by Alton Gansky
“He said his prayers could deliver me. He lied. And lied. And lied. I still hear them. He made a promise. No one breaks a promise to us.”
“Why not just kill him?” Carmen asked. “You’ve shown you can do that.”
“It had to be this way. It had to be special. Unique. Wonderful. It had to be my way—our way.” He smiled at Carmen. “Having you here has made this even better.”
He stroked her cheek.
“She’s not answering her phone.” Bud clicked off his cell. “This isn’t like her.”
“Maybe her battery died?” Hector was ever the optimist.
Bud snapped a glance at Hector. “Would you put any money on that?”
“Not a penny.”
Bud dialed the phone again. “I’m calling dispatch. Maybe we can reach her by radio.” That was a dead end, too.
“Come on.” Bud rose from the chair in the case room and started for the homicide area. “We’re going to talk to the captain.”
Five minutes later, Captain Simmons had called Escondido police and asked that a patrol car be dispatched to Ellis Poe’s condo. And he sent Heywood to check out Poe’s boat.
A short time later, Heywood called. Simmons put it on the speakerphone. “Bad news, Cap. I found Detective Rainmondi’s weapon and cell phone. I found Ellis Poe’s phone, too. I’ve got Harbor Police checking Poe’s boat and . . . hang on . . . Okay, the boat is empty.”
“What about her car?”
“No sign of it.” Pause. “Cap, I think Finch has her.”
Simmons swore.
Bud felt his strength drain from him. He let the despair linger for thirty seconds, then his training and experience kicked in. “Helicopters, Cap. We got to get helos in the air.”
“Agreed, but what direction do we send them?”
“We’ve been running down possible leads to cabinet shops. We have people in the city and county records working on finding cabinet shops that went out of business in the last five years.”
“Why five years?” Simmons stood.
“Property values in the county are still some of the highest in the country. It’s hard to imagine property with a decent building on it not selling in five years. Possible, but not likely. We got two hits. One is just outside El Cajon. The second has a lot of buildings around. The El Cajon site is the most likely.”
Simmons put out a BOLO for Carmen’s car and placed a call to the El Cajon police.
“The shop is outside the city. I looked at a Google map. It’s kinda isolated.” Bud thought for a moment. “Cap, I don’t ask many favors, but I have one.”
“You want ABLE to take you there?” The Air Borne Law Enforcement helicopter.
“Yes.”
Again, Simmons picked up the phone. When he hung up he said, “We’re in luck. Get to the roof.”
“On my way.”
“Not without me.” Hector was right on Bud’s heels.
The Eurocopter Astar 3B was one of the SDPD’s most useful crime tools and had been called a “crook catching machine.” It could travel from the Mexican border to north county in twelve minutes. The trip from downtown headquarters to the east county city of El Cajon would take much less time. The passenger compartment could hold four others. Bud and Hector made use of it.
As the helicopter took off, Bud’s stomach sank. And it had nothing to do with the sudden lift off.
Hang on, Carmen, you hear me? You hang on.
41
Ellis’s knees shook so they barely held him up. The sights and smells and sounds turned his stomach. His arms trembled. He had tried to put up a brave front, to show Carmen he was no longer the coward he was when he was eighteen, but terror followed no logic and cared nothing about reputation. Bound hands or not, he wanted to run. To flee across the old workshop and make for the door—bust through it if necessary. It was dark outside. Maybe he could hide. Finch and his fractured mind had other things to worry about.
He doesn’t want me. He wants Carmen. He wants the women. He wants Templeton. And he’s got them. Maybe he would allow one man to escape.
He felt the urge to cry. To scream for help. To plead for his life. To promise anything and everything if only he could walk out the door. Maybe if he promised to keep everything secret . . .
If Ellis had learned anything since that night in 1985, it was that there were two emotions more powerful than fear: shame and love.
He understood shame. It had been his live-in companion for nearly thirty years, attaching itself to his soul like a leech, growing stronger each day until it left Ellis little more than an egg shell—thin, empty, and fragile.
Templeton groaned then writhed, his toes barely touching the floor. His eyes opened, then widened. Tears poured from his eyes: tears of pain, of fear, of pleading. The tortured man shuddered. Convulsed.
Finch shot toward the man and threw a punch to Templeton’s ribs, hitting him like a professional boxer. Ellis heard ribs crack.
Oh God. Please God. Blessed Jesus.
Ellis backed away. He averted his eyes, but they fell on the women, then on the cross, then on the razor wire crown and other instruments of torture. Then on the bruised and bloodied Carmen, standing beside him. It was too much to see, too much to hear, too much to take in. He took another step back, adding two more feet between him and the horror movie he was being forced to watch. And experience.
Carmen swore under her breath, lowered her head, and charged. When one stride away from the behemoth, she screamed loud enough to rattle the windows. Finch had pulled back to throw another punch, but Carmen caught him midswing, just as he rested all his weight on one foot. Ellis heard the air leave the big man’s lungs.
He backed away as the two tumbled to the ground.
Carmen landed on Finch, who seemed stunned by the blow and astonished by the viciousness of her attack. She didn’t wait for a response. She scrambled to her feet and kicked for all she was worth. The first try landed on Finch’s shoulder, the second on the side of his head.
Ellis moved another step closer to the door. This was his opportunity. He wouldn’t get another. Run! RUN!
Carmen raised a foot, clearly intent on driving the heel of her shoe into the man’s skull. She was too late. Finch caught her foot and twisted. Carmen screamed and fell hard, her head bouncing on the concrete surface.
Now. Run. Run. Save yourself.
The room disappeared, replaced by a cool San Diego night. He saw the street on which Shelly was killed. He saw the overturned yellow Camero, heard the vicious rants of a young Mitchell Finch—and watched Shelly crawl from the overturned car as she had that night.
Ellis started for the door, but the vision wouldn’t leave his mind. Shelly held out her hand, begging for help as she had in 1985—
No, this was different. She wasn’t holding out her hand, she was pointing. Her blood stained face turned to him, her bloody hand pointing behind him. “My sister . . .”
Finch laughed. Ellis turned.
“You are no match for us, woman.” He towered over her. “I will kill you like we did your sister.”
“Help . . . my . . . sister.”
Ellis looked at the door.
There was a pounding in his ears. Thumpa, thumpa.
Finch laughed. Hideous. Demonic. Cold and terrifying.
Ellis’s gaze fell on Carmen. Lovely and brave. Defiant in the face of death. Willing to sacrifice herself for her dead sister, for the women in the room, for Templeton, for the families of the victims and—dear God, for him.
He forced his eyes away and continued to back up.
Thumpa, thumpa.
A glint caught his attention. A sparkle of light from the razor wire crown of thorns. Then he saw the purple cloth, the rods, the whip. Then the cross—the very symbol of sacrific
e, of one man dying for the many.
Ellis shook his head. Run! He started for the door, then stopped. Carmen screamed.
“No . . . no . . . not this . . . time.” Ellis could barely recognize his own whispered voice.
Thumpa, thumpa, thumpa. The walls shook.
Ellis ran. Not to the door, but straight at Finch. He sprinted, pushing his legs as never before, then he lowered his head just as Finch raised a booted foot over Carmen’s face. Finch spewed cruelties as he brought the foot down.
It never landed. Ellis hit the behemoth full force in the middle of the back. Pain fired down Ellis’s shoulder and into his back. He didn’t care. He was beyond caring.
The force of the impact drove Ellis and Finch forward, tumbling until they struck the workbench, sending the items on its used and scarred surface to the floor. Ellis landed hard, his bound hands useless in breaking the fall. He couldn’t draw a breath.
Finch bellowed, angry and pained, and bolted to his feet. He picked Ellis up, steadied him with his left hand then drove his fist into Ellis’s stomach. The shock and pain were indescribable. Ellis buckled. He was barely conscious when he landed on the cold floor. One kick followed another. He had just enough mind left to think of the battered corpses he had seen.
Thumpa. Such a familiar sound. He wondered what it was as darkness ebbed and flowed in his eyes.
Finch screamed. Ellis looked up to see Carmen on her feet using the only weapons available to her: her feet. She drove a foot into Finch’s knee making it buckle. The man staggered to the side.
He shouted at her, fire on his lips, his words rolling through the building.
The names he called her . . .
The fury he displayed . . .
The hatred in his wide eyes . . .
Carmen raised her head. “Bring it, Finch. I’ve been dreaming of this for twenty-eight years. C’mon! I got more for you! I got something from Shelly just for you.”
Finch bellowed and moved forward like a train gaining speed for a hill. Carmen tried to kick again, but her injured body betrayed her. Blood poured from her nose and her mouth. Fury blazed from her eyes.
The attempted kick made her unstable. Finch felled her with one blow, a blow that landed in the middle of her face. She crumbled to the ground, her mouth open, gasping for air like a fish on a pier. The sight of the cruelty empowered Ellis. He scrambled to his feet, staggered for a moment, then stumbled forward. He didn’t have the speed or the strength of his last attack. He would never be able to move the man, so he took a cue from Carmen and aimed for the knees. His shoulder caught Finch on the side of his right leg.
Finch went down. So did Ellis. For a moment Finch rolled on the ground holding his leg. Ellis used the time to squirm toward Carmen. She teetered on the crumbling edge of unconsciousness.
“Run,” she whispered.
“No.” He turned his head to see Finch rise, limp to the items of torture scattered on the floor. He bent and picked up the whip. The cat-of-nine-tales. The man’s expression had changed. He no longer looked angry. He looked pleased, happy, eager for what came next.
Ellis was spent. He was no fighter. No hero. Just a professor of New Testament studies about to die. Like an inchworm he moved to Carmen and covered her with his body.
Then he closed his eyes.
The first strike of the whip ripped through his shirt. The second laid open his back. The third hit the back of his thighs. He screamed after the first two blows. He had no more strength to scream after that.
“I’m so, so, so sorry . . .” he whispered.
A shattering bang.
Indistinct words: “Don’t . . . p-lice.” Another strike and Ellis felt his heart hesitate.
A loud pop. Another. Another. Ellis caught a glimpse of Finch backpedaling, then falling on his back—across the large, wooden cross lying on the floor.
The whip never struck again.
Ellis exhaled but couldn’t manage to inhale.
Blackness.
White.
Peace at last.
Epilogue
Soft lips touch his.
Vague forms hover overhead.
Indistinct voices.
Darkness.
Brighter light overhead.
He’s on his right side.
Pain.
People talk. A voice comes over an intercom.
He’s in a bed.
New darkness.
New light.
Ellis opened his eyes. A familiar form in a chair.
Open door.
Letters on window by door. ICU 3W.
Soft, electronic voice. “And the Padres drop their season opener to the Dodgers.”
“Figures,” he said.
Darkness again.
People near him. Talking. Someone touches his shoulder. Words. Soft. Confident.
Praying.
Someone is praying for him. Ellis opens his eyes to see two blurry figures standing there, and one in a chair.
“Last rites?”
A familiar voice chuckles. “Um, you’re not Catholic.”
“Oh.” A moment later. “Hi, Dr. Bridger, Dr. Dunne.”
“Good to see you awake, Dr. Poe. You had us worried.” Bridger’s image came clearer.
“It’s my only skill.” He started to roll on his back, but Adam stopped him. “The doctors say you’re not ready for that yet. Maybe another day or so.”
The events poured back into his mind. “Carmen! How’s Carmen?”
“Ease up, Cowboy, I’m here.” The person in the chair rose. Her face was swollen, both eyes had been blackened, and a plastic splint was taped over her nose.
“You look lovely.”
“Really? Shall I get a mirror for you?”
“No.” Ellis smiled. “I’ve had enough . . . shock for awhile . . .
“Emotions are funny things,” Ellis said as he poked at what the nursing staff called Jell-O. “I’m happy and devastated at the same time.”
Carmen nodded. “It’s how people deal with trauma. It doesn’t work well. You just have to ride it out.”
“So he’s dead? He’s really dead?”
“Bud and Hector each put two rounds into him. Finch was as big and as strong as they come, but not even he could take four bullets in the chest and keep going.”
Ellis decided he wasn’t hungry and pushed the hospital meal away. At least he could sit up now, but even the cushioned bed hurt his back. Plastic surgeons had been eyeing him like an award-winning paper in a medical journal. “What was it they used to find us?”
“FLIR. That stands for Forward Looking Infra Red. Finch had us out in the backwoods of east county. The engine of my car was still hot when they flew over. Even in a FLIR image a Crown Vic looks like a Crown Vic.”
Ellis thought about that as Carmen continued.
“Good police work saved our bacon. That and high-end technology and some luck.”
“It was probably much more than that, Detective. Much more.”
“You gonna go all spiritual on me?”
He shrugged and was surprised by how much the simple act hurt. “It’s who and what I am.”
“I suppose.” She rose. “Well, you’ve had all of me you can take.”
“Nah, I have a high threshold for such things.”
She chuckled and walked to the door, then stopped. “Can I get you anything?” She’d asked the same thing every day of his week in the hospital.
“No, I have my books.”
She lowered her gaze then raised it again. “I’ve been thinking . . .” She struggled with what she wanted to say. “You saved my life.”
“Nonsense. I just distracted him so you could take your turn.”
> She took a deep breath. “That’s the point. I’m pretty good at handling myself, but the best I could do was annoy Finch.”
“You had your hands tied behind your back. It’s hard to fight that way.”
She shook her head. “I landed some good kicks and barreled into him hard enough to cripple most people. He just popped back up madder than ever.”
“He was crazy.”
“My point is . . . Look, even if I faced off against him both hands free, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.” She hesitated. “What I’m saying is this: You couldn’t have stopped him back in 1985. You couldn’t have saved my sister.”
“I could have reported it.”
“You’ve got that right, and don’t think I’ve forgotten that you didn’t. I’m not going to let that go.”
“I understand.”
Carmen walked from the room.
Two weeks and three operations by plastic surgeons later, Ellis stood at his bed, dressed and ready to leave the tiny hospital room behind. Movement at the door drew his attention. Carmen stood in front of a group Ellis knew well: Bud Tock, Hector Garcia, and Joe Heywood.
“You’ve come to arrest me?”
“Nope, we figured you would like a real meal.” Bud grinned. “You like Mexican food?”
“I live in San Diego. Of course I like Mexican food.”
“Good,” Carmen said. “The chief is buying us lunch at Jimmy Chen’s Authentic Mexican Restaurant. Feel up to it?”
Ellis cocked an eyebrow at the name. “Yes. I could go for some real food.”
“You gotta try the beans.” Bud’s grin was broad.
As was Carmen’s grimace. “Oh, brother.”
Ellis and the others walked into Jimmy Chen’s and Carmen led them to the back room. The place was filled. He saw Adam Bridger and his wife Rachel. The crowd included the families of the victims. The sight of Doug Lindsey’s family moved Ellis to tears.
He stepped into the room.
The crowd applauded.
All except Carmen Rainmondi.
