by Hunt, James
“Good morning!”
The old man from last night entered through a different hallway to Grant’s left. He was dressed in similar garb, though the colors were lighter. Grey slacks, and jacket, and a pale blue shirt. A matching pocket square accented the shirt, and a gold watch flashed on his left wrist. He was clean-shaven and had slicked back his long grey hair.
One of the guards pulled back the old man’s chair for him and he took a seat, reaching for the napkin and placing it in his lap. “It’s been a busy morning.” He grabbed a fork and knife and cut into the steak. It bled onto the white porcelain. With a chunk of meat at the end of the fork, the old man gestured to Grant. “Everything fit? I’m afraid I had to take some calculated guesses with the attire. But I thought the color suited you just fine.” He took a bite, and then the servant returned with a bottle of champagne that he poured into both of their glasses.
The old man reached for his glass the moment the servant was done and held it up. “To Detective Chase Grant. Seattle’s favorite son.” He forcefully clanged the crystal glasses together and then sipped, closing his eyes and offering a satisfied moan. “Delicious.”
Grant didn’t touch the food despite the growling of his stomach. He stared absentmindedly at the old man who acted like Grant was a long-lost friend come to chat over dinner and catch up on old times.
The old man caught the stare and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. “I hope your bunk mates didn’t cause you to lose your appetite?” He shook his head and tossed the napkin back onto his lap. “Honestly, Detective, I thought you were made of stronger stuff.”
“You leave me in a pit of bodies, dress me up like some doll, and bring me here,” Grant said. “If you plan to kill me then—”
“I told you I had questions for you, but I need your mind sharp, and it’ll be hard for you to do that on an empty stomach,” the old man said, cutting off another piece of steak. “Eat.”
Grant eyed the knife, and then looked to the guards. Both had their guns aimed at him with their fingers on the trigger. He’d be dead before he made the throw. And so, with his stomach grumbling and no idea if he would be granted a next meal, Grant picked up the utensils and dug in.
The moment the first bite touched his lips, everything except satisfying his hunger disappeared. He devoured the steak, took two helpings of eggs, emptied the glass of orange juice, and the juice from the cantaloupe and watermelon dribbled down his chin with every bite. His plate was taken from him only when he leaned back in his chair.
“Glad to see you have your appetite back,” the old man said.
Grant dropped his fork and pushed the plate away. “It was a fine last meal.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” The old man adjusted the belt around his girth that looked a little bit tighter than before. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, Detective. Longer than your career in law enforcement. During my tenure, there have been eighteen detectives that have come and gone who’ve tried to catch me. All eighteen failed.” He pointed a meaty finger at Grant, which curved from arthritis, and remained still as water. “You’re the only one who has ever found me.”
“Others will pick up where I left off,” Grant said.
“And they already have. But they won’t be successful.” The old man picked between his teeth, fishing out a sliver of steak, and then wiped his finger clean on the napkin in his lap.
Grant eyed the champagne. Real champagne from France, not like that sparkling wine most people buy. The butler returned and poured the old man another glass. “Celebrating something?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” the old man said, picking up the champagne. “It’s a special day for you, Detective.” He sipped, the bubbles in the glass still fizzing.
The pair of body guards stepped closer to Grant and the hot trickle of sweat appeared under his arms. He grimaced.
The old man looked at Grant. “You don’t remember?” He smiled, his eyes locked on Grant as he sipped from the glass again, then set it down, smacking his lips. “Detective, I’m surprised. You always seem to have such a handle on things.” He leaned forward. “It’s your two year anniversary.”
Grant winced and a whisper tickled the back of his mind. It goaded him into anger, the same anger that filled him the night he attacked Brian Dunston.
The old man frowned, feigning sympathy. “I know it must be hard to talk about. It was a dark time for you. You were angry. Violent. Death will do that to you.” The old man reached out a hand and touched Grant’s arm. “You must miss them so much.”
Grant lunged, but the thugs stopped him before he could even raise the piece of silverware. A heavy thud knocked Grant’s head forward and he slammed onto the table, one of the rifles pressed into the back of his skull.
The old man looked up to the guards pinning Grant down. “Still a sore subject apparently.”
Grant’s cheek smooshed against the table cloth, and he writhed underneath the goon’s hold. “Talk about my family again and I will kill you.”
“You’re not a killer, Detective,” the old man said. “Not in the brutal sense anyway. Which begs the question I’ve wanted answered since the moment I found out who you were.” The old man lowered his head to meet Grant’s gaze, and then laid his head on his arm, like he was having pillow talk with a lover. “Why didn’t you kill him? That man, Brian Dunston. You went to his house, beat him to a pulp, but let him go. He killed your family. Albeit it was an accident, but still.”
Grant thrashed more violently, the fork still gripped in his hand that was pinned at the wrist.
The old man raised his eyebrows. “He was right there! You could have gotten what you wanted, but you let it slip away.” He shook his head. “Why deny yourself what makes you happy?”
“Killing you would make me happy,” Grant said, the pressure from the rifle barrel growing in the back of his skull.
“And having my associate put a bullet through that handsome face of yours would do the same for me,” the old man said. “But you’re my insurance.” He sat up and leaned back into his chair. “I need a bargaining chip in case I’m unable to retrieve what I need. Not that your partner has the imagination to find me, but I don’t like to take unnecessary chances.” The old man nodded to the hallway.
The thugs yanked him out of the chair and punched Grant’s stomach, which dropped the fork from his hand. The second blow to his face numbed his body, knocking the fight out of him.
The goons dragged him back to the room and tossed him onto the carpet, then shut and locked the door. Grant rolled to his back and rotated his jaw, the left side of his face tender from the hit. He lifted his head and saw the shadows of the thugs in the hall through the bottom door crack.
Grant really had forgotten it’d been two years since that night he’d gone to Brian Dunston’s house. But he hadn’t forgotten what transpired. There was still anger there, still resentment. The old man’s questions resonated in his mind.
Why didn’t he kill Dunston? He was drunk enough, mad enough, and on the right side of morality, wasn’t he? The man had ruined his life. And even though it was an accident, that didn’t make Dunston any less guilty, nor did it ease Grant’s pain. So what held him back? What stopped him?
Absentmindedly, Grant reached for his wedding ring and gave it a twist.
* * *
Mocks sat hunched in one of the plastic chairs of the waiting room, her arms crossed, and her head cocked forward at an angle she’d regret for the rest of the day. She slept while nurses walked past and the television played a rerun episode of “Friends.”
“Mrs. Mullocks?”
Mocks jerked her head up sharply, blinking away what little sleep she managed to get. She pushed herself up, rubbing her eyes, her mind and body feeling like they were filled with lead. “Yes?”
A Doctor came into view as Mocks lifted her head. Rick’s doctor. She jumped from the chair, and clutched his arm, her heart racing a mile a minute. “Is Rick all right?”
&nb
sp; The doctor smiled. “He’s stabilized now. The surgery went great.”
Mocks wrapped her arms around the doctor’s waist and squeezed him tight. “Oh my god, thank you so much.” She pulled herself off of him and wiped her eyes, waving her hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to attack you like that.”
“It’s all right,” the doctor said. “And I’m happy to report that we managed to repair most of the damage to his legs and arms. He’ll be spending a lot of time in physical therapy to get his range of motion back, but we’re confident he’ll be walking around again in a few months, though he will have limitations even after the therapy.”
But at least he’ll be walking, Mocks thought. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you so much.” She wiped her nose and cleared her throat. “Can I see him?”
“I’ll take you back.”
Mocks followed the doctor past the rooms and her stomach twisted into knots in anticipation of seeing him. She focused on her breathing and the fatigue from the past few days vanished as the doctor led her inside his room.
“I’ll leave you two alone, but if you need anything just flag down one of the nurses.”
“Okay,” Mocks said, turning back toward the doctor, tears filling her eyes. “Thank you again.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Rick was still asleep as Mocks approached. Wires and tubes traveled out from underneath his hospital gown, and the machines monitoring his vitals beeped in a reassuring cadence.
Mocks gently touched Rick’s arm, his skin warm against her fingertips. Tears rolled down her cheeks freely as she bent down and kissed his forehead.
Rick’s eyes fluttered open and he looked up at her. “Susie?”
Mocks smiled and cupped his face. “Hey, baby. How are you feeling?”
Rick groaned. “Tired.”
“I bet.” Mocks brushed the bangs off his forehead. “The doctor said you’ll need some physical therapy. The cuts were deep, and you had some nerve damage.”
Rick opened his eyes. “How bad?”
Mocks kissed his lips, glad to feel his warmth again. “Let’s just take it one hurdle at a time, okay?”
Rick pinched his eyebrows together, and he stirred, the machine monitoring his heart rate beeping in faster intervals. “Grant. I saw him. Last night. What hap—”
Mocks pressed her hand into his chest and lowered him back down onto his pillow. “There was a shootout after we found you and the kids. Grant disappeared into the woods and acted as a distraction.” She paused. “He’s still missing.”
Rick looked at the bandages on his arm. “The people that did this took him?”
“Yeah,” Mocks answered.
“Christ.” Rick closed his eyes, shaking his head. “You think he’s still alive?”
It was a question Mocks had pondered since the police arrived at that mill. She was hopeful, but that nagging realism wouldn’t remove its claws from her thoughts. “I don’t know.”
Gingerly, Rick reached for her hand, his grip so weak she barely felt his touch. “If you need to go, then go.”
Mocks tightened her grip on his arm. “I almost lost you. I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“If the roles were switched,” Rick said. “And Grant was here, and you were missing, what would he do?”
Mocks drew in a deep breath, which was followed by a sigh riddled with anxiety and relief. She nodded, and then kissed Rick again. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Rick said.
Mocks turned to leave, but then stopped when she saw Rick’s belongings on a nearby table. His clothes, wallet, and phone were among the items, but there was something else inside too. She sifted through his belongings, and smiled when she felt the bulky face of the watch.
“What are you doing?” Rick asked, struggling to lift his head to watch her.
Mocks faced him, clipping the watch around his wrist. “Mind if I borrow this?”
“Uh, sure, but—”
“Get some rest,” Mocks said. “I’ll see you soon.”
A nurse entered the room as Mocks left, and the moment her foot stepped into the hallway, she shifted gears. With Rick alive, she focused on the case.
Mocks pressed the down arrow for the elevator then sifted through the settings of Rick’s watch. Thankfully, it was digital, and when she came upon the stopwatch she clicked it. The clock was on. And she was already behind the curve. She needed was a starting point.
She picked up her phone and dialed Sam. The phone rang six times before dumping her to voicemail, and as the elevator doors pinged open, she stepped inside and tried again.
“C’mon, Sam,” Mocks said, tapping her foot impatiently. “Pick up.”
Another voicemail.
Mocks hung up and when she stepped outside the hospital she only made it a few steps before she stopped and closed her eyes in frustration. No car. She’d ridden to the hospital in the ambulance. She spotted a taxi near the entrance and jogged over.
After a bribe of twenty bucks convinced the driver to start his shift an hour early, Mocks gave him Sam’s address. Luckily, traffic was light, and the ride over didn’t take long. Mocks tried Sam’s number a few more times before giving up entirely, and when the taxi pulled up to his apartment building she tossed the cabbie another twenty and didn’t bother waiting for change.
Mocks pressed her palm into the buzzer for Sam’s fifth floor apartment, letting it linger before she removed it. No answer. She double-checked the name to make sure she had the right number, then tried again. Still nothing.
She hugged herself, and rubbed her arms, quickly pacing the stretch of sidewalk in front of the apartment door to stay warm. Seattle wasn’t known for it’s warm, embracing mornings. “C’mon, Sam. Wake up!”
Mocks smacked the buzzer once more, but when a woman came out of the building she darted inside, flashing a badge at the startled lady and scurried to the elevator.
The building was older and rundown. Mocks always thought that the Cyber unit made good money, but judging from the musty hallways, faded paint, and trash littered on the floor, she wasn’t so sure. The elevator doors pinged open and Mocks stepped onto Sam’s floor, which was more of the same from what she saw on the first.
Mocks turned the corner and spotted Sam’s apartment number. She pounded her fist against the door, rattling the whole wall. “Sam, open up!” She knocked on the door again. “It’s Mocks, I need to talk to you.”
She waited, but after a minute of no answer, she twisted the doorknob and it gave way. She cracked the door open, slowly. “Sam?”
The lights in the apartment were off, and the shades were drawn on the windows. Mocks stepped inside, the place smaller than she expected, and much cleaner. She expected to see pizza boxes piled up and beer cans strewn about the place. But that could have just been her when she lived alone.
The foyer to the front door opened into the living room, and the kitchen was adjacent on the left. Two doors rested on the left and right of the living room, both closed. “Sam? It’s Mocks. You home?”
Silence answered and Mocks removed her pistol. Something felt off, her instincts sounding the alarm. Flashbacks of Rick’s abduction played in her mind. Every where she looked she expected to find a spider web drawn. But this was different. Her apartment was trashed. Sam’s wasn’t.
Mocks approached the door on the right of the living room first. She gave the knob a twist and it opened, exposing the bedroom that was just as tidy as the living room. She entered, checking under the bed, then the closet, but found nothing.
She stepped out, pistol still gripped with both hands, her grip tightening as she crossed the living room to the second door. She reached for the knob, giving it the same slow twist as the bedroom door. She pushed it open and as the door widened it exposed the bathroom tile, then the sink and mirror. Then the blood on the floor next to the tub and an empty pill bottle.
“Sam!” Mocks holstered her weapon and rushed to the tub. Sa
m’s head rested lifelessly on his shoulder. Dried vomit covered his chest and chin. She checked his pulse, his skin still warm. But he was gone.
Mocks closed her eyes, fighting back tears as she dialed the precinct. “This is Detective Mullocks. I’m at 372 North Highland Road, apartment five-ten. I have a body. Male, early thirties. Homicide is needed on scene.”
“Copy that, Detective. We’ll send a unit over to assist.”
Mocks hung up and sat on the tile, leaned up against the wall at the foot of the tub. She stared at Sam’s pallid cheeks and lifeless eyes, and then she cried. Death followed her wherever she walked now. The Web had long reaching fingers, and they’d taken another life that tried to bring them down. She thought of Rick, still back at the hospital. He had an officer guarding his door, but so did Parker Gallient, and the last time she saw him he shared Sam’s lifeless stare.
Anger slowly took the place of grief, and Mocks wiped her nose and removed a glove from inside her jacket. She picked up the pill bottle, and checked the label. Pain pills, prescription. They were in Sam’s name, but they were old. She recalled him having an appendicitis last year. Could have been from that.
The forensic unit arrived twenty minutes later and Mocks waited in the living room while they removed Sam’s body. Most of the evidence was tagged and bagged when Marcus and Franz, the pair of homicide detectives from her precinct, arrived.
“Hey,” Marcus said. “How you doing?”
Mocks nodded, her arms crossed over her chest. “I’m all right.”
“Dispatch said you found some pills?” Franz said, already making his way toward the bathroom.
“Yeah,” Mocks answered. “Prescription.”
A forensic tech exited Sam’s room. “Detectives, I’ve got something.” He placed the open laptop on the kitchen counter, which already had a document pulled up on the screen.
Marcus and Franz walked over, blocking the laptop from view. Marcus wiped his mouth, and shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”
Mocks wedged her way between Marcus and Franz, shaking her head. “There’s no way that’s real.”