Hunted: A Suspense Collection

by J. L. Drake

  Perhaps the phone was stuffed between the couch’s cushions in the living room. He moved to look. Instead of searching, however, he plopped down on the soft furniture, a deep pockmark cradling him. He shut his eyes and leaned back. The stress of the investigation had worn him out to the point that his body felt like it was running on fumes. A few moments of rest would do him good.

  A faint smell tickled his nose, and he sat upright. It was a familiar odor, although he couldn’t place it. Like an old acquaintance from high school, its identity escaped him. It scratched the insides of his nostrils, tickled his chest, clung to the air as if it was a physical thing.

  Then he saw the gray fog roll across his feet.

  Smoke.

  Jones bounded off the couch, cursing under his breath. He spun around, dumbfounded for a moment, trying to get his bearings, when he saw the bright flames dancing across the carpet.

  “What in the name of…”

  His curse was cut off by a painful cough. He staggered forward, the heavy smoke already blocking much of his vision. He bent down close to the ground, where there was less smoke, and began to make his way out of the living room.

  He had little time before the whole house was devoured. Distinct paths of flame coiled around the carpet. Without a doubt, this was intentional. Someone had started this fire. Jones gritted his teeth. Once he got out, he would hunt down the punks who did this and make them pay.

  His thoughts returned to Betty. She would want one thing saved from the flames: the antique Bible that sat on a podium at the front of the living room. It was hundreds of years old, weighed ten pounds, and cost nearly four thousand dollars. He should grab it and run, save the Good Book Betty loved so dearly.

  But he hesitated. He gazed through the open door of his study at the brass plaque on the wall. The plaque that summed up his life’s ambition, the plaque that seemed to give him life every single day.

  He stood there in the suffocating smoke, looking back and forth between the Bible and his Merit of Bravery. A chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling, snapping Jones out of his deliberation. Long creaks rumbled through the small house. It wouldn’t be too long before the whole place crumpled to the ground.

  Jones made his decision. He covered his nose with his sleeve and charged toward the plaque. He flew into his study, knowing he had made the right choice.

  ***

  Abel

  The open door to Captain Jones’s study swung aside, and Abel stepped out from behind it. With a sneer, he slammed the door shut, shook his head, and shoved a key into the keyhole.

  “Priorities, Jones,” he said, then turned the key sideways. The lock clicked into place, sealing the captain inside the blazing room. “Priorities.”

  Abel shielded his eyes with his hands as he jogged out of the house. He coughed into his fist and ambled a bit down the street to a safe vantage point. He turned and surveyed his latest handiwork, waiting for the flames to die down. He needed to get out of Monterey Hills as soon as he could. The fire department and cops were probably only a few minutes away.

  But first, he needed to leave a clue for Jason. The L.A.P.D. would be nowhere without Abel’s helpful hints, and the entire plan would be pointless without a worthy adversary on his heels.

  Nine sinners down. Abel couldn’t contain a smirk as he stood on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, watching the house go up in flames.

  One to go.

  Chapter 15

  “But God showed his love for us while we were still sinners.”

  —Romans 5:8

  Jason

  Jason could smell the smoke before he even turned his car into Monterey Hills. Either the neighborhood was having a large friendly cookout, or there was a severe house fire somewhere in the vicinity. His gut clenched and he sped up, but he knew he was too late. Abel was a master griller, and Jones was a part of his barbeque.

  The small, middle-class community was the scene of very few crimes, so any disturbance in the entire neighborhood—no matter how trivial—was treated like a tragedy. Now, a residence had been sent up in flames. Jason couldn’t imagine how frightened these people were, now that their blissful innocence had been disrupted. He couldn’t imagine how frightened they’d be if they were informed the fire was the work of a merciless serial murderer. He decided to keep that information to himself.

  It looked as if a thick, suffocating cloud had descended upon the neighborhood. Tendrils of smoke hung in the air, twirling and floating on the light summer breeze. The sun’s rays fought to pierce the ashy fog, creating an ominous orange/brown color.

  The streets were filled with haphazardly parked cars and groups of citizens, concerned, paranoid, and totally shell-shocked by the dreadful turn of events. Jason slowly maneuvered his vehicle through the urban obstacle course, following the onlookers’ gazes to the scene of the crime.

  The fire department and first wave of police officers had extinguished the fire, leaving piles of cinders, loose timber, and furniture that had escaped with mild burns. Officers screamed and waved back a horde of alarmed spectators that bordered on an outraged mob. A perimeter of wooden sawhorses surrounded the half-acre that belonged to the Joneses.

  He abandoned his car a few blocks from the Jones residence, deciding it would be easier to move through the crowd of suburbanites on foot. As he approached the charred remains, he caught snippets of conversation:

  “Poor Betty. She’ll be heartbroken. Thank God she was out of town.”

  “It could’ve been anyone of us. Weird how things work, huh?”

  “I’ve never even seen Slate before. He’s always at work. Seemed nice enough, though.”

  “Why this place? Why the Joneses?”

  As Jason stepped over a sawhorse and into the restricted area, he mulled over that last question. What commandment did Captain Jones break?

  It was a bit obvious. Jones didn’t exactly hide his devotion to his job on the police force. His commitment was closer to worship, which went against God’s first commandment: have no other gods before Him. While Aarti Rao was killed for possessing a physical idol, Jones was a target for his figurative one.

  “Whoa, there, pal.” Jason’s walk was cut off by one of the firefighting officers, his short, stocky frame equally intimidating and comical. “This area isn’t open for public pleasure.”

  Jason produced his tin badge. “Detective Flynn, from the Los Angeles P.D. I work under the victim, Captain Slate Jones, tracking the very man we believe caused the fire.”

  The fireman gave Jason a full-body glance, seeming to soak in everything he needed to know, then stuck out his hand. “Battalion Chief Francis Sweeney.” Jason shook his hand, and the chief beckoned him further in. “Lemme get you a pair of boots, if you wanna take a look inside.”

  Sweeney used the word “inside” loosely. All that was left of the house itself were the concrete bases and a few areas of plaster wall that still stubbornly stood. Jason took a pair of giant rubber boots from a fireman, slipped them on, and followed the Battalion Chief into the charred shell of the house.

  “We got here quick as we could,” Sweeney explained as they passed what appeared to be the remains of a kitchen, “but it was too late. Infrastructure was too weak, and any rescue attempt would bring the entire building down on top of us and anyone still inside. As far as we can gather, Slate Jones was in there alone when the roof finally caved in.”

  Jason kept his mouth shut so as to not breathe in the floating ash and gray smoke. It was everywhere, kicked up by each footstep and light gust of wind. Sweeney didn’t seem to notice. By the looks of the stocky chief, he had worked in far worse conditions.

  “So,” Sweeney continued, “you think this is arson?”

  Jason stopped and quickly examined the area, then nodded. “See the scorch marks here? And the heat damage on the walls? Far more concentrated in that area, which must be the origin point. They get lighter as they spread out.”

  He walked toward what he thought was the point o
f the fire’s origin, his boots crushing the scorched remnants of the carpet. A wooden skeleton of a sofa sat in the room, opposite of a toppled cabinet. This was the living room, maybe.

  Sweeney was right behind him. “This is where the fire started?”

  “Most likely. It looks like our man used gasoline, poured in straight lines across the carpet. See the trails? Gas is a slow starter, and you can see from the heat damage that it took a while to get going.”

  “Yeah,” Sweeney nodded. He likely would have reached the same conclusion given a few more minutes of examination.

  But how the fire started doesn’t matter. Jones is dead, and Abel’s gone.

  Jason slid his hand across his face, smearing sweat and soot all over his skin. “Mind if I take a look around?”

  The Battalion Chief muttered his permission, tossed Jason a pair of latex gloves, then crunched away, telling his fellow firemen to give the detective some space.

  Jason popped the elastic gloves on his hands, feeling the sun beat down on him. Time ticked by, and Abel was getting closer to his last victim.

  His last victim…

  He slowly wandered among the rooms, feeling the heat that still ebbed from the walls. It was difficult to accept that Abel had flawlessly executed every single person he had set out to execute. Including Harold Lawson and the Hearse, he was eleven for eleven. Abel was one murder away from becoming a legend, and if that happened, no one would ever be safe again. The only chance to stop him Jason could see was to find the evidence planted on Jones, as quickly as possible.

  His eyes scanned the wreckage strewn across the floor as his feet monotonously carried him through the hellish remains. A lone doorframe still stood in the middle of the debris, but the walls around and the door within it were gone, leaving what looked like a portal to nowhere.

  A thick, wooden beam sat sideways, having efficiently traveled from the ceiling to the ground. Spots of black scorch marks lines the wood, telling of its fiery anguish, but something caught Jason’s eye: a clean, white corner of paper extending from behind the beam. It was barely visible, easily missed by a cursory glance, but definitely out of place. Just Abel’s style.

  “What have you left for us this time, Abel?”

  He reached for the paper and pulled it out from its hiding spot. It had a coarse texture Jason quickly attributed to a newspaper.

  “What’s this…?”

  It was a single sheet, covered in straight lines and meticulous handwriting. Jason’s heart raced as he began to read the words, hoping to see a sample of Abel’s calligraphy. But then, his pulse dropped to nothing.

  “I don’t believe it…”

  This was Ted’s handwriting. This was the crossword he had been working on that very morning.

  Jason leaned against the cracked wall, feeling his legs shake. It felt like his head was rapidly emptying as he stared at the paper in his hands.

  The planted evidence led to Ted Flynn. Abel’s last victim was Jason’s son.

  His knees wobbled as he dashed out of the burnt house, but he couldn’t allow himself to slow down. He shoved his way through the riotous crowd, ignoring the shouts and cries as one would ignore a dull pain. The neighborhood passed by in a blur as he ran toward his car, fumbling with his keys. It took three attempts for his trembling fingers to unlock the door. Finally, he fell into the driver’s seat, fired the engine, and pealed out of Monterey Hills, nearly shoving the gas pedal to the floor. Ted was in mortal danger, and Jason had to save him.

  God help anyone who got in his way.

  Jason sped onto Highway 5, narrowly avoiding a merging SUV. He put a death grip on the wheel as he readjusted his position in the lane, swerving past any car that moved slower than his. Horns blared and tires squealed in his wake. His heart dropped at the sight of dense traffic congesting the stretch of road ahead. Jason snarled and sped forward.

  Abel would not win. He couldn’t.

  He yanked his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in Cheyenne’s number, eyes never leaving the road. One ring…two rings…Jason gunned the engine and zoomed past a squat, darkly colored vehicle. He put himself in front of the car as he waited for Cheyenne to answer. Just then, flashing red-and-blue lights appeared in his rearview mirror. His gut clenched as he glanced backward, realizing he had rocketed past a highway patrol cruiser, going at least thirty miles over the speed limit.

  “No, no…” The cruiser got very close to Jason’s back bumper, trying to intimidate him into pulling over. Unfortunately for the officer, Jason had no intention of stopping for any one or any reason. Jason smashed the gas pedal, leaving the colored lights in his mirror.

  “Hello?” A voice finally picked up on Jason’s phone.

  “Cheyenne!” he said. “I need—”

  She cut him off. “Hold on, Jason. We’re still cleaning up in the bullpen here.” Her voice became muffled as she turned to talk to someone else.

  “No, Cheyenne!” Jason yelled, his voice cracking. “Listen!” He veered to the left to avoid a dragging minivan, feeling the pressure of the pursuing cruiser a few dozen meters behind him.

  “Jason, what is it?” Cheyenne came back, now alert and concerned. “Where are you?”

  “Cheyenne, I just came from Jones’s house. He was the next victim, Commandment number one. Abel burned his home to the ground. He’s dead.”

  He heard her gasp. “Jones? We got several dispatch calls about a house fire up north in Monterey, but—”

  “That’s him. But I went there and found the planted evidence leading to the next victim. The last victim. It’s Ted.”

  “Ted?” It sounded like her mind was reeling faster than the tires of Jason’s car. “Your son? Abel’s last victim is your son?”

  “Yes!” Jason grunted, doing his best to maneuver the crowded highway with one hand. “I’m heading to my house now. Cheyenne, I need you to call in the cavalry. Every man there is, send him my way. We can’t…I can’t let that bastard get my son. Also, there’s a highway patrolman on my tail. See if you can get him off me.”

  “What’d you do to tick him off?”

  “I dunno. Breaking the sound barrier, probably. Get the men to Ted.”

  “All right…” She paused as she gathered her thoughts for what seemed like an eternity. “I’ll have to get a few men from the ninth division, and I’ll call Garth—”

  “Cheyenne,” Jason shouted into his phone, “just do it!” He hung up and tossed the phone into the passenger’s seat.

  The screech of police sirens was awfully close, almost deafening. Jason glanced in the mirror. He could see the patrolman’s frustrated grimace through the windshield. Jason unhooked his badge from his belt and held it up, but the other policeman either didn’t get the message or didn’t care. The wailing cruiser nosed forward, almost rear-ending Jason’s vehicle.

  “Sorry, pal,” he hissed, “but I don’t have time for this.”

  Jason jerked the wheel to the right, sending the car flying toward one of the highway’s exits—off North Main Street, Los Angeles. The cruiser fishtailed as it tried to follow, then sped along the exit.

  The morning traffic had thinned, but only slightly. The narrow roads of the city made breakneck maneuvering almost impossible at Jason’s current speed. It took massive self-control to force his foot to ease off the accelerator. He found himself driving in the middle of an innocent, everyday commute, sandwiched between a Ford pick-up and a bright red Mini Cooper.

  Within seconds, the patrolman was on top of him, sirens howling, waving manically for Jason to pull over. Jason doubted the officer would let him off with a warning, so he revved his engine and swerved in front of the Mini.

  Ted…Abel…Ted…Abel…

  The names pulsed through his mind like his heartbeat. Nothing else mattered.

  He drove down Main Street, the shops and restaurants streaking by. The police car’s shrill siren made the traffic scatter like roaches under a flashlight. Jason groaned, watching his only cover disapp
ear one by one. Now, he was out in the open, ripe for the picking.

  Griffin Avenue, which ran perpendicular to Main Street, was coming up on the left, about one hundred yards ahead. Jason gulped and surged forward, ending up behind a monstrous, 18-wheeled semi-truck that dwarfed his car by a couple tons. The left-lane traffic running in the opposite direction was thick, with only yards of clearance between each bumper. The cruiser was right on his tail. Jason would only have one shot at Griffin Avenue, and the window of opportunity was about to slam shut.

  The maneuver he had in mind would take careful planning and a lot of foresight. Unfortunately, Jason didn’t have either of those, so he had to bank on his desperation, instinct, and guts.

  He reached out for divine intervention, then slammed his foot on the gas. The car pitched forward, almost crashing into the semi. The cruiser followed closely, practically playing Simon Says. At the last second, Jason swerved to the right of the semi, running along its long body. The patrolman hesitated for a moment—just as Jason hoped he would—and then began to follow.

  Jason sped past the semi, then swerved back left, now just in front of the rumbling beast of a vehicle. He flung the steering wheel to the left, cutting through the hectic, oppositely-running traffic—right onto Griffin Avenue.

  The patrolman was still to the right of the semi, probably scratching his head, wondering where on earth the reckless driver had disappeared to.

  Jason immediately slowed to the proper speed limit on Griffin, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself. He moved along, feeling the sweat on his brow growing heavier as he drew closer to his home.

  Left onto Mozart Street, then a sharp right on Avenue 17. Twists and turns, deeper and deeper into the heart of residential America. Completely innocent, naïve, incorruptible.

  There. Finally, Jason could see his home approaching. It looked so average from the outside, with a medium-sized tree in the front yard, haphazard grass that hadn’t been trimmed in a week, an American flag flapping from the roof, and equally run-of-the-mill houses on either side.