The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset: 1-6

by Ethan Cross

  Closing the distance between them, Canyon said, “I found his tracks and some blood, looks like I may have hit him with one of my shots.”

  Liana said nothing.

  “What did the stranger say to the two of you in there?”

  “I already told you.”

  “Tell me again. Every detail.”

  “He said that he was a serial killer who now worked as a consultant for the government and that the missing agent was his friend and colleague. He called her his ‘little sister.’ But I’m sure that was all just a story to scare us.”

  In a low growl, Canyon said, “I wouldn’t put anything past the white man and his government. They’ve certainly employed serial killers in the past.”

  “When?”

  “How about the cavalry men who bashed in the skulls of our ancestors, using their boots to save on bullets?”

  “Those were soldiers acting under orders.”

  “I’m not talking about them fighting us warrior to warrior. They did this to women, children, babies. Unless you want to argue that our people are less than human, then I would consider all of those men to be serial killers.”

  Liana heard the whine of engines in the distance. She said, “We had better get moving, Mr. Canyon.”

  “When we find this guy, Frank… I’m going to kill him. Do you have a problem with that, Officer Nakai?”

  Liana wanted to scream that she sure as hell did have a problem with that, but she held her tongue. Considering her words carefully, she replied, “No offense or disrespect intended, but to be perfectly honest, from what I’ve seen, I’m not overly concerned about protecting him from you. It’s more the other way around.”

  17

  30 years earlier…

  The boy had been taught that a little screaming was okay. His mother had explained that some men needed to hear her scream, to see her in pain, in order to be satisfied. She had instructed him to call for help only if she screamed his name and “help” specifically.

  His mother didn’t really need to explain the desire of some clients to hurt her. The boy’s favorite hobby was torturing small animals and imagining doing the same to his mother’s clients. He wondered if the shrieks of terror issued by various animals as they met their ends were also cries for help. Were those animals afraid to die? Did they know what it was to die? Or were his torture victims merely reacting to the external stimulus of pain.

  He sharpened his grandfather’s knife on a wet stone as he sat on the ratty old couch and watched one of about ten VCR tapes that he had viewed at least a thousand times a piece.

  Only if she screamed his name… A name he’d always hated and planned to change when he was old enough. Still, he longed for the day when she—

  Bugs Bunny had just met Marvin the Martian when he heard a crash and his mother’s voice calling his name in a voice he had never heard before. “Xavier! Help!” she shrieked. Her screams reminded the boy of the high-pitched keening of a desert hare when caught in a trap and dying.

  Xavier sat ramrod straight, unmoving, unsure whether or not he was merely daydreaming.

  Out of the television’s crackling speakers Bugs Bunny asked Marvin, “What’s up, Doc?” The cartoon rabbit’s iconic line was followed by another crash and more choked screams for help. Another scream of “Xavier!”

  This time, the boy leaped into action. He ran to the kitchen where a mint green rotary phone hung on one wall. He spun the dial for his uncle’s house, just across the valley. But the phone kept ringing, and his mother kept screaming. He considered running to a neighbor’s or calling the police, but then he looked down at the knife stretching from his right fist, and the boy knew that this was the moment which he had been patiently awaiting, the day he would turn daydream into reality.

  He hurried down the hall to his mother’s bedroom and workplace, but he paused at the door. The room on the other side had gone quiet. He worried that he was already too late. He had failed. His hesitation had cost his mother her life. He placed his ear to the door and listened.

  The barrier was made from cheap particle board with a hollow core. In the room beyond, he heard what sounded to him like someone gurgling water in the back of their throat. It took a moment for the boy’s rich imagination to picture the room beyond and realize that the sound was Dr. Chee choking the life from his mother.

  He opened the door and let it swing inward. Dr. Chee was naked atop the mattress, straddling his mother, the doctor’s large hands wrapped around his mother’s neck. The pent-up rage of watching years of “Johns” walk though his front door fueled his courage, and he yelled a guttural war cry as he rushed toward the doctor, the knife held out in front of him like the horn of a rhinoceros.

  The boy realized his mistake halfway across the bedroom when Dr. Chee whirled around and, taking advantage of his longer adult reach, backhanded the boy with enough force to send him flying across the room and smashing into the small table and mirror that his mother used to repair her makeup after each client. Pain shot down his left arm, and his vision went white.

  Barely clinging to consciousness, Xavier heard his mother scream his name again as she fought to free herself, his attack apparently having given her an opening. Tiny shards of glass stung his left hand. He picked some of the larger pieces free from his flesh and ignored the rest. Attempting to push himself to his feet caused snakes of fire to shoot through his shoulder. The world spun, growing and swelling, as his stomach flipped in circles.

  Dr. Chee screamed unintelligible obscenities as he began kicking Xavier’s mother and then dropped back onto her. The doctor’s eyes were wide and wild with rage. In that moment, the boy knew that Dr. Chee had no intentions of stopping. If he didn’t act now, his mother would be dead, and he would follow shortly after as the crazed physician covered his crime.

  It was now or never. Kill or be killed.

  Swallowing down the waves of pain, he retrieved his grandfather’s hunting knife from the floor and rushed once more at Dr. Chee.

  This time, however, the boy didn’t scream. Instead, having learned his lesson about announcing an assault to an opponent, he attacked from his opponent’s blindspot and moved as quickly and quietly as possible.

  The doctor was hunched over Xavier’s mother, his flabby rear-end tensed up and sticking up in the air as the doctor pushed his weight down onto his victim’s throat.

  The boy aimed for the biggest target. He threw all of his weight into the stab as he plunged the hunting knife straight between Dr. Chee’s two hairy butt cheeks.

  Xavier would never forget the sound the doctor made. It was shrill and animalistic, more the squeal of a dying pig than the screams of a man. But the boy detected traces of intelligence, a fear of imminent death, that didn’t seem present in his animal victims. The notes of Dr. Chee’s death song sent shivers of pleasure up Xavier’s spine.

  Bucking and writhing, the doctor knocked the boy backwards, but he kept hold of the knife, pulling it free with him. Blood spurted from Dr. Chee’s rear and stained the whole room as the doctor flailed about, fighting the throes of death.

  Blood loss and shock soon tired out the dying man, and he fell back atop the mattress amid a growing stain of crimson red.

  His mother rushed to the boy’s side and helped him off the matted green carpet. She tried to lead him from the room and cover his eyes, but he shoved her away and said, “Get off of me. I’m staying!”

  Then the boy approached the dying doctor, while remaining a safe distance away. He knew that animals were often most dangerous just before death. One of Xavier’s favorite pastimes was capturing rabbits and stray cats and, after playing with them for a bit, slitting their throats. That was his favorite part: watching the look in their eyes as they realized death was coming for them.

  But he had never seen that look in the eyes of another person, a person whose fear gave him power, until this moment. He had imagined it. He had fantasized about it. And he wasn’t disappointed. The look in Dr. Chee’s eyes
revealed a whole new level of fear that no animal other than a human could attain.

  The boy watched as the doctor sobbed in pain and tried crawling toward the door. The old man grew paler by the second as more of his lifeblood stained the carpet. Rolling onto his back, Dr. Chee struggled for breath and reached out toward the boy. He begged, “Please…Help…Ambulance…”

  The boy smiled in response and said, “What’s up, Doc?… Oh, sorry, I forgot again. You’re all named John!”

  Xavier felt like he was a soaring eagle now. He had never been so light and filled with joy. He had never known true happiness until that moment. Overwhelmed by some unnamed ethereal emotion, repeating the name “John” over and over to himself, the boy began to laugh uncontrollably and couldn’t stop until Dr. Chee had passed into the darkness.

  Closing the doctor’s lifeless eyelids, the boy cackled even harder at the thought that a ghost-eyed freak laughing in his face was the last thing that the doctor ever saw.

  18

  Ackerman watched the lifted jeep rumble toward him over the hard-pack of the desert floor, trampling over scrub brush like a metal elephant. The driver had turned off the headlights, apparently to approach without being seen. Ackerman—accounting for the roar of the big engine, the crushing of desert foliage, and the telltale cloud of dust—surmised the attempt at stealth to be an exercise in futility. Still, he knew that his brother was merely trying to buy them every spare second using the variables he could control.

  Special Agent Marcus Williams—Ackerman’s baby brother—pulled the Jeep to a stop and said, “Looks like you could use a ride.”

  “I have the situation under control.”

  Marcus shrugged. “Says the guy bleeding all over himself.”

  “A mere flesh wound.”

  “You sure about that? Looks like a lot of blood. To be clear, I’m not worried about you. But this Jeep is a rental, and so I really need you to try not to let your ‘flesh wound’ stain the seats.”

  Now it was Ackerman’s turn to shrug. “If it’s an issue, I can find my way on foot. Do you perhaps have a water bottle or—”

  “Get in the damn jeep, Frank,” Marcus said, his head swiveling around to watch for the pursuing vehicles of the Tribal Police. The reaction caused a smile to spread across Ackerman’s face. His brother was perhaps the toughest man he had ever met—besides himself, obviously—but his superiority was always proven in moments like this. No matter how tough Marcus pretended to be, his brother was still afraid to die, while he was afraid of nothing.

  Climbing up inside the open cab of the Jeep, Ackerman said, “If you insist on hurrying off.”

  Throwing the big jeep into gear and cutting a path up the rise, toward the rock wall of the mesa and away from their pursuers, Marcus said, “It looks like your plan didn’t work out like you had hoped.”

  “On the contrary, dear brother, the reconnaissance phase of this operation was a resounding success.”

  “Reconnaissance phase? I thought Canyon was supposed to take you to wherever he’s keeping Maggie. I thought this ‘operation’ only had one phase.”

  “What is it you like to say?… Improvise, adapt, and overcome.”

  “Maggie could be running out of time. If she’s still…” Marcus’s words trailed off as tears welled in his eyes.

  Ackerman said, “I’m more aware than most of the true enemy of all mankind. The name of the unconquerable foe of humanity.”

  Swiping at his cheeks, Marcus shifted into third gear and asked, “Death?”

  Cocking an eyebrow, Ackerman replied, “Death is but a doorway for those who believe. I was referring to a power only transcended by God himself: Time. Time is the real Taker. An adversary every living soul must battle and a force by which we will all be defeated.”

  Marcus said, “Focus for me, Frank. What did you learn in there?”

  “I discovered quite a bit. For example, Mr. Canyon was almost as worried about his sheep as he was his son.”

  Marcus said nothing, his brow furrowed in concentration. Ackerman loved that his brother didn’t ask needless questions of him like the normals always did. His brother merely understood the possible scenarios his information implied and drove off into the night. It all brought a small smile to Ackerman’s lips. It was funny how he had lived most of his life without his brother, but now, he couldn’t imagine any kind of life without him.

  19

  The past…

  As they ate, Maggie stared into Marcus’s eyes and noticed an anomaly. “Your eyes are different colors.”

  “Yeah, most people don’t notice. My eyes are kinda gray-green, but the right one is half brown. It’s called sectoral heterochromia.”

  “Is that some kind of disorder? Nothing contagious, I hope?”

  He laughed. “It can be related to certain syndromes, but I don’t think I have any of them. It can also be a sign that you had a twin you absorbed in the womb. They call it chimerism. In that case, I could actually have multiple sets of DNA in different body parts. I don’t think I have that either. I also read once that some believe it to be a sign that you’re descended from Swedish royalty, or something like that. I think I’m just a dude with a funny colored eye.”

  “I told you that you were an odd man.”

  “I didn’t dispute it. What about you? You have any oddities?”

  She straightened her silverware and folded her napkin into a perfectly symmetrical square. “No, I’m completely normal.”

  He grinned. “Nobody’s completely normal.”

  “I am.”

  “Really. You’re not mildly obsessive compulsive?” She started to open her mouth but stopped. After a moment, she said, “What makes you say that?”

  “I pay attention. Your apartment is impeccably clean—not a single picture or decoration is out of place. Every grouping is perfectly balanced. When you eat, you cut every bite into the same size. You make sure that the silverware you’re not using is in perfect alignment. You folded your napkin into a square. And when you put the sweetener into your tea, you made sure that the markings on the two packets lined up before you opened them. You even put one back because it was longer than the other packet.”

  She felt naked before him. She started to say something, decided against it, and stared down at the table.

  He reached across and laid a hand over hers. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting the world to be in order and make sense.”

  “But my compulsions don’t make any sense. They’re irrational. I don’t have a good reason for doing them. I just feel like that’s the way things should be done. Most people don’t notice, so I try to hide it. It makes me feel like a freak.”

  “Does it make sense to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do all the things that you do make sense to you? We each see the world through different eyes. We all have our nuances…our little tics. I’ll give you an example. I always sit facing any points of ingress. I always know what’s behind me. When I walk into a room, the first thing I do is scan it to find the entrances and exits. I consider what could be used as a weapon in this space. I play out in my mind what I would do if someone walked in the door with a gun. Where’s the best place to take cover? What’s the best route to flank an armed assailant who just entered? And other things. Who in the room could pose a threat? Who’s potentially armed? What’s here that’s out of place? What’s missing? All that runs through my head every time I enter a room. Some people call that cop instincts or training. I call it paranoia.”

  Marcus squeezed her hand, and she met his gaze. “I don’t have a good reason to do all that,” he said. “Nobody’s after me. I don’t have any enemies. Even back in New York, I was never in a restaurant that somebody shot up. Maybe one day it’ll save my life, but probably not. Odds are that I’ll never be in that situation. But I can’t help but run through it. It’s just my nature.”

  Her face brightened. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”
<
br />   “For being stranger than me.”

  Part Two

  20

  John Canyon stared down at the place where the dirt road merged into paved blacktop and the jeep tracks they had been following ended. He clenched and unclenched his fists and looked up to the dark silhouette of the mesa and the foothills. The madman who had invaded his kingdom was obviously not alone. And they had just slipped through his fingers.

  Standing beside him, Yazzie said, “Don’t you have some kind of GPS trackers on your trucks? Have you tried to—”

  “Of course, I have. Are you suggesting that I’m a total moron?”

  “Just covering the bases. That’s my job.”

  “You want to do your job now? Then find my son!”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do, John. I love the boy too. I’m as sick over it all as you are. We know that they can’t be holed up anywhere here in Roanhorse, and they’re tracks are heading away from Shiprock. But there are thousands of places out here in the hills and canyons where they could have the boys and the truck stashed. It’s a—”

  Stepping up into Yazzie’s face, Canyon said in a low growl, “Don’t you dare give me any needle in a haystack bullshit. If that’s the case, then get a big damn magnet to find the needle.”

  “I will, John. I will. We’ll bring Toby home. What about your other problem?”

  “What are you talking about?”