by James Hunt
The old man stopped at the top of the slope and looked back down to Grant, a sad smile on his face. “Detective, I have been doing this longer than you have been alive. I’m sorry to say that you’re late to the party. And if there is one thing I’d hope you’d learned by now, especially judging by your predicament, it’s that I don’t lose. Ever.” He walked away, out of sight, but then called out at the last minute. “I await your answer in the morning. Good night, Detective Grant. Sleep tight.”
The door clanged shut and the spotlight shut off, casting Grant back into darkness. He couldn’t see the bodies on the floor anymore, or even his own legs. He had reached the underworld. And he had just met the devil.
Deadly Webs: Unwoven- Book 2
Chapter 1 – Two Years Ago
Cigarette smoke filtered through the air, and forced laughs masked the fatigue and loneliness of the late hour. The clock on the wall ticked closer to last call, and the bar’s patrons swayed back and forth, beer bottles and glasses grasped loosely in their hands, everyone doing their best to numb the realities that waited for them after the tab had been paid.
Neon lights of pinks blues and reds illuminated the yellowed walls, stained from decades of heavy smoke, and the cracks along the concrete floor. Someone had flipped the old jukebox in the corner to a Moody Blues song, “Nights in White Satin.”
The lyrics drifted between the empty barstools and slurred conversations. A woman on the far end of the bar near the exit threw her head back and cackled at something a man in a trucker hat said.
Like the bar itself, the people inside it were broken and decayed. Some on the inside, some on the outside, some both. But everyone shared in commiseration of forgetting the past. Or in the case of Detective Chase Grant, gulping down enough liquid courage to face it.
A slew of empty glasses covered the stained wooden bar top in front of Grant. He scrunched his nose as he caught another whiff of mildew that drifted up from behind the bar. He sat hunched over as he examined the remining whiskey of his eighth drink.
Liquor slushed through his veins, and he swayed on the bar stool. Drunkenly, he picked at the wedding band on his left hand, the metal warm from his skin. His eyes watered at Ellen’s memory, but he quickly blinked them away. He was almost there. Just a few more. He drained the glass, then ceremoniously slammed it on the bar.
Ice ejected from the glass and shattered on the floor. He felt eyes on him, and caught the bar tender throwing a heavy side eye. The bouncer at the front door pushed off his stool, crossed his arms, and stared Grant down from across the room. But Grant simply partnered the empty with its fallen comrades and pushed the sweaty bangs of black hair off his forehead, slicking his wavy locks backward.
“Hey.” Grant motioned to the bartender, his tongue heavy. “Whiskey.”
The barkeep turned his head toward Grant as he wiped down a glass, then up to the clock on the wall that ticked past one-thirty a.m. “Sorry, buddy. You’re done.”
Grant exhaled and rubbed his eyes. Everything blurred and the liquor that had flowed so freely now turned his muscles to stone. He sagged on the barstool, and when he attempted to move his foot slipped. He smacked his hands on the bar for support, but body and gravity conspired against him and he landed hard on his side.
The floor shifted like a ship deck as Grant pushed himself to his hands and knees. His stomach lurched, and he forced himself to his feet before he puked. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing, and keeping that whiskey in his stomach.
“Hey.” The voice was accompanied with a heavy slap on Grant’s shoulder. “Let’s go, pal.”
Grant lifted his head and the bouncer hovered close. At six feet tall, Grant rarely had to look up to meet a man’s eye, but the bouncer had a good four inches on him, and the man was as wide as he was tall with a hand more grizzly bear than human.
“I said move it, buddy,” the bouncer said, shoving Grant toward the door.
Grant frowned and knocked the security guard’s hand off him. The bouncer reached to put him in a choke hold, but Grant wriggled free and took hold of the bouncer’s wrist and gave it a hard twist left. The bouncer wailed, and Grant took hold of the thick man’s neck and slammed him onto the bar, keeping pressure on the wrist.
Gasps replaced the idle conversations and the Moody Blues drifted through the bar without interruption. The bouncer struggled under Grant’s hold, but quickly stopped his squirming when Grant applied pressure to the wrist he kept locked straight behind the man.
Grant saw the bartender reach for his phone. “You calling the cops?” He reached inside his jacket and removed his badge. “They’re already here.”
The barkeep put the phone down, then slowly raised his hands in submission. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Grant leaned forward. “I do.” The whiskey pushed his thoughts into that dark corner of his mind that he’d circled for the past week. He knew what was there, and he knew what would happen once he stepped inside. And now he was finally too drunk to care.
Grant shoved the bouncer off the bar, and the big man stumbled a few steps before he got his feet under him. The bouncer’s chubby cheeks glowed red, and he rotated the arm that Grant had kept pinned. He took an aggressive step forward and Grant opened his jacket and grabbed the butt of his service pistol. “Don’t, asshole.”
The bouncer froze, joining the mannequin-esque stature as everyone else. “Nights of White Satin,” ended, and the bar fell silent.
Beads of sweat appeared on Grant’s forehead. His eyes were dry and burned from the constant layer of smoke. All his concentration and focus was on the bouncer. “Back. Off.”
The bouncer tossed a glance to the barkeep, and Grant followed the man’s line of sight. The barkeep, still with his hands in the air, motioned toward the door. “Just go.”
Grant stepped forward, circling the bouncer, keeping his hand on his pistol. He retreated backward toward the exit and caught the blurred expressions of horror and fear on his retreat. What Grant saw in those drunken eyes was the same look Grant wanted to see in his eyes.
Outside, an icy burst of air cooled the liquor-laced sweat. He leaned forward when he walked, the whiskey swaying him left, then right on the way to his car. He fingered his pockets for his keys and yanked them out.
Grant missed the keyhole to the door twice, scratching the paint, then dropped them to the asphalt. Angry, he snatched them up, unlocked the car, and crumpled into the driver seat.
A laptop rested in the passenger seat and he turned it on. He searched the Seattle Police Department database for Dunston’s address, and started the car as the computer searched. When it appeared, he plugged it into the GPS, shifted into reverse and peeled out of the parking lot.
Grant’s knuckles whitened over the black steering wheel, and his fingers itched for the pistol under his jacket as he turned off Interstate Five into a small neighborhood on the northwest side of Seattle.
Single family homes sat clustered together on either side of the street. Small front yards were filled with a variety of flowerbeds, children’s toys, bicycles and patio furniture. Cars filled the driveways and street parking, everyone home and asleep on the late weeknight hour.
Grant drove slow, checking the house numbers on his left. He counted upward, and he eased on the brakes as the house came into view. No toys or bikes in the yard. No manicured garden or lush green grass. No decorative fare that revealed the owner’s personality. It lacked the charm that flowed throughout the neighborhood.
Grant pulled over and parked. He shut off the engine and closed his eyes. His heart pounded quickly, violently. His liquor-soaked mind searched the darkness, needing that last piece of rage to leap over the edge. And he found it.
A memory of his wife, Ellen. She was at the piano in their living room, sitting awkwardly due to the massive swell of her belly. She placed her hands on the keys and played. It was the song they danced to at their wedding. As she played, she turned to him and smiled, then sang very softly. She
rarely sang, said she hated her voice. Grant loved it.
And then the playing stopped, and she placed her hand on her stomach. She laughed and beckoned him over. She reached for his hand and replaced hers with his over her stomach. A light bump smacked Grant’s palm, and he smiled. It was the first time he felt his daughter kick.
No more than a handful of moments define a man’s life. We’d like to think it’s more, but the truth is there are only a few. For Grant, that was one of them. It was the most surreal moment of his life to date.
Grant opened his eyes. Memories were all that were left now. He clung to a past that looped repeatedly in his mind, like a favorite movie. But he could never know what came after the credit rolled. Anything more was fiction. They were gone.
Grant removed the detective’s badge from his neck, tossed it into the passenger seat, pulled the 9mm Glock from his holster, and stepped out of the car. He flipped up his collar, blocking the wind and his face from view. He kept his head down and the weapon close to his side. He stopped at the door and jiggled the handle. Locked. He holstered his pistol and reached inside his pocket and removed the lock pick, but dropped it clumsily on the floor. The whiskey had cost him dexterity. But he didn’t need much, just enough to pull the trigger.
He maneuvered the pick in the lock and wiggled it until the click of the tumbler sounded. He pocketed the lock pick set, and the door groaned reluctantly as Grant pushed it open.
Light from the streetlamp on the corner behind him spilled into the foyer and cast Grant’s shadow deep into the house. Grant stepped inside, quietly.
The house was shotgun style, and a hallway led toward the back. The long stretch made the house feel small, the living and dining area crammed together and backed up into the kitchen.
Grant followed the hallway to the bedroom where the door was open. He paused at the entrance and saw Brian Dunston asleep in his bed.
Rest had eluded Grant since the accident. Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was Ellen’s crushed and mangled body on the coroner’s table. The swell in her stomach gone, along with the life that was carried inside. His baby girl. His little Annie.
Grant stormed into the room, and Brian Dunston woke before Grant reached the bed. Dunston jolted backward, but despite Grant’s intoxicated state, he was still quicker than his half-asleep prey.
Grant punched Dunston’s nose and the crunch of bone and cartilage muffled Dunston’s wail as blood spurt from his nostrils. He hoisted Dunston by the scruff of his neck and tossed the man to the floor.
Dunston’s legs tangled in the sheet as he scurried backward on the carpet and rammed into the dresser. He thrust his hand up and outward, blood pouring from his disfigured nose. “Please, stop.”
Grant didn’t listen. The man could scream and beg and cry, but Grant wouldn’t stop. He raised his fist as rage and anger fueled his assault, bringing down fist after fist onto Dunston’s body.
Bones crunched, skin ripped, and blood spilled. Small, warm splatters of blood splashed on Grant’s face and body. Dunston lifted his arms, weakly defending himself, but Grant’s six-foot, two-hundred-pound frame worked Dunston’s body into pulp.
Slowly, with every punch, Dunston’s wails lessened, and his arms dropped to his sides until he lay lifeless on the floor. But Grant refused to let up.
His fingers ached, and his arms grew heavy. Grant landed one final crack across Dunston’s face, then stumbled back to the bed where he collapsed on the edge, catching his breath.
Dunston lay on the floor, lifeless, wheezing from the rib that had punctured his lung. Blood soaked his now misshapen face. The left eye had swollen shut, his lips puffed outward, and his nose bent sharply to the right. With his one good eye he looked to Grant. “Please.” Blood dripped from his mouth. “Stop.”
Grant pushed himself from the bed and lifted Dunston from the carpet, slamming his body against the wall. “Do you know who I am?” The whiskey kept its firm grip on his mind. Dunston’s head lolled back and forth between his shoulders like a pendulum, and Grant slammed him against the wall a second time. “Look at me!”
Propelled either by fear or by adrenaline, Dunston lifted his head and used the wall to help steady himself. His one opened, bloodshot eye fell upon Grant’s face. He nodded. “I know you.”
“Good.” Using one hand to hold Dunston up, Grant fished out his pistol and pressed it against Dunston’s forehead. “You took everything from me.” His lip quivered, and hot tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. He sniffled, pulling in the snot dribbling from his nose. “You don’t deserve one more second of breath. No charges?” He scoffed, his tone thick with lunacy. “If the judge won’t bring justice, then I’ll do it myself.” Grant curled his finger over the trigger. Dunston shivered and whimpered, but he kept that one good eye locked on Grant.
Grant had been in shootouts before. He’d even shot a suspect. But he’d never been this close. It had never been this personal. But he had a right, didn’t he? Any natural law granted him this vengeance. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. And Dunston didn’t just take one life; he took two.
“Do it,” Dunston said, barely able to move his lips anymore, his jaw possibly broken. “I deserve it.” A tear fell from the corner of his good eye and cut through the blood on his cheek.
Grant’s body tensed. His finger froze on the trigger.
Pull it.
Ellen flooded his mind, her mangled, bloodied, broken body on the cold steel of the coroner’s table.
Pull the trigger.
Grant’s whole body shook, the pistol vibrating against Dunston’s skull.
Finish what you came to do.
Grant barred his teeth, spit and foam squeezing through the tiny gaps as he grit his teeth.
Kill him.
His trigger finger spasmed, but still no shot.
Kill him.
The voice grew louder.
Kill him!
“AHHHHHH!” Grant shoved the pistol so hard into Dunston’s forehead that his skin ripped and fresh blood poured down the front of his face. Dunston cried and shut that bloodshot eye, bracing for the end. And just when Grant was about to pull the trigger, just when he was about to kill the man who’d killed his family, the pistol fell to his side and Grant let Dunston crumple into a sobbing heap on the carpet.
Grant paced in a tight circle, his head down, the pistol still in hand. “Fuck!” He kicked the foot of the bed and spun back around toward Dunston. He lay there, wheezing and sobbing, bleeding over himself and the carpet. The man was two steps from death and Grant couldn’t find the grit to finish the job.
Grant looked to the pistol in his hand, his finger still on the trigger. He couldn’t kill the man who’d take all the joy and happiness from his life. He couldn’t do what needed to be done. He’d failed.
The pistol slowly raised, Grant’s hand moving with a mind of its own. He closed his eyes and shivered when he felt the steel against his temple. He saw Ellen. He even saw Annie. They were smiling, laughing. It was an image of a future that didn’t exist. Or maybe it could? All Grant had to do was pull the trigger to find out. He could be with both of them.
Grant scrunched his face tight. Just do it, the voice said. It was nothing more than a light tickle in the back of his mind. If you can’t avenge them, then join them.
Ellen and Annie continued to laugh. They wanted him there. He wanted to be there. All it took was one quick pull of his finger. Less than a few ounces of pressure separated him from his family.
Grant pressed the barrel harder into his skull. His arm shook. He wanted to do it, but his finger wouldn’t listen to his brain. Pull the trigger, Grant. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Pull it. Grant’s finger twitched. He screamed, all of the rage and pain he’d felt since the accident roaring in defiance. And then he dropped the pistol to the carpet.
Grant gasped for air, unaware he’d been holding his breath as he stared at the pistol on the floor. And then, all at once, the past two weeks rep
layed in his head. The call from the hospital, identifying the body, the funeral arrangements, the wake, the two caskets lowering into the ground, one of them empty because the wreck was so severe that there wasn’t anything left of his daughter to bury.
Deep, rolling sobs bounced his shoulders up and down, and tears dripped onto the carpet. “I miss them,” Grant said aloud. “I miss them so much.”
Dunston didn’t respond. He just lay there, pulling in slow, rattling breaths. Grant stumbled out of the bedroom, leaving the pistol, and headed toward the front door.
A tightening, souring pit formed in Grant’s stomach and he hunched forward as he approached the door. The acid bile crawled up out of his stomach and he barely made it out of the door and into the yard where he vomited in the dirt and grass.
The hot, barely digested whiskey burned even worse on the way out, and Grant produced two more rounds of vomit onto the front lawn before his stomach emptied.
Once finished, Grant fell back onto the grass. He glanced up to the night sky. He hoped they couldn’t see him right now. He hoped that Ellen had turned away the moment he stepped into that house. He’d lose his badge for this, though he didn’t think he’d go to jail. There wouldn’t be a jury out there that would convict him, not for any hard time. At least he didn’t think so.
Grant was certain of only one thing, and that was the fact that his life had changed course. Whatever he would have been, whatever he could have done, it had been altered. Fate had flipped its coin, and Grant’s future had landed on the losing side.
Like the memory of feeling his daughter kick for the first time, this was another moment that would define him. A hopeless moment, with no other future than to rot in a bar, numbing the pain until he felt nothing. He reached for his phone and called Captain Hill. It was time to face facts. It was time to pay the price for his pain.
