Hunted: A Suspense Collection

by J. L. Drake

  “No, I doubt that. But it might change yours.” Jason shot Chris a raised eyebrow, and the preacher elaborated. “Just keep that verse in mind. If you ever feel that maybe, just maybe, Abel has a valid point taking out these people, think of that. Love your neighbor. Also, Jeremiah 29:11 wouldn’t hurt. The Lord has plans to prosper you, not to harm you.”

  “Right…” Jason muttered, readjusting his grip on the Glock. “That’s perfectly plain. Rick Neves walking right up to me and ripping open all the old wounds I’ve tried so hard to heal for the past eight years is part of some scheme to prosper me. Not harm me?” He snarled. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

  “Take Job for example,” Chris said. “He lost everything: his riches, his businesses, his family, his health. But he found solace in a God who loved him.”

  “I’m not big into fairy tales, Chris,” Jason said, feeling his anger begin to simmer to the surface. He tried to shove it back down. “That kind of stuff just doesn’t happen anymore.”

  “People are set free every day. Take a look around. People have internal prisons, and only a few things hold the key. Some try to free themselves with material things: money, sex, food. You’re locked in a prison, Jason, and you try to break out of it with your anger.”

  Jason clenched his jaw. “And what are these keys, preacher?” He growled the last word.

  Chris ignored his friend’s cynicism. In fact, he lent a small smile. “Love. Faith. Community. Forgiveness. Just to name a few.”

  “You know what, Chris?” Jason hissed, feeling his index finger curl tightly around the gun’s trigger guard. “Those things are as artificial as they come. Hopeless romantics make up these cathartic concepts to comfort them in the dark of the night, but in the end, we’re alone in this dead world.”

  Chris opened his mouth to interject, but Jason slammed his palm on the table, seeming to make the whole room quake. “No, Chris! Realize it! Your God isn’t going to save me. Set me free, or whatever dogma you’re peddling.”

  He felt more tears building up behind his eyes, but he quickly buried them. “You think love or community or forgiveness is going to stop people like Abel or Rick Neves? Well, I think this is,” he snapped as he pulled out his handgun from under the table. “Force! Justice! Not some transparent faith.” Suddenly, he was yelling, blood pumping furiously through his veins. “Give it up, Chris! Stop lying to everyone. Stop lying to yourself!”

  Silence.

  Tick tock.

  Jason sat panting, feeling dots of sweat beading along his hairline. Pain throbbed from his bruised ribs. He looked at the gun in his hand, a bit stunned he had actually drawn it like he had. He doubted Ted had slept through that tantrum. The boy was probably lying in his bed at that moment, pinned to his sheets with anxiety.

  He glanced at Chris, his good friend who had stood beside him for years. His good friend whom he had just told was a lying, dogmatic fool. Jason felt horrible shame in his gut. He wouldn’t blame Chris for standing up right then and leaving the Flynns for good.

  The pastor locked eyes with Jason, a tender glint of light in his soft gaze. “I’m not going anywhere, Jason. I’m here for you.”

  Jason gulped and set his Glock on the table, switching the safety on for the first time that night.

  Chapter 14

  “I am the LORD; that is my name; and my glory will I not give to another.”

  —Isaiah 42:8

  Head down, eyes forward was the strategy Jason used as he entered the L.A.P.D. station the next morning. Suspicious glances followed him all through the building, even from Lois the kindly, old receptionist. His outburst against Rick had become a hot topic over the course of the previous day, and he wanted nothing more than to pretend it had never happened.

  Of course, that didn’t last long.

  “Whoa, calm down there, Hulk!” Sam cackled and slapped Jason on the back as he passed. “Don’t make this guy angry! You won’t like him when he’s angry!”

  Jason ignored Sam’s bad jokes—as he had for years—and headed straight for his desk in the bullpen. There, he found Cheyenne, wearing a casual sweatshirt and an expression that told him she was too tired to care about fashion.

  She gazed at him as he approached with deep concern.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Cheyenne,” he said without raising his head. He sat and pretended to read one of the weeks-old newspapers that covered his desk, but Cheyenne didn’t leave like he wanted.

  “Well,” she said, “if you ever do, you know where to find me.”

  Looking to change the topic, Jason cleared his throat and turned a page of the paper. “Anything found on the Don?”

  Cheyenne sat next to him, heaving a huge sigh. “No, not yet. Garth is down with the medical examiners now. If there’s any news, we’ll know within the minute.”

  “Speaking of morticians…” Jason said.

  “No, Craig is still MIA.”

  “So, basically,” Jason crumpled up the newspaper and tossed it into a waste basket, “we’re sitting here, waiting for something to happen.”

  “You could say that.”

  Jason groaned and rubbed his eyes. He glanced over at Cheyenne, who looked like a mummy that had walked out of its crypt. He bet he was no beauty queen either at the moment.

  He started to chuckle, and his shoulders started heaving as his small chortle turned into a deep belly laugh. Cheyenne shot him a bemused gaze, but then joined in, giggling like a little girl.

  It felt miraculous, like the first breath of oxygen after being held underwater.

  “What’s so funny?” Captain Jones walked past them, scowl firmly in place.

  “At the moment?” Jason said through his smile. Then he shrugged. “Nothing.”

  Cheyenne nodded, realizing what he said was true, but continuing to giggle anyway.

  Jones glanced at the two of them for a few seconds, looking more confused than he ever had in his life, then shook his head. “Whatever,” he grumbled and marched away.

  After another minute, their laughter died down, gone as suddenly as it had erupted. Jason gave Cheyenne a warm smile. She returned it, stood, and left.

  “Wow.”

  Jason turned and spotted Sam at his desk across the bullpen.

  “You two are weird.” Sam slammed his feet onto his desktop and leaned back, interlocking his fingers behind his head.

  Jones stumbled past them, patting his pockets. “Where’d I put my cell phone…?”

  Jason responded to Sam, “What?”

  “Just wondering when you’re gonna get over yourself and propose, that’s all.”

  Jason groaned and focused on his desk. He’d had his fill of Sam Washington already, and the morning had only begun.

  A flustered Captain Jones wandered by again. “Okay, has anyone seen my cell phone?”

  Sam couldn’t resist. “How’d you lose it? It weighs ten pounds, has an antennae, and looks like a brick.”

  “Shut up, Washington. I’m not in the mood.”

  The bullpen began to fill as officers and analysts commenced their morning routines. Bit by bit, the room grew alive, rumbling and shaking and shifting. Dozens of different distractions sprang up like weeds all around Jason, but something kept nagging him. Something was off with Sam’s voice.

  Jason stood and made his way through the congested bullpen. He reached Sam’s desk and leaned forward. “Sam?”

  The detective glanced up at Jason from a report he was reading, then back down. “What is it, Jason?”

  “Where’s your retainer?”

  Sam set down the report. “And you care why, Crusher?”

  Jason held his tongue and took a deep breath. “Just curious, Sam. No reason.”

  “I lost it, okay? Happy now, Sherlock?”

  Captain Jones stormed toward the exit door, hastily knotting his tie. “I must’ve left it at home. Flynn, I’ll be back in a bit.” With that, he left the bullpen, still muttering to himself.

  Jason meandered aw
ay from Sam’s desk. Beams of rising sunlight shot through the station’s giant window, turning every figure into a silhouette. Cupping his hand over his eyes, he moved through the room’s traffic until he reached the far corner.

  The whiteboard now had only three commandments left untouched: the first, third, and tenth. Jason mulled over the remaining holy rules. Who, in their entire life, had never put their trust in another god, misused the Lord’s name, or coveted something of their neighbor’s?

  The bulletin board of photographs gazed at him stoically. Dozens of documents covered its surface, each one telling a portion of a story: A newspaper clipping about Malorie Daniels being promoted at Moutrin; a snapshot of Max Black and his family at a barbeque; Shane Drake’s highly publicized mugshot; a transcript of Aarti Rao’s U.S. citizenship paperwork, the word ‘DENIED’ stamped at the top; a photo of the ever-dapper Adam Fischer posed in front of the Ace of Spades; a copy of the driver’s license belonging to Carmelita Thorne—or Carly, as her customers knew her; and, of course, a business card belonging to Congressman Jack Magnum.

  A huge mosaic that formed a very blurry image.

  He stepped back from the board and rubbed his eyes again. He had gotten very little sleep the night before, sitting at the kitchen table with a gun in his fist. Standing in front of the bulletin board, he recalled the morning.

  Ted had walked out of his bedroom at about 6:30 a.m. Jason still sat, staring at the front door, Chris having left a few hours earlier. As he heard Ted’s small feet crossing the hallway, he tucked his Glock into his belt and pulled his shirt over the handle.

  Jason stumbled about in a haze, feeling as if his brain was wrapped in gauze. He desperately needed a good night’s sleep, but he couldn’t waste a moment. Not until Abel was caught.

  The boy sat at the table and spread out the newspaper’s crossword. Jason forced a batch of stale coffee down his throat.

  “Dad?” Ted’s small voice broke the house’s silence. “Two down, seven letters, the clue is ‘site of the Cretan ruins.’”

  “Umm…” Jason struggled to break through the fog of restlessness. “I-I dunno. Can’t help you there,” he muttered as he slipped on his necktie and cinched it up.

  “How about this one…?” Ted tapped his pen against the wood table as he thought. “Eight letters, ‘attended Our American Cousin with Honest Abe’?”

  Jason cleared his throat and headed for the door. “Sorry, I don’t know. Listen, I gotta head out. Have a good day at school.”

  “It’s summer vacation.”

  The meek voice made Jason stop in his tracks. “It is?” He scratched at his unshaven neck, trying to jump-start his mind, but it kept running at a snail’s pace. “All right, then I’ll, uh…I’ll try to make it home for lunch. How about that?”

  He painted on a smile for his son, but the small boy looked almost as downtrodden as he felt.

  “Okay, Ted. Bye,” he said and left.

  A buzzing in his pocket yanked Jason back to the present. He shook off the thoughts of Ted and answered his cell phone.

  “H-Hello?” he said, still trying to break through the drowsy fog that shrouded him.

  “Jason!” It was Garth, out of breath and on the verge of a panic attack.

  “Garth?” Jason snapped to attention. “What’s the matter?”

  “Where are you?”

  “The bullpen. Why?” He felt his heart rate spike, not liking where this was going.

  “Is Sam nearby?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Why?” he repeated, close to shouting.

  “Jason, get him out of there. He’s next!”

  He sprung out of his chair. “No… No!” Jason growled to himself, already running across the room, crashing through anyone or anything that got in his path. “Are you sure, Garth?”

  “Yeah.” It sounded like Garth was running too. “We searched the Don from head to toe. Of course, in the last place we look, we find it. There was a dental retainer in his mouth. Shane Drake doesn’t wear one, Sam does.”

  Jason barreled through the bullpen, shoving aside desks and leaving a path of displaced paperwork in his wake. He jogged up to Sam’s workstation and leaned in.

  “Sam, you need to come with me.”

  “Again, Sherlock,” Sam sneered without looking up from his paperwork, “I’m oh-so very busy.”

  Jason clamped his hand on Sam’s shoulder and wrenched him to his feet. “Now, Sam.”

  “Hey, calm down, Crusher!” Sam exclaimed, scoffing as he jerked out of Jason’s hold. He stood as tall as he could and furrowed his brows. “What’s your problem?”

  “Listen, Sam,” Jason said as quietly as he could stand, “you can’t stay here—”

  “Oh, I can’t stay here?” Sam cut him off, mockingly raising his voice. “Look out everyone,” he announced to the whole bullpen, “Temper Tony here thinks I should leave!” He broke into an obnoxious cackle.

  “You’re not safe, Sam!” Jason said urgently, but Sam was too busy drawing a crowd to hear.

  “Run for your lives, the Hulk is about to break loose!” He laughed once again, nearly turning red in the face. “I mean, my god, man, what’s your deal…?”

  Then Sam froze. His smile melted away instantly, leaving a blank stare. He opened his mouth, but only a horrible gurgling noise came out. His knees buckled and he stumbled forward.

  Jason caught him, mind racing. “No, no, no,” he murmured, then he screamed at the top of his lungs, “Someone get help! Now!”

  He eased Sam onto the floor. Now, Sam’s mouth was rapidly opening and closing, again and again, like a wind-up set of toy teeth.

  Cheyenne sprinted to their side and dropped to her knees. “Elevate his head,” she commanded, and Jason lifted up Sam’s neck. She then said, “Hold his mouth open.”

  Jason pried open Sam’s jaws as Cheyenne peeked inside. He looked around the bullpen as hysteria erupted all around. Suddenly, the whole place was a riot, people screaming and arguing, papers flying every which way, a sense of dread seeming to add to the panic.

  Cheyenne shook her head and placed her hands on Sam’s convulsing chest. “His tongue is swollen up like a balloon. It looks like he’s swallowed it, can’t breathe…” She gritted her teeth and began pumping on his chest with all her strength. She turned to the onlookers and shouted, “Where are the medics!”

  Jason continued to keep Sam’s head level as he watched Cheyenne scramble to save the man’s life, but he knew it was futile. Abel wanted Sam Washington dead, so he would be dead within the minute.

  Commandment number three had been broken.

  ***

  The lifeless body of Sam Washington lay on a gurney in the station’s narrow hallway. Somebody from the coroner’s office was on their way to pick up their newest client. Very few people wanted to see the corpse of their coworker, so Jason had a private viewing. He placed his hands on his hips and stared at Sam’s bloated cheeks, his flushed skin, his panicky eyes.

  Jason sighed. “Sorry, Sam,” he whispered.

  Brrrrring.

  An electronic whine vibrated through the quiet hallway.

  Brrrrring.

  A small light shone from inside the inner pocket of Sam’s jacket. Jason, hesitating for only a moment, reached out and retrieved the cell phone.

  He answered. “H-Hello?”

  “Yes,” a cordial voice spoke, “is Captain Slate Jones there?”

  “Er, no. He’s not…”

  “He’s not?” Then the voice turned cruel and gravelly. The voice of Abel. “Well, this is his phone, isn’t it?”

  Jason gasped and leapt back, dropping the phone as if it had bit him. It clattered to the floor, Abel’s evil cackle echoing out of the small speakers.

  “Hurry up, Jason.” He ended the call.

  The eerie silence returned. Jason stood back from the phone, taking deep breaths, heart racing.

  Jones’s phone…

  His blood turned to ice as he put the pieces together.

 
; The planted evidence.

  Jones was next.

  “No, Jones!”

  Jason dashed down the hall, turned out of the building, and jumped into his car, praying the morning traffic was light.

  ***

  Captain Jones

  “Where is that dadgum phone…?”

  It was nowhere to be found. Jones’s search had taken him through every room of his small house, in cluttered drawers, under pillows, and behind musty cabinets, but he couldn’t find the electronic device anywhere.

  He considered calling the phone and following its annoying ring, but he didn’t remember the number. Finally, he threw his hands in the air.

  “I’ve worked for twenty years without a cell phone,” he grumbled to himself as he waddled through the house. “I can go one more day.”

  The traffic from the station to his home in Monterey Hills had been surprisingly thin, but he felt he had just beat the rush. Within a few minutes, the streets would be swarming with cranky drivers. Most considered five o’clock quitting time to be “rush hour,” but Jones thought a truly hectic time to be on the roads of L.A. was right before the business day began.

  He moved past the hall closet, rubbing his protruding gut, considering a diet for the hundredth time that week. The whole house was quiet, most likely due to the fact that his wife Betty was out of town for the day, going shopping in Long Beach with a group of church friends.

  The door to his private study was wide open, allowing him to gaze at the plaque that hung proudly on the wall. His study contained very little, but it was his favorite place to be. Hanging on the wall was his L.A. Merit of Bravery, presented to him by the mayor six years earlier. He stared at the small brass plaque for a few seconds longer, feeling his morale get a much-needed boost. It was a silly ritual, but one he had performed every morning for years. It gave him a sense of strength and accomplishment that nothing else seemed to.

  He turned away from the study, cell phone still missing. “Forget it,” he firmly decided, but his stubbornness pushed him to continue searching anyway.