Into
the
Breach
Lottie M Hancock
Into the Breach
Copyright © 2018 Lottie M Hancock All Rights Reserved.
Edited by Shelley Mascia
About the Author written by Carrie Wilson,
Roanoke, VA
Cover design by Lottie M. Hancock
ISBN-13: 978-1983580529
ISBN-10: 198358052X
1
A nyone can kill, that’s easy. Ask any of the wayward chaps that have killed without remorse, without passion. They would deny the simplicity of it for the most part, but the results are always the same. Death. Power over the very thing that God created. There are even those who get that certain charge, if you will pardon the expression, to see the blood flow by their own hands. To see the panic in someone's eyes as the realization sinks in and their life-force seeps out.
Anyone can kill.
However, what I do is special. Only I can do what I do, and it is exhilarating. I let them live. Yes, live. Of course, there are those who claim that I steal the life from them, at least, their potential, but I do not see it that way. It is simply a means to an end; I have the power, they do not. It is up to me to remind them of that. Who are “they” you might ask? They are the humans squandering their souls for mere penitence and quaffers. Those whose lives are riddled with the monetary gains and emotional baggage of this dreadful time in history.
Who am I to say these things? Who I am is unimportant. What is important is that I know what makes the mind tick. I have been around longer than your biblical stories or your mythology, and yet, you are still wondering who I am.
Let's keep it that way, shall we?
Will Parsons sat in a chair by his wife's bedside. They were in a sparse single-bed isolation room at Massachusetts General Hospital. No flowers or gifts were allowed for fear of contamination. Margaret was immune to her cold surroundings. She had been in a coma for three days, and the doctors were still clueless. She looked so helpless lying there with tubes in her nose and throat. They had to incubate her the night before due to complications, but until then, she had looked like she was just sleeping.
She was dying.
This knowledge crushed him, he wept thinking of spending the rest of his life without her. He couldn’t fathom another day without seeing her smile or hearing her voice. Then there were the damned calls.
They had begun the night she arrived. He had found her on the kitchen floor and called 911 right away. About an hour after she was admitted, he called. The bastard had made it clear that he had done this, and he could cure her. For a favor. Will had hung up the phone both times, but now he regretted it. Maybe this guy was telling the truth. Maybe he did have a way to bring Maggie back, but the way he said he had hurt her was something out of science fiction. He had to have been a nut job. Or was he?
Maggie's shoulder-length, golden hair lay limp on the pillow, another reminder of her broken state. She was always immaculate. Hair just right, makeup applied perfectly, yet looking so natural. Now she seemed unrecognizable. Will touched her hand to his lips. She was growing colder. It was difficult to keep her body temperature up. Yet another reminder of what was to come.
Four days ago, they were in their shop. The chilly morning threatened to creep in under their heavy wooden door, so Will stuffed small logs in the wood-burning stove by the entrance. When he turned around, Maggie, his wife of eleven years, was standing on a ladder with her clipboard in hand. It was inventory day. Business was slow, but steady, for their antique store. If it had not been for Internet auctions and sales, along with the repeat customers, they would have closed years ago. Maggie was business savvy and handled the website while he managed the deliveries. He stared up at her, stunned by her beauty.
Maggie reached for a small Buddha statue and the ladder shifted. She quickly straightened herself but overcompensated, causing the ladder to slip out from under her. Will darted forward just in time to catch his wife’s small frame in his arms before she could hit the ground. Exasperated and flushed, she smiled radiantly at her hero.
“What would I ever do without you?”
“Let’s not find out,” he scoffed.
Now he may have to.
Will stood up and leaned over his beloved wife, kissing her forehead. He had to get help for this one.
"I will fix this, Maggie. I will be back soon. I love you so much." Will's voice broke, but he straightened up and headed out the door before he could change his mind. He took the elevator that led to the parking garage and found their car. The red hatchback tore through the lanes leading out toward Cambridge Street. Luckily for him, traffic was light. Too early for the lunch crowd and too late for commuters, the street was practically deserted. Damn him. Damn this monster who thinks he can do this. The caller was taunting him. Wanting Will to snap. Perhaps instigating him to refuse his offer. Whatever his intentions. Damn him to Hell.
Will was going to get help. If this guy was for real, then he was not from this world. Again, doubt plagued him. It had to be some kind of prank, but if it was, then how did the caller know Maggie was there or what had happened? Distracted, Will had turned right instead of left, but no matter. A turn around after the Red Line would be simple enough. Will grabbed his cell and quickly dialed the Old North Church.
"I need to speak to Father Donovan right away," Will demanded, and waited only moments before the priest got on the line. Will could see the Red Line coming up ahead.
"Father Donovan, may I help you?" was all Will had heard as everything went black.
2
S am Wesson entered the Logan International Airport terminal in Boston just after nine that morning. Finding the shuttle to the Red Line was easy enough. So far, so good. He would have to make a switch at some point to get to the police station, but to the New Yorker, having to only make one switch was fine with him. It couldn’t be worse than the subway from Morris Park Avenue in the Bronx to his old apartment near Queens. The rail car looked cleaner than his subway but looks were usually deceiving. Though obviously well used, the people were mostly working and upper-middle-class clientele. There were no blasting radios or scantily clad teenagers. He pulled his trench coat tighter and settled into a window seat. He would have been standing in his old subway car. An elderly lady in a wool coat and clutch purse sat in the seat next to him and smiled sweetly. Sam nodded, again surprised at the difference in mannerisms between New York commuters and Boston. In New York, if someone smiled at him like that on the subway, he would double check his wallet. When she looked forward and kept the sweet look about her, he allowed himself to relax and gaze out the window.
Once they had left the bustle of the station, things quieted down considerably. Residential areas were limited to three to four houses per block. Trees were everywhere, along with neatly manicured lawns. The occasional apartment buildings on neatly laid out streets of cobblestone mixed in with the many brownstones with flowered window trellises. It was like a time capsule. History stood still. There were no skyscrapers on the scale that he was used to, but Sam felt at ease about it. His chief in New York had told him there would be things that would unnerve him and things that would bring him peace once in Boston.
Sam felt a pang of homesickness at the thought of his old friend. Brian Monroe was a good cop and an even better police chief. He liked order and the status quo, as long as it didn't go against his beliefs. He didn’t like to be pushed as the mayor or city council members occasionally tried to do.
Earlier that week, Monroe stood quietly while he cleaned out his desk. The mood in the squad room was tense as usual with the normal perps and hooke
rs, vandals and vagrants, but it seemed intensified by the somber mood of those who knew of Sam's imminent departure.
"You sure about this, man?" asked the chief. "Boston is a pretty big move."
"Yeah, Brian," Sam replied, keeping to his task. "It's time." Sam looked over at a nearby desk that was already taken over by a beat cop listening to the rants of a mugging victim. Time stops for no one. At least, not the ones that live.
"I sent in a recommendation to Chief Shafer so you should blend in pretty good. Damn it, Sam. If you are sure about it, then I support you, but don't do it for the wrong reasons."
Sam stopped and looked directly into the man’s eyes.
"Chief, I'm not doing this because of Fallon. Cops get killed. That is the nature of the game. Now, my friends getting killed?" Sam shook his head. "That bullet changed my life and ended his. But I will tell you this. I was already feeling the need to get out long before Fallon hit the pavement."
Chief Monroe nodded. He understood. The past five years that he had been chief, he had watched many good men and women lose their lives and it never got easy. He hoped it never would. If it did, it would be time to hand in his badge.
Sam picked up his box and the fruit basket that had awaited him when he had come in that morning. Monroe walked with him toward the elevator and stopped when Sam stopped and half turned around to take one last look, leaving the fruit basket on a recently abandoned desk.
"Different day, same old circus."
Monroe stayed back as the elevator doors closed.
Suddenly the shock of a crashing blow reverberated through the wall and floor where Sam sat, pulling him from his reverie. The old lady grasped her purse to her chest, terrified. Sam placed his hand on her arm and spoke calmly.
"It will be alright. I will go see what's happened. We're fine. Stay here." Sam got out of his seat and hurried over to the attendant. Unfortunately, many others had the same idea. He elbowed his way through the passengers, and the attendant pointed to the engineer's car. Sam walked through compartments of frightened passengers until he came to an officer that had a Transit Police badge on his shirt.
"Boston PD, what’s going on?" Sam had figured might as well use his credentials to get to the bottom of things.
"Someone crashed his car right into the Red Line,” the officer shouted over the din of frightened passengers. “Can you believe it? The barriers are there for a reason."
"What is your protocol for this?"
"Protocol?! No dipshit in his right mind crashes into the T-Rail. There is no protocol." The officer was looking at Sam like he was an alien. A stupid alien, at that. Sam took a deep breath. He had learned years ago that officers under pressure were sometimes worse than the victims. Patience was a virtue, and Sam was short of most of those, though he kept calm.
"Fine, then let’s make one. I will make sure there are no injuries before anyone gets off. Are you going to help me or just stand there and piss on yourself?"
Anger poured from the officer, first at the idiot who crashed into his train and now at this arrogant cop who thought he was in charge, but calmed himself. He was there for the passengers’ safety. The officer roughly pushed passed Sam and they proceeded to check car by car, releasing doors as they waited for the people to depart. When he got to the elderly lady, Sam got down on his knee and took her hand.
"Ma'am, we have to get off the train now. Are you okay?"
The woman stared blankly at Sam for a moment as if trying to remember him, but the light in eyes switched on and she nodded quickly. Sam helped her to her feet and walked her to the door to an awaiting railway worker. The rest of the train was full of shaken passengers, those that were on the side of the impacted train had only minor bumps and bruises. As for the passenger of the car itself, Sam hoped he survived so that he could at least mentally clean his clock for scaring that nice old lady.
Sam stepped off the train onto solid ground. The junction was a few blocks down. People were clambering around any train worker or police officer they could find, demanding answers. Sam saw his answers in a crumpled red heap at the side of the intersection. No way that guy survived it unless he was a contortionist. The hood of the car was pushed into the backseat and all the windows were broken. He started walking toward the wreckage, only to be stopped a few feet away by a hefty plainclothes detective. The burly man had come out of nowhere and had his pudgy hand flat on Sam's chest.
"And where do you think you are going?"
"I am going to the check out the wreck. So if you'll excuse me…" Sam wrapped his fingers around the man's wrist, pulling it away from his chest.
"The Hell you are, mister. But you will be coming downtown with me." Sam released the portly man’s wrist and reached into his pocket to retrieve his transfer papers. Alarmed by the sudden movement, the cop grabbed his gun and pointed it straight at Sam's head. "Hands where I can see them. Don't be stupid."
Sam pulled out the papers and offered them to the officer with a sardonic smile that should have scared the Hell out of the detective if he had known better. Patience. This was not Sam's day for virtues. Without taking his eyes off him, the detective took the papers. Glancing over the top page, he began lowering his gun.
"Do what you have to do. I should report you."
"Go ahead," Sam answered amiably. "I will have a few things to say myself. Beginning with the moment you started manhandling me, I was an innocent victim off the train. Is this how you treat the citizens you’re sworn to protect?" The detective flushed hotly, but he stormed off and went back to the investigation.
Walking again toward the twisted metal, Sam hoped that the day got better than this. He couldn’t even get off the train without shit hitting the fan. Contact with officers from two separate precincts turned into confrontations and now his stomach was rumbling. When had he eaten last?
"Making friends I see." Sam stopped and half turned to face a patrolman behind him. He was taller than normal, towering above Sam's six foot two, and was as thin as a twig.
"Yeah, I guess so." Sam held his hand out to the lanky officer. "Detective Sam Wesson. Just transferred from New York."
"Officer John Smith." Shaking hands with the man was like greeting a skeleton. The boy desperately needed a sandwich or something.
"Original," Sam jested with a raised eyebrow.
"Yeah, maybe, sir," Smith laughed. "That's probably why they just call me Smitty around here."
"Good to meet you, Smitty. Is he always that gruff?"
"Oh, Hoshkins? More times than not. Don't worry about it. He likes to blow hot air, sort of has a superiority complex." Smitty stopped a second and looking worried. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that about him. He could crush me if he knew."
"Don't worry about it. I agree with you." Sam resumed walking toward the wreckage with Smitty in tow. The local fire department was busy working with the jaws of life. Not much more he could help with here. "Were there many witnesses?"
"Yes, sir, there were," Smitty quickly opened his clipboard, exposing page after page of notes of his preliminary investigation. He had not wasted any time. "There were several people over at the cafe there on the corner. They say he never even slowed down."
Smitty started rattling off names and accounts from each of the witnesses in detail. Sam took Smitty's efficiency as a good sign. If this was how Boston was run, he may have a chance here after all. Smitty spoke with a heavy accent, much like the kind he had heard since he stepped off the plane. A true Bostonian.
"Crazy shit if you ask me. I don't remember anyone crashing into the train before. The Transit Police alerted us right away. Guess it was a spiral after that. Were you the first on the scene?"
"You could say that." Sam glanced back, indicating the train.
"No kidding? You were on that when it happened? Talk about first responder." Sam appreciated the excitement in the man's eyes. Too many times he had to see the dulling of the senses some cops took on after seeing too much they couldn’t register.
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"I think I will go over to the cafe, ask a few questions myself. I need coffee anyway."
Sam turned on his heel and walked briskly towards the Tilted Cup Cafe when Smitty caught up with him again.
"May I make a suggestion, Sir?"
"Sure, if you will stop calling me sir. I work for a living just like you." Sam stopped and gave the officer his full attention.
"Oh, okay, you got it, si.., Detective," began Smitty. "I was thinking that with you being new here, I mean if you don't mind the gore, that you might ask to sit in on the autopsy."
"Okay, sure, but why?" Sam's brow furrowed.
"Well, around here we take notice of the ones who step up. The hands-on kind of cops are the most trusted. Just a suggestion." Smitty shrugged.
"Sure, makes sense. Sounds like my kind of town already. Thanks for the advice."
"No problem."
"Could you put in the request for me? Until I get to pick up my badge, it may be a slow process for me to get across to anyone right now."
"Sure thing. I will let you get to your coffee." Smitty tipped his hat and turned toward another group of people nearby, ready with his clipboard and pen. Good kid, Sam thought.
Sam entered the Tilted Cup and the aroma of strong coffee hit him square in the face. Definitely coffee first. Might be a good way to break the ice. He sat on a stool at the counter and stared at the back of a petite brunette waitress that was wrestling unsuccessfully with an overly complicated looking coffee machine.
"Miss?" Sam called out to the girl.
"Be right with you," she called back without looking. The frustration in her voice was obvious.
"Miss?"
The waitress stopped and spun around in a huff. "What?!" she asked before catching herself. She turned red and covered her hand with her mouth. "Oh, I am so sorry. What can I ge… Sam?" She slowly lowered her hand as she stared into Sam’s eyes, recognizing her old high school friend. She hadn’t seen him in decades and here he was taking flak from her.
Into the Breach: Choices can be deadly... Page 1
