by J. D. Oliva
ZZZZZIIIZZZZ
Chris looked over his shoulder and saw two hipsters with long beards and tight pants zipping by a couple of motorized scooters. Scooters? The City of Chicago scooter program had several companies invested in placing ride-share scooters at various locations throughout the city. He'd only seen the first ones a few weeks ago. Did St. Louis have something like that?
Chris scanned the street and sure enough at the corner of Kingshighway, and Broadway was a black and orange scooter. Chris jogged over and found the exact same machine the tweaker had made his escape on a minute earlier. A small computer with a credit card swipe mounted to the handlebar said $1 to unlock and fifteen cents per minute. It might cost him twenty bucks, but he couldn't think of a better way to move through the city while staying reasonably hidden. Not to mention environmentally friendly.
Chris turned the electric engine on and pushed three times against the pavement before the motor did the rest—like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven, one of his dad's favorite films. Except instead of coming into town like a lone rider on horseback, he'd come in blazing on a rent-a-scooter. This whole week was so Goddamn strange.
LXII
"Are you using a weed wacker?" Jamie asked.
"No. Don't worry about it. I should be at the Chase in an hour. Just make sure your new buddies from the FBI are there."
Jamie looked over to Agent Nashida in the passenger seat of her Mustang. He didn't look too pleased.
"They aren't my buddies."
Nashida seemed to return the sentiment, but he didn't have much choice. "You should be using a hands-free device," he said.
"It's on speaker," were the words she used, but her face said, duh.
"Where are you guys headed?" Chris asked through the speaker.
"We need to make a quick stop, but we'll be at the Chase soon. This whole thing is almost over."
Jamie hung up the phone and put on her turn signal. They were back in St. Charles, twenty minutes away from downtown St. Louis. She still didn't know what they needed to do here, but it was the one request that Nashida made, and if he was going to live up to his end of the bargain and not arrest Chris, or her, what else could she do?
She pulled the Mustang up to the address Nashida gave her. It was a townhouse in a rather nice neighborhood right off the highway.
"Where are we?" She asked.
"This is the home of Detective Brian Anderson."
"What?"
"I'd like to have a few words with his husband."
"Why? Do you think he's going to say, 'oh yes, just this morning he decided to become a serial killer'?"
Nashida gave her another look. This one said, shut your mouth, kid.
"Stay inside the car," Nashida said, throwing open the Mustang's door.
Agent Nashida jogged up the stairs leading to the front door and rang the bell. He waited patiently before ringing again.
"Mr. Chambliss, we need to talk. This is Special Agent Nashida with Federal Bureau of Investigation."
Still no answer. Nashida peered over his shoulder, not sure what he was expecting to find. He looked back toward the Mustang to find Jamie, who shrugged and shouted, "what do you want me to do?"
Nashida rolled his eyes and turned back to the door. This time he knocked. "Mr. Chambliss!" The force of the knock opened the front door. That meant the door never latched closed. Odd behavior from the home of a cop. They always locked their doors, usually with a deadbolt.
Nashida reached into his hoisters and pulled out his 9mm Glock before gently pushing the door open. Beyond the entryway, a set of steps led to the upstairs living room. The television was on, but all of the lights were off. Nashida lifted his firearm and softly stepped up the carpeted stairs, trying not to make a sound. When he reached the top, the agent carefully turned his head toward the empty living room and blaring television. When he turned to the left, he saw a body laid out in the center of the hallway. Nashida slowly moved toward it.
"Oh, my God!"
Nashida jumped and almost squeezed the trigger, before realizing it was Jamie.
"I told you to stay in the car!"
"And I didn't listen," Jamie said, turning her attention toward the body sprawled out in the hallway. "Who is that?"
Nashida dropped down to one knee to get a closer look, careful to make sure he didn't touch the body or the blood-soaked carpet.
"My guess would be the husband, Mr. Mark Chambliss."
Jamie joined him on the floor for a closer look. It freaked Nahsida out that she didn't flinch at the sight of the body, but based on her story, maybe that shouldn't be a surprise. He lifted his hand, gently pushing against her shoulder, making sure she couldn't contaminate the scene any more than they already had. Of course, it wasn't like they couldn't figure out who was behind this.
"Makes you wonder who could do this to their own family," Nashida added, more to himself than Jamie.
"Not really."
Nashida turned back to her. Her face was stone cold because she knew the answer to that question. In her mind, a tiny worm was apparently the answer. Nashida had been with the Bureau long enough to sniff out a liar and to recognize a crazy person. Looking into her eyes, Jamie Casten didn't seem to be either. But many of the people Nashida met on the job passed the eye test. Still, it appeared she legitimately believed it. Which, in itself is scary.
"I need to call this in, and we need to get out of here," Nashida eventually said.
Jamie nodded before turning her attention back to her phone. Nashida rubbed his face in disbelief. Even the presence of the mulitated body couldn't tear a teenager away from their phone.
"Is that Shane?"
"Yeah," she said, confused.
"What is it?"
She looked up from her phone, dumbfounded. "He asked me to bring a pair of needle-nosed pliers."
LXIII
The scooter did a pretty good job of getting around St. Louis. Why Jericho, or the Nightcrawler, or whatever he was now chose a public location didn't make much sense. If Chris were a serial killer, or killers, that type of environment would be the last place he'd want to...do his thing. But despite what the FBI, and probably most of the greater Metro-area thought of him, he wasn't a serial killer.
In the distance, Chris caught view the immense structure approaching. Calling this a hotel is like calling the Sears Tower (not Willis. It'll never be the Willis Tower), just a building. The marble archways looked more like something out of Ancient Rome than St. Louis, Missouri. He started to bob his head, ready for the next step. Ready to confront the Nightcrawler
Well, genius, now that you're here, how do you plan on standing up to those two?
The journey to get here took so much of his focus that Chris hadn't thought up any kind of plan. He just planned to jump in headfirst and try to swim. Which was the exact plan he had for the Reed fight, and we saw how that worked out.
Chris pulled the scooter over. He left it at the corner of Kingshighway and Maryland Plaza, which is the way these city scooters are supposed to work. You take them wherever you need and leave them at major intersection or point of reference. One of the most famous hotels in the country seems as good a place as any.
Chris' toe pulled the kickstand into place and he walked away from the scooter. It was a little sad. He developed a bit of liking for the thing. It might not have been the most efficient way to travel ten miles, but it was better than walking, and to be honest, it was actually kind of fun. Something he honestly couldn't say he had had in a while.
Moving as nonchalantly as a wanted man possibly could, Chris walked under the white awning with tall white columns and through the entrance of the Chase Plaza Park Hotel. With its chandeliers and marble floors, it's easily the nicest place Chris had ever been. Now that Mom was rich, maybe if he spent more time with her that would change, but for the moment, it was an accurate thought. But what now?
Chris pulled out his phone and again shot Jamie a text.
I'm here.
Instantly, the ellipsis word balloon greeted him. She was waiting for his text. Hopefully, she had the pliers.
We're by the outside pool.
Chris looked around and wondered why this busy hotel hadn't been cleared. Wouldn't it make sense for the FBI and Police to clear an area where they knew something was going to happen?
Chris slid the phone back in his pocket. Not the one currently containing a rusty steak knife, but the other pocket. He approached the concierge desk. He was met by a tall man with dark, brown skin and a long, pointy nose that made him look a little like an anteater.
"May I help you?"
"Uh, yeah, can you tell me how I can get to the pool?"
"Which pool?" He asked with a condescending sneer.
The concierge looked down a nose so long it would probably be hoovering up a trail of bugs during his next break. He almost seemed disgusted at Chris' presence. Like there's no way someone like him could stay at such a fabulous hotel like the Chase. Chris thought about making a snide remark, kinda like the old man would have. But before he got a chance to speak, he got a whiff of himself and realized he hadn't showered since his half-assed cleansing after the fight. His ego found its way back in check.
"The, uh, outside one," stinky Chris mumbled.
"Follow the signs," he said, pointing a long, Cryptkeeper-like finger.
"Thanks," Chris said without reading into his last disgusted look.
Without trying to draw much attention to himself, Chris decided to step up his pace, bobbing and weaving between the pockets of rich folks scattered in the lobby. It's amazing how filled the place is at 10:30 at night.
No matter what happened from here, the day was almost done. It's going to get a lot worse before the night was over, but at least it's almost to a close. Maybe, if he's lucky, he could somehow sneak his way into one of these sweet hotel rooms. They were definitely really nice with super comfortable beds. Remember beds?
Chris found his way to the pool, stepping through one of the archways he'd seen on his way up Kingshighway. The decor made it seem like he was inside of an ancient Roman building, which was probably the point.
Scads of wealthy people scattered around the immense pool. It's late, so no one wore their swim ware, but he imagined it was quite the show earlier in the day. This was one of those old Park Ridge parties of steroids.
Not only could people hang out and swim, but they also had a full bar and restaurant service. Chris saw a table three fifty-something guys who all had three beer bottles a piece in front of them. They also had full plates with steaks, twice-baked potatoes, asparagus. The food looked good, but that wasn’t what Chris was interested in.
“Hey!”
The three middle-aged rich guys and the retreating hairlines, stopped mid-laugh and turned to Chris.
“Uh, hey?” one said back.
“Are you guys friends with Dave Schultz?”
The three looked at each other, even more confused.
“Uh, no. Sorry,” the same middle-aged guy said back.
"Chris!" Shouted a familiar voice.
He looked across the pool and saw Jamie in the same blue Billikens t-shirt she had on all day. It had only been three or four hours since they'd last seen each other, but it felt like days.
Chris waved back to her. “I’m sorry, guys. I thought you were someone else,” he said, gently patting one on the back.
Nice move.
The pat on the back distracted them just enough for Chris to quickly pull a knife from the table. A little misdirection never hurt anyone. Chris felt the sedated edges and carefully slid the blade into his front pocket.
He again maneuvered his way through the troughs of rich people, leaving behind a little piece of his God-awful stench for them to venerate. He and Jamie embraced like old friends, even though they'd only know each other for a day. But what a day.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," he said, almost dumbfounded.
Something about the way the light bounced off the pool at night made her look so beautiful it almost stopped him from talking.
"How're you?" he added.
"Fine," she smiled. Maybe she didn't think he was so bad either?
"Mr. Shane, we never had a chance to finish our conversation," said another familiar voice.
"Agent Nakamura?"
"Nashida," he simultaneously corrected and slapped a set of handcuffs on him. "And you, sir, are under arrest."
LXIV
Jericho and Anderson sat in the front seat of the Green Beast, parked in the lot directly across the street from the Chase Park Plaza hotel's pool. They had been waiting for more than an hour. Neither man said a word.
When Anderson laid his successor inside its new host, he didn't have to talk. They knew what each other was thinking because they were linked. Now, he even had doubts as to whether or not the host or the successor was in control. What's more likely was that it was some combination of the two; the successor was fighting to keep the reigns on the man called Jericho. This was undoubtedly a mistake, and watching the pool, Anderson knew that was about to get worse, but even he couldn't stop it. In truth, he was afraid of trying.
Instead, Anderson used a set of high-powered binoculars Jericho had in the back of the truck to watch the proceedings. It was quite impressive. The binoculars were huge and could see very clearly in the dark. Anderson could read enough into the host's mind to know they were called the Steiner Military R 8x30 LRF 1535 Rangefinding Binoculars. What exactly that meant, he had no idea. He just knew they were impressive. Something like this could make their work so much easier. If only the new host would fall in line.
"I see Shane," Anderson said.
"Is he alone?"
"No. The Casten girl is with him, and so is the FBI agent."
Anderson sat helpless as Nashida placed the handcuffs on Shane's wrists. It seemed they were beaten.
"We should wait. We can follow the agent's vehicle and procure Shane when they move to a more secure location."
"I thought hotels were where we did our best work?" Jericho asked.
"Normally, yes. The situation is different; it is best if we wait."
"I disagree."
Jericho turned the engine over and immediately pressed down on the gas pedal.
"What are you doing?"
"Proving why I am the best possible choice to be our permanent host."
The engine revved, and Jericho adjusted a lever by his feet that put the truck into four-wheel-drive. Anderson didn't like this. Jericho yanked down on the shifter until it found drive. The truck exploded out of the parking lot, driving over the sidewalk and darted across Linden avenue. The cowcatcher mounted to the front of the Beast's grill met the gate that kept the people of Chase Plaza Park's hotel pool separated from the street. In a thunderous explosion, the Beast punched its way through the Chase's secured perimeter.
The Nightcrawler arrived.
LXV
As Nashida locked the cuffs in place and started reciting Chris his rights, the little voice in the back of Chris' head shouted.
Look out!
Chris turned his head just in time to see the Green Beast plow through the barrier wall separating the fancy pool from Linden Avenue. The swarm of wealthy people who only wanted to drink the night away scattered in a rush of confused screams. They probably thought it was a terrorist or something barreling through. They weren't wrong. Chris knew what they were looking for, and thanks to Nashida, his hands were locked together...again.
As the crowd ran amok, the doors to the Beast flew open, and two men in neck sleeve masks emerged, armed with Glocks. They didn't open fire on the unsuspecting crowd. They had their target. Nashida drew his own gun, ready for the assassins.
Chris leaned into Jamie and whisper-shouted into her ear, "Do you have those pliers?"
She turned back, "Are you freaking kidding me!"
"I need them!" Chris yelled.
She reached into her back pants pocket and pulled ou
t a set of small needle nose pliers with red-rubber handle grips she took from Anderson's house. Confused, she handed them to Chris, who took them with his bound hands.
"Hide!" He shouted, taking off back toward the lobby of the hotel.
Jamie looked back and saw Nashida move inward toward the tall masked man, who was obviously Anderson. Jamie followed the rushing crowd back into the hotel.
Nashida aimed his Glock and shouted, "Drop the gun, Anderson!"
The agent wanted the assailant to know his identity wasn't a secret.
"Deal with that," Jericho said very calmly to Anderson, nodding at the special agent. "I'll find Shane."
Jericho took off at top speed, chasing the crowd back into the aptly named hotel.
Nashida closed in on Anderson, taking aim. "I said drop the gun!"
Rather than opening fire on the crowd, which even for the Nightcrawler was a bit much, he ran forward and drove his shoulder into Nashida's jaw. Nashida's Glock hit the pavement and slid into the pool. The immense former police detective rained down a series of fists and elbows on the prone Nashida. He tried to lift his hands to stop Anderson's flurry, but instead just ate fist after fist.
From behind an archway separating the pool from the entrance to the lobby, Jamie looked back and saw the scene play out. The pool was empty. The patrons and staff had all scattered. St. Louis police would be there soon. But would they be enough or in time to help Nashida? Probably not. She saw what this thing had done to Anderson's husband. It had no remorse. Someone had to do something.
Jamie ran out from behind the arch and dove into the pool. Six years of lessons and being on an all-state relay team paid off as she pushed her way toward the bottom of the pool where the black firearm was waiting. She grabbed it by the grip and swam back to the surface. Jamie emerged from the pool, and something snatched her by the throat, ripping the rest of her sopping body from the water. She couldn't breathe, but reached up to wipe the fluid from her eyes. It was Anderson. The Nightcrawler was ready to claim the fourth and final member of the Casten family.
