Psycho Save Us

by Huskins, Chad

  Sweat bullets beaded down from his brow, dripping onto his naked chest. Blood still poured from his shoulder. It might be that Spencer had happened upon an artery. If that was the case, he might not have long. “A-Avery,” he whimpered. “Avery Street.”

  Spencer looked at Tidov’s phone and pulled up Google Maps. After a few seconds, he had his answer. Yes, Avery Street was definitely in the vicinity of Umway. Although, there were a number of ways to get there, some of which appeared to dead end, or to go close to Avery but not quite. It’s own little Forgotten Place, he thought.

  But was the Russian really telling the whole truth about Avery Street, or was he still stalling, trying to save his friends? “They say that a wolf’s territorial reach is about thirty miles from the pack’s den,” Spencer said. “But they have a hunting range of a couple hundred miles. I’ve heard similar things about organized criminals. Now, if I had to bet,” he said, licking his lips, still relishing, “I’d say you guys control everything, or at least a lot, for up to a fifteen-mile radius around Avery Street. Especially for an operation like this one. Am I right?”

  The pedophile swallowed the lump in his throat, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like a golf ball in a snake’s throat.

  “But I’ll bet your hunting ground is, what, like thirty miles? That would entail the Bluff, Vine City, English Avenue, where all o’ this started. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Tidov lowered his head, defeated. “Y-you’re…you’re n-n-not wrong.”

  “I know I’m not. You know why? Because I’m never wrong. I don’t ever open my mouth to speak unless I’m sure about something. All other conjecture I keep inside here.” He tapped his temple. “Do ya have anything else to say, my friend?” He waited. Tidov shivered, and shook his head. “Oh, I bet you do. Like this territory you control. Avery Street’s your wolf’s den, yeah? You drive through neighborhoods and stalk children that you perceive as being neglected, but Avery Street’s your staging ground, your launch point, an’ I’ll just bet you have all kinds o’ help. So then, how many houses on that street you control? How many relatives an’ cohorts live in that area?”

  “N-none,” he said.

  “He’s lying. Earlier tonight a shot was fired by one of the Russians, just to scare my sister, and they weren’t even afraid that someone might hear it,” Kaley said aloud, speaking to air, speaking to the ceiling, speaking to Bonetta, speaking to the children who still occupied this room somehow, and speaking to the monster. “He fired with perfect confidence. He never feared anybody hearing the gunshot.”

  Spencer focused on the first four words of that last sentence: He never feared anybody. That part in particular stung. It hurt. It hurt the way that it hurt to hear a heckler give a stand-up comedian a hard time with total impunity, and to know that that person would never act that way if he didn’t have his friends surrounding him, backing him up, cheering him on. And no one in the crowd would do anything about it. No one would ever do anything about the Miles Hoovers of the world because they were too afraid to appear rude themselves.

  “Prime Minister Vladimir Putin,” Spencer said, “I have reason to believe you are lyin’ to me, sir. Ya see, I have spoken with the other members of the United Nations and they all agree, based on the word of informants we have amongst some o’ yer people, that you’re full of shit. Savvy? Now, I’m gonna hold up fingers, and you’re gonna tell me which number seems most appropriate. If I catch the lie, you die. If you tell me true, no harm will come to you.” He laughed. “How ’bout that? I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.”

  Spencer held up his right hand, and started ticking off fingers. One? Tidov didn’t move. Two? Tidov remained still. Three, then? The Russian looked apprehensive. How about four? The Russian watched the hand carefully. Five? Tidov swallowed. Six? Tidov finally nodded.

  “Six? Six houses in that area belong to yer outfit?”

  Tidov nodded. “Yes. J-j-just those six.”

  “All on Avery Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “Family?”

  “S-s-some,” he shrugged.

  “An’ what about badges?”

  “Wh-what?”

  “Police, asshole. How many cops are on your payroll?”

  “N-none.”

  “Thank you.” Spencer raised the gun and squeezed the trigger.

  Kaley jerked once, and went still. She felt the dying man in the sea with her. She felt the fear, the unease, and the confusion of death. Then, just like that, there was nothing. Nothing but Little Sister’s pain and humiliation.

  “You killed him,” she said.

  “I had to,” Spencer said, standing up. A brain fragment clung to his left sleeve. He shook it off and said, “What other purpose could he serve except to give me away later?”

  We could’ve used him, said the Voice.

  “For what? For leverage?” He waited. There was no response from the Voice. “These people would burn that bridge as soon as I offered him up as a hostage. They’d probably kill you, too, if you are who I think you are. They’d slit your throat an’ then bug out, head for Mexico. An operation like this, they all probably have bug-out plans, probably have go-ready bags in the trunks of their cars, an’ everybody in the operation knows the code words to cut an’ run at the drop of a hat. Naw, I ain’t lettin’ anybody get away. Not tonight.”

  Call the police, the Voice insisted. Tell them where we’re at.

  “And let them have Dmitry? I don’t think so.”

  There was another pause from the person at the other end. He felt suspicious thoughts crawl across his brain, tickling and teasing. He rather enjoyed it. Then, finally, How do you know which one’s Dmitry?

  “This connection works two ways, sister.” It was true. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was experiencing, but he had a genuine curiosity about it all and was starting to explore (quite unconsciously) the limits of it. He didn’t really feel all that much, but he saw images, colors, and certain identifying terms leapt out at him as she unwillingly shared the image of the asshole who’d looked at him from the window of the Expedition in front of Dodson’s Store. And he knew. That one’s…Oni? Naw, Dmitry? That seemed right. The owner of the Voice called him Oni, but he was really Dmitry.

  You’re going to leave us here to die so that you can get what you want?

  “I didn’t say that,” Spencer said. He’d unzipped his pants and was now pissing in the brain hole he’d put in Tidov’s head. He felt the person on the other end of his Connection recoiling…and then looking back on in fascination, and vindication. “I’m not stupid. See, any minute now the people on Avery Street are gonna start getting word that Mr. Tidov’s house is swarmin’ with cops. That ain’t good. It’ll be the same as if I’d called them and made a useless bargain with his life. Avery Street’s almost twenty miles from where I am. Many of ’em will have bailed before I can get there.”

  You’re still leaving us here so that you get what you want!

  “He lied.”

  What?

  “Tidov lied. There are police helping him out. I saw it in his eyes,” Spencer said. “And besides, it makes sense. An operation this big couldn’t go unchecked without someone in authority gettin’ paid to look the other way, to take Avery Street off o’ the regular patrols of the Zone One cops, or to at least decrease the amount o’ patrols that go through that neighborhood. They may not know that Avery Street is full of rapists and murderers—they probably just think it’s more meth labs or drug havens—but they’ll look out for Dmitry an’ his ilk just the same. If I call the cops, some badge somewhere will tip off the guys at Avery Street.”

  There are no cops in on this!

  “Of course there are.”

  How can you know all this—

  “Because it’s what I would do if I were settin’ up this kind of op.” Spencer listened. Silence from the Voice. A thoughtful pause, perhaps? He didn’t know, but while he waited for another response he prodded at that tickling feeling at the back
of his brain, that part that he had just started becoming aware of. He wanted to see her thoughts, as he suspected she was seeing his.

  You…you want Dmitry? The Voice finally said, sounding incredulous.

  “I want ’em all. My hungry ass is staring at a buffet, and I’m one o’ those that likes to take advantage. Don’t know the next time I’ll get to eat again,” Spencer said, shaking off the last few drops. “But I’m all the way over here an’ they’re all the way over there.” He added, “Where you are.”

  Another pause. Then, You want me to stall them?

  “There’s a good girl.”

  But how?

  “I’ve done enough talkin’. Why don’t you figure it out?”

  But…I can’t—

  “Think, girl. Where are you at?”

  A pause. I’m in a basement.

  Spencer thought about this for a second, and then the answer came to him. But he wondered how obvious it was to her. “Locked in a basement? With amenities provided? A bed, a toilet, all that?”

  Yes.

  “An’ how do you suppose they’re keepin’ an eye on you?”

  From the feeling of consternation that swam over him, he could tell this hadn’t yet occurred to her. Keeping an eye on me?

  “Yeah. How do they monitor you?” More silence from the Voice. He popped the clip out of his Glock and counted how many rounds he had left. Eight. Satisfied, he tapped it back into place. “Think now. Is there a vent? A hole in the wall of any kind?”

  There’s…there’s a vent, yes.

  “Pretty small? And outta your reach?”

  Yes. How did you…? The Voice trailed off, and there was the feeling of dawning. Hope sprang, hot and uncomfortable for him. A camera?

  “And boom goes the dynamite.”

  More consternation. Then, But, what can I do about that? I can’t reach it. And even if I could I can’t do anything with a camera.

  “But you can control what they see,” Spencer said. “Or, at least, what they think they see.”

  I don’t understand.

  Spencer sighed. “Pretend to start escaping. Pretend—oh, I dunno—pretend like you know how to pick locks, an’ then start pickin’ the lock.”

  But I don’t know how to pick locks!

  “Doesn’t matter. They don’t know that.”

  They won’t believe it.

  “They will.”

  How can you be so sure?

  “Because people are stupid. Even the smart ones.”

  I…I can’t…

  “Then give up. Die. Lay there and fucking die, an’ see if anybody gives a shit about you or yer sister. You better find some kinda distraction if you wanna live. If not lock-picking you can always dazzle ’em with a magic trick.”

  “I…don’t know any magic tricks,” Kaley said, speaking very rationally to the air in front of her lips.

  Says the girl speakin’ to me via telepathy.

  The glaciers ran deep. Kaley explored them with her own brand of curiosity, and, on some subconscious level, she knew that the monster had noticed her. She was like an amateur thief who came through a convenient opening in the screen window, and the monster was watching from the shadows, curious as to what she would do with what she found. Kaley cringed from his sight. He’s searching for me, too.

  She saw something. A flash, lasting only a second, maybe less. In that second she saw the six men in Baton Rouge. For an instant, she was him. She was there in that moment, and she was experiencing his brand of curiosity. She saw what he was capable of when he got hold of someone he found worth his time.

  Kaley closed that vault and looked away, hoping to never again remember it. But she would. Forever. There would even be times when she dreamt of it and woke up at night thinking it had been committed by her. She would tell this to shrinks, all of whom would tell her that it was common for traumatized persons to have reoccurring dreams of violence. She would never be able to adequately explain it. Never.

  Now you know, said the monster.

  Wet warmth spread from her legs. In her hyperaware state, the urine was so pungent that it made her gag several times, though she hardly noticed, so reflexive was it, and so far removed was she from herself. “Yes,” she said to him. “Now I know you.”

  From a thousand miles away, Bonetta said, “Kaley? Kaley, what’s goin’ on? Did…did you hit your head? Who’re you talkin’ to?”

  He zipped up his pants and considered his next move. The Glock was replaced at his waistline, and he stood looking down at the piss-covered thing that had formerly been Yevgeny Tidov. Now, it was merely a temple for bacteria and germs. For so long they had been kept in check by red and white blood cells, but now, the day of the bacteria and germs had finally come. The world was their oyster—at least, Tidov was their oyster—and they lapped up the savory juices of him. Any moment now, the bacteria and germs would realize a major tectonic shift had happened in their favor.

  Get moving! the Voice commanded.

  It shook Spencer from his reverie. Usually, he would’ve been pissed at someone issuing an order at him, but at the moment he was still so focused on Dmitry (She called him Oni, he thought) that little else mattered.

  Spencer climbed up the ladder, purposely using Tidov’s head for his first step. He slowly pushed the manhole cover aside, and then peeked out. The spot he’d chosen was a block away from where he’d parked Tidov’s car. He’d carried the fucker in a fireman’s carry behind an alley of a store that was closed but nevertheless had the words MONEY TO LOAN flashing in a garish neon pink sign.

  There hadn’t been anyone in the vicinity when he took his captive to the sewer, and there still wasn’t anyone around. He couldn’t return to the Russian’s car, though, because the cops would be at his house by now, and would probably put out an APB for Tidov’s Buick.

  He would have to find something else to drive him the nineteen or so miles to Avery Street. Without a vehicle, he’d never make it in time, not on foot, not before the vory slit the throats of the only witnesses who knew their faces and bugged out completely.

  “Seasons don’t fear the Reaper,” he sang. For no reason at all, the Blue Öyster Cult was back in his head. “Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain…we can be like they are…come on, baby…don’t fear the Reaper…”

  “…baby take my hand,” she sang. “Don’t fear the Reaper…we’ll be able to fly…don’t fear the Reaper…baby I’m your mannnnnnnn…”

  12

  At 4:12 AM, on the authority of Judge Roy Talbot Hodgins, the Atlanta Police Department busted down the front door of 42 Clayton Road. They were joined by one sheriff’s car outside and a Georgia state patrol car at the end of the neighborhood, blocking the street and checking all cars that moved through.

  SWAT moved in first. Judge Hodgins had been so alarmed by what had been told to him over the phone—the bodies on Townsley Drive, an injured APD officer, the probable involvement of a wanted serial killer, the involvement of the vory v zakone and the Rainbow Room, and both the FBI and Interpol’s interest in all of this—that he’d been granted a no-knock warrant.

  The battering ram separated the door from the doorframe, sending splinters inward as the second man stepped forward and gave the door a swift kick to send it swinging wide. They moved inside, screaming, “Atlanta Police Department! Search warrant! Search warrant!”

  Leon waited outside on the front lawn. Clouds had gathered overhead, and thunder rolled nearby. He was joined by Agents Porter, Mortimer, and Stone. They’d hung back by their SUV and held a conference between themselves. Flanking the front door on each side were two APD officers, each one with their Glocks drawn and at ready-low. Leon watched the operation with mounting frustration. He wanted to be inside with them, but had to wait for the all-clear.

  A squad car pulled up behind him to join the others. It was car 1A4. Leon knew that car. He turned and walked quickly over to David Emerson, who was rubbing at his left eye profusely as he stepped out. “What the hell are
you doing?” Leon demanded. “Why didn’t those medics send you to the hospital with Beatrice? I swear, I should beat their asses, and yours—”

  “I’m still good for duty,” David cut him off.

  “The hell you are.”

  “I don’t have a corneal abrasion, I don’t have any serious injuries, I won’t need stitches, and no body parts are missing.”

  “You were involved in a shooting—”

  “And my shift’s still not over,” David returned. “You’re still hunting him, so you need every set of eyes you can get.”

  Leon was about to say something when his radio blared. “Detective Hulsey?” It was Lieutenant Hennessey, and he sounded urgent.

  “Go ahead for Hulsey,” he said into the radio.

  “We’re all clear, Detective. You need to come in here and take a look at this. We’ve got a body and some contraband with some pretty serious implications.”

  “On my way up.” He gave David a level look, and then turned towards the house.

  Inside was an average-looking bachelor’s home. Not many decorations, but there was a couch that was probably bought used with a few tables and a Sony VPL projector situated on one wall so that it could project against the opposite wall. Wires from surround sound speakers were covered by a cheap rug, and the windows were covered with black curtains.

  Leon sniffed. The house smelled…sweaty. Uncleaned. It wasn’t particularly filthy, but it definitely had the smell of cramped humans. Years back, Leon had been on a team that opened a U-Haul truck filled illegal immigrants, all bundled up and packed tight like sardines. That truck had smelled something like this.

  Footsteps behind. It was the agents, stepping inside, taking a pair of blue rubber gloves from their pockets and squeezing them on.

  “Up here, Detective,” called Hennessey. He was at the top of the stairs immediately to Leon’s right, peeking out from the first door on the right. He hustled up the stairs, slightly resentful of the quick steps of the feds behind him. No matter how much he knew they needed these feds, a part of him would always resent the feeling of being watched over, no matter how illogical it was.