Deadly Webs Omnibus

by James Hunt

  She waited, but after a minute of no answer, she twisted the doorknob and it gave way. She cracked the door open, slowly. “Sam?”

  The lights in the apartment were off, and the shades were drawn on the windows. Mocks stepped inside, the place smaller than she expected, and much cleaner. She expected to see pizza boxes piled up and beer cans strewn about the place. But that could have just been her when she lived alone.

  The foyer to the front door opened into the living room, and the kitchen was adjacent on the left. Two doors rested on the left and right of the living room, both closed. “Sam? It’s Mocks. You home?”

  Silence answered and Mocks removed her pistol. Something felt off, her instincts sounding the alarm. Flashbacks of Rick’s abduction played in her mind. Every where she looked she expected to find a spider web drawn. But this was different. Her apartment was trashed. Sam’s wasn’t.

  Mocks approached the door on the right of the living room first. She gave the knob a twist and it opened, exposing the bedroom that was just as tidy as the living room. She entered, checking under the bed, then the closet, but found nothing.

  She stepped out, pistol still gripped with both hands, her grip tightening as she crossed the living room to the second door. She reached for the knob, giving it the same slow twist as the bedroom door. She pushed it open and as the door widened it exposed the bathroom tile, then the sink and mirror. Then the blood on the floor next to the tub and an empty pill bottle.

  “Sam!” Mocks holstered her weapon and rushed to the tub. Sam’s head rested lifelessly on his shoulder. Dried vomit covered his chest and chin. She checked his pulse, his skin still warm. But he was gone.

  Mocks closed her eyes, fighting back tears as she dialed the precinct. “This is Detective Mullocks. I’m at 372 North Highland Road, apartment five-ten. I have a body. Male, early thirties. Homicide is needed on scene.”

  “Copy that, Detective. We’ll send a unit over to assist.”

  Mocks hung up and sat on the tile, leaned up against the wall at the foot of the tub. She stared at Sam’s pallid cheeks and lifeless eyes, and then she cried. Death followed her wherever she walked now. The Web had long reaching fingers, and they’d taken another life that tried to bring them down. She thought of Rick, still back at the hospital. He had an officer guarding his door, but so did Parker Gallient, and the last time she saw him he shared Sam’s lifeless stare.

  Anger slowly took the place of grief, and Mocks wiped her nose and removed a glove from inside her jacket. She picked up the pill bottle, and checked the label. Pain pills, prescription. They were in Sam’s name, but they were old. She recalled him having an appendicitis last year. Could have been from that.

  The forensic unit arrived twenty minutes later and Mocks waited in the living room while they removed Sam’s body. Most of the evidence was tagged and bagged when Marcus and Franz, the pair of homicide detectives from her precinct, arrived.

  “Hey,” Marcus said. “How you doing?”

  Mocks nodded, her arms crossed over her chest. “I’m all right.”

  “Dispatch said you found some pills?” Franz said, already making his way toward the bathroom.

  “Yeah,” Mocks answered. “Prescription.”

  A forensic tech exited Sam’s room. “Detectives, I’ve got something.” He placed the open laptop on the kitchen counter, which already had a document pulled up on the screen.

  Marcus and Franz walked over, blocking the laptop from view. Marcus wiped his mouth, and shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

  Mocks wedged her way between Marcus and Franz, shaking her head. “There’s no way that’s real.”

  The suicide note was short, and to the point. A few lines described Sam’s guilt, how he was working for the Web, feeding them information about the abduction cases, and finally returned the laptop he’d been working on with Grant and Mocks. Apparently that had been the last straw.

  “Pills, note, no sign of forced entry,” Franz said. “It’s gonna be hard to prove anything else, Mocks.”

  “Bullshit. You passed Sam every day on your way back to your desk,” Mocks said. “You’re really gonna tell me that the guy who brought donuts in every payday was suicidal? That he was working for a crime syndicate? C’mon.” She gestured around the place. “The Web killed him.”

  “Calm down, Mocks,” Marcus said.

  “Grant, Sam, Rick,” Mocks said, listing off the names. “It’s all connected. This is just more shit to throw us off the trail, to keep us from stop digging.” She stepped close to Marcus. “Sam was deciphering the laptop. He was working with the State department. Why would he go on record deciphering the computer and leave a paper trail like that if he was working for the Web?”

  “Mocks—”

  “Call the State departemtn,” Mocks said. “They’ll confirm what he was doing. I’m telling you that—”

  “Mocks!” Franz said, pointing to her pocket, the phone buzzing and flashing through her jeans.

  She ended her rambling, and checked the caller. It was the precinct’s number. “Mullocks.”

  “Mocks, it’s Banks, the Captain wants you to come into the precinct.”

  “I’m in the middle of something right—”

  “The Chief of Police is here,” Banks said, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “You need to come in. Now.”

  Mocks exhaled an irritated breath. “All right.” She hung up and stepped between Franz and Marcus on her way out, and paused. “Sam didn’t kill himself.” And as she left she just hoped that she could prove it.

  Chapter 5

  Grant ran his fingers along the cracks of the doorframe, searching for any opening he could use as leverage, but found nothing. He opened the drawers of the dresser, but all were empty. No frames or pictures on the walls, and the bedframe was a single piece of metal.

  The bulb inside the lamp on the nightstand was encased in the plastic orb that was too bendable to break, and the lamp was cordless, so no wires. The only viable weapon was the mirror. But he would have to break it, and with the round-the-clock guards outside his door, he couldn’t do it quietly enough to avoid detection.

  But what halted the quest for escape altogether was the small camera he found in the back corner of the room. It wasn’t larger than a nail, and the only reason he saw it was because he’d been staring at the wall for the past hour. Curious, he searched the bathroom and found another camera in the top corner of the shower.

  The bedroom door opened and Grant stepped out of the bathroom. Two of the guards entered, followed by the old man who sat on the edge of the bed, smiling. “You looked like you were getting restless. Thought I’d check-in.”

  Grant crossed his arms and lingered in the bathroom doorway. He eyed both the guards, noticing their fingers on the triggers of their rifles. “Lack of privacy’s concerning.”

  The old man unbuttoned his jacket and crossed his legs rather femininely. “Don’t flatter yourself, Detective. You’re too old for my taste.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Conversation.” The old man spread his arms open in a giving gesture. “I’ve seen some repressed behavior over my lifetime, but you’re something special,” he said. “The anger over your wife’s accident is powerful.” He leaned forward and smiled. “It helps to talk about it.” He shrugged. “What else do you have to do?”

  “My wife is—”

  “Dead.” The old man held up a finger. “Yet you still refer to your wife as if she was alive. ‘My wife was,’ not ‘is.’ And family implies children, and while Ellen—”

  “Don’t say her name.” Grant’s voice cracked and his eyes watered. He hated that the bastard knew about her. He hated how weak he felt when the old man spoke about her. He was exposed. He was vulnerable. And the old man knew it.

  “Your wife,” the old man said, slower, “was pregnant, but you weren’t really a father yet.” The old man crossed his arms, staring at Grant like a vet examining a sick dog. “It must drive you mad not knowi
ng what it would have been like to be a father. After all, you’re a detective, a seeker of knowledge, striving to answer the unanswerable. To find the lost. To seek the truth among the lies.” The old man uncrossed his legs and clasped his hands together between them. “I’m sure you would have been a good father.” He scoffed. “Better than mine at least.”

  And that was where Grant noticed his opening. He watched the old man’s expression morph from playfully inquisitive to stoic. If Grant’s weak point was Ellen, the old man’s was his father.

  “He was a mean son of a bitch.” He looked up at Grant. “A drunkard. Whiskey was his favorite. But he never hit me when he was drunk.” The old man spoke the words inquisitively. “Growing up I always thought that was strange.”

  “Your father worked at a mill,” Grant said.

  The old man smiled and wagged his finger. “You’re not a disappointment, Detective.” He crossed his arms and chewed on the corner of his lower lip. “Sometimes I think it was the job at the mill that made him so angry. But even despite the beatings, the curses, and the drunken rages, I still wanted the old man’s affection.” He laughed. “I used to take him lunch before I was old enough to start school. My mother would pack a basket for him, and I’d run up from the house. It was a two-mile walk, daunting for such a young boy, and I was such a small thing. Each day I told myself, ‘today he’ll look at me. Today he’ll finally give me a smile, or a wave, or brag to his co-workers about me.’ But it never happened. If I wasn’t a bottle of whiskey or my mother’s pussy, I wasn’t of any use to him.”

  Grant listened to the familiar slip into nostalgia. He’d been in enough interrogation rooms to know when a suspect wanted to talk, wanted to confess. The old man wouldn’t have come in here if he didn’t have something to say. He suspected the thugs around him didn’t make for good conversation. And if the old man was going to kill Grant regardless, it didn’t matter what came out of his mouth. The secrets wouldn’t leave this room.

  “Someone else noticed me when I came to the mill, though,” he said. “One of my father’s friends. He was a thin man, but tall, at least to the likes of a boy. He had a thick beard and coarse hands. They were so calloused and rough.” He grazed his cheek absentmindedly. “I’ll never forget those hands.”

  The old man’s finger lingered on his cheek, and then he wiped the dazed look off his face. “Of course I didn’t realize what he was doing at first, nor did I care. I finally had the admiration of a father figure that I had always wanted. I don’t know if my father ever knew about our interactions, but they carried on for some time.”

  The more the old man spoke, the faster the wheels in Grant’s mind turned. If he was as good a predator as Grant thought, then he would have positioned himself early on in a career that would have granted him access to children. A social worker, maybe. Or teacher. And back when he started to live out his pedophile fantasies there was no Internet or social media to aid in catching him. Grant bet the old man missed those days.

  “So how did you do it?” the old man asked, a smile on his face. “I know the laptop gave you loads of help, but your chase started before all of that.”

  “The website,” Grant answered. “The one you created that attracted all of those pedophiles. I caught one of your students.”

  “Oh, yes, the woman.” Owen shook his head. “Out of all of them she showed the most potential. Talented but arrogant. An attribute I was willing to forgive, but alas, you stumbled on her too soon.”

  “You wanted the abductions to happen on the same day,” Grant said, more thinking aloud now. The detective protocols were set firmly within his mind, and once they started it was hard to shut them down. “Why? Confusion?”

  Owen puffed out his lower lip, and gave an ‘eh’ expression. “Partly. It was more of a challenge for myself. And it was also a test for a few, to see how they performed. With the entire state of Washington on alert, there would be eyes everywhere. If all the abductions were successful, it wouldn’t have just been a new way of kidnapping, it would have given me what I needed.”

  Grant racked his brain, pulling out the old files from that case, trying to keep the old man talking. “Mallory Given’s abductor mentioned something to me before she died. Said she should have waited like the others.”

  “She got greedy.” The old man frowned, suddenly angry as he stood and paced around to the foot of the bed. “Patience wasn’t her strongest virtue.” He turned to Grant. “Do you have any idea how difficult it was to coordinate all those abductions? And that bitch tipped you off before I even pulled the trigger.”

  “Why look for outsiders?” Grant squinted, trying to connect the dots. “You had an entire organization at your fingertips that could have taken whatever kids you wanted.”

  “Abductions in the Philippines are easy, especially on the more rural islands,” the old man said. “But the Web couldn’t just start applying their snatching methods stateside and expect to have any sustainability. I taught them my methods: seduction, abduction, escape.”

  “If you taught them what you knew, then what would they need you for?” Grant asked. “You made yourself obsolete.”

  “Exactly.” Owen ran his finger over the pattern of the comforter on the bed. “I don’t plan on doing this forever, Detective. But in order for me to ride off into the sunset I needed a replacement. Someone with a mind like my own to take up the mantle. Another me. Not an easy task I might add.”

  Grant arched an eyebrow. “Looking to retire?”

  The old man gestured to himself. “I am approaching my golden years.” He slapped his stomach. “Hell, I’m in the middle of my golden years.” He grimaced. “And it’s not all its cracked up to be, I’ll tell you that much.” He looked Grant up and down. “Despite all of my money, all of the power, all of the influence I carry, I’d give it all up to have my youth again. I look at you and see nothing but possibilities. But my future, well, there’s one inevitable looming in the distance.”

  “You in a jail cell,” Grant said.

  The old man offered a coy smile. “You never stop do you, Detective? It’s admirable, but pointless. But I suppose that’s why you were the one to find me. Out of all the others, you persisted. It took a pained, and broken man to catch me.” He crossed his arms. The old man’s eyes wandered over the room walls. “I’m just as trapped as you are, Detective. Forced to hide my desires from public view. If I ever revealed who I am, and the things that I want, I’d be burned at the stake. But, then again, most people hide who they really are. Pretending to be something that they’re not. Like you.” He gestured to the hand with Grant’s wedding ring. “It’s been two years and you still wear it. But it’s not who you are anymore.” The old man stood and stepped closer to Grant. “Let me show you who you are. Let me give you what you want.”

  “You have no idea what I want,” Grant said.

  The old man smiled, then turned toward the door and once out of sight, the old man hollered back. “Don’t be afraid to step off that ledge, Detective. You might find you enjoy the fall.”

  ***

  The ride back to the precinct was filled with anxiety. She knew the captain wanted answers about what happened last night. But it could be something else. Something worse. A message that needed to be delivered in person.

  Had they found Grant? Was he alive? The questions raced through her mind and her stomach twisted into knots the longer she thought about it. When the officer of the squad car she rode with back to the precinct slowed, she pushed the thoughts out of her mind. Grant had to be alive. She could feel it.

  At the precinct, the press core outside had nearly tripled from her last visit. The officer rode the brake through the crowd of cameras, microphones, and flashing lights as the reporters scraped against the car. It wasn’t until a pair of officers forced them back that they were able to park. But the moment Mocks stepped out of the car she was immediately swarmed.

  “Detective! Do you have a comment about the operation down south on the coas
t late last evening?”

  “What about the accusations made against your partner in regards to the assault on Brian Dunston two years ago?”

  “Any word on whether more abductions will take place?”

  “What’s the condition of the children that were rescued last night?”

  “Who was behind all of those abductions?”

  Mocks kept her head down and her mouth shut. She shouldered the precinct doors open and was glad to rid herself of the questions and cold.

  Her entrance was noted by every officer’s turn of the head as she walked past. It felt like death row, and the captain’s office was the gas chamber. And when she opened the captain’s door and saw his face, she didn’t think her demise was out of the question.

  “Shut the door, sit down, and shut up,” Hill said, pointing to the chair in front of his desk.

  Mocks did as he asked, though her lips wiggled in defiance.

  Captain Hill looked rough, more tired than she’d ever seen him. But she suspected that getting reamed by the Chief of Police in his own office wasn’t helping with his complexion, or the press circling outside for that matter.

  “You’re being put on administrative leave effective immediately,” Hill said. “Three weeks, with pay, to take care of your husband and his recovery.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” Mocks said.

  Hill thrust a finger at Mocks, his cheeks reddening. “I told you to keep that mouth shut, Detective! Do not test my limits. This is as good a deal as you’re going to get.”

  “What deal?” Mocks asked. “Captain, there is some serious shit going on. Grant’s still missing, Sam was just killed, and we don’t know who is running The Web stateside.”

  “That gang is no longer your concern, and neither is the search for Detective Grant’s body,” Hill said. “And as far as Sam, his death is officially being ruled a suicide.”

  “Bullshit!”