The Kid: A Suspense Thriller (Reed & Billie Book 3)

by Stevens,Dustin

Again Reed’s face scrunched slightly to the side, his features contorted as he raised a hand on edge and wagged it. “Well, sort of. That’s the first part of it, anyway.”

  A moment passed as Deek sat in silence before nodding his head back a few inches.

  “The second part being this FBI pinhead and how he intersects with all this?”

  “There it is,” Reed repeated, jabbing a finger out in front of himself for emphasis.

  A side-by-side of the detectives and Weston would be simple enough. He had been able to get a decent start on that already, having been pulled off only because of the discovery of Diedra Weston’s car and the daunting number of cases that the initial run returned.

  “If I were to guess Gilmore’s age I’d put him at 40ish, meaning all of these parties have a pretty substantial track record to go through. Might want to start with the most recent and work your way back from there.”

  Again Deek remained silent a moment, his eyes pinched up slightly as he stared above Reed’s head, his lips moving imperceptibly.

  “That should be doable,” he finally whispered, his gaze still locked on some indeterminate point in the distance. “Rush job?”

  “Do we ever see any other kind?”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The first tiny sliver of daylight was just beginning to peek out over the horizon as The Kid pulled to a stop. The front brakes on his car squealed slightly as he shifted into park and turned off the ignition, the ticking of the engine the only sound. Remaining behind the wheel, he sat for a moment, making a point of avoiding the rearview mirror.

  There was nothing there he wanted or needed to see right now.

  Instead, he kept his focus aimed on an indeterminate point in the distance, his eyes pinched just slightly against the first stray golden shafts of light shooting straight up across the morning sky to the east.

  When he’d initially put the agenda together, had planned things out, it had seemed so simple. The list was premade for him, the methods of their dispatch as well. All he had to do was follow the template already laid out, paint by the numbers, stay inside the lines, and everything would be alright.

  The first step was easy, almost too much so. It had given The Kid the false assumption that they would all go in a similar manner, that no problems would be faced. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but it had softened him, caused him to lower his guard just a bit.

  The second was somewhat more difficult, though not in the execution. Gaining access to Didi Weston, subduing her and her husband, those things had been no problem at all. The problem there was in the finish, in having to watch the life pressed from Dennis Weston one agonizing breath at a time, at seeing the anguish his wife endured as it happened.

  The Kid had seen death before. One doesn’t grow up near The Bottoms, doesn’t pedal in his chosen profession, without having at least some tangential experience with it.

  These were the first times that he had been an active participant though, let alone the sole perpetrator. A week before, he had never fired a weapon at another human being, let alone done so with the intent of ending life.

  A day before he had never forced someone to watch the death of another.

  The third step, he hadn’t been ready for. Not for the fight that ensued or the sheer horror of the aftermath. Just picturing it caused The Kid’s eyes to slide shut, for the skin of his cheeks to pull slightly, the salt from his dried tears having drawn them taught.

  Without even glancing down he could feel the burning sensation of the skin scraped free from his knuckles, could sense the cleaning solution on his arms after scrubbing the blood away so many times.

  This was not how it was supposed to go. It was not supposed to have been so difficult.

  He was not supposed to be having second thoughts.

  Pushing a long breath out through his nose, The Kid opened his eyes. He focused on the sun continuing to push itself up above the horizon, bringing with it the first sunny day the area had seen in weeks.

  Watching it, seeing it nudge steadily upward, The Kid let go of the debacle from the night before. He ignored the searing pain the sun caused on the back of his retinas, keeping his gaze aimed on the tangerine orb as it climbed.

  Someplace deep within, his fears abated.

  The sun was out, as sure a sign as ever could be for such a day.

  Reaching for the driver’s side door, The Kid pushed it open, stepping out into the cool morning air.

  He had preparations to make.

  And then it was time to go visit Big.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  When he and Riley first transitioned from the uniformed division over to detectives, Reed had figured he would get used to the grind. After a year or two, he would gain the ability to turn his mind off at the end of the day, to leave things behind and detach, go enjoy a ballgame and a beer each night.

  At the very least be able to get a full night’s sleep.

  The ensuing years had proven how wrong that supposition had been. If anything, the opposite was true, Reed finding it more and more difficult to turn things off with each case he worked. Instead of gaining distance he was clinging too tightly, spending his evenings at the kitchen table scouring through case files, lying awake on his bed at night and staring at the ceiling, his active mind refusing to let him rest.

  While being in such a state was beginning to take its toll on his body, the previous 10 months having stripped a dozen pounds from him, it did also present the occasional small benefit, such as when Deek texted him at 5:00 a.m. to say he had something.

  Phone parked on the nightstand beside his bed, Reed rolled over and checked the message the moment it came in. He didn’t bother to comment on the time, instead pushing straight to asking if he could come directly over. When the response came back in the affirmative a moment later, Reed had gotten up to fill Billie’s bowl and let her out the back door before jumping in the shower, the same routine they went through most mornings, if not an hour or two earlier.

  Twenty minutes later they found themselves on the road toward Hilliard, Reed pushing the engine hard, enjoying the roadways free of traffic, already dreading the scads of drivers that would soon be joining them. Dispatch was mercifully silent as they went, Reed keeping the radio off, the two of them making it back to Deek’s in right at half an hour.

  Under the early morning light the house looked a bit different from the night before, though only to add color to the basic ranch home. What had before appeared to be shades of grey turned out to be light blue, the shutters painted dark burgundy.

  Small fall arrangements that Reed hadn’t noticed the previous evening were arranged in each of the window sills, pumpkins and gourds with swaths of bright faux leaves woven throughout.

  Billie made no fuss as he left the car, enjoying a few extra minutes of rest curled up on the back seat. Like every good Marine she had fully bought into the maxim of grabbing rest wherever she could, her dark form spread the length of the car, barely cracking open an eyelid as he departed.

  The sun was just rising at his back as Reed stepped out, the orange light hitting everything, adding to the autumn scene. With practiced hands, he lifted his badge over his head and allowed the chain it was affixed to rest against his neck, the small silver implement slapping lightly against his chest.

  For as much as he hated wearing the thing, especially at such an unholy hour, he knew it would shave at least five minutes off the ensuing conversation.

  Stepping up onto the small front porch, he knocked twice before taking a step back. The bulb above the door still burned bright from the night before and the din of morning news found his ears as he stood and waited, a full minute passing before the sound of slippers sliding over a tile floor could be heard.

  The distinctive sound of three separate locks disengaging rang out before the doorknob turned, the weather stripping encasing the frame holding the dark red gate in place a moment before finally giving way.

  On the opposite side of
the door stood Mrs. Chamberlain, still in her bathrobe and slippers. Bright red curlers held her silver hair in small loops around her head, a mug of coffee with a picture of Garfield on it gripped in her hand.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, her face folded up against the morning sun, lines etched across much of her skin.

  “Good morning,” Reed said, putting on his best cheerful voice, “Detective Reed Mattox, CPD. I’m here because Deek is helping me with a case and asked me to stop by.”

  In times past Reed would have let Riley handle the entire interaction, knowing they would be hugging and ushered inside in seconds. Since her demise, he had found the going a bit tougher, his own approach honed to always mention he was with the police and Deek was helping them.

  It seemed appealing to her sense of familial pride was the surest way to get past the gatekeeper.

  Actually, in his experience, it might even be the only way.

  “Oh yes, yes,” she said, stepping to the side and waving him in, “I remember now, of course. He was just telling me about it yesterday at lunch.”

  The fact that Reed had not met with Deek until a full 10 hours after lunchtime was not lost on him, though he made no mention of it as he stepped inside. He merely continued to smile and nod, slipping past her on the front foyer and going straight through the side door into the basement.

  With each step down the artificial sound of video game violence grew a little louder, Reed picking up the cackle of machine gun fire followed by an explosion of some sort. Rolling his eyes upward he shook his head as he made his way down the last few steps, coming into view of the enormous television all lit up.

  In the center of the screen was the outstretched tip of an M-16, the front of it and the view of the player moving in unison, simulating a first-person approach. Around the periphery of the screen was a dilapidated town looking like a cross between the Old West and modern Afghanistan, interlopers wearing head kerchiefs and shades of brown popping to and fro.

  “Some people like to read the newspaper in the morning,” Reed said, coming to a stop behind the chair he’d used the night before. He kept his hands pushed into the front pockets of his sweatshirt and added, “Maybe watch Good Morning America and drink some coffee.”

  In front of him the screen froze, the gun stopping at an angle, people along the outer edge coming to a halt mid-step. The springs on the second recliner wheezed as Deek slammed the foot rest down and leaned forward, turning to regard Reed over his shoulder.

  “True, but that stuff’s for people waking up. I haven’t been to bed yet.”

  “Okay,” Reed countered, “so watch some Letterman or something.”

  A look of equal parts surprise and disgust crossed his face. “You know he retired, like, months ago, right?”

  Reed had no idea. Most of his nights were spent on duty, the rest doing anything but watching late night television. “Oh, right.”

  “Right,” Deek said, raising his eyebrows enough to let it be known he didn’t believe the excuse Reed was trying to concoct. Rather than wait to hear whatever that might be he stood, looping around the front of his recliner and heading toward his workstation.

  “Man, I have to be honest,” he said, disappearing from view behind his bank of monitors, “this was one of the tougher requests I’ve had in a while. Turns out the FBI must have beefed up their firewalls or something.”

  Something about the way the statement was phrased, Reed knew he was being prompted to inquire, setting Deek up to explain how he had managed to deliver anyway.

  Somehow, it had become one of the hallmarks of their interaction.

  “But you still got in?” Reed asked.

  “I did,” Deek said. “Just saying, it took some doing.”

  Taking a few steps forward, Reed rested his hand along the back of the recliner Deek had just been using. From that angle he was able to see past the corner of the workstation, Deek’s visage illuminated by the screens. “And?”

  Deek remained silent a moment, his attention on the monitors, before turning to stare at Reed. “Eleven.”

  Reed waited for more explanation to come. When none did he prompted, “Eleven?”

  “Yep,” Deek said, rotating his desk chair to look over at Reed. His elbows rested on his thighs, his hands hanging down between his knees. “Your detectives and Weston, they had tons of crossover. Turns out more inmates from your precinct end up in Franklin County Medical than anywhere else in the metro area.”

  Never before had Reed considered the numbers, though it made sense. Franklin Medical was for prisoners that were in need of major medical attention, whether it be physical or mental. He didn’t have a difficult time imagining that a great many people from The Bottoms suffered some form of mental health need.

  It was even easier to surmise their affinity for violence, many carrying that tendency with them into incarceration.

  They liked to fight, and that usually came at a price.

  “Your boy Gilmore though,” Deek said, “that’s where things got interesting.”

  Reed bristled slightly at the insinuation Gilmore was or would ever be his boy, though he let it go. Instead he raised his right hand, flicking his fingers back toward himself, motioning for Deek to continue.

  “The details are pretty sketchy,” Deek said, “and if you hadn’t tipped me off about what to look for, there’s no way I would have found it.”

  “Meaning?” Reed asked.

  “Meaning the man was never mentioned by name. The closest it ever got was his initials, always entered by Dennis Weston himself.”

  For a moment Reed stood, processing the information. His face squinted up as he tried to make sense of it, superimposing the new information over what he already knew.

  “The warden of the facility was going into individual patient files?”

  “Looks that way to me,” Deek said, raising his hands wide to either side, “and I could be wrong here, but it would appear the two had some sort of referral program going on.”

  “Referral...” Reed said, drawing the word out as he thought on it a moment. “As in...”

  “As in every time Weston entered D.G. into the system, that particular inmate got out less than a month later.”

  Reflexively, Reed’s eyes bulged at the information. His focus zeroed in on Deek, who bore a self-satisfied smile on his face.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “All eleven of them.”

  The revelation came as a sharp blow to Reed, vastly expanding the scope of every previous working theory he’d had. He raised both hands to his face and rubbed twice, feeling the warmth from his palms against his cheeks.

  “Gilmore had himself a damn informant farm system going over there.”

  “Sure looks that way,” Deek said.

  “Which is why he showed up and tried to scare me off,” Reed added, thinking out loud. “He’s probably doing this off the books and didn’t want anybody stumbling across it.”

  Opposite him Deek remained silent a moment before raising a hand and scratching at the stubble on the underside of his chin. “Huh, I’d forgotten about that. Makes sense though.”

  Already Reed’s mind was racing in a dozen different directions. The information had effectively shifted the trajectory of two investigations, meaning that he and Glenn were about to have a very uncomfortable conversation with a federal agent.

  “Anything else?” Reed asked.

  A look resembling hurt passed over Deek’s face as he again spread his hands wide. “In the last eight hours? No, that’s all.”

  A half-smile formed on Reed’s face as he shook his head. “Not what I meant at all. That’s damn good work. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t holding back any last bombshells before I really started trying to form a plan of attack here.”

  “That’s all,” Deek repeated.

  A moment passed as Reed stood rooted in place, trying to best wrestle the information into a cohesive order in his mind. “You have the 11 names?”<
br />
  “Right here,” Deek said, reaching out to the side and picking up a thin stack of printouts. He extended the papers to Reed, who stepped forward and accepted them, glancing through once before lowering them by his side.

  “Thank you, again. I appreciate this.”

  A wan smile tugged the left corner of Deek’s mouth up as he glanced over toward his living quarters. “Thank you for the bottle of J-Dub Blue. About this time tonight, I’ll be appreciating that as well.”

  The dual nature of the statement was not lost on Reed, relaying both appreciation and the fact that if any further assistance was required, it should be requested sooner rather than later.

  “You enjoy that,” Reed said, raising the papers to his brow and turning toward the stairs.

  Halfway there a thought occurred to him, something that he had forgotten about until lying awake in bed overnight, his mind trying to put together every loose end that remained.

  “One last thing,” he said, taking another step back and leaning against the banister on the staircase. “If someone had a Facebook account, would it be possible to see who had accessed it?”

  Deek’s bushy mop of hair rose from behind the screens as he stood, a look of confusion on his face. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean...” Reed said, pausing to parse out the best way to ask the question. “If someone had posted they were going on vacation, would it be possible to tell who might have seen that message?”

  How the killer had known the Hendrix’s were going to be out of town was the only thing from the theft of their car that still remained, a detail that seemed benign at this point, but Reed still wanted to figure out.

  “No,” Deek said. “That’s public information. If you gave me a machine or even an account, I could tell if they had looked at a certain person, but not the other way around.”

  Reed paused a moment, a slight frown tugging at his lips, before raising the pages in farewell. “Thanks again for this. I appreciate it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Adrenaline surged through Reed to the point of almost being detrimental. He could feel it coursing through his body, sending his pulse upward, his heart pounding. Sweat coated his skin, warmth permeating him, causing him to lean forward behind the steering wheel and peel away his hooded sweatshirt.