by Sam Harding
In any other situation, I’d slow down and allow her to relax a bit, but not now. I’m driving just within my comfort zone, just under the limit that I know would cause me to lose control on the ice. I can’t afford to slow down, can’t afford to let Thomas suffer one second longer than he already has to endure.
We’re well out of Solace city limits and closing in on Cedar Falls when Jason’s work cell starts to ring. My cell phone has no service, and neither does Kate’s, but Jason’s cell is connected to emergency towers, allowing him to get service nearly anywhere he needs to, even in a blizzard. He answers on the second ring, and although I can’t hear the voice on the other end of the conversation, the sudden brightness in Jason’s eyes leads me to believe he’s receiving some good news. My grip tightens even harder on the steering wheel as I wait for the call to end, my anticipation and anxiety spiking to an all-time high.
“This was at eleven o’clock?” Jason asks. “Anything since then? – Okay, thanks Jan. No, no, everything’s fine. Just for a case. Thanks. Uh-huh. Okay, bye.” Jason hangs up the phone and looks at me with hopeful eyes. “West’s car was spotted at eleven coming into Cedar Falls from the south.”
“That’s over five hours ago,” I say. “He can be long past here by now.”
“Maybe,” Jason says, “but it’s a lead.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Are we still going to the warehouse?” Kate asks from the backseat.
“Yeah.”
“What if he’s not there?”
“Then we keep looking,” I say, doing my best to hide my annoyance at the question.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
After a few more minutes, we enter the small city of Cedar Falls. Traffic is almost nonexistent, and a green traffic light sends me through the first stoplight without forcing me to slow down. I catch the camera perched atop the metal bar holding the light fixture, the same camera that had spied West’s vehicle five hours before.
Through the haze further up Main Street, I can make out the red and blue flashing of emergency vehicles. As I get closer, I can see the rigs of a Sheriff’s Deputy and a Cedar Falls City Police officer, as well as the coroner’s van and an ambulance, all parked outside a building with a neon green and purple sign reading: Jerry’s, above the front door. I can only imagine the carnage left inside the strip club, and find myself hoping it’s the result of the Butcher and not another psychopath set loose on Solace County.
In my mind’s eye I can see the bodies through the walls; they’re wearing the faces of Alexander Irving, Dennis O’Leary, Henry West, the two murdered men in Solace, the dead children from the past years, and as much as I tried not to see it, I can see Dani’s face, too.
“Jesus,” I hear Jason mutter to himself as we drive past, but I don’t say anything and neither does Kate. Little do I know, she and I are thinking about the exact same thing: revenge.
We pass the crime scene and slowly make our way out of town. I have to slow down even more due to a few cars ahead of me, their drivers afraid to give their vehicle’s any considerable gas on the snow and ice. I feel myself growing more and more impatient, and swear under my breath as I glare at the taillights in front of me.
“The hell happened there?” Jason asks after some time passes, a few miles out of Cedar Falls, pointing passed my eyes and towards the left side of the road.
I follow his finger and find what he’s pointing at. Although the snow is piling up, I can make out what’s left of tire tracks going from my lane to the left side of the road, and then off the side of the road and into the forest beyond. I can see where something large had pushed the snow as it barreled into the forest, obviously at a speed far too fast for the current conditions. Every instinct I have suddenly tells me to stop the car.
The shoulder on my side of the road is wide enough to do just that, and so, I turn on my hazards and slow to a stop. I check the mirror to make sure an oncoming car isn’t coming up behind me, and then get out of the Bronco.
“What are you doing?” Kate asks from the back seat, a look of confusion written on her face.
“I need to check something,” I say, my left hand instinctively resting on the butt of my holstered sidearm. I look at Jason who’s yet to move. “You coming with me, or am I going at it alone?”
“Dude, that could be anything. In these conditions, I’m sure lots of people are going into the ditch.”
This aggravates me and I glare at Jason, but I don’t bother arguing. I don’t have time for that shit, especially if my instincts are wrong and am wasting my time as it is by investigating the out-of-control tracks. Without saying another word, I turn away from the vehicle, slamming my door behind me.
As I start to cross the road, I hear what I expected to hear, the passenger door opening and Jason calling for me to “wait up.” I knew there was no way he’d let me go alone, which is only one of the reasons I didn’t bother arguing with him.
Jason catches up to me about halfway across the road, not saying a word as he lowers his bald head into the blistering winds. We make it to the other side of the road and stop where the tracks straighten out and make their way into the tree line.
I squint, trying to see into the trees through the falling snow. The smaller trees lining the road have been parted, and there is a deep trail pushing through the snow, like whatever had come through here had been large and moving far too fast for conditions. I step off the road and into the ditch, sinking to my knees, even in the carved-out portions. I feel the tug of my prosthetic leg as I lift it from the snow to take a step, but it’s firmly locked into place and gives me no trouble as I press on.
“Footprints,” Jason says. “Mostly covered up.”
I look to where he’s looking and notice a faint series of prints going away from us and another set coming back the way we came. The ones moving away from us are larger than the ones going back to the road, making me wonder if there’s someone up ahead waiting for his smaller friend to return. I clear my weapon from its holster, just in case Jason and I are about to walk up on the Butcher and a friend we’d never known about. I glance over at Jason and see his duty Glock is in his hands, and he nods at me, a silent confirmation that he’s got my back in case shit hits the fan even harder than it already has.
As we press forward, I notice a large black rock to my left, mostly covered with snow, but exposed just enough for me to see the scrapes running along the top, like streaks of white chalk on a slate board. I look ahead of the rock, through the parted trees and that’s when I see it, an out of place clump of white pressed up against the trunk of a large tree.
I ready my weapon as I approach, the object becoming more and more clear as my visibility improves with the shorter distance. Under the white, I can make out the dark gray, and I know immediately, without even being able to see the entire vehicle, that it’s Henry West’s SUV.
“Holy shit,” Jason says, shouldering up next to me with his weapon extended in front of him. “Is that Henry’s?”
“Yeah,” I say, approaching the vehicle, making my way around the side of the exposed undercarriage.
“See that?”
I look up and see a clump of white on top of the vehicle, or more accurately, laying across the upturned rear passenger door, an abnormal tumor growing from the side of the wreckage.
“Help me up,” I say, reaching out and grabbing metal underneath the door with my right hand.
Jason holsters his Glock and interlaces his fingers, creating a stirrup for me to step into so that he can boost me up on top of the SUV. I step into his hands with my good leg and push as he lifts, easily able to climb atop the hunk of cold metal without having to holster my own weapon.
I couldn’t see it from ground level, but now that I’m on top of the vehicle, I notice the red amongst the white tumor, a dot the size of a softball with trailing lines extending in all directions like drips of paint running from the side of a house.
Before investigati
ng it, though, I step forward and point my weapon through the broken driver’s window, my finger on the trigger, ready to blast the piece of shit I hope to see behind the wheel. But, as I expected, there’s nobody, just a space filled with shards and specks of glass, along with plastic and accumulating snow. Same with the backseat.
“Clear,” I call out so that Jason can focus on the area around the vehicle in case the Butcher hasn’t gone far. But judging by the footprints leading to and from the vehicle, and by the clump of red and white, I’m already certain of what happened.
I bend down and use the sleeve of my jacket to move the red and white snow away from the clump. It’s only a thin layer, so it doesn’t take long to get to what’s underneath. I see the man’s enormous beard first, followed by the tip of his nose, and then his small-framed glasses, severed down the middle from where a small caliber bullet had gone through, penetrating perfectly between a set of unkempt eyebrows.
“Fuck.”
“Body?” Jason asks, his eyes darting back and forth.
“Yeah.” I move down to the other end of the clump and move away more snow, revealing a pair of large snow boots. The prints coming in had been larger than the prints going out. “We need to get back on the road.”
“What?”
“The smaller prints going out,” I say, still looking at the body. “they’re the Butchers. And I’m betting he took this guy’s car.”
*
“What did you find?”
Jason and I climb back into my Bronco and I look back at Kate. “West’s car and a body. Whoever the body belongs to, I think the Butcher took his car.”
“The Butcher got into a car accident?”
I put the Bronco into DRIVE. “Looks that way.”
“And he killed someone else?”
I pull back onto the road. “Yes.”
“My God. You’re right.”
“About?”
“He’s losing it. Something’s different about him. This isn’t the same killer that killed my brother or your wife.”
“Do you mean that figuratively or literally?” I look into the rearview mirror and see by the look in her eyes that she’s lost in thought, and it’s clear to me her father’s gift of psychoanalysis has been passed on to her.
“I—” she stops for a beat. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
*
I was able to get to the warehouse, although just barely. The primitive road leading from the highway to the abandoned building was nearly totally blocked off from the snow drifts, but a set of tire tracks were my saving grace, as they were just low enough to keep my Bronco from getting stuck in the powder. The tracks were also a sure sign that the warehouse was not as abandoned as it usually was, putting me on full alert the moment my tires left the highway and settled into them.
My level of alertness went through the roof when we emerged from the tree line and into the clearing where the warehouse sat, because parked in front of the warehouse was a large Dodge pickup truck. The fact it had snow on the roof and not the hood was all I needed to see in order to know it had been running recently and the engine was still warm enough to melt snow.
I hit the brakes on my Bronco hard enough to slide, throw my seatbelt off, and am out the door before Kate has a chance to ask me what I’m doing. I knew Jason would be following suit, his training and skill was just as attuned as mine, if not even more so. Both of our weapons were cleared from our holsters before even leaving our seats.
The both of us scanned ahead, our weapons out in front of us, our bodies positioned behind our open doors as if we were making a high-risk felony stop while out on patrol. Without looking over at Jason, I say, “I don’t see any movement.”
“I can’t see much of anything. Fucking storm.”
“Moving forward.”
“Right behind you.”
I hit the lock button on the door and close it softly, making sure not to slam it and alert anyone who may be inside the warehouse. With my H&K out in front of me, I move forward through the blizzard, feeling Jason’s presence next to me, knowing he has my right side covered as best as humanly possible.
As I move forward, it becomes harder and harder to keep my weapon steady, and I find myself wondering if it’s because of the wind pushing me, me shaking from the cold, or if my anxiety is so high that I’m shaking from that. I know the chances of Thomas being locked inside that building are extremely high, and because of that, the chances of him getting hurt in an armed confrontation are even higher. I don’t know what I’d do if I was the reason he got hurt—or worse. I suddenly realize I’m praying, hoping to God Thomas makes it through this. Hoping to God these aren’t the final moments of my son’s life.
We make it to the truck first, both of us clicking our under-barrel flashlights on as we peer through the front and back windows, making sure there’s nobody inside that can shoot us in the back when we attempt entry into the warehouse.
We nod to one another, non-verbally confirming the truck’s empty and then make our way towards the front of the warehouse. There’s a large garage-style roll-up door taking up most of the front, and even with the snow piled up against it, I can see it’s been damaged to the point where it wouldn’t be able to function properly. Next to the garage door is an access door, a rusty red against the outer wall. We both take up position on the side of the door opposite of it’s out-swinging hinges, Jason directly behind me, waiting for me to execute the entry, a dance we’ve trained for thousands of times and had even performed in real world scenarios on multiple occasions while on patrol together.
I take in a deep breath, feel the squeeze of Jason’s hand on my shoulder, a sign that he’s ready to go, and then I make my move. The door is already unlocked, so all I have to do is turn the handle and swing it out, no easy task against the wind, but I make it work, as I enter the warehouse and hook to the left, my weapon out in front of me.
I hear the door slam shut behind me after Jason comes in, but my eyes are forward, sweeping, ready to engage the monster who took my son and killed my wife.
I swing around an empty shelf and find myself in an enormous room with concrete floors and sheet metal walls. There’s a tiny office in the far right corner, but other than that, there is nothing else but open space and a pile of snow under a section of broken windows along the upper right wall.
I push deeper into the building, the deafening wind I heard outside is now replaced with the pounding of my own heart and the deep rhythms of my breathing. In the corner of my right eye, I see Jason go into the office, and then come back out, shaking his head at me.
“Fucking empty,” he says.
The entire fucking warehouse is empty. I can’t believe it, I don’t want to believe it. It doesn’t make any sense. I feel my emotions start to get the best of me, but then my eyes catch something in the center of the warehouse on the concrete floor. I move to it, and suddenly feel a chill race up my spine.
“He was here,” I say, realizing I’m staring at a set of bloody plastic flex-cuffs. One of the cuffs is broken, but the other is still intact and I can see it’s synched down far too tightly for a wrist belonging to a grown adult. A child had been here.
My child.
Thomas.
“Is that blood on the inside of the cuffs?” Jason asks.
“Yes.” I look closer and then quickly stand. “He got away. That’s why the truck’s here but nobody else is. Thomas got away and that motherfucker’s chasing him, Jason.”
“The truck’s still warm. They couldn’t have gotten far.”
I storm past Jason and push back through the front door and back out into the storm. I start searching the ground, looking for tracks in the snow once again. It takes some effort, but I finally see something, the imprints of shoes in the white, filling fast, but still there. I only see adult-sized shoes, and I wonder and hope if maybe Thomas’s prints aren’t there because he had a much further head start against his captor. I follow the prints with only my eyes, and s
ee that they lead to the tree line on the other side of the clearing.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or panicked, but I can’t help but feel a bit of both. If Thomas got away, as much of a miracle as that would be, then that would mean he would have to figure out how to navigate through the woods in a relentless blizzard. A difficult task for a man, much less a seven-year-old.
I grit my teeth in anger and head for my Bronco at as fast of a run as I can manage. I throw open the rear passenger door where Kate sits, looking at me with wide and confused eyes.
“Hand me that,” I say, pointing to my tactical vest on the floorboards next to her feet as I shrug off my leather jacket.
“What’s going on?” She asks, but still doing as instructed.
I take the vest from her and slip into it, and as I zip it up I say, “Thomas got away. Ran into the woods. Fucker’s chasing him.”
“Oh no –”
I put my jacket on over top of my vest but don’t bother zipping it up so that I can still access the rifle magazines in their pouches along the front. I then grab hold of the FAL rifle attached to the backrest of the passenger seat directly in front of Kate and free it from its restraints. I check the chamber to confirm a round is loaded and then sling the weapon over my neck.
“You’re going after them? In this?” She asks, her expression filled with worry.
“I have to,” I say, leaning forward and kissing her deeply on the lips. “I’m sorry, but I have to. He’ll die if I don’t.”
“What do I do?”
I pull the pistol from my holster and hold it out to her butt first. She takes it without hesitation, which surprises me. “You know how to use this?”
She nods. “I’m from Solace County, of course I do.”
Right. “There’s one in the chamber.”
