Only the Strong

by Ethan Cross

  He told himself he was being stupid.

  Sometimes he would get angry about being scared and chase the shadows into the basement with his fists in the air, ready for a fight. Of course, he had no idea what really would’ve happened if he found anything down there in the dark. He suspected it would involve a lot of screaming and a little pee in his pants.

  He summoned all his courage to keep moving. He turned around, trying to trace his steps, but that had merely gotten him lost in the other direction.

  And then his flashlight flickered and went out.

  He slapped the Maglite over and over and was rewarded with a few flickers of illumination. But with every flash, his mind’s eye saw something moving toward him through the darkness.

  The beam came on just long enough for him to see that there was nothing there. Then the light was gone, and his world became pitch black.

  Marcus tried to remain calm as the input from his other senses threatened to overwhelm him. Every small sound seemed amplified. The dark corridors smelled of mold and mouse urine. He could taste the dust in the air. His hands shook. He felt what he hoped were imaginary spiders crawling over his body.

  But then he realized that his real fear should have been the rats. The giant subway rats lived just across the water from Jersey. Rats could swim. And New York had some of the biggest damn rats anybody had ever seen.

  Spiders couldn’t kill and eat him. It wasn’t as if there were tarantulas in Jersey.

  Stories that other kids had told him popped to the forefront of his mind. Stories of rats eating babies and gnawing off children’s legs in the night. He had often imagined the rats crawling up under his covers and slowly devouring him. He often imagined their whiskers touching his feet. Often so vividly that Marcus would pull back the covers to check.

  Getting to sleep was an incredible chore for him that sometimes took hours.

  Then he heard voices ahead and stumbled his way forward. As he grew closer, he realized the sound wasn’t voices but whimpering.

  Or was it squeaking? His mind projected images of a mountain of rats flowing toward him like a tidal wave.

  Forcing himself to move, he crawled forward on his hands and knees, feeling his way through the space between the walls. He stopped every few feet to examine the walls for a way out. Repeating the same procedure for what felt like miles, he worked his way through the house, but the only things he found were peepholes and entrances sealed off well enough to require tools to open them again.

  And along the whole journey, tiny pinpricks of sensory input made him feel the spiders crawling over him, the rats gnawing at him.

  Marcus yanked his hand back as his fingertips brushed against something sharp and cold covering the floor of the passageway. Something metal. He cautiously probed the surface and discovered the inwardly spiked ribs of a vent. It felt like a giant upside down cheese grater. Testing the metal to make sure it would hold his weight without slicing his hands and knees to shreds, he cautiously inched out over the metal barrier, and then he heard the squeaking sound again.

  No, not squeaking.

  Now that he was closer to the source, he recognized the sound of a woman sobbing.

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Baxter Kincaid sat atop his black-and-red 1947 Harley-Davidson Knucklehead parked in front of the almost fluorescent-colored facade of Amoeba Music. He checked the time on his phone. Jenny was either working over or enjoying making him wait. It seemed that, although he was technically her boss at Baxtercorp—the actual name printed on his business cards—she delighted in antagonizing, insulting, and discouraging him. Although, technically, he supposed she wasn’t an employee, since he didn’t pay her anything.

  It was more that they were independent contractors providing a mutual service to one another. Jenny used her accounting degree to keep his books up to date along with a few other office-related tasks that would have never been completed if the job had been left up to him. And, in exchange, he agreed to let her tag along in her down time and learn the art of investigation. Why she wanted to learn had remained a mystery. She never mentioned getting her PI license or showed an interest in working on her own as an investigator. He suspected that boredom played a role, which was likely the same reason Jenny had abandoned a cushy CPA job, dyed her hair black, pierced her body, and tattooed over so much of her flawless skin.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, Jenny appeared at the front window, cocked her head to the side, and winked—while flipping him a middle finger that had happy-face tattoos climbing up to a nail adorned with a winking emoji.

  In that moment, Baxter could have cared less about the lessons for the night and her reasons for wanting them. All he cared about was the fact that, for the next three to four hours, he had her all to himself. If the rest of the world didn’t envy him for that, then they had never met Jennifer Vasillo.

  He had little doubt that she understood his attraction to her, but she always seemed to let their relationship teeter on the edge of flirtation and consummation.

  A new addition caught his eye as she walked, fresh ink on her wrist surrounded by red tissue. He could only see a small, black shape in that brief glimpse, but he made a mental note to ask her about it later. Her skin was the artificial white of cocaine. Her black hair was short and spiky with pink highlights. Her lips bright as strawberries. She wore jeans and a bright, red-leather jacket, the kind that Michael Jackson wore back in the Thriller days, the one with all the zippers. Tattoos climbed her neck, and a round nose ring looped around the bottom of her right nostril.

  He wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to love a woman who disguised her true self with so many layers.

  He said, “I brought an extra helmet, just in case you decided to live free on the back of the bike.”

  With a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes, she said, “I prefer to keep my internal organs right where they are, instead of squished up against a guardrail like a bug to a windshield. I’ll drive. As usual.”

  He shrugged. “I’m an infinite optimist.”

  “You’re optimistic that I’ll decide it’s a good idea to have my insides on the outside?”

  “Merely hoping that you’ll see the light. That you’ll choose to live with the wind in your hair and nothing above you but blue skies.”

  “The wind wouldn’t be in your hair. California has a helmet law.”

  “I was speaking metaphysically.”

  “You mean metaphorically.”

  “Whichever you prefer.”

  “So what are we investigating tonight?”

  Baxter chuckled and shook his head. “I honestly don’t recall at this point.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Ackerman had wanted to rouse the whole group of task force investigators and hold the briefing that night. He had certainly seen investigators called out of bed when they were tracking him. But Emily Morgan had spouted some nonsense about not being ready and respecting the families of the officers.

  Ackerman finally said, “Fine. But you tell that FBI agent’s kid—”

  Emily snapped, “Agent Fuller doesn’t have any children, but you wouldn’t know that because you’ve forgotten who it is we’re trying to save.”

  “Nonsense.” The little dog yapped and scratched at his leg. “Don’t you start, you grubby little hobo. As I was saying, Dr. Morgan, since we can’t bother the task force with this tonight, what avenues of exploration and investigation do you propose for this evening?”

  Yawning, she said, “Your brother will be coming back on the first flight. We’ll get some sleep and be fresh in the morning.”

  “But I’m not tired.”

  “Not everything revolves around you, Frank. You may not require sleep, but I do. You’re a big boy, and you can decide on your own when you want to rest. But I�
��m going to my room to lie down for a few hours.”

  “This is preposterous. Computer Man? Are you in agreement with this?”

  From the screen of Emily’s laptop, the tattooed tech genius said, “You don’t actually remember my name either, do you, Mr. Ackerman?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course I remember your name.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s . . . Stan . . . Stan Macallan.”

  The agoraphobe seemed almost touched that he had remembered. But it was merely out of professional and operational reasons that he knew the man’s name. He found it strange how such small gestures of respect could serve to brighten a person’s day.

  He said, “Stan, you’re on my side, right? We must press on. Once more into the breach. And so on and so forth.”

  “Well, I’m pretty wiped myself . . .”

  Ackerman focused his laser-beam gaze on the computer screen’s camera lens.

  Stan said, “But I suppose I could stay up for a few more minutes.”

  Emily sighed and checked her watch, “We can work on the case here in the conference room for a few more minutes, but I might pass out on you.”

  Ackerman wondered if this was what it felt like for a normal when his or her parents said they could stay up late. Such sensations were entirely foreign to him. His childhood was less slumber parties and sleeping bags and more acetylene torches and melting flesh.

  He said, “Let’s discuss Mr. King. He’s a total recluse, possibly even agoraphobic. Only a few distant photographs of him on the balcony of his mansion are in existence. How are we going to gain access to him, with Eddie Caruso’s help or not?”

  “We actually aren’t hoping to gain access to the man himself as much as his personal network,” Stan said.

  “Can’t you just hack in from the outside?”

  “No, it’s very secure. Like NSA level secure. The only way inside is to actually get into the building. If you can get a phone or hidden device within range of a computer with admin access, then I could hijack a Wi-Fi signal and—”

  Ackerman said, “I get the idea. But the question remains, how do we arrange a meeting in the office of one of King’s high-ranking men?”

  Emily stretched her arms and yawned, her movements almost feline. She said, “I think they want Eddie Caruso to help with that, but I’m sure Marcus has alternate plans as well.”

  “I have some ideas of my own.”

  Emily rolled her eyes. “There’s not enough coffee in the world to keep me awake through one of your ideas right now.”

  “Sticks and stones, my dear. I was merely going to suggest that we send a one-way message.”

  Stan said, “That sounds terrifying, especially coming from you, Mr. Ackerman. No offense.”

  “None taken, obviously, but I’m simply proposing that we find someone who is believed to do a great deal of business with King’s organization. Then we make an impression on that individual and use them to send a message to King…a one-way message. King’s response would be showing up at a designated place or time or perhaps even as simple as adding us to his schedule at a certain time and we go to him. We show up. Chances are that we don’t actually meet with the boss, but if the message is sent correctly, he definitely feels inclined to at least charge a competent lieutenant with handling the matter.”

  Emily shook her head. “I don’t think any of us want you to be the one to craft that message or make an ‘impression’ on anyone.”

  “I don’t have to physically harm the person. I can establish the proper sense of urgency using only words.”

  “We can talk about it in the morning when your brother’s here.”

  Ackerman said, “We should deliver the message tonight, while the target is sleeping. I find it best to creep into the bedchambers of a victim. It helps to convey the seriousness of the conversation.”

  Emily stood up. “Speaking of sleep. Sorry, Dracula, no creeping into any bedchambers tonight.”

  She headed for the door, and he knew it was futile to argue at this point.

  But then he noticed the little dog, curled into a furry ball, sleeping in one of the conference room chairs. He said, “You forgot your foul creature.”

  Without turning back, she said, “He’s not my anything. He’s yours.” As she pushed into the hallway, letting the door swing shut behind, she added, “He wants to sleep with his new daddy tonight.”

  He called after her, “I’m no one’s daddy. I’m very careful about that for exactly this reason.”

  The dog had raised its head and rolled its oversized eyeballs toward him with a look that was so “cute” it made Ackerman’s teeth hurt. Not because of the figurative sweetness, but due to the literal bad wiring in his brain. Whatever wires were crossed made the sight of adorable things fill him with some strange and undesirable form of pain.

  Lips curled back in disgust at both the animal and the woman who had forced it upon him, Ackerman said, “Computer Man, before you go, can you give me the name of a possible target for the plan I had described. Someone who does business with King. Preferably a lot of business. But not someone who would have a great deal of security. I’d like to have the information ready to present to my brother in the morning.”

  Stan smiled. “I’m way ahead of you.” A picture of another man popped up on the screen. “Guy’s name is Willoughby.”

  “Like a small kangaroo?”

  “No, that’s a wallaby. His name is Willoughby, like ‘Willow Bee.’ He’s been suspected of running guns from King down to the cartels, but the cops have never been able to make anything stick. He runs his own gun shop and firing range. It’s about forty minutes to the east of you, between Oakland and the Sibley Volcanic Regional Preserve. He has his business and residence at the same address.”

  “And what is that address, Computer Man?”

  Stan read it off while Ackerman wrote it down on a stray folder and then added, “By the way, you can just call me Stan. Although Computer Man does make me feel a little like a superhero.”

  Ackerman said, “I haven’t been calling you that because I forgot your name. I just don’t like it.”

  “Don’t like what?”

  “Your name. It doesn’t properly roll of the tongue. Stan. May I call you Stanley instead?”

  “Well, my name is actually just plain Stan. That’s what’s on my birth certificate. I’ve always liked my name. You know, Stan the Man.”

  Ackerman said, “I still don’t like it. So it’s settled. I’ll just call you Computer Man, which honestly feels much better to me. And you can interpret it as a gesture of respect.”

  Stan seemed confused. He said, “Uh, okay, I guess. By the way, Mr. Ackerman, your brother wanted me to remind you about the chip in your spine and that your location is constantly being monitored.”

  “Thank you for relaying the message, Computer Man. Sweet dreams.” He closed the laptop without waiting for a response. Staring at the address—which Computer Man had so naively provided—Ackerman committed the street name and digits to memory.

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Marcus battled against his natural urge to feel exhilarated by having exacted a small measure of revenge against his former friend. In truth, he felt alive and free, but he could never allow himself to feel pleasure at someone else’s pain. That was the darkness talking.

  Maggie sat across from him in the back of Eddie’s limo, throwing daggers with her eyes. For a moment, he thought he could see visible fumes emanating from her body. She hadn’t spoken a word since they had left the club.

  He said, “I probably could have handled that better.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Take it easy. Everything worked out fine.”

  “You’re telling me to take it easy? That’s just beautiful. What the hell was he talking about
anyway? Why would he say your dad was a dirty cop?”

  “He was just trying to push my buttons.”

  “Obviously, but that’s not the whole story. He mentioned ‘Junior’s family.’ Junior Who?”

  Marcus cracked his neck and sighed. He wished the past could just stay in the past, but old skeletons had a way of bobbing to the surface.

  He said, “Tommy Juliano, Jr.”

  Her eyes went wide.

  “Yes, that Juliano. I went to a birthday party once with Eddie at Tommy Jewels’s house. I got lost and saw something I shouldn’t have. Eventually, I broke down and told my dad about it. He told me he’d handle it from there.”

  “So it’s very possible that your dad did plant some evidence.”

  “Don’t you start too.”

  She said, “I’m not judging. We’ve all been there. You still talk to your dad’s old partner a couple times a month. Give him a call and ask him.”

  “What the hell is that going to prove?”

  “It seems to me like you and Mr. Caruso have some unresolved issues and neither of you knows the full truth. I know you. Those unanswered questions will gnaw at you and interfere with this case. Call your dad’s old partner. It’s always better to know the truth.”

  He considered that and was reminded of a Bible verse, John 8:32: “And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” But Marcus also knew that the journey to the truth was always a painful one.

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Baxter admired Jenny’s driving skills as she whipped her 1982 “Fox Body” Mustang into a parking spot. The car was too boxy for his tastes and sported a headache-inducing shade of red for a paint job. The interior looked as if Jenny lived in the automobile. Gesturing to the building in front of them, he said, “I give you the location for this evening’s riveting investigation.”

  As they exited the car, Jenny asked, “Does this have to do with that deal for Faraz, the pimp?”

  “It does, actually. He wanted to hire me to find the missing sister of one of his ladies. The sister’s name is Corin Campbell.”