Fatal Dawn

by Diane Capri

  Metcalfe screamed. Hard, loud, and powerful.

  Hallman leaned into the fork, ramming it deeper into Metcalf’s flesh.

  Metcalfe found the strength to pull Belk’s gun from his pocket.

  Hallman shoved the fork hard to thrust him aside, smacking his head into the shelving along the wall.

  Metcalfe’s trigger finger jerked and the gun fired loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. The blast ricocheted off the concrete and rang in Hallman’s ears.

  The single gun flash seared the image of Metcalfe’s grotesque grimace into Hallman’s brain.

  The fork was in Metcalfe’s side. Deep. Unnatural. Terrifying. Blood soaked his jeans, splashed onto his shoes and ran onto the floor. So much blood. Pools of it, spreading everywhere.

  Hallman fought back the urge to retch. He doubled his grip on the fork and twisted violently. Metcalfe groaned. How could he still be alive?

  Hallman lashed out and kicked the gun from Metcalfe’s hand with his boot. The weapon clattered across the bloody ground.

  Metcalfe collapsed, the weight of his body pulling on the fork.

  Still holding the fork with both hands, Hallman stepped to the gun, levering Metcalfe’s body in an arc as he walked. Metcalfe screamed.

  In one movement, keeping the pressure on the fork, Hallman knelt down, grabbed the gun from the bloody pool, and stood up.

  Metcalfe stretched out a weak arm, his fingers twitching, too weakened to speak.

  Hallman lurched backward, careful to stay out of Metcalfe’s reach. He brought the gun up. Metcalfe’s wound was horrific, the quantity of blood shocking, but he was a terrifying opponent.

  He raised his bloody head and glared at Hallman, leaving no doubt Metcalfe would kill him, given a chance.

  Hallman pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand. The noise pounded off the walls. Light flashed long enough to blind him.

  When his vision returned, he saw Metcalfe’s blood splattered across the wall.

  He choked back the bile rising in his throat. The handle of the fork twisted in his hand, as Metcalfe’s dead weight levered it around.

  Hallman let go.

  Metcalfe’s lifeless body slumped backward to the ground, dragging the fork with it.

  Hallman’s stomach churned at the mangled mess of what had once been human that was on the floor. In a reflective action, he twisted away and retched.

  He staggered back, wiping his mouth and forehead, panting.

  He hadn’t planned for murder. Now he’d witnessed one and committed another.

  He felt the cold sweat that bathed his entire body. The next thing he heard were several sirens approaching.

  One of the neighbors must have reported the gunshots. The police would come in armed and pumped. He had only moments to get the hell out of there.

  He stepped between splashes of blood, and around the fork jutting from Metcalfe’s body. He bent and dug through the dead man’s pockets for the Volkswagen keys.

  The sirens grew louder by the second.

  He had to clean his prints from the fork and gun. But how? He had no time to clean up anything.

  He bent down, grabbed the fork, and yanked it from the lifeless body.

  Without looking back, he wiped the side door’s handle with his sleeve and stepped out of the garage.

  The sirens were close. Red and blue lights were on the street, racing his way.

  The only way out was across the back of the property like Metcalfe had said.

  The first police car bounced up the driveway, braking on the other side of the Mercedes.

  The headlight beam splashed over him.

  He turned and ran before the squad car had a chance to stop.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Tuesday, November 28

  7:05 p.m.

  Kansas City, Kansas

  Fernandez sped along the freeway toward Belk’s house. As he turned off onto the side street, he heard a flurry of cryptic talk on the radio. He turned up the volume just as the dispatcher repeated the address of a shooting.

  “Belk’s place,” Jess said.

  The dispatcher identified two squad cars responding. Fernandez cursed when he heard the sirens. “Nothing like giving the guy time to run.”

  He fishtailed the Crown Vic around a corner. “You’re an observer. Got it?”

  “You’re not leaving me out of this,” Jess said.

  “I have no choice. I can’t take you into an active shooter situation. I’ll lose my job, at the very least.” He braked to a halt.

  Jess scowled. “Where are we?”

  “Belk’s place is two blocks away. Stay here until I tell you it’s safe. Then you can walk over.” When she made no move to get out of the car, he said, “You’re wasting time.”

  She got out and slammed the door. He screamed away.

  She heard the sirens approaching, but the echoes and distance made it hard to tell how far away they were.

  The night air was crisp. The cold edged in through her jacket. Street lights lit the treetops, throwing strange shadow patterns on the sidewalk. She walked in the direction Fernandez had taken. She’d stay out of the line of fire, but she couldn’t wait for him to come back. Hell, the shooter could be running toward her for all she knew.

  At the corner, she looked in all directions but saw no sign of Fernandez’s car. She turned left because she thought she’d seen him go in that direction.

  The houses were large, set well back from the road. Lights glowed from windows or spilled around drapes. Occasionally vehicles passed by, turning into driveways and disappearing under automatic garage doors.

  A shot rang out. She stopped in her tracks. More shots followed. The sound reverberated off the homes in the still night air. She couldn’t pinpoint the location of the gunshots.

  Jess jogged in the general direction of the noise. She took a right, picking up speed.

  Ahead, she saw a man race down a driveway and across the neighbor’s lawn.

  Jess ran toward him, wishing she had her gun. Tackling a man running from the FBI would be too dangerous to try. If she could keep track of him until Fernandez arrived, that would help.

  The man reached the fence at the edge of the backyard. He stood there briefly before he reversed direction.

  Jess stopped. He was running directly for her, a garden fork waving in his hand. But she could barely see him in the dark. Maybe he couldn’t see her at all.

  She moved back, deeper into the shadow of a tree.

  At the near side of the lawn, he reached a Volkswagen parked close to a streetlight. He ripped open the rear door and threw the big fork inside. He slammed the door.

  She recognized him. She’d seen him before. Jess grabbed her phone and opened the camera. She clicked off a dozen pictures. He was the man she’d seen behind the tree when Morris was shot.

  She gasped. He heard her. He swiveled his head and stared at her across the distance, as if he recognized her, too.

  He pulled a gun from the belt of his jeans and ran straight for her. “Give me the phone.” He waved the gun. “Give me the phone.”

  Fernandez shouted something in the distance. Flashing lights lit the rooftops behind her. The lights and sirens spooked him.

  Instead of shooting her, he shook the gun at her. “Get the money. You want your kid alive, get the money.”

  He didn’t shoot her because he wanted her alive. He still thought she’d pay him for Peter. And he was right.

  Jess cocked her head and raised her phone to take a video this time. He turned and ran for the open door of the Volkswagen.

  She ran after him, holding the camera on her phone aimed his way.

  The car door slammed shut before she reached it. The engine roared to life and he drove off, the front wheels scrabbling for grip.

  “Fernandez!” she screamed, holding the camera steadily aimed at the Volkswagen’s retreating tail lights.

  Two officers ran toward her, weapons drawn.

  She p
ointed down the road. “Volkswagen Jetta. That way!”

  One uniformed officer stopped and voiced a short radio report. The other officer ran farther down the road.

  Fernandez’s Crown Vic screamed around the corner. She stepped onto the side of the road, waving her arms. Fernandez stopped and she jumped in.

  A squad car raced by, tracing the direction the Volkswagen had taken. Fernandez followed.

  At the end of the street, they saw no sign of the Volkswagen. The squad car went right, Fernandez turned left.

  The radio crackled with messages and reports.

  “He was the man from the drive-by,” Jess said, breathing hard and gulping air between sentences. “The one behind the tree. He knew who I was. He told me I should get the money. He must be the blackmailer.”

  Fernandez slowed as they passed an intersection. She scanned the streets on either side, looking for the Volkswagen’s tail lights.

  “He had a garden fork,” Jess said. “Blood all over it.”

  Fernandez raced to the next intersection. “There were two corpses in the garage. He probably killed one of them with it, from the looks of the body.”

  Jess inhaled sharply.

  Two squad cars crossed in front of them at the next intersection.

  A burst of chatter on the radio indicated the Volkswagen had been spotted heading east, the opposite direction from their search. A squad car raced by on the other side of the road, siren on and lights blazing.

  Jess found the portable light and attached it to the roof as Fernandez hung a U-turn and raced after the squad car.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Tuesday, November 28

  7:20 p.m.

  Kansas City, Kansas

  Jess brought up a map of the area on her phone. The chatter on the police radio was confused and confusing. After a few moments, she scrolled her map north and found the last street named by the dispatcher.

  “Left,” she said.

  “The cruiser’s going straight,” he replied.

  “Left is quicker.”

  Fernandez swung through the intersection and floored it along a wide street. The shops were long closed and the sidewalks deserted. Street lights whipped by.

  The road ahead forked at a traffic light. “Right,” Jess said.

  Fernandez slowed and rolled through the light waiting and watching the other traffic until everyone was aware of his presence. The road narrowed. Fernandez stayed clear of the cars lining one side of the street.

  The radio crackled with the dispatcher identifying a new intersection name.

  Jess scanned her map. “Straight ahead.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “Hard to say. Interstate 435 maybe? Onto 35?”

  “If he takes a freeway, we’ve got him.”

  “He’s a mile from 435.”

  The dispatcher issued another update.

  Jess scrolled east to find the location. “Second left.”

  Fernandez crossed the intersection at full speed. The Crown Vic’s tires squealed in complaint. Red and blue lights reflected off the buildings on all sides of the street.

  A block ahead, the Volkswagen raced across the street. A trio of cruisers in pursuit.

  Fernandez hammered the brakes and angled the Crown Vic to follow.

  Civilian traffic weaved as the Volkswagen tore by and police lights filled their rearview mirrors. Fernandez stayed close to the last cruiser.

  With most of his escape routes blocked, the Volkswagen driver jinked into oncoming traffic. Cars swerved in all directions. The Volkswagen reached the opposite side of the road.

  “Left now,” Jess said, breathlessly, hanging on to the dash.

  Fernandez turned hard, the tail of the Crown Vic sliding until it bounced off the curb. The car fishtailed as he raced for the next junction.

  “Right,” Jess said, more urgently.

  Fernandez took the corner without question.

  The Volkswagen raced toward them on the wrong side of the road. Fernandez grabbed the handbrake and slewed the rear of the car around. He floored the accelerator and the big car lurched forward, matching the speed of the passing Volkswagen. He eased away at the sight of pedestrians running for shelter in doorways and alleyways.

  The Volkswagen blew through the next light. It hit the curb on the far side, bouncing hard and almost coming to a stop.

  Farther down the street, road construction zones were ringed by orange cones and striped barriers. Fernandez raced past the Volkswagen. He wedged his foot hard on the brake pedal. The Crown Vic rocked on its suspension and blocked half the road.

  Smoke drifted from the Volkswagen’s front wheels as the driver floored the accelerator, angling to go around the Crown Vic.

  A cruiser whipped by and threw itself in the Volkswagen’s path.

  The Volkswagen scrabbled onto the sidewalk.

  The cruiser reversed to cut off the Volkswagen’s escape, but the cruiser’s wheels bounced against the curb and cut off the Crown Vic.

  The Volkswagen bounced off the sidewalk onto the road, engine racing.

  Fernandez reversed to go around the cruiser.

  Orange cones and striped barriers scattered across the street as the Volkswagen tore through them. The Volkswagen disappeared, its engine screaming.

  The next thing Jess heard was a heavy impact pounding through the air. Instantly, the crushing of metal and glass assaulted her ears.

  The Volkswagen’s engine ground metal before coughing to silence.

  Jess leaped from the Crown Vic and ran full out for the road construction zone.

  The Volkswagen was on its side in a hole, six feet down. The hood was crushed. Roof staved in. Windows nothing but jagged shards of glass around the edges. The flaccid airbags flapped in the swirling air.

  KCPD cops surrounded the wrecked Volkswagen. Two of them climbed down into the hole. One was able to reach through the Volkswagen’s crushed windshield. After a moment, he stood up and shook his head. “No pulse.”

  “ID?” Jess called, yelling to be heard over the sound of approaching sirens.

  The officer looked briefly at her before reluctantly leaning in through the windshield. A moment later he appeared with a handful of papers, which he must have pulled from the driver’s pockets.

  He stuffed them into a plastic evidence bag. “A lottery ticket. A hundred and forty dollars, and…”

  “What?” Fernandez said, breathlessly.

  The officer held up a pink paper. “A Humboldt Prison release form. Shane Hallman. And get this, it’s dated yesterday.”

  Jess felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. Humboldt? Where Gotting served time recently, too?

  “He was released from Humboldt yesterday?” Fernandez asked.

  The officer nodded. “Monday. Ten a.m.”

  Fernandez took the evidence bag from the officer.

  Jess whispered and nodded toward the body. “He knew me. He threatened me. He kidnapped Norell, and he was at Belk’s.”

  “And now he’s dead,” Fernandez said matter-of-factly.

  She breathed out hard. Hallman dead? The closest she’d come to a direct link to Peter in thirteen years? Gone. Just like that.

  Everything Hallman knew died with him. Wiped out, right before her eyes. She could do nothing but stare at the Volkswagen as she struggled to find another angle. Surely, he wasn’t the only one who knew where Peter was. Because she felt all the way to her bones that Hallman didn’t have Peter now. Perhaps he never had.

  Maybe she was engaged in wishful thinking, but Gotting had to be involved in this somehow, didn’t he? Gotting was the one who lived in her apartment building. Not Hallman. At least, as far as she knew now.

  She turned to Fernandez. “We need to talk to Belk and Norell.”

  Fernandez grimaced. “No chance of talking to Belk.”

  Jess stared. She shook her head in disbelief. “He’s dead, too?”

  “Just heard.” Fernandez held up his phone. “He’s one
of the bodies back in the garage.”

  Jess gritted her teeth. “These guys are killing each other off. We’ve got to get over there before we lose the trail for sure.”

  “Or we could just wait for the last man standing,” Fernandez suggested.

  “Yeah. But it’s hard to interview the dead ones.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Tuesday, November 28

  7:40 p.m.

  Kansas City, Kansas

  Belk’s house was covered by a sea of flashing lights. Four police cars, two ambulances, and a couple of unmarked Fords with dome lights blazing lit up the night sky like a carnival.

  Fernandez parked half a block from the other vehicles. “Let’s stay out of the way until we see what’s going on.”

  They left the Crown Vic and walked toward the driveway. Fernandez stopped at one of the cruisers and suggested they might want to cut the lights. A few moments later, the scene was eerily dark.

  Officers covered all entrances to the house and grounds. Fernandez flashed his badge and pointed at Jess. “She’s with me.”

  They walked along the side of the driveway. A Mercedes SUV was parked between the detached garage and the back door to the house.

  Fernandez produced a small flashlight bright enough to be visible from the moon and shined it into the vehicle’s interior, which was unoccupied. Jess put her hand on the hood. It was slightly warm. “The engine was used recently, but not too recently.”

  “I saw Belk drive away from our office in this SUV,” Fernandez replied.

  Deep tire tracks ran on the grass and flower beds, suggesting a heavy vehicle had backed out of the garage and driven around the Mercedes.

  “Put your flashlight beam over here,” Jess said as she knelt beside the ruts. “Large wheels. Could have been a truck, I guess.”

  Fernandez nodded. “Probably a full-sized SUV. Security at his firm, Somersall-McCree, said Belk arrived there in a Suburban.”

  “Why did he drive around the Mercedes and mess up his lawn like that?” Jess wondered aloud. She stood and dusted the dirt from her hands. “So, he comes home in the Mercedes, and they’re waiting for him. He’s promptly forced to leave again, this time in the Suburban?”