by J. D. Oliva
"Huh?"
Jericho pointed at his phone screen as the video was paused on the Detective's face.
"That's him. That's the Nightcrawler."
"How do you know that?" Jamie asked. The tone in her voice didn't do much to cover any doubts.
"Because he's been with me for the last two days. And he's been with you all day today."
The kid couldn't help but stick his two-cents in. "She does have a point. I mean, how do you know it's him?"
Jericho shot Chris, the are you serious look. "Because who else would tell that story? The Nightcrawler moved on from the Aranda chick into this tall ginger guy. Perfect way to cover its tracks. You saw what it is. Now it wants to silence you."
Chris looked over to Jamie Casten. Without saying a word, he tried to descaled the situation. She folded her arms across the Billikens t-shirt, not knowing what to think. But she wasn't freaking out and threatening to call the cops. Yet.
"We gotta move," Jericho said.
"And do what?"
"Kid, you gotta go incognito. We'll talk after we bounce."
"You guys are leaving?" Jamie asked with an inquisitive eyebrow lift.
Jericho didn't know how to read her face. He didn't want to be here in the first place, but he needed those notes. Now that he'd seen them and was pretty sure he found the Nightcrawler, at least temporarily, they needed to move.
"Yeah. You helped us out. Thank you; we appreciate it." Jericho raised his index finger into the air, "But understand, this also makes you an accomplice."
Jamie's eyebrows sagged. She hadn't considered that. Now she was as dirty as them. That was the leverage he needed. Advantage, Jericho.
"So, it's gonna be better for you if we leave. Then you can say you never saw us."
Jamie puckered her lips to the side again. Her default frustrated face revealed more than she wanted. She was in whether she wanted it or not.
"You can always say we threatened your life." Jericho smiled. Both of them understood if they were caught, he would actually say the opposite.
"Take the notebooks."
That was unexpected. The two fugitives looked to each other, trying to figure out her angle, then back at her.
"Stockholm Syndrome," she shrugged.
Maybe she did believe them? It didn't matter. They all had to part ways. Jericho motioned for Chris to grab the notebooks. If for nothing else, than to destroy the evidence when this was finished. Chris needed to hide, and Jericho had to finish business.
IL
Detective Anderson pulled his car up to the front gates of the U-Stor-It facility in the south suburban Shrewsbury. The facility, located just off Highway 366, used to be part of the historic Route 66. Melinda Alvarez nervously paced near the front gate with her arms across her chest. Melinda stood 5'3", 165lbs. with short, dark hair. Anderson stepped out of the car and looked the facility manager up and down.
She reminded him of the Aranda woman a bit. She looked older, probably in her forties, but still similar. He thought about driving the blade in his jacket pocket deep into her back and slashing it across her throat. That would feel so good. But it wouldn't make things easier.
Anderson figured killing Chambliss would satiate the hunger, but it didn't. The hunger is getting tougher to control. For sixty years, he was able to keep the hunger at bay and only succumb to his programming when he could no longer control the impulses. Life revolved around finding prey. The parasite didn't need food in the same way as its host. It was more than happy to feed on the inside of its host's ear. It didn't need much sustenance to survive. Impulse control was challenging. Anderson took a deep breath and focused.
"Officer Anderson?" Melinda asked, with a Mexican accent.
"Detective Anderson," he corrected. "You're Mrs. Alvarez?"
She nodded, looking from side to side, making sure they were alone.
"I understand you had some visitors to your facility this morning?"
She nodded again. "He was here. The man who killed that girl. Shane," she mispronounced his name so it sounded more like Chain than Shane, but it was in the right wheelhouse. "He shaved his head and his beard, but it was him."
"How can you be sure?"
She pointed two fingers toward her face. "His eyes. The eyes of a killer."
Anderson didn't know what it meant, but she seemed serious.
"How can you be so sure?"
"We have security footage, Detective," she said, pointing up to a camera perched over the facility. One of many overhead cams monitoring the perimeter.
"May I see it?"
She nodded and led him into an office building nestled between the walls of stone barracks—lockers. Lockers that held things so important to people that they couldn't part with them, but not important enough to keep around. Anderson understood it better than most. He was discarded once. That was their mistake. Alvarez opened the door to her office and pointed toward the iMac computer on the desk.
"We had three visitors this morning. Something seemed different. A girl and two men. They didn't look right together."
Alvarez opened her computer and clicked on a folder labeled with today's date. There were volumes of Quicktime videos inside. Alvarez double-clicked one, and a screen popped up. It was a high, wide-angled view of one of the storage banks. Alvarez scrubbed along the timeline, watching a few different people quickly scatter across the screen. Faces gone before the camera could even give them a good view of who they were. The images moved too fast.
Anderson chuckled to himself. He'd been around so long and lived so many lives, it felt like his own existence moved the same way. Just a series of quick flashes until you find exactly what you've been looking for.
"This is the girl," Alvarez said, pausing the screen and pointing to a thin girl with shoulder-length dark hair. Nothing about her seemed familiar.
Two other men walked into view. The first was Shane. Even with the new hairstyle, his face was clear, but that isn't what caught Anderson's attention. It was his companion, the large black man with the sunglasses and the dreadlocks. Anderson's life moved like a scrubbed video, a bunch of irrelevant faces moving fast before his eyes. There were very few he could remember, but this is one he'd never forget. Anderson's face now matched Alvarez's.
For the first time in years, he felt something stir inside him. For as many human lives as Anderson invaded, their emotions were something he never understood but always managed to suppress. This isn't a feeling bubbling up from the host, trying to breakthrough. This rocked him to his center. He could never forget the face of the man who killed him.
But how? How could he be back? And with Shane? He watched Shane talk with the pretty girl while the black man riffled through the storage locker. What was he looking for?
"That's him, isn't it?" Alvarez said.
"Absolutely," he said, forgetting she meant Shane. "Who does this locker belong to?"
ILI
For nearly a century, Union Station was the travel hub in downtown St. Louis. If the Arch was the Gateway to the West, Union Station was the road leading the way. But today, Union Station is little more than a historical marker turned into another mall. A shadow of its former functionality, reborn as a tourist stop. All traveling in and out of the city ran through nearby Gateway Station, a quarter-mile away from the more famous station of yore.
Jericho's Green Beast pulled up to curb and was quickly thrown into park. The train isn't the most efficient way to travel, but in this case, it's probably the best. Chris needed to leave St. Louis, and in truth, bringing him back was a mistake; but Jericho didn't have anywhere else to keep him.
Normally, he didn't worry about police and FBI searches, there's ways around those. But with a new pilot directing this Detective Anderson, and the quicker Chris is out of the way, the easier it would be to finish business.
"There's a ticket under the name Charles Danforth," Jericho said, handing Chris another fake identification and credit card.
He looked at t
he cards and back up to Jericho. "How'd you get this?"
"That's kids stuff," Jericho said, brushing him off. "Catch the 6:15 to New Orleans. When you get there, a friend of mine will be waiting for you."
"What's his name?"
"Not important. Call him Chas. He's gonna be waiting for you. He'll have a sign that says, Mr. Pilkington. You'll get instructions then."
Chris bit his lip, clearly wanting to say something.
"Problem?"
"No, it's just...."
"Go on?"
Chris took a breath, trying to collect his thoughts. "Why can't I stay here?"
"You serious? Not only is an evil worm trying to find you, but so is the FBI. This is the last place you need to be. Trust me and let me do my job."
"Maybe you need help?"
Help? What exactly did that mean? Jericho's perplexed eyebrow peeked out behind his sunglasses.
"I mean, maybe you need a partner?"
"Oh?"
"Yeah. I mean, you and I seem to work pretty well together. With a little bit of training—"
Jericho erupted in a fit of laughter. Is he serious? Judging by the dumbfounded look on his face, he was.
"Get the fuck outta here!"
"Why? I'm smart, I can fight."
"Didn't this whole thing start with you getting your ass kicked?" Jericho reminded him.
That stung. Good, he needed a reality check.
"That's different. Like I said, if you trained me, I can help. Remember what happened back in my kitchen," he said with a grin.
Jericho's smile faded. He remembered what happened very well. Jericho nodded a little bit. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea. Chris smiled and nodded back, thinking maybe Jericho was coming around.
CCCCRRRRRRAAAKKKKK
The assassin slapped Chris Shane across the face. Chris' head dropped a bit. A small puddle welled up in the corner of his eye, but he didn't react. He didn't get angry. He didn't fight back. He just sat in the passenger seat. He didn't have what Jericho had. Thank God,
"Look, kid. I ain't one of the good guys. I ain't your friend. I'm a trained motherfuckin' killer. The only reason I'm even here is 'cause the check cleared the bank, and I'm a good businessman. Now get the fuck outta my truck before I whoop your bitch ass."
Chris nodded and exited out of the Green Beast. He didn't turn back to take a second look in his direction. Not that Jericho would've been there if he had.
The green F-150 pulled away seconds after he closed the door. Part of Jericho felt bad to come down the way he did, but he had no choice. The kid was getting a little too familiar. A little too comfortable. Being comfortable in this job costs lives. He couldn't let it happen. Not to Chris Shane. The kid is better off as far away from this life as possible.
ILII
Andrew Nashida borrowed a 2009 Silver Ford Fusion. The Black Traverse was too big and too recognizable to go incognito and follow someone as seasoned as Detective Anderson. Anderson went on his own and questioned a Melinda Alvarez, the manager of a U-Stor-It outside St. Louis. The storage facility was thirty minutes from St. Charles and something that should have been coordinated with the St. Louis and Shrewsbury Police, not to mention the Bureau. Anderson went rogue and did it on his own, but Nashida had no idea why. He followed Anderson's Honda Civic around the greater St. Louis Metro area, still unsure where they were heading.
The agent sent Oroye and two other agents, Morrison and Dabney, to follow up on any developments with Shane.
Nashida followed the Civic into the affluent Central West End neighborhood. Eventually, the Civic stopped in front of a three-story brick house. Nashida's loaner Fusion drove past, needing to sell the charade, but in the rearview mirror, he watched Anderson sit inside the Civic, waiting. Nashida pulled over a block away, making sure the Civic was still in his rearview mirror.
BZZZZTT—
"This is Nashida."
"It's Oroye. We got a lead on Shane."
"Where?"
"Gateway Station downtown. He's making a run for it. Want us to wait for you?"
Nashida took another look into the mirror staring at the parked Civic.
"Nope. Take care of it, Tunde."
"Copy that."
If they had a positive ID on Shane, then there was little doubt the St. Louis and St. Charles PD's did too. So what the hell was Anderson doing in Central West End?
ILIII
"Asshole," Chris muttered under his breath as the truck pulled away from Gateway Station.
Chris pulled out his phone and checked the time. 5:10 pm. A text came in from an unknown number. Chris unlocked the phone and found a one-way ticket from St. Louis to New Orleans. Just like the man said, it left at 6:15, which gave him about twenty minutes to figure everything out before the train rolled out down south.
Chris walked into the station and found the concourse. It's smaller and probably easier to navigate than Union Station back in Chicago. A quick scan of the big board showed that his train was set to depart on time on Track 12. All he had to do was jump on the train and show the conductor the PDF on his phone, then he'd be home free. Pretty simple, really. Maybe he even had time for a sandwich?
The food court, labeled Arch City Deli, would be a good place to start. The location, right off the main concourse, helped. Chris stood outside the line at the KFC and wondered how he found himself on the run like this.
It shouldn't surprise him that Ethan, which couldn't have been his real name, turned on him like that. They weren't friends. They barely even knew each other. Before all this, all they had was what happened last Christmas. The night that bastard used Chris as bait. Of course, that didn't work out the way he planned it. That arrogant piece of crap wouldn't even be alive if it weren't for him. Maybe that's the only reason he let Chris get that close?
"Can I help you?" Asked a pimple-faced kid behind the counter.
"Huh?"
"You want some chicken?" The guy pointed to the menu.
Of course, he did. Who doesn't want fried chicken?
"Yeah, two breasts and a large coleslaw."
The worker nodded and grabbed a box, preparing to dish out the Colonel's brand of fried fuel. In a half-daze, Chris looked over his shoulder, wondering what he'd do once he got to New Orleans. In the back of the food court, he caught a glimpse of a stocky African-American man in a suit, casually circling the area. There's no reason this guy should have drawn Chris' attention. Nothing more than a feeling poking in the back of his head. Chris slowly shifted his eyes left and found another man in a suit with a shaved head, pretending not to be looking in his direction.
You know those guys are Feds, right?
Of course, he did. He is a wanted man, after all.
"That'll be $8.35," the guy behind the counter said.
Chris pulled a ten spot from his jeans. If the man in black was right about one thing, it was his rule about only using cash. Can't trace cash.
Chris took the box of Chicken with one hand and the coleslaw in the other. He exited the Arch City Deli, pretending not to notice that he was being followed. Near as he could tell, there were three of them, as another dude in suit joined the other two. They probably didn't want to make a scene inside the concourse. He'd be easier to apprehend on the train. It's not like Indiana Jones where he could make a daring run through the train cars and jump off into the distance. That's suicide, which isn't an option. He didn't do anything, but these guys certainly weren't going to believe the evil worm thing. The worst thing Chris could do was get on that train. He needed to get out of the station immediately. He didn't know his way around, and it's only a matter of time before they made things worse.
You know what I'd do?
Yeah, you'd make a giant scene.
Yep. Make those douchebags earn their paycheck, at least.
True. Chris stopped in his path as a swath of people tried to move around him. He turned back and found one of the not-so-undercover agents just behind him.
"Hey, man, I'm n
ot as hungry as I thought. You want some coleslaw?"
The stocky African-American stopped in his tracks. He never wavered for a second, nor did he say a word. He looked ready for Chris to make a run. Perfect.
At the same time, a giant biker-looking guy with a shaved head and neck tattoos passed by them. He had a very bad hombre vibe. Chris looked back at the agent once the biker passed them both. Chris smiled and shrugged before turning back and chucking the large container of KFC coleslaw like Justin Verlander, letting a fastball rip from the mound. The back of the biker's head was blasted by chunks of cabbage, carrots, and vinegar.
I didn't think you had that in you.
The biker spun back around with Colonel's special sauce covering his head and leather jacket, and murder in his eyes.
Chris pointed at the agent and shouted, "Holy shit! I can't believe you did that!"
Before anyone could say a word, the biker drove his shoulder into the agent's stomach. The crowd pushed inward to get a better look, just like when a fight broke out in the junior high cafeteria. In the commotion, Chris bolted back toward the exit, with the bald-headed agent right behind him. One-on-one were odds he could live with. The two sprinted through the concourse, with Chris darting between travelers and chairs, but the agent kept on his tail.
Eventually, Chris felt someone grabbing the back of his shirt. He stopped, turned back, and wrapped his arm around the agent's wrist. With a quick pop of his hips, Chris threw the agent across his back with a simple wrestling move called a lateral drop. Something he pulled out more than a few times in his career. The agent hit the ground, back first. With the wind knocked out of him, Chris mounted his opponent and dropped three carefully placed forearms across the agent's face. A ground-and-pound his coaches back at the dojo would have been proud to see.
Where was that a few nights ago?
The agent tried to cover his face, there was enough blood across his arms and chest that Chris assumed he'd broken the agent's nose. He went from being wrongly accused, to committing a federal offense. Wonderful. No one would ever believe the Nightcrawler story anyway, so might as well make this count. Chris popped off the downed agent and didn't bother turning back to see the other two, who had to be close behind. He dead-sprinted out of the exit and saw two St. Louis PD squads pulling up. Chris quickly turned left, running alongside Rt. 40, directly underneath Interstate 64.