by RC Boldt
I’d heard some whispers about that but didn’t give them much credence since nothing was proven. When the head of a crime organization tones shit down, it can mean a multitude of things. They could be putting their nose to the grindstone and overseeing new projects. But hearing this from Warren, too… Something about it doesn’t fit.
Warren shrugs. “That’s all I’ve got.” His voice drops with disgust. “Besides the obvious, of course. That being, you can’t trust anyone.”
I eye him steadily. “That what happened to Clairborne?” I already know about his former partner, but it’s a test to see if Warren’s still on the up-and-up.
His jaw tenses. He stares up at the wall where a lone frame sits on a shelf, a photograph from long ago when he graduated from the academy. “Son of a bitch was double-dipping. Working with the Dixie Mafia while putting on a show for the department. Goddamn traitor.” His nostrils flare, and his chest rises as anger takes hold. “Then he got a fucking promotion.”
“To chief,” I finish for him.
He grits out the word, “Yeah.”
“What do you know about their…recent issues with business?”
He scowls. “I know they’ve lost some of their men. I was going over it tonight.” Leaning forward, he props his elbows on his knees, wearing a troubled expression. His hesitation both piques my curiosity and troubles me.
“What’d you find?”
He shakes his head, letting loose a laugh that’s anything but humorous. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
Running a hand over his head, he grips the back of his neck in obvious indecision. “Look, there’s so much twisted shit with those redneck assholes. They’ve got too many people in their pocket, turning their heads the other way.” His eyes bore into me. “No disrespect, man, but this shit feels like it’s bigger, and…it might be more than one man can handle.”
I mash my lips thin. “You should know by now that I can handle it.”
His eyes cut to mine, narrowing on me speculatively. “Who’re you working for these days?”
My tone turns icy. “That’s none of your business.”
He frowns before answering slowly, as if carefully choosing his words. “If you’re planning on leaving bodies all over this town, it is.”
I snort derisively. “Seems someone’s beat me to it.” Cocking my head to the side, I study him for a moment. “You know something.”
His mouth flattens in a firm line.
“I could always torture it out of you,” I taunt with a smirk.
The detective mutters an expletive under his breath and shoots me a death glare. “Stop being an asshole.” Heaving out a long sigh, he hedges, “Look…I was going through the files of the guys who allegedly”—he infuses sarcasm in the latter word—“had ties with the Dixie Mafia. The ones who were recently found dead. A witness mentioned seeing a tall, lanky man—probably late teens-early twenties judging by his body type—at the scene.”
Interesting. “But you don’t buy this?”
Hesitating, he scrubs a hand along his jaw and stares sightlessly at Kujo, who continues to bare his teeth at the detective. “Another witness was convinced it was a female. Same build. Tall, lanky, thin. Dressed in all black with their face covered. But this witness allegedly caught a glimpse of them from the side and swore the person had small breasts.”
“Breasts,” I repeat suspiciously. “You’re telling me a witness thinks they saw a woman at the site where a number of Dixie Mafia members were murdered?”
He shrugs. “They described a similar suspect at the scene, and both times, they noticed the person had some sort of skinny black bag strapped to their back.”
That makes sense. If the main weapon used is a bow and arrow, they need a way to transport them.
I notice he hasn’t mentioned anything about arrows being used at the scenes, but I don’t take it personally. We’re on different sides. But I still get the feeling there’s something else Warren’s not disclosing. Something’s eating away at him. So, I wait him out. Silence tends to make people want to fill it.
He doesn’t disappoint.
“Look, man. I have a theory but nothing to back it up. So, it’s gonna sound—”
“Tell me.”
With a wince, he starts out, his tone hesitant, “I did some digging around. These bodies started turning up in October.” He hesitates again before forging on. “Same timeframe of a case I worked seven years ago. A family was gunned down in their pawn shop.
“Rhett Bullard, his little granddaughter, son-in-law, and daughter were shot. They all died except for Bullard’s daughter, Caitlin. And she identified two of the gunmen in a lineup.”
Disgust etches itself on his features, and he releases a long, loud burst of air. “I was there for the prelim trial. It was a fucking joke, man. That’s when I realized these assholes were entrenched in this place.”
“What happened?”
“The judge ruled insufficient evidence. Caitlin didn’t handle it well, and he demanded she undergo a psych eval.” He links his fingers, elbows braced on his knees, and stares down at the floor. “We were told to escort her to the behavioral unit.” He hesitates. “Then Doc Hogue stopped us at the car.” I register the slight shift in Warren’s tone.
“Who’s he?”
Warren lifts his gaze to meet mine. “He’s good people. Been around for a while. Does a lot of volunteer care for low-income families at his clinic right on the border of Seaside and Wilmington.” A crease forms between his brows. “Probably the only one the Dixie Mafia hasn’t managed to snare since he’s allegedly tight with two buddies at the U.S. Marshals Service. Funny enough, they haven’t been tainted.” His mouth twists derisively. “Yet.”
“What happened when the doc stopped you?”
“He asked us to make a stop at Caitlin’s house and let her get changes of clothing and shampoo and shit.” He purses his lips. “We all saw the writing on the wall. Knew she wouldn’t be released from that behavioral unit unless it was to lock her up in a mental institution somewhere and she’d be left with a damn hospital gown and some socks at best.
“So, we drove there and let her have a moment to grab her stuff.” His face darkens. “Clairborne stepped outside to take a call, and I was left in the house with her and Doc.
“I felt like my hands were tied, man. I knew it wasn’t right, but I couldn’t prove anything.” He lifts a shoulder helplessly. “When I heard the doc yell from the back bedroom, I went running. Found him on the floor, holding his jaw. The window was wide open, and I knew she’d made a run for it.”
We sit in silence while I mull over his tale.
“And what did you do?”
“I called it in. Called paramedics for the doc, of course.” Eyes narrowing, his jaw visibly tightens. “Then Clairborne insisted on taking the car and heading out to try to track her down while I stuck around with the doc.”
Warren stares down at his linked fingers. “I didn’t put the pieces together until later. When my partner started wearing expensive clothes and suddenly had an Escalade instead of that old piece-of-shit car of his.” His scowl deepens. “When he started looking the other way when bad shit happened. When good people were killed.”
“Back to the woman.” I study him. “Was she ever found?”
He shakes his head slowly. “She disappeared. No sign of her ever turned up.” With a grimace, he lifts a shoulder in a weak shrug. “But, man, I wonder if it’s her.”
“You think she’s back for revenge?”
Voice fading into a sigh, he shakes his head. “I don’t fucking know. What I do know is, it’d be a goddamn suicide mission. One person taking on all of them? Shit.” Eyeing me hard, he continues. “Look, I’m not saying I tolerate vigilantes on the streets, but that woman lost everything. She never got justice for her family.”
After a beat of silence, voice subdued, his expression appears both resigned and worried. “But if it’s really her, I d
on’t think she’ll be finished until everyone’s dead.”
12
The Hunter
A WEEK LATER
The night is eerily quiet as I stand across from the building, examining the structure with Kujo at my side. His black fur blends in with the pitch-black night courtesy of the new moon.
“Why’s he starin’ at me, man? I ain’t done nothin’ to him. Is he gonna bite me? I don’t like dogs. Can you get him to stop starin’ at me?”
Jesus Christ. I discovered this tweaker lurking around the place and asked him if he’d seen anything. Evidently, this site is the newest makeshift location for the Dixie Mafia’s operations, yet it’s devoid of action. No one stands by to guard it. Nothing. A sense of foreboding slams into me.
Ignoring the methhead’s paranoia and rapid speech, I ask, “Have you spotted anyone hanging around here?”
“Yeah, yeah. I saw a dude. He was tall. Kinda gangly. Wore all black. Your dog’s still starin’ at me, man. Can you make him stop? The guy I saw went in, and there were lots of gunshots, and then he came back out. Your dog’s about to eat me, ain’t he?”
“You said the guy was tall and gangly?” Huh. Similar to how Warren had mentioned witnesses claiming. “What else did you see?”
“Is your dog gonna eat me? ’Cause—”
“He won’t eat you.”
“I think he’s thinkin’ about it. Like he wants to eat my leg muscles. I watched somethin’ on TV about that, I think, and—”
“What else did you see?” My tone is commanding, and it somehow jerks him from his train of thought.
“I stood on that dumpster over there”—he points to where one sits near the side of the brick building underneath a barely glowing security light affixed to the brick side—“to see in that window. The dude wore somethin’ over his face. Couldn’t see nothin’ but eyes. At first, he used this cool bow and arrow. Like Robin Hood. Kept whippin’ out arrows from his bag super-fast. ’Cept he didn’t have the arrow on fire like in that one movie, you know? That was cool. It was like my uncle’s bow. The one I pawned. Knew it was special and shouldn’t have pawned it.” His eyes dart to Kujo. “I wish I had it now ’cause I could use it when your dog tries to eat me.”
“Your uncle had a special bow? What was special about it?”
His attention remains locked on Kujo. “I could use it. Yeah, I could use it to stop him from attackin’ me.”
“What was so special about your uncle’s bow?” I say louder to try to get him to snap out of it and answer me.
His eyes dart to me and he scowls. “You don’t have to yell. I don’t like yellin’. Maybe you’re gonna attack me too.”
Christ. “The bow. What kind of bow did your uncle have?”
“It was a fold-up bow. Real cool and all black. Told me it was tactical. Please don’t let your dog eat me.”
“You notice anything else?”
“Your dog’s still starin’ at me. Make him stop starin’. He’s freakin’ me out.”
I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Was there anything else you noticed about the guy you saw here?”
He scowls again. “Dude sounded like a chick when he grunted. Think he got hurt ’cause he was holdin’ his side.”
I shove a twenty-dollar bill at him. “Go get some food.” As soon as he takes it, I fist the front of his jacket and get in his face, my tone hard, lethal. “And if I hear that you used it to buy your next fix, not only will my dog attack you, but I will, too. Got it?”
He nods so many times, I half expect his head to come loose. I shove him away and he runs off.
I’d wanted to check how secure their operations really were, but now I see I’ve arrived too late…yet right on time. This is confirmed the moment we enter the building.
The pungent scent of spilled blood and piss assaults me as I scan the array of bodies lying scattered on the concrete floor amidst countless bullet casings, and I see I’m not too far behind the action. I estimate it’ll be about five minutes before I hear sirens wailing with the cops on the way.
The money is mysteriously absent this time. Nothing was set on fire, contrary to the last attack.
I inspect the bodies, knowing I need to leave quickly before anyone else stumbles upon this scene. A combination of arrows and a gun were used, just as the tweaker claimed.
I take a quick photo of what’s visible of the arrow’s shaft embedded in the chest of one victim so I can do some digging. Whatever these are, they’re vicious and strong enough to pass through bone and other thick body tissue. I’ve never seen anyone use them to kill before. It’s intriguing to find someone use them in great number like this.
With a gloved hand, I pick up a casing and inspect it, slipping it into my inside jacket pocket before moving on to survey the last few bodies.
Analyzing the scene, I murmur to myself, “So, you ran out of arrows either because you didn’t plan well enough or you were outnumbered.” Eyeing one victim with a bullet hole in the center of the forehead, I narrow my eyes. “But you came prepared with the means necessary to still get the job done.”
I continue scanning the bodies—nearly two dozen of them. “But why choose an arrow over a gun?” Each victim shares a similarity—they’ve all been shot with an arrow where it would puncture a vital organ: the heart, stomach, lungs, or brain.
This is personal. Whoever’s behind this, they’re angry enough to put forth the effort and time carrying out the deaths of their victims in a brutal fashion.
I’m still not convinced by Detective Warren’s musings. I need more to go on than a theory of a woman turned vigilante.
I glance over at the dog. “Time to go.”
He immediately rises and trots over to me, and we slip out of the building unnoticed.
When I still don’t turn up anything with the Blood Nation gang, frustration has me chasing down what I expect will be another dead end. But curiosity and that pang in my gut tell me it’s worth looking into.
Digging into the background of Rhett Bullard and the Ashford family has proven to be tedious. Nothing jumps out from the police files I’d “borrowed” by hacking into their system.
“Where did you go?” I muse quietly, staring down at the photographs of Caitlin Ashford.
My gaze settles on one of the photos caught by a newspaper reporter. Caitlin’s dark brown hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail as she walks toward the doors of the small courthouse.
She’s tall for a woman; thin but not frail. Her brown hair falls just past chin-length and her simple beauty shines through. There’s no mistaking that Caitlin Ashford was an attractive woman. That’s evident even beneath her tense features captured here.
Her eyes are what I keep coming back to, though. They’re rich with emotion. The pain is nearly as palpable as the fear. Is this the face of a woman who would take justice into her own hands?
Leaning back in my chair, I click the window to return to the pretrial documents and tap my thumb on the edge of my laptop.
“What a goddamn clusterfuck,” I mutter. These documents are pure shit. The average person might not be able to see it, but I know enough to confirm the Dixie Mafia lined the pockets of plenty of people on the inside. This fucking reeks. What’s worse is her documented delusional outburst directed toward the judge.
“It was you!” she cried out. “You were there that night! You attacked me! How do you sleep at night?! How could you?! They killed my family!”
The pretrial was dismissed, and the judge recommended Ashford undergo a psychiatric evaluation before allowing for her release because he found her to be “a threat to citizens and herself.”
Scrubbing a hand down my face and along my jaw, I struggle to suppress what this story has stirred up in me.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tamping down the urge to revisit my past.
Caitlin Ashford lost her family that night, then disappeared without a trace. Am I really supposed to consider she decided, seven years later, around the time of her
family’s murders, to turn up again?
Staring down at the photographs of her from police files and newspapers reports, I study her. She looks like an everyday female. Like any wife or mother. She looks nothing like a would-be killer.
Is it possible she’s changed during her disappearance? Did she transform into a killer?
There’s only one way to find out.
I need to see it for myself, and that requires more digging. If she really is back, then I’m betting hard money she won’t be able to resist stopping by to see old friends.
Looks like I need to first pay a visit to Doc Hogue.
13
Her
“Fuck!” I grit my teeth so hard against the pain of the metal staple cinching my skin closed that my molars begin to ache.
I need to hurry the hell up. I’ve already been here too long, but fuck if that damn whiskey hadn’t been necessary to help with the pain before I begin repairing myself.
I’m not hammered because I can’t risk being intoxicated, but I’ve drunk enough to at least take the edge off. Enough to keep my grip steady on the staple gun.
It’s moments like this when I miss the old days. Times when I didn’t have to worry about the odds not being in my favor.
There’d been twenty-two of them tonight. Twenty-fucking-two-to-one aren’t pretty odds. Although I had the upper hand for most of it, the element of surprise working in my favor, one asshole had landed a kick to my upper thigh. The force of his steel-toed boot had nearly sent me dropping to my knees.
Goddamn, it’d been so painful, my vision had blurred. I lost grip of my knife and we’d wrestled for it, but he managed to leave me with a nasty gash along my right side in the void between where my bulletproof vest cinched together.
