The Boat Man: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1)

by Dustin Stevens

  It had the intended effect as beside him Billie lowered herself into a crouch, her teeth bared, all four legs bent, ready to burst forward.

  “If you don’t, my partner here will tear you apart,” Reed said, letting them know he was enjoying the sudden shift in power.

  “What you see beside me is a Belgian Malinois, sixty-five pounds of pissed off canine with a bite so tight they nicknamed her breed Maligators. If my fist drops she will be on you in point two seconds, thrashing and shredding every bit of exposed skin she can find.”

  Pryor stopped where he stood, unsure how to proceed. He glanced to his friend, neither saying a word.

  “And since I’ve come here with information that could save both your asses,” Reed continued, “how about you cut the tough guy bullshit and we get this over with?”

  Both men kept their attention on Billie as she quivered with anticipation, waiting for him to give her the green light to move on them. Reed could almost feel it rolling off of her like electricity, her body aching to explode forward.

  After a long moment they both seemed to sense there was no bluff in Reed or Billie, each taking a step back and resuming their pose against the cars.

  “Alright, let’s get this over with,” Pryor said. “Just call that damn dog off before she does something stupid and gets herself hurt.”

  “That dog is an officer of the law,” Reed corrected. “Touching her would be the something stupid.”

  Again they seemed to consider the information, both looking at Billie.

  “Yeah, I knew them, why?” Pryor finally managed, the answer slow and begrudging.

  “Kings of The Bottoms, right?” Reed asked, jumping straight to the conclusion, watching as both men’s eyes bulged with surprise.

  “Man, how the hell...” Pryor started.

  “Did you know we have no idea what you’re talking about?” his friend finished, reaching out a hand towards Pryor to stop him from speaking further.

  “Oh, come off it,” Reed said, leaving his hand raised, letting the threat of Billie stand a few moments longer. “This isn’t a very big community. People see stuff, they talk.”

  Another glance was exchanged as Reed pushed forward, feeling his own ire rise. “Yeah, somebody near here gave you guys up. You all did something to piss someone off and they ratted the first chance they got.”

  The only reason Reed felt remotely safe saying such a thing was he knew there was no way the men would ever piece it back to Pearlman. As far as they were concerned people like her didn’t exist, just faceless entities in the crowd.

  “My question is, what happened that was so bad you guys decided to disband all of a sudden? Just one day you’re there, the next you’re gone.”

  “Man, we didn’t do shit,” Pryor snapped, malevolence on his face.

  “And we ain’t telling you shit,” the other man added.

  For a moment Reed considered asking the man his name, certain that if he raised the sleeve on his right arm a matching tattoo would be evident. He was just as sure though that whatever the guy told him would be a lie, just one more way to try and mess with the police.

  Instead he would run his license plate the moment he got back in his car.

  “Alright, fine,” Reed said, “be that way. Just stand there and keep your mouths shut while I tell you something instead then.

  “Whatever happened a couple years ago, whoever you did it to is back, and they’re pissed. I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that your boys are being picked off, and I’m sure you even think that what you’re doing out here, making yourself open targets, is a way to lure them to you.

  “Let me tell you though, that would be a mistake. This guy is on a mission, and he is much, much smarter than you.”

  Reed lowered his hand, careful to drop it in a slow circular pattern so as to not incite Billie. Beside him the growl ceased as her jowls lowered back over her fangs, her legs losing just a bit of tension.

  “If you guys know anything, you’d better get your ass down to the precinct and ask to see me, Detective Mattox.”

  He looked at each of them in turn, their anger having receded a bit. Both held their mouths drawn into tight lines, waiting for him to continue.

  “I’ve processed three of the most horrific crimes scenes I’ve ever seen in the last four days. I hope I don’t soon have to do yours too because you were too damn proud to ask for help.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  The Boat Man could feel his pulse quicken. The car wasn’t familiar, though if it were coming to meet the others at the corner lot it was a fair assumption that whoever was driving was affiliated with them.

  The details from that night were still a bit fuzzy, his own scattered consciousness making the last few months so much more difficult than necessary. Everything still drifted back to him in spliced snapshots, a combination of what happened and his natural defense mechanisms trying to cope by blocking it out.

  Had there been more for him to go on, an official report of any kind, his task would have been so much easier. By the point he was able to deliver a statement or pursue the matter so much time had passed it had become a losing proposition.

  Besides, doing so might have had the unintended consequence of protecting those responsible. Society’s idea of justice was to take perpetrators such as them and lock them away, letting taxpayers provide for their food and clothing, provide them with cable television.

  It had taken a long time for the Boat Man to prepare, the only way to ensure that true justice was ever really served. Once that moment of inception hit there became no doubt in his mind about what must be done, his entire life becoming a mission hell bent on setting things right.

  For that reason, the surge of adrenaline that first passed through his system fell away just as fast as he saw the gold badge swinging from the man’s neck as he exited the car, bits of light from the diner across the street reflecting off it. The intense sense of dread flooded in right behind it as he beckoned the oversized police dog from the back seat, both looking determined and capable.

  The mishap with the blade had cost him, wasting precious time, allowing the police to finally catch up. Somehow they had managed to put together what each of the victims had in common, finding their way to the abandoned parking lot, there to warn the vagrants congregating every night of what was going on.

  For the briefest of moments the Boat Man raised his right hand behind his head, squeezing the handle of the sword tight. Just touching it filled him with resolve, his knuckles whining as they flexed around the black fabric encasing it. He left his arm raised by his ear, his bent elbow resting against the brick wall beside him as he watched the scene across the street.

  The opening between him and the small gathering was no more than twenty-five yards, an easy distance for a man in his position, well hidden in the shadows. He could clear half of it before anybody so much as looked his way, their own conversation serving as the distraction he needed to close the gap.

  At that though, the numbers game was overwhelmingly stacked against him. One on one, he armed with his ken blade, there was no way any of the men could best him. Even two on one, knowing that all three were carrying weapons, he liked his odds.

  Three on one would be long, even for the best of swordsmen. Adding in the presence of the dog, itself appearing to be a small wolf, all black, trained to react in such instances, would make any move the Boat Man made a fool’s errand, a kamikaze run he couldn’t hope to return from.

  Slowly he released his grip on the handle, lowering his arm back to his side. As much as he ached to rush forward and complete his vow, make right a wrong that had been done years before, he couldn’t allow himself to do something foolish.

  The objective would not, could not, be completed tonight, regardless how things went with the two men standing across from him.

  Settling himself back against the trash piled around him, the Boat Man remained tucked in the shadows, watching as the encounter played out beneath
the street lights. He watched as the cop approached and the two sides conversed, saw as the men seemed to give him a hard time, their standoffish demeanor showing as little respect for the law as they had for him.

  He observed as the man flipped the power dynamic on them, setting his partner at the ready, an oversized animal bred for the purpose of handling criminals such as them.

  A thin smile grew on the Boat Man’s face as he watched the rendezvous grow tense, the meeting clearly not planned, neither side one wanting to interact with the other. It grew a bit larger as the officer finally called the tension from the animal by his side, both parties climbing back into their cars and driving away.

  This had merely been a warning shot, a courtesy call to let the two men know that they could be next in the line of fire, counsel that they had obviously cast aside.

  His opening still existed. Even as both men waited until the officer drove away before climbing into their own cars to leave, the Boat Man knew just as surely that his opportunity was coming.

  It was obvious from the body language of the impromptu gathering that the cop would not be back.

  It was only a matter of time before he would be.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Traffic was lined up nose to tail on the opposite side of the median, just a thin band of grass separating Reed from the early morning gridlock. Brake lights flaring as far as he could see, the cars were stretched in a serpentine pattern, the entirety of the freeway reduced to a parking lot, the early morning crowd rushing in from the suburbs for the start of a new day.

  Having bypassed another potentially awful coffee-based experience, Reed raised a bottle of Mountain Dew from his thigh to his lips, a wet ring of condensation left behind. Taking a long pull, he shook his head at the sight of the people jockeying to get somewhere they had no desire to be, his continuing battle with his body clock only serving to make his mood worse.

  In the back seat Billie seemed to be fighting the same war, her usual early morning patter reduced to nothing, her body laying flat on the cool plastic. Not once since leaving home had he heard the telltale squeak of the cover as she adjusted her body, her entire form going limp upon entry.

  Reed knew the feeling.

  After leaving the gas station the previous evening he had again driven by the homes of Edwin Mentor and A.J. Wright, trying to pretend that he was hoping to spot something, knowing more than anything he was just hiding.

  From the precinct and the chance of running into Iaconelli and Bishop, from home and the stack of case files strewn across his table, from sleep and whatever horrors his body continued to play out every night but refused to let him see.

  Shortly after midnight he gave up on the voluntary patrol, having passed three blue-and-whites in the process, the chatter over the line no doubt thick wondering what he was up to. The entire time he had ridden with the radio off and the book on tape left on the floor, trying to collect his thoughts, formulate some sort of cohesion to what he knew.

  As best he could tell, the things he had to follow up on were both numerous and ethereal. He knew for a fact that the Kings of The Bottoms had existed and that all three victims were once affiliated. He also knew that William Pryor was at one time a member.

  A quick call to Jackie the night before had shown the man with Pryor to be Marcus Knighton, who Reed also suspected was an active participant.

  Beyond that, the complete lack of mention of the Kings in the system left him puzzled and with precious little to follow up on. Both men the night before had shown signs of recognition when he asked, but shut down tight when he tried to press the matter.

  Their reaction, taken with the statement from Pearlman, proved that they had existed. The fact that there was so little mention of them in the system was something Reed could only speculate at, his morning venture an exercise in trying to do just that.

  The sole mention Deek had been able to ferret out of the system about the Kings was a complaint from a shop owner named Fareed Rasul. He had owned a convenience store in The Bottoms for six years, a search through local records showing his permits to run from 2005 to 2011. In May of that year he had filed a formal complaint against the Kings, citing theft and vandalism on multiple occasions.

  Two weeks later all charges were dropped.

  Three weeks after that he chose not to renew his lease, moving across town and opening a similar establishment in Gahanna.

  The address for the new shop was scribbled across the top of a sheet of paper in Reed’s spiral-bound notebook, a quick series of directions jotted down beneath it. The blue ink of the lettering stood out against the white paper as he glanced down every few minutes, following the freeway across town before exiting onto smaller side streets, avoiding the main boulevards.

  The journey from one side of Columbus to the other took him a full thirty-five minutes, the first half a crawl with the incoming traffic, the backend opening up as he crossed downtown. By the time he arrived the entire bottle of soda was gone and nestled on the floor against Crime and Punishment, the jolt of caffeine just beginning to take hold.

  He could feel his neurons beginning to fire and his heart rate increasing as he pulled up in front of Rasul’s shop, Billie remaining prone in the back.

  The convenience store stood as the end unit in a small strip, fifth out of five moving left to right. The outer shell of the structure was made of brick, though the storefronts were mostly glass, a few steel bars interspersed for support.

  Most of the window space for Rasul’s was covered in advertisements for various products, the goods offered ranging from cigarettes and beer to cereal and cookies. A neon sign flashed that the establishment was open as a pair of middle-aged women stepped out the front door and walked in the opposite direction.

  Parking in the front stall, Reed turned off the ignition and surveyed the place, comparing it to what he had seen in The Bottoms the night before. Despite just fifteen miles separating the two geographically, they were different in virtually every way. Gone were any traces of graffiti on the walls, any need for bars on the windows.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Reed saw Billie raise her eyelids towards him, questioning if her presence was required, her chin pressed flat to the seat relaying she was less than enthused by the notion.

  “Stay here, girl,” Reed said, wrenching the door open and stepping out, the smell of coffee and pastries hitting his nose. Behind him he could hear the sound of a school bus pulling to a stop on the corner, air brakes engaging and the muted din of children laughing.

  The sound fell away as he stepped through the front door, the smells of breakfast on-the-go hitting him full in the face. A reflexive groan from his stomach cried out as he stepped to the front counter, a young girl in her early twenties behind it, head aimed down at the cell-phone in her hands.

  “Good morning,” Reed said, his voice just a little bit higher than necessary so as to be heard over the enthrallment of the phone.

  “Uh-huh,” the girl said, the sound coming out as a low garble, delivered without looking up.

  A bevy of smart remarks came to Reed’s mind as she continued punching at the phone with both thumbs, but he let them go. “I’m looking for Fareed Rasul, please.”

  “In the back,” the girl replied, snapping the top of her head to the side, directing him towards a door along the far wall. Just as fast she returned to an upright position, a ponytail of thin blonde hair swinging behind her.

  Having no desire to continue the conversation any further, Reed moved on without thanking her, following her directions towards the back wall and knocking on the door there twice before pausing and pounding once more.

  “Yes!” a heavily accented voice said from the other side, traces of irritation present as Reed shoved it open and stood in the doorway.

  In front of him was a small office, barely large enough for a desk, a computer, and a file cabinet. Behind it was a short man that looked to be from somewhere in southwest Asia or the Middle East, his skin stained
dark brown. Most of the hair on his head had migrated out to the sides, though it still appeared dark, his features dominated by a pointed nose and chin.

  On the wall above him was a pair of security monitors, showing everything occurring inside the shop in muted black-and-white.

  “Fareed Rasul?”

  “Yes?” the man repeated, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Who are you?”

  Raising the badge from inside his hooded jacket, Reed wagged it once and said, “Detective Reed Mattox, Columbus PD.”

  Rasul nodded once, unease on his face, and motioned across his desk. “I would ask you to sit, but as you can see, there is no room for a chair in here.”

  “That’s alright,” Reed said, resting his shoulder against the doorjamb, the wood groaning a bit in protest. “This shouldn’t take too long.”

  The look of discord remained on Rasul’s face as he nodded, the corners of his lips turned downward.

  It was not a reaction Reed, or any law enforcement personnel he had ever known, wasn’t familiar with. Just the way every driver that ever saw a cop in the rearview mirror became nervous, he had found the vast majority of people he spoke with to be uneasy, even when there was no call for it.

  That was one of the chief reasons Reed preferred wearing his badge inside his sweatshirt.

  “I’m from the 8th Precinct,” Reed said, “covering the part of town known as The Bottoms. I understand you’re familiar with the area?”

  A long moment passed before Rasul responded, Reed sensing the wheels turning in the man’s head as he tried to determine where this was going.

  “I am,” Rasul said, adding nothing more.

  Pushing a loud breath out through his nose, Reed deciding to nudge things along, hoping to bypass any trepidation so he could get to the information he needed.

  “Mr. Rasul,” Reed said, “I am not here because of you or anything you have done. I am simply here to ask about an incident that occurred while you conducted business in The Bottoms.”