by Paul Cave
The air inside the Ford was a mixture of stale sweat and lemon-scented freshness. An air freshener in the shape of an American football helmet swung eagerly from the rear-view mirror. Yurius turned his attention away from the dark, desolate streets, the swinging helmet acting like a hypnotist’s charm.
The dark road slipped away before him, replaced now by the dilapidated husks from Yurius’s homeland. This American industrial sector became the Russian’s playground from memories past: the rundown shanty areas on the outskirts of Moscow, the very place where Yurius and his half-brother had once played. His mother, a burnt-out addict, who was a slave to morphine and poverty-stricken, had given birth to Yurius in a near-empty high-rise, which had discarded its people like a fish sheds its scales. War, economic collapse and crime had reduced those who remained, into the vague shadows of a once proud people.
Both Yurius and his brother had worked tirelessly to escape from their desperate beginnings. While Yurius had channelled his athletic capability towards success, his older brother had found release through the acts of violence and criminal activity.
Yurius had come to America in his early twenties: an athlete who excelled at everything he did. He was a tall, well-built individual, and as bright as a burning star. Or had been. He’d arrived here as a representative of the old USSR, the lead flag-bearer, who proudly led his team into the Atlanta Arena on the first day of the Olympics.
Yurius had at that time been the European champion at 200 metres sprint. He was unbeaten in over thirty competitions, having gained many victories over the American world champion, Tyrone Lewis. It had been the most anticipated event in the track and field programme, and the final didn’t disappoint. Both made through the qualifiers with considerable ease, and the stewards had lined them up side-by-side for the final.
Yurius had won by a full two metres.
Suddenly, this young man from the mean streets of Moscow had become hot property. Showing an aptitude for anything physical, Yurius had stayed in Atlanta, having had successful tryouts for the Atlanta Falcons football team.
He’d completed his first season with them, finishing in the top half of the national league. Then, that summer, he had been involved in a training accident. He’d collided head-on with a 250-pound linebacker and, even though he’d been wearing his helmet, he’d suffered a fractured skull.
Worse had followed. An undetected bleed had subsequently damaged the frontal lobe of his brain, nothing too dramatic or even noticeable at first. Nevertheless, Yurius’s personality had started to change. He lost interest in football, his attention turning now to the demons of drink and drugs. This had fuelled his change rapidly. And, before long, he lost his contract with the Atlanta Falcons and turned to other forms of contracts to survive.
Contract killings.
Something dark had awakened on the day of the training accident. Something that had slowly taken him over – a dark malignant cancer that had fixed itself to his soul, favouring the eternal spirit rather than mortal flesh.
Yurius had once again been reunited with his older half-brother. Together they had formed a secretive partnership, where Yurius added muscle to an organisation that required a necessity to work outside the law. Living under his mother’s maiden name, the younger brother had operated as a ghost, working throughout New York state. Untraceable, he was known by only a few as a dark presence that added substance to an ever-expanding empire.
Now, Yurius pulled the Ford to a halt. He popped the door open, pulled the keys from the ignition and climbed out. Only a few buildings surrounded him. Most were crumbling shadows. One or two lights burnt their way through the darkness, but Yurius was confident that he was sufficiently alone.
Alone?
No, Yurius thought, not alone.
He moved around to the rear of the Ford. With one final check to make sure the coast was clear, he activated a button on the key-ring. The Ford’s hazard lighting flashed twice with an audible bleep, bleep.
The trunk popped open.
Yurius pulled something from his jacket. Its cylindrical shape caught what light there was available. He cranked open the trunk to reveal Jake’s motionless body. The young boy was curled up in a tight ball. He didn’t raise his head, move, flinch in terror, or show any indication of life.
Yurius reached out to take Jake’s limp wrist. He felt for a pulse. Then, as the hypodermic needle punctured young flesh, Yurius grinned to reveal his shark-white teeth.
“Not monster,” he said, with cold, soulless detachment.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Joseph’s legs threatened to give. He reached out with a trembling hand in an attempt to remain upright. He felt weak and uncoordinated, as if he’d just suffered another sudden attack or bout of dizziness. He filled his lungs and then nodded towards Detective Carter.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Carter asked.
They were stood outside the hospital morgue. Only a set of double-doors separated them from what lay beyond.
“I’m ready,” Joseph responded. He sucked in another breath through gritted teeth. Then he nodded once to Carter before pushing himself away from the wall.
The detective opened the door nearest and allowed Joseph to slip through.
The morgue appeared almost totally barren. There was nothing of an excessive nature on display. White walls magnified the strip-lights above, which filled the area in a cold glare. A reception desk occupied one side of the room. And, the window that opened out to greet visitors or hospital staff was made up of frosted glass, which added to the bitter harshness of the place.
Joseph shuddered, although the room itself was deceptively warm.
“You don’t have to do this now,” Carter said, drawing Joseph to a halt.
Their eyes met.
Joseph’s eyes held a combination of agony and anger. He already knew what lay ahead, and in different circumstances, less desperate times, he may have simply been saddened and angered by this. However, it was the uncertainty of his son’s safety that fuelled Joseph’s emotions. His jaw had started to ache. The hatred towards the man who had taken Jake was quickly in danger of consuming him.
Carter understood this clearly. He needed Joseph Ruebins to stay focused and, more importantly, in control.
“We’ll get him back, Joseph,” Carter began. “But we need to stay calm and try to figure out what it is this guy wants us to do next.”
Joseph shook his head. He reached up and rubbed his thumb and index finger over his closed eyes. When he opened them, Carter saw that the anger had been put into check.
“Let’s get this over with,” Joseph said, turning back towards the reception desk.
Carter took the lead. He approached the half-opened window to find a middle-aged woman sat behind. She looked away from the computer screen that occupied her attention.
“Can I help?” she inquired.
The detective flashed his identification. “Detective Thomas Carter. This is Joseph Ruebins.” He flicked his head backward slightly in Joseph’s direction.
The woman had to push herself out of her chair slightly to get a look beyond Carter. “Saw you on TV,” she said, speaking directly towards him.
Joseph just stood there silent, mute, numb.
“We’re here to identify Eugene Profit,” Carter said. He turned towards Joseph and offered him a considerate nod, hopeful that his directness had not pained the man stood behind. Joseph simply offered the detective a slight wave of his hand. Carter turned back to the woman.
“Is he ready to be viewed?”
The receptionist shifted back into her seat. She tapped out a few commands into her keyboard.
“Yes,” she relied simply. “Room Two.”
Carter stepped back from the desk and turned his attention towards the adjoining passageways. He stood in indecision for a few seconds, unsure of which way to go.
“That way,” the receptionist directed, her head poking out through the gap between windows.
�
�Appreciate it,” Carter said, heading towards the correct passageway.
Joseph followed dutifully, trying to put the picture from the old coach’s apartment out of his mind.
Profit had taken a horrendous beating. Most of his facial bones had been shattered, so that both Joseph and Carter were barely able to recognise him, and his body had been stomped on until almost every rib had cracked. The paramedics had arrived on the scene within minutes of Carter calling it in, but by then the old man had been taken from them. Joseph had held the ex-pro in his arms as they waited for the paramedics to arrive, feeling the weak beat of his heart grow ever slower and less rhythmic. Just before he’d slipped away, Joseph had witnessed Eugene’s eyes flutter open, briefly, and his battered and misshapen mouth form into a weak smile. He’d whispered something, something so faint that Joseph hadn’t been able to understand it at first. Then, as Eugene lay still, the single word had become apparent.
“Elizabeth,” he’d said with his dying breath.
Now, Joseph stood over his friend’s body, his heart aching from the loss, his fists clenched tightly, and his soul swearing solemnly that this atrocity would not go unpunished.
***
Marianna was inconsolable. Detective Tyler sat next to her, one arm draped over her shoulders and the other clasped tightly in the distraught woman’s hand. The department was bustling with activity. Almost all the available detectives were here, handsets clamped tightly between shoulder and jaw, their hands a blur as they jotted down information.
Captain Mendoza was back in his office, Carter with him, and they were talking animatedly and with conviction. Soon the FBI would arrive, ready to take over the case of Jake’s abduction, this being their jurisdiction, then both Mendoza and Carter would be forced into taking a back seat.
This worried Joseph to the core.
He sat at Carter’s desk, Marianna and Tyler on the opposite side, the sound of his wife’s agony slicing through him like a razor-sharp knife. His heart hadn’t stopped pounding since identifying Eugene’s body, and a cold sweat had sodden his clothes.
Tears slipped down Joseph’s cheeks. Underneath the table his fists were clenched, anger and hatred giving him a strength he thought lost. He chanced a look towards Mendoza’s office to see Carter throwing his hands up in exasperation. The detective turned his back on Mendoza and then exited his office with a look of murder on his face.
“What now?” Joseph asked.
Carter looked down at him, and the anger vanished from his features. “We have a name – a start.”
“Yurius,” Joseph said.
“Yes,” Carter agreed.
“So let’s find the bastard and get my boy back!”
“FBI are on their way,” Carter said. “This is their case now. To negotiate the release of your son.”
Joseph looked deeply into the detective’s eyes. “We both know there won’t be any negotiation. The killer wants me – and me alone.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Carter said.
Joseph shook his head. “Yes we do.” He took a deep breath to help gather his thoughts. “What about Amber Alert? Should we notify the media now, and see if that helps get Jake back?”
It was an idea that the detective had been considering. Would notifying all media channels help them, or send the killer into a panic? For although Jake’s kidnapper had thus far proven himself to be adequately capable, would he want to risk detection by holding onto the boy, if Jake’s face and description was to flood the TV channels and airwaves? Carter’s intuition told him not. The killer may simply despatch Jake and take his chances with Joseph at a more opportune time.
Carter turned back to Mendoza’s office. His professionalism held him firm. He was not willing to mess up any chances of getting Jake back safe by overstepping his role as detective. The FBI would be better equipped at handling such a thing: a detail that Captain Mendoza had just made quite clear. Yet, the parent, father, man in him demanded that he take action, and take action now.
“I’m not sure that would be wise, just now,” Carter conceded.
“I got the Devil on my back – ain’t I?” Joseph said.
Marianna’s tear-stricken face rose. “Shouldn’t we be getting home – in case the kidnapper phones?”
Carter shook his head. “We’ve already got the lines running directly to here. Any contact and we’re right onto it.” He pointed to a technician, who was staring ardently at a telephone set. A recording device and tracking system sat next to the phone, and a set of oversized earphones lay next to that.
Marianna shook her head. They needed to be acting now – not waiting for a phone call. “Find this… Yurius, whoever he is.”
Tyler took Marianna’s arm. “We’re looking.” Half of the department had already spent the last hour trawling the police database in search of a Russian named Yurius. So far – nothing.
“How long has it been?” Joseph asked.
Carter glanced at his watch. “Still less than two hours. It’s very early days yet.”
Carter and Joseph eyed each other. Both had witnessed the killer’s intentions firsthand. Jake’s taking had been a direct attempt to get at Joseph. It was only coincidence that they’d arrived during the act.
“This waiting is unbearable,” Joseph announced.
Silence worked its way between them, both men turning towards their own thoughts. The quiet was shattered when the phone near the recording device burst alive with a shrill of noise. A collective gasp followed.
“Here we go…” Carter breathed.
It took all of Joseph’s will to stop himself from throwing up, terror boiling away in the pit of his stomach.
The technician reached out to activate the recording device. He slipped the earphones on and then sat waiting.
Pick it up! Joseph screamed silently. As if he’d heard, the young detective looked directly at him.
“Hurry,” the technician ordered.
It was then that Joseph realised the call had been rerouted from his home, so the caller would expect either him or Marianna to pick up. He jumped to unsteady feet, and then quickly made his way over to the desk.
“You ready?” Carter asked.
“Yeah,” Joseph replied.
“Keep him talking for as long as you can,” the technician instructed.
The phone continued to demand attention, ringing with grim determination.
Joseph reached out to take the handset. “Yes?”
There was a pause on the other end. Just the slight hiss of static played into Joseph’s ear. Marianna, who was up and out of her chair, stood desperately close to her husband, her ear close to his.
“Hello?” he asked.
“You big bear?”
Joseph almost hung up.
This was no time for crank calls. The handset moved away from his ear by an inch, ready to be slammed back into its cradle.
“You big bear?” the voice asked again. The question had been laced with thick Slavic tones.
“Yeah,” Joseph said, understanding the voice belonged to the killer.
“Little bear is safe.”
“Where is he?”
“Safe.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“It’s just business. Nothing personal.”
“Give me back my son!” Joseph demanded.
“Little bear will be returned tomorrow, when big bear comes to meet me.”
“What the hell do you want, Yurius?”
The phone line fell silent, but still connected.
“Yurius?”
Click – the connection broke.
“Hello?”
Marianna snatched the phone out of his hands. “Let me hear him,” she pleaded.
Joseph took back the handset and then wrapped his hands around her, gaining strength from the woman he loved. “He said Jake’s alive. I’ll get him back – I promise.”
Carter turned to the technician. “You get anything?”
The tech
shook his head. “Didn’t stay connected long enough.”
Carter moved away from the recording and tracking equipment. He headed for Tyler’s desk and her computer. “We should be looking beyond known felons. Maybe the internet can help us. This guy may have just arrived from the old Eastern Bloc – here to graze pastures new. Maybe Russian news archives or clips can help us.”
Joseph felt unbearably weak. He ambled over to Carter’s desk and sat heavily. Marianna remained over by the phone, as if her presence there would somehow force the kidnapper to call back – this time making a fatal mistake, thus revealing Jake’s immediate whereabouts. Joseph ran his hand over his eyes in an attempt to clear his head. Opening them, his eyes came to rest on the thin folder which sat on Carter’s desk. This was the same folder the detective had taken the unrecognisable snapshot from earlier. Joseph opened the folder. The same blurred image of a face lay inside. Instinctively, he reached out to take it. Nothing revealed itself to Joseph, and the image stayed a mystery. With a heavy sigh, he tossed the photo back. The air underneath caught the photo in flight for a second, and it glided over the folder to land almost at the edge of the desk. Gingerly, Joseph reached over to retake it. And, as he did so, another picture caught his gaze.
“What’s this?” he murmured to himself.
He took the snapshot and brought it up to eyelevel. Understanding came to him immediately. This picture was a clear image of the one he’d just tossed away. And this one now held a recognisable profile within. The dark shadows of the previous photo had been removed and the image brought into focus. The picture had lost some definition – now looking more like a picture that had been photocopied many times over. However, the contrast, brightness and gamma had been manipulated to reveal – and quite clearly – the face hidden within the shadows.
The tech guys had done one hell of a job.
