His eyes flicked to the computer screen where he saw one highlighted name and address.
“That’s where you’ll be,” Screech said, trying to convince himself. “That’s—”
“That’s where who will be?” a voice asked from the doorway. “Drake? Is that where Drake will be?”
Chapter 66
The hands finally released Beckett and he fell to the floor, gagging. He tried to induce vomiting, but with his hands tied behind his back, he could only manage to spit out what was left in his mouth, on his tongue.
Several other parishioners had started to swoon, and one fell to his knees just like the first woman who now sat with her back pressed against the wall, her eyes at half mast.
“Don’t fight it, Beckett. Just give in. End the suffering,” the preacher said in his calm voice.
“Fuck off,” Beckett shouted back.
He started toward the kitchen and was surprised that this time, no one tried to stop him. After a moment, he realized why. He felt lightheaded and before he could even make it to the counter, he stumbled and fell. In the process, his shoulder bumped against the table and sent a set of cutlery flying.
Beckett’s first thought was to try for the knife, but they were only table knives and even if his hands weren’t bound behind him, he doubted they would get through the thick rope.
Instead, he settled on the spoon.
“Let go, Beckett. Let go and end the suffering.”
Beckett shimmied over to it like a worm, feeling the drowsiness increase with every move, every muscle contraction.
Just as he thought he might not be able to move any further, he tilted his chin so that he could reach the spoon with his mouth.
It was difficult work, but eventually, he managed to take the end in his mouth.
And then he sucked on it. Hard. He gagged and the spoon shot a few inches out of his mouth.
Moving his chin across the wood floor again, he grabbed the spoon between his teeth and this time he didn’t hesitate; he sucked it as hard as he could.
The spoon struck his gag reflex at the back of his throat and then Beckett felt fluid fill his mouth.
A thin stream of vomit spilled from his lips, but it wasn’t enough.
It was only half of what he’d ingested. Beckett tried to swallow the spoon again, but now it was too slick and kept sliding off his tongue.
It’s not enough, he thought. It’s not enough.
With the preacher laughing in the background, Beckett felt his eyes droop and then darkness overcame him.
Chapter 67
“Drake?”
Even as Screech said the word, he knew that it wasn’t Drake. The man in the entrance of Triple D looked like Drake, only he was older, with white hair at his temples and deep grooves beneath his eyes.
“Nobody's called me that for some time. I go by Dane.”
The man stepped forward and Screech knew at once that it was Drake’s brother.
“Where’s Damien?” he demanded. His voice was hoarse and scratchy.
Screech’s eyes flicked to the computer screen, then to the sketch of the preacher, of the man he now knew as Ray Reynolds.
There was no time to explain.
“I’ve got to go,” he said hastily. But as he started toward the door, Dane stepped in his way and held up a hand.
“I don’t know who you are, but you better start talking. I haven’t spoken to my brother in years, then he calls me up? Wants me to set up a meeting with Ken Smith? You better start telling me what the hell is going on here.”
Screech’s eyes narrowed. Back when Drake had first asked for his brother’s number, he had no idea why. But now, when Dane spoke of Ken Smith, things slowly fell into place.
This is why Ken Smith wanted the incriminating images of Beckett. Not to blackmail Beckett, but to blackmail Drake.
“I’m—I’m Drake’s partner. But now I have to go, time is—”
Again, Screech made a move toward the door, but Dane blocked him.
“What are you looking at over there? What’s on the computer?”
Screech tried to come up with a plan to get around the man, but he was Drake’s height and weight—roughly 6 feet 2 and around 200 pounds. Screech was only a fraction of that.
“There is no time to explain; you can come with me if you want but—”
Dane ignored him and stepped forward, peering first at the computer screen then at Dunbar’s sketch as he did.
“You’re awfully jumpy, aren’t—” the man’s face suddenly went slack. “What the fuck?”
Then, in a movement that was so quick that Screech didn’t even react, the man’s hand snapped out and he grasped Screech by the throat.
“What the fuck?” He repeated. Dane picked up the piece of paper with Ray Reynolds’s sketch. He held it within inches of Screech’s face. “Is this some sort of sick joke? Are you the one who called me?”
Screech, wheezing now, shook his head.
“No, I swear, Drake asked me for your number, man. I don’t know what he wanted it for,” he somehow managed to say.
Dane shook the piece of paper.
“Then why do you have Ray Reynolds’s picture?”
Screech blinked.
“You know him? You know this guy?”
Dane shoved Screech backward, and he immediately started to massage his raw throat.
“Yeah, I know him. I was best friends with this guy a long time ago.”
Screech bit his lip, trying to think of what to say or do next.
“You should come with me,” he settled on at last. “But we have to hurry.”
Chapter 68
Drake pulled up behind the white van, the tires of his Crown Vic skidding on the loose dirt. They kissed bumpers and he was jolted in his seat. Without even bothering to turn off the car, he leaped from the vehicle and sprinted to the barn first.
Inside, he saw several large tubs, some adorned with what looked like heating elements, while others were filled with a frothing liquid. There was more in there, too, but it was too dark to make out.
“Beckett!” He shouted into the night. When there was no answer, he pulled his gun from the holster and held it out in front of him. Then he reached over and turned the light in the barn on.
In addition to the tubs, there was a large table at the back covered with a blue tarp. It was lumpy and Drake’s heart skipped a beat as he hurried over to it.
With one deep, shuddering breath, he grabbed the corner of the tarp and tore it off.
It wasn’t a skeleton. It was only a set of tools and some blocks of wood.
Drake moved to the house next, amazed at how, in the poor light, it looked exactly as it had when he and his father had come to pick up Dane that day.
His heart was racing now and he could feel the alcohol and adrenaline mixing in his blood.
He expected the door to be locked, but was surprised when the knob turned freely in his hand. When he tried to push it open, however, it stopped after only a few inches.
Drake reached inside and felt something soft and fleshy, something heavy against the door.
He leaned back and then ran at the door, driving his shoulder into the flimsy wood. The object slid out of the way, just far enough to allow Drake to slip through.
It was dark inside the farmhouse, and as he desperately searched for a light switch, his foot struck something soft. Despite the lack of light, Drake could make out the unmistakable outline of a body.
“Beckett,” he moaned.
Drake continued to grope the wall, his sweat-soaked hand sliding across worn wallpaper.
“Beckett,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time.
“I’m afraid you’re too late,” a voice replied.
And then the lights flicked on.
Chapter 69
Beckett drifted in and out of consciousness.
At one point, his eyes flicked open and yet his field of vision was strange, as if he had developed mild cataracts ove
r the course of a few minutes.
He could feel the effects of the sleeping pills that had been added to the lethal concoction, and he tried his best to fight off the effects. He was no rookie when it came to Xanax or Prozac, but this was some powerful shit. It was like moving underwater. Even his breathing was labored.
Methanol.
The thought shot through his brain like an ice pick.
I was poisoned with methanol.
And then, somewhere in the distance, Beckett heard his name being called. Only he didn’t know if it was from this side, or the other.
Chapter 70
Drake inhaled sharply.
There were bodies everywhere. He counted at least ten of them, but there were probably more, strewn across the floor.
“Jesus,” he gasped. He stared at the bodies, watching for their backs to move, for the people to breathe, but they were just so damn still.
“What have you done?” Drake asked, bringing the gun out in front of him and aiming it at the preacher. “Where’s Beckett?”
Ray Reynolds shrugged. He was slumped against the wall on the other side of the room. His eyes were only partly open, and when he spoke, he slurred his words.
“You’re too late, Drake. Beckett has stopped his suffering.”
It was only then that Drake noticed the red cup clutched in the man’s pale hands and the empty ones scattered about the room.
Drake clenched his teeth and strode forward, turning the gun at an angle as he did.
“You poisoned them?” he spat. “You poisoned them all?”
Ray only smiled languidly.
“I didn’t do anything. They did it to themselves.”
Drake’s finger tensed on the trigger.
“Where’s Beckett?”
As he waited for a reply, he scanned the bodies on the floor for Beckett’s bleached hair, his tattooed arms.
Nobody who matched that description.
Drake walked right up to Ray and then squatted so they were on the same level.
“Where is he?” He demanded.
When Ray didn’t reply, Drake placed the barrel of the gun against his temple.
“Tell me where he is, or I’ll blow your fucking brains out right now.”
Ray chuckled.
“I’ve already drank my Kool-Aid, Drake. My suffering is about to end. There’s a little left for you, though. Should be enough,” he said, tilting the red cup toward him.
Drake peered inside and saw that there were about three ounces of clear liquid in the bottom of the cup. Without thinking, he grabbed it from the man and held it in his free hand.
“You’re sick and you poisoned them.”
The man’s eyes closed and Drake stepped back. But Ray wasn’t done yet.
“You’re right, I am sick, but we all are. We’re all suffering. The reality of pain is that it’s never unbearable, because you’ve already felt that pain… it’s already happened. The real problem is that we fear the next pain. That is why we cry when we are born, Drake. We fear the pain and suffering that is to come.”
Drake looked around again, hoping that Beckett had escaped somehow, no matter how unlikely.
“Shut up,” he ordered.
“You’ve suffered more than most, Drake. And you’ve brought others along with you. Clay, Jasmine, Beckett, Screech, Suzan. They’ve all suffered because of you, Drake.”
“Shut up!”
Drake was trying to think, trying to figure out what to do next, but the man’s words grated on him like nails on a chalkboard.
“Think about how much better off people would be if they never met you. Clay would still be alive and Jasmine would still have a husband. Suzan would have a father.”
Drake’s eyes narrowed.
“How do you know so much about me?”
Ray, his eyes still closed, tilted his head to one side.
“After what happened with my parents, I had nowhere to go. I was in and out of institutions, and even though they could never prove it, people knew that I killed my parents. Your brother, he knew. But he didn’t say anything because he too is suffering. You see, I knew back then that the world was just a cesspool of suffering and misery. That the world would be better off without humans on it. And then one man found me.”
Ray’s head lolled and his mouth went slack.
For an instant, Drake thought the man had died.
“Ken Smith,” Drake whispered. He had no idea why he knew this, or how, but something told him that Ken Smith was behind all of this.
Ray smiled and opened his eyes.
“You’re a fraud,” Drake accused. “You claim only to want to end suffering, but why kill the people you did? What made you choose them? What made you tell Peter Kellington to shoot Clay?”
Ray’s answer was immediate.
“Ken told me who to kill… to me, it didn’t matter who died. It was easier with the ex-cons, the ones who gave themselves up willingly. But in the end, for suffering to cease, so too must the human race.”
Drake growled, but Ray wasn’t done yet.
“You have a baby on the way, Drake. You are about to increase the suffering in this world. You can’t even look after yourself, let alone your friends or family. Especially not a baby.”
Drake’s thoughts shifted to Jasmine, of how he had hurt her, first with Clay’s death and now this.
Something about what Ray was saying, even though his rational mind was protesting, struck a chord with him.
And then Drake spotted Beckett.
“No,” he gasped.
The man was lying on his side, partly beneath the kitchen table. His hands were bound behind his back and his body was completely still.
“You bastard!” Drake shouted, aiming the gun at Ray’s forehead. “You fucking bastard!”
He pushed the barrel against the man’s head, but even when the back of his skull rebounded against the wall, Ray continued to smile.
Drake’s eyes darted back to Beckett’s body, and he lowered the gun again. He felt as if he was having a heart attack.
“Do it,” the man whispered.
Drake raised the gun and pressed it to Ray’s forehead once more, gritting his teeth as his finger tensed on the trigger.
“Do it.”
Drake lowered the gun and clutched his chest, screaming as loud as he could.
When he was done, he collapsed beside Ray Reynolds, dropping the gun in the process.
His body rocked so violently with sobs that the liquid in the cup still gripped in his hand threatened to spill.
“Stop the suffering, Drake,” Ray whispered beside him. “Do the world a favor and stop the suffering.”
Drake stared at the liquid for a long time. Even after Ray had gone silent and his breathing became slow and irregular, he just stared.
“I’m sorry,” he said at long last, then he brought the cup to his lips.
Chapter 71
Screech leaped from his vehicle, yelling for Dane to follow him. But the man was already by his side, a midnight black pistol in his hand.
Dane was also shaking something fierce. Even though he’d only known the man for about an hour, Dane didn’t strike him as the type of person who scared easily.
And yet, the nearer they got to the farmhouse, the more the man’s behavior started to change. Dane started to tremble, and he could barely get a word out without swallowing several times first.
Screech started towards the barn, but Dane shook his head and directed him toward the farmhouse.
The man had been here before, it seemed.
Even though the front door was only partway open, Screech could see the bodies on the floor inside.
Adrenaline shocked his system, and Screech sprinted into the house, shouting Drake’s name as he did.
Screech’s toe clipped a wayward leg and he fell on his face. When he raised his eyes, he caught sight of his friend.
Drake was sitting up against the wall, his eyes closed, shoulder to shoulder with the
man known as Ray Reynolds.
“No,” he croaked.
Dane was suddenly by his side, helping him to his feet. Together they ran to Drake.
Screech somehow managed to get to the man first and immediately put his ear to Drake’s mouth.
He was breathing. Shallow breaths, but he was still breathing.
He lowered Drake onto his back and, not knowing what to do, he started CPR and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Screech performed several cycles before Dane pulled his arm away.
It was then that Screech noticed the red cups on the floor.
“Induce vomiting,” Dane instructed.
Screech nodded, turned Drake’s head to the side, and jammed his fingers down the man’s throat.
Drake immediately gagged and warm fluid splashed onto Screech’s hand. It spilled out of his mouth, and he thought he heard the man moan.
“Come on, Drake. Wake up. Please wake up!”
A sound from the kitchen drew Screech’s eyes.
“He needs alcohol,” a slurred voice informed them.
Dane jumped to his feet and aimed his pistol at the man with the blond hair.
“Who the fuck are you?” he shouted.
“Beckett!” Screech exclaimed. “Oh my God, Beckett! You’re… you’re alive!”
But then Beckett stumbled, and barely managed to hold himself up by leaning on the counter.
“Stay with him,” Screech instructed Dane, as he hurried over to Beckett.
But before he could get to him, Beckett collapsed on the ground in a heap.
“He needs… alcohol… give him a drink,” Beckett slurred, his eyelids fluttering.
Screech stared at the man, confused, wondering if Beckett was so intoxicated that he was just spewing gibberish.
He tried to help Beckett to his feet, but the man was too heavy for him.
“Methanol,” Beckett whispered in his ear.
Screech’s eyes narrowed and he leaned closer.
“Methanol poisoning… he needs alcohol.”
Something clicked inside Screech’s brain and he hopped to his feet. Then he ran to the cupboards and threw them all open, sweeping plates and glasses on the floor, searching for alcohol.
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2 Page 19
