by Will Molinar
Dillon shifted his feet and Muldor could see the machinations in his head twist and turn. This was the moment to force his will on the man.
“This is for the good of the city, my friend,” he said and put his hand on his arm. “We’ve suffered much of late, and this man is an important part of making things right again. I, we, must do what we must.”
That got him. He didn’t seem very happy about it, but he flicked his hand towards the door. “Fine, you can take him, but I hafta log this as a prisoner exchange within departments, from the police department to the city council. That okay?”
“I would expect nothing less.”
They left, for the second time having escaped the clutches of jail. Muldor hoped a third time wouldn’t be needed.
Chapter Ten
The scene was much worse than he ever expected. Not in any physical sense but how it affected his mental well-being, the idea that a human being was capable of doing this senseless act.
“All of them dead,” Cubbins said and though it was not a question, the dock security sergeant looked up as if it was.
“Yes, captain, all of them. We aren’t sure how it was accomplished, but all of them appear to have been killed in their sleep looks like.”
The man looked shaken and frightened. He tapped his club against the side of his leg, and his eyes were wide. Cubbins gripped his arm hard enough to get his attention.
“Take it easy.” He flicked his head to the other people standing around. “And get these people out of here. I want some space.”
The man hesitated and tried not to look at the devastation of humanity around them. Cubbins prodded him. “Focus your mind on doing what I tell you. That’ll help you forget. Do it.”
At last the man nodded and looked back at the crowd gathering behind them on the boardwalk. “Yes. Sorry about that, sir. The gossip crows sing a quick song in these parts.”
The sergeant spoke to a few of the dock security that stood and gaped along with the others. They pushed the crowd back enough for Cubbins and his men to work. There was plenty for them to do as it was; they didn’t need extra work in keeping the crowd under control. The dock security could be useful, although they hadn’t done anything to prevent this massacre.
“Seems all we do is clean up bodies,” Officer Jenkins said next to him. The young man had a cloth up to his face and looked pale. “I don’t know about you captain, but I’m getting really tired of this whole ghastly affair. Too much is too much, yeah?”
Cubbins couldn’t argue much. There was so much death it curdled his loins. Every single cot in the room held a corpse. Each one had a slit throat, a very professional job by his estimation because of its precision. And done without raising a single alarm, security both foreign and domestic walked all night long around the dockside.
“I want you with Sergeant Bigus,” he said to Jenkins, and the man went over to where several more officers stood around, trying to make sense of madness. Giving orders made sense to him. Nothing else did.
Along with many of the dock security, the officers collected the bodies and loaded them up on carts to be carried away to the city morgue. Cubbins had already examined each and every single body himself but felt the urge to do it again.
Maybe they should wait, stop loading, to allow more time, but something held back the order. He wanted them gone, wanted it all done and finished, so this craziness would end. But the sickening feeling wouldn’t go away; it would remain stuck in his mind, suffused into the core of his being.
It wasn’t human. It couldn’t have been. No normal man could do something like this. It was all connected, Cubbins knew it had to be. The arm under his bed, the slaughter at the precinct, the grave robbing, this massacre; it all meant something. But he had no answer, no solid evidence or even clues that could lead him somewhere specific.
Cubbins knelt by a bed and peered around the floor. Dried blood marred the surface, but less than one might expect. It should’ve been everywhere. These men were cut deep in their jugulars. It should have spurted out more. But it wasn’t. It was too clean.
Then there was something strange he hadn’t noticed before, so caught up in the ugliness and death. Bloody paw prints littered the floor around the cots. A medium sized dog by the looks of it. It had run around the room. The sheets were disturbed as if it had done something on the bed, near the head of each victim.
Cubbins forced down the bile building in his throat. So many disgusting things were possible. Nothing was out of the range of thought. He went to each bed again, seeing them all in a new light, to verify that each one was the same and they were. Stranger and stranger. This was a twisted web, a downward spiral never to come back from. This was the path to his fate. The death that had awaited him every second working the streets in a town of murder. There was never any stopping it.
Cubbins kept his mind focused on the job as much as he could, but the strength of the images and what it all meant threatened to drown him in sorrow and apathy. At that moment he understood, more than ever before in his life, what it meant to be beaten down. It was what the normal dregs in Murder Haven felt every single day of their miserable lives.
What the police, the thieves, assassins, and merchants did was pointless. It made no difference to drag yourself out of the mire. In the end, the reaper came for them all, one way or another.
It looked like several dogs had been in the warehouse, considering the amount of bodies. He half considered the possibility it was normal. Starving animals often ate off the corpses of humans, morbid though the thought was, it happened. The pitiful beasts were not much better off than the people in Sea Haven.
But this was no normal thing. This was beyond him, beyond his men, as stalwart as they might’ve been. Normal dogs, no matter how starving, didn’t do this to human beings, not with such careful attention and lack of a mess.
This was methodical work, in both man and beast. Each throat was cut open with a single, simple slice across the jugular a mere three inches wide. It was the same from body to body, over and over again, more than forty times. But nobody had awoke that night. No person was that silent. It reminded Cubbins of when they hadn’t noticed the graves being robbed while watching the cemetery.
Whatever it was, had the power to shut down a person’s sensory perception. There was an alarming precision to all of it. This wasn’t madness. It was cold hearted clarity done by a master with all the time in the world. Cubbins was aware of all the activity going on behind him. The men worked to load the corpses, speaking in very low tones. Some muttered of disbelief, and he felt a strong sense of panic grip his heart. This was a disaster on an epic scale, a downward plunge that he would never recover from, the city was doomed, everyone would die, they had no hope to fight this, they never did. He rushed outside, feeling sick. His mind twisted with the idea of what he had them doing.
Cubbins had a meeting with a large bottle of alcohol that evening, and hours later saw him in deep with several of his men at The Drunken Sailor. A very apt name considering it lay near the shipping yards.
At first, not one of them spoke. There were seven men in total at their table, including Bigus, Jenkins, and some of the other senior sergeants. A couple of them were beyond the point where they should have called it a career, Bigus included, but for the time being Cubbins was thankful for their calm demeanor and experience.
“Longest day of my life, this,” Sergeant Fergi Gillman said. The veteran said what everyone else thought, and he looked relieved to voice the thought. He plopped the tankard back down on the table and wiped the frothy spill off his rather large beard.
“Far worse than what we found that morning at the precinct I say,” Bigus said. “For those of us that woke to it, at least we can think of it as a bad dream. This here, though….”
The thought was left unsaid because it was on everyone’s mind and didn’t need to be reiterated.
“I think I know how a dock worker feels after a long day,” Jenkins said. The young off
icer sighed and looked down at his sullied uniform. He was drinking milk. Cubbins found it interesting he never had a drop of alcohol. “I smell like rotting fish. The whole place stank of it. I wonder why.”
Bigus grunted. “Because the building was close to the docks, lad. Real simple.”
“Nah, I think there’s more to it than that. Something else wasn’t right.”
“That’s all you thinking about? How you smell? There’s all kinds of things wrong with that place now! Wrong with this whole town.”
Cubbins felt the same way, but for some reason, he didn’t want to share his feelings. They were part of this, all of them. They wanted him dead, so they could do what they wanted which was nothing, to sit around and get paid for sitting around. They were lazy slobs, sucking off the government’s teat.
The captain almost didn’t notice Dillon walk up to their table. Cubbins felt half asleep as if their serving girl had slipped him a sleeping draught.
The others greeted his second in command and asked what the latest news was on the docks.
“Been busy, boys,” he said and stood with his thumbs in his waistband. “Still coordinating with the dock. I see you all got started already without me.” A couple of them offered to buy him a drink, but Dillon waved it off. “Nah, I came to talk to the captain.”
Dillon then stood there like a stooge for a moment with an expectant look on his face. Cubbins stared at his drink.
“Uh, Captain Cubbins? I have something for you to sign. It’s pretty important.”
Cubbins stirred. “Yeah. Let me see it.”
Dillon handed it over. It was an order from the city council, demanding the release of a number of political prisoners. Cubbins could see it countersigned by the merchants guild and to be released into their custody.
“Muldor’s custody,” Cubbins said as he read the rest of it. The police captain swore under his breath and felt a surge of anger. “That’s it, then. You tell that son of bitch he can’t have them. I’m not giving any prisoners to Muldor. Or anyone else.”
Dillon looked uncomfortable. “Sir, this is a signed order from the city council. See, they—”
“I don’t care who it came from. We run our own jail, and I say what happens there and what doesn’t happen. Our charter is royal by nature. We don’t have to do a damn thing they tell us.”
Dillon hesitated then nodded, making the wise decision to side with his superior. “Of course, sir. It’s only that Muldor said it was important.”
“If it’s so important, Muldor can come and see me about it in the morning. He knows where to find me. Under no circumstances are you to release anyone without my say so.”
Dillon shut his mouth and squirmed. Cubbins could tell by the way he held his eyes that he had done something he shouldn’t have already. “See, sir, he had this order and well, damn it if I didn’t release one of them today, a young fella named Baumgardener.”
Cubbins stood and knocked his chair back so hard people around them yelled. He tossed a few coins on the table and grabbed Dillon’s arm. The younger man was a couple inches taller than even Cubbins, and thicker about the chest and arms, but the captain was stronger.
“You’re coming with me, lieutenant.”
* * * * *
The sounds of the forest penetrated the walls of the cabin. Crickets chirped, birds squawked, animals stirred in their burrows, and even an owl hooted somewhere close by. They all annoyed the lone occupant in the small structure.
Jerrod thought about pulling out his sling shot and going to work on the little buggers, but decided he was too drunk to care. It was far too comfortable sitting in his favorite chair by the fire with a favorite whiskey, ready to light another cigarette. He wasn’t big on smoking, but it helped him relax. It had been an excitable couple of days.
The wind picked up outside, and his front door banged against the jam. He should fix the damn thing sometime. It was a shoddy bit of security and an embarrassment for a professional killer. Well, it was too damn bad for now. Maybe later if he felt like it. Or maybe he wouldn’t.
Jerrod took a deep drag on his cigarette and held it in. It was good quality tobacco. Some of his best stuff, but there wasn’t much left. He let it out slow and steady, savoring it.
A loud knock at the door made him look over his left shoulder and frown. Whoever it was didn’t bother to knock again. Instead, the door opened and in walked the last person Jerrod wanted or expected to see.
“Always knew you’d build something like this,” Zandor said and strolled around, looking the interior up and down. “Yeah, you used to talk about this. It was easy to find you.” The little pissant stopped and grinned at Jerrod. “’Course, doubt you built this thing yourself. I think you cheated the guy that did. Or killed him first and stole it, that’d be more your style.” He cocked his head, glanced at the oversized liquor cabinet, and chuckled. “Yep, you done good here, Jerry, done real good. A nice retirement house, ain’t it? That’s what it is here.”
The dark garbed, swarthy man smirked and regarded Jerrod. Jerrod wished he could smack that smarmy little smile off his ugly face.
“How’s that workin’ out for ya, Jerry? You look nice and relaxed already.”
Jerrod’s head buzzed from his heavy imbibing, and it built an angry retort on his lips because he knew Zandor was fucking with him.
Zandor nodded to the liquor cabinet. “You don’t mind if I help myself, do ya?”
Jerrod managed a noncommittal grunt.
Zandor poured a drink, a good quality bourbon Jerrod was saving for later. Bastard walks in here….
The little man went to stand by the fire while Jerrod rubbed his face. He needed to sober up to give this prick a good kick. Zandor warmed his hands and stared in the flames. His voice grew more serious.
“You’re a bit over your head in all this.” He looked at Jerrod. “There’s no shame in that, Jerry. You know I respect you, but your particular skills are a bit too blunt for this kind of thing. This is different. Guys like you and me,” he said and patted his chest with a deep drink. “Guys like you and me gotta look out for each other. See, I heard about things going on here, things I know you don’t appreciate much. There’s more going on in this city than it seems, lots more. Big changes.”
Zandor looked back down into the flames. His eyes twinkled like stars in the sky, and Jerrod fought the urge to ram his fist down his throat. But he caught sight of the array of knives around his waist, knew there were more weapons, more tricks, hidden on his person. This wasn’t the time.
“So I guess,” Zandor said and turned back to Jerrod, “I only got one question for ya, pal. Are you ready to play with the big boys, or you gonna sit here and piss the rest of your life away like a maggot?”
Jerrod glared at him. His alcoholic haze began to lift enough to think better. What the man said stirred something within him. He blurted out a sharp laugh. “Big boys, is it? You always were a little smart ass, Zandor. You got some set of balls on you for such a tiny guy. I seen piles of shit bigger than you. I’m surprised you’re still breathin’. The things you try and pull.”
Jerrod wanted to get a rise of anger out of him, but Zandor only smiled. He rubbed his hands over the fire. “You build a good fire, Jerry. Good and strong. You always were a bit of a woodsman, and a good tracker. Makes me miss those times. It was great, yeah?”
Jerrod grunted and started drinking again. Zandor was wasting time with these games. “What was so great about ‘em?”
Zandor turned and put his hands on his hips. “That hurts. You know, we used to be friends. Or comrades in arms, that counts for something. You playing straight with me? I come here trying to help you, this is what I get.”
Jerrod started laughing. It came out harsh and brutal, much like his personality. “Why don’t you quit crying like a little bitch and tell me what you had in mind already? I’m sittin’ here, ain’t I? If I wasn’t interested, I woulda gutted you the second you came through that door.”
&n
bsp; Jerrod was sober and let Zandor know it by the way he sat forward. His hands knotted tight against the front of his chair. Zandor shifted the tiniest bit, and therein lied the proof. Jerrod got his wish, got a rise from this sack of mush.
Zandor relaxed, taking the open threat in stride. “Fair enough. This little tiff you had with the betting people, though, it’s all over town. It’ll die down, but others might come after you. Your boys, these ‘toughs’ or whatever you call ‘em, they can protect you for a while but not forever. Someone’ll pay them enough to turn on you, believe me.
“But what you did with them is not a bad start, in fact. I woulda gone about it in a different way, though. See, you gotta think bigger, go higher. These slugs you rounded up the other night, though.” He shrugged his scrawny shoulders and took another swig.
Jerrod rubbed his face, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. “I’m still waiting for you to say something important, something I need to hear.”
Zandor frowned. “I am saying something important. You need to listen. That’s your problem, Jerrod. You don’t listen cuz you think you know everything. I’m trying to help you here.”
“Out of the kindness of your own heart, I’m sure.”
“I know what you’re trying to do. But you went about it the wrong way. You want results that pay, results that last, but you gotta do it right.”
Jerrod blew out a frustrated sigh and sat back. He covered his face. “You still talking, fella?”
“Shut up. The name Tanner McDowell sound familiar to you?”
Jerrod’s brow creased. “Tanner what? That old bastard is long retired, hasn’t been around for years. What does that matter?”
Zandor smirked and became more animated. “Wrong, bucko. He’s hiding somewhere, but he’s running things behind the scenes for the arena, getting a huge stipend cleaning off what’s coming in every night. I bet you didn’t know that.”
Jerrod locked eyes with the other man. The stirrings of interest fluttered in his belly and sobered him more than any amount of potential violence could. “The pits? What about the betting tents?”