by James Hunt
Grant ducked and crouched lower, bits of wood falling over his head and shoulders with every gunshot. Five more shots, and then they stopped. Grant brushed some of the debris off his face and repositioned himself near the aisle’s edge.
“I’m not going to let you dismantle everything that I’ve built,” Pierfoy said. “The only way you’re getting me off this plane is in a body bag.”
Grant closed his eyes, controlling his breathing. The shooter had limited mobility with the pistol wedged between the seats. If he moved left fast and far enough, then he had a shot.
Grant scooted closer to the edge, ignoring the pained fatigue his body whimpered along with the daunting task of what came next. One step at a time. That’s all he needed to do.
Grant spun around the corner’s edge and the serviceman fired, missing Grant’s shoulder by a hair. Grant aimed toward the source of gunfire and squeezed the trigger. Recoil from the shots jerked Grant’s wrists in three quick strikes, and shrieks pierced as the gunfire rose from the rear of the plane. And then quiet. Just like that.
Grant pressed forward, pistol still aimed at the serviceman who lay lifeless on the floor, his eyes scanning the rest of the plane. Pierfoy’s family held up their hands, the father shielding his wife and daughter.
Pierfoy stood next, and when Grant approached the Secret Service man, he saw a small river of blood roll into the aisle.
“You three, on the back wall,” Grant said, pointing to the family. “Stay on your knees and place your hands on your head. Do not move unless I tell you to.”
The family quickly complied, the mother and daughter still crying. When Grant arrived at Pierfoy, the old senator kept his hands at his side. His face drooped, as if defeat had finally sunk its absolute claws into his back.
“So,” Grant said. “Do you want to walk out that door? Or do I need to get you that body bag?”
The senator slowly raised his arms.
Chapter 11
Grant moved Pierfoy and his family off the plane, leaving the body of the Secret Service agent where he lay. With the investigation that was sure to follow, Grant didn’t want to cause himself any more grief by adding tampering with evidence in addition to the charges accompanied for shooting a federal officer.
With the family off the plane, Grant checked the radio one last time, hoping some of Hickem’s men survived. “Agent Hickem, this is Grant, can you hear me?” He paused, waiting for a response. He checked the communication link, making sure everything was plugged in and turned on. It was. “I say again, this is Detective Grant. Is anyone out there?”
A burst of crackling static, and then garbled nonsense. Grant’s heart leapt at the noise, and he took a half step toward the tree line.
“Grant,” Hickem said. “You still there? Grant?”
“I’m here,” Grant answered. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, but my men are injured. I’ve radioed for a medical evac.”
“Where are you now?” Grant asked, pivoting three-sixty, but saw nothing except grass and trees.
“About a mile north of the airfield,” Hickem answered. “I’m staying put with my guys. What’s your situation?”
“I have Pierfoy along with his family and security detail,” Grant answered. “Callahan is gone. He took Mocks.”
Hickem remained silent for a moment. Then, with a steady tone, he replied, “She’ll be all right. She’s too ornery to die.”
The medical unit landed twenty minutes later, and Grant kept an eye on Pierfoy and company while the medics fished Hickem and his men from the forest. Or at least what was left of them.
Six had died. The other three were injured, including Hickem himself, who had a gash on the back of his left calf, which he conveniently forgot to mention until after his men were taken care of. He’d duct-taped the flap of meat back to the rest of him. The piece of muscle was at least the size of a steak.
The injured were taken first, Hickem staying behind with Grant, and another chopper arrived to pick up the bodies. While they waited, Grant pulled Hickem aside to give him the news about the Secret Service man he’d killed.
Hickem’s face went slack, and he nodded. “It’s not going to be easy for you when this is all over.”
“It was never going to be easy,” Grant said. Though he honestly didn’t think he’d still be alive anymore. He was supposed to die back in Callahan’s bunker. But how much more would he have to endure before that wish was granted?
While Hickem spoke about next moves, Grant didn’t listen. His thoughts drifted to Mocks, wondering if she was still alive. She was wearing a vest, and the gunshot looked to hit her in the chest over the protection. But with Owen as your warden, survival didn’t mean necessarily mean you’d stay in one piece. Flashes of Rick struck his mind, the gruesome cuts of jagged flesh over his body. The same could be done to her. Or worse.
“Grant,” Hickem said, nudging his arm. “Did you hear what I said?”
“What? No,” Grant answered. “Sorry.”
The chopper descended, and Grant’s stomach drifted upward from the inertia. Their vehicles were tucked away off the side of the highway. State troopers blocked traffic and the chopper landed directly on the eastbound lanes of Highway Ten.
“I can hold off on my report until I get a medical update on the rest of my men,” Hickem said. “Which means I can keep the death of the Secret Service officer off your back from an official standpoint. But I can’t prevent Pierfoy from going to the press, which I’m sure he’ll do the moment he has his lawyer. They’re going to paint you as the bad guy. Even though you’re not.”
Grant understood. The Secret Service officer was just doing his job, protecting the man the people had elected. The chopper jolted on the landing, and Grant unclipped his seatbelt and removed his headset. Hickem followed him to the car, the blades of the chopper winding down.
“He’ll ask to trade something for her,” Hickem said. “And when he contacts you, which you and I both know he will, you need to tell me.”
Grant opened his driver side door without a word and then shut himself inside. Hickem tapped on the glass as Grant started the car. He lowered the window.
“Call me when it happens,” Hickem said. “I want to hear you say it.”
Grant exhaled. “I’ll call you.”
“Good,” Hickem said, leaning away from the window. “What are you going to do until then?”
Grant kept his foot on the brake and shifted into drive. “We know his name now. Which means I’ve got homework to do.”
***
Police tape covered Grant’s door when he returned to his apartment, which he tore off and threw in the trash the moment he stepped inside. His place was small, tinier than the house he had with Ellen. But a studio was all he needed. He never entertained, and the only time he was at home was when he slept, and sometimes not even then. He’d pulled more overnighters at the precinct since Ellen died than all his years combined before her accident.
Grant sat at his desk and opened his laptop, immediately going to work. He Googled Owen Callahan and a few hits popped up, including the article about the fire at the sawmill they had noted earlier. But aside from an announcement of his birth at the local hospital, there wasn’t much else.
From there, he typed Owen Callahan into the police database, and he was glad to find that his administrative privileges had yet to be turned off. The department had probably thought he was dead.
The name got a few hits, but it wasn’t the Owen Callahan that Grant was looking for. He clicked on alias tabs and found a report filed over a decade ago with a connection to a cold case from the early eighties that was reopened. Which would have put Owen in his mid to late twenties.
The cause for reopening the abduction case was the discovery of the victim’s body by a pair of hikers. A series of storms had blown through the previous week, and investigators believed that the constant rain and wind unearthed and exposed the young girl.
A DNA test confi
rmed the body was in fact the young girl who went missing years prior, and the detective who took over the case was Roger Hayfield. Grant remembered the name but never interacted with the man. He was still studying for his detective’s exam at the time, and Hayfield worked at another precinct north of Seattle.
The body of the girl that was abducted was in the foster care system, so Hayfield began interviewing individuals who worked for the department of children and families at that time.
Most of the notes from the interviews were vague, Hayfield noting that the witnesses had hazy or foggy memories. By now, most of them were retired or dead. But a few mentioned a name, and they all said the same thing: Owen Callahan was such a lovely young man. So Hayfield tracked Callahan down.
At the time, Callahan was still working at the DCF in Seattle and had moved up to director of his division. Hayfield’s notes on him were detailed.
Interviewee was oddly calm and overly sympathetic to the situation, though from interactions observed of him and his staff, it was normal behavior. Some sociopathic tendencies noticed. Loves attention, dominating with his presence, likes to be in control, which explains his current position. Says he’s retiring soon.
Hayfield never got past anything more than a hunch about Callahan. But Grant continued to explore the old man’s history. His school records revealed a bright student, A’s and B’s in all his classes. He excelled in social studies, and his college transcripts from Washington State revealed a double major in psychology and social work. It was the perfect path suited for his pedophilia.
After graduation, he found an entry-level position within the foster care system. Grant followed his career through a series of paperwork, and his stomach lurched when he discovered where Callahan had spent most of his DCF career.
The bastard had weaseled his way into a quality assurance position, which granted him access to the children’s facilities all around the state at any given time for ‘surprise inspections.’
Grant clicked through some of the reports Callahan prepared, then cross-referenced those reports with the disappearances of children within the foster care system.
On average, around one hundred kids bolted from the foster care system once they were old enough to hold a job, and before the age of the Internet highway, it wasn’t hard for kids to do so.
To have an idea of how many kids Callahan might have taken, Grant measured the number of kids classified as ‘runaways’ the decade before Callahan’s employment, and then during. The numbers weren’t drastically different in regards to total numbers, but there was an obvious increase in children disappearances.
Year over year during Callahan’s stint in quality assurance, the average number of children classified as “runaways” was at plus twenty percent, which averaged out to be ten more kids a year. Which meant that Callahan picked out a new kid almost every month. All of them under the age of twelve.
Grant leaned back in his chair, slamming the laptop shut. His phone buzzed, and even though the number was blocked, he knew who it was. “Is she still alive?”
“Yes,” Owen answered. “And if you want her to stay that way, then I want something from you.”
“What?”
“A copy was made of the hard drive from the laptop you stole. I want it back, and any other duplicates.”
“We know about the islands,” Grant said. “Your paradise is finished. There is no way that legislation Pierfoy created for you will pass now that he’s been arrested. It’s over.”
“There is always a way out, Detective,” Owen said sharply. “We just might not always like where it leads.”
“Where do we meet?”
“I’ll text you the coordinates. Come alone, and bring me what I want.”
The call ended, and Grant let the phone linger by his ear. This was where he was supposed to call Hickem. But Grant knew the old man was too smart to get caught on his heels now. If Grant brought help, Mocks would die.
Grant gathered his things, along with his revolver and extra boxes of ammunition. He still had his vest, along with enough gas in his car to make the trip. He removed the hard drive from the laptop and placed it in his pocket when his phone buzzed. It was Lieutenant Furst.
He wasn’t sure how the lieutenant had discovered that Grant was out of the compound. Pierfoy must have already gone to the press. His first instinct was to ignore it, but the lieutenant had always been a friend, and it wasn’t like Grant had to tell him where he was or what he was doing. “I know you probably have questions, but—”
“Is Mullocks with you?” Furst asked, his voice quick and breathless.
“No,” Grant answered, avoiding telling Furst that Mocks had been taken. Hickem must have not told him yet. Not that he had a reason to.
“Shit,” Furst said. “She might already be gone then.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Someone took Rick from the hospital,” Furst answered. “They cut the power, and when the generators were still running, someone killed the officer watching his room. If the gang went after him again, then they might be going after her too.”
Grant hung up the phone before Furst wasted any more time. He had to get there quickly. But the old man wasn’t the only one who had tricks up his sleeve. Grant had a few surprises as well.
Chapter 12
Grant eased up on the brakes, and the mechanism squealed as the car crawled to a stop. Dust kicked up from the tires drifted over the vehicle. Grant looked up to the sky. The sun was shining through the clouds. He recalled that it was sunny the day of Ellen’s funeral. The worst days always had good weather.
The sawmill was visible from where Grant parked off the side of the road, or at least what was left of it. Long black scorch marks traveled up the walls. Empty holes replaced the windows, and half the roof had collapsed at the rear of the structure. Wild growth had consumed most of what remained of the mill.
Aside from the mill itself, Grant saw no one outside. He turned left and right on his walk up, searching for either Callahan or his henchmen in the woods, but the forest was quiet. Nothing but gusts of wind and a few birds chirping in the trees.
A side door near the front of the mill was open. Looking at it from the outside, Grant would have thought it was the entrance to some kind of beast’s lair.
Grant didn’t bother removing the revolver on his approach. He was on Callahan’s turf now. Grant only had one card to play, but he wasn’t sure if the old man would take the bait.
Grant entered the mill, and solid beams of light from empty spaces where windows once stood pierced the darkness. Dust and insects drifted in the long beams, but Grant remained in the shadows. He spotted Callahan at the rear of the mill, right before where the roof had collapsed.
Callahan was dressed in a black suit, a red pocket square the only bit of color on his attire. He wore no tie, but the outfit was suited for a funeral. Grant spotted Rick tied to one of the remaining pillars. He was unconscious, and his chin dug into his chest. Grant wasn’t sure he was alive.
A pistol in Callahan’s right hand hung limply at his side. His left hand held a green Bic lighter.
“That doesn’t belong to you,” Grant said.
Callahan flicked the lighter, and the flame brightened the darkness that had swallowed the old man. He kept his eye on the flame as it wiggled. “I’ve always been fascinated with fire.” He lifted his gaze to the mill. “It was my first love. I suspect that if I hadn’t become what I am now, I would have turned to arson. There’s something beautiful in the way that it cleanses.”
“Where’s Mocks?” Grant asked, his hand itching for the revolver in his holster. He knew he could draw on the old man faster than Callahan could pull the trigger, but Grant knew Callahan wouldn’t be alone. His henchmen were here somewhere. Hiding.
Callahan let his thumb off the lighter and cast himself back into darkness. He raised the pistol and aimed it at Grant. “I’m sure you’ve done your research, Detective. You can guess where we are,
what I did here.”
“This was the mill your father worked at,” Grant replied. “The paper said it killed every man inside.”
“Including my father and that friend of his I told you about,” Callahan said. “You see as I got older, my once-great admirer lost interest in me. I was no longer his type, and I can’t tell you how much that hurt me. I’m sure my adolescence amplified that pain, but it was agonizing.”
Callahan stepped forward, still glancing around the inside of the mill. “You know, I never thought I’d come back here.” He shivered. “Such cold memories.”
“They blamed it on a cigarette that caught fire,” Grant said.
“Everyone smoked back then, and with all of this wood, all it took was a little bit of gasoline and one of my mother’s Lucky Strikes. I did it in the morning, when everyone was still getting ready for the day. There was only one door, which I sealed shut.”
Grant furrowed his brow. “That wasn’t mentioned in the article.”
“Why would it be?” Callahan asked. “The mill had been cited for poor ventilation, hazardous work conditions, and on several occasions, the foremen had to remind the workers not to set any logs by the door.” Callahan shrugged. “During the fire, one happened to be near and fell. It was well planned, and no one would have suspected a high school student back then to enact something to terrible.”
“So you got what you wanted,” Grant said. “Like you always do.”
“But it was more than that, Detective,” Callahan said. “It was the first time in my life that I realized the only way to get what you wanted was to take it. And it was a lesson that I still carry today.” He pointed at Grant. “It was a lesson I tried to teach you, but it didn’t stick.”
Grant fidgeted. He still hadn’t spotted Mocks. And the closer Callahan walked to him, the stronger the smell of gasoline became.
