by James Hunt
“Know what?” Mocks asked.
Hickem crossed his arms. “It’s better if I don’t—”
“What happened, Hickem?” Mocks screamed, and the sudden burst of anger drained her energy.
“Grant killed Detective Lane,” Hickem answered.
Mocks frowned, frozen by shock at first, and then started to quickly shake her head. “No, no, that’s not possible. It was just Dennis out there—”
“Dennis abducted Lane’s father, Douglas Chambers. Apparently Chambers and Lane had an estranged relationship until a few years ago when they reconnected. Chambers is dead too. Died of exposure.”
“Lane’s father was Dennis’s defense attorney?” Mocks felt sick, and she hunched forward, hugging her stomach. “Oh my God.”
“And another video’s surfaced,” Hickem said. “It’s how we knew about Grant killing Lane. Mullocks, I need you to try and contact him.”
Mocks was able to hear Hickem, but the words were echoed and distorted. “This can’t be right. He…” But deep down, she knew that Grant would do whatever was necessary to keep his loved ones safe. No matter what.
“Susan.” Hickem dropped to a knee and engulfed her hand in his own. “It’s better if he turns himself in. We might be able to cut a deal, we might be able to—”
“What are you talking about?” Mocks asked.
“The Governor, Senator, CIA, anyone in a position of authority…they’ve all called for Grant’s immediate arrest. And the news—”
“How did that even happen?” A steady pressure filled Mocks’s head, like her brain was trying to escape through her eyes and ears. She pressed her palm into her forehead, trying to push past the confusion.
“Susan.” The hardened tone of Hickem’s voice caused Mocks to drop her palm and look up at the Neanderthal that had somehow become the lead in the FBI, a man who was now leading the hunt against Grant, and Mocks knew that the big brute would have no problem bringing Grant down. By any means necessary. “I need to make sure you understand that if he contacts you, in any shape or form, then you need to tell me, and you need to convince him to turn himself in.” Hickem didn’t sway, didn’t move, he was some autonomous being incapable of showing emotion. “We’ll need to debrief you in a more official capacity, but I’ll give you some time with your husband.” He stepped toward the door and then craned his head around without turning any other part of him, so only his profile was viewable from the other side. “I’m so sorry, Susan.”
Mocks nodded, and then listened to the clack of his heels slowly fade down the hallway. Once the noise was completely gone, Mocks wheeled herself back to Rick’s bedside and grabbed hold of his hand again.
A lump caught in Mocks’s throat, and tears welled in her eyes. Because while she would play the role of good detective for her superiors, she wasn’t going to give them a single thread of information that could lead them to Grant, because he would need another way out. And that would require navigating down some very dangerous channels. But she couldn’t let him go out there and do this all by himself.
Family never gave up on one another. Ever.
Sam paced around their tiny apartment, wearing a small path from the hundreds of times she paced over the same area of hardwood in the past hour. She couldn’t sit still. She couldn’t eat, drink, or sleep.
The halogen lights from the kitchen caught the sparkle of her diamond, and the flash brought Sam’s eyeline to the ring. She smiled, but there was too much sadness for it to be happy. How could have this happened? How had everything that had been so good, so solid, fall apart so quickly?
Sam jolted when the phone buzzed in her hand, and despite the spike of adrenaline that made her arms tremble, she brought the phone to her ear so fast that she didn’t even check the name on the caller ID. “Grant, what—”
“Sam, it’s Susan.”
Sam stopped in her tracks, her stomach dropping to her feet. She thrust out an arm, which she braced against the countertop to keep her from collapsing.
“Sam?” Mocks asked.
“Yeah,” Sam answered, her voice just above a whisper. “I’m here.”
“I need you to come down to the hospital, to Seattle General.”
Sam covered her mouth, eyes watering. When she finally dropped her hand, her mouth was twisted in grief, and she stepped in place, trying to remember to keep moving, but she could barely keep herself upright. “How bad is it? Is he… alive?”
With the silence that followed, Sam filled the empty space with every terrible thought under the sun.
“Grant’s alive,” Mocks said.
Relief flooded Sam’s body, and she flopped the top half of her body onto the counter, keeping herself propped up with her elbows.
“But things aren’t good for Grant right now,” Mocks said. “I can’t talk about it over the phone, but you need to get to Seattle General and we can talk about it in person. But if anyone asks you about what happened, just tell them you don’t know anything, okay? Nothing.”
Sam nodded. She trusted the woman. Almost as much as she trusted Grant. The two had become as close as sisters. “Okay. Got it. I don’t know anything.”
“Good,” Mocks said. “And don’t listen to the news or turn on the radio until we talk, okay? Just block everything out.”
Sam frowned, unsure why that would matter, but again she nodded. “Yeah—okay.”
“I’m in the critical unit ward with Rick,” Mocks said. “He’s alive too, but he’s in bad shape. Just give them your name at the nurses’ desk, and they’ll give you a pass. I’ve already cleared you to come back here, so you shouldn’t have any problems.”
Sam collected her purse and keys, then grabbed her U.S. Marshal-issued pistol and holster for good measure. “I’m already on my way.”
The call ended, and just when Sam was heading for the door, she stopped and turned back to look at all of Grant’s guitars and music notes, then she looked to the broken television.
Mocks’s words still echoed in her head. Why wouldn’t she want Sam to turn on the news? Had Grant been captured? Was he gravely hurt like Rick? She frowned, that curiosity that had been both a blessing and a curse her entire life getting the best of her. She searched Grant’s name on the Internet using her phone, and a brand new link with the title “Former Seattle Detective Executes Current Police Detective” popped up. Her innards hollowing out, Sam clicked on the link and watched the video.
Two reporters, both women, sat behind an anchor desk.
“I’m here with reporter Lacey White, who was the first to break this story and has become our station’s expert.” The brunette turned to the young blonde-haired woman, the same woman that had reported the video about Mary Sullivan. “Lacey, what more can you tell us about today’s events?”
Lacey folded her hands together on the anchor desk and flashed a pretty smile. “Well, the sources I’ve spoken to have told me plenty on the matter.”
Sam’s breathing was quick and labored, her blood boiling to the point that she thought she was going to explode. But she didn’t. She had a job to do at the moment, and that was making sure that she got to the hospital.
But on her way out the door and down the hallway, she made a promise to herself, and to Grant, that she would do whatever it took to find him. Because while she had been waiting for his call, while she had prayed for him to reach out, she knew that he wouldn’t do it now.
He was protecting her. That’s what he did. That’s the kind of man that he was. So, she would return his protection in kind, fighting the people who soiled his name. And if Sam wanted any kind of future with Grant, then she might have to step away from the badge that she wore with so much pride. But if that was the price for Grant, she would gladly pay it.
Last night, after Grant had brought Rick to the hospital, Grant ditched the car, washed the blood from his hands, and then emptied his bank account. With cash in hand, the clothes on his back, and the phone that Dennis had given him, he needed a place to stay for the
night, and he knew just the spot.
The slums by the docks were riddled with old tents and makeshift houses comprised of whatever scraps could be pulled from the dumpsters. It was a place marked with a distinct smell, a mixture of the salt air nearby, human waste, body odor, and smoke from the smoldering fires that lingered from the night before. Nobody would look for him here.
Grant didn’t bother trying to sleep, instead focusing on just keeping warm, but somewhere in the middle of the night, he dozed off.
The few hours he was able to nod off, Grant’s sleep was plagued with troubled dreams. He would be with his family, and then one by one they vanished, crumbling into ash that was blown away by a cold breeze. First it was Rick, then little Chase, then Mocks, and finally Sam.
Once Grant was finally alone, what little pieces of dust and ash started to collect into a pile. It formed slowly, but the figure took shape, and Dennis stood before him.
“Hello, Grant.”
Grant shook his head. “You can’t be here, you’re—”
Dennis laughed, and the sound chilled Grant to the bone. “I’m everywhere. I’m the omnipresent devil that everyone fears, lurking around the corner, waiting to make them pay for their sins.” He pointed a finger at Grant, and a few bits of dust fell from the tip of the nail. “That’s why I’m here. To collect payment for your sins.”
“No,” Grant said, unable to move.
“How long did you think it was going to last? I mean really? Did you really think you could ride off into the sunset and find happiness? Men like you don’t end up happy, Grant.” Dennis smiled and then pointed at himself. “You end up like me.”
“NO!” Grant broke through his paralysis and charged toward Dennis. But when he touched the apparition, Dennis exploded into dust and debris, and Grant awoke, frozen to the bone next to the dying fire in the oil drum where he’d fallen asleep.
Heart hammering in his chest and stiff as bones, Grant remained on his side on the concrete, trying to get his bearings.
Morning had broken through, and the gray skies that had plagued the city yesterday had given way to clear blue skies.
Most of the other homeless that took refuge by the docks were still asleep in their little shanty homes of cardboard and trash. But the few that were awake cast accusing glares at Grant, as if they already knew what he had done.
Grant finally sat up and then managed to stand, his joints popping with every movement. The sun had warmed things up a bit, and Grant found a warm patch of sun to stand in to help thaw his frozen body.
He thought of last night, and the dream, and the inevitable path that he was now set on. He was sure that Dennis would hunt others, and Grant would be there to stop him. Because he wasn’t going to let anyone else die. He already had too many souls on his conscious. The real hunt was about to begin.
41
Three Months Later
The forest remained still, no wind, birds, or animals to breathe life into the barren trees that had shed their green and settled into the long, cold slumber of winter. Above, the sky was dark, but the dull glow of dawn rose in the east.
The man moving swiftly through the woods, surefooted even in the lingering darkness, was unrecognizable with his bushy beard and shaggy hair. But Chase Grant’s hunt for Pullman had stolen much from him.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and soaked the bottom layer of his clothes, the frigid morning air biting through all his layers of warmth.
Northeastern winters had a dampness to them, causing the air itself to freeze like the shallow bays along the coast. It made every breath burn.
But Grant had grown up with these winters. And after the three miles he hiked from the car, he was thankful his past had prepared him.
With dawn fast approaching, Grant stopped to check his progress, spreading the map along the ground.
Grant had chosen to search this area because it afforded an individual the best chance at surviving off the grid. It was near a water source, had ample wood and trees for shelter and firewood, and it had the advantage of having the high ground, which allowed Dennis to see anyone that entered his turf.
Plus there were old dirt trails, from the logging days, which allowed for a quick escape via car if it was needed. Grant had considered taking his car up one of them, but he didn’t want to give away his position, and he didn’t want to give Dennis any indication that he was nearby. He was betting that he already had another victim. He just prayed that he wasn’t too late.
Grant tucked the map back into his pocket, knowing that he had to be close. If he didn’t find Dennis soon, then he wasn’t going to find him at all.
He trudged on, expanding his search area, and keeping his eyes peeled for any movement between the trees. He listened for any snap of a branch, rustle of leaves, or slide of rocks. But all he heard were his own footfalls and the rush of his pulse, accelerated by his pounding heart.
The sky lightened even more from the rising sun, and Grant knew that time was running out. If the girl was even still alive, then she wouldn’t be for much longer. Dennis liked to taunt, but he could only draw out the hunt for so long.
Grant crested the top of a small hill and dropped to a knee, using his advantage on the high ground. His only weapon was a knife that he had picked up a few weeks ago after the last girl he saved from Dennis’s torture.
But no matter how fast Grant moved, time still slipped right through his fingers. It couldn’t be slowed, it couldn’t be stopped, it just trudged on, marching forward to an inevitable conclusion that every human being would eventually succumb to. Death.
Dennis Pullman was a harbinger of death, a man who had sensationalized the idea of culling. To thin out the weak was to make the species stronger.
The pale light of morning outlined a structure in a small clearing ahead. It was hard to make out the features, but it looked like a camper. Being so close, Grant fought the urge to charge ahead. He was still in Dennis’s element, and Grant moved slow and quiet.
When Grant reached the camper without incident, he tried to peer through the windows on the far side to get a better look, but the curtains were drawn. He remained still for a few moments and listened for any movement inside, then moved toward the front of the camper and paused by the door.
Grant gripped the blade’s handle, then outstretched his left hand for the door knob. He couldn’t feel the cold of the metal through the glove, but he gave it the lightest turn and found no resistance. It was unlocked, and Grant’s heart skipped a beat at the prospect of ending this. No more sleepless nights. No more looking over his shoulder. With Dennis caught, he’d turn both of them in and face the judgement that came next.
Grant pulled the door open, a blast of frigid air smacking him in the face. One quick hop thrust him into the darkened interior, knife raised high and ready to plunge into the killer’s beating heart.
But there was no gasp, no cry. No Dennis.
Grant lowered the knife and searched the perimeter, finding a generator and a few empty gas cans. The inside of the camper was littered with recently-eaten food. There were also empty shell casings and blankets, some discarded clothes. But it wasn’t until Grant saw the black bra at the entrance of the closed bedroom door in the back of the camper that he was worried he might be too late.
Grant nudged the bedroom door open. Inside, the bed had been removed, along with all other furniture and trimmings. The windows on either side were blacked out and in the center of the room was a cage, bolted into the floorboard, with chains draped over the top.
Inside the cage was a bowl for water and a few discarded protein bar wrappers. The putrid stench came from the waste-filled corner of the cage, and Grant suspected that if it had been summer, he would have smelled the shit before he even stepped foot into the cabin. He turned away and examined the rest of the camper.
The amount of food that was left behind, and the empty jugs of water, suggested that they’d been here for several days. Several days of a woman locked in a cage, wal
lowing in her own filth, stripped naked and freezing to death.
Because while there was a generator, Grant found no heater, and since there was no blankets in the cage, he guessed that the woman had been tortured to the point of exhaustion.
“But you don’t like them when they’re tired,” Grant said, speaking aloud, and then he found it.
The syringe that Dennis had filled with the adrenaline that he used to wake his victims from their fatigued state before he dropped them into the woods and began his hunt.
Grant fished through the girl’s clothes and checked the pockets of her jeans. Inside, he found cash, lint, and Chapstick, but no phone. Dennis must have gotten rid of it.
About to discard the pants, Grant stopped when he felt something thin in the back pocket. He reached inside and pulled out a pair of blue tickets.
It was for a music festival in Seattle. At first he thought that they were just ticket stubs, souvenirs from a show she went to, but the tickets were dated for later this week. Grant pocketed the tickets, along with the cash, and then searched the sleeping bag he found at the camper’s front.
The bag was freezing, but beneath the layers of blankets, Grant felt something hard. He flung the blankets aside and found a notebook. He picked it up, hesitantly opening the diary of a madman.
Inside were the detailed and meticulous thoughts of Dennis Pullman, outlining his process for the abduction, torture, and eventual murder of his victims.
Grant was only able to read two pages before his stomach turned inside out. He closed the notebook and stared at the worn black cover, frowning.
Dennis wouldn’t have left something like this behind. Grant perked up, tucking the notebook into his jacket on his way out the door. Dennis hadn’t finished his hunt, which meant that there was still a chance that the girl was alive.
Light-footed and nimble, Grant kept a steady pace over the rock, dirt, and brush that covered the ground. The morning sky was overcast, but not threatening any snow.
