by Cat Connor
“Yeah.” He laughed. “Bit tender but all good.”
Doc grabbed my arm. “Conway, lean back on the wall. You’re making me sick with all the swaying.”
I leaned.
“Picture,” I said, wondering if it was real.
Doc retrieved it. Neither Rowan nor I moved. Doc showed me the photograph. I looked at it. It took a bit longer than normal for my brain to process the image.
A hotel door, the room number obvious and a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging from the doorknob. Doc took the picture and called the team.
“Room nine-eleven,” he said into his phone then hung up.
“Ominous,” I muttered as my legs slid out from under me. “Whoops.”
A face peered at me, a light jumped from eye to eye then stopped.
“I’m fine,” I said holding my hand out to Doc. “Help me up.”
“Easy tiger. You’re not as fine as you think you are,” Doc replied, helping me stand.
“You worry too much,” I replied, instantly aware of slurring.
“That’s all I need to hear.” He flipped his phone open and pressed three numbers.
I could still count.
“Rowan, take her arm.”
I was trying to stand still but everything moved. Then I noticed it moved in time to a song. The walls pulsated to Aerosmith’s ‘I Don’t Want To Miss a Thing.’ Sound waves sparkled, morphing into butterflies with silver wings. My legs buckled.
The butterflies pulled at my sleeves, lifting and tugging. Aerosmith rocked an imaginary stadium. Steve Tyler was trying to stay awake so he didn’t miss a thing. That was the ‘aha’ moment. I closed my eyes for a second, dug deep and straightened up.
If Tyler would just stop trying to swallow the microphone as he belted out a full-on stage performance, I’d be fantastic.
Steve Tyler became Mac, “Ellie suck it up, there’s no time.”
I rolled my neck. Yep, I was good. I looked at Doc and dared him to hear any slurring, “Put the phone away. I’m okay.”
Armageddon. The song was from Armageddon, yet another Bruce Willis movie. It didn’t bode well.
“Conway?” Doc appeared a smidge confused.
“Room nine-eleven, let’s go,” I replied as the last of the silver butterflies disappeared down the hall.
“I’m watching you,” Doc replied.
“Isn’t everyone?” I retorted. “Rowan, see you tonight.” I stepped away from the wall. Rowan’s hand stayed on my arm. “I’m going to need my arm back.”
We hurried down one flight of stairs and onto the ninth floor. Reading numbers on doors as we moved fast was dizzying.
Ahead of me, I saw Sam and Lee. They were in position outside a room. Nine-eleven. Sam’s forehead furrowed as heavy footsteps sounded behind me. I turned, hand on my gun. Sean pounded down the hallway.
He came to an abrupt stop a few feet from the door.
“All right?” I asked.
“Nine-eleven? That trigger any alarm bells for anyone else?”
I raised my hand. “What would you suggest … calling in the bomb squad because the room number is iffy?”
“Wouldn’t hurt.”
“We’ll take a peek and if there’s a dirty great big nuke sitting on the bed, we’ll call in the bomb squad.”
“And how about the trip wire across the door?”
I knocked on the door. There was no answer. “No one’s home.”
“Trip wires don’t answer doors.”
I shrugged, pulled my weapon free from the holster and swung the door open. “Nope, isn’t one.”
Sean let out a long sigh behind me. I sensed gritted teeth were involved.
Lee and Sam followed me into the room. “Watch your feet,” I whispered. “Looks like a blood trail,” indicating dark stains and shoe prints on the floor.
We searched the room for trip wires and living guests.
None.
As the smell of blood assaulted my senses, I knew I had to acknowledge the scene in front of me, beside me, dripping from the walls around me.
“Doc, we got blood. We got brain matter and assorted tissue stuck on walls.”
“I’m right here,” he said from next to me. A gloved hand pointed to a baseball bat partially concealed by the bedding. “That’s the kind of weapon I’d expect to find.”
“Okay, so someone beat the snot out of him with a baseball bat and then hacked him into pieces with something sharp.”
Lee called from the bathroom. “I gotta head.” A few seconds later he added, “And both feet and his hands.”
“Awesome.” I turned slowly on the spot taking in the entire room. “Hawk is seriously pissed off or he’s not alone.”
Sam did a head count. “The cop, the woman in Wellington, the hotel maid and now our porter friend. All killed in different ways.”
“Yep, and the only one even coming close to his MO is the Wellington woman. She had that peaceful look to her.”
Lee emerged from the bathroom. “Huia’s expression is about as far from peaceful as a person can get.”
“How did no one hear this? People don’t usually sit still and silent while being beaten with a baseball bat.” It made no sense to me.
“He was gagged. The gag is still in his mouth. There’s tape residue around his wrists and feet,” Lee replied.
Doc was poking around the room and found pieces of Duct tape stuck to the arms and legs of a chair. “This explains a lot.”
I took a closer look. “Tool marks on the metal of the arms and legs and lots of blood around.”
“He could’ve been still there when he was dismembered,” Doc said. “And you don’t think Hawk did this?”
I shook my head. A butterfly flew across the room. Weird.
“I think he had this done but didn’t partake in person.”
Sean was standing nearby and had something to say. “While I was making enquiries in the kitchen, the head chef told me two heavy and very expensive meat cleavers went missing last night.”
“Doc? Cleavers?”
He was leaning over a section of leg inspecting the bone. “Could’ve been a cleaver. It wasn’t a saw.”
I swallowed as hard as I could but there was no stopping the gagging. My hand clamped over my mouth as I ran for the hallway. On the way past Sean, he thrust an empty paper evidence bag into my hand. Clever.
Between retching, I could hear the beep of cameras and the scratching of pens and pencils on paper. Sam and Lee were photographing and sketching the crime scene.
Sean came out and used his phone. He called police to let them know about the crime scene and requested a forensic team.
There was no way I was going back into that room. So I sat down and waited for my team to finish.
A few minutes later, my phone rang. It was Carla.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yes. When are you coming home?”
The ‘yes’ was negated by the question.
“Soon as I can. You sure you’re okay?”
“I am. I just … wish you were here.”
“Me too, kiddo. Say ‘hi’ to Caine. Be good. I’ll be home before you know it.”
“Someone is still watching me.”
“I know. And I wish I were home. Be very careful and don’t go anywhere without Caine or my dad. Promise me.”
“I promise. Please come home.”
“Soon as I can. Now go to bed! It’s late over there.”
We hung up. I was left feeling crappy. I wanted to be home. The snaking, horrid fear I experienced every time Hawk left a picture of Carla, returned. It was a reminder that I couldn’t protect her from New Zealand.
Heavy feet shook the floor as police officers descended on room nine-eleven. It was time for us to go.
Twenty
Summertime
The noise, the overpowering smell of alcohol, the hyped-up crowd: all plastered on a backdrop of dread. There was no mistaking how much fear I held in check. We knew, from t
he interview with the casino guy, Zubrinich, the handover of the kid was going to be at the beginning of the sixth set. Zubrinich became quite chatty once faced with the Russian equivalent of the FBI. I’d heard the FSB (Federal'naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti or Federal Security Service) were capable of effective interrogation. We had Misha to thank for the information. He also told us the woman would identify herself as Sarah H, to a man who would call himself Joe Hallenbeck. Again with the Willis movie characters. It was possible that the woman wouldn’t make it out of the concert alive. Hawk wasn’t leaving loose ends.
I had a set list from Rowan’s tour manager and knew we had fifteen songs to find the woman and the kid. They planned seven sets of three songs each and then a five-song encore. The fifteenth song was ‘Hide and Go Seek.’ Creepy and apt considering the circumstances.
We arrived early, before the gates opened and briefed the security guards. We asked them to keep an eye out for any adults bringing kids into the stadium. It would slow down the entry but we wanted a list of seats with kids in them, if they could do it. I handed out driver’s license pictures of the Harris woman and a photo we’d found on Facebook of Shannon Harris. The guards on the gates also had photos of the missing girls Melanie Talbot, Nicola Gallagher, Tasha Calvino and Samantha Rowe. All we could do was hope the security people called through seating areas and numbers of anyone with a kid under sixteen. I didn’t expect miracles, especially as the crowds of people swelled. They expected nearly forty-eight thousand people to swarm through the gates looking for their seats.
We were looking for needles in a haystack.
As everyone settled and the gates closed, the seven of us split up a long list of seats containing kids. I tried not to think about Carla but failed. I wanted to find the New Zealand kids and go home as fast as possible so I knew she was safe.
It was stunning how many young kids were at the stadium. I drew the short straw and took the highest stand and the Gold seating area. Slowly I began walking down the concrete steps from the top of the stadium looking for the kids in my area. A cold wind whipped around, making me shiver.
I crossed two boys off the list, both under ten, before the crowd erupted, screaming and chanting for the band. I looked down at the stage and saw them run out one by one. Rowan was last.
The music hit me like a freight train as Grange powered from the stage. I staggered just a little. As I looked down at the stage, I wondered if I could jump inside a song.
Concentrate Ellie.
Rowan kept singing and I wanted to dive right in.
Scenery blurred, the stadium below me distorted and all I heard was the music. Lost within the song and Rowan Grange’s voice, I remembered why I was freezing my ass off up in the gods.
Sure as shit, it wasn’t for the good of my health.
It felt nothing like summertime. Where does anyone get off calling this Antarctic blast summer? For the first time ever I was grateful for my FBI-issued bulletproof vest, keeping my torso warm.
This is one warped place.
My phone vibrating drew my hand instantly to my pocket. My cold fingers fumbled as I flipped it open.
“Ellie?”
Over the rocking stadium, I heard Sam’s dulcet tones.
“Where are you now?” he asked.
“Up high, searching the top tier of Gold, you?”
“Up front.”
“Lucky bastard! I’m fuc’n freezing up here.”
“See anyone?”
“Not yet. Where is the rest of the team?”
“Sean’s up in the stands with you somewhere, Lee is on the ground. Doc is up top somewhere; Turner and Hooch are making their way through the standing crowd.”
From where I stood I saw a line of police in reflective jackets enter from the left of the stadium.
The noise rose as the song ended. I covered one ear with my hand to try to hear Sam better.
“I see the police have filed in. They’re on the left, by the barricade. Can you get to them and brief them? Pass out the pictures.”
Hope hinged on a dreadful driver’s license picture.
“I’m heading there now.”
“Keep me posted.”
I hung up and went back to searching faces in the crowd. If I could get the camera guys to flick up crowd pictures it would be helpful.
It would be even more helpful if they could also show seat numbers and a clear picture of where it was in relation to me. I filed the first part of my idea away as a last resort. The rest was wishful thinking.
The stage seemed miles away. My eyes gravitated to the big screen. Rowan was front and center. The noise died down a little as he spoke. He introduced a song. From the giant screen, he looked out into the crowd. His eyes searched in front of him; I felt he was looking for me.
Who else was looking for me?
I turned away and back to the task of scanning faces near me.
Rowan’s voice rang out. For the first time it was clear enough for me to hear every word, “Out there tonight is someone I was lucky enough to spend time with recently and, I hope to count her as a friend.” From the giant screen, he grinned and winked. The crowd exploded.
With a direct stare into the camera he said, “Are you ready to fly?”
Carla would’ve had such a kick out of that, if she knew it was me he was talking about.
The band launched into a familiar song from the new album. It was weird and slightly scary hearing him talking about me. The screaming was intense and cameras flashed from every direction. I made my way down from my designated area and, in the back of my mind, I wondered if anyone was photographing me. Guess I’d know soon enough. My search continued on the next level. About ten minutes later my cell phone rang again. I pulled it from my pocket and watched the huge screen in front of me, hoping for a telling crowd shot.
Where the hell were they?
The ringing continued so I answered the call. I had to cover my other ear to hear Sean at all.
“Where are you?” Sean asked.
“Upper bowl,” I yelled into my phone. The three people closest to me turned and looked. I smiled. They glared. I turned my back on them displaying the big glowing yellow letters on my jacket that read, FBI.
There was muttering around me. I chose to ignore it as I tried to listen to Sean and his account of the search so far. I resisted the temptation to open my jacket and reveal the Glock 17 on my hip.
We were working on information provided by the casino guy and information provided under duress was not the most reliable. Even so, I hoped to find the woman from the casino before she handed over her kid to Hawk and wound up dead somewhere. Trying to fathom why a mother would sell her offspring was near impossible for me. I knew that catching her mid-transaction would make everything gel and give police reason to charge the woman.
Okay, we knew that gambling addictions were as destructive as drugs. Maybe Sam was right and she couldn’t see another way out. If selling kids gave this woman a way out of debt then she needed another option. Jail was a good alternative in my book.
“What section did he say the tickets were for?”
“He said Gold … but both you and I have been here for forty-five minutes now and haven’t seen anyone matching the description.”
“I’m moving down,” I told him.
“Me too,” Sean said and we hung up.
The huge screen above the stage captured my attention. I dragged my eyes off Rowan and descended the concrete stairs to the next section.
My phone rang again. I cursed aloud; no one around me could hear me above the band anyway.
“Ellie, we got a …” Sam yelled in my ear but I could barely hear him over the noise around me.
I clamped a hand over my other ear. “We got what?”
“Bomb threat! Some idiot called the police and said they’ll detonate a bomb in the crowd at nine-thirty tonight.”
“Clear the stadium. Take control of the situation.” The news tweaked my internal suspicion button
because I knew that Hawk had used explosive devices before, and chlorine gas, either of which carried vast destruction potential.
“We have to evacuate,” Sam inadvertently yelled in my ear. He must’ve had police nearby, I heard him say, “I’m in command.”
I continued delivering orders via phone, “Brief the police. Get paramedics standing by – Doc can deal with them. We need a bomb disposal unit and explosive-detecting dogs and get Lee and Sean to step up the search. Get the band off that fuc’n stage!”
Sam issued the instructions and I hung up. There went my notion of not interfering with the concert.
No one was watching me. All eyes appeared focused on Grange. I suspected the people around me were too engrossed in the entertainment to listen to my conversation.
It was as it should’ve been and I would’ve been enrapt too, given half a chance.
I set an alarm on my phone for five-minute intervals.
Of course, the blame squarely landed on Finagle’s Law of Dynamic Negatives. Anything that can go wrong, will. Which is different from Murphy’s law which states ‘If there are two or more ways to do something and one of those ways can result in a catastrophe, then someone will do it, at the worst possible time.’ I wasn’t entirely convinced of Murphy’s inappropriateness. The jury was still out. Between Finagle and Murphy, anything can, everything could, happen.
I needed to get the hell away from all the people before the nightmare broke loose. From where I stood, the ground seemed like a quick fall away. I didn’t look down for fear of falling off the edge as I scurried down the concrete steps to the next level, then ran through the concrete tunnel to the wide-open spaces of the concourse.
A few people milled about. People were coming back from the bar with drinks, or going to and from the toilets. I scanned faces as I moved quickly. Parts of the floor were wet, very wet, as if recently hosed down, maybe to remove vomit. Why would anyone pay a small fortune to see a band like Grange and waste the experience by drinking enough to puke? Somewhere deep in my subconscious I saw a pot call a kettle black. The subtle reminder of a not-so-distant champagne-filled night caused a lapse in attention. I slipped and grabbed the wall to regain my footing.
Someone called out to me, “Hey, where are you going?”
