Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2

by Patrick Logan

  “Noon? You sure?”

  Dunbar shrugged.

  “Not positive; this is real cloak and dagger stuff. The church barely has an online footprint.”

  This struck a chord with Drake.

  Do churches really go on Facebook? Post to Instagram? Tweet?

  Drake looked about the room. He wasn’t sure that the connection meant anything, but he felt as if he was wasting his time just reading the same pages repeatedly.

  He rose.

  “Alright, I think I’m going to go check it out,” he said.

  A tired looking Yasiv pulled the phone from his ear and covered the mouthpiece.

  “I’ll come with you,” he offered. “Could do with some fresh air.”

  Drake thought about it for a moment, and realized that he might actually enjoy the company.

  “All right. We’ve only got less than an hour to get to 41st, and the traffic is going to be a nightmare,” Drake said.

  Dunbar started to duck back out of the room, when Drake called him back.

  “Any luck on these numbers?” he asked, indicating the image of the pool balls on the board.

  Dunbar shook his head.

  “Nothing. They’re not GPS coordinates or a phone number. I still have the computer crunching away, but so far…” he shrugged.

  “Thanks,” Drake said, then turned to Yasiv. “You ready?”

  Yasiv nodded, told the person on the phone he’d call him back, and then hung up. He hadn’t even made it to the door when his phone rang again.

  “Shit, leave me alone,” he grumbled, looking at the screen. His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Fuck, I have to take this—Yasiv, here.”

  Drake inspected Sergeant Yasiv as he spoke, trying to read the man. His features, young but tired, seemed to fold inward on themselves as the conversation progressed.

  “Yeah, no, we’re working… No, nothing—we’re—”

  Yasiv sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I think we should keep the media out of this. I think—uh-huh—Okay, Inspector Palmer. Yep, I’ll be here. Thanks.”

  Yasiv hung up the phone, swore again, and then slipped it into his pocket.

  “Let me guess, I’m going to the church by myself,” Drake said.

  Yasiv nodded.

  “Yeah, I’ve got to stick around for a bit. The DI wants me to help him prepare the news briefing.”

  Drake frowned.

  He wasn’t in favor of getting the media involved, especially with the timeline being as short as it was, but he saw no point in arguing.

  Besides, he had a sermon to attend.

  Drake, without thinking, reached out and squeezed Yasiv’s shoulder. The man’s muscles were so tight that he nearly sprang away from him.

  “We’ll find this guy, Hank. I promise, we will find this guy.”

  Chapter 32

  Dunbar had been right: The Church of Liberation meeting was located in the basement of a local community center. But Drake had a hell of a time finding it. There were no signs, no crosses, no overt religious symbols at all anywhere near the place. He doubted he would have found the place at all if it wasn’t for the man smoking outside.

  On a whim, Drake walked up to the man and asked if he knew where the Church meeting was being held.

  The man looked him up and down, then hooked a thumb around the side of the building.

  “In the basement. The sermon’s going on now, so you might want to wait ‘til the end. It’s almost over, anyways.”

  Drake was grateful that he looked the way he did: disheveled, his clothes wrinkled, reeking of sweat and booze and sleepy as hell. Church or not, most people would be wary of a detective interrupting their day and asking questions.

  This was New York City, after all.

  Drake thanked the man, and then, as if to further entrench the role, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a Mickey that he had gotten from his car. It was already half-empty, and he took a big swig before walking around the side of the building.

  Drake carefully made his way down the concrete stairs that flanked the community center, only to end up in an alley. At the very end of the thirty feet stretch of asphalt was a large red door.

  Drake strode forward with purpose, wondering as he walked if he should knock or if he should wait for the sermon to end as the smoking man had suggested.

  But when he found the door unlocked, he made up his mind and stepped inside.

  The scene that unfolded before him was unlike any church Drake had ever attended. It looked more like an AA meeting, which he was only vaguely familiar with, than a church.

  For one, there were no pews; there were only plastic chairs set up in rows. There were maybe a dozen people seated in them, several of which turned to look at Drake as he entered the room. Drake gave them a subtle nod and quickly averted his eyes. He located an empty seat sandwiched between a man with a face covered in boils and another who looked as if he survived on Cheetos alone.

  With a few excuse mes uttered under his breath, Drake made his way to the seat and sat.

  Then he turned his attention to the front of the room.

  There was no altar, at least not in the traditional sense. There was only a small stage, which reminded Drake of the type of thing that you might see in an elementary school. Thick, red curtains were pulled partly closed, revealing an area of about twelve feet wide.

  There were three men standing on the stage, but it was the one in the center with the stark black hair and eyes of an equal shade that drew Drake’s attention.

  Even though there was nothing proclaiming him as the pastor, if this Church of Liberation had such a thing, and his attire—a plain white t-shirt and jeans—did not distinguish him from the other two men on stage, it was clear that he was the focus of attention. And not only because he was speaking.

  It was something else… there was just something about him.

  “Suffering…” the man began, looking down at his feet as he spoke. “Suffering is the bane of human existence.”

  The man raised his eyes as he said this last part, and for a brief moment, his dark irises seemed to fall directly on Drake. And then, for a split second after that, Drake thought he saw something in those eyes. Recognition, perhaps.

  Drake looked down and took a surreptitious sip from his mickey.

  He couldn’t tell if he was feeling down, or if he was just overtired, or if this whole situation was just fucking weird. But something was seriously off here.

  “Suffering is an inherently human endeavor. We are the only creatures on this Earth that are aware of our own mortality. And with this knowledge comes a crippling fear of death. This is not something that is abstract, something that can’t be measured, but a tangible quantity that must be eliminated. The universe as a whole…”

  Drake listened with one ear, while he expended most of his attention observing the rag-tag group of parishioners.

  He tried to imagine Simmons coming here, and, god forbid, Clay, but he couldn’t. This looked like… well, it looked like a haven for criminals.

  And the mumbo-jumbo being spewed by Sir Dark Eyes up on stage sounded like new age Scientology; newer age Scientology.

  Eventually, his eyes drifted back to the front, only this time, he didn’t look at the preacher, but at the overage altar boys.

  The one on the left was tall, lean, with a scar above his left eye. The man on the right was shorter, with a little paunch around his middle. He had a shaved head, which was obviously a result of male pattern baldness, and the beginnings of a beard.

  Drake’s eyes drifted down this latter man’s body, but when he got to the man’s hands, he stopped cold.

  What in the holy fuck?

  Drake blinked several times, just to be sure, just to be absolutely positive that he wasn’t imagining this.

  He wasn’t. It was still there; or, more appropriately, it was still missing.

  The man’s middle finger was shorter than his other digits and was wrap
ped in a thick wad of gauze. Even from twenty feet away, Drake could see that the end was tinged red.

  Your killer is giving you the finger, Beckett’s words echoed in his head.

  Without thinking, Drake jumped to his feet and started toward the aisle.

  Chapter 33

  Drake had meant his exit into the aisle to be graceful, but he tripped over Cheetos man’s foot. And when he did, everyone in the room, including the dark-eyed preacher and his altar boys, turned to look at him.

  “Shit,” he grumbled under his breath. Dusting himself off, he stood up tall. It dawned on him that now would be the appropriate time to pull out his badge and inform them that he was with the NYPD and that everyone should stay put. But he didn’t have a badge.

  Shit, he didn’t even bring his gun.

  Drake took a different approach.

  He started quickly towards the stage, his eyes locked on the short man with the missing finger.

  “I’m—”

  And that’s all Drake managed. Two simple letters, one syllable.

  I’m.

  The man with the missing finger turned and bolted. Drake sprinted after him, ignoring the shouts that chased him.

  He planted two hands on the stage and hoisted himself up, pushing by the preacher and his other altar boy as he did.

  It was dark behind the stage on account of the curtains being closed halfway, and he didn’t immediately spot the man.

  “Where are you?” He shouted. His subconscious registered that there were people behind him now, angry people, people who wanted to stop him, to hurt him.

  Nothing like a righteous mob to put a damper on your Thursday afternoon, he thought incoherently.

  And yet, despite his desperation, he still couldn’t tell which way the man had gone. Until, that is, he heard a click from off to his right. Drake’s eyes darted in that direction, and he saw the silver outline of a door that must have just closed. Wasting no time, Drake sprinted toward the door, slamming his hands against the push bar. It flung open, and he was hit with a blast of warm afternoon air.

  It was some sort of emergency exit and Drake was momentarily disoriented. Still not seeing anyone, he whipped his eyes back and forth. There was a bifurcation not twenty feet from where he stood, with stairs leading up to the right and to the left. It looked like the left led around the side of the community center, while the right led to the street.

  “Stop!” He shouted to no one in particular.

  Which way? Which fucking way?

  He heard a car honk and made up his mind.

  Drake sprinted to his right, nearly tripping on the concrete stairs several times. Gasping for air, he made it to the top and again scanned the area for the man in the white T-shirt.

  And he found him, but the man wasn’t running as Drake had expected. He was simply standing on the curb, his arms stretched out to the sides.

  “NYPD! Don’t move!” Drake hollered as he made his way toward him.

  His first instinct was to charge the man, to take him down and sit on him until backup arrived. But there was something about the man’s posture and the air of smugness in his expression that gave Drake pause.

  And he was tired. Shit, running didn’t mix well with bourbon and lack of sleep. He took several deep breaths, trying to flush the lactic acid and fatigue from his body. It seemed to help.

  A little.

  “Suffering is our burden!” the man shouted back.

  “Okay, psycho. You fucking killed a cop. You know what they do to cop killers?”

  The man’s smile only grew.

  “There is only one way to eliminate suffering.”

  Drake grimaced and took a step forward.

  “Your finger… you chopped off your own finger?”

  The man threw his head back and laughed.

  “I am your King, Drake. I am your Skeleton King.”

  The use of his name caught Drake so much by surprise that he hesitated.

  And this momentary lapse cost him.

  The man with the missing middle finger leaned backwards, making no effort to move his arms from his sides.

  Drake leaped for the man, but he was a fraction of a second too late.

  A truck horn erupted and was chased by the screech of air brakes.

  There was nothing the driver could do. Altar boy fell backward just as the truck arrived.

  “No!” Drake shrieked as the eighteen-wheeler collided with the man’s body.

  A spray of red mist burst from the man’s chest. Even after contact, the truck couldn’t stop; it continued forward and the massive front right tire rolled right over top of him.

  When the truck finally came to a rest Drake looked up at the driver, whose face was ashen, his eyes wide. He started to open the door, but Drake held up a finger.

  “Stay in your truck!” he ordered.

  Satisfied that the man would remain in his vehicle, he dropped onto all fours and peered beneath the truck.

  “Fuck,” he grumbled.

  The man’s body was a mess. The truck had run over part of his left leg and hip, crushing his pelvis, while the grill had torn open his chest, sending his intestines spilling across the pavement.

  The right side of the man’s head was caved in, and the top half of his face was covered in blood and brains.

  And yet, the man was smiling.

  Even in death, he was still smiling.

  PART III – The Church of Liberation

  Chapter 34

  Screech slowly shuffled toward the condo building.

  He felt dirty, he felt cheap, but most of all he just felt plain bad.

  As usual, the door was locked, but the security guard noticed him and made his way over. After a curt nod, the man opened it.

  No sooner had Screech entered the building, did Raul appear, seemingly out of nowhere.

  “Come with me,” he said in his thick accent. He reached for Screech’s arm and gripped it tightly. At first, Screech tried to pull away, but it was no use. The man was just too strong.

  They walked in silence to the private elevator that was waiting for them. Once inside, Raul pressed the letter P at the very top and then scanned the passcard attached to his hip.

  The silence ensued all the way to the penthouse. When the doors opened wide, Screech was led to a room that smelled of cigar smoke. There, his eyes were drawn to the man in the suit with the large Cuban cigar pressed between his lips.

  The Mayor of New York.

  “Steven, so nice to see you again,” Ken said, taking a puff of his cigar.

  Screech swallowed hard.

  “Mr. Mayor.”

  “Just Ken, please. Just Ken.”

  Screech reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. As he made his way over to Ken, he was acutely aware that Raul was following very closely behind.

  Screech didn’t like Ken, but he loathed Raul.

  “I took the pictures, just as you asked.”

  Ken nodded, but made no move other than to bring the cigar to his lips once more.

  “Leave it on the table,” Raul instructed.

  Speech frowned.

  “My phone? I can’t just leave my phone.”

  Raul stepped forward, and Screech raised his hands.

  “Okay, fine. Fuck. I’ll leave the phone.”

  With that, Screech tossed the phone. It landed on the table beside Ken, skidding across the polished oak until it came to a rest against the arm of the chair.

  Raul growled and took an aggressive step toward him, but Ken stayed him with a finger.

  “Thank you, Steven. I appreciate your help.”

  Screech bit back a scathing remark.

  “Is that it, then? Am I done?”

  Kent took his time in answering, looking first at the end of his cigar, then following a trail of smoke that drifted up to the ceiling.

  “Consider your debt cleared.”

  “Gee, thank you so much, your highness.”

  The words came out by
accident, but as soon as they did, Screech regretted them.

  And he regretted them even more when Raul’s fist smashed into his hip. It was only a short rabbit punch, but it landed directly on the bone and he staggered to one side.

  “Have some respect for the Mayor,” Raul said.

  Through gritted teeth, Screech, still doubled over, held up a finger.

  “Sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry.”

  Ken appeared disinterested in this whole act and went back to staring at his cigar.

  “Raul, please, see our guest out.”

  Chapter 35

  Drake sat on the curb, cradling his forehead in his palm. In the distance, he could hear a mixture of sirens, both police and ambulance, but paid them no heed. He breathed deeply, the smell of oil and blood filling his nostrils.

  What the fuck just happened?

  After he had confirmed that the man was dead, Drake had gone back into the church, only to find it completely deserted.

  I am your King, Drake. I am your Skeleton King.

  Those had been the man’s final words.

  How and why he had known his name, Drake had no idea.

  Could he have recognized me from the paper? From the Butterfly Killer case?

  For some reason, Drake didn’t think so. The man had uttered his name with conviction as if he knew him.

  A car pulled up next to the truck and a man leaped out.

  “Drake? What happened, Drake?”

  Drake finally opened his eyes and raised them. The man approaching was Sergeant Yasiv.

  He looked terrified, Drake saw. When Yasiv noticed the spectators snapping pictures of the body, of the truck, Yasiv pulled out his badge and held it high in the air.

  “Back up,” he shouted. “Back up! Everyone back up!”

  Some people took several steps backward, but on the whole, the crowd remained obstinate.

  The EMT arrived next and Yasiv ordered them to cover the mess on the pavement. Then the sergeant strode over to him and pulled him to his feet.

  “Drake, come with me. We have to get you—”

  It was only then that Drake noticed that Yasiv hadn’t been alone in his car. Deputy Inspector Lewis Palmer stepped out of the vehicle, his face twisted into a sneer.