Dix tried to imagine what the asshole did all day. Not that much different from the joint, except Laird could come and go as he pleased. That’s what had bothered most of the ex-cons Dix had talked to in his career. Knowing that they couldn’t leave. Most of them made do with the prison food, the dangers, and the boredom. Some of them even learned to enjoy the prison pipeline of drugs and sex. But knowing that if they tried to go past a certain point, they’d be cut down, knowing some other dude was on the outside, doing what he wanted, going where he wanted, that was the roughest part.
But Laird was still severely limited, being in that wheelchair. The parole reports said that he was on oxygen, too.
Good, thought Dix. At least the bastard’s paying in some fashion for all the grief he’d caused.
But what was the next move? Dix was beginning to rethink his boastful comment to Carmel that he could solve this thing before the task force. Not that she believed him, but, hell, that was part of why he was pushing so hard. To prove that he could. But being out of the game for so long made it more difficult than he’d figured. In the old days he always knew where to look, where to go next. Now, that sixth sense eluded him. But he also wasn’t restricted by any rules this time out. That was perhaps his one advantage.
Laird was involved. He had to be. The crime scenes matched too well…but what was his motive? And who was helping him? Obviously, if Laird was in as bad physical shape as he appeared to be, he couldn’t be doing it alone. The asshole was supplying someone with the info, the know-how. That had to be it.
But who?
So shadowing the son-of-a-bitch was the only option.
Dix chuckled slightly, thinking that poor Colby must be pulling his hair out being trapped on a task force run by some know-nothing Fed like Special-Dick-in-Charge Pearson. Colby had opened up when they were drinking about what an anal prick the guy was.
If something materializes from this surveillance, Dix thought, it’ll give me and Colby something solid to work with.
Then it’d be the two of them, working the case, just like the old days. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the headlines:
RETIRED COP SOLVES NEW SERIAL MURDER CASE
Maybe Retired Detective would be better. Certainly, he’d make sure Carmel addressed him as Detective during any TV interviews.
Carmel, he thought. What a dynamite looking broad. Exotic. He wondered what she’d look like without her clothes, what she’d be like in bed.
Suddenly he perked up and saw a guy in a wheelchair coming out the front door, an oxygen tube tucked between his legs.
It had to be Laird, but, Christ, the guy looked old. Shrunken, too. Just a shell of his former self. The Laird that Dix remembered had been wiry and strong, even after Colby’s bullet took out the guy’s legs. This pathetic, shriveled asshole looked anything but formidable.
Dix leaned forward and his gut pressed against the horn, startling him. Laird’s head jerked around, looking but apparently not seeing much.
Guess both of us have lost a step or two, Dix thought.
The limo pulled up to the curb and Laird wheeled himself next to it. A chauffeur jumped out, ran around to open the back door, and helped Laird inside. The chauffeur folded the chair, stashed it in the trunk and got back behind the wheel.
Dix started his own car, watching for an opportune time to pull out into traffic. He let two cars go past before he had the chance, wheeling out of the parking space so quickly that his bumper tagged the car in front of him.
No occupant, no damage, he thought, smiling. And no witnesses, either. He’d have to make sure he repeated that scenario when he had his long overdue interview with Laird.
The limousine was still visible farther down the block.
Dix didn’t know whose limo it was, or how they tied into this, but something told him he was well on the way to getting that leg-up that he needed.
Colby mulled over the interview as they drove out of the immense facility, a security vehicle following along behind them. Knox and Jetters were hiding something, but what? They were obviously not anxious to talk about the late John Norton, and this guy Krems. How it all fit together with Leslie’s case, he had no idea. It piqued his interest, and any time something did that, he felt an almost irresistible urge to figure it out.
Colby’s cell phone vibrated. Grabbing it off the clip on his belt he saw that he had a voice message.
“This is Special Agent-In-Charge Pearson,” the disembodied voice said. “I’m sending this out to all team members. It is imperative that you all return to the command center here at the Federal Building as soon as possible. I say again—”
Colby disconnected. Pearson sure loved the sound of his own voice.
Leslie hadn’t said two words since they’d left, and he wondered if she was upset.
“Pearson wants me to return to base,” he said, re-clipping his phone.
She turned and looked at him without speaking.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m in no hurry. Let’s proceed to talk to the coppers at Oakbrook Estates PD, and then grab something to eat.”
“Are you sure you’ll have time?”
“I’ll make time.”
“You don’t care for Special Agent Pearson much, do you?” Colby said nothing.
She canted her head. “Why were you so antagonistic with Jetters and Knox back there?”
“Antagonistic? Those two guys were hiding something. They weren’t about to give up any information unless we pried it outta them.”
“Still, I really wish you’d have let me handle it. I had some more questions I needed answered. After you interceded, they closed down completely.”
He swallowed his snappy comeback. “Sorry. Force of habit, I guess. How about we split the difference and I’ll promise to keep my big mouth shut during the interview with the police about Norton’s deceased significant other?”
Her expression softened slightly. “Sorry for being snippy, but this is a very important case for me. My inspector sent me down here to cross all the ‘T’s, and dot all the ‘I’s because he doesn’t think I can handle things back home.”
“I know that feeling,” he said. “My boss is an asshole, too.”
That brought a smile to her lips. “I wouldn’t really call mine an asshole. He just doesn’t have a lot of faith in me. He even kind of likes to look out for me, in his own way.”
“Count your blessings, then,” he said. “And keep in mind that in a homicide investigation every lead has to be checked out, so they’re all important. You never know what you’re going to uncover that can lead you to something else.”
She smiled. “Thanks. I appreciate the advice.”
“Not a problem. And one thing’s for sure. Those guys are hiding something.” He glanced at his watch and wondered about the Laird interview. “Once you find out what, you may have a bigger piece of your puzzle than you thought.”
“It was nothing more than a fishing expedition,” Knox said, trying to keep his voice calm and low. “They have nothing to tie us to any of it.”
The old man’s face looked more lined than usual.
“How can you say that? They knew about you going up there. As Krems, at least…how are we going to explain that he doesn’t really exist?” He took off his glasses and wiped at his forehead with a handkerchief. “And that business about Morgan Laird. It’s only a matter of time before they connect Matthew to all this.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Knox said. He was beginning to wonder if it was time to expedite his little retirement plan. Still, he couldn’t leave with all these complications hanging.
“We need to handle this,” Jetters said. “Quickly, definitively, permanently.”
It’s just like that asshole to speak in absolutes, Knox thought. Like he was running one of his fucking experiments.
“What do you know about Laird’s whereabouts?” Jetters asked.
“Not much. But I can find out.”
Jetter
s nodded. “Find him.” He looked off into space, his face suddenly sad, then replaced his glasses on his nose. “In the meantime, I’ve got to decide what to do about Matthew.”
Knox said nothing. Jetter’s “prodigal son” was a liability for both of them, but the old man would probably just keep the little psychopath locked up here for the rest of his life. “Anything I can do to help in that regard?” Jetters shook his head.
“He’s my responsibility. I’d always hoped that he’d be a legacy of sorts, a testament to my work. One that I could be proud of.”
Knox said nothing, but wondered again if Matthew had one of those “genetic triggers” he’d read about in Norton’s files. A pre-programmed terminal defect that could be activated at a selected time. Handy thing to have, if you wanted absolute control over somebody.
“You want me to eliminate Laird?” Knox asked.
“That’s certainly an option we have to consider. It wouldn’t do to have him eventually associated with us in any way. What I need is to find out exactly what the police know, and then make my decisions.” He looked up at Knox. “Can you handle that?”
“I can.”
“And we’ll have to figure out what to do should they come looking for this imaginary Krems person.”
“Leave that to me,” Knox said. “I’ll see to it that he disappears. Permanently.”
Along with me, at the right time, he thought.
Matthew had removed his undershirt, torn it in half, and woven the two pieces into a tightly knotted rope. Thin, but strong, with plenty of purchase for his hands when the time came. And it was almost here. From his vantage point inside the new room, he saw the elevator doors open and the two technicians pushed out the big cart with all the goodies. The pre-lunch meds, regular as clockwork.
Tranquilizers and candy bars. What more could a Blem ask for out of life?
They went immediately to his old room, just across the expanse of floor. He shifted his body to the side of the door-slot window, looking out with his right eye only, so as be less noticeable. Stealth mode.
They reached down and opened the door to his old room—his old cell, and called to what they thought was him. “Matthew, time for your meds.”
No reply. The Lorazepam had done its job. The Blem in his bed was down for the count, and then some.
“Matthew,” one yelled. He moved inside the room, then rushed back saying, “Oh fuck!”
“What?” the other one said, pushing aside the goodies cart.
“He’s foaming at the mouth. Turned all blue. The old man will kill us if anything happens to him.”
“Shit.”
“I’ll start CPR. You do mouth-to-mouth.”
The second technician recoiled. “Forget that.” The first one, obviously the more dedicated of the two, or maybe the most fearful, shook his head in frustration.
“Go down and get some help, then. I’ll do it.”
The first tech disappeared into the cell, while the second man rushed back toward the elevator. Matthew shifted again, watching as the guy placed his key in the silver hole, twisted it, and jumped inside the car as soon as the doors popped open.
When they closed, Matthew pushed open the jimmied door to his new cell and strode across the floor. The tech was leaning over the Blem, doing compressions on his chest, then bending over to blow air into the deflated lungs. Matthew stepped in behind him and looped the knotted T-shirt over the tech’s head just as he rose up to begin the series of compressions again. With the long ends wrapped around his hands and the knotted section deftly catching the tech’s Adam’s apple, Matthew crisscrossed the lines and pulled back, twisting around so that his back slammed against the tech’s as the man rose upward. Just like he’d seen demonstrated in the hand-to-hand combat tapes.
Matthew pulled down with all his strength, lifting the tech off the floor, all the while hearing that gurgling sound indicating the tech was struggling to catch his breath. Continuing to hold the position for what seemed like a small eternity, Matthew finally felt the tech go limp.
Exhausted, but exhilarated, Matthew turned and let the man’s body fall to the floor. On the way down the man’s head banged into the tiles with a loud thud. Like a watermelon being dropped. A puddle of blood began to stream outward from a gash on the tech’s head.
Excellent, thought Matthew. He quickly grabbed the tech’s cap and placed it on his own head, then twirled the T-shirt around the cut. As he stripped off the man’s clothes, taking time to do a quick feel of the pants’ pockets, he grinned as he felt what appeared to be a wallet and a set of car keys along with another, larger ring of keys. Slipping on the pants and tech-shirt, he grimaced as he crammed his oversized foot into the too-small shoes. What size did this guy wear? But they would have to do.
He grabbed the tech under the arms and managed to flop the body onto the bed. After covering it with the blanket, he dragged the unconscious Blem out of the cell and dropped him. He then pushed the cart back over to the entranceway. Stepping on the shelves, he climbed up and managed to retain his balance long enough to grab the extended front lens of the surveillance camera. Twisting it upward, he adjusted the angle so that the only thing it would be showing now was the ceiling. Then he jumped back down. The cart tipped over, spilling its contents on the floor. Matthew stooped and crammed as many of the tranqs and chocolate bars as he could into his pockets, then grabbed another handful of the candy. Running past each room, he opened the doors to each one, waving before tossing the candy bars and yelling, “Candy! Candy!”
The Blems migrated out like a flock of hungry chickens, watching with interest as he tossed a few bars into the center of them. He mentally calculated how much longer he had, and decided he had to move fast. Scrutinizing the crowd of Blems, he picked one he thought still most resembled himself, and placed a hand on the Blem’s shoulder, holding a new candy bar in front of the retard’s face.
“Come,” he said.
The Blem’s eyes followed the candy bar, and he reached for it. Matthew drew it back, pulling the Blem along toward the room with the fallen tech. He dragged the Blem inside long enough to recover the blood-soaked T-shirt and pressed the bloody material up to the Blem’s face. The creature whimpered.
Good, thought Matthew. This one’s pretty docile. Good candidate for a transplant, should he ever need one.
Grinning, he let the Blem have the candy bar and pulled him toward the elevators. He fished in his pockets for the ring of keys, and withdrew it. The special elevator key was long, narrow, and familiar. He knew which one it was from the days when the old man had made him work with the techs, feeding the retards to show him how fortunate he was.
The elevator doors slid open after he inserted the key, and he pushed the Blem inside.
As the elevator descended, Matthew twisted the emergency stop switch and the descending car jerked to an abrupt halt. He had to time this just right. So the other tech, the one going after the medical response team, would be on the way up before the doors to his own elevator opened. A bell, the damn emergency stop signal, began ringing somewhere inside the shaft.
This won’t work, he thought, switching the switch back to the off-position. The car jerked, descended a few more feet, and stopped again. The doors opened a few seconds later. Matthew held the bloody T-shirt to the Blem’s forehead, ignoring his moaning protests, and walked him out of the elevator. A security guard glanced at them.
“Better get up there,” Matthew said, pulling the cap down closer to his eyebrows. “All hell’s broken loose. I gotta get this one to the infirmary.” He twisted the bloody head in the guard’s direction.
“Shit,” the guard said, lifting his radio. “We got a situation in D-Ward. Send back-up.”
Matthew yelled, “Good luck!” as he watched the guard jump into the elevator and punch the buttons several times. All the while Matthew kept moving the Blem toward the doors. Pushing through into the bright sunshine, he wondered what time of the day it actually was.
&nbs
p; Close to noon, maybe. The fresh air and sun felt odd after the protracted period of confinement he’d endured. Still, it was nothing compared to what Morgan had gone through. Matthew dragged the Blem down the sidewalk, toward the area where the employees parked their cars.
A group of security guards rushed by him, one scrutinizing the odd couple marching in the other direction.
“What happened?” one of the guards asked. “A bunch of the Others escaped from D-Ward,” Matthew said, pointing to the Blem.
“Better hurry up. It’s bad up there.”
The guards quickened their pace and Matthew reached in his pocket for the tech’s car keys. A GM model, from the look of them. The ring had a plastic remote attached and he punched it twice, hearing the responding beep. Repeating the movement several more times, Matthew finally saw the headlights of a Chevy Impala flash on and off, with an accompanying toot of the horn.
Perfect, he thought. He hit the trunk release button on the remote and saw the rear lid pop upward. Leading the Blem to the rear of the car, Matthew took out a candy bar and tossed it into the trunk. The Blem reached for it, but when Matthew tried to push him inside, the Blem gripped the sides in frantic resistance.
Dammit, this was not the time. Time was what he had so very little of at this juncture. He relaxed slightly, smiling and tossing another candy bar into the trunk area. The Blem still gripped the side of the car, frozen and unmoving.
Well then, Matthew thought as he reached inside the trunk and gripped the tire iron, you’ve brought this on yourself.
He bashed the Blem’s fingers first, causing him to lose his grip on the car. Then he swung the long metal rod against the retard’s left temple and watched his legs sag. Matthew grabbed the Blem’s fluttering legs and lifted him into the trunk. He slammed the lid shut, keeping the tire iron as he got into the car. He’d grown kind of fond of it.
The Impala started right up and he backed out of the parking spot and drove immediately toward the main gate. Even though he figured most of the security force would be heading over to quell the disturbance, he forced himself to drive with slow deliberation. There could still be a roving patrol. But he saw none as he approached the gate. Everybody was probably heading over to the disturbance in D-Ward. The guard, obviously intently listening to the gaggle on his radio, waved him through with a dismissive gesture.
Blood Trails Page 14