Deadly Webs Omnibus

by James Hunt

  Grant shrugged. “Not a whole lot. My attorney told me he’s confident the D.A. will drop the charges, and if I do time, it’ll be minimal.”

  “The media has turned your story into a circus,” Mocks said, shaking her head. “Channel Three tracked down Ellen’s parents. They didn’t comment though.”

  Grant didn’t think they would. He hadn’t heard from them since the funeral. He wasn’t the only person who blamed himself for Ellen’s death. “The nurse keeps asking me if I want to watch it on the television. But I’ll have plenty of time for that when they release me from the hospital.”

  “House arrest?” Mocks asked.

  “Yeah,” Grant answered. It was the best he could have hoped for, considering all the laws he broke. Murder by coercion was still murder. “What about you? You get to keep your badge?”

  “The lieutenant is making a strong case for me,” Mocks answered. “I might get bumped down to traffic, but I’m not sure. Depends on how much trouble they think I caused.”

  “Well then you’re off the force for sure,” Grant said.

  She punched his arm again.

  “You hungry?” Mocks asked.

  “Starving,” Grant said.

  Mocks removed a packet of strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts from her pocket, and Grant chuckled as she handed him one.

  “You’re unbelievable,” Grant said.

  “What?” Mocks said, biting into her pastry. “I was going through withdrawals.” She closed her eyes and let out a satisfied moan as crumbs sprinkled onto her shirt.

  After the treats were eaten, the silence lingered. Grant knew that his detective days were over, and that meant he didn’t have a partner anymore.

  “It’s not right,” Mocks said, her eyes reddening. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I did plenty wrong,” Grant said. “And it’s high time I paid for it.”

  Mocks quickly grabbed hold of his hand, and tears fell from the corner of her eyes. “I will always have your back, Grant. No matter what. You tell me what you need and I’m there. No questions asked.” She squeezed, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “What do you need?”

  Grant felt the mist growing in his own eyes and engulfed her small hand in his. “I’ve never worked with better. It’s an honor to leave the force knowing that.”

  Mocks fell forward, resting her forehead on his shoulder, and she sobbed. Grant wrapped his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

  “Thank you, Grant,” Mocks said, pulling her head back and wiping her nose with her shirt sleeve. “For everything.”

  A knock stole their attention, and they both looked to see Lieutenant Furst lingering in the doorway. “Detectives.”

  Mocks wiped her eyes quickly, and Grant did the same.

  “I was hoping to have a minute with you, Grant,” Furst said. “If now’s a good time?”

  “It’s all right,” Mocks said. “I should go.” She looked to Grant and smiled. “Bye, partner.”

  “Bye, Mocks.” Grant watched her leave, the oxygen tank handle gripped in her hand as she rolled it behind her.

  “What is it, Lieutenant?” Grant asked.

  Furst kept his hands behind his back. “How’s the leg?”

  Grant examined the cast. “Still broken.”

  Furst approached Grant’s bedside and revealed the folder he’d been hiding. It was thin, only a few papers inside. “The official charges filed against you. Thought you’d want to look at it.”

  “Dead men usually don’t get to see their certificates,” Grant said under his breath, opening the folder. He sifted through the pages. There weren’t any surprises. Murder, withholding evidence, use of unnecessary force. With every line, he totaled the number of years a maximum sentence would carry if he was convicted. Grant would die in prison.

  “Most of it is to just make an example,” Furst said, trying to sound reassuring. “There’s been such a public circus about this whole situation that the D.A. can’t appear to be going soft on you. Especially with the exposure of the corruption in the Senator’s office. Heads are rolling.”

  “And how far do you think mine will go?” Grant asked, handing the folder back to Furst.

  “Hopefully not far,” Furst answered.

  Grant drummed his fingers on his chest and drew in a breath, his lungs still rattling from the smoke. The doctors told him it would take a week or so before his lungs were fully cleared. They’d done what they could from a surgical standpoint already, sucking out some of the crap when he first arrived.

  “What’s happening with Pierfoy and the Chief?” Grant asked.

  “Charges are being brought up, and there is a huge audit running through the State Department right now,” Furst answered. “The Attorney General will be handling the case personally.”

  “And Ambassador Mujave?” Grant asked, hoping the man would have some weight in the proceedings.

  “He’s being consulted on matters,” Furst said. “He’s using the momentum and spotlight to have Congress appropriate more funds and new legislation to combat the problem. He’s making headway.”

  “That’s good.” If there was one man who deserved to lead the charge against what remained of The Web, then it was Mujave. With the organization’s main contact on the stateside dead, the remaining members went underground, but most of them hadn’t moved fast enough. What news Grant did catch centered on Hickem and his now fifty-man operation gutting locations based off the data from the hard drive. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.

  “And our deal is still in place?” Grant asked.

  Furst nodded. “The D.A. won’t file any charges against Detective Mullocks so long as you claim responsibility and sign the statement admitting it.”

  “Good.” It was the only card Grant had left to play. And if he could shield Mocks from any further legal torture, then he was glad to put it on the table. “She can never know about it, Lieutenant. If she did, she’d try and unravel the whole ball of yarn.”

  “I can only keep it quiet until the D.A. makes the statement public,” Furst said. “You’re sure you don’t want to warn her first?”

  Grant looked at the leftover Pop-Tart he’d yet to finish. He’d loved working with Mocks. Their relationship had gotten him through more dark times than he cared to admit. Without her, he wouldn’t have survived after Ellen’s death. Even with the transfer to Missing Persons. He leaned on her for so much. And it was the smallest things throughout their day together that he loved the most.

  The Pop-Tarts, the quirky remarks, the eye rolls, and that green Bic lighter of hers. Grant knew once she was back on the force she would use what happened and become a better detective than he ever could be. She loved the job. She loved her family. And a person who’d been through as much as she had deserved a chance to grow. Grant couldn’t think of a better way to say goodbye.

  “She’ll be furious with me,” Grant said. “But it’s for the best. She’s the only family I have left, Lieutenant. And I’ll do whatever I can to protect her.” He looked away from the pastry and back at Furst. “It’s what we do for the people that we love.”

  Furst nodded, and the pair shook hands. “It was an honor working with you, Detective. The department will be lesser without you.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Furst disappeared and Grant was once again left alone in his room, cuffed to the bed and waiting for the inevitable circus of a trial that was just around the corner. It would be hard, painful to watch his history and life thrust into the spotlight. But perhaps this was his final punishment. One last trial before he could finally let it all go. His hands were tired of holding on so tight. They ached. He wanted to rest.

  ***

  Four Months Later

  The office was neatly organized. Elegant touches were thrown in where it could be afforded: an ornately designed wooden table, paintings, new carpet, all designed to give the space an air of superiority. But all Grant felt was anxiousness.

  He sat a
t the long table, a window outside his view into a world he’d been limited in seeing since his release from the hospital. House arrest wasn’t terrible, but that tiny apartment grew smaller every day.

  Grant shifted his weight to the right in the seat. The cast had been taken off last month, but his leg was still stiff and sore. He was glad for the summer weather and its warm temperatures. Winter would be harder now, but he would deal with it.

  The door behind him swung open and his lawyer stepped inside. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Grant.”

  “I’ve waited this long,” Grant said. “A few more minutes won’t hurt anything.”

  Jake Wilber was a younger man, eager to prove himself in his profession. He was only a few years removed from law school, but he was smart. He contacted Grant personally when he heard of the case and offered to represent him pro bono. Grant knew it was more for the publicity than the kindness of his own heart, but the man had done his job well.

  “I just got the final approval of your statement by the D.A.,” Jake said, flipping through the papers and signing a few. “All we have to do now is sign on the dotted line and have you read the statement to the press.” He pushed the papers across the table, along with a pen, and smiled. “And then it’s all over but the crying.”

  Grant examined the papers, reading through the statement for the thousandth time. Words had been cut, and changed, and rearranged so many times that he couldn’t remember what the original version looked like anymore. He signed the documents, dated them, and turned them back over to Jake, only keeping the one page that contained the actual statement he would need to read.

  “All right then,” Jake said, neatly organizing the stack of papers. “Ready?”

  Grant nodded and pushed himself out of the chair. He reached for his cane, and Jake opened the door for him as he walked down the hallway and out to the front of the building where a horde of reporters anxiously awaited his appearance.

  The pair stopped at the door, and Grant heard the murmur of the crowd outside. Jake adjusted Grant’s tie and brushed off the shoulders of his suit jacket.

  “I’ll introduce you, then you make the statement, and then I’ll be answering any questions they throw at you,” Jake said. “No matter what they ask, don’t take the bait. The moment you’re done reading off that piece of paper, you come right back inside. Got it?”

  “I never answered their questions when I was a cop,” Grant answered. “I’m sure as hell not going to start now.”

  “All right then,” Jake said, taking a deep breath as if he had been the man on trial for the past four months. “Let’s go.”

  Jake opened the door and a surge of camera flashes blinded them on their way to the podium that had been set up a few feet from the door. Jake led the way and Grant filed in behind him, leaning on the cane for support while he waited his turn.

  Jake held up his hands, stemming the flow of questions. There must have been fifty reporters crammed onto the tiny lawn.

  “Thank you everyone for being here today,” Jake said, raising the volume of his voice. The incoherent stream of questions ended. “My client will be making a brief statement in regards to his recent trial, and then I will be available to answer a few questions.”

  Jake stepped aside, and Grant stepped up. A roaring click of pictures greeted him and he placed the single piece of paper onto the podium, smoothing it out on the surface. He placed the cane on the inside of the podium and gripped the sides for support.

  “Thank you,” Grant said, clearing his throat. “Four months ago, I was part of an investigation that involved the abduction of a young girl. During the process of that investigation, and once the child was safely recovered, it was discovered that the abduction was part of a larger ring of abductions around the state. Those investigations led me to work with multiple agencies, including the FBI, and my involvement extended beyond normal Seattle PD Detective responsibilities that resulted in casualties, injuries, and destruction of property.” Grant looked up from his paper, every eye in the crowd focused directly on him. “I want to make very clear that my actions were not directed by any authority of local, state, or federal levels. I acted alone. Despite direction from my superiors, I ignored their orders and followed leads how I saw fit, and at my discretion. Those acts resulted in the unfortunate incidents that I was charged with during my trial. And despite the jury’s decision of not guilty across all charges of manslaughter, I will be carrying out my probation sentence for obstruction of justice for the next two years, as well as the mandatory service hours. For all of those who were affected by my actions, I know there is no apology that can ease the suffering of those involved. However, I still wish to extend my deepest condolences to those affected, and hope that I will one day be forgiven. Thank you.”

  Grant took hold of his cane, grabbed his statement, and turned away while the reporters raised their microphones, everyone shouting questions at the same time. Jake quickly stepped in Grant’s place and shouted for everyone to calm down before he singled out the first reporter to field a question. Grant was inside, shutting the door behind him before he could hear what it was. He was done.

  ***

  Two Years Later

  The road curved and wound through the mountains. The lush green forests provided the scenic tour that only the wilderness of Washington could offer. Traffic on the highway was non-existent, and Grant steadied the wheel of the rented U-haul. He rotated his left foot, his ankle finally free of the tracker he’d worn during his probation. He was glad to be rid of it. And he was glad to be out of Seattle.

  He’d saved enough money during his time at the department to live off until the press circus died down. It had taken six months, but when it was finally over, a weight lifted off Grant’s shoulders. He could walk down the street and become lost in the crowd. New scandals broke and other troubles begged for the media’s attention. Grant was old news. And he couldn’t have been happier about it.

  While serving his probation and working off his community service hours, Grant found a part time job down at the docks. He’d never had much experience in that kind of work before, but he enjoyed the work outside. The constant movement of manual labor kept his mind occupied.

  But at night, when he was at home and alone in his apartment, his mind would wander. The passage of time lessened the anxiety, but it never truly went away. The occasional nightmare of Ellen’s accident, or the death of Brian Dunston, or the deaths of all those Philippine women still chased him. They would always haunt him.

  It had taken almost a month before Mocks forgave him for the deal he brokered with the district attorney. Grant purchased her a new lighter and a Costco-size order of strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts, which helped speed up the process.

  Mocks remained on Missing Persons after her administrative leave was over, which Grant was glad to hear. And Rick had done well enough in his physical therapy to return to work last year with the fire department. You couldn’t even notice his limp anymore.

  The exit sign for Deville appeared, and Grant veered off the highway. It was still ten miles until he reached the small town, and Main Street was so short that he nearly passed it.

  Only a handful of buildings comprised downtown, and Grant pulled into a parking space in front of the office that had “Deville Realty” painted in faded white letters on the window.

  A bell chimed when Grant opened the door, and an older woman with grey hair, coke bottle glasses, and a friendly smile sat up from her desk.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “My name is Chase Grant. I spoke to you over the phone about the property?”

  “Mr. Grant!” She smiled and extended her hand. “So good to finally meet you in person.”

  It was one of the rare occasions where Grant had met someone who knew his full name and still welcomed him with a friendly demeanor. It was the main reason he picked Deville to start over. He wasn’t even sure if they had cable out here.

  “We have the place all r
eady for you,” she said. “Would you like to go look?”

  “That’d be great.”

  Grant followed Jane Carr’s old Chevy Silverado down a side street, and after a series of left and right turns down dirt roads, they arrived at a small house nestled amongst the forest.

  It wasn’t much to look at, and it needed quite a bit of TLC, but it was dirt cheap and in the middle of nowhere. Two of Grant’s only requirements.

  “I didn’t get to clean up outside as much as I would have liked,” Jane said, pointing toward some old rusted relics the previous tenants had left behind. “But I promise you the innards of the house are in much better shape.”

  Grant stepped inside and was glad to see she was right about the conditions. The floors had been cleaned and swept, the kitchen as well. The appliances were old but were in good working order. The living room and bedroom contained the musty scent that most old buildings provided. The place wasn’t much larger than the studio he held back in Seattle, but the view had drastically improved. Nothing but beautiful greenery, instead of the concrete buildings he was forced to look at through his tiny bedroom window in Seattle.

  “There were some stains in the tub that I just couldn’t scrub out, but I assure you everything has been sterilized,” Jane said. She walked over and handed him the key. “Do you need any help moving in? I’m afraid my back isn’t of much use, but I could call my husband.”

  “No, thank you,” Grant said, sticking the key into his pocket. “I’ll manage.”

  “All right, then. I’ll let you get settled. Utilities are all set up, and the bill comes on the fifteenth of the month. If you need anything, please call.”

  “I will. Thank you, Mrs. Carr.”

  With the old lady gone, Grant started moving in the boxes from the truck, using the dolly for the couch and dresser. His belongings didn’t even fill up half the truck, and it took him less than an hour to lug everything inside, and only another two to unpack.

  He saved the bedroom for last where there was only one remaining unopened box. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at it, knowing that he’d have to go through it sooner or later, and putting it off would only prolong the inevitable.