by Blake Pierce
Steen inspected his fingernails then bit a chunk out of one. “Yeah, I know a ‘64 collector. I ain’t got his name though, and I never even met the man in the flesh.”
Ella fell back from the bars and despaired. She wasn’t here to play this man’s games. “You don’t have his name?”
“No, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because you’re not gonna find this guy in a million years.”
“I can find anyone,” Ella said.
“Grab a shovel and start digging six feet under then, because this guy died a few weeks back.”
That doesn’t change anything, she thought. That just makes all the more sense. “Who was he? What business did you do together?”
“Any ‘64 coins I came across, I kept them for him. Simple as that. Them coins were actually worth a dime or two. It was a big year for coin collectors because of the Olympics in Japan. The guy paid me to hold them.”
Ella rattled her hand between the prison bars. She was getting impatient. “But how, if you never met him?”
“Very secretive man. Violent as hell. Complete lunatic, if you ask me.”
“Answer the question,” she demanded.
“He sent a messenger. This timid little kid. Shy as a schoolgirl, looked like one too. Me and some of the other boys used to give the kid a hard time. That kid must have grown up to really hate…,” Steen froze mid-sentence as he finished the thought silently. “Oh… shit.” The look on his face was a level of concern Ella hadn’t seen from the man: rare emotion.
Ella remembered the moments she saw Daniel Garcia, Aleister Black, and Kevin Steen for the first time. With all of them, there was a niggling doubt that she might be wrong or might have misinterpreted the facts that seemed so clear.
But this time, there was no doubt, just pure certainty. She’d bet absolutely everything she owned.
“Where do I find this kid? How do I contact him?”
Steen”s eyes glazed as over as he lost himself deep in thought. Three deep breaths later, he said:
“You bring me my phone and you let me do the talking.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Just like the other three, the man made the journey to his next destination on foot. He walked past an Italian restaurant that was just closing its doors for the evening. A grocery store owner switched off the lights and pulled down the shutters to his establishment. A seedy bar pushed its customers out onto the midnight streets, some who still had beers in their hands.
He crossed the road to avoid any large groups and kept his head down. Hood pulled up, but only enough to suggest it was a respite from the cold. His destination loomed in the distance, and as he passed the old cinema, he turned left down the narrow path leading to the rear of the buildings on this row. He slid himself into a tight alleyway that backed onto a towering wall, away from prying eyes. All the shops were shut at this time of night too, so he was as isolated as it came. Once he was behind his destination, he sat down beside a pile of trash bags that he used for both protection and warmth. If any eager lovers used the place for intimacy over the next hour or two, which he’d seen happen, he could just plead homelessness.
Sitting here now, waiting for the right hour, reminded of him why he was doing all this. The sense of discomfort he felt sitting on this damp floor with barely enough space to stretch brought back familiar memories, familiar distress. The times he’d been locked under the stairs while his dad drowned out his cries with music. The lies he told to his teachers, about how those cuts on his cheek were just cat scratches. Any time he felt that surge of pain, recollections of his lost innocence invaded every sense. He thought it would disappear with time, but every year it seemed to get worse. Now, at 24 years old, he couldn’t even prick his finger without it reminding him of some abusive episode or cruel directive from his youth.
There was one remedy, and that was to kill the author of his pain.
But fate had intervened. Two weeks ago, his father had fallen asleep and stayed there. He never woke up and never would, and that simple act ensured the boy would never get the redemption he needed. All those times he fantasized about slitting the old man’s throat in the middle of night would have to remain fantasies forever.
Unless he could track down the men who reminded him of his father. His precious coin collecting buddies, his dealers, the old men he bargained with for these little pieces of junk. He remembered the times his dad would wake him up at five am, drag him around flea markets and garage sales until his feet scorched with blisters. Sifting through endless sacks of coins in trash cans behind banks until his fingers bled. The rare times he found a worthwhile coin, his dad took it from him and gave no thanks. The times he found nothing, he got a beating for his efforts.
Always looking for that one piece of treasure that would change everything. His dad said it was out there somewhere: one little coin that could provide the fortune he craved so badly. They never found it. All of the coins he found were worthless, maybe fifty dollars maximum per coin.
He checked his phone. 00:34. His father had passed at one am, so it was only fitting that the others died at the same time too. If he recreated the circumstances of his father’s last moments down to a tee, there was a chance it would feel like the real thing. The others had given him a feeling of control he’d never felt in his life, and maybe with enough of that, he could finally put an end to his crippling trauma.
00:37 now. By the time he’d broken in, it would be the hour of reckoning. He climbed to his feet, edged around to the back door and plunged his knife between the door and door frame. At that moment, his cellphone began to vibrate.
Cursing the distraction, he reached in and pulled out a flashing device.
KEVIN STEEN CALLING.
Wow, the rat bastard finally escaped from jail. How about that? Perfect. He’d make a good number five. He ignored the call, focusing on the task at hand.
But the old thief was relentless. His phone vibrated non-stop, call after call, crushing the man’s concentration levels. When he looked at his screen again, he saw a message.
CALL ME IMMEDIATELY. THEY ARE ON TO YOU.
Curiosity and fear double-up inside of him. Who? Who was on to him? How could anyone know? He’d been meticulous in his planning, precise in his execution. No one could know about him, least of all Kevin Steen.
KEVIN STEEN CALLING, this time for the sixth time in two minutes. He let go of his knife, clicked the answer button, and spoke in a whisper.
“Hello?”
“Hey, is that L’s son? Do I have the right number?”
Kevin’s gravelly voice, as unmistakable as ever. “Yes. Kevin, what’s wrong?”
“Are you at home right now?”
“No. I’m out.”
“Where at?”
“None of your business.”
“Alright. Look, I just wanted to say I’m sorry to hear about your old man. I have something for you. Where can I meet you to hand it over?”
Something didn’t seem right about this. Kevin Steen was a scumbag of the highest order, and here he was being friendly? “Kevin, you said they’re onto me. Who’s onto me?”
“You never heard of a rib, buddy? It’s just a little trick to get you to pick up the damn phone.”
“You’re an asshole. I’m going.”
“Wait up. You in town? You want to get a…”
The line went dead.
Something was going on. That call was suspicious. It was too specific. Why did he call right now, of all times?
He had to get this over with quickly. He picked up his knife and jammed it back into the door frame.
***
Ella was out of the holding cells, out of the precinct and into her car. The phone call between Jimmy and this nameless suspect had lasted less than a minute, but it was enough to get a rough estimate of where the caller might be located. Right now, all she knew was that it was within a five-mile radius of the city center, and that was where she was headed. Back at the precinct, a member of the tec
h team was triangulating it down to a more specific area, but it would take time.
The midnight streets had little life in them, but just enough to make Ella stop and stare whenever she passed a moving body. Kevin had given her a description of the man she was looking for, but Steen hadn’t seen him in five years so his accuracy could be off the mark. Regardless, she stopped and weighed up everyone she passed by: the lone figure at the ATM machine, the midnight drifter on the search for late night entertainment.
At the traffic lights, she grabbed her phone and dialed Byford for the third time. Again, it went to voicemail. Was he mad at her for not jumping to conclusions about Steen? She understood his frustrations better than anyone, but to be upset with someone for not immediately assuming guilt was alien to her. Innocent until proven guilty was still a fundamental principle of the legal system. She guessed Byford just wanted to get home, just like she did, but not before she’d gotten to the bottom of this.
“Nigel, call me when you get this. I know who our unsub is and I’m in town trying to find him.”
She hung up, clutched her phone in her hand as she navigated the wheel. A second later, a number flashed up her screen. She didn’t recognize it.
“Hello?” She switched it to speaker.
“Agent Dark, it’s Jessica,” the voice said. Jessica was the member of the tech team triangulating the cell’s position.
“Jessica, what have you found?”
“I couldn’t get an exact reading. The signal bounced between three telephone poles in the zone, all across a two-mile radius. West Avenue, Bayard Street and Nowland Lane.”
Ella slammed the brakes on and mounted the curb. The names didn’t mean anything to her. “Damn it, so he could be anywhere within two miles? That’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“No, not quite. It means the call came from somewhere in the middle of them. I’ve emailed you a diagram of the locations.”
“Thank you.” Ella hung up and found the email. A picture was attached inside. She opened it up to find a map of the immediate area, and three red dots indicating the cell tower locations.
How was she supposed to find him here? She zoomed in on street names, buildings, shops, not recognizing any that sprung up. What was her best hope? Call for backup, search the entire area? Every single street, building and back alleyway? Was it doable, or would it just be a waste of time? Hell, it had been nearly ten minutes since Steen made the call, so the suspect could have long fled the area by now.
She scoured the map again, feeling helplessness beginning to mount. Her suspect had been here, walked the same paths and breathed the same air. The only thing keeping them from meeting was her abilities. She zoomed in on the building names, hunting for anything that might have a link to this unsub.
The names all blurred into one to the point they meant nothing. Nothing stood out. Nothing captured her attention. Then she scanned her surroundings one last time and tried to put herself in the unsub’s head. Would Steen’s call have spooked him or would he carry on with his intentions regardless? As she pieced things together, she noticed she was staring a jewelry store nestled between two vape shops.
WE BUY GOLD, the sign said.
A surge of electricity traveled down her neck, into her spine. She jerked upright in her seat.
Something called out to her. A faraway thought that offered some kind of answer, if only she could clarify it among the accumulating thoughts.
Where’d she heard that before?
The day before. She’d seen it outside the pawn shop. She suddenly recalled her conversation with the owner who’d given her the lead on Aleister Black.
As she replayed the conversation in her head, she felt the doubts again, like it was all unrelated. Then she remembered something Ace had said before they parted ways.
I only sold to one coin collector and the old bastard died weeks ago. Heart attack, I think.
“Oh shit. You gotta be kidding me,” she called as she pulled up the map. That was it. That was the answer to all this. She pulled up the JPEG picture again and frantically zoomed across as she hunted for the street she needed.
Dragon Run Road.
Five streets away.
She texted Byford the address. Did he even have his phone with him? Had he gone back to the motel already?
The engine roared to life. She sped off into the night, not waiting for anyone or anything.
Time to finish this.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Ella dumped her car outside Aces & Eights and jumped out. She yanked the old store’s wooden door to the point it nearly fell off its hinges.
Locked as expected.
She stepped back into the road and analyzed the building layout. The whole row of buildings here were connected, so there were no side entrances or fire doors that she could see. She took off towards the end of the row, passing an adjoining gaming store, vet, and Thai restaurant. That’s when she saw the narrow entranceway leading to the rear of the row. She slipped down in haste, coming to a large yard that doubled as the disposal area for each establishment. Trash bags and discarded boxes lay in no particular arrangement, finding the waste from the restaurant took up most of the floorspace.
Ella moved to the section she believed would belong to Aces & Eights based on geographical guesswork and, upon seeing the dislodged fire door, knew she was in the right place.
Just like the basement door in Barry Windham’s garden, there were scuff marks on the wooden door frame. Ella turned the knob and the door fell open.
She drew her pistol, flashlight, and hurried inside. Her flashlight illuminated a rack of bikes, some old guitars, video game consoles, a glass case of jewelry. She was on the ground floor, back where she was a day ago.
Her breath came in hot, painful waves. There were two options the next few minutes would bring; either she’d find Ace’s dead body in a pool of blood or she’d come face to face with a psychopathic serial killer. She’d called for backup, but it could be ten or more minutes away. This was a venture she had to make alone.
Ella sidestepped through the store, keeping her movements silent. Her flashlight danced in orange circles across the walls, the floors, and the store counter. The only exit other than the front door was the storeroom, which Ella accessed by climbing over the counter area. She found the wooden door half-open, then by her flashlight, saw a staircase leading to the upstairs of the house. Ace had said he lived here. That must be his living quarters.
Ella pushed forward, taking each step gently, keeping her weight above her knees. One or two steps creaked loudly, suggesting intrusion to someone familiar with the store’s characteristics. The staircase spiraled around to a landing area not unlike any modest home. There was one door to her left, one to her right and one straight ahead. All were ajar, giving no declarations of recent entry.
She stopped and listened to the air, hearing nothing but the sound of her thumping heart.
If this man was in here, what could she say to him that might make him yield? She knew his mindset, but nothing about him that she could exploit to bring him down. He was a mission-oriented killer, hell-bent on vengeance for some perceived wrongdoing. Unsubs like him were the most dangerous of all. They’d already abandoned reality in favor of their murderous fantasy worlds, and therefore had no real awareness of consequences. Threatening death or imprisonment did nothing to deter them from carrying out their homicidal operations. To them, it was the most important thing in the world, the only thing that mattered.
Her only hope was that she could take him down before any lives were lost.
Ella snuck to the first door, threw it open and looked inside. It was a stock room of items: electronics, speakers, TVs, outdated technologies. Not here. She crept to the room opposite, drowning in adrenaline when she saw the outline of a giant figure in the darkness. The beast occupied the entire corner of the room, his head almost reaching the ceiling. Her flashlight lit up the figure’s creamy skin, inhuman expression and perfectly smooth ge
nitals.
A mannequin. Ella had to stop herself cursing out loud. For a moment, she feared she was dealing with someone of inhuman proportions. She checked the rest of the room, finding a toilet, bath, and sink. More boxes of junk took up the spaces between them.
By her math, the next room had to be Ace’s bedroom.
Ella kept herself calm, composed, and focused. She gripped her pistol, finding solace in its touch. This unsub didn’t use guns as far as she knew, so the advantage was hers. But an unaware victim had no such protection.
Ella’s thoughts scrambled as an earsplitting scream pierced the air. The lack of visibility in the corridor heightened her other senses, and the sheer volume of the cry caused intense physical pain. In a split second, her calm composure all but vanished. Her fight response took over as her primary drive. She was into the last door less than a blink later, shouldering it open with brute force.
She saw it by yellow lamplight. Two figures, both locked in a deathly embrace. It took Ella a moment to make sense of the scene in front of her.
Ace, the large, bearded store owner, was at the mercy of another man. Up against the wall, his attacker stood behind him with a knife to his throat. Ace, red-eyed and wearing nothing but shorts, had the face of a man who believed death was imminent. His tiny eyes were widened with abject terror.
“Stop! FBI!” Ella shouted.
The man was much younger than she’d anticipated. Early twenties? His gingery blonde hair reminded her of someone she’d seen recently. She connected the pieces together, realizing now she’d seen the man only this morning.
Only he wasn’t a man when she saw him. He was a child. He was the boy in the newspaper article from 2002.
The attacker renewed his grip on the hostage. “Who are you? Why are you here?” he screamed. His voice was soft, nasally, feminine. She remembered Kevin Steen saying he reminded him of a schoolgirl.
“What’s your name?” Ella asked.
“I don’t have one. Now get back before I cut this guy’s throat to shreds.”
