Opening Moves

by Steven James

  Gun out, I descended the stairs.

  The slaughterhouse looked as though it hadn’t been used in years, but still somehow, the air was filled with the damp smell of decay and rot, as if death had never left this place.

  My thoughts raced. I couldn’t keep them still and they flipped through all that we knew about the crimes this week, the earlier homicides, the missing persons.

  Locations and travel routes.

  Trying to thread everything together.

  The mattresses…the mission on West Reagan Street…the location of Basque’s car…

  I reached ground level. Abandoned offices on my left. Dull patches of light fighting their way through the grimy windows.

  No sign of anyone. No sounds except for water dripping somewhere out of sight. As I moved forward, half a dozen rats scurried across the concrete floor in front of me.

  I passed through a long narrow corridor that led to a winding chute that cows would’ve evidently been led along on their way to the slaughter.

  There was an opening up ahead on my left that appeared to lead to the pens where Brantner Meats used to keep their cattle.

  As I was approaching it, I heard the sounds.

  Maybe someone gasping; I couldn’t be sure. Whatever it was, someone was hurt and the wet, strangled cough that followed sent an unsettling chill dipping into my stomach.

  I leveled my gun and edged forward, peering around the corner.

  And saw him.

  Basque.

  He was holding a scalpel, standing over a woman. Blood all over her, spread across her neck and chest and abdomen.

  I whipped around the corner. “Drop the knife! Back away from her!”

  He was only four, maybe five meters away.

  He did not comply, just stood as still as death and looked at me thoughtfully.

  “Hands up! Back away from the woman, Richard!” But he didn’t move, he just eyed me, the blade dripping red at his feet. His gaze was fastened on my gun, as if he were curious about it, as if it were something he’d never seen before and he was wondering what exactly it was for.

  I stepped closer to him, reminding myself that backup was on its way. “Richard, drop that knife and put your hands in the air.”

  Above us, on long tracks, hung rusted meat hooks, somber and still—which only served to make the scene more macabre.

  Another step.

  Careful, Pat.

  All at once Basque spun and started for the far door. Barring an immediate and direct threat to someone’s life, I wasn’t about to shoot him in the back, but I could catch him and I could take him down. I yelled for him to stop even as I dashed toward him.

  But after we’d both gone only a few steps, he spun and fired a handgun at me, but he was off balance and missed. I squeezed the trigger, but my SIG refused to fire. Odds were ten thousand to one against it, but it jammed now when I needed it most and before I could process that, he shot at me again. This time he hit my left shoulder, sending me spiraling sideways, off balance. I landed hard on the ground, and hot pain exploded from my shoulder and seared through my whole body.

  Judging from the pain coming from both the anterior and the posterior of my shoulder, it was probably a through and through, entering just below the bone of my shoulder and exiting near my armpit. I still had mobility of my arm, but it was sure going to hurt to move it.

  Too bad.

  I jumped to my feet and rushed him, snagging one of the meat hooks hanging above us as I did. I swung it fiercely toward him and it traveled down the track even faster than I thought it would. Basque managed to dodge it, but while he was distracted it gave me just enough time I needed to close the space between us, and then I was on him, tackling him just like I’d taken down Vincent Hayes on Sunday night. My shoulder screamed at me as we collided with the concrete.

  Behind me I could hear the woman coughing, struggling to breathe.

  At impact, Basque’s gun spun across the ground, but he still had the scalpel and made use of it, driving it into my right thigh. A fresh burst of pain sprayed through me, but I was able to wrench his arm back to control him. The scalpel was still sticking out of my leg when I cuffed him. Looking toward the woman, I knew I needed to clear her airway if she was going to make it.

  His gun wasn’t jammed, so I picked it up and aimed it at him. “You move, you try to run, you’re going down.”

  He didn’t acknowledge that, just lay there, cuffed, watching me silently, not trying to escape. Reserved and calm. He still hadn’t spoken a word.

  I ran to the woman. As gently as I could, I tilted her head to the side to help drain blood from her mouth.

  Now that I was this close to her, I was able to see the extent of her injuries. There were ghastly wounds in her abdomen, her chest, her throat. I’d never seen anything like it. Maybe Basque had heard me coming and cut her in ways to make sure she wouldn’t survive in case he was caught or killed.

  I couldn’t imagine that there was any way to save her. Not with injuries like this.

  Come on, Pat! You have to help her!

  She spit out a mouthful of blood and grabbed a breath.

  As I tried to stop the bleeding from her throat, I heard Basque from behind me: “I think we may need an ambulance, don’t you, Detective?”

  He sounded cool and relaxed, and that just served to make his mockery all the more infuriating.

  I could feel myself slipping into the furious darkness, the abyss that lies within each of us.

  The demons.

  Keep the demons at bay.

  I refused to acknowledge Basque and focused on the woman.

  But she’d almost bled out.

  I wanted to reassure her, tell her that everything was going to be alright, that help was on its way, that she just needed to relax, but I knew those words would be lies. This woman was dying. Sirens were approaching—from the sound of it, a couple squads and at least one ambulance, but the paramedics were never going to make it in here soon enough to save her.

  There are times when a lie can be a gift, if even a small one, and now I told her, “Shh. It’s going to be okay. You’re alright.”

  She nodded and instead of terror in her eyes, there was a sweep of peace. She knew I was lying. And she forgave me.

  She closed her eyes, maybe so I wouldn’t have to be looking into them when she died. Then the gurgling stopped, her hands went limp, and though I tried to stem the bleeding and revive her, it was impossible.

  At last I rose, hands bloody from trying to save her. Pain raged through my shoulder and my leg, but it was nothing like the pain ripping through my heart.

  I faced Basque.

  A tight fist of anger balled up inside me.

  Going to him, I yanked him to his feet to read him his rights, but he was still focused on the woman. “I guess we won’t be needing that ambulance after all.”

  That did it.

  Brutality.

  Evil.

  Man’s inhumanity to man.

  I punched him. Hard. Connected solidly with his jaw and he flew backward, still cuffed, and slammed to the ground.

  And then I was on him. I hit him again, heard the bones in his jaw crack. The back of his skull smacked solidly against the concrete.

  I raised my fist a third time, thought of that scalpel still in my leg, what I could do with it, thought of yesterday when I’d left Griffin’s knife beside him, thought of justice and what it means and how it fails and what to do when it does.

  A life for a life, isn’t that what they say? Justice the way it was meant to be?

  Radar told me he believed in a reckoning. Well, we could have reckoning right here and now.

  The sound of sirens in the parking lot rang through the slaughterhouse. The officers, the EMTs would probably be here in less than a minute.

  “Why do you do this, Pat?” Taci had asked me.

  “To keep the demons at bay.”

  Basque was looking directly into my eyes and I was looking into his
, as if we were poring through each other’s souls, seeing if, perhaps there was no difference there after all.

  His lip was split open from when I’d punched him. Blood smeared across his teeth. His tongue tapped at the blood, then retreated into his mouth. Then he spoke, even through the pain of his broken jaw. It must have taken great effort, hurt terribly, but he managed to keep his tone calm. However, even he couldn’t stop his words from sounding juicy and uneven from the shattered bones. “It feels good, doesn’t it, Detective? If feels really good.”

  I felt a final tug toward the darkness, toward the part of my heart I’ve tried to tell myself isn’t there, toward the things that lead us over the edge.

  Dark things.

  I squeezed my fist tighter. Cocked it back.

  I could hear officers calling, entering the slaughterhouse.

  The scalpel.

  The gun.

  End this.

  No! You’re not like him, Pat. You’re not capable of the unthinkable.

  Yes, you are.

  We all are.

  Anger is a response, not a choice. We can only choose what to do with it. Let it lead us around on a leash, or—

  “Do you know where Tod Walker is?” I asked Basque.

  “No.”

  “This week, these abductions, was that you?”

  “No.”

  “Do not lie to me.”

  “It was not me.”

  Two officers flared into the room, weapons raised. “Down!” one of them yelled. “Step away from—”

  “No, that’s Bowers,” the other one cut in.

  I saw the ice in Basque’s eyes again, just as I had at the acquisitions firm, and the realization of what he was capable of, what all of us are capable of, struck me, chilled me, repulsed me.

  I stood, then stepped back and let one of the other officers lean over Basque.

  A scalpel is a good slicing weapon but not a good stabbing one and even though the blade had gone into my thigh a couple centimeters, it wasn’t nearly as severe a puncture wound as it could have been. It might bleed a little, but I was tired of having that thing sticking out of me. I reached down, braced myself, pried it out.

  One of the officers was watching, his mouth agape. I tossed the scalpel to the ground. “Evidence doesn’t leave the scene of a crime.” Jammed or not, I retrieved my SIG.

  More officers flared into the room and it was over. We had Basque, we were taking him in. He would spend the rest of his life in a cell. Justice? Maybe not, but at least it was a step in the right direction.

  I was splashing the blood off my hands in a pool of dank water near a cattle stall when Ellen came jogging around the corner. “Pat!” She was out of breath. “We found Radar.”

  “What? Where?”

  “At a bank. He’s at a bank.”

  “A bank?”

  “Holding up a bank.”

  “What?”

  “First Capital.” She paused long enough to catch her breath. “In Wales.”

  Wales? That’s where the bank was that the Oswalds held up, the one that led to them being chased and apprehended…It should have been staked out!

  “He has hostages,” she said. “He’s asking for you.”

  My thoughts buzzed: The kidnapper took Tod. He’s forcing Radar to do this just like he forced Vincent to abduct Lionel, like he forced Carl to skin that corpse…

  Basque spit out a mouthful of blood as the officers hoisted him to his feet. “Read him his rights,” I called, then turned back to Ellen. “He has hostages?”

  “Yes, and he said you have to be there by four twenty-five.”

  “Or what?”

  She shook her head. “We don’t know.”

  I looked at my watch. I had twenty-four minutes.

  A half-hour drive? I’d never make it in time.

  Oh yes, I would.

  “Call it in.” I was hurrying toward the door, trying hard not to limp. “And get word to Radar that I’m on my way.”

  90

  The paramedics were unloading a gurney when I got outside.

  I didn’t want them to hassle me. So I was thankful I was still wearing my leather jacket and that the blood from my shoulder hadn’t seeped through too much. “There’s a woman inside,” I told them. “She didn’t make it. The suspect’s jaw is broken. Don’t give him anything for pain.”

  Calvin was standing beside my car. He gasped when he saw me, and gestured toward my leg. “My dear boy, you’ve been shot!”

  I looked where he was pointing. “Stabbed, actually.” I didn’t mention my shoulder.

  “That must hurt, terribly.”

  Yes, it does.

  “I’m okay.” On my way to the car I was able to grab a pressure bandage from a paramedic and tighten it around my thigh. At the last minute I went ahead and threw one around my shoulder too, then opened the driver’s door.

  “You can’t be serious, my boy,” Calvin said. “I’ll drive.”

  For just a moment I actually thought about letting him. It would’ve given me a chance to put pressure on the gunshot wound and quiet the bleeding. Besides, using my injured leg to work the gas and the brake was not something I was looking forward to, but letting him drive was too far outside of protocol even for me. “I’m good.”

  I thanked him for helping me find the slaughterhouse, got directions from dispatch, and took off for First Capital Bank in Wales.

  Radar had done as Tod’s kidnapper had demanded.

  Once he was inside the bank, once he had the three bank employees and two customers restrained, he’d called the cable news stations and instructed them to send their news crews immediately, to have their cameras ready, because they would need to catch what was going to happen at 4:25.

  And now, already, the news crews and law enforcement were starting to arrive. SWAT was setting up a perimeter around the parking lot.

  The phone rang. Earlier Tod’s kidnapper had told him to expect a call and Radar picked up.

  The man let him speak to his son, who was terrified, crying, then he warned Radar again not to let him down. “You would not want to see what Tod’s going to look like if you don’t do what I said. I’ll be watching.”

  Then before hanging up, he told Radar what had happened beneath the barn.

  Convinced the man was telling the truth, Radar lowered the receiver and tried to steel himself to actually do what would be necessary to save his son’s life.

  Ralph stepped out of his car.

  Sheriff’s deputies, local police, and a SWAT team had taken position around the bank. News crews from four different cable stations were setting up remotes just beyond the police tape. More news vans were on their way.

  He looked around, then asked a lieutenant who appeared to be calling the shots, “Who was in charge here?”

  “I’m in charge,” the man answered sharply. “Who are you?”

  “Were.”

  “Were?”

  “You were in charge.” Ralph flipped out his creds. “Hand me that megaphone.”

  91

  4:14 p.m.

  11 minutes until the gloaming

  Radar heard Ralph calling to him through a megaphone, commanding him to exit the bank, but he ignored the agent’s orders.

  Out the window, Radar could see more emergency vehicles pulling in. SWAT and local police were there in full force. He recognized the Flight for Life helicopter from the Milwaukee Regional Medical Center hovering overhead.

  He turned and looked at the five hostages who were lying facedown on the floor, their hands and feet secured with the plastic cuffs he’d brought with him.

  The phone rang. Radar stared at it, wondering if it was Tod’s kidnapper again.

  He picked up.

  “What are you doing, Radar?” It was Ralph.

  “He’s got my son. The guy from this week. He’s got Tod.”

  “He was the one on the phone, wasn’t he? The call you wanted me to trace?”

  “Yes. Did you get
it?”

  “No. Just so you know, Gayle and Angie, they’re fine. They’re at the station. They’re safe.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Is Tod…I mean, do you know if…?”

  “I talked to him. He wasn’t hurt, but he was crying. Scared.”

  A pause. “What did he ask you to do, Radar? Just take the bank? If that’s it, then it’s done. Let those people go.”

  “He said they need to stay here.”

  “Until when?”

  “Just get Pat over here.”

  “He’s on his way.”

  “And don’t have SWAT move in, Ralph. This is my kid we’re talking about.”

  Another pause. “I won’t. But just be easy, bro. Do you know anything at all about the guy who took Tod?”

  “He called me Radar.”

  “What?”

  “He knows me somehow, but I couldn’t recognize his voice. I’ve been thinking about it, I have no idea who he could be.”

  “Someone from the department?”

  “I don’t know. But he didn’t attract attention when he dropped off that package for me in the lobby.”

  “I’ll do some checking on guys who fit our suspect’s description. Pat will be here in a couple minutes. In the meantime, don’t do anything stupid.”

  92

  4:21 p.m.

  4 minutes until the gloaming

  I screeched to a stop alongside the police barricade. I didn’t want the bloody dressings caught on camera, so I tugged them off and left them on the seat.

  Fortunately, my jacket covered most of the blood, but as I stepped out of the car, I zipped it up anyway. Two officers met me and, as television cameras followed us, hustled me to a SWAT van the size of a small mobile home.

  Inside, I found Ralph, the SWAT commander, as well as Lieutenant Thorne, Lyrie, and a female officer from internal affairs. What she was doing here right now was anyone’s guess.

  “Heard you were shot,” Thorne said concernedly. “You alright?” Everyone else was asking the same question with their eyes.