A Necessary Evil

by Christina Kaye

  Either way, he was screwed. He had failed at his mission, and everything he’d accomplished over the past two years had been in vain. Not only would Franklin never pay for killing Collin’s father, but he was going to kill him too, probably exactly the same way he’d killed Julian. For the first time in his life, Collin found himself hoping the police would find him. It was his only hope for survival.

  A door on the opposite side of the room opened, and a loud creaking noise echoed throughout the mostly empty warehouse, and in strode the man himself. He was wearing a dark gray pinstriped suit with a light blue button-up shirt underneath and shiny black leather shoes. His silver hair was neatly combed, and he looked much more put-together than he had the night before. He was whistling as he bridged the gap between the entrance and Collin. He stopped in front of him, jerked the bandana out of Collin’s mouth, and smiled.

  “Good morning, Collin.”

  Collin glared at him silently.

  “Oh, don’t look so mad. Sorry about the sleeping arrangements. I didn’t know the boys were going to make you sleep sitting up, but there’s nothing to be done about it now, I guess. Did you at least sleep well?”

  Again, Collin stared back at him without saying a word.

  “That’s unfortunate. Now, I figure there’s no reason to delay. Especially with my old buddy Kurt breathing down my neck. So, we’d better get this show on the road. I’ve brought some friends to help us out.” Franklin turned and motioned toward the two goons, who were standing by the open door. “Rupert. Stanley. Please show everyone in. And bring in the tables and chairs.”

  The two thugs nodded and disappeared. A few seconds later, several people streamed into the warehouse one at a time. Leading the line of strangers was a weird looking girl Collin figured was in her early twenties. But she was not the kind of girl who would ever pique his interest. She was too thin, with eccentric, mismatched clothes, black clod-hopper boots, spiky blue hair, and piercings all over her oval-shaped face.

  Next came a redheaded boy, also rather young, with freckles and pale skin. He was tall and lanky, and his faded jeans and blue t-shirt hung from his frame as if they were two sizes too large. His freckled face was blank, but Collin could detect a hint of excitement in his hazel eyes.

  As the others poured in, the two bodyguards set up the tables and chairs. The pierced girl and the redhead sat in two of the five metal chairs opposite the folding table they’d set up near Collin. A third man, the one who’d watched him at the restaurant, brought in a bigger, sturdier chair covered in red leather, and placed in only a few feet to Collin’s right. Franklin thanked the man and took his seat. Collin wondered why the old man was sitting so close to him.

  When the others sat with the two young kids, Collin looked them over. What a motley crew of criminals this was. Next to the redheaded boy sat a handsome Hispanic man in khaki pants and a plaid button-up. Beside him was a man with olive-toned skin and jet-black hair that was slicked back with way too much hair gel…obviously an Italian-American, Collin judged. Next was a rather rotund Indian man with a sweaty bald head which he kept patting with a folded white handkerchief. And beside him sat a short man in what Collin assumed was his late fifties, wearing a brown tweed blazer, a red bowtie, round tortoiseshell spectacles, and a very obvious brown toupee. Finally, Bruno took the last seat. His black tribal tattoos stretched out from underneath his too-tight white t-shirt and wrapped around his bulging biceps.

  Once they had all taken their seats, Franklin stood again and clapped his hands together once, causing Collin to jump a little. His insides were trembling as he waited to hear what Franklin was going to say next. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Great. Thank you all for showing up. Now, as we previously discussed, I’ll be serving as judge. You folks will be the jury. Except for you, Oliver.” Franklin motioned toward the group, and Toupee Man stood and approached him. “You will serve as the prosecutor. I’ve filled you in on all the horrible details of this man’s crimes. You will present the case to the jury.” Franklin turned back to the group. “The accused will have a chance to plead his case and try to explain his actions, and then you fine people will deliberate and find him either innocent or guilty. You can sit down for now, Oliver. Thank you.”

  Franklin turned to face Collin, but he spoke loudly so everyone in the room could hear him. His booming baritone voice echoed through the iron rafters. “If, by some miracle, you are found innocent, I promise to let you go free.” The members of the jury exchanged confused glances. Franklin turned to face them. “Oh, don’t worry, folks. He’ll still have the small matter of the police hunting him down.”

  The jurors seemed to be relieved by this detail.

  Franklin looked at Collin. “But you’ll be alive, whatever that’s worth. If, however, you are found guilty, the jury will then deliberate your sentence. It will be death. I can promise you that. But it will be up to them to decide exactly how you die. Now, shall we begin?”

  Collin looked over at the so-called jury. Everyone nodded.

  Franklin sat in the leather chair near Collin and crossed his right leg over his left, revealing silk socks the color of a robin’s egg. “Perfect. Oliver, you may proceed with the prosecution’s case.”

  Oliver stood, straightened his tweed jacket, and cleared his throat. He stepped to the middle of the room and clasped his hands together at his midsection. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as you may know, I normally represent innocent defendants, like our good boss, Mr. Cartwright, here. But I’ve been asked today to present to you the case against this man, one Collin McAllister, who stands accused of the most heinous crime of kidnapping young Mollie Cartwright and holding her prisoner for nearly two days. Not only that…he chained her to a wall, shackled at the ankles like an animal. His plan for her, by his own admission, was to slowly kill her in front of her grandfather, allegedly to avenge his father’s death at the hands of Mr. Cartwright. But I present to you now, there is zero evidence of this man’s horrific accusations against our benevolent boss, who has been so magnanimous to all of us. Instead, it is our position that this man, who also stands accused of the murder of six innocent women over the past two years, is nothing more than a sick, pathetic excuse for a human being. Rather than acknowledging his own sense of depravity, he’s trying to shift the focus and the blame to Mr. Cartwright. We cannot allow this man…” Oliver pointed right at Collin, “…to get away with his crimes. I ask that you consider the evidence that will be presented to you today and render a verdict that is fitting in this case. Find this man guilty on all counts. Deliver justice for Mr. Cartwright and his poor granddaughter, as well as the six other innocent victims this man has taken from this world. I thank you for your time.”

  With that, Oliver gave a curt bow and shuffled back toward his seat.

  Franklin stood and said, “Does the prosecution rest?”

  Oliver turned around before sitting. “Yes, Your Honor. The prosecution rests.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Collin tried to mask with false bravado the fact that his stomach was rolling and his hands were trembling.

  Franklin turned to him and smiled. “It’s your turn, son. You may present your defense.”

  Collin didn’t want to participate in this shit show. It was a farce and held no legal weight whatsoever. And it was pointless. Franklin was going to find him guilty no matter what he said or did. But when Collin shook his head, indicating his intent to say nothing, he heard a gun cock and felt the pressure of cold steel against the side of his head.

  “I said it’s your turn.” Franklin held a gun flush against his skull. “Speak up now or I will kill you slowly and painfully. This jury is your only hope.”

  Collin nodded. He felt the sudden urge to wet himself. “All right. All right.”

  Bruno walked over, pulled out a knife, and cut the ropes which bound Collin’s feet to the chair. Collin held out his hands, expecting the baldheaded thug to cut his hands free too. But he just shook his head
and smiled, revealing tiny Chiclet teeth. Collin lowered his bound hands and bowed his head. He drew in a deep breath, let it out, and began.

  “I was born in 1978.”

  Chapter 23

  Kurt

  He dragged himself into the station around eight thirty. After a fitful night of sporadic sleep—his FitBit registered only three hours of REM sleep—he was in serious need of a caffeine infusion. He trudged over to the coffee machine and poured the thick, black roast into a too-small Styrofoam cup. Normally, he added a little cream and sugar, but today, he wanted the full caffeine effect, so he drank it black.

  “Hey, Whiskey,” Lonnie shouted over his shoulder. He was sitting with his feet kicked up on his desk, scrolling through his Facebook feed, as usual. “Late night? You look like shit on a stick.”

  “Shut up.” Kurt tossed his keys onto his metal desk, and they landed with a loud clank. He gingerly lowered himself into his chair. His back was acting up again. Too much stress.

  Lonnie pulled his feet down and scooted his chair closer to Kurt’s desk. “No, seriously, man. No joke. You look awful. I’m really worried about you. You okay?”

  Much as Kurt hated to talk about serious matters with Lonnie, he really had no one else to unload on, so he figured—what the hell? “Yeah, I look like crap because I feel like crap. This damn thing says I only got about three hours of sleep. My back is killing me. And I still have no idea where Frankie Cartwright is hiding Collin McAllister.”

  “Sorry, man. Here.” Lonnie reached into his pocket, pulled out an orange plastic prescription bottle with a white label, and emptied a round, blue pill into his palm. He held it out toward Kurt. “It’s a Percocet 30. It’ll help with your back pain.”

  Kurt considered the pill briefly. He’d been offered narcotic pain medicine by his doctor following his surgery, but he’d declined, afraid of becoming addicted like so many of the criminals he encountered in his day to day job. But now, less than a year shy of retirement and in an enormous amount of pain, he asked himself, what was the worst that could happen?

  Kurt held out his palm, accepted the tiny pill, threw his head back, dropped it in his mouth, and washed it down with a big swig of super strong coffee.

  There. That ought to set me right.

  “Now, as for how to find Franklin Cartwright before he kills that psycho McAllister, I’ve been thinking. Do we really, really want to stop him?”

  Kurt shot Lonnie a steely glance and tilted his head.

  “Now, hear me out before you preach at me about right from wrong.”

  “Fine, I’ll listen. Give me your best argument.”

  “Okay, see, the way I figure it, Cartwright is doing us all a huge favor. This McAllister sicko is the worst of them all. Not only did he kidnap and hold that girl, Mollie, hostage, but he murdered six girls over the past two years. We saw the proof in that weird scrapbook of his.”

  “Yeah, but that still doesn’t mean—”

  “You said you’d hear me out, man.” Lonnie gave Kurt a serious look.

  Kurt gestured for him to carry on.

  “Anyway, like I was saying, if we find him and arrest him, he’ll probably lawyer up before we can get a statement out of him. If he’s got family money—and based on that farm, I’d say that’s a pretty distinct possibility—he’ll hire some bigshot, slimy attorney to represent him. You know the kind. We see them in here all the time shutting down interviews. So, he’ll hire one of those slick bastards, and if he’s good enough, he may just be able to get him off completely. Even if he gets time, you know it won’t be enough. And he’ll serve his sentence at some cushy, minimum security facility…what do you call them?”

  “Prison camps,” Kurt answered.

  “Yep. That’s it. A damn prison camp. Had one perp get sent up for murder early in my career. You know where they sent him? One of those so-called camps in Florida. And this dude shot his wife in the back when he found out she was screwing around on him. Cold-blooded murder, and he gets to sit around, watching cable television, sleeping in a ‘dormitory,’ and playing pool all day long, with an ocean view. It’s just stupid. I’d hate to see that happen with this guy.”

  “That still doesn’t mean we can let Frankie do whatever he wants to him. We are police, Lonnie. We can’t turn our backs on murder. Besides, weren’t you the one giving me hell a couple days ago about going soft on Frankie?”

  “Yeah, but that was before. Now, I can see why someone like our old friend might have the right idea.”

  “We can’t let people turn into vigilantes. No matter how much the so-called victim may deserve it. I can’t believe you’re seriously saying this.”

  Lonnie shrugged. “I’m just saying. If the old dude—no offense…”

  “None taken.”

  “…wants to take care of this sick asshole for us, then why do we have to be in such a hurry to stop him? It’s like nature, man.”

  “Nature?” Kurt looked at Lonnie, confused.

  “Yeah, nature. The circle of life and all that. The predator stalks the prey. The prey becomes the predator. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “No, Lonnie. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  All of a sudden, Kurt felt a warming sensation course through his veins.

  The Percocet must be working its magic.

  “Forget the circle of life. Just listen to what I’m telling you. If Franklin Cartwright wants to deal with this bastard his own way, why should we stop him? We don’t have to give him our blessing. Just, maybe, take our time finding him. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Kurt, now feeling a lot better, found himself actually considering Lonnie’s theory. What if they did turn their backs and let Frankie do his thing? Would it be so bad? After all, Collin McAllister had caused unimaginable grief for six families, and there would have been seven victims if Frankie hadn’t tracked him down to that underground bunker and stopped him in the nick of time. Maybe the world would be a better place if he let Frankie do what he wanted and eliminated one more criminal from this earth. It would save the taxpayers time and money, and no one would likely even look for him.

  Wait. What the hell am I thinking?

  No way was he about to turn his back and let Frankie, once again, commit cold-blooded murder. And he had to call a spade a spade. That what it would be—cold blooded murder. It would be one thing if Frankie had caught Julian McAllister in the act of killing Addie and shot him in a fit of rage, but that wasn’t what he’d done. Though he never learned the exact details, he knew Frankie had stalked Julian for nearly a year before he’d kidnapped him from his gym and held him for hours, maybe even days, doing God only knew what to him before putting a bullet in his head and disposing of his body somewhere so well-hidden, no one ever found a trace of him. It would be the same with the son if Kurt let history repeat itself. Cold-blooded murder. Not on his watch.

  “No way, man,” he finally told Lonnie. He was feeling good now, but no matter how good he felt, he knew he couldn’t stand by and let Frankie do whatever he wanted. “Like I said, we’re police. It’s our job to catch murderers, and if at all possible, prevent them.”

  Lonnie hung his head and nodded, as if he’d known what Kurt’s answer would be all along. “Yeah, I kind of figured you’d say that.”

  Kurt continued. “No matter what Collin McAllister has done, no matter what he deserves, we can’t stand by and let someone like Franklin Cartwright decide someone’s fate. He already…”

  He was about to let it slip about Julian, but caught himself.

  Damn, Percocet is a hell of a drug.

  He straightened his shoulders and continued, hoping Lonnie didn’t ask any questions. “He already thinks he can do whatever he wants because he has money and influence in this town. I’m not about to stand by and let him continue to run this town. Especially not commit murder. Now, that’s the end of it.”

  “I hear ya, Whiskey. You’re right.” Lonnie said, though he looked a bit disappointe
d.

  “We’re going to search every property he has in his name. He had to take him somewhere he owns. He couldn’t carry out his plans, whatever they are, in a public place. Unfortunately, Frankie owns half the city, so it’s going to be like finding a very tiny needle in a very large haystack.”

  “Where do we start?” Lonnie rolled his chair back toward his own desk and opened his computer screen. “You lead the way.”

  Kurt smiled as he turned to his own computer and pulled up a search screen. He was doing the right thing. It wasn’t the easy thing, to be sure. But it was definitely the right thing. “You start with the rural properties outside the city limits, but within the county. He won’t have gone far. I’ll start with the commercial sites. If I were Frankie, I’d probably hide Collin somewhere industrial, like a warehouse, or an abandoned property of some kind.”

  “Sounds good,” Lonnie said as he typed away at his keyboard. After a few seconds of silence, he raised his head. “Hey, Whiskey?”

  “Yes, Lonnie?” Kurt tried not to sound irritated, but he knew he wasn’t hiding it well.

  “How’s that pill working out for you? Feeling any better?”

  Kurt sighed. “Yes. I feel a lot better. Thanks, Lonnie.”

  “No problem. I’ve got a whole bottleful from my knee surgery last summer. I keep them for special occasions. But if you need another, let me know. I’ve got you covered.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need any more.” But as soon as the words came out of Kurt’s mouth, he knew he was lying, both to Lonnie and to himself. He felt too good, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t even feel the pain in his back. Now he understood how and why people became addicted to the stuff. But what the hell. He was retiring soon. What was the harm in feeling good for once in his life? He’d worked too long and too hard to deny himself the warm, euphoric pleasure that was now washing over him. He deserved it.