Mystery: The Sam Prichard Series - Books 5-8

by David Archer

  “I can imagine,” she said. “Head wounds bleed like crazy, even when they aren't serious. The important thing is that she's going to be okay, Sam. Can you tell me what happened? We're getting statements out at the church, but I want to hear what you know.”

  Sam nodded, and led her to a bench near the wall and they sat down. “We went to church; Porter called and invited us, and we decided to go. Everything was going along, and I—I think I yawned, and it made me look over to my right, and I saw a big man there, and at first I thought he was just pointing at the preacher, but then I saw the gun, and I knew it had to be Unger. He was dressed up like a big, fat man, and he had his face all done up to look fat, too. When I realized what was happening, I grabbed a book and threw it at him, but it hit a woman in front of him, and that got his attention. He saw me, and stood up and aimed again, but I was yelling and people started looking around and some of them were screaming, and he turned and pointed the gun at me and fired. I ducked, and it missed, and I took off after him, but he was faster than I was. By the time I got out of the room, he was gone, and I know he knows his way around there, so I'd never find him. I went back in to get Indie, and that's when I found out he'd hit her. Someone called paramedics, and then they brought us here. That's about it.”

  She nodded. “You're sure it was Unger, though?”

  “No doubt,” he said. “Single-shot pistol, big and tall; even with the fat suit, I knew it was him.”

  “Sam, we searched his place. Unger's kept a journal of every killing, and there were a lot more of them than we thought. You only found the ones where he used the single-shot; there were others, some of them even more brutal than those; he liked to get up close and personal now and then, so some of our missing persons cases are being cleared up. This guy was a combination of John Allen Muhammad and Ted Bundy. He shot some from a distance, and some he abducted and took somewhere to kill them. I've had a cold case unit going over all the cases you sent us, and I don't know who's gonna get fired over it, but someone is. How so many obviously connected cases went undiscovered is beyond me, but thankfully, I didn't have any of them. He hadn't struck in my district for years, so they were all before my time in homicide.”

  Sam shrugged. “He spread them out pretty well,” he said. “Unless all the different departments compared notes pretty often, they'd go down as isolated cases. Maybe it's time to set up a committee to do that sort of thing.”

  “That's on the politicians, I'm just a cop,” she said. “All I want is to nail this bastard before he can add another notch to his gun. He's got way too many now. Where do we look for him, Sam? Any ideas?”

  “He owns a lot of land,” Sam said, “but he called me last night and said he's got backup plans, always has. New identities, names, faces, bank accounts, everything. I don't think he's gonna go back to anything connected with his real life, so he's on the move.”

  Karen looked at him. “He called you? When was I gonna hear about this phone call?”

  Sam sighed. “He's got someone inside the force, Karen, and I think he's got someone in your section. He knows when I talk to you, and if you weren't alone, I'd have kept it secret even now. If you tell anyone, I'd have to say there's a good chance he'll know I've told you, and then he'll declare the game forfeit, and all bets are off.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “When he pointed the gun my way, Karen, I thought I was dead for sure, and when he missed I just thought I'd gotten lucky and someone had jostled his elbow at the last second. The truth was, he wasn't aiming for me, he was aiming at Indie, and he's a good enough shot that I have to wonder why she isn't dead. If he decides to come back after her, or Kenzie...”

  Karen sat there in silence for a moment. “Chalk it up to God watching over her, Sam, and let it go. Now, tell me what else you haven't told me.”

  Sam looked at her. “He wants me to meet him tomorrow morning, and he gave me a cryptic clue that says I'm to meet him where my life began. I'm guessing he means my current life, and the way I see it, it began when I was shot on my last Vice raid. Remember that one? You were new in homicide then; it was a warehouse downtown.”

  “I remember,” she said, nodding. “I was called in because there were fatalities, but you'd been taken to the hospital by then. You think he wants to meet you there?”

  “Yeah. Nine AM,” he said. “I was planning to call you just before I went inside and let you know, so you could surround the place and get him, even if he gets me.”

  Karen nodded again. “Okay,” she said. “After this, I figure you're planning on going after him there, so I'll keep my mouth shut ‘til then, but at five minutes to nine, I'm rolling toward that warehouse, and we'll have it completely surrounded by five after. No one but me will know anything until I call it in at five ‘til. But, Sam—don't take stupid risks in there. I know you want revenge, right now, but that'll only cloud your judgment, and you'll get yourself killed. I don't want to charge him with another murder, and especially not yours, you got that?”

  Sam grinned. “We're in agreement on that, Karen. I've got too much to live for.”

  8

  The doctors wanted to keep Indie overnight for observation, and though she protested, Sam put his foot down and she stayed. He called his mother to come and pick up Kenzie, which started a temper fit; Kenzie wanted to stay with her Mommy, but the nurse helped Sam explain that Mommy was going to be sleeping a lot because of the medicines they were giving her, and so she couldn't stay, anyway. When Grace and Kim showed up, followed by their rather ugly bodyguards, Kenzie had accepted it and was looking forward to the ice cream they had promised her. She was scheduled to start school in a few days, and her grandmothers were excited about the chance to spoil her rotten for a while before that.

  Karen had stationed an officer outside Indie's room, just to make sure Unger didn't come to try to finish what he'd started. Sam left the hospital and was looking for a cab when the big Tahoe pulled up in front of him. One of the two men, both black, said, “Get in. We takin' you back to yo' car.” Sam looked at them for a moment, and then got into the back seat.

  “We didn't expect no trouble in church, man,” the driver said. “We're sorry we wasn't there, and we didn't know what was goin' on when the fat man come out, or we'd have got him.”

  Sam looked up. “Did you see what he was driving, by any chance?”

  The other man nodded. “Green Caddy, all we know,” he said. “When we saw people come out screamin', I went in and saw what was goin' on, and Michael, here, he go after it, but it was empty just a couple streets down. Looked like he had another car stashed there, and switched out.”

  “I asked a couple people did they see anything, but wasn't nobody there wanted to talk to me,” Michael said. “We don't talk to cops, but I told Old Man about it, and he got word to somebody who did. Maybe they find out what he's drivin' now.”

  Sam nodded. “Maybe,” he said, “but thanks for trying. I mean that.”

  “We doin' what we do, man,” said the passenger. “Old Man tell us he need a favor, he get it.” The rest of the ride was in silence, and Sam saw that police were still at the church when he got there. Since he'd already given Karen more than he should have, he got into the Ridgeline and drove away.

  He had started toward his house, the Tahoe right behind him, when his phone rang. He looked to see a blocked number and answered.

  “Prichard,” he said.

  “Sam,” he heard Unger say, “I think you're a lot better than people say you are. How in the world did you know I was there?”

  “Because I'm smarter than the average bear,” Sam said. “I didn't know it, actually, until I happened to look over just as you were aiming at Porter. Glad I stopped you, by the way, but now you've made this a lot more personal. You shot my wife, you son of a bitch!”

  “Yeah? From what I hear, your wife's gonna be okay, so I guess God was taking care of both her and Porter, tonight. I don't usually miss a shot, but let's not talk about that. Let's talk about tomorrow mornin
g. Are you going to show up alone?”

  “I'll be there,” Sam said. “I got cornered by a cop from homicide, and had to tell her where, but I gave her the wrong time. We'll have an hour all to ourselves, you and me.”

  Unger was silent for a moment, and then said, “I'm surprised at myself, but I actually believe you. I think you want this end game as much as I do, now. Then you've figured out where to go?”

  “The old mattress warehouse, downtown, where I got shot on my last police case. That's where my life began, at least as I know it now. But make no mistake, Unger. You said this was for all the marbles, and I'm holding you to that. Only I'm upping the stakes a little higher—because only one of us comes out of there alive. Understood?”

  Unger was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Sam—that's exactly what I want. I'll be waiting.” The phone went dead.

  Sam drove on home, and once he had parked the Ridgeline in the driveway, he walked out to the two men in the Tahoe.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I think this will be over tomorrow, one way or another. For tonight, though, I don't need you here; but if you would, I'd appreciate it if you'd go back to the hospital and hang out near my wife's room. If someone who stands about six four tries to go near her, I would very greatly appreciate it if you would—change his mind.”

  The passenger looked at Michael, who nodded. He turned back to Sam. “Any special way you want us to do that?” he asked.

  Sam smiled. “I figure you can probably come up with more creative ideas on that than I can.”

  The two men smiled back at Sam. “Sleep good, Mr. P,” the passenger said, and Michael put the truck in gear and drove away. Sam breathed a sigh of relief; if Unger tried to finish what he'd started, Sam had a feeling he'd miss their appointment in the morning. Those two looked like either one of them could take Death into a dark alley and convince him to find a new job.

  He went inside, and the first thing that struck him was that the house seemed dead and empty. He had to make himself go up the stairs to Kenzie's room, just to reassure himself that the past few months had not been a dream, but then he went into his own room and felt Indie's presence there, and sat down on the bed. A moment later, he was joined by Samson, who jumped up to lay beside him and purr. Sam picked the cat up and held him in his lap, stroking his head.

  He felt tears trying to come, but he knew that he needed to stay focused on the situation, keep his mind on what was going on in the morning, so he only sat there for a few minutes. He got up again and went to his closet; there was something stashed in there that no one knew about, something not even Dan Jacobs had known about, and he wanted it with him for the morning. He had to get a stool and stand on it to reach the place where he kept it tucked out of sight, in a hidden compartment he had built special just for this one thing. He slid the false piece of wallboard aside and reached into the hole behind it to withdraw a small box, then closed the hole and took the box to the bed. He sat down again and opened it.

  Back in oh three, Sam had been nearing the end of his rookie year, and he was still holding on to his sense of honor and justice. He was a uniform cop, and was partnered with a female officer first class named Patricia Lincoln. Pat had been a great cop, with three years under her belt, and she'd taught him many things that stood him well over the years. She'd taught him how to trust his gut, and how to talk to the people on their beat; she'd even shown him that people weren't all that different, no matter how things might appear on the surface.

  The one thing he hadn’t liked about her had been that she had become cynical. She felt that most people were good enough from day to day, but that under the right circumstances, everyone was a criminal with the capability of doing harm to his brother. She never trusted anyone but her partner, she told him, because everyone else would let you down. She kept a “hole gun” stashed in a throwaway holster on her leg, a gun she could throw down in the event she shot a perp who was unarmed, and often told Sam he should get one. He didn't want to, he said, because he'd never fire on someone who was unarmed. She would laugh and tell him he wasn't old enough to know the reality of life, yet, but that when he finally got there, he'd have a hole gun of his own. He'd smiled and thought she was wrong.

  And then one night, when they responded to a domestic disturbance in a high crime neighborhood, they'd found themselves surrounded by locals who didn't want the abuser arrested, and when Pat had ordered them all to back off, a shot had rung out. Pat took a bullet to the chest, and before Sam could even react, the crowd was running in every direction. He saw the shooter, but didn't have a chance to pursue or even return fire with the mass of people in the way, so he'd called it in and tried to take care of his partner until help arrived.

  “Sam,” she said in a fading whisper, “take my gun—hole gun...”

  They had been her last words, and he'd slipped holster and all off her leg and into his pocket. He'd never seen her backup gun before, and was surprised to find that it was a little Glock 30-S forty-five.

  A hole gun was one that wasn't registered, a gun that could be tossed aside when you shot someone who seemed to be a threat, and then learned that they were unarmed. Despite his protests to Pat, he actually had come to the point of carrying one, and when it came to it, he had dug out this little gun of hers and strapped it to his own ankle. He'd never had to use it as a throw-down, but he'd carried it, just in case the day ever came when he needed it. Better to bruise his conscience a bit than to have his career ruined because some perp's partner ran away with the gun that justified the use of deadly force. Sam had decided that having it and not needing it was better than needing it and not having it, so he'd begun to carry it about a year after Pat had died. He thought she'd have been pleased that it was her gun he carried.

  The little gun had a magazine that was loaded with the same seven rounds she had put there twelve years earlier, and before he touched it, Sam slipped on a pair of rubber gloves. He worked the action a couple of times to make sure it hadn't suffered any dust, rust or corrosion that could jam it, then began to disassemble it. He cleaned the gun as if it was the one his life depended on, oiled the mechanism lightly, then put it back together quickly. He slid the magazine home, then wrapped it up in a piece of cloth and shoved it into the inner pocket of his leather vest. If it happened that Unger showed up without a weapon, Sam would use the unregistered gun to justify the bullet he planned to put into the man's brain, regardless. As he'd said, he only planned on one of them leaving alive, and he intended to make sure it was him if it was humanly possible to do so.

  Sam looked down at his bed, thinking about Indie. He thought about that very morning, when he'd been awakened by Kenzie and Samson. He thought about what life would be like if he lost them, any of them, and then a rage began to build inside of him.

  How dare this son of a bitch attack his wife? None of them were any part of his little game, and it infuriated Sam that this lunatic had dragged him into it so deeply that his mother and mother-in-law had to hide behind criminals. He feared for his wife's very survival and he was prepared to commit murder, if that's what it took to put Unger out of commission. So many disruptions in his life, and all because a sick man enjoyed killing innocent people, and was hoping that someone could stop him, were enough to make Sam pretty angry.

  His phone rang, and he snatched it up to see who was calling. It was Karen Parks, and he answered quickly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sam,” Karen said, “my officer at Indie's room says there are two very large men there saying that they intend to keep him company tonight, and that you sent them. Both of them are pretty well known to DPD, Sam, so I've got to ask you. Is this really necessary? We've got a police watch on her twenty-four and seven.”

  Sam grinned. “Let's just say that I think those guys would be one heck of a lot more effective at stopping Unger than the rookie you told to sit there and watch her door all night. Let 'em stay. They won't cause any problems, but if Unger shows up there tonight, you and
I can both sleep in tomorrow.”

  She laughed sarcastically. “I couldn't,” she said. “They'd have me down there writing it all up. Fine, then, they can stay. See you tomorrow.” The call ended, and Sam let the phone fall into his lap.

  Sam forced his anger back down. Emotion would get him killed; he had to go into this with his mind calm and focused. He got up from the bed and went into the living room, Samson right behind him. He set an alarm on his phone for six AM, just in case he was to doze off, and then sat down in his old recliner. Samson jumped up into his lap and paced around for a few seconds, then lay down and made himself at home.

  Sam leaned the chair back, ready to just let himself rest for a while, and then the alarm was going off. He jumped up as if it were a burglar alarm rather than a wake-up, and Samson almost flew off of his lap in surprise, but then he realized that he'd somehow managed to fall asleep after all. It was six AM, and he rose to go to the bathroom. A quick shower made him feel a bit more alive, and a call to the nurse's station on Indie's floor told him that she'd had a good night, as well, but was still asleep. He thanked the nurse, and went to the kitchen to heat up a breakfast sandwich.

  There was this niggling doubt in Sam's mind that kept insisting he was going to die. He had agreed to meet a known killer in a place where there would be ample hiding places and cover, and where he was sure his opponent would be hiding even before he arrived. He didn't really know the building, other than the small part he'd seen the day he was wounded, and he'd be willing to bet a fair amount of money that Unger knew it quite well; he'd probably studied it, preparing for just such a contingency as this.

  Either way, it didn't matter. Sam was going in, and he had every intention of coming out alive—and alone. Unger was going to die, and Sam didn't care whether he had his single-shot pistol, an entire arsenal of weapons, or no weapon at all. There was no way Sam was going to take the chance that this son of a bitch was ever going to see the light of day again, and come back after him or his family. This wasn't about justice, not anymore; Unger had bought himself a death sentence by shooting Indie, and Sam was Judge, Jury, and Executioner.