Shakespeare felt something yanked out of his mouth, then the sound of rushing water. He held his breath, his lungs screaming for air, he having just exhaled before what he now realized was his breathing tube, had been removed.
A light flickered on, blinding him momentarily. He opened his eyes and was able to see the surface of the water above him, slowly nearing. He pushed his head up and felt the sweet relief of air meet his face.
He sucked in a breath, then another, as the water continued to drop. Another minute or two of awkward balancing, and he found himself lying on the bottom of his prison, about the size of a casket, which he found oddly appropriate.
“Shakey?”
His head spun from side to side, then he looked up, noticing a mirror over his head, the image of Louise looking down at him.
“Hon, are you okay?” he asked, relieved to find her alive.
“No,” she cried. “I don’t want to die!”
Shakespeare’s heart broke at the anguish that echoed through the chamber. The woman he loved was in pain, and he had to relieve it. He turned his head and saw the button, like a beacon, only inches from him.
“You won’t,” he said, then with a jerk of his head, he slammed his forehead into the button.
The chamber went dark as he turned back toward Louise.
“I love you.”
Her scream filled the chamber.
THIRTEEN
Another squad car gently came to a halt as Trace jumped from her Mustang, closing the door quietly. The orders of the day were a silent arrival at the rally point, just around the corner from where Ken’s Kitchen Emporium proudly stood for thirty years until it had closed shortly after his daughter’s death. The only problem with the story, was that Ken Crawford had been dead for three months before the murder, and the store, along with the property, had been sold.
To one Lee Grissom.
Several months after the murder, the store went out of business, but all the permits and taxes continued to be paid, leaving the building in good standing, with a shuttered storefront. Nothing out of the ordinary in this part of the city after the Great Recession, but considering lights could be seen through cracks of the window coverings when she did her drive-by, she was pretty sure it wasn’t as abandoned as Lee Grissom would like his neighbors to think.
Another team headed by Walker was conducting a raid on the Grissom residence, however Trace was positive the granite shop would be the right choice.
She stood under a lamp post and waved the more than dozen officers over. “Who’s the senior man?”
“I am,” said a crusty sergeant as he elbowed through the throng. “Sergeant Riggs.”
Trace nodded. “Sergeant. Here’s the deal. We believe there’s one perp, a serial killer that you all probably know as the Widow Rapist.” Murmurs amongst the men, along with exchanged glances confirmed her assumption. “As well, we believe he may have two hostages in there, including one of our own, and his significant other. So”—she raised her voice for emphasis, pointing a finger as she turned, singling out each of them—“don’t shoot the first thing that moves! And also be careful of shooting the woodwork. We believe the hostages might be held prisoner inside some sort of box or chamber.” She looked at her watch. “Okay, we’re going in on my signal in five minutes. Sergeant, position your men.”
“Yes, ma’am!,” he said, raising one hand for attention. “Let’s go, quietly. You know your assignments.”
The group then left at a trot, Trace taking up the rear as she pulled out her cellphone to call Walker.
“Yo!” he answered.
“You in position?”
“Yup, aren’t you?”
“Har har. Almost, ready to go in 5. Any signs of life?”
“Nah, dark as a nun’s habit here. You?”
“Some lights inside when I did a drive-by. I think I’ve got the joy on this one.”
“Good hunting.”
She laughed. “What is this, Battlestar Galactica?”
“Hey, I’ve been doing a Blu Ray marathon for three weeks. I’ve even started saying ‘Frack’ and cursing at the ‘Gods’.”
“Well, don’t let that get around or you’ll never live it down. In fact…”
“Hey, it’s just a TV show, not an obsession.” His reply almost sounded like a desperate attempt to cover something up.
“You’re a Star Wars fan boy, aren’t you.”
“Only at Comic-Con, and let’s not forget who got the reference. I think you’re a closet fan girl. Let me guess, you dress as Black Widow on Halloween.”
“You wish.”
“Yes, yes I do,” he said with a sigh and she laughed, then frowned as she approached the scene, the momentary tension reliever no longer appropriate. “Are you in position yet?”
She stopped behind a car then hissed in excitement as she recognized it. “Shakes’ car is here!”
“Okay, looks like you’ve definitely got the right place. Ready?”
She looked for the scene commander and he gave her a thumbs up. “Yup. Sixty seconds?”
“Done. Good luck.”
She hung up and approached the Sergeant, jerking a thumb behind her back. “That’s Detective Shakespeare’s car. I think we definitely have the right place.”
She looked around for civilians, but it was dead quiet. Traffic, what little of it there might be, had been blocked at either end of the street, leaving nothing to hear but the gentle breeze and the distant sounds of the city.
Until something sliced through the air, a high pitched wail that sent a chill down her spine.
“What the hell is that?” whispered Riggs.
She didn’t need to think for even a moment; she knew exactly what it was.
It was the sound of a saw powering up.
“Oh my God!” gasped Trace. “Move in, now!”
Riggs raised his radio to give the order as a woman’s horrified scream tore through the night, drowning out the whine of the saw. Trace desperately looked around, then spotted it, twenty feet away, over their heads. She drew her weapon and emptied her clip into the overhead transformer, sending sparks shooting into the sky, and several wires to the ground, as the entire area fell into darkness.
But the screams continued.
As soon as the love of her life had pressed the button, Louise had screamed. Then she heard something, some type of motor, high-pitched, fire up. It was so loud it was terrifying, even more so than the situation she was in. The lid of her tomb opened and a man leaned in, holding a finger to his mouth.
“You don’t want your lover’s final moments to be filled with the sounds of your screams, do you?” he yelled over the noise.
He pulled her to a sitting position then walked away. She looked around her, for some means of escape. It was some type of warehouse, or shop of some kind. Tools and supplies were scattered everywhere, but she barely noticed them once she found the source of the noise. A table saw, the huge blade emerging at least a couple of feet above the surface, screeched through the enclosed space.
And her beloved was inching toward it as their captor cranked a wheel.
“Shakey!”
He looked over at her, and smiled.
“Don’t look, Hon! Don’t look!”
“I can’t help it,” she cried.
His smile disappeared and his face became pleading. “Please, Hon. I don’t want you to remember me this way.”
“Oh, Shakey, I love you, why did you have to press the button?” she cried, her chest heaving in sobs, tears burning trails of despair down her cheeks.
“Because I love you. Never forget that!” he yelled, his head turning between looking at her and at the saw blade that was now only inches from his groin. He looked back at her, his eyes boring into her soul. “I love you,” he mouthed.
“I love you too!” she cried, then closed her eyes, looking away.
Suddenly there was a set of cracking noises, and the entire room was drowned in blackness.
; She screamed.
Shakespeare recognized the sounds immediately.
Gunfire!
Which could mean only one thing. His fellow officers were outside. He raised his head and saw the blade slowing down as his captor continued to crank the wheel, now at a desperate speed, inching him toward the blade. His world became the blade, his eyes focusing on it, barely visible, lit by a lone emergency light in the far corner. It was now only inches from beginning to slice him open.
Pounding and shouts from outside caused his would be slicer to slow down for a moment as he looked up and toward a door Shakespeare could care less about as his torturer kept cranking, and the blade kept spinning, slower and slower, almost to the point where he could begin to see the individual teeth, less than half an inch from slicing into him.
Louise screamed again, and he turned but could barely make her out.
“Don’t look!” he cried again, then turned back to the blade.
It stopped with a jerk, actually bouncing back several teeth. He breathed a sigh of relief, but the bastard kept cranking until he felt the teeth push into his flesh.
A door burst open behind him. The cranking stopped. For a split second Shakespeare debated waiting, but then a thought occurred to him.
What if they turn the power back on?
He lifted his right shoulder up, rolling himself as far to the left as he could, then quickly jerked himself to the right. His naked body fell unceremoniously to the floor, pain shooting through his chest, and for a moment he thought he was having a heart attack until he realized what was going on.
Cracked ribs.
More shouting, then the distinct voice of Trace, and a sigh of relief. Flashlights bounced off the walls and ceiling, more and more, some flickering off the floor he now lay on.
“Get down on the ground, now!” yelled a voice he didn’t recognize. He heard someone grunt nearby, and he turned his head to see several flashlights focused on the now prone form of their captor.
Louise continued to cry. “Help him! Help him! Help my Shakey!”
Trace’s voice was closer. “Ma’am, it’s okay, you’re safe now.” She snapped a command at someone that he couldn’t hear. “Shakes, where are you?”
“Over here,” he grunted, his ribs taking the wind out of him.
Footsteps quickly approached and he almost felt the flashlight on his ass.
“Oops!”
The flashlight flicked modestly away.
“Sorry, boss, wasn’t expecting a birthday suit.” Her voice raised. “Let’s get some blankets over here!”
A few minutes later blankets arrived and Trace threw one over him, maintaining his dignity. She dropped to her knees and began to slice his bindings. “Don’t worry, boss, she’s okay. You’re both okay.”
Shakespeare didn’t reply as the bindings holding his hands were cut, then his feet. He rolled to a sitting position, then stood up, wrapping the blanket around him like a towel tucked under his armpits.
“Ask that piece of shit where our clothes are,” he said, pointing at the man he now recognized as Ken Crawford, a member of The Seven, as he was led out of the building. Louise was covered in a blanket, and a female officer was cutting her free. Shakespeare rushed over, one hand holding the blanket tight, the other reaching out desperately for her.
“Oh, Hon, thank God!” he cried as he grabbed her and hugged her as hard as he could, the pain in his ribs be damned. “Thank God you’re all right.”
Louise didn’t reply, her sobs consuming her as he felt her chest heave in and out in his arms. Footsteps behind him echoed off the concrete floor.
“You okay, boss?”
He nodded, then realized she probably couldn’t see him.
“We’re okay,” he said. “What were the gunshots?”
“I heard the blade and shot out the transformer. Figured one of you was enough.”
He chuckled and immediately regretted it, gasping in pain.
“What’s wrong?” both Trace and Louise asked, Louise pushing away from him.
“I think I cracked some ribs when I fell off the table.”
“Medic!” yelled Trace, startling both of them.
“Let’s just get the hell out of here,” said Shakespeare.
Somebody ran up nearby.
“Clothes, ma’am,” said someone, handing a bundle to Trace.
“Thanks.” She held them out to Shakespeare, then handed him her flashlight. She smacked her hands together. “Some privacy people, let’s let our people get dressed with a little dignity!” she yelled as she walked away.
Shakespeare flashed the light toward the saw blade only feet away. It glinted off the steel that had been mere moments from hungrily devouring his flesh, and ending his life.
He shivered, then looked at Louise who was dressing inside the box that had held her captive, modesty ruling the night.
Thank you Lord for saving her.
“Tommy!”
Louise raced across the room as Tommy jumped from his seat, a smile spreading across his face and tears filling his eyes.
“Mom!”
Shakespeare smiled then pointed down the hall. “Put him in Interrogation One. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Trace nodded, and followed the two officers holding the man she had informed him was actually an imposter named Lee Grissom. Shakespeare walked over to his desk and placed a hand on Louise’s shoulder She jumped, then grabbed Tommy and hugged him close, putting the boy between her and him.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“No!” she cried. “No! What kind of world do you live in? What kind of people do you associate with that this”—she paused, as if searching for words—“this, could happen? What if it had been Tommy?”—she gave him a squeeze—“What if they had taken my boy?”
“They didn’t, Mom, I’m okay, we’re all okay,” said Tommy, as he tried to pull away, but failing as the iron grip of his mother’s arms held him in place.
“What if he had killed me? Who would have taken care of Tommy then? Who? You?”
It was like a dagger through his heart. One word, spoken with derision, as if he were a joke, as if he were incapable, incompetent, inept. As if he had no connection to this family whatsoever, and wasn’t even worthy of taking care of the boy. His chest tightened as her tirade continued into a fog of a pounding pulse, the hole in the pit of his stomach being dug out a little more with each rhetorical question, any words he might say useless to fill it back in.
It was ending. The one time in his life he had truly been happy. And it was ending. And it should. He didn’t deserve to be happy. His job was too dangerous to have a family. He knew that. He was naïve to think he could have a relationship with a single-mother. And with his health the way it was, even if he was a plumber, he shouldn’t get into a relationship; he’d be dead in ten years, tops.
“I can’t see you anymore!”
It sliced through the fog like a horn, the desperate ship in the night that had been two souls finding comfort in each other, tore apart on the rocks, another relationship destroyed by the job, and the aftermath of the dangers it could bring, yet more innocent lives flung to the depths of despair by a serial killer who didn’t care, didn’t care what the consequences might be, didn’t care what lives he might destroy. No matter the reasons in his deranged head, no matter the reasoning used to justify his actions, the murderer had no concerns over the collateral damage, the lives affected.
It’s over.
His shoulders slumped, and he looked at her, his eyes burning as he desperately fought the tears that so wanted to burst forth. But he wouldn’t let it happen. She was right, and she had been through enough. He wouldn’t let her know how much she had hurt him, she would never know that he had died inside with those last words, she would never know that the one good thing in his life, the one beautiful thing, the one pure thing, had just been stamped out.
And with nothing beautiful in a life, what was the point of living it?
She continued to meet his gaze, perhaps looking for some sort of response from him, but instead, shoulders slumped, head bowed, he said nothing.
“I’m sorry, Justin,” she whispered, her voice cracking, then she took Tommy by the arm and left the room, heading toward the elevators.
Shakespeare continued to look at the empty void where she had been, the love of his life, the key to his happiness, the future he had thought so clear, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. He heard somebody whisper something behind him, not directed at him, the words not registering, but the sounds of chairs scraping and footsteps made him realize the entire room had just emptied.
Save for one.
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
It squeezed, gently.
Physical, human contact. Something he had craved for so long in his life. Something you didn’t realize you had needed so desperately until you had it, then once you had it, you never wanted to let it go. Something he had just lost, and that lone hand, meant to comfort, merely burned him like a white hot torch of remembrance, remembrance of something now lost, something he would never have again.
He wiped his cheek.
“Let’s get you out of here,” whispered Trace.
The words were like a distant echo, heard, but not listened to. There was a slight tug on his shoulder, and he found himself following, and as they came out into the hallway, there was a subdued silence amongst those who had overheard his life ending, and those who hadn’t, stopping and unsure why they should be uncomfortable.
The journey of thirty feet was a blur, conducted on autopilot, ending with him sitting in a chair in an interrogation room, then a few moments later, with Trace sitting across from him, snapping open two cans of Diet Coke, pushing one toward him, along with a Snickers bar. She took a sip of her pop, and tore open her own treat, taking a non-ladylike bite, the sticky caramel stretching between her mouth and the bar it so desperately clung to.
Shakespeare felt like that piece. Bitten off, taken away from its home, all it knew, all it had come to expect.
Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3) Page 24