He flicked a piece of plastic that pierced his palm and took the phone from Paula.
“Yeah.”
“The computer went offline, what happened?” Lincoln asked.
“I dropped it.”
“He said Raley Field in an hour. We’ll have all of our HRT teams in place to take him down. You will stay away while I conduct this operation.”
“Don’t you think he’ll expect to see me?”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ll tighten the noose before he realizes it. We’ll get him.”
“And Tommy?”
“Yes, of course.” An afterthought. “Stay put,” she commanded, then hung up.
Penley ripped the transmitter from his shirt and disconnected the feed. “You were right about Lincoln monitoring the laptop, but she didn’t see what was on the screen, only that we connected with Winnow.”
“You sure this is the right play here? Going in alone against this psycho?”
“I can’t have Lincoln fumbling my only chance at getting Tommy so she can get good press. And I’m not gonna put you in a position where you could end your career because of me.”
“You don’t get to tell me what I can’t do.” She pushed away from the desk and took a stride, only looking back long enough to make eye contact with her partner. “Let’s get your son.”
They rode in silence to the abandoned ice plant off Fifteenth Street. John turned off the headlights as he slid the sedan onto the rough asphalt surface.
Paula spotted it first and pointed at the yellow sports car parked at the entrance.
“The guy drives his ego,” John said.
“Pull up here, on the other side of that dumpster. We’ll have some cover if he gets jumpy.”
John rolled the sedan to a stop. “Paula, stay here. If he comes out with Tommy, take him.”
John stepped from the car and pulled his weapon, stepping to the passenger side of Winnow’s car. Empty. He moved up the metal steps that led to the warehouse door, and the old metal groaned under his weight. The sound was loud enough to announce his arrival. He crossed the threshold, where he had nearly electrocuted himself the last time he’d entered this place.
The spotlight in the center of the building that had once illuminated the remains of the dead hawk now shone down on a child-sized lump sitting in a chair.
John ran to the chair and pulled a pillowcase from over the figure. It was only a rolled-up mattress from one of the homeless people who combed through these buildings after dark.
A strong hand clamped over his mouth, and he felt a sharp jab to his neck. His vision soon narrowed to a pinprick, and his knees gave out. He couldn’t control his movement. His weapon fell from his grip and clattered to the concrete floor. John felt his body moving before everything went black.
THIRTY-NINE
A bright lightning bolt of pain erupted inside John’s brain. Electric hate shot through every single neuron and made his gray matter boil from the inside. Pain signaled that he wasn’t dead yet.
A faraway moan rose and ebbed. The anguished, mournful cry sounded once more, and John realized the wail erupted from his own throat.
Another sound, off in the background, drew his attention. Sobbing, as soft as a lamb’s bleat, came from his left. His eyes fluttered and opened a fraction of an inch. The dim light around him knifed through to the back of his skull when he tried to focus on his surroundings. Everything was sideways: the dirty concrete block walls, shelves of beakers, bottles, trays of scalpels, hemostats, and medical equipment. John realized he was the one who was sideways, flat on his back.
To his left, a dark doorway opened to another room or chamber. An irregular, yellow flicker reflected on a wall in that distant room. John recognized a similar light pattern behind him as well—candlelight. The rooms, lit with scores of candles, bore no visible sign of electric lighting, nor windows to the outside. As John’s senses reawakened, the dank, musty odor of the place filled the air. An earthen, tomb-like dampness meant underground—a cellar, the wine cellar from the video at Zack Weber’s place.
The sobbing from the next room distracted John. The familiarity of the cry finally sunk in. “Tommy, is that you?” he said in a weak voice.
A shadow loomed directly overhead and shifted to John’s left, where the candlelight caught Winnow in profile.
“I’m very disappointed, Detective,” Winnow said.
“Where’s my son?”
“Near.”
“I did everything you asked.”
“I told you to cooperate.”
“I won’t cooperate with a sick bastard butchering innocent people.”
Winnow’s hand snaked out from the shadow and clamped down on John’s face. He forcibly shook the detective’s head. “No. No. No. That’s not right. No one is innocent.” Winnow released his grip after the scolding.
“They know all about you, Winnow, or Horn, whatever you call yourself now.”
Winnow leaned and cocked his head to one side, as if inspecting an insect. “You know nothing. Patrick Horn was weak. Look what I’ve become—powerful, feared, and revered.”
“Who the fuck reveres you?”
“Who indeed? You, for one. So did every last person who did as I instructed for a chance at life.”
John didn’t respond fast enough. Winnow tapped on John’s forehead with a sharp fingertip in synch with his words. “You. Don’t. Get. It. Every last one of you knew what you were dealing with. The organs you wanted have to come from somewhere. You chose me.”
“I didn’t choose you. Johnson, Mercer, and Cardozo didn’t ask for what happened to them,” John said.
The killer clucked his tongue. “Detective, really? They were of no value.”
“How would you know?”
“I’m disappointed you didn’t make the connection. Every last one of them was a drain, a parasite that needed to be cut off. Gang members sucking at the public teat. Hell, I had the gangs giving up each other. Welfare, disability, unemployment, prison, all draining resources without contributing. Until I found a way to thin the herd.”
“What about me?”
“The single thing my stepfather taught me was when a pig costs more to support than it’s worth, it’s time to butcher it.”
“What did your stepfather mean when he told me that it was his fault?” John asked.
Winnow paused as he considered the question. “Did he, now? He showed me everything I know about slaughtering pigs, all different kinds of pigs.”
The dead echo of the wine-cellar walls, damp and loamy, meant any scream would disappear into the earthen tomb, unheard.
“Layton didn’t teach you this.”
“He’s used that simple farmer persona more than once.”
“It’s time to stop. You got your revenge on your stepfather, if that’s what this was about.” The words fell hollow, more pleading than John intended.
Winnow’s shoulders tensed. “Revenge? This isn’t revenge. This is justice.”
“Let Tommy go.”
“It’s a little late for that. The game has changed. Your FBI lady friend was more than a little pissed off when the news crews had nothing to show from her raid on Raley Field. As far as the feds are concerned, you found Tommy and fled.”
“That can’t be—how long have I been here?” John said.
Winnow ignored John’s confusion, dragged a tall stool out of the shadows, and positioned it next to John. “You know what the surprising part of this was? Agent Lincoln was so eager to claim victory in solving the case and carve a notch in her bedpost that she had tunnel vision.”
“You’re a murderer,” John said.
“I’m a harvester. When I started this, it was all about ‘the greater good,’ where the sacrifice of the one benefits the many. Then, I became.”
“Became? What the hell are you saying?”
Winnow laughed. “I became enlightened to the almighty dollar. Not the psychobabble you had in mind?”
“You butchere
d innocent people and sold their organs on the black market.”
“We’ve been over this. Garbage people. They weren’t human. I harvested for those who couldn’t afford to pay the outrageous medical bills, those who couldn’t get on the lists for transplant because of bureaucratic red tape. They got what they wanted. I made a buck or two in the process. It’s a win-win.”
“Like the Cardozo girl?” John asked.
“Yes. Exactly. That girl deserved a chance.”
“So you played God and decided who lived and died? How is that any different?”
“An innocent girl needed a transplant. Her father was a match, so I made that happen. He saved his daughter’s life; it’s probably the only decent thing that man ever did. You would have done the same.”
“What about my son? Why did you put him through this?”
“You asked for my help.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I have ten thousand dollars that says you did.”
“I didn’t pay you.”
“We knew you’d eventually come to us. Zack Weber was exceptionally bright. He set up an entire dark web and connected to the transplant database through a programming back door so we could make harvesting decisions to maximize profit. Really quite elegant.”
“Like my son?”
Winnow nodded. “Yes, well, not at first. But when I found out you were the cop, it was too good to pass up. In a way, you made me what I am. At some point, we knew we would make you come to us. Zack trolled for people like you. Transplants got cancelled, donor organs disappeared. Matching blood test results were wiped from the system. We grabbed the organs for shipments to Mexico, Asia, and South America, where desperate people will pay any price, or had them slipped into the legitimate market. Laundered like drug money.”
“Made you what you are? Tommy didn’t do anything to deserve this.”
Winnow stepped away, out of John’s field of vision. He shuffled some glass bottles, which made tinkling sounds.
“I tend to agree with you. Tommy didn’t, but you deserve to feel loss. But you see my predicament. I can’t let him go now. You either.”
“You have no reason to keep him. You have me. Let him go home.”
Winnow returned to the table and looked down on John. He held a clear syringe in one hand and flicked the cylinder with a finger, chasing out the air bubbles.
“What about Agent Lincoln?”
“Agent Lincoln will believe you absconded with your son and hit the road. She’s watched too many bad movies. She’ll think you were making a run for the border to Mexico.”
Winnow flashed the syringe in John’s face.
“Good-bye, Detective. Any last words for little Tommy?”
FORTY
“Drop it, asshole!” Paula crept from the shadows of an earthen hallway.
Winnow whirled around with the syringe held tight against John’s neck. “Stay where you are. Don’t come any closer.”
“John, are you okay?” She pressed forward, the barrel of her weapon trained on Winnow.
“Tommy’s here,” John said.
Winnow backhanded John with his free hand. “Shut up!” He jabbed the needle into John’s neck. “You move and he’s done.” He positioned his thumb over the plunger. “Don’t even think about it. There’s enough phenobarbital in here to kill him twice.”
Paula adjusted her grip on her weapon and centered the muzzle steady at her target. Her knuckles were white from squeezing the Glock’s polymer surface.
“Well look at you. All ready to shoot.” Winnow leaned down over John’s head. “I bet you’ve never ended someone’s life before. I have.”
“Back away. It’s over. You have nowhere to run,” Paula said.
“Shoot me and your partner dies. Are you so eager to sacrifice him so you can bring down the big, bad man and take all the credit?”
A flicker of hesitation from Paula was all Winnow needed. He lifted the table and toppled it over with John still strapped on. Glass shattered, and trays of containers, beakers, and equipment spilled to the floor.
Paula lunged toward her partner and held his head off the floor, carefully pulling out the syringe still stuck in his neck and stopping the lethal drug from injecting into his bloodstream. Winnow used the time to run out a back tunnel.
Paula tore away at John’s restraints until he was free.
Once untethered from the killing table, John took Paula’s flashlight and went after Winnow. The beam revealed a narrow passageway that led deeper into the earthen complex. A flicker of a candle flame to his right revealed a small room lined with cinderblocks. John pressed his back to the wall outside of the doorway and shifted the flashlight to his left hand.
The room and the passageway were silent until a faint rustle from within the room gave away the killer’s trail. John wheeled around and shined the flashlight into the space. In a corner of the room, he spotted Tommy curled up on a filthy mattress. A sheen of sweat glistened from the boy’s skin in spite of the cool surroundings.
“Dad?” It was a weak voice.
“It’s me, Tommy. Everything’s gonna be okay.” John knelt at his son’s side and felt a high fever with a caress against the boy’s forehead.
“I don’t feel good.”
Paula trained her weapon down the dark corridor outside the room in case Winnow doubled back. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s burning up.”
“We gotta get him out of here.”
“Where is here, anyway?”
“The Layton farm. This is an old root cellar under the house.”
Paula ducked into the room with her partner and in a quick motion, gathered Tommy up and cradled him in her arms. “Let’s go.”
The candle flame flickered and brightened, signaling a change in the air within the tunnels. Winnow was on the move.
Paula handed John her weapon. “I’ll get Tommy back up top. You take that son of a bitch down.”
John took the Glock and extended his arms, pressing the back of his flashlight hand against his gun hand for stability, and then stepped out into the corridor.
“Go,” he said, and Paula hurried back through the tunnel, clutching Tommy in her arms.
“Winnow! It’s you and me now.” John took a half step forward and swept the darkness with his light. With another step, he heard a heavy, metallic thud and a brief sliver of light appeared. Winnow had another exit from the cellar.
John ran toward the light. It had to be less than twenty feet away, but the claustrophobic emptiness stripped away any sense of distance. A flush of anger came over him. Winnow had kept Tommy in this soulless place.
He worked his way down one wall until a faint outline of daylight crept through a gap in a doorframe. A metal door marked the root cellar’s access point, cut into the foundation of the old Layton home above. John pressed against the door, and it gave an inch before it held tight. Winnow had managed to wedge a piece of wood through the outside handles during his escape.
John shoved his shoulder into the door, and the dried wood splintered. One more push and the door flew open. Sunlight temporarily blinded him, and he raised his hands to shield his eyes. They were sensitive to the light, but he caught sight of Paula running toward him.
“Where is he?” John said.
“He went into the barn,” Paula said. “I called for backup.”
John hoisted himself out of the root cellar, got his bearings, and spotted the barn on the far side of the gravel-and-dirt farmyard. He took off for the hog barn in a dead run.
“Stay with Tommy,” he called behind him.
“We can wait him out, John!” Paula said.
John kicked at the barn door and readied the Glock. The door swung open, casting a wash of light over the slick-bottomed hog pens. He crossed the threshold and caught a blur of movement to his left. The door flew back onto his arm, and the Glock clattered to the floor. The barn door slammed shut behind him, plunging the inside back into a foul-smelling darknes
s.
“Winnow. Give it up.”
“I’m not giving up anything, Detective.” Winnow’s voice gave away his movement.
John stepped lightly on the barn floor. Ahead, a whoosh cut through the darkness seconds before a metal meat hook swung in his direction. John dodged, but the heavy hook still cracked him on the skull, above his right ear. He felt a warm, wet sensation drip from his scalp. He didn’t need to touch it to know he’d need stitches if he got out of this.
A chain rattled. This time John ducked down onto his haunches as the meat hook passed overhead.
“Detective? You still there?” Winnow’s footsteps shuffled on the barn floor as he changed position.
John listened and pressed closer to the origin of the sound.
An arm grabbed John around his chest, pinning his arms down.
John bent forward and held Winnow on his back. He took several rapid steps backward, hoping to pin Winnow against a wooden beam or the barn wall. Instead, he heard a chain rattle followed by a wet, rasping sound. Winnow loosened his grip.
John spun away from his attacker, ready to block another blow. But Winnow didn’t make a move forward.
Winnow shuffled his feet, unable to get traction on the barn floor, and held a look of utter surprise. He attempted to reach something behind him and lost his balance. He spun in an awkward circle, and John saw the meat hook embedded in Winnow’s back. The heavy chain supported him when Winnow’s knees buckled. His weight drove the hook deeper into his flesh. Blood flowed from the wound and pooled beneath the killer. Winnow’s feet twitched and painted a gruesome mural as he slipped in his own blood.
“Match . . .” Winnow mumbled.
John drew closer to the killer and took a knee in front of him. “What?”
A blood-speckled cough and a ragged breath steadied Winnow for a moment. He raised his eyes to John. “Your son has a match.” Another cough spit more blood down Winnow’s chin.
“Where is Tommy’s match?” John grabbed Winnow’s head and shook him to keep him alert.
Winnow coughed, and a deep laugh sounded from the dying man.
“Tell me!”
At What Cost Page 26
