Son of a Gun (A David and Martin Yerxa Thriller - Book 2)

by Ed Markham

  “You boys are fine to set up shop in here as long as you like,” Markenson said. “Let me know if you need anything. My office is at your disposal.”

  When the police chief had gone, Martin turned to his son. “I like him,” he said, grinning. “He reminded me of an Abe Lincoln quote—something like, ‘My mind’s like a piece of steel. It’s difficult to write an idea there, but once etched, it’s impossible to wipe away.’ At first I didn’t think you were getting through to him.”

  David nodded. “That’s the most you’ve said in two days.”

  A shadow passed over his father’s face. “Just a lot to think about,” he said. “Old memories have a way of shutting your mouth and opening your mind.”

  He took a seat at the square table and withdrew his notebook. As he started to jot down his thoughts, David pulled out his cell phone and called Omar Ghafari to request information on Harvey Horn.

  “We’re also going to need Special Weapons and Tactics personnel up here for this search of Horn’s property.” As he spoke, he watched his father for signs of protest. But Martin seemed preoccupied with his note taking.

  “Okay,” Omar said. “I’ll coordinate with our Philly office.”

  “Any news on Carson Affeldt?” David asked him.

  “No. And almost everything about his disappearance fits our killer’s MO. I think we have to assume he’s the latest. His picture will be all over the evening news tonight. Hopefully that generates a lead.”

  When David was off the phone, Martin asked, “What news of the Affeldt boy?”

  David shook his head. “Looks like he’s our fourth.”

  Martin’s face hardened. “Then the clock’s ticking. You know as well as I do things tend to speed up once they get a taste for it.”

  David stood quietly, his hands on his waist. The thought of it made him sick. “You heard me order SWAT in to handle this apprehension,” he said. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

  Martin nodded. “Let’s just hope they find someone to apprehend.”

  Chapter 25

  “WHAT’S FOR DINNER?”

  Matt Crawford called out to his mother as he made his way through the kitchen and toward the living room.

  She answered her son without taking her eyes from the kitchen television. “Ask your dad. He’s in charge of cooking tonight.”

  “Dad’s homemade pizza!” Matt’s father said. He was standing on the other side of the kitchen countertop, carefully slicing a green pepper.

  Matt rolled his eyes. “Did you get Boboli, or did you make the dough yourself?”

  Ryan Crawford looked offended. Faking a comical Italian accent, he said, “Boboli! Forget-a da Boboli.” He frowned at his son and said, “That stuff’s junk. I made the dough myself. Why?”

  “Nothing, sounds good,” Matt said. He saw that his mother was watching the evening news. He paused to glance at the TV, and he stopped when he saw a class photo of Carson What’s-his-name on a backdrop of Simon Cameron Middle School.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “This is just terrifying,” his mother said, her eyes darting first to her husband’s and then to her son’s. “Did you hear about this at school today, Matt?”

  “Hear about what?” he asked, his eyes still stuck to the televisions screen. Carson Affeldt, he read below the photograph.

  Affeldt. That was the name he couldn’t remember.

  Liz Crawford nodded toward the TV. “A seventh grader at Simon Cameron is missing. Since yesterday. He was at school, but he didn’t come home afterwards.” She brought a hand up to her chin and pressed three worried fingers to her lips. Then her eyes returned to her husband’s. “Ryan? Honey? Do you think this has to do with those kids they found up in Bucks and Emmaus?”

  “And in New Jersey?” Ryan Crawford frowned at the television. “Jesus. I hope not.”

  “What happened to kids in Bucks and Emmaus?” Matt asked his mother.

  She shook her head, her eyes flashing from her husband’s to the television screen before returning to her son’s. “I don’t want to scare you, sweetie, but someone’s kidnapped some boys your age and hurt them. Very badly.”

  “Like, killed?” Matt asked.

  He felt a strange sort of excitement wash over him—the rush young people who don’t know any better feel when faced with the prospect of something significant and devastating. His mind was racing now, the image of the man with the beard flickering over and over in his head.

  His mother didn’t answer, but he could tell by her face that he’d guessed right.

  “You have to be very careful, Matt,” she said. “You can’t trust any strangers, and you need to stick with your friends all the time.”

  “Except for John Woodman,” Ryan Crawford said. “He’s a punk.”

  Matt wasn’t listening to them. He was watching the news report and deciding how he could tell his parents about the man in the woods without getting into trouble. He had to say something. For Carson Affeldt, sure. But also because there was no way he could resist stepping into the center of something this big.

  “Mom,” he said, pointing at the TV. “I saw Carson yesterday with a man who wasn’t his dad. They were in the woods over near the Flat Rocks. Carson was asleep, and the man was carrying him.”

  “What?” she said. She sat forward in her chair, her hand dropping away from her face. “What are you talking about, sweetie? What do you mean asleep?”

  The words tumbled out of Matt in a rush. “Like, a guy was carrying him out of the woods, and Carson was asleep.” Even as he said them, he realized how absurd they sounded. “I was with Ricky and Wood, and we passed the guy carrying him. We were just going for a walk in between periods.” Carson didn’t pause when he said this, hoping his parents wouldn’t give it much thought. “The guy told us he was Carson’s dad and that Carson was taking a nap, but I didn’t believe him because Carson’s hands looked weird. And I don’t think the guy was his dad. I knew Carson from indoor soccer last year, but I didn’t know who the guy was. He had a beard and looked like a weirdo.”

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down, Matt,” Ryan Crawford said. He walked around the kitchen counter and put both of his hands on his son’s shoulders. Matt could smell green pepper on his father’s skin. “You saw a strange man carrying this boy yesterday? In the woods?”

  “It was in between periods,” Matt said again.

  His dad nodded. “What time, Matt?”

  “I don’t know. One-thirty maybe?”

  “And Carson was asleep?” Liz Crawford asked.

  “Yeah,” Matt said. “The guy said Carson was his son and he was taking a nap, but I think he was lying.”

  “You spoke to him?” Ryan asked, looking mildly skeptical.

  Matt shook his head. “I didn’t say anything. But when he passed us carrying Carson, the guy said the stuff about him taking a nap.”

  Ryan Crawford looked at his wife, and then he picked up his cell phone from the kitchen counter.

  “Who are you calling,” Liz asked him.

  “Who do you think?” Ryan said. “The police.” He looked at her and then at Matt. He turned away from them when a voice came on the line.

  “Yes, my name is Ryan Crawford and I’m calling with information about Carson Affeldt, the boy from Simon Cameron Middle School who disappeared yesterday.” He paused for a second, listening. “Yes . . . no, I’m the father of another student. My son says he saw Carson with a strange man yesterday . . . Uh huh . . . Sure, I’ll hold.”

  Ryan put a hand on top of his son’s head and thumbed the boy’s hair as he waited. He looked down at Matt and pursed his lips, his expression concerned, and Matt felt an undertow sweeping him toward something large that he knew he did not fully comprehend.

  Chapter 26

  UNTIL HE HEARD it start to beep, Carson had forgotten all about Josh’s watch alarm. He looked at the other boy’s wrist and then at the basement stairs.

  “Shit,” Josh said
. This time, Carson didn’t smile when he heard his friend swear.

  The two had been playing another video game—this one called Altered Beast. In the game, Carson and Josh’s characters started out as men but, by kicking ass and collecting colored orbs, they eventually mutated into more powerful man-monsters like wolves or dragons. It was obvious to Carson that Josh had played the game before with other kids because he was really good at it.

  When he heard the watch beeping, Carson felt the cold fear return in a rush. “I hope you don’t have to go,” he said, still looking at the basement stairs.

  Josh stood up and dropped his controller onto the couch. “Yeah, I know,” he said, looking at Carson. He smiled weakly. “Me too.” He made his way to the basement steps and stood at the bottom of the staircase.

  Carson thought he looked a little anxious, like he was afraid of what might be waiting for him at the top of the stairs.

  Josh looked back at him once and tried again to smile. Then he walked up to the top of the staircase. Everything but his shoes and calves disappeared from Carson’s view. He heard Josh pound a few times on the basement door, and then the locks slid in their tracks. One. Two.

  “Hi,” he heard Josh say, just the way he had the last time.

  There was no response. Josh ascended the last few steps, and Carson heard the sound of the door closing again and the locks whirring back into place.

  He waited, hoping the man was just taking Josh to get more food. But the seconds turned into minutes, and eventually he understood that his new friend wasn’t coming back down for the night.

  He was alone again.

  Thursday, November 7

  Chapter 27

  A SILVER MIST hung in the low boughs of the trees at the south end of Crescent Lake. Beneath the mist, in the early morning semi- darkness, David and Martin prepped the FBI’s SWAT unit.

  Only a faint orange haze rested on top of the low mountains in the distance, and the air smelled of cold dew and pine needles. The twelve assembled men and women who were leaning against the two transport vans looked addled with a mixture of fatigue and anxiousness. They’d arrived in Jonestown by helicopter late the previous night—all on loan from the Bureau’s Philadelphia field office.

  David doubted many of them had slept. They’d already been briefed on the nature of the apprehension, but considering the early hour, he thought it wouldn’t hurt to reiterate their objectives.

  “Here’s the man we’re looking for,” he said as he passed around a photo of Ganther. He described their subject’s physical characteristics and potentially drug-altered mental state. “We can’t predict exactly what you’ll encounter in there, but it’s possible there may be children present. Keep your safeties on and don’t fire unless absolutely necessary.”

  One of the men asked, “So why we going in at the ass-crack of dawn like this?” The name on his chest said “Dominguez.” He was short and round-faced, and his black hair was exactly the same length as his stubble.

  “Shut it, Dominguez,” the SWAT Captain said. His name was Dorsey, and he was standing alongside David and Martin with his arms folded over his chest, his brown moustache the only sign of hair on his head apart from his eyebrows.

  “Some other place you’d rather be right now?” Martin asked the young SWAT member.

  David eyed his father. They’d spent the night at the Jonestown Police Department, preparing for the morning’s arrest. Both had caught a couple hours shut-eye with their feet up on desks. That was enough for David, but he could tell his father was tired and cranky.

  “I’d rather be in bed, next to my chica,” Dominguez answered, and the other members of his SWAT unit laughed.

  Martin smiled along with them and gestured toward the direction of Harvey Horn’s house. “Well everyone in there is probably in their beds with their chicas. So that should make your job a lot easier, right?”

  Dominguez’s smile mellowed and he nodded.

  Three minutes later, the SWAT unit departed for the house in their vans. David and Martin were right behind them in David’s Lincoln, followed by Chief Markenson and several of his Jonestown P.D. deputies.

  David watched through his windshield as the SWAT vans disappeared down the forest-lined private drive leading to Horn’s property. He stopped short of the driveway and pulled over along the side of the road near its entrance. The local police vehicles lined up behind him, everyone’s lights off.

  Four minutes, David thought. That’s how much time Dorsey had requested for his team to make their approach and secure the house. Martin sipped coffee from his insulated mug, and father and son watched the orange on the horizon brighten to a dusty yellow. The whole world felt as serene as the still lake in the distance.

  When the clock in the car’s dashboard flashed to 6:24, David pulled forward and headed down the paved driveway. The lights of the police vehicles flashed behind him, though their sirens were off. As they emerged from the woods, the driveway broke apart in a wide circle that arced toward a large, Frank Lloyd Wright-style mansion on the edge of the lake. It was multi-tiered and rectangular—a four-story puzzle of decks and gables.

  Martin whistled. “That’s quite a house.”

  They’d reviewed the architectural plans, and so had the SWAT unit. But seeing the place on the edge of the lake in all its exterior-lighted, birdhouse-like glory was still impressive. At least half a dozen automobiles were parked in a neat row on a paved rectangle of concrete that protruded from one side of the circular drive.

  Stopping at the peak of the driveway near the SWAT vans, David was aware of the sound the moment he opened his car door.

  Screaming? he thought. No. Wailing. The sounds coming from the house were anguish soaked and crazed—more like wounded animals than men. It sounded as if someone had opened a portal to hell.

  “Good god,” Martin said, his mouth falling open as he climbed out of his seat.

  David stood for a moment with his hands on top of his car, and then he quickly moved around it to join his father on the edge of the lawn. He could see the flashlights mounted on the SWAT unit’s Benelli shotguns flickering in various windows.

  Two of the SWAT team members had remained outside; they stood twenty yards back from either corner of the house with their weapons pointed at the ground, their eyes on the rear entryway. One of them was Dominguez.

  A shape, frenzied and flailing, stumbled from the house.

  Dominguez’s voice was as sharp and immediate as any gunshot. “ON THE GROUND. NOW,” he shouted. “NOW.”

  David could see the shape was a woman, long haired and overweight. She wore sweat pants and a white long-sleeved shirt, and when she heard Dominguez’s voice she shrieked wildly and started to run for the side of the house.

  “Don’t shoot,” David said, his head snapping from the woman to Dominguez. “DO NOT SHOOT.”

  Never dropping his weapon, Dominguez took four swift strides and tackled the woman to the grass. She cried out, but seemed momentarily stunned by the suddenness and force of the takedown. By the time she’d recovered her terror, her hands were cuffed and Dominguez was kneeling next to her with one hand on her back and the other holding up his weapon—pointing it toward the back of the house to cover his partner. He seemed unaware of her wailing and thrashing.

  The noise from inside the house continued for another thirty seconds before one man’s voice rose above the others. He was crying out in recognizable syllables, but his words were gibberish—like he’d rearranged the English language into his own unintelligible lexicon. Shortly after it peaked, the man’s howling subsided, and so did the rest of the voices inside.

  A few moments later, two SWAT members emerged holding up a light-haired man by the crooks of his arms. The man’s eyes were open, but his feet dragged on the grass and his head lolled from side to side as though he were about to pass out. Blood ran from his nose onto his gray shirt. His small body looked almost childlike dangling between the muscular frames of the SWAT personnel.
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  As they drew closer, David recognized the man. Although his beard was gone, there was no mistaking those small, dark eyes. It was James Ganther.

  Chapter 28

  “WE HAD TO sedate him,” Dorsey called to David.

  The SWAT team captain had a hold of James Ganther’s right arm.

  “He was screaming at us in gibberish,” Dorsey continued, “and he flailed like a damn cat when we tried to cuff him.”

  He and one of his men put Ganther in the back of one of the Jonestown Police cruisers. Ganther’s black eyes rolled in his head, and his mouth moved soundlessly, silently cataloguing his torment.

  “What the hell is going on in there?” Martin asked.

  The SWAT captain started to answer, but then he raised a hand to his earpiece. “Yeah,” he said. “Tranq as necessary.” Turning to Martin and David, he said, “There’s at least half a dozen people inside. Everything was peaceful when we went in. Everyone in bed. Some people were awake, others weren’t. The one’s who were asleep woke up quietly enough, but the others went fucking bonkers the moment we came in—probably from that drug. They reacted like we were demons or monsters or something. Started howling at us and bouncing off the walls. Shit and pissed everywhere. Spit at us. It was inhuman. Ganther was the worst. He was shrieking and snapping at us like a goddamned animal, so we sedated him. Most of the others too.”

  “Any children inside?” David asked. “Or evidence of people being held against their will?”

  Dorsey shook his head. “Negative. At least, not that I saw.”

  David started to ask another question, but Dorsey turned away from him as four of his team members emerged from the house escorting three more people—one man and two women. The man wore pajama bottoms and nothing else. One of the women, the younger and more attractive of the two, was naked.