The Widening Gyre

by Chuck Grossart

  “I should shoot you right now, you stupid bitch,” he grumbled. “Why did you have to do that? Why?”

  He was upset, frantic. Peyton was afraid he was talking about her, but he wasn’t standing very close. She opened one eye, just barely, and could see him near the open barn door, standing over . . . it was a body. Oh my God, it’s Justine. It has to be.

  “Shit,” he continued. “Now the cops are gonna come. What the hell am I supposed to do about that, huh?” He was looking up at the ceiling. “What do I do now?”

  Cops. Justine had called the police? Peyton felt a sliver of hope.

  *

  “Fuller’s farm? Where the hell is Fuller’s farm?” Taggart asked. Jack had just filled him in on the 911 call received from Peyton’s aunt Justine.

  “It’s about thirty minutes north-northeast of Twin Creek. I’ll shoot you the directions. Dodge County has been notified, and they’re responding. The FBI in Omaha are, too, but it’ll take some time for them to get there.”

  Taggart’s phone beeped as Mauger’s email came in. “Okay, got it.”

  “You think Regan did this?” Mauger asked.

  “Maybe the kid snapped, Jack. I don’t know. But it doesn’t explain how he knew where to find Peyton.”

  “Bannock, maybe?”

  “If so, why would he want to hurt her? And if not Regan, then who?”

  “Like we’ve both said more times than I’d like to count, none of this makes sense.”

  “No shit. I’m on my way to the farm. I’ll call you when I get there.” Taggart tossed his phone on the passenger seat and sped toward Fuller’s farm.

  *

  Vic paced nervously, pistol in hand, watching the road through cracks in the barn’s wall. There was a front and rear entrance, but the rear doors were blocked by an old, rusted tractor. The cops wouldn’t be able to get in through the back.

  Why wasn’t the boy here yet? If he’d show up before the police did, Vic could perform the duty he’d been assigned—kill both him and the girl—and try to escape with the boy’s car.

  His hope faded with the first siren.

  “God dammit!” he screamed. His eyes darted around the barn’s interior, looking for a place to hide, a place where he could conceal himself, maybe buy some time to escape.

  It wasn’t going to happen that way, though. He was stuck here with the girl and the woman, both of whom he’d beaten, so badly in the aunt’s case he wasn’t sure if she was still alive.

  He pressed his face up against a crack and saw a set of patrol car headlights screaming up the farm’s access road, siren wailing and lights flashing.

  So this was how it was going to end. All the years of running, surviving, staying just out of reach of the authorities, would end here in a stinking barn in friggin’ Nebraska.

  They’d take him to prison, make him stand trial. Put him on death row.

  “Where are you!” Vic screamed. “I did what you asked!”

  He really didn’t expect an answer . . . and didn’t get one.

  Vic Davol was on his own.

  All the importance he’d felt after meeting his Master in Lincoln meant nothing now. He’d been abandoned.

  “Dodge County Sheriff! Come out of the building with your hands up!”

  Through the crack, Vic saw the first cop had parked his car diagonally in front of the barn, and was crouched behind it, a megaphone in one hand and a pistol in the other.

  Vic could hear more sirens, still distant, but getting closer.

  “I’ve got two hostages!” Vic yelled. “Come any closer and I’ll kill both of them!” This was how Vic Davol’s final act would play out . . . he would watch more cops arrive and surround the barn. They would try to negotiate with him, convince him to release his hostages, and he would hold them off with threats as long as he could.

  But they would come for him. Eventually. They had to.

  It would end hours from now, or maybe in a day or two, depending on how long they would be willing to wait, but in the end Vic knew he would either be in custody, or dead.

  It was up to him.

  This would last only as long as he wanted it to.

  He could throw open the barn door right now, walk outside into flashing red and blue lights, and go out in a blaze of glory. He might even be able to take a couple of the bastards with him if he was lucky.

  Or he could live.

  Throw his gun down right now, and walk outside with his hands up.

  Death row awaited him, but at least there was hope. Maybe a good lawyer could get him off on some sort of insanity plea . . . and why not? As soon as he told them what he’d experienced in the apartment in Lincoln, they’d have to think he was crazy.

  Maybe they would be right, too.

  Vic turned away from the crack, and looked around at the pitch-black interior of the barn, illuminated by pinpoints of moonlight. His eyes had long ago adjusted to the dark, and he could see that the girl, Peyton, wasn’t moving, but he could tell she was still breathing. The other woman, Justine, was still. So still. Maybe he’d added another murder to his résumé.

  And for what? To die in some rotted barn in the middle of nowhere?

  Maybe he’d imagined it, every bit. The demon hadn’t been in his apartment after all. The whole thing was a figment of his imagination.

  But it had seemed so real . . .

  Vic peeked through the crack again and saw there were three more cars out there now, all of the cops pointing their guns at him. Two of them had rifles.

  But there was another car coming up the road. No lights.

  Vic watched as it stopped behind the cruisers, and a boy hopped out.

  It was him.

  The kid he’d been waiting for—Zach—was finally here.

  Vic smiled. He hadn’t imagined everything. And with the boy here, he had a duty to perform. Maybe he still had a chance to get out of this with his soul intact.

  Behind him, perched in the darkness in the barn’s rafters, was a large black bird, its tiny eyes watching closely.

  Vic wasn’t alone after all.

  52

  Zach stopped at the bottom of the access road when he saw the flashing lights. He could see the barn at the top of the hill, lit by the police car headlights, the place where the man had instructed him to go.

  Peyton was up there.

  More cruisers were heading up the main road to the farm, and Zach gunned his car and sped up the gravel access road. As he crested the hill, he was shocked to see how many cars—and men—were ringing the barn. They all had guns drawn, pistols and rifles, all pointing at the structure at the center of their circle. He pulled in behind a car with “Dodge County Sheriff” on the door, and hopped out. “Peyton!” He ran toward the barn but was stopped by one of the cops.

  “Hold it! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Zach tried to wrench his arm away, but the man’s grip was too strong. “She’s in there. I have to get to her!”

  “Calm down!” He pulled Zach away from the wall of police cruisers. “And keep your head down.” He shoved Zach to the ground behind his own car. “Do you want to get yourself killed?”

  “You don’t understand,” Zach said. “A girl named Peyton Sayre is in there. The man who took her told me to come to this place! I have to let him know I’m here or he’s going to kill her!”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Yes, he called me, gave me directions to this place, and made me destroy my phone.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Zach Regan.”

  “Okay, Zach, you’re going to sit right here while I—”

  “I’ve got this, Officer.”

  Zach looked up to see a man standing over him, a badge in his hand.

  “Jim Taggart, Omaha PD.”

  The deputy shined his flashlight at the badge, then relaxed a little. “Omaha? What the hell are you doing all the way out here, Detective?”

  “Chasing this little bastard.
”

  “What does he have to do with this?” the deputy asked.

  “Maybe everything,” Taggart replied. “One or two inside?”

  “He says he has two hostages, but we haven’t been able to verify.”

  So, Peyton was here, and there was still a chance. “Zach, we need to talk. Right now.”

  *

  Taggart put Zach in his passenger seat, left the door open, and crouched down beside him. He’d heard what Regan told the deputy. “Start talking. Why did you come here?”

  “I have to see Peyton Sayre.”

  “Why?”

  Zach was silent, and wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

  “Look, Zach, she’s being held captive in there right now, probably injured. So is her aunt. If you want to help them, if you want these men to save Peyton, look me in the goddamn eyes and tell me what’s going on.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  Zach turned to him. “I’ve seen things, Detective. Heard things.” And he told.

  *

  Vic watched one of the deputies drag Zach away and shove him to the ground.

  He walked over to Justine and knelt down, felt for a pulse. She was alive. “You might just be my ticket out of here, lady,” he said. Vic grabbed her feet and dragged her toward the barn front, placing her directly by the door. “Now, I need you to wake up.” He shook her. Again. And again. He slapped her face. “Wake the hell up, Justine. Come on, open your eyes.” He slapped her again.

  She moaned, and her eyelids fluttered.

  Vic leaned closer. “Justine, you need to open your eyes. If you don’t, I’m going to kill your niece. Peyton. I’m going to kill Peyton if you don’t open your eyes right now.”

  Justine began to move, first her arms and legs, then her head. “No . . .”

  “I can’t hear you, Justine!” Vic screamed. “Wake up or she’s dead! I’ll kill her, I swear it! Wake up, Justine!”

  Her eyes opened, and Vic smiled.

  “That’s my girl. Now, listen closely. This is what we’re going to do, okay?”

  *

  Taggart watched as the county Emergency Response Unit descended on the scene, a group of officers dressed in black combat gear and trained for just this type of situation. The leader ordered his snipers to take position, and strode toward the deputy holding the megaphone. Taggart knew this man would be the lead negotiator, and would take command of the situation, at least until the FBI arrived from Omaha. And he didn’t waste any time.

  “This is Lieutenant Reed of the Dodge County Sheriff’s Office. Who am I speaking with?”

  Everyone stared at the barn door, illuminated by portable spotlights, waiting for whomever was in there to respond. The seconds ticked by . . . and Taggart couldn’t help but notice how quiet it was. The tension in the air was thick enough to slice. There were at least thirty armed officers ringing the barn, their weapons trained on the door. Waiting for motion. For orders.

  And there would be more coming.

  Taggart had never been a hostage negotiator before, but he’d been involved in a few similar situations in his career. Time was a precious commodity, especially when there were injured hostages and the severity of their injuries was unknown. They could be bleeding to death in there right now, but the police couldn’t just rush the door. The negotiator had to step through his negotiation process, build trust, try to defuse the situation as quickly as he could. Lieutenant Reed’s goal was to save lives, both those of the hostages and his officers. The perfect endgame would be for the hostage taker to walk out that door with his hands in the air. Taggart had seen it happen like that before, but he’d also seen it go bad.

  Snipers were in position, watching for motion through their rifle scopes. There were other officers at the sides and rear of the building, prepared to break through and take down the hostage taker.

  Time, as precious as it was, had to pass. It was frustrating, but that’s the way it was done. By the book.

  “We understand you have two women in there with you,” the lieutenant said through the megaphone, his voice unnaturally loud in what was usually a quiet, serene setting. “We’d like to know if they’re okay.”

  Again, they all waited for a response.

  Nothing.

  Taggart felt Zach touch his shoulder, and turned his head toward him.

  “What are they going to do? Just leave her in there?” he whispered.

  “They’re trying to get him to talk, Zach. None of this works unless they can get him to respond.”

  “She’s hurt,” Zach said. “Both of them. We can’t just stand here and wait.”

  “We have to let these guys do their job, okay? If they move too fast, both Peyton and Justine could get killed.”

  “It’s me he wants,” Zach said.

  “Do you know why?”

  Zach shook his head. “All he told me was that I had to come here, or he would kill Peyton.”

  “Do you have any idea who he is?”

  “No, but . . . he knew I was on my way here. Nobody knew that except my parents. Nobody.”

  Taggart had listened to Zach’s entire story. This was the same kid who had stalked, then brutally murdered Rakel Anders; at least that’s what he had initially believed. But there was more to it, so much more. Zach and Peyton were connected. Taggart’s gut was speaking to him again, telling him this was much bigger than any of them.

  Peyton needed to be saved. And so did Zach.

  “If the two women need medical attention, we can provide it,” the lieutenant said. “If you’re hurt, we can help you, too.”

  This time he got a response.

  Slowly, the barn door opened. Everyone tensed, awaiting orders. Taggart watched the lieutenant lower the megaphone and speak into a small microphone at his collar. He was giving orders to hold fire, because the person standing in the entrance was a woman, bloodied and bruised, swaying on her feet. There were strips of duct tape hanging from her ankles. A hand holding a pistol extended from the edge of the barn door to her left, just inches from her head.

  The woman wasn’t Peyton.

  “I want the boy, or this woman dies,” said the man holding the gun to Justine’s head, his body hidden just out of view. “Bring me Zach Regan.”

  The gunman was hidden behind the barn wall just beside the door. The snipers could shoot through the wood and kill him, but he might reflexively pull his trigger.

  Before the lieutenant could respond, Justine looked to her left, as if she was listening. Then, she spoke.

  “Peyton is alive.”

  Her voice was tired, weak.

  The gunman quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, then closed the barn door. His voice came through the cracks in the wood. “You have thirty seconds!”

  And that’s when Zach moved.

  Taggart grabbed for him, but missed. “Dammit, Zach, no!”

  Zach ran past the line of police cruisers and out into the open, skidding to a stop about ten feet from the barn door.

  “Check fire! Check fire!” the lieutenant ordered.

  Zach took a couple of steps forward, holding his hands out to his sides, palms open, to show he was unarmed. “I’m right here!” he yelled. “I’m Zach Regan. I’m the one you want. Now let them both go.”

  53

  Vic threw Justine to the ground and moved away from the door.

  She started to crawl away, and Vic kicked her in the ribs. “Where do you think you’re going, huh?” He kicked her again, and again. Justine curled into a fetal position, her hands trying to protect her face.

  “Please, I did what you asked,” she said, her voice cracking with pain and exhaustion. “Let Peyton go.”

  “And you did it so well,” Vic said. He placed his pistol against her temple. “It’s almost over for you. The pain will be gone soon. And for your niece, too.”

  Then he heard commotion outside. He wheeled toward the door and heard someone yell, “Check
fire! Check fire!” Vic scrambled on his hands and knees toward the wall, and peeked through a crack. He smiled when he saw the boy standing just feet away, backlit by the sheriff cars’ headlights.

  “I’m right here!” he yelled. “I’m Zach Regan. I’m the one you want. Now let them both go.”

  Vic turned back toward Justine. “See? I told you it would be over soon.” He stood and walked over to her. “It’s time for you to go now, Justine.” He grabbed her by the hair, pulled her up. She slapped at his arms but was too weak to break his grip. “Don’t fight me,” Vic said, giving her hair a hard jerk. “Now stand up.” He let loose of her hair and grabbed her shoulders as she slumped over. He picked her up and held her body against his chest, her feet barely touching the ground, his left arm circling her neck. He brought the gun up and tucked the muzzle below her jaw. “There now,” he breathed. “Now we’re gonna walk to the door, and I’m going to let you go.”

  “Let Peyton go,” Justine said.

  “Not a chance, sweetie,” Vic said. “She’s not going anywhere.”

  Then he heard her voice again, the same voice he’d imagined hearing in the Jeep.

  “You aren’t going to get out of here alive.”

  Vic turned quickly, dragging Justine with him.

  Peyton was sitting up again, her eyes bright even in the darkness. Staring right at him.

  “Peyton,” Justine said.

  No, it can’t be. If Justine was seeing this, then Vic wasn’t imagining it. It was real now, and it was real in the Jeep, too.

  “He’s here with you right now, did you know that?” Peyton said.

  Vic knew whom she was referring to. “Stop talking, you bitch.”

  “He’s watching you,” she said, shifting her glance to the rafters.

  Vic followed her eyes, and saw it, perched high above and bathed in the moonlight, its beady eyes locked on his. The large raven ruffled its wings and let out a high-pitched shriek. Vic knew exactly what—or who—he was looking at. His Master was here.

  “He’s not pleased, Vic,” Peyton said. “You’re not going to get Zach, and he’s so very, very angry with you.”

  “Zach is right out there,” Vic spat back. “He’s going to trade himself for this bag of shit, and then you’re both going to die.”