Only the Strong

by Ethan Cross

  “My animals are well trained and well fed. We won’t have a similar problem here.”

  Ackerman smiled, and Corin caught sight of a terrible shifting darkness in his gray eyes. He said, “But, you see, that’s my point. The Persian general thought that he could control his beasts as well. In the end, he was correct in his assumption that the animals could be trained and domesticated. Where the general went astray—a lesson that perhaps you should learn from—was that he failed to see that powerful uncontrollable forces were moving against him, forces which change the rules of every game.”

  “And let me guess, Mr. Ackerman. You are that powerful force?”

  Ackerman grinned. “The general in the story underestimated the power of the cold, of winter, and of hunger. I was once a force of nature just like those. There was a time when I was the embodiment of darkness, living solely by the philosophy of the tooth and claw. And I have to say that the old me would love to drink your blood and eat your heart, but that’s not my point. I was merely suggesting that one of your dogs is going to turn on you, and I’m not speaking solely of the canine variety. As they say, live by the claw, die by the claw.”

  None of the women had touched their food, except for the Good Wife. Sonnequa still held the pistol in her left hand, as she scooped her meal with her right.

  The room was silent as Dr. Derrick and Mr. Ackerman stared each other down. All eyes were on them.

  Which made Corin realize that now was the time for her to act.

  The Good Wife had a death grip on her weapon, and the knife they’d used to prepare the food was locked away in the kitchen. All the steaks and other food had been precut into bite-size chunks.

  But there was one other weapon within reach.

  Earlier, when he had knocked her out of her chair, Derrick had retrieved a small pistol from a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. She had no way of telling for certain it was still there, but there was a better than average chance that the sidearm was still in place, considering tonight’s special guests.

  The only problem was that her legs were broken, scarred, and basically useless.

  The Good Wife sat between her and Derrick, and there was no way she could approach him without drawing everyone’s attention.

  A strange memory from her childhood struck her mind like a lightning bolt. One of their many foster homes had a small pond in its backyard. Corin and Sammy had affixed a two-by-four to the end of the dock, to create a makeshift diving board. Her younger sister had been too scared to jump, and Corin had told her, “Sometimes, you just have to make up your mind to jump, and let God handle the rest.”

  With those words in her mind, Corin Campbell built up all her nerve. She summoned strength from the girl who refused to die, the one living in a beach bungalow inside her mind, and then she sprang into action.

  ~~*~~

  Chapter One Hundred Seven

  Russell Granger was a heavyset man with a kind and jolly manner. Baxter had seen Russ around a few times while volunteering at the soup kitchen down in Tenderloin. Dropping onto the caretaker’s couch, Baxter said, “You have a really nice place here, Rusty. I can see you’ve done a lot of work to it.”

  Pulling over a computer chair, which rested in front of a desk crammed into the living room, Russell said, “Thanks, I’ve done all the work myself. Well, with my son’s help.”

  “I didn’t even know you had a son.”

  “He’s adopted. What’s this about, Mr. Kincaid?”

  “Is your boy’s name Stefan Granger? And does he have a tattoo on his hand like this.” Baxter showed him the still photograph from the bus footage.

  “Yes, he does, but I’m sure he’s not the only guy around with a tattoo like that. And he used to do this thing with his hand, when he wrestled, where he would wrap his hand over the bottom half of his face. Making it look like he had a skull face. It was a psych-out thing. Someone could have easily seen that, thought it was cool, and decided to copy it.”

  Baxter cocked an eyebrow. “It seems like you’re assuming your son is in some kind of trouble. You went pretty quick to the defensive there, Rusty.”

  “No, I’m just saying if you think he’s done something, anybody could have a tattoo like that.”

  “You’d be surprised. But, first off, would you like to hear why we’ve come knocking on your door?”

  “If it’s something to do with my son, I’ll give you his address. He’s a grown man. I’m not responsible for anything he’s done.”

  “You said your boy used to wrestle. Did he train at Unser’s?”

  Russell Granger seemed to visibly shrink. He leaned back in his chair and went white. “I saw on Facebook that there were multiple murders at that gym last night. Is that why you’re here? You think Stefan had something to do with that?”

  “Well, let me ask you this . . . When you saw that article on the Book of Faces, was your first thought that your son had probably killed those people?”

  Shooting to his feet, Russell said, “Okay, I think it’s time I give you the name of our lawyer.”

  “Oh come on now, this is supposed to be the part where you break down and tell us that you always suspected this day would come and you spill your guts. Besides, why would you need a lawyer? Honestly, as the caretaker of a cemetery would you need legal—”

  Beside him on the couch, Baxter felt Emily Morgan shift. Then she coughed to draw his gaze and shot him a scathing glance. He ignored her and said, “I want you to understand something, Rusty. I think your boy is responsible for the deaths at Unser’s Gym. I think he also shot up a house of ill repute down in my neighborhood. I’m going to find your son and ask him some questions about it. But, as you may remember, I’m not a cop. When the cops come knocking, you are going to have to answer their questions, lawyer, or not.”

  “I’d like you to leave now.”

  “Don’t be rude, Rusty. How about we talk about something else? What agency did you go through to adopt your son?”

  “That’s none of your damn business.”

  “I’ve heard, from several sources,” Baxter said, “that your son—Stefan Granger—has a rare genetic disease called Cherubism, which has affected his lower jaw for most of his life. So I did a little research on the disorder, and found that it’s extremely rare. I’m sure we could backtrack our way to some records and see how many kids were treated for Cherubism in the San Francisco area. My guess, man, if we went to all that trouble we’d end up finding out that no Stefan Granger was ever treated for Cherubism. How old was your boy when you adopted him?”

  “I could call the police.”

  Agent Morgan flipped out her credentials and said, “He’s not a cop, but I’m a federal agent here on business that is both official and urgent. Who is your son really? I have the authority to open all your adoption and medical records.”

  Baxter could see the old train of thought clattering through Russell Granger’s mind. He knew there was no way out now. The truth would be revealed sooner or later, and maybe it would be better for everyone if it were sooner.

  Deciding to add just a tiny bit of icing to the cake, Baxter added, “We don’t care about past sins, brother. We just want to make sure that no one else gets hurt. And if your boy is hurting people and causing more bodies in graves, more widows and children crying, then I know you’re the kind of man who would want to help.”

  After a long pause, Russell sat back down and said, “He’s not a bad kid. I know that’s what every parent says, but he’s really not. He has a good heart. It’s just the way he was raised and his family. Not my family, but his real family.”

  Russell Granger started at the beginning and explained how he came to know three young boys through a local youth organization. Their father had abandoned them, and their mother had a lot of problems. The rumor was that she was an alcoholic and sadistically cruel. But she was always hardest o
n the youngest boy, whom she apparently blamed for their father leaving.

  One summer day, the eldest brother, Derrick Gladstone, approached him and told a story that broke Russell Granger’s heart. Their mother had made them fight like caged dogs for her own amusement. They feared she wouldn’t stop until the youngest brother, Simon, was dead, since she’d apparently rolled up all of her hatred toward their father into him.

  And the three boys had come up with a plan . . .

  Russell said, “The oldest one, Derrick, he was always a crafty one, always making big plans. But he was also a star athlete and a straight-A student. Derrick and his fraternal twin brother, Dennis, were getting ready to enter high school. They explained to me that they didn’t want to go into the system at their age and assured me they could handle their mother. Maybe even help her. The problem was that they feared for Simon.”

  “So what was their plan?”

  “It was supposed to be temporary. They knew Simon and I always had a connection. He had never really known their father. I think the guy left when Stefan was in kindergarten, and he doesn’t like to talk about it. The older boy even offered to pay for his brother’s room and board while he stayed here.”

  Emily asked, “What do you mean while he stayed here? Wouldn’t their mother notice his absence? What about school?”

  “Derrick was a smart kid. He had it all worked out. Their mother would often take them into this special room in the middle of their house and force them to beat each other bloody. Real sick stuff. Their plan was to act like Simon hit his head and died, or something to that effect. They would do it on a day when their mother was particularly inebriated, so she wouldn’t ask too many questions. The boys would then pretend to take care of everything for her and dispose of the body. Which, of course, wasn’t really a body at all, since it was all just for show. They would have their mother tell the school that Simon had gone to live with his father and wouldn’t be coming back. After the grief of what she had done set in, their mother was supposed to learn from the error of her ways, see the light, and they could bring Simon home. He was only supposed to be with me for a short time.”

  Baxter said, “But that’s obviously not the way things worked out.”

  “No, their mother only got worse, and in time, I came to think of Simon as my own son. We enrolled him in a different school across town under the name Stefan Granger—which was his choice, nothing I forced on him—and it became official. He was my son.”

  Russell Granger began to sob softly, almost politely, trying to cover his tears with a smile.

  Baxter could imagine this man—who had a kind and generous heart but no children or spouse—feeling a great deal of pride surrounding the day that Simon Gladstone became Stefan Granger, the boy choosing to take on his new father’s name. The feeling was probably akin to the emotion a mother felt on the day of her child’s birth.

  The emotion of the moment sweeping him away, Baxter embraced the big caretaker in a bearhug that turned into Russell crying on his shoulder.

  After a moment of patting and consoling, Baxter glanced over to Agent Morgan and said, “We might be a few minutes here, but why don’t you get on the horn and call out the hounds on a Derrick and Dennis Gladstone. I think they may be some cats with whom we would like to thoroughly converse.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter One Hundred Eight

  Since it was a special occasion, the girls had been instructed to set the table with the fine china. Betting on sturdy craftsmanship, Corin snatched up the porcelain plate from in front of the Good Wife and swung the edge of the plate into Sonnequa’s throat. Then she smashed it across the Good Wife’s face, keeping hold of one broken shard.

  Her adrenaline had been pumping nonstop for days now, all of it building up to this moment. One surge of strength and action, one last chance at survival. Propelling herself off her ruined legs, she leaped forward, out of her wheelchair and toward Derrick.

  It had all happened so fast that he hadn’t even turned toward the disturbance before she fell on top of him. She jammed the broken plate shard against his throat with her left hand and searched his coat with her right, hoping to find some sort of shoulder holster.

  Pressing in the shard, she groped for the gun, but it wasn’t there.

  All her hope at success had depended on finding the gun in his coat. She wasn’t even sure if the plate shard had enough durability to cut his skin or if it would simply break apart in her hands.

  Even if it was a suitable knife, Derrick’s brother or Sonnequa would shoot her down before she could do any real harm to King Derrick.

  The two federal agents would be of no help with their hands restrained, and the other girls would rather go along to get along and survive.

  Refusing to give up hope, she ran her hand down Derrick’s side and found the gun in a waist holster.

  The pain in her legs caught up to her in one enormous, overwhelming pressure that nearly caused her to black out, but she managed to get her fingers around the gun and pull it free.

  Then she pushed herself off Derrick and used the grips of his wheelchair to whirl around on the real threat . . . the man who had brutalized her, raped her, stolen a piece of her soul, and impregnated her with a piece of his own.

  The big man had pulled his gun, but he seemed hesitant to shoot with King Derrick in the line of fire.

  Unlike her tormentor, Corin didn’t hesitate. She took aim and squeezed the trigger.

  Her first two shots sailed wide. But the next three struck the Gladiator squarely in the chest, sending him toppling back and over his chair.

  She then jammed the still smoking barrel of the gun against Derrick’s right temple and said, “Say hi to Genghis Khan for me.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter One Hundred Nine

  Ackerman had been genuinely surprised to see one of Gladstone’s girls spring into action, and he was impressed by the young lady’s animal ferocity. He was also amazed that the actual animals in the room had not leaped to Gladstone’s defense. He studied the eyes of the hellhounds as the attack took place and made note of the nature of the dog’s training. Two of the Rottweilers flanked Derrick while the others stood behind the other three sides of the table. Other than a few whines and growls, the dogs didn’t budge from their designated spots. This told Ackerman that the dogs were trained to only attack when given a certain command. Upon further consideration, he decided that made sense considering that the animals often watched people strike their masters in the Diamond Room.

  When Corin Campbell—whom he recognized from Baxter Kincaid’s presentation—opened fire into the Gladiator’s chest, Ackerman was again astonished that Corin’s little coup had an actual shot at success.

  Turning to his brother, he saw in Marcus’s eyes that they had come to the same conclusion at the same moment. Working in unison, they placed their feet against the table and shoved it over on top of the girls on the other side, including the dark-skinned beauty who had just been attacked and was raising her gun.

  The table knocked the armed woman back just in time for her shots aimed at Corin to be deflected into the ceiling.

  Ackerman tried to use leverage to snap his plastic restraints. Unfortunately, Derrick had spent the extra money on professional-grade flex cuffs, which couldn’t be defeated as easily as common zip ties.

  Hands still restrained, Marcus surged forward and kicked the gun away from the complicit captive. Ackerman briefly wondered if the young black woman suffered from some form of Stockholm syndrome. She certainly seemed totally loyal to good King Gladstone. He made a note to self that Derrick’s methods may be worthy of more detailed study.

  Corin now had the barrel of her weapon pressed against Derrick’s temple, and Ackerman knew the look in her eyes very well.

  Then, before he even realized he was speaking, Ackerman said, “Ms. Campbell, don’t pull that trigger.
I know you want to. I know it would be the easy thing to do. But killing changes everything. It will divide your life into two sections, the before and the after. And the faces of the dead forever haunt you.”

  Tears rolled down Corin’s cheeks as she said, “He deserves it. And this isn’t my first rodeo.”

  “Don’t do it, Ms. Campbell. Keep the gun on him and help us get free of these restraints. Then we can—”

  Ackerman heard two small thumps, and Corin Campbell jerked back from Dr. Gladstone, falling to the floor with a scream and a spray of blood.

  Directing his gaze at the source of the suppressed shots, he saw that the Gladiator had wisely chosen to wear body armor beneath his black suit. Ackerman seldom bothered with bulletproof clothing himself. Such concerns were for mere mortals.

  ~~*~~

  Chapter One Hundred Ten

  Marcus’s face bounced off the floor as the Gladiator picked him up like a rag doll and slammed him to the hardwood of the dining room. A second later, his brother’s face slammed down beside his own. Ackerman didn’t even put up a fight.

  “You could’ve just let her kill him,” Marcus said.

  “I thought we were anti-murder now. I can’t keep up with your ever-shifting views of right and wrong. Besides, what do you think the hellhounds would be trained to do if both Gladstone brothers were to expire?”

  The sound of two more thump pings echoed through the dining hall. The two bullets embedded themselves into the floor between Marcus and Ackerman’s heads, sending an eruption of splinters into the air.

  The Gladiator stood over them and said, “No more talking. Or my next shots are in your skulls.”