The Nick Lawrence Series

by Brian Shea

  “Sounds good to me.” Jones took a long pull from his Styrofoam cup. A loud slurp followed by a squeak emanated from the cup as Jones swiveled the orange plastic straw in a final attempt gather up any remnants of the Dr. Pepper hiding among the melting ice cubes. A final gulp trumpeted the end of his feast.

  “If I start to snore just hit me. It’s what my ex used to do.”

  “If you snore, I’m going to put you in that dumpster.” Simmons thumbed in the direction of the large brown metallic bin shadowing their gray Taurus.

  Jones gave a hearty chuckle. “Good luck lifting me,” he said, patting his ample gut.

  Simmons smiled. “I’m stronger than I look.”

  “Well, I’m heavier than I look.”

  “Get some rest big fella,” Simmons said, winking.

  “Ya know? Ya ain’t so bad,” Jones said, adding his colorful West Texas charm. He gave a tip of his invisible Stetson before reclining the seat and closing his eyes.

  Simmons redirected her focus back to the double-wide that was home to Antonio Scalise. The female smoker had disappeared into her trailer, and once again the only contrast to the dark was provided by the flicker of the heavyset pervert’s television. She stared into the abyss of the surrounding night while the labored breathing of her rotund companion served as this evening’s background music.

  The longer you stand still the more invisible you become. Darkness always helps, but movement is the quickest way of exposure. The car had been idling by the dumpster for a while. The rise from the engine’s exhaust was a telling sign of its location, but in the cold it would be too much to go without the heater. Weakness provides advantage. Edging forward inch by silent inch, the Ferryman had moved to the rear door of Scalise’s deplorable home. No reaction in the unmarked fed car.

  Tonight’s mission would need to be quick. No time for games with the house under surveillance. But rules were rules and a message needed to be sent. The puzzle was almost assembled. Soon they would understand.

  The rust on the hinge of the exterior storm door was visible in the low light conditions, indicating the years of neglect. A delicate hand and slow pull negated the noise. A sharp wind cut through the park rattling lose shutters and clotheslines. The clatter created an additional mask to the entrance. The loose knob of the interior door turned easily and with a firm push the door opened. The house was under surveillance, but this slob hadn’t managed to lock his door. It’s like Scalise had invited death to come.

  The interior was peppered by a landmine of clutter. Each step contained the pitfalls created by the morbidly obese Scalise, who obviously did very little in the way of cleaning. Navigating without making a sound through the dark kitchen was more difficult than expected. The volume of the television blaring from the other room helped blanket the crunch of stale cereal that couldn’t be avoided. Light danced out of the living room and assisted the Ferryman in maneuvering around the dining table, teetering with magazines and ashtrays. The unbalanced pile was a madman’s version of Jenga.

  No time for games. All work and no play, he pouted.

  The Ferryman silently slipped behind the unaware fat man who was bobbing his head in a fitful battle with sleep. The rolls of fat on his neck jiggled with each recoiled nod of his head.

  The knife was already balanced in the Ferryman’s hand as a quick assessment was made for the angle of trajectory for the first and hopefully only strike. The decision made, the blade raised with the thumb bracing the end of the handle.

  Just as the strike was about to be delivered, the television show cut to commercial and in the split second of screen darkness during the transition, the image of the Ferryman and the glimmer of the knife in hand was reflected back at the unprepared Antonio Scalise.

  “What the—” Scalise started to say.

  His incredible weight precluded his ability to react from the chair, which was molded tightly to his massive body. The knife struck downward into the right side of the man’s neck between two protruding rolls fat, adding resistance to the weapon’s bloody withdrawal.

  No other words were uttered. The only sound competing with the incoherent banter on the television was that of the gurgling of Scalise. Agonal gasps seeped out his final plea.

  Back to the door from where the Ferryman had just moments ago entered, a quick pause on the crooked stoop of the rear entrance. The Ferryman’s eyes adjusted to the dark and peered hard in the direction of the dumpster across the dirt-covered street. No movement from the Taurus. Satisfied, the Ferryman stepped slowly down the two steps and disappeared, becoming part of the night.

  25

  “Wake up!” Simmons yelled, shoving Jones.

  The slumped mass of the detective snorted and then muttered something inaudible. She shook him again, this time more violently. A loud nose erupted that sounded like a combination of both a snore and a choke. He lurched upright, eyes wide with his head on a swivel.

  “What the hell is goin’ on?” Jones blurted.

  “Movement. Back door,” Simmons said, pulling her gun free.

  “I don’t see it. Where?”

  “I swear I just saw something!” Simmons said.

  She was already moving from the car and into the cold. The butt of her pistol hugged tightly to her sternum as the muzzle pressed ahead, seeking its target. Simmons hunched over, lowering her profile as she moved quickly toward Scalise’s dwelling.

  “Shit!” Jones blurted.

  Kemper Jones fumbled to open the door, stepping on his empty container of barbeque as he tumbled out the side door of the Taurus. Somehow the Styrofoam container latched on to his left foot, and Jones shook it as he jogged to keep up with Simmons, who was already on the move ahead of him.

  The two moved quickly in the direction of the back door. Simmons hopped up the two rotten wood steps to the landing with the nimble grace of a Romanian gymnast, pausing at the threshold of the door. She looked back at Jones who nodded. Understanding the non-verbal signal, Simmons jerked open the storm door and pushed the interior door hard with her foot. She shoved her small frame into the tight space. She wedged her right foot against the door, preventing it from bouncing back on them. Jones noisily clamored up the steps and followed behind her.

  They quickly visually cleared the kitchen area and moved fast toward the living room. They heard a strange sound. A hiss and gurgle, comparable to the sound of a clogged drain fighting against the introduction of water.

  Simmons entered the living room and was able to visually clear the small space, the visual assessment made easier by the cast of the television’s light. With no threat located, she holstered and approached the dying Scalise. Terror was carved into those beady eyes.

  “Get a towel! A rag! Something!” Simmons yelled over her shoulder to Jones.

  Jones threw a grease-covered dishrag he’d found under a pile of magazines. Simmons caught it in the air. She pressed hard at the wound. The towel did little to stop the flow and was saturated within seconds. Simmons hands were wet. Scalise squirmed as if trying to look past Simmons toward the kitchen area where Jones was standing. And then, an instant later, he stopped moving altogether. His dead eyes looked up at her as if making some final unsaid petition.

  Simmons stepped back, looking for somewhere to wipe the dead man’s blood from her hands. She looked down at her clothes and realized that was a moot point. In her hasty attempt to clot the flow emptying from the gravely wounded man, she’d managed to cover much of herself in Scalise’s arterial spray.

  Jones was speaking, but she comprehended none of it.

  Her temporary auditory exclusion dissipated as she distanced herself from the dead man, and she heard Jones say, “I called it in.”

  “Damn it!” Simmons yelled. She lurched toward the front door, ripping it open.

  She bolted onto the front stoop and withdrew her gun again, frantically scanning the darkness. Nothing moved and the only sound she heard over the wind was Scalise’s television.

  She held t
he position for a moment longer, but knew in her heart that the Ferryman had eluded capture once again. The only chance they had to bait him just finished bleeding out on a worn-out La-Z-Boy recliner.

  26

  The rhythmic drumming sound grew louder, ripping him from sleep and rattling his brain like a jackhammer. His right eye opened quicker than his left in the discord between synaptic command and neuromuscular response. The green glow of the numbers slowly came into focus. 2:03 a.m. The drumming sound started again. His cellphone shook on the mahogany end table, the same end table that had once been his parent’s prior to the sale of their family home. The caller was unrelenting, and the phone alerted receipt of the incoming call, spinning slightly under the power of its vibration.

  Nick grabbed the phone midvibration and swiped madly at the green icon, seeking refuge from its annoying interruption to his hard-fought sleep.

  “Nick, you awake?” Simmons asked eagerly.

  “I am now. What’s up?” Nick asked, sitting up and placing his feet on the throw rug at the base of the bed.

  His toes curled, gripping the fluffy vines of fabric as he looked back at Anaya. She was sound asleep, undisturbed by the sound of his voice and commotion of his movements.

  “It’s Scalise. He’s dead,” Simmons said.

  “Dead? What? You guys were there. Are you and Jones all right?” Nick asked desperately. Terrified that his mind was incapable of handling the news of another loss in his life.

  “We’re fine. A little shook up is all. I’ll fill you in when you get here. Meet us at his trailer park,” Simmons said.

  Nick hesitated for a brief second as he watched the gentle rise and fall of the sheets that lay over his beloved Anaya. At the hospital he’d made a promise that he wouldn’t leave her tonight. The confliction between his duty to her and his obligatory compulsion for justice gnawed at him.

  “Okay,” Nick said hesitantly.

  “You sound a bit unsure. Everything good on your end?” Simmons asked.

  “Yeah. She’s all right. So is the baby. We got back home around midnight. She’s sleeping now,” Nick whispered.

  “Good to hear. So, you’re on the way? Right?” Simmons asked again.

  “I’m up and moving. See you in a few.” Nick said this cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear as he quietly pulled open a dresser drawer. He grabbed an armful of clothes and stepped out into the quiet of the living room to dress, removing any chance that his bumbling would wake Anaya. Nick jammed a piece of gum in his mouth to remove the sour taste of sleep. The mint flavoring made the night’s air feel colder as he stepped out from his house and away from Anaya, leaving his promise broken. The note he’d left by her nightstand, containing the words, Sorry, I had to step out for a minute. I’ll be right back, did little to lighten his guilt.

  Nick arrived on the scene, driving down the unpaved dirt road he’d been on the previous night. The trailer park looked nothing like it did before. Large flood lights were now posted on two opposite corners of the double-wide mobile home belonging to Scalise.

  Nick slithered through the crowd of neighbors gathered at the edges of the bright yellow tape, taking stock of their attire. Most, if not all, were wearing jackets over some variety of sleepwear, indicating their affiliation to the neighborhood. It was unlikely the killer would go through so much trouble to blend in. None of Nick’s internal sensors tripped any potential alerts to a threat among this group.

  People craned hard in a frantic attempt to catch a glimpse of what caused the horrific end to their neighbor, searching for an answer to the swarm of police that had taken over the small patch of land belonging to the now-dead Antonio Scalise.

  Kemper Jones stood in a dark corner outside of the cone cast by large mobile floodlights. He teetered at the edge of the crime scene tape, but on an area far away from the onlookers. His face was illuminated by a soft warm glow with each pull of a cigarette. Nick observed the rate at which his friend was puffing away. The rapid-fire piston of his arm as he devoured the cigarette did little to alleviate his anxiety.

  “Those things will kill ya,” Nick teased as he approached.

  “Gotta die of something. Lot better way to go than some. And definitely better than the way he went,” Jones said, gesturing in the direction of the trailer’s back door.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Not my first dead body,” Jones said between puffs.

  “Not what I asked,” Nick asserted.

  “I know. And yes, I’m good to go. Just pissed at myself for falling asleep,” Jones said.

  “That’s how these operations work. Taking turns on the watch. One person sleeps while the other keeps eyes on,” Nick said.

  “I know but maybe we would’ve been quicker to react. Four eyes are better than two.”

  Nick nodded and looked around, “Where’s Simmons?”

  “Inside talking to Cavanaugh,” Jones said, taking another long pull before flicking the glowing butt out into the darkness. “She’s fearless. I like her.”

  “I know. Me too. She’d have to be, after everything that’s happened to her,” Nick said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This asshole killed both her parents a few years back. Tried to finish her off too.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t know,” Jones said.

  “Neither did I. Not sure it’s something she likes to talk much about. I can’t really blame her.”

  Nick ascended the two rickety steps leading to the back door. The creak of the metal storm door announced his arrival.

  “Look who decided to join the party,” Simmons said, smirking at Nick.

  “Better late than never,” Nick said.

  “Interior photos are done,” said a tall bald man wearing the distinctive blue of an APD crime scene windbreaker.

  Nick didn’t recognize the tech.

  “Thanks. Get the exterior and photograph the crowd too. Maybe this sicko came back to watch the show,” Cavanaugh said. His voice boomed loudly, intensified by the confines of the small space.

  “Where’s Spangler?” Nick asked.

  “Couldn’t get hold of him,” Cavanaugh said.

  “That’s not like him. Doesn’t he live for this shit?” Nick said. “I don’t think I can recall a recent scene that I’ve been on without him.”

  Cavanaugh chuckled. “Maybe he finally got himself a life.”

  Nick laughed. The large Homicide detective stepped out the front door making enough room for Nick to navigate around the kitchen table. Scalise’s body was contorted, sprawled between the recliner and the floor, as if he had turned awkwardly to greet Nick. The faded light blue of the living room carpet was now stained dark with blood. His dead eyes stared up at Nick.

  “Please tell me you got a glimpse of him,” Nick pleaded to Simmons.

  “I wish. I didn’t even know that it was him. I saw something by the back door. No details. I couldn’t even tell if it was a person. I just saw a different shade of darkness, like a shadow moving inside of a shadow.”

  “Damn it!” Nick hissed.

  “Maybe if this fat slob had ever changed a light bulb in his godforsaken life that back-porch motion light would have caught him,” Simmons said, frustration seeping out.

  Nick realized Simmons was holding a plastic bag, containing a white piece of paper.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Nick asked optimistically.

  “Yup,” Simmons said.

  “And?”

  “You look but do not see. Now there’s just you and me.” Simmons recited the words with poetic intonation.

  “He’s taunting us,” Nick said, grinding his teeth.

  “No more cases to tie us to the pattern. No more bait. We’ve got nothing.” Simmons balled her fist. “We’re now back to square one and no closer than we were a few days ago.”

  “Not so sure about that,” Nick said.

  “How so?” Simmons asked.

  “We’ve still got me.”

  �
�You?”

  “He’s got to come for me sooner or later. We just have to get a leg up on this bastard,” Nick said.

  “Well that’s failed us so far,” Simmons said dejectedly.

  “We’re definitely missing something. Not sure what, but there is a link to all of those cases. All of those dead men. I know it’s there. We just have to find it.”

  “Are you heading back to the office?” Simmons asked.

  “Yes. I’m going to look over everything again. Put some fresh eyes on this thing,” Nick said.

  “Okay. I’ll meet you there in a bit. I’ve got to get cleaned up,” Simmons said.

  For the first time since he’d entered the residence, Nick took notice of the woman standing before him. There weren’t many areas on the clothing clinging to her small frame not covered in Scalise’s blood. The sanguine darkness of the dried fluid stood in disparity to the brightness of her hair.

  27

  Nick sat alone in the conference room. The only injection of noise since he’d arrived had been made by him and his love affair with the Keurig machine in the break room. Since then, the only sound had been the flipping of voluminous paperwork as he ravaged the files, convinced the answer was buried within.

  He’d removed everything from the stretched oval of the conference table except for four case files: Montrose, Pentlow, Mullins, and Scalise. He scoured the write-ups and looked at every supplemental report searching for a name. Someone who was at each of those scenes. Someone who knew the system. A cop.

  Nothing clicked. There were officers, investigators, and agents tied to one or two of the case investigations, but none that he saw were linked to all four. Nick gave a disgruntled grumble, rubbing his head vigorously in the hopes of stimulating his thought process.

  He then spread out photos from each of the scenes. Hopeful the answer was there. The atrocities of these savage men and the brutality of their sickness captured on film. Nick compared the crime scene photos taken at the time of each man’s arrest and grouped them with the photos from each man’s death, minus Scalise’s scene which was still being processed.