by AnonYMous
Captain Rockwell’s office was on the third floor. Jensen could sense a hundred pairs of eyes following him as he made his way towards the Captain’s glass-walled office in the far corner, a good sixty yards from the elevator he had arrived in. The entire floor was dotted with desks and cubicles. Nearly every desk had a detective sitting at it. This was typical of today’s police. No one was out on the beat. Everyone was at a desk filling out forms or typing reports. Modern-day police work, Jensen said to himself. Inspiring stuff.
There were numerous pieces of evidence and photos of suspects or victims or missing persons pinned to partitions and dividing screens, or taped to computer monitors. By comparison, Captain Rockwell’s office was spotless. His small room in the far corner of the third floor afforded him a good view out of the windows over the city below. Jensen knocked twice on the glass door. Rockwell – seemingly the only visible black man on the Santa Mondega force – was sitting at his desk chewing on something and reading a newspaper. He had thick grey hair and a paunch, which together suggested he was in his mid-fifties. On hearing the knock at his door, he didn’t bother to look up but simply gestured for his visitor to enter. Jensen turned the doorknob and pushed. The door wouldn’t open cleanly and needed a good shake that unfortunately made the glass walls of the office wobble a little. Eventually a slight kick at the bottom of the door helped it open and Jensen walked in.
‘Detective Miles Jensen reporting for duty, sir.’
‘Siddown, Detective,’ growled Rockwell. Jensen noticed that he was doing a crossword in the newspaper.
‘Need any help with that?’ he asked, in an attempt to break the ice as he seated himself in a chair opposite the Captain.
‘Yeah, try this one,’ said Captain Rockwell, glancing up for a second. ‘Four letters. Don’t – ever – kick it – again.’
‘Door?’
‘Damn right. You’ll do fine. Nice to meet you, Jansen,’ said the Captain, closing his newspaper and taking a good look at his new detective.
‘It’s Jensen, and it’s nice to meet you too, sir,’ said Jensen, leaning over the desk with his right hand outstretched. Rockwell ignored the gesture and carried on talking.
‘How much do you know about why you’re here, Detective?’
‘I was briefed by Division. I probably know more than you do, sir,’ Jensen replied, retracting his hand and sitting back down.
‘I doubt that very much.’ The Captain picked up a mug of coffee from on top of a pile of paperwork to his left and took a sip before spitting it back in the mug in disgust. ‘Now, are we going to be sharing information here, or are you gonna jerk me off the whole time like Internal Affairs?’
‘I won’t be jerking you off, sir. That’s not one of my objectives here.’
‘Give you a piece of advice, Jansen. Nobody around here likes a smartass, you got that?’
‘It’s not Jansen, sir, it’s Jensen.’
‘Whatever. Has anyone shown you where the coffee is yet?’
‘No, sir. I’ve only just got here.’
‘Well, when they do, mine’s black, two sugars.’
‘I don’t drink coffee, sir.’
‘I didn’t ask if you did. Get Somers to show you where the coffee is when you meet him.’
‘Which one is Somers?’ Jensen asked, fully aware that his question might not be answered. This Captain Jessie Rockwell was an odd sort. He spoke very quickly and he appeared not to have a lot of patience. He certainly didn’t seem to need any more caffeine. Every once in a while as he spoke his face would become contorted, as though he was having a very minor stroke. Clearly the man had stress issues, as well as little tolerance for Miles Jensen.
‘Somers has been assigned as your partner – or rather, you’re his. That’s the way he’ll prefer to see it,’ he said. Jensen bristled.
‘I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding, sir. I’m not supposed to be assigned a partner.’
‘Tough shit. We didn’t ask for you to be sent here, either. But it looks like we’re stuck with you and we’re paying for your stay here, so I guess we’re both in a position we don’t like.’
This was not something Jensen was happy about. Other cops didn’t take his work seriously. The Captain didn’t seem to, and whoever this Somers character was, Jensen bet he would be no different.
‘With all due respect, sir, if you’ll just call …’
‘With all due respect, Johnson, you can kiss my ass.’
‘It’s Jensen, sir.’
‘Whatever. Now listen, because I’m only gonna tell you this once. Somers, your new partner … he’s an asshole. A real fuckin’ asshole. No one else will work with him.’
‘What? Well then, surely …’
‘Do you wanna hear what I have to say, or not?’
It hadn’t taken Jensen long to realize that arguing with Captain Rockwell was going to be pointless. If he had any problems he’d have to sort them out himself later. The Captain wasn’t going to waste time explaining himself to anyone or showing anyone around. He obviously considered himself far too busy, or far too important, for niceties. For now, it was easier to sit back and listen to what he had to say.
‘Sorry, sir. Please go on.’
‘Thank you. Not that I need your permission. This is for your benefit, not mine,’ said Rockwell. He eyeballed Jensen for a moment to see if there was likely to be any more dissent from this weird detective. Satisfied that there was not, he continued. ‘Detective Archibald Somers has been assigned to this case as your partner. He’s been assigned by the Mayor. Now if I had my way, Somers wouldn’t even set foot in this building, but the Mayor is trying to win re-election, so he’s got his own goddam agenda.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Jensen could see little relevance in the explanation so far, but he decided it would be best to show a little interest with the occasional nod or ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Somers was handed early retirement just over three years ago,’ Rockwell went on. ‘The rest of us held a retirement party for him.’
‘Very good of you, sir.’
‘Not really. We didn’t invite that miserable bastard Somers.’
‘Why not?’ asked Jensen, surprised. Rockwell frowned.
‘Because he’s an asshole. Jeeezus! Pay attention, Johnson, for Chrissakes.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So, anyway. You’re here about the Bourbon Kid, right?’
‘Well, not exactly.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Somers is obsessed with the goddam Bourbon Kid case. That’s why he was forced into early retirement. He tried to pin every single murder in Santa Mondega on this Bourbon Kid. He took the whole damn thing so far that people started to think the Police Department were being lazy and we were just using the Kid as a scapegoat to pin all our unsolved crimes on.’
‘Which obviously isn’t true,’ said Jensen. It was one of those comments he immediately wished he hadn’t made, because the way he had said it sounded like he was being sarcastic, which was not what he had intended. Captain Rockwell eyed him again for a second. Satisfied at last that Jensen was actually sincere, he carried on.
‘Right,’ he said, breathing in through his nose so deeply that his nostrils flared to nearly twice their normal size. ‘Well, Somers started fiddling with evidence in his attempts to frame the Bourbon Kid for everything. Fact of the matter is, there’s only two people in town who have ever seen the Kid and lived. And no one has seen him since the night five years ago when he massacred half the town. Most of us believe he’s probably already dead. Probably died that night and was just one of the many unidentified bodies we buried that week. Others say he was killed by a couple of monks as he left town. I guess that’s where your interest lies, right? With the monks and all that crap?’
‘If you mean the Hubal monks and the Eye of the Moon, sir, then yes.’
‘Hmm. Well, I don’t believe any of that crock of shit, and neither do any of the other guys, but here’s something you might not know, Detective
Johnson. Yesterday, two monks killed a guy in the Tapioca Bar. Shot him dead in cold blood. Wounded another. Lit out with two stolen pistols. The first thing you and Somers are gonna be doing is questioning Sanchez, the bar manager.’
Jensen looked at Rockwell in surprise. This actually was something he didn’t know about. Hubal monks in town, that was unusual. Damned unusual. As far as he knew the monks never left their island for any reason. Except for that one time, five years ago, when two of them had arrived in Santa Mondega just before the night of the Bourbon Kid massacre.
‘Have they been arrested?’
‘Not yet. And they won’t be if that horse’s ass Somers has his way. He’ll try and convince you that the Bourbon Kid killed the guy but dressed himself up as two monks to do it.’
‘Okay. So tell me, Captain, if Somers retired, why the hell is he on this case?’
‘I already told you. It’s because the Mayor wants him on the case. Everyone knows Somers is obsessed with the Bourbon Kid, and the public will be happy if he’s leading the investigation. The public, you see, they don’t know that he’s an asshole. They just know that a lot of them lost relatives and loved ones when the Bourbon Kid came into town last time.’
‘Last time? The way you said that implied that the Bourbon Kid is back in town.’
Captain Jessie Rockwell sat back in his chair and took another sip of his coffee before once again spitting it back into the mug in disgust.
‘I’m not sure what I’m saying, to be honest, but the fact of the matter is this. Two monks showed up less than twenty-four days ago. That’s the first time in five years that any monks have been seen in this town. And that’s not all. You’re here because the Government thinks that something out of the ordinary is going on, right?’
‘Well, yeah. Five brutal murders in the last five days. That’s apart from the guy the monks are meant to have killed. That’s quite a lot. In fact, it’s a helluva lot. And I’m here because from what I understand, these weren’t normal murders, right?’
‘Right. I’ve seen some sick shit in this town, Detective. But these last five killings, well, I haven’t seen anything like it since the last time the Bourbon Kid was in town. Maybe it’s all building up to another massacre like we had five years ago. Like history is repeating itself. That’s why the Mayor wants Somers back. Asshole though Somers is, he knows more about the Bourbon Kid than the rest of the world put together. And you, well you’re obviously here because for the first time in I don’t know how long, the outside world has decided that it gives a shit about what goes on in Santa Mondega.’
‘So it would seem, sir.’
‘Yes. It would.’ He heaved himself up from his chair. ‘Now, you wanna meet Somers, or what?’
Five
Jefe awoke with a start. His heart was pounding, and his instincts were telling him that something wasn’t right. Something was definitely not as it should be. But what was it? What had happened to make him wake up so suddenly, awash with a feeling of dread? And threat? The only way he’d find an answer was to piece together the events of the previous evening. That shouldn’t be too difficult. First, Marcus the Weasel had bought him drinks all night. This was to be expected. Marcus was afraid of him, and rightly so. Jefe had intended to kill Marcus once he had served his purpose, and Marcus’s purpose was simple: he had to buy Jefe drinks all night and then take him to meet El Santino. But Jefe hadn’t met El Santino yet, and Marcus the Weasel was nowhere to be seen.
Jefe was lying on his back in a rickety old bed in what looked like a dingy room in a cheap motel. He was dehydrated, no doubt from all the drink he and Marcus had polished off the night before. They’d had not a bad time. As Jefe recalled, Marcus was quite a good drinking partner who could handle his whisky and tequila. He was still an asshole, but at least he could last the pace. By now, Jefe was starting to remember more and more about the previous evening. Marcus had seemed to be holding his drink incredibly well, while Jefe himself had been seeing double. This was unusual, for he could handle his drink. He could drink for days at a time and still keep it together. So why had he suddenly gotten drunk out of his skull so easily?
Oh no.
A cold shiver washed over him. On cue, his head began to pound as his hangover took hold. Had he fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book? Had Jefe been downing shot after shot, while his new-found friend had been drinking water disguised as shots of tequila? If that was the case, then one of two things could have happened. One: he could have been murdered in his sleep. Obviously not the case. Or two: robbed. Highly likely. Shit.
He grabbed at his chest, hoping to feel the precious blue stone that had been hanging around his neck for the past few days. His hand clasped thin air, right where the stone should have been. He sat bolt upright.
‘FUCKIN’ BASTARD!’
His shout echoed through the sleazy building. This was bad news, in every way. Jefe had been ripped off, and to make matters worse he had been ripped off by a man who was known locally as a complete and utter slimeball scumbag weasel. How could he have been so stupid, so gullible? What an imbecile! That fucking weasel Marcus! The guy was as good as dead.
Jefe’s mind was full of questions, racing around in his head like foxes in a chicken run. Did Marcus know the power of the stone? Did he know that it was the Eye of the Moon, the most precious and powerful stone in the entire universe? And did he realize that Jefe would now make it his life’s ambition to kill him and get it back?
What concerned the bounty hunter more than anything was the knowledge that he had an appointment to keep that day. An appointment with a man whose reputation was more fearsome than that of the Devil himself. He was going to need the Eye of the Moon if he was to have any chance of surviving that meeting. El Santino was expecting the stone to be delivered to him before midnight. Jefe had promised it to him. El Santino was not a man Jefe wanted to disappoint, even though he had never met him, but that wasn’t even the worst of his problems. If Marcus the Weasel discovered the power of the stone, it would be virtually impossible to retrieve it from him. Just as it should have been impossible for Jefe to have lost it in the first place.
Another thought struck him. There was, of course, always the danger that Marcus could be gotten to by others. There were plenty of people who wanted the Eye of the Moon. Many of them were as brutal as Jefe, some maybe more so. If any of them got their hands on the stone he would never get it back before the end of the day. If ever. He considered his options for a moment. He could just leave town and never return, but he had gone to such great lengths to get his hands on that stone. It was practically a miracle he had survived this long. Just finding and stealing the stone had seen him kill more than a hundred people. Some of them had come close to killing him, yet he had survived. He’d come through unscathed, only to slip up and let his guard drop as he approached the final hurdle. Although it might prove even harder to get the stone back from Marcus, he reminded himself that it was worth a lot of money to him. And his life depended on it, too.
Fuck it. He’d have breakfast, then that was it.
The Weasel was toast.
Six
Jessica had been creeping through the densely planted woodland for longer than she could remember. The trees around her reached up so high they almost blocked out the sky above. The ground was a mat of tree roots, making it very difficult to walk steadily, and the likelihood of twisting an ankle was growing with every small step she took. And the time for small steps had now passed.
She could feel the cold biting at her shoulders and feet. Whatever presence it was that had been observing her as she made her way through the woods, it was now pursuing her. No longer just watching, it was creeping up on her. The trees were so close together, and the canopy above her was so thick that it was almost too dark to see. As it happened, she was too afraid to look back anyway. She could hear her pursuer breathing, except that now it was panting heavily. It was a beast of some sort, she knew that much. Whatever it was, it wasn�
��t human, and although it didn’t make much sense to her, she had a feeling it wasn’t an animal either. This was something else, and it wanted her.
As she tried desperately to pick up the pace, the branches of the trees seemed to become thicker and thicker as if reaching out for her, trying to slow her down. She was still managing to keep her footing, but she knew it was only a matter of time before one of the tree roots upended her. For its part, the beast was closing in all the time, its panting growing louder and quicker with each passing second. Nothing seemed to slow it down. It was gathering speed, and would soon be upon her.
Jessica suddenly experienced a sharp intake of breath and her eyes opened. She closed them almost instantly as they were stung by the brightness of the light. Then she opened them again. Then closed them. Then opened them again. She continued to do this for several minutes until the stinging sensation became bearable. All the while the dream from which she had just awoken preyed on her mind. It had seemed so real, almost as though it were not a dream but an old memory returning to haunt her.
She looked around her. The room was bare, the only furniture in it the bed that she was so snugly tucked into. The walls were covered with a cream-coloured wallpaper that had seen better days. The light colour was probably meant to compensate for the lack of a window. It didn’t, of course, nor did it lessen the room’s claustrophobic feel. It dawned on her that she was very cold, not that it actually bothered her much. She’d been colder than this. What was bothering her, though, was that she had no idea where she was, or how she had come to be there.