by Ethan Cross
He immediately said, “No deal. She’s my partner, remember. She goes where I go.”
“A good partner would understand.”
“It’s not up for discussion.”
Natalie once again shook her head and ground down on her teeth. “Fine, but she keeps her mouth shut and touches nothing. You got that, little girl?”
Jenny, thankfully, raised her hands in surrender. Nat pursed her lips and, turning away, said, “Follow me.”
Jenny winked over at Baxter, a small grin and a blush warming her pale skin. In the process, he had probably further pissed off and alienated his old partner, but Grandpappy Kincaid had always told him that you dance with the one you brought. And Baxter had always found it wise to heed Grandpappy’s advice.
67
It wouldn’t have been the first time Corin Campbell had committed cold-blooded murder. But in those instances, her victims had been helpless. This time, Dr. Gladstone was far from feeble. He caught her arm and wrenched it up, nearly popping the joint out of the socket.
A strange vision flashed before her eyes as the pain erupted. Her mother hung above her, kicking and clawing at the rope around her neck, hands reaching toward any would-be savior.
Now, fighting the wave of pain as her shoulder slowly dislocated, she was merely mimicking the movements of someone who had died before her eyes. But she needed to learn from her mother’s mistakes. Her flailing hand caught the armrest of Gladstone’s wheelchair, and she suddenly realized where her mother had gone wrong. She had been reaching out for something to save herself, while all Corin really cared about at this point was hurting Dr. Gladstone.
She wrapped her slender fingers around the armrest and jerked upward with all the force she could muster. At first, the chair didn’t move, and she thought she would die helpless just like her mother, despite anything she did. But then she felt the armrest rise, and she pushed harder, tipping the chair over and throwing Gladstone to the floor.
Clutching her dislocated shoulder, Corin wheeled for the closest door. She knew she’d never escape in her condition, not with the hellhounds patrolling the perimeter. But Gladstone must have transportation between the compound and the city, a vehicle of some type. If she could find that, she would have a chance.
A steel exit door with a sign warning “Alarm will sound” was the her closest way out. She pushed through the door. No alarm shrieked, but something did growl.
Corin slowly backed away from the door as the beast followed her through the opening, its hackles raised and its teeth bared.
“Easy, boy,” she said to the massive black dog. Still backing away, she bumped against something hard and unmoving. Looking over her shoulder, she saw another snarling face. This one belonging to Gladstone, who towered over her now, apparently only faking the need for a wheelchair.
He grabbed her by the shoulders, his large hands trembling with barely contained rage. He said, “Sonnequa, get a fire going. It’s time our new addition gets a lesson in negative reinforcement.”
Corin spun on him, punching and clawing at his eyes.
The muscular Dr. Gladstone easily deflected her blows, and then unleashed one of his own. She felt the impact of his fist against the side of her head. Then her world became a kaleidoscope of exploding colors, and she dreamed of falling into a well with no bottom.
68
San Francisco’s Richmond Police Station was a Romanesque building of red and white brick. Based on the architecture, Ackerman guessed that the structure had been erected sometime in the early 1900s. It had no doubt undergone major renovations since then, considering that most buildings in San Francisco were now seismically reinforced.
The desk sergeant had led them back to a large briefing room. It was the same kind of space he had seen in countless police stations across the country, and at least one time in Mexico. They all, of course, had their unique flourishes and differences in size and amenities, but they all still served the same basic form and function. The walls here were a pale-yellow plasterboard, and the ceiling was the standard two-by-two speckled tile, which seemed to be a favorite of schools, hospitals, and office buildings alike.
Bulletin boards, calendars, schedules, announcements, photos—they smothered the walls, only allowing small glimpses of the pale yellow to shine through, like clouds blocking a rising sun. Coffee and donuts rested in the corner. A little cliché perhaps, but he supposed it was probably as true for any office setting as it was for those in law enforcement.
They were alone in the large space, and Ackerman had refused to sit until the so-called task force arrived.
He said, “This is ridiculous. How long have we been waiting?”
Maggie, pouring her second cup of coffee, said, “It’s only been like twenty minutes. Just relax. Have a donut or something.”
“My body is a temple. I’m very selective about what I put into it. I don’t eat donuts.”
In response, Maggie flipped open the box, plucked one out, and said, “Ooh, Krispy Kreme’s. Your loss.” She punctuated her statement by taking an indulgent bite of the pastry.
Ackerman turned his attention to his brother, who sat at the conference room table. Marcus had a full cup of coffee in front of him and was again rubbing his temples, likely fighting off another migraine.
He said, “Why are we wasting time with this, brother? Can’t Computer Man just break into their files?”
Marcus didn’t even pause his rubbing. “I’m not in the mood for a big philosophical discussion here, but let’s just say that the intuition and personal knowledge of the local investigators can make all the difference.”
“I see. So we plan to use them for our own ends.”
“No, I plan to help them do their jobs.”
Marcus opened his eyes and lowered his hands from the sides of his head. He looked up at Ackerman and said, “I cannot take you seriously in that shirt.”
“I think it’s patriotic.”
“You look like you’re going to a barbecue … In Texas … At the house of a guy named Roy. I can’t believe Emily let you buy that.”
Ackerman replied, “She didn’t. I stole it.”
“What? First of all, you were there shopping for clothes on the government’s dollar. Why in the world would you steal instead of just having Emily pay for it? And second, why in the name of all that is holy would you choose that shirt?”
Looking down at the garment in question, Ackerman couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. It was a long-sleeve button-down dress shirt, covered in red stripes with denim patches and white stars on the shoulders and on each breast pocket.
He would never admit it out loud, but he knew the real reason he had stolen the shirt and chosen something so flamboyant was to get a rise out of the team. He found it difficult not being antagonistic.
With a mouthful of donut, Maggie dropped into a chair across from Marcus and said, “I forgot to mention it earlier, Ackerman, but Kenny Rogers called. He wanted his shirt back.”
Marcus chuckled, but Ackerman didn’t get it. He said, “I’m not familiar with this Rogers fellow, but you can tell him that if he wants something of mine, then he’s welcome to pry it from my icy death-grip.”
Marcus said, “Okay, take it easy. Let’s not get our panties in a twist.”
“I don’t wear underwear. I don’t like feeling restricted.”
“Too much information,” Maggie said. “And would you sit down already!”
“As you wish,” he said, taking a seat beside his brother. Maggie kept stuffing the donut in her mouth, and Marcus had gone back to rubbing his temples. Ackerman wasn’t used to these kinds of situations— working in a team environment, making small talk. He found it all so exhausting. His gaze traveled over the room, searching for some subject of discussion.
Finally, thinking of an amusing anecdote, Ackerman said, “This ceiling reminds me of a particularly interesting encounter I had in Mexico, during which I wore a man’s face. I had carefully removed the m
angled visage of his corpse and then placed it over my own. Then I crawled up into a suspended ceiling, much like this one. I distributed my weight until the right moment, and then I allowed myself to fall through, appearing to be the dead body of a police officer. Then—”
“I really don’t want to hear stories like this, Frank. I’d rather think of you the way you are now.”
“All of us, dear brother, are the sum of our parts and pasts. You, like me, have been tempered by the fires of pain. I find that sharing such feelings is a rather cathartic exercise, which—”
“Please stop talking.”
“Oh, come on now. It was actually a really good story. It even revolved around my first love.”
After a long swig of her coffee, Maggie said, “Okay, now I’m a little bit interested. You are referring to a woman and not, like, death or pain or something like that.”
Marcus snapped, “Don’t encourage him. Even if he wasn’t wearing that ridiculous shirt, I still wouldn’t want to hear the story.”
“I could take the shirt off, if that’s the problem.”
“Just shut the mouth. That’s the problem.”
Ackerman turned to Maggie and said, “He hasn’t been sleeping, has he, little sister?”
“I think it’s been days since he’s slept for more than an hour,” she replied.
Marcus cocked his head to the side, loudly cracking his neck, and then he started balling up his fists and popping all his knuckles. Ackerman recognized it as a sign of his brother nearing a meltdown. Marcus said, “I’m going to shoot the next one of you who speaks.”
Waiting only a few seconds, Ackerman said, “I believe that type of escalation is what my counselor would classify as an inappropriate overreaction to the situation.”
69
Jerrell had thought long and hard about the reinforced glass that separated him from freedom. The floor drain was now filed down to a cutting edge and ready for action, but the more he had considered it, the more he felt that using his new weapon against the barrier was the wrong play.
If he tried to break through the window, the Gladiator would know what he had done. He would be exposing his hand. Jerrell concluded that the better strategy was to keep his ace in the hole. So he had slipped the drain cover back in place, testing to make sure he could easily pull it free.
He didn’t have to wait long.
A dim blue light stung his eyes for a second as his vision adjusted. He went to the window and this time, instead of the skull face, he saw the next chamber. The space beyond was perhaps ten by ten, but a similar design to his current prison. The difference was that a chair occupied the center of the room. A life-like straw-and-burlap dummy dressed in Jerrell’s clothes had been propped up cross-legged atop the chair. In front of the faux person, sitting at attention inside two circles painted on the floor, were the two biggest Rottweilers he had ever seen.
Bathed in the blue light, the massive dogs were like statues of ice, except for the occasional turning of a head or licking of the lips.
“Do you like dogs, Agent Fuller?” the voice said over the speaker in the wall. He saw now that his host stood on the opposite side of the chamber, behind another steel door and security window.
“I have an acquaintance who trains this particular breed to be the most loyal killers money can buy. He calls them ‘hellhounds.’ Would you like to see what they can do?”
His thoughts on the drain in the floor, Jerrell said nothing.
The blue light in the next room turned to red and a high-pitched hum reverberated through the chamber.
The two hellhounds flew into action, working together to tear the dummy apart. The dogs crushed what could have been bone between their massive jaws and whipped their heads from side to side. Instead of focusing on what would’ve been the soft parts of a human body first, the hellhounds directed their attacks only on the throat, head, arms, and legs. They tore those extremities away from the dummy, but left the torso intact. Jerrell imagined them tearing into his own flesh in the same way, their muscular snouts and razor teeth gnawing pieces off him. He wondered if this explained why the limbs of the former victims had been removed.
The Gladiator said, “My best friend was a man who went by the name of Judas. He helped me design these proving grounds. You passed the first test by pulling the drain cover free and refusing to die. You may retrieve your weapon now and ready yourself for the next test.”
On the Gladiator’s last words, the door clicked and slowly swung free. Jerrell looked around the edge of the door at the two hellhounds. The dogs had returned to their circles painted on the floor and again stood at attention. The light in the chamber had changed back to blue.
Straw was everywhere, some small pieces still lazily floating to the floor.
Jerrell bent down, retrieved the sharpened metal cover, and tried not to consider that his blood and flesh could soon be spread across the concrete chamber just as easily as that straw.
70
Baxter Kincaid, as if he were in some old Charlie Chaplin movie, nearly stumbled in surprise as he walked into the briefing room. He hadn’t expected to find a room full of people. He assumed he’d present the photos to Natalie and her new partner, Detective Olivette—whom Baxter referred to as Detective All-a-that. Instead, he found what he recognized as the best detectives from all ten districts of the San Francisco Police Department.
As she ushered him toward the stage, Baxter leaned over to Natalie and whispered, “You didn’t tell me there was a task force. How did you get all these people together so fast?”
She rolled her eyes. “Not everything is about you, Baxter. We’ve been summoned here by the feds, who supposedly have an interconnecting case. They throw out a little cheese and expect all of us rats to come running.”
He said, “I only have one set of photos.”
With a shrug, she replied, “We could try to scan them and show them up on the big screen.”
“No worries. I’ll make it work. I always do. But if I’m going to do this, I need a little herb first.”
Natalie jammed her finger in his face and said, “No, no, no.” Each time she said the word “No” she bounced the finger, as if she were scolding an insolent puppy. “Baxter, do not embarrass me up there. Do you remember, back when you were on the job, seeing actual professionals? Please just pretend like you’re one of them. Act the way they would.”
“I find that terribly offensive. In the immortal words of Popeye, ‘I ams what I ams.’”
Natalie looked toward the ceiling, let out a long breath, and said, “I’ve always respected you, Baxter. But if you embarrass me up there, I’m going to punch you in the balls. And I’m not kidding.”
Eyes going wide, Baxter said, “Damn, girl. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
He followed Natalie to the front row of chairs. Her new partner Detective All-a-that had saved her a place, but the rest of the chairs were filled, which forced Baxter and Jenny to sit three rows back. Detective All-a-that seemed a bit overly satisfied at the minor snubbing.
“Which ones are the feds?” Jenny whispered.
“Not sure. I recognize most of the people in here.”
“So … how long were you and Natalie together?”
“Well, we worked together for about—”
“No, Bax, I mean for how long were the two of you fornicating?”
“A gentleman never tells. And, oddly enough, neither do I.”
“Don’t give me that ‘Grandpappy Kincaid says don’t kiss and tell’ crap. I’m not asking for all the gory details. Just trying to get a lay of the land.”
Baxter winked at her. “In that case, the land is a little rocky, some ups and downs, rolling hills, but the soil is dark and rich, and the crops are ready for the harvest.”
“What the hell does that mean? That makes no sense.”
A door opened beside the stage, and Baxter watched his old captain escort a group that had to be the federal agents onto the dais. Looking over a
t Jenny, he placed a finger to his lips. “I would love to explain it to you. But the show is about to start.”
Jenny gave him a look that Baxter interpreted as her considering boiling his balls and serving them in a bowl of Brussel sprouts.
He found something about the look on her face incredibly funny, and he almost snorted trying to hold back his laughter. He pointed toward the stage.
Part of him supposed he should have been kissing Jenny’s ass. He found her fascinating in every way and hoped their relationship would grow to be something more. But if they were going to form anything meaningful, she would have to accept him for the man he was—one who sometimes enjoyed being a bit obtuse.
Focusing his attention back on the case, Baxter watched the federal agents take the stage. There was a row of chairs behind the podium, where the speakers normally sat. The whole thing made Baxter think of a high school graduation, with the principal and school board sitting in their places behind the valedictorian. In this case, however, the school board was a very dour-looking crew, and the valedictorian, who had just stepped up to the microphone, was Baxter’s old commanding officer.
When the little man opened his mouth, his voice was high pitched and nasally. To Baxter’s trained eyes, the captain looked more like someone who should be tending bar in Philadelphia than a man in charge of San Francisco’s best detectives. But the captain had political connections. Baxter couldn’t remember the details—nephew of a senator, son of the mayor’s golfing buddy, or some such. Still, it wasn’t his place to judge, and in his experience with the captain, the little man had actually been surprisingly adequate.
With a scratch of his unkempt beard, the captain said, “First off, thank you all for coming in on a Sunday. I’ll let the lead agent explain to you why such urgency was necessary, but let me just say that I think all of you have done a great job on this case. And I think your hard work is about to pay off. So, let me introduce you to the agents from the Department of Justice, and then I’ll turn this briefing over to their team leader, Special Agent Marcus Williams.”