The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset: 1-6

by Ethan Cross

  That had been almost a year ago, and she still had made little progress with her main subject: Marcus Williams. Marcus had a good heart, but he also had a tendency to torture himself and let the weight of the world’s problems fall squarely onto his shoulders. In the field, he was a man of action, but when it came to his personal issues, he was a ponderer. She worried about him, and so did the Director.

  “Would you like to try another session of hypnosis? See if you can remember any more details from that night?”

  “What’s the point?” he said.

  Marcus sat across from Emily on a tan leather sofa. She had tried to fill the office attached to the back of her home with soothing colors—neutrals and pastels—and peaceful images—babbling brooks, children laughing, forests, sunsets. She had studied the psychology of color and imagery in detail and was constantly experimenting with it, swapping out pictures, gauging the results. It wasn’t an exact science, but she desperately wanted to create a bastion for these men and women where they could feel safe and protected. The others seemed calm and relaxed here. But not Marcus. She often wondered if he would feel more at home in her office if she painted the walls black and replaced the babbling brooks with photos of crime scenes.

  “I think we’ve made good progress. When we first started, you could barely remember anything except darkness and fear.”

  “And what do I remember now? A voice in the darkness that you say probably wasn’t even there, and my parents screaming. We haven’t accomplished anything. It’s been a big waste of time. Mine and yours.”

  Emily reached up and removed her glasses, laid them and her notebook on a nearby table. Then she leaned forward in her chair and braced her elbows against her knees. “I disagree completely, but you have never told me why you wanted to remember more about that night. Had you hoped to find their killer somehow? To remember some clue that would lead you to him?”

  An unreadable emotion flashed through Marcus’s eyes, and for the briefest of moments, she thought that he was actually going to open up. Then he pulled his phone from his pocket and showed her the time. “I think our session is over, doc. I wouldn’t want to have the taxpayers charged overtime.”

  She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I’ve told you before. I’m here for you, day or night. Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else. You are the one who gets burned.”

  Marcus cocked an eyebrow. “You read that on a fortune cookie?”

  “My grandfather was Japanese and a Buddhist. He taught me that phrase. It was a teaching of Buddha. My grandmother was Irish Catholic. She taught me to love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. That one’s from Jesus.”

  He said nothing.

  Emily considered another teaching of Buddha that her grandfather had taught her. Better than a thousand hollow words is one word that brings peace. Unfortunately, she had yet to find anything to bring peace to Marcus Williams.

  “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

  “Why? You offering to tuck me in?”

  She didn’t respond. She had seen him like this before. Any attempt at real conversation would be answered by a smart-ass comment to deflect attention from the issues at hand. She simply stood and walked back to her desk. She pulled open a drawer, took out a bottle of pills, and tossed them in his direction.

  He snatched them from the air and stared down at the bottle. “What the hell is this?”

  Emily sat down at her desk and started to make some notes. “I picked you up something to help you sleep.”

  “Thanks, doc. But no thanks. I need to be focused. I can’t be taking crap like this.” Marcus tossed the pill bottle in her direction. She caught it and immediately threw it back at him with as much force as she could muster. It bounced off his chest.

  “Focused? How focused do you think you are, running on fumes? Exhaustion reduces your operational efficiency to zero. It’s as bad as being drunk. You take those damn pills and get some sleep, or I’ll pull your ass from active duty. Is that clear enough for you?”

  He stared at her for a moment, but then he reached down and retrieved the bottle of pills. He headed toward the door. She stared down at her notes for a second, but then said, “Marcus, be careful out there.”

  Without turning back, he said, “You know that Buddha also taught, ‘The whole secret of existence is to have no fear. Never fear what will become of you, depend on no one. Only the moment you reject all help are you freed.’”

  Emily opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t find the words. She simply watched his back as he pulled open her door and slipped out into the night.

  8

  Marcus walked into his office and threw his leather jacket over the back of one of the black visitor chairs in front of his desk. The whole room smelled of new leather and old vinyl. The leather scent originated from the new furniture he had purchased on the Shepherd Organization’s tab. The old-vinyl smell came from his collection of records sitting in one corner. Movie posters lined the walls—Jack Nicholson films, the first Predator, the second Aliens, the first three Indiana Jones movies, Die Hard, and an assortment of his other favorites. All were signed by the cast and crew. A growing collection of screen-used film props rested in a display case in one corner. He had a lot of disposable income and spent what little downtime he had on eBay. The office contained no family photos.

  He had sensed the man sitting on his couch as he entered, but he feigned ignorance until he sat down at his desk and started to open his mail. Without looking up from a package in a padded manila mailer, he let the other man know that he was aware of his presence. “You should be careful who you sneak up on. I typically shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “How do you know that I haven’t already removed the firing pin from your Sig?”

  Marcus looked up at the Director of the Shepherd Organization and almost reached to his shoulder holster to check. “That sounds like something you’d do.”

  “I’ve told you, kid. Most situations you face are far beyond your control. So you need to control the ones you can.” The Director nudged a pillow and blanket resting against the arm of the couch. “I heard you got rid of the apartment we leased for you and moved into your office.”

  “The apartment was pointless. I’m on the road ninety percent of the time, and when I’m not I spend all my time here. Think of all the taxpayer dollars we’re saving.”

  “It’s hard to have a home life when you don’t have a home, Marcus.”

  He spread his arms. “This is my home.”

  The Director looked around the office at the various collections, then his eyes settled on stacks of crime-scene photos resting on the desktop. “Are things any better between you and Maggie?”

  Marcus said nothing. He stared expressionlessly at the Director for a moment and then pointed at a file folder tucked under the older man’s arm. “We have a new case?”

  “Old case, actually. New developments. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “She loves you. You know that, don’t you?” the Director said.

  Marcus stuck out his hand. “Are you going to give me the file? If it’s anything like the other cases we work, there’s no time to screw around.”

  The Director stood statue-still, the file pressed firmly under his left arm. “How have you been sleeping?”

  Marcus blew out a frustrated breath and came around the desk. “You brought me in to do a job, and that’s what I’ve been doing non-stop for the past year. I live and breathe it. I’ve brought down every bad guy you’ve put on my desk. Do you have any doubts that I can do the job you recruited me for?”

  The Director’s gaze didn’t waver. “You know I don’t.”

  “Then give me the damn file, and let me do my job. If you’ve got a problem with the way I’m handling things on a professional level, feel free to bust my ass for it. Anything beyond that, keep it to yourself.�
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  The Director was quiet for a moment. Neither of them moved. Then the Director’s right hand reached across his chest and took hold of the file. His arm straightened, and he stuck the file out between them. Marcus snatched it from the Director’s grasp, leaned back on the corner of his desk, and opened it at the first page. “The Anarchist?”

  “That’s right. We don’t actually know how many he’s killed, but there’s definitely some type of an occult connection. Details are in the file. He’s been dormant for about a year and a half. Allen worked the case briefly before the killer went under and is planning on meeting you in Chicago. This guy killed three women and then five more disappeared without a trace.”

  “No bodies were ever found for the five?”

  “Not yet. But, of course, they’re assumed dead. Remember, let the police do their jobs and keep a low profile, but do whatever’s necessary to stop this guy.”

  Marcus nodded. When he had first been recruited, the Director had made it seem that their only desirable outcome was to kill the men they hunted, but sometimes it worked out fine to just help where they could and let the police take the killers down. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to do any killing on this trip.

  The Director started toward the door but added, “I want you to get at least a day’s rest before jumping into this case. The police can start laying the groundwork, and you’ll be there in plenty of time. We need you at one hundred percent. Is that clear?”

  “Absolutely, crystal clear. One hundred and ten percent.”

  The Director’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t comment further. As he closed Marcus’s door, he said, “Godspeed and good hunting.”

  Marcus walked back toward his desk and cleared off a spot for the file. There was a thumb drive in a plastic baggy attached to the cover page. He slipped it out and plugged it into his Macbook Air. He wondered why the Director still brought him paper files. Since taking over, he had transitioned his entire team to digital. He opened the case files and dropped them into a secure email for Andrew and the other members of the team. Then he brought up pictures of the women that the Anarchist had killed a year and a half ago and the girl from the previous night. The images were candid shots of happy smiling faces. He imagined some of these pictures probably adorned missing-persons reports posted around the Chicago area. These women had once had families. They had once had hopes and dreams, wants and desires. But everything they were and would ever be had been stolen from them. He studied the eyes. He memorized the faces.

  After a few moments in silence, he retrieved the cell phone from his pocket and dialed Andrew. “I just sent you an email.”

  Silence stretched on the other end of the line. “We’re going out again already?”

  “No rest for the wicked. I want to be on the road in a few hours. Start gathering our things.”

  Andrew sighed. “You’re the boss.”

  Marcus hung up and then punched a key on his computer keyboard to bring up the case files. He felt for the pills in his pocket and stared down at the bottle. Then he dropped it into his desk drawer and shut it away. Innocent lives hung in the balance, and he had a lot of reading to do before they headed out for Chicago.

  Day Two – December 16 Evening

  9

  Inside the workshop in his garage, Harrison Schofield routed his Internet access through three proxy servers. He was relatively certain that the police would never be able to trace anything back to him. The cameras had no access logs, and he had taken precautions to mask his digital identity. He had installed a wireless range extender in a set of trees behind his home and had connected to the unsecured wireless network of one of his neighbors. Even if they could trace him back to the source IP address, they would end up at his neighbor’s house, not his. As always, he had considered all the possibilities, calculated all the variables. At least, he hoped he had.

  Being sure that he was fairly anonymous, he accessed the feed for the cameras and cycled through the different views. There she was, Jessie Olague, the next sacrifice. She was going through her nightly routine. A routine that he had been studying for over six months.

  She was playing music, and although he couldn’t hear it, he could feel the beat through the rhythm of her body. The subtle bobbing of her head. The gentle sway of her hips. She seemed so happy, so at peace with the world around her. He wondered how she managed to feel that way. Through his research, he had learned everything about Jessie Olague. Her parents had been drug addicts. Child welfare had stepped in, and she had spent the remainder of her youth bouncing from foster home to foster home. She had no children. Repeated ovarian cysts had scarred her reproductive organs beyond repair and made her infertile. Her husband was an abusive drunk when he was actually home. Luckily for her, the husband worked nights, and she rarely saw him. They met only in passing, but even those moments were tense and potentially violent. Jessie had only a few close friends and worked a dead-end job at a local coffee shop in the mall where Schofield had first taken notice of her.

  Despite all this, she was rarely without a smile. She volunteered at a local soup kitchen every Sunday and at an animal shelter on the second Tuesday of every month. She seemed to brighten every room she entered. Jessie Olague had a good soul.

  Schofield wanted what she had.

  He needed it.

  That kind of joy and contentment was so elusive and rare. He had been born without a soul. But soon he would steal a piece of hers. He would feel what she felt. He would taste her happiness and make it his own.

  10

  Schofield parked in the alley behind Jessie Olague’s home and slipped the black balaclava over his head, leaving only his eyes and mouth exposed. He scanned the area one last time and then stepped from his vehicle. There was no hesitation in his stride. He had visualized and choreographed his every movement. Slip past the garage, follow the walkway, bend down to retrieve the key to the back door hidden beneath a pot containing a withered Cajun Hibiscus that Jessie should have brought inside for the winter, up the steps to the sliding glass door, insert the key, twist, slide the door gently to the side, step into the house, slide the door shut.

  He scanned the interior of her kitchen. It was odd seeing the room from this angle and in full color. He had become accustomed to the grainy black and white of the video feed. Red and white Americana decorations adorned the walls and countertops of the kitchen and the connected dining room. A meager Christmas tree—bedecked with home-made ornaments—sat in the living room beside the front window. The blinds were drawn but light from a passing car seeped through the cracks and ran along the ceiling. He listened for movement but heard nothing beyond the creaks and groans of a house in winter.

  His eyes closed, and he took in the scent of the house. She had been burning a candle. The sweet smell of butterscotch still floated through the air.

  Schofield stepped through the living room and up the stairs toward Jessie’s bedroom. The second and fifth steps had developed nasty creaks with age. He avoided those altogether, skipping over them and stepping straight to the third and sixth steps. At the top of the stairs, he clung to the side wall in the shadows and made his way down the hall to the door at the end.

  The door would be locked from the inside by a common chain latch. He took out and unfolded a wire tool with a magnet on the end that could easily bypass the simple lock. He pulled open the door just a centimeter and slipped the wire through the crack at the top of the frame. Then he positioned the magnet to catch the slide and gently eased it free. He kept hold of the latch, not letting it fall, as he crept inside the bedroom.

  With cautious and quiet steps, Schofield moved to the side of the bed.

  He stood over Jessie for a moment and watched her sleep. She wore a long T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. The gray donkey from Winnie the Pooh adorned the front of the shirt. A stray strand of hair had fallen across her cheek and mouth. He resisted the urge to brush it away.

  Moving to the foot of the bed, he gently ra
ised the covers to expose her bare feet. From a pocket of his jacket, he slipped out the Lidocaine, a powerful topical anesthetic, and applied it to the area between her toes. He watched for another few minutes as he waited for the Lidocaine to deaden the skin sufficiently. Then he inserted and emptied a syringe filled with a cocktail of Demerol, Valmid, and Valium into the deadened section of flesh.

  Schofield checked his watch and waited another few minutes. After which, he stepped to the side of the bed and brushed away the strand of hair. She didn’t move. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Jessie. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

  Day Three – December 17 Morning

  11

  Maggie Carlisle stepped down the metal stairs into the garage bay. A single roll-up door opened to the outside world but the large open bay contained their unit’s entire vehicle pool—a black GMC Yukon, a cream panel van, a white Ford Escape Hybrid, a silver Buick LaCrosse, and a 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Z28. It was black with red racing stripes and all the trimmings and served as Marcus’s personal vehicle. She often wondered if Marcus had conned the Director into buying it for him like some kind of signing bonus.

  The walls around the vehicles were faded brick. The floor had once been smooth concrete but had cracked and split in certain spots to the point where they had been forced to bust it free and replace whole sections with gravel. Some type of vegetation had taken root in one corner and climbed up the brick.

  Above her head sat the nerve center for their unit that housed the offices and training areas. The building, an old textile-manufacturing facility, had sat empty for over ten years. It had been scheduled for demolition. To say that the accommodations were modest was an understatement, but Marcus had found the place and had fallen in love with it. At least it was in a good location. The brick building sat nestled within a group of trees on a dead-end road near Rose Hill, Virginia. Which placed them only a short drive from I-395 that could take them north over the George Mason Memorial Bridge and into the heart of Washington DC in a little under half an hour.