C T Ferguson Box Set

by Tom Fowler

  I got the lock-blade knife all the way out of my pocket and let it fall into my hand. It didn’t hit the floor. I used my right hand to pull the blade out, then worked on the zip tie, moving the blade back and forth. Sam and his buddy chatted occasionally over the sounds of a TV show I didn’t recognize. It took about a minute to cut through the zip tie. I caught it and let it hover at my wrists rather than shedding it completely. No point in giving away all my secrets.

  Now free, I wondered what to do next. My head still hurt, I was armed with a small knife, and I still had two people to deal with. Sam was short but stocky, and if he worked for Vinnie, he had to be a decent enforcer. His friend had loose and easy movements. He lacked Sam’s bulk, but I could tell he knew how to take care of himself. I had to wait for them to split up again.

  I got my chance when the show ended. Sam said he was going outside to smoke again. He walked past me, down the aisle of what used to be the pews, and out the door. When it shut behind him, I opened my eyes. Sam’s friend sat on a milk crate in front of the TV. I transferred the knife to my right hand and stood. He didn’t notice me as I crept closer.

  The dim lighting and candles reflected on the small screen. As I got closer, I noticed my own reflection. Sam’s friend did, too. He turned. and I rushed him. He threw a quick left jab, which I blocked. I slashed at him with the knife, and he grabbed my wrist. We struggled back and forth. He threw an elbow, I blocked; I threw an elbow; he blocked. He tried to knee me in the groin, which I blunted with an upraised leg. I couldn’t get my right wrist out of his grip. He threw another left at me. I blocked it and headbutted him. It took him right in the forehead, staggering him back a step. I got my hand free. Sam’s friend shook away the cobwebs, but not in time. I led with the knife, stabbing him a few times in the left side below the ribs. He grunted and slumped to the floor.

  I looked for a side door and saw one past what had once been the altar. Sam’s friend clutched his side and bled onto the marble. I wondered if he’d survive the stabbing. Internal bleeding could still be his undoing. His fault for throwing in with Sam and being a bloodthirsty prick. I saw my coat and gun in another milk crate, grabbed them, and sprinted toward the side door. I threw it open and ran out. It closed behind me at the same time I heard the large front door open. In a minute, Sam would discover what happened, but by then, I already hit the sidewalk and took off down the street.

  Chapter 17

  It took a few blocks to realize in which unsavory part of town I found myself. I holstered the gun, put my coat back on, and made sure my cell phone and keys were still there. If I pegged my location correctly, I was about three miles from my apartment. I walked into a generic fast chicken restaurant, sat at one of the many open tables, and summoned an Uber. While I waited, I ordered a large drink, didn’t get any soda from the machine, and held the cup of ice to the back of my head. It earned me several funny looks, but I didn’t care.

  The car came about ten minutes after I used the app. Ten more minutes and seven dollars later, I stood in front of my building. I kept one hand on my gun and looked around. The last time I was here, Sam waylaid me. I hadn’t seen him, wherever he hid. The fact he was short enough to stand up under a car didn’t help. I didn’t see anyone and went inside.

  After I got upstairs and double-locked the door behind myself, I went into my office and sat. I hooked my cell phone to the charger and saw four missed calls on its screen: one from Alice, two from Rich, and one from a number I didn’t recognize. I called Rich back first. “Where the hell have you been?” he said when he picked up.

  “I got waylaid by a Chinese midget,” I said.

  “You’re going to have to explain that one.”

  I did.

  “Goddamn,” he said,” sounds like you were lucky to get away.”

  “I prefer to think of it as a skillful, daring escape.”

  “What about the guy you stabbed?”

  “It’s probably not fatal,” I said. “I didn’t go for a vital area, but if you’re wondering if I care whether he bleeds out, I don’t.”

  “I think I would feel the same way. Do you know where they held you?”

  “An abandoned church. I think I could find it again if I had to.”

  “What do you want to do now?” Rich said.

  “I’m going to be more vigilant in looking for midgets. Other than that, I’m still working the case. I want to get Vinnie even more now.”

  “Let me know if you need more help.”

  “I will. How’s Alice?”

  “She was OK a few hours ago. I took over some carry-out and had dinner with her.”

  “Good,” I said. “I’ll check on her in a little while, then.”

  “You still think Vinnie and his crew killed Paul Fisher?”

  “I don’t see any reason to change my theory. If anything, tonight convinced me of it even more. Why?”

  “Because,” said Rich, “they probably didn’t come upon that old church all of a sudden. Maybe they kept Paul there, too.”

  Rich had a good point. “I’ll check it out later, too,” I said.

  I put a bag of frozen peas on my head for a while. It felt good, and when I checked the knot, it had gone down a little. It would be as good as I could expect for a while. I took some aspirin, got a shower, and pondered dinner. My fridge, freezer, and pantry held few appealing options. I wanted something quick, so I called ahead to Hull Street Blues and ordered a Caesar salad with tilapia and a baked potato. When I got back home, I covered the baked potato in marinara sauce, a delicacy I discovered in college.

  After my late dinner, I drove to the La Quinta Inn to check on Alice. I knocked on the door to her room and heard her milling around inside. “Who is it?” she said in a voice deeper than her own.

  “C.T.”

  She turned the lock, took the chain off its slot, and opened the door. I walked into the room. Alice had opened and emptied her suitcase. The TV played some sitcom. Bed covers were rumpled like someone had been lying on them. The trash can held two Styrofoam containers. “I tried calling you earlier,” she said. “I got worried when you didn’t answer.”

  I told her what had happened. “It’s why I gave you Rich’s number, too,” I said.

  “Vinnie had you kidnapped?” Her eyes went wide, and she sat on the edge of the bed, shaking her head. “This is getting really bad.”

  “It’s an escalation from throwing a brick through your window. I’ve been a thorn in his side for a while now. He probably thinks getting me out of the way makes you more likely to knuckle under.”

  “It would.”

  “We don’t need to tell him,” I said.

  She smiled a small smile. “Thanks for sticking around, C.T. I know this isn’t the case you signed up for.”

  I shrugged. “I told you I see things through.”

  “I’m glad you do,” Alice said. “What are we going to do now?”

  “First, we’re going to keep you here until this all blows over. I’m going to continue working angles. I’ll have to deal with Vinnie at some point, and in the meantime, I’ll keep dodging his goon squad.”

  “Be careful.” Alice’s face took on a somber look. “One person already died because . . . because of . . .” She trailed off into tears. Before I could do anything, she walked to me and buried her face in my shoulder. I patted her head as she sobbed.

  “I’m not going to die, Alice,” I said.

  After another minute of crying, she found her voice. “You can’t promise that.”

  “Yes, I can. Vinnie’s not good enough to take me down. Even his most trusted man couldn’t keep me prisoner. They can’t kill me.” I hoped she believed it. Hell, I hoped I did.

  “Are you going to kill them?” Alice’s eyes were still wet, but a hardness shone through the tears now. If she hadn’t grabbed me, I might have stepped back.

  “Bloodthirst doesn’t become you,” I said. “Besides, I’m not a killer.”

  “You carry a gun,” she sa
id.

  “And I’ll use it if I have to.” I decided to omit the part where I stabbed Sam’s friend and left him there to bleed. Alice’s bloodlust didn’t need to be fed. “I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a killer.”

  She nodded. “All right. Just don’t get yourself hurt or kidnapped again.”

  “I am ever vigilant,” I said.

  When I got home, I had to park my car in the same area as last time, when Sam had jumped me. After I turned the engine off, I sat in the car with the doors locked, looking all around me. The lot and street looked free of hooligans, miscreants, and ne’er-do-wells—or at least as free of such people as any lot and street in Baltimore can look. Thankfully, Fells Point streets were freer than most, at least when one lived a few blocks from the bars. Drunk hipsters and boozed-up bros posed the largest threats, and I knew I could deal with them. I checked around again, taking care to look in all three mirrors before getting out of the Lexus.

  I kept my right hand inside my coat on the handle of my gun as I walked across the parking lot toward my building. The occasional car went by on the street. I didn’t see any random white cargo vans, and no one jumped out of any vehicles with a tire iron and a rope. There weren’t a lot of people on the streets, but this was the residential part of Fells Point. A block or two over, the streets would be more crowded, even on a weeknight.

  I got to my building. The good thing about large apartment complexes is they provide few places for people to hide. I never considered it a selling point before, but getting waylaid and kidnapped changes one’s perspective on a few things. Maybe the management company could put a blurb in their brochure: Convenient to downtown and nightlife. Brick front and spacious for a downtown feel. Fewer places for people to hide and waylay you as you arrive at your new apartment!

  Maybe not.

  Satisfied I wouldn’t get jumped, I went inside and upstairs and checked my door. I left it locked, and its condition hadn’t changed. I turned the key and walked inside. The foyer light came on as I entered. I had my gun in my hand as I closed the door. I went through each room and didn’t see anyone.

  I put my gun back in the holster, took the whole thing off, and set it on the nightstand. After being tied up for who knows how long in some abandoned church, I wanted a long, hot shower. I took one, downed a couple more aspirin for my headache, put peroxide on my wrists, and got into bed. Rich made a good point about the church. I wanted to check it out early in the morning, so I set my phone to rouse me at an obscene hour and went to sleep.

  The buzz woke me at the beastly hour of five-fifteen. I couldn’t remember the last time I got up so early not involving an exam or a girl who needed to leave. I got dressed, ate some fruit, drank a tall glass of milk, and walked out the door. On my way to the church, I stopped for a much-needed vanilla latte. The pounding in my head had gone down along with the knot, which had shrunk to about the size of a pea.

  I drove back into the sketchy neighborhood I ran away from only yesterday. At this hour, I didn’t expect any problems. Even criminals have to sleep sometime. I had the .45 with me in case any kept odd hours. I put my hand on the grip to be sure I had it holstered at my side. A few minutes later, I parked across the street from an abandoned church.

  It was about six o’clock, and the sun’s first rays peeking over the horizon illuminated things so I could see. The dark red brick exterior had faded in spots and suffered damage due to abuse and disuse in others. The erstwhile stained glass windows had been boarded up with weather-beaten wood. This church didn’t have a steeple, but it did have a tower above the building proper. If a bell had once been there, it was long gone. I saw a window up there covered by a piece of wood appearing much newer and fresher.

  I decided not to try the front doors. Going in the regular way made me too visible to anyone wandering by and would give anyone inside way too much notice. The door I used for my hasty retreat last night would do nicely. I tested it and found it locked. Maybe Sam secured the place before taking his bleeding buddy to the hospital. I took out my special keyring and went to work. The lock wasn’t complicated, just unusual to work with because of all the ornaments and garish doodads on the outside. A minute later, I opened the door and walked inside.

  The hallway was pitch black once I closed myself off from the street. My LED flashlight lifted the darkness. I scanned the floor but didn’t see a blood trail. I drew the .45, opened the next door, and walked into the church. The only sounds I heard were my breathing and my heartbeat. My first steps didn’t echo much, but it got more pronounced as I got closer to the center. I walked past the altar to where I had stabbed Sam’s friend. They did a pretty good job of cleaning up the blood; I only saw a few stray specks of crimson dotting the marble.

  I walked around the church until I felt confident I was the only one inside. Now I needed to get up to the tower. I hadn’t seen another door down the hallway, but there was one past the altar on the other side. In my younger, more pious days, I learned they called this the sacristy. I felt like an interloper in a house where I was no longer welcome as I walked into the sacristy. I flipped the light switch expecting it to be futile, and it was.

  The flashlight showed me a sacristy in ruin. Whatever had been here was long gone. Now, only kindling, scraps of cloth, a few broken wine bottles, and pockmarked walls covered in peeling paint remained. It looked like the godliness had left this place and taken the cleanliness along with it. The carpet had once been a deep red but now had stains, splotches, and patches of other colors all over it. The room smelled musty and faintly of urine.

  A doorway yawned ahead. I shined the flashlight past it and looked around before walking through it with the .45 leading the way. Exploring dark places is a lot easier with a gun. The doorway led to a corridor which ended in an ornate door which could have been on the front of the church. On the right side of the corridor, I saw another door. I walked to it, checked the lock, and opened it.

  Jackpot. A staircase led above. I used the flashlight to peer up as far as I could. The steps stopped at a landing. Then a spiral staircase went up what looked like the full height of the church, ending at another landing. I went up. Almost every step creaked when I stepped on it. Somewhere above me, rats chattered and scurried. Chunks of wood had fallen away over the years, and I skipped some of the steps because they were in such disrepair. The landing was about eight feet square. The spiral stairs continued up, and I saw another closed door in front of me, probably leading to the balcony where the organ player and chorus would perform.

  I went up again. The staircase squeaked but its sturdy metal looked to be in good shape apart from some cracking paint and the occasional spot of rust. The next landing had to be two stories up. I like winding steps as an eclectic architectural choice. As something to climb in an abandoned church in the dark, they were more like an obstacle. I put the .45 away so I could keep one hand on the railing as I ascended.

  This landing looked to be the same size as the other, and like the other, a door faced me on the opposite side of the landing. I checked it and found it unlocked. I turned the knob, drew the. 45, and shouldered the door open. The flashlight illuminated a small room. On the right side, old plywood covered the center of the wall. I checked the nails and noticed the rust covering their heads. The room itself couldn’t have been more than ten feet square.

  I didn’t see anything of interest on the walls. The floor, however, proved to be another story. Dried blood stood out against the unadorned concrete. It hadn’t formed large pools but rather into several small ones spaced apart, mostly on the left side of the room. I guessed someone had been beaten there—not enough blood for anything more severe. The blood went all the way up to the wall across from me where new plywood covered a broken window. I saw no glass on the floor in here, so the window had broken outward.

  I went to one of the small blood pools, crouched, and took out my improvised CSI kit. This always looked easy on the TV shows. The photogenic CSI—or private investigato
r, in my case—would swab the blood with a long Q-tip and deposit it in a longer plastic tube. I brought regular Q-tips from my bathroom and didn’t have any fancy plastic tubes for evidence collection. I did have plastic sandwich bags, and they would have to do. When this case began, I never expected I’d be breaking into an abandoned church in a rundown neighborhood to collect blood samples.

  I swabbed the bloodstain until I could see residue on the cotton. I swabbed the other end to be sure I had a good sample, dropped the Q-tip in a plastic bag, and zipped it shut. One blood sample would probably be enough. It occurred to me I should have taken some photos of the scene before I collected evidence. My future as a CSI looked bleaker by the moment. I took out my smartphone and snapped some pictures, being sure to focus on the blood and the broken window.

  I put my phone away and surveyed the scene. Sam and his friend used this church to hold me hostage, so it stood to reason they used it before, like Rich suggested. The blood was Paul Fisher’s. I would have to wait for a forensic test to make sure, but I felt sure of it. Sam and maybe others worked Paul over, leading to the red splotches on the floor. They punched him in the face until he bled on the concrete. I frowned; punching took a toll on the hand, too. What if the puncher had busted his hand open in the process? Maybe one blood sample wouldn’t be enough after all.

  I collected two other blood samples and dropped those Q-tips into their own bags. Good thing I had grabbed a handful before I left. There didn’t look to be anything else of interest in the room. I had to check out the ground below the window. Even if Sam and whoever else had been careful, they had to clean things up in a hurry. Haste makes waste.

  Even though I probably didn’t need to lead with the .45 anymore, I still did as I left the room and went down the spiral staircase. Having traversed it once, I didn’t feel the need to hold onto the railing. I would have felt like a gigantic ass if I had gone tumbling down, but no such catastrophe (and resultant loss of dignity) befell me. I got to the first landing, went back down the conventional staircase, and ended back in the hallway past the sacristy. Curiosity almost got me with respect to the ornate door, but I ignored it and walked back through the sacristy. A minute later, I went outside toward the area below the broken window.