by Hunt, James
Even though Grant looked at her eyes, Mocks wasn’t sure if he saw her. The darkness gave his eyes a hazy, blind look. Mocks let go of his face and dropped to her knees.
“Grant, you can’t put yourself through this,” Mocks said. “These were extraordinary circumstances. Do not go down that rabbit hole.”
And then Grant finally saw her, and a chill ran down Mocks’s spine. As an addict, she had been around enough people who were out of their mind to know when someone had gone too far, when they reached that point when reason was no longer an option, when chasing the satisfaction was all that mattered.
“I won’t be a detective for much longer,” Grant said. “It’s over for me, Mocks.” His voice was stoic, calm, and he glanced over to the crime scene. “You should start separating yourself from me. I’ll do what I can, but you’ll get a lot of the heat regardless.”
Before she could speak, he was up and disappearing down the beach, away from the scene, away from the bodies, away from his partner. Mocks lingered on her knees, hoping he would turn back, but he didn’t.
Mocks rejoined the rest of the officers, and Hickem asked where Grant was. “I don’t know,” she said, and then nodded to the gangbangers being loaded into one of the S.W.A.T. vans. “Think I could get a ride back into town?” Mocks asked.
“Sure,” Hickem answered. “We leave in two.”
Mocks ended up in the back of one of the S.W.A.T. vans crammed with officers. She was the only woman in the bunch, not something that she wasn’t used to, but the fact that Grant wasn’t by her side irked her. She knew he was right though. No matter what happened moving forward, he couldn’t turn back the clock. The women were dead, and that was as final as it got.
Hickem dropped Mocks off a few blocks from her apartment, and she flipped the collar of her jacket up to block the wind funneling through the streets of downtown. Even after almost four years in Seattle, the weather still chilled her bones.
The homeless man outside the Starbucks in front of her building was bundled up under blankets and newspapers. She couldn’t see his face to tell whether he was sleeping or not, but she slid a dollar next to his head.
Mocks’s phone buzzed when she stepped inside the elevator. She knew who it was. The captain wanted an update, and more importantly, he wanted to know where the hell Grant was. She ignored it. Enough shit had been dealt with for one day.
The heat of the building made her sleepy and by the time she reached the tenth floor, she could barely keep her eyes open. She stumbled down the hall in a daze and fished the keys out of her pocket. She yawned and singled out her apartment key to unlock the door, but stopped.
The front door was ajar, the lock broken. The fatigue lifted from Mocks’s mind and she dropped the keys and retrieved her pistol, aiming at the crack in the door. She looked up and down the hallway, but she was alone. Her heart rate spiked, and she slowly opened the door.
“Rick?” Mocks asked.
The living room was trashed. Cushions had been ripped. Lamps were overturned, casting ominous shadows over the walls. Glass from picture frames littered the carpet along with stuffing from the couches. But what was more disturbing was the silence. No one was home.
Mocks walked quietly, her arms extended, the pistol guiding her movements through the rooms. Her boots pressed slowly and methodically into the carpet as she scanned the apartment in a grid.
She turned the corner of the hallway and saw the bedroom door open. Her hand became unsteady as she drew closer, passing the spare bedroom, which was also open and empty. And then the bathroom. Empty.
Every step forward on the carpet cracked what resolve she had left. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Hickem had said about one of his former agents being cut into pieces. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real.
Mocks paused at the entrance to her bedroom, her hands trembling now as she lowered the weapon, and it dropped to the floor with a muted thud from the carpet.
The bedroom had been untouched. The bed was made. All of the pictures still hung on the walls, and there was no one inside. But what caused Mocks to scream and drop to her knees was a picture of Rick. She recognized it immediately. It was from their honeymoon, because he was so sunburnt. Drawn over the photo was a picture in black marker. It was a spider web.
* * *
Grant wasn’t sure how far he’d walked when he finally stopped, but he couldn’t see the lights of the crime scene anymore. By now most of the people had packed up, and everyone was gone save for a few forensic techs.
He turned into the woods. His shoes crunched on dead leaves and branches, and he nearly twisted his ankle on a rock through the dark path. His eyes had adjusted to the lack of light a little and it was still hard to see everything, but he just needed to move.
Grant distracted himself with memories of his wife, and he was thankful she couldn’t see him like this. If she knew about the things he’d done, how much blood was on his hands after she had passed, he wasn’t sure if she’d even stick around.
Why did the girl’s name have to be Annie? Out of all his cases, not one of them shared his daughter’s name. Why this one?
The phone in his pocket buzzed, but he ignored it. It was probably the captain, or the chief of police, or the senator asking him what the hell happened. Tomorrow morning’s news would have his picture plastered over every television and computer screen in the northwest, along with a caption that read, ‘Rogue Detective’s Actions Leave Dozens Dead.’
The acid crawled up from his stomach and Grant stopped, hunched over, and vomited. He nearly hit his shoes, but he managed to miss them at the last second. Hot bile lingered on his tongue and just when he went to wipe his mouth, another round spewed up like a geyser.
When his stomach emptied, Grant’s insides burned and cramped, and the stink of the puke made him gag. He spit to try and get rid of the taste, but it still lingered.
The phone vibrated, over and over and over, and finally Grant reached for it. He was about to throw it when he saw the name plastered on the screen. It was Mocks.
“I can’t—”
“They took Rick,” Mocks said, her voice panicked and quick. “He’s fucking gone, Grant.”
Grant paused, his mind trying to catch up with the information. “What are you talking about?”
“I just got home, and the door was broken down and the place is torn up.” Mocks spoke quickly, her words running over themselves. She was scared. “And there was a picture taped to our bedroom mirror. It was a spider web, Grant. They have him. I don’t know what to do.”
With his insides still aching from the vomit, Grant broke out into a jog toward the car, fumbling in his pocket for his keys. His mind shifted gears, back into work mode, the switch easier to flip than he thought. “Call Hickem. He’s more likely to take your call than mine. Find out what happened to Parker Gallient.”
“Why?” Mocks asked, sounding like she was fighting back tears. “What the hell would he know?”
“If he’s still alive, I think he’ll talk,” Grant said, starting the engine. “He was the only non-Filipino in the group, which means he wasn’t born into it. And after today, he might feel differently about his loyalty to the gang.”
“Do you think Rick is still alive?” Mocks asked. “And don’t bullshit me, Grant.”
He hesitated. The first instinct was to blurt out that he thought Rick was dead. But he forced himself to pause, to think it over. There was no guarantee that was true. Especially if they took him recently. They probably wanted to question him, see what he knew about Mocks and himself. That could take time, especially if they took him to a remote location.
“If he is, he won’t be for long,” Grant said, doing his best to not sound completely hopeless. “Call Hickem and find out where Parker is. I still think he’s our best bet. The moment you know, call me and I’ll meet you there.”
“Where are you now?” Mocks asked.
“I’m still at the park,” Grant answered. “Jus
t got into my car.”
Mocks paused for a second. “I need you, Grant. All of you. And that means putting behind whatever shit you’re going through and helping me get this done. You know we don’t have a large window to get him back alive. I need the old you. Please, Grant.”
Grant held the phone with this right hand and he glanced down at the gold wedding band. He kept it as a reminder of a past and pain that drove him to find kids and return them to their parents. He attributed his success to that pain, and he now had a new well of pain to draw from. He closed his fingers and formed a fist.
“I’m here, Mocks,” Grant said. “Call me when you know something.”
“I will.”
The call ended and Grant shifted into drive. He pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the highway that cut through the park. The road markers lit up as he drove, and more than once, Grant looked down to the wedding band.
When Grant was a boy, his parents used to take him to church on Sundays, and then afterward they’d go out to lunch with the rest of the family. He always had so much fun; not from the sermon and church, but the time spent with family. But toward the end of those days, Grant always felt something haunting him. It was like an unseen doom, a fear of the unknown that accompanied the next day.
Maybe it was because Monday was back to school, and Sunday night meant the end of the weekend and fun. But Grant felt that again. Except this time there was no family, no lunch, no church. The doom was real, and the consequences of the unknown would be damning. He just hoped that those consequences would only fall on him and not what remained of the people he cared about. If they did, he might not make it out of this alive.
12
With Hickem’s unit just a few blocks from Mocks’s apartment, it didn’t take her long to find out where Parker Gallient had been taken. Mocks phoned Grant and told him to meet her at Seattle General.
Everything felt like a dream. Her movements were slow and lethargic, like she wasn’t in control of her own body. But it was real. Rick was gone. The Web took him. And if they didn’t find him quickly, he could die.
Traffic was light due to the late hour, and when Mocks pulled up to the ER, she parked the car in the drop off lane.
“Excuse me,” a nurse on a smoke break outside called out to Mocks. “Ma’am, you can’t park your car there.”
Mocks flashed her badge and jogged inside without a word. She checked in with the nurse at the front desk, where she impatiently tapped her toe. The waiting area was empty, and the gift shop across the hall was closed. They were the only two on the floor.
“The patient is in room two-fourteen,” the nurse said. “It looks like he’s being prepped for surgery though, I’m not sure you’ll be able to see him.”
Mocks snatched the visitor’s badge from her grip and sprinted toward the elevator and up to the second floor. She reached for her phone and called Grant. “Hey, how far out are you?”
“Five minutes,” Grant answered. “I just got into downtown.”
“They’re prepping him for surgery,” Mocks said as the door slid open. “I’m going to try and get in before they put him under.”
“All right,” Grant said. “I’ll see you soon.”
Mocks pocketed the phone and immediately spotted the officer outside the door of the room where their suspect was located. The officer was young, tall, and lanky. When he held up his hand, his fingers were bone thin.
“I’m sorry, I can’t let you in there,” he said. “Orders from the Chief of Police himself.”
“Listen, I don’t have time to do the run-around with you, but if you don’t let me inside and talk to that man, more people will die,” Mocks said.
The officer glanced down at her hip and she frowned in confusion. It wasn’t until she looked down herself that she realized her hand was on the butt of her service pistol. She let go and stepped back.
“You have to let me in,” Mocks said. “Call anyone you need to, but I’m going in that room.”
The officer squinted. “Wait. I know you. You’re Detective Grant’s partner.”
“I am,” Mocks answered.
“Sad to hear about what happened with that reporter. Grant’s a good man.” The officer looked down both ends of the hall and then back into the room. He leaned in close and dropped his volume to a whisper. “Listen, I’m really not supposed to let anyone in. But I can give you five minutes, and then you have to bolt. Understand?”
Mocks patted him on the shoulder on her way past, but she stopped when he grabbed her arm.
“And, hey, next time you see your partner, tell him that Officer Sturgeon says thank you.” The young cop gave a half smile. “He’ll know what it’s for.”
“He’ll be here soon,” Mocks said. “And thank you.” She shut the door behind her, and Parker Gallient jolted in his bed. A large bandage was over his chest and shoulder where Grant had shot him, and a few red lumps were on his face where the cops had hit him when he resisted. Both hands were cuffed to the railing of the bed, and he was hooked up to a few machines. He wore the same clothes from a few hours ago.
“Who the fuck are you?” Parker asked, his voice cracked and groggy.
Mocks removed her badge, then her holster with the pistol, and set them both down on a table on the other side of the room.
Parker wriggled in bed. “What the hell are you doing?” He looked to the door. “Hey, guard!”
“He’s not going to bother us,” Mocks said. “It’s just me and you for a few minutes. I’ve got questions. And I want answers.”
Parker coughed, then laughed, but it was short-lived. “Bitch, whatever you think you can do to me, The Web would make it ten times worse.”
Mocks pressed her palm into the bandage and pressed down. “I do love a challenge.”
Parker groaned and his face reddened. “God fucking dammit! You fucking bitch!”
“My husband was taken by your people, and I want to know where he is,” Mocks said, adding more pressure the longer she went without an answer.
“I don’t know where they took him! I’ve been here!”
“Bullshit!” Mocks removed her palm and then punched the wound. Parker screamed and then hacked and coughed, saliva dripping from his lower lip. Mocks raised her fist once more. “Where is he?”
“Just stop! Stop!” Parker wheezed a few more breaths and then slammed his head back into his pillow. “They might have taken him up to the mill.”
“What is that?” Mocks asked.
“It’s where I had to drop my girl,” Parker said. “Sometimes we have to make special trips up there, but only for certain occasions. Only when he wants something.”
“When who wants something?” Mocks asked. “Your boss?”
“I don’t know if you could call him the boss,” Parker answered. “The guy who pulls the strings, maybe. It’s like his special workshop or some shit.”
“Where’s the mill?” Mocks asked, her fist still cocked back.
“You take I-5 north until you hit Timber Creek Road. Follow that till it forks and take a left. It’s a dirt road. After that, you’ll run right into it.”
Mocks lowered her fist but then thrust her finger in his face. “If I have to come back here because you lied, The Web will be the least of your problems.”
“I doubt it,” Parker said.
Mocks retrieved her gun and badge and when she reached the door, Parker called out to her one last time.
“If they have your husband, then you might as well write him off as dead,” Parker said, taking a swallow. “And if there is anything left of him, it won’t be pretty.”
Mocks opened the door and then slammed it shut as she walked to the elevator. When she reached the first floor and the doors opened, she saw Grant jogging into the lobby.
“I know where he is,” Mocks said without breaking her stride.
Grant fell into line with her and the pair walked back to her car, which was closer as it was still parked in the drop off lane. Grant
got behind the driver’s seat, their natural rhythm already in play as Mocks tossed him the keys. She thought it was good that they were back in sync. He had his head on right. He was focused.
“Did you get anything beside the location?” Grant asked, starting the car and speeding out of the drop off area.
“Yeah,” Mocks answered. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
* * *
Mocks flicked the green Bic lighter on and off on the entire drive north. Grant pushed one hundred on the interstate. Aside from a few truckers, they were the only ones on the road.
Grant wished that there was something he could say to help her, but he knew that the only cure for what ailed her was action. She needed to move. She needed to do something other than think. What Mocks had in her head was the right direction, and Grant just had to keep her on that path.
“I’ve been up here before, you know,” Mocks said, the flame on her Bic wiggling from the heat blasting through the vents. The temperature had dropped significantly in the late hour, and Grant didn’t object to the warmth. “When I was using. Came up here all the time when I wanted to go on a bender. Nobody asked questions up here. Nobody cared what happened to you.”
“You having flashbacks?” Grant asked, watching her reaction through his peripherals.
Mocks let the lighter’s flame disappear and shook her head. “No.” She turned to Grant. “This is what you felt, wasn’t it? That night you beat the man that killed your pregnant wife. The rage, the purpose, the fear, all of it controlling you, pushing you.”
“Yes,” Grant answered.
“I had that feeling every time I wanted to get high,” Mocks said. “Sometimes I look back on those days and don’t recognize that person. And other days I remember her very well.”
