by J. D. Oliva
"We will not be doing that, Mr. Shane," Special Agent Oroye said.
Chris wanted to shout that he was innocent from the mountain tops, not that there were mountains in Missouri, but that wasn't going to help him.
Just keep your mouth shut for now.
Yep, saying anything, especially the truth, was only going to make things worse. He was better off staying quiet until they brought him to wherever they were going.
"Sorry about the whole coleslaw thing."
What did I just say?
Oroye squinted his eyes into the rearview mirror. He didn't look very pleased. Chris tried to look sincere with his apology, but it didn't seem like Oroye cared. Chris leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He hadn't slept in days, and even though his life was probably over, or at least as he knew it, he felt this strange sense of relief.
Cop's kid winds up in jail. Almost cliche. Oh well. Chris drifted off to sleep, imagining he was running through the woods with his old dogs. Best he'd felt in a long time.
Oroye crossed the Mississippi again. He received a text message from Nashida fifteen minutes earlier telling him not to return to the SLPD station. Instead, they agreed to meet away from prying eyes, just beneath the Cedar St. Underpass. Oroye checked the backseat, surprised to see the suspect asleep. He didn't look dangerous, but they never did.
He took the first exit onto I-44 South. He then followed the off-ramped winding around to 104 Cedar St, a boarded-up, red brick building tagged with a fine collection of local graffiti showing who owned what around these parts. The neighborhood didn't look fanatic, but Oroye couldn't say that it was horrible either. He saw Nashida leaned up against the black Traverse waiting. Oroye pulled up and put the car in park, making sure to take the keys with him. Leaving a suspect, even a sleeping one inside of a moving vehicle, was a bad move. One he wasn't making a second time.
"What's going on, Andrew?" Oroye asked, stepping out of the sedan.
Nashida scrunched his face. He didn't like work people calling him by his first name. Oroye was a good guy, but they weren't friends. Even if they were, Nashida didn't feel comfortable being called that. But this was more of an etiquette issue they could take up later. This was more important.
"The mystery man is gone," Nashida said.
"The guy in black? Leo Encarta?"
"That would be the one. Here's what strange, I left him in the interrogation room with Anderson. Next thing I know, both are gone and Flores, the cop who found Kimberly Aranda, had two slugs in his chest."
"What? Did this guy kill Anderson too?"
Nashida bent over and took a look into the back seat to make sure that Chris Shane was actually there. He was surprised to see him sleeping.
"No, I think Anderson is working with him."
"That doesn't make sense."
"No, it does not. So unless this would-be MMA fighter is a secret underworld leader, I think maybe we're moving this case in a different direction."
Chris tossed and turned in the back seat. Even with his hands zip-tied together, he looked at peace.
“Hey, you think we’re dealing with The Specter?”
“What?”
“C’mon, Nashida, you must have heard the stories about the Invisible Assassin. What if it’s him?”
Nashida had heard those stories but they were just that. Stories. The Specter wasn’t real, but the guy on the run with Anderson was a real person. A dangerous one.
"I need to talk to this kid."
LIII
The red Honda Civic parked down the street from the West End Central home, where Anderson and Jericho had their first encounter. The encounter didn't go well for them. Fortunately, the FBI agent made things easier. Without him, Jericho would not be with them now.
Jericho exited the Civic and walked down the dark suburban street. His vision caught one of the street lamps, and he squinted. Even with the sunglasses, light still burned. They weren't used to Jericho's eyes yet. That would take some time. Depending on how he performed, it was still a question of whether this flaw is worth all of the new host's upside.
He pulled off the glasses and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. Fireworks popped in his corneas as he pressed against the eyelids. Jericho wondered what would happen if he pushed those eyeballs so hard they burst. Then the eyes wouldn't be a problem anymore. He could always hunt on instinct. After all, he was the baddest son of a bitch in the world. He didn't need eyes to do the job.
But what if he took it a step further?
What if he pressed the Glock under his chin and squeezed the trigger? Then he wouldn't have to worry about the lights. He'd have the ending he always dreamed. The final stand of the last samurai. Yamamoto would approve.
But would they? They certainly wouldn't be happy if their latest host—let's be real, their new toy—took his own life. Especially if he died before he had the chance to spawn once more. Perhaps the Shane boy or the FBI agent, either of those would make adequate replacements. Still, neither of them was as intriguing or had as much potential as Jericho. He was a killer without them.
Maybe they didn't need to be in control? Perhaps they may live inside and let the man do his thing. Ethan Jericho didn't need a Goddamn worm to tell him how to do the one thing he was better at than anyone on the planet. Maybe it just needed to go to sleep and let E be E.
No! That would be bad. They were programmed and reared to be in control. They needed a host, not a ride.
But Jericho had so much more control of his body than them. He didn't need to fit the pattern or need to fade away after each kill. He can take care of business and move on. Could the Nightcrawler say the same thing?
It didn't matter. They were in control now. The host need only be a walking set of legs. They didn't want his thoughts, much less his opinions.
Maybe the Glock should find its way into those legs? If that's all they needed, they should find another pair of legs. Jericho jammed the barrel of the gun into his quadricep, making sure it pressed right up against the femoral artery running down his thigh. Jericho tried to shut the thoughts away. He tried to hide exactly why he placed the gun there.
But they understood what he was doing. They were still in control. Jericho put the gun back inside the waistband of his black cargo pants.
"Are we okay?" Anderson asked.
Jericho put the sunglasses back on and nodded to his partner. Of course, Anderson knew the answer to that question. They are of the same mind, and he was going to need all of that uniformity to keep the host quiet. This mind is much stronger than any they had ever experienced. Perhaps spewing a third host just to help control this one was an option?
"Perhaps," Anderson said.
BBZZZZTT—
Jericho looked down at his phone and answered.
"Yes," he answered.
"They've stopped," Jamie Casten said on the other end.
"Where?"
LIV
"Wake up."
Chris Shane's left eye twitched. Did he hear something?
"Wake up!" An unfamiliar voice barked.
Chris' left eye peeked open, and he saw an unfamiliar face to match the voice. His eyes peered left and right, then down to his hands zip-tied in his lap. He was in the back of a car. His minded drifted off long and deep enough for him to completely forget he was under arrest for a murder he had nothing to do with. He blinked a few times to try and gather his senses.
"We need to talk," the unfamiliar man said again.
"And you are?" Chris finally said, sitting up in the backseat.
"Special Agent Nashida, Federal Bureau of Investigation." The other agent, the one from the bar bathroom and the Gateway Station incident, was in the driver's seat, while this new agent was in the passenger seat next to him. Both were looking over their shoulders into the back.
Chris cleared some phlegm from the back of his throat and said, "You guys got the wrong guy. I didn't kill anybody."
"But you did resist arrest by," The agent paused an
d looked back at the driver, "throwing a tub of coleslaw, correct? And you also assaulted a federal agent, isn't that also correct?"
A small smile cracked across his face even though common sense tried to keep it at bay. "I did do that."
"You've got this real air about you, like you're pretending to be arrogant, but you're really scared and don't know where to turn. I want you to know I'm here to help, and the more you cooperate, the easier things will be for you."
The easier things will be after you're arraigned, is what he means.
Chris leaned back into the seat, unsure of what to say. Not a single thing he said was going to make Nashida believe him.
"Tell me about your partner," Nashida said.
"I don't have one."
"What about the big guy with the dreads?"
"I don't know what you mean. That doesn't sound like a real person," he said with a smile.
"I see the game you're trying to play. I don't want any of that. I just need answers. Things have gotten strange."
Chris laughed at that one.
"I'm actually starting to believe you had nothing to do with Dennis Reed's murder. But I think you're involved with this character, and I want you to know the Bureau is here to keep you safe."
Don't fall for that one. He's trying to gain your trust.
No kidding.
"What do you wanna know?"
Nashida looked to his partner, Oroye, and nodded.
"The man in black, what's his name?"
"No idea," he shrugged. That was the truth.
"How did he suck you into all this?" Oroye added.
"Hard to say. Probably goes back to the time he used me to bait a werewolf out of hiding," Chris couldn't help but smile at that one.
"I told you no games!" Nashida yelled.
Chris shrugged. "Whatever."
"Mr. Shane, are you aware your partner was arrested by the St. Louis Police Department. Also, shortly after his arrest, he kidnapped one officer and executed another?"
The execution part sounded like him. Kidnapping was something else. This is a guy who's all about evaporating into thin air. Kidnapping definitely wasn't his style. But the killing part was on brand.
"Can't say I'm surprised he killed Anderson."
"He didn't. He killed a cop named Anthony Flores and walked out of the station with Detective Anderson as his prisoner," Nashida said.
Oroye was surprised when he heard that.
"You seem confused," Nashida added.
"I kinda am."
"Why?" Oroye asked.
Chris went silent. He didn't know how to answer. His default was to pop off another half-hearted, smart ass remark, but didn't. Something about the idea of Jericho and Anderson together bothered him.
"Mr. Shane, if you're willing to cooperate with this investigation, we can work out a deal down the line when this man is captured," Nashida said.
Chris stayed quiet. His mind was going in circles trying to figure out what was happening. Something caught Chris' eye from the side. He turned his head left and saw a pair of headlights. Scanning the area again, he noticed they were definitely off the beaten path. No doubt, this was to keep prying eyes away. But here came a set of glowing yellow ones.
"Mr. Shane, if you aren't willing to cooperate with this investigation, the United States government, in accordance with the cities of St. Charles, St. Louis and the entire state of Missouri will have no choice but to prosecute you within the full extent of the law."
Chris didn't react. Instead, he stared off into the night, watching a set of headlights move closer. They seemed to be moving forward at a ridiculous rate. Nashida and Oroye didn't notice. Chris cracked a smile when he realized where those lights were coming from.
"Mr. Shane! The choice is yours, but the consequences for your actions will be as—"
Nashida's voice was swelled up by the sound of a thunderous V8 engine with no intention of slowing down as it as approached. The Green Beast had returned and announced its presence like a mighty dragon swooping down from the sky, ready to light the night up with hellfire. The Beast's high-beams flooded the interior cab. Chris expected them to settle outside the sedan, but the lights kept coming. Almost too quickly.
BBOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!
LV
Jamie parked her Mustang GT a block and a half down Cedar St. Just far enough away from the black Toyota Camry that drove off with Chris a half-hour earlier. She turned off the headlights and killed the engine, watching and unsure of what to do next.
How the hell did she get wrapped up in all this? She didn't even know who Chris Shane was yesterday, and now she is either running away from or chasing the FBI because of him. He's definitely weird. A little socially awkward, but he didn't throw off that Ted Bundy-vibe. His story seemed absolutely crazy, but so did Alyse's, and look what happened to her.
She needed a reminder to remember what this was all about. Revenge. Nothing more. She wanted whatever was responsible for what happened to her family to be put down. Her aunt tried to get her more involved with the Church, hoping to help alleviate Jamie of any residual survivor's guilt. But Kathy didn't understand what she went through. Jamie never felt guilty about what happened. Only rage.
That's why she sat there, watching this Toyota Camry. The men inside would never understand. The same way she'd never understand what Chris babbled on about. Jamie didn't have to understand what he meant. She only needed to know what it did to him. Same as her. Someone had to—
BBOOOOOOMMMMMM
Jamie screamed out before quickly placing her hand over her mouth as the green truck that was parked in front of her house smashed into the Camry's hood. The big metal cowcatcher mounted to the truck's grill tore through the front of the sedan, ripping the engine out of the side.
That's not what she expected to happen when she called Mr. Mystery's phone and told him where the FBI agents were parked. She expected him to rush in and pull Chris out of there. Now that she thought about it, the idea did seem like something out of a movie. This, on the other hand, is not.
Two men exited the dense pickup truck with dark sunglasses and black neck sleeves up over their noses. Both were tall and heavily armed. The long dreads popping out from behind the driver's face mask gave away his identity. The second was harder for her to recognize.
Five more men in suits emerged from the shadows surrounding the car. Other FBI agents? She wasn't sure. With their weapons drawn, one shouted, "Put your weapons down and keep your hands up!"
The second man, the one she couldn't identify, aimed a gun, and sprayed into their direction. Three of the agents drop instantly. He turned and fired on the other two before they even had a chance to return fire.
The first masked man, who she hoped wasn't Ethan, reached into a hole torn through the car and yanked Chris out. He couldn't stand, let alone walk. The masked man dragged Chris' limp feet along the asphalt while the second shooter threw open the tailgate and unloaded his motionless body into the truck bed. The two shooters jumped into the cab and sped off.
Jamie sat in the front seat, shaking. Her instincts were to call the police, but this is the freaking FBI. If they couldn't stop these two, who could? She wanted to turn the car on and start driving. Run as far away from this as possible. Start over again, like she did when she was fourteen. But what about these men and their families?
Jamie jumped out of the Mustang and ran the block and a half down Cedar. She paused in the middle of the carnage. The smell of gunfire and engine fluid pushed its way up her nose and made her gag. The agent's bodies spilled out on the pavement. Watching it was horrifying, but standing there in the aftermath was almost too much. She wanted to scream out but covered her mouth, afraid of who or what would hear her.
"Help!"
Jamie turned toward the gutted-out, import and saw the other two agents still trapped inside.
"Oh, my God!"
She ran over to the Toyota. Agent Nashida was trapped inside. Next to him, Oyore didn't move
.
"Is he okay?" She asked.
"I think. He's still breathing," Nashida said.
Jamie reached in and grabbed hold of Nashida's hands. She put her foot on what used to be a door and pulled with all of her one hundred and ten pounds, while Nashida tried to climb up and out the exit what used to be a window.
"Thank you," Nashida said. Turning back to the mangled remains. He shook his head, realizing how lucky he is to be alive. "What the fuck just happened?"
Jamie didn't know how to answer.
"Chris Shane is innocent."
"Oh, yeah, this looks like something an innocent man would do," he pointed to the carnage.
"It's not him. There's someone else."
"The mystery man, I know."
"No, you don't understand. They took Chris and threw him in the back of this pickup truck after they shot those guys."
"They?" Nashida said with a raised eyebrow.
"There was another man with him. They were wearing masks, but he was tall."
"Anderson."
That didn't make sense. Jamie shook her head, "No, they were working to stop Anderson, he wouldn't stop unless—"
Oh no. They got him too.
"Unless what?"
Jamie didn't answer. She covered her mouth and wished that she could get a drink. It would help the insanity of her answer creep out easier.
"Unless what?" Nashida asked.
Jamie collected her thoughts. This is going to take awhile.
"My name is Jamie Casten. My mother was Anne Casten. My sister's name was Alyse Casten."
Nashida didn't react, which meant he wasn't familiar with their story.
"Have you ever heard of the Nightcrawler?"
LVI
What happened?
Chris blinked a few times. The last thing he remembered was the FBI agent talking to him. Now his ears rang, and he had a massive headache. Kind of like Dennis Reed's left hook. For a second, he wondered if he was actually coming to from that punch, and maybe this whole thing is just some kind of strange hallucination. As his head smacked against the inside of the fiberglass bed, the realization settled in. He was in the back of the Green Beast, but why? If this is part of some daring rescue operation, why wouldn't the man he paid good money to keep him alive, put him up front with him?