If Knox spotted Meister, the whole game could be blown. “Stay on him, chief.”
“I will,” Meister grunted. “He’s going left, toward…Cicero Avenue. You know this area at all?”
“A little,” Colby said. He pressed the accelerator, shooting around sets of slower-moving vehicles, and then cutting right to make the exit. The ramp curved out of sight under a bridge.
“I’m still a few cars back,” Meister said. “Don’t think he spotted me. Looks like he’s jumpy, though. His head keeps bobbling.”
Colby took that to mean that Knox must have seen Meister’s Caddie at some point, and was, at the very least, alerted.
“He’s turning left now,” Meister said. Coming up to—” His voice faltered. “Dammit. No street signs I can see. It’s the first light after you go over the bridge.”
“Ten-four,” Colby said. He could see the superstructure just up ahead. “I’m coming up behind you.” He swore as traffic ahead of him slowed to a stop for a red light.
“Is it always this nerve wracking?” Leslie asked.
“No,” he said with a grin. “It’s usually a lot worse.” She laughed.
“A good partner can mean the difference between success and failure,” he said. “They have to be tuned into each other.”
She was silent for a moment. “Like your friend Dix?”
Colby smiled at the thought. The truth of the matter was that Dix had shown him the ropes when they’d first partnered-up, even saved his bacon more than a few times. But at the end, Colby hadn’t been totally sad when Dix pulled the pin. When it was time to go, it was better to go while you still had game.
“He was a good partner,” Colby said.
Leslie seemed to consider this, then asked, “Is it hard, tracking down someone like Morgan Laird? Trying to stay one step ahead of him?”
“At the time, we didn’t even know what we had.” Visions of that last chase flashed through his mind as he silently willed the light to change to green. “It was more of a lucky break. Being at the right place at the right time.”
“We’re heading northeast now,” Meister said. “On an angle street. Viaduct ahead, houses on either side.”
“Okay, Chief,” Colby said into the phone. “We’re bogged down in traffic, but we’ll catch up to you.”
“Do you have any idea where he’s going?” Leslie asked.
He shook his head, but in the back of his mind something had occurred to him. Something from a long time ago.
No, he thought. No chance. It would be too coincidental. Like déjà vu, all over again.
The Franklin Hotel didn’t look anything like it did in the old pictures. They’d completely re-sided it, and instead of a dilapidated sign advertising low SRO rates, the sign now said, Island Condominiums. Things had really changed.
Matthew’s mouth drew into a tight line as he sped past it, taking the same route that Morgan had taken twenty-eight years before. Over the railroad tracks, past the bank building and stores, back toward the oil refinery. Or what was left of it. Nothing was working out the way he wanted.
He slammed his fist onto the seat next to him. It had been his plan, his artistic desire to re-create Morgan’s work with painstaking accuracy, in some hope that he could someday contact him and explain the perfection with which he’d been able to execute things. But it was too late for that now. Everything had changed. Still, he needed to tie this up with an appropriate Gordian Knot. Something that would say case closed, but still leave a sliver of doubt to keep them guessing. He and the Blem were dressed exactly alike, and they had identical DNA. Morgan’s DNA.
When they found the Blem’s body, everything would point to him. Matthew would be in the clear to make a new start with the money he’d saved. Once established, he could begin to extort more from New Genesis. With all the old man’s connections, he was bound to prolong prosecution. But hopefully, he’d still be discredited, ruined. Exposure of his hideous experiments would be the ultimate revenge. It would be his time to sit in the Petri dish waiting for the next development.
Matthew fingered the length of rope he’d purchased and fashioned into a noose. A quick suicide note, identifying himself as Laird’s son, would be sufficient for the stupid cops, who’d be looking for the path of least resistance. Probably wouldn’t question anything, and if they did, how would they prove it? The Blem was practically untraceable, and they’d probably just write case-closed on what they’d say was a genetic anomaly. Then, later, when he’d settled in Mexico and amassed a fortune from Jetters, perhaps he’d start dropping clues that all wasn’t settled so neatly in what they thought was the final act.
He fingered his cell phone, ready to make his last call. After selecting the number, he pressed the send-key and waited. The mechanized voice answered.
“You have reached the news offices of WWDF Television in Chicago. If you have a news tip for Chicago Today, please press one. If you have a news tip for—”
Matthew pressed one, and listened to another automated voice give instructions to leave a message after the beep. “And be sure to leave your contact information along with it,” the cheerful voice added.
Yeah, right, thought Matthew. He needed to word this carefully, and he was almost at the abandoned truck rental facility. As he stopped for the light, he said into the phone, “Listen, I’ve got those twins wanted in that Amber Alert, and I’m going to kill them in revenge for that fucking cop killing Morgan Laird. I’m leaving a note that will explain everything.”
He disconnected as he passed the metallic staircase, and the silhouettes of the few remaining towers of the old Penicolt Oil Refinery came into view.
Knox turned and looked at the vehicles parked by the Island Condominiums, hoping to see one of Matthew’s cars there. He had to be driving a rental truck, since Knox was sure the Corvette was still tucked away in the storage facility, but there was also a chance he would try and use Kirby’s vehicle for a getaway car. Knox saw the vectoring arrow make still yet another turn. He waited for the damn screen to update its mapping image. But he was close now. Very close. In the meantime, he glanced in the rearview mirror again. That Cadillac was still behind him. The same one from the Tollway. It had to be a tail, but who?
Time to find out. Knox slowed his BMW slightly, forcing the car behind him to pass. That left no one between him and the Caddie. It slowed down as well, maintaining a long space interval. Knox hit the brakes abruptly as he went under a streetlight, watching the Caddie almost rear-end him. He studied the image of the other driver in the mirror. A face jerked into view, then disappeared as the driver leaned back. It was just a flash, but it was enough: Meister.
What’s that incompetent idiot doing way out here? Knox thought. And why is he following me?
Up ahead, he saw the red lights activate on the black-and-white arm of a railroad crossing barrier. It started to descend and Knox glanced at the vectoring arrow. He had to make it though, and hit the gas pedal hard, shooting around the lowering arm.
Let’s see if this loses fat-boy, he thought. If not, more drastic measures might be called for.
“He’s going west on a street called Vermont,” Meister said on the phone. “Hold on. He’s cutting around some railroad gates. Gonna follow him.”
Colby shot through the traffic and unfamiliar streets, trying to catch Meister.
“Got through,” Meister said. Colby could hear the ringing of the warning bells over the phone. “Barely. Don’t think you will.”
Colby hit the gas, shooting around a car in front of him.
“This damn place has more train tracks than Union Station,” he said. “And most of them are slow-moving freights.”
“You’ve been here before?” she asked. He nodded. “Long time ago.”
Colby twisted the wheel and turned left onto Vermont, seeing the blinking red lights on the now fully descended gates. He floored it, edging over into the oncoming lane of traffic. Several cars were heading toward them and honking. Colby cut bac
k to his own lane, then veered out again, just as the deep resonance of the approaching diesel blared out.
“You’re going around the gates?” Leslie said, her eyes wide with fear. “We’ll never make it.”
Colby glanced over at the approaching freight train, perhaps two hundred feet away and speeding toward the crossing. It was moving pretty fast. The powerful whistle blasted another warning.
Colby did a quick computation of his chances of making it across without getting creamed, glancing to his left at the two-hundred tons of steel barreling forward, horn blaring and headlight cutting through the evening darkness, and decided the chances beating it were slim and none. And slim had left town.
“Shit,” he said, and hit the brakes, twisting the wheel, to send the Chevy into a side-wrenching skid, but stopping just short of the lowered, black-and-white arm with the flashing red lights.
“Oh, my God,” Leslie said, her voice little more than a gasp.
The huge engine rumbled by, looking like a specter from the Grim Reaper. Colby pounded his fist on the wheel. The cell phone had gone flying and he bent down to feel for it on the floor. When he finally found it he immediately held it to his head and said, “Chief, we caught the damn train. Where you at?” Meister’s voice sounded even more flustered.
“We’re turning onto a street called…Francisco. Now we’re turning right onto one hundred thirty-first,” he said. “Hey, wait a minute, he’s pulling over. I think he’s made me.”
“Shit,” Colby said again. This wasn’t working out the way he’d hoped at all. “Drive on by him. We’ll find a way around this train.”
“Aaaah,” Meister grunted. “He’s waving me down. Like he wants to talk, or something. I’ll make a cover story.”
He hung up before Colby could tell him not to.
Staring at the dead phone, he swore again.
Leslie tapped him on the shoulder and pointed.
“There are a bunch of cars turning around,” she said. “Do you think that means they know another route?”
Colby watched the endless stream of passing freight cars, which were going noticeably slower now. He glanced to his left and saw the turning cars.
What the hell, he thought, cranking the wheel.
It sure beats sitting here and waiting.
Knox waved again as he stepped out onto the roadway, tucking his fingers into the tight leather driving gloves. Nothing around but abandoned houses and an old oil refinery, he thought. Not a bad place for a little interrogation. But he knew it would have to be quick. Matthew, was close, just on the other side of the cyclone fence.
He saw Meister slowing to a stop, a false grin plastered over his face.
“Chief Meister,” Knox said, stepping around to the driver’s side as Meister lowered the window. “Am I glad to see you.”
“Yeah,” Meister said. “Funny meeting you out here. I thought that was your car so I wanted to say hi.”
“It’s good that you showed up when you did,” Knox said, spotting the cell phone in Meister’s lap. “I’m on company business and I can use some help. Anybody with you?”
Meister shook his head and pointed to the phone. “Just talking to the missus, is all.”
Knox could tell he was lying. “What are you doing out this way?”
“Visiting a friend,” Meister said, a little too quickly.
Knox smiled.
Probably shadowing me since I left the compound, he thought, shifting his stance slightly, away from Meister’s line of vision.
“Our quarry’s right over there,” Knox said, his lips pulling back into a smile. His right hand flipped up the flap of his jacket, and his fingers fitted themselves around the thick grip of the Heckler & Koch.
“Huh?” Meister said.
Knox brought the long-barreled pistol up with a smooth motion. He stopped when the sound-suppressor was an inch away from Meister’s left temple.
The plinking sound was barely audible.
Knox watched Meister stiffen, his jaw going slack at the same time, like he’d been slapped when he was just getting the punch line of a dirty joke. The ex-chief slumped over on his right side, and Knox stuck his arm in through the window space and pulled the trigger three more times, each bullet making a neat, round hole as it entered the side of Meister’s head. He pushed the smoking, extended barrel against Meister’s open left eye. Not a flinch.
Smiling, Knox opened the door and plucked the three brass casings from the space between the seat and Meister’s back. Then he picked up the final casing from the street and placed them all in his pocket.
That was the only thing about using a semi-auto, he thought. Plenty of rounds, but you always have to police your damn brass.
Matthew pulled into the gravel driveway and stopped just short of the wire gate. He laid on the horn until a heavyset security guard came shuffling out of the gate shack. The guy wore some sort of half-assed uniform, with a big revolver swinging in a holster on his belt. Probably interrupted his evening snooze.
“Hey, what’s the big idea with the damn horn?” the guard asked. His glasses were perched regally on his nose, and despite the flaccid look of his jowls, he’d managed a pretty fair imitation of a tough guy.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Matthew said. He’d slipped on the wig again, but had the hair pulled back into a ponytail. It would be easier to fit onto the Blem that way. “But the other guard told me to come down here.”
The guard’s face wrinkled between the eyes. “What other guard?”
Matthew brought the Taser up with his right hand and pulled the trigger after seeing the red dot on the security guard’s blue shirt, just above the silver badge. The man dropped like a decapitated marionette, and Matthew let him taste the full ninety second burst. He opened the door and pulled the trigger again, sending more juice down the wires as he got out of the truck. The guard’s body jerked and twisted like a fish on the pier. Matthew reached down with his left hand and unsnapped the revolver from its holster. It came out quite easily, and he liked the way it felt.
He eased up on the trigger and watched the security guard’s chest heave up and down with frantic breathing motions.
“There, there,” Matthew said, setting the Taser down and switching the revolver to his right hand. “It won’t hurt a bit anymore. I promise.”
He placed the barrel directly over the man’s forehead and cocked back the hammer.
Feel the rush, he thought, and squeezed the trigger.
The sound of the shot from somewhere in the confines of the crumbling oil refinery grounds was unmistakable to Knox as he dropped Meister’s Cadillac into gear and let it do a slow roll into the overgrown bushes and shrubs at the rear of the fence-line. The big El Dorado was still visible. He debated taking the time to fashion some more efficient concealment, but decided against it. This looked to be a pretty deserted area, and the Meister would probably sit for hours before being discovered. It would have to do. Time was the antagonist now. He had to catch Matthew, incapacitate him, and bring him and the Other back to New Genesis before anyone discovered them here. From the sound of things, the little bastard was up to his old tricks again. And from the sound of it, possibly armed. This added a new wrinkle. The chances that he could bring him in without physical harm now were dubious.
I’ve come too far to get shot by some spoiled little psychopath, Knox thought as he slipped the compact scanner out of his pocket. He switched it on and watched the circular directional finder send a series of flashing dots in a northwesterly direction. Knox looked up.
The Other has got to be in that old refinery, he thought. But the overriding question was whether Matthew was still with him.
After dragging the guard out of sight behind the gate shack, Matthew pushed the long metal gate open just far enough to allow space for the van to pass. Then he ran back to it, put it in drive, and drove through, stopping to close, but not lock, the gate after him. The Blem was a whimpering idiot, constantly trying to pull his hands out of
the handcuffs.
“Stop that,” Matthew said, as gruffly as he could. Suspicious lacerations on the Blem’s wrists might make the scenario less believable. He steered around several piles of smashed bricks and twisted rebar and headed toward one of the four remaining isomerization units. The huge, chimney-like shape of tan bricks stretched upward against the velvet sky. Except for strategically placed lights, the yard was dark and deserted. It looked like a bombed-out city.
When the demolition crew came into work tomorrow, they would be in for a surprise. Four bodies. Of course, he’d have to do a rushed job killing the twins due to the time constraint. He’d just strangle them both and spit on their bodies. That would leave a traceable source of DNA, which the cops would match to the Blem, who’d be left hanging, literally, nearby. A tragic suicide, replete with a note and a copy of Colby’s book.
Colby. Matthew regretted he hadn’t been able to come face-to-face with the man who was responsible for paralyzing Morgan and putting him in prison. But the asshole cop would have to live the rest of his life knowing that he couldn’t stop the second coming of Morgan Laird. Maybe someday there would be a third.
He stopped the van between two big piles of debris and hopped out, leaving the lights on and the motor running. He needed to see what he was doing.
The first thing he did was pull both of the girls from the back and lay them out on the ground in front of the van. The stark glare of the headlights washed over their slumbering bodies. One shifted slightly, perhaps having a dream.
I hope it’s a good one, princess, Matthew thought. Because it’s your last.
“There’s Francisco,” Leslie said, pointing at the oversized street sign. Colby turned left. He’d managed to follow two other cars that’d turned around at the sight of the slow-moving freight, and they’d led him on a circuitous, but train-free route back to Vermont. The area was taking on that eerie look of something familiar, yet different. The old truck rental building, the strong cement arches under the viaduct were a dilapidated version of the scene that had haunted his dreams for the past twenty-eight years.
Blood Trails Page 27