by Chris Carter
‘Get a grip Carlos, you ain’t dead yet,’ he whispered to himself.
He needed to identify his surroundings, to understand where he was. He reached for the chain around his ankle once again and ran his finger over it to find out how much movement he had. Standing up for the first time he realized how weak his legs felt. He quickly grabbed hold of the wall closest to him. His legs ached with thousands of pinpricks. He stood there for a long moment waiting for the blood to resume its normal flow.
With his hands against the wall he started moving to his left. The wall bricks felt moist but solid. He managed to move only about five feet before he reached the next wall. He carried on moving left, but before he reached the end the chain on his ankle held him to a stop. He extended his arm and touched the third wall. Garcia turned and walked in the opposite direction. He reached what felt like a heavy wooden door. He pounded on it with his clenched fists but it produced nothing but muffled thuds. Wherever he was, it was certainly a very solid prison.
He started walking back to his starting point when his foot kicked something. He stumbled back on instinct and waited, but nothing else happened. He crouched down and felt for the object cautiously. He touched it with his fingers – a plastic bottle full of liquid.
He undid the lid and brought the bottle up to his nose. It smelled of nothing. He dipped his right index finger into it. The liquid felt light like water and that brought on the realization of how thirsty he felt. Warily he brought his finger up to his mouth and touched the tip of his tongue – no taste, just like water.
Maybe the killer didn’t want him dead, at least not yet. It wasn’t unheard of, killers keeping their victims alive for a period of time before killing them. If Garcia was to stand a chance in any kind of struggle against this killer, he needed all the strength he could muster. He dipped his finger into the bottle one more time and brought it back to his mouth. He was certain – it was water. Slowly he moved the bottle up to his lips and had a sip. He kept the liquid moving around in his mouth without swallowing it for a while, testing for any abnormal taste. He got none. Finally he let the liquid run down to his throat and it felt like heaven.
He waited about two minutes for any kind of stomach reaction but he got nothing. He quickly gulped down three or four mouthfuls. The water wasn’t cold, but it filled him with life.
He replaced the lid and sat facing the wooden door with the water bottle between his legs. That door was the only way in or out of the room and he hoped that sooner rather than later it would open. He needed a plan, but he had no time to hatch one.
Fifteen minutes later he started feeling drowsy. He slapped his face vigorously with both hands trying to keep himself awake, but it made no difference. Feeling faint, he reached for the water bottle and threw it against the wooden door. He knew what he’d done. He had willingly drugged himself.
Fifty-Six
Hunter got up at five o’clock after another troublesome night. He’d dozed off in uneven intervals and never for more than twenty minutes at a time. The double Scotch had helped but not enough. He sat in the kitchen nursing his early morning headache with a glass of orange juice and a couple of strong painkillers.
He was hoping for an early start, but not 5 a.m. He wanted to obtain at least one more patients’ list before meeting up with Garcia back at the RHD. The cross-referencing and picture search from last night had yielded no results, but there were still several hospitals and physiotherapy clinics to go and Hunter was trying to stay positive.
He’d figured he’d be doing a fair amount of walking today and that gave him the perfect opportunity to wear his new shoes in. They did feel a little on the tight side as he walked around in his living room, but he knew that one or two days walking around LA would definitely do the trick.
The visit to the next hospital on his list went as slowly as the ones from the day before. Another cramped little room, another filing system that seemed to need a cryptographer to get through it. ‘Why do hospitals have computers if no one knows how to use them?’ he cursed under his breath as he finally managed to get the list of patients he needed just in time to make it back to the RHD.
Hunter didn’t pay much attention to the fact that Garcia wasn’t at his desk when he walked in at a quarter past ten. He gathered his partner was probably downstairs running through the daily report with Captain Bolter.
He dropped the envelope with the new patients’ list on his desk and stared at the picture-covered corkboard for a minute. What he needed was a cup of Brazilian coffee before going downstairs. He noticed that Garcia hadn’t prepared it yet. Strange, he thought as it was always one of the first things his partner would do as soon as he walked through the door.
Hunter brewed the coffee himself.
‘Are those new shoes?’ Detective Lucas said as Hunter walked onto the detectives’ floor.
Hunter paid no attention to Lucas’s sarcasm.
Most of the other detectives lifted their eyes from their computer screens to have a look.
‘They are new, aren’t they, you big spender?’ Lucas insisted.
‘I buy a new pair of shoes every ten years and you’re giving me heat?’ Hunter answered with disdain.
Before Lucas could hit back, Hunter’s cell phone rang.
‘Hello, Detective Hunter speaking.’
‘Hello, Robert, I have a surprise for you. Have you heard from your partner lately?’
Fifty-Seven
59, 58, 57 . . . Hunter’s eyes were fixed on the digital display just above Garcia’s head. His heart pounded against his chest like a sledgehammer. Despite the basement room feeling like a sauna, Hunter felt cold. A freezing cold that came from inside making him shiver.
Choose a color . . . any color, he thought. Black, white, blue or red. The colors flashed in front of his eyes like a psychedelic film. He looked at Garcia nailed to the cross. Blood dripping down his face from the barbed-wire crown that had been rammed into his head.
‘This is a simple game,’ as the metallic voice from the tape recorder had explained. Pick the correct color and the door on the bulletproof Perspex cage will open. Hunter would be able to get to Garcia and get the hell out of that place. Pick the wrong color and an uninterrupted high-voltage current will be sent directly to the crown on Garcia’s head. If that wasn’t sadistic enough, explosives placed behind the cage would detonate, blowing the whole room to high heaven if the monitor reading Garcia’s heartbeat displayed a flatline.
Garcia seemed to have passed out again.
‘Rookie, stay with me,’ Hunter shouted, hammering his fists against the cage’s door.
No movement – no response.
‘Carlos . . .’ The loud shout echoed across the basement room.
A slight head movement this time.
Hunter checked the heart monitor once again. The small ball of light was still peaking.
43, 42, 41 . . .
‘C’mon, rookie, stay with me,’ he pleaded before looking around the room for any clues, anything that could point him to a specific button. He found nothing.
Less than two months. Garcia had joined the RHD less than two months ago. Why did he have to be paired up with me? Hunter cursed. This shouldn’t have been his first case.
Garcia’s body convulsed slightly, forcing Hunter’s thoughts back to the basement room.
32, 31, 30 . . .
How much blood has he lost? Even if I get him out of here he might not make it. He hoped Garcia was stronger than he looked.
Just a few seconds to death. Hunter’s brain was working as fast as it could, but he knew he needed a miracle to figure out which button to go for. A guess was all he was left with. He felt mentally exhausted. He was sick and tired of playing these games. Games he knew he could never win because the killer had too much of an upper hand. Even now, he had no guarantees that the Crucifix Killer was telling the truth. Maybe none of the buttons would unlock the cage door. Maybe he was walking into certain death.
Hunter turn
ed and faced the basement door. He could still get out of there alive.
‘If I stay here I’m as good as dead,’ he whispered.
For a split second he forgot everything he’d ever believed in and considered running for his life. The thought made him sick and ashamed.
‘What the fuck am I thinking? We ain’t dead yet.’
15, 14, 13 . . .
‘Shit!’ He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes as tight as he could. ‘This is it, pick a fucking button, Robert!’ he told himself. ‘Color coded, why color coded? The killer could’ve used numbers, why give them colors?’
He knew he was running out of time.
‘He’s playing a fucking game again, just like the dog race . . .’ He suddenly stopped in a fright. ‘The dog race . . . the winner, what color was it?’ He tried to think. He knew it was dog number two, but what color was its jacket?
‘Shit, what color was the winner?’ he shouted out loud.
His eyes lifted from the buttons and met Garcia’s who had regained consciousness again.
6, 5, 4 . . .
‘I’m sorry,’ Hunter said with sadness in his eyes. He was about to reach for one of the buttons when he saw Garcia’s lips move. They emitted no sound but Hunter could easily read them.
‘Blue . . .’
Hunter didn’t have time to hesitate. He pressed the blue button.
2 . . .
The digital display froze. The Perspex cage door emitted a humming sound and clicked open. Hunter’s face transformed into one huge smile. ‘I’ll be damned!’ He ran inside and lifted Garcia’s chin from his bloody chest. ‘Hang in there, buddy.’
Hunter quickly assessed the inside of the cage. Garcia’s hands had been nailed to the wooden cross. There was no way he’d be able to free him. He had to call for help.
‘C’mon, give me a fucking signal,’ he shouted as he tried his cell phone. It was no good, he had to go back up to ground level.
‘Hold on, rookie, I’m gonna go call for help. I’ll be right back.’ But Garcia had already drifted back into unconsciousness. Hunter stepped out of the cage and started towards the door but a beeping sound made him stop and turn back. His eyes widened in horror.
‘You’re fucking kidding me!’
Fifty-Eight
The red digital display was active once again.
59, 58, 57 . . .
‘I pressed the right button . . . that was the fucking deal,’ Hunter yelled at the top of his voice. He ran back to the cage and double-checked the wooden cross. He had no way of freeing Garcia from it. The nails that pierced his hands were deeply embedded in the wood. Hunter noticed that the main body of the cross was slotted into a separate wooden foundation.
42, 41, 40 . . .
His only hope was to lift it off its base and drag it out of the room in time.
33, 32, 31 . . .
He had no more time to think. He quickly placed his right shoulder under Garcia and the cross’s left arm. From his weight-training experience he knew he had to use his legs and not his arms and back to lift it up. He steadied himself on his feet; bent his knees and in one quick push used all his power to shove his shoulder against the wooden cross. It surprised him how easily it all came apart.
The cage door stayed open but Hunter wouldn’t be able to get the cross through it without tilting it. He twisted his body, rotating his waist to the left as far as he could go. Garcia emitted a muffled grunt of pain, but Hunter’s acrobatics did the trick. They were out of the cage. Now he had to make it to the door.
20, 19, 18 . . .
His feet were in agony and he was starting to feel the double weight on his back. ‘A few more steps,’ he whispered to himself, but suddenly his left knee buckled under the weight and he came crashing down, slamming it against the concrete floor. A searing pain shot up his leg, making him dizzy for a couple of seconds – precious seconds. Somehow he still managed the cross on his back.
Hunter wasn’t sure how much longer he had. He was scared to turn around and check the clock, but he knew he needed to get back on his feet. He firmed his right foot on the ground and with a scream pushed himself back up.
9, 8, 7 . . .
He finally made it to the door. He needed to use the twisting trick once again, but this time he couldn’t rely on his left knee to support the weight. Using his right leg as his main balance point he repeated the same movement of seconds ago. He screamed out in pain, praying he could hold on for just a few more steps. He tasted sick in his mouth as his body felt faint and struggled to cope with the unbearable pain. Hunter felt his grip weakening – he was losing the cross.
One more step.
He used his last ounce of strength to push himself and the cross through the doorframe.
No more time.
He let the heavy iron door slam behind him hoping it’d be strong enough to withhold the blast. Hunter let go of the cross and fell over his partner using his own body as a human blanket. He closed his eyes and waited for the explosion.
Fifty-Nine
The ambulance came screeching to a halt in front of the emergency ward entrance. Three nurses were waiting to retrieve its patients. They watched in horror as the first stretcher was wheeled out. A half-naked man with a barbed-wire crown on his head had been nailed to a life-size wooden cross. Blood was pouring out of his opened wounds.
‘Jesus Christ . . .’ gasped the first nurse to reach the patient.
The second man was covered in a thin gray powder, as if he’d been dug out from under a collapsed building.
‘I’m alright, get off me. Take care of him,’ came the loud shouts from the second patient. Hunter was trying to sit up, but being restrained by the ambulance paramedics. ‘Get your hands off me,’ he demanded.
‘Sir, we’re already taking care of your friend. Please calm down and let the doctors have a look at you. Everything will be OK.’
Hunter observed in silence as the nurses hurried Garcia through the double doors at the end of the busy corridor.
As he opened his eyes he struggled to understand what was happening. For a few seconds everything was blurred, then he noticed the white walls. He felt dizzy and desperately thirsty.
‘Good, you’re awake.’ The woman’s voice was soft and sweet.
With great effort he turned his head in her direction. A petite, short dark-haired nurse was staring down at him.
‘How’re you feeling?’
‘Thirsty.’
‘Here . . .’ She poured some water from the aluminum jug next to his bed into a plastic cup. Hunter drank greedily, but as the water hit his throat it burned. A look of pain washed over his face.
‘Are you OK?’ the nurse asked worried.
‘My throat hurts,’ he whispered in a weak breath.
‘That’s normal. Here, let me take your temperature,’ she said, offering him a thin glass thermometer.
‘I don’t have a fever,’ Hunter protested, pushing the thermometer away from his mouth. He finally remembered where he was and what had happened. He tried to sit up but the room did a back flip somersault on him.
‘Wow!’
‘Easy there, mister,’ she said, putting her hand over his chest. ‘You need the rest.’
‘I need to get the hell out of here.’
‘Maybe later. First you need to let me take care of you.’
‘No, you need to listen to me. My friend . . . how is he?’
‘Which friend?’
‘The one who came in nailed to a fucking cross. I don’t think you could’ve missed him. He looked like Jesus Christ. Do you remember him? Supposed to have died for our sins.’ Hunter tried sitting up once again. His head pounding.
The door opened and Captain Bolter stuck his head through. ‘Is he giving you attitude?’
The nurse gave the captain an ivory smile.
‘Captain, where’s Carlos? How’s he doing?’
‘Can you give us a moment?’ the captain asked the nurse as he stepped i
nto the room.
Hunter waited until she was gone. ‘Did he make it? I gotta go see him,’ he said, trying to stand up but collapsing back into bed.
‘You ain’t going anywhere,’ the captain said firmly.
‘Talk to me, Captain, is he alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘How is he?’ Hunter demanded.
‘Carlos lost a lot of blood, what the doctors call a class-four hemorrhage. In consequence, his heart, liver and kidneys have weakened considerably. He was given a blood transfusion, but other than that there isn’t much else anyone can do. We have to wait for him to fight back.’
‘Fight back?’ Hunter’s voice now showing a slight quiver.
‘He’s stable, but still unconscious. They are not calling it a coma just yet. His vital signs are weak . . . very weak. He’s in the ICU.’
Hunter buried his head in his hands.
‘Carlos is a strong man – he’ll come out of it,’ the captain reassured him.
‘I’ve gotta go see him.’
‘You ain’t going nowhere for now. What the fuck happened, Robert? I almost lost two detectives in one go and I didn’t even know what the hell was going on.’
‘What the fuck do you think, Captain? The killer went after Carlos,’ Hunter shot back angrily.
‘But why? Are you telling me the killer suddenly decided to up his game and become a cop killer? That’s not what he’s about.’
‘Is that so? So please tell me, Captain, what is the killer about?’
Captain Bolter avoided Hunter’s eyes.
‘I’ve been after him for over three years and the only thing I know he’s about is torturing and killing. Who he kills seems to make no fucking difference. It’s all a game to him and Carlos was supposed to be just another pawn,’ Hunter said, trying to raise his voice.
‘Run me through what happened,’ the captain ordered in a calm voice.
Hunter went over every detail, from the time he’d received the phone call to when he’d closed his eyes waiting for the explosion.