Hunted: A Suspense Collection

by J. L. Drake

  Craig Weston walked at his side, guiding him through the desks. Jason was grateful; not only was each step a painful labor, but also he was still shivering violently from the cold rain, and he couldn’t walk a straight line to save his life right now. The doctor’s glasses fogged in the building’s air conditioning.

  “Try to breathe shallowly,” Craig said in the soothing, doctoral voice that he had used on countless patients.

  They stopped at a desk, and Craig swept all the papers and files to one side so Jason could sit.

  “Let’s have a look at that,” Craig muttered to himself, taking a roll of elastic bandaging from his pocket. Jason nearly laughed. The doctor was talking casually as if to a man with a splinter instead of one who had been nailed by a car.

  It took a few painful moments for Jason to take his shirt off, and he ended up wishing he had kept it on. His torso was dark purple where the taxi’s bumper had scored a direct hit. Hopefully bruised, not cracked.

  “Now, this is going to hurt, Jason. Bear with me.” Craig unraveled a portion of bandage and began to wrap it around the detective’s wound.

  The tender, brittle bones of his rib cage screeched in agony, making his muscles squirm and tighten as if they were on fire. It was all he could do to keep from writhing like a rat caught in a trap.

  “Aw, geez,” he released a shaky breath.

  “You’re lucky that cab was braking when it hit you. If it was going full speed, you’d be paralyzed or dead right now.”

  “Yeah,” Jason said between gasps, “lucky.”

  Craig let out a thick sigh, eyes betraying his chronic concern. “I should take you to a hospital…”

  Jason snatched Craig’s wrist. The doctor looked at him in shock.

  “Don’t you dare,” Jason hissed.

  Craig gulped uneasily, but nodded and went back to mending his friend’s injury.

  The pain made it difficult to focus—like keeping your eye on a mosquito in a hurricane—but Jason did his best to sort through everything that just happened.

  Abel’s gone.

  That was the one thought that kept returning to him again and again. It orbited around his mind, taunting and chiding in victory.

  If only he had run faster, arrived at the apartment thirty seconds earlier…

  He snarled and tried to dismiss the guilty thoughts, but they reverberated through his skull incessantly. He felt a migraine coming on.

  “So,” he said, “how’s it look, Doc?”

  Craig finished wrapping up the discolored skin. “Like I said. Lucky.” He set his hands on his knees and groaned as he stood. “The muscles are severely bruised, bones jarred pretty bad. Nine times out of ten, they’d have snapped in half, but you always were the one-outta-ten kind of guy.”

  “So I’ll live?”

  “Yes. Walking will be a chore, however, and I wouldn’t suggest any more marathons in the coming weeks.”

  Jason braced himself and, inch by inch, slid off the desk and eased onto his feet. As he got dressed, he formulated his next course of action in his mind.

  What would Captain Jones think if he saw him limping like this? Cheyenne? Ted? No, that couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t allow it. If he concentrated and moved carefully, no one would know of the injury. He took a few steps to practice and nearly collapsed from the painful effort.

  “Jason,” Craig said with a soft smile, “it’s okay. It happens to the best of us, right?”

  “Yeah, who doesn’t get nailed by a taxi every now and then?” The words came out callous and irritable, and they seemed to hit Craig like a physical shove. With great exertion, he straightened up and looked Craig in the eye. “This never happened, right, Craig?”

  The kind smile evaporated. Dr. Weston turned his gaze to the floor and nodded, like a poor serf fearfully submitting to his master.

  The sight sent a pang of guilt through Jason, especially considering Mrs. Weston’s recent death, but he didn’t let it get to him. He didn’t have time to step around feelings at the moment. He had a killer to find.

  Anger, Jason. Keri’s voice prodded at his mind. Keep it in check.

  Again, he shoved the thoughts away.

  A deep sound thudded through the big, empty room—a door slamming?—followed by a series of intense, hefty footsteps. Captain Slate Jones stormed in, bringing a contagious air of anxiety with him. Hair ruffled, skin droopy, clothes wrinkled, he had the look of a man who had been awake for weeks.

  He fixed his glare on Jason. “I have been awarded the L.A. Merit of Bravery from the mayor himself, Flynn. Did you know that?”

  Jason squared his shoulders as much as his ribs allowed. He was not in the mood for the captain’s latest condescending tirade.

  Jones’s fat cheeks began to turn red. “And the Honor Badge from the Secretary of Crime Control. It’s encased in glass and displayed over my desk at home, right next to my letters of commendation from the past three Governors. I earned the rank of captain younger than any man in California’s history, and have held that position for more than four decades. And yet…”

  The captain kicked his foot against a desk, cracking the wood. Craig yelped and flinched. Jason did not.

  “…and yet, I sent you out to catch one of the city greatest menaces. You, and you failed.”

  “Captain,” Jason said, struggling to keep his composure, “I didn’t let—”

  “You failed, Jason,” Jones said in a low voice that sounded more sad than condemning. “You failed, and we need to get back to the drawing board as soon as possible.”

  “We have Malorie Daniels’s body,” Craig meekly offered. “The planted evidence, remember? We can find Abel’s next victim before he even does.”

  “Right,” Jason said, feeling a bit of the pressure lift from his shoulders. “We can still interrupt his cycle.”

  “Yeah, great idea in theory.” Jones sighed and plopped into a nearby chair. He stroked his frog-like neck. “But we tried that with Rao. We even found Carmelita Thorne and tried to protect her, but she still was killed…” He dropped his face into his hands, the events of the day taking their heavy toll.

  Just then, the door flew open one more time. A breeze of self-importance flowed in, followed closely by coldness that didn’t come from the rain. Sam Washington strolled into the bullpen, sneering and soaked.

  “Jason!” he barked. “I’ve spent all night cleaning up your mess from that prostitute chick, and how do you repay me? You let that sucker get away! How could you do that? I mean, my god, man, are you retarded?”

  No one responded, letting Sam vent.

  “The security cameras in the interrogation room went out for five minutes, during which Thorne was killed. According to you guys, Malorie Daniels was killed a few minutes later. Well, we searched Thorne’s body, and guess what we found in her pocket? A class ring from Berkeley College, 1992. A brass ring, with a ruby encrusted in the middle and emeralds all around it. Pretty distinctive, right? Except Carmelita Thorne never went to Berkeley. We did a search, and guess who did? Malorie Daniels! The planted evidence led from Thorne straight to Daniels! Abel had it all planned out perfectly, from the timing to the goddamn location!” He scoffed and threw his hands in the air. “You coulda known Daniels was next, and you still couldn’t save her?”

  “I didn’t bring Thorne in!” Jason screamed, unable to hold in his anger any longer. His ribs screamed, too. “Garth and Cheyenne did! They missed the ring!”

  How many times have I told Garth, “Look for things that aren’t there”?

  “Still,” Sam responded, “you are the one that let Abel get away. You can’t pass the blame to Jameson and Childers on that one.”

  “Still lisping on your S’s, are ya, Sam?” Jason snapped. “How long you gotta wear that retainer?”

  It was a childish jab, but it shut him up.

  Captain Jones cleared his throat and swiveled in the chair to face Craig. “Any more ideas, Dr. Weston?”

  Craig gulped and wiped his
glasses as he thought. “Well, Abel’s so smart and swift, not to mention inventive and well-resourced. You’re lucky he gave you that planted evidence, otherwise you wouldn’t have known Carly would be the next target.”

  “Right,” Jason said. “The thing is, most killers use one type of weapon and fall in love with it. Beating, knife, gun, things like that. But Abel has such a variety. He’s used guns, bludgeons, H.H. Holmes-type contraptions, freakin’ chemical poisoning. He’s impossible to track, to predict.”

  “Precisely,” Craig said. His timid eyes darted back and forth and he cleaned his glasses one more time, even though they were already spotless.

  “We knew Carmelita was next, based on what we found planted on Aarti Rao,” Jones mused. “But Carmelita was killed in the police station. He knew she would be here, in the interrogation room, at that exact time!”

  “And…” Jason said, feeling a rock in the pit of his stomach, “he had the intercom wired. Either he has someone on the inside, or he’s on the inside.”

  Sam found his voice again and sneered, “Well, that’s fantastic.”

  Detectives Garth Jameson and Cheyenne Childers entered the bullpen. They looked completely drained, frustrated, exhausted. Jason imagined he looked similar.

  “Geez,” Sam muttered and began to walk away. “It’s the dream team, we’re all saved…”

  As Sam barged out of the room, Garth called out to the group. “Forensics is still sweeping the apartment, looking for any sort of clue we can find. Who knows, maybe we got lucky and Abel left evidence he didn’t plant.”

  Hope you don’t overlook it this time, Jason nearly snapped. He was concerned by the cold thoughts he was having toward Cheyenne and Garth, but not exactly surprised. They had, after all, missed something vitally important in a life-or-death case.

  Jones seemed to sense Jason’s anger and stepped in before he could say anything. “All right, detectives, we need to get back to work. Cheyenne, Garth, keep us up-to-the-minute on forensics’ progress.”

  The two nodded and moved to a far corner of the bullpen. Jason exhaled an unsteady breath and limply rested against a desk, thankful for the captain’s command. He clutched his head, trying to curb those dark thoughts. If he didn’t, he knew—he knew—that they would consume him.

  ***

  The view from the station’s giant window was quite breathtaking tonight. The clouds had floated away, finally, taking the rainstorm with them. Electric lights from office buildings and sports cars illuminated the heavens’ gift, a wide, turbulent river rushing down East Temple Street. It was the most precipitation the city had seen in months. All they needed now was a giant wooden ark to float down Hollywood Boulevard to complete the illusion.

  L.A. at night really was a living thing, unique and ever-changing, with a personality of all its own. A spectacle from the wildest imagination. Beauty, intrigue, danger…

  Jason sighed and leaned back in his chair.

  More danger than most would ever know.

  What time was it? He checked the wall’s clock. About 1:30. Of the a.m. variety. He should be snoozing at home, within earshot of his son.

  Thoughts of the boy flooded through his mind like the gallons of water flowing through the streets outside. Ted had become more withdrawn than usual over the past four days, according to Craig. Jason’s gut clenched at the thought of his sad, lonely son, bottling up all sorts of unhealthy emotions that would explode with the smallest spark. Jason had seen dozens—it felt like thousands—of crime scenes where a seemingly normal guy had buried one too many tantrums and had, one day, completely snapped. Most anything could set off a hidden temper: a divorce, economic downturns, a simple argument. And once that happened, all bets were off.

  Jason would not allow Ted, his own son, to become one of those people.

  The mental images were too much to bear. To think, Ted growing up to become Ted Bundy. Kenneth Barab. Or Abel…

  The room became very cold. Jason had to literally shake those thoughts from his mind, but nothing could completely erase them.

  Whenever this was all done, he and Ted would spend a week together. No, a month, just the two of them. They had to get away from the city, from all the George Clooneys and the Kenneth Barabs and even the Captain Joneses. Just Jason and Ted.

  “Hey, listen up! Word from the boys at Adam Fischer’s place.”

  Garth trotted into the bullpen, pocketing his cell phone. Even at this early hour, his eyes were sharp and alert. His dark hair was still slicked back, not a strand out of place. While his dress shirt and thin necktie were a bit disheveled, he looked fully in control. He thrived under this sort of pressure.

  Jones’s voice called out from his office. “You have news?”

  “More than that,” Garth answered. “I think we found Abel’s next target, and you aren’t gonna like it.”

  That got everyone’s attention. The occupants of the bullpen began to congregate. Jason wobbled out of the chair, doing his best to bury his agony.

  They convened in front of the expansive window: Captain Jones, Dr. Weston, Detectives Flynn, Jameson, and Childers. It looked like Sam had slipped out sometime before.

  Eh, good riddance to that chump.

  Jones was in no mood for an idle powwow. “What is it, Jameson?”

  “Forensics searched Fischer’s apartment. I mean, scoured the place, up and down, back and forth. They weren’t going to miss a thing. About an hour ago, they picked up a few strands of hair caught on the cloth strips that had bound Malorie Daniels to the chair. They ran it for ID.”

  He paused. No one breathed. Garth sighed and gathered his strength.

  “Belongs to Craig Weston.”

  Still, no one drew a breath. Cheyenne flexed her jaw, fingering the firearm latched to her belt. A snort erupted from Jones’s throat, but that was his only reaction. Garth was silent, upset for having to be the bearer of such fatal news.

  Jason looked to Craig himself. The doctor stared at the scuffed floor, looking oddly confused, like an unmarried man being told of his wife’s death.

  Good thing Sam wasn’t there. He’d make a horrible wisecrack.

  Cheyenne was the first to speak. “It’s personal now, Craig. He won’t get close to you.” She spoke with a conviction Jason had never heard before. She was telling the truth.

  Craig raised his head and looked around at them, eyes vacant and flickering. It seemed he was just starting to come to grips with the bullseye painted on his chest. Absolute fear settled over him after a moment, and he started to tremble.

  “She’s right, Doc,” Jason added, struggling to have the same confidence Cheyenne did. “We have you now. We can protect you.”

  Just then, Craig let out an impish yelp and bolted from the group, headed out of the bullpen. Garth started to react, but Jason held up a hand.

  “Hold up.”

  The mortician darted into one of the restrooms and slammed the door. A moment of silence passed.

  “See? He didn’t even lock the door. Let him be by himself for a bit.”

  “Eh,” Jones rumbled, “I don’t like him being alone. What if Abel set up some booby trap in there?”

  “I don’t think even Abel is that psychic, Cap.”

  A moment of awkward stillness blanketed the cops in the L.A.P.D. bullpen. They looked at each other, knowing what was going to follow: a sleepless night of phone calls, reports, files, planning, and horrible stress. But they had this time, this moment of calm before the storm.

  Jason took a deep breath, let the cool air burn the inside of his nose, and exhaled as slowly as he could. He nodded to Garth and Cheyenne, realizing his previous animosity toward them was buried, at least for the moment.

  They nodded back.

  “Time to get moving,” he said, feeling the extreme weight the words carried.

  ***

  2:45 a.m. Time sure flew when you’re having fun.

  “All right, Craig, we got a safe house set up for you in Beverly Hills…”
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  Jones barreled down the station’s hallway, firmly locked in a no-nonsense mindset that nothing could penetrate. Craig Weston trailed behind him like a lamb being led through a slaughterhouse, not knowing what was waiting for him once he stepped outside. Jason walked beside the doctor, doing his best to swallow a pained wince with each step.

  The Captain continued to speak without taking his eyes off the path ahead of him. “You’ll be transported there in a nondescript SWAT van—in a misleading, roundabout manner, of course, to throw off any shadows you might pick up—escorted by a fully equipped, experienced SWAT team.”

  A large-bodied hulk of a man ambled out of a side office and joined them. He swayed with undeniable swagger, partly due to the self-confidence he possessed, but mostly because of the inch-thick bulletproof vest and the 10mm Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun strapped to his back.

  Jones acknowledged the man. “This is Lieutenant Gerald Harrelson. He’ll be your head chaperone for the evening.”

  The human SUV nodded at Craig, and Jason was pretty sure he felt a breeze. “No worries, Dr. Weston. We move quick, and we have our bases so covered, a satellite couldn’t pick them up.”

  Craig tried to smile at the wordplay, but it came across as a sick grimace.

  The group exited the police station, Harrelson jogging ahead to finish preparations and join his team. A giant, bulky vehicle painted ink black idled in the parking lot, engine rumbling as if to express its dominance from the get-go, like a cross between a military Humvee and the Batmobile.

  Jason snuck a glance at Captain Jones, hoping to decipher the man’s thought process. Steely irises, tight jaw line, unwavering focus on what lay directly ahead. Jason knew how Slate Jones’s game was played, and he sure didn’t get the L.A. Merit of Bravery for playing nice. More than likely, the Captain would use Craig as bait, dangle him in front of Abel’s nose like a bloody slab of meat and lure the mutt right into a trap. Craig was, honestly, expendable, but only as long as he was under L.A.P.D. control, alive. Yes, Captain Jones would do everything he could to save Craig Weston’s life tonight, but tomorrow, he’d be fair game.