Eyes of the Dead: A Crime and Suspense Thriller (The Gardens Book 1)

by Adam Netherlund

  Berlin gave it some thought. Could he trust Sully? He didn’t know him from Adam, but Mitchell seemed to think highly of him. Should he tell him all of it?

  You asked him to come here.

  Berlin got up and fetched himself a glass of water. “Lately I’ve been feeling like I got a pair of eyes that are watching me. It could be nothing, but Mitch and I were roughed up today by a black SUV.”

  “Roughed up?” Sully said, tracking Berlin’s movements and looking him up and down for signs of the assault.

  “In the car. On our way back to HQ.” Berlin took a gulp of the water.

  “Huh. You think it has something to do with the case you’re working?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, yeah,” Berlin said as he took his seat again. “Apparently there’s a new guy in town named Exodus Clay. He’s running my old stomping ground, Port. Anyway, we paid him a visit. Tracked him down to Old Town where it was said that he was having a meet and greet with Remy Marco.”

  “Jeez,” Sully said. “Sounds like you guys really opened a can of worms on this one.”

  “It gets better,” Berlin said.

  Sully tapped the cigarette into the cup and asked, “How?”

  Sully took another drag, letting the smoke seep out of his mouth. Berlin stopped himself, watching the spirals, as the tiny tendrils of smoke curled and turned in the open air. It reminded him of the fog from his dream last night. Then he had a vision of Lexi Scott, standing in the fog. The smoke tendrils encircled her, forming a tight cocoon. They muffled her screams. Cut off her air supply. Her eyes grew wider. Huge and wet.

  “Berlin?”

  Berlin closed his eyes and let the daydream fade away. “There’s something else. Lexi Scott.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Widow of Tim Scott.”

  “Your dead guy? They go after her, too?”

  “Someone thought it’d be fun to play a sick game on her,” Berlin said. “Scared her half to death. Anyway, she calls me over to her place and I do my best to calm her down. But just before I leave, she pulls out this…poster.”

  “Poster?”

  “It was meant to be some kind of warning.”

  “Warning? A warning for what?”

  “On the poster were the words, ‘Stay Away from Him’, written in blood. Cat blood, actually.”

  Sully coughed, a puff of smoke expelling quickly. “What does that mean? Who’s the Him?”

  “I think…I think it’s me.”

  “You?”

  “It’s weird, I know. But Lexi swears that she hasn’t been with anyone else, and with all these…weird things happening…I really don’t know what to think. I need to play it safe.”

  “Sick joke?”

  Berlin shrugged. “Maybe. But why risk it?”

  “You don’t think…” Then Sully trailed off. Maybe he knew about Berlin’s past history after all.

  Berlin interrupted him before he got any further. “No, it’s not him. He’s out of the picture.”

  Sully wiped the imaginary sweat across his forehead. “Okay. Phew. I mean…don’t get me wrong and all, but I don’t wanna be tailin’ you if that serial killer is after you again. Ya know?” Sully rested his chin on his knuckles. “All right, so I start tailin’ you. Snap some photos. Kinda watch your back. Do I have that right?”

  “That’s it. I need to know what I’m up against here. Maybe we’ll get lucky. I could use some luck right about now.”

  Sully stood and pushed his chair in, tossing the rest of his cigarette into the cup. “When do I start?”

  “Tomorrow. First thing. Hopefully you don’t get called away to a scene.”

  “I actually got a couple of personal days I can put in—”

  Berlin looked up at him. “Kid, I’m not asking you to—”

  Sully waved him off. “No, really, it’s fine. I need to be around for my Pop, anyway. If he needs me, I might have to jettison, though. I hope that’s okay with you.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  Sully smiled. “Okay then. Tomorrow morning. I’ll be watching.”

  “Thanks, kid. I appreciate it.”

  “No sweat, man.”

  Sully patted Berlin on the shoulder as he walked by and headed down the hall. Berlin heard the door open and close a few moments later.

  Berlin sat at the kitchen table, alone to his thoughts. He hoped that he knew what he was doing. He hoped that he wasn’t just creating a new set of troubles for himself.

  CHAPTER 26

  Berlin wasn’t sure how long he had been in the bathtub. The only thing he was sure of was that his body hurt all over. His neck felt stiff and artificial, his lower back tense, and his hands and feet were raw and tender to the touch.

  The booze helped some, but not enough. His body lay below the hot water, submerged from the neck down with his knees and upper thighs above. Kate would say, jokingly, how he couldn’t fit in the tub correctly. That it was time for a new one. So he wouldn’t look so awkward and uncomfortable. To him, it suited just fine. He could still go underwater which he now did many times. And he would continue to do so, over and over again, holding his breath, counting the seconds and eventually the minutes.

  Testing himself.

  Growing stronger.

  Hoping for that second chance.

  To make things right. To make things better.

  Berlin picked up the glass, three-quarters full of his favorite dark liquid, and pulled it close to his lips. He watched the steam rise, his eyelids growing heavy, and the muscles in his face went slack as the dream swept over him. Then, everything went dark.

  I live in the darkness. I’m all alone, he said to the dark.

  I’m here. You’re not alone, a voice said in return.

  No, you’re gone. I watched you die. I watched him kill you.

  You can believe what you want to believe, but I’m still here. Do you see me?

  No.

  Yes, you do.

  The darkness withdrew, scurrying into all corners like a vampire escaping sunlight, and he found himself on a beach. It stood perfectly tranquil and empty, save a few palm trees and a long beach towel with a paperback novel tucked at the corner. He couldn’t read the title. The grains of sand stuck between his toes, his feet somehow wet, as if he had been in the turquoise water.

  Do you see me?

  His eyes scoured the beach to no avail. What he did find, though, were footprints. What were they? Not human. They were horseshoe prints. The deep craters were distinct. “No, I can’t find you!”

  Honey, I’m right here.

  Just then the sand gave way to water. The fine particles floated to the surface, scattering left and right and all around him. Berlin’s feet came off the bottom. His body drifted, bobbing up and down and to-and-fro like a buoy.

  “Where?”

  Here.

  Berlin squinted his eyes against the jarring light.

  Do you see me?

  He opened his eyes with doubt and trepidation. What if he couldn’t see her? He longed for it. He needed it.

  But, at last, she was there! She was the most elegant and divine thing that he had ever seen. She moved through the water like it was nothing, no strokes, no paddles. No, she glided to him. She was silk. She was passion.

  “I can see…you,” Berlin managed, his throat unusually parched.

  “Yes, and I can see you,” Kate said.

  He took her in his arms as she got close. They moved up and down together in the water that Berlin now saw was a pool. He should have recognized it, but it had all seemed so far away. So foreign.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” he said, kissing her shoulder.

  “I’m here,” she said, snuggling her forehead against him.

  “I’ve been practicing,” he said, pushing her away, gently gazing into her eyes.

  “I know.”

  “It won’t happen again. I won’t let it.”

  “I know.”

  He stared into h
er eyes, looking back at his own reflection. With one hand he stroked her sandy blonde hair, pushing a strand behind her ear.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” she asked.

  Berlin smiled. “I was planning on it, yeah.” He crept closer, hesitating for a moment, gaping at those lips of hers that were soft, lush, and pink. They were as soft and smooth as a baby’s skin. Oh, how he had missed this! Missed her.

  The embrace was as magical as he remembered it, two beings becoming one again. It was flawless. Unparalleled.

  Too good to be true.

  Kate pulled away, saying, “I must go now.”

  “No, you can’t,” he said. “You only just got here.”

  “I am always here, honey.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head violently. “You’re not.”

  She placed a finger on his lips, soothing him with her voice. “I am.” She began to pull away from him, retreating farther and farther with each passing moment.

  “No…” He pleaded, frozen in place.

  Farther now. “You will find a way.” Her voice started to fade as she moved away from him.

  “I can’t do it…I can’t save you again,” his voice wavered.

  She had reached twenty feet away, and was beginning to sink. First her shoulders, and then her chin. “There was evil at the beginning, and there will be evil at the end, Joseph,” she said, before the water passed over her lips as well.

  A second later, she was gone.

  CHAPTER 27

  Paul Mitchell entered the back of the black cube van on the corner of Welland Avenue and Page Street, ducking his head to avoid striking the roof. The vans weren’t meant for men his size, but he had grown accustomed to it since he had worked Vice Squad for a few years. He threw his body weight into the small seat cushion and the van rocked back and forth.

  “Easy, big guy,” Detective George Fletcher told Mitchell. “We are doing a sting out here, ya know.”

  “Oh, shut it. In this area I bet no one will even bat an eye. If the van’s a rockin’, don’t come a—”

  Fletcher shook his head. “Unbelievable. I can’t believe you’re still usin’ that. Some things never change.”

  Mitchell laughed quietly. “What? I haven’t been able to use that line in ages. The mustache is new. It looks good on you.”

  “Yeah, the wife hates it.”

  The sun had long retreated for the day, giving way to the dark that is night. Streetlights, flashing neon store signs, and the headlights from passing cars illuminated the streets. On Welland Avenue, the crazies and the drunks began to populate the street, like walking zombies. Now, it was their time to come out and play and wreak havoc on the living.

  “I’m surprised to see you,” Fletcher said. “I figured that you were gone for good. Workin’ prime time.”

  Mitchell smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness of the van. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Fletcher glanced outside the back window on the side of the van. “How’s Homicide treating you?”

  “All right,” Mitchell said, offering nothing more. He would get to it once the pleasantries were over and done with.

  “I hear they paired you up with that new guy from Port. His name escapes me.”

  “Yeah.”

  Fletcher turned, his brow scrunched tightly. “You don’t sound too happy about that.”

  Mitchell averted his eyes. “It’s all right. He’s…just different is all.”

  “Different. Ha!” Fletcher said, smacking his leg with an open hand. “Now that’s rich. Usually it’s they’re a hardass, a smart aleck, reckless, got shit fer brains—that sort of thing. Hey, are Hammer and Anvil still over there?”

  “Yeah, those two are still there.”

  Fletcher leaned back in his seat, looking up, possibly reflecting on past memories. “Bunch of knuckleheads, them two. I remember—”

  “Fletch, if we can—”

  Fletcher’s eyes fell back on Mitchell. “Jeez. No time for small talk?”

  They had worked together on Vice, growing close over the years. Mitchell had him to thank for his quick ascension through the ranks. He felt bad for rushing him, but this wasn’t a courtesy call. Mitchell was hoping to get things moving on the case.

  Fletcher sat across from him in the cube van with his back up against the front driver’s seat. He gave the impression that he had one eye on Mitchell and the other across the street, even though Mitchell knew that wasn’t physically possible. Mitchell knew that his attention could be shared equally between the two tasks. Fletcher worked well this way, spending a large majority of his time in the surveillance van.

  “So what do you got goin’ on tonight?” Mitchell asked him, trying to ease the conversation back to something a bit more amicable.

  “A little bit of everything. Becca’s out on the street right now, mingling, and my CI tells me that this is the place to be right now if you’re looking for some action. We’re tryin’ to reel some of them in.”

  Mitchell leaned over to look out of the window, squatting, and inspected outside. “Sokolov’s guys?”

  “More than likely,” Fletcher said. “He’s like Hydra that way. You take out one, another two pop up in their place.”

  “Your CI reliable?”

  “I think so,” Fletcher said. “We’ve used him on a few occasions already. I think he just wants to do his part.”

  Mitchell scanned the plaza across the street. It looked busy. People were running in and out of the convenience store, a few hanging out in front of the Sub Shop, and the patio crowd at the Bar and Grill were in full swing with their red and white beer-sponsored umbrellas overhead. “I’m not seeing Becca. You sure she’s okay out there?”

  Fletcher didn’t bother to turn around. “She’s good, buddy. The night’s still young. Just some peeps having a good time right now, I think. Besides, she can take care of herself, don’t you worry.”

  Mitchell sat back. “I just didn’t see her, is all.”

  Fletcher waved a finger at him. “Sure, sure. I know you always had a thing for her.” He paused. “You two ever…you know?”

  Mitchell sat still and quiet.

  Fletcher smiled then, not pushing the subject, and looked out of the window. “If ya really gotta know, she’s over by the Bar and Grill. I can see her on the patio, two tables back.”

  Mitchell wasn’t listening. He was too busy, reflecting on the past. He loved to work Vice. He loved sting operations more, with their quirky names like Project Resurgence, when they went after the local motorcycle gangs.

  But all things must come to an end, he reminded himself. It simply wasn’t challenging anymore. He wanted to explore new options, follow a new commitment. It led him to Homicide.

  Fletcher touched him on the knee, noticing that he appeared distant. “So, what brings you to my humble abode? It’s not every day I have a Homicide dick in here.”

  Mitchell cleared his throat. “We’ve uh…we’ve got a case.”

  Fletcher nodded. “Naturally. The dead cop? Heard about that. Too bad.”

  “Word’s travelin’ fast,” Mitchell said, surprised.

  “Hey, it’s a dead cop. People are gonna talk. Any leads?”

  “That’s actually why I’m here,” Mitchell said. “I was hoping for some intel.”

  Fletcher tilted his head to one side. “Intel?”

  “Yeah, you work the streets. You’re on the front lines. You see the drugs, the girls. You see the underbelly of the city, Fletch. I didn’t know if you’d caught wind of anything. Maybe from an informant?”

  Fletcher frowned. Mitchell could tell that it still wasn’t clear why he was coming to him and not elsewhere. There were obviously easier ways to get that sort of information. Before he had a chance to say anything more, Mitchell jumped in to set him straight. “And yes, I’ve seen Richardson.”

  “And?” Fletcher asked.

  “He was no help.”

  Unexpectedly, there was an eerie quietness insid
e the van. He needed to persuade him without being pushy, but now he was beginning to second-guess himself. Were he and Richardson close? If so, this whole thing could prove fatal and it’d all be for nothing. “Fletch?”

  Fletcher pursed his lips. “What is it you’re after exactly?”

  “Richardson told me that Scott was UC, but he wouldn’t really go into detail. Where was he working? Who was his handler? We’d like to establish some sort of timeline that leads up to his death. Did he have any known enemies?”

  “Slow down, kid.” Fletcher checked the patio again for Becca. He was content to let her do her thing. “I didn’t know him well, Mitch.”

  Mitchell was beginning to wonder who did know Tim Scott because everyone was giving them the same answer, almost by script. “Anything, Fletch. Can you give me anything?”

  Fletcher scratched at his chin and then smoothed out his mustache with his thumb and index finger. “Ya know, I saw him two or three weeks back. Down in Port, actually. It was by chance. I was down at Highlanders, sitting on the patio, and this sweet ’54 Chevy Bel Air went by. Man, you shoulda seen this thing. Fire engine red. Convertible top. God, she was a beaut.”

  Mitchell knew the place. Highlanders was an Irish pub down on Lock Street in Port. Warm beer, lousy food was their tagline. Even though nothing could be further from the truth. The servers wore kilts and the inside was decked out with artifacts from the area, including the odd random thing for their guests’ amusement. This, of course, included the kilts worn by past servers, which were framed on display with a tiny plaque underneath that bore the server’s name and years served.

  “Anyway, I was watchin’ the Chevy make the turn. I was admiring her and all and I saw him, coming up the hill.”

  “On Main?” Mitchell asked.

  “Uh, I guess so. I never know if that’s Lakeport or Main Street myself. He was on the hill across the street from Highlanders, where they took down those buildings.”