Hunted: A Suspense Collection

by J. L. Drake

  He approached the bed. It was big enough for two, although it never filled that many anymore. The pillow had a deep indention in its surface from his sleep, the blankets wadded up like a dust bunny.

  The walls were bare. No one since Keri had or would ever see this room, so he didn’t feel the need for decoration. Most people, he had come to realize, didn’t grasp that concept. He had been called the home of a harried old woman who had never seen a schoolyard scuffle much less a war, but kept a fully automatic type 56 assault rifle mounted on the wall. Impressive, but just plain scary.

  Jason popped a leather holster on his belt and immediately felt a bit more energetic. He pocketed an extra magazine of ammo and reached his hand under the pillow. He drew his Glock 9mm from its hiding place, tapped its barrel once, and slid it home into the holster.

  The small bedside table silently beckoned him. It did every morning, and every morning, Jason tried to ignore it, tried to forget. This morning, he failed. He looked at the table, and the photo of Keri Flynn smiled back at him.

  The gleaming gold frame surrounding her face made her glow, made her eyes twinkle in the light. She wore very little makeup, and her hair was scruffier than usual, but she still made his breath catch—the picture had been candidly taken at a pizza parlor a few blocks away. An average day, she looked blissfully happy, blissfully loving, everything simply blissful.

  Sixteen hours later, a bullet flew through her head. This was the last picture Jason had taken of her.

  This morning, the tender smile seemed to mock him, to laugh at him.

  I left you, eh? You didn’t save me, huh? Too bad.

  Jason shoved the thoughts out of his mind, knowing good and well how much she loved him. Such thoughts slandered her. Blasphemy. He should be ashamed.

  Yet he took the photo off the table, set it in a drawer, and walked out of the room.

  Three minutes later, Cheyenne pulled up in front of the house in her dark gray car. Jason checked his watch: four minutes on the nose, just as she had promised. That Cheyenne, always the efficient one.

  He approached the car. Its color and build reminded him of a rhino on a diet. With a grunt, he plopped into the passenger seat and they cruised away.

  Cheyenne sat behind the wheel in casual, loose-fitting sweatpants and a tee-shirt. She wore her golden L.A.P.D. shield on a nylon cord around her neck, like a lanyard. Hair pulled back and corralled with an elastic band, she seemed to have been taken by surprise by the call to action, just as Jason had been.

  The front of the car smelled of a cheap air freshener dealerships throw in to sweeten the deal, but it was strangely refreshing in the early morning. Everything was in its assigned place. All neat, efficient, and tasteful, as Cheyenne liked it. A GPS was mounted, but an atlas was also tucked under the seat, just in case. Morning cup of joe, packets of sugar, cell phone, spare pens and pencils, a tool box that doubled as storage and a bludgeon.

  The radio was switched on, producing the rumble of many voices speaking simultaneously. Shane Drake’s press conference was in full swing. Jason tried to imagine the big, bad, untouchable Don sitting behind a desk, wearing handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit rather than diamond bracelets and a custom tux from Europe. Plus, what with all the cameras flashing, Shane would actually require those sunglasses for the first time in his life. Unfortunately, they would be out of commission.

  The Don’s voice echoed out of the radio, amplified by a microphone. “Of course I blame my parents! Druggies, both of them! They were both sacks of dog vomit, to their core! Never once did I like them, never love them. Their calling in life is to be fertilizer for tulips, and now, I pray that they are! Forget six feet under. Bury them twenty feet under! I know, I know they’re frying in hell right now, and I say, peace to ‘em! Deserved, every second of eternity!”

  Thousands of questions flooded from the live spectators, all mumblings over the airwaves.

  “Just warms my heart,” Jason said, staring at the radio.

  “They grow up so fast,” Cheyenne responded with a sad, sarcastic grin.

  A rock thumped in Jason’s stomach. “His parents are dead, aren’t they?” He thought for a moment. “Dante and Kimmie Drake?”

  Cheyenne nodded, eyes fixed on the road. “Both, yes. Kimmie took one too many hits of coke from unclean needles. Infection and cardiac arrest six years ago. Dante subsequently drank an ocean of whiskey, went missing for a week, and was then spotted plummeting from the Golden Gate Bridge.” A beat of quiet. “Say what you will about Dante, but he loved his wife. His son, not so much.”

  Jason sighed, grimaced, and nodded. Broken home, broken mind, broken life. One leads to the other. How many times have I seen that?

  The car entered the mainland of Los Angeles. Dozens upon dozens of gridlocked drivers congested the streets, all reluctantly falling into the horns-blaring, crabby-attitude routine of Monday. The cityscape flashed by. The skyscrapers’ spires rose high above all else, like children trying to be just a little better than one other. The sun was a shallow yellow, but in a few minutes, it would morph into a giant basketball in the sky, producing heat that could thaw a turkey in world-record time.

  The stereotypical palm trees of L.A. lined the avenue, creating the perfect photo op for tourists or locals who wanted to renew the dream of living in the home of the stars. That, however, was not where the detectives were headed, which was bittersweet for Jason. While slack-jawed tourists annoyed him to no end, he sometimes longed for their naivety.

  Cheyenne turned off the main street, leaving the palm trees, gaping sightseers, irritable locals, and bumper-to-bumper traffic behind.

  “Where’s this body?” Jason asked, absently stroking his own gold shield hooked on his belt.

  “An alley,” she answered. “Intersection of 8th and Flight Street, on the outskirt of Sinai Hills.”

  Makes sense. Jason sighed.

  Sinai Hills was a neighborhood division that had a reputation dirtier than a former hooker’s. It was often called “Sin Hills” by those too important and classy to associate with it. Garbage littered the streets. The homes weren’t much more impressive, with doors hanging by one hinge or painted boards nailed across shattered windows. Seventy-five percent of the Hills’ residents didn’t deserve an ounce of its filthy reputation, but the remaining quarter more than earned it, with never-ending cases of trafficking, drug-dealing, vandalism, counterfeiting, assaults, threats…

  But never murder. For some odd reason, the folk of Sinai Hills respected one other enough to spare their neighbors’ lives. Never murder.

  Well, there’s a first time for everything.

  Cheyenne’s car entered the shoddier edge of the city, and, while the number of pedestrians didn’t decrease, their entire demeanor did. Gone were sunglasses and tacky Hawaiian shirts. Gone were video cameras and full shopping bags. Gone were the smiles and giggles and glamour that allegedly defined California.

  The folk looked decent enough, the kind you would hire to wait tables at Olive Garden but not Antoine’s. Men and women walked the streets in clothes either a tad too big or way too small. Yet something definitely separated these pedestrians from the tourists mere miles north. They walked as if cinderblocks were attached to their feet, true satisfaction as unattainable as Prince Charming. Gray, bleak, downtrodden faces of those who had reached for their goals only to be slapped away.

  Cheyenne zoomed the car down Flight Street and approached two stocky buildings made of compact granite, much like the rest of the area and its citizens. A half dozen cop cars surrounded the sliver of space between them, the red and blue lights flashing flamboyantly as if advertising the premier of Brad Pitt’s newest action blockbuster rather than a crime scene.

  Just a stone’s throw away stood a faded sign, decorated by a carving of a tall mountain, its peak hidden by angelic clouds and light. Most of its color had been washed away by the tag team of Mother Nature and Father Time. ‘Sinai Hills’ it read proudly. Once someone stepped past that sign,
they had entered the Hills of Sin themselves.

  Cheyenne parked the car among the other cruisers, eyeing the neighborhood’s sign. She and Jason stepped out and moved toward the alley.

  Almost immediately, Jason picked up Sam Washington’s obnoxious, gloating voice. The detective showed himself, walking out from behind a police cruiser, wearing a Lakers jersey and a smirk that made Jason’s eye twitch. He sauntered across the sidewalk as if strutting for his admirers. Wink, smile for the cameras. His gun’s handle bulged out from under his jersey, showing off for all the lovely ladies out there. This was Sam’s world—everyone else just happened to be living in it.

  “Nancy Drew, Sherlock,” Sam greeted the two with a small nod. “Glad you made it. Wouldn’t want to miss out on your genius insight.” He grinned slowly, his lips pressed against each other.

  Neither Cheyenne nor Jason were in the mood for Sam’s pigheadedness, especially not near the corpse.

  Cheyenne exhaled through her nose, literally letting off steam to keep from clobbering the glowing face before her like it was the target in a carnival game. “Have you examined the body yet?”

  “Not yet,” Sam said, placing one hand on the butt of his gun. “Forensics is nearly done lifting prints and all that jazz. I’d wait for them to clear out if I were you.”

  Jason sidestepped Sam. “Can do, sport.”

  The wide smile shrank. Sam straightened his jersey and gave Jason two big thumbs up. “Go get ‘em, tiger—”

  “Ya know…” Jason turned back to face the detective. “Back in the early Civil War, both the Union and the Confederacy would deal with defiant prisoners by tying their thumbs to a high, horizontal pole while the entire camp watched. The bone would get torn completely out of its socket. The pain was excruciating, but they weren’t done. Then, the skin itself would rip, bit by bit, until the prisoner fell to the ground, suddenly without the two things that separate man from beast.”

  Sam gaped, slowly tucking his thumbs under his other fingers.

  Jason shrugged, feigning innocence. “I dunno. Just something that crossed my mind.”

  He turned and walked away, Cheyenne right behind him.

  The alley loomed before them, instantly making Cheyenne’s smile disappear. Garth Jameson stood with his hands behind his back, staring into the alleyway as if it were a black hole in outer space. Apparently, he hadn’t been caught off guard by the death this morning—his hair was slicked back just the way he liked it, and he wore an ironed dress-shirt with a smooth necktie. Just as urbanely fashionable as always. He noticed the two detectives walking his way and greeted them.

  “Good morning.” A hint of a smile, although he wasn’t trying too hard.

  Cheyenne responded. “Good, indeed.”

  Jason asked, “Did you hear Shane Drake’s press conference?”

  Garth chuckled lowly. “Sure did. That man has quite the vivid vocabulary. Are we sure that the Inner City Detention Center has a cell that can contain all that swagger?”

  “Or lack thereof?” Jason said.

  Cheyenne furrowed her brow. “I actually am concerned about sending him to the Center.” She absently tugged her long hair as if activating her brain. “Drake either made lifelong allies or deadly enemies. There was no in-between. In the Center, he’ll have to keep an eye open when he sleeps, otherwise he’ll end up with a fist down his throat. On the other hand, many cons are more than willing to bust him out. This whole deal is on shaky ground.”

  “I’ve thought of that, too,” Jason said. “Apparently, somebody on top of the pyramid pushed hard enough for him to be sent to the Center. I haven’t the foggiest idea why, though.” He paused, mulling over what he had just said.

  Then Jason saw it. Or rather, him. A body sprawled in the middle of the dank alleyway. He stared straight up at the bright sky, wearing a classy suit as if he had been on the way to work, a pool of dark blood formed around his torso.

  Seven forensic officers scurried around the alley, snapping photographs every few seconds. One man was kneeling by the corpse, photographing the victim. If the man had ever dreamed of being a model, how ironic that it was being fulfilled only after his death.

  Another man towered over the body, one hand in his pocket, the other stroking his chin. He wore thin glasses perched at the very tip of his round nose, a firm grimace, and dark hair with premature streaks of silver. His eyes were light and misty, as if they had been wide open his entire life and seen far too much.

  This was Dr. Craig Weston, one of the most intellectual and thoughtful investigators Jason had ever encountered. Although he was officially a local mortician, he was often called to scenes of dead bodies to add his ideas to the gigantic melting pot of theories. His ideas, however, were always worth listening to. He could tell more info from a single corpse than most geniuses could tell from the murderer’s written confession.

  Even now, Jason could see the endless sets of mental gears twirling through Craig’s head as he circled the lifeless body, examining every detail that seemed entirely insignificant to the untrained eye.

  Craig noticed Jason, Cheyenne, and Garth standing in the mouth of the alley. As if some silent cue had been given, the forensic scientists immediately left the scene, either chatting on phones or to each other.

  Garth, Cheyenne, and Jason entered the alley, the walls swallowing them eagerly and blocking out the sun’s light. Craig stepped forward to meet them, his grimace turning into a small, meek smile.

  The smile merely masked the grief that had come to characterize Craig Weston. He walked through life as if a ghost, only half alive. Jason remembered a time long ago when the wrinkles on his face were carved by constant laughing rather than sorrow. The man would laugh and joke merrily, the pleasure of life shown by every move he made. Now, his entire existence seemed to be a waste of effort.

  Tracy Weston, his wife, was a major factor in his depression, if not the only factor. She was a lovely woman, stern but undeniably devoted to her husband and son, Alex. Five long, long years ago, Tracy had developed terminal cancer of the brain. Her physical deterioration was gradual but all too apparent.

  Jason had paid the Westons many visits over the years. Ted and Alex were both ten years old and enjoyed each other’s company, so the Flynns and Westons often got together to release the stress police work loaded onto the two husbands.

  As Tracy’s state grew worse, the get-togethers grew less and less frequent. Ted often casually asked about Alex and Craig, knowing it was a touchy subject. The devotion between ten year olds never ceased to amaze Jason—a bond no circumstance could break, no matter how hard it was strained.

  Tracy now lay in a hospital bed, her mind all but destroyed, wires and machinery surrounding her like some alien from a sci-fi movie. Except this was no fictional creature. This was a woman many people loved dearly. She was completely unconscious, yet, every single day, at exactly 7:15 p.m., Craig visited the hospital room and sat by the bed for half an hour, talking to his wife in a soft, soothing voice, praying to some God that she would wake.

  Every day, Craig would leave the hospital, his prayers falling on deaf ears.

  Now, this beaten shell of a man with the most brilliant mind this side of the Mississippi stood between the three detectives and the corpse. Jason stared at his friend Craig for a moment longer, feeling a dozen emotions he could name and a thousand he couldn’t.

  “Good morning, detectives,” Craig said, and they had to look up to meet his gaze. He ushered them over to the body with shuffling steps. He cleared his throat, staring down at the lifeless form sprawled on the concrete. A dark shadow passed over his face, as if he had thought of a terrifying memory. The shadow disappeared, though, and he faced Jason.

  “Single bullet,” he began, pointing at the corpse. “Shot in the center of the spine, two and a half inches above the pelvis. He was instantly paralyzed from the neck down. It’s a miracle he wasn’t killed right away by the shot…”

  “Which shows that the gunman kne
w exactly what he was doing,” Jason finished the thought.

  “An expert shooter,” Garth sighed, his entire body sagging wearily. “Terrific.”

  Jason stared at the dead man. He lay on the grimy concrete sidewalk, spread out like a starfish. Over the years, Jason had seen many, many dead people, and this was not how they naturally fell to the ground.

  Craig saw Jason’s expression and seemed to read his mind. “Apparently, the shooter then positioned the victim in this spread-eagle stance.” His eyes slid across the alley’s walls. “I’ve examined the area, and I find no meaning for the positioning. Other than power, I suppose.”

  “Ghastly…” Cheyenne heaved a sigh. “Imagine, a man controlling your movements, manipulating your arms and legs, yet you can do nothing to stop him. Just…ghastly.”

  “Who would relish that kind of power?” Garth asked.

  “Who wouldn’t?” Jason responded grimly.

  Craig nodded slowly. “Precisely.” He massaged his neck with his wiry fingers. Based on the shadowy bags under his eyes, he hadn’t slept very well the past lifetime or so. The doctor crossed his arms and continued. “Judging by the amount of fecal matter, urine, and general wear of his clothes and body, he simply laid here for anywhere between thirty-six to forty-eight hours until he finally died of blood loss. Not starvation or dehydration.”

  Jason sniffed. So that’s what that stench is.

  “He has been dead for approximately ten hours, giving the shooter plenty of time to hightail it out of town. At least,” Craig timidly pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “that’s what I would do.”

  Jason glanced at the mortician. He couldn’t picture Craig as a murderer for even a second. That’d be like accusing Gandhi of moonlighting as a rock star, or imagining Charles Manson petting a cute little puppy. It just wasn’t right.

  “Any evidence of the killer?” Jason didn’t know why he asked the question; he already knew the answer.

  Craig shook his head. “Negative.”

  “Has forensics pinpointed the victim yet?” Garth asked, inspecting the grimy corners of the alleyway.