by Hunt, James
But there was still the problem of the cameras. He could tear them down, but there might be others he hadn’t seen. And the moment he did, the old man would know something was up. It just didn’t give him enough time.
The bedroom door flung open and the old man’s bodyguards burst inside. They ripped Grant off the bed and shoved him into the hallway. When he didn’t move, they jammed the end of their rifles into his back, jolting him forward.
The violent escort continued through the hallway, the thugs prodding Grant along when he slowed. They passed through the dining room from earlier and entered another passageway, which fed them into a living room with high ceilings, at least thirty feet.
Grant’s shoes clacked against the tiled floor as he separated himself from the goons. The furniture had been pushed to the walls to make space for a large, clear plastic tarp in the center of the room.
The guards motioned to the tarp, and before they prodded him forward, Grant stepped over it freely. He knew what it was for; easy cleanup. The sheet crinkled under Grant’s shoes and he stopped when he reached the middle. He turned back to the guards, waiting for them to pull the trigger. But they kept their rifles lowered and aimed at the floor.
“So much pain.”
Grant turned left and saw the old man leaning against another hallway exit. There was something near his feet, a red container with a nozzle. It was a gas can.
The old man examined and picked at his cuticle. “The past two years have weighed heavy on you, Detective. But today is a new day. Today I relieve you of the burden of your wife and daughter’s deaths.” He snapped his fingers and the pair of thugs disappeared and returned, dragging a body with a bag over its head, hands and feet bound behind his back.
Whimpers penetrated the black mask, the cloth moving with each breath. The thugs dropped the man at Grant’s feet, and then dropped a tire iron that clanged against the plastic covered tile. Their delivery complete, both Web members retreated from the tarp, but kept their thousand-yard stare.
“In my line of work, you learn about people,” the old man said. “You discover who can bear the weight of purpose, and those that are crushed by it.” He paced the perimeter of the tarp, heels clacking rhythmically against the tile. “You are one of the rare few that can take it, Detective. But you haven’t decided how it will transform you. You have yet to choose a path. But that ends today.”
Another whimper and sniffle filtered through the captive’s mask. Grant shifted his eyes to the tire iron, then back to the old man.
“Go on,” the old man said. “He won’t bite.”
The thugs raised their rifles, one aimed at Grant, the other at the man curled on floor. Grant knelt, then slowly reached for the mask. His finger grazed the man’s chin, and he recoiled from the touch like a frightened animal. With one quick strike, Grant ripped the mask off, and cold terror flooded through him at the sight of Brian Dunston’s face.
Dunston blinked rapidly, shaking his head, wiggling over the plastic tarp. His cheeks were red and stained with tears. His lower lip quivered and he squint his eyes shut hard, his forehead creased with thick lines as he sobbed.
Flashbacks from the night two years ago surfaced in Grant’s memory in rapid, lightning strikes. He recoiled, falling backward. The tarp crinkled as he frantically scrambled away from the man that had killed his wife and daughter.
“I wouldn’t go much farther,” the old man said. “The moment you step off that tarp, they’ll shoot you.”
Dunston lifted his head, opening his eyes, looking at Grant, but not seeing him. “P-please.” He shivered uncontrollably. “I w-wanna go h-home.”
Grant looked to the tire iron at his feet, then to Dunston and the tarp. He connected the dots, and shook his head. “I won’t do it.”
“Don’t pretend like you didn’t want this.” The old man pointed an accusing finger at Grant. “It has festered in your mind like a disease, rotting your brain of everything else. This is your chance to cut the cancerous tumor out of your life!”
Dunston rolled helplessly from side to side. His breaths were quick and shallow. He looked at Grant again, this time squeezing his eyebrows together in confusion. “You? No. No, please. I never told anybody about what happened that night.” He looked to the old man. “I don’t know what they told you, but I—”
“Quiet.” The old man picked up the gas can and walked to the edge of the tarp. He dropped the can and it thumped onto the tile, the fuel inside sloshing back and forth. “You have two options, Detective. The first is to pick up that tire iron and bash Dunston’s head until he’s dead. The second involves this gas can and a match.”
Dunston wailed, his mouth agape as he thrashed wildly over the tarp. “It was an accident! I just fell asleep. I’m sorry! I’m so s-sorry.”
Grant clenched his fists, and they shook. He couldn’t take his eyes off the tire iron. The little voice emerged from the depths of his memories. The one that was so angry after Ellen’s death. The one who wanted Dunston dead.
Do it. For Ellen. For Annie.
Grant remembered the funeral, the days and weeks afterward where he cried and drank and did anything to numb the pain, all the while his mind circling the vengeful thoughts of murdering Dunston for his crimes.
It’s your right. Kill him.
“It’s all right to want it,” the old man said, a smile in his voice. “We’re raised to believe that acting out our desires is a bad thing, but it’s not. It breathes life into our souls, makes us feel invincible.”
Ellen filled Grant’s mind. Then Annie. He saw them, smiling together, laughing, playing. What would she have said? What would she tell him to do? He fumbled through the darkness, searching for her voice. And then, just when he felt himself tire, he heard her. Let go.
Grant uncurled his fists, his muscles relaxed. He looked to Brian Dunston who trembled and cried, fearful of the judgment Grant would cast. But he simply walked toward the man, knelt, looked him in the eye and spoke the words he should have said a long time ago. “I forgive you.”
Dunston scrunched his face in pain and wailed, nodding as he cried. “Thank you. And I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about your wife, and your little girl. You don’t know how many times I wished—”
One of the thugs poured gasoline from the nozzle, drowning Dunston’s words and when Grant tried to intervene the second shoved him back. Dunston gagged from the putrid fuel and choked, unable to pivot away from the stream of fluid. He spit, shaking his head, and then vomited, retching over himself and the tarp.
The last few drops of fuel dripped from the can and the thug tossed it aside, then stepped back. Dunston’s clothes had darkened, now soaked with fuel. His hair flattened against his skull, and he kept his eyes shut to shield himself from the stinging gas. He splashed in the small puddles of fuel that had collected in the crinkled tarp, and he continued to cry out.
The old man reached inside his jacket pocket and removed a packet of matches. He rattled them in his hand. “The smell of burning flesh isn’t something that ever really leaves you. It’s unique.” He broke off a single match. “Have you ever smelled burning flesh, Detective?”
“What I did to him before, it was wrong,” Grant said. “It was just an—”
“Accident?” The old man asked. “He fell asleep behind the wheel of his rig. Was it an accident that he decided to drive with minimal sleep? Was it an accident that he didn’t pull over when he started to get tired? Don’t mistake an accident for carelessness, Detective.”
The old man struck the match against the backside of the packet, and the flame came to life. The fire wiggled, pinched between his finger, and was mirrored in the old man’s eyes. He stretched the flame toward Dunston. “Don’t feel bad if you lose your lunch. I did the first time too.”
“Stop!” Grant thrust out his hand, and the old man froze, the flame hovering above Dunston’s gasoline-soaked body. Grant picked the tire iron off the tarp, and the old man pulled back his hand. “I’ll do it.”
“There we are!” The old man blew out the flame and tossed the burnt match aside. “I knew I’d pull it out of you eventually.” He motioned for his bodyguards to step off the tarp. “Give him room, boys. Give him room.” The old man clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. “Swing away, Detective.”
The sweat from Grant’s palm loosened his grip on the metal as it grew warmer from his touch. He readjusted his fingers and stepped closer to Dunston, who shivered with every crinkle of the tarp.
The puddle of gas around Dunston’s body rippled when Grant stepped in it, the tips of his shoes only one inch from Dunston’s body. He lingered there, searching for the grit to spare the man from a fiery death.
“Second thoughts?” The old man held up the matches and gave them a rattle.
Dunston sobbed, and Grant knelt near Dunston’s head. He placed a gentle hand onto Dunston’s shoulder and for a moment the man’s trembling ceased.
“I’m sorry for what I did,” Grant said. “It was an accident. I knew it then, but I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to feel it.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’m sorry for this.” Grant stood and raised the tire iron high above his head, pausing.
Dunston shook his head. “N-no. Please don’t—”
Grant slammed the end of the tire iron onto the top of Dunston’s skull and the man flattened to the tarp, jerking convulsively. A small pool of blood collected where Grant had struck him, and Dunston garbled nonsense, his head lolling back and forth. He raised the tool again and then cracked it against Dunston’s skull once more, this time exposing brain.
Dunston’s body continued to spasm, but the garbled words ended. His eyes bulged from his skull and he took deep breaths that sounded like he was breathing in fluid. Blood spilled from his mouth, and the spasms worsened.
Grant’s hand and arm melded to the piece of iron. He struck again, repeatedly bringing the tire iron down harder, faster than the previous blow. Bone broke and blood splattered, each blow covering Grant’s face and body with warm bits of Brian Dunston.
Rage took hold at the sight of the carnage and Grant screamed. Something primal surfaced in those moments as the heavy tire iron cut through what was left of Dunston and reached the tarp and tile, and a mound of mush lay where Dunston’s head once rested.
Blood, brain, and bone sprayed outward in thin, stringy lines. Grant tossed the blood-soaked iron aside and stumbled back, panting, and collapsed to his knees,.
The old man clapped, slowly, and stepped onto the tarp. “Well done, Detective! Well done!” He stopped short of Dunston’s body and leaned over. “I would say that the punishment fits the crime. He smashed your family with a semi-truck, and you smashed his head with a tire iron.” The old man chuckled playfully. He inched intimately close and crouched to meet Grant at eye level. “Doesn’t it feel good to get what you want?”
Grant lifted a shaking hand to his cheek and smeared the specks of Brian Dunston into thick streaks. He still felt wild, angry, but when he spoke his voice was soft, quiet. “I’m going to kill you.”
“No,” the old man said, his tone stoic. “You won’t.” He stepped off the tarp and then motioned to Dunston’s body. “Clean up that mess. It’s poor manners to leave things like that lying around. After all, you’re still a guest. For now.”
5
A few of the reporters followed Mocks down the street, but after a few blocks of her silence they ended their pursuit. Her apartment was close to the precinct, so she walked the rest of the way, the thumb drive burning a hole in her pocket as she broke out into a jog, checking the timer on her watch that ticked upwards of two hours. But in reality she was already passed the ten-hour mark in regards to Grant’s disappearance. Time was tight.
Once at her building, Mocks raced to the elevator and then up to her apartment. She loaded the drive into Rick’s laptop and opened the files. Dozens of folders appeared, and she scrolled down until she found one with her name on it. She opened it and another series of subfolders appeared, along with a document that was titled ‘Read Me.’
Mocks,
I’ve compiled the list of locations you wanted here in this folder. The drive also contains a complete copy of the laptop’s entire hard drive. I wanted to give you the backup as a safety. Hopefully we won’t need it. If you have any questions, let me know.
Sam
Mocks leaned back in the chair and exhaled relief. She’d need to turn this over to Franz and Marcus. It was more proof that Sam didn’t kill himself. But that would have to wait. Grant took priority.
Mocks returned to the folder and clicked on the one titled “Sawmills.” Sam had done his work well, finding five mills that intersected with GPS coordinates found on the Web laptop. She clicked through the links, which detailed the sale and tax history for each.
Most of them were foreclosed, shut down during the Great Depression, and never recovered. But of the five mills that intersected with the Web GPS coordinates, four were purchased by one of the Web’s dummy corporations. The last one was purchased by a private buyer.
Mocks drilled down on more information for that particular mill and discovered that aside from the tax documents, there were no other records that Sam could find that showed the property even existed. No name of the buyer, no record of purchase accept for the taxes on the land.
It was the perfect place to hide what didn’t want to be found, and Mocks was willing to bet that was where the bastard in charge was. And if he was there, so was Grant. She needed to get there, and fast.
But despite the information, and her eagerness to bust down some doors, she knew that place would be heavily guarded. And at the moment she had no badge, and no gun except for the spare revolver in the closet. It was a pea shooter compared to what she’d be up against. She needed more guns. A lot more.
* * *
Grant’s jacket sat to his left on the bed. Blood splattered the sleeves and lapel. Brian Dunston was all over him. His hand trembled and he pumped it into a fist until it steadied. He reached for his wedding band, his fingertips smearing a few specks of blood over the gold, giving it a brownish hue.
Grant had visualized killing Dunston for a long time. He’d repeatedly replayed the night he’d beat the man to a pulp. Hours were wasted trying to figure out why he couldn’t pull that trigger. He was angry. Weak. Helpless. And now that he finished what he set out to do that night two years ago, he felt empty. There was no sorrow for the man’s death, but no joy. No relief. He was numb.
And if this was what he felt, then what was the point of all of it? Dunston’s death was the one thing that was supposed to make him feel something.
Grant stood and stumbled to the bathroom. He caught his reflection in the mirror. He was a stranger in his own skin. A murderer.
Streaks of Dunston’s blood had dried onto the stubble of his unshaven face. He turned on the hot water nozzle on the sink and splashed his face, rubbing vigorously. The streaks of red faded, red droplets running down his face and neck. He reached for the soap and scrubbed.
The blood’s heavy metallic scent filled his nostrils, and he grew antsy, panicky. His stomach churned. It wasn’t just the smell of the blood, it was the knowledge of how it got there, and who it belonged too.
Vomit crawled up his throat and he lunged for the toilet. He dropped to his knees and hunched over just in time. His throat burned and he gave another dry heave at the scent of his own stink, then quickly flushed the toilet. He pushed himself up and ripped off his shirt and pants, stumbling backward into the wall. He tossed them aside and reached for the shower handle. He cranked it on hot, but stepped in before the temperature had a chance to rise.
Dozens of tiny red lines trailed down his legs, cutting through the white soapsuds. The water grew hotter and burned Grant’s skin, his shoulders and back growing red from the heat. But he didn’t adjust the temperature. He wanted to be cleansed. He wanted for all of this to be done.
Grant removed the wedding ring and
scrubbed it as well. It slipped from his hands and clanked to the tub’s bottom. He quickly squat and snatched the ring before it rolled down the drain. And as he clutched in his fingers, he cried.
He missed Ellen. He missed her more than he could bear. He wanted to hear her voice again. He wanted to watch her play the piano, her hands moving gracefully over the keys. They were supposed to die many years from now; together. That was the plan.
But plans had changed. The situation was hopeless. And a hopeless man might as well be a dead man.
* * *
Thirty minutes into climbing up the mountain, despite the chill in the air, and Mocks was soaked with sweat. Her muscles ached and cramped. Apparently spending the night in a hospital chair didn’t provide the best circumstances for thorough REM cycles. But even if she had gotten a good night’s sleep, it didn’t change the fact that she was outside. And she hated the outdoors.
“Not having any fun?” Hickem smiled, climbing on her left, he and the rest of his unit cloaked in tactical gear. They didn’t seem as bothered by the weather or the climb.
“Not my idea of a good time,” Mocks answered, her breathing labored.
Hickem nodded to her boots. “I can see those haven’t been thoroughly used. They look brand new.”
They were. Well, not brand new per se. Rick had bought them for her for Christmas in the hopes that if she got out into nature more often, then she might enjoy herself. She didn’t.
“Not much farther,” Hickem said, then nodded with his head, his boot crunching on leaves and twigs. “There should be a small ridge up ahead. We’ll have a good view of the compound from there to see what we’re dealing with.”
Mocks turned back to Hickem’s unit. “You sure you and your guys will be able to handle this? If this place is what I think it is, then security will be tight.”
Hickem gave a quick glance at the men behind him. “I have a former Navy SEAL, a Green Beret, two Marines, and a Secret Service officer.” He adjusted the pack on his back and the rifle in his hands. “I like my chances.”
