Kill Tide

by Timothy Fagan

  He jogged back to his van. When the Harley roared away, he followed.

  The Harley guy drove for ten minutes and parked in the driveway of a small, rundown house with an overgrown lawn. They might still be in New Albion or possibly the next town over.

  The man in the van hung back two doors away, watching and trying to decide what to do. Way, way off plan…

  Why the fuck was that guy in my home? And what did he find?

  The man in the van checked his little Walther P22 pistol was still in his pocket. It was there, heavy and reassuring. But he didn’t want to make that much noise if he could help it.

  He crawled into the back of his van and took out his quieter weapon: the Vipertek mini stun gun. Perfect.

  He didn’t come up with much of a plan. He kept it simple.

  He strolled to the Harley guy’s door and rang it, with a big fake smile on his face. When the door swung open, the large guy in the leather vest filled the doorway, a look of annoyed arrogance in his face. “What do you—”

  The man lunged forward with his stun gun and gave the asshole a chest full of thousands of volts.

  The Harley guy shouted and stumbled backward, falling to the linoleum hallway floor, twisting onto his stomach.

  The man saw a long knife tucked in the back of Harley guy’s pants. The snake! One more second and he’d have—!

  The man from the van saw red. He absolutely lost it. He jumped on the Harley guy’s back as he tried to stand. With his empty hand he grabbed the knife from the guy’s pants, then attacked with it, stabbing over and over into the guy’s back.

  Howling, the Harley guy heaved him off and crawled down the hallway, trailing blood.

  He zapped the Harley guy with the stun gun in the ass of his black jeans. He giggled as the guy spasmed and rolled onto his back. He hopped onto the guy’s big torso, straddling him. Then again stabbing with the knife, over and over. The Harley guy was barely fighting back now.

  The man lost track of time. The guy under him wasn’t moving anymore. He’d stabbed him, what? Fifty times?

  Harley guy’s head was back and his mouth was open. And his eyes. Unmoving. Blood was freaking everywhere.

  Ambush me with a knife? Rage boiled inside him. Why does everyone think they can push me around like a damn loser?

  The guy had found out differently, hadn’t he? Once again, they’d underestimated what he could do when pushed.

  The man took a deep breath and let it go in a long, celebratory rush. He’d won. His first win of the damn day.

  So what to do now?

  Think. He closed his eyes and counted to ten.

  Okay. First, he closed the front door and locked it. No one was in sight.

  Second, he searched the guy’s pockets, looking for his journal or any other items the guy might have taken when searching his place. He found nothing.

  He left the body on the floor while he searched the house. Maybe the guy took something and had hidden it away already? But he’d only had a minute before his doorbell rang and the fight started. Where could he have put anything?

  The man searched and found nothing.

  So, what to do with the dead guy? Leave him? The man didn’t know whether anyone else lived here. And his DNA might be on the dead guy.

  No, he’d have to move the body somewhere safer. Buy himself a little more time, which was hopefully all he’d need.

  If he could get a little better luck with Jessica Little and grab her tomorrow, he’d be off Cape Cod before anyone showed up here to find the bloody mess. Then none of this would matter.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chief of Police Gerald Ryan was in his office around 7:00 PM.

  Detective Kevin Sweeney sat across from him. Sweeney was giving him an update about his progress, or lack thereof, on the Greenhead Snatcher investigation.

  Gerald could feel a new headache coming on.

  No one, not the local police departments, the Staties, or the FBI, had a strong lead suspect. So besides trying to investigate the most likely local suspects, Casper Yelle and Alastair “Scooter” McCord, Detective Sweeney was beating the bushes and hoping something flew out, the same as every other investigator on the task force.

  Sweeney was working his way through the list of New Albion’s registered sex offenders, trying to interview them if they cooperated. They were all potential persons of interest in the two kidnappings.

  This afternoon Sweeney had interviewed a middle-aged white man named Emilio “Leo” Flammia, who was a level-two sex offender in town. He had two convictions for indecent assault and battery on a person aged fourteen or older.

  Sweeney quickly recapped Flammia’s background for Gerald. The man had worked at Murphy’s Hole Marina when he first came to New Albion, scraping boats, doing whatever dirty work needed doing in the marina. He’d worked as a janitor at New Albion High School for three months until they fired him when the superintendent’s office discovered his criminal record—he’d lied on his application. Flammia now did lawn care jobs in this part of the Cape.

  Sweeney had questioned the man about everywhere he’d been since last Thursday morning. Flammia’s answers had been simple and routine.

  Of course, Sweeney was most interested in Flammia’s alibis for the times of the two Emma kidnappings. On Thursday night when Emma Bailey was kidnapped, Flammia said he’d been watching TV, flipping around, and drinking beer. Mostly watching baseball, but he couldn’t remember the teams playing or who won. Because of the beer and because he’d fallen asleep before the game ended. On Saturday afternoon when Emma Addison was kidnapped, Flammia said he’d been taking a nap.

  The man didn’t have anyone to corroborate his whereabouts at those two most important times. He lived alone.

  “The Sox were off Thursday night,” said Sweeney. “But there’s always some baseball on. And Flammia looks like a drinker, or worse. If he was hammered, or possibly high on pills or whatever, he could have been watching whatever baseball was on. The guy didn’t seem very bright.”

  Which was probably enough to let him forget about Flammia as a suspect. The one thing the FBI profilers were certain of is the Greenhead Snatcher had above average intelligence. Both kidnappings had been brazen and were carried out quick and clean. The kidnapper had completely disappeared, other than to send the ransom request to the Addisons yesterday. He had made no mistakes they knew about yet.

  Gerald’s headache was building now. He took a big bottle of Aleve from his desk drawer and popped two in his mouth, flushing them down with coffee from the mug on his desk. It was cold and bitter.

  Sweeney continued. “Flammia didn’t ask for a lawyer or anything. The only strange bit was when I asked if I could search the white cargo van registered to his name. Flammia didn’t get uptight about it; he just said he’d sold it two months ago. Said he’d signed over the title and everything.”

  Gerald considered that. “What does he use for his contracting jobs?”

  “He said an old pickup truck. Didn’t seem too jumpy or sweaty.”

  Gerald took another sip of cold, stale coffee. “So, either he’s a good liar, or he didn’t have a van to do the kidnappings.”

  “He was lying about something, they always lie about something. He’s probably doing something he shouldn’t. But my gut? I don’t think he’s our guy. He wasn’t nervous enough. Or smart enough. I’ll have someone follow up with the registry to see if a registration transfer is in process for his van. In the meantime, I’ll keep moving down the list to the next guy, put Flammia on the back burner.”

  Gerald knew the Addisons had raised the two million dollars in cash today that the Greenhead Snatcher had demanded by eleven o’clock tonight. The money was ready—unmarked hundred-dollar bills stuffed in a big red duffel bag. It had been a crazy effort involving an emergency scramble by multiple banks and brokerage firms. The FBI had worked with the financial institutions to help them satisfy regulatory requirements and meet the unreasonable same-day deadline.r />
  Gerald planned to be at the Addisons’ house tonight when the Snatcher had promised to contact the family again. He knew the Bailey parents would be there too. Gerald couldn’t stay away.

  A large box had turned up two hours ago on the porch of a house a block down from the Addisons. It said, DO NOT OPEN. CALL THE POLICE. The people who lived there had responded to their doorbell, saw the box and quickly called 911.

  The box, carefully opened by a bomb squad, held a smaller box inside that was addressed to the Addison and Bailey families. The smaller box had a warning on its top not to open the box until they received a call from the man who had their daughters. Or else the Emmas would die.

  So, the box was under guard at the Addisons’ house, unopened for the time being. Along with officers from various law enforcement agencies helping with the task force.

  Gerald knew that ransom situations were a bitch. Some other countries, such as Mexico, had a well-practiced industry for kidnappings, ransoms and releases. But in the U.S., kidnappings by strangers which led to a ransom rarely ended well. Of course, they weren’t sure yet that the Snatcher didn’t have some unknown relationship to the Emmas.

  It was also true that often the kidnapper didn’t show up for a ransom drop. Often, the victim was already dead.

  Maybe not this time? They had to be optimistic.

  No, Gerald didn’t need an FBI profiler to know the Greenhead Snatcher was smart and careful. And the FBI still believed the Snatcher was working alone. No evidence to the contrary. So the money handoff would be the perfect time to grab the Snatcher when he couldn’t harm the girls.

  In other words, tonight was the night.

  “I agree about Flammia,” Gerald finally said. “Add him to the back burner. Hopefully, we’ll have our kidnapper in handcuffs before the night’s over.”

  Pepper was pretty excited to learn what Dennis Cole had found out. He arrived at Cole and Brad’s place, a small duplex on Cardinal Street, a few minutes before seven.

  He could see Cole’s red work truck with its large silver toolbox parked on the street. Cole had parked his Harley-Davidson bike in front of it. Pepper didn’t see Brad St. John’s old white van.

  Pepper waited in his truck until seven o’clock sharp. The news on the radio focused on the Greenhead Snatcher and a great white shark sighting by three surfers at Nauset Beach in Orleans, close to his location. The announcer said the sharks were there for the seals, not the people. Pepper wondered, Would sharks be that picky? Food was food…

  He wondered what tourists were thinking about Cape Cod since the Greenhead snatching had begun—that now it was dangerous in the water and on land?

  Pepper walked to the front door and rang the bell. He had the list of Emmas in his hand, a folded piece of paper.

  No answer.

  He rang again with the same result.

  He sat down on the front steps and waited. Maybe Cole was in the shower or something?

  Waited five minutes, rang again. Nothing.

  Pepper stretched and walked around the side of the building to check the backyard. He was grateful there wasn’t a dog, but he didn’t find Cole either. Hmm.

  Pepper returned to the front door and rang again. Still nothing. Then he tried the handle. It was unlocked. He poked in his head and yelled Cole’s name.

  Still no answer.

  Now fully annoyed, Pepper entered. But quickly stopped. A puddle of red liquid stained the hallway floor. More blood was splattered on the walls leading to the kitchen.

  Oh my God. Oh my God.

  It had to be blood. Was it from Dennis Cole? Or possibly… Brad St. John?

  Pepper knew enough about crime scenes to quickly and gingerly back out the front door. He pulled out his cell phone and called his dad. When his call dumped to voice mail, Pepper called again.

  Eventually, his dad picked up.

  Pepper told his dad the basics of what he’d found and his dad told him to wait outside. He did. He was sitting on the front steps when Fester Timmins jogged up the walkway a minute later.

  Damn. At least he was wearing black sweatpants and a polo shirt.

  The man froze when he saw Pepper. “Pepper Ryan, like a bad penny! What’re you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. You should take off if you don’t want to get caught up in a crime scene.”

  Timmins put on sunglasses he’d been carrying. “I was nearby and had my police scanner on when Dispatch put out this address. Lots of first responders inbound. I thought it might be part of the Snatcher crimes they’re trying to pin on my client.”

  Police sirens grew in the distance, and a minute later a marked patrol car slid to a stop at the curb. Officer Dooley hopped out, his red hair shining in the sunlight.

  Pepper wished he was anywhere else. Absolutely anywhere without a crime scene, police sirens and Fester Timmins.

  It didn’t help that his dad was on his way here too. What was he going to tell him? Did he have to mention all the information from the Greenhead Snatcher investigation he’d shared with Dennis Cole?

  Anywhere else…

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chief of Police Gerald Ryan arrived at the duplex on Cardinal Street with Detective Kevin Sweeney, a junior detective named Enid Musto, and two patrol officers.

  Pepper was waiting by the street, leaning against his truck. A man was with him.

  Officer Dooley was doing crowd control, keeping everyone back from the small duplex with its door standing wide open, but a small crowd had gathered to see what was going on and it kept inching forward.

  Fucking people. They swarm at any hint of blood, like blowflies.

  The patrol officers joined Dooley on crowd control and pushed everyone back, then began taping out a perimeter. The detectives went to the body and began their process. Enid Musto would be the lead detective on this crime scene, since Sweeney was flat out on the Greenhead Snatcher investigation. Musto would take charge, begin documenting the scene, and coordinate with the medical examiner.

  Gerald walked to his son. “Are you okay?”

  Pepper looked back at him blankly. He looked like he might be in shock.

  “It’s okay. Come over here, sit down.” Gerald gestured to the curb.

  His son sat, and Gerald sat beside him.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Pepper explained he was meeting a guy named Dennis Cole here at his place. Cole roomed with the leader of Pepper’s band, Brad St. John.

  But Cole didn’t answer the door. The door was unlocked, so Pepper went inside. He saw a ton of blood in the hallway and immediately stepped outside and called him.

  It amazed Gerald how calm his son sounded, telling the story.

  “Was anyone nearby who seemed suspicious?”

  “The house was empty and no one was outside. I didn’t see Brad’s van, but I texted him after I called you. He’s at his day job at the Taco Bell over in Hyannis. He sounded normal, and I didn’t tell him anything.”

  Good move, thought Gerald.

  “And when I came out, Fester Timmins showed up again.” Pepper pointed toward the guy who was still leaning against Pepper’s truck. “You may want to talk to him, find out why he’s always in the wrong place at the right time…”

  Gerald knew he shouldn’t be questioning his own son. He should have Pepper wait to talk to Musto—she was a solid, objective detective. Or at least have Eisenhower do it. Gerald couldn’t do the job properly, not with his own boy.

  “Pepper, what was really going on?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Why were you meeting up with Dennis Cole? Where do you know him from?”

  “Like I said, he’s Brad’s roommate. I met him at our gig at the Beachcomber on Thursday night. Dennis offered to help take our music to the next level. Do more original songs, get more exposure.”

  “Was he in the music business?”

  “Not really, but he claims to have lots of contacts.”

  “
So that’s why you came over here? To talk about music?”

  “Mostly, yeah.”

  Gerald had interviewed many people in his long career in law enforcement, so he knew Pepper was partially lying. Probably skipping some important details.

  Gerald started getting mad. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing to Pepper and unintentionally make things worse. Gerald knew he wasn’t good separating his cop and dad roles. But he was trying.

  I wish my kids were kids again, he thought, looking at Pepper’s pale face. An age with less real-world tragedy, less risk.

  Gerald was too good of a cop to dwell on that right now. “I need you to go down to the station,” he said. “I’ll call Eisenhower, ask him to take your formal statement.”

  “Okay, Dad. Thanks.”

  Gerald patted his son’s shoulder and got up to go inside to talk to Sweeney and Musto. “Oh, and Pepper? Don’t lie to Eisenhower like you just did to me, okay?”

  He turned and walked away to the duplex.

  Pepper’s mind was spinning as he drove to the police station. All that blood. Dennis Cole had to be dead, right?

  Shit, shit, shit.

  The truth was, Cole probably gotten killed because of tips Pepper fed to him. Cole must have been acting on his info, trying to nail the Greenhead Snatcher and get the big reward. What did he learn? What did he see? Did he actually figure out who was the Snatcher?

  And where the hell was Cole, dead or alive?

  So what could Pepper tell Lieutenant Eisenhower when giving his witness statement? Should he admit he gave Cole confidential information—info Pepper shouldn’t have had access to? That Cole was investigating the snatchings himself to earn the reward?

  Would Pepper be in even more trouble for not telling his dad earlier? His dad had seemed pissed off and looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Pepper hadn’t seen him at home much since the Emma Bailey snatching. He probably had only been catching quick naps, just enough to keep him on his feet. He was taking the case very personally, very hard. And now this new murder on top of it all.