by James Swain
There were six common delusional disorders. The one Vargas had described was called grandiosity and was more common in men than it was in women. Jon had talked a good game, and was certainly good with a handgun, but had it all been a show?
“Why was he let go?” Pearl asked skeptically.
“He had a drinking problem and anger issues,” Vargas said. “His folder was filled with complaints filed against him by citizens and by other cops that he worked with. It finally got to be too much, and he was asked to turn in his badge.”
“He was fired, is what you’re saying.”
“Yes, he was.”
“There’s a video on YouTube of Jon rescuing a young girl from a pair of kidnappers. How do you explain that?”
“That was his shining moment,” Vargas said, her tone softening. “Lancaster happened to be in the right place at the right time, and saved that little girl’s life. He was a hero that day and did the sheriff’s office proud. But trust me, Dr. Pearl, it could just as easily have broken bad, and that little girl been wounded or killed. He’ll tell you he’s the greatest marksman in the world, but he’s not. It’s part of his illness.”
“But he was a Navy SEAL.”
Gibbons laughed under his breath. Vargas shot her partner a disapproving look before turning her gaze on Pearl.
“Another delusion, I’m afraid,” Vargas said. “Lancaster was in the navy and tried to become a SEAL several times but failed the physical exam. I don’t mean to be cruel, but he doesn’t have the physique. A SEAL is required to do a thousand push-ups in an hour, among other things. He simply isn’t capable.”
“You’re saying he was a washout,” Pearl said.
“That’s right. Only he’s convinced himself otherwise. That’s what makes him so dangerous. He thinks he knows what he’s doing, but he doesn’t.”
Pearl’s shoulders sagged, and he let out an exasperated breath. Jon’s promises had seemed too good to be true, and for good reason. The poor man was off his rocker.
“I see. Well, I appreciate you taking the time to come by and tell me.”
“We thought it was best you know. Goodbye, Dr. Pearl,” Vargas said.
Pearl escorted them outside to where a gray Buick LeSabre was parked in the driveway. Vargas took the keys out of her pocket, then spoke. “Did Lancaster discharge his firearm when he was on your boat? Please be honest with us.”
Pearl’s mouth tightened. The detectives wanted to take Jon down, and Pearl’s admission that Jon had shot his gun would be enough evidence for them to do that. But he wasn’t going to rat him out. Jon might be a fake, but that didn’t change the magnitude of his courage that afternoon, nor lessen the debt that Pearl owed him for saving Nicki.
“No, he did not,” he said firmly. “By the way, has the sheriff’s office made any progress in my daughter’s case?”
“The department’s working on it. We’ll be in touch.”
Pearl watched the detectives drive away before going inside. Melanie awaited him in the foyer with Nicki by her side.
“I was right, there is something wrong with him,” his wife said.
Pearl wanted to have this conversation alone with his wife. Only the fear had returned to Nicki’s eyes, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her to go to her room.
“Daddy, is Jon a bad man?” his daughter asked.
“If those detectives are to believed, he’s mentally ill,” Pearl said.
“You don’t sound convinced,” his wife said.
Pearl bolted the door before heading toward the rear of the house with his wife and daughter on his heels. “I’m not. They seem more intent on hurting Jon than helping us.”
“They came here to warn us. Jon’s not right in the head. He fired a gun while you were racing your boat and could have killed an innocent person. It was reckless.”
Pearl was tired, and he was confused. He dropped onto the couch in the den and rubbed his face. “He saved Nicki’s life. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Of course it does. But that doesn’t change the fact that this man is not mentally stable. I sensed it the moment I met him. Surely you thought the same thing.”
Pearl didn’t know what to think. Jon had seemed like a loser until Nicki was abducted. Then he’d sprung into action and made things right. It had been inspiring to watch. But Melanie didn’t know that; she hadn’t been there to experience it.
His wife stood in front of him. “I want you to fire him.”
“Right now?” he asked tiredly.
“Yes, right now. We need to hire someone else.”
“Jon’s in Melbourne working a job. I’ll do it tomorrow morning, first thing.”
They never fought in front of their daughter. Melanie’s eyes narrowed.
“You’ve got to get rid of him,” she said.
“Yes, dear,” he said.
“Hey—don’t I get a say in this?” Nicki said.
His daughter stood by the fireplace with the shepherd protectively by her side. Her hands were balled into fists, and her cheeks had turned bright red. It had been years since she’d thrown a tantrum, and Pearl had almost forgotten what they looked like.
“Go ahead,” Pearl said.
“I don’t want you to fire him,” his daughter said.
“But he’s dangerous,” her mother said. “He could harm you.”
“Don’t believe those detectives. There’s nothing wrong with him,” Nicki said.
The CSI class had made his daughter adept at reading situations, and Pearl sat straight up. “Do you think the detectives were lying?”
She nodded vigorously. “Yes, Daddy. I do.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I did some sleuthing and googled him. He was mentioned in an article about a rescue of a little girl in Jacksonville. The article said Jon worked for Team Adam. My CSI teacher said Team Adam was the best retired law enforcement agents around. They wouldn’t take someone who was mentally ill, would they?”
Her reasoning was sound, and her father nodded in agreement.
“Those detectives made up that story. Jon’s the real deal. Please don’t fire him.”
“Your mother and I need to discuss this some more. We won’t make any decisions without consulting with you. Does that sound fair?”
Nicki chewed her lower lip in thought. “Okay.”
“Good. Now let’s watch that movie.”
Nicki went into the kitchen to get the popcorn. Melanie dropped onto the couch beside her husband, and laid her hand atop his.
“Are you okay?” Pearl asked.
“I don’t know what I am. Angry, frustrated, mostly confused.”
He took the remote off the coffee table and powered up the TV.
“Welcome to the club,” he said.
CHAPTER 7
DOMINO’S DELIVERS
“Not all superheroes wear capes.” That had been the tagline for a Domino’s Pizza advertising campaign that Lancaster had always liked. He’d liked it so much that he’d purchased a Domino’s deliveryman’s uniform, cap, and thermal insulated pizza bag from a seller on eBay and kept them in the trunk of his car for jobs where he needed a disguise. The uniform was a bad fit, and made his belly look more pronounced than it actually was.
Melbourne was a town of quiet streets and modest houses. Nimbs’s place was small and unassuming, and Lancaster parked in front and left the engine running and the headlights on, just like a regular Domino’s driver would do. Before getting out, he texted the FDLE agents helping him, and got an immediate reply. The cavalry was ready. He texted back:
Give me two minutes
Getting out of the car, he straightened the cap that didn’t want to stay put on his head, then took the pizza bag off the back seat and balanced it on his upturned palm as he headed up the front path. A quick glance told him everything he needed to know about their suspect’s state of mind. Weeds instead of grass, litter in the bushes, a mailbox stuffed with yellowing flyers. Nimbs was a lose
r.
But that didn’t mean Nimbs didn’t have street smarts. Underestimating a suspect’s cunning had cost more than one law enforcement officer his life. Reaching the front stoop, he removed a slip of paper from his pocket and held it up to his face, as if checking the address. Just in case there was a hidden surveillance camera under an eave.
The front porch light came on before he could knock. The door opened a foot, and Nimbs stuck his ugly puss out. He’d lost his upper front teeth since his mug shot and looked like a gargoyle. His breath reeked of beer and reefer.
“Hi. Thanks for ordering Domino’s Pizza,” he said with a smile.
“I didn’t order a fucking pizza,” Nimbs said.
He squinted at the piece of paper in his hand. “Is this 1249 Rachel?”
“Yeah. Like I said, I didn’t order no fucking pizza.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We got an order for a large meat lover’s and an order of garlic knots for this address. I guess one of your neighbors was playing a prank.”
“My neighbors are assholes. Aren’t you a little old to be delivering pizzas?”
“It pays the bills. Look, if you don’t take it, I’ll have to throw it out. It just came out of the oven ten minutes ago. You want it?”
“Free?”
“I’ll charge you half.”
“Up yours.”
“All right, you can have it for free. I’m not going to eat it.”
“Why—is there something wrong with it?”
“If you smelled pizza all day long, you’d get sick of it too.” He unzipped the pouch and pulled out an empty box. Nimbs dropped his guard and swung open the door. A clear view of the inside presented itself, and Lancaster spied a tactical shotgun leaning against the wall plus several pistols lying on different tables around the room.
The sound of the back door being hit with a battering ram shattered the silence. Not being a cop had its advantages. He didn’t have to identify himself, nor did he have to give any warning. Reaching behind his back, he drew the Sig Sauer from where it was tucked in his pants, and aimed it at Nimbs’s chest.
“Hands behind your head.”
Nimbs did as told. “Aren’t you going to read me my rights?”
No one was paying him to follow the law or obey its rules, and he drove his foot into his suspect’s groin. Nimbs yelped and sank to his knees.
“Good boy.”
Nimbs wore a wife-beater T-shirt, and his arms were covered with tattoos. The one proclaiming him to be a member of the American Foundation caught Lancaster’s eye. American Foundation was a notorious sovereign-citizen group, which didn’t believe in the government or the rule of law. He pressed the Sig’s barrel against Nimbs’s nose.
“Is the back of your house booby-trapped?”
Nimbs’s eyes flashed, but he said nothing.
“Tell me, or I’ll decorate the walls with your brains.”
“There’s a trip wire in the kitchen,” Nimbs said.
“What’s it attached to?”
“A hand grenade.”
He pistol-whipped Nimbs and sent him sprawling on his back. Then he ran down a hallway to the kitchen to see FDLE Special Agent Tim Byrne and his SWAT team taking down the fortified back door and coming toward him.
“Kitchen’s booby-trapped,” he shouted.
Byrne and company beat a hasty retreat. He ran back to the front of the house to find Nimbs crawling on his belly down the front path like a slug. Instead of grabbing one of his guns and shooting it out, he’d fled like a coward.
“I’m back.”
Nimbs stopped crawling and covered his head with his arms. “Don’t shoot me.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know what—”
A sharp kick to the kidney silenced him. “I won’t ask you again. I want to know where Janey MacKenzie is, and if the room where you’re hiding her is booby-trapped.” When an answer was not forthcoming, he knelt down and shoved the Sig’s barrel into the crack of his suspect’s ass. It was an old SEAL trick that produced immediate results.
“I’m going to count to three. One. Two.”
“There’s a secret sliding wall in the bedroom closet,” Nimbs said, his voice trembling with fear. “She’s behind it. It’s not wired.”
“Are there any other booby traps in the house?” he asked.
“No.”
The barrel was shoved in another inch. “Don’t lie to me.”
“So help me God it’s the truth.”
“God isn’t helping you.”
“There ain’t any more.”
The SWAT team surrounded them, and Lancaster climbed off Nimbs and hurried inside. The house had a shotgun layout, and he found the lone bedroom off the hallway and switched on an overhead light. Piles of dirty clothes littered the floor. His eyes searched for another booby trap, and he only entered after determining it was safe.
The closet door was ajar. He entered and rapped on the walls until he found one that was hollow. By pressing on the wall with his palms, he made it slide to one side. He moved down a corridor to a small space with a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling.
“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered.
Janey lay on her side on a cot, naked. Her eyes were closed, and she wasn’t breathing. Nimbs had grown tired of her, and tied a noose around her neck and threaded the rope down her back, binding her wrists and ankles. As her muscles had cramped, her legs had straightened to relieve themselves of the pain, leading to self-strangulation.
His eyes burning, he cut the ropes away with his pocket knife. The image of Mrs. Dotson waiting on her couch flashed through his mind. How was he going to break the news to her? He didn’t know. As he pulled the rope away, a soft gurgling sound escaped from Janey’s throat. He grabbed her shoulders and gave them a gentle shake. Her eyes snapped open, and she looked fearfully around the room, then at him. He removed his cap and placed it on the floor.
“Hi, Janey. My name is Jon, and I’m a private investigator. Your grandmother hired me to find you. How do you feel?”
“He hurt me,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, Janey. He’s not going to hurt you anymore.”
The SWAT team had entered the bedroom, and Byrne was calling his name. He didn’t want them to see Janey like this, so he unbuttoned his shirt and draped it over her. She curled up beneath its protection, her eyes fixed on his belly. She slowly lifted her arm and he let her fingers touch his hairless stomach.
“Feels like rocks,” she whispered.
He followed the ambulance to the Holmes Regional Medical Center and hung around the ER until a silver-haired doctor came out to the waiting room and spoke to him. Janey had been physically and sexually abused. But she had a strong will and would come out of this intact, the doctor said, thinking Lancaster was a relative. They shook hands and he left.
Shelia Dotson lived in a cinder-block house with a light burning brightly in the front window. Parking at the curb, he got out. It was late, and a neighbor’s dog barked because it had nothing better to do. He walked across the lawn to the front window and peeked inside. His client was asleep in a wingback chair while Christian Worship Hour saved souls on the TV. He didn’t want to startle her, so he called her number. Through the window he saw the cell phone in her lap light up. She snapped out of a deep slumber and raised the cell phone to stare at the caller ID. A look of shock registered on her face.
“Jon, is that you?” she answered.
“It sure is,” he said.
“Oh my God, there’s a man at my front window.”
“It’s me, Mrs. Dotson. I’m standing outside your house.”
The elderly woman sprang out of her chair and approached the window. A pair of bifocals hung around her neck, and she fitted them on her nose.
“You have news about my granddaughter,” she said.
“I do indeed.”
A split second later she was outside, huddled beside him. She was small and brittle, the top of her head barely r
eaching his chest. In a trembling voice she said, “You’re smiling. My sweet Janey is alive, isn’t she?”
“Alive and kicking. I just left her at the hospital.”
Her hands were balled into fists, and she brought them to her mouth. “Is she hurt? Please don’t lie to me.”
“She’s been through hell and back, but the doctor I spoke to says she’s strong and should heal. Now go put some clothes on. Your granddaughter needs you.”
“I’ll do that. Wait. I’m not allowed to drive at night.”
“I’ll give you a lift. You can Uber it home in the morning.”
“I feel like I should pinch myself. Do you know what happened earlier tonight? I was watching a sermon on The 700 Club. The preacher was reading the gospel of Matthew, and he said, ‘If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer.’ The words gave me strength, so I got down on my knees and prayed to the Lord Jesus that you would find Janey and that she’d be alive. To help things along, I went online to Walmart.com and picked out new utensils and dinnerware for your kitchen.”
“You already bought them?”
“I most certainly did. They’ll be delivered in a few days.”
He struggled for something to say. Janey had nearly died tonight. What would he have done if that had happened? Send the utensils and dinnerware back?
“I guess your prayers were answered,” he said.
“They most certainly were. Let me go throw some clothes on.” She went to the door, then came back. A confused look spread across her face.
“What’s an Uber?” she asked.
“I’ll explain during the ride,” he said.
CHAPTER 8
SUMMERTIME JOB
His job in Melbourne finished, he drove home listening to a bootleg Jimmy Buffett concert he’d recorded at the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival on the Acura stage, the recording equipment taped beneath his shirt. He’d had enough wires strapped to his body to be a suicide bomber, and would have gotten thrown in jail if caught, not that he cared. He was devoted to Buffett’s music and would do it again if the opportunity presented itself.
