by Ethan Cross
He rubbed the cross that hung on a chain around his neck. “I was walking down that street when I heard a scream that I’ll never forget …”
*
Marcus glanced up and down the deserted street. The emptiness echoed what he felt inside. He wondered how he could live in a city of over eight million people and still feel so alone. But when he delved deeper, he knew that it wasn’t loneliness. It was more than that. He felt hollow, and the only time that he felt whole was when he cracked a case.
The shrinks would have a field day with that one.
He sipped his coffee and continued down the dark street. His eyes attempted to penetrate the shadows. “You’re here somewhere. Aren’t you?” he said under his breath.
Then, he heard the scream.
The sound defied reason. He had never heard such suffering, such anguish. It resonated in his soul.
The scream brought to memory the faces of the dead. He thought back on the victims of homicides he had investigated. But he had never been there at the time of death. Unlike the cops of books and television, his job didn’t consist of gunfights and car chases. He had only drawn his gun a handful of times, and he had never had to use it. But if the moment came, he knew that he could wield the weapon with deadly and frightening precision.
The coffee cup fell from his hand, the liquid splashing across the pavement. He pulled the Sig Sauer P226 from his holster and sprinted down a nearby alleyway, following the scream to its origin.
The alley ended in a secluded parking lot. A dilapidated building sat on one side. Boards covered the windows, and graffiti covered most of the walls. The faded letters of a beat-up and spray-painted sign read, The Blue Oyster Bar.
As he scanned the area, he took in all the details. The most shocking of which was the white, stretch limousine in the center of the parking lot. In that neighborhood, he would have been less surprised to see a flying saucer.
From the opposite side of the limo, he heard a man’s voice. “Where do you think you’re going? We’re not finished yet.”
A woman’s voice said, “No! Please!”
He sprinted around the limo. A chain-link fence cordoned off the back of the parking lot, and the woman had her back pressed hard to the metal of the barrier. She was naked with numerous cuts running along her body.
He recognized the wounds. The killer liked to cut his victims while he raped them.
The man stood naked from the waist down a few feet from the woman, a bloody scalpel in his left hand.
A righteous rage overtook Marcus. A veil of red fell over his eyes. He didn’t tell the man not to move. He didn’t proceed like he had been taught at the academy. Instead, he rushed forward, kicked the scalpel from the killer’s hand, and slammed the pistol into the back of the assailant’s head.
Dazed, the killer stumbled forward. Before the man could react in any way, Marcus slammed him against the fence and twisted his right arm behind his back. With a flash of movement, the first cuff fell over the killer’s wrist. He twisted the man’s other arm back and did the same.
The killer said, “What the hell are you doing? Who do you think you are?”
He stepped away and trained his pistol on the back of the man’s head. He then turned his eyes to the woman. “Are you okay?” he said and then chastised himself. Stupid question. “I mean, can you walk?”
Her voice cracked as she sobbed out the words. “Yes. Thank you. Thank God you were here.”
“Everything’s going to be okay. You’re safe now. Get your clothes on and find a place to sit down. We’ll get an ambulance. You’re going to be fine.”
“You’re going to pay for this. Do you have any idea who I am?”
He turned his attention back to the killer. His heart pounded like a freight train inside his chest. Things were getting complicated.
The murderer didn’t think that he had been recognized, but he had. His name was John Mavros—Senator John Mavros.
Marcus fully realized that he had just slapped the cuffs on a powerful senator from an even more powerful family. The Mavros name conjured allusions to the Kennedy and Rockefeller dynasties.
What have I gotten myself into this time?
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“I’m a senator. Call your chief or the Commissioner. Better yet, let’s call the Mayor. I’ll give you the number.”
“You have the right to an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”
“You’re going to burn for this. You think that you’re the big hero now, but when I’m done with you, you’re going to be homeless, jobless, and penniless.”
“Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you? Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to me now?”
“Or even better, maybe we’ll pin the murders on you, and you can rot in a jail cell for the rest of your miserable little life.” Mavros slowly turned to face him.
“Don’t you move,” Marcus said. His finger twitched against the trigger.
“Listen, kid, you’re in way over your pay grade here. I won’t see the inside of a jail cell. I can guarantee you that. Call your chief. 555-2368. Save us all a lot of time and trouble.”
The thoughts flew through his mind at gale-force speeds. He started second-guessing himself. He questioned every action. Will slamming Mavros against the fence or twisting his arm be considered brutality? He thought about horror stories where a person pulled someone out of their car just before it exploded and got sued because the rescued person fractured his or her collarbone in the process.
No good deed goes unpunished.
“Fine. Let’s call the chief.” He removed the cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number that Mavros had provided. The Chief of Police answered. Mavros had known the number by heart. He told the chief who he was and informed him of the situation.
After a moment of silence, the chief said, “So you haven’t called this in yet?”
“No, sir … not yet.”
“That’s excellent. We’ve really dodged a bullet here. You did the right thing by calling me. You stay put. I’m going to come down there and straighten this out. You can keep your gun on him, if you want, but take the cuffs off. And be gentle.”
“Be gentle? Sir, what are you saying? I don’t care who this guy is. I only care about what he is. He’s a serial rapist and murderer.”
“I know damn well what he is … me and a lot of other people. And you’re going to do exactly what all of us have done. If you don’t, it’s your funeral. Do you understand what I’m saying? You’re going to take the money and look the other way. All the women he’s killed were prostitutes. You going to throw your life away over some whore? If you pursue this, he’ll walk away squeaky clean, and you’ll wind up either disgraced or dead. Be smart, kid. It’s all in how you look at it. This is a good thing for you. You just hit the lottery. You and me both.”
“I don’t want his money.”
“Then don’t take the money, but don’t throw your life away either. He’s above the law. If you—”
He closed the phone and killed the connection. He looked toward the limo. The victim sat on the ground next to one of the tires. With her legs curled to her chest, she rocked back and forth while whimpering like a frightened animal. Their eyes met. The look of terror was still present. Her eyes pleaded with him, begged him to make the world safe again. Visions of dead bodies and the eyes of other victims flooded his consciousness.
“Don’t feel too bad, kid,” Mavros said. “There’s nothing you can do. I’m untouchable.”
The killer’s voice sounded surreal, like something from a dream. Marcus turned to face the monster. “Not tonight.”
He raised the gun and shot Mavros between the eyes.
54
The silence in the room was oppressive. It was so quiet that Marcus wondered if he had gone deaf. He
didn’t want to look at her. He didn’t want to see her disgust or her fear.
He turned and saw sad but compassionate eyes. The look wasn’t one of judgment or condemnation as he had expected.
She reached out and placed a hand on his back. “What happened next?”
“The senator’s family didn’t want his exploits and the inevitable scandal to tarnish the good family name, so they covered everything up. They bought off the girl. She was just a poor kid from the Bronx. They threw so much money at her that her grandchildren’s grandchildren will never go hungry—and who could blame her?”
Maggie nodded in understanding.
“As for me, they gave me an opportunity to walk away without any criminal charges and with an ‘early, honorable retirement,’ as they called it. They also offered me a lot of money to ensure that I would keep my mouth shut. And … I took it. I kept some of it but gave most to charity. It didn’t seem right, getting paid for my sins—even though that’s the way a lot of people make their fortunes. That’s the long and short of it. My sob story.”
Another long silence descended upon them. He couldn’t begin to fathom what thoughts might be racing through Maggie’s mind.
“You did the right thing,” she finally said.
The response sent a wave of shock over him. “I killed an unarmed man in cold blood. I’m a murderer.” He spat the words from his mouth with finality, as if he could never be forgiven—or at least never forgive himself.
“You saved that girl and all the other girls who would have come after her. He was the cold-blooded killer, not you. He was a monster. He deserved a lot worse than what he got.”
He shook his head in disbelief. His face flushed. “It’s not like Mavros was getting ready to shoot her or running at her with a knife. He was standing there defenseless with his hands cuffed behind his back. I murdered him execution-style like some Mafia hitman. I should have arrested him and taken him in. But I didn’t. I killed him. I should have gone to prison for what I did.”
“You know he would have just walked away scot-free. You may have stopped him from killing that girl, but what about the next one and the next one after that? He would have gotten away with it, and he would have kept getting away with it until somebody like you stopped him.”
“I could have gone to the press or maybe the FBI. I could have forced the department into action.”
Maggie snorted derisively. “Number one, he probably owned the FBI and the press. Number two, if he was as powerful as you say he was, he could have made sure it was swept under the rug. Even if it did get out and hurt his reputation, probably the worst-case scenario for him would have been losing re-election. That’s worst-case for him and best-case scenario for you. You being found dead one morning just like one of his other victims would have been more likely—the price for knowing too much. Or maybe you just disappear and nobody ever hears from you again? Sometimes, you have to do what you know is right, even when the rest of the world is all wrong.”
He once again rubbed the cross that hung around his neck. This time, he noticed what he was doing. “The Bible says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ It doesn’t say, ‘Thou shalt not kill, unless the guy you want to kill really deserves it.’ I don’t know what to think. Nothing seems right anymore.” His eyes took on the watery sheen present just before the dam bursts and the tears rain down.
Maggie didn’t say another word. She just reached out and embraced him.
They curled up together on the bed. He still couldn’t forgive himself for all that he had done, but Maggie’s forgiveness was enough for now. They held each other until sleep finally came.
*
Marcus didn’t dream about his last night as a cop.
Instead, he dreamed of Asherton. Only the Asherton in his dream was strange and distorted. The sky was bright orange, casting a strange glow upon the town. Desert surrounded him, and the buildings were misshapen and disturbing. He stood on the edge of town and gazed out over a great abyss.
The chasm was so wide that the other side couldn’t be seen with human eyes. A mist covered the pit. Flashes of light and electricity showed through the clouds as they swirled over the gap, concealing its depths and its secrets. The swirling mists rose and fell like waves crashing over a vast ocean.
The more he stared at it, the less the mist resembled normal fog and the more it seemed like some ethereal specter that couldn’t be properly comprehended on our plane of existence. It was an enormous swirling entity that moved with purpose and intent.
He looked back toward Asherton. From the center of town, the Sheriff and all his deputies moved toward him with a strange, shuffling gait like a horde of the undead. Ackerman and Mavros joined them. They came closer and closer. Their eyes burned red, as if they had come straight from the pit of hell and intended to drag him back with them.
He turned back to the abyss and noticed a staircase that descended into the unknown depths of the void. The world felt like it had turned itself upside down and inside out.
As the brood of demons closed in on him, he decided to descend the stairs into the unknown. He started down, and the world shook with a violent quake. The heavens thundered. He felt himself being pulled or phased into another world, somewhere far from all the pain, the sorrow, and the tears.
Then, he awoke.
The thundering he had heard within the dream was someone banging on the hotel room door. In a flash, he moved to the entrance and drew his gun. He didn’t peer through the peephole. Instead, he knelt low and looked through the window. He let the shades fall back into place and opened the door.
Andrew had a foreboding look in his eyes. “It’s time.”
55
The trio recapped the events of the past few days and tried to find some clue that would elucidate the details of the Sheriff’s plan. They discussed possibilities, none of which seemed viable. The only information they possessed was that the Sheriff had said it would be big and that it would be taking place that day. An infinite sea of possibilities still remained within their radar, and they failed to find any method to narrow the search.
Marcus felt like a fisherman who had decided to catch a great white shark by sailing into the middle of the ocean and dropping a line.
“I’ve got a thought,” Andrew said. “It’s simple. A direct approach. I just remembered an old, very politically incorrect saying. It goes something like, ‘When in doubt, beat it out of them.’”
Marcus chuckled, but then his wheels began to turn. He raised his eyebrows and said, “They have to leave somebody behind at the station.”
Andrew nodded. “It would look pretty suspicious if they didn’t. Plus, they have to have somebody around in case Ackerman is spotted. Whoever it is will definitely be on guard. How do we get in without a firefight?”
He turned his eyes toward Maggie, and Andrew followed suit. Maggie’s eyes darted between them. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I can tell that I’m not going to like it.”
Andrew smiled. “Have you ever used a blackjack?”
*
Within moments, they were on the road.
Marcus pondered his recent dream of Asherton and the stairway descending into the depths of the unknown. He felt like he was descending those stairs now, only he wasn’t walking. He was tumbling down them, out of control.
He’d always found it hard to tell whether he was moving quickly in the right direction, or tumbling down the wrong path at a speed so great that he would have no hope of catching himself before he hit the ground. Most of the time, all he could do was enjoy the fall and brace for the impact.
When he was younger, danger and velocity had been the catalysts to excitement and fun. But as he realized the consequences of jumping in head first, he became wary of velocity. The greatest velocity achieved was often the precursor to the impact. And the impact was never fun.
As he learned to question his own mortality, velocity ceased to induce excitement and began to induce fear.
&nb
sp; They were moving at high velocity now. And he was definitely afraid.
*
When they arrived at the Sheriff’s office, Maggie ran frantically inside.
The deputy on duty jumped up when he saw her burst through the door. “What’s happening, Maggie? What’s wrong?” he said with a deep southern accent.
“He’s after me. He’s right behind me.”
The deputy ran to her and pulled out his pistol. He moved her behind him for protection, went to the window, and peered out. “I don’t see—”
The man fell to the ground, unconscious.
Maggie stood behind him with the blackjack, a small club designed for maximum damage.
56
“Who’s going to be the good cop, and who’s going to be the bad cop?” Andrew said.
Marcus grimaced. “Come on, we’re not really going to use that old cliché, are we?”
“Why not?”
“It’s the twenty-first century. We’re two intelligent and creative guys. I think that we can come up with something better than good cop, bad cop … and something a hell of a lot faster.”
“Trust the classics. It’s an old cliché because it works.”
Marcus shook his head. “I’ve got a better idea.”
“It had better be good. We don’t have time to waste. If we can’t break this guy, we’re all out of options.”
He fixed Andrew with a look of cold confidence. “I only need ten seconds.”
The deputy sat strapped to a chair in the middle of the interrogation room, his hands cuffed behind his back. The man was still unconscious, but it was time for him to wake up and smell the roses. Marcus recognized the deputy from the group that besieged the Brubaker farm. The recollection of that event helped to steel his resolve and make what was about to happen much easier.
He dumped a plastic trash can full of cold water over the deputy. The man jerked his head and opened his eyes. But the deputy still looked groggy, so Marcus decided to help wake him up. The hard punch across his face brought the deputy out of his stupor quicker than smelling salts. “What the hell!”
