Purgatory (Jon Stanton Mysteries Book 11)

by Victor Methos

  And yet, he was uneasy. Undercover operations had to be cleared with a lieutenant and captain. The budget, duration, and the target locations had to be accepted, along with listening devices to ensure the safety of the undercover officer, and contingency plans had to be developed. Stanton was out here on his own, and aside from the obvious danger, his superiors wouldn’t be pleased.

  “What’s she like?” Dane asked.

  Stanton looked for a seat belt but couldn’t find one. “She owns some clothing stores. She’s always been dedicated to work. She wanted to be a fashion designer, but that didn’t pan out, so she went into the next best thing, I guess.”

  “That’s what she does. A person isn’t their job or their bank account, man. Or the car they drive or any of that shit. I asked what she was like.”

  Stanton leaned back into the seat. It was thick foam and comfortable, and he felt the evening sun on his face. “She’s warm and sweet. Sensitive. I always think of a delicate bird when I’m around her. It feels like I can say one thing and destroy her, so I always have to be careful.”

  Dane was silent a moment as he made his way onto the interstate. “She make you happy?”

  “She does. More than I think I deserve. What about you?”

  He shook his head. “Nah, man. There’s been girlfriends here and there. Nothing serious.” He smiled. “Part of the problem is girls can’t wait for marriage anymore to have sex. At least the girls out here can’t.”

  Stanton looked at him. “You won’t have sex, and that’s why you don’t have a girlfriend?”

  “You make it sound simple, but it’s not. I’m celibate. I used to be the opposite in my twenties. Like an animal, fucking anything that moved, male or female. Didn’t matter. Then I found God, and He told me to stop. He had something greater for me than just the life of a beast.” He glanced at Stanton. “But you know that, right? You were told something, too. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have converted to Mormonism. What’d He tell you?”

  Stanton didn’t know how much of himself he wanted to or could reveal to this man who murdered so callously. All he said was, “I don’t know,” and then changed the subject. “Where we going?”

  “It’s a little private beach. The owner lets me use it when I want. You’ll like it, some good waves.”

  They took an exit that led up a path through the city and toward Oloman Mountain. Then they veered off the path on a dirt road leading toward the ocean.

  A house sat near the beach. On both sides of the small bay were cliffs: a perfect, private beach.

  The jeep came to a stop on the sand, and Dane hopped out. “I’ll grab the boards.”

  Stanton got out of the jeep and realized Dane hadn’t even asked him if he had a swim suit. It was a good excuse not to go out on the water.

  Dane came out with two boards, and tucked into his waistband hung a pair of board shorts. He stuck Stanton’s board in the sand and tossed him the shorts.

  “Come on, man. Ocean’s waiting.”

  “I really don’t want to, Dane.”

  “Who said anything about want?”

  He ran at the waves and dived in, Stanton reluctantly following him.

  43

  The call came in at six, while Laka Alemea sat in a diner with two other detectives and was about to bite into a pork sandwich. She answered and was told by dispatch that two uniforms had a possible homicide.

  She sighed and said, “I’ll cover.” She took a large bite of the sandwich and put it back on the plate. “Sorry, boys, gotta run.”

  She got into her Corvette and turned on the radio before pulling away. She flipped on her sunglasses, though the setting sun wasn’t that bright anymore, and took the service roads to a financial services office building downtown.

  She thought about calling Stanton, but he had enough on his plate. He didn’t look well, and she was worried she had made the wrong choice in letting him go out. Maybe she should hit up her uncle after this call and talk it over with him. He’d known Stanton a lot longer than she had. Maybe this was something that he just went through every once in a while.

  The office building was fifteen floors of shimmering glass with a parking structure behind it. A uniform was waiting for her at the front entrance.

  “Thirteenth floor, Detective.”

  “Thanks.”

  She went inside. The atrium was far nicer than the exterior let on, the type of place where men in fancy suits came and figured out how to steal from those who were barely making ends meet. She didn’t like the building.

  The elevator didn’t have a thirteenth floor. It skipped directly from twelve to fourteen. She smirked at people’s stupidity and hit the button for fourteen.

  When the elevator doors opened, she saw two uniforms standing near the windows, talking.

  “We got the same thing as the other place, Laka,” one of them said.

  “What other place?”

  “The storage place. Blood everywhere. It’s worse, though.”

  He led her to another room. The inside looked like something out of a nightmare.

  Blood coated the walls, the glass, the ceiling, and the floors. A human body contained five liters of blood. When that blood came pouring out, it wasn’t like in the movies, a slow-moving puddle that gradually expanded. Five liters was almost one and a half gallons. It surged out like a burst dam, exiting the body under the force of the beating heart.

  This was something else, though, savage and shocking.

  “Call out Lorenzo and Jimmy.” She took out her cell phone and texted Stanton.

  44

  Stanton paddled behind Dane. The water was warmer than he had expected at this time of day. But he didn’t feel the connection he normally felt with the sea. Now, he just felt wet.

  “Paddle slowly, man. Feel the water on your hands, the depths below you. There’s life down there, ancient life, much older than humanity. Feel that life, man. Take your time.”

  Stanton tried to feel something, but there was nothing there but exhaustion. Even paddling felt like too much work.

  “I’m not feeling so good, Dane.”

  “Keep going, man. We’re almost there.”

  They got out past the breakers and rested on the boards, their legs dangling in the water. Stanton had to admit it was peaceful, much more peaceful than any other place in his life.

  “It’s beautiful, ain’t it? How still the world can be. We’ve lost this somewhere in modern civilization. We’ve disconnected from ourselves. Do you know the Germans have a word for the feeling you get when you’re in nature? And if you’re not in nature frequently enough, they think it can cause mental illness. We don’t have anything like that in the States. Life is just chasing money toward the grave, and we miss the money and fall in.”

  Stanton noticed that Dane had never asked what he did for a living, and it seemed like he didn’t care or think it was important.

  “Close your eyes, man. Take in a deep breath. Taste the ocean on your tongue… You feel that? That rhythm? That’s the heartbeat of the ocean, man. The heartbeat of life. It’s the same as our heartbeat. Feel it. Feel it deep down in your bones.”

  Stanton did as he asked, fully expecting not to feel anything. Slowly, though, something started in his ears. A low thumping that he thought was his heartbeat but slowly grew louder. He could feel the rhythm of the waves. They were even and paced, not erratic. Nature had precision. Each wave lifted him up in the water and then lowered him again. Nothing violent, nothing forced, just a slow connection between his body and the water.

  “Okay, man. Start paddling, and let the waves glide you in. Don’t control it; you couldn’t control it if you wanted to, anyway. Just let the wave guide you.”

  Stanton paddled next to him and remembered that familiar sensation of the waves building in tension as he got closer to shore, a slow power behind him that crept up and propelled him forward. Suddenly, the wave was there, and it lifted him, and both men jumped onto their boards.

  D
ane cut across to the left and Stanton to the right. The wave wasn’t huge, but it was enough. Stanton kept his center of gravity low. The board was perfect for his height and weight, and he glided like a bird on a rush of air as he cut across to the left and the wave began to curl.

  He ducked under the crest and felt the top of the wave touching his head. He came out the other side and saw Dane farther down the wave, cutting horizontally across before flipping the other way. Stanton did the same in the opposite direction, then the wave crashed into him. It spun him under the current and spat him back out. The sheer power of it reminded him what the ocean felt like: the strength of the universe unleashed.

  He gulped air and grabbed for his board, pulling it close as the wave dissipated. Dane hadn’t fallen. He softly glided in to shore and hopped off at the water’s edge. Stanton paddled back, and they met in the shallows. Dane hollered and held out his fist for a bump before he hollered again.

  “That was the shit, brother. How you feel?”

  Stanton had to admit he felt better. A rush of adrenaline had ignited his system. He turned toward the waves and said, “One more?”

  After the sun had set, painting the water orange before it turned inky black, Stanton realized he had been out on the ocean for hours. He trudged up the sand, every muscle in his body screaming, his back aching and his mind more calm and clear than it had been in months. He looked at Dane, who had a large smile on his face, and couldn’t help but smile, too.

  “You needed that,” Dane said. “I can tell.”

  “I’d forgotten that feeling. The force of it. It reminds you—”

  “That we’re part of the universe, not the universe.”

  Stanton nodded. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

  “No worries, brother. I enjoyed it. Not many people can hang with me.” He looked to the house. “Come inside, we can change there.”

  The home was elegantly decorated, with shelves of wine and glimmering decorations, a crystal vase in the center of a dining room table, a large black television taking up an entire wall, and photographs of a middle-aged man and attractive blond woman at tourist locations around the world. Stanton was staring at one photo of the man holding the woman in Santorini when Dane threw him a towel. He turned around and undressed.

  “How’d you meet this guy?” Stanton said. Dread went through him as he remembered why he was here and spending time with Dane. He hoped this man whose photo he was staring at wasn’t another of his victims.

  “He’s a member of the church. Nice guy. Made his money in selling luxury condos, I think. Got rid of ’em all when he joined. This cabin and some travel money’s all he has left. Gave the rest of it away, bless him.”

  Stanton toweled off and changed. He turned around to see Dane taking a shot of tequila in the kitchen.

  “You want?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Right,” Dane said with a grin. “Mormons don’t drink. You know, our Lord and Savior drank wine.”

  Stanton flopped onto the couch, feeling the utter exhaustion in his legs. They seemed unable to hold him up anymore. “We have rules established after Christ’s death. One of them is no booze. I mean, you could drink if you wanted to, you just couldn’t go to the temple.”

  “What’s that like?” he said, taking another shot.

  “Peaceful. A lot like being out on the ocean. Quiet.”

  Dane came over and sat on the other couch across from him. “I got a couple of girls who want to come over. You down?”

  “For a religious man, you’re sure trying hard to tempt me.”

  He laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with enjoying the beauty of life, man. That’s why God put it all here—for us to enjoy. He loves us; praise be unto Him.”

  Stanton leaned back, kicking his feet up on a soft square footstool in front of the couch. “How often you come here?”

  “Whenever I feel like being alone. Which seems to be more and more lately.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He leaned forward with a serious expression. “You ever feel like you’re out of sync? Like everyone around you is on a different frequency and you just don’t fit in? I’m sometimes in a conversation and listening to the guy or girl talking, and they’re just making me sick. I just wonder to myself why anyone would care about what they’re talking about. They seem so…”

  “Empty.”

  Dane grinned. “You feel it, too.”

  Stanton swallowed and looked up at the ceiling. “No civilization’s ever been conquered by an outside force that hasn’t morally collapsed first. That’s what Sodom and Gomorrah teach us. People think it has to do with homosexuality as a sin, but the destruction of those cities has nothing to do with being gay. They’re about moral corruption: of all against all, and no one caring about anything but the superficial and the pleasurable.”

  “And you think that’s where we are now? Where Sodom was before it was destroyed?”

  Stanton nodded. “I don’t believe in a vengeful God, but I do believe in self-destruction. We can’t carry on this path for much longer.”

  Dane was silent a second. “It’s a helluva burden, ain’t it? Everyone else going on in their life like nothing’s wrong, but you see what’s coming. You see it as clear as day, and if you told anyone, they wouldn’t believe you anyway.” He rubbed his hands together. “And what do you do, Brother Jon? What do you do to fight this coming destruction?”

  Stanton wanted to say he fought it one person at a time, but instead he just remained silent.

  “I’m starving,” Stanton finally said. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  45

  Dane took them to a crab shack on a beach near the North Shore, not far from where Stanton lived. It made him uncomfortable to have this man so close to his home but also excited him for some reason. He thought to himself that, in different circumstances, he and Dane would be close.

  Dane got stone crab and a beer, and Stanton ordered a bean salad. They sat down on the outdoor benches, lit with tiki torches around them, and ate. Halfway through the food, Stanton realized this was the first real meal he’d eaten in weeks.

  “You ever surf the North Shore?” Dane asked.

  Stanton nodded. “I used to all the time.”

  “What made you stop surfing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “General sickness, right? Like you feel like everything’s black. Nothing gives you pleasure anymore. You’re in the wasteland, brother. A place where you see the earth as ruin and rubble.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I been there, too. It’s a dark place, and sometimes suicide seems like the only way out. But there’s another way. You give yourself to God and to nature. Just hand yourself over and tell them you’re powerless, and you can’t do it on your own. Tell them that, and they’ll reach out to you, brother. And it’ll be glorious.”

  Stanton hesitated a second. “And is that available to anyone?”

  “Anyone searching for righteousness.”

  “What if they’re not?”

  He nodded as he took a bite of crab. “There are those who reject the right and always choose night. Those people can’t be saved; they can only be stopped.”

  Stanton wanted to ask how they would be stopped, but in his mental state, he couldn’t judge if that was crossing the line or not. So he just took a bite of his salad and remembered he had turned his phone off. He took it out of his pocket and turned it on. The first thing he saw was three text messages and a voicemail from Laka.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Where?”

  “Work.”

  “Oh yeah? At this time of night?”

  Stanton rose. “Sorry, it’s an emergency. I’ll just grab an Uber; you finish eating.”

  “Well, come by the church tomorrow. I have something to show you. Morning, as soon as you wake up.”

  Stanton nodded and said, “All right.”

  Stanton went up to the fourteenth floor
of the financial services building. Several uniforms were there already, and he saw Lorenzo photographing an adjacent room. Laka came up to him. “Where you been?”

  “Sorry, I turned my phone off. You said this was the same as the plant owner?”

  “Have a look for yourself,” she said, motioning with her head to the next room. Stanton went in.

  Blood coated the room. He’d been in rooms before where someone’s throat had been slit and they’d struggled, but it always had a pattern to it where the origin of the spray could be traced, an outline made. There was nothing like that here.

  The ferocity was stunning. Blood caked the walls in giant spurts, indicating the victim was struck over and over as he or she tried to flee. One large spatter on the ceiling made him guess the attacker swung upward so hard that blood flew six feet into the air.

  Jimmy was setting up the familiar red strings. He seemed to not know where each spatter came from, and Stanton watched as he redid certain sections.

  “Brutal, isn’t it?” Jimmy said, not taking his eyes off the string he was working on.

  “You ever seen anything like this?”

  “Um… yeah, kind of. Guy was beaten with a big wrench in an apartment, but he was down after two hits. This here, this is something else. They beat the victim with something that would cause brutal trauma but wouldn’t kill right away, something that imposed wounds small enough that the vic wouldn’t bleed out quickly.”

  “What could do that?”

  He breathed out and stood up straight, putting his hands on his hips. “I dunno. Foam padding over a piece of metal maybe… a PVC pipe, if it was thick enough. You’d have to see if the ME can get anything from the wounds. Maybe we’ll get lucky and a piece of the weapon broke off. Assuming we find the body like we did last time.”