Son of a Gun (A David and Martin Yerxa Thriller - Book 2)

by Ed Markham

Carson cringed, and David realized the boy was too terrified to answer. He could see Carson’s face was cut and bruised.

  Swallowing back the sting in his shoulder, David switched his gun to his left hand and labored to soften his tone. “I’m an FBI agent, Carson. Where is he?”

  The boy’s expression relaxed and he nodded as he began to speak. “I locked him in the basement,” he said. He pointed over David’s shoulder. “I think he tried to shoot the door to get out, but it didn’t work.”

  David turned to examine the heavy metal door. He asked Carson, “Is anyone else here?”

  The boy’s face again became frightened, and he tucked himself into a tighter crouch. He started to look around himself frantically. “Oh man, I don’t know. Maybe.”

  A few feet behind him, a staircase leading to the second floor was cut into the corner of the room. Beyond that, a doorway led into what appeared to be a kitchen, though it was hard to tell in the house’s squalid semi-darkness. Most of the light in the room was coming from the open front door.

  David felt beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. The room was stiflingly hot despite all the cold air plunging in from outside.

  Keeping his eyes on the staircase and kitchen doorway, he said to Carson, “Come over here behind me, pal.”

  Carson did as he was told, repositioning himself between David and the open door leading to the front yard.

  David had been resting his dislocated arm on his knee. But now as he tried to stand, he felt more stabs of pain as his shoulder pulled farther away from its socket. Leaving his weapon on the floor, David used his free hand to pull off his bulletproof vest and his belt. He told Carson to put on the vest. When the boy had done as he was told, David handed him the belt and told him to fasten the buckle on the last notch to create a loop. When the boy had done this as well, David slipped the belt over his neck and used it to support his enfeebled limb. Then he picked up his firearm and stood. The pain was severe, but not debilitating.

  “Come in here, pop,” David called over his separated shoulder, keeping his eyes and his gun sights on the doorways to the kitchen and stairs.

  “David,” Martin said as he stepped inside the house, his Smith & Wesson still in his hand and pointed at the floor. He looked at Carson and then at his son. When he saw his arm tucked into his belt, he said, “What’s going on? You’re hurt?”

  David didn’t look at him. His eyes and gun sites shifted from the staircase to the kitchen doorway and back again. “Ganther’s locked in the basement, but there may be someone else here,” he said. “Take Carson to the car. I’ve got you both covered and I’m right behind you. We’ll let SWAT deal with whoever may be here along with Ian.”

  He heard his father say to Carson, “Come with me, buddy boy. Everything’s all right now.”

  David started to back toward the front door, but he stopped when he heard Carson let out a shout of surprise.

  “There’s no one else here,” a strange voice said at David’s back.

  He wheeled, and saw a small man standing in the doorway with a gun pressed to Martin’s temple. The man’s face and hands, one of which was resting on Martin’s shoulder, were covered with streaks of black soot.

  Despite the remnants of the filthy coal chute, David recognized Ian Ganther.

  Chapter 69

  IAN GANTHER SMILED nervously, as though a teacher had caught him passing notes in class. He pressed the butt of his .45 more securely into Martin’s temple and, still trying to suppress his nervous grin, said, “Put your gun on the ground and take five steps back.”

  Between the men, Carson was crouched on the floor, his hands and arms covering his face as though he could make himself invisible.

  Keeping his eyes locked onto Ganther’s, David shook his head. “No,” he said.

  “No?” Ian’s nervous smile widened, and his eyes looked frightened. They shifted uncomfortably from David’s face to his weapon, to Carson, and back again to David.

  “No,” David repeated calmly. “I’m not going to put my weapon down.”

  “Then I’ll kill your father,” Ian said. He pressed the nose of the .45 more firmly into Martin’s temple.

  David wanted to look at his father, but he knew from his training and from personal experience that nothing—absolutely nothing—was more important than keeping eye contact with someone in Ian’s position. Any sign of concern for his own life or for Martin’s would only embolden Ganther.

  “Kill him, and I’ll kill you,” David said.

  He found it was difficult to speak without allowing his voice to shake. All he could think about was Ganther pulling the trigger and sending a very large bullet through his father’s brain.

  Ian’s eyes shifted more quickly in their sockets as the neurons in his brain fired, trying to devise some action that would lead to a desirable outcome.

  David prayed for the sounds of police vehicles pulling into the gravel driveway. He wanted Ian to see that his situation was hopeless, and that he had no other choice but to surrender.

  The skin at Ganther’s temples twitched, and the corners of his mouth danced. He licked his lips and then nodded, as though preparing to start again from the beginning. “You’re going to put your gun down,” he said, “and I’m not going to kill you or your father. I only want the boy.”

  When he heard Ganther say this, Carson began whimpering.

  David still hadn’t taken his eyes from Ian’s. “You can’t have him, and I’m not going to put down my gun.”

  Ganther groaned through his teeth, his frustration showing.

  David thought he might fire, and he felt his own damp hand tighten around his weapon. But then something his father did stole his attention.

  Martin opened his free hand at his side, spreading out all five of his fingers.

  For a moment, David thought he was about to try to disarm Ganther himself.

  NO, he shouted to himself, though he never took his eyes from Ganther’s. No, Pop. Just wait.

  But Martin had something else in mind.

  Out of the bottom sliver of his vision, David could see his father slowly fold in his thumb, and then his index finger.

  He’s counting down, David realized. He understood why, and he felt his normal unease with a weapon harden into resolve. If you don’t, he told himself, your father is dead.

  5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . .

  Standing pressed against Martin’s back, Ian couldn’t see the hand counting down. He licked his lips, trying to decide what to do next.

  When only one of Martin’s fingers remained extended, David opened his mouth to draw Ganther’s attention.

  Exactly one second later, Martin dove to his left and David fired.

  Chapter 70

  DAVID COULDN’T HAVE risked a head shot. If he’d missed, Ganther would have killed him. So he’d aimed for a spot just above Ian’s right breast, hoping to wing him with the first shot while Martin cleared. Then he could fire again.

  But even as he pulled the trigger, David could see his shot would miss. Ian had such a tight grip around his hostage’s shoulders that, when Martin leapt sideways, he’d taken Ganther along with him.

  David’s bullet exploded a chunk of wall an inch and a half from Ian’s shoulder as he and Martin fell sideways toward the floor of the room, locked together by Ganther’s firm embrace.

  As his vision registered the sight of his bullet puncturing wallpaper and splintering wood, David’s brain waited for the sound of Ganther’s gun. The thought of that sound propelled him forward.

  He leapt toward Ian and Martin, and as he leapt he let out a vicious, terror-soaked yell—as though he could shout the bullet back into Ganther’s gun. But he couldn’t.

  As Ian and Martin hit the floor, Ganther’s eyes flashed wildly to David’s and his gun fired.

  David saw a fine mist of blood burst from Martin’s temple. A quarter-second later, he barreled into Ganther’s head and upper chest. He’d led with his forearm, and he felt it connect with the s
mall man’s face, breaking his nose and forcing a shriek of pain from Ganther as he was knocked several feet backward, the gun sailing away from him and into the open doorway leading to the kitchen.

  David landed on top of him, but the momentum of his leap sent him sliding over the smaller man and onto the floor. He let out a groan as his dislocated shoulder jammed into the ground, and he lost his grip on his own weapon.

  He wouldn’t need it.

  The momentary blast of shoulder pain was no match for David’s adrenaline, which had pumped into his veins by the pint when he saw the blood spurt from his father’s brow. He looked and saw Ganther had rolled onto his side and was scanning the floor for his gun. Blood poured down onto the carpet from his broken nose and split-open lips.

  Clambering on his one good arm, David was back on top of him in an instant. He buried a knee in the man’s stomach, folding him, and then slammed his left fist into Ganther’s face once, twice, three times. David screamed with fury as he threw each punch, and he felt the bones in the killer’s cheek shatter.

  Ganther expectorated blood onto the floor with each blow, and after the third he was still.

  When he realized Ganther was knocked unconscious, David fell off him and crawled to his father. It was difficult to see through his tears, but he could make out the blood that had spread across Martin’s face and down to the carpet around his head, forming a red halo.

  “Pop,” he moaned. “Oh, Pop.”

  A moment before he reached Martin’s body, David noticed a strange red mass on the side of his father’s head. And then the mass moved. It was Martin’s hand, covered in blood.

  “David,” he said, turning his head toward the sound of his son’s voice. He regarded his own blood-soaked hand.

  David saw the deep gash that the hand had concealed. Martin brought his hand back to his temple, recovering the wound. And then his son was with him.

  “Pop,” he said again.

  “I think I’m all right,” Martin said. His voice was shaky and soft. “Just help me stop the bleeding.”

  David pulled off his shirt and the belt he’d been using as a sling, hardly noticing the pain in his shoulder. He balled his shirt and pressed it to the wound at his father’s temple using his good arm. There was so much blood; it was difficult for him to know how deep the wound went.

  Martin blinked, and his mouth moved soundlessly for a moment. Then he said again, “I think I’m all right, David.”

  “Okay,” he said, forcing back emotion. “Just be still. Be still.”

  He looked over his dislocated shoulder and saw Carson still crouching on the ground near the door. The boy’s eyes were on Ian Ganther, who lay unconscious on the far side of the room.

  “Carson,” David said.

  The boy’s eyes snapped to his.

  Trying not to frighten him, he said, “I need my phone from my pocket.” He nodded down at his own thigh. “Right here on my right side.”

  The boy blinked once, and then he crawled quickly to David. He retrieved the phone from his pocket and tried to hand it to him.

  “No,” David said. “My arm’s hurt, pal, and I need the other to keep pressure on this wound. I need you to call 911 and then hold the phone up to my head.”

  Carson did as he was told.

  David identified himself to the emergency operator and said, “Officer down. We need an ambulance.” He gave the address, and when he was sure the operator had what she needed, he told Carson he could set the phone down on the carpet.

  The boy was crying now, his eyes wide and fixated on Martin’s head and all of the blood.

  “Carson, look at me,” David said. “You’re safe now. Everything will be all right.”

  The boy wrapped his arms around David’s stomach and buried his face in his chest. Still holding the shirt against his father’s head, David did his best to comfort the boy. A few minutes later, he heard the sound of police sirens in the distance.

  Sunday, November 10

  Chapter 71

  DAVID STOOD ON the dark observers’ side of the one-way mirror, watching as a man he didn’t know asked Ian Ganther questions he had prepared along with investigators from the Pennsylvania State Police and attorneys from the Department of Justice.

  David had wanted to conduct the wrap-up interrogation himself, but one of the DOJ’s men had informed him his presence—because he’d arrested, shot, and subdued the suspect—might cause Ganther to “clam up” or withhold information that would be useful for the government’s case. David had relented, though not before saying, “We found forensic evidence of all three victims—plus the kidnapped fourth—in Ganther’s basement. If the prosecution still needs help locking down this case, we’ve got bigger problems than Ganther clamming up.”

  The man the DOJ had assigned to interrogate Ganther was pink skinned and overweight, with a long, expressionless face and hair parted neatly to one side. “Mr. Ganther,” he began, “why did you murder your son, Christopher?”

  As he watched from his side of the glass, David scratched his right elbow, which was tucked into a sling to keep weight off his recently re-located shoulder.

  Shortly after leaving Phil Ganther’s house in the back of an ambulance, David had learned that the second set of human remains buried beneath Gloria Ganther’s floor belonged to Ian’s son, Christopher.

  Now he watched as Ian Ganther shook his head. “I’m not Mr. Ganther,” he said. “I’m Ian.”

  “Ian,” the interrogator said. “Why did you take your son’s life?”

  “He rejected me.”

  “How did he reject you?”

  “Totally and completely,” Ganther replied in his soft voice. “He rejected me as a father, as his friend, and as my true self. He rejected all of me.”

  “Can you explain that to me in greater detail?”

  Ganther shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. “I tried to wait until he was old enough to understand, though that was difficult for me. I wanted so badly for him to see me. And I could tell, even when he was a very young boy, that he recognized my disguise—my false front. My wife didn’t see it, or maybe she just didn’t want to see it. But Chris saw me clearly, and so he pushed me away, even as a toddler. It was as though he could see I wasn’t myself—that I was a fake. And I started to think that maybe when he saw the real me, he would embrace me.”

  “What do you mean, the real you?” the interrogator asked.

  “I’m just a boy,” Ganther answered, his eyes level and unblinking. “Other people see a man, but they don’t understand what’s inside me—how I feel in here.” He tapped on his chest. “I’m a child trapped inside an adult’s body.” He shook his head. “I thought Chris would understand that—would understand me. But he was just like all the others I tried and failed to get to know when I was his age. Like them, he recoiled from the ruin he saw in me—the unloved waste.”

  Ganther paused, his eyes growing distant. “My wife Jess, God rest her soul, was the only one who ever really loved me, even though she never really understood me. And because she loved me, I tried to keep the real me hidden and tucked away. I played the part of an adult, even though my own son could see I was a phony and a liar. When he was a little older, I think he tried to love me because he loved her so much. But after she died, it was like the flimsy link that held us together was broken. That’s when his rejection of me became total.” He was quiet and pensive for a moment. “I also think he knew deep down that he was a little like me. He was undersized and baby-faced, like me. And like me had the same problems I’d had making friends and fitting in with people. I know he recognized that sameness and hated me for it. After Jess died, I was so lonely I started hating him right back.”

  Ganther shook his head. “One night I came home from work and found him filling his backpack, planning to run away. We started arguing, and he started slapping my face—hitting me and spitting at me and telling me I killed his mother and I was the devil. To make him quiet, I wrapped my hands over his mou
th and then around his throat. I’d had the urge to do that so many times in my life when I was ridiculed or rejected, but I’d never found the strength. When I did, I couldn’t believe how good it felt, even though he was my own son.”

  The interrogator was quiet and visibly disgusted, and Ganther smiled at him, his eyes shaded by the shadow of his brow.

  “Why did you kill your Uncle Philip?” the interrogator asked.

  Ganther smiled. “Because he was a worthless, alcoholic piece of shit, and my son preferred him to me. I also needed his house and his disability checks.”

  “So you murdered him and assumed his identity?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you buried him and your son beneath the floor of your mother’s kitchen.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did your mother allow you to do that?”

  Ganther smiled again. “Because she felt sorry for me, and I shamed her into helping me. I was her only son, but she was too busy drinking and feeling sorry for herself and hating my father to ever really care for me when I was a boy. She realized later how her neglect had stained me, and she blamed herself for all of my failings—for my wrongness. And I used her remorse to manipulate her. I came to her, weeping, with my son’s body and then with my uncle’s, and I told her it was her duty as my mother to help me hide them. I told her I loved her and I was sorry for what I’d done, and I needed her to help me and to be there for me the way she’d never been there for me when I was young. And she said yes.”

  “Why did you kidnap and murder Mark Stephenson, Gregory Merchant, and Matthew Bush?” the interrogator asked.

  Ganther nodded, as though he’d anticipated this question and had prepared for it. “The idea first came to me when my father was released from prison. He visited me to make amends. Like any boy, I was curious to know who my father was, and so I let him come to my house. He apologized, and told me he felt it was his duty to come clean to me about his past. He told me about his time in Vietnam, and he told me about the drugs and the depression that followed. He told me about the children he’d killed, and why he’d killed them. He told me about locking them up in the basement of an abandoned house near where he lived. He said he’d wanted to be sure the kids’ parents were the type he wanted to punish—the type that had sent him to Vietnam—and so he held the boys for a few days until he could learn a little about their families from the newspapers. He said he took good care of them because they weren’t the ones he hated. And then he killed them as delicately as he could.” Ganther paused. “My son came home at one point while my father and I were talking. And, looking at his grandson, my father burst into tears.”