Desperate Creed

by Alex Kava

  “We work together at McGavin Holt,” she now told the police officer for the second time.

  “Nothing more than co-workers?” The detective raised a suspicious eyebrow betraying his monotone voice.

  “Nothing more.”

  “You don’t go out after work for drinks?”

  “Tyler doesn’t drink.”

  “Meet for coffee?”

  “He doesn’t drink coffee either.”

  “But you talked on the phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even video-chat? Outside of work.”

  “It’s always about work.”

  “At five o’clock in the morning?”

  Frankie released another sigh and sat back in the metal folding chair. So that part he’d heard. “Yes.” She wasn’t going to explain that when they were working on a campaign sometimes they talked at all kind of odd hours of the day. They loved their job. She quickly added, “Can you just please check to see if he’s okay?”

  “But you don’t know where the assault took place?”

  “No.”

  “Because you weren’t there?”

  “I was in my apartment. We were talking on the phone.”

  “Tell me again why you think he was assaulted?”

  “He said there was a couple of guys. He thought they looked lost, and he dropped the phone. You know, by his side. I could hear him talking to them.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I couldn’t really hear what they said to Tyler, but his voice started getting sort of agitated. He put up his hand like he was protecting himself. That’s when I heard a pop-pop.”

  “Pop-pop?”

  “It sounded like a car backfiring but it didn’t look like there was any traffic on the street.”

  “What happened after the pop-pop?”

  “I saw just a glimpse of Tyler’s face then I think he must have fallen. The phone fell. I could see it falling. I could see the sidewalk.”

  “You never saw the men?”

  “Just a sliver of one of them.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Dark eyes. That’s mostly what I saw. Sort of a hawkish nose.”

  “Black, white, old, young?”

  “White.” Frankie closed her eyes and struggled to remember. “I was looking at him from an odd angle. From down below, looking up.”

  The police officer was nodding, waiting.

  “Oh, there was a scar. On his neck.” Frankie’s fingers went to her own, outlining the area. “About two inches, maybe three. Part of it was all knotted, almost like a rope.”

  Thankfully, he was writing this down. Everything else on his notepad looked like scratches and doodles.

  “You didn’t see any street signs. Nothing familiar in the background?”

  “No. There wasn’t anything I recognized.” She didn’t tell him that she hadn’t paid much attention. She was pissed at Tyler for calling that early. She also left out that he’d caught her getting out of the shower and wearing only a towel.

  “Your friend, Tyler didn’t say where he was coming from?”

  “Just that he had left his friend’s place.”

  “What’s his friend’s name?” The detective’s pen hung over the notepad, ready.

  “Deacon. Tyler calls him Deacon K. I don’t know if K is his middle initial or the beginning of his last name.”

  Frankie saw the detective glance at his wristwatch as he added “Deacon K” to the notepad. There was no urgency.

  Or was it possible he just didn’t believe her?

  He pulled out a business card and scribbled a phone number on the backside. He handed it across the table to Frankie as she said, “If you remember anything else, give me a call.”

  “That’s it?” Frankie asked. “Can’t you check if someone reported a man shot?”

  “Shot? This is Chicago. Chances are more than one person was shot in the last twenty-four hours.”

  “What about checking hospitals or his apartment?”

  “You said you don’t know where his apartment is.”

  “No, but...you’re the police. Aren’t you able to look it up?”

  He looked at her over the top of his eyeglasses, and she realized how foolish she sounded. Even if she called the advertising agency, she wouldn’t be allowed Tyler’s personal information, including his address. How many Tyler Gates would Google find in the Chicago area?

  “If you remember anything else,” he said and pointed to the business card in her fingers. “Call me.”

  6

  CHICAGO

  Frankie drove home. Frustrated. Angry. Only four hours after talking to Tyler, and already she was starting to second-guess what she’d heard and seen. Maybe it wasn’t gunfire. But she swore she’d seen blood on his face.

  He could have been punched. Maybe the men simply mugged him. Still, he had to be hurt or he would have called her. Was it possible that he was unconscious? Maybe confused and in an emergency room? After his attacker had called her back, Frankie turned her phone off. She’d only turned it back on to quickly dial 911.

  What if Tyler had been trying to call her?

  She pulled off the busy route and took side streets that led her into a residential area. With her move came a new and unfamiliar neighborhood. More upscale than she was used to seeing. She took a right into the parking lot of a church. At this time on a Friday it was empty except for a van at the back door.

  Frankie drove to the far corner, away from any windows. She backed the car into a slot, pointing the nose toward the nearest exit. Suddenly, for the first time in her life she was grateful her father had instilled in her a bit of his quirky paranoia.

  She left the engine running. Double-checked that all the doors were locked. She kept the radio on a local news station in case there was anything about Tyler. She dug the cell phone out from the bottom of her handbag, but instead of turning it on right away, she held it in front of her, staring at it.

  The incident—whatever it was—that Frankie had witnessed, had unnerved. She hadn’t just kept the phone off because she worried the man who attacked Tyler would call her again. It was beyond that. She was afraid he could track her. He had to have seen her face. He knew her phone number. Depending on how Tyler identified her, the guy might have her entire name. Maybe even a better photo sitting beside that name and number on Tyler’s contact list. All that information could help him track her down.

  Her eyes darted around the parking lot and across the street. The houses were small but quaint and the yards and lawns were well-kept. In the distance she could hear a dog barking, asking to be let inside. The hum of traffic was muffled by towering maple trees and evergreens. No cars were parked on the streets. No walkers. No runners. In the next block she could see a repair van in the driveway. A quiet neighborhood on a quiet Friday morning.

  It had to have been a mugging, Frankie told herself. That early in the morning? What else could it be? And why would a petty thief bother to track her down? She had no way of identifying him. Of turning him in.

  She was being ridiculous. Still, she took a deep breath, and she turned the cell phone on. Her pulse started to race as the screen blinked to life. Seven text messages. Two missed calls. One of them might be from Tyler.

  She scrolled the text messages first. Most of them were from Angela, her new personal assistant. Frankie was supposed to have the entire week off to move and unpack. Mr. McGavin had approved it. Actually he had insisted she take the full week. But Frankie had already gotten restless and told Angela yesterday that she’d drop by the office for a few hours. She really wanted to check in and see how her new assistant was doing. Just a glimpse at the texts and Frankie was reminded how much she missed her long-time assistant, Beth. Breaking in a new assistant and moving into a new apartment, all in the same month was not a good idea.

  She started to scroll through the messages. All of them from Angela. In a matter of minutes they appeared to go from curious to urgent.

&
nbsp; JUST CHECKING ON YOU?

  WHEN WILL YOU BE IN?

  CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU CAN.

  The last thing Frankie needed was Mr. McGavin getting upset with her, especially if Tyler made it sound like she was a part of his crazy cereal protest.

  She glanced at her watch. Scanned the surrounding neighborhood, again. No one had followed her. No one was tracking her.

  “Get a hold of yourself, Francine,” she said out loud. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  She called Angela and waited. She reached for the radio to turn down the weather report and decided to turn it up instead. She didn’t want to miss anything on Tyler.

  “McGavin Holt,” Angela answered.

  “Hi Angela. It’s Frankie. What’s going on?”

  “Oh hey. When will you be here? I’ve been looking at your schedule and I don’t see any meetings at all for today.”

  “That’s right. Remember, I’m officially gone all this week.”

  “Oh sure, no, I remember that, but,” Angela paused and Frankie could hear shuffling as if the young woman was moving around. When she continued, her voice was almost a whisper. “There are a couple of guys here. They said they needed to talk to you. Since you said you were stopping by today I thought maybe you were expecting them?”

  “No, I didn’t make any appointments. Are they new clients? Maybe take their names and contact information and I can call them when I get in. Or schedule something for next week.”

  “No, I don’t think they’re new clients.” There was a muffled sound as if Angela was moving around. This time her voice was so low, Frankie barely heard her when she said, “They said it was an official matter.”

  Frankie felt sweat trickle down her back, and yet it was chilly inside the car. She pulled her jacket tighter across her body.

  “Official? You mean like law enforcement?” Was it possible the police had already sent a couple of detectives to check up on Tyler? “Did they say what it’s about?”

  “No. I told them you might not be coming in until later. They insisted on waiting.”

  Before Frankie could ask anything else, Angela whispered, “Just between you and me, the one guy looks a little rough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t mean to get all judgey, but he’s got this ugly scar on his neck. It’s like right under his shirt collar but I still could see it.”

  Frankie’s eyes darted around the parking lot. Panic kicked her into escape mode while her brain screamed at her, Oh my God, it’s him!

  She swallowed hard and steadied her hands.

  “Tell them I should be there in about an hour. Maybe forty-five minutes. Thanks Angela. I gotta go.” And she ended the call before Angela could hear her heart pounding or the panic in her voice.

  She pressed her body against the seat and ran a hand across face as her mind raced.

  Was it possible they simply had information about Tyler? Was she being crazy?

  She closed her eyes, trying to think over the banging of her heart in her ears. She could still hear the urgency in Tyler’s voice. His hand going up as if bracing for a blow. The muffled sounds emblazoned on her memory. Tyler’s eyes wide with surprise. Blood on his face.

  And then those dark eyes staring right at her, a hawk inspecting its next prey. He’d tracked her, just as she feared. And now he was waiting for her.

  Should she call the police? What would she tell them? She wasn’t sure they believed her the first time.

  Frankie glanced at her watch, again. She had an hour to figure it out. What could they do to her in a public place like at McGavin Holt?

  The weather forecast was finishing up. Another blast of chilly air would replace the premature spring temperatures. Just as she reached to shift into gear the local news began with a report about a young man who had been murdered in the early morning hours. Frankie punched the volume up.

  “Authorities have finally released the name of the victim.”

  She was holding her breath, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

  “Chicago police say it appears to be a pre-dawn home invasion that turned deadly. Twenty-five year old Deacon Kaye was shot twice...”

  It wasn’t Tyler. She could breathe. But only for a second or two until the name hit her. Deacon...Deacon Kaye. That had to be Tyler’s friend.

  7

  FLORIDA PANHANDLE

  Ryder and Brodie had gotten Knight settled in the kennel with the other dogs. By the time they got to the house it was pouring down rain. Hannah stood at the back door, holding it open. She handed each of them a towel. A rumble of thunder rattled the kitchen windows.

  “Lord have mercy, you two took your time.” Hannah slammed the door shut.

  Creed knew she hated thunderstorms. Sometimes she’d pace from window to window watching the clouds while watching the small television that folded down from under the cabinet. Usually it was reserved for her cooking shows, but this morning a meteorologist walked in front of a map glowing with patches of orange and red. Hannah had turned down the volume, but her eyes kept darting back to that map behind the weatherman.

  The Florida Panhandle had more lightning strikes per year than anywhere else in the country. Because of that, Creed had made sure their facility had enough backup generator power to get through any electrical outage. But that still didn’t comfort Hannah.

  She pointed to the dark sky outside the kitchen window. Her eyes caught Creed’s. He knew she didn’t want to panic Brodie, but she couldn’t hide her own concern from Creed. With only a glance between the curtains he saw what worried Hannah.

  The north side of their property was a thick pine forest, but this window’s view included a clearing that allowed a good look at the horizon. He could see a greenish-yellow tint lighting up the sky just below the black storm clouds. Usually that meant the storm was severe enough to produce tornadoes. But those clouds were moving to the east and hopefully would stay to the north of them. Despite that, the sky continued to darken. A rumble of thunder vibrated through the walls, and Hannah shot him another concerned look.

  “Brodie’s not scared of thunderstorms,” Creed said as he took his towel and playfully rubbed it over Brodie’s short, wet hair. She actually smiled wide enough he thought he might get a laugh from her, too.

  “Really?” Hannah asked Brodie. Then she placed her hand on her ample hip and said, “Sweetie, you’re a better woman than I am, because they scare the bejesus out of me.”

  “Do we need to go to the basement?” Brodie asked. She had folded up and placed aside her own towel and was suddenly stroking the kitten in her arms.

  Creed hadn’t even noticed the cat coming into the kitchen. The two were inseparable. Only in the last several days had Brodie ventured outside the house without taking the kitten along. When she first arrived, Creed wasn’t sure how a cat would fit in with a houseful and a kennel full of dogs, but the kitten didn’t appear scare of anything. It took only a couple of swats and the dogs quickly learned to keep their distance.

  He felt Hunter bump his leg, and Creed reached down to scratch the black spot behind the yellow Lab’s ear. The border collie named Lady shifted back and forth in the doorway to the living room. Hannah was making all of them a bit skittish.

  “No, no,” Hannah told Brodie, her eyes darting back to the television screen. “Willis Dean says our area will mostly get a lot of thunder and lightning. It looks like the dangerous storms are staying to the north of us.”

  Very dangerous, Creed suspected but he kept it to himself. A tornado may have already touched down. A flash of lightening and a quick clap of thunder made the entire kitchen vibrate. Hannah jumped despite her best effort not to.

  “I wish I had kept the boys home from school today,” she said. “But it’s only the beginning of March. Good Lord!”

  Creed knew they were in for a weekend of wicked weather. All the warm damp, air from the Gulf was set to collide with colder air coming down from the middle of the country. He d
idn’t watch as closely as Hannah, but he checked the forecasts regularly to help prepare and take care of their dogs. Unfortunately, several of them didn’t tolerate the thunder and lightning. Dogs could smell the changes in the atmosphere.

  During the first storms of the season, Creed kept a close eye on how the newest members of their kennel did. Some preferred the safety of a crate. Others looked to and huddled with the alphas in the pack.

  All of their dogs came to them after being abandoned. Many of them came from the street or from alongside roads and highways. Some came from shelters, others through well-meaning owners dumping their dogs at the end of Creed and Hannah’s long driveway. Hannah called them “well meaning” owners, changing their minds for one reason or another and at least attempting to give them a second chance. Creed considered them cowards.

  It wasn’t that long ago he’d caught a man off-loading a new mother. If Creed hadn’t seen the man and confronted him, the mother dog’s gunny sack full of puppies would have been thrown in the nearest river. It took every morsel of self discipline Creed had to not pound the guy into the mud. Instead, he told Bolo to stand guard and watch—and yes, intimidate the hell out of the guy—while Creed grabbed the wiggling bag out of the back of the vehicle and took it, along with the mother dog to safety.

  All the puppies and the mother survived. One of those puppies, a smart and funny jackass, was now one of their best scent dogs in training. And Creed knew for a fact, that jackass named Scout had rescued his new owner and handler, Jason Seaver.

  Jason had worked with Creed last night, checking generators, securing gates and fencelines and adding crates and bedding. He knew what his dogs needed and catered to them. But he had no idea what he could do to help settle Hannah’s nerves.

  “I’ll go pick the boys up, if you want,” Creed volunteered. He’d do anything if it would bring a shred of peace to her. She was usually the one calming everyone else down. Her kitchen, with her comfort food and words of wisdom, was a sanctuary to anyone who came into Hannah’s care.