Only the Strong

by Ethan Cross

  The desk sergeant had led them back to a large briefing room. It was the same kind of space he had seen in countless police stations across the country, and at least one time in Mexico. They all, of course, had their unique flourishes and differences in size and amenities, but they all still served the same basic form and function. The walls here were a pale-yellow plasterboard, and the ceiling was the standard two-by-two speckled tile, which seemed to be a favorite of schools, hospitals, and office buildings alike.

  Bulletin boards, calendars, schedules, announcements, photos—they smothered the walls, only allowing small glimpses of the pale yellow to shine through, like clouds blocking a rising sun. Coffee and donuts rested in the corner. A little cliché perhaps, but he supposed it was probably as true for any office setting as it was for those in law enforcement.

  They were alone in the large space, and Ackerman had refused to sit until the so-called task force arrived.

  He said, “This is ridiculous. How long have we been waiting?”

  Maggie, pouring her second cup of coffee, said, “It’s only been like twenty minutes. Just relax. Have a donut or something.”

  “My body is a temple. I’m very selective about what I put into it. I don’t eat donuts.”

  In response, Maggie flipped open the box, plucked one out, and said, “Ooh, Krispy Kreme’s. Your loss.” She punctuated her statement by taking an indulgent bite of the pastry.

  Ackerman turned his attention to his brother, who sat at the conference room table. Marcus had a full cup of coffee in front of him and was again rubbing his temples, likely fighting off another migraine.

  He said, “Why are we wasting time with this, brother? Can’t Computer Man just break into their files?”

  Marcus didn’t even pause his rubbing. “I’m not in the mood for a big philosophical discussion here, but let’s just say that the intuition and personal knowledge of the local investigators can make all the difference.”

  “I see. So we plan to use them for our own ends.”

  “No, I plan to help them do their jobs.”

  Marcus opened his eyes and lowered his hands from the sides of his head. He looked up at Ackerman and said, “I cannot take you seriously in that shirt.”

  “I think it’s patriotic.”

  “You look like you’re going to a barbecue . . . In Texas . . . At the house of a guy named Roy. I can’t believe Emily let you buy that.”

  Ackerman replied, “She didn’t. I stole it.”

  “What? First of all, you were there shopping for clothes on the government’s dollar. Why in the world would you steal instead of just having Emily pay for it? And second, why in the name of all that is holy would you choose that shirt?”

  Looking down at the garment in question, Ackerman couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. It was a long-sleeve button-down dress shirt, covered in red stripes with denim patches and white stars on the shoulders and on each breast pocket.

  He would never admit it out loud, but he knew the real reason he had stolen the shirt and chosen something so flamboyant was to get a rise out of the team. He found it difficult not being antagonistic.

  With a mouthful of donut, Maggie dropped into a chair across from Marcus and said, “I forgot to mention it earlier, Ackerman, but Kenny Rogers called. He wanted his shirt back.”

  Marcus chuckled, but Ackerman didn’t get it. He said, “I’m not familiar with this Rogers fellow, but you can tell him that if he wants something of mine, then he’s welcome to pry it from my icy death-grip.”

  Marcus said, “Okay, take it easy. Let’s not get our panties in a twist.”

  “I don’t wear underwear. I don’t like feeling restricted.”

  “Too much information,” Maggie said. “And would you sit down already!”

  “As you wish,” he said, taking a seat beside his brother. Maggie kept stuffing the donut in her mouth, and Marcus had gone back to rubbing his temples. Ackerman wasn’t used to these kinds of situations— working in a team environment, making small talk. He found it all so exhausting. His gaze traveled over the room, searching for some subject of discussion.

  Finally, thinking of an amusing anecdote, Ackerman said, “This ceiling reminds me of a particularly interesting encounter I had in Mexico, during which I wore a man’s face. I had carefully removed the mangled visage of his corpse and then placed it over my own. Then I crawled up into a suspended ceiling, much like this one. I distributed my weight until the right moment, and then I allowed myself to fall through, appearing to be the dead body of a police officer. Then—”

  “I really don’t want to hear stories like this, Frank. I’d rather think of you the way you are now.”

  “All of us, dear brother, are the sum of our parts and pasts. You, like me, have been tempered by the fires of pain. I find that sharing such feelings is a rather cathartic exercise, which—”

  “Please stop talking.”

  “Oh, come on now. It was actually a really good story. It even revolved around my first love.”

  After a long swig of her coffee, Maggie said, “Okay, now I’m a little bit interested. You are referring to a woman and not, like, death or pain or something like that.”

  Marcus snapped, “Don’t encourage him. Even if he wasn’t wearing that ridiculous shirt, I still wouldn’t want to hear the story.”

  “I could take the shirt off, if that’s the problem.”

  “Just shut the mouth. That’s the problem.”

  Ackerman turned to Maggie and said, “He hasn’t been sleeping, has he, little sister?”

  “I think it’s been days since he’s slept for more than an hour,” she replied.

  Marcus cocked his head to the side, loudly cracking his neck, and then he started balling up his fists and popping all his knuckles. Ackerman recognized it as a sign of his brother nearing a meltdown. Marcus said, “I’m going to shoot the next one of you who speaks.”

  Waiting only a few seconds, Ackerman said, “I believe that type of escalation is what my counselor would classify as an inappropriate overreaction to the situation.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Jerrell had thought long and hard about the reinforced glass that separated him from freedom. The floor drain was now filed down to a cutting edge and ready for action, but the more he had considered it, the more he felt that using his new weapon against the barrier was the wrong play.

  If he tried to break through the window, the Gladiator would know what he had done. He would be exposing his hand. Jerrell concluded that the better strategy was to keep his ace in the hole. So he had slipped the drain cover back in place, testing to make sure he could easily pull it free.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  A dim blue light stung his eyes for a second as his vision adjusted. He went to the window and this time, instead of the skull face, he saw the next chamber. The space beyond was perhaps ten by ten, but a similar design to his current prison. The difference was that a chair occupied the center of the room. A life-like straw-and-burlap dummy dressed in Jerrell’s clothes had been propped up cross-legged atop the chair. In front of the faux person, sitting at attention inside two circles painted on the floor, were the two biggest Rottweilers he had ever seen.

  Bathed in the blue light, the massive dogs were like statues of ice, except for the occasional turning of a head or licking of the lips.

  “Do you like dogs, Agent Fuller?” the voice said over the speaker in the wall. He saw now that his host stood on the opposite side of the chamber, behind another steel door and security window.

  “I have an acquaintance who trains this particular breed to be the most loyal killers money can buy. He calls them ‘hellhounds.’ Would you like to see what they can do?”

  His thoughts on the drain in the floor, Jerrell said nothing.

  The blue light i
n the next room turned to red and a high-pitched hum reverberated through the chamber.

  The two hellhounds flew into action, working together to tear the dummy apart. The dogs crushed what could have been bone between their massive jaws and whipped their heads from side to side. Instead of focusing on what would’ve been the soft parts of a human body first, the hellhounds directed their attacks only on the throat, head, arms, and legs. They tore those extremities away from the dummy, but left the torso intact. Jerrell imagined them tearing into his own flesh in the same way, their muscular snouts and razor teeth gnawing pieces off him. He wondered if this explained why the limbs of the former victims had been removed.

  The Gladiator said, “My best friend was a man who went by the name of Judas. He helped me design these proving grounds. You passed the first test by pulling the drain cover free and refusing to die. You may retrieve your weapon now and ready yourself for the next test.”

  On the Gladiator’s last words, the door clicked and slowly swung free. Jerrell looked around the edge of the door at the two hellhounds. The dogs had returned to their circles painted on the floor and again stood at attention. The light in the chamber had changed back to blue.

  Straw was everywhere, some small pieces still lazily floating to the floor.

  Jerrell bent down, retrieved the sharpened metal cover, and tried not to consider that his blood and flesh could soon be spread across the concrete chamber just as easily as that straw.

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Seventy

  Baxter Kincaid, as if he were in some old Charlie Chaplin movie, nearly stumbled in surprise as he walked into the briefing room. He hadn’t expected to find a room full of people. He assumed he’d present the photos to Natalie and her new partner, Detective Olivette—whom Baxter referred to as Detective All-a-that. Instead, he found what he recognized as the best detectives from all ten districts of the San Francisco Police Department.

  As she ushered him toward the stage, Baxter leaned over to Natalie and whispered, “You didn’t tell me there was a task force. How did you get all these people together so fast?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Not everything is about you, Baxter. We’ve been summoned here by the feds, who supposedly have an interconnecting case. They throw out a little cheese and expect all of us rats to come running.”

  He said, “I only have one set of photos.”

  With a shrug, she replied, “We could try to scan them and show them up on the big screen.”

  “No worries. I’ll make it work. I always do. But if I’m going to do this, I need a little herb first.”

  Natalie jammed her finger in his face and said, “No, no, no.” Each time she said the word “No” she bounced the finger, as if she were scolding an insolent puppy. “Baxter, do not embarrass me up there. Do you remember, back when you were on the job, seeing actual professionals? Please just pretend like you’re one of them. Act the way they would.”

  “I find that terribly offensive. In the immortal words of Popeye, ‘I ams what I ams.’”

  Natalie looked toward the ceiling, let out a long breath, and said, “I’ve always respected you, Baxter. But if you embarrass me up there, I’m going to punch you in the balls. And I’m not kidding.”

  Eyes going wide, Baxter said, “Damn, girl. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  He followed Natalie to the front row of chairs. Her new partner Detective All-a-that had saved her a place, but the rest of the chairs were filled, which forced Baxter and Jenny to sit three rows back. Detective All-a-that seemed a bit overly satisfied at the minor snubbing.

  “Which ones are the feds?” Jenny whispered.

  “Not sure. I recognize most of the people in here.”

  “So . . . how long were you and Natalie together?”

  “Well, we worked together for about—”

  “No, Bax, I mean for how long were the two of you fornicating?”

  “A gentleman never tells. And, oddly enough, neither do I.”

  “Don’t give me that ‘Grandpappy Kincaid says don’t kiss and tell’ crap. I’m not asking for all the gory details. Just trying to get a lay of the land.”

  Baxter winked at her. “In that case, the land is a little rocky, some ups and downs, rolling hills, but the soil is dark and rich, and the crops are ready for the harvest.”

  “What the hell does that mean? That makes no sense.”

  A door opened beside the stage, and Baxter watched his old captain escort a group that had to be the federal agents onto the dais. Looking over at Jenny, he placed a finger to his lips. “I would love to explain it to you. But the show is about to start.”

  Jenny gave him a look that Baxter interpreted as her considering boiling his balls and serving them in a bowl of Brussel sprouts.

  He found something about the look on her face incredibly funny, and he almost snorted trying to hold back his laughter. He pointed toward the stage.

  Part of him supposed he should have been kissing Jenny’s ass. He found her fascinating in every way and hoped their relationship would grow to be something more. But if they were going to form anything meaningful, she would have to accept him for the man he was—one who sometimes enjoyed being a bit obtuse.

  Focusing his attention back on the case, Baxter watched the federal agents take the stage. There was a row of chairs behind the podium, where the speakers normally sat. The whole thing made Baxter think of a high school graduation, with the principal and school board sitting in their places behind the valedictorian. In this case, however, the school board was a very dour-looking crew, and the valedictorian, who had just stepped up to the microphone, was Baxter’s old commanding officer.

  When the little man opened his mouth, his voice was high pitched and nasally. To Baxter’s trained eyes, the captain looked more like someone who should be tending bar in Philadelphia than a man in charge of San Francisco’s best detectives. But the captain had political connections. Baxter couldn’t remember the details—nephew of a senator, son of the mayor’s golfing buddy, or some such. Still, it wasn’t his place to judge, and in his experience with the captain, the little man had actually been surprisingly adequate.

  With a scratch of his unkempt beard, the captain said, “First off, thank you all for coming in on a Sunday. I’ll let the lead agent explain to you why such urgency was necessary, but let me just say that I think all of you have done a great job on this case. And I think your hard work is about to pay off. So, let me introduce you to the agents from the Department of Justice, and then I’ll turn this briefing over to their team leader, Special Agent Marcus Williams.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Seventy-One

  After instructing Jerrell to sit in the chair, which was bolted to the floor, the Gladiator had demonstrated his control of the situation by switching the lights to red and filling the room with the high-pitched tone. The dogs charged at Jerrell with frightening speed and ferocity, but Jerrell didn’t remain in his place. He rushed to a corner of the room. Putting his back to the wall, he hunkered low, arms guarding his throat, his makeshift weapon at the ready.

  But, at the last moment, the tone lowered in pitch and the lights flicked back to blue. The massive Rottweilers shook with denied fury as they snarled and growled at him, saliva dripping from the beasts’ fangs, but the hellhounds would come no farther. The tone sounded again, and the dogs reluctantly returned to the painted circles.

  “Make your choice,” the Gladiator said over the intercom. “Brawn and blood, or brains and imagination. You can either fight my pets to the death or you can pass my test.”

  Not seeing any other options, Jerrell sat back down. The eyes of the hellhounds followed him all the way as he crossed in front of them and sat.

  “Good. First question. A murderer is condemned to death. He has to choose between three rooms. The first is full of raging fires, the second is full of men with loaded
guns, and the third is full of lions that haven’t eaten in three years. Which room should he choose and why?”

  Jerrell sat dumbfounded a moment and then said, “Is this a joke? What kind of question is that?”

  “This test is designed to establish a number of factors regarding your brain power, including your IQ and cognitive flexibility. Do I need to repeat the question?”

  “I’m not playing some stupid game with you!” Jerrell screamed. “Come in here and face me like a man, you little bitch! All big and bad with two bodyguards and a steel door between us. Why don’t you come in here and face me yourself?”

  “All in due time. Do I need to repeat the question?”

  “The answer is: Go screw yourself.”

  “Once again, your choice is simple. Fight the hellhounds or pass the test. Refusal to participate is a choice that results in failure. If you fail the test, the lights turn red and you face trial by combat instead.”

  Jerrell gritted his teeth with rage. He squeezed the sharpened drain cover in his right fist. Then he looked at each of the dogs. Their eyes were wide and alert, and they made soft mewling sounds, as if they were watching and waiting as their master dumped kibble into a bowl. Maybe if he struck first and took one of them down he would stand a chance against the sole survivor. Against one of the dogs, he felt he had a chance. But taking on both would be suicide.

  He leaned forward in the chair, and the dogs growled. Over the intercom, the Gladiator said, “I wouldn’t do that. Unless, of course, you’re choosing to fight.”

  Jerrell leaned back and reconsidered his options. He’d never make it to one of them before they both pounced.

  The Gladiator said, “Do you need me to repeat the question?”

  “Yes,” Jerrell said. “Repeat the damn question.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Sitting in the chair closest to the podium, Marcus tapped his leg and tried not to focus in on individuals in the crowd or any of the other sights, smells, and sounds that threatened to overwhelm him. Over the years, he had learned to filter out the distractions and maintain his composure. But the less he slept, the less he could focus.