by James Hunt
The agent paused, glaring at the rest of the team. “Sir, it would be a waste of manpower to keep—”
“How many serial killers have you dealt with during your career that have escaped from a maximum security prison?” Hickem addressed the entire team. “Really? Not one?”
The lead agent exhaled, dropping the pen onto the map. “Sir, I think we all understand the unique nature of this—”
“I don’t think you understand shit.” Hickem pressed his finger into the map, the pressure so great that the table beneath it groaned from his weight. “We’ve thrown nearly all of our domestic resources at this guy for the past three months, and we’ve got jack shit to show for it. Whatever plan you’ve come up with, he already has a contingency for. Now, we are not going to get another shot at this, so I want us thinking a little more progressively when it comes to capturing this lunatic.” He smashed his fist onto the table. “Do I make myself clear?”
A unanimous chorus of ‘yes, sir’ echoed in response, and Hickem stepped away from the table.
“Then I want a new strategy before the end of today. We stay up all night if we have to, but we don’t stop until we get it right.” Hickem shouldered open the door and exited the conference room of the small FBI building that acted as the Bureau’s Seattle office.
The walls were yellowed, the lights flickering, and every inch of the building somehow reeked of mildew, which the agents had tried to mask with air fresheners and Febreze, but the synthetic aromas didn’t help.
Hickem moved swiftly through the office, turning heads with every agent and employee he passed. He knew most of them by name now, but he didn’t respond to any of the pleasantries as he passed, every discarded hello no doubt causing great harm to the psyche of the employee he ignored. It was one aspect of the job that he enjoyed.
Power was a hell of a drug.
A blast of cold air quickly erased the building’s stench from Hickem’s nostrils and provided a needed boost of adrenaline from the mundane meetings that had plagued him all afternoon.
Without realizing it, he had walked all the way down to the street corner. With the traffic light red, he took a right, not wanting to break his stride.
Hickem pulled the coat of his jacket tighter against the stiff breeze, one more reminder of why he wanted to get the hell out of this city. DC was cold, but it wasn’t this biting. And at least Virginia had snow, which helped cover up the dead of winter.
A few more blocks, and Hickem reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar. It had been a while since he smoked, but he decided to cut himself some slack. He cupped his hand around the end of the cigar to block the wind.
An orange glow radiated from the end of the cigar, and he tucked the lighter into his pocket and then found a bench that had a clear shot of the water to the west.
Trailing clouds of cigar smoke, Hickem walked over and brushed off the seat before sitting down. He leaned back and puffed smoke, the tobacco providing relief as the stress of the day slipped away.
But it wasn’t the meetings, or the festival, or the talk with Sam and Mocks that was the root of his stress. It was a decision he’d have to make before the end of the day that weighed him down.
Hickem hadn’t told Mocks and Sam the entire truth of what he knew, because as much as he wanted them on his side, he didn’t want to put them in harm’s way. But after the events in Portland, Hickem had a very brief, and very frank, conversation with the President’s Chief of Staff.
If the opportunity presented itself tomorrow, should Grant decide to make himself a part of the events that transpired, then it was made clear to Hickem that Grant should be made an example of. By any use of force deemed necessary. That was the verbiage the White House Chief of Staff used.
Those words had been ringing in Hickem’s head all day. It was like an echo that never ended, an itch that he just couldn’t scratch.
Hickem took a long drag and held it before he exhaled. He tapped the end of the cigar, the wind carrying the ash east.
Hickem chewed on the end of the cigar, tasting the bits of paper and tobacco on his tongue. If Chase Grant decided to show his face at the festival tomorrow, then he would be caught. And if Hickem didn’t give his men the order to shoot on sight, then he might be looking for a new job sooner rather than later.
“To shoot or not to shoot,” Hickem sighed through the expression. “That is the question.”
12
Sirens, barking dogs, the noise of the freeway, it was the familiar chorus of a less desirable part of the city, but a place where people who were on the run, people like Grant, wouldn’t be bothered.
The projects of Seattle were a mixed bag of homeless, druggies, prostitutes, and low-income families, all of them barely getting by with whatever means necessary.
Grant moved as quickly and calmly as he could through the darkened streets. He had waited until the sun had gone down before he moved through the nicer parts of town, which he had to cross in order to arrive in the slums.
Every once in a while, Grant would favor that left leg, the long dirty jeans concealing the rough stitching and bandages that he’d used to keep the wound shut. But while he was able to stop the bleeding, he knew that he was in desperate need of antibiotics to fight the infection.
After he was shot, he was forced to stumble through the woods all night, heading deep into the brush, scaling the sides of mountains in order to evade the authorities’ relentless efforts, which surprised him. He knew Hickem wanted to stop him, but Grant had underestimated the FBI Director’s persistence.
It wasn’t until Grant saw the first rays of dawn that he finally stopped to rest. By then the blood had mostly crusted and frozen from the low temperatures, which had probably helped stem the blood loss. He was also aided by the agent’s poor aim.
The bullet had only grazed him, taking off a bit of flesh and muscle, missing any major arteries or bones. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.
Once the adrenaline had worn off, the pain hit Grant like a freight train, crippling him every few steps as he struggled to remain upright. But he finally made his way into a small town, where the clerk was either too stupid or too high to see the blood that covered Grant’s clothes, and bought the medical supplies needed to patch him up for the interim.
Duct tape, gauze, ibuprofen, and rubbing alcohol. A boy scout’s best friend. The fifth of Jack Daniels was a supplement to the ibuprofen, which he tried not to lean on too much. He still wanted to keep his wits about him, especially in his current ragged state. He knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun anyone in the city. So it was all about blending in.
The beard and matted hair combined with the rough nature of his clothes made him look like every other homeless person in Seattle. A few folks had even stopped to offer him some money.
It was a younger couple, both of them carrying around backpacks like they were still in school, though Grant knew that was a bit presumptuous. A lot of younger business folks carried around backpacks now instead of briefcases.
Both of them had looked Grant right in the eye, talked to him, and didn’t recognize him at all. It was a bit of a surreal moment for him, after having been basically accosted and exiled by the entire population of Seattle.
Still, Grant avoided eye contact and kept his side of the conversation to a series of grunts and nods as he took a five and let the couple pray over him before letting him go.
He wasn’t sure how much the prayer would help, but the five bucks bought him dinner from McDonald’s. And now, with a full belly and a desperate need to check his bandages, Grant searched for a place to hang his hat for the night.
After scouring the neighborhood, he found an old trailer park nestled between two large housing projects that rented the trailers by the hour only. It was ripe with prostitutes, two of which tried to follow Grant into his rented trailer, but he managed to lock the door before they could snake their way inside from the cold.
The trailer was small, and it was cramped, bu
t the heat worked, and the sheets were actually clean. He suspected that was only the case because of the weather, keeping most of the pervs at home and out of the cold.
Grant made his way to the bathroom, waiting for the heat to kick in before he peeled his clothes off. The bathroom was small and cramped, and Grant awkwardly lifted his leg onto the sink to get a better look at his calf under the yellow light.
Blood had seeped from beneath the edges of the duct tape. The blood wasn’t red anymore, it had turned a brownish yellow. Grant pinched the edge of the tape and peeled it back, slowly.
He clutched the side of the sink, gripping it so hard that his knuckles matched the white porcelain, but he managed to pull the bandage all the way off before he passed out. The final tug caused the wound to reopen, and fresh claret splashed into the sink.
With a trembling hand, Grant reached for the gauze and pressed it against the wound. The sting faded, but reignited after he applied the antiseptic.
“Gah!” Grant dropped the bottle, his one good knee buckling as he collapsed onto the toilet seat.
After the initial pain dissipated, Grant grabbed the needle and thread and then bit down on the pencil he bought to fight through what came next.
Grant dipped the needle into the antiseptic and then took a breath as he brought the point to his flesh. He hesitated for a moment, but then finally pushed it in. He nearly snapped the pencil in half.
Fatigue and pain forced him to stop a half dozen times, but he managed to reseal the wound. The stitching wasn’t pretty, but it got the job done.
Grant then placed a fresh bandage over the stitched area and leaned his head back against the wall. The heat of the trailer, combined with the stress and pain from the stitching, had doused him with a thick sheen of sweat.
All of the sleepless nights, the running, the fighting, it had finally caught up with him. But that’s the way it always was when you could see the finish line. That’s when the runner always hit the fabled wall.
Grant finally managed to pick himself off the toilet and stumbled over to the bed, collapsing onto a squeaky mattress that buckled when he landed, and fell asleep almost instantly. But he didn’t stay that way for long.
Because even with Grant’s fatigue, his unconscious mind was plagued with nightmares. He saw Mocks and Sam at the festival, gunned down by Dennis, who had somehow gained the ability to transform into anyone in the crowd. And every time Grant thought he’d killed Dennis, it turned out to be just another bystander.
Body after body dropped to the floor, Grant’s gun running on an endless supply of bullets as he chased Dennis’s face through the crowd until he was the only one left standing.
And then, Dennis finally emerged from beneath a pile of corpses, completely unharmed, and walked toward Grant with a big smile on his face. Grant aimed the weapon at him, squeezing the trigger, but heard only the click of the firing pin.
Dennis laughed, that plastic smile stretched across his face until the tip of Grant’s pistol was pressed against Dennis’s chest. “I told you that I’d go out with a BANG!”
Grant drew in a sharp breath, choking on his own spit as he lurched to his side. The sheets were doused with his sweat, and he struggled to keep himself upright. The world around him spun, and he gripped the bed tight to keep himself from flying off the face of the earth. The faces from the nightmare flashed across his memory. His chest tightened, and he whimpered.
There were too many faces, too many for him to count, too many for him to save. All of them dead. Grant shut his eyes and pushed them out of his mind as he struggled to regain control of his breathing. He frowned. “It wasn’t real. It was just a dream.”
Grant repeated the mantra a few times and after a while, he started to believe it. One way or the other, it would all end for him tomorrow. And it was that which calmed him. An end to a long and terrible journey.
Slowly, Grant reached into his jean pocket and removed a folded photograph. The crease down the middle was prominent, and when he flipped it open, her face was still intact, and it was a face that Grant had thought of every minute since his escape.
Grant ran his finger down Sam’s cheek. She was smiling, eyes bright and shining despite the faded color of the photograph. They were blue and vibrant and full of everything that he had wanted his life to be, and three months ago, it had been.
Grant’s life had devolved into a series of impossible choices, but as hard as all of them had been, leaving Sam behind without an explanation had been the hardest.
At night, in those rare moments of sleep, she visited him, and every dream was the same. He would stand there in the hallway of their apartment, the door would be open, and Sam would be inside.
She looked beautiful, dolled up like they were going out on a date. She’d rest her head against the door frame and smile. “Just come in, honey.”
Grant wanted to, more than anything, but his feet were cemented to the floor. And while she was dressed up, looking like an angel sent to rescue him from a hell that he couldn’t escape on his own, he was dressed in bloodied clothes, dirty and tattered. His beard was mangled and thick, he needed a bath, and he could smell himself even in the dream.
“I can’t, Sam,” Grant said, his voice stricken with grief. “I want to, but I can’t.”
“Sure you can,” Sam said, keeping that coy smile on her face, slowly twisting her hips back and forth, waiting impatiently for him to join her. “All you have to do is come home, baby. Just come home.”
Grant was frozen in place, and he panicked. Something was coming, something he could feel but couldn’t see. Something that pricked the hair on the back of his neck, but he couldn’t hear. “Sam, you need to go inside.”
“Only if you come with me.” She laughed, bouncing her eyebrows suggestively, but she couldn’t see the shadow growing larger behind her.
“Sam, run!” Grant screamed, struggling against the concrete shoes. “Leave!”
But she didn’t move, she didn’t act like anything was wrong, and in those moments, Grant realized that this wasn’t his Sam. This wasn’t the strong, capable woman that he’d fallen in love with, but that didn’t lessen the terror as the barrel of the gun appeared behind her skull.
“Sam, please!” Grant screamed so loud that his throat grew raw and cracked with every blood-curdling cry. Tears matted his beard, and he dropped to his knees, knowing what was coming.
“Don’t cry, baby,” Sam said, still smiling as the barrel of the gun was pressed against the back of her head. “Just come home, just come ho—”
The bullet went straight through the skull, and instead of waking from the nightmare from such a harsh and violent sight, Grant was forced to watch the aftermath. He saw the blood and bone drip down the hallway walls. He saw Sam’s body crumple into a heap of nothing on the floor. He saw her face disappear, along with the eyes and smile that he’d fallen in love with all those years ago.
But the gun stayed where it was in the doorway. Grant never saw the shooter, but he knew who it was. He knew who had pulled the trigger.
“That’s what happens,” Dennis said, still hidden in the room. “That’s what happens if you go back to her. You kill her. And you. The only way she survives is without you.” Laughter echoed from inside. “It’s hell, isn’t it, Grant? Knowing that she’s out there, knowing that she still wants you, and denying both of your desires.”
Grant trembled, the rage funneling through his veins bringing a strength that he’d never felt before. He forced himself to stand and broke through the concrete shoes that kept him in place. He charged for the door, ready to kill the man who had destroyed his life, ready to end it all.
And that’s when the dream would end. Right before Grant had the opportunity to avenge his fallen love, right before he could end Dennis’s reign of terror on himself and the rest of the world. That’s when he would wake in a cold sweat, shivering and gasping for breath, more terrified than he’d ever been in his entire life.
It never cea
sed to amaze Grant just how quickly fate can flip you on your backside and pummel you with a baseball bat. But he supposed that’s what made tragedy so terrible. It could happen to anyone, at any moment, at any time.
Tragedy didn’t discriminate or play favorites, it simply took what it wanted and let the people who survived figure out how to live without it.
Tears filled Grant’s eyes, and alone in this dark and terrible place, the wind howling outside and the temperatures dropping below freezing, Grant allowed himself to feel the doubt and regret. So he spoke to the picture as though she was here, a bit of a final confessional since he didn’t see a way of escaping tomorrow if things unfolded the way he believed that they would.
“I loved you so much, Sam. No matter what happens to me, or what they do, you saved me. You gave me two of the best years of my life. I wished it could have been more. I wanted it to last the rest of my life. But whatever curse that flows through my blood always finds its way to infect the people around me. I’m sorry it got to you. I’m sorry I let it get to you. I love you. Goodbye.”
Grant brought the picture to his lips, and then kissed Sam. He then folded the picture back up and set it on the small nightstand. He leaned his head back against the pillow but didn’t shut his eyes. He wasn’t sure how much sleep he would get, but regardless, he felt better prepared for tomorrow. No matter what happened.
13
The Music Festival
The river of bodies flooded from parking lots and garages and bus stops and headed toward Seattle’s waterfront.
The human collective backed up around 3rd Street, where the roads had been blocked off to help prepare for the event. It was here where Uber and Lyft drivers dumped their passengers, the scene more chaotic than authorities would have preferred.
But it was a beautiful day, the sun reflecting off the high rises on the edge of Seattle’s downtown. After the skyscrapers ended, the tallest buildings were only five to twelve stories. Midgets compared to the massive downtown structures that fought for the honor of the city’s tallest along with the Space Needle.
