by Luis Samways
‘Is he going to make it?’
‘They don’t know. Apparently it’s pretty bad. He’s in surgery now.’
One Hundred and One
Connor Chase sits on a crate looking at his hands. He turns his right palm up and he runs his finger across the groves.
‘No amount of water will get the blood off those hands,’ a voice says.
Eddie Smith walks out of the shadows, his daughter Crystal by his side.
Connor smiles as he gets himself up and dusts off his suit with his hands.
‘Good to see you Eddie.’ Chase shakes the DA’s hand.
‘Likewise, I take it you’ve met my daughter, Crystal,’ Eddie solemnly pats her shoulder.
‘We’ve met,’ Connor confirms. ‘Please sit. We have business to discuss.’
Crystal watches in shock as her father sits next to Connor.
‘What’s going on Dad? You said that you already paid him off. That’s why he let me go, right?’
Chase smiles as a distraught Crystal breathes heavily.
‘Haven’t you told her yet?’ Connor licks his lips.
‘Told me what?’ ‘Well, your daddy and I came to an arrangement a long time ago. This isn’t about ransom money, dear. This is about something a whole lot meatier.’
Crystal shakes as her breathing clouds the air with warm condensation. ‘What arrangement?’ ‘Shut up and sit the fuck down!’ Eddie orders.
Crystal begins to cry and nervously sits next to him. The crate cracks at the combined weight of the three of them. ‘So it worked?’ Eddie asks.
‘Of course it did. Your half has been wired to you. The idiots still do not even see it.’
‘I told you they wouldn’t. A few catastrophes and America forgets about everything else.’
‘The FBI did not even pick up on the hack.’
‘Too busy worrying about whether or not you were going to kill anyone else.’
Crystal shakes her head. ‘You had something to do with all this, Dad?’
Eddie looks at her. ‘If you mean we just walked away with half a billion each, then yeah, guilty. I did.’
Connor laughs hysterically.
‘One billion dollars from the Federal Reserve. We took it from right under their noses. Stupid bastards are clueless.’
‘All those people died. What about Jenifer, Dad?’
‘What about her?’
Crystal cries uncontrollably. The tears on her face glisten in the dim light of the warehouse.
‘You can have anything you want. You can buy everything you ever wanted. You can be whoever you want to be. Sometimes you lose people, sometimes, a lot of people. Collateral damage in a war is just that. Nothing less, nothing more.’
‘You can’t seriously think I would go along with this, Dad?’
‘Who said you have a choice?’ ‘Kidnapping your daughter and holding her at gunpoint is model fathering?’
Eddie gives Crystal a back handed slap.
‘Don’t talk to me about what a good father is. I have secured your future, a future that you would never have if it wasn’t for the sacrifices I have made.’
‘I don’t want the money.’
‘That’s too bad.’ Eddie pulls a gun out and presses it to Crystal’s head. She stares at him in shock as he pulls the hammer back.
‘Dad!’ she screams.
He pulls the trigger. The sound echoes through the desolate building and Eddie holsters his weapon.
Connor smiles ear to ear. ‘You definitely won’t win father of the year now.’ ‘She made her decision. So did I.’
‘I see.’ Connor stands and holds out his hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Eddie. I’m sure our paths will cross again’
‘I’m sure they will.’ Eddie shakes Connor’s hand. ‘Don’t spend all of it at once. There’s a world of opportunity out there.’
One Hundred & Two
Frank wakes to a beeping sound and tries to focus. He turns his head slightly and sees a monitor next to him. “87 BPM” it reads. To his right, he sees oxygen. He breathes deeply, inhaling clean air through his lungs.
There are tubes across his chest. His pulse rises as he realizes he is in the hospital. The fear turns to relief as he remembers what got him there.
A pain in his side gnaws at him and he reaches for the bandages.
He surveys the dark hospital room and he tries to get his bearings. He tries to remove the heart monitoring clips on his chest.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’ll attract the attention of the nurses. And I want this conversation to be private.’ The rusty male voice comes from near the door.
Frank squints and tries to make out who’s standing there.
The shadowy figure stays out of the light. The silhouette taps his finger on the door frame.
Frank tries to push himself to a seated position.
‘Save your strength, Frank. You have a long road to recovery. I know it’s hard to talk. Morphine will do that to you. I’m sure you’re quite aware of the way drugs can affect you,’ the familiar voice mocks.
A car’s headlights beam into the room’s window and the shadowy figure steps deeper into the shadows.
‘That was close! Anyway Frank, I’m going to let you get some rest.’ The shadow moves closer to the door. ‘But before I go, I wondered, Frank, if you could give me my thumb back.’
A Frank McKenzie seasonal short
25th of Dismember
Luis Samways
One
‘This is dispatch; we have a disturbance in downtown Boston. People are calling up saying that the Christmas tree has been tipped over and destroyed by masked men. No one is hurt, but assistance is required just in case they turn up again and give the witnesses hassle. Its most likely just kids being idiots, but you can’t be too sure,’ the ladies’ voice on the receiver says.
Officer Santiago reaches for the radio on the dashboard; his left hand grips the steering wheel of the patrol car with a firm hold, swerving slightly at the corner on 8th street.
‘Received Dispatch: Officer Santiago responding, ETA three minutes,’ he says as he clicks the receiver back into the slot on the dashboard. He reaches for the switch near his coffee holder. He flicks it on, the lights and sirens start to echo as he punches his foot down on the accelerator. Boston’s traffic is light but dense, it’s the sort of traffic that most capital cities have at around 7pm. The lingering line of cars swerve away for the patrolman as he ducks and dives through the usual assortment of family cars and SUV’s. He turns on 7th and reaches the scene. The crowd of onlookers are gawping at the fallen tree. It’s quite a sight officer Santiago thinks to himself. The massive Christmas tree looks unfestive as it lay on the floor on its side. The tree’s fairy lights are popping uncontrollably as the loose wiring from the decorations and lighting are touching the wintery wet floor. Santiago puts the car in park and reaches for his winter hat on the passenger seat. He eyeballs his reflection in the mirror above him. Fucking stupid hat he thinks to himself as he puts it on. The department forces the street patrolling officers to wear the winter hat because of the recent spate of stormy weather. Most of the officers in the department don’t like the idea of wearing a police man’s hat with plastic sheeting over it. He thinks, like the others that it makes them look like pussies. “What’s wrong Mr Police man, a little nippy out here, you need that hat because you’re scared of the weather?” Santiago laughs to himself. Someone actually said that to him not more than four hours ago when he was attending a domestic. He still slammed the cuffs on that asshole. It’s the little wins that count: motto of the precinct.
Santiago gets out of the Patrol car to be greeted with a wall of frost as the winter weather bites at his face. The crowd of on looking people turn around at the sound of the cruisers car door swinging shut. A few give him a grim look; others just turn their heads back and intently stare at the toppled over tree. What’s so fascinating about a tree? He thinks to himself as he reac
hes the crammed circle of humanity surrounding the fell lumber.
‘Okay people get moving. It’s just a damn Christmas tree’
A woman in the crowd a few feet in front of him turns around with tears in her eyes. She grabs Officer Santiago by the sleeve and rattles his arm earnestly.
‘Why would someone do something like this? It’s Christmas for Christ’s sake,’ the middle aged lady whimpers.
Officer Santiago looks on at the crying lady as he tries to work out what’s going on. He reaches for his torch and gently pushes his way through the crowd. He finally reaches the fallen tree and scans the area with the torches’ beam. He sees a Christmas gift box with its lid hanging off its side. The decorative tinsel that was once around the box is now strewn all over the floor. He slowly makes his way towards the box. He flashes the light in the gap between the lid. His stomach churns at what he sees.
Two
‘You can’t go yet Mr McKenzie. We have some final tests to do before you are discharged,’ the nurse says as she unstraps the blood pressure strap off Frank’s arm with her crow like fingers.
‘I’m telling you I feel fine. I’ve been cooped up in this room for two months, I haven’t died yet. So please could you just cut the bullshit and let me go?’
The nurse raises her eyebrow at the outspoken detective.
‘That sort of language is uncalled for Mr McKenzie.’
‘I beg to differ,’ snarls Frank as he rubs his arm raw trying to get the feeling back in.
‘You will be released when we finish the tests. We don’t want you to collapse on the job.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be going back for a while. I want to get Christmas out of the way before returning to the department.’
‘I think that’s a good idea. But knowing you, I doubt you’ll be able to resist the urge.’
‘What urge?’
‘To solve crimes.’
‘Ha!’ Frank laughs as he gets up and stretches out, reaching for the halogen lighting attached to the cream ceiling of the narrow room.
‘Speaking of urges Frank, do I need to remind you that those pills you took before coming into hospital were not doing you any good?’ asks the nurse while scrolling her finger down the chart on her clipboard.
‘Veratril is it?’ She ponders
Frank rolls his eyes at the nagging nurse.
‘What I do to my body is my business lady.’
‘Yes…true, but I’m sure your insurance wouldn’t want you to carry on taking the pills. They did tell us that if you come in again and we find any trace element of the drug in your system then they won’t pay out. Not to mention the department does not look on favourably at detectives who self-medicate.’
‘Yeah I’m sure they don’t,’ Frank says bluntly
He scratches his head while looking out at the Boston skyline. His thoughts run away with the wind while the nurse clears up her procedural instruments. Frank turns around to see the nurse leave the room with her rolling cart of medicine. He walks on over to the bed and sits down. Resting his head on his hands as stares at the slick floor of his hospital room. He snaps out of his daze and reaches for the draw, pulling out his badge and gun. He looks at the shield and blows hot air on to it. The condensation spreads across the metallic sheen of the shield. He pinches his sleeve and starts buffing the metal.
He stops and admires his work, chucking the shield to the side as he continues looking at the floor. How long is this going to take? He thinks to himself.
Three
‘I heard he was coming back today,’ Chief Shaw says while taking a sip of his scolding hot coffee.
Commissioner Alvarez looks on in curiosity. He gets up from his seat and joins the Chief at the coffee counter. He grabs the kettle and pours himself some hot water. Snapping the plastic kettle back into place he grabs a sachet of coffee and sugar, tearing both at the same time with his teeth. He pours the sachets in one sweeping motion and stirs the plastic cup until it looks half drinkable.
‘Tastes like shit Sir, that I do know.’ Shaw laughs while taking another sip of his murky black coffee.
‘What do you mean you heard he was coming back?’ Alvarez finally says as he looks at the chief over the plastic rim of the cheap cup as he swigs another sip.
‘I just did’
‘But who told you?’
‘You know…people’
‘I’m afraid I’m going to need more then that Chief.’
Shaw looks on at Alvarez as he carries on prying him for information. His eyes dart from Shaw’s bulk to his sweaty round face. The chief didn’t like his boss’s sense of entitlement. It was extremely common for the two of them to butt heads during certain situations. Most of those situations nearly always involved Frank McKenzie.
‘Like I said Sir, it’s just office talk, nothing more, nothing less. I can’t honestly remember who first said he was coming back, but it seems everyone is saying it now, so I don’t know what to tell you exactly.’
Commissioner Alvarez puts down his blazing beaker like cup of coffee, the scolding inferno hissed when it hit the damp surface of the worktop. Alvarez smooth’s down his hair and pats himself down. His immaculate appearance clashes with the damp setting of the newly refurbished Boston PD precinct. Throughout the whole building, the place resembles a building site. It’s chock-a-block full with officers of the law and workers of the brick. Plasterers, electricians, and builders work day and night trying to fix the recently decommissioned building. Nearly every piece of furniture and fixture was replaced after the Chase bombing. Alvarez takes out his Wild West style pocket watch and looks at the time. Chief Shaw looks on in contempt at the grandeur that the Commissioner seems to imply on a daily basis.
‘Well if you’re not going to tell me Chief, then I suppose someone else will,’ Alvarez calmly says while checking the time on his pocket watch, as if he was timing the responses from the Irish Chief of police.
‘Like I said Sir, I don’t know who said it. I can assure you though that if he does come back, I’ll keep an eye on him.’
The Mexican Commissioner smiles a wide angled taut grin.
‘No, you don’t have to Chief because if Frank McKenzie sets one foot in here, I’ll be the one keeping tabs on him. This is way beyond you now; this is between me and him’
Four
‘Please don’t hurt me!’ The bound up blonde woman screams as the machete wielding man strides out of the shadows. His tall and slender frame is disguised from all distinguishing marks as the black darkness of the room engulfs him. The flickering lights from the candles on the floor lighten the sharp metal blade as the man moves ever closer to the young tied up blonde. Her arms are stretched over her head as she hangs from the chain link rope like restraints. Her wrists are red raw as the friction from the brass braces grip her petite arms and gnaw at her fragile skin.
She’s been tied up for a good while, at least three days by her estimation. He keeps the rest of them locked up in separate cells, at least ten other girls. She knows they are underground, but she can’t be sure to whereabouts underground she is. Could be New York State, could be the surrounding cities. It could even be down south for all she knows. The area she’s been tied up in for a few days is dark and clutterless. The restraints she’s hanging from is the only large structure in the darkened room as if it were built specifically for keeping people captive, like an 1800’s Victorian dungeon. She was far gone, but not far gone enough to realize that she wasn’t in England. So that theory was out of the window. When she was snatched she was jogging the riverfront in Boston, then suddenly she was attacked. She remained awake throughout the whole ordeal. She was grabbed, thrown into a van, blind folded and driven for twenty minutes, then taken to a sewer grate where she was dropped in and left there for a few hours. Then the man returned and dragged her through the grimy underground catacombs to the place she is tied up in now. So England is unquestionably out of the equation, so is down south. She must still be in Boston.
&n
bsp; The sparsely placed candles on the floor surround her like a burning circle. The heat from the tea light candles brushes her skin as she sweats, the droplets of sweat drip to the floor, making the lights flicker. He steps closer, still wielding the brunt of the machete with his thick hands. His face is illuminated in the dim light. A scar rides across his cheek. He smiles, stretching the torn scar from left to right, like a second pair of lips. His eyes glow in the dark. A hint of green penetrates his face as he opens his mouth and licks his cracked lips. The blond girl screams as she sees his overly long tongue salivate and drip as he gets even close to her. She thumps her legs against the vertical pole, trying to escape his grip. He sniffs her neck, running his branch like finger down her soft face. Her tears hit his fingers as she cries. He grabs her by the neck, squeezing hard, his grip presses down on her throat. She tries to scream, but nothing comes out. He lets go, she gasps for air. The man looks her up and down, still gripping his heavy machete. He sees her jogging bottoms and grabs her muscular leg. She screams once more but this time she feels as if there is no air left in the room. She’s panicking at what this man might do to her. He lets go and walks on backwards, still facing her, he disappears into the shadows. She sighs as she hears his footsteps disappear.
The room is dead quite. No light, no sound, nothing. She looks around, surveying the area. No escape root, no way of getting her down from the restraints. She hears something. Maybe it’s a mouse she thinks. Her neck remains taut as she struggles to see into the dark misty atmosphere. She squints and sees black, her vision blurs as she tries to refocus. Before she can, the machete wielding man pops out of the shadows with the blade held high. She attempts to plea for her life, but it’s over in a matter of seconds as the sharp machete reaches her and slices her neck wide open. She convulses as the restraints rattle to her last dying movements. The man admires his work and looks at her withering pupils. Running his finger across the bloodied blade, he pops his blood covered finger in his mouth, tasting the fresh kill. His eyes roll back into his head as thinks about what comes next. The last thing the blonde girl see’s before she passes is another swing of the machete as the man gets down to finishing the job.
