Two distinct options presented themselves to Reed.
The first was he could wait for the assault team to show up and clear the schoolhouse, telling him what he already knew, which was Rigas was long gone. The fact that he had chosen to go with shooting Pryor and Knighton from the building, proved he was aware of Reed getting closer, had chosen an attack method that allowed him to be far away by the time police arrived.
Otherwise, he would have stayed with his traditional MO, using his sword, inflicting on them the same wounds they had on him.
Once the building was cleared, Reed could use Billie and her otherworldly gift of scent to track his movements, hoping they led him somewhere besides the place where he had parked before driving away.
The second option, the one that Reed had begrudgingly gone with, was to wait for Iaconelli and Bishop to arrive at the scene. When they did, Reed flagged them down the moment they stepped out of their car, telling them to fall in behind him. He didn’t allow Iaconelli to get in a word as he lumbered out, pretended not to notice the grimace on both their faces.
As much as he hated to admit it, as sour as the words tasted on his mouth, he needed them as backup.
Retracing the route he had taken just 15 minutes earlier, Reed left the front lights flashing, tearing back to the freeway. In the backseat Billie had worked herself into a frenzy pacing, knowing that Reed and the situation, had both escalated.
Taking up his cell phone from the passenger seat, Reed dialed and dropped it into his lap, the sound of ringing echoing through the car. In his rearview mirror he could see the flashing lights of Iaconelli’s matching sedan, the back end of it drifting a bit as they followed him onto the freeway.
“Grimes,” the voice of the captain growled.
“Captain, it’s Mattox,” Reed said, his words, his tone, both clipped.
“Holy hell, Mattox. You’ve turned my whole precinct on its head tonight. What’s going on out there?”
The red speedometer needle pushed its way past 90 as he headed north, Iaconelli keeping pace behind him.
“William Pryor and Marcus Knighton are both dead,” Reed said without preamble, his voice even as he relayed the information.
A long breath of air was audible before the captain asked, “Same guy?”
“Same guy,” Reed said, “but not same MO. This time he used a rifle big enough to take down an elephant. Looks like he was holed up in that old schoolhouse across the street, you know the place?”
“Yeah,” Grimes said, a tinge of weariness in his tone. “People have been clamoring for years to get that place torn down, saying it was nothing but an eyesore and a homeless commune. They’ll have a field day with this one.”
Reed moved on past the statement without comment, having neither the time nor inclination to debate local politics.
“Despite the change, I’ve got no doubt it’s the same guy,” Reed said. “Shot them both right through the chest, put a round through Knighton’s arm right on the tattoo, almost took the damn thing off.”
“Sure sounds like the same guy,” Grimes agreed.
“Anyway, I’m calling you now to let you know I’m on my way to Worthington. Iaconelli and Bishop are in the car behind me.”
“Worthington?” Grimes almost spat. “Why the hell aren’t you on the scene?”
“Because he’s not there anymore,” Reed said. “So I’m going to his house to tear the place apart. Can you get on the horn and clear the way for me?”
As a detective, Reed was given a certain amount of latitude throughout the greater Columbus area. It was a generally accepted practice though that if working a crime in a neighboring precinct, an alert was given to the locals out of professional courtesy.
Reed didn’t have the time to issue one himself, trusting the captain could handle the matter.
“Also, I’m not bothering with a warrant,” Reed said. “There’s plenty of probable cause, but I just wanted you to know in case the media start bitching again.”
“Don’t you worry about them,” Grimes said, the previous steel returning to his tone. “I’ll handle the media when and if I need to. You just find this asshole, and fast.”
“Thanks,” Reed muttered. “And the local guys up here?”
“I’ve got you covered there, too,” Grimes said. “You need any more manpower with you?”
“No clue,” Reed said, “but having a couple of uniforms on standby couldn’t hurt.”
Both sides dropped the call without a word, Reed again feeling his heart rate spike as he exited the freeway. Cool air streamed through the dash but did little to stop the sweat pouring from his skin as he turned onto Rigas’s street.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
“What the hell was that?” Iaconelli asked, his face red, as he spilled out of the sedan. His shirt was untucked and his hair askew as he approached, wagging a finger at Reed. “I told you I’m on my last days here, so whatever cockamamie scheme you’ve got cooked up, I want no part of it.”
Reed had expected, even anticipated the outburst, cutting him off before he really got going.
“Shut the hell up, Iaconelli. I’m not here to mess with your pension, I just needed backup, and you’re the crew on call tonight.”
The complete dismissal of their role seemed to throw Iaconelli off, his face again swelling with rage.
“This is the home of Michael Rigas, the man who, as of tonight, has killed five people in The Bottoms and may be going after more. I can’t storm his house alone, so I brought you along.”
The explanation deflated some of the steam rising from Iaconelli, Bishop stepping up beside him, his pale skin flashing in the darkness.
“So there were two more back there?” Bishop asked.
“GSW’s,” Reed said, nodding. “High-powered, long-range. MO didn’t fit the previous incidents, but the victimology matches. He knew we were getting close, so he was taking preventive measures.”
“You sure he’s in there?” Bishop asked, motioning toward the house.
“No,” Reed said, “in fact I’m almost certain he’s not, but I need to know where he’s headed next.”
“What makes you so sure there is a next?” Iaconelli asked.
A grim look was all Reed offered in response, the simple fact being he wasn’t sure. All he had was a feeling, an inkling that whatever else Rigas had planned ended tonight.
Things were getting too close for him to continue indefinitely, something he was acutely aware of. If there was anything else left on his agenda now that Pryor and Knighton were dead and Brandt was in custody, it had to happen soon.
“We’ll take the back,” Reed said, going to his rear passenger door and jerking it open, Billie leaping out onto the pavement. He didn’t bother clipping her to a lead, letting her bounce on the balls of her feet, unbridled energy rolling from her in waves.
“Two minutes,” he added, turning and jogging off into the night, coming up through the neighbor’s yard and circling around the back of the house. Beside him he could sense Billie matching his movements, holding herself back from sprinting on ahead, her black body little more than a shadow.
“Slow,” Reed said, using his command tone, but keeping the volume low. Dropping into a crouch he drew his weapon and crept toward the back door, Billie just a few feet away, a low growl rolling out over her exposed incisors.
Counting off seconds in his head, Reed made it to 100 before moving up the steps to the door and driving the heel of his foot between the handle and the jamb. On contact it swung open, shards of wood spraying the floor.
“Clear,” Reed said, Billie bolting through the opening at the sound of his voice, disappearing inside.
He moved through a small mudroom and into the kitchen, everything dark and empty.
“Michael Rigas! This is the Columbus Police Department! If you are here you need to make yourself visible, approaching with your hands raised!”
On the opposite side of the house he could hear the front door breached, th
e sound of wood shattering, Iaconelli issuing the same warning he had just made.
Remaining in place, Reed stood and waited as the voice fell away, the only sound Billie’s toenails as she moved across the hardwood floor.
Going past the kitchen, Reed entered a dining room, the long wooden table and chairs appearing to have not been used in ages. Thick cobwebs connected the three bulbs of the light fixture hanging down.
At the far end of the room Bishop appeared in the doorway, his ghostly pallor giving him an ethereal glow. “We’re going upstairs. You good?”
“Good,” Reed said, a curt nod to reinforce the response.
Just as fast Bishop disappeared from sight, the groans of the stairwell could be heard as they ascended.
A drop of sweat ran from Reed’s forehead and traveled down the bridge of his nose, hanging for a moment before falling to the floor, as he stepped around the table, still feeling his pulse surge through him. Above he could hear Iaconelli and Bishop clearing rooms, around the corner Billie working her way through the house.
Standing adjacent to the dining room was a small sitting room, a couch with matching loveseat and chairs dominating the space. Along the far wall was a flat screen television and an assortment of end tables, the furniture in the room seeming to be far too much for a space so small.
For the second time in as many minutes, Reed got the impression the room had not been used in quite some time, a finger over the arm of the burgundy leather sofa revealing a film of dust.
“Clear up here,” Bishop called from upstairs, his voice exploding through the deserted house. The sound of it jolted Reed’s senses as he moved through the sitting room to an open doorway of what had once been the living room.
Reed felt the breath pulled from his chest as he stopped, his gaze traveling over the space as Billie made a loop around the room, her nose pressed to the ground.
“Clear down here,” Reed called. “You guys better come take a look at this.”
Without waiting, Reed moved into the room, following Billie’s path.
The reason the previous room had felt so cramped was every last bit of furniture in this space had been removed and piled into other rooms, leaving an open area stretching 15 feet across and almost double that in length.
The sound of Billie’s nails on the hardwood echoed off the walls as he focused on the far end of the space. There Billie, too, had stopped her search, looking from Reed to the shrine before her, not sure how to act.
Resting against the wall was a single table rising no more than a foot off the ground. Five times that in length, on it sat two large framed photos, both of a striking woman in her early 30s.
Bearing all the signs of a woman of mixed ancestry, there was no doubt who it was.
“Half-Japanese, half-Greek,” Reed whispered, recalling Galanos’s word. “Janice Rigas.”
Placed in front of them was a felt-covered wooden stand 24 inches in length. Below it on the floor was a black vinyl case, the zipper pulled all the way open.
“The sword and the rifle,” Reed said, looking over the shrine once more before shifting his attention to the wall beside him.
On it was a collection of research, months in the making. It contained newspaper clippings and internet articles, interspersed heavily with sheets of handwritten notes and personal photographs.
Every last one was time and date stamped, beginning around the first of the year and continuing until just a week before.
“What the hell?” Iaconelli asked as he and Bishop clomped across the floor.
Reed remained focused in on the series of photographs posted in painstaking order in front of him, all shots of the Kings, enlarged to 8”x 10” glossies.
Split into two equal groups, the top half had been X’d out by Rigas’s own hand, thick red marker slashes distorting the images.
Below them were three more, none with a mark of any kind yet. Two of them Reed recognized as Pryor and Knighton, both now dead, just like the top row.
The last he had met for the first time just a few hours before.
“Pierce Brandt,” Reed whispered, turning to look at the others with him. “The last one is Pierce Brandt.”
Chapter Sixty
The rifle was gone, having been left behind in the car. It was an able weapon, worth the trouble to procure. It had done its job well, but the time had come to cast it aside.
There was only one target left, and he deserved the sword. He deserved the signature of his wife’s familial lineage, the up-close-and-personal nature of seeing the Boat Man before he met his end.
Two years before, the Boat Man was forced to endure the most horrific night of his life. He had to watch as hoodlums descended from the night, penalizing him and his wife for making a wrong turn, for being hungry in the wrong part of town. He was restrained as they did things to his beloved, horrible, unspeakable things that he was unable to stop.
He was rendered unconscious before it was all over, stripped of the ability to say goodbye before Janice passed from this world.
The first image he saw in his mind upon waking from the coma was not those men doing as they pleased with her, it was the sight of the brass knuckles coming toward his head. It was the face behind them, bearing its own self-pity, knocking him out, not from some sort of deep-rooted chivalry but in an effort to spare his own weak soul.
That face, that man’s weakness, was what the Boat Man fed on for two long years. It was what fueled him through every physical therapy session, forced him to sit motionless for hours on his scouting missions.
The knowledge that one day he would see that face again, would finally have his retribution for what was done to him, what it allowed to be done to his wife, was more than enough to propel him forward day after day.
Upon leaving his hide at the schoolhouse, the Boat Man had heard the sirens in the distance. He had seen the glow of lights flashing above the buildings as he drove away, making his escape just minutes before the police arrived.
The delay with his sword had cost him, allowing the police to put together what had happened, giving them time to circle in. If ever he were going to finish things, it had to be tonight, before his final target disappeared, potentially taking with him the chance at justice ever being served.
Reaching behind him, the Boat Man tapped the end of the handle of the ken, the scabbard inverted, hidden beneath his jacket. Getting it fixed cost him precious time, but it was now worth it, having the weapon he’d come to rely so much on by his side in the final hour.
A far cry from The Bottoms where he’d spent much of the previous months, the Boat Man found himself in a neighborhood resembling his own. Gone were the littered concrete and slum-like dwellings, replaced by plush lawns and luxurious homes, shiny new SUVs and minivans parked out front, the occasional dog barking in the distance.
Of all six targets, this was the one he had scouted the least. Unlike his gang cohorts, this one had relocated from the tangle of The Bottoms, attempting a social climb, from all appearances severing his past relationships.
The sudden change did little to soften the Boat Man’s stance though, the promise he had made total and absolute. He would do what he set out to do, finishing a task two years in the making.
His final destination came into view, a two-story home with rows of windows lining both floors, just a single light burning on the bottom floor. He felt his nerves stand on end as he moved closer, looking to be nothing more than a neighborhood resident out for a stroll.
Ten more minutes, and it would all be over.
Janice, and perhaps even he, could finally be at peace.
Chapter Sixty-One
Both the front and back doors were left gaping, at Michael Rigas’s home, property damage the sort of thing that no longer applied once someone was confirmed as the lead suspect in five murders and counting. Tragic backstory or not, the justice system was predicated on handing such matters off to the authorities, not engaging in vigilante violence.
Not once did the thought of closing them up or securing the home occur to Reed as he sprinted to his sedan parked outside, Billie beating him there by three full strides. Bringing up the rear he could hear Bishop slapping the pavement with heavy footsteps, Iaconelli wheezing as he tried to keep pace.
Reed could still hear the words from the captain in his head as he loaded his partner inside and swung behind the wheel, turning the engine over with a single twist of the key.
Pierce Brandt had been released an hour before, told not to leave town.
A string of spiteful obscenities spewed from Reed’s mouth as he set the flashers moving, for the first time ever using the siren as well. Loud and piercing, it squalled out over the thin evening traffic, cars peeling to the side, letting him pass.
Somewhere behind him he knew Iaconelli and Bishop were coming, though he still couldn’t see them in the mirror.
The story that Pierce told was basically a confession, a full account of everything that had happened two years before. The fact that the victim was now murdering the other members of his gang was irrelevant, the amount of time that had passed a pittance compared to the statute of limitations laws in place for such crimes.
There was no doubt in Reed’s mind as he drove on, going back to the home Pierce shared with his mother, for the second time that day, that the only reason he had been released was his aunt.
The thought caused Reed’s mouth to twist up in an angry snarl as he headed south, needing just three exits to get from Rigas’s stop to Brandt’s. Other motorists continued to stream to the side as he kept the gas pedal depressed, retracing his prior route from memory.
Once he was free from the clutches of suburban strip mall traffic, he killed the siren and the flashing lights, not wanting to give away his position should Rigas be in the area.
Lifting an article of clothing taken from the upstairs bedroom, Reed passed it over his shoulder, dropping it at Billie’s feet. On cue she lowered her head and sniffed deeply at it, picking up the scent as he made the last turn, Pierce Brandt’s street coming into view.
The Boat Man: A Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1) Page 22
