The Rabbit's Hole
Page 15
Nick didn’t break stride hitting the door with his left shoulder at full speed, his mass multiplied by his speed. The force had a devastating effect on the decorative interior door, splintering the frame. The door flung wide, scraping the floor as one of the upper hinges snapped.
Unable to control his momentum, Nick tumbled onto the hard tile, smacking his head. A dizzying pain shot across his forehead temporarily blinding him. Nick shook off the discomfort as glittering stars fluttered across his vision. Nick spun on his back, scanning for Spangler.
His eyes were still watering from the impact when he saw Anaya in a chair in the center of the sparsely decorated room. Her head slumped forward and her body limp. Nick fought the urge to vomit. Standing beside her was a short figure in a black hooded sweatshirt. A dark mask covered his face and the outline of his eyes was barely visible through the red tint of his wire-rimmed glasses. In his right hand was a short whip. His left held tightly onto Anaya’s chair back.
A loud groan roared from the masked man. Nick pivoted, still on his back, and took aim between his knees at the dark figure.
Two loud bangs rang out from his right as Nick watched, connecting the pieces of the adrenaline-filled millisecond. His mind put the moment into a slow-motion replay and he watched as the second shell casing pitched free, tumbling away from Simmons’s weapon as the payload was delivered to the intended target.
Nick followed the path of her aim and saw that the masked figure was slumped forward, kneeling awkwardly next to Anaya. His hand still gripping firmly the back of the chair.
Anaya sat unmoving and silent.
Nick exhaled deeply, suddenly aware he’d been holding his breath. He gasped as he scampered across the floor on his hands and knees. Her body was tied firmly to the chair, totally immobilizing her. Only her head was unrestrained and flopped indiscriminately as Nick ran his hands over her body, searching both visually and tactilely to assess the damage. He totally disregarded the man slumped to his left. Nick’s only care in the world was that of his love, Anaya Patel.
He pressed his index and middle fingers hard into the side of Anaya’s neck waiting for desperately for an answer. The faint bump of her heartbeat gave Nick the strength to quell some of the dread and allowed the bile in his throat to recede.
Nick then turned his attention to the hooded man slumped next to him. His eyes observed the black zip tie securing the man’s gloved hand to the back of Anaya’s chair. Nick tried to understand the significance of it but was totally baffled.
The two holes in the center of the sweatshirt left little question, but Nick pulled the mask down to check vitals. The glasses fell to the ground revealing the dead eyes of Ed Spangler. His mouth was covered in the same silver duct tape as Anaya’s.
Nick’s mind reeled at the strangeness of this visual inconsistency. He spun to relay this strange turn of events to Simmons and instead found himself facing the squared barrel of a department-issued Glock 22.
Chapter 29
“You?” Nick questioned, as his rage exploded.
He sprawled backward from Simmons’s muzzle, climbing on the body of the crumpled crime scene tech.
“Sometimes the things we do have repercussions, Nick. Sometimes you cross paths with someone who bites back,” Simmons said.
“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about!”
Nick glanced at his gun. It was on the floor a few feet away on the opposite side of Anaya’s chair, where he’d put it when checking her pulse.
“Not a chance you get to it before I put a round in your head. But if you think you’re quick enough, then by all means, please go ahead and try,” Simmons said curtly.
He put the thought out his head for the time being. He was left with little option but to stall.
“Why? I’m not seeing any of this. Cheryl, I—what did I ever do to you?” Nick asked.
“You took my last bit of humanity,” Simmons said.
“You’re not making any sense! I’ve never met you. Not until this week. What the hell are you talking about?” Nick asked, fearing that Simmons was in some type of psychotic break and worried that if he pushed too hard too fast she would snap.
“I’ve always had a taste for it. As long as I can remember,” Simmons said.
“Taste for what?”
“Death.”
Simmons looked at the whip in Spangler’s hand. Nick followed her gaze and realized that it wasn’t a whip but was in fact a willow branch, barbed with nubs from where the leaves had been stripped off.
“Daddy tried to help. He tried to make me better. Beat it out of me. With a branch much like that one there,” Simmons said.
Nick noted that Simmons spoke with a reverence for either her dad or the whip, or both. Regardless, it was creepy and left him uneasy.
Nick said nothing. He listened trying to find an angle.
“It didn’t take. Daddy died, and then there was nobody left to help me with my problem,” Simmons said with a strange curl of her lip.
“I thought—you said—your parents were killed a few years ago,” Nick stopped himself realizing nothing she’d told him before was true.
“Nope. Never knew mom. She abandoned me early on. Dad stuck around. He was good to me. Even the beatings were done out of love.”
“So, you killed him?” Nick asked, buying time.
“Not me. He was killed by a local homeless man when I was thirteen. Same year I got put into foster care. Same year I got pregnant.” Simmons paused as if giving way to deep thought. “A lot of firsts for me that year.”
“Jesus. How the hell did you ever pass the psych?” Nick asked.
“I’m really good at reading people. Even better at manipulating them.” Simmons smiled and her eyes gave a glimmer of crazy. “You know that saying takes one to know one?”
Nick nodded.
“How do you think I got handpicked for the Behavioral Analysis Unit? I can track ’em because I am one.”
“Shit.” Nick muttered.
“Poor little Nick. So lost. So hurt.”
“I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me,” Nick said.
“You will. I’ll make sure of that. Otherwise, all of this would’ve been for naught.”
The tape covering Anaya’s mouth pulsed, and a murmur slipped through her tightly sealed lips. Her head began to sway, indicating her distressed return to consciousness. Nick saw the flutter of her long eyelashes.
“Perfect timing!” Simmons exclaimed. “Your sweet little Anaya will get to hear about the real Nick Lawrence. The Nick that I’m all too familiar with.”
“She knows everything about me. So swing away,” Nick said. His eyes flashed with anger.
“Not everything. No, not everything. But she will!”
Nick was silent.
“Do you think she’ll still love you when this is over?” Simmons asked sarcastically.
Nick ignored the question and scooted closer to Anaya, and in doing so, closer to his gun.
“Move again without my permission and I’ll shoot her,” Simmons said matter-of-factly.
Nick stopped, settling in to his new position a few inches closer but still too far to give any potential advantage. He stared intently at Simmons, evaluating the woman he’d gotten so close to over the past few days. Seeing her now, the red of her hair framing her face and giving her a wildness that only fueled the fire of his boiling rage.
“I know that look. I know it all too well. You want to kill me?” Simmons chided.
“More than you’ll ever know,” Nick retorted.
Simmons chuckled. “I doubt that. I know a thing or two about wanting to kill a person.”
“I get it now. You’re a sick person. But what I don’t get is what this has to do with me?”
“Simon,” Simmons said.
“Montrose?”
Simmons’s head nodded up and down, moving slowly for added effect. Didn’t you find it the least bit strange that his house is where thi
s little journey ended?” Simmons asked, never taking the gun off him.
“I did. And I still do.”
Anaya stirred again. This time her head lifted. Tears rolled down the soft curved line of her cheek as she surveyed the room. She eyed him warily, the terror percolating just beneath the surface. Nick received her silent plea for help.
“Good to have you back with us,” Simmons said mockingly.
Nick admired the fight in Anaya’s moist eyes as they narrowed in defiance of the armed woman standing above them.
“You may be turning that mean old gaze on your boyfriend in a minute when I let you in on his little secret and tell you what he’s been up to.”
Nick shrugged and shook his head, fending off the implication.
“I hope that baby of yours is still okay,” Simmons said, smiling down at Anaya’s stomach.
“What did you do?” Nick seethed.
“There it is. That’s what I want. Do you feel that? That deep anger surging at the mention of your defenseless unborn child?” Simmons hissed.
Nick said nothing. His breathing accelerated, and he could feel the tingle of adrenaline prickle along his skin.
“I can see it in your eyes. You are beginning to understand my pain.”
His ears thumped with the beat of his heart, nearly drowning out her words.
“A child’s death carries a never-ending flow of pain. You gave me that gift and I’ve given a lot of thought on how best to repay your generosity,” Simmons said, contemptuously.
Nick’s brow furrowed in thorough confusion at the madness.
“I carried Simon Montrose in my womb for nine months. Nine months!” Simmons boomed through clenched teeth.
“Oh shit,” Nick said.
“Oh shit is right. Starting to make sense to you now isn’t it, Nick?”
Anaya’s head swiveled back and forth between the two, her brow knotted in confusion.
“Of course, I didn’t get to name him. The State took care of that for me. And, like me, he was born a product of the broken social service system. Even though he moved through the pipeline into a closed adoption, I managed to track him down. Like any loving mother, I kept an eye on him.” Simmons said with a contented smile. “I watched him grow. It’s funny what you learn about someone when they don’t know they’re being watched.”
“He was sick,” Nick said.
“You say sick. I saw a boy who had some of my tendencies, albeit he leaned toward younger females. Hunger is hunger and everybody needs to feed their appetite.”
“You knew what he was? You knew he raped and sold young girls?”
“Raped, sold, and sometimes, when the need took him, killed young girls. If we’re going to speak truths, Nick, then let’s put it all on the table and leave nothing unsaid.”
Nick watched the woman leering above him. She was enjoying this. It was the happiest he’d ever seen her in the short time he’d known her.
“That’s right. A sick bastard. A pariah. And apparently just like his mom!” Nick spat the words.
“Easy, Nick. You’ve got the gist of where I’m going with this. I can finish explaining the details to Anaya without you around. So, watch your tone or you won’t be around for the final act,” Simmons said calmly.
Nick understood the veiled threat and didn’t question its conviction. Her eyes told the tale and he knew he’d get no additional verbal shots without dire repercussions.
“Dear, sweet Anaya, your little Nick isn’t the squeaky-clean G-man he’s led you to believe.” Simmons said. “He’s got a dark side and my little Simon wasn’t his first, but will probably be his last. Nick doesn’t like to let the justice system run its course. Sometimes he plays judge, jury, and executioner.”
Nick refused to look at Anaya, fearful at what judgement lay waiting.
“It’s the latter that brought us together, Nick,” Simmons teased.
Out of the corner of his eye, Nick felt Anaya’s gaze, boring into him in search of some meaning to the madness. He ignored her, cocking his head and looking past Simmons at a blur of movement near the hallway.
“Don’t worry I’ve been keeping track. Your secret’s sa—”
Simmons stopped midsentence and her eyes widened. Her face contorted.
A loud bang accompanied the bright flash from the muzzle. And then silence.
Chapter 30
Nick lay flat, sprawled atop Spangler’s dead body. Blood filled his eyes, causing him to blink uncontrollably. The automatic reaction told him he was alive. The thick salty liquid trickled past his lips and down into his mouth.
Nick spat, trying to vacate the foreign invasion before swallowing. He shoved hard against Simmons’s small frame, freeing himself from the dead-body sandwich. He wiped hard to clear his face and eyes as best he could, smearing the warm wetness into his gray sweatshirt.
“Holy shit,” Nick said, clearing his vision enough to see the rotund belly of Kemper Jones hovering above him.
“That’s about the biggest understatement I’ve ever heard,” Jones said, applying a thick layer of country twang.
Nick scrambled out of the twisted web of lifeless limbs and clamored to Anaya. Kneeling in front of her, he rubbed her hands and looked deep into her eyes. She seemed not to see him as she cast a vacant stare. He tugged the duct tape free from her mouth. Anaya winced as the adhesive worked hard to maintain its purchase on her skin.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” Nick said, pulling free the last bit of bonded tape.
“Are you okay?” Anaya gasped.
Nick didn’t answer because he wasn’t sure. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been too focused to notice a wound. He quickly patted himself down and gave her a nod of assurance.
“Got a knife?” Nick called over his shoulder to Jones.
“I’m a God-fearin’ Texan. I’d be going against all that’s good and holy if I didn’t,” Jones said, producing a folding knife from his front pants pocket and placing it into Nick’s outstretched blood-covered palm.
Nick went to work releasing Anaya from each tight plastic restraint of the zip ties fastening her arms and legs to the chair. With the last one cut, Anaya fell forward. Nick reacted quickly, catching her gently in his arms. She sobbed quietly into his neck. The tears punctuated his failure to protect her as they trickled their path along his tainted skin. He failed to keep his promise to stay by her side at a time when she needed him most. That decision had left her alone and vulnerable to the reach of an incensed killer.
“I’m so sorry,” Nick whispered.
“I tried to fight back. I tried to stop her from hurting me—from hurting our baby—” Anaya said, interspersed through ragged breaths.
“No. You shouldn’t’ve had to do any of that. It’s my fault.” Nick’s voice broke like a teenager hitting puberty. “I should’ve been there!”
“The baby! Oh my God no!” Anaya said, grasping at her stomach.
“What? Oh no—what did she do?” Nick pulled back to seek the answer in Anaya’s face.
She said nothing. Nick tracked the gaze of Anaya’s dark eyes down to Spangler’s right hand and the willow branch he still held. Upon closer inspection, Nick realized that Spangler wasn’t actually holding it, rather, he was held to it. The wider end of the cut tree limb was pressed tightly to the gloved palm of his hand, bound by several layers of black electrical tape.
“Have you got an ambulance coming?” Nick boomed the question at Jones.
“I called it in when I notified dispatch of my arrival. They’re probably staged. I’ll call ’em up.”
Jones radioed for medical. Nick hadn’t heard the sound until now. The wail of sirens punctuated Jones’s radio transmission, and he heard heavy footsteps on the lower floor and the all-too-familiar squawk of police radios.
Nick pulled Anaya back into his tight embrace, trying desperately to calm her. The irregular jerking pattern of her body and rapidity of her breathing indicated that he was having little effect.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours he watched as Anaya was spirited away on a gurney with the life of his unborn child hanging in the balance. The thought of it caused his knees to buckle. Jones caught him by the arm, supporting his dead weight.
“I’ll be right behind you!” Nick called out.
Anaya turned her head back toward him but said nothing as the squeaky-wheeled gurney clicked and clanged out of the door and down the hallway. Nick bore witness to the panic in her eyes, the effect of which was worsened by the opaque plastic of the portable oxygen mask covering the lower half of her face.
The short stocky Cedar Park detective initially assigned to the scene was more than happy to turn the investigation over to the combined investigative efforts of APD Homicide and the FBI.
“Well that was a first for me,” Jones said, plopping heavily into a chair next to Nick.
“Huh?” Nick said in a daze.
“Turned over my gun. It feels weird. Like I did something wrong,” Jones said, looking down at the worn leather of his unbuttoned holster, most of which was hidden under his ample love handle.
“You saved my life. And Anaya’s. You did nothing wrong,” Nick said, shifting his vacant stare from the tiled ground to his friend. The tangled bodies of Simmons and Spangler remained huddled in the center of the room, only twenty feet away.
“I know. Just feels weird is all.”
“I’d like to say I know what you’re feeling, but I’ve never—well not as a cop—pulled the trigger. Military—yes—but cop no,” Nick said.
The two men sat in silence for several minutes.
Jones chuckled softly to himself. Nick looked at him expectantly, waiting for the punch line.
“I was just thinking,” Jones said, still snickering.
“What could be so funny right now?” Nick asked.