I may have a little more Mr
. Hyde in me than I want to admit. Not to the extent of Tucker obviously, but I can’t deny there’s a monster lurking inside of me as well.
“So? What’s the news?” I ask.
“Well, it seems that a Senator Munson from the great state of Washington put in a call to my bosses,” she says. “Munson sits on a lot of powerful committees and suggested it would be beneficial if my task force operated in a place that’s free of the political pressures of New York. A place like… Seattle. Even intimated, the President himself might weigh in on it if needed.”
“Huh. That’s really weird,” I say. “But hey, that’s good news, right?”
She laughs again. “Very weird, and very good news,” she says. “What a coincidence, right? I mean, what are the odds that something we talked about in passing would actually come to fruition.”
I whistle low. “I’d say those odds had to be pretty astronomical. You might want to go buy a lottery ticket,” I tease. “So when do you come back?”
“A couple of months,” she states. “We need to close out some cases here before we pull up stakes.”
“When you get back, we’ll celebrate with dinner—”
“At The Butchery.”
“I was going to say McDonald’s,” I reply. “You’re expensive to feed.”
“Buddy, I took two fractured ribs for you,” she says with a grin. “That’s at least five or six dinners you owe me.”
I nod. “That I do. And when you get back, The Butchery will be our first stop.”
“Excellent,” she chirps. “How’s the arm, by the way?”
“As good as new.”
She arches an eyebrow. “I think we both know that’s not true,” she says. “You old men take longer to heal.”
“Oh, look who got a sense of humor.”
The truth is, my arm is pretty close to one hundred percent again. But every now and then, I’ll get a sharp shock of pain in the spot the bullet went through. The doctor said there was a bit of nerve damage, and it’s to be expected. I didn’t know there were nerves in that spot on my arm, but whatever. The doc said it might be that way forever, so there’s no use in griping about it. It is what it is.
Blake and I play catch up for a little while. After she went back to New York, we haven’t had much of a chance to talk, so it’s nice to spend some time talking to her again.
“How’s Marcy doing?” she asks.
“I figured you’d have already talked to her.”
“I haven’t had time to talk to anybody,” she replies. “I’m looking forward to catching up with her too, once I get back.”
I look through the glass of my office doors and see Marcy standing in the lobby, chatting with Amy. They’re laughing about something together. A moment later, Brody steps out and joins them. The three of them talk together for a moment, and then Brody takes Marcy’s hand, and together, they walk to the elevator. Just before they get on, as if she senses me watching her, Marcy turns and gives me a wave. Brody gives me the finger, and I smile.
She and I have gotten close. Not as close as she and Brody have gotten, but we’ve got a solid relationship going. I’ve come to like her quite a lot. And yeah, it’s definitely because she reminds me of Veronica in a lot of ways. But she’s also got a lot of unique quirks that make her a creature all her own. I appreciate that about her. She’s become a trusted consultant, but even more than that, she’s become a good friend.
“Marcy’s doing well,” I tell her.
“Did she finally take the deal?”
I nod. “Finally,” I say. “I think she was just too nervous about accepting it at first. Thought it was too good to be true or something.”
“I understand the feeling and can totally relate,” she says. “Did a Senator happen to call on her behalf too?”
“Now that would have just been overkill,” I say with a laugh.
I turned my brother George onto her site a few weeks back and suggested a few ways he could turn it into something bigger. Something more sustainable. I suggested it was a way for Archton to branch out from strictly corporate media, and to target individual communities and the citizen journalists that inhabit them. One thing Marcy has shown me is that the people who live in the communities, who know it best are the most passionate about it. And they are the ones who make the best reporters because they’re actually invested in that community. They’ve got actual skin in the game.
Marcy and George have a framework, but they’re still working on fleshing it out. But from what I’ve seen so far, they’re on the verge of creating something unique and special. And it’s helping to usher Archton into the twenty-first century. It’s a win-win for everybody.
“Well, I can’t wait to get back there and see you all,” she says. “And please tell Senator Munson I said thank you.”
I flash her a grin. “I’ll do that.”
“And also, thank you, Pax,” she says. “For everything.”
I chuckle. “Hey, you fractured a couple of ribs for me. It was the least I could do.”
She smiles warmly. “Okay, I gotta run. But we’ll talk soon, yeah?”
I nod. “Absolutely.”
“Goodnight.”
“Night, Blake.”
The video call ends, and I find myself staring at my computer screen for a moment. I’m glad it worked out and that she’ll be back soon. It’ll be really good to have her around. She helps keep me sane and out of trouble. Mostly.
I call up the report writing program and finish my final after-action report and summary of the case for Marcus. I’ve already sat down with him in person and went over it all. Of course he’d been devastated to learn Stella was the victim of a serial killer. It didn’t bring him the peace I’d hoped it would.
But he accepted it. He was glad to have some answers and appreciated not having to wonder anymore. Though I know he still has some questions— namely, why? Why did Tucker take Stella from him? Why? I have a feeling Marcus will be visiting Tucker in prison to obtain those answers. I doubt he’ll ever get them. I don’t think even Tucker fully understands why he did the things he did. My only hope is that Marcus can find that closure somehow. But that’s something that I— nor Tucker— could ever provide for him.
He cut me a check for fifty grand. I tried to refuse, but Marcus wouldn’t hear of it. I accepted it gratefully and promptly used the first ten grand to establish a scholarship in Stella’s name, a move I know Marcus appreciated deeply. But then I took the other forty grand and split it up between Brody, Nick, and Amy. I called it profit sharing. Not that Brody needs the money. I just wanted to give him a gesture to show him how much I appreciate him.
I paid Marcy’s hospital bills out of pocket, too. Running a one-woman operation like the Dispatch doesn’t exactly give her stable health insurance. She tried to refuse, but when the bill racked up to nearly six figures, I paid for it before she could stop me. There’s still a pretty nasty scar on her arm, but she’s already started consulting with Brody on what tattoo to cover it up with. The thought makes me chuckle.
I finish up the report and then send it to Amy’s email for her to print and bind tomorrow. I’ll send them on to Marcus once that’s done. With that finished, I swivel around and stare out at the night beyond the windows for a long while. The lights of downtown are starting to twinkle in the growing darkness of the night, and the rain continues to beat a monotonous dirge against the window.
I think about Tucker. About the things we have in common. Most specifically about the fact that, like him, I’m stuck in the past. Intellectually, I’ve known that for a while. But seeing it live and in person like that really hit me hard. I mean, I know I see it every time I go home and look into Veronica’s office. It’s a time capsule. I get it. But it’s also just part of my home, so I tend to see it differently.
Seeing Tucker’s house though, seeing his pathology manifested in the bedroom he sealed off the night he found his fiancée cheating on him… that hit me like a two-by-four to the gut. Although
the circumstances are obviously vastly different, standing on the outside and seeing somebody as stuck in the past as Tucker was an entirely different experience. I think for the first time, in a very physical sense, I saw just how screwed up living in the past, and being unable to let go of it, can be.
All of those thoughts and revelations are leading me down a path I didn’t think I would ever go. I’m not quite there yet, but I think I might be taking my first steps down the road to being able to let go of the past. I might be coming to a point where I can let old ghosts rest in peace. For the first time since she died, I think I’m getting to a place where I might be able to let Veronica go.
I’m not there yet, but I finally see some light at the end of that tunnel.
I turn back to my desk and call up my email program. There are a few things I want to do, and then maybe, I’ll swing by The Butchery before I go home. For some reason, I feel like having a nice steak dinner. In Blake’s honor. Hell, in Marcy, Brody, Amy, and of course, in Marcus and Stella’s honor. The more I think about it, the better it sounds.
I scan my emails quickly, deleting all of the spam and advertisements first. I get rid of all the clutter and then sort the rest into groups that need immediate attention and those that can be put off for now. But as I do, I run across one that throws me. It’s from an email address I don’t recognize, but it’s not flagged as spam for some reason. I look closely at the address: [email protected].
“Do I need to put a tinfoil hat on before I read this?” I mutter to myself.
My interest piqued, I open the email and immediately feel the blood in my veins turn to ice. I read the words over and over again, committing them to memory even though these are words I don’t want to remember.
All of a sudden, everything I’ve been building toward in regard to Veronica comes crashing down. All of the angst. All of the frustration, anger, and emotional turmoil. And worst of all, the deep, dark grief I’ve worked so hard to beat back swallows me whole and pulls me under.
I read the words once more and feel a yawning chasm open up in my gut. It’s thirteen words. That’s it. Thirteen words that have upended my life entirely: