The Kid: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 3)

by Dustin Stevens

  “You’ve read the synopsis that went out, right?” she asked.

  “I did,” Reed said, having gone through it a handful of times, committing the entirety of it to memory.

  “So then I don’t need to cover the back story,” Glenn said.

  “No,” Reed said, shaking his head to either side. “I can tell you’re a little uncertain though about how things line up and why I’m here.

  “In that report, it was mentioned that Mrs. Weston was coherent just long enough to give a partial statement.”

  “Right,” Glenn said. “That’s actually why I’m here now. The minute they untied her last night, she ran upstairs and started self-medicating. Damn paramedics didn’t think to ask when they arrived and gave her valium.”

  “Oh, damn,” Reed said, drawing the words out to sound just short of a groan. “So she’s been comatose ever since.”

  “Just about,” Glenn said. “Tried speaking to her this morning and got nothing. Bunch of drooling and eyelid fluttering. Going to try and head back out there shortly, but who knows if that’ll get me anywhere.”

  Reed winced, getting a sense even more for the frustration that was rolling off of Glenn in undulating waves.

  “Well, the last thing she said of any relevance was that the killer mentioned this all being about payback, or something close to it,” Reed said.

  “Right,” Glenn said, continuing to work on the coffee, oblivious to whatever harm it might be doing to her digestive system.

  “Before Detective Bishop passed out, our witness believed he heard him say back,” Reed said. “He thinks there was more to it, but it was the last gasp of a fading man.”

  Deep parentheses formed around Glenn’s mouth as she considered it a moment. “And you think maybe he was saying payback?”

  “Maybe,” Reed said, unwrapping his fingers from around the cup in a bit of a shrug. “But given that our guys were detectives, and yours was a prison warden, thought it might be worth looking into.”

  There was no vocal response from Glenn as she considered the reasoning. She shifted her focus past Reed, back to the traffic crawling by outside the walls of the facility, and pondered things for a moment.

  “Your guys that were hit,” she asked, “how long have they been on the force?”

  Already Reed knew where it was going, had thought of the same thing on the drive over.

  “Two months shy of hanging it up.”

  “And Weston was four years past when he should have done the same,” Glenn said.

  Reed nodded. “So if there is a connection, we could be looking at 20 years of overlap.”

  “Right,” Glenn said. “I mean, there can’t be that many people that your guys arrested that ended up in here, but 20 years is a long time. Some of that stuff is probably still on paper somewhere, not even logged into the system.”

  Reed had considered that as well.

  “Still,” Reed said, “I’ve got two ranking detectives in dire medical condition. You’ve got a long standing warden murdered in his own home.

  “Is there any way we don’t look into this?”

  Reaching up, Glenn slid the sunglasses from her face and dropped them upside down on the table. She pressed her opposite hand over her eyes and kneaded her thumb and forefinger in slow circles, pushing out a long sigh.

  “What’s your jurisdictional clearance look like on this?”

  “Far as I know, whatever it needs to be,” Reed said. “Things tend to become more relaxed when there’s an attempted cop killer on the loose.”

  He paused, watching as she nodded, before adding, “Besides, so long as I’m with you, I can go wherever the BCI can.”

  The kneading stopped as Glenn slowly pulled her hand away. The skin around her eyes was red as she looked at Reed, her expression somber.

  “Well then, you ever been to New Albany?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Part Two was complete. Just like Part One, and even the task before that, it had gone off without the slightest hiccup, the end result of meticulous and painstaking planning.

  As with the night before, The Kid couldn’t help but feel a bit of mixed emotions as he thought back on it. He was elated that everything had gone to schedule, that his original design, nothing more than some amateur scheming, had proven so infallible. The traps he had created were working, the ability to hold life in his hands bringing with it a power that was nothing short of intoxicating.

  Even now, as he was hours removed from his incident, he couldn’t help but feel the strong pull of it lingering in his system. The Kid could see how some people became addicted to it, craving it the way a junkie might need their fix.

  At the same time, the underscoring melancholy of everything was too much to be ignored. It provided a lead lining to each event, marred his victories in a way that would never allow them to be true successes.

  A single thought was all that kept The Kid on the level, tying everything together, keeping either extreme from becoming too pronounced.

  Big would be proud. Of that, there was no doubt.

  A smile grew across The Kid’s face as he laid flat on his back, his fingers laced behind his head. He allowed his vision to blur as he stared at the web of shadows playing across the dimpled stucco ceiling, the same thing looping through his head over and over again.

  This one had required far more from him than the previous. Sure, he had obtained a car, drawn the attention of the detectives, even had to conjure the nerve to fire on someone for the first time, but it didn’t compare to the events of hours before.

  There had been a detachment to those activities. Not once had he been within more than 10 feet of either person, never did he see their faces, sense their fear, watch as any injury was done to them.

  The second target had been on an entirely different level. He had spent time with Diedra Weston, had studied her patterns, gotten a feel for her as a human being. He had done the same with Dennis Weston, discovering the only thing he truly cared about was the woman that stayed with him solely for the lifestyle he provided her.

  More than that though, The Kid had gotten dirty, had shown a willingness to get down in the mud when the need arose. He had assaulted them both, had stared them in the eye as he tied them up.

  Watched as the life seeped out of Weston, as his wife wept for him.

  There had been no need to watch the news or scan any websites, The Kid trusting he had performed perfectly. Nobody had seen his face, not a single fingerprint was left anywhere. Not a person alive knew who he was, had any reason to suspect who he might be.

  At this point, he doubted anybody had even strung together why he was doing what he was doing.

  They would, though.

  Soon.

  The smile faded from The Kid’s features as he considered the notion, his face receding into a stony visage. He kept his attention focused upward, thinking that as wonderful as it had been, as vindicating as it all felt, it was time to move on.

  It was time for the third step to start. Tomorrow was the day, the anniversary that felt like it had been so long in coming, a box on the calendar he had stared at with manic intensity for months on end.

  Removing his hands from behind his head, The Kid rolled over onto his side, the satin sheets he laid on smooth against his exposed flesh. Propping himself up on an elbow, he rested his head against his right palm. Using his left hand, he slid his laptop closer, using his index finger to navigate the cursor, pulling a live camera feed up onto the screen.

  The image was relayed to him in grainy black and white, untold shades of grey providing depth and texture. There was no telling how many times The Kid had sat and watched this very same shot, notating every movement, studying every pattern until he knew them better than his own daily routine.

  The parallel of it all – of the camera, of the date, of the impending demise – was almost poetic. The first time The Kid had set down to plan it out it had seemed almost too perfect, the kind of thing that could be
schemed but never actually accomplished.

  Thus far, the first two steps had proven that theory wrong. He had done exactly as he wanted.

  Tomorrow, the third would be the same. He only had to wait until then, just a few more hours, before finally putting to rest something that had started so long before.

  Big would want it that way.

  He would be proud.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The decision to drive separate wasn’t much of a decision at all. Upon getting up from the picnic table neither one bothered returning to Weston’s office, Reed trusting Glenn when she reported that there was nothing there to see. Until her witness came around, though, she had needed somewhere to start, the office being the obvious choice.

  Their ensuing conversation had only confirmed that action. When someone like Weston was murdered it had to be assumed it was in connection to his employment and not just a random home invasion. The manner of death further seemed to indicate something personal, the possible connection to Reed’s victim taking it a step further into a vendetta killer, or even worse a serial.

  That thought seemed to hang heavy, albeit unstated, between them as they each climbed into their respective vehicles and headed out past the northeast corner of the city. Getting back later would be a nightmare for Reed and Billie, the work week now under way, but in the meantime traffic was thin.

  Riding two car lengths behind Glenn, Reed spent the drive deep in thought, no sound coming from dispatch. A host of thoughts and questions he had no way of answering came to mind as he drove on, Billie pacing in the backseat, eager to be up and moving.

  Reed knew the feeling.

  Twenty minutes after leaving the Franklin County Correctional Medical Facility, Reed pushed past the airport and the opposite corner of the outer belt. All buildings taller than three stories fell away behind them, replaced by farms interspersed with occasional patches of small businesses, the land appearing more agrarian than urban, white board fencing lining the road.

  Another 10 minutes passed before the speed limit slowed, a sign that looked to be the handiwork of both a professional artist and woodworker welcoming them to New Albany.

  “Damn,” Reed muttered as he passed through, noting that every last structure in the small town adhered to a strict construction code. Regardless of whether it was a McDonald’s, an Exxon, or a Costco, the front façade was made from brick, the exterior professionally landscaped.

  It being fall, floral arrangements with pumpkins, mums, and corn stalks were present on every corner. Bales of hay provided perches for artisanal scarecrows in most yards.

  “One of those places,” Reed muttered, turning on his blinker to follow Glenn, moving off the main strip and following a side street back into a bucolic neighborhood. Enormous lawns stretched out to either side, framing brick houses featuring what Reed figured to be at least six bedrooms each, the price tags he could only hope to guess at.

  Not a single person could be seen as they rolled through, no cars parked on the street, none even sitting silent in the driveways.

  The lone exception was at the end of the lane, a pair of police cruisers parked on the curb, a white van in the drive.

  White Collar America or not, a crime scene was still a crime scene.

  Reed followed Glenn forward and parked fourth in line behind the cruisers. They climbed out at the same time, meeting alongside her car and surveying the front of the house.

  “Are we in Stepford?” Reed asked, the home appearing to be a near carbon copy of every one on the block, all significantly north of his farmhouse.

  A sharp snort rolled Glenn’s head back an inch. “Had that feeling on the way in too, huh?”

  Reed grunted in response, the two falling in beside one another and walking to the foot of the drive before turning up toward the house.

  “Your partner not coming?” Glenn asked, hooking a thumb back to the cars, rotating just slightly at the waist to motion toward Billie.

  “Not until I’ve seen it first,” Reed said. “She’ll never do anything without my command, but I still like to make sure there’s not a lot of blood or bodily fluids around before I bring her in.”

  Glenn nodded once, saying nothing.

  “Besides, it’s usually better to give a new crime scene crew a heads up first,” Reed added. “My guys are cool with her, but nothing freaks out someone scrubbing for evidence like a dog showing up.”

  “I bet,” Glenn said, leading them across the front walk and toward the door.

  In front of it stood a pair of uniforms, the duo reminding Reed of the team that was standing outside Bishop’s door. Neither looked to be more than a few months past their training period, both appearing a bit pale, like they would rather be anywhere else in the world.

  “Good morning,” Glenn said, sliding her credentials from her rear pocket and flipping them over. “Cassidy Glenn, investigator, BCI.”

  Beside her Reed raised his badge from his chest and said, “Detective Reed Mattox, CPD.”

  Each made a face bordering on relief as they stepped to the side, the young man on the right stating, “Head on in, can’t miss it.”

  “I think they’re expecting you,” the other added.

  Reed knew there was no way anybody was expecting him, the invitation to come being extended and accepted almost on a whim just a short time before.

  The front door to the home led onto a wide foyer, an enormous stairwell extending straight up from it and opening into an open banister stretched to either side. Oversized openings led toward what appeared to be a formal dining room on one side, a parlor on the other.

  Following the sound of voices and the spillover of bright lights, Reed and Glenn walked past the foot of the stairs and straight down a wide hallway, the corridor ending in a cavernous living space.

  As far as crime scenes went, it was one of the more innocuous Reed had ever encountered. The body of Dennis Weston had already been removed, there being no blood spatter or bodily residue left behind that needed to be scrubbed away, not even the scent of anything in the air.

  All that was present to indicate a crime had been committed was a few coils of used duct tape lying at random intervals around the room, a length of white rope on the ground, and a chair that had been pulled over so as to be in direct eyesight upon entry.

  Otherwise, save the duo of criminalists painstakingly going over everything, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Thoughts?” Glenn asked, coming to a stop on the edge of the room and resting her fists on her hips.

  For a moment Reed felt a pang of offense pass through him before pushing it down, remembering that this was not her first time in the house.

  Maybe she really was just asking for his opinion.

  “If this is the same guy, this is a major de-escalation,” Reed said. He could feel her gaze on him, though he made no effort to match it, continuing to study the room around him.

  “How so?” Glenn asked.

  “The other one was messy,” Reed said. “Ugly. Lot of blood, left behind a couple of shell casings. Felt violent, almost spur-of-the-moment.”

  He made a show of extending his face toward the ceiling, checking the crown molding above, looking for signs of any digital monitoring.

  “This took planning. Not only did he manage to subdue both people without raising their guard, he also managed to get in and out of this neighborhood without being seen.”

  Shifting his gaze over to Glenn, he added, “Well, I assume anyway on the last part. Otherwise, I’m guessing we would have heard by now.”

  “Hmm,” Glenn said, nodding. “I wasn’t sure what the first scene looked like, but I agree on your assessment of this one. Whoever this is knew what they were doing. Wanted to make a statement.”

  “Which was?” Reed asked, his hands back in the front of his sweatshirt, watching the tech crew work.

  “Million dollar question,” Glenn replied.

  To their left a man appeared, having come from
what seemed to be the wall itself, Reed figuring there was another room extended out in the opposite direction. Dressed in a uniform matching the two officers out front, he was at least a decade older, a goatee encasing his mouth.

  “Investigator,” he said, stopping after a single word. He raised a single finger in front of himself and used it to motion back in the direction he’d just come from.

  “We have Mrs. Weston here if you’d like to speak with her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  In another context, one Reed guessed was as recent as just a day before, Diedra Weston would have been an attractive woman. A bit older certainly, the type Riley used to jokingly refer to as a country club grandma, but immaculately well preserved. It was not hard to imagine that in a day, a week, or even a month she would be again.

  That moment was just most certainly not now.

  The kitchen was arranged in an open air style, the kind Reed imagined would be employed in a Greek or Italian dwelling somewhere high in the countryside. Spanish tile lined the floor, all of it shades of white that were just barely distinguishable, giving the room a light and airy feel.

  An oversized island sat in the middle of it, a cooking prep station and stainless steel sink both present. Various appliances and kitchen utensils were perched on butcher block counter tops lining the outside of the room.

  Everything was polished to a mirrored shine, as if the items had barely ever been touched or if they had, were meticulously cleaned after every use.

  All of this Reed registered and dismissed in an instant, his focus moving past the working part of the kitchen to the far end. There the space opened up tremendously, a cherry table sitting on the edge of the kitchen space before the floor dropped six inches in height, a second level spread wide, encased by windows standing floor-to-ceiling.

  In the summer, the glass would most likely be swapped out for screens, tons of sunlight pouring in, refracting off the floor, giving the space a quality that bordered on ethereal.