Flaherty pulled open a door opposite the refrigerator, revealing a stairwell leading down to the basement.
-Record skip-
Light sliced from beneath the door at the bottom of the steps. The mildew scent was stronger here. Flaherty took shorter breaths. He turned the brass door handle slowly, found it unlocked. The dead bolt above, however, stopped the door from opening. Barnes eased the brass handle back to its original position, took a quiet step back, and kicked the door. There was a crack, but the door held.
Flaherty kicked it again, splintering the doorjamb, but again the door held.
A third kick and the door was open. Barnes looked at a room lined with pinball and arcade games. They provided the only light, like a thousand eyes blinking out of the darkness in red and green and blue. Bleeps and bloops, laser sounds and explosions. The room smelled of human feces.
“I know you’re here,” Flaherty said, moving his flashlight beam across the space. The light failed to reveal a human form. Flaherty spun around the open door, weapon aimed. No one there. He moved deeper into the room. Tucked between two pinballs was a padded table. Next to it, a machine. He moved closer to the table, sweeping back and forth with his gun to cover the shadowed corners.
A shuffling sound pulled Flaherty’s eyes, flashlight, and weapon up to the dingy drop ceiling. A tile above the padded table was missing. The flashlight beam exposed the lead pipes and cobwebs hiding beyond the asbestos tiles.
Barnes backed up against the arcade games for a better shooting angle. “Come down from there.”
More shuffling noises above. Hard to tell where the movement came from. Flaherty moved to the center of the room, flashlight still aimed at the missing tile. “Come down from there, now!”
A body dropped down from the ceiling behind him, landing halfway up the stairs.
Flaherty spun. He fired rapidly, strobe-lighting the room with gun blasts.
But the man had already escaped.
Barnes ran up the steps to find the door to the kitchen closed and locked. He fired at the handle until the mechanism broke apart.
-Record skip-
Flaherty ran across the open field behind the house, chasing a silhouette in the distance. The man was running toward the embankment at I-96.
“Freeze!” Barnes called.
The man kept running. Staggering, actually. He had the gait of an injured or elderly man. He reached the barrier at the freeway and toppled over it.
Flaherty chased until he arrived at the barrier. The man tumbled down the slope and skidded to a stop at the freeway shoulder. The passing cars blew his loose-fitting clothing and Mohawk mane around.
“Don’t move!” Flaherty called down.
The man ran across the lanes.
Barnes cringed as the southbound cars and trucks, all doing seventy or more, barreled down on him. He narrowly escaped getting hit in the first lane, found a lucky blank spot at the second, but was sure to die in the third lane before reaching the opposite shoulder. A blue sedan would never be able to stop in time.
The sedan swerved into the open middle lane, laying on its horn.
The man paused at the concrete divider. He looked back. Even from a distance Barnes could see he had soft, babylike features that came across as terrifying on a grown man. He was well into his forties, maybe fifty. His eyes had the faraway stare of a sociopath, his lips stuck in a mocking, nearly flat grin.
The man flipped over the barrier to find the northbound lanes were empty. A stumbling sprint across the freeway and he was scrambling up the slope on the other side. Flaherty took aim and fired, but a handgun at such a distance couldn’t find the mark.
The man made the top of the embankment, toppled over the last barrier, and disappeared.
-Record skip-
Flaherty was back in the funhouse basement. He stared down at the machine, its red eye pulsating in the darkness. He reached out, but stopped. Instead he got out his cell phone, opened the contacts list, and held his thumb over DISPATCH.
“Goddammit,” he said, and then put the phone away. He unplugged the machine, wrapped up the wires, and took it up the stairs and out to his car. He put it in the trunk, slammed the lid closed, and got in the driver’s side. He picked up the car radio and pressed the “Call” button. “Dispatch, this is Detective Adrian Flaherty, badge 5-3-9-0.”
“Go ahead, 5-3-9-0.”
“Can you run a records check on a house? Address is 25487 Selden in Detroit.”
“One moment.”
Flaherty ran a hand over his head while he waited. Barnes felt that the Mohawk was trimmed short. He noted the small sting in Flaherty’s elbow pit, felt the presence of a cotton ball and Band-Aid there.
The radio crackled when dispatch came back. “The home is abandoned. Last known owner was a Martha Diggs, deceased.”
Flaherty sighed. “Son named Tyrell?”
“Let me see . . . ,” the dispatcher said. “Yes.”
“Electricity’s on in the house,” Flaherty said. “How’s that possible?”
“You’d have to check with DTE on that one,” the dispatcher said. “Though I’d venture it’s due to a broken meter. My cousin’s got a broken meter, and she hasn’t paid an electric bill in eight years.”
-Record skip-
Flaherty parked at the curb near the First Precinct. For a moment he just sat and watched the comings and goings of officers, detectives, and civilians. He imagined himself walking into the building with the machine under his arm, turning it in for evidence, and then . . . what? Someone would take the ride, wouldn’t they? Someone would examine the evidence that could help track down Eddie Able.
Someone else.
Flaherty pulled into the lot and parked his unmarked. He popped the trunk, pulled out the machine, and walked away from the precinct to the employee lot where his truck was waiting.
Darkness and silence.
“End of transmission.”
The Vitruvian Man test pattern.
Please Stand By.
26
Barnes woke up slowly, blinking.
A noise.
His cell ringing.
He patted his pockets, found he was under a blanket. He sat up. Verbatim was gone. The room was nearly dark. Weak light from the streetlamps filtered through the horizontal blinds over the small window. He peeled off the blanket. He felt rested, alert, vital. The needle had been removed from his arm, the suction cups removed from his temples. His arm was bandaged, the dry blood cleaned away.
The machine was gone.
Barnes reached for his jacket on the nightstand, found his phone in a pocket. The caller ID was Franklin. The time was 8:03 p.m.
Shit. He’d slept for hours.
He connected the call.
“Where the fuck are you?” Franklin said.
Barnes sighed heavily, still shaking off sleep. His gum was flavorless and dry. He spat it out. “You got an address on this Leo or what?”
“You were supposed to meet me at Roosevelt’s.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
Barnes disconnected the call and picked up his jacket. The wax paper that’d once held Verbatim’s Tornados had been underneath. It fell and floated to the floor. He left the bedroom and found his way back through the apartment. Sandy still hadn’t moved. Josh was standing in the kitchen, a pot boiling in front of him on the stove. He looked up as Barnes neared the front door.
“Robbie left,” Josh said.
Barnes nodded. He turned the doorknob and started opening the door.
“He told me to tell you something,” Josh said.
Barnes stopped, looked at the heroin addict.
“Let Flaherty be.”
“Say what?” Barnes said.
“He said, ‘Let Flaherty be,’ and then something else.”
Barnes tilted back his head in question.
Josh said, “Gabriel Messina says ‘Hello.’”
&
nbsp; Barnes left. He walked down the ammonia hallway, took the stairs down to the ground floor, and exited building C into the commons. It was raining again. The activity outside was reduced to a lull. Dealers were home for dinner, drying off, maybe catching a rerun on the tube before crawling back out into the night.
His passenger-side window had been shattered. The interior of the truck was soaked. A muddy brick paver had landed on the seat, square bits of glass everywhere. Barnes shook his head as he brushed glass off the driver’s seat and hopped in. He threw the brick paver out the passenger window and brushed more glass off the items in the passenger side—the Twinkie, Rufus, and Giant-Size Fantastic Four, number four.
“The Madrox Project.” The familiar voice.
“Shhh.”
Barnes drove away.
The parking lot at Roosevelt’s was half-full, a far sight better than most days. Barnes found a spot near the middle of the pack and walked into the bar, his shoulders hunched against the downpour. A few faces turned his way as he entered, the bartender included. He found Franklin and Dr. Hill were sitting in the same booth as before. He slid into the seat across from them.
A man slid in next to him, locking him in the booth.
The man had been sitting at the bar when Barnes had walked in. No doubt a beat cop in plain clothes. The place was likely crawling with them. The half-full parking lot should have been a giveaway. Barnes sized up his new booth partner. A tough customer, to be sure, but in a moment he’d be cradling a broken nose.
“Leo’s address,” Barnes said to Franklin. “You got it?”
Franklin frowned. “Yes, I do, but—”
“Let’s have it.”
“You’re not a detective,” Franklin said. “What are you going to do, go kick in his door?”
Barnes felt the weight of the Glock in his armpit, reminding him he had options. If they thought he was packing, they would have frisked him, right?
“Don’t worry about Leo,” Franklin said. “We’re going to take him down, and it’s all thanks to you. I’m sorry you had to go through all this, but it’s helped us locate a serial killer. You’re a hero. Now you need to get healthy.”
Barnes looked at Dr. Hill. “How can you make me healthy?”
“We’ll systematically remove each life presence in your mind.”
Barnes chuckled. “Life presence?”
“They may seem only like voices to you,” Dr. Hill said, “but they’re fully developed personalities that have taken root in your mind and grown over time.”
“I kicked them all out already,” Barnes said. “After Calavera, one at a time, on my own.”
“Some may still be there,” Dr. Hill said. “If what Detective Franklin tells me is true, Calavera, himself, may still be there.”
Barnes looked down at the table. He stared at it for a moment, studying the wood grain, tapping a finger. He shifted his eyes to the nearby wall, covered in black-and-white photos of Teddy Roosevelt smiling, riding horses, young and old, Rough Rider and president. Barnes watched his booth partners from the corner of his eye. Franklin and the beat cop were following his line of vision. Barnes moved his gaze up the wall to the TV behind Franklin and Dr. Hill, where a Tigers baseball game was in the bottom of the fifth, Tigers down 2–0, Cabrera up to bat with a man on third. Stock-ticking beneath the game was a headline . . . SINGING SENSATION CHERRY “LITTLE CHER” DANIELS IS STILL MISSING. POLICE ARE BAFFLED BUT REFUSE TO USE THE MACHINE, DESPITE HAVING A WITNESS . . . The lug sitting next to Barnes lifted his chin and tilted his head to see what he was staring at. Franklin turned his big body and looked back over his shoulder.
Dr. Hill kept his eyes on Barnes. He looked amused.
“I can see them, too,” Barnes said, staring at the TV, “these life presences. Sometimes, if I think really hard, I—”
Barnes reached into his armpit and gripped his gun. As he drew the weapon and his arm recoiled, he cracked his elbow on the beat cop’s nose. The cop spilled out of the booth, howling with his hands over his face. Barnes slid out with his weapon aimed at Dr. Hill. “Keep your dicks in your pants, boys!”
Franklin put his hand on his gun, but he was too late.
Barnes yanked Hill up from his seat and corralled him from behind with his arm around the doctor’s throat. The horsehead cane fell and clacked the tiles. Half the bar patrons were suddenly standing. Plainclothes cops with their hands on the hilts of the guns in their holsters. A pissed-off flash mob.
“Stand down,” Franklin said, addressing all the cops.
Barnes backed toward the restrooms with Dr. Hill in his grasp. “Billy,” Barnes said. “Billy, I need that address.”
Franklin emerged from the booth. He stood and straightened his tie as he faced Barnes and his hostage. He rubbed a hand down the lower half of his suit jacket. “You got me over a barrel here, Barnesy.” The cops converged behind him.
“The address,” Barnes said. He placed the muzzle of his gun against Dr. Hill’s temple. The cops crowded closer. They sneered and moved in threatening ways.
“What are you going to do?” Franklin said, holding out his arms to keep all the cops at bay.
“I’m going to finish what I started,” Barnes said. “What you started for me.”
“You’re stuck here,” Franklin said. “They’re already out there booting your truck.”
“The fucking address!”
Franklin sighed. “I never meant for it to go this way.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Barnes said.
“6025 Troy Street,” Franklin said. “Happy? Now put the gun down.”
“Ferndale?”
Franklin nodded.
Barnes backed up and pulled Dr. Hill with him through the men’s-room door. He spun the doctor around and pointed the gun between his eyes. To his credit, Dr. Hill didn’t look scared. He leaned against a sink to steady himself without his cane.
Barnes held out his hand. “Keys.”
Dr. Hill turned them over.
Barnes checked the car key logo. Ford.
“Which one?” Barnes said.
“Black Fusion,” Dr. Hill said. “Edge of the lot.”
“I don’t want to kill you,” Barnes said.
“I don’t want to die.”
“You really want to help me?”
“You need evaluation.”
“I need to stop a killer,” Barnes said.
“There’re twenty cops in this bar who can stop him,” Dr. Hill said. “You’ve done your part.”
“You don’t understand,” Barnes said. “I need this collar. I need . . .” The gun trembled in his hand. He gritted his teeth and focused. “Just help me.”
They held each other’s gaze for a moment.
“I’ll come back,” Barnes said. “I swear. We’ll talk.”
Dr. Hill nodded.
Barnes turned his back on the doctor, climbed up on the sink, and pushed out the crank window near the ceiling. Rain dripped off the angled frame. He began squeezing through the window, legs first, and looked back at Dr. Hill.
The doctor turned toward the bathroom door and called out, “Franklin!”
As Barnes dropped to the asphalt below, he heard Franklin respond over the sound of the rain. “What is it?”
“He’s got some demands.”
Barnes crept along the back of the building and took a scan of the parking lot. A black Ford Fusion was parked away from the other vehicles. Barnes crouched and made a break for the car, used the key at the driver’s door instead of the fob, and got inside. He turned off the automatic headlights and started the engine. Through the blurry windshield he saw two plainclothes officers exit the bar through the front door. They split paths and headed around behind the building, each from a different direction.
Barnes drove slowly past the parked cars toward the driveway. He passed his truck, which now had a yellow boot on the back tire. He pulled down the driveway, turned onto the street, and drove about a hundred feet before he gunned it. As he merg
ed onto the expressway, north toward Ferndale, his phone rang.
UNKNOWN.
Barnes picked up the call, put the phone to his ear.
“Do you have. Another riddle?” Leo said.
“I do,” Barnes said.
“Let’s hear it.”
Barnes propped his cell up with his shoulder. He drove with one hand while he got out Candy’s green note and read Ricky’s riddle. “The runner-up and who’s next. Three threes and two dozen. My age minus one. Midnight’s younger cousin.”
“Tough one,” Leo said. “What do you have. So far?”
“I think it’s a reverse of the other two riddles,” Barnes said. “I think he’s trying to feed me numbers that can be decoded into a word.”
“Sounds right.”
“So if a runner-up is second place, that’s two, and if who’s next is third place, that’s three. B and C on the decoder ring. I don’t think there are any words that start with BC, so maybe it’s meant to be twenty-three, which would be W.”
“That’s good. Logic.”
“You know,” Barnes said, “I really did think you were just a voice in my head.”
Leo chuckled. “And now you’re. Certain I’m not?”
“I’m certain.”
There was a moment of silence on the line. Barnes pulled off the expressway into Ferndale. He slowed as he turned onto a side street.
Leo said, “Three threes. Is next, yes?”
“Yeah,” Barnes said. “This is where it gets tough. Is that three threes, like three-three-three? Or is it thirty-three? Or maybe it’s nine?”
“It’s nine.”
“Right,” Barnes said, “because three-three-three would be CCC, and there’s no thirty-third letter in the alphabet. So if it’s nine on the decoder ring, it’s I, which makes WI.”
“And. Two dozen?”
“If it’s meant to be twenty-four, that would make it X, according to the ring. WIX. I don’t like that. But if it’s twelve-twelve, that’d be LL, which gives us WILL.”
“You really. Are a great. Detective,” Leo said. “I’m sorry that you’re. Going to lose. Flaherty.”
Machine City: A Thriller (Detective Barnes Book 2) Page 20