by J. L. Drake
Jason squealed to a stop by the curb, killed the engine, and leapt out. He sprinted to the front door, unlocked the bolt, and entered.
His breath caught in his throat. Ted lay asleep on the couch, hands clasped together. Jason wiped away the perspiration on his forehead, almost letting out an airy laugh. He was so relieved to see the boy alive and well, he nearly collapsed there in the doorway.
“Close the door, Jason.”
The raspy voice. Jason froze, heart hammering in his chest. He almost didn’t believe his ears.
But he believed his eyes.
Abel sat in an easy chair across from the couch where Ted slept. The man held a 9mm Glock, pointed at the boy’s chest. “I know how you think, Jason. Yes, the weight of the gun shows it’s loaded. Yes, the safety’s off. Yes, I mean business. Now, toss your firearm away and close the door.”
Fighting every instinct in his body, Jason slid his Glock off his belt and dropped it to the floor. He shut the front door as he stared at the man’s face, feeling horrible anger and frustration boil through his blood. It was a face he knew, a face he knew very well. He couldn’t believe that this man had done such heinous things. He had trusted this man with his life—many people had.
“Sit,” the man said, dropping his raspy façade. A grin crept across his face.
Jason moved slowly to a wooden chair facing the man. He obeyed, settling at the edge of the seat, Ted still in the corner of his vision. His eyes never left the smiling face.
“How could you, Craig?” Jason said.
The room was silent for a moment. Craig Weston pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his blocky nose. “I’m glad we can finally speak openly about this. It’s been stressful keeping my activities a secret.”
“You did those terrible things,” Jason said softly, dazed by the sight of his friend. “Grisly, terrible things.”
“I told you from the start,” Craig locked eyes with Jason, “I only wanted to get people to listen. My message is not an original one. These commandments have been around for centuries. But look around. I still see division, hatred, violence. I know you see it too. The world needs a reality check.”
“So you’re its Messiah?”
“No, not only me. We are all called to be fishers of men, spreading truth and justice. But, once my story gets out, only those truly devoted will reveal themselves, and at long last, this society will think twice before defying the holiest of laws.”
Jason sat in stunned silence, staring at Craig. He had the same face of his friend, the same voice, the same dark circles under his eyes, the same timid appearance, but none of that was Craig Weston. The kindly mortician was nonexistent, only a mask that had hidden this radical murderer.
How could Jason not have seen it?
“I know what you’re thinking, Jason. You’re trying to convince yourself that I’m a crazed zealot.”
“And I’m doing a pretty good job of it.”
“But part of you knows I’m right!” Craig leaned forward. “What causes change? A scolding? A slap on the wrist? No.” He shook his head, sad eyes gleaming eagerly. “Tragedy. Death. Radical notions.”
“So…” Jason narrowed his gaze, doing his best to keep his voice level, “you watched your victims long before this ever began, am I right?”
“Yes. I said to you in our first phone conversation I wasn’t interested in harming innocents, remember? Harold Lawson and the Hearse. Jones, Thorne, Magnum, Fisher, they all had it coming. I never acted rashly.”
“That was you in the apartment of 37th Street, then,” Jason said, recalling the day he had found Adam Fischer frozen in concrete. “Cy Perri said she saw Fischer with a left-legged limper.”
Craig chuckled. “Simple theatrics are often most effective. Once she told you about that limp, you forgot all about the rest of the description, didn’t you? My nose, my glasses?”
He’s right. Jason clenched his jaw. He knows us all too well.
“What about your hair found at the scene of Malorie Daniels’s death?”
A small shrug. “Accidents happen. I got cocky, didn’t wear gloves or a hairnet.” He shifted the Glock to his other hand and flexed his achy fingers. Then he smirked as he pointed at Jason. “Actually, you and Jones did me a favor with that whole deal. You wanted to put me in hiding, and I thought that was a great idea! With the police force thinking Abel took me, I would be free from my mortician’s work and able to focus on my…day job.”
Jason sat back, aghast. “When you ran into the restroom…”
Craig nodded. “I have a large network within the homeless community. Those fellas will do almost anything for a hundred bucks. So, when I offered one of them a job, he didn’t hesitate. Even when I told him he would have to shoot down an L.A. SWAT vehicle.” Craig paused and took a breath, eyes glazed over as if he was lost in the memory. “He was a nice guy. But loose ends needed to be tied off for the greater good. He came down in that ditch looking for me, and I had to put him down like a bad dog.”
Tick tock. The clock dutifully worked through the stillness. Ted’s soft breathing was agitated, probably from a bad dream he was having. The boy shifted and twitched a few times, but then settled back on the couch.
Jason exhaled. “Why are you telling me all this, Craig?”
For a moment, Craig sat with his ear perked, listening to the clock as if hypnotized. Then he snapped back to the moment. “Well, you’re going to validate my story, Jason. You’re going to tell Cheyenne, Garth, the press, anyone you want! Coming from me, it all sounds like a bunch of religious phooey, but a word from you, from the L.A.P.D.? Now, that carries weight. In a few moments, I’ll kill Ted here, you’ll put some handcuffs on me, we’ll go to a press conference, and we’ll change history.”
Jason cocked his head, shocked and confused. “You’ll turn yourself in?”
“That’s right.” Craig straightened up in the chair. “No one will ever doubt my commitment to the cause. My legacy will be solidified. And once that happens, you won’t be able to count my followers, much less stop them.”
Jason couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You know what happens to killers like you, Craig. Life in prison.”
“Sacrifice.”
“Execution!”
“Martyrdom!” Craig smiled, basking in his own glory. “I’m ready.”
“But there’s one commandment left. Number ten…” Jason dug through his memory. “Thou shall not covet…” His fingers trembled, and he had to ball them into fists to still them. “Why Ted?”
Craig’s eyes looked sad for a moment. “Do you want to know? Really?”
Jason felt his eyes turn moist, but he clenched his jaw, not saying a word.
Craig spoke without waiting for an answer. “Ted covets my son, Alex. He wants a father who cares about him.”
It was like a punch to Jason’s gut. He slumped in his chair, muscles too weak to hold him forward anymore. He stammered, “W-What are you talking about? I…” He had to gulp to clear his throat. “I’ve been with him for eight years, never left his side. Just this case…”
“Yes,” Craig mused, “Eventually this case will end, one way or another. Then you’ll be right back at his side. But what happens when the next case comes? And the next? You’ve shown where your true feelings lie, Jason, and Ted has picked up on it. I know, because you asked me to watch him every day for the past week.”
Jason felt drained, empty. Defeated. He looked into Craig’s eyes. “He’s only a boy. Don’t do this to him.”
Craig shook his head once. “What did I say about tragedy, Jason? People listen to it.”
The doctor’s heavy, tired gaze rested on Jason for a moment longer, then shifted to the sleeping boy. Ted Flynn, victim and violator of the Tenth Commandment.
The world was about to change.
Craig pushed the trigger.
Click.
Jason leapt to his feet, snarling as his fury erupted.
The Glock’s slide hadn’t been pulled
back, meaning the bullet wasn’t in place to fire. Turns out the doctor wasn’t too handy with firearms. Craig desperately looked at the gun, but Jason tackled him out of the easy chair.
The two crashed to the floor, fists and legs flying as each man tried to get a hit in. The gun slid across the room.
Jason jumped to his feet, towering over the man sprawled on his living room floor. Unbridled anger filled his veins, making his entire body clench and tremble. Craig stared up at him with a sneer, but once he saw the intense wrath on Jason’s face, he started to cower.
“Jason…?” Craig’s voice cracked, finding himself as the prey instead of the hunter. The animalistic fury of Jason Flynn seemed to terrify him more than anything else.
The world slowed around Jason and Craig. No, not Craig. Abel. He finally had him within his grasp. Brawling instincts flooded through his mind, and, suddenly, he started brutally attacking without any hesitation.
Heel to the throat. Toes to the ribs. Fist to the sternum.
He grabbed the front of Craig’s shirt and yanked him to his feet. He slammed the doctor against the wall, knocking the glasses off of his blocky nose and seeming to make the house shake.
Jason growled through his teeth, “I’ll break you in two…”
Craig’s eyes widened, and he began to snivel like a man on death row. “Please, Jason,” he cried, weak from the kick to the neck. “Please!” He began to sob, but it was horribly theatrical, as if for an audience.
Then a small voice. “Dad?”
Jason looked over his shoulder. Ted stood in the far corner of the room, tears shining on his cheeks. His expression was horrified, more so than Jason had ever seen. The boy stared at the two men as if in a nightmare he desperately wanted to escape from.
It took a second for it all to sink in to Jason. Too long.
Craig took advantage. “Ted! Ted, you need to get outta here. Get help!” His fake sobs echoed through the room. “Please!”
Jason gasped, released Craig’s shirt, and shuffled backward. Craig slumped a bit down the wall, rubbing his pained chest.
“Ted.” Jason turned his back to the wheezing doctor and took a few slow steps toward his son. “Ted, I’m—” Tears formed at the corners of his eyes, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from bursting out in sobs.
He cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry, Ted.” He reached out a hand, but Ted recoiled. Jason frowned, but then felt a wave of shame. He looked at his hand—its knuckles were red and chaffed, blood was splattered across the skin, and the fingers curled naturally into a fist.
It was a hand of anger.
He dropped his arm to his side and swallowed the acidic lump in his throat. “Y’know, Ted,” he said quietly, “I remember the day your mom died.”
Ted tensed up, the thought of his mother sending his anxiety into overdrive.
“I know we’ve never even talked about it. Not once.” Jason glanced behind him at Craig, still leaned against the wall, his glare slicing through the air like knives.
“I came home from the bank,” he continued, returning his gaze to his son, “and I was so angry. I hated Rick Neves, I hated God,” a pause, “I hated myself. Then I walked through the front door, and I saw you in your crib.” He smiled. “Big, bright eyes, fuzzy hair, your unique little laugh. And I promised nothing would hurt you. I thought that I could protect you your whole life the way I wanted to protect your mother. With…fists and force and anger.”
He dropped his head and fell to his knees with an overwhelmed thump. He looked up and locked eyes with his son. The boy breathed heavily, but didn’t shy away.
“All these years I’ve been burying these feelings, this hatred, holding on to it for some reason. But now…” He sniveled, forcing his words through his emotion. “Now I look and see it’s done no good for me. I’ve failed you, Ted. And I’m so sorry.”
Jason lowered his head and watched one…two…three tears fall to the floor. His hate-fueled vigor was gone, leaving him feeling vulnerable and shattered. Heavy weights were strapped to his back and his heart—they’d been there for years—and he could barely move anymore.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Ted kneeling beside him, holding his father, supporting him. The boy sniffed back his tears. No words. But it was enough.
Jason stood and turned. Craig had dragged himself across the room, grunting in agony. The doctor staggered to his feet, one hand clutching his ribs, the other supporting his back.
His voice was coarse and wicked, just like the man underneath the meek facade. “C’mon, Jason. Fight me.”
“No.” Jason stood his ground.
Craig nodded. “Fine by me.” He whipped out his hand from behind his back, clutching the Glock. He cackled as he yanked back the slide. Then he aimed and fired two shots.
Ted jerked and dropped to the ground. Even a shout was too slow to escape his lips. He sputtered and gasped, desperately trying to suck in air, eyes staring at the ceiling. Blood soaked his shirt and pumped out across the living room floor.
“No!” Jason bellowed and dropped down beside the small, crumpled body. He scooped Ted up in his arms, heaving like a savage, not able to comprehend what he was seeing.
“Congratulations, Detective.”
Jason looked up, but his vision was blurry. He felt moments from blacking out. He vaguely could hear police sirens in the distance.
Craig sat and tossed the gun away. He held up his hands, smirking. “You caught me.”
Chapter 16
“Thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through Jesus Christ.”
—1 Corinthians 15:57
The hospital room was small and white. A window allowed a peek at the city’s concrete horizon, but Jason didn’t feel like looking. It was just him and Ted. And it was quiet. Deathly quiet.
The boy’s small frame lay on a flat bed, covered in wool blankets. Wires and tubes protruded out of his arms, leading to a screen that displayed his frail heartbeat. Another clear tube sat snug under his nose, supplying him with oxygen.
Neither Ted nor Jason had moved for hours. Ted lay in the blankets, chest bandaged, eyes closed, heart beating away, and Jason sat at the bedside, waiting for his son to wake up. Waiting. Waiting.
Jason glanced at the clock. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Ted had taken two bullets to the chest.
He put his face in his hands and flashed back to the moment. He was sprawled on the floor, cradling his son’s helpless body in his arms. Blood sputtered everywhere. It took the police ten minutes to arrive on scene—they had been delayed by the massive traffic jam Jason himself had caused.
Knock knock.
Jason lifted his head. Even that small motion was a labor. He glanced at the room’s entry and found Garth, necktie loosened, eyes soft. Eyes like those of an army chaplain after a gruesome battle: compassionate, scared, and tired, so tired.
“Morning, Jason.”
Jason nodded a greeting.
Garth had been there all night, along with Cheyenne, staying beside their friend. Chris White had joined them in the early hours. There had been very little talking, but it had seemed irreverent to speak unless Jason initiated the conversation.
Taking his seat next to Jason, Garth cleared his throat. “Something happened with Craig, and I wanted to let you know firsthand.”
Jason’s jaw clenched. The last he had seen of Abel was the day before, being led to a police cruiser in handcuffs, smiling like a champion.
Garth continued. “This morning, we had a press conference where a few chiefs recapped the investigation for the press. There were dozens of cameras from across the nation streaming the whole thing. Everybody wants a piece of this story, Jason. It’s becoming a phenomenon.”
Jason shook his head. It’s just like Abel planned.
“I held Craig in the back of the room so he could be seen, not heard. When it was time to take him back to the station, I grabbed his arms and began to lead him out of the room.”
>
A pause. The silence hummed.
“Then,” Garth said, “this loud shout came from the crowd: ‘Thou shall not murder.’ People looked around, confused, scared. All of a sudden, Josh Locke appeared in front of me, all wild-eyed. I knew something was wrong and I started to move, but it was too late. Josh had already drawn his Glock, and before I could stop him, he put two shots into Craig’s chest.”
Officer Josh Locke? Jason felt a pit in his stomach. Had Josh taken up Abel’s mantle, killing violators of the Ten Commandments?
Garth spoke again. “Josh was tackled to the ground within a second. Craig got rushed to this hospital, and he’s recovering just fine.” He leaned in. “Jason, the cameras were rolling the whole time. Josh was a fool, trying to murder someone in such a public place. He was apprehended on national television for all to see. No one will try to copy this. Josh was Abel’s first disciple, and probably his last. It’s over.”
And with that, Garth left.
Jason settled back in his seat, feeling the muscles in his neck loosen. It was over? It sounded too good to be true.
He wanted to be happy. He wanted to celebrate and put the whole ordeal in the past. But he wasn’t happy. People had died—Jones, the SWAT officers, several others. The world was a little less innocent and a little more paranoid. Jason wanted to be happy, but one look at the small boy in the hospital bed sobered him instantly.
It wasn’t over. Not really. Yes, Josh may have been detained on national TV, but that may not stop other extremists from continuing Craig’s crusade. His legacy would hang over the world for years, decades, if not forever. This city was less bright, less optimistic. The Hollywood Walk of Fame was still off-limits to the public, recovering from Abel’s explosive assassination of Harold Lawson and the Hearse. Not to mention Adam Fischer’s laundry list of politicians, celebrities, and higher-ups who had employed his prostitutes. Many accusations, pink slips, and well-timed retirements were coming very soon.
People walked briskly down the streets, eyes pointed to the ground. They didn’t talk, laugh, or smile. Abel’s spree had affected every soul L.A. He had planted a seed of suspicion in the heart of the city, and dark paranoia had bloomed.