Goblins

by David Bernstein

  It was common cop knowledge that whenever a child was abducted, the perpetrators fled in a hurry. They didn’t take their time or move cautiously. By the way the surrounding woods appeared, the kidnapper, or possibly kidnappers, had left like seasoned thieves. They’d obviously been prepared. Experienced. No one had heard a sound from Jacob when he’d been attacked. The entire scene was odd. Add in the green ooze and it was just plain weird.

  Hale tried to think of an animal that might leave such a substance, but he couldn’t come up with one. And there was no way an animal would’ve left the area without leaving a trail. Plus, there’d be blood.

  Maybe the green ooze was a chemical. Something used to subdue the boy, keep him quiet. He’d have the lab check it out. It would take a day or two.

  When other officers arrived, the area was cordoned off with yellow police tape. A search party was formed—the cops, players and their parents and friends helping out. The entire wooded area was scoured. People progressed slowly and called out Jacob’s name every few minutes. Don Standford, a local hunter, joined in the search and brought his Bloodhounds. The dogs were given a shirt of Jacob’s to sniff. But the keen-nosed animals found no scent by which to follow, except for the one leading back to the field.

  The search went on all day, the hunt spreading out and over to adjacent forest, across roadways and into neighborhoods, but there was no sign of Jacob. Soon, dusk fell and then complete darkness save for the three-quarter moon’s shine, which wasn’t much help at all.

  The search continued the next day, but to no avail. Eventually, the checkpoints were removed and travel went back to normal, though the Amber Alert was still active. Chief Hale feared the kidnappers had likely gotten off the island, or were holed up somewhere and doing god knew what to that kid. He could only hope it was some distraught man and woman whose kid died from some disease and the couple were simply trying to replace a child. It was better that than the alternative—some sick and twisted son of a bitch… No, he wouldn’t go there.

  The chief sat in his office, trying to figure out what might’ve happened. If the abduction had been planned, it meant the kidnappers had been following the boy. But they wouldn’t have known he was going to be in the woods. Jacob only went in after a ball. The kidnappers would have had to race over there and snatch him, then have their getaway planned. Unless they were watching him from the woods, and when Jacob fell into their lap, they took advantage of the situation.

  He and a few officers looked over all the videos people had taken while at the game, hoping someone might’ve gotten one of the suspects on film—an out of place-looking individual or stranger. He had been able to collect some video on the day of the disappearance and had everyone else send theirs to the police department’s email. The department watched hours and hours of security video from numerous places—traffic cameras, local banks, stores, the marinas that had cameras, and of course, from the roadway bridges that led off the island. There was no sign of Jacob Brown.

  Three days went by and Hale found himself sitting in his living room in the dark with a bottle of whiskey on the table next to him. He was still no closer to figuring out what had happened to the Brown kid. The Amber Alert yielded only a number of false reports. The boy’s parents were wrecks. They were constantly checking in with him and he heard they were repeatedly canvassing the woods, as well as abandoned properties and vacant land where poachers were said to dock—all places the police had already searched. The last time he’d seen parents so distraught had been when he was a detective in Chicago.

  He poured himself another shot, hardly feeling the liquor’s burn anymore. He wasn’t a drunk and wasn’t sure how he’d managed not to become one. He was grateful he was able to still get sloshed and not worry about it. This whole missing kid situation had brought the past screaming back with it. He knew he couldn’t run from such a thing, though he’d tried. It would rear itself up now and again, like it always did, but this time he couldn’t allow it to consume him. He had a job to do. Jacob could still be alive.

  The whiskey bottle was nearly empty, his soul feeling as unencumbered as it was going to get. He wished he had a pack of smokes on him. He’d given up the habit when he came to the island. Gave it up cold turkey, like the alcohol. Somehow though, he was always able to start and stop when he felt like it. He was lucky in that way, he guessed.

  “Damn it,” he yelled to the empty house. He’d been through so much. Lost so much. He’d moved to Roanoke and taken the job as Chief of Police because he wanted to serve but no longer have to deal with the atrocities that came with big city life. He knew bad things could happen anywhere, but this kidnapping—for what else was it—was eating away at him like termites on untreated wood. Old wounds were ripped open. He was even thinking about his ex-wife, Lola. She was usually a fleeting thought at times. But now, drunk, he wanted her. Wanted to call her and tell her how sorry he was for neglecting her and treating her like shit. It was the booze, he wanted to say, had said, but that was a lie. It had been him. Didn’t matter how many years had gone by, they never seemed to be enough. His life back in Chicago was always there, seeming like yesterday.

  Lola. Fucking Lola. The woman of his dreams who he’d thrown away like she was trash. Like she was replaceable. She’d left him shortly after the shooting incident. She’d been a good woman. No, a great woman. He’d loved her, still did, but had pushed her away. She’d stayed by his side until she couldn’t. And he didn’t blame her, because a woman like her deserved better. By the time he realized what a horrible mistake he’d made, she had moved on. That, along with the incident, had made his decision to leave Chicago an easier one. Starting new somewhere else had been his best bet. It was that or continue spiraling downward.

  Chief Hale had been a detective in Chicago when the incident happened. Fifteen years on the job and nothing so horrible had happened to him until that fateful day. Before that day, he’d been shot at twice as a patrolman, and once as a detective when the house he was investigating hadn’t been cleared properly. He had seen more corpses than a gruesome slasher movie could produce. Notified families of dead loved ones, their horrified expressions and cries forever singed into his brain. Chicago had gotten really bad during his time there. Cops feared for their lives almost every time they went out—even the detectives responding to secured scenes. Hale had held it together, like all the rest, but the incident, as he had come to call it, was simply too much.

  Hale had been on his way home in his unmarked cruiser when he spotted a beat-up and rust-laden 1971 Chevy Impala swerving along a side street. He was tired from a long shift and wanted to go home. But when the Impala sideswiped two parked cars, he turned on his flashing grill lights, whooped his siren a few times and pulled over the vehicle. As Hale was calling it in, the driver—a wiry man in his thirties wearing sunglasses and sporting a bushy beard—sprang from the car. He had a gun in his hand and was yelling incoherently, completely irate. He raised the weapon and opened fire.

  Hale’s heart scaled the inside of his chest. The radio mic fell from his grasp as he went for his gun. Bullets riddled the windshield and hood. He ducked down as the seat’s headrest exploded, sending foam cushioning everywhere. Tiny glass fragments rained down over him as bullets continued to fire.

  Finally, the gunshots ceased. He had no idea where the shooter was or if the man was out of ammo. He pulled on the driver side door handle, then kicked it open all the way.

  When no gunshots sounded, he scooted out of the car, but as soon as his feet hit the pavement, more gunshots rang out. He crouched behind the door as bullets clanked against the other side. The window exploded above him and glass rained down.

  He knew he couldn’t sit there and wait for a bullet to make it through the door and strike him. He didn’t have his bulletproof vest on. He needed to put the guy down before the psycho clipped someone. Though the street was void of people, there were houses along it. At any time, a kid
could come cruising by on a bike or skateboard with headphones on, oblivious to the situation.

  A vehicle’s brakes squealed from somewhere down the road. Good, Hale thought, people were paying attention. The last thing he wanted was for someone to stop and inadvertently supply the shooter with a hostage and getaway vehicle.

  The gunshots stopped again. Hale took three quick breaths, then popped his head up. The gunman’s eyes widened at the sight of him. Hale didn’t have time to properly set himself, but took aim as best he could and opened fire, hoping to hit the guy or at least get him to realize his life was on the line, too. Maybe the man would drop the weapon, though Hale doubted the guy was in the right frame of mind to realize he wasn’t bulletproof.

  “Fucking pig,” the man yelled and opened fire, showing no sign he cared bullets were coming his way.

  Bullets thudded the driver side door of Hale’s vehicle. One made its way through and tore a hole in his shirt inches from his ribs. A ragged puncture was left in the door’s gray upholstery.

  Hale ducked back behind the door and checked himself. When the shooting ceased, he yelled for the asshole to put down his gun. “The entire Chicago police force is on its way here. You’re finished.” It wasn’t a total lie. He hadn’t gotten a chance to make the call to dispatch, but with all the gunfire, he was confident 911 was barraged with calls.

  Hale heard the sound of the man reloading, the clicking and sliding of the magazine well known to any cop. He popped his head up and saw the guy had come closer. The suspect was bleeding from his left shoulder. Hale had hit him, but it didn’t seem to matter to the guy. The man had the gun loaded and raised the weapon.

  Hale fired a couple of shots before he ducked back behind the door. The psycho was firing on him again. Bullets thumped against the door. Hale felt each one’s impact, praying it was all he’d feel.

  He couldn’t sit there and wait for a bullet to find him, or for the maniac to come around the door and blow him away.

  Sirens sounded in the distance.

  The shooting ceased. Hale popped back up. He took careful aim.

  The magazine in the suspect’s gun slid out of the handle and clanked to the pavement. The guy then reached into his pocket and withdrew another one. “Fucking pigs. Pigs. Always pigs.”

  “Drop it or I’ll drop you,” Hale yelled, his mouth feeling as if he had just washed it out with sawdust.

  The man ignored him and popped in the new magazine, continuing to swear.

  Hale had him dead to rights. The man was even closer now. Walking and shooting, trying to get right up on Hale so he could take Hale out.

  Hale was set this time, his aim as true as it ever would be. He had a bead on the man’s chest, centered. The guy didn’t stand a chance. “Drop the weapon now.”

  He didn’t want to shoot anyone, let alone kill. No cop wanted to use deadly force, even for the vilest scum. Few cops ever pulled their weapons, fewer fired them in the line of duty, and even less had kills. But he’d defend himself without a second thought. When he’d signed on to protect and serve, he knew a day like this could happen, especially in Chicago.

  As soon as he got the guy in his sights, he knew it was going to end badly for the man. But he hoped the guy would listen.

  The shooter slapped the magazine in place, then racked the slide.

  Hale’s heart beat even faster. Sweat tickled his spine.

  The perp raised the weapon.

  Hale fired. Once, twice, three times. All three bullets hit the man’s chest, center mass. The shooter’s body jerked with each impact. He teetered for a moment. The gun fell from his grasp and then he collapsed backward to the pavement with a thud.

  Hale’s breathing was shallow as he watched the scene come to its completion. It was over. He knew the man was dead but kept his gun trained on the body as he approached. He picked up the gun and tucked it into his pants. The man lay with his eyes open, blood trickling from his mouth. His white T-shirt was flowered with crimson. Hale checked for a pulse. Found none.

  A pool of glistening blood was forming around the corpse, spreading out like poured pancake batter.

  Hale took a few steps back. He holstered his weapon. He was numb. Knew he’d done the right thing. The only thing. But he’d killed another human being. He secured the scene as best he could until his brothers and sisters in blue arrived.

  Police vehicles crowded the landscape, along with two ambulances. Onlookers came from their houses and gawked from behind the police barricade. Hale was checked on by paramedics. Besides feeling shaken up and exhausted, he was physically fine, at least until the suspect’s car was searched and the body of a twelve-year-old girl was discovered with one of Hale’s bullets in it.

  The suspect’s name was Kim Dates and he had a rap sheet a few miles long. He’d been arrested numerous times for drug possession and assault, the most recent arrest for beating his girlfriend’s fourteen-year-old daughter with a pipe. He’d been in and out of prison since he was sixteen and had never been a model prisoner either. Marcus Hale had done the world a favor when he put three bullets into him. Unknown to anyone before the shootout, Dates had upgraded his crimes to include kidnapping.

  A twelve-year-old girl, Rebecca June, had been discovered in Dates’ trunk. She’d been missing for three days from Lanford. Dates was moving her from wherever he’d been keeping her when Hale pulled him over. During the shootout, one of Hale’s bullets struck the trunk and then Rebecca. She’d been shot in the head and, according to the coroner, died instantly. The funeral had been closed casket due to the facial destruction.

  Despite the girl’s death, Hale still came out a hero in the eyes of his fellow officers. Rebecca’s parents were distraught, but in no way blamed him. Everyone knew it was Dates’ doing that caused the girl’s death. The autopsy revealed she’d been raped, beaten and starved, but had been alive.

  Regardless of the atmosphere, Hale took the girl’s death hard. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t his fault. But for some reason, he couldn’t shake how awful he felt, as if the logical part of his mind couldn’t agree with the emotional part. He saw the department psychologist, which helped, but it didn’t make him want to put the uniform back on. The bottom line was he had killed a little girl.

  He constantly replayed the shootout in his mind, especially at night while he lay in bed tossing and turning. He wished he’d been more careful, took his time aiming and making sure the bullets went where they were supposed to go. He knew he was being stupid. Shootouts were chaotic, unpredictable and dangerous. He’d done nothing wrong during the encounter, yet he still couldn’t put the uniform back on. He blamed himself for the girl’s death and couldn’t get past it.

  After taking a few weeks off—paid medical leave—he decided to retire. Chicago wasn’t the place he could be a cop anymore. It was too crime ridden. He’d spent years dealing with the worst of the worst and staring at too many corpses to count. He didn’t want a desk job either. It wouldn’t change anything. He’d still be in the middle of all the death and hurt that the job brought with it. He loved being a cop. His father was a cop and his grandfather too.

  He’d been on the force for fifteen years, not long enough for a full pension. When he went to his captain to turn in his shield and formally resign, the man asked him to reconsider.

  “Marcus,” the captain said. “You’re a hell of a detective. Your blood is blue. Take more time if you need it. But don’t throw away all you’ve accomplished. All the families you’ve helped and murders you’ve solved. Five more years and you’ll get a full pension, then you can sail off into the sunset.”

  “I can’t,” Hale said, shaking his head. He wasn’t happy with his decision, but he had made it.

  The chief exhaled noisily, obviously frustrated. He sat back in his chair. “Tell me what you need. More time? Different area of the city? What?”

  Hale told him all the
reasons why he couldn’t be a cop anymore.

  “So it isn’t that you don’t want to be a cop, just not in Chicago?”

  Hale wasn’t sure about that. Maybe he could be a cop in some small town where the biggest crime was the neighbor’s dog pissing on someone’s azaleas, and where the jail was filled with nothing more than drunks sleeping off benders. But finding and getting a job like that in a small town would require a lot of time and effort.

  “I think I might have the perfect job for you,” the captain said and told Hale about a Chief of Police job that had recently become available in North Carolina on Roanoke Island. The former chief had died in a car accident while vacationing in England. “Crime is everywhere these days,” the captain said, “but the department is on a small island and the kind of place people come to relax and sightsee, not smoke crack and rob each other. The locals are hardworking folk. Tourist season is short. And most of them are lovebirds wanting a romantic weekend or families simply vacationing. It’s small town living. Perfect for what you’re looking for. The crime rate is extremely low.”

  Marcus’s interest was piqued.

  “What do you say, Hale?” the captain asked, breaking the silence. “It’s perfect for what you told me you want. What you need. You’ll still be a cop. Hell, if after five years you’ve had enough, you can retire right there on the island.”

  Hale did want a change of scenery, and getting out of a big city would be good for his frame of mind. “I just don’t know if I’m ready to be a cop again,” he said.

  “You are still a cop. You haven’t turned in your badge yet.” The captain sighed. “If I can get you an interview, will you at least go?”

  “Sure.”

  Two days later, Hale was on a flight to Roanoke Island, having had no idea the place had an airport. He flew in on the governor of North Carolina’s private plane, the man a personal friend of his captain’s. As soon as he found this out, he knew the job was his if he wanted it. He checked out the island, talked with a few of the officers and by the time he flew back home, he felt like he’d found exactly what he had been looking for, and decided to take the job.