Dead Burn

by Jennifer Chase

  Taking the .22 pistol in her right hand, she moved quickly to the living room.

  Easterbrook sat at the desk, body motionless; he stared out at the balcony. His posture differed from only a few moments ago, now his shoulders slumped forward and his face drawn, deeply saddened.

  Emily slowed her pace as the drastic personality turnaround confused her.

  From five feet away, she could see an open plain brown envelope with several eight by ten glossy photographs tossed haphazardly on the desk. She didn’t need to take a closer look at the subject of the photos. It was clear that there were people dead by violent means, gunshots to the head. Even more disturbing, a photo of two boys around the age of ten was among the victims.

  “Doug what’s going on?” She asked.

  He never moved or turned his head to look at her as he spoke. “The only thing that mattered in this world was my mom, my brother and his children… nothing matters anymore…”

  “Get up Doug.” Emily urged.

  She pointed the gun at him.

  He turned and looked at her. The fact that she had a gun didn’t elicit any reaction.

  “I have to kill you.” The gun shook in her hand, her voice strained. She had to do something else. Anything. It was either him or Rick. There was no other choice.

  He shook his head, slowly raised himself from the chair, and walked to the French doors leading out to the balcony. He opened the door. Immediately the cool breeze whipped through the room. The sounds of the city filled the air.

  “What are you doing?” Emily confronted him. “Do you not understand what’s going on? You have a contract out on your life.” She aimed the gun directly at his head. “I have to do this…” Tears welled up on her eyes.

  Doug turned and looked directly at Emily, the arrogance of the driven entrepreneur had dissolved, and a gentle human being materialized. A small smile caught the corners of his mouth accompanied by a slow nod. He stepped onto the balcony.

  “Don’t move!” She said.

  He ignored her orders.

  Emily had no other choice, she raised the gun and yelled. “Stop! You have to leave. Now!” She took a step closer. “They won’t stop until they kill you.”

  Doug continued to walk outside onto the balcony. He paused a moment to enjoy the cool breeze with his arms stretched out wide at the side of his body.

  “Doug!” Emily pleaded, slowly tightening her finger on the trigger. Her nerve weakened and she gently released her grip.

  I can’t…

  The man took a deep breath and lowered his arms.

  Realizing too late, Emily watched in horror as Doug effortlessly climbed over the railing and jumped.

  He disappeared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Friday 2320 Hours

  The beefy man managed to get the upper hand in the all-out brawl, scrambling on the floor. The result was a six-inch barrel directed strategically in Jordan’s face. The sour breath of the man almost made Jordan gag with revulsion. The distinct smell of sour milk and onion-saturated beef stunk up the close proximity.

  Slowly the bodyguard got to his feet, shirt and jacket disheveled with a long tear across the sleeve. He did not speak at first, just grunted, and then used the gun to direct Jordan.

  “Look, I think there’s a misunderstanding here…” Jordan rose up from the floor still with his backpack intact and secured over his shoulders.

  “Shut up!” The man snapped with a slight European accent.

  Jordan felt that everything was negotiable, and knew that he could reason with the man even if it all boiled down to money. The man obviously wasn’t respected as much as the other so-called bodyguards, and with enough time, he could convince the bodyguard not to shot him.

  Keeping his palms facing the man, in plain view, Jordan said. “You know who I am, right? I was just here a few days ago with the security blueprint for Mr. Bishop.”

  A glint of recognition flashed in the man’s eyes.

  Jordan continued to push, “You know the importance of security for him?” He relaxed a bit and persisted, “My reputation is on the line, and I was making sure that everything is in working order. I’m supposed to be here. A little unorthodox I admit, but how else was I going to make sure that the system was unbreakable?”

  The man looked down to the left as if to ponder on the statement.

  Jordan set the trap. He was in the process of reeling the man into his line of thinking.

  “Okay, the truth is that I thought I’d screwed up on one of the schematics and I wanted to make sure that it worked properly. Hey, with the amount of money that he deposited into my account, I’d be stupid not to double check.” Jordan watched the eye muscles twitch on the man holding the gun, only to prove that he believed Jordan’s story. At least he hoped.

  Hook, line, and sinker.

  Jordan celebrated on the inside, but he noticed that something strangely changed about the man.

  “Move!” The burly man ordered. He flicked the gun back in forth to hurry Jordan faster.

  “Look, I’m sure that you could call Bishop and we can sort out this misunderstanding.”

  The gun fired and a vase shattered.

  “What the hell…?” Jordan cringed as he felt the bullet whizz by his head.

  “I said move!” He gestured with the gun again for Jordan to go to the living room.

  There was nothing else for Jordan to do, but oblige the order. He couldn’t push the hired gun any harder; otherwise, a bullet would enter his head and explode out the back part of his skull. The only thought that came to Jordan’s mind was that he hoped his brain matter would stain a valuable piece of artwork.

  When they entered the large living room, two low watt lamps turned on giving just enough light to see the layout of the room clearly. It was the same as Jordan remembered, but a serving tray with a glass of orange juice and a dried up bagel sat on the coffee table.

  Curious.

  It bothered Jordan that the food remained behind, especially since the house was empty. Whenever he thought of juice and a carbohydrate filled bakery item, such as a bagel, it made him think of quick energy food or to raise the blood sugar level in the body. He estimated that the bread and juice were only about a day old by the darkened edges and spongy appearance.

  Someone else was here.

  “So looks like you’ve been entertaining some?” Jordan didn’t expect any answers but glanced to his captor. The clenching of the jaw and quick, short breaths told him that indeed someone was here, perhaps against his will – or hers.

  He reached the door leading to the patio surrounding the pool area. Gripping the handle, he turned it. For a brief moment, he hoped that a huge blaring alarm would sound, but nothing happened except some much appreciated fresh air.

  For the first time since a fist hit his jaw, Jordan felt a constant stinging pain on his lip along with a metallic taste in his mouth.

  The patio and plants were wet from the automatic sprinkling system. Jordan’s shoes made a slight squeaking sound from the high rubber tread. He picked up the pace and moved toward the pool, which had a cover over it.

  “Stop!” The man said.

  “Look, you don’t have to yell, I’m right here.” Jordan took off his backpack and reached into a loose pocket.

  “Drop the backpack!”

  “See, you’re still yelling. It’s not like I can’t hear you” Jordan dropped the backpack on the ground. In his right hand, he fired a hundred thousand volts of electricity from a small Taser device.

  It shot directly at the man with a perfect strike to his chest. Convulsing and whimpering in short bursts, the big man’s knees never buckled underneath him, he stood strong, and held firmly to the gun. The neuromuscular incapacitation wasn’t working to full capacity. It only made the man furious.

  Jordan held firmly to the self-defense apparatus, but incredibly, the man slowly moved toward him. The wide-eyed glare made him look primal and extremely dangerous. He kept moving c
loser to Jordan. The man managed to squeeze off a couple of shots with a jerky, marionette gesture.

  One bullet grazed the side of Jordan’s face. Another bullet struck the retaining wall on the other side of the pool. The peculiar buzz rocketed past Jordan’s ears, which caused him to cringe and double over in a contorted manner. He expected the next bullets to blast through his chest and face.

  The man kept coming.

  Jordan held firmly to the Taser in a death-like grip. It was only a matter of time before the big man fell down.

  With his free hand, the bodyguard swung his arm and fist erratically, but directly in Jordan vicinity. From the weight difference, unbalanced maneuvers, and sheer determination, both men plunged into the pool.

  The struggle continued even as the pool cover slowly sunk into the deep end of the pool.

  Clearly out muscled and out gunned, Jordan made a lame attempt to grab the weapon.

  The battle waffled back and forth. Both men grappled.

  Jordan realized that the beefy man didn’t have the gun in his hand anymore. His floundering efforts caused sheer panic to spread across his face.

  The pool filter reset and a low motor hummed.

  With all of his strength, Jordan pushed his body toward the shallow end. He watched the man flap his arms, his head bobbed under the surface, and rise with even a more tortured, twisted expression imprinted upon his face.

  At first, Jordan though the man was having a heart attack. In between gurgled pleas and wildly erratic arm maneuvers, it was clear that the man didn’t know how to swim. It was barely six feet to the safety of the side. Drowning proved eminent. The movements rapidly waned as the bodyguard took one last breath before he disappeared under the surface.

  The filter hummed.

  The struggle had ceased.

  “Crap!” Jordan managed to utter.

  He quickly climbed up the pool stairs. His limbs, face, and back felt like he carried the weight of the world. His thoughts were of the Taser. Quickly scanning the pool’s surface, he spotted the device floating at the far corner. Wasting no time, he fished it out.

  Jordan scrambled to pick up his backpack, shaking from the adrenalin and sopping wet from head to toe. He took one last look at the man floating face down in the water before he ran to the wall where he had entered and climbed over. His heart pounded, along with short, ragged breaths, but a newfound hope that he would somehow find Emily safe – and alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Friday 2345 Hours

  Even though she did not hear the body hit the street, Emily knew that it would be only minutes before the first responders and police arrived. They would swarm around the hotel and move quickly up to Easterbrook’s penthouse orchestrating a mob scene.

  Smashed and broken, the intended target’s body gathered a horrified audience. Screams overlapped one another.

  Bishop procured exactly what he wanted, just another means of death. The anger welled up inside of Emily, just as on other occasions when she wanted to kill the perpetrator instead of forwarding her evidence to the cops and letting the system take care of them. She fought a fine line of justice with every case. It proved more difficult with time.

  Why go through the preliminary motions? Just kill the bastards.

  Hurrying throughout the sprawling hotel room, Emily gathered her purse from the bathroom and then used a hand towel wiping off her fingerprints from doorknobs, fixtures, and anything else in her path.

  She checked the gun, only one bullet in the chamber. Red thought of everything, she mused. Without hesitation, she slipped the gun into her small handbag and quickly exited the room.

  The chime of the elevator interrupted the silence of the hallway.

  It could have been anyone arriving on the floor, but Emily was not taking any chances. She ran to the stairs. Immediately the cold steps chilled her bare feet as she quickly padded down several flights, feeling the extra coolness blow through her dress.

  Her heart pounded in her chest, louder with each landing. She rounded another corner as Red caught her by the arm. He jerked it with such a force that her shoulder instantly throbbed with pain.

  To Emily’s surprise, Red’s agile ability quickened as he dragged her downward with a vice grip on her arm. She stubbed her little toe rounding another set of stairs, winded, angry, but afraid she would tumble head first down the rest of the stairs if she didn’t keep up with the assassin.

  Her chest ached with a severe heaviness; her thoughts were of blacking out. It seemed like hours since she left the penthouse, but the recent chain of events kept summersaulting.

  Muffled sirens reverberated inside the exit stairs.

  Imagining S.W.A.T. in full police gear lined up in formation waiting for her and Red, kept her mind jumping from one terrifying scenario to another.

  The last few stairs jarred her joints and bones. Emily felt like a punching bag and the intense workout wasn’t going to be over anytime soon. She gritted her teeth, but had no choice except to descend downward.

  Red loosened his grip on her arm.

  Emily fought the urge to stop and rest, just to have the luxury to close her eyes for a few minutes. Exhaustion set in like a five alarm fire. Her forearm tingled as the blood flow gained momentum once again; she could still feel where Red’s tight grip and fingers had encircled around her arm.

  They stopped in front of the hotel parking garage door.

  Red flung open the exit entry. He took hold of Emily’s arm again to steer her toward a limousine parked in the corner.

  Exhaust fumes intertwined with the usual garage smells as a few cars passed by and drove out.

  Quickly opening the back door of the luxury car, Red pushed Emily inside. Resting on the seat were the two suitcases he had carried into the hotel, along with a pile of folded clothes.

  As Emily pushed her way to the other side of the seat, her dressed ripped above the hemline.

  Red shut the door.

  The limo slowly backed up and eased out into the exit line.

  Red tossed a pair of jeans, a white tank top, and a grey sweatshirt at Emily. “Put these on.” Inside a brown paper bag was a pair of black boots that he dropped in front of her.

  He retrieved her purse, opened it, and took out the gun. Without hesitation, he slipped the firearm into his jacket.

  Emily waited for her breathlessness to subside and the dizziness to fade before she unzipped her dress. Normally it would bother her to undress in front of a stranger, but Red showed no interest, and changing into comfortable clothes would lessen her extreme feeling of vulnerability.

  Wiggling into her new jeans, it struck her again as incredibly invasive that Red knew this much about her. Even though she was cold, perspiration trickled down her back while she quickly put on the clothes.

  The lights of the city shone through the window and flashed by at a high speed. They headed northwest, from what she could tell, was the opposite direction of the train station.

  “Where are we going?” She asked directly.

  Red turned and stared at her.

  “I did what you wanted. The target is dead.” Her voice sounded tired and winded.

  “You didn’t do as you were told.” He said flatly.

  “He’s dead.”

  After a moment, he finally said matter of fact. “I could kill you right now and throw your body out on the side of the road.”

  It made chills climb up the back of Emily’s neck.

  “You got what you wanted. Let Rick go.”

  Red looked out his window. “It’s not up to me.”

  “Then tell Bishop.” Emily steadied her voice with all of the strength she had left. “What do you want from me?”

  “You will know when it’s relevant.”

  “Where are we going?” She unconsciously touched the pendant around her neck.

  “The airport.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Saturday 0910 Hours

  Annoyed and heavily winded,
the detective forged onward. Now with a new wheeze to add to his already difficultly to stabilize the moderate asthma condition, Detective Duncan took the stairs carefully down the to the medical examiner’s office. It wasn’t unusual that he worked on the weekend; it merely added another factor to his already heavy workload.

  To take his mind off his escalating medical condition, the detective mulled over everything he knew about the arson cases. With little to no physical evidence, and without any eyewitness accounts, the cases would continue to pile up.

  A sharp pain invaded his left side and then took a twisting route through the intestines. The veteran police detective waited until it subsided, and realized that he shouldn’t drink five cups of coffee without eating anything. He reprimanded his neglect. He fought the consensus around the station that catching bad guys should be left to the younger, stronger, and more determined cops. He trudged forward, determined to make them eat their words.

  The medical examiner’s office was behind in autopsies. Nothing unusual, but it meant that important, potential clues waited as well. It also meant that the detective’s arson investigation came to a screeching halt.

  Duncan pushed through the door identified as autopsy, which was stenciled on the glass window.

  The space instantly loomed with the smell of death, propelling the feelings of pain and grief. The typical cleaning aromas mixed together tried to overpower death and decay, but merely managed to mask the initial assault to the senses.

  Feeling some relief in his lungs, the detective moved faster to one of the exam rooms.

  Dr. Sherman hunched over the stainless table with some type of small, pointed instrument picked at the charred remains of the victim from the barn location. The burned body count rose to six, and that didn’t include Judge Christensen, his daughter and son-in-law.

  Sherman looked up, raised his bushy eyebrows, which peered intensely over his bi-focals. As he smiled, his short teeth looked more like a happy face on a pumpkin. For all the unique quirks of the coroner, his expertise was clearly in the forensic arena, and finding clues that many other medical examiners carelessly overlooked.