by Ethan Cross
They sat there for a long few moments as if they were two kids playing the quiet game and the first one to speak would be the loser. Finally, Maggie said, “I let him get away.”
“So what?”
“So maybe you were right. Maybe I’m not cut out to be a field agent. I can help in other ways. After what happened today and in Harrisburg—”
“Maggie, please shut up. You did good today. I’ve come to realize that our job isn’t to catch killers. It’s to protect innocent people. And that’s what you did. You saved a man’s life.”
She met his gaze. Her cheeks were flushed, but he couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or the cold. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re a good agent, and if I were any kind of a team leader, you would already know that.” Marcus blew out a long breath. “And if I were any kind of a man, you would also know how much I love you. But we—”
Her hands shot out and grabbed him by the sides of his head. Just as quickly, she pulled him in close and kissed him. It was a long and hungry kiss.
His arms folded around her. He could feel her heart pounding, and she was breathing hard. When she pulled away, she said, “Don’t say anything else. You’ll just ruin it.”
108
Marcus found Stupak standing next to the Jackson’s Grove cruiser containing the dead officer. The dead man looked young, probably only a few years out of the academy with a wife and kids waiting for him at home. When Marcus was a boy, not long before his parents died, his father had been hit with a baseball bat by two kids robbing a small electronics store. His mother had received the late-night call that the wife of every police officer dreads. When his father had worked nights, she liked Marcus to sleep in the bed with her, and so he was there when she received the call. Although his father walked away with only a slight concussion and a few stitches, Marcus would never forget the look on her face, and he wondered if there was another child out there at that moment seeing the same look of fear and heartbreak in their mother’s eyes.
Stupak’s overly expensive suit and overcoat looked rumpled. Both were unbuttoned. His tie was undone, and his shirt untucked. For the first time since Marcus had seen the detective in the Jackson’s Grove briefing room, the man looked flustered.
“I’m sorry about your man,” Marcus said.
Stupak nodded, but his stare didn’t leave the technicians retrieving evidence from the cruiser. “He was a good cop. Young, but he took the job seriously. It was more than a paycheck.” Stupak ran a hand over his perfectly shaved head. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen here. Two of our own dead within a few hours.”
“Two? You had another officer killed today?”
Stupak gave him a look of contempt as though he seemed to be trying to determine if Marcus was serious. “Belacourt. I don’t care what anyone says that he did. He was a good detective … and my friend.”
“Belacourt’s dead?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“No, I’ve been trying to call Vasques, but I haven’t been able to reach her.”
Stupak groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. You won’t be able to reach her anytime soon. She had set up an operation to lure in a man named Erik Jansen by using Belacourt. Apparently it backfired. We think it was Jansen that shot Belacourt with a high-powered rifle. He died on scene. Vasques caught a round in the stomach. Her vest wasn’t enough to stop that kind of round, but I’m sure it slowed it down. She’s in surgery now. That’s all I know.”
Marcus felt like all the air had suddenly been sucked from the world. He couldn’t breathe. Cold chills lanced down through the core of his body. But, within only a few seconds, the feeling of cold was replaced with fire. “I’m going to find these guys, Stupak. And I’m going to kill them. Conlan, Schofield, Jansen. All of them. You don’t have to help me, but don’t get in my way.”
Stupak just looked at him for a long, hard moment. Then he said, “What do you need from me?”
“Have your guys been through the house?”
“Yeah, we found a gun safe in the basement loaded with some illegal weapons. A couple of automatics and a grenade.”
“Grenade? Where the hell did he get that?”
“Not as difficult as you might think. Especially with him working in the security field. I’m sure their company employs a lot of ex-military. You can also buy disarmed grenades at just about any military surplus store. Then it’s just a matter of having the know-how to put the guts back in.”
“What about the family? Any word on them?” Marcus said.
“We contacted the cell company to track their phones. Led right back here. They left them behind. Then we spoke to Schofield’s mother-in-law, and she said that her daughter called her late last night and said that an emergency had come up and they would be gone for a while. She tried but didn’t get any details beyond that.”
Marcus looked around at the expensive neighborhood and Schofield’s house, which was the star of the block. It was the kind of house that raised everyone else’s already bloated property values. The guy had a wife, three kids, and the biggest house on the block. But he still couldn’t run from his past. The hunger that Schofield felt couldn’t be filled with all the possessions and money in the world.
Marcus wondered why Schofield’s family had run away. Had they finally learned his secret and fled in fear?
He retrieved a business card from the inner pocket of his leather jacket and handed it to Stupak. “I’m going to check out the house myself. If you find anything, call me.”
Stupak took the card and replied, “Same goes for you.”
Marcus moved up the stamped concrete walkway to Schofield’s front door. One of the techs didn’t want to let him in, and it took a showing of his credentials and some harsh words to gain access. Once inside, he did a quick walk-through of the first floor. There was a long hallway in the center of the house that was packed with family photos. Vacations, graduations, school events, candid shots, professional portraits. All variations were represented. It felt like a museum display, missing only the little info cards explaining what was depicted in each scene. It was a chronicle of the Schofield family and their lives together. They looked genuinely happy.
He thought of Vasques and wondered if she would get the chance to have a family like this. Husband. Children. A hall of fame commemorating each happy moment. Those bastards might have stolen that from her, and they needed to pay for it.
His phone rang, but he didn’t recognize the number.
His teeth ground against each other, but he accepted the call and immediately said, “I have nothing to say to you.”
“What did he tell you?”
“The truth.”
Ackerman laughed. “I very much doubt that.”
“He told me that you and your father killed my parents.”
“Did he? Interesting. I guess that is partially accurate, but definitely not the whole truth. I was just a boy myself and had nothing to do with their deaths. I did, however, have something to do with how you lived past that night. Do you honestly not remember anything about what really happened?”
Marcus said nothing, but he knew exactly what Ackerman was referring to. He remembered the voice in the darkness that had helped him hide as his parents screamed on the floor below. He remembered someone holding his hand. He remembered the fear, the sadness, the emotions of that night. But he had been young, and it was all blurry and incoherent images that had either been blocked out or mostly forgotten. It had always bothered him how some memories from that time—trips to the Bronx Zoo and Coney Island or meals shared at Mazzola’s bakery or Nino’s pizzeria—could be so vivid and complete, but that night eluded him.
Ackerman continued. “I only learned the truth recently myself. I remembered that night, but I hadn’t made the connection to you. I just remembered a scared little boy in cowboy pajamas. I was told to bring you down. But I remember there being something in your eyes that compelled me to kee
p you away from him. I hid you on the porch roof outside your bedroom window. Then I made the bed and told my father that you weren’t there. He stormed up the stairs and checked for himself, but he couldn’t find you. You’re only alive today because of me. Because I saved you.”
Marcus didn’t know what to say. What the killer had told him coincided with his own scattered memories, and the new information didn’t even necessarily mean that the Director had lied to him. His superior might never have known the whole story. Plus, the story rang true on another level that he couldn’t quite identify.
“How did you figure out that was how we’re connected?”
“Marcus, come on now. You can’t expect me to give up all my secrets. Besides, we have more pressing concerns at the moment. How goes the hunt for our friend the Anarchist?”
“Goodbye, Ackerman.”
“Wait, I can help you. I know how you can find him.”
Marcus knew that he should have hung up right then. He knew better than to give in to the madman’s fantasies or encourage him in any way. But curiosity, coupled with his desire to protect innocent life and avenge its taking, was too strong. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t hang up either.
The killer accepted the silent acknowledgment and said, “If you want to beat someone or control them, you have to learn their weaknesses. Who or what does this person love? What do they want? What do they need? What is the most important thing in the world to them? If you can answer those questions about the Anarchist, then you can exploit his weaknesses and make him dance to your tune. And I think you already know what you need to do. You just need to have the necessary intestinal fortitude to step up and walk that path. This is what you are. Good hunting.”
The line went dead, and Marcus closed his eyes. Ackerman was right. Marcus knew what Schofield loved, but he hated himself for being the kind of man who would use it against the killer.
He looked around at the pictures of smiling faces and happy memories one last time, and then he dialed Stan’s number.
“Stan’s Crematorium. You kill ’em, we grill ’em”
“Not in the mood, Stan. I need you to track down Schofield’s family. They’re running, but they don’t know the game. I’m betting they’ve screwed up and left a trail somewhere along the way.”
“Okay, I’m on it. What are you going to do when we find them?”
“I’m going to kidnap them and hold them for ransom.”
109
Eleanor Adare Schofield stared out the window of the Belmont Motel and thought about the perfect life that she had left behind. The motel was small with an orange and white faux-brick exterior. The big white and blue neon sign out front advertised telephones, air conditioning, and TV as though they were luxury items, but she supposed that just by looking at the place one would wonder about such things. The interior walls were bright yellow. The bedspread had a quilted white and yellow sunflower print that looked like something her grandmother had had on her bed when Eleanor was a child. The room had a faint musty smell like someone’s basement that had been sprayed with disinfectant, but at least it was relatively clean.
The thought made her sick. Had she fallen so far that providing a place for her children to sleep that wasn’t infested with cockroaches seemed like a victory?
Harrison had told her to go to the Belmont as if he had planned for it, as if he had considered such a thing before. He had told her to pay in cash, but she had been shocked to learn that a room in a dump like this was sixty dollars a night. She never kept much cash on hand—they always used their credit cards and paid them off at the end of the month—and so she had been forced to go across the street and withdraw the money from an ATM.
Eleanor had told the kids that they were going away on a surprise vacation. The younger two had accepted this with few questions, but she knew that Alison suspected something. She probably thought they were getting a divorce, and maybe they were. Alison had her earbuds in now. Benjamin played his little game system while Melanie watched Dora the Explorer on a small tube television with a washed-out picture. The little Pomeranian dog that Harrison had brought home rested on Melanie’s lap.
When the phone on the nightstand rang, Eleanor jumped away from the window and cried out so loud in surprise that Alison pulled out her earbuds and looked at her mother with wide, startled eyes. Eleanor fumbled with the receiver and said, “Hello?”
“It’s me. Are you okay? Have you had any problems?”
At first she felt relieved to hear Harrison’s voice, but once the initial spark of warmth and safety faded, she wasn’t sure what to feel. She fought back tears. While she’d been in the motel office paying for the room, she had seen the news about a hostage situation at SSA. She had heard the horrible things that her husband was accused of, and she knew that it was all true. A part of her had always known, and she blamed herself for not doing something about it sooner. But another part of her refused to believe that their entire life together had been a lie.
“Eleanor, are you there?”
She started to speak but her throat felt dry and she had no idea where to begin. She pulled the phone from the nightstand, moved into the bathroom, and closed the door behind her. The room was mint green and smelled like bleach.
The other end of the line was silent for a moment, but then he said, “You saw the news, didn’t you?”
“Yes—they say that you’re the Anarchist. That you’re wanted in connection with over ten murders.”
“I’m sorry, Eleanor. I wish you hadn’t seen that.”
“That way you could lie to me some more?”
“No, so you could hear it from me. So you could understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand, Harrison. You’re a murderer. How could you?”
When he spoke, she could hear the pain in his voice. “Because I was born without a soul.”
The statement shocked her. He had told her of the abuse he had endured as a child, but she never thought that he actually believed the things he had been told by his mother and the other members of that cult. Maybe she should have known? A sense of her own failure as a wife gnawed at her.
“That’s ridiculous. Your mother and those people were insane. You know that.”
“I don’t know what to believe. All I wanted was to be whole for you. To be the husband and father that you and the children deserved. I’m so sorry that I’ve failed you.” His voice cracked, and she could hear his tears.
She wanted to hate him, but yet a part of her pitied him. She had always known that his perception of the world had been scarred as a result of his childhood, but she had never realized how deep those wounds went.
“Harrison, we love you. We always have, and we always will. But you need to turn yourself in. We’ll get through this together.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You need help. We can’t get through this alone.”
“You don’t understand. The reason that I told you to run wasn’t for my own good. It was because you’re in danger.”
“Danger from who?”
“The Prophet.”
“The leader of that cult? I thought you said he was dead.”
“No, he never let me go. He’s always been there. He’s been the devil on my shoulder since the day I was born. And now he wants you. He wants to sacrifice you and the kids.”
She stifled a sharp cry, and her knees felt weak. “Damn you, Harrison. How could you put our children in danger?”
“I never meant for any of this to happen. You have to believe me.”
“That’s all the more reason for you to turn yourself in. The police can help us. Maybe they’ll give you some kind of a deal if you testify against him.”
“The most I could hope for would be a mental institution instead of a prison. I won’t subject you and the kids to that kind of humiliation. I know what that feels like, and I would never do that to you. I have money. We can leave this all—”
Eleanor jumped and
dropped the phone as the sound of someone banging on the door echoed off the mint-green tile of the bathroom. She immediately opened the door, expecting to see one of the kids, but instead she found a strange man standing on the other side.
*
Sitting in his own seedy motel room, Harrison Schofield gripped the receiver of the old rotary phone sitting on the nightstand and screamed his wife’s name. He heard a banging noise followed by a clattering as though she had dropped the phone and then a stifled scream.
As he yelled for her, he felt his whole world fall down around him. He knew that the Prophet had found them. A vision of his children burning alive flooded his mind as he sank to his knees.
But then a man’s voice came over from the other end of the line. The voice was deep and full of menace, and Schofield didn’t recognize it.
The words were simple and straight to the point. “I have your family, and I’m going to kill them unless you do exactly as you’re told.”
Day Seven – December 21 Morning
110
The blizzard had come in the night. It swept over Chicagoland like a tsunami, and the flakes seemed to be flying in every direction. As Marcus walked up to the rented house, the snow stung his cheeks and eyes and made it so that he could barely see his surroundings. They had found a place on Artesian Avenue in Brighton Park ten minutes from downtown Chicago. The house was technically for sale, but some cold hard cash for a week’s rental of an empty house was an easy choice for the owner. The man had described the place as a bungalow, but to Marcus it looked more like a small barn with bluish shingle siding and a bright red porch. It didn’t surprise him that the house had been sitting empty for so long.
He knocked, and Andrew opened the door. Once inside, Marcus stamped his feet on the welcome mat to clear the snow and shook the cold from his shoulders. The interior wasn’t much better. There was no carpet, just pale yellow linoleum and rust-colored wallpaper. Several of the interior doors had been inexplicably torn from their casings, and the whole house reeked of urine. He guessed that was the reason there were no carpets. Maybe some lady with a thousand cats had lived here before and just let her darlings defecate where they wished.
