R.S. Guthrie - Detective Bobby Mac 03 - Reckoning

by R. S. Guthrie

  The son most like him.

  Jax.

  I could remember every blow, every whip of the belt, every slap.

  And I could recall the agony in my brother’s voice, right down to the decibel.

  My own personal Hell.

  A flawless memory.

  Melissa Grant sat on her bed, ear buds in, listening to the Dropkick Murphys song End of the Night and wondered, not for the first time—not nearly—why she’d lived her life more as a prisoner than a daughter. Her father loved her, she knew that, but he could never come to explain the place they lived, where the rest of the family was—except to tell her they were patiently awaiting an arrival and that all these years it was she who was the most important piece in a thousand—even million—year struggle.

  She sensed at times that her father was different now, but her memories of him before, well, they were too foggy most of the time—not unlike being in a dream state then waking and trying to remember the dream but literally watching it fade, second by second, in the mind.

  Idaho she remembered.

  That was the only memory that Melissa had that was strong. She could actually see the state’s outline in her mind, the focus on the tallest top—the panhandle—where they used to live. Beyond that, not a lot. However there were memories there that, unlike her clouded memories of who her father used to be, felt blocked or locked away.

  Memories of her mother and sister. They were more on the outreaches of her mind, constantly moving but finding all the doors and windows locked against them entering and Melissa, too, without the keys.

  But Idaho was a place. At least she had that. Wherever she was now, there had to be a path toward Idaho. The world was finite. That meant there was nowhere from which she could not find a way home.

  And she sensed that home was where the answers might be, or at least the beginning of the trail of breadcrumbs that would eventually lead her to the keys to unlocking her mind.

  Which is why she decided that before her birthday she was going to run away. Or escape. Or whatever meant she didn’t have to wonder any longer about the dark basement and the terrifying dreams of creatures visiting their home—a warehouse, she corrected herself, not even a home.

  Idaho.

  Home.

  Family.

  As the music washed over her she could think of nothing that would make her more whole again.

  And if her father pursued? So much the better. Because she knew when he, too, saw home, he would remember the life they used to have, just as she would then be able to remember and embrace the same, and all would be okay again.

  She’d formed a plan. Her father was not stupid. Far from it. And he watched her closely—not twenty minutes ago he’d rapped lightly on her door (she didn’t hear him because of the ear buds and rocking Irish music, she simply knew his routines to the furthest degree necessary to complete her escape), opened it, and looked in on her. He didn’t say anything or ask her to remove her music. He rarely said anything. It was more like a prison guard stopping by to make sure the inmate was still housed properly.

  No conversation necessary.

  He smiled benignly and half-waved.

  Melissa smiled back then returned to playing an invisible set of drums.

  After he closed the door she stopped the ridiculous air-drumming and lay still on her bed, thinking about her escape plan.

  Melissa knew once she breached the outer perimeter of whatever place held her—a place she’d never been outside of—that she’d have minutes only. Maybe less. Even though she’d never seen the outside, she was intelligent enough (and had heard and seen enough) to know that her presence there was heavily secured, and she knew she would have to assume the worst: fences, motion detection, and cameras. All this meant that there was little to no chance of Melissa Grant exiting the warehouse and compound that likely surrounded it without detection.

  Which was why she knew she’d only have minutes. And if she only had minutes, she’d need someone to come and get her.

  So she calculated her best chance of making it home and that way was by finding a way to reach out. A few days earlier her father had brought home a bag of cell phones purchased at a convenience store. There were six or seven still in the plastic cases. And she’d seen a number under a name, scribbled on a scrap of paper on her father’s desk. She’d committed the name and the number to memory, leaving the paper scrap untouched.

  Macaulay.

  720-555-3479

  Melissa had no idea who Macaulay was, but it was her only hope. If he was a bad guy, her plan was over. If he didn’t have a clue as to who she was or didn’t want to get involved, her plan was over.

  A trapped, starving mouse could not afford to ignore a scrap of cheese for fear of it being poisoned.

  This was her one chance and she was going to take it.

  Call this Macaulay, describe her imprisonment, ask for help.

  She did not know how to tell him or her where she was. Her plan was to have this Macaulay on the phone as she escaped, calling out any landmarks, street names, corporate building names, signs—anything that might lead her rescuer to her.

  It would have to be a race between her murderous father and this person, Macaulay, who though she did not know him or her, she hoped was the hero type.

  Either way, whoever reached her first got the prize.

  An almost nineteen-year-old, un-socialized recluse, scared shitless, nearly-clueless girl.

  Quite a take.

  I was on my way to a rare night out with my wife when my cell rang. When I looked down and saw it was not the job, and on top of that a number I did not recognize, I almost put the phone back in my pocket.

  With triplets, Amanda and I hadn’t had more than half a dozen private moments since their birth. We were both cops. Who would we trust with our little angels? As it happened, a year or so back Bum Garvey’s daughter turned fifteen and decided to start a babysitting enterprise.

  Thursday nights had since become “our” night. Zoë Garvey slated us for three hours every week and we either caught a movie or went to dinner, just the two of us. Sometimes, both.

  The cop in me, however, wouldn’t let the call go.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Macaulay?”

  My insides turned to Jell-O. It was the voice of a teenager, but not Zoë.

  “Yes. Detective Bobby Macaulay. Who is this?”

  “My name is Melissa Grant,” she said, just above a whisper.

  My instincts immediately took over. Still, I could barely contain myself.

  “Melissa. We’ve been looking for you, honey.”

  “I don’t have much time. I am going to make a run for it.”

  “Whoa, whoa, do we have time to talk for a minute or two?”

  “Just,” she said.

  “If you leave your cell on, I can get to you. I can have the call traced.”

  “You don’t understand, there isn’t time for that. He’ll see one of the phones is missing.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Yes. I have to try now. Believe me, Macaulay, I’ve thought this through.”

  “Do you know where you’re at?”

  “I’ve never been outside,” Melissa said. My heart ached for this girl.

  “Do this,” I said. “Give me ten minutes. Put the phone under the bed or somewhere your dad won’t see it. I can get my people to triangulate your position that fast. Then you can disconnect and even put the phone back.”

  “I need to run. You don’t understand. I can’t be here any longer. I’m losing my mind.”

  “Take the phone with you, then,” I said. “But leave it on as long as you possibly can.”

  “I can do that.”

  “I need to switch to my second line,” I said. “I’ll still be here, baby, and I will get to you.”

  “He just went downstairs, I have to go now. The phone will stay on—”

  And with that she stopped talking. I could hear the muffled sounds of a ph
one being jostled around. I quickly put Melissa on hold and called my tracer unit.

  “There’s an incoming call on my cell, right now, still connected. I need to know where the caller is—this is top priority over everything else. This is Melissa Grant on the phone.”

  I didn’t have to say anything more than that. The tech team went to work, reverse pinging cell towers, triangulating positions. Eight minutes later they had her.

  “Warehouse district,” the tech said. “Slauson and 23rd.”

  I flipped the lights only. I didn’t want Spence Grant to hear a thing. He’d probably already be aware soon anyway, but I was actually not far from the warehouse district—ten to twelve minutes if I could manage to get through traffic. Thursday was a popular dinner night in Denver.

  I switched back to Melissa. “Are you there, Melissa?”

  Still nothing but the muffled sounds of the phone being jostled. Then I heard it. Melissa screamed. But the jostling sounds continued, which meant she was still on the run.

  I hit the sirens. Fuck it. The race was on now—with the sirens traffic was much more maneuverable, some cars getting over to the right, others stopping, but that was exactly how we were trained to drive a high-speed pursuit.

  Slaloming, we called it. Not every car could get over to the right in the city. And some idiots with their music turned up loud enough to bust an eardrum wouldn’t hear us. We practiced this at least three times a year. Some cars stopped. Some still driving, oblivious. Some over at the right, some pulled over to the left.

  I made time and I called Dispatch to send the cavalry.

  Spence Grant had been gathering things he needed to bring with them. It was time to leave the house of horrors. What they had built—planned and contrived, he and his inner passenger—had served its purpose. The plan now was to take his daughter to the safe-house. After they—

  Spence heard footsteps. He stopped and turned an ear toward the upstairs. It was faint, but his senses had become like a cat’s. Someone was walking slowly upstairs. And then he heard it. The most dreaded sound of all. Worse than the appearance of his demon.

  The alarm went off as the front door was breached.

  Spence took the stairs three at a time. By the time he reached the top his guest was waiting for him.

  “What the fuck is going on?” the thing said, gurgling. The transformation took time and energy. Sleep.

  “I think my daughter just ran out the front door.”

  Monster and human ran in stride to recapture their prize.

  Melissa knew there would be an alarm. She’d never heard it, of course, but she’d heard her father talk about the security system many times. The problem was that she had absolutely no idea how (or even where) to disarm it. This wasn’t a typical home system she could simply guess or steal the code.

  As soon as she made it outside into the cool night air, she ran. She ran like she’d never believed possible. The adrenaline had her moving fast, but she’d grown to young womanhood in a warehouse—home-schooled, aware only of how many paces to this spot, how many to that.

  Turns out Melissa Grant was a bona fide track star and didn’t even know it. She reached the edge of the compound, fortified by chain-link only. They obviously had not wanted to draw too much attention to their little encampment of terror. Razor wire might have done just that, she thought, as she leapt for the grid of the fence.

  It was at least ten feet tall—a lot of climbing. And just as she began her quest for freedom, Melissa heard both the police siren in the distance and the pair of pursuers reach the front door.

  Spence saw Melissa hit the fence running, jumping at least six feet in the air and landing on the metallic wall like a jungle cat, all four appendages spread, hands grabbing the chain-link. And she began crawling like a fucking spider monkey. It was actually impressive and the part of Spence Grant that was still Spence Grant cheered silently for his daughter.

  Go, Melissa, go.

  But the part of Spence that was monster caused his stomach to triple over in cramps, a tiny reminder of who he was and what his fate and mission had always been.

  Spence ran faster. The beast, who was almost completely human now, ran beside him.

  “If she escapes, I will kill you,” it said, breathing as normally as if it were sitting in a chair, watching television.

  In the distance Spence heard the siren. He actually heard it the moment Bobby Macaulay turned it on. And he sensed the detective’s approach deep within. Or the humanoid sensed it and therefore, so did he.

  Melissa was already halfway up the fence. There was no way they’d reach her before she scrambled over the top. But the sound of the approaching Macaulay was still three, maybe four minutes away.

  The presence within Spence Grant reached out, invisibly yes, but with so much influence and power—it reached invisibly for the girl’s mind.

  Melissa was smiling. The top was moments from her grasp. But what then? Which way to turn? Which road? Should she stay on the road even? Of course she should stay on the road—Macaulay wouldn’t be able to—

  No. Take to the trees.

  There was a huge hill—practically a mountain—behind the warehouse district, a veritable forest of undergrowth and scrub and evergreen trees. Maybe that was a better idea.

  It is.

  Maybe if she could hide in the trees she could wait until Macaulay arrived and pick her moment.

  You can. The trees are your salvation.

  Melissa reached the top of the chain link fence, rolled over the top, and jumped into a thicket where the landing would be softer and not so jarring.

  And then she left the road and headed for the foothills.

  I knew we were down to the most important few minutes of the entire case. My eyes scanned the roadway. Melissa was an intelligent girl. She knew that the road was salvation; the road is where “Macaulay” and she intersected, her running toward the sound of my siren, me driving as fast as I could and not run her over or drive right past her.

  I was almost there. In fact, I was a little surprised to have not seen Melissa yet. I could still hear the muffled, jostling sounds so I was pretty certain she was still on the run. We couldn’t be more than yards apart at this point, assuming she stuck to the road.

  Melissa stopped running. She was deep into the trees by now and realized that in running to the trees, not only was she hiding herself from her rescuer but she was running in the opposite direction of his approach.

  She looked down at the road just in time to see the blue flashing lights pass her position, at least a half mile away, still heading toward the warehouse where now, certainly, Macaulay would assume she never made it out and begin hunting for her room by room. No one would be stupid enough to choose a direction away from safety.

  It was then she felt the large, cold, vise-like hand clamp down on her shoulder. She turned and looked into the eyes of a complete stranger.

  “Hello, Melissa,” the man standing before her said. “My name is Father Rule.”

  10

  BY THE time I arrived at the warehouse, I knew I’d lost her. I sat outside the closed doors of the warehouse in my car as a light rain began to tumble down upon the roof and windshield. There was no rush now. I knew what we’d find inside. Nothing, not anyone, at least. Just a haunted house where young girls had been tormented, starved, and hanged.

  There would be no people and there certainly would be no Melissa Grant. I had lost that race. The brass ring. That one time when fate shows you an opening. It doesn’t happen a lot in our line of work, unfortunately, and when it does, a detective better be alert and ready to leap through.

  I played the events through again and again in my mind, dissecting the way I handled the surprise situation.

  There was no bigger critic of Bobby Mac than me. Yet I just didn’t know how else I could have played it.

  Tell her to hide somewhere?

  Maybe. With a different set of pursuers. But these things—these supernatural beings�
�would’ve found her almost immediately. And it was hard for anyone, much less a young woman, to stay motionless, silent, and above all hidden for any length of time with people looking hard for her.

  I had been close enough that it made sense for her to come toward me. That and the cell phone really—

  I grabbed my phone and speed dialed the Tech department.

  “Tech.”

  “It’s Macaulay. I lost her, but what about her cell signal?”

  “Still pinging towers. We thought you had her; she’s on the move.”

  Smart girl, Melissa. Fucking genius.

  Or maybe an accident. Either way—

  “She’s not with me. You are now tracking an abduction. How long can you stay with her.”

  “Until she’s out of range of cell service or the battery dies,” the technician said.

  The battery. Burners were notorious for short battery life. The shorter the battery life the more burners you had to buy. Fucking economics.

  “Stay with her,” I said and disconnected.

  This wasn’t over yet. I dialed Lieutenant Shackleford and Manny, who should already be en route, in that order.

  The man named Father Rule wasn’t dressed like a priest, but he looked normal to Melissa. Even friendly. Maybe if she didn’t tell him who she was or what was going on, he would eventually lead her to freedom.

  As they walked along together she allowed Rule to get just a half-foot in front of her, out of his peripheral vision. She had to hide the cell phone and keep it active until it died. She’d closed it, disconnecting from Macaulay, but she was pretty sure if she kept it powered, it could still be found.

  But where to hide it, she thought, as they walked through the forest, ostensibly to safety. It was disgusting but she could only think of one place where they wouldn’t look. Melissa slipped the cell from her front jeans and reached down the back of her pants and slid the folded phone in between her butt cheeks.