The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset: 1-6

by Ethan Cross

  “I don’t know if anyone else but you would have noticed those minor details.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Either way, he’s obviously studied me, and he knew that I’d see the video and figure it out.”

  “Okay, then what do we do about it?”

  “Nothing. We have to play his game. At least for now.”

  27

  THE MORE THAT MAGGIE STARED AT THE SLEEPING FORM OF CLAIRE CASSIDY, THE MORE SHE FELT THAT THEY RESEMBLED ONE ANOTHER. They had the same small nose. Same skin tone. Both blonde. Same build. Claire was suffering from malnutrition and abuse, but in a healthy state, they could have passed for sisters.

  Something about that really pissed Maggie off. As if she was just a stand-in for Marcus’s past love.

  She supposed that was irrational. He obviously just had a type. That wasn’t a big deal. But the fact that he hadn’t told her that he had once been engaged, that bothered her. It had been a long time ago, but why had he kept it secret? Would he have ever told her? She didn’t know what to think.

  Maggie had always been insecure in their relationship. A part of her worried that Marcus would grow tired of dealing with the many eccentricities that accompanied her obsessive compulsive disorder. And a part of her wouldn’t blame him. It seemed that the list of her compulsions grew every year, and she worried about what that would mean for her twenty years down the road.

  Her contemplation of future obsessions was broken as Claire’s eyes fluttered open. “Where am I? Who are you? Where’s my son?”

  Maggie placed a hand on Claire’s shoulder. “You’re safe.” Into the adjacent room, she called, “Director!”

  The Director entered the bedroom and pulled up another chair beside Claire’s bed. “Hello, my dear. Glad to see you’re feeling better.”

  “Where’s my son?”

  The Director leaned in close. His voice was calm and soothing. “Let’s start from the beginning. We work for the Department of Justice. We’re a think-tank that helps track down serial killers. During the course of one of our investigations, we found you. You were being fed intravenously and had been drugged. You’re going to have to fill in the blanks from there.”

  Claire sat forward. “We have to go back. My son.”

  Maggie held her down and said, “There was no one else in that house. We’ll help you find your son, but you have to tell us what happened to you.”

  Claire’s gaze darted around the room as if she were considering making a break for it, but she finally said, “Dylan and I were walking to our car after going to a movie one night. Someone must have come up behind us. I’m not sure. I just remember being hit on the head, and when I came to, Dylan was gone and I was in a dungeon.”

  “A dungeon? Like a basement?” the Director asked.

  “Maybe. I can’t be sure. It was completely dark. The walls were stone. The floor was dirty and damp. I don’t know how long I was down there in the dark. It felt like an eternity.”

  Maggie said, “We’ve checked with your work and the local police. It looks like you went missing about a week and a half ago.”

  “That’s it? It felt like much longer.”

  “Did you ever see the man who took you?” the Director asked.

  “No—he slid a tray of food in through a slot. He never even spoke to me. The only time he came into my cell, he beat me and injected something into my arm. That was the last thing I remember. The light blinded me when he came in. I didn’t see his face. I’m sorry. Where’s Marcus?”

  Maggie said, “How did you know that Marcus was here?”

  Claire sat forward again. Her focus shifted between the two of them. “I heard his voice when I was drugged up. How’s he involved with you?”

  The Director answered, “He’s the one who found you, and he’s a member of our team.”

  Claire leaned back. “I thought maybe he had found out about Dylan somehow, and then came to find him when we went missing.”

  Silence hung in the air, and Maggie finally asked, “Why would he come for your son?”

  “Our son. Marcus is Dylan’s father.”

  28

  THE SUBURBAN CAME TO REST AT THE END OF THE DUSTY OLD FIELD LANE THAT WOUND ITS WAY UP TO THEIR SAFE HOUSE. Marcus and Andrew hopped out of the vehicle, but Maggie met them on the porch.

  Marcus said, “So what’s the emergency? Something with Ackerman?”

  “No,” Maggie said. “Let’s take a little walk.”

  Andrew, as if sensing that this had to do with personal matters, said, “Maybe I’ll go check on things in the house.”

  But Maggie stopped him. “No, I think Marcus might need us both there with him on this.”

  Something in her eyes told Marcus that this was an emergency of a different kind. Not physical, but emotional. He couldn’t grasp what that could possibly be, but there was no point in arguing with her.

  The three of them stepped down from the porch and started into the yard. They had wound a circuitous path around it to the edge of the field and back to the lane before Maggie spoke.

  “I’ve been debating about how to tell you this,” she said. “I guess there’s really no easy way to say it. Claire woke up, and the Director and I spoke with her.”

  Andrew asked, “Did she know anything useful?”

  “Not about the man that took her. She was kidnapped about a week and a half ago. She and her son Dylan. He’s eight years old.”

  They kept walking for a few minutes in silence, crossing the lane and following it along the field beside an old split-rail fence. Weeds and tall grass licked their legs, and the air was fresh with pollen and the smell of wet hay. Combines kicked up dust in the distance as farmers harvested their crops.

  Marcus stopped and placed his palms on the fence’s top rail. He knew where Maggie’s story was headed without her speaking the words. “Is she positive that he’s mine?” he asked.

  “She seems pretty sure.”

  Marcus started to say something else, but the words wouldn’t come. He remembered falling on the playground once as a boy. The blacktop of the elementary school in Brooklyn had hidden a layer of ice. He’d run out onto it, and his feet had slid out from beneath him. He had flown into the air and landed flat on his back. The air had left his lungs, the impact stealing his life’s breath. He remembered lying there for what felt like several moments, gasping for air. He had felt in that moment that he was going to die. His child’s mind had believed that the end had come.

  He felt the same way in that moment leaning against the split-rail fence. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. And he couldn’t shake the sensation of life as he knew it coming to an end.

  *

  The door to Claire’s room stood open. She sat on the bed, staring off into space. Marcus recognized her clothes as belonging to Maggie. The sweatpants and hooded sweatshirt hung loosely on Claire’s small frame. Maggie probably had twenty pounds of lean muscle on his ex-fiancée.

  She noticed him but didn’t speak. He joined her on the bed. It was still unmade, a white floral bedspread bunched up on the floor. They sat in silence for a moment, but then she said, “You look like ten gallons of shit in a five-gallon bucket.”

  Marcus chuckled in spite of the situation. She did always have a talent for making him laugh. “It’s good to see you too, Claire.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You don’t have to be. I’m sorry that you and your son got wrapped up in this mess.”

  “He’s our son, and I’m sorry for not telling you. You must hate me.”

  “I could never hate you. It was a shock, but I understand why you didn’t tell me. I can’t say that I blame you. Anyone who gets close to me gets hurt. He’s better off without me in his life.”

  “That’s not true. You’re too hard on yourself.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me? Even if you didn’t want me around him, I could have helped financially.”

  “We don’t need your money, and I thought about calling p
robably every day for the past eight years. It happened that weekend after we had already broken up. I didn’t tell you at the time, but I was seeing someone else then. I didn’t tell you because I ...” Tears filled Claire’s eyes, and her voice quivered. “I let him think that Dylan was his. I thought it would be easiest for everyone. He was a good man. I knew he’d be a good father.”

  “And you knew I wouldn’t be.”

  “It wasn’t that.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve never even been good for myself. And I’ve only gotten worse since you knew me.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your aunt. One of my old friends from the DA’s office told me about it. I thought about coming home for the funeral, but I didn’t want to cause you any extra grief.”

  “So what happened with you and the guy who thought he was Dylan’s father? Where’s he at now?”

  “He died in a car accident when Dylan was three. After that, it seemed like I’d missed my opportunity to tell you.” Claire sat there for a moment and added, “Are you really not going to get mad? Where’s that smartass hothead I used to know?”

  “I’m too tired to be angry or come up with smartass comments anymore.”

  “You look tired. What happened to the guy that would sit up all night pounding through case files? He was so full of life, so driven.”

  “He got old.”

  “You’re younger than I am.”

  “Life happens. All I want to do now is lie down and sleep.”

  “Sounds like depression.”

  Marcus changed the subject. “Did they tell you who we think took your son?”

  “They said it was your father. Your biological father. That he must have figured out that Dylan was his grandson.”

  Marcus turned to her, wiped away the tears, and gently guided her chin up until they were eye to eye. “We can’t change the past. But I swear that I’ll get your son back to you, even if it costs my own life. I owe both of you nothing less.” He kissed her on the forehead and added, “And I’ll make damn sure that the man who took him doesn’t hurt you or Dylan ever again.”

  29

  LAWRENCE GOODWEATHER’S FORMER RESIDENCE—AND THE SCENE OF THE LAST MURDER—WAS A LARGE TWO-STORY WHITE HOUSE WITH A PARTIAL STONE FRONT. The big house on Forrest Avenue had sat empty since the time of the Goodweather murder. It was old but well maintained, just as one would expect from a retired gentleman accustomed to working with his hands.

  All the teams were in place and ready to enter the house. SWAT had set up an invisible perimeter and was waiting for the go signal. Kaleb Duran sat three houses down in the driveway of one of the neighbors. He had requisitioned an old beige Buick Regal from the impound to use during the operation. One of the other detectives sat in the passenger seat, sipping coffee and looking uninterested.

  Kaleb drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and tapped his foot on the floorboard in nervous anticipation. “What the hell are we waiting for?” he asked, more to himself than the other man in the car. The other detective just shrugged.

  SWAT had already done a cursory recon of the property and hadn’t seen anyone inside. They should have been storming the castle. Waiting was a waste of time.

  Kaleb growled in disgust, pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans, and dialed his mother’s number. “What are we waiting for?” he asked as soon as she picked up.

  “We’re going to give it some time. If he’s using this as a staging area, then we may get lucky and catch the guy. We haven’t seen any signs of life inside, and if we go in now, we blow our best shot at him.”

  “But there’s a crime scene in that house. We might find some evidence to lead us to him. And what if the kid’s in there?”

  “We haven’t found any evidence that we could use to locate him at the other crime scenes. No reason to think this one would be any different. And SWAT doesn’t think anyone’s inside.”

  “They can’t be sure of that.”

  “I don’t have time for this. The call’s been made.”

  Captain Duran hung up. Kaleb said, “Dammit, I don’t like this. We’re wasting time.”

  The other detective leaned back and closed his eyes. “Patience, kid. The captain knows what she’s doing.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  The next hour crawled by with little activity. A few kids. A lady walking a dog. A couple of joggers. No one paid any attention to the house or so much as gave it a second glance. The sun was high in the sky, and the Dunham boy’s time was running out.

  Then Kaleb’s radio buzzed into life. “We got someone suspicious coming up the alley from the east.”

  Kaleb couldn’t see the alley from his position. One of the other cops asked, “Can you see the face?”

  “No, the suspect’s wearing a dark-hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. He’s keeping his head low, like he’s trying to conceal his face.”

  Captain Duran’s voice echoed from the tinny speaker. “This could be it, people. Everyone be ready. If the suspect enters the house, we move in.”

  “Dammit,” Kaleb said. “I wish I could see what’s happening back there.”

  “Suspect is approaching the back porch ... Still can’t see the face ... He’s going in ... I repeat, he’s in the house.”

  Captain Duran said, “SWAT move in. All teams are go. Maintain control of the perimeter. Make sure he doesn’t run.”

  Kaleb stepped out of the Regal and looked across the street at the Goodweather house. The SWAT team poured out of the house next door and converged on the target home. Four black-clad men entered through the front, and four went in the back. Kaleb wanted to be in there with them. Not being part of the action was killing him.

  The sound of the first explosion rocked him back on his heels. Screams poured out over the radio. Most of it was unintelligible, but he recognized words like bomb ... trap ... pull back.

  Kaleb sprinted across the street. The other detective yelled something at his back, but he paid the old pencil-pusher little mind. The men in that house needed help.

  The rumble of two more explosions echoed up the quiet suburban block before Kaleb reached the other side of the street.

  30

  KALEB LEAPED UP THE FRONT STAIRS OF THE GOODWEATHER HOUSE AND PUSHED OPEN THE HEAVY OAK EXTERIOR DOOR. The scene inside looked like something from a war zone. Plaster dust and debris hung in the air. Men were screaming in agony. A smell that reminded him of fireworks on the Fourth of July clung to his nostrils. His gun was out and at the ready.

  Two of the black-clad SWAT officers dragged a fallen brother into the front room. Kaleb ran over to help. The face of the man on the floor was a bloody mess. His helmet had been discarded, and nails jutted out of his face at all angles. He screamed and cursed and spat blood. Kaleb grabbed him by the collar and helped drag him onto the porch.

  Kaleb recognized one of the officers trying to stop the bleeding and asked, “What the hell happened in there?”

  “We walked right into it. The crazy bastard had rigged up a bunch of nail bombs. We have five down.”

  “What about the suspect?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Kaleb grabbed the radio from his belt and said into the receiver, “This is Detective Duran. Suspect is not in custody. I repeat, suspect is not in custody. Maintain the perimeter. I’m going to search the house.”

  Someone said over the radio, “Duran, wait for the bomb squad!”

  But Kaleb ignored them and re-entered the house. One of the remaining SWAT officers took up position behind Kaleb, his MP4 rifle at the ready. His eyes were wide and angry. He gave Kaleb a nod, and they moved forward into the house.

  A stairwell led up on the right. They took the stairs and moved cautiously through the upstairs hall. Watching for any more traps. The upstairs bedrooms were clear. A door at the end of the hall led up to an unfinished attic. They searched for any hiding places among the exposed beams and insulation, but the entire space was open for storage. Nowhere for
a person to hide.

  They backtracked down the stairs and checked the main floor. The smell of the explosions still hung heavy in the air, and the plaster dust and insulation fibers floating through the house made Kaleb’s skin itch. The back kitchen was a shambles. Nails protruded from the cabinets in several spots, and blood smears covered the speckled linoleum. The fallen officers had been pulled out of harm’s way. The back door remained open. Kaleb looked out and saw officers maintaining the perimeter.

  A set of old concrete steps led down from the utility room. The SWAT officer went first, flipping on a tactical light attached to his MP4. The steps were damp and slick. The house’s lowest level was a half-basement with unfinished block walls. Kaleb pulled the chain of an overhead light, and a naked bulb burst to life.

  The space contained the water heater and furnace, an old workbench, a sump pump, and some shelves holding old cans of paint and other junk. But nothing else. No suspect. No traps.

  The SWAT officer motioned at a wooden access door for the crawlspace. Nodding, Kaleb grabbed the door by its rusty metal handle and yanked it open. The SWAT officer shone his light inside. The access entry was maybe three feet high. He crawled into the tight space and checked all the corners, but the beam of his tactical light only revealed spiderwebs and a dirt floor.

  The black-clad officer and Kaleb exchanged confused looks and then went back through the entire house for a second sweep. This time, they were even more careful and methodical.

  They found nothing. The suspect had entered the house and then vanished.

  31

  “STILL NOTHING,” ANDREW SAID, LOWERING THE PHONE FROM HIS EAR.

  Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. His head hurt so badly that he was on the verge of throwing up. It had been over four hours since they had left Kaleb at the police station and local law enforcement was mobilizing to move on the Goodweather house. In that time, they had received no updates. “Keep trying him. Try the station. See if you can get anyone there. I think it’s time that I had a heart-to-heart with my brother.”