Hunted: A Suspense Collection

by J. L. Drake

  “God is nigh, Jason.”

  The low, raspy whisper. The casual tone. The chill in Jason’s bones.

  It was Abel.

  “Can you sense His might?”

  Jason bolted to his feet. His eyes desperately searched the bullpen for Cheyenne or Garth or even Sam. Any sort of companion. Even though Abel was only on the phone, he felt terrified—like the pressure of a far-off sniper aimed at the back of his head.

  Cheyenne was behind her desk, attention focused on a read-out on her cell phone. Jason opened his mouth, about to scream at the top of his lungs, “It’s Abel! Set up a trace! I’ll keep him on the line!”

  But Abel cut him off. “Sit back down. Eyes on your computer. Don’t make any contact.”

  The air was suddenly very warm and very thin. Jason clenched the phone in his hand, knees jerking as if they weren’t sure whether or not to lower his body back into the chair.

  “Don’t disobey me, Jason. You won’t like the consequences.”

  Is he watching me? Jason already knew the answer to that question.

  Cheyenne glanced up from her phone and caught his desperate stare. She raised her eyebrows, sensing his apprehension, and, moreover, his fear. She began to stand too, her eyes silently asking him if he was okay.

  No. He was not okay.

  “I said to sit down!” Abel’s voice cracked digitally over the phone. “Smile lightly at her as if everything’s fine. Because everything is fine, right?”

  Jason growled but pulled his face into a little smile. It didn’t feel convincing at all, but Cheyenne returned the smile, relieved, and sat back down. She looked away and went back to reading the words on her phone.

  “Sit.”

  Slowly, Jason obeyed this time, creaking into his chair. He kept boring holes into Cheyenne’s head with his eyes, but she didn’t look back. Everything was fine, as far as she knew.

  “Eyes on the computer, remember?”

  Muscles tense, he stared at his blank computer screen, looking completely at ease to anyone who might be watching.

  “So,” Abel hissed through the phone. Jason flinched, feeling as if the man’s tongue tickled the inside of his ear like a venomous, seductive snake.

  Jason decided to take control of the conversation. His mind raced for something, anything that could possibly throw this guy off balance. Finally, he mumbled something.

  “You’ll never find the woman.”

  It took Abel a second to come back with, “Hmm?”

  He’s puzzled. That’s a start.

  “Jack Magnum’s companion on the night he died. The night you staged his death. I know—”

  He was interrupted by heavy static noise from the phone, and he then realized it was Abel’s laughter. Like an icicle slicing open his skin.

  The laugh died down. Abel spoke, still chuckling slightly to himself. “You say companion so politely…” More snorts. “Don’t sugarcoat it. That’s one of the world’s biggest problems. Just say what’s true. She was a whore, Jason. Prostitute, escort, dishrag of humanity. Choose any of those you like.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Jason said. “You’ll never catch her.”

  “Why do you think I want to?” All traces of laughter had disappeared.

  “Somehow, you poisoned their food. Put traces of opposing chemicals on their lips. She saw your face.”

  Abel was quiet.

  “That’s the truth, Abel. No sugarcoating.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Nobody knows for sure.”

  These vague answers were getting on Jason’s nerves. “Jack was nearly unrecognizable when we found him. The chemical reaction in his throat had bloated him up until all internal organs were flattened like pancakes. Thou shall not commit adultery…The Ten Commandments. Your pattern isn’t a secret any more, Abel.”

  “I know. That’s all anybody at the P.D. in L.A. is talking about.”

  “Jack sealed his own fate, am I right, Abel?”

  “Good, Jason! I know you’re just humoring me, but it’s nice to hear it from you personally. If Jack hadn’t gone with that whore, kissed those filthy lips, he would’ve walked away alive. He would’ve run home and kissed his wife.” Abel groaned. “But he didn’t. He intended to connect himself with a prostitute. Surprised?”

  “Nobody surprises me.”

  “Kenneth Barab sure did.”

  Jason froze. He gripped the armrest of his chair, feeling woozy and infuriated at the same time. How did this maniac know about Barab? It was ancient history.

  The voice went on, sounding genuinely concerned. “You did the right thing about him, Jason. Don’t doubt yourself for a second.”

  A wave of nausea swept through Jason’s body. Deep, dark memories about Kenneth Barab began to surface again, and worst of all, Abel appeared to know about them all. Somehow, he knew Jason had framed the man eight long years ago.

  “After what he did to all those innocent girls, he deserves the exact fate you set up for him—beaten in the yard and raped in the shower of some state penitentiary, and finally, getting a needle plunged into his arm. Yes, he’ll get exactly what’s coming to him. Don’t feel guilt, Jason.”

  Empty seconds like drifting icebergs filled the air, and Jason let out a breath between his clenched teeth. Something had grasped his gut in its fist and was twisting his insides again and again. He almost hung up the phone and threw it into the garbage can, but he focused on Abel. He focused on prying as much info out of him as possible.

  Who was this man?

  “Who are you, Abel?”

  The answer wasn’t immediate. Jason tried to put a face to the killer’s low, sharp voice. Tried to picture the man on the phone right now, wondering how to answer the detective’s question. Tried to picture the man lowering Adam Fischer into a vat of wet concrete, knowing the man would die. Was he smiling or not? Tried to picture the man walking into the grocery store, holding the door open for the elderly woman behind him.

  Abel cleared his throat, bringing Jason back from his thoughts.

  “There’s another out there, Jason.”

  “Another what?”

  “Another sinner. One I’ve punished. Quickly, you need to find her body before it becomes smelly and…unpleasant.”

  Jason opened his mouth, but Abel seemed to read his mind.

  “Yes, her. Southern Row, corner of 7th and Soto, Solstice Moon. Get moving. Remember, God is nigh.”

  Then Abel hung up.

  Not a second passed before Jason leapt from his chair, causing all the useless paperwork to flutter off his desk. He flew past Cheyenne and Garth, drawing their curious stares.

  “Captain!” he called. “We have a situation.”

  ***

  Skid Row. The sun’s rays made the streets shimmer, as if it was all one big mirage from a rotten daydream. Plastic bags and stray garbage surrounded the buildings, more popular on this side of town than grass. A certain smell made the air thick. Sweat. Trash. Tears. If Jason could bottle it, he’d make a fortune selling it as pepper spray.

  Southern Row, Abel had said. Solstice Moon. Jason and Cheyenne were now en route with armed backup and forensic investigators right behind them. And a coroner.

  Jason felt his heart get heavy as they drove through Skid Row. Over 20,000 people lived in this chunk of Los Angeles, yet less than 3000 households were built. Cardboard boxes and camping tents lined the sidewalks. Aimless pedestrians everywhere. Homeless and unloved.

  Oddly enough, in recent years a statute known as the Safer City Initiative had been enacted, aiming to clean up the Row inside and out. The combined efforts of this statute, the city workers, and police department had resulted in dramatic changes in the area. Homelessness and crime dropped to unprecedented levels, which had, at the time, symbolized the hope for other down-and-out sections of L.A.

  A quick search through the police database had shown that the Solstice Moon was an unofficial gathering place for Hindu prayers and sermons. It wasn’t registered or licensed by
the city, but nobody had stepped in to shut it down. Why bother? All it did was offer one more option of hope to these sorrow people of the Row.

  The train of cop cars stopped in front of the small, crumbling house that had been named the Solstice Moon. If it weren’t for word of mouth, nobody would have any idea where this place was—all the buildings on these streets looked almost identical, with sagging roofs, cracked foundations, and hopeless eyes peering out from behind the dust-caked windows.

  Jason popped out of the car. A small boy slowly peeked out from behind a lopsided shack. His home. Jason gave him a smile and a nod. Revealing lines of colored teeth, the boy giggled and disappeared.

  Cheyenne stepped beside him. “You okay?”

  Jason gulped and sized up the Solstice Moon. “I will be.” He had been mulling something over the whole car ride. “Hinduism, rituals…Know what that means?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Another religion. Prayers, gods…idols.”

  Cheyenne sighed and nodded to herself.

  The second commandment. Thou shall have no carved images. No idols.

  In a matter of seconds, the L.A. cops set barriers around the Solstice Moon, raising a lot of questions and, surprisingly, anger from the pedestrians. To them, it looked like the city was acting against the place of prayer, and they didn’t accept that idly. People—male and female, old and young, black, Asian, Hispanic, and white—screamed and argued at the uniformed officers.

  A squat, lonely building across the street caught his eye. It had one door—which looked more like termites standing on each other’s shoulders—and no windows, but something made it stand out. A cross was staked in a patch of grass in front of the building, standing about five feet high, its arms outstretched.

  This made Jason pause. A Christian church on one side of the street, a Hindu prayer house on the other.

  Next to the cross stood a young woman, watching the police and citizens with her hands folded together. Hanging from her wrist was a small silver crucifix, trembling nervously along with her hands. Her dark hair was short and matted, but her eyes were soft. Jason caught her gaze, and she offered a small, encouraging wave. He nodded back and gestured to the cops and detectives behind him.

  Time to move in.

  A few SWAT men in heavy armor and helmets that made them look like Gestapo agents crept toward the building, rifles extended. Jason, Cheyenne, and Garth followed several yards back, their own guns withdrawn.

  Jason glanced at his pistol, wondering why he had it drawn. If SWAT couldn’t take down an enemy with their assault rifles, then his wimpy handgun would be about as effective as a slingshot.

  We’re just here for moral support, guys. Cheerleaders. Rah-rah.

  He shrugged and holstered. Garth bugged out his eyes, all the firearm protocols being broken on the tip of his tongue, but they had already entered the prayer place. Everybody shut up and stopped breathing.

  They stepped into a low antechamber filled with scattered trash and disgusting stains that Jason couldn’t and didn’t want to pinpoint. On the far wall hung a tattered poster of the Om, a common Hindu symbol. A small bullet hole was seared in the middle of it.

  About twenty doors were attached to the far wall, each leading to a small, private room for prayers or any other rituals done individually. Outside each door, at least one pair of shoes was left on the floor.

  “What…?” one of the SWAT men whispered, baffled by all the abandoned shoes.

  “This is holy ground,” Cheyenne answered quietly. “They leave their shoes before heading in to pray.”

  Jason stepped forward, sweat sliding down his forehead. It wasn’t just the heat. He cleared his throat noisily, grabbing the SWAT commander’s attention. “Lieutenant.” His voice seemed loud as shattering glass in the tense antechamber. A few men glared at him for ruining their element of surprise, but Jason knew they were alone. Abel was long gone. “Our body’s in there.” He gestured to the eighteenth door.

  “How do you know that?” The commander shifted, scanning the antechamber.

  Jason approached the first door. One set of shoes stood to its left. They were tiny and worn out, caked in dirt and sweat, but flexible and reliable. All of the shoes in the room were similar to these: obviously female, small and dainty. To right of the eighteenth door were two giant boots, clean except for mild grime on its soles.

  Abel had left these for them to find. His next victim was in here.

  All the others spotted the boots and silently understood. One officer gasped and crossed himself.

  Jason gazed at the Om emblem for another second. Then he began to reach for the eighteenth door’s knob. He silently hoped that Jehovah, Allah, Buddha, Zeus, Thor, Oprah, or any other gods were looking out for the cops. Then he opened the door and crept into the prayer room.

  Despite the gun on his hip, Jason felt skittish. He looked around, not knowing what to expect.

  Then there she was.

  It was a woman, as Abel had promised. A dead body, fallen on the ground as if she was carelessly dropped. Her mouth was opened wide in a silent cry as her arms and legs were flexed inward, desperately protecting herself from some attacker. Obviously, this last-ditch effort to put up a fight hadn’t worked out too well. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, fastened by a plastic clip. A pool of blood splayed on the floor around the top of her head.

  Jason raised a hand. “Cheyenne.” He beckoned for his friend.

  She walked with him to the woman. “Three minutes,” she said to the men waiting by the door. “Then send in forensics, copy?”

  The two detectives crouched down beside the body. Jason’s stomach churned at the sight of the spilled blood, not to mention the dead, glassy eyes that stared hopelessly at the ceiling.

  “Cause of death…” Cheyenne muttered, going through a checklist in her head.

  “Getting her head bashed in.”

  She opened her mouth to say something else, but then shrugged and nodded.

  Accurate enough.

  Tossed on the other side of the room was a metal object, no bigger than a loaf of bread. Jason walked over and gave it a look. It was a small brass statue of a strange woman wearing an Indian tunic and headdress. Instead of two arms, this woman had six, each waving or pointing elegantly. A splotch of red covered the statue’s base.

  Cheyenne’s voice came from behind Jason. “Durga.”

  “Bless you.”

  “No, no.” She studied the statue closer. “This is Durga, a Hindu goddess that looks out for all her children and assists them in times of distress. Basically, the mother god.”

  Jason paced lightly across the room. “Bludgeoned to death by an idol. This sure looks like commandment number two.”

  “I agree.”

  They both glanced around the prayer chamber, but, aside from the victim and the bloodied Durga idol, there wasn’t anything to see.

  A group of forensic investigators swooped in and began to immediately gather any sort of evidence that was invisible to the unaided eye. Jason, feeling like the world’s greatest plumber at an electrician’s convention, stepped out of the prayer room and let them get to work.

  Garth stepped from the outside into the antechamber and heaved a huge sigh, wiping his sleeve across his perspiring forehead.

  “Where’ve you been?” Jason asked.

  “Crowd control. We’ve assured them all we’re not shutting this prayer place down, but they’re not taking any chances.”

  “Well, then, wish me luck, because I’m going out there.” He gave Garth a smirk and exited the Solstice Moon, the sharp sun instantly making him sweat.

  The swarms of Skid Row-ites were still buzzing around the street, all coming to defend the Hindu sanctuary. The officers had calmed a majority of them, but a good portion was still energized and screaming for their neighbors’ rights.

  Jason made his way around the crowd, taking it in a person at a time. Oddly enough, they all seemed to be at peace with each other. Compl
ete opposites were standing together on the street, one blood rival supporting the other. He spotted a gangly old guy wearing a camo shirt and a ‘Nam Vet’ hat helping out a crying Vietnamese boy with a scraped knee. A grimy biker with a leather jacket standing next to an undersized man adjusting his necktie and glasses. An Arab and a white speaking with a policeman.

  Somehow, on Skid Row, people had figured out coexistence. Despite hunger, fear, poverty, degradation…despite all of life’s hardships pounded into them on a daily basis, these people were reaching out. Everywhere, lions and lambs were lying down next to each other.

  Chapter 9

  “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”

  —Jeremiah 29:11

  “Aarti Rao, twenty-two, immigrated from Malaysia a year and a half ago, no known parents or relatives this side of the Pacific…”

  The captain read a printout from one of the police analysts. The droopy skin on his face was especially limp after learning the newest victim’s name, giving him the appearance of a trusty, crime-busting bloodhound. How appropriate.

  “Dead for a few hours, no missing jewelry or property, no sign of a struggle…”

  Jason cut Jones off. “No sign of a struggle? There was practically nothing in that tiny room. Nothing to show whether or not there was a struggle. For all we know, she could’ve fought for an hour, the light leaving her eyes, the will to fight depleting more and more…”

  The dreary images made him shut his mouth. His partners stared at him. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

  The discovery of the woman in the prayer house—a young Malaysian named Aarti, apparently—had put him in a dour mood. Nothing was going to plan. They claimed to the public to be doing well on the murder investigations, but they weren’t any closer to finding the killer’s identity. Working out his methods. His pattern for choosing victims. They hadn’t even stopped a single murder. Abel was four for four, planning his next move, and these lousy cops were still sitting in their headquarters, scratching their heads.