Nick gave the doctor a hearty handshake conveying his appreciation, before turning his attention to his supine Anaya. He crossed the room to her bed in three elongated steps. His large frame cast a long shadow over her petite outline in the bleach-white cotton sheets as he leaned over to place a kiss on her forehead.
“Sorry,” Anaya whispered.
“Baby, you had me so worried,” Nick said through his pressed lips. “Please never do that to me again. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I was a mess after hearing about your mom. When you didn’t call I freaked out. And then the morning came. I thought of your brother. I don’t know what came over me. I…” Anaya rambled. The monitor adjacent to her bed beeped the slight elevation in her heart rate.
“No. It wasn’t your fault. This one’s all on me. I should’ve called. I should’ve been better about keeping you in the loop. I got focused and lost sight of what’s really important.”
“I know how you get on a case. I should’ve let you be and trusted that you’d handle it.”
“I guess my past track record with you might cause you some concern,” Nick said, tapping the scar on his hip.
“You do have a tendency to get the worst of things.” The yellow specks in Anaya’s dark eyes twinkled as she smiled up at him. “I mean, I don’t know too many people who have survived getting shot, blown up, and stabbed.”
“Maybe people should learn their lesson and realize that it’s a lot harder than it looks to kill me and just give up trying,” Nick said, laughing at his own joke.
As soon as he’d said the words his mind returned to his current predicament. Nick knew the Ferryman would never give up, but took solace in the knowledge that neither would he. Nick took additional comfort in Simmons’s tenacity.
A clang of a cart striking the door frame interrupted their quiet interlude, and the thin black orderly pushing it announced, “Chow time!”
Nick slid the roll-away dinner table over Anaya’s midsection and then adjusted the bed setting, bringing her from a supine position into an upright, seated one. The man slid the tray containing a covered dish and plastic-wrapped utensils. “Bon appetite!” he said before retreating out of the room and down the hallway to his next delivery.
Anaya lifted the blue plastic cover allowing for the trapped steam to escape as beads of condensation trickled out. “Yummy,” she said sarcastically.
“Eat your mystery meat and lima beans so I can get you out of this place,” Nick said playfully, but with an underlying truthfulness.
“Okay.” Anaya gave him an exaggerated pouty smile.
“I’m going to step into the hallway and make a couple calls,” Nick said.
“You’re leaving me?” Anaya asked nervously.
“Not tonight,” Nick said moving for the door. “Not ever.”
Nick saw Anaya giving him a quick once-over, pausing at his shoeless feet and the hospital-issued fashionable footwear. “Nice outfit,” she joked.
Nick laughed, giving a quick strut and turn. His best attempt at a runway model turn was met by the lovely smile of Anaya, the soon-to-be mother of his child. For an infinitesimal amount of time he’d forgotten the dire circumstances they faced and allowed the darkness to be replaced by something else… happiness.
“How’s it going?” Nick asked.
“Good as gold, my friend,” Kemper Jones said. His voice was garbled.
“Are you eating?”
“Of course. It’s a damn stakeout.” Jones paused, swallowing the bite of blackened meat imprisoned in his mouth. “Long nights of sitting by a dumpster in a nasty trailer park go perfectly with a plate of burnt ends.”
Nick heard the detective laying on his thickest West Texas accent for added effect. He knew that is was done for show and probably more so to grind the nerves of Simmons, sitting next to him. “Don’t eat too much. I can’t have you falling asleep out there.”
“Don’t worry about me. This is fuel for my investigative gas tank. You just take care of Anaya and let us handle the grunt work,” Jones said.
“Seriously Kemper, I owe you one,” Nick said.
“For you, anything,” Jones replied.
“Hey, keep me posted if something breaks. I’ll have my phone on me.”
The second call was one he’d been meaning to make since leaving Connecticut but hadn’t had the time or the mental reserve to handle. It only rang once before the other end picked up.
“Hey bro. I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” Declan said.
“I know. Things got crazy out here, and fast.”
“You okay?”
“Have arrangements been made yet?” Nick asked, trying his best to avoid the disastrous combination of the words Izzy and funeral in his dialect.
“Saturday.”
“Shit! That’s less than two days. No way I’m going to be able to make it back,” Nick said, running his free hand through his hair.
“That makes two of us. I’m not going to be able to make it either,” Declan said.
“What? Why?”
“I’m actually heading to Ohio as we speak,” Declan said.
“What’s in Ohio?”
“Some Arian Brotherhood compound in the woods. ATF has got their panties in a bunch about it. They’ve worked up a massive OP plan and HRT is on point. Hopefully, it won’t end up being another Branch Davidian scenario,” Declan said cavalierly. His telling was delivered in the same matter-of-fact manner of somebody talking about picking up eggs at the grocery store.
“That sucks.”
“Won’t be so bad. I heard Ohio is beautiful this time of year.”
“Not that. Izzy. She’ll be alone when they put her in the ground,” Nick said.
“There’ll be family there.”
“But not us.”
“I’ve missed more funerals than I’ve attended in my life and buried more friends than I’d ever care to count. Guys like us say goodbye in a different way,” Declan said.
Nick sighed, relinquishing the guilt. “Agreed. When the dust settles in our lives we’ll have our own vigil to send her off properly.”
“Damned straight! I’ll bring the whiskey.” Declan cleared his throat. “Be safe, brother.”
“You too. I’ll see ya when I see ya,” Nick said.
He ended the call. The wall outside Anaya’s room had a slight give to it as he leaned the full weight of his body against it. With Izzy gone forever and Declan unavailable, Nick felt isolated and alone in a battle against an enemy without a face. He was stepping forward into uncharted territory.
Anaya lay peacefully against the raised bed’s mattress, staring contentedly at her empty plate as he reentered the room. The combination of intravenous drip and hospital food reinvigorated her, changing her complexion from the murky paleness of earlier and returning it to her natural muted light brown. Nick looked at her and saw his future. He wouldn’t let anything harm her or their baby.
Chapter 24
“You have one hell of a surveillance routine,” Simmons said.
The container precariously balanced on Jones’s protruding gut as the Austin detective drove his sauce-covered fingers into the pile of meat.
“You sure you don’t want some? You’re really missing out,” Jones said, holding the charred triangular tip of beef in her direction.
“I’ll pass,” Simmons said, giving a leery eye as Jones methodically licked the sauce from each finger. “You look like a walking crime scene.”
She watched Kemper stop his cat-like cleaning routine to evaluate the variety of red stains decorating his button-down.
“Maybe white isn’t your color,” Simmons jested.
Both laughed, and then Jones returned to finish off his cleanup. A storm door clamored and one of Scalise’s neighbors stepped into the light of their porch. The embers of a cigarette splashed orange across the woman’s face. She looked around, wearily scanning the surrounding pitch black of the night.
“I’ll take fi
rst watch. You can sleep off your dinner,” Simmons said.
“Sounds good to me.” Jones took a long pull from his Styrofoam cup. A loud slurp followed by a squeak emanated from the cup as Jones swiveled the orange plastic straw in a final attempt gather up any remnants of the Dr. Pepper hiding among the melting ice cubes. A final gulp trumpeted the end of his feast.
“If I start to snore just hit me. It’s what my ex used to do.”
“If you snore, I’m going to put you in that dumpster.” Simmons thumbed in the direction of the large brown metallic bin shadowing their gray Taurus.
Jones gave a hearty chuckle. “Good luck lifting me,” he said, patting his ample gut.
Simmons smiled. “I’m stronger than I look.”
“Well, I’m heavier than I look.”
“Get some rest big fella,” Simmons said, winking.
“Ya know? Ya ain’t so bad,” Jones said, adding his colorful West Texas charm. He gave a tip of his invisible Stetson before reclining the seat and closing his eyes.
Simmons redirected her focus back to the double-wide that was home to Antonio Scalise. The female smoker had disappeared into her trailer, and once again the only contrast to the dark was provided by the flicker of the heavyset pervert’s television. She stared into the abyss of the surrounding night while the labored breathing of her rotund companion served as this evening’s background music.
The longer you stand still the more invisible you become. Darkness always helps, but movement is the quickest way of exposure. The car had been idling by the dumpster for a while. The rise from the engine’s exhaust was a telling sign of its location, but in the cold it would be too much to go without the heater. Weakness provides advantage. Edging forward inch by silent inch, the Ferryman had moved to the rear door of Scalise’s deplorable home. No reaction in the unmarked fed car.
Tonight’s mission would need to be quick. No time for games with the house under surveillance. But rules were rules and a message needed to be sent. The puzzle was almost assembled. Soon they would understand.
The rust on the hinge of the exterior storm door was visible in the low light conditions, indicating the years of neglect. A delicate hand and slow pull negated the noise. A sharp wind cut through the park rattling lose shutters and clotheslines. The clatter created an additional mask to the entrance. The loose knob of the interior door turned easily and with a firm push the door opened. The house was under surveillance, but this slob hadn’t managed to lock his door. It’s like Scalise had invited death to come.
The interior was peppered by a landmine of clutter. Each step contained the pitfalls created by the morbidly obese Scalise, who obviously did very little in the way of cleaning. Navigating without making a sound through the dark kitchen was more difficult than expected. The volume of the television blaring from the other room helped blanket the crunch of stale cereal that couldn’t be avoided. Light danced out of the living room and assisted the Ferryman in maneuvering around the dining table, teetering with magazines and ashtrays. The unbalanced pile was a madman’s version of Jenga.
No time for games. All work and no play, he pouted.
The Ferryman silently slipped behind the unaware fat man who was bobbing his head in a fitful battle with sleep. The rolls of fat on his neck jiggled with each recoiled nod of his head.
The knife was already balanced in the Ferryman’s hand as a quick assessment was made for the angle of trajectory for the first and hopefully only strike. The decision made, the blade raised with the thumb bracing the end of the handle.
Just as the strike was about to be delivered, the television show cut to commercial and in the split second of screen darkness during the transition, the image of the Ferryman and the glimmer of the knife in hand was reflected back at the unprepared Antonio Scalise.
“What the—” Scalise started to say.
His incredible weight precluded his ability to react from the chair, which was molded tightly to his massive body. The knife struck downward into the right side of the man’s neck between two protruding rolls fat, adding resistance to the weapon’s bloody withdrawal.
No other words were uttered. The only sound competing with the incoherent banter on the television was that of the gurgling of Scalise. Agonal gasps seeped out his final plea.
Back to the door from where the Ferryman had just moments ago entered, a quick pause on the crooked stoop of the rear entrance. The Ferryman’s eyes adjusted to the dark and peered hard in the direction of the dumpster across the dirt-covered street. No movement from the Taurus. Satisfied, the Ferryman stepped slowly down the two steps and disappeared, becoming part of the night.
Chapter 25
“Wake up!” Simmons yelled, shoving Jones.
The slumped mass of the detective snorted and then muttered something inaudible. She shook him again, this time more violently. A loud nose erupted that sounded like a combination of both a snore and a choke. He lurched upright, eyes wide with his head on a swivel.
“What the hell is goin’ on?” Jones blurted.
“Movement. Back door,” Simmons said, pulling her gun free.
“I don’t see it. Where?”
“I swear I just saw something!” Simmons said.
She was already moving from the car and into the cold. The butt of her pistol hugged tightly to her sternum as the muzzle pressed ahead, seeking its target. Simmons hunched over, lowering her profile as she moved quickly toward Scalise’s dwelling.
“Shit!” Jones blurted.
Kemper Jones fumbled to open the door, stepping on his empty container of barbeque as he tumbled out the side door of the Taurus. Somehow the Styrofoam container latched on to his left foot, and Jones shook it as he jogged to keep up with Simmons, who was already on the move ahead of him.
The two moved quickly in the direction of the back door. Simmons hopped up the two rotten wood steps to the landing with the nimble grace of a Romanian gymnast, pausing at the threshold of the door. She looked back at Jones who nodded. Understanding the non-verbal signal, Simmons jerked open the storm door and pushed the interior door hard with her foot. She shoved her small frame into the tight space. She wedged her right foot against the door, preventing it from bouncing back on them. Jones noisily clamored up the steps and followed behind her.
They quickly visually cleared the kitchen area and moved fast toward the living room. They heard a strange sound. A hiss and gurgle, comparable to the sound of a clogged drain fighting against the introduction of water.
Simmons entered the living room and was able to visually clear the small space, the visual assessment made easier by the cast of the television’s light. With no threat located, she holstered and approached the dying Scalise. Terror was carved into those beady eyes.
“Get a towel! A rag! Something!” Simmons yelled over her shoulder to Jones.
Jones threw a grease-covered dishrag he’d found under a pile of magazines. Simmons caught it in the air. She pressed hard at the wound. The towel did little to stop the flow and was saturated within seconds. Simmons hands were wet. Scalise squirmed as if trying to look past Simmons toward the kitchen area where Jones was standing. And then, an instant later, he stopped moving altogether. His dead eyes looked up at her as if making some final unsaid petition.
Simmons stepped back, looking for somewhere to wipe the dead man’s blood from her hands. She looked down at her clothes and realized that was a moot point. In her hasty attempt to clot the flow emptying from the gravely wounded man, she’d managed to cover much of herself in Scalise’s arterial spray.
Jones was speaking, but she comprehended none of it.
Her temporary auditory exclusion dissipated as she distanced herself from the dead man, and she heard Jones say, “I called it in.”
“Damn it!” Simmons yelled. She lurched toward the front door, ripping it open.
She bolted onto the front stoop and withdrew her gun again, frantically scanning the darkness. Nothing moved and the only sound she heard over
the wind was Scalise’s television.
She held the position for a moment longer, but knew in her heart that the Ferryman had eluded capture once again. The only chance they had to bait him just finished bleeding out on a worn-out La-Z-Boy recliner.
Chapter 26
The rhythmic drumming sound grew louder, ripping him from sleep and rattling his brain like a jackhammer. His right eye opened quicker than his left in the discord between synaptic command and neuromuscular response. The green glow of the numbers slowly came into focus. 2:03 a.m. The drumming sound started again. His cellphone shook on the mahogany end table, the same end table that had once been his parent’s prior to the sale of their family home. The caller was unrelenting, and the phone alerted receipt of the incoming call, spinning slightly under the power of its vibration.
Nick grabbed the phone midvibration and swiped madly at the green icon, seeking refuge from its annoying interruption to his hard-fought sleep.
“Nick, you awake?” Simmons asked eagerly.
“I am now. What’s up?” Nick asked, sitting up and placing his feet on the throw rug at the base of the bed.
His toes curled, gripping the fluffy vines of fabric as he looked back at Anaya. She was sound asleep, undisturbed by the sound of his voice and commotion of his movements.
“It’s Scalise. He’s dead,” Simmons said.
“Dead? What? You guys were there. Are you and Jones all right?” Nick asked desperately. Terrified that his mind was incapable of handling the news of another loss in his life.
“We’re fine. A little shook up is all. I’ll fill you in when you get here. Meet us at his trailer park,” Simmons said.
Nick hesitated for a brief second as he watched the gentle rise and fall of the sheets that lay over his beloved Anaya. At the hospital he’d made a promise that he wouldn’t leave her tonight. The confliction between his duty to her and his obligatory compulsion for justice gnawed at him.
“Okay,” Nick said hesitantly.
“You sound a bit unsure. Everything good on your end?” Simmons asked.
The Rabbit's Hole Page 13
