by Saul, Jonas
“How well did you know Nick and Lee, the two relievers?”
“Like I know most of the other agents. They’re there. I see them once in a while.”
“Get on the phone and call whoever’s performing the autopsy or whoever’s at the morgue where Nick and Lee are right now.”
“What? Why? It’s almost midnight.”
“I want to find out if we can reenact the fight from the external features of the bodies. I think I have something here.”
Carson pulled his phone out. “I’m lost. I don’t know where you’re going with this. Help me out and I’ll make the call.”
Greg clasped his hands together on the table and stared at them. “Listen to what I have to say before you stop me. Deal?”
Carson nodded and took a seat opposite Greg at the table.
“My guess is the three on duty were here all night and they had an uneventful evening.”
Carson nodded.
“Then the two relievers show and breakfast is being made. Lee is out at the gate and holds his weapon on the agent posted there while Nick beats him and strangles him. They come into the house without pause and do the same to the agent on the inside. Two dead. That leaves one out securing the perimeter. Nick stays in the kitchen to guard the Kostas while Lee goes outside to kill the last guy. That’s why you have only Lee’s knuckles bruised up and the three night shift guys are beaten and then strangled.”
“How do you know that Darwin didn’t do all the beatings?”
“Because you’re a good detective. One of the best. Am I right?”
“Stop playing with me. Tell it straight.”
“I figured you’re so good that when you interviewed that motel clerk, you would’ve found out that when the clerk met the Kostas only hours before, the clerk would’ve seen how badly bruised Darwin’s knuckles were. Or someone would’ve mentioned it at the Mobil gas station where the other incident took place. Since I’ve heard nothing of Darwin being in a fight and it didn’t look like the three night-shift guys put up a fight, I deduced that he didn’t beat and kill the three on duty.”
Carson sat back in his chair. He didn’t want to believe it, but it could be possible. “So then what happened here in the kitchen? How did Darwin get the jump on Nick? He was a trained federal agent.”
“First, let me tell you a little about Darwin. He has a few phobias. These phobias cause an odd reaction in him. Because he has a highly developed sense of fear due to the phobias, he has learned over the years to despise fear.”
“You’re talking in circles.”
“Okay, I’ll give you an example. Say he’s threatened. A threat causes fear. Because he hates fear, has lived under it for more than half of his life, he does whatever he can to eradicate that threat as fast as he can because he will not live with a threat over his head.”
“We all do that.”
“Not quite like Darwin,” Greg said, waving his index finger back and forth. “One of his phobias is knives and sharp things. If you pull a knife on Darwin, he doesn’t just see red, he doesn’t just get angry or feel a natural sense of self-preservation. He feels a rage akin to splitting an atom and he acts on it without thinking. He removes the knife and its holder from his life with extreme prejudice.”
“Are you saying Nick pulled a knife on Darwin, and Darwin wrestled it from him and stabbed Nick? Because that didn’t happen. We have a recording of the kitchen stabbing.”
“No. I’m saying that they were being held against their will and Rosina knocked the knife set over so a knife would fall and land on Darwin, turning him into the killing machine that she knows he is when presented with one of his phobias.”
Carson raised his eyebrows. “And you believe this?”
“Absolutely. I was in Rome. I saw what he did in the Fuccini building, by himself with no backup. The Harvester of Sorrow had a long blade. He’s dead now. The two guys that picked him up at the Rome airport were almost torn in half. I saw what he did in Toronto, too.”
“That is all the more reason we need to get this maniac off the streets.”
“You’re misunderstanding. He’s a soft, happy, polite Canadian boy. There’s nothing dangerous about him, unless you pull a knife and threaten him or his wife. It’s really what you’d expect of any citizen, except Darwin is faster, stronger, and more out of control when in a rage.”
With too much to digest, Carson leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor where Nick bled out. He knew it made sense, but he couldn’t believe Nick and Lee went rogue.
“That would mean that someone was paying two agents,” Carson said. “Two good men were on the take. And if that was the case, then who could have that much money? Who could have that much clout? And what about Bob Freska, shot in the head and tied to the front of his car?”
“Whoever paid to have Darwin taken care of grabbed Darwin from Bob and made his death appear to be Darwin’s handiwork.”
“What about the gas station?” Carson asked. “We have him on security cameras stealing food and a truck.”
“I would be hungry too if my potential kidnapper entered my home and sat down to eat the french toast that my wife had just prepared for me. They’re scared. They were hungry. They stole the truck to get away fast. Look where they checked in—a couple miles away and then ditched the truck. They aren’t on the run. I’m sure Darwin wants to find out who is behind all this as much as you do.”
“Correction,” Carson said, raising his hand. “I just want Darwin. He’ll be able to answer all my questions.”
“Make that call. Find somebody to check Lee Michaels’ body for signs of a struggle. If he was the only one beating people and Darwin’s hands are clean, then he’s the one who beat his fellow agents.”
Carson grunted and started dialing. It took him ten minutes to get through to the medical examiner.
“Working late?” Carson asked.
“Yeah. Too many dead people. Do something about that, will you, Carson?”
“I’m trying, I’m trying. Listen, I need you to do me a favor.”
“What is it?”
“Pull the bodies of John Simmons, Don Ouellette and David Baron. I need you to look at something for me.”
“Their autopsies haven’t been completed yet.”
“I just need you to confirm something for me.”
“Give me a minute.”
Carson held the phone away from his ear. “He’s going in now.”
Greg nodded and looked back at his hands.
“Okay,” the medical examiner said. “I’m here. I’ve got all three rolled out of their holes. What do you want me to look at?”
“Their hands. Tell me if you see any sign of a struggle. Is there any skin under their nails? Did they put up a fight?”
“Give me a sec.”
Carson waited patiently, hoping Greg’s theory didn’t pan out. The last thing Carson wanted was to believe that two agents were rogue.
“There’s nothing on John Simmons’ hands. Moving to Don Ouellette’s.”
Carson could hear the slab being rolled back into place. He waited.
“Nothing at all on Don’s hands but a little dirt. Normal though.”
“Okay, last one,” Carson said. “David Baron.”
Carson looked at Greg who sat staring at him from across the table.
“Nothing on the first two men,” he said.
Greg nodded. “It’ll be this guy. My guess is Nick was alone in the kitchen and killed here. Lee went out alone to take care of David and left Nick to guard the Kostas. If there’s anything to find, it’ll be on the agent who didn’t have Nick holding a weapon on him.”
“Carson?” the medical examiner asked.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Strange. There’s no blood or skin under his nails.”
I knew it.
“But there’s a few flecks of plastic. Like you find on those fake leather jackets. And two of his nails have recently been broke
n. By recently, I mean within twelve hours of time of death. Without a full autopsy report, I can’t confirm anything. But it does look like he struggled with someone before he died.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll swing by in a couple days to see what you find in the autopsy.”
Carson hung up and turned to Greg. “He found flecks of plastic under David’s fingernails and evidence of a struggle based on the condition of the fingers.”
“What was Lee wearing when he was found?”
“An imitation leather jacket. We’d have to confirm the state of the jacket.”
Greg sat back in his chair.
“Doesn’t prove anything,” Carson said.
“No, but it offers doubt, the kind that’s beyond reasonable.”
Chapter 11
The jolt woke him. Something banged around him. He heard it again and felt the pain. It rushed him like a strong wind.
He moaned and rolled to his side. His movement was restricted. He opened his eyes and saw nothing.
Am I blind? No, that’s not possible. I can’t be blind. I have a fear of the dark. I could never live like that.
He touched what stopped him from rolling over. A wall, only inches from his face, but he couldn’t see it.
Frantically, he roamed his hands along the wall and felt where it started and stopped. The sides were small, the top and bottom wider.
A coffin.
The pine boxes Gambino had his men prepare for the Hernandez family.
He moaned and tried to calm his breathing.
If I’m in a pine box, that means they’re going to bury me in that cemetery across the street. Unless I’m already buried. How am I still alive after getting shot?
He touched his forehead. There was a large bump between his eyes, just above where the top of his nose met his eyebrows. He felt a slight pain in his chest where the other bullet hit.
Rubber bullets.
He’d recently seen them used on protestors at the occupied cities around the globe. But why use rubber bullets? Why not just kill him outright?
So I could be buried alive and die six feet under the ground.
He realized that shooting him would’ve been too easy.
“Help,” he shouted. With his fists, he banged both sides of the makeshift coffin and shouted again. “Someone! Help!”
The echo of his words was dulled by the thickness of the earth.
Am I already underground?
He grabbed the top of the box and searched for holes. In the middle of the lid, above his stomach, he felt a small slit where the wood had warped. His little finger slid through the opening. If he was in a building or outside, somewhere with even a small amount of light, he would see it through the hole.
Shit. I’m already in the ground.
Darwin screamed. His bladder released and warm urine filled his shorts. He broke out in a sweat, and pounded his fists against the top of the coffin. Within a minute he was worn out and fatigued.
“Oh, Rosina … my love. I’m so sorry … I failed you,” he mumbled through breaths.
I can’t believe after all I’ve been through that I’m going to die in a pine box, buried alive by Fuccini’s enemy.
“What are they doing to you, Rosina?”
He thought about oxygen. A quick calculation figured the area of the box to be small. Enough oxygen for a couple of hours.
I’ll starve for air before I’ll starve for lack of food.
He kicked his foot against the back of the box. Dirt dribbled down along his ankle.
Darwin cried.
His hand came up to wipe away the sweat from his face and the collected tears.
“Why?” he asked out loud. “Oh, God, please help me here. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
Something came to him from his Sunday school days when he was a kid.
God helps those that help themselves.
He felt in his pockets. He had no wallet, no keys, no flashlight and no cell phone. Even if he had a lighter or a match, he wouldn’t want to use it due to the oxygen it would consume.
The darkness felt heavy, like it crept closer, tightening its grip on his breathing tubes.
“Get control of yourself, Darwin. Think, dammit, think. The dark can’t hurt you anymore.”
He laid his hands down beside him and focused on his breathing.
Slow the breathing. Take it easy. Rosina needs me. I can do this.
“But how?”
Darwin breathed slower and tried not to think about the darkness. He was not doing a good job of it.
I have to put my rage to work.
The dirt above the coffin would have recently been replaced. Since he was still alive, and he figured the coffin would only have enough air for a couple hours, then he had been buried recently.
Maybe that was what woke me.
A backhoe could’ve dropped the dirt onto the top of the coffin in a clump. The rest of it could’ve been shoveled on by the machine.
So I’ve got a good hour of thinking to work this out.
He knew the general depth was six feet deep. He figured the Gambino men to be lazy and cut corners, so he may not be as deep, but worst case, it would be six feet.
That meant, since he was five foot, eleven inches tall, he could reach above the grass if he could get into a standing position and raise his hands above his head.
But how do I stand with all this dirt above me?
Displacement.
Eureka!
Science class in grade nine talked about displacement. He had to displace as much dirt as he could.
Just like they did when building that tunnel in The Great Escape.
He figured he had just over six feet in length and two feet in height inside the pine box. If every inch inside the box took the dirt above it, he could have a chance of standing and then digging himself out of the ground.
It could work. But how do I breathe when my head is above the box and in the dirt?
Then a beer commercial from many years ago came to him.
I. Am. Canadian.
Just like a hockey fight, he would raise his extra large T-shirt over his head where he would tie the sleeves together as tight as he could to form a seal.
He kicked the top again. More dirt cascaded down.
I can either stay here and die, or I can try to make this work and unbury myself. Option one is I die. Option two is I die trying. The benefit of option two is, if it works, I can kill the motherfucker who put me here.
He kicked again, harder this time.
He realized that the weight of all the earth above him could be huge. If he broke a large piece of wood off, in seconds he could be smothered and not able to move. He had to work slow and displace bits of dirt at a time, but yet work fast enough to get it done before the oxygen ran out.
He grabbed the warped piece of wood by his stomach and applied pressure.
Then he waited and listened. He heard nothing above him. The only thing he could hear in the absolute darkness was the beating of his heart.
His fear crept up again. The fear of being locked in a dark room when he was a child. His stepmother came in and poked him with the tips of steak knives and large syringes. For a moment his vision filled with the image of the pitchfork. He saw lights where there were none. He heard a voice.
“Rosina?”
The voice of his stepmother intruded. She told him how horrible he’d been and that dinner wasn’t a place for jokey jokes. Now that his father had gone to work, it was her job to teach him what was right and what was wrong.
He felt the sharp edge of a blade and screamed. The darkness called his name.
Daaarrrwiiinnn …
He wondered if he was losing his mind. Could someone be so consumed by fear that he dies by the flooding of insanity? Or would being in a coffin, buried alive, rid him of his fear of the dark?
He shuffled left and right and felt dirt under him.
“I have to get out. I can’t stay here. I will go insane bef
ore I run out of air. I have to get out. Now. It’s time. I have to leave this place. I have to get out.”
He grabbed the warped edge of wood and pulled.
A piece broke off and dirt poured in. He touched the hole and figured it to be the size of a baseball.
