Rage: The Reckoning
Page 23
“I want to take a run at Randy, find out where he was last night. And the night Dushku died, for that matter.”
Sarah was about to dismiss his request when it occurred to her that she might be passing on an opportunity to evaluate John’s abilities in a low risk scenario. She might need him for more important things over the course of the investigation and it might not be a bad idea to see him in action first.
“Sorry, hotshot,” she said, playing hard to get. “He’s mine.”
“Detective, I know you don’t know me, but believe me, I’ve got experience with guys like this. He’s probably going to be more likely to talk to a man than a woman, I’m sure you’ve heard how he treats his girlfriend.”
Of course Sarah knew, she just didn’t want to give in too easily. Better that he should feel indebted to her and owe her a favor should she need it. “If that’s the case, one of my guys will do it.”
John wasn’t about to let it go either, it was obvious that he was hell bent on confronting their suspect and if they hadn’t been parked there watching the house, he’d be on their front doorstep at this very moment. She was going to have to keep an eye on him.
“I’ll think it over, officer Stevens. But for the record, if you lay so much as a finger on Randy Boyd, I’ll make a case with the civil liberties board and frag your ass. In the meantime, you might like to look at this.”
Sarah handed him the file she had put together on Randy Boyd.
He opened it and began scanning the pages, “What am I looking for?”
“Oh, it’s just the highlights, you know . . . harassment, simple assault, assault with intent, possession of a controlled substance. What you’re looking for is under known associates.”
She gave him a minute to find the right page before he let out a sigh, signifying that he’d seen the name.
He said, “Robert White.”
Sarah nodded, “Apparently, Mr. Boyd over there has been moving product for his father and his uncle, who I’m told you’ve already met.”
“We’ve met.”
“What you might not see there is that our friend Randy has recruited a couple of friends to assist him in the distribution of said product.”
“Robert White,” John said, handing back the file.
Sarah saw something in his expression that, in her experience, meant he was holding something back or trying to decide whether or not to tell her. “Officer Stevens, you have something to say?”
“My son said that one of the boys that were after him was named Bob, he couldn’t remember his last name. I never made the connection until now.”
“Well,” Sarah said, pointedly, “that’s one less bully for him to worry about.”
John ignored the remark and reached for the door handle. “Captain McLeary and I will see you at the station in the morning?”
“Think you can keep it in your holster until then?”
From the back seat, John nodded once and climbed out of the vehicle, closing the door softly behind him, and then he was gone. A few seconds later, she caught a glimpse of his outline as he passed under a street light at the end of the block.
“What do you think he was really doing out here, Darcy?”
“Hard to say. You heard about the Bryan Walsh thing, right?”
Sarah nodded again, “I heard he got his partner shot and then he shot a suspect in the balls.”
“Actually, I think he blew his dick off. I also heard the suspect was in the middle of murdering two people when Stevens shot him.”
That was one way of looking at it, perhaps one way she hadn’t thought of. Clearly, John Stevens didn’t like bullies. Maybe he was just the pit-bull he needed to sick on Randy Boyd. After all, if what she’d learned tonight was true then Boyd had assaulted John’s son and if pressure needed to be applied, he might be just the right person to do the dirty work.
But she intended to keep this particular dog on a VERY short leash.
Twenty-nine
The entire town was looking for him. People were locking their doors for the first time in years, businesses were closing early and residents were suddenly suspicious of their neighbors. The media was fueling their paranoia like kerosene on an open fire, partly due to comparisons that were being made to men like Paul Bernardo and Michael Rafferty and former Army Colonel Russell Williams.
The Decider considered the suggestion preposterous with the possible exception of the latter. Williams had been a true hunter, just like he was. But like so many before them, he had gotten sloppy. When the police had searched his home, they’d found the underwear of his victims along with hundreds more. His computer was laden with thousands of photographs that Williams had taken of his crimes and his victims.
Hard to believe that a man as intelligent and strong as Williams could have been so stupid.
The Decider didn’t make mistakes like that. If he had been discovered at that very moment, the police could tear his life apart and never find a shred of evidence of any crimes he’d committed. His first four kills had been a little sloppy, but he’d perfected his techniques since then. Now he was the perfect killing machine, methodical, even obsessive in his planning. The Decider didn’t act until his instincts told him that the time was right, until then he was like a trap door spider, listening to the scuttling insects over his lair, totally unaware of the lethal predator lying in wait beneath their feet. But now, people were already beginning to relax a little, fooling themselves into thinking that forty uniformed cops could actually protect them.
The things they allowed themselves to believe.
The Decider would educate them all. He’d continue to stalk his prey, going where he pleased as it pleased him despite the heightened police presence. None of them would ever see him. He would move like water moves through the oceans, swallowing the souls of the weak and leaving their corpses in his wake. Nothing could stop him now.
Already, his next three kills were ready to be carried out the instant the time arrived and, for his next target, that time was very close indeed. Though his target was hardly worthy of a death by the Decider’s hand, the kill was necessary in the grander scheme of things. The act would serve a greater purpose than the mere satisfaction of the act itself and would further reinforce the direction that the police were taking in the investigation, shifting the blame onto someone specific, thereby lulling Ratcliff into a false sense of relief.
Then he’d kill at least three others . . . possibly more if the twat who was trying to catch him got too close, then he’d sit back and watch the town implode.
In the meantime, he continued to watch and wait. The fire inside him was beginning to rage, his hate for the insects standing on his trap door tormenting him so that he could hardly sleep. In less than a day, on the very first night of the newly imposed curfew, he would show them all just how safe they really were.
Nothing could stop him now.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2014 Christopher Page
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Christopher Page@ChrisPageBooks