by H. P. Bayne
Their last stop was The Hub which, while closed for the day in terms of programming, had remained open as a temporary emergency shelter. There, Dez and Eva found Myra Shingoose, Street Worker Exit Strategy director, lending a hand with cleaning the supper dishes.
“I haven’t seen Bulldog since he left here earlier today with a young man he was with.”
“Sullivan Gray,” Dez said. “So neither of them’s been back since?”
“No, sorry. Why? Is everything okay?”
Dez didn’t feel like offering up a placating lie and so ignored the question. “If you see either of them, can you give Eva or me a call?”
“I’ll do my best,” Myra said. “Though I’m afraid I’m going to be stuck back here a while yet. Our soup kitchen manager left shortly after Bulldog and Sullivan, and he didn’t return for the supper shift, so a few of us are working overtime here. I’m worried something might have happened to him.”
“Maybe he just didn’t bother coming back in,” Eva said. “It’s pretty crappy out there.”
“No,” Myra said. “It’s not like him. He’s one of our most reliable employees. Granted, he’s been going a little off the rails lately, but that happens to everyone around here from time to time.”
“Off the rails how?” Dez asked.
Myra stopped scrubbing a pot, swiping at a trickle of sweat on her forehead and focusing fully on her visitors. “He’s been spending a lot of time with Sparrow lately, and I think it’s likely he’s developed some strong feelings for her. Bree was working hard with her, and had managed to get her into some programming here. Sparrow was taking well to it, was giving it her all. You have to understand, the programs we offer are intensive and, for those who throw themselves in the way Sparrow did, can become a 24/7 job. Thanks to Bree, Sparrow was making some real positive changes in her life. Zane—that’s our soup kitchen manager, Zane Mazur—he found himself kind of left out in the cold with her for a while. She didn’t have time for a relationship at that stage in the programming, and he didn’t like that. But he adapted, and I think started to realize how important it was for Sparrow. Then Bree died. Sparrow spun back out into her old ways and Zane’s been running after her ever since, trying to protect her.”
“Do you think that’s what he’s doing now?” Eva asked. “Trying to protect Sparrow?”
“Maybe,” Myra said. “Probably. I don’t know. Maybe he got word about her location and went to get her. I know he’s been trying to find her. Lots of people have said he’s been asking around the past couple days, with no luck.”
Dez offered Myra what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Well, since Sully and Bulldog were looking for Sparrow, I’m hoping we’ll find Sparrow and Zane when we locate our own guys. We’ll make sure to keep you posted.”
Back in the car with nowhere else to go besides The Forks, Eva tried all the phone numbers again, maintaining their run of bad luck on the communication front as Dez navigated around flooded streets and floating debris. Trees were coming apart in the wind and leaving pieces of themselves everywhere. People’s outdoor belongings were blowing around and would likely never be reunited with the correct owner. And the power was still out, making it a challenge to see anything until you were damn near on top of it.
But it wasn’t until they hit Forks Bridge that the situation went from bad to worse. Massive search lights had been rolled out to aid in what looked to be the evacuation of The Forks, and they illuminated a steady stream of traffic flowing across the bridge into Riverview. Across the river, the glow from additional search lights was just visible, suggesting other Forks residents were fleeing the island for the North Bank district.
Two patrol cars were stationed this side of Forks Bridge, ensuring as much order as possible.
“We’re not allowing anyone else into The Forks tonight, sir,” one of the officers said, his tone suggestive of a man who’d repeated the words umpteen times.
“Clark, it’s me. Dez.”
“Oh, hey. Sorry, I’m on autopilot.” He leaned over further to see into the car. “Hi, Eva.”
Eva waved as Dez continued to stare at the mass exodus of high-end cars. “The Forks is evacuating?”
“Yeah. Just got a call about half an hour ago. Engineers at the dam say it won’t hold much longer, so they’re going to need to do a controlled release soon. The Forks is going, one way or another, so everyone’s being ordered to move to high land. There’s even parts of North Bank, Riverview and New Town that are being told to evacuate.”
“Shit,” Dez said. “Listen, I know you’ve got your orders, but I need to get into The Forks.”
“No one in, Dez. Sorry.”
“Clark, my brother could be down there. I need to find him.”
“Come on, Dez.”
“Please.”
Clark stared at Dez but finally heaved a sigh. “You go down there now, you’re taking your life in your hands. The city has said it won’t be held responsible for anyone who enters The Forks or refuses to leave. And the dam release is imminent, about an hour from now—just enough for us to get everyone and ourselves out.”
Eva’s voice sounded from beside him. “Dez.”
“No, Eva.”
“We can’t. You know we can’t. We’ve got Kayleigh to think of.”
“But if Sully’s down there—”
“That’s a big if right now, Dez. Are you going to risk your life for an if? What would I tell Kayleigh if anything happened to you? And what would I tell Sully if it turns out he isn’t down there? How do you think he’d feel if something happened to you because you were trying to find him? It would destroy him, Dez. You know it would. Look, Paul would have got the order to evacuate. Let’s stay here for a few minutes and see if he comes across. Most of his family’s properties are in New Town, right? He’s likely to go there.”
Dez stared back down at the darkness below where he knew The Forks sat, at risk of disappearing entirely beneath the flood. There was still a chance Sully was down there somewhere, but Eva was right. The chances were greater right now that Kayleigh would be down one parent if Dez went into The Forks—and for no good reason if it turned out Sully wasn’t even there. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. We’ll keep an eye out from here.”
Eva’s hand found his in the ambient glow from the search lights and the steady stream of headlights, eased white knuckles from the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, Dez. I’m so sorry.”
Dez gently squeezed her fingers but said nothing in response. His attention was focused on those cars, on the faces of their drivers just visible in the glare of the takedown lights the two police cruisers were using to help guide traffic. If he kept his attention there, Dez hoped it wouldn’t stray across the bridge, to the portion of the city lying on the edge of destruction.
Because deep down, he knew that’s exactly where Sully was.
17
Sully suspected the bus he’d caught into The Forks close to an hour ago was among the last of the night.
And, if the string of cars and the panicked rush in driveways was anything to go by, it might well have been one of the last buses down here, full stop.
The bus had gotten him across the river and partway east on Oldwater Road, but that particular route circled back before reaching the portion of The Forks where Paul Dunsmore lived. Sully ended up walking what he estimated to be a kilometre or two the rest of the way, relying on memory as he pieced together the path he and Dez had taken earlier.
He was typically skilled at navigation, and it didn’t let him down now. Through rain and the dark, he made his way through largely deserted streets and past eerily silent homes.
While his sight was limited to the ghosts of those who died violently, he knew there were many, many others he couldn’t see. He could sense them now, could feel their eyes on him, silent sentinels in this abandoned neighbourhood. They crowded him; here, on this lonely dark stretch of roadway, he had proven easy to find. A beacon, Marc Echoles had called him, someone with an aura so br
ight he’d never be able to hide from them. He picked up the pace instead, breaking into a run as he sought to put both rain and spirit behind him.
Paul Dunsmore’s house was a refuge at the end of the journey, standing silently, just visible through the gates and the driving rain as Sully pressed the button next to the speaker. As seconds ticked by without response, it occurred to him it was likely Paul had joined the mass exodus from The Forks—naturally providing yet another warning to Sully he should be doing the same.
He was stopped by the image that formed just the other side of the gate, crystallizing through the downpour. Bloodless bound hands reached out to him, purple petals peeking between fingers. Eyes, seemingly unseeing, fixed on him through strings of hair. From the shrub next to her—one of two planted just the other side of the gate—a small flock of birds broke through and flew toward the blackened sky. Sully didn’t think he needed to be an expert to conclude they had been sparrows.
“I’m not going anywhere, okay?” he told Breanna.
There was still no response on the speaker. It was possible Paul had left, of course, but it occurred to Sully it might also mean the box was affected by the power outage. Tall brick walls stood either side, wrapping around the property, and Sully took the one to the right, planting a booted foot along the edge and trying to push off to grab at the top ledge. His foot slipped and he succeeded in nothing but banging a knee.
He cursed and rubbed at the injury, but didn’t allow himself long before taking a running start at the wall and leaping at it. This time, he kicked off the wall with one foot, propelling him upward until he could grasp the top in his hands. The ledge was slippery with moisture but he managed to hold to it, fighting for purchase with his feet until he could catch a gap between the bricks with the toe of one boot. Using his arms, he pulled himself up and over, managing to land on his feet on the other side.
He sprinted toward the house and was most of the way there before a flash of lightning exposed the river, no longer high on the low-rising bank, but partway up the house. There was no way Paul was here, no way he could possibly have stayed given what Sully was seeing. He could hear the crash of waves along the west side of the building as the high river pummelled it, and the occasional crack of something more substantial washing hard into the wall. Sully had seen images on the news in other cities hit hard by flood, remembered pictures of houses forced from foundations and tossed apart like elementary school popsicle stick projects. If Paul was still here, he wasn’t merely stupid, he was suicidal. Sully would be no better if he didn’t turn tail and get the hell out of here now.
And yet, as he took another few steps forward and squinted through the rain, he could make out the image of Breanna’s pale form in the window, hands outstretched to him, one index finger beckoning him forward.
One other possibility occurred to Sully, one that had him running to the door. If Paul knew something, and he’d intended to pass it along to Sully, who was to say someone else hadn’t been made aware? What if the killer had been here, had gone after Paul? If so, the guy could be in serious trouble right now and facing a greater immediate threat than just the flood waters.
The unlocked front door confirmed Sully’s fears.
Inside, his boots creating a muddy path on the already-wet floor, Sully called out Paul’s name. While the storm was raging outside, the soundproofed walls were holding—for now—enabling him to quickly ascertain there was no response. He moved on to the other side of the house, finding the kitchen where he and Dez had visited the man yesterday. He called again but was met by only silence.
With only the lightning and the glow from Marc’s flashlight to go by, Sully contemplated the mammoth task before him. It was a big house and there was little time to search it, the river reaching near the halfway point on the sliding glass doors and—if that creaking sound he kept hearing was any indication—threatening to burst through and flood much of the entire main floor.
Breanna was standing next to him now, close enough he could sense the emotion she was unable to show in a physical way. She was afraid, the urgency rolling off her in waves that rivalled the violence of the river.
“Where?” he asked, and she disappeared only to show herself to him along the opposite wall of the kitchen. He followed until he saw her standing, staring at a closed door.
Slogging over, Sully tested the door next to her and found it unlocked. Behind it, made visible by the beam from the flashlight, lay a set of stairs leading down and into an estimated three feet of water.
“Great,” Sully muttered, his brain wandering into places he didn’t want to explore. It was just possible he would find something down there he didn’t want to see. But, up here, the intensity Breanna was emitting made Sully wonder if she wouldn’t shove him down the stairs if he didn’t start moving. He took the first few steps, gritting his teeth as he waded into the flood-made pool. He’d hoped his sodden clothes and the fact he’d spent most of the past couple of days soaked from rain or submerged in river water would prepare him, but the cold still bit into him as he waded into waist-deep water, searching for Sparrow in the darkness.
He considered calling out again, but something stopped him, the silence too stifling and strong to cut through.
And, as it happened, there was no need.
Paul’s body was floating along the nearest wall, facedown in the water.
Sully slogged toward him, splashing through the flooded basement until he could gain the other man’s side. He grunted as he strained to turn the man over, to draw his face back to the air. But it seemed any help Sully had hoped to provide would be in vain. Paul’s face, illuminated in the white light of the flashlight beam, was pale and still, his eyes open just a crack, just enough to see they were fixed yet unfocused. Sully fumbled for a pulse at the man’s throat, but his hand was shaking too badly and his fingers too numb to find the confirmation he was looking for.
Cold dread crawled over Sully as he stared down at the death-still man, wondering how he’d ended up this way. But now wasn’t the time for a fact-finding mission. Only one thing needed checked, and Sully found it as he drew up the sleeve of Paul’s sweater.
There, on the inner right arm, was a dripping, lit black candle.
“What the hell?” he muttered into the darkness, his brain turning over this latest find. The tattoo was in the right location and was etched into otherwise clean skin—identical to Marc’s and the one on the man who had killed Breanna and Gabriella. The why was another question, one for which Sully knew he might never find an answer, not with Paul dead and having taken any knowledge with him.
For now, there was only one thing left to sort out. He needed to search the house for Sparrow and get out of here before they all ended up like Paul.
Sully started to wade away from the body when a noise had him pulling up short. It was the sound of someone coughing.
It definitely hadn’t come from Paul.
Sully turned from the body and moved toward a hallway, having to shove hard against the nearest door to move it through the water. Again, he heard the cough, this time closer.
He scanned the room with with his light and felt his heart thud against his chest wall as he caught the image of Bulldog sitting slumped in a high-backed chair, water already up to his chest.
Sloshing over, Sully grasped the older man’s face in his free hand.
“Bulldog?” he asked, his voice starting to exhibit the same chilled shakes as the rest of him. “Can you hear me? Talk to me, man.”
Bulldog’s eyes fluttered open, and Sully angled the flashlight to allow the other man to identify his rescuer. His voice, when it came, was sluggish. “Sully?”
Sully huffed out a relieved breath. “Yeah, man. It’s me. We need to get out of here.”
“Gonna be hard.”
“Why?”
“Think I’m tied to a chair.”
Sully reached below the water’s surface and found one of Bulldog’s hands. Feeling further, he came to a
wrist and a thin, smooth band circling it. Zip ties.
Praying his pocketknife hadn’t shaken or washed free since he’d left Marc’s earlier, Sully felt around in the hoodie pocket next to the plastic bag containing his phone. When his fingers settled over the knife casing, he let loose a short bark of laughter.
“Yeah, good job, kid,” Bulldog said, voice sounding clearer than it had moments ago. “Now cut me loose so we can find Sparrow and get the hell out of here.”
Sully located the knife blade and pulled it free after three tries with frozen fingers. “Paul’s dead. Did you get a look at the guy who attacked you?”
“No. I assumed it was Paul. You sure he’s dead?”
Sully tucked the flashlight under his arm as he went to work on the ties around Bulldog’s wrists, struggling to stifle the cold-induced tremble in his hands. “He was floating facedown in the water. He looked pretty dead to me.”
“How’d that happen?”
“No idea, man. I didn’t have time for an autopsy.”
“So if he’s dead, who the hell hit me then?”
“I don’t know. What are you doing here anyway?”
“Zane Mazur. You met him at the Hub.”
“The kitchen manager? Yeah, I met him.”
“He told me he saw Bree having a heated talk with Paul shortly before she was murdered, didn’t know about what. But it got me thinking maybe Paul knew more than he was saying. Then Zane told me Paul took Sparrow—that someone saw him and a couple goons grabbing her a couple days ago. Zane and me, we came here to find her and to get her out. We took the bus out here and we were buzzed through the gate. Weird thing was, the front door was unlocked, and there was no sign of Paul. We just walked in and started looking.”
Sully succeeded in slicing through the first of the zip ties and started on the second. “Where’s Zane now?”
“No idea. Maybe the same person who clobbered me got him, too. Coulda been Paul, I guess.”