by J. D. Oliva
SSSKKKKKRRREEEECCHHH
A car spun out right in front of him. Unfortunately, it wasn't the Green Beast. But it was a familiar-looking red Mustang. The passenger side door flew open.
"Get in, dumb-ass!" Jamie Casten shouted.
Chris didn't ask questions and jumped inside as the V8 engine roared, tearing away from Gateway Station.
ILIV
As the sun set on the shores of the Mississippi River, Anderson exited the Honda Civic and drew his Glock 22. The storage locker belonged to Jamie Casten, a nineteen-year-old college student who resided with her Aunt and Uncle, Jane and Roy Wilkerson. This home in St. Louis' West End Central was in their name.
Anderson slowly crept around the corner to the backyard. Lights were on in the kitchen and in the living room. He couldn't see anyone through the windows, but was confident they were inside. If not, they would be soon.
The home assumably had a high-tech security system. Probably one of those high-end units from a company like Brinks or Cherry Vale. If he tripped the alarm, SLPD would be there soon. The badge would quell any questions. For now, at least. The badge bought some time.
Anderson carefully approached the backdoor, anticipating an alarm or the sound of a dog. He placed his fingers along the door lever and gently pulled down, expecting the worst. Nothing. Just more silence. The door gently pushed open, and Anderson heard the television. It sounded like one of those singing contest shows. Television had never been something he'd particularly cared for. Nothing but a distraction. But it was useful when finding information.
Anderson's lanky, red frame crept into the kitchen, the Glock firmly in hand. Firearms aren't a weapon that he had much experienced with. Anderson knew how to use them, and Anderson's thoughts and personality were still there, submerged. It only needed to be tapped into.
Still, guns are not what he preferred. Knives were much more his speed. If he only had to deal with Shane and the Casten girl, a knife would have been fine. But that's not all he had to deal with.
CLLLLAAAAANNGGG
Anderson spun around, expecting someone waiting for him. But there wasn't. Only another angle of the kitchen. He seemed to still be alone. But he issn't. The assassin is here. Anderson could feel it. The Glock trembled in his hands. The connection to Anderson weakened. His mind maybe completely submerged. That's not good. He needed Anderson's police instincts. He needed to tether on to something.
THHWWAACKK!
One knee of Anderson's lanky frame dropped to the linoleum floor.
THHWWAACKK!
A second shot to the side of the head knocked him to his hands and knees. The room spun. He couldn't focus.
"The All-Clad Stainless Steel Try-Ply Nonstick Skillet. We talking about the most premiere frying pan on the market today," a dark voice spoke.
Anderson couldn't turn his head, but assumed it belonged to the assassin. The man who'd almost killed him those years ago.
THHWWAACKK!
The cold metal smacked against the side of his back, knocking him over. Anderson's back laid against the cold floor. The ceiling fan spun overhead.
Anderson laughed. After sixty years of madness, maybe this tortuous existence was finally over. The man in black moved into his line of sight with some kind of frying pan clutched in his hand.
"I don't know if the folks at All Clad really thought of all the possible uses this incredible piece of culinary efficiency's got."
As Anderson tried to pull himself back to his feet, the man in black slammed the pan against his face.
"Answer me this question. If I kill this red-haired dickhead, do you die too? I thought when I saw that thing crawling out of the last guy's ear, that was it. Guess not. Wonder if I light this piece of shit on fire and watch him burn, that'll do the trick?"
THHWWAACKK!
Another shot to the side of the face kept Anderson down. The assassin whipped the pan down, smacking it against his chest. It tried to move Anderson's body up from the floor, but it couldn't. The creature was trapped inside the gangly detective.
The man in black opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a small, purple handtowel. He inspected it for a moment, making sure it was good enough for whatever he had planned.
Jericho opened another drawer and pulled out a set of long tongs, the kind people used to turn chicken over on a grill. He clicked them a few times and nodded in approval. The assassin put the hand towel on the countertop and grabbed them again with the tongs.
"I did this trick once with the underground lizard people."
Anderson coughed on the ground, still struggling to move.
"I know, right. Can you believe that's a real thing?" He turned on a burner on the stove. Three clicks and a burst of blue flames popped out from the burner. "Well, they were a real thing before they fucked with me."
Jericho dangled the purple towel over the open flame, watching it become engulfed in orange embers. Holding a small fireball, he turned back to Anderson, who started to move again.
"When I was a kid, I read this book called How To Eat Fried Worms. Time to give it a go!" He said, about to drop the blazing towel on Anderson.
"Stop!"
BANG BANG BANG
Three gunshots rang out. Jericho dropped the fireball, but it landed nowhere near Anderson's body. Instead, it burned on the kitchen floor, while he took cover behind the kitchen island.
Agent Nashida stood in the kitchen entryway with two hands clutched around his Sig Sauer P226. Blue and red lights filled the inside of the house as six armed SLPD officers burst into the front and back doors, surrounding them.
"Hands in the air!" Nashida shouted.
Jericho had no choice. He stood up with his hands over his head.
"Y'all got me."
ILV
Jamie Casten's red mustang merged on to I-64, trying to distance herself from anyone who saw Chris jump inside. He looked out the window, surprised no one followed. Then again, did the FBI have red and blue patrol lights? Probably not. Chances are they were far behind. Looking over to the driver, a nineteen-year-old trust-fund kid who'd possibly thrown her life away, he couldn't help but wonder why.
"How did you know where to find me?" Chris shouted over Travis Scott pumping out of her radio,
"What?!"
Chris turned the volume down and asked again. "How did you know how to find me?"
"Oh, I followed you guys."
That made sense. Kind of.
"Oh. Why?"
"The last day or so has been really weird, but I don't believe what that cop said. I don't trust your scary-looking friend, but I don't believe you did the things they said. I don't why I'm kinda reacting here."
Good thing too or else he'd be in handcuffs headed to wherever the FBI takes prisoners.
"Thank you."
She nodded, not quite sure what the heck she's thinking.
"What now?" Chris asked.
"I was hoping you had an idea. Right now, we're just kind of driving. What happened to Mr. Mystery?"
"He was trying to get me outta the way. Maybe he's after that cop, Anderson."
"That's where we shouldn't go then."
"If I had any clue where he I was, I'd agree. I wish I knew what to do next."
Jamie put her blinker on and took an exit. The first exit after crossing the Mississippi River. Chris looked at the green road sign reading, East St, Louis.
"Are we going to East St. Louis?"
"No one is looking for you there. At least we can lay low for a minute and think."
It's official: she is insane. East St. Louis is one of the most economically downtrodden, most crime-ridden cities in the United States. If he was with the man in black, he might feel a little better about going here, but with the cute brunette in the flashy red sports car, they'd stick out like his slightly cauliflowered ear. What's worse, it made them a target.
Jamie pulled the car over behind an abandon, burnt-out building that was probably a gas station not too long ago. She threw the
car in park and turned off the engine.
"Why are we stopping here?"
"I want answers."
"What do you mean?"
"Like, I want the truth. You're both telling me half-stories. I want what's really going on."
Chris bucked. He couldn't tell her everything. How could he explain how he even met Ethan?
"I can't."
"Fine. Get out," she said with her arms crossed.
"What?"
"You heard me. After what I just did, you still can't tell me the truth, I don't want to do this anymore. Get out."
"But, look where we are."
Jaime looked left and right and shrugged. "What's wrong with this neighborhood, Chris? Are you scared of something?"
There is no way he could answer this that didn't make him sound crazy. How could he?
"Fine. You want the truth."
"I do."
"Okay. Here it is."
ILVI
Agent Nashida walked into the SLPD station, where he was immediately greeted by Officer Flores.
"Special Agent," Flores said, extending his hand.
Nashida nodded and returned the shake. Nashida already got the heroes treatment from the boys in both St. Louis and St. Charles for saving one of their own from becoming a real-life human torch.
"What do we know about our guy?" Nashida asked.
"Absolutely nothing."
"Is he lawyering up?" He asked.
Flores escorted Nashida down to the cell where the man he caught less than an hour ago was being held.
"He isn't saying a word. Taking that right to remain silent seriously. Here's what's crazy, not only did the guy possess no forms of ID whatsoever, he had no weapons at all except for those tongs. Also, he's got no figure prints."
"What does that mean?"
"I mean, his fingers are smooth. It's like he burned them off. We took his sunglasses, and he's been struggling to keep his eyes open."
"Must be some kind of light sensitivity," Nashida said. "If he's sitting in an interrogation room, I'd like the chance to speak with him."
"Of course. The Captain's been waiting for you."
Another uniformed officer opened a door leading into a sterile room with bright fluorescent lights and white tiles. It is so bright, it almost took Nashida back for a second. He rubbed his eyes and when they cleared, he found the suspect at the desk.
The perp's hands were shackled together, and his feet were chained to the floor. For a regular suspect, this might seem extreme, but this guy is dangerous. They had him on assaulting a police officer, but that is simply the first of many possible charges. He knew a professional when he saw one, even if this is the first one he ever saw himself.
Nashida took a seat at the other end of the desk, with Flores behind him. The would-be assassin cracked open one eye and peered past Nashida and up to Flores. His eyes shifted back to Nashida, and he titled his head to the left, toward the door. He didn't want Flores in the room. Nashida turned toward the officer.
"Can you give us a minute?"
Flores looked back at the man chained to the floor and scowled. It didn't take a master at reading body language to tell what he wanted to do to this potential cop-killer. Flores nodded and exited the room. It was just the two of them.
Nashida stood up and reached inside his suit jacket. He pulled out a strange case and opened it in front of the guest. A pair of sunglasses. Nashida placed them on the table and slid them over to the man, who carefully took them and put them over his eyes.
"Thank you," he said with a dark voice.
"You're welcome. I assume you're Leo Encarta?"
The man laughed. He seemed way too comfortable in this situation.
"Sometimes," he answered.
"Who are you?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Clearly it does to a man with no fingerprints."
"Leftovers from my old career."
"Which was?"
"Work people like you wouldn't approve of. A necessary evil."
The mystery man enjoyed playing coy. Nashida had no idea why. They had him on actual charges, it's not like he was going to walk in twenty-four hours. Something else is going on here.
"We could order a DNA test to determine your identity."
"Go for it. You'll come back with the name of a dead man."
"What?"
"I'll keep it simple. I don't exist. Even if I did, it wouldn't matter much to this little investigation of yours, would it?"
He is right on that. Nashida is more interested in Christopher Shane. This would-be cop-killer is just a bump in the road. The St. Louis PD could do what they want with him once this is over. Nashida wanted to finish the job.
"Where's Christopher Shane."
"I don't know. I gift-wrapped him for you. I literally put him on a train so that your men could bring him in. But if you're asking me, I guess they dropped the ball."
That part is true. Oroye screwed up, and Shane is on the loose again, but that still didn't answer the question.
"Why did you gift wrap him for us, as you said."
"Because he'd be safe with you guys. He's just a kid."
"A kid who killed two people."
"No, he didn't, and you know that. He didn't kill that guy. Just like he had no reason to come back here to silence the girl, especially if he got all the way to McLean, Illinois. He was home free."
"And yet he did come back. Why?"
"We had to find the one who did. You saw."
What did that mean? All he saw was this guy about to turn Detective Anderson into an open-pit barbecue.
"The kid is innocent."
"Then why did he run?"
"Cause he's a kid, and if you were in his spot, you'd do the same. You almost did see it, actually."
"I stopped you from killing a police officer."
"Did you really?"
What is this weirdo in black hinting at? Nashida had his own suspicions about Anderson, but this isn't the Middle Ages. Taking fire to your enemies wasn't the way things were, especially not with the Bureau.
"No more games. Where's Shane?"
"I told you, I don't know. I put him on a train, hoping to keep him safe, but your boys couldn't seal the deal. Kid's probably a little tougher than I thought."
Nashida slammed his hands on the desk. The mystery man kept something secret, and Nashida was experienced enough to realize he wouldn't get it out of him. The frustration crept over the agent's face. Maybe it's the fact that perhaps Mr. No-Name was right. Either way, they were losing time.
"You tried to kill a cop. That makes you one of the bad guys," Nashida trailed off in a whisper as he drew into the assassin's shaded face. "It also means you're going to jail for a very, very long time."
Instead, the prisoner laughed. "Nah. I won't be here long. But you're right about one thing." The smile wiped away from his face. "I am the bad guy," he whispered.
An urge to punch the captive rushed over Nashida, but he wouldn't follow it. Nashida played by the rules. He believed in the rules. Judging from the smile creeping back over his guest's face, he knew that too.
The door opened, and both men turned to the entryway. Flores was back, but he wasn't alone. A man with a beaten and bruised face joined him.
"Let me try, Agent Nashida," Detective Anderson said.
ILVII
Chris told Jamie everything. The whole thing. She sat there understandably silent, rubbing her nose while trying to take it all in. She tried to speak a few times but changed her mind before letting unanswerable questions spew from her lips. This is what she asked for.
"So your dad was—"
"Yes."
"And Mr. Mystery—"
"Tried and failed."
"But—"
"I know."
Jamie's jaw slid open, dumbfounded. Hell, Chris hadn't had a decent night of sleep in months thinking about the same things. He rubbed the scar inside the center of his palm that looked like the letter V
sitting atop a triangle.
"This is technically the last thing my dad ever gave me."
Jamie looked at the jagged marks in Chris' hand. She was skeptical, like she didn't know what to believe. Looking back into his eyes, she could tell that even if this wasn't real, Chris believed it was.
KNOCK KNOCK
Both of them lept up in their seats to find a middle-aged African-American with a thick beard on the other side of the driver's window.
"Who is that?" She asked.
"You think I have any idea?"
"Hey!" The man shouted. "Are you guys okay?"
Jamie and Chris looked at each and back toward their visitor. In unison, they nodded. Neither reached for the button that would open the window. The man on the other side seemed to understand why.
"If y'all are safe, you probably should best be getting out of here," he said just loud enough for them to hear.
A polite warning. I don't know why you're here, but you probably should go if you don't have business in these parts. Jamie nodded and turned the ignition. Usually, she'd rev the engine a few times for fun. Not now.
"Thank you," Chris said with a wave as Jamie pulled out of the old gas station.
The man nodded back. Chris had seen enough horror movies to realize it was a bad idea to ignore the man with the not so subtle warning. From the way Jamie tore down N. 8th Street, she probably had the same idea.
"Where we going?" He asked.
"There's a bar in Fairview Heights about fifteen minutes away. If I'm going to listen to more of this, I'm going to need a drink."
ILVIII
The FBI agent stood up from the desk and gave one last frustrated glance in Jericho's direction. Normally, he would have smiled or made a sarcastic remark as he walked out with his nuts tucked between his legs. But with Anderson—the new Nightcrawler—in the room, he decided against it. Master Yamamoto talked of one man's evil, suffering ten thousand people. Kill that one man to let the tens of thousands live.