by J. R. Rain
“Clear,” yells a man from up ahead.
“Suspect neutralized,” says Campo.
I lower my weapon arm and keep staggering forward, trying to run.
The semi-trailer ends against another buried bus, lined up with a side door. I stagger forward, entering the second bus, and run into a pack of SWAT guys, all in gas masks. Two of them catch me and hold me upright. On the floor in front of them is an unmoving Roy. Yeah, he’s been neutralized all right, the sick bastard.
“Run!” I wheeze, barely any voice in my breath.
“Detective?” asks the guy holding my left arm.
“Poison… gas!”
“Shit! Come on, we need to get you out of here,” says the officer supporting my left arm.
“We all”―I choke, gag, and spit a glop of snot to the side―“Get out. Run! Gas!”
The SWAT guys start dragging me along. One of them pulls my sidearm out of my grip and stuffs it in my holster before taking my hand.
“You need fresh air immediately,” says a young-sounding man on my left.
“No shit.” I turn my head and cough up more snot. “Place is rigged,” I gasp. “Everyone out now!”
My body is not happy with me. Speaking sets off a hard choking fit that would’ve sent me to my knees if not for the two guys holding me by the arms. A ripple of bangs, like a machinegun firing a short burst, goes off somewhere deeper in the buried compound. Yeah, the place is rigged all right. Multiple bombs.
“Evac!” roars Campo.
A series of buried buses and truck trailers fly by in a blur. The guys drag me around a left corner, hustle down a length of bus packed with footlockers and other boxes, pull another left, and haul me into a basement with cinder block walls. Someone slams a heavy, square metal door behind us. A thunderous explosion goes off opposite the metal door.
“Holy shit!” says one of the guys holding me up. Dust sifts down from above.
Within seconds of us entering the basement, a tiny bzzt emanates from behind us, and a big, square metal door swings away from the wall and slams over the passage into the tunnel compound with a clang so loud, we all cringe. I stare at it, certain that Roy intended that entire underground maze as a giant mousetrap with poison gas. Thank the Goddess the door malfunctioned.
“Damn…” One of the swat guys not holding my arm picks at the plate. “This thing almost trapped us inside. It’s half an inch thick.”
I let out a bleary chuckle. “You guys have a good luck charm.”
The SWAT officers escort me across a basement packed with shelves of plastic bottles, canisters, and cardboard boxes. A rickety stairway leads up to a trapdoor in the middle of a hallway. From there, they guide me down a hall and across a living room to the front door and beautiful, fresh air.
As soon as I’m off the porch, Rick rushes over and grabs me.
“Oh my God, Wims… I was so worried.”
“So was I.”
Rick grabs my face and pulls my eyes open with his thumbs. “You need to get checked out.”
“I’m fine,” I say, despite not quite knowing if I’m able to stand on my own power at the moment. “I just need some damn air.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Out of a Job
Tuesday Early Evening – July 25, 2017
So, yeah, that happened.
Now, I’m sitting on the rear bumper of the second ambulance we’ve called to the scene, wearing an oxygen mask over my face. I’ve overheard enough to get that Harold Allen Roy is deceased, and presently still lying on the ground in a toxic environment. Apparently, he came down with a severe case of lead poisoning in the 5.56mm variety.
No one has tried to open the steel door that slammed over the entrance. I’m not entirely sure why it closed after we got out, as it seemed designed otherwise. Either the trigger mechanism malfunctioned, or a protective ward just saved my ass, and multiple other asses. That whole SWAT unit could’ve wound up trapped down there breathing doom. I’m not sure if their gas masks would’ve been enough in such a confined space, but maybe I’m overreacting. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced this guy planned it that way―death before prison and take as many cops as possible with him.
An EMT named Carter gives my eyes a rinse, which is simultaneously freaking me out at the same time that it feels awesome. While he’s pouring water over my eyeballs, he tells me how concerned he is that I spent a while trapped in an enclosed area with chlorine gas.
“We should really transport you back so you can get examined by a doc,” says Carter.
“I held my breath.”
Carter stops pouring to look me over. Evidently satisfied, he gestures for me to sit up straight. “It’s your call, but if you have eye/nose/throat irritation, you need to get straight to the hospital since you could suffer respiratory failure.”
“Is that serious?” I ask.
“It could bring on a mild case of death,” says Carter.
Rick frowns. “Maddy… you’re lucky, but don’t be stupid. Go on.”
“Fine… Fine.” I drag myself up into the ambulance and flop on the stretcher. “Call Caius for me?” I ask Rick. “My throat kills.”
“You got it, kiddo. And I’ll be right behind you.”
“Kiddo?”
“Seemed the thing to say.”
“Brother.” Rick pats me on the hand, hops out of the ambulance, and shuts the doors.
***
Tuesday Night – July 25, 2017
“Feeling any better?” asks Rick, from the chair beside my hospital bed.
“Other than having my ass hanging out of a hospital gown and bored to tears, I feel fine now.” I run a hand up and over my head, and sigh at the late evening sunlight creeping over the floor. Ugh. Talk about wasting the whole day. “By the Goddess, how long does it take a man to go to the bathroom?”
Caius has been out of the room for what feels like an hour.
“Err, various factors can affect that,” says Rick.
“I don’t need to stay here.” I fold my arms and make a face that I’m sure resembles a tween grumping about being sent to her room. “And I’m bored.”
“Better that than dead. They’re just observing you for latent symptoms. Gas can be tricky.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s what the doctor said. Doesn’t make it any less boring.”
Rick smiles. “Well, next time, don’t charge into the underground bunker all commando-like.”
I roll my head to the left, staring at him. “You do realize I didn’t plan on that, right?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles.
“So what did I miss?” I ask him.
“Well… Hazmat went in to clear the place. Kinda looked like a doomsday bunker. Provisions, beds, water tanks. Fortunately, they found no more victims in there. Bunch of chemical stuff, that sort of thing. The guy had so many MREs, he could’ve survived for years… but he would’ve been literally shitting bricks.”
I quirk an eyebrow at him. “What?”
“You ever eat a MRE?” asks Rick. “Military ration?”
“No.”
“Consider yourself lucky. They’ll rip you up inside.” Rick chuckles. “Anyway, I think we should put in a request to run a GPR crew around that yard. There might be human remains… at least his older sister.”
I sigh. Ground penetrating radar isn’t a bad idea. “Hope not, but yeah. We should check.”
“SWAT did at least save the taxpayers the expense of a trial,” says Rick.
Damn. I knew someone was going to die. Head bowed, I offer a quiet apology to the Goddess. Speaking of that, the two bullets that struck me left only small bruises, thanks to the vest.
“Hey. Don’t feel bad for that POS,” says Rick. “I mean, I’m not happy it went down that way, but after what that son of a bitch did, you shouldn’t waste guilt on him.”
I lift my head and offer a weak smile. “I don’t. I feel bad for not feeling bad, if that makes any sense.”
“It
does,” says Rick, a somber sort of smile on his lips.
Caius walks back in and hands us both a log-shaped paper bundle plus a bottled water. The pungent fragrance of oil and vinegar hits me. Oh, that explains the delay―he got us food.
“Good sign. I can smell this.” I pull the paper open to expose a wrap. One bite tells me it’s a turkey-ranch-BLT.
“We found his work uniform and ID inside,” says Rick, “along with a delivery manifest. Roy drove a truck for Harrison Supply Corp. Hospital stuff, mostly.”
I finish my current mouthful, swallow, and sigh. “Yeah… That explains where he got the chemicals and the suit. Maybe even the scalpel and needles.”
Rick nods.
A knock at the door announces Captain Greer’s arrival. It’s so weird seeing her in civilian clothes. She rocks the T-shirt and jeans thing like a pro.
“Hey, Wimsey.” She walks over to the side of the bed. “Doc says you’re gonna be okay. Guess we gotta keep puttin’ up with that wild hair of yours scaring the squad room.”
I laugh―and only cough a little.
Caius takes my hand. I’ve already told him what happened in the bunker, and he knows his protection ward probably made the difference.
“Oh, and you’re not the only ones who caught a lucky break today,” says Greer.
“Sucking up fumes after tripping through a hole in the ground is hardly lucky,” says Rick. “Even for a witch with protection wards. Yeah, I heard you two.”
“What happened?” I ask while flinging a scrap of lettuce at Rick.
Captain Greer flares her eyebrows. “Parrish found an IED”―a simple bomb, that is―“in the van of a birthday party clown, concealed inside a prop birthday cake for a magic trick. Says it’s the same guy from the picture you knocked off his cube. The guy claimed not to know the bomb had been there. Sounds like if he used that cake in his act, it would’ve killed him―right in front of a bunch of kids at some party.”
We got one serial killer, but there’s a serial bomber still out there targeting clowns. Parrish and Quarrel still haven’t even figured out what the motive is, and they need a bit more to go on than “because they’re clowns.” Yeah, clowns are creepy, but they (well, at least most of them) don’t deserve to be blown up… especially around innocent children.
“So our clown killer is still out there?” I ask.
“Afraid so, but at least we saved this guy, and those kids.”
“You mean my hair saved those kids.”
Rick shakes his head. “Whatever, Wims.”
I stare at the half-eaten wrap in my hand, no longer sure if I can finish it. “What the hell is wrong with people?”
Greer sighs. “If anyone ever comes up with an answer for that, we’d all be out of a job.”
“I could live with that.”
Rick gives me an ‘oh really?’ look.
Screw it. I’m hungry. I take a huge bite. Once I finish chewing, I wave him off. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere. I mean if they ever figure out ‘what’s wrong with people,’ they’d fix it and the world wouldn’t need cops. I’d give up the job in exchange for a world without crime or violence.”
Rick looks at Caius. “Did you spike these sandwiches with some of those funny magic herbs?”
My fiancé flashes a sly grin and takes a bite of his wrap.
When I give him a ‘wait, did you?’ glance, Caius chuckles.
“No, they came from the hospital cafeteria. Which, in and of itself, is surprising since they are decent enough to still qualify as a food product.” Caius squeezes my hand.
Captain Greer laughs. “All right. Glad to see you’re all intact. If you need a day to recover, go on and take it.”
I fill my lungs, only a little sore, and let the air out my nose. “Thanks, but I’ll be there―if they ever let me out of this damn bed.”
“They’ll probably keep you at least overnight.” Greer pats me on the shoulder. “Go on and take it. You look like you could use some sleep.”
Ugh. Don’t I know it. I lean back into the pillow and allow myself a smile. Roy’s dealt with, Mrs. Sullivan doesn’t have to go through the trauma of a trial or even a line-up, and I don’t have to worry about not being good enough to stop another person from dying.
Damn. I just had to think that, didn’t I?
We got one killer… but there’ll be another one. And another.
There always is.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Another Person Entirely
Saturday Afternoon – July 29, 2017
The remainder of the week (except Wednesday, which I spent at home relaxing) mostly involved a seemingly endless parade of reports, as well as picking over Harold Allen Roy’s property after the hazmat crew cleared us to go in. He had rigged a mechanism to mix a large quantity of sodium hypochlorite with ammonia and pump it into the crude ventilation system he’d run throughout his network of nine buried buses, two semi-trailers, and two transoceanic shipping containers.
Mercy.
He had a whole collection of books and printouts from Wikipedia on serial killers, all heavily marked up with handwritten notes. Roy even had the gall to pre-write a theoretical newspaper article detailing his ‘accomplishments,’ fully expecting that he’d die in that bunker at some point. It essentially amounted to a confession as the text provided detailed information from the Gibson and Cortez murders. I’m sure he intended it as a ‘living document’ that he’d add to for each new victim. Based on his notes and scribblings, he’d also expected to set a record, hoping to be the most prolific serial killer in history.
Harold Allen Roy didn’t idolize other serial killers―he wanted to beat their ‘score.’
Thank the Goddess we got him after only five murders. Based on his writings, we located the remains of three prior victims going back to 1991. Sadly, one of his victims had been his older sister, whom he’d buried inside a large plastic case at the back of his property. It’s difficult to piece together with total certainty, but the notes created a picture of their parents both dying while Harold remained a young teen, leaving him in the care of his sister. From the tone of what he wrote, he resented her perceived authority over him and they did not get along. The first three killings had occurred before his job with Harrison Supply and his access to the Tyvek suit, so he’d concealed the two bodies after his sister deep in the woods.
The bastard even had video recordings of the Angela Cortez and Benjamin Gibson’s murders. As with the Sullivans, he’d demanded both of them beg for their lives. For whatever reason, his ‘kill mask’ didn’t make an appearance at the Gibson scene. It seems unlikely he didn’t have access to the chemicals when he killed Benjamin. So, I’m thinking killing him had been a spur of the moment decision and Roy decided not to go home to get the rest of his gear. Which, of course, begs the question of why this guy walked around carrying a scalpel.
Unsurprisingly, the autopsy report listed Roy’s cause of death as multiple bullets entering his chest cavity. He also had several buckshot pellet injuries along the outside of his right arm, thigh, and shoulder. The medical examiner said they would have been painful and bled profusely, but not have been a threat to his life. All of them had been stitched unprofessionally, including the exit wounds on the back of his limbs―so Rick and I are trying to figure out who did that for him, to evaluate if any charges might be warranted.
The good news is: I’m sleeping okay again, and I don’t feel like a failure. Oh, and Mr. Carlisle finally woke up. He’ll be in the hospital for a while recovering from a severe beating and several stab wounds, but fortunately, Roy mistook him for dead when he’d only passed out. My theory there is that Roy had been so infuriated by the man’s refusal to ‘play his game,’ he’d become irrational and lost his capacity to function methodically.
Thursday offered the highlight of the month, perhaps year. We went to the Sullivan home to inform the family that we found the man who had attacked them, and he decided to commit suicide by cop. Hearing
that the ‘space man’ could never possibly hurt them again got the kids cheering. Mayor Selby’s even going to present little Jacob with a bravery award for saving his family sometime next month.
So yeah, it’s finally Saturday and we’ve decided to all gather at Abigail’s house for a day of relaxation and celebration (of the engagement). I mentioned to the others that I threw a ‘softball hex’ out of frustration, but Abigail reassured me by saying the Goddess knows the intention behind any magic. My intent came from wanting to stop harm to others, not out of hatred, vengeance, or ill will. We debated if my happening to step right on that old skylight and fall into the chamber to suck on fumes had been the return, or if the bathtub breaking had paid that debt. Either way, I accept it. Suffering a few minutes of noxious gas is easily worth the Sullivan family’s lives.
Elise is also blowing my mind. She’s bouncing around all happy and cheerful. Okay maybe ‘bouncing around’ is an overstatement. Either way, the woman’s acting like a normal person. Compared to what I’m used to seeing, her baseline normal feels like bubbly. Tamika remarks that she’s like a totally different person now. Speaking of that dark shadow, we haven’t heard a peep from ‘Pastor’ Waters since that night, and his people haven’t been in the news.
We eventually all migrate to the kitchen and get started on dinner, as seems to be our tradition. Whenever the whole coven gathers, Abigail gives her kitchen staff the day off. It makes me feel a bit lazy that Caius winds up cooking most of our food at home except on weekends, but other than the occasional business trip, he works from home. It’s not as if he puts in a ‘full forty’ then has a commute, but he insists on cooking since he’s been home all day. Weekends are my turn, and usually whenever I take a day off. I imagine someday when I retire or if I ever wind up doing the work-from-home thing as a not-detective, we’ll trade back and forth. Despite my doubts during the last case, the Sullivans’ reaction to hearing Roy had been taken off the street reminds me of why I got into this work in the first place.