Soulburn - The Complete Edition (Frailty)

by Baker, Alex

  Captain Almas propped his feet up on the desk again and shook his head. “Oh boy. This just keeps getting better and better.”

  “Regardless, sir, I think that provides an alibi.”

  “Do you want another shovel to use for digging that deep hole, Detective Stenks?”

  “Sir, it cannot be him.”

  The Captain rested his elbows on the cracked leather-covered chair arms and interlaced his fingers. “You were there all night?” he asked, pace still halting and deliberate.

  “All night,” Laura exuded confidently.

  “He never left your sight? At all?”

  Then, it hit her, and the confidence quickly turned to frustration. “Well...”

  “Well, what, Detective?” he asked matter-of-factly, putting his feet down and sitting up in the chair for emphasis.

  “I fell asleep...for a couple of hours.” Laura could not believe the words that came from her mouth. She sounded just like all of the stupid criminals that she had despised throughout her career.

  “Detective,” Captain Almas said, “you and I are going to have a little chat. A very unpleasant chat.”

  Laura thought about how much she despised the pacing of his voice.

  41

  The temporary lock-up area, housed in the main office headquarters of the Las Vegas Police Department, was small and cramped. It did not need to be much larger, since its sole purpose was to hold suspects just long enough to go before the judge.

  The two room area consisted of a check-in office and a small detention block. The office, always manned by no fewer than two guards, contained a desk, which was situated near the metal door leading to the cells, chairs, file cabinets, evidence lockers, gun rack, and a bathroom. The concrete block room was affectionately known as The Bunker, as the gray walls contained little more decoration than the jail cells it led to. Adding insult to injury, air circulation was minimal, leaving most to compare it to a mildewed locker room.

  Standing in front of the desk, one of the two guards on duty grabbed a doughnut from the open, half emptied box. “Heard we have a new guest. How is he?”

  The other guard, seated, scanned his messages on his cell phone. “Quiet.” Setting the phone down, he had taken a sip from the coffee the guard coming on duty had just handed him. “Didn't even want his phone call. And get this, wearing damn wrestling tights under his clothes.”

  “What the hell?”

  “I know, right. Freaks. Just when you think you've seen it all.”

  On the other side of the metal door, labeled “Holding Area”, were two rows of two cells, each with two single cots and a toilet. The first two cages, on either side, were at limit, holding two prisoners each.

  One of the caged men leaned against the bars. “This is bullshit.”

  Roofy was housed in the second cell back, on the left. Sitting quietly on his bed, his thoughts centered on Constance. Instead of protecting her, he had left her alone for his own selfish reasons. Now, she was in the custody of a psychopath, and he was caged like a common criminal while the police did nothing.

  On the other side of the metal door, the guards were busy discussing the previous night’s football game.

  “You should have seen that throw. Beautiful,” the one guard said, reenacting the quarterback’s performance.

  The squeaking of the man’s shoes on the permanently marred, pale green tile floor was driving his partner crazy.

  “I’m telling you, though, that linebacker laid that guy out. Broke his ass clean in half,” the exuberant officer continued, choosing to ignore the sound of the door opening behind him. It was not uncommon for other law enforcement personnel to come and go, and whoever it was could wait until he finished.

  “Sir, you're not supposed to be in here,” the guard, seated behind the desk, stated immediately to the stranger, wearing a trench coat and fedora, entering the room. He had no idea how he had made it this far past security, but he knew not to take any chances. Setting down his coffee, he unstrapped the baton from his hi-gloss duty belt.

  Reacting to his partner's outburst, the guard halted his football story and faced the stranger. “How in the hell did you get down here?”

  “The question, my friend, is,” the undesirable figure asked, in an unrecognizable accent, “how the hell are you going to get out?” He reached back with one hand and shut the door.

  Suddenly, the power went out, and, with it, the lights followed.

  “Whoa! What the shit?” the guard yelled out in the dark.

  “Back-up generator should kick-in,” the other answered him. The sound of his chair scraping across the floor, as he moved, echoed throughout the concrete room.

  “Yeah, but where is that weirdo?”

  In the cell block, the prisoners were getting antsy.

  “Hey! What's going on?” one asked, loudly.

  “Turn the damn lights back on! This is inhumane!” another demanded.

  The sound of gun shots reverberated through the metal door, followed by something that sounded like furniture breaking and heavy metal objects hitting the floor.

  “What's that?” one of the detained men asked.

  “Sounds like some serious shit's going down out there.”

  In his cell, Roofy stood and held the bars. “Kakogo cherta?”

  A muffled scream came from the office, followed by an unsettling silence.

  Faint light, just enough to navigate around by, came on.

  “Generator's kicked in,” a prisoner said as a faint light illuminated the contained area.

  “You afraid of the dark, bitch?”

  “What the hell?” one of the men exclaimed, jerking back as the barred doors to the first two cells opened.

  “Shit yes!”

  “I don't know, but I'm getting out of here.”

  “Maybe we should wait in our cells,” the fourth man said, apprehensively.

  “Sucks being you, home boy,” one of the freed men chided Roofy sarcastically.

  With the sound of metal scraping on metal, the detention door opened. The suspected criminals could not make out what was beyond the doorway, though, due to the low light and the shadow covered person that blocked the way out.

  “Aw shit,” one of the four men blustered, “this is it. It's on!”

  “I'm still making a run for it!” another added excitedly.

  “Gentlemen,” the back-lit figure dared confidently, “you are all welcome to leave, on the condition that you can get past me.”

  “What the hell is up with freak-boys eyes?” The prisoner had never see anything that could make a person's eyes glow, like a cat's, in the dark.

  “Screw you, assclown!”

  “Yeah. I'm gonna beat you like a bitch!”

  One of the incarcerated men lurched forward and swung, sure he had the element of surprise. “Alright, mother-fu...”

  With lightning fast reflexes, the challenger grabbed the prisoner by the arm and the hair on the back of his head and slammed him into the closest set of bars, face first. Skull crushed in-between steel, from the force of the attack, the prisoner's limp body hung from the cage.

  A second man threw a punch, but the stranger had ducked long before it could connect. Wrapped up in a vice-like grip around his neck and arm, the prisoner found himself being grabbed and used as a shield, eating a punch coming in from his fellow cell mate.

  “Shit! Hold still you bitch!” The other prisoner loaded up for another shot.

  As he did, the uninvited guest twirled the man he held captive, snapping his neck in the process and leaving his body to crumple against the bars. The trench coat covered attacker followed it up by leaping into the air and pouncing, like an animal, on the third man, who never got a chance to swing his fist. He crushed the hapless prisoner to the floor, cracking his skull. Planted on top of the corpse, on all fours, he glanced up at the fourth detainee.

  The terrified man threw his hands out defensively. “Wait. I got no beef with you,” he stammered, backin
g into one of the open cells. It did no good, as the man, whose eyes floated menacingly, like two orbs, in the darkened cell block, followed him.

  “Please, man,” the prisoner begged. “I'm in here for jerking off in a sorority house. I don't want any trouble.”

  The stalker loomed over him as he stumbled back and fell, seated, in front of the toilet. “You shame yourself.” With a thrust of his hand, he smashed the cowering prisoner's head through the porcelain toilet bowl.

  Steadfast, Roofy watched the victor saunter over to his cell. His muscles tensed for the attack he expected to come, although he was not sure how the crazed man could get to him while the cell door remained closed. The big Russian had been in enough altercations, though, to know he was being sized up.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ambrose.”

  Roofy was not fooled by the gentlemanly introduction, especially after witnessing the carnage the man had executed. What did have the ex-wrestler perplexed were the wolf-like eyes flashing out from under the fedora, the thick accent, the musky scent, and the sensation that the had met before. It would take more than cheap tricks and bad smells to intimidate him, though. “I will not be so easy a test for you, comrade,” the big Russian challenged firmly.

  “Oh, I am quite aware of that. You see, I know you. More importantly, I know what you are inside.” Ambrose had waited for this moment for so long, he could hardly believe it was finally here. There was nowhere for the Russian to go, except into his trap. “I am quite hurt that you do not remember me from the incident outside the bar. It's really a shame after all the planning that went into it. Your friend did not give up her blood willingly.”

  “I do not care.” Roofy managed to keep a straight face, not giving the murdered the satisfaction of seeing how upset he was by Sarah's death. At least it confirmed what the detective had thought and why the man seemed familiar. He probably would have recognized him right away if not for the difference in clothing and the fact that he did not get a good look at Ambrose's face that night.

  “You should, comrade,” Ambrose mocked, “if you care for the girl.”

  “The girl? Where is she?” Roofy asked, foregoing caution and stepping up to the bars.

  “I'll tell you, but you're going to have to earn it,” Ambrose smirked brashly.

  Enraged, Roofy grabbed through the bars, but all he got was air, as the shadowy figure dodged him.

  “Come to the Orleans Arena.” Ambrose turned and walked slowly toward the open metal door leading to the office. “Meet me in the ring.” He paused before exiting. “Oh, and I would suggest you leave quickly, since you've just killed all these people.” He could attempt to end his prey's life here, which would suit him fine, and he was positive the Russian was the demon seed carrier he had sought. Ambrose, however, remained concerned about just how far along the possession may be. If the being had gained enough control, he may be too powerful to take alone. The Russian would be tested first, as planned, and he had the perfect expendable puppet ready to perform the deed. Ambrose figured it was a win-win situation. If his follower eliminated Roofy, all the better. If not, the big Russian would still get what he deserved, but he would continue to suffer through the death of all those around him first, including the girl.

  Roofy watched helplessly as the assailant vanished into the next room. He pondered, for a brief moment, how he was going to get to the arena when he was still locked up in the cell. Then, the door opened.

  42

  “So long as you are in my part of the jungle, you play by my rules. Understood?” Captain Almas directed the dressing-down across his desk.

  Biting her lip and so stiff with frustration she thought her back would snap, Detective Laura Stenks prepared to answer, but she had decided it was best not to say anything. It was opening her mouth that had landed her in this mess with the Las Vegas P.D. to begin with.

  An alarm rang out through the building.

  “What in the crickets?” Captain Almas asked, starting abruptly from behind his dark stained desk, as an officer ran into the room. “Why do we have an alarm?”

  Laura followed the Captain out of the office, not concerned with whether she was invited to tag along.

  “It's lock-up, sir.” The young officer led them down a series of halls and a flight of stairs. “Something's happened over there, and we can't raise anyone on the radios.”

  They reached their destination in time to join a group of officers as they barged in through the door, flashlights and firearms out.

  “Secure the rooms!” an officer yelled out.

  “Clear!” another one called.

  “Officer down!” added a third voice.

  Flashlights whipped around in every direction.

  “Where the hell are the lights?” Captain Almas demanded as he entered the room.

  Laura came in behind him, but she stopped just as quickly, unable to believe what she was seeing. One officer lay in a heap near a wall that was soaked in blood. The other had apparently been driven through the desk head first. His body was badly distorted, and the desk was in shambles. Chairs were broken and tossed about. Papers and debris littered the floor. Cabinets were upset.

  An officer near one of the bodies had his two-way out and was speaking into it. “We need medics to lock-up.”

  “It's him,” Laura whispered.

  A pair of officers emerged from the cell block.

  “What's the status of the prisoners?” the Captain asked.

  The thought that the response may contain bad news about Roofy had Laura tense.

  “All the prisoners are dead, sir. Except for Reiner. He's gone.”

  Relieved, she hoped that meant there was still time to save him.

  “What?”Captain Almas asked exasperated. “So, he broke out of a locked cell, magically cut the lights, killed two prisoners, and then took out two armed guards?”

  “Captain,” Detective Stenks said, trying to get the Almas' attention.

  The man in charge was too shocked to notice. “Then what, he just prances out the goddamn door? And how did he get the cell doors open?”

  Laura tried again to get through to him. “Captain, I think I know what happened.”

  “Captain, both of these men are gone,” a medic reported.

  “I know what happened here, Detective Stenks. Your boy killed six people. Two of them good cops.” Chin jutted out, he stabbed her in the chest with his finger. “And, I'm gonna take him down for it!”

  Laura started to say something, but she realized too much had happened for her to reason with him. He had lost all composure, and even though she worried for Roofy, she understood what the Captain was going through.

  “Lock this place down. Search the entire building. Review the camera footage.” Making his way across the room, Captain Almas barked out the orders before stopping to address two officers. “Put out an APB. I want him found! And, keep her the hell away from me!”

  Regrouping, as the department head stormed out, Laura looked around the destroyed room, trying to figure out her next move. Waiting until the two officers the Captain had spoken to left, she eased over to the area where the destroyed desk was.

  Close by, an officer assisted two medics as they loaded a deceased guard into a body bag and zipped it up.

  Sure no one was watching, she knelt and rummaged through the scattered remnants that had spilled from the evidence lockers. Out of a pile of papers and various items, she pulled a sealed bag that was labeled “Reiner, Roofy”. The bag was clear, with red evidence tape across the top, and it contained money, a wallet, and his cell phone.

  The nearest officer was busy marking bullet holes in one of the walls.

  Confident she lacked anyone's notice, she slipped the bag into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. Nonchalantly, Laura made her way out into the hallway and dialed Dwayne. “Hey, it's Laura.”

  “Miss me already, don't you?” Dwayne asked from the other end of the connected call.

  “Always.”
Laura ducked into an empty interrogation room and closed the door, which was labeled “Interview 1”. The nondescript room contained only a single table, with a chair on one side and two on the other. Observation cameras, used for taping all transactions in the room between officers and prisoners, had no red lights on, so Laura knew she was not being recorded. “Listen, I need your help. How would I trace a radio signal from a bug back to its source?”

  Dwayne, at his end of the call, knelt over a dead magician, inside of a house. A banner, with balloons taped to it, hung on a nearby wall and read, “Happy Birthday Phillip!”.

  The deceased magician had a poor quality tuxedo on and a long, black, Fu Manchu style mustache. A tall, black top hat, with the words “Mister Magic” on it, sat upright, close to the body.

  With Nitrile gloved hands and the phone pinched between his ear and shoulder, Dwayne poked around the dead party worker's mouth, which had a bird's tail sticking out of it. “No foreplay, huh? Okay, you're looking for a RFID.”

  “A what?” Laura asked, confident she had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Think of a toll pass unit you would use in your car. There's a tag and a reader.” Disgusted, Dwayne pulled the dead bird out of the magician's mouth and bagged it. Grabbing a flashlight and tweezers, he fished around in the open orifice again. “The bug you have is like the tag. The forensics unit there should have a reader.” He began pulling a multicolored handkerchief out. How in the hell did that get in there? He had seen many strange things in his forensics career, but this ranked a ten on the weird shit-o-meter.

  The colorful cloth continued to flow in long reams, and he fed it into an empty evidence bag.

  “The reader will pull the signal. You should be able to connect it to your phone.” Finished dislodging the obscenely long handkerchief, he sealed the bag and peered into the magician's mouth again. “What the hell?”

  “What?” Laura asked. She peaked out the door of the interview room. “You trying to figure out what species one of your dates is again?”

  “What? No, uh, sorry.” Dwayne, shaking his head, pulled a bouquet of fake flowers out of the mouth. “Anyway, hook it to your phone. You should be able to coordinate the two.” He bagged the fake flowers. “Use the cell towers to help triangulate the signal.”