Sliding his left hand down the barrel, he gripped the weapon with one hand, using the other to dig deep into the pocket of his pants. There he found the twin pair of metal discs lodged in the corner of the cotton material, the interior of the pocket matted by sweat against his thigh.
Gripping both between his middle and forefinger, he tossed both the obols out through the open window, watching them each catch a tiny flash of light before disappearing into the darkness.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
A pair of blue-and-whites was already on the scene as Reed pulled to a stop, parking at the same odd angle he had two nights before. He left the front flashers on his car going as he climbed out, their fluorescent light illuminating the intersection, bouncing off the nearby buildings, tossing long shadows out over the street.
Side by side at the front of the lot were the Pontiac Tempest and the Buick Skylark, the majority of their frames blocked by the twin police cruisers, blue-and-red flashers working overhead. Moving like silent silhouettes through the lights was a small handful of officers, traveling fast.
“Oh, shit,” Reed muttered, breaking into a run, feeling his badge bounce against his chest. As he moved he drew his weapon from the holster on his hip, shifting into a shooter’s stance, the gun trained in front of him.
Bright light flashed in his eyes, momentarily blinding him as he passed by the cruisers, coming up on the tail of Pryor’s Buick.
“Oh, shit,” he whispered again.
Tucked away behind either end of the Tempest were Jacobs and McMichaels, their weapons extended over the dented metal frame. Behind them Gilchrist and Greene were crouched low, attention aimed in the opposite direction, using the Skylark as a shield.
Filling the space on the ground between them was two inert objects, recognizable at a glance as the two men Reed had spoken to just two nights before.
Keeping his weapon drawn, Reed slid on a knee between the two groups, coming to a stop just inches from Willie Pryor. Lying flat on his back a single entry wound was present in the upper right side of his chest, the circle no larger than a nickel. A single trickle of dark blood ran sideways from it, already beginning to congeal in the cool night air.
Beside him on the pavement was a circle of blood the size of a basketball, the shape of it smeared, most likely by the first arriving officers rolling him over to check for vitals.
“What the hell happened?” Reed asked, remaining in a crouch, hopping over Pryor and moving to Knighton.
“This is what we found when we got here four minutes ago,” Jacobs yelled, turning his head an inch to the side but keeping his attention aimed forward.
“Nobody saw anything?” Reed asked.
Knighton had been rolled flat onto his back, the collar of his puffy jacket pulled back to expose his jugular. Unlike his friend, a gaping hole four inches in diameter was cleaved through the middle of his chest, blood and tissue spatter coating the glossy yellow fabric.
Also different from Pryor was his right arm, the lower half of it hanging at an angle, a second shot placed right through the meat of the forearm.
“Nothing,” Gilchrist said in front of him. “We got here just a second after they did. Found them already like this.”
“Shit,” Reed muttered, looking at the two bodies, raising his attention to the cars around him.
It was clear from the entry wounds that Pryor had been shot in the chest, Knighton in the back. That likely meant a single shooter getting both as they were positioned against their cars.
Risking standing almost to full height, Reed checked over each of the hoods, seeing two distinct blood sprays along the front of the Skylark, none for the Tempest.
“Shots were fired from the southwest,” Reed said, shifting over between Jacobs and McMichaels, looking out over the roof just behind the driver’s seat. The combined red, blue, and white lights of the three police vehicles bathed everything in an odd assortment of colors as his gaze traced over the intersection, settling on the enormous brick edifice across from them.
“The school,” he whispered. “The son of a bitch was tucked away in there, firing down on them.”
Dropping back down, Reed pulled his radio from his waist, raising it to his lips.
“Dispatch, this is Detective Reed Mattox,” he barked in clipped words, “I need a full tactical assault force on the corner of Scanson and Duvall Streets right now. Target is an abandoned school house that served as the hide for a shooter in a double homicide.
“Assailant may or may not still be inside.”
He lowered his radio a moment, glancing to either side. “You guys good here?”
“Yeah,” McMichaels grunted, his body still tense, his head moving from side to side, checking every shadow.
“All set,” Jacobs said, his mouth pulled into a tight line across his face.
“Greene, Gilchrist?” Reed asked, raising his voice just a bit.
“We’re good,” Gilchrist replied.
“You sure you don’t want us to go in right now?” Greene said, looking back over his shoulder to Reed. “Three of us could clear it, leave two here to secure the scene.”
“Roger that, Detective,” Jackie’s voice sounded over the radio. “Units have been dispatched and are en route. Be on hand in under five.”
Reed nodded without responding.
“No,” he said, his attention aimed at Greene. “I’m not sending you guys in there against what looks like a 30-cal undermanned and underequipped.”
He shifted and looked back through the hull of the Skylark, the double layer of windows distorting the image just a bit. “Besides, I’d be willing to bet all they’re going to find is a bunch of homeless people scared shitless.”
“Yeah?” Jacobs asked.
“Yeah,” Reed said, nodding, running back everything he’d learned in the previous hours on a fast loop. “This guy isn’t on a suicide mission, he has a job to do and he’s going to get it done. The fact that he shifted from a sword to a long-range rifle, something he could fire and still make a getaway, proves he’s in the self-preservation business, at least a little longer.”
“What do you mean a little longer?” McMichaels asked, glancing over at him, a tiny bit of tension easing from his body.
Reed met the glance a long moment, a thought coming to his head. Without responding he raised the radio back to his face and said, “Jackie, who’s on standby tonight?”
There was a brief pause followed by Jackie bursting back on the line, panting as she spoke. “Iaconelli and Bishop. You need them, too?”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Two distinct options had presented themselves to Reed.
The first was that he could wait for the assault team to show up and clear the schoolhouse, telling him what he already knew, which was Rigas was long gone. The fact that he had chosen to go with shooting Pryor and Knighton from afar proved he was cognizant of Reed getting closer, had chosen an attack method that allowed him to be far away by the time police arrived.
Otherwise, he would have stayed with his traditional MO, using his sword, inflicting on them the same wounds they had on him.
Once the building was cleared, Reed could use Billie and her otherworldly gift of scent to track his movements, hoping they led him somewhere besides the place where he had parked before driving away.
The second option, the one that Reed had begrudgingly gone with, was to wait for Iaconelli and Bishop to arrive at the scene, responding to Jackie’s call. When they did, Reed flagged them down the moment they stepped out of their car, telling them to fall in behind him. He didn’t allow Iaconelli to get out a word as he lumbered out, pretended not to notice the grimace on both their faces.
As much as he hated to admit it, as sour as the words tasted on his mouth, he needed them as backup.
Retracing the route he had taken just a quarter hour earlier, Reed left the front lights flashing, tearing back towards the freeway. In the back seat Billie had worked herself into a lather pacing, kno
wing that Reed, the situation, had both escalated, fraught with pent-up energy ready to be expended.
Taking up his cell phone from the passenger seat, Reed dialed and dropped it into his lap, the sound of ringing echoing through the car. In his rearview mirror he could see the flashing lights of Iaconelli’s matching sedan, the back end of it drifting a bit as they followed him onto the freeway.
“Grimes,” the voice of the captain growled, little more than a grumble.
“Captain, it’s Mattox,” Reed said, his words, his tone, both clipped.
“Holy hell, Mattox. You’ve turned my whole precinct on its head tonight. What’s going on out there?”
The red speedometer needle pushed its way above ninety as he headed north, Iaconelli keeping pace behind him.
“William Pryor and Marcus Knighton are both dead,” Reed said without preamble, his voice even as he relayed the information.
A long breath of air was audible before the captain asked, “Same guy?”
“Same guy,” Reed said, “but not same MO. This time he used a rifle big enough to take down an elephant. Looks like he was holed up in that old school house across the street, you know the place?”
“Yeah,” Grimes said, a tinge of weariness in his tone. “People have been clamoring for years for that place to be torn down, saying it was nothing but an eyesore and a homeless commune. They’ll have a field day with this one.”
Reed moved on past the statement without comment, having neither the time nor inclination to debate local politics.
“Despite the change in nature, I’ve got no doubt it’s the same guy,” Reed said. “Shot them both right through the chest, put a round through Knighton’s arm right on the tattoo, almost took the damn thing off.”
“Sure sounds like the same guy,” Grimes agreed.
“Anyway, I’m calling you now to let you know I’m on my way to Worthington. Iaconelli and Bishop are in the car behind me.”
“Worthington?” Grimes almost spat, the word coming out in one sharp crack. “Why the hell aren’t you on the scene?”
“Because he’s not there anymore,” Reed said. “So I’m going to his house to tear the place apart. Can you get on the horn and clear the way for me?”
As a detective, Reed was given a certain amount of latitude throughout the greater Columbus area. It was a generally accepted practice though that if discovering a crime having been committed or going to question a hostile witness an alert was given to the locals out of professional courtesy.
Reed didn’t have the time to issue one himself, trusting that the captain could handle the matter.
“Also, I’m not bothering with a warrant,” Reed said. “There’s probable cause aplenty already, but I just wanted you to know in case the media starts bitching again.”
“Don’t you worry about them,” Grimes said, the previous steel returning to his tone. “I’ll bother with the media when and if I need to. You just find this asshole, and fast.”
“Thanks,” Reed muttered. “And the local guys up here?”
“I’ve got you covered there, too,” Grimes said. “You need any more manpower with you?”
“No clue,” Reed said, “but having a couple of uniforms on standby just in case couldn’t hurt.”
Both sides signed off the call without farewell, Reed again feeling his heart rate spike as he exited off the freeway. Cool air streamed through the front dash but did little to sate the sweat pouring from his skin as he turned on to Rigas’s street.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
“What the hell was that?” Iaconelli asked, his face red, as he spilled out of the sedan. His shirt was untucked and his hair askew as he walked forward, wagging a finger at Reed. “I told you I’m on my last days here, so whatever cockamamie scheme you’ve got cooked up here, I want no part of it.”
Reed had expected, even anticipated the outburst, cutting him off before he really got going.
“Shut the hell up, Iaconelli. I’m not here to mess with your pension, I just needed backup and you’re the crew on call night.”
The complete dismissal of their role seemed to throw Iaconelli off, his face again swelling with rage.
“This is the home of Michael Rigas, the man that as of tonight has killed five people in The Bottoms and may be going after more. I can’t storm his house alone, so I brought you along.”
The explanation deflated some of the steam rising from Iaconelli, Bishop stepping up beside him, his pale skin flashing in the darkness.
“So there were two more back there?” Bishop asked.
“GSW’s,” Reed said, nodding. “High-powered, long-range. MO didn’t fit the previous incidents, but the victimology matches. He knew we were getting close, so he was taking preventive measures.”
“You sure he’s in there?” Bishop asking, motioning towards the house ahead.
“No,” Reed said, “in fact I’m almost certain he’s not, but I need to know where he’s headed next.”
“What makes you so sure there is a next?” Iaconelli asked.
A grim look was all Reed offered in response, the simple fact being he wasn’t sure. All he had was a feeling, an inkling, that whatever else Rigas had planned ended tonight.
Things were getting too close for him to continue indefinitely, something he was acutely aware of. If there was anything else left on his agenda now that Pryor and Knighton were dead and Brandt was in custody, it had to happen soon.
“We’ll take the back,” Reed said, going to his rear passenger door and jerking it open, Billie spilling out onto the pavement. He didn’t bother clipping her to a lead, letting her bounce on the balls of her feet, unbridled energy rolling from her in waves.
“Two minutes,” he added, turning and jogging off into the night, coming up through the neighbor’s yard and circling around the back of the house. Beside him he could sense Billie matching his movements, holding herself back from sprinting on ahead, her black body little more than a shadow.
The back of the house matched the layout of the front, the bottom level brick and the top half white siding. A carport and free standing garage were situated to the side, connected by an extra wide brick walkway.
“Slow,” Reed said, using his command tone, but keeping the volume low. Dropping into a crouch he drew his weapon and crept towards the back door, Billie just a few feet away, a low growl rolling out over her exposed teeth.
Counting off seconds in his head, Reed made it to one hundred before moving up the three brick stairs to the back door and driving the heel of his foot between the handle and the jamb. On contact the heavy wooden door swung open, splinters of wood spraying the floor, bits of sawdust hanging in the air.
“Clear,” Reed said, Billie bolting through the opening at the sound of his voice, disappearing inside.
Veins stood out on Reed’s forearms and the backs of his hands as he moved through a small mudroom and into the kitchen, everything dark and empty.
“Michael Rigas! This is the Columbus Police Department! If you are here you need to make yourself visible, approaching with your hands raised!”
On the opposite side of the house he could hear the front door breached, the sound of wood shattering, Iaconelli issuing the same warning he had just made.
Remaining in place, Reed stood and waited as the voice fell away, the only sound Billie’s nose and toenails as she moved across the hardwood floor.
Going past the kitchen, Reed entered into a dining room, the elongated wooden table and chairs appearing to have not been used in ages. Thick cobwebs connected the three bulbs of the light fixture hanging down, a bouquet of dried flowers occupying the centerpiece area.
At the far end of the room Bishop appeared in the doorway, his ghostly pallor giving him an ethereal glow in the house. “We’re going upstairs. You good?”
“Good,” Reed said, a curt nod to reinforce the response.
Just as fast Bishop disappeared from sight, a moment later the groans of the stairwell could be heard as th
ey ascended.
A droplet of sweat ran from Reed’s forehead and traveled down the bridge of his nose, hanging for a moment before falling to the floor as he stepped around the table, still feeling his pulse surge through him. Above he could hear Iaconelli and Bishop clearing rooms, around the corner Billie working her way through the house.
Standing adjacent to the dining room was a small sitting room, a couch with matching loveseat and chairs dominating the space. Along the far wall was a flat screen television and an assortment of end tables, the sum total of the furniture in the room seeming to be far too much for a space so small.
For the second time in as many minutes Reed got the impression the room had not been used in quite some time, a finger over the arm of the burgundy leather sofa revealing a film of dust.
“Clear up here,” Bishop called from upstairs, his voice sounding explosive through the desolate house. The sound of it jolted Reed’s senses as he moved through the sitting room, coming out on the opposite side, passing through an open doorway into what had once been the living room.
Reed felt the breath pulled from his chest as he stopped in the doorway, his gaze traveling over the space. Another bead of sweat made its way down his face, falling to the floor as he stood and surveyed it, watching as Billie made a loop around the room, her nose pressed to the ground.
“Clear down here,” Reed called. “You guys better come take a look at this.”
Without waiting for the sound of their approaching footsteps Reed moved into the room, following Billie’s path.
The reason the previous room had felt so cramped was that every last bit of furniture in the space had been removed, all piled into other sections of the house. In their stead was a single unencumbered area, stretching fifteen feet across and almost double that in length.
Underfoot the floor was made from white oak, the walls painted the same as the outside of the house. Combined the effect made for a light ensemble, the bit of moonlight filtering through the windows more than enough to illuminate it.
The Boat Man: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1) Page 23