by Hadena James
The bomb shelter was rather nice, once you got used to it. There was a small bathroom, a small kitchenette type area, and a separate sleeping room with cots that folded out from the wall. He was willing to bet that his grandfather had been making improvements to it for the last sixty years or so. He didn’t remember it being this big when he was a kid and they had sheltered from a tornado in it.
His grandfather had died ten years earlier. His grandmother, at 98 years old, was still driving a car. She kept a close watch on her property and her grandson. Nick appreciated the woman’s attentiveness. She didn’t seem to care that he was wanted for blowing up county fairs.
How long can you live down here Nicky? Years? Or just until your grandmother dies? The voice had quieted some in recent weeks. Nick was currently playing a game on an old laptop. It didn’t have internet or anything, but it worked and his grandmother had bought him an e-reader when he had first arrived. Every couple of days, she took it into the house, loaded it with new books and brought it back to him.
He could handle the quiet and solitude of the bomb shelter. It really wasn’t a bad place to live. At night, he could sneak out and into the woods for a little fresh air. The 1000-acre ranch that his grandmother owned was remote.
The best part was that no one could connect the little old lady to him. His mother had been adopted by the couple, off the records. They had taken the sixteen year old runaway in, she’d been pregnant with nowhere to go and no family.
When he’d shown up on the old woman’s doorstep the day after the Illinois bombing, the woman hadn’t asked any questions. She’d just told him to go shower and change his clothes. She’d set about fixing him food. He’d told her everything and she’d tucked him away in the bomb shelter. The woman was already suspicious about the government. Having a fugitive grandson didn’t faze her.
Nick checked his watch, it was nearly dark. It was his favorite time of the day. He’d slip out of the shelter and into a small wooded patch. He’d go visit his grandfather’s grave. Only his grandmother and the nocturnal creatures would know he was there. His grandmother seemed to know everything.
The door to the shelter opened. A man entered. He had dark hair and eyes so green they seemed to glow in the semi-darkness of the shelter. However, it was the man’s height that shocked Nick the most. He seemed impressively tall and reminded Nick of pictures he’d seen of the Grim Reaper. The effect was enhanced by the figure’s gaunt appearance. As he moved closer to Nick, Nick realized he couldn’t put an age on him. He looked old and yet, not old at the same time. A scar started on the man’s forehead and disappeared under his hairline. For some reason, Nick was terrified of this unidentified man. He couldn’t say why he was terrified, only that he was. He grabbed for a revolver in the room.
“I wouldn’t do that,” the man’s voice was deep, cultured with a hint of an accent that couldn’t be placed. It made him even more dreadful.
“Who are you?” Nick was still pointing the revolver.
“We have a problem Nick,” the figure said, stepping closer, seeming to not notice the gun. “See here’s the problem. You are currently resisting arrest and I am just searching for any excuse to kill you. Now, that’s actually my problem. Your problem is that I don’t even need a good excuse, any excuse will do and you are holding a gun. So, I could draw my own weapon, empty the clip into your sorry carcass, making sure not to hit anything really important and that way, when I kneel down over your bleeding, broken body and put a bullet in your head, my face will be the last thing you ever see. I’m good with that scenario. How does it sound to you?”
“Fuck you,” Nick began firing. It was an older gun, a true revolver. Nick fired as fast as the cylinder would allow. Six shots entered the stranger’s chest. The stranger stood there and took every bullet.
Nick’s hands began to shake. The figure took a step forward. His stride was wide enough that the single step closed the gap between them. Long, strong fingers closed around Nick’s throat. Nick clawed at the arm. The face of the stranger was completely blank as he increased the pressure.
“Malachi,” another man was entering the shelter. “Let him go.”
“He shot me,” the stranger answered to the name Malachi. “Six times.”
“You’ve survived worse,” the new man came into view. Nick recognized him from photos, it was Gabriel Henders of the SCTU. A new wave of fear washed over Nick.
“That’s true,” the tall man dropped Nick. “I should get these looked at.”
“Looks like he mostly hit your shoulder,” Gabriel told Malachi.
“You should learn where to group your bullets before you waste them all like that,” Malachi said to Nick.
“Let us get acquainted,” Gabriel turned towards Nick. Nick started crawling away. The taller man stepped on his leg, pinning it to the concrete. It instantly sent pain shooting up Nick’s leg. “I’m Marshal Henders with the Serial Crimes Tracking Unit. This is Special Agent Blake with the Violent Crimes Unit. And today is not your lucky day, because our back up is currently searching your grandmother’s house.”
“You’re cops, you can’t hurt me,” Nick said with more bravado than he felt.
“Technically, you’re right,” Henders agreed. “We can’t hurt you. However, you did just shoot a federal officer, so no one will notice if you’re a little roughed up when you come out of this hole.”
“Oh and the irony of your living situation isn’t lost on me,” Blake said, pushing down harder with his boot. Nick felt and heard his leg snap. He screamed.
“On the other hand, it might be your lucky day,” Henders said. He didn’t seem to care that Nick was writhing in pain under the foot of the other man. Nick was going to tell everyone after he was arrested.
“How do you figure?” Blake put more pressure on the broken leg. Nick screamed again. They seemed to wait for it to stop before talking.
“We found him instead of Cain,” Henders said. “You saw her.”
“True,” Blake agreed. “If Marshal Cain had found you, she was threatening to break your face open with her boot.”
Nick screamed again as Blake removed his foot from Nick’s leg. The suddenly lack of pressure was just as painful. Nick thought he was going to pass out.
You are dealing with crazy people, Nicky. You should try to get away. The voice told him. Nick didn’t need that pointed out to him. It was obvious they were both crazy. It sounded like the girl was the craziest of them all. Nick’s head swam a little.
“Oh no,” Henders grabbed hold of him, yanking him to his feet. “You don’t get to pass out. See, Marshal Cain had her shirt melted to her back because of your bombs and was awake when they separated it from her skin. Marshal McMichaels lost half his scalp because of your bombs. And Marshal Reece had to have his wounds cauterized at the scene of the incident to keep from bleeding to death when parts of a carnival ride slammed into him, tearing through his flesh and he was awake through that. So you don’t get to pass out just because of a broken leg. I’ll let you know when you can go to sleep.” Henders slammed Nick into the wall. Nick felt his head rebound off it, warm, sticky fluid instantly began to flow down his face.
“No head trauma,” Blake said. “Too easy to accidentally kill him. He has to live long enough to go to The Fortress. It was a special request.”
“Fine,” Henders dropped Nick. Nick was starting to feel confused. His body pulsed with pain. A boot landed on his shoulder and he felt the socket give way. He screamed.
“Now, you can pass out,” Blake whispered. Nick whimpered. He was roughly rolled onto his stomach. Despite his shoulder being dislocated, someone jerked his arm backwards and put him in handcuffs. “I’ll lead.” Blake said as Nick was stood up. The pain in his leg was sharp. It made him cry.
Outside the bomb shelter, there were dozens of people. Flash bulbs suddenly started going off. He blubbered all the way to the car. No one offered to help him. Henders practically dragged him to the vehicle. He shoved him in, makin
g sure to bang his leg and put pressure on his damaged shoulder.
Nick leaned against the back of the seat, trying to get comfortable. He should be going to the hospital, not sitting in an SUV. Another guy hoped in next to him. This guy wore a cast on his leg. Nick thought he looked familiar.
“Hi,” the guy said. “I’m Marshal Giovanni and I’ll be riding next to you for a while. If you keep still, the ride will be a lot smoother.”
“Are you going to assault me too?” Nick asked him.
“I’m not really a fighter,” Giovanni said. “However, getting anyone to believe you were unnecessarily assaulted is going to be hard. SA Blake has six bullet holes in his shoulder. I’m sure you deserved everything you got down there. I’m actually a little surprised you’re alive. I was expecting Blake to kill you. You should feel lucky that he didn’t. It would have been really painful.”
They’re all crazy! The voice screamed at Nick. You are screwed.
“Thanks,” Nick answered out loud.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I sat on the very edge of my couch. My legs and butt had healed, but my back was still tender. Sitting all the way back caused more pain than I cared to deal with today.
Spread out on the coffee table were all the evidence pictures they had taken from Nick Baldwin’s house and the bomb shelter. The irony of our bomber hiding out in a bomb shelter had made me laugh. The fact that he had survived, surprised me. It surprised Nyleena even more.
The trial was due to start in a few weeks. There had been no other fair queen killings since VCU and SCTU had captured the bomber. A few enterprising prosecutors were trying to pin all the killings on the mass murderer.
There was a possibility that I was going to have to testify. I had seen him at the fair during the bombing. However, I was sure there was enough evidence from his house that I would be unnecessary.
“I have cheeseburgers!” Xavier announced, walking into my house without knocking.
I’d been out of the hospital for a little over a week. I had not had a fast food cheeseburger. My doctor had let me have a few sodas, but he had nixed the cheeseburgers. It hadn’t stopped Xavier from trying every day.
“When do Malachi and Gabriel get back?”
“Tomorrow,” Xavier pulled out a cheeseburger with enough grease that the wrapper was becoming transparent.
Trevor came in the door as Xavier handed me a different burger. I unwrapped it and found it was exactly what I had ordered. It even had cheese sauce on top of sliced cheese. I took a bite. Trevor sat down at the small dining room table. Lucas hobbled in behind him. He wasn’t walking so great. I hadn’t asked, but I got the impression his graft donor area wasn’t healing as well as mine had. Or maybe he just moved slowly because he felt old. I knew I felt old, very old. I moved a little slower than normal too. Walking actually sucked. Every muscle in the legs were connected to the back. The skin graft was sore, but moving was still worse.
“Hey big guy,” I said as Lucas sat down next to me. Like me, he didn’t lean back.
“Hey,” he smiled at me. “How are you feeling?”
“Old,” I told him. “When I stand up, I feel like I’m three thousand years old. When I walk, I feel like I’m even older.”
“Me too. I think I’m developing a stoop from this.”
“You are both healing as expected,” Xavier shoved a bite of the extra greasy cheeseburger into his mouth. “Except Ace, she’s healing a little faster.”
“I didn’t get my head roasted,” I pointed out.
“For one meal, I would like to not talk about death, injuries, blood or gore,” Trevor said, picking at a salad.
“Good luck,” Xavier grinned at him. I put away the pictures, haphazardly piling them up and sticking them under a folder.
“Thank you,” Trevor moved into the living room with the rest of us. Normally, I would have thrown a fit about eating in the living room. That’s what dining rooms were for. However, since sitting in a dining room chair was pure torture, I was learning to make an exception while two of us were still recovering.
“What are we going to talk about if we aren’t comparing battle scars or talking about cases?” I asked.
“Well, it’s September,” Trevor said. “There’s football, the end of summer, the coming of fall, the new neighbors.”
It was September. I hadn’t seen a single football game. I missed football. Unfortunately, it was a Wednesday so there wasn’t a football game tonight. There was tomorrow night though. Nyleena was planning on bringing junk food over and hanging out with me. I had decided to go into the weekend with unabashed enthusiasm, ditching my restrictive diet for a more lax one that allowed for junk food and would probably cause me to spend Monday in bed with a migraine. However, I was good with that.
“What’s our record this year?” I asked Trevor. He kept up with the Chiefs like I did.
“Two and one for regular season,” Trevor answered. “Four and zero in the preseason. Our loss was to Denver, of course.”
“We’ll get them this year, at least one game,” I told him. “Then we can beat them in the playoffs.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Xavier chewed and talked. It was a habit I had gotten used to with Xavier. He was always talking with his mouth full. Before our death experience, I might have gotten onto him about it. Now that he’d died and been resurrected, it bothered me a lot less. It was amazing how easy one’s perspective could change.
“It’s good to have a goal,” I quipped.
“Do you have one?” Trevor asked me.
“I think so. The specialist I’m seeing thinks I’ll be able to return to work in late October or early November.” I gave a sideways glance to Lucas. He would not be able to return until after the New Year.
“I think I need your blood,” Lucas said. “Maybe I’d be further along in the healing process.”
“I thought we agreed on no injury talk,” Xavier said.
“Trevor wanted it, but then he brought it up. Agreement terminated,” I said. This got a laugh out of everyone.
“Good, what about our sniper?” Xavier asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “He’s disappeared temporarily and I don’t know why.”
“Waiting,” Lucas said.
“For what?” Trevor asked.
“The next fair season,” Lucas answered. “His obsessive need was to kill fair queens, he deviated during the Quincy bombing, but I think he’ll go back to it now.”
“We don’t do unresolved cases,” I pointed out.
“It isn’t unresolved,” Lucas countered. “It’s just in limbo for a few months while we all get our feet back under us. Half the SCTU is down until at least October. Gabriel and Xavier are in the best shape and frankly, Xavier’s faking it. He’s still bothered by the new injuries.”
“Really?” I looked at Xavier. Xavier gave Lucas a dirty look. He lifted his shirt. A large red gash was visible on his chest. It streaked a jagged line that started about an inch under his nipple and continued around his ribs. “What’s that?”
“Shrapnel,” Xavier said. “It wasn’t bleeding externally at the scene because the metal rod was still inside me when I got to the hospital. It broke all my ribs on that side and punctured my spleen. However, I didn’t want you to worry about it while you were in the hospital.”
“I’ve been out for a week,” I protested.
“Hey, you have injuries you didn’t tell us about,” Xavier said.
I bit my lip. It was only a minor wound. However, he was right, I hadn’t told them about the metal rod in my leg that nearly shattered my femur and missed the femoral artery by less than an inch.
“Yep, exactly,” Lucas smirked. “We were all trying to hide what happened to spare the others. Only Gabriel got a full catalogue of injuries and he got that from the hospital.”
We fell silent after this. Each of us eating, thinking silent thoughts about things better left unsaid. My thoughts turned to our serial killer. He’d gotten
lucky three times. Nick had been in jail on DUI, but he’d been planning to bomb the Shelby County Fair.
It wasn’t coincidence. It couldn’t be. Somehow our serial killer had known which fairs were going to be bombed. Yet, they hadn’t worked as a team. The photos held no evidence of a second person being involved with Nick.
If they hadn’t been working together though, how had the serial killer known? My hands automatically took the photos from under the file folder. There had been a computer rendering of the Quincy fairgrounds.
Surely, Michael had checked the computer for spyware or some other sort of thing. My fingers found the picture of the laptop. It had been destroyed. Not just wiped, but actually broken to pieces. The hard drive had been melted. So, maybe Michael hadn’t checked it for spyware. That raised the question of whether it was our bomber or our sniper that had destroyed the computer.
It was an effective way to cover your tracks. No computer, no evidence. Michael had told me that even wiping a computer didn’t remove all the data. Some bits were always recoverable and Michael had the skills for it.
“What happened to the computer?” I asked.
“It blew itself up,” Xavier answered. “Literally. When Michael attempted to boot it, there was a small explosion. Michael jumped backwards just in time to miss getting hit by a larger explosion. Although, he did lose his eye brows and eyelashes and the front part of his hair. It will all grow back.
“I hate fire,” I said. “And bombs,” I added quickly. If I had a phobia it was of burning to death. Not dying in a fire, but actually burning to death. I had seen it happen once when I was a teenager. A man engulfed in a gas station fire. He’d screamed for eternity, before finally collapsing to his knees. It was all surreal and slow. My fear of burning to death had officially started at that moment. I couldn’t think of a more painful or dreadful way to die.
The serial killer had deviated on the last one. Shooting down helicopters was a long way from putting holes in fair queens. It didn’t make sense. Serial killers deviated only when they were devolving. I wasn’t entirely sure I understood the term as Lucas used it, but I knew it was the moment that serial killers began to fall apart. When they reached that stage, they became spree killers. This one hadn’t.
