Vigilante Dead

by DV Berkom

  A few minutes later, we were inside. My initial assessment had been correct: the place had cobwebs hanging off of cobwebs, and dust motes that could swallow a Volkswagen. My eyes watered and I stifled a sneeze. A lone bulb flickered above our heads. We stood in the middle of a long hallway. Cold, amorphous shadows obscured corners where rats and other nasty occupants could hide, while a rickety staircase led upward into the gloom. The smell of old-building mildew hit me hard and I reminded myself to breathe through my mouth.

  “I’ll take right,” Sam said as he pulled out a flashlight and disappeared down the hallway.

  I glanced to my left, but there wasn’t much to see aside from old cobwebs, battered fir-plank flooring, and nineteenth-century brick walls. Sliding a mini Maglite from my pocket, I twisted it on and picked my way along the moldy corridor.

  Several yards later, the hallway took a turn to the right. A bare bulb hung from the high ceiling, illuminating a small section of floor, but the light soon dropped off, leaving the rest of the corridor in darkness. Obsolete gas lines that had long ago fueled lamps ran high up along one wall, and steam pipes originally used to carry warmth to the upper levels hung cold and immobile from the ceiling. Something skittered across the floor in front of me and I stopped, my breath catching in my throat. The squeak of a rat echoed in the darkness. Shaking off an involuntary shiver, I continued.

  Another turn, another corridor. I’d about given up when a murmur of voices floated toward me. I couldn’t judge how far away they were. Cold, dark, and musty places are disorienting that way. I turned off the Maglite and edged closer. Just down the hallway, a glimmer of light from an open door speared through the gloom. I inched toward it and stopped to listen.

  “Hit him again.” The man’s voice was hard-edged and raspy.

  “No—don’t—”

  There was a sickening thud, followed by an ooph.

  “Tell me who you’re working for.”

  “Like I said—” The speaker, obviously Krueger, gasped between sentences. “I’m not working for anyone. I don’t know where the fuck you got the idea—”

  Another thud, this time followed by a retching sound.

  “Where the fuck I got the idea, as you so elegantly put it, was from our mutual friend, Chacon.”

  “How the hell would Chacon know anything?” Krueger asked. A loud crack echoed against the walls. Krueger groaned.

  I edged out of earshot so I could call Sam.

  “I’m near the room where they’ve got Krueger,” I said, my voice low. “They’re beating the hell out of him.”

  “Stay there. I’m on my way.”

  “I’m going to try to get a visual.”

  “Don’t. Just hold on. I’ll be right there.” The exasperation in his voice chafed. Like I didn’t know how to stay hidden and not blow my cover.

  I’d had a lot of experience in that department.

  I returned to my position near where they were beating on Krueger. The door had been left ajar, and I chanced a peek into the room. The cavernous space was empty except for a pile of broken-down pallets in one corner. A wire-cage light hung from the high ceiling, directly overhead. Four men stood in a circle around Krueger, who was secured to a chair with duct tape that covered his chest, arms, and ankles. His face had taken the brunt of the hits. He looked like a washed-up prizefighter at the losing end of twelve rounds. Blood trailed down his shirt and both of his eyes had swollen shut. I slipped my phone out of my pocket, and after making sure the sound and flash were both off, crouched near the floor and aimed the camera up at the group.

  “I swear, Morrie, I’m not working for anybody but you.” Krueger’s voice cracked.

  Dressed in a blue and white tracksuit, one of the men leaned in close and smiled. I assumed it was Morrie. “You see, Charlie, I just don’t believe you. Now, Chacon? He don’t lie. Understands the way things work, you know?” The guy in the tracksuit stepped away, pointing at Charlie’s shoes.

  “Shoot him in the foot.”

  One of the other men pulled a gun and fired. Krueger screamed and rocked back in his chair. A gunman standing behind him put his hand out to keep him from toppling over. Blood pooled on the floor near Krueger’s foot.

  My heart beat double time as I continued to record the scene, wondering when in the hell Mac or Sam or somebody was going to show up and stop them.

  Morrie stepped closer to the now-sobbing Krueger and grabbed his chin, jerking his face up so he could look him in the eyes. “Who are you working for?” he demanded, his voice low.

  “I’m telling you the truth. Please, just…let me go.” Krueger was whimpering now.

  Morrie let go of Krueger’s chin and stepped back. “Fuck him.”

  He turned away as the man behind Krueger fired two rounds into the back of his head. Krueger slumped forward, the tape holding him upright in the chair. I must have gasped, because Morrie’s head snapped up.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  Heart in my throat, I jerked the phone away from the door and sprang to my feet.

  “Over there—by the door,” Morrie yelled.

  I could have qualified for the Olympic track team with how fast I ran.

  “Krueger’s dead. Get out of the building now, Sam,” I muttered into my collar as I raced toward him. I tried to keep my voice even, but the adrenaline dump kicked my vocal cords up an octave.

  I sprinted down the hallway, blew around the corner, and almost knocked Sam over. His flashlight skittered across the floor, coming to rest near the base of the wall. Sam picked it up and gave me the once-over. The alarm on my face must have registered, because he pushed me behind him, switched off the light, and drew his gun, flattening his back against the wall. The glow of a bulb down the hall behind us gave off scant light, but I was able to make out Sam’s form in the darkness.

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Four. All armed.”

  Sam dropped to one knee and raised his gun. I slid the 9mm from my holster. Footsteps echoed toward us along the hallway. Sam peered around the corner and fired. Someone shouted and the footsteps scrambled. A second later, gunshots cracked through the air, pinging off the bricks.

  Too close. Sam snapped back, out of the line of fire, and indicated I should go high. I nodded and took the position above him.

  Sam rocked forward and back, and on the next rock forward we rotated as one around the corner and fired. Muzzle flashes lit the dark hallway like a strobe. They returned fire and we fell back.

  Neither of us had been hit. A soft moan erupted from around the corner, followed by urgent whispers.

  Sam stood and fired again. He slipped back, ejected his magazine, and jacked in another one.

  “Mac’s guys have to be here by now. Run for the entrance and give them a heads-up.”

  “I don’t want to leave you,” I said, irritated that my voice caught. I’d almost lost Sam in Alaska when I left him by the side of the road so I could lure an assassin into the woods.

  This is different, Kate.

  “I’ll be fine. Go!”

  Shoving memories of Alaska aside, I sprinted down the hall and skidded around the next corner before running flat-out again. I was almost to the entrance when the front door slammed open. Officers wearing jackets that read Seattle PD spilled through the entryway. I skidded to a stop and raised my hands.

  “Drop your weapon,” bellowed the man standing in front. His gun was aimed at center mass, as were the other six. I held my semiauto out to the side and let it fall to the floor.

  “Hands behind your head.”

  Not a great time to argue. I did what he said.

  “My name is Kate Jones. I’m a private investigator with Akiaq Investigations.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “My partner, Sam Akiaq, is armed and down that hallway.” I nodded behind me. “He’s holding off four gunmen and needs help, now. One of them just killed Charlie Krueger.”

  As if to punctuate my words, a pop! pop! pop! reverberated through the cave
rnous building. My heart rate skyrocketed.

  Still covering me with his weapon, the man in front barked orders and a stream of officers raced past me toward the gunfire. Thankful that Sam would have backup, I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

  The guy in charge kept his gun trained on me. I wasn’t sure what I could say to make him believe I was on his side. At that moment a tall, muscular man strode through the doorway.

  Mac. Relief flooded through me. “You can confirm my identity with him.” I nodded at the man who’d just joined us.

  “I’ll take care of this, Jim,” Mac said. “They need you.” Jim nodded and lowered his weapon. He hurried past me to join the others.

  “Sam’s in there,” I said, picking up my gun. “I need to go.” More shots were fired, followed by shouting.

  “Sam’s going to be fine. My people are good, Kate. You know that.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” He stood aside and gestured toward the door. “Let’s get you out of here.” You didn’t argue with Mac.

  We walked outside and crossed the street. Officers were posted at strategic locations around the perimeter of the building. Yellow tape blocked the entrance to the parking lot and part of the sidewalk. Several unmarked sedans, two patrol cars, and a panel van blocked the street, keeping traffic at bay. An ambulance idled nearby.

  “They killed Krueger,” I said.

  He nodded. The lines under his eyes had deepened since I’d seen him last, and he looked as though he should sleep for a month.

  I stared at the door across the street, willing Sam and the others to appear. What was taking so long?

  A small crowd had gathered behind the yellow tape, and passersby were trying to get a look at what was going on. Some were using their cell phones to film the scene. Two cops worked the crowd, telling them to move along.

  “Here. You’ll want to see this.” I dug my phone out of my pocket and brought up the video of Charlie Krueger’s execution. Mac watched it in silence, his jaw set.

  “Can you shoot me a copy?”

  “Of course.” I entered his phone number and pressed send.

  “He was about to give up the name of his source.” Mac crossed his arms and stared into the distance. “We were so close.”

  “Do you guys know the Chacon person mentioned in the video?”

  Mac shook his head. “No, but you can be sure we’ll follow up.”

  Just then, a group of agents came through the door, their faces grim as they escorted three handcuffed men to a waiting van. The man in the track suit, Morrie, walked with a bad limp and had bloodstains on his pant leg. The agent supporting him peeled off and led him to the ambulance. I strained to see if Sam was among the exodus. He wasn’t.

  As two paramedics rolled a gurney into the building, the lead agent and Sam walked out. Sam looked like he was all right.

  I took a step into the street, but Mac held me back.

  “Wait until they give us the all-clear.”

  The bloody scene on the side of an Alaskan highway over a decade before came rushing back with full force: Sam lying on a gurney after being shot by Angie McKenna, a freelance assassin hired by the cartel to kill me; the heart-wrenching belief that he’d given his life to keep me safe; the unbelievable joy at the realization he was still alive; the rollercoaster of emotions capped by knowing I had to leave Alaska and Sam behind if either of us were going to survive.

  Now that my ex, Roberto Salazar, and his boss, Vincent Anaya, were both dead, and Angie had crawled back to whatever hole she’d been living in, it looked like Sam and I would finally have a chance at a normal life.

  I resisted the urge to run to Sam and folded my arms across my chest. He said something to the agent before crossing the street to join us.

  “About time you showed up,” Sam quipped.

  “Hell, if I’d known you two were going commando, I’d have left you to it,” Mac replied.

  I’d first met Mac Trundle two years before, after I’d moved to Seattle. Mac’s affable, laid-back manner belied a turbulent and often violent upbringing, having spent his formative years as a member of one of Seattle’s most notorious street gangs. At the age of eighteen, he was shot and almost killed by a rival gang member. The near-death experience got his attention, and he turned to mentoring inner city kids, working with local law enforcement to keep them engaged in more positive pursuits. Eventually, he took the next logical step and applied to and was accepted by the police academy. He now supervised a group of undercover narcotics agents working with dozens of informants trying to stem the flow of drugs into what he affectionately referred to as “his town.”

  I turned to Mac. “Sorry about your informant, Mac. I wish we could have saved him.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “What’s next? Any other good leads?” Sam asked.

  Mac nodded. “They said something about a guy named Chacon on the cell phone video Kate got. We’ll follow up on that. I’ve got a couple of possible informants, but they’re going to take time to bring into the fold.” He held out his hand. “Good work tonight, guys. Sorry it didn’t go to plan.”

  “Good luck,” I said. The three of us shook hands, and Sam and I walked to the Tahoe. We were almost there when my phone rang. I slid it out of my pocket and answered.

  “Kate Jones.”

  “Ms. Jones, this is Marietta Cranston, the head nurse at Harborview Medical Center.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Your number displays as the contact number on one of our patient’s phones. A Lisa Schroeder?”

  Lisa? A chill ran through me and I stopped dead in my tracks. “Is my sister all right?”

  “I’m so sorry to tell you this, but she was found unresponsive at a residence in the Green Lake neighborhood. She’s in a coma.”

  Three

  IT WAS AFTER two in the morning when Sam and I made it to the emergency room. Lisa’s boyfriend, Ian, was in the waiting area, along with several other people. Early Sunday morning was obviously prime time for emergencies. There were only four chairs available in the room: two to Ian’s right and two to his left.

  The fluorescent lighting gave Ian’s skin and streaked blond hair a yellow-gray cast, accentuating the worry etched on his face. He looked up and motioned us over. I sat in one of the chairs next to him, and he gave us the latest update, which didn’t sound encouraging.

  “When the paramedics found her, they immediately suspected an overdose. They pumped Lisa’s stomach and gave her Narcan to try to stop any further damage. They’re monitoring her closely, but so far she isn’t responding.”

  “But how did this happen? Lisa doesn’t do drugs.” I shook my head. “I mean, don’t you think we would have noticed? She’s been living with us for months.”

  “Was she taking pain medication for anything?” Sam asked. “Maybe she forgot how many she’d had.”

  Ian nodded. “She was taking oxycodone for her migraines, but she’s taken it before without any problems.”

  “Oxy?” I asked. “I didn’t know opioids worked on them.” How did I not know my own baby sister was taking narcotics? I’d known about the migraines, of course. She’d had them since she was a teenager. But she’d never let on that they’d gotten that debilitating.

  Ian rubbed his eyes. “It was the only thing that helped. And she tried it all.”

  I leaned back and stared out the window at the darkness beyond, trying to make sense of what happened. The memory of a few days ago came rushing back, when I’d helped her and Ian paint the space they’d secured for their new wine bar in a funky Seattle neighborhood. An older building, the high ceilings had proven a challenge when it came to renovations—and Lisa had almost fallen off the scaffolding they’d rented. Luckily, Ian had been nearby and caught her before she did.

  Had she been taking oxy then? Why hadn’t I noticed? The medication could have made her unsteady. I’d never have let her climb the scaffolding if that had been the c
ase.

  A well-dressed couple somewhere in their late thirties came through the emergency room double doors and walked wearily into the waiting room. The woman, her hair disheveled and eyes rimmed red from crying, walked to the two chairs on the other side of Ian. The man plodded in her wake, a blank stare on his face.

  I knew how he felt.

  I nodded at them as they sat down. The woman looked away. The man’s gaze passed over us as the woman leaned against him. His body rigid, he put his arm around her as she began to cry quietly.

  “How did this happen to our baby?” she moaned. The man just stared into space without replying.

  A doctor appeared at the nurses’ station. Slender, with jet-black, shoulder-length hair, she stood maybe five-six and had an intense air about her. The nurse nodded in my direction and said something as she handed the woman a clipboard. The doctor glanced over her shoulder and gave me a brief nod. She finished writing on the clipboard and handed it to the nurse. I was out of my chair and standing beside her before she turned around.

  “I’m Lisa’s sister, Kate.” I stuck out my hand and the doctor shook it. Her nametag read Dr. Trish Patel.

  “Trish Patel, attending physician.”

  “Is my sister going to make it?”

  Dr. Patel’s expression gave no clues as to how Lisa was doing. Why didn’t doctors ever show any emotion? At least then people could gauge the severity of the problem. It’s like they were taught how to present themselves in medical school—the bland, unemotional expression—all to manage overwrought family members. A little bit of humanity would have gone a long way toward helping me deal with my sister’s overdose.

  “We’re cautiously optimistic.”

  Optimistic. I could work with that.

  “Unfortunately, your sister had fentanyl in her system. Are you familiar with the drug?”

  Fentanyl? My mind raced for context. How did she get fentanyl? “Isn’t that the drug that killed Prince?” Dr. Patel nodded. “She was taking oxycodone for her migraines. How would she get fentanyl?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Dr. Patel shifted her weight. “Has your sister ever used cocaine or heroin?”