A Blood Thing

by James Hankins

  “I need her back here . . . sir.”

  “I’ll call her and tell them to come back.”

  Ramsey nodded. Then he stood there waiting.

  “I’ll do it this very moment then.”

  He dialed Molly’s cell number. When she answered, he said, “Molly, listen to me. Detective Ramsey just told me that they think Tyler has killed someone else, a police officer this time. Same MO as Julie and Sally Graham. So it’s really important that he’s found, you understand? Tyler has to be found before anyone else gets hurt, including him.”

  “What are you saying, Andy?” Molly asked.

  “I’m saying that the detective here wants you to turn around and come back here.”

  Ramsey, listening to Andrew’s half of the conversation, nodded slightly.

  “I’m not coming back without Tyler,” Molly said.

  “Perfect,” Andrew said. “See you soon.” He slipped his phone back into his pocket.

  Ramsey took out a pen and small notepad and said, “I need you to talk to me, Governor. Anything you can tell me to bring your brother in is in everyone’s best interests, especially Tyler’s. Do you have any idea at all where he might be? Is there anything you can tell me to help us?”

  Andrew sat on the bench and hung his head. Ramsey gave him a moment.

  The blackmailer had killed again. And as before, he’d done so in a way that was certain to cast blame on Tyler. Why, exactly, Andrew wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing for certain: it was time to come clean—past time, actually. It was the best thing for Tyler at this point. He had to tell Ramsey everything. Everything he’d done. Everything . . . he’d become. He took a deep breath. This was going to hurt. It was going to leave a mark. He looked at the little pad of paper in Ramsey’s hand and said, “You’re going to need a bigger notebook, Detective.”

  Over the next several minutes, he told it all—everything—to the stunned detective, who, as he listened, seemed to vacillate between outright disbelief and strong skepticism. Andrew showed Ramsey the black burner phone, as if its very existence were confirmation of his story. He also played the recording he’d made of one of the blackmailer’s first calls. There were questions throughout, of course, and Andrew did his best to answer.

  “Why didn’t you turn this phone in right away, Governor?”

  “At first, I thought it might have been a prank. After that, I kept it in case . . . in case the caller had framed Tyler so well that he looked guilty, like his being acquitted looked unlikely, and I . . . had to do what the caller asked me to do.”

  “In order to help your brother.”

  “I’m not proud of that. But, Detective, my brother is innocent.”

  “And so you pardoned this . . . Gabriel Torrance?”

  “He wasn’t a danger to anyone,” he found himself rationalizing, “wasn’t a violent man, and his sentence was nearly up anyway.”

  “And what about Kyle Lewis? He wasn’t a danger, either? You pardoned him, and he killed Judge Jeffers tonight.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Andrew replied, growing frustrated. “The man who framed Tyler did, then framed Lewis for it. Haven’t you been listening? Check your notes.”

  “Why would whoever you claim framed your brother turn around and frame Lewis for a different murder?”

  “To make me look bad. I already told you that, Detective.”

  “So this is all about you then? All these bodies piling up?”

  Andrew shook his head. “Not just me, no, but I’m . . . not really sure of anything anymore. Other than that Tyler didn’t kill anyone.”

  Andrew kept talking, and Ramsey at least appeared to be listening, though Andrew couldn’t tell whether the detective believed a word he said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Henry watched in silence as Egan continued to question Grady Austin, who seemed to have resigned himself to explaining everything. Perhaps he just wanted to get it off his chest, something Henry had never been able to bring himself to do. Austin definitely seemed to display at least a little regret for the “collateral damage” suffered during the events he had set into motion. The problem was that, though he was spilling his guts in great volume now, nothing he was saying would help them find the man he’d hired, at least not anytime soon. And Tyler was out there somewhere. And, though it had to be a secondary consideration at the moment, there was still the matter of Torrance searching the projects for the gun with which Henry had killed Dave Bingham.

  “Well, Austin,” Egan said, “are you really gonna let someone else die tonight? Or will you tell us if there’s another name on your list, another person you paid to see punished?”

  Something shifted in Austin’s eyes. Suddenly, he looked less forthcoming, cagier. He shifted in his seat. Averted his eyes.

  And Henry knew that there was at least one more name on the list. “Who’s left, Austin?” he asked, interrupting Egan in the middle of a question.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Sure you do. Tyler? Collateral damage. Sally Graham and Julie Davenport? More collateral damage. But Judge Jeffers had to be punished, right? He sentenced your son to twenty-five years. So Jeffers is dead now. And Kevin’s lawyer, you said he drowned years ago, so he was beyond your reach. But there was my brother Andrew, the ASA who pledged to put your son away and wouldn’t listen to your claims of Kevin’s innocence. Andrew had to be punished, so you destroyed his reputation, one of the things that mattered the most to him. He’ll probably have to resign. And me. I arrested Kevin, would have been called to testify against him in court,” which, as far as Austin knew, was the extent of Henry’s involvement. “So my days as a cop are almost certainly over now, and I may be facing prison time. But who else?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, you do. There’s someone else I’m not seeing, someone you think shares the blame. The warden at Southern State Correctional? One of the guards? How about the inmate who beat your son to death?”

  Austin gave Henry a level gaze. “That murdering son of a bitch died of lung cancer a year and a half ago.”

  “Then who?”

  “Shouldn’t you read me my rights?”

  “We already did that,” Egan said. “I remember it. How about you, Lieutenant Kane?”

  Henry was glad to see that Egan had his back after all Henry had put him through.

  “I remember, too.”

  “But you still insisted on singing like a bird,” Egan added. “We couldn’t stop you, could barely keep up with you, in fact.”

  Austin’s mouth was set in a hard line.

  “Austin,” Henry began, “when we talked about Sally Graham and Julie Davenport . . . hell, even when we talked about Tyler . . . I could see that you never intended to hurt them. I could see it in your eyes. So why don’t we end all of this? Why don’t you tell us who’s left on your list before another innocent person gets hurt?”

  The line of Austin’s mouth turned into a sneer. “Because he’s not innocent,” he said, then sat back and crossed his arms.

  Bingo. Henry was right. “Let’s just beat it out of him,” he said.

  “That isn’t helping,” Egan replied.

  “I’m semi-serious. Someone’s gonna get hurt, Egan. Maybe killed.”

  “We aren’t assaulting him. End of story.”

  Henry shifted his eyes over to Austin, who was starting to look smug. “Why is this asshole not wearing cuffs yet?”

  “I usually do that when I Mirandize them,” Egan said, then quickly added, “which I did a while ago, of course. Guess I forgot the cuffs.”

  Egan removed handcuffs from his belt and secured Austin’s hands behind his back where he sat, which left him leaning forward awkwardly.

  “You’re going to prison, you know that, right?” Henry asked.

  The man shrugged.

  “Another dead body on your doorstep’s not gonna make things easier on you.”

  “Won’t make it much hard
er on me at this point, either, though, wouldn’t you say?”

  He was right. Which meant he wasn’t going to talk. But he had been talking, which meant . . . what?

  That he had nothing to lose? Probably.

  That everything was over now, or would be soon?

  Yes. That was it. There was one more name on his list, and it didn’t matter if he admitted that because it would all be over soon. Tonight, possibly any minute now, the last person he considered responsible for what happened to his son would have been punished . . . possibly murdered.

  “You lied to us,” Henry said. “You’ve been in communication with whoever you hired all along, haven’t you?”

  Austin seemed to be done talking now.

  Henry stood. “I’m gonna find his computer, check his email.”

  “Like hell you are,” Egan said as he rose to his feet. “You being here’s gonna be enough of a problem. I’m gonna have to figure out how to spin that to keep it from biting us in the ass later. Last thing I need is you poking around, screwing things up, getting everything there is to find excluded from evidence.”

  Henry dropped back into his chair. “Then you check his email. We have a confession. And another potential victim out there. That’s exigent circumstances. Turn the place upside down. But start with his email, because this son of a bitch is lying.”

  “Okay, you babysit our boy here, and I’ll take a look. Where’s your computer, dirtbag?”

  Austin was still done talking.

  “I’ll find it. And I’ll call this in while I’m looking. Get someone to haul this trash away, get a few more bodies here to help search the place. In the meantime, after I check the computer, I’ll keep looking for whatever this guy’s not telling us.”

  “Yeah, whatever. I have a call to make, too.”

  Egan disappeared through a doorway leading out of the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he said, “I’m serious, Kane. Don’t touch that guy.”

  Henry glared at Austin for a long moment, and Austin glared back . . . and it was Henry who dropped his eyes first. He took out his cell phone.

  Andrew had finished his story and was responding to Ramsey’s incredulous follow-up questions when his personal cell phone rang.

  “Excuse me, Detective,” he said, then took Henry’s call while Ramsey stood waiting. “Hey,” he said to his brother, “any chance you found our man?”

  “Not quite, but almost. Got the guy who hired our man. He’s sitting right in front of us, and he’s told us almost everything.”

  “Who’s us?”

  “Another VSP detective. I’ll explain later. Anyway, we’re with the father of a man named Kevin Austin.”

  “The name rings a bell.”

  Ramsey was watching with undisguised impatience.

  Henry said, “You were all ready to prosecute him for Dave Bingham’s murder eight years ago when he suddenly pled guilty.”

  Very quickly, Henry filled him in on the story of Kevin Austin, his being killed in prison, and Grady Austin’s desire to ruin everyone he deemed complicit in his son’s tragic fate.

  “He pleaded guilty,” Andrew said, remembering. “I didn’t see a reason not to let him. Neither did the judge. But wait . . . if he’s after everyone involved in the case, how does Tyler fit in? And Julie and the Graham woman?”

  “Collateral damage, apparently.”

  “My God. And he confessed to everything?”

  “Almost everything. There’s something he’s not telling us. Hey, Andy, hang on. The cop I’m here with found something.”

  Andrew heard Henry’s voice and that of another man talking back and forth on the other end of the line; then Henry was back on.

  “Egan found an email from the other guy, the guy who’s been calling us. Came in about ninety minutes ago. It’d been encrypted originally but was decrypted to allow Austin here to read it. Turns out there’s another target, and they’re going after him tonight.”

  “Who?”

  “The email doesn’t say, just that the final target will be hit tonight. Austin won’t say, either. And Egan won’t let me break one of his legs.”

  “Be sure to thank Egan for me. Listen, Henry, a Bennington cop was murdered tonight, staged to look like Tyler did it.” He ignored Ramsey’s derisive snort. “Young guy, less than a year on the job. Any chance that’s the last name on the list?”

  “Less than a year? That’s almost seven years after Kevin Austin was sent to prison, a year after he was killed there. Sounds to me like the cop is more collateral damage.”

  “I hate to interrupt, Governor,” Ramsey said. “But I’ve got a job to do here, and we aren’t finished yet.”

  “Can you think of anyone else involved with the case, Andy?” Henry said. “Anyone else the father might blame for . . .” Henry paused a moment. “For his son dying in prison?”

  Andrew ignored Ramsey’s glare, closed his eyes, and thought a moment. And a moment after that. Then he said to Henry, “You know what? Maybe I do. Did you say there’s a VSP detective with you who heard your guy’s confession? He knows Tyler is innocent?”

  “Yeah, he’s right in the next room.”

  “Put him on; have him talk to Detective Ramsey here. In the meantime, I have to check something. I’ll be right back.”

  He shoved his phone into Ramsey’s hands and rushed to his car. Inside were the pardon files he had inadvertently taken from the Pavilion during his rush to get here tonight. The files contained several years’ worth of pardon requests, dating back many years before Andrew took office.

  He flipped through the file folders, locating the one that would contain requests from eight years ago, and began thumbing through the papers. Nothing from or about Kevin Austin. He did the same with the file from seven years ago and, before long, came across a letter from Grady Austin. Andrew skimmed it and saw that Austin was requesting a full pardon for his son, Kevin, who the father claimed was innocent. Andrew quickly flipped through the rest of the file, then the next two folders. In all, he found four letters from Grady Austin; each was addressed to Governor John Barker.

  He wondered if there were any letters in later folders, letters Grady Austin had written to Andrew, begging for his son’s release, letters he’d barely glanced at when they’d crossed his desk.

  With the letters addressed to Barker clenched in his fist, he ran back across the lawn to Ramsey in time to hear him say into Andrew’s phone, “And you’re sure about all this, Detective Egan? Absolutely sure? You heard all of this yourself? Directly? Not through Henry Kane?” He listened a long moment. “Okay, thank you, Detective.” He handed the phone back to Andrew and said, “Okay, Governor, I’m listening. I mean, I’m really listening now.”

  With his eyes locked on Ramsey’s, without knowing whether it was his brother or the other detective on the other end of the line, he said into the phone, “I think he’s going after John Barker.”

  “Governor John Barker?” Ramsey asked.

  “And I doubt we have much time.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  “We’re almost there,” Molly said to Mike, Andrew’s security guy. “Can you go any faster?” There she was, counting on the trooper to get her to Tyler before something terrible could happen to him, and she didn’t even know the man’s last name.

  They were roaring along an otherwise quiet, winding, wooded stretch of road, the SUV’s engine growling, its tires fighting to keep their grip on the pavement through the tighter turns.

  “This is as fast as we want to go along this stretch, ma’am,” he said over his shoulder to Molly, who was still in the back seat, leaning forward, digging her fingernails into the passenger seat headrest. They couldn’t get to the animal shelter where Tyler volunteered quickly enough for her. When Tyler had said that he was going somewhere he would feel safe, she realized where that was. There were only two places, he’d once told her—home and the animal shelter—where people didn’t treat him like he was stupid. Where he could be himself. Where he
felt okay. She figured that also meant he felt safe there.

  “Thank God it’s late, and we’re the only vehicle on the road,” Mike said, “or we couldn’t risk going as fast as we are.”

  Two minutes later, they reached the final bend in the road—the shelter was just around the corner—and Molly saw immediately that something was wrong. The trees ahead were lighting up with alternating flashes of blue and white, and for a moment, Molly couldn’t breathe.

  “Mike . . .”

  “I see it.”

  They rounded the bend, and just up ahead was the animal shelter, an isolated building set back twenty yards from the road. In front of it was a Manchester Police cruiser with the lights on its roof rack flashing, parked broadside, its passenger side facing the building. A patrolman in uniform squatted behind the vehicle, talking into his radio.

  As Mike pulled in to the parking lot, the SUV’s headlights swept across the cop, and his head whipped around while his hand flew to the grip on his still-holstered weapon.

  Mike, who was already waving his badge out the open window, called, “Officer, I’m a state trooper. Mike Burrows.”

  “Stay back, sir,” the cop yelled.

  “I’m a state trooper,” Mike said again, opening his car door and stepping out slowly with his hands up and empty but for his badge. “Please stay here, ma’am,” he said to Molly.

  Molly lowered her window, her eyes on the Manchester Police officer, who had his eyes on Mike. He seemed to register Mike’s uniform; then he nodded.

  Staying low, Mike made his way over to the cop, then dropped to one knee beside him. “What’s the situation, Officer?” he asked.

  “Think we got Tyler Kane in there.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He cut off his ankle monitor and ran, after killing a woman who lived at his house with him. He used to work at this shelter, so they thought he might come here, told us to check on it every hour. When I rolled up, I saw movement inside. Called his name, and he opened a window in front and responded, said yeah, it was him, and I’d better not come in because he has a gun.”

  “He doesn’t have a gun,” Molly called from the SUV. She got out and hurried over to them. Unlike the others, she didn’t bother to squat behind the police car.