Black Coral

by Andrew Mayne

  I fire my gun . . . the one from under the couch cushion.

  He spins to the side, his shoulder spraying blood.

  I was aiming for his head, but I’m still groggy.

  He throws the knife at me and rushes past me, almost over me, heading for the back of the house.

  I’m forced to raise my arms to stop the blade from hitting my face. Instead it slices into my arm. Deep.

  I fire a wild shot after him and shatter the sliding glass door, which he runs through. As I follow, the night air rushes in, reviving me. I fire into the dark at his retreating figure.

  “Sloan?” Hughes calls out as he emerges from the panic room, hauling George over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

  “Get him outside!” I yell back as I chase after Dunn, who turns into the space between my house and Hughes’s and runs for the street. I keep pace but feel weak, blood pouring down my arm now. I would take a shot, but I’m afraid at this distance it would go wild and hit someone in their home.

  At the street, he turns again and runs for a pickup truck. He gets inside, and the lights go on. The keys were probably already in the ignition.

  The truck’s moving, straight at me.

  I drop to my knee, aim, and fire. First I hit the engine block; then I hit the front tires.

  The second tire blows out as I jump to the side. The truck hurtles past me, out of control on its suddenly flat tire, and crashes into an electrical utility box.

  There’s a popping sound and a blue flash. All the lights in the neighborhood blink out.

  I fire at a shadow in the flash of light, then collapse in a pool of my own blood.

  Footsteps come from behind. I don’t shoot.

  It’s Hughes, looking down at me.

  The darkness finally takes me under.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  HIDEAWAY

  The paramedics want to take me to the hospital, but I insist they use the skin stapler here instead. I’m not going anywhere until the killer’s found.

  Stephen Dunn is on the run. His truck is smashed and fried, and the blood splatter from the shoulder wound tells us that he fled on foot. But the blood trail ends almost immediately, so we can’t tell which direction he went.

  George is talking to the Broward sheriff’s detectives about the search while Hughes keeps an eye on me.

  Overhead, a helicopter sends its powerful searchlights into backyards while K-9 units prowl the neighborhood, seeking his scent.

  It’s still dark. The only lights are the helicopter’s beams and the blue-and-red wash of the police cars’ lights. People step out from their homes, only to be told to go back inside by deputies on megaphones.

  Is it better for them to be huddled inside in the dark? Or outdoors? Dunn could easily be in one of their homes.

  “We really should stitch that up,” says the woman treating my arm. “It’s going to scar.”

  “Think I give a fuck?” I growl. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

  Her brown eyes look back at me with kindness. “Not needed. Us tough bitches have to stick together.” She tilts her head back toward the smoking truck. “I hope you shot his balls off.”

  I look to Hughes, who’s shaking his head, red in the face. “Sloan . . . I’m so—”

  “If you say the word sorry, I’m gonna punch you in the dick. Understand? You said we needed more people. You were right. George didn’t want me to act as bait. He was right. Want to blame someone, blame me. But let’s find this asshole first.”

  “Maybe you should sit down a little while longer,” says the EMT.

  I glare at her.

  “Okay. I’ll be here.”

  “Where’s my gun?” I ask Hughes.

  “Forensics has it.”

  “Already? Do they realize that we’re in the middle of something?”

  “Here.” He hands me my sneakers, jeans, and socks. “Put these on first, then I’ll give you my backup.”

  I throw the socks aside and slide the jeans over my shorts and put the shoes on. Hughes hands me the snub-nosed service revolver he keeps strapped to his ankle. “This okay?”

  “Thanks.” I check the gun, then tuck it into my waistband. “Let’s talk to George.”

  He’s in a huddle with a major as they look down at a map of the area. Two captains are also standing by, listening.

  “You said you got him in the left shoulder?” asks Major Dane, a tall woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “Yeah. I think I may have hit him coming out of the vehicle too. But he could’ve been wearing body armor.”

  “He has to be,” she says. “We pulled black overalls from the canal down the street. He stripped them off to throw the dogs off his scent.” She points to her sternum. “There was a bullet hole right here. Good shot.”

  “Should have aimed higher,” I reply.

  “Yeah, well, you’re alive, they’re alive,” she says, nodding to George and Hughes. “It could have turned out worse.”

  “The night is young,” I say.

  “Sunrise is in thirty minutes,” she fires back. “You should go home.” She glances at my arm. “Or to the hospital.”

  “I’ll stay until we get him.”

  “McPherson,” says George. “Maybe—”

  “Maybe we should all focus on catching this asshole.”

  “Okay . . .”

  I raise a hand. “If you say sorry about anything, I’ll punch you in the dick too.”

  “Your unit is, um, interesting,” says Major Dane. She returns her attention to the map. “We’ve gone house to house to every place on this block. The dogs lost the scent up here.” She puts a finger on the map to show me. “We’re extending the search area out to here and blocking all traffic. People will complain because they’ll be heading to work, but we plan to search their cars and let them through one by one.”

  I check my watch. He bailed out of his vehicle forty minutes ago. The critical time to catch him has already passed. If he grabbed someone and had them drive, he could be anywhere now.

  Sensing what I’m thinking, she adds, “We’re already handing out the photo you guys gave us. That plus the security camera footage. It’ll be all over the morning news. We’ll get him.”

  Probably, but I don’t want him killing anyone between now and then. Unfortunately, that happens a lot on manhunts. When cornered, murderers tend not to care who they hurt. If they ever did.

  “Okay,” I say and start walking down the street.

  “Where is she going?” asks Major Dane.

  Hughes catches up with me. “What’s the plan?”

  “Checking the houses again.”

  “They have it covered.”

  I death stare him. “Does it feel like anybody has anything fucking covered right now?”

  “Okay. We’ll check ’em again.”

  I go up to the house closest to where Dunn ditched the overalls and knock. A man comes to the door, rocking a baby in his arms.

  “Is it safe yet?” he asks.

  “Not yet. Mind if we have a look around while you step outside?” I ask.

  “Sure. Want me to get my wife up?”

  “No, that’s okay.” I stick my head inside and glance around. “We’re good. Thank you.”

  “That was helpful,” says Hughes.

  “Did he seem distressed or afraid?”

  He shakes his head.

  “It’ll have to do. We don’t have time to search every house.”

  I knock on the next door. An older woman in a bathrobe answers. Her husband is standing next to her. She has her phone in her hand.

  “What’s going on? Did they catch him? Are they going to turn the lights on?”

  “Not yet. Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yes. When can we let our dog out?”

  “Just wait. And let the police know if you see anything.”

  I knock on six more doors, and the interactions are the same. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but no one seems afraid to
leave their house in my presence or to let me have a look inside.

  Hughes and I reach the intersection at the end of the block. The helicopter is in the distance, and the K-9 units have moved farther out by now. I stare down the street in both directions, deciding which way to go.

  “He could have stolen a car,” says Hughes. “Or kidnapped someone.”

  “I know. But nobody’s reported anything.” I stop and think. “They found the overalls in the water?”

  “Marine Patrol’s already on the water, looking.”

  “Okay.” Which way? I clutch my hand to my left shoulder. “This way,” I say, turning to my right.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Animals move away from the site of an injury. I shot him back there. When he reached here, going left or straight would have felt more vulnerable.”

  “Is that a real thing?” asks Hughes, hurrying to keep up with me.

  We walk up the steps to a house. An older man answers the door, holding a cup of coffee. “Is it safe to come out?” he asks.

  “Not yet. Is everything okay here?”

  “Yes. My wife is sleeping. We’re fine.”

  “Mind if we look around?”

  “Sure.” He opens the door wide.

  “That’s okay,” I reply. “We might come back in a couple minutes for a witness statement.”

  “All right,” he says and shuts the door.

  Hughes and I walk to the next house. I reach my hand to the door and pretend to knock. “Did he seem odd?” I ask.

  “A little.”

  “Notice the coffee cup?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The power’s been off for an hour. He’s not drinking a fresh cup. Also, no barking from the dog.”

  “What dog? Maybe they don’t have a dog.”

  “The hair on his pants says otherwise. Stay here. Keep an eye on the front. I’m going around.”

  “Sloan,” he says under his breath.

  But it’s too late. I go all the way around this house, then backtrack through the yard and over to a small fence that borders the old man’s backyard. The moment I lean over the fence, I can tell something’s wrong. The whole backyard smells like dog. There’s even a big dog door on the back door.

  I carefully climb over the fence, hoping that Steve’s attention is on the front windows. I should tell Hughes to call for backup, but I’m worried about the man and his wife. The only thing worse than a hostage situation is one where the suspect knows the cops are outside. Right now, I have the edge.

  I think.

  I step through the grass, placing my feet on the garden stones, trying to keep from making a sound. When I get to the patio, I have to step over palm fronds to avoid crunching the dry leaves.

  A phone rings from in front of the next house, and I cringe. It’s Hughes’s ringtone. Damn it. Why did he leave it on?

  Wait . . . he didn’t. He probably turned it on and texted someone to call him back. He wants Dunn’s attention on him out in front . . .

  Clever boy.

  I keep my body low and squat down by the dog door. Using a finger, I slowly push it open to peek inside.

  My heart sinks when I see a large mutt in the middle of the floor. He’s bleeding out onto the tile. When I look back on the patio behind me, I see splashes of blood. Dunn stabbed him here. Although some of the blood might be his too.

  I try the door handle. It’s locked.

  Okay, next step. I stick my head through the dog door. I almost jerk back when I see a woman sitting in a wheelchair near the sink. Her eyes are wide with fear, and she’s staring at me.

  Please don’t scream.

  She remains silent, but I can see tears running down her face. A withered hand points elsewhere in the house, then makes the shape of a gun.

  Dunn has a firearm.

  I hear footsteps coming from the living room and the sound of blinds being pushed apart.

  He’s watching the street.

  I start squeezing myself through the dog door, using my hands to keep my weight off the floor. My palms make a slapping sound as I move them, sounding like an explosion in the quiet house.

  Footsteps . . .

  I watch the woman’s eyes to know when Dunn is near. I’m almost through the dog door.

  Clack.

  The pistol in my waistband catches on the top of the door.

  Louder footsteps move in our direction. The woman’s eyes grow wider, and she leans back in her chair. Dunn enters. He stares at her, then catches sight of me.

  I drop flat on my belly and pull my gun from my waist. Before he can raise his own, I have the barrel pointed at his head.

  His arms are at his sides and we’re both frozen, waiting for what happens next.

  I could shoot him. End him right now. But that’s not the job I signed up for. Although if he moves even an inch . . .

  He lets his gun fall to the floor and raises his hands in the air.

  “Turn around and face the wall. Put your hands behind your head.”

  He complies.

  Carefully, I hop to my feet, move to his back, and push Hughes’s pistol against the back of his skull.

  “Tell my partner to come in here,” I yell to the old man in the front room.

  He opens the door and calls into the street.

  Dunn doesn’t move.

  The only noise in the kitchen is the sound of crying.

  His.

  EPILOGUE

  Jackie casts her line with a kind of grace that makes a mom think her daughter could do anything. The lure drops into the water by the edge of the mangroves, and little ripples of moonlight reflect back at us. The only sound is the waves lapping against the shore of the canal and a distant radio on another boat broadcasting a baseball game.

  I take a sip of my Corona and cast my own line, not caring if the snook are biting tonight. This is mother-daughter time. No texting. No Netflix.

  Her eyes fixed on her line but attention on me, Jackie finally asks me the question I know she’s been waiting to ask ever since I saw her reading an article about serial killer Stephen Dunn and how I apprehended him.

  “Why did he kill those people?”

  It’s a child’s question without a grown-up’s answer. “Some people just don’t think like you and me.”

  “But the things they found in his house.”

  Oh jeez, I didn’t realize Jackie had read that deeply. She’s smart enough not to talk to weirdos online, at least not knowingly, but I have no way of knowing where her Google searches might lead her. I tell myself it’s not that different from my childhood trips to the downtown library, where a journey up the atrium staircase could take me a thousand miles away or a thousand years into the past—or deep inside some twisted mind.

  “He was a weirdo, honey. Something didn’t work right in his head.” I’m about to explain to her that people like Dunn are exceedingly rare, but she cuts me off.

  “Yeah, but they say he shared those things with other people. Other people knew about what he did,” she replies. “My teacher could be someone like that.”

  “Which teacher?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I’m just saying . . .” She lowers her rod and turns to me. “You just can’t trust people. You never know.”

  What do I tell my daughter, who already has older boys looking at her in ways that make me uncomfortable? How can I tell her she’s safe when I’ve put her in harm’s way in the past?

  How do I tell her that Dunn’s a rarity when we’ve had hundreds of men with the potential to commit crimes like his sitting in our interrogation rooms? Do I tell her about the trailer park filled with sex offenders? Do I tell her that not all the murder photos we found were attributable to Dunn?

  Do I tell her about the remains we just found in the Everglades of a girl only a year older than she is?

  “There are a lot of bad people out there.” It’s all I can say. Then I ask, “Does it bother you that I’m a cop?”

  She shakes her
head adamantly. “No. According to Grandma, you’re safer the more time you spend out of the water.”

  I have to laugh at that. “What about you? Do you feel safe?”

  “Dad’s been teaching me how to use a gun.”

  My face starts to burn, and I have to stop myself from pulling out my phone and calling Run to scream at him. This should have been a two-parent conversation . . . and maybe it would have been if I’d been home more often.

  Perhaps it was the right choice, but Run will hear from me about this. I’d say she’s too young, but she’s smarter than her older cousins. Still, gun lessons for a twelve-year-old aren’t the right way to teach her how to stay safe—especially when the most dangerous aspect of her life is her connection to me.

  “I’d like to learn from you,” she says.

  “The goal is to never have to use a gun,” I say firmly.

  “It’d still be useful.”

  “For what?” I’m afraid to ask.

  “I think I know what I want to do when I grow up.”

  “What’s that?” Please don’t say cop. Please don’t say cop.

  “I’m not sure exactly. Maybe a doctor of some kind. Maybe a scientist. But I want to figure out a way to keep people like him from ever happening.”

  “Like a psychologist?”

  “Maybe, but a good one. Is it wrong for me to think that when Dunn was my age, if he had someone to talk to, he would have turned out differently?”

  I think whatever made Dunn started earlier than that, but I don’t want to crush her hopes. Maybe she’s right, after all. Maybe some monsters can be guided into being lesser monsters . . .

  “It’s not wrong at all.”

  I think back to the moment when I had my gun drawn on Stephen Dunn, possibly one of America’s worst serial killers in decades, and he cried.

  Later, when he confessed, he told them that he wasn’t crying because he got caught.

  He was crying because it took us so long.

  I don’t know if he was simply trying to manipulate us, but I do believe that even monsters hate monsters.