Helen nodded her head. “Okay. I believe you, Morgan.” To Frankie, she said, “Dear, go get cleaned up and for god’s sake, stop drooling! You’ve got a few years before you need to do that. I’ll get some food going on the stove.” She looked back to Morgan. “You too, Morgie. Go to John’s, get cleaned up and come back here.” Morgan shook his head and Helen said, “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.” She clapped her hands together. “Now get going!” She walked into the kitchen and started opening up cupboard doors.
* * *
Morgan walked to John’s house, pondering his next move. He knew that the urgency in John’s voice was real and that he must have seen something that spooked him. He remembered John telling him about a boat, but couldn’t remember what was said afterwards. What he did remember were the shouts and screams as he and Frankie made it to the Scout. Of course, seeing what was happening on the TV meant John was right about something.
He walked inside the den, grabbed the floor door key out of John’s desk drawer, and went downstairs.
Morgan didn’t want to scare Helen and Frankie because he didn’t want to deal with the questions, but at the same time, he needed to be prepared. He stared at the wall of gun goodies and decided that being practical was the way to go.
He grabbed a Colt AR-15 from the shelf and threw in a thirty-round magazine. He took a couple more and pocketed them, just in case. Next, he scooped up John’s homemade flare trip and a six-inch CRKT tactical knife.
He walked back up, secured the door, and threw the key back into the drawer. As he went to close it, he paused. Ali Bugunolov was staring up at him. Well, at least a picture of him was. Morgan picked it up and saw that there were several other pictures below it, all of men they had eliminated.
He shook his head. He would have to talk to John about this. Leaving evidence of any kind was not how they operated. Morgan was too careful to just let this kind of stuff happen. He tossed the pictures in the wastebasket next to the desk and picked up the AR-15. He held it up and tried to sight it, but had trouble doing so with his cast.
He’d been wearing it for about five weeks and figured it was healed enough. He didn’t have any pain and there was no way he would be able to shoot with it on.
Morgan grabbed the knife and inserted the blade into his cast, the metal brushing against his arm. He sawed back and forth, the finely sharpened steel tearing through the plaster with no trouble It came off with ease. Plaster dust fell towards the wastebasket, and, once it was off, he threw the cast into the bin on top of the pictures.
He made a fist several times, feeling the weakness of his atrophied muscles, but he didn’t have any pain, which was his main concern.
He grabbed his gear, walked outside and went halfway down the driveway between the gate and Frankie’s house. He took out the flare trip, uncoiled it, and put one flare gun down, making sure the stake was securely in place. He ran the attached near-invisible wire across the dirt driveway and staked the other flare gun into the ground. He touched the wire in the center, satisfied that it was taut, and went back to Frankie’s house. Now, anyone or anything coming down that driveway would be in for a bright surprise. More importantly, it would tell Morgan that they had company.
He walked back to Frankie’s house and placed the AR-15 down by the porch and walked inside. It was best not to startle her.
“Smells great, Helen! What’s for dinner?”
Chapter 15
Russell and Sims walked down to the main level of the department and saw several officers gathered around a bank of televisions showing the disorder occurring in Seattle. Some buildings were billowing smoke, others were on fire and several cars were moving east on whatever road they could find. Those that couldn’t move east had been abandoned, most with their doors left open by the fleeing drivers as they ran somewhere, anywhere, to safety.
Bodies littered the street as the wave of figures moved over them, leaving them for dead, and then those same bodies got up to join the rapid migration, as if nothing had happened to them. There was a smattering of those running who seemed to be armed, trying to thwart the mob with a few pot shots here and there, but that was like pissing on a house fire.
The other TVs were switched to national news and showed other cities experiencing the same situation.
Russell and Sims passed the group of officers, most with confused looks on their faces, and headed down to the department armory. A lone officer by the name of Riley Jenkins sat behind the wire mesh screen, reading a Guns & Ammo magazine.
“Yo, Jenks. How’s it hanging?” Russell walked up to the wire mesh to fill in his name, rank, and badge number on the roster check-in sheet. He was trying to act as nonchalant as possible, trying to hide the fact he was in a hurry to get out of there.
“Hmm. Short, gray, and shriveled.” Jenkins was almost sixty, having been in the force for nearly thirty-five years. He’d been on the promotional fast-track when a series of sexual misconduct allegations had tarnished his portfolio. Sensing his career was on a downward spiral, he had worked just hard enough to not get fired, realizing any extra work he put in would be for naught. He seemed content to read magazines and sit in the wire mesh cubicle for the rest of his career, which he had done for the last ten years.
“Need to check out a long rifle for the unmarked.”
Jenkins looked at the sheet Russell had filled out, then up at Russell. “Vehicle Number?”
“Shit. I forgot what it was. Sims?”
Sims was looking through a Peer Support Awareness pamphlet. He looked at Russell, then to Jenkins. “Twelve twenty-six.”
“Huh. No shit? That used to be my patrol car. Some eight years ago. Surprised they haven’t decommissioned that piece of shit.” Jenkins was writing as he was talking.
“Tough break.”
“You want the AR or shotgun? By the way, you guys heading out with CDU?”
“Civil Disturbance Unit? Nah. We’re investigating that stabbing at Bellevue Mall. Running down some suspect leads. Might turn into a barricaded subject. You know how it goes…”
“AR it is. I’ll be right back.” Jenkins got up and walked behind one of the evidence shelves, disappearing from sight.
“Christ, he’ll probably die before he retires. What is he waiting for?” Sims crumpled up the pamphlet and threw it like a basketball into the wastebasket. “Shit. I should have gotten into basketball.”
“Yeah, you’re a real shot there, Sims.” Russell looked back toward the group of officers and saw Connelly walking down the stairs at a fast pace.
“Dickhead alert.” Sims saw him too and started walking toward the corner, taking him out of view.
Russell walked to the side door of the armory, opened it, and walked in to where Jenkins had just been. He heard Connelly telling the group to get their gear, that the chief had done a zone page for all officers to report to the station. “We’re meeting on two for tactical deployment. You all need to get shields, long guns and ballistic vests. Let’s move!” Russell could hear heavy footsteps running down the hall the other way towards the garage. He assumed – and hoped – Connelly was following them.
“You know you’re not supposed to be back here, Mixney.” Jenkins had returned.
Russell was looking down at the magazine and picked it up. “Sorry, Jenks, I just wanted to see your magazine. I have a subscription, but haven’t gotten mine yet. Anything good in it?”
“Same old stories. Each month they tell you what the best gun is and why. Only the why seems to contradict itself each month. Whatever. I like the articles and ads.” Jenkins put the AR-15 on the lock rack and handed Russell the clipboard. “Sign here.”
Russell did and handed it back. “You off soon?”
“Yep.” Jenkins looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes, actually. And before you ask, no, I’m not heading to two for ‘tactical deployment.’” Jenkins used finger quotes. “Besides, I hate Connelly. Career bureaucrat. Grade-A cheese dick asshole.” Jenkins shook his head and
picked up the magazine, opened it up and held it sideways for the centerfold picture. He whistled and said, “Man, I love it when they’re all oiled up like that. Smooth.”
Russell laughed. “I’m surprised he was able to get his fingers away from his coffee mug. Try having him for a boss, huh?”
“Huh, want a shotgun while you’re at it?”
Russell grabbed the AR-15 off the rack. “Nah, keep it for yourself. This shit spills over to the east side, you’re gonna need it more than me.”
Jenkins just stared at Russell.
“Just kidding there, Jenks. You’ll be fine. Get on home and relax.” To Sims, he said, “Sims! Let’s go, buddy.”
* * *
Russell and Sims walked quickly down to the garage, secured the weapon in the Crown Vic and took off in a hurry, tires screeching as they did. Russell tried calling Kat on his cell phone and got a busy signal.
“Damn. I can’t get a hold of her. Check your cell phone.”
Sims looked down at his phone, then looked over to Russell and shook his head. “No bars.”
“I don’t care about bars. I care if it can make calls. Try it.”
“What’s her number?”
Russell told him.
Sims looked at Russell. “Nothing. Just some lady telling me that my call can’t be completed as dialed. She sounded like my second ex-wife.”
Russell headed east on Northeast Fourth Street. “I’m taking the back roads. Most people will be crowding Eighth Street around the freeway and we’ll never get home.”
“Good call.” Sims was pointing north to their left.
In between buildings, Russell could see a parking lot of stationary cars occupying Northeast Eighth Street as they came to a T-intersection.
“Take a right on the Connector. It’s out of our way but will wind around to the east and we can go from there.”
“Good idea.” Russell turned right and started weaving through the Lake Hills Connector and south around several large parks in the east part of Bellevue. The Connector was used for housing developments in the south and east areas of Bellevue, while Eighth Street was retail and commercial businesses.
Russell looked to his left into Kelsey Creek Park and slowed down. “Check that out!”
Sims looked over. “Ah, just some kids playing?” He didn’t sound too convincing.
A group of people were running through the park, heading east. Russell counted about twenty of them, all spread out, heading the same direction. Sirens were heard in the background and Russell saw orange bursts in the sky in his peripheral vision. He looked in his rear view mirror. The sky near Seattle was aglow with an orange hue and a smattering of flickers dancing through a smoke-filled sky.
“Christ almighty.” Sims stood up a bit and took out his sidearm. He flicked the lights and sirens on. “Let’s get back to your house.”
“Turn that off!” Russell leaned over and killed the lights and sirens. “Don’t want to draw attention.”
He stepped on the gas and hurried along the Connector. They had passed the 405 and he assumed that traffic was meant for those wanting to get on the freeway, but the traffic jam continued into east Bellevue. They came up to another street and Russell looked to his left.
“Man, I wish I knew this area better.”
“Punch it, we’ll take One Forty-Eighth Street.”
Sims was right. Russell slammed on the gas and almost got hit by a fire engine with lights and sirens heading north. They came up to One Forty-Eighth, and, without stopping, he took a hard left, tires squealing, heading north.
Russell slowed to look for other cars, and, as he came up to the next intersection, a car in the opposite lane was passing through when it got T-boned by a large moving truck, sending the car in a fast spin and right into a telephone pole. There was a loud popping sound and several flashes. The pole had been broken by the impact and started falling, taking electrical wires with it, sending sparks and flashes outward.
Russell saw the wires and gunned the engine. He roared through the intersection and narrowly avoided them falling on his car. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw the traffic lights were out, as were most of the lights in the immediate area.
“Look out!” Sims pointed up ahead. There were several vehicles speeding east and west along the roadway, the drivers not paying attention to the traffic lights that were out.
“Got it!” Russell slowed and waited for his opening. He saw a large semi with a trailer heading eastbound, hazard lights on. “Right here, right here.”
Right before the truck passed, Russell gunned the engine, cranking the wheel hard to the right, trying to time his entrance onto Eighth Street with the passing of the truck, just missing its bumper. He floored the gas pedal of the supercharged V8 and maneuvered behind the semi truck. He cut another vehicle and got the horn in return.
Russell didn’t care. “Only one more mile. I’m taking a side road.”
“Whatever. Just get us out of here!”
They passed over the next street and the headlights from the angry driver behind Russell disappeared, followed by a loud crunch. They had made it through the intersection, but the car behind them didn’t, as a tour bus roared through, taking the car with it. Russell was driving well over the speed limit, as was the semi. They were coming up on Northup Way. He started to slow for the T-intersection, but the semi didn’t.
“He better slow down.” Sims saw it too. “Christ, he’s not stopping. Are there houses back there?”
“No. It’s a greenbelt.” Russell slowed down so he could turn left onto Northup Way.
They watched in amazement as the semi driver, seeing that the road ended, applied his brakes way too late. The vehicle fishtailed, with the semi going one way and the trailer going the other. It hit a tree line with tremendous force, breaking the hitch and sending the trailer into the trees, tearing it apart like it was put through a grinder, boxes and debris flying into the air. The truck crashed sideways into a tree and wrapped itself around the large evergreen.
Russell slowed into the intersection and whipped the wheel to the left, then accelerated down the road. He came up to his street and turned right while slowing down.
“Almost here. At least the power is on in this area.”
“At least for now.”
Russell killed the headlights in the growing darkness but kept the running lights on. “Eerily quiet. Maybe news hasn’t hit this area yet.” They passed several of his neighbors’ houses. Lights were on in most of them and the shadows of people were silhouetted through the drapes, several with TVs flickering in the background, all synchronized, as if watching the same channel.
Russell came up to his driveway. The lights were on and there was an unfamiliar car in the driveway.
“You buy Kat a new car?”
“Nope. Not ours.” Russell killed the lights and turned off the engine. He opened the door and got out, pulling out his gun and flashlight, and walked to the driver’s side of the vehicle. Sims took the hint, and, with his gun already out, walked toward the passenger side. There was music being played at his neighbor’s house, the party in full swing. He heard laughing and conversation coming from their backyard.
Russell shone the light into the car. Unoccupied. He looked into the back seat and saw a backpack and a high school letterman jacket, showing a yellow ‘S’ with a tennis racket logo and several bars after it.
“I think it’s her friend Christina’s. Maybe.” Russell hoped.
“Or a boy. Maybe.” Sims was smiling.
“Well, if it’s a boy, I hope he ain’t afraid of guns.”
“Or afraid of cops with guns.”
“Or of dads with guns.”
Sims was nodding. “Or that.”
Russell opened the front door and walked in. Everything seemed normal. “Kat? You here?” No response.
Sims followed and holstered his gun as he took a seat in the living room. He looked around for the remote, found it, and turned the TV on.
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Russell walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Seeing it unoccupied, he turned and headed upstairs. “Kat? Where you at?” Still no response. He checked all the rooms. The TV was still on in Kat’s room, showing the breaking news, but the room was empty.
Russell walked back downstairs and checked his den.
Door was locked.
He fumbled with his keys and opened the door. It was just as he had left it. He walked back and checked the garage. Empty.
He walked back into the living room and saw Sims staring at the TV. It was the same thing he had seen up in Kat’s room and at the station, but on a different channel.
“How’s Kat?”
“Not here. I don’t know where she is.”
Sims looked over. “Where would she have gone?”
Russell sighed. “I have no idea.” He took out his phone to try calling her one more time. Nothing. He closed his phone and heard the faint sounds of a guitar playing in the background. “You hear that?”
“Hear what?” Sims turned the TV off.
“Sounds like a guitar. Sounds like Kat. She plays that song all the time.” The music was intermixed with clapping and laughing. Then it hit Russell. “I think she’s next door.”
Russell walked out and was followed by Sims. He went to the neighbor’s house and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so he walked back around the side of their house and saw the gate was open. There were about ten people casually standing in a circle around a small campfire, holding red plastic cups and laughing. The faint odor of marijuana hung in the air. In the center of the group, Kat was sitting down playing her guitar, while a girl about her age – Christina – was singing. A mix of adults and teenagers were mingling and enjoying their music.
“Kat!” Russell walked over to the group.
Kat stopped playing and looked up, startled. “Oh. Dad. Hi. I thought you were working?”
“And I thought you said you were going to stay home?”
“Dad, relax, we technically are home. It’s right next door. Christina and I were practicing at home and Mr. Nelson came over to see if you were home and wanted to come over. Besides, the riots are in Seattle. We’re all good here.”
Inception_The Bern Project_Volume One Page 12
