by James Hunt
A stiff, cold wind blew off the water, and Duane flipped the collar of his jacket up and pulled his beanie down over his ears. The cold made him stiff, and he swung his arms around to try and warm himself up.
“Well, if it isn’t dummy Duane!”
He stopped, turning around to find Mack and his friends coming up from behind. Mack had been mean ever since Duane’s first day, when he dumped Duane’s lunch into the trash.
“I’m surprised you got that scaffolding up,” Mack said, then snatched the red beanie off of Duane’s head, tossing it around to the others, playing keep away from Duane, who stutter-stepped to try and get it back as it was passed around the circle. “How many people you think are going to die when that thing collapses because you put it together wrong?”
Duane stopped reaching for the beanie and then faced Mack, frowning. “I did it right.”
Mack tilted his head to the side and approached Duane. “Oh, you did? Because I didn’t think a fucking retard could do anything right.” Mack took an aggressive step forward, gaining momentum, and then shoved Duane right in the chest.
The force sent Duane to his back on the asphalt, the back of his head cracking against the ground. The pain triggered tears, and Duane looked up through blurry eyes as Mack and his friends circled around Duane.
“You’re only here because your fucking brother is the Vice President of the company.” Mack kicked Duane hard in the leg.
Duane yelped, grabbing the leg with both hands as he pulled it away and curled up into a ball, shivering as the group walked away. He lay there for a long time, wondering if they’d come back, hoping that they didn’t. He waited until the pain in his back faded and then managed to sit up.
He examined his palms, finding them scratched and bleeding a little. They stung, and it was made worse by the wind. He gently wiped the palms along his pants, trying to get the dirt and pebbles off of them, when a hand was suddenly thrust into his field of vision.
Duane jerked away at first, thinking that it was meant to hit him, but then followed the arm up to the face that it was attached to.
“Looks like a nasty cut.” The man had a big smile on his face. “Need a hand up?”
Duane nodded and then took the man’s hand, the grip strong. Once on his feet, Duane again nodded, muttering a thank you.
“Those guys looked like they were giving you trouble,” he said.
“Mack is just mean,” Duane replied, rubbing his backside and making sure that he was free of any dirt or stains. He didn’t get new clothes anymore. His mom had always been the one that took him shopping, but his brother’s wife wouldn’t even talk to him. But this guy was talking to him. And this guy helped him up.
“Hungry?” the man asked.
“Hungry?” Duane repeated the question.
The man laughed, again flashing a smile. But this one looked different, more strained, almost frightening, and Duane didn’t like that. “Yeah, I have an extra sandwich over by my car if you’d like to join me.”
Duane followed the man’s finger, which led to one of the nearby buildings. Duane didn’t have a lunch because his brother’s wife didn’t make him one like she usually did in the morning. And Duane didn’t want to be late to work to stop and fix his own meal, because his brother had repeatedly told him that being late to work would get him in trouble, and he didn’t like getting in trouble.
“Well?” the man asked, still smiling, flashing small, baby teeth. “What do you say, friend?”
Duane perked up at the word, and he relaxed a little. No one had called him a friend in a long time.
“Okay,” Duane said, reciprocating the man’s smile.
“Great! I’m just right over there.”
Duane followed the man, glad that today was turning around, and glad that he had found a new friend. He thought about asking the man if he’d like to come over to his brother’s house for dinner, but he knew that he’d have to check with his brother first. Duane didn’t think Jimmy would like it if he just brought someone home for dinner without asking.
The man walked a little quicker than Duane, who trailed right behind him as they turned the corner of the building where the man had said that his car was parked. But when Duane turned the corner, there was no car, only an alleyway. Duane stopped.
“I thought your car was over here?” Duane asked.
The man turned around, and then stopped when he noticed that Duane hadn’t continued to follow him. “Oh, it’s just down the end of the alley here.” He flashed another quick smile, waving his arm forward for Duane to follow. “C’mon, aren’t you hungry?”
Duane glanced back behind him, unable to see any of his fellow co-workers. He had been so excited about the prospect of eating that he had forgotten to check to see if it was even time for his lunch break. He had been yelled at for taking his break too early, and he didn’t want to get yelled at again.
“Duane,” the man said, lowering his voice and his smile fading. “Why don’t you come with me?”
Duane swayed from side to side, the soles of his boots scraping against the concrete, turning and pointing back toward the stage and event area. “I don’t know if I should. I should probably check with my boss—” The pain that shot through Duane’s back paralyzed him and stole his breath and was ten times worse than when Mack shoved him to the ground.
Motionless, Duane was dragged deeper into the alley, his heels scuffing the concrete. The shock from the attack had numbed him, but the farther he was pulled, the more pain started to sink in, and while Duane wanted to fight back, his strength had left him.
His mind swirled, spinning around, and it made him so dizzy that he shut his eyes. He couldn’t feel it, but he was dropped to the concrete, the back of his head smacking hard. He would have yelped if he could talk, but when he tried to move his mouth, there was only wheezing breaths.
But before his vision finally faded, he saw the man with the smile who invited him to eat lunch. He was still smiling, but this smile was different.
The man, his face darkening along with the world around him, looked insane. Like those faces of monsters that Duane sometimes saw in his nightmares. It was like staring at the boogeyman. But Duane didn’t understand, because the man had been so nice to him, had even invited him to lunch. But there would be no lunch for Duane. No more lunches ever.
Dennis dragged Duane’s body to a small cutout in one of the buildings along the alleyway. Blood was everywhere, but he had planned ahead and wore a jumpsuit which he could easily discard after he was finished. Still, none of this would have been a problem if the idiot hadn’t frozen at the alleyway entrance, standing there slack-jawed.
But when hunting, it was always important to prepare for multiple outcomes. A hunter had to be adaptable. He had to expect the unexpected. There were no certainties in the wild.
Dennis dropped Duane’s body, panting as he stuck his head back into the alleyway to ensure that no one had seen him.
When he was sure the coast was clear, Dennis stared at the dying man on the ground, watching the confusion and pain spread across his face.
It was Dennis’s favorite part, though it had been a while since he’d gotten to see those last bits of consciousness fade from a person’s eyes. He dropped to a knee and pressed his palm against the dying man’s heart. He shut his eyes and listened to those last breaths, feeling those final pattering thumps of the imbecile’s heart.
Dennis opened his mouth, a breath of excitement escaping as his own heart skipped a beat. This was power. This was what people didn’t understand about killing. This is what they couldn’t appreciate.
Dennis opened his eyes, staring at the idiot, and wondered what it was like to have such a slow mind, to be lost every day in the sea of his own thoughts.
The last bit of tension in Duane’s body relaxed, and that twinkle of light disappeared.
Slowly, Dennis closed the dead man’s eyes and folded the hands over the body. He stared at the pool of blood that had oozed f
rom Duane’s backside, the puddle growing as large as it could before freezing on the cold ground. He placed his hand over the dead man’s hands and squeezed, his smile meant to reassure the corpse. “Your death will not have been for nothing. You have a purpose now. A purpose with me.”
Dennis stood, removing the bloodied jumpsuit from his body, then cleaned the blood from his face. He had scoped out this alley beforehand and had pulled the man into the cutout because there was a dumpster already here.
He wasn’t sure when the trash would be collected, but it wouldn’t matter if the body was found. By then he would have already accomplished his mission, and he would go down in the history books as the deadliest mass murderer in the history of the country.
49
When both women had agreed to meet with him, Hickem was first relieved, and then nervous. He knew that bringing them both in would put him at a disadvantage in trying to get them to cooperate, but it was the only way they would agree to see him. And he had to try, at least one last time, to appeal to their better nature. Because if he couldn’t, then there was a good chance that Grant would die.
Hickem chose to meet them at the hotel where he’d been staying, choosing to keep this away from the office and off the books. It wasn’t hard for his people to sneak both women in, seeing as how most of the attention from the press had died down.
The room he’d been occupying for the past three months was a suite on the top floor. It wasn’t the biggest, but it wasn’t the smallest, something he could defend should his expense account with the Bureau ever come under investigation. When budgets became public, there was always the possibility of a witch hunt for lavish government spending.
Hickem walked to the mini bar and fixed himself a vodka tonic, forgoing the ice and making it a double. He drank half of it then walked to the window. He could feel the cold radiating off the glass as he stared at Seattle’s downtown skyline and then glanced at the half-full cup of vodka and bubbling water. He couldn’t wait to leave.
A knock at the door preceded one of the agents that poked his head into the room. “Sir? They’re here. Should I send them in?”
Hickem downed the rest of the drink and tossed the paper cup into the trash. “Yeah.” He headed over to the dresser and grabbed the pack of gum that rested on top. He popped a piece into his mouth just as the door to his room opened again. He spun around, smacking the gum, smiling, but the women kept their guard up.
“I’m glad you came,” Hickem said. “Both of you.”
Neither responded, both of them holding their cards close to their chest. If Hickem wanted to get anything useful out of them, he’d need to tread lightly.
Hickem gestured to the small round table that sat in the middle of his living room where he worked late into the night. “Please.”
The woman took their seats, sitting together, opposite of Hickem, and he didn’t waste any more time.
“We found him,” Hickem said. “Outside of Portland.”
“Which him?” Mocks asked.
“Grant.” Hickem answered Mocks, but kept his attention on Sam. Her body language was more defensive, keeping her arms crossed. “He was staying in a shitty motel. But he left something behind.” Hickem opened his jacket pocket and then put down the notebook that had been found in Grant’s room.
Sam finally broke her staring contest with Hickem to glance down at the notebook.
“It’s Pullman’s.” Hickem leaned forward, unsure how much he should share, but decided to go all in. “We have intelligence that he’s going to hit the music festival. I’ve already contacted local authorities, and we’re working with the governor’s office to have extra manpower on site.”
Mocks frowned. “If you’re so sure that he’s going to hit the festival, then just cancel it.”
“Since the evidence came from Grant, my bosses aren’t convinced of its authenticity,” Hickem said. “Plus the festival is one of the city’s biggest economic draws of the season.”
Mocks held Hickem’s gaze, and then gave an exasperated laugh as she shook her head. “You’re going to use it to flush him out. Unbe-fucking-lievable.”
“Everyone involved thinks that this is the best play,” Hickem said. “We’ll have eyes everywhere. The place is too well-guarded—”
“He broke out of a fucking prison, Hickem!” Mocks shot up and out of her chair, smacking her palm against the table. “You really think that you’re going to stop this guy in an uncontrolled environment like an outdoor festival with tens of thousands of attendees? Even if you built a fucking wall around that thing, he would still find a way to get through. But you already know that, don’t you?”
Hickem leaned back in his chair. He drummed his fingers on the table and decided to pull out his ace in the hole. “There was an incident in Portland when my agents tried to raid his motel.” He studied both women. “Gunfire was exchanged. Grant was shot.”
The color disappeared from Sam’s face and somehow transferred to Mocks, who lit up like a red Christmas light bulb.
“He still managed to escape, but my people believe that the injury he sustained was… significant.” Hickem pressed his fingertips together, hoping he’d get something from them, anything. “The wound, coupled with the below-freezing temperatures and lack of resources at Grant’s disposal, doesn’t paint a pretty picture for his survival.”
Sam stood, walking away from the table and toward the window, keeping her back to them. But Mocks stayed. That woman looked like she couldn’t be moved by a bulldozer.
“I believe both of you when you tell me that Grant hasn’t reached out to you, but I think that’s going to change within the next twenty-four hours,” Hickem said. “He’s wounded, he’s tired, and he’s finally coming home. And when he does, I think that he’s going to reach out to one of you for help.”
“And you what?” Mocks shrugged. “You want us to cuff him? Hand him over to you on a silver platter?”
“We both know that Grant is only doing this until he stops Dennis, and then he’s going to turn himself in, and when that happens, I won’t be able to protect him.”
Sam spun around from the window. “Protect him? You’ve been hunting him like an animal for the past three months.”
“Because he is on the FBI’s Most Wanted list,” Hickem said. “It’s my job.”
“It’s your job to find Dennis,” Mocks said. “It’s your job—”
“What do you think is going to happen if the local police find Grant before I do?” Hickem roared, his voice silencing both women. “You think they’re going to bring him in peacefully? Gently?” He turned to Mocks. “You know what they do to cop killers. It’s shoot on sight and sort it out later. I’ve been searching for him because I’m the only one who doesn’t want him to die!”
Sam stomped over to him. “You’re the only one who doesn’t want him to die? Are you fucking kidding me?”
Hickem stared up at Sam, who had moved so close that he could feel the trembling rage from the vibrations of her arm, but he didn’t stand. He thought it best not to poke the bear when it was so close.
“You could have done more, Hickem,” Mocks said, adding to the assault. “You could have put together a second unit, you could have fed more information and facts about the case to the press, you could have—”
“Gone after Dennis alone after my husband and son were kidnapped?” Hickem asked, turning Mocks’s words against her. “Say what you will about the press and how they’re painting Grant as a bad guy, but you can’t deny that when push comes to shove, he goes beyond the law.” He pounded his fist against the table. “No one is above the law!” He stood and headed toward the bar. He unscrewed the vodka bottle cap and dumped it into another plastic cup. He was about to pour the tonic, but instead just drank it straight up.
He shut his eyes and took a moment to gather his thoughts before he turned back around, wishing that he didn’t have such a high tolerance to alcohol. He’d always been that way, and the three shots still had
n’t done enough to take the edge off. He knew that he’d have to empty the mini bar before it would do him any good.
“Grant killed a police detective,” Hickem said. “On film. That’s not something that can be washed away, no matter who weighs in.”
And so Hickem waited for what came next, the screams, the crying, the outrage, and the flurry of fists that he expected to rain down upon him. But he was ready to take it. It was why he had brought them here in the first place. But none of that happened.
It was Sam who walked up to Hickem, her movements slow and her eyes watering. “I don’t think he’s going to contact me. But if he does reach out? I’m going to help him do whatever he asks of me. And I’m going to make sure that you never catch him. That you never even have a chance. Because he’s smarter than you, and he’s better than you. It’s the reason why he was able to escape your men, it’s the reason why he’s saved three women already from Dennis over the past eight weeks.” She nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been following the news on that. He’s doing your fucking job.” She shoulder-checked him on her way out of the room.
Hickem watched Sam leave, then turned back to Mocks. “You and I have never seen eye to eye on anything, but you know I’m right. My people finding Grant, hell, him turning himself in to me personally, is the best way for me to keep him safe. Because even if he manages to stop Dennis, even if things don’t go horribly wrong, Grant still won’t be going home. There is no happy ending here, Mocks. There is only a chance for Grant to stay alive.”
Mocks was quiet for a long time, longer than Hickem had ever seen her quiet for, because the woman always had an opinion, no matter what the subject matter was about.
Unable to withstand the silence anymore, Hickem moved toward Mocks, pleading his final case. “If he comes to you, then you have to be the voice of reason. Because if Grant tries to get involved with what’s going to happen at the festival, he’s going to die. That place will be flooded with cops. It’s going to be chaos, and he’s going to get caught.” He reached into his pocket and removed a small transmitter. “It has a button. You just press it, and my people will be at your location in less than ninety seconds. We bring him in, we keep him safe.”
