The Rabbit's Hole

by Brian Christopher Shea

  “Yeah. She’s all right. So is the baby. We got back home around midnight. She’s sleeping now,” Nick whispered.

  “Good to hear. So, you’re on the way? Right?” Simmons asked again.

  “I’m up and moving. See you in a few.” Nick said this cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear as he quietly pulled open a dresser drawer. He grabbed an armful of clothes and stepped out into the quiet of the living room to dress, removing any chance that his bumbling would wake Anaya. Nick jammed a piece of gum in his mouth to remove the sour taste of sleep. The mint flavoring made the night’s air feel colder as he stepped out from his house and away from Anaya, leaving his promise broken. The note he’d left by her nightstand, containing the words, Sorry, I had to step out for a minute. I’ll be right back, did little to lighten his guilt.

  Nick arrived on the scene, driving down the unpaved dirt road he’d been on the previous night. The trailer park looked nothing like it did before. Large flood lights were now posted on two opposite corners of the double-wide mobile home belonging to Scalise.

  Nick slithered through the crowd of neighbors gathered at the edges of the bright yellow tape, taking stock of their attire. Most, if not all, were wearing jackets over some variety of sleepwear, indicating their affiliation to the neighborhood. It was unlikely the killer would go through so much trouble to blend in. None of Nick’s internal sensors tripped any potential alerts to a threat among this group.

  People craned hard in a frantic attempt to catch a glimpse of what caused the horrific end to their neighbor, searching for an answer to the swarm of police that had taken over the small patch of land belonging to the now-dead Antonio Scalise.

  Kemper Jones stood in a dark corner outside of the cone cast by large mobile floodlights. He teetered at the edge of the crime scene tape, but on an area far away from the onlookers. His face was illuminated by a soft warm glow with each pull of a cigarette. Nick observed the rate at which his friend was puffing away. The rapid-fire piston of his arm as he devoured the cigarette did little to alleviate his anxiety.

  “Those things will kill ya,” Nick teased as he approached.

  “Gotta die of something. Lot better way to go than some. And definitely better than the way he went,” Jones said, gesturing in the direction of the trailer’s back door.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Not my first dead body,” Jones said between puffs.

  “Not what I asked,” Nick asserted.

  “I know. And yes, I’m good to go. Just pissed at myself for falling asleep,” Jones said.

  “That’s how these operations work. Taking turns on the watch. One person sleeps while the other keeps eyes on,” Nick said.

  “I know but maybe we would’ve been quicker to react. Four eyes are better than two.”

  Nick nodded and looked around, “Where’s Simmons?”

  “Inside talking to Cavanaugh,” Jones said, taking another long pull before flicking the glowing butt out into the darkness. “She’s fearless. I like her.”

  “I know. Me too. She’d have to be, after everything that’s happened to her,” Nick said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This asshole killed both her parents a few years back. Tried to finish her off too.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t know,” Jones said.

  “Neither did I. Not sure it’s something she likes to talk much about. I can’t really blame her.”

  Nick ascended the two rickety steps leading to the back door. The creak of the metal storm door announced his arrival.

  “Look who decided to join the party,” Simmons said, smirking at Nick.

  “Better late than never,” Nick said.

  “Interior photos are done,” said a tall bald man wearing the distinctive blue of an APD crime scene windbreaker.

  Nick didn’t recognize the tech.

  “Thanks. Get the exterior and photograph the crowd too. Maybe this sicko came back to watch the show,” Cavanaugh said. His voice boomed loudly, intensified by the confines of the small space.

  “Where’s Spangler?” Nick asked.

  “Couldn’t get hold of him,” Cavanaugh said.

  “That’s not like him. Doesn’t he live for this shit?” Nick said. “I don’t think I can recall a recent scene that I’ve been on without him.”

  Cavanaugh chuckled. “Maybe he finally got himself a life.”

  Nick laughed. The large Homicide detective stepped out the front door making enough room for Nick to navigate around the kitchen table. Scalise’s body was contorted, sprawled between the recliner and the floor, as if he had turned awkwardly to greet Nick. The faded light blue of the living room carpet was now stained dark with blood. His dead eyes stared up at Nick.

  “Please tell me you got a glimpse of him,” Nick pleaded to Simmons.

  “I wish. I didn’t even know that it was him. I saw something by the back door. No details. I couldn’t even tell if it was a person. I just saw a different shade of darkness, like a shadow moving inside of a shadow.”

  “Damn it!” Nick hissed.

  “Maybe if this fat slob had ever changed a light bulb in his godforsaken life that back-porch motion light would have caught him,” Simmons said, frustration seeping out.

  Nick realized Simmons was holding a plastic bag, containing a white piece of paper.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Nick asked optimistically.

  “Yup,” Simmons said.

  “And?”

  “You look but do not see. Now there’s just you and me.” Simmons recited the words with poetic intonation.

  “He’s taunting us,” Nick said, grinding his teeth.

  “No more cases to tie us to the pattern. No more bait. We’ve got nothing.” Simmons balled her fist. “We’re now back to square one and no closer than we were a few days ago.”

  “Not so sure about that,” Nick said.

  “How so?” Simmons asked.

  “We’ve still got me.”

  “You?”

  “He’s got to come for me sooner or later. We just have to get a leg up on this bastard,” Nick said.

  “Well that’s failed us so far,” Simmons said dejectedly.

  “We’re definitely missing something. Not sure what, but there is a link to all of those cases. All of those dead men. I know it’s there. We just have to find it.”

  “Are you heading back to the office?” Simmons asked.

  “Yes. I’m going to look over everything again. Put some fresh eyes on this thing,” Nick said.

  “Okay. I’ll meet you there in a bit. I’ve got to get cleaned up,” Simmons said.

  For the first time since he’d entered the residence, Nick took notice of the woman standing before him. There weren’t many areas on the clothing clinging to her small frame not covered in Scalise’s blood. The sanguine darkness of the dried fluid stood in disparity to the brightness of her hair.

  Chapter 27

  Nick sat alone in the conference room. The only injection of noise since he’d arrived had been made by him and his love affair with the Keurig machine in the break room. Since then, the only sound had been the flipping of voluminous paperwork as he ravaged the files, convinced the answer was buried within.

  He’d removed everything from the stretched oval of the conference table except for four case files: Montrose, Pentlow, Mullins, and Scalise. He scoured the write-ups and looked at every supplemental report searching for a name. Someone who was at each of those scenes. Someone who knew the system. A cop.

  Nothing clicked. There were officers, investigators, and agents tied to one or two of the case investigations, but none that he saw were linked to all four. Nick gave a disgruntled grumble, rubbing his head vigorously in the hopes of stimulating his thought process.

  He then spread out photos from each of the scenes. Hopeful the answer was there. The atrocities of these savage men and the brutality of their sickness captured on film. Nick compared the crime scene photos taken at the time of each
man’s arrest and grouped them with the photos from each man’s death, minus Scalise’s scene which was still being processed.

  He stared at the evidence sticker affixed to the bottom right of each photograph denoting the tech who took it.

  Nick’s eyes widened, and he jumped up from his seat, knocking over his chair. His eyes danced from case file to case file, picture to picture. There, neatly written at the bottom of each photo, was the same name: Ed Spangler.

  Nick looked up at the dry erase board set along the back wall of the room. Notes had been tossed up over the last several days. Simmons’s profile annotated in red marker. Male. Short: 5’03-5’05”. Age 30-50. Cop?

  Cop?

  Ed Spangler was all those things except a cop. He was a tech, but he had been there all along in the backdrop. Every scene. Every photo.

  In haste Nick fumbled with his phone almost dropping it. He banged his fingers on the screen calling Simmons. It rang five times before going to voicemail.

  Nick left a frantic message, “Hey it’s me. I figured it out! I know who it is—the Ferryman. Spangler—it’s freakin’ Ed Spangler. Call me as soon as you get this!”

  It was unlike Simmons not to answer but Nick assumed that she was either in the shower or had fallen asleep after washing off Scalise’s caked bloodstains. He looked at the time. It was already 6:00 a.m. He realized that Anaya might be awake soon, and he didn’t want her to find him not home. There was still time to make it right or at least give her the illusion he’d kept his promise. The last thing he needed right now was for her to have another panic attack. Nick dashed out of the conference room leaving the disarray of files as a testament to his mind’s unique system of reasoning.

  Traffic was light leaving the city and Nick arrived home well under his normal commute time. He quietly slipped the key into the lock, turning it cautiously. He entered, hoping that Anaya was still resting. He didn’t want to wake her if she was. Nick stood unmoving after closing the door, listening intently to the silence.

  Satisfied he’d returned home before Anaya had awakened to his absence, Nick crept to the back room of their small ranch styled home and into the bedroom. Dawn’s light had delivered its pale welcome, making it easy to see into the room. The bed spread was turned down and an indentation was left where Anaya had slept, her slender form pressed into the old, non-resilient mattress. There was no sound. No shower running. No lights on. A nothingness that stirred a panic so deep that Nick momentarily froze.

  Nick called out to her, “Anaya?” Soft at first and then booming louder, “Anaya?!”

  He willed himself to move and ran from room to room hysterically searching for Anaya. She was gone. He’d failed her. Failed to protect her. Failed to keep his promise.

  Nick raced to the door and out into the brisk air. He descended the stairwell in a mighty leap. He turned the ignition to his Jetta and then stopped before pulling out from his parking space. He had no idea where she was. He had no idea where he was going. His phone vibrated. A lifeline thrown at this most despairing of moments.

  “He’s got her!” Nick gasped into the phone. His voice cracked, revealing his lack of control and desperation.

  “Slow down. Who’s got who?” Simmons asked.

  “Ferryman. He’s got Anaya!”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Did you get my message about Spangler?” Nick asked frantically.

  “No. I just saw that I missed your call. I passed out after my shower,” Simmons said.

  “It’s Spangler. The Ferryman is Spangler!” Nick yelled.

  “Ed Spangler, the crime scene tech?”

  “Every scene. He was at every one of my scenes. He’s been there the whole time. In the background, but always there nonetheless.” Nick tried to control his breathing and reset his calm. Without it he’d be useless.

  “I’ll call you back in a minute,” Simmons said.

  The call ended, and Nick sat. The heat from the vent began to fight back against the cold, and the fog from his panting dissipated, no longer visible.

  His phone alerted to Simmons’s incoming call, and he answered before the first ring ended.

  “I’ve got a ping going on Spangler’s phone. It hasn’t moved in a few hours. I’m going to send you the address,” Simmons said.

  “I’ll meet you there. Call it in. Send everybody!” Nick said.

  “Already did. I told the locals to stage if they arrive before us. I’m moving now. I just hope we’re not too—” Simmons said.

  Nick ended the call not wanting to hear the end to of that sentence. The phone buzzed its receipt of the address Simmons had forwarded. He forwarded it to Jones and then dialed his number.

  A thick groggy voice answered in deep drawl. “Hey, I was just about to give you a call. I did some digging and—”

  “He’s got Anaya! Meet me at the address I sent you!” Nick said into the phone, hanging up without waiting for a response.

  He punched it into the map function on his phone and gunned the car in the direction of Spangler’s last known location. The navigation map gave a twenty-three-minute arrival time. He planned to cut that time in half, revving the engine as he accelerated west out of Georgetown.

  Chapter 28

  Nick’s Jetta hugged the turn as he rounded his way into the posh Cedar Park neighborhood. The ornate exteriors of towering houses merged into a blur as he doubled the posted speed limit of the quaint suburb. A fleeting sense of déjà vu gripped him as he slammed to a stop behind Simmons’s idling Taurus. A long, crushed-stone driveway led up a gentle rise to the impressive house. Standing there looking up, he recognized he’d seen this house before. He’d not only seen it but been inside it on two uniquely separate occasions. This would be the third and, hopefully, final visit.

  Nick withdrew his Glock and exited the car. Simmons, as if on cue, exited hers. The two met in the middle with guns pressed down at the low ready.

  “Where’s the cavalry?” Nick asked. “I figured they would’ve been here by now.”

  “Not sure. I called it in. They should be here any minute,” Simmons said, looking back and forth between Nick and the white-bricked exterior of the house.

  “We don’t have a minute!” Nick said through gritted teeth.

  “My thoughts exactly. Let’s put an end to this once and for all!” Simmons said, looking down at her duty weapon.

  “This asshole is never going to see the inside of a courtroom,” Nick hissed. His eyes gauged the reaction of his new partner.

  “Agreed,” Simmons said, reciprocating his anger.

  They made a low-profile approach in tandem, shuffling quickly along the grass in an effort to minimize the sound of their footsteps. The light glared off the glass of the windows, masking any visual of the expansive home’s interior.

  “I know this house,” Nick whispered as they moved.

  “What do you mean?” Simmons asked quietly.

  “Simon Montrose, the sex trafficker. It’s his house. Same house I arrested him in and the same one he was killed in,” Nick said.

  “Why here?” Simmons asked.

  “Not sure, but whatever the reason it’s definitely not by coincidence. Nothing has been thus far,” Nick said ominously.

  Simmons nodded and the two continued pressing forward.

  Stacked against the white brick of a gabled arched doorway, Nick pressed the latch. The door was unlocked. Nick looked back into the intense green eyes of Cheryl Simmons.

  “I’m following your lead,” Simmons whispered. “You move and I’ll be right on your ass.”

  Nick pressed his thumb down on the ornate doorknob, a bronze lion’s head with the tongue for a latch. The tension of the dark wood door released as the weather seal was breached, making a miniscule suction sound. Nick put his palm on the center of the hand-carved stained marble oak of the door and pressed firmly. The door swung wide. The cloud cover kept the sky a washed gray, but the home’s numerous windows allowed for what little light th
ere was to fill the vastness, bouncing off the reflective marble flooring.

  The point of no return reached. No hesitation in the fatal funnel. The two agents made a smooth entry into the foyer. Simmons keeping her word, drafting off his hip as she snaked to the right, opposite Nick. Both took up points of aim, visually clearing as much of the main room as possible without any unnecessary progression forward. They stopped and listened.

  There was nothing to indicate anybody else was inside. Then a scream. Nick immediately recognized the echo of Anaya’s voice as it bounced off the high walls that extended up to the vaulted ceiling. The reverberation of the sound disoriented the pinpoint of its origin. Another voice, less clear, and more mechanical cut through the ensuing silence following Anaya’s desperate plea. The deep rhythmic pulse of the Ferryman’s unfeeling voice inflamed Nick’s rage.

  Nick looked at Simmons and she nudged her chin in the direction of an open spiral staircase that led to the second floor.

  Without a word Nick moved up the winding steps, taking them two at a time. He ascended with reckless abandon. His elbows tucked against his ribs, and his gun slightly cantered in the center of his chest enabled him to maintain a tight but stable shooting platform, even at his enraged pace.

  Nick crested the landing as Anaya released another bloodcurdling scream. The sound exploded in Nick’s ears, causing him to stumble awkwardly as if it had physically impacted him. Simmons stepped up, grabbed his shoulder and righted his leaned position.

  The direction of the sound was more clearly identifiable in the closed space of the second-floor hallway.

  The only unnatural light seeped from underneath a paneled wood door located at the end of the hallway.

  Anaya’s words stole the air from Nick’s lungs. “Please don’t! I’m pregnant! My baby! No!”

  A robotic voice muttered a response, unclear above the whimpers and screams of his cherished Anaya. Then a loud crack like that of a bullwhip cut the words short. Nick ran toward the door, disregarding any attempt to tactically mask his approach. The screams beaconed him, propelling him forward at an inhuman pace.