Death Notes Omnibus

by James Hunt

  But she’d given herself a chance with the location. The neighborhood was worn down, with hundreds of abandoned houses with too many exits to cover for the number of agents Hemsworth would have on hand. When the shit hit the fan, she’d have plenty of options to make a run for it, and then all that was left was to wait for the killer to meet up with her.

  Tired groans muffled by the duct tape on McKaffee’s mouth begged for attention, and Cooper set the map on the bed and entered the makeshift jail cell that was the bathroom. When she entered, McKaffee motioned with this head to the toilet, and Cooper reached for the keys to the handcuffs. “I swear you have a bladder the size of a pea.”

  Once McKaffee had relieved himself, Cooper returned her attention to the map, marking the different escape routes and which roads she knew would allow her the quickest getaway. Once she’d memorized her options Cooper dropped the marker and rubbed her eyes.

  When her vision cleared, Cooper glanced down at her pant leg and noticed the dried blood spatter from the final shot that killed Hall. She stared at it for a moment. It was the symbol of her freedom and the chains that bound her to a fate she couldn’t escape.

  With the strategy mapped out, all that was left now was the execution. Cooper moved from the chair and table to the bed, feeling the weight of the day sink her into the mattress and the sandpaper-like blankets that covered it. She closed her eyes, hoping to catch a few moments of rest, but was denied the reprieve.

  Restless, she shifted to the edge of the bed, her shoes planted firmly on the floor. She ran her fingers back through her hair, feeling the grime and filth that had been collected. She’d wanted to shower, but she didn’t trust McKaffee in such a small space as the bathroom, and she didn’t want to risk moving him again.

  The quiet of the motel was deafening, and Cooper felt the stir of restlessness. She paced the floor quickly, back and forth on the narrow strip of carpet that ran from the door to the bathroom, trying to dispel the nervous energy, but couldn’t rid herself of it no matter how much she walked.

  Cooper looked back to the phone, fighting the urge to call, fighting the weakness that plagued her veins. If Beth was still alive, I could talk to her. But if Beth was alive, then she wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.

  All of her twenty-one-year career had been dedicated toward the mission of enforcing justice in a world that was built around the law. She’d done everything by the book. She’d followed the code of law enforcement to the extreme, and never once did she sacrifice the law for what would have been easy, or what she wanted. Cooper glanced at the revolver on the desk, along with the maps and the ammunition and the weapons she’d confiscated from Quentin’s men. She knew that she was no longer seeking justice. She was only seeking to slake her thirst for revenge. But where does it end?

  The small red light on the old phone blinked in time with its ringing, and Cooper stared at it, not picking it up until after the third ring.

  “You have a message for you at the front desk,” the clerk said.

  Cooper slammed the phone down without answering and sprinted out of the room and down the walkway to the staircase, quickly descending the steps. Her eyes scanned the horizon, the traffic, looking for the pair of beady eyes that she knew was close. There wasn’t anyone else that would have been able to find her, and there wasn’t anyone else that would have left a note.

  Cooper flung open the front doors to the small motel lobby that wouldn’t have passed any kind of inspection and found the old woman who had checked her in watching television with her feet propped up on the desk, not even noticing Cooper’s entrance. “Where is it?”

  The woman lifted a piece of paper between her fingers and extended it to Cooper without ever taking her eyes off the television screen. The note was folded several times, but even through the thick padding, Cooper saw the familiar red crayon.

  Dear Detective,

  You’re nearing the end now. And because you’re so close I thought it would be beneficial to reflect on your past. All of the moments that made you who you were, the memories that constructed you into the person you’ve become, the person I’ve grown to admire.

  So come with me and let me tell your story through my eyes. When you’re finished with Quentin Farnes go to 576 Westworth Way. It’s time to take a trip down memory lane.

  See you soon.

  Cooper remained frozen, staring at the note clutched tight between her fingers as the sounds of the soap opera on the television filled the lobby. She reread the address on the note a few more times, making sure it was what she thought it would be. There were a lot of different ways he could have learned about that address, but there was only one that made sense. Beth told him. She crumpled the paper in her hands at the thought of that madman forcing her sister to talk, making her tell him stories. Keeping the paper in her hands, she returned to her room and packed up everything she needed, knowing that she wouldn’t return.

  Once the supplies had been gathered, she stepped into the bathroom. McKaffee was covered in sweat, and his eyes were only half open. No doubt he was exhausted, hungry, and dehydrated. Cooper knelt and ripped the tape off his mouth. He shuddered but made no noise.

  “Just do it already,” McKaffee said, his face covered in tears that were just as pathetic as his request. “I’m already a dead man. It’s only a matter of time before Quentin finds out who gave up the locations.” Snot ran from his nose as the self-pity continued. “Just fucking kill me.”

  Cooper removed the blade from its sheath at her belt and held the tip under McKaffee’s chin. She could do it. It was no different than pulling the trigger in the alleyway. She applied the slightest pressure, drawing blood, but stopped. “I’m not going to kill you. That would make it too easy for you.” She grabbed hold of his wrists, lowered the knife, then reached for the handcuff keys.

  Once free, McKaffee remained on the floor, rubbing the bruises left behind from his restraints. He looked up at her, the crocodile tears still flowing from his eyes. “W-what are you going to do to me?”

  Cooper wiped the blood-stained tip of the knife with the towel, smearing the red blotch onto the dirty white of the cloth. “You’re going to live. And if you want any chance at trying to get a pardon for the things you’ve done after Quentin is behind bars, then I suggest you tell the authorities everything that happened.”

  The fat along McKaffee’s neck wiggled, and he scrunched his face in disbelief, the tears following the lines twisted along his cheeks. “You want me to tell them what you did?”

  “All of it.” Cooper sheathed the knife and adjusted the strap of the bag on her shoulder. “Tell them what I did. It’ll only help the case against Quentin. And if you need more incentive, then know that it’ll save your skin too. I forced you into taking me to those locations. I beat you. I tied you up. Tell them the truth, McKaffee. Let the law protect you.”

  Cooper left McKaffee alone and crying on the floor of the bathroom. He might listen to her, or he might not. It made no difference in the end. The real evidence rested on her shoulders and making sure the FBI saw her and Quentin together. Then, when the bullets started flying, it wouldn’t matter how many lawyers the bastard had. He wouldn’t be able to fend off the resources of the federal government. But she knew that once she headed down that road there was no redemption, no second chance for her to tell her side of the story. But she knew someone who might be able to help her voice be heard.

  Chapter 9

  With McKaffee’s vehicle no doubt being sought by the authorities, Cooper used the buses to get around. It was easy to blend in; all she had to do was keep her head down, don the ear buds that ran into her jacket and connected to no phone or music, and rest her head against the window.

  From the windows of public transportation, Cooper watched the people in the cars that passed. Some looked angry, others sad, some tired, but all of them shared the same theme of being absorbed in their little worlds.

  Cooper looked at the backs of the heads she saw on th
e bus, each of them sharing the same vanity as the rest. It was almost laughable. Her face had been plastered on every television screen and newspaper in the city, and even with all of that, she could still get lost in the shuffle of the crowd.

  The brakes squealed to a stop, and Cooper stepped off the bus and looked up to the massive Channel 4 News logo plastered at the top of the twelve-story building. She pulled her ball cap lower, making sure her hair was tucked neatly into the back of the hat, and flipped the collar of her shirt up. She circled the building’s perimeter, ignoring most of the faces that came in and out of the area, focused on finding only one in particular.

  “All right, Stacy, I’ll see you tomorrow!” Janet Kimmings waved to one of her coworkers, her high heels clacking against the pavement as she walked steadily toward the row of news vans parked in the back. Cooper tailed her for a few blocks, searching for a moment where there wasn’t a crowd.

  Finally, the reporter stopped outside a closed flower shop to check her phone, and with her back to Cooper, it was the perfect moment. Cooper crept up behind her and slowly reached for the revolver, concealing it under the long sleeves of her shirt, and pressed it against Kimmings’s back. “Don’t scream. Don’t call attention to yourself. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

  Kimmings froze, the only evidence of her fear the light tremble of the back of her neck. “I don’t suppose this will be on the record?”

  Cooper removed the pistol from the reporter’s back and spun her around. “I’d get out your tape recorder, Mrs. Kimmings.”

  Kimmings’s face transformed from fear to shock. “Detective Cooper?” She whipped her head from side to side then pulled Cooper by the arm until they were under the flower shop’s awning. “What the hell did you do? We’ve been covering your story nonstop for the past twenty-four hours. I can’t—” She lowered her head, taking a breath. “If you go on the record, then whatever you tell me will be used at your trial. It’ll all be fair game. And I’ll want to know everything.”

  “I know.” Cooper had weighed the options, but in the end only one thing mattered. “I want to make sure my version survives. No matter what. But once you tell this story, there’ll be just as many people coming after you, and with a lot worse than this.” She gestured to the pistol under her long sleeve then tucked it away.

  Kimmings wiped the sweaty bangs from her forehead. She squeezed her eyes shut, her face pained as if her hand were holding in a pressure meant to explode from the top of her head. “Look, give me some time, and I’ll—”

  “No. It has to be now.”

  “All right.” Kimmings looked back down the street toward the news station. “Let me run and get a few things and then we’ll—” A couple approached from down the street, and Cooper turned her face toward the building until they were past. Kimmings lowered her voice even though they were out of earshot. “I’ll get a few things from the van. Camera, sound gear. It’ll take me less than twenty minutes.” She reached into her pocket and retrieved a pen and paper. “This place is close, and it’s secluded. I’ve used it before.” She ripped the paper from the notepad and balled it into Cooper’s palm. “When you get there, tell the bartender that you have a date with me. He’ll know what that means.”

  “No, I don’t want anyone else involved in this.”

  “I can’t do it any other way, Detective!” Frustration reddened Kimmings’s cheeks, and she gripped Cooper by the shoulders. “Just trust me, all right?”

  “Make it fast.”

  And with that Kimmings hurried back to the station, doing her best to stay casual and not sprint through the crowds and draw attention. Cooper unwrinkled the balled-up paper and examined the address written on it. The name of the bar was Paper Cups, and when Cooper arrived, she understood why Kimmings had chosen it.

  Aside from the heavy smell of smoke that greeted Cooper when she opened the door, the place was empty except for a middle-aged barkeep wiping down glasses. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, even after she sat down. She drummed her fingers on the counter, and only after he was done with the set of glasses did he come over.

  “What are you having?”

  Cooper eyed the bottle of whiskey on the shelf behind the bartender then glanced around at the empty establishment. “Jack on the rocks. Make it a double.”

  Wordlessly the barkeep reached for the bottle and glass. Ice cubes clanked against one another, and the whiskey splashed over the frozen rocks, some of it spilling over the brim. He set the drink down in front of Cooper and tossed the towel on his wrist over his shoulder. “You want to start a tab?”

  Cooper reached into her pocket and pulled out the last twenty bucks she had left from McKaffee’s wallet. “Whatever this will get me.” She lifted the glass to her lips and drained the first round quickly, the whiskey burning all the way down but offering its sweet escape from the reality she was stuck in.

  The barkeep was quick to refill the glass, and Cooper savored the second round, bathing her tongue in the liquid before letting it wash down her gullet. Her fingers grew cold and wet from the condensation, and she cooled her forehead with her hand.

  “Must have been some night.”

  Cooper looked over to the barkeep, who had shifted to a new case of glasses to wipe down. He kept his eyes on his work, and at first Cooper thought she’d only imagined him speaking. “What?”

  “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.” The barkeep finished the glass then picked up another, methodically emptying the crate. “So it must have been a hell of a night.”

  “Hell of a week.” Cooper lifted the glass to her lips again, tilting the drink back until the ice smacked her upper lip. She shook the empty cup, the ice jingling, but the bartender just pointed to the bottle that was already near

  The bartender squinted at her as she set the bottle back down. “Say, don’t I know you?”

  Cooper lifted the glass, feeling the liquid courage and heightened sense of apathy the liquor provided. “Probably.”

  The door opened and flooded the dimly lit bar with sunlight as two men stepped inside, both covered in dust and clothed in construction attire. “Damn, I need a drink! Hey, Ronnie! Two beers!” Both men took their seats at the end of the bar, and Cooper lowered her ball cap and turned away, but it was too late. “Hey, baby, you drinking alone?”

  “Yeah,” Cooper said, keeping her voice cold and her head down. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

  The man’s friend whistled, slapping his buddy on the shoulder. “Looks like she ain’t buying, Hank.”

  Hank shrugged his friend’s hand off. “Well, that’s because she doesn’t know what I’m sellin’ yet.” He slid off the barstool, beer in hand, and found a seat right next to Cooper. He extended a dirty palm and tried leaning his head closer to get a better look at her face. “I’m Hank.”

  “And I’m not interested.” Cooper backed off the barstool with drink still in hand, but the man grabbed her arm.

  “Hey, baby, what’s the hurry?”

  The moment Hank’s fingers curled around her arm, she turned, prepared to smash the glass of whiskey across his face, but the harsh bark of the bartender stopped both of them from going any further.

  “That’s enough, Hank!” The bartender stormed across the bar and pulled him back to his seat, handling him roughly. “The woman doesn’t want to be bothered, and it’s too early for me to be dealing with this shit, so knock it off!”

  Bewildered, Hank sat down, squinting at Cooper in the dim lighting. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

  The door opened once more, and Janet Kimmings burst inside with her gear and a cameraman in tow. The bartender looked to Cooper and then to Kimmings, making the connection nearly immediately. “I didn’t realize you had a date today.”

  Kimmings sped past the two construction workers and headed toward the back. “Yeah, it was last minute.” She jerked her head and motioned for Cooper to follow. “I thought I told you to—”

  “Well it’
s too late now.” Cooper drained the glass and slid it onto the bar as she stepped into Kimmings’s wake. “And what I have to tell you won’t take long.”

  Without questions or even speaking, both Kimmings and the cameraman set up their gear in the small back room, barely large enough to fit all three of them inside. Kimmings ran the mic through Cooper’s shirt and pulled the ball cap from her head and examined her face. “You look like shit.”

  “Just make sure it’s recording.” Cooper adjusted herself on the chair and faced the camera, the operator counting her down from three, two, one…

  ***

  The red light on the camera blinked off, and Kimmings exhaled, giving a nod. “All right. I think we’re good. Tommy, we have everything?”

  “Yeah. Footage and sound were solid.”

  Cooper unclipped the mic, the rush of the whiskey gone and replaced with a light pounding in her head. She reached for the ball cap and tucked the tangled mess that was her hair back underneath. “Listen, something’s going to happen tonight.” She looked at Kimmings, who’d frozen at her words. “And after it goes down, things are going to happen fast for me.” She pointed to the camera. “No matter what happens, you make sure that goes out.”

  Kimmings nodded. “I promise.”

  The door to the small room opened violently, and the barkeep burst inside. “You need to get out of here now.” Cooper peered over the barkeep’s shoulder and saw that both construction workers had disappeared.

  But before Cooper even had a chance to think, Kimmings grabbed her by the arm. “Go out the back door and look for our van.” She shoved the keys into her palm. “It’s got a full tank of gas and should get you to wherever you need to go.”

  The bar’s front door opened and light crept inside, revealing the silhouettes of two officers, followed closely by the construction workers. Kimmings shoved Cooper out the back door. “Go!”