The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset

by Ethan Cross

  Marcus glanced around the office at his collection of movie memorabilia and screen-used props. An Indiana Jones hat. A replica pulse rifle from Aliens. Carl Weathers’s severed arm from Predator. He could have bought a house in the burbs for what he had paid for that one. But he didn’t want a house. Once, maybe, but not now. He would never be normal, and the sooner he accepted that, the better off he’d be. Nearly everything he owned was in that room. He ate, slept, and worked there when he wasn’t on the road, which wasn’t too damn often.

  He would have been on the road at the moment—tracking down a murderer known as the Coercion Killer—if he hadn’t been recalled to DC for some kind of mandatory psych evaluation. The Director claimed that it was just a routine hoop that the pencil-pushers were making them jump through, but Marcus suspected there was more to it than that. Even he had to admit that his work had began to suffer due to the headaches and insomnia.

  His fingertips slid across the dark woodgrain of his desk’s surface as he rounded the workspace and pulled open a drawer. He took out his pills and a bottle of eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich. Then he downed the OxyContin with a long swig of Scotch straight from the bottle. His eyes watered, and his face contorted as the dark liquid slid down his throat.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes as he waited for the drugs to dull the pain. After a few moments, he started back to the bed, but a vibrating against his leg stopped him in his tracks. Only a handful of people in the world had his cell number, and a call this late at night was never good. It was one of two things. Either they had an urgent situation, and the Director needed them on the road immediately. Or his older brother wanted to chat.

  For most people, a call from a sibling at such a late hour would have been a minor annoyance. But when your brother was one of the most wanted men in the country and a notorious serial murderer, a late-night phone call took on a whole new dimension. Still, family was family, and Ackerman was the only family Marcus had left.

  Marcus looked at his phone and didn’t recognize the number, which almost without fail meant that it was Ackerman calling from a burner cell line.

  He and Ackerman shared a set of parents, although they hadn’t grown up together and Marcus had only recently learned their true connection. His mother had escaped with him while he was still in the womb, abandoning his brother to a life of torture and sadism at the hands of their biological father. Ackerman Sr. had been a not-so-well-respected psychologist who wanted to explore the mind of a serial killer by creating one from his own young son. What had followed for his brother were years trapped in an undying hell marked with abuse and agony and ultimately a string of corpses from one coast to the next, the true number of which was still unknown.

  Marcus couldn’t help but sympathize with his brother. Marcus had been raised by a New York City cop in a loving and caring home, at least up until the time when his parents were murdered. And, even then, his aunt had given him the best home she could. Despite all that, his nature was still one of violence, and dark thoughts swirled at the back of his conscious mind. Even blessed with a normal childhood, Marcus was far from normal. Ackerman had never been given a chance.

  And then there was a recent revelation that Ackerman might have had even less freewill regarding his murderous tendencies than previously thought.

  Answering the call, Marcus said, “Hello?”

  “It’s good to hear your voice. Have you missed me, brother?”

  “What do you want, Frank? I was sleeping.”

  “No, you weren’t. And did you know you’re the only person who has ever called me Frank?”

  “Fascinating. Can we get on with it?”

  “You’re in bit of a pissy mood. The headaches are getting worse, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not helping the situation.”

  “I’m sorry for that. I don’t want to be a burden on you dear brother. But I was calling to tell you that I’ve been a good boy.”

  Marcus walked to the window and watched the trees of Northern Virginia sway in shadow as Ackerman described a run-in with a prostitute. Finally, Ackerman said, “You made me promise not to take anyone’s life, if you would keep taking my calls, and I have fought very hard to keep that vow. Although I think it’s a bit extreme. A little too black and white for my tastes. After all, sometimes the situation warrants—”

  “No. Never.”

  “Agree to disagree. Besides, you kill people.”

  “I’m tired, Frank. I’d like to get at least a little sleep tonight.”

  “I saw a preview for a movie yesterday that got me thinking. The plot involved an apocalypse of some kind and dealt with the survivors in the aftermath. The details aren’t relevant, but it made me realize that, in a world like that, I would be a hero or even a king.”

  “High monarch of a burned-out wasteland. Good for you. I’m going back to bed.”

  “That thought spiraled into other revelations. Consider this: in any other period throughout history, our skills would have made us valuable assets instead of the outcasts that we are now. If we’d been born in Ancient Greece, I could have rivaled the great warrior Achilles and you would have been my Hector. During the Spanish Inquisition or the Middle Ages, my talents in the art of inflicting pain would have been in high demand. Even in the not too distant past of the Old West, I would have been a folk hero like Billy the Kid.”

  “You’re a regular man of the people. When you’re not murdering them in their sleep.”

  “I’ve never killed anyone in their sleep. I always wake them up first. But think about it. Maybe there are so many murderers these days because men with our gifts can’t find an honest trade to act as a healthy outlet for the natural predatory hunger in their souls. Anyway, something to think about. Sweet dreams, brother.”

  Ackerman ended the call. Marcus moved back to his desk, opened the drawer again, and popped two more pills.

  3

  JOSH STEFANSON HAD NEVER THOUGHT OF HIMSELF AS HEROIC, BUT HE HAD BEEN RELATIVELY CONFIDENT THAT HE WOULD RISE TO THE OCCASION IF AN EMERGENCY EVER PRESENTED ITSELF. Despite working a desk job at a local architectural firm—as opposed to something more physical and dangerous like a firefighter or police officer—he felt that he could protect his family. Now was his chance to find out.

  He had seen the news stories about the killer loose in the Kansas City area whom the media had dubbed the Coercion Killer. Still, he hadn’t given a second thought to such things. The chances of actually running afoul of a serial killer were astronomical, much too low to make him question his safety or that of his family. Being the next victim of the Coercion Killer would be akin to winning the lottery.

  But, people did win.

  He drove the little blue Nissan into the parking lot and found a spot next to the entrance. The lot was nearly empty, only three other cars parked toward the back, suggesting that they belonged to employees. That was good: no witnesses.

  Josh’s hands shook, and sweat dripped down his face. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. The gun rested in the glovebox. A .38 special that had been his father-in-law’s. He had never been around guns, but his wife Nancy had grown up on a farm south of KC. She had insisted that they have one in the house and that he knew how to use it. He had gone along with it, not that he ever thought he would have cause to touch the thing.

  Josh opened the glovebox and pulled out the gun and a box of ammunition, spilling some of the cartridges on the floor in the process. The bullets rattled against the revolver’s cylinder as he forced his trembling fingers to shove them into place.

  Six shots, but hopefully he would only need one.

  He kept a photo of Nancy and the kids tucked up beside the odometer. It had been taken the previous summer at Blue Springs Lake. He liked to look at it when he was stuck in traffic and fantasize that he was drinking a beer on the boat instead of heading to work.

  As he admired their smiling faces, he knew what had to be done. If he thought about it too long, he would talk himse
lf out of it. He would either go through with this or Nancy and the kids would die. It was as simple as that. There was no room for second-guessing or alternative solutions. It was black and white. Time to man up and protect his family. To be the hero that he hoped he had the guts to be.

  Josh slid the gun into the pocket of his khakis and exited the vehicle. The breeze carried the smell of flowers and pollen. He fought the urge to sneeze, failed, and nearly lost his glasses in the process. The asphalt felt sticky beneath his feet. The sun hurt his eyes, which were already irritated from crying.

  He could see his target through the bookstore’s front window, but a hardback book blocked the man’s face. The store was empty apart from the owner.

  The whole situation felt so surreal. It didn’t seem that he walked to the shop’s door, more that he floated there as if it were all a dream. Or a nightmare. The door came open, and a ringing bell announced his presence. The owner lowered his book and greeted his customer with a smile.

  Josh’s heart jumped and then sank. The man behind the counter looked like such a nice man. Kind eyes and an inviting smile on a wrinkled face. Gray and balding. Someone’s grandfather.

  He raised the gun, not even realizing that he’d removed it from the pocket of his khakis. The old man’s smile disappeared, and fear contorted his kind features.

  “I’m so sorry,” Josh said through the tears.

  The man raised his hands. “Take all the money. I won’t give you any trouble.”

  Josh cocked the revolver’s hammer.

  The old man shook his head and backed away. “Think about what you’re doing, son.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s no other way.”

  The man shuddered but was relatively calm, considering the situation. “We always have a choice. I haven’t done anything to you. I don’t even know you. I’m just a normal guy who wants to see his family again.”

  “So am I,” Josh said as he squeezed the trigger.

  4

  ONE WEEK LATER

  KANSAS CITY, MO

  MARCUS RAN A HAND THROUGH HIS DARK HAIR AND GAVE AN EXASPERATED SIGH AS HE DROPPED THE KANSAS CITY PD’S CASE FILE BACK ONTO THE OAK-LAMINATE TABLE. The last killing involved a man named Josh Stefanson—a husband and father of two who had been drawn into the Coercion Killer’s sick game. The killer’s tactic was simple. He kidnapped the family of an average person and then forced them to murder another completely innocent individual. If the killer’s directions were followed, the kidnapped family was released unharmed. If not, they were returned in pieces.

  So far the killer had remained true to his word and the rules of the game. But Marcus knew that there was a lot more to the case than the local police department or FBI realized. Only the Shepherd Organization had all the information. He just didn’t know what to do with it yet, and he had been explicitly ordered not to share anything with the local investigators or FBI.

  “Anything happening out there?” Marcus asked his partner, Andrew Garrison, as he walked across the tiny second-floor apartment to the window.

  Marcus looked down at the record store in the street opposite the apartment. A forty-two-inch computer monitor resting beside Andrew displayed camera signals being sent from miniature high-res extruded plastic cameras positioned inside the shop and along the street. But, trusting his eyes over technology, Andrew had also trained a tripod-mounted Vanguard VSP-61 spotting scope on the store’s front entrance.

  “Nothing. I think he knows,” Andrew replied, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands behind his head.

  “He’s still accessing the files.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not taking the bait.”

  Marcus had learned after a previous case that Ackerman had been accessing the Shepherd Organization’s servers through a back door on one of their office systems. But upon learning of the intrusion, the Director had decided that instead of closing up the hole they would use it against the killer. At least, that was the plan. So far, they had provided Ackerman with false information three times without him taking the bait. In this case, Marcus had inserted observations into the files that the owner of a specialty shop named Permanent Records might have seen the killer but was unwilling to help for some unknown reason.

  Due to his connection with Marcus, Ackerman liked to insert himself into their investigations. On a case in Chicago, he had tortured information out of an uncooperative witness and had ultimately murdered the man, using an execution method popularized during the Spanish Inquisition.

  The witness had turned out to be a pedophile linked to the disappearances of several young boys, and the information that Ackerman had forced out of him had led to the resolution of the case. But, as Marcus seemed to be asking himself more and more every day, he wondered if the ends justified the means.

  Andrew rubbed his eyes and asked, “How was your psych eval?”

  “Painful and counter-productive. I should have been here.”

  “Believe it or not, the world keeps on turning without you.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion. When do you go in for your own eval?”

  Andrew hesitated before saying, “I’m not sure.”

  Marcus nodded, his suspicions confirmed. “Do you think I’m slipping?”

  “I think you’re one of the best detectives I’ve ever worked with.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “You really want to have this conversation now?”

  “You’re the one who’s always trying to get me talk about things. So talk.”

  They stared at each other a moment. Marcus had seen that look on Andrew’s face many times before. His partner was searching for the most diplomatic way to voice his concerns without hurting anyone’s feelings.

  “Just say what’s on your—”

  A knock on the door drew Marcus’s attention away from the discussion, his hand straying to the Sig Sauer P220 Equinox on his hip. They turned to the computer monitor in unison to see a group of seven men standing in the hall. Marcus recognized the muscular frame of the lead figure—his boss, a man known only to him as the Director. The Director had recently shaved his head since his hair was starting to thin, but Marcus suspected that the man, who had to be reaching his retirement years, could still take down most men half his age.

  Andrew opened the door, and the group filed in. The Director greeted them warmly while five of the others checked the corners and scanned their surroundings with cautious, rapid glances. Their fluid and efficient movements spoke of field training in the military or intelligence communities and experience in covert operations.

  Marcus’s eyes narrowed as the final member of the group stepped inside and closed the door behind them. He was different from the others. Expensive suit covering a small frame. Designer glasses. Manicured fingernails. A leather briefcase dangling from his left fist. Obviously some kind of bureaucrat. But Marcus wondered what could have drawn one of the elite away from the marble palaces in DC to a stakeout in one of Kansas City’s worst neighborhoods. And why would he bring a team of operators along with him? None of the reasons could be good.

  The man in the suit smiled and stuck out his hand. His voice was soft and friendly. It possessed a nasal quality overlaid by a New England accent. The intensity in his eyes accompanied an air of confidence. “Special Agent Williams. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Marcus met the man’s gaze, and without returning the greeting, he asked the Director, “What the hell is all this?”

  With a look of warning, the Director said, “Marcus, this is Deputy Assistant Attorney General Trevor Fagan. He’s our new boss. The Attorney General’s office has decided to take a more active role in our operations.”

  “Really? Then what’s with the goon squad?”

  “These men are a black-ops team of contractors on loan to us from the CIA.”

  “Contractors? So they’re mercenaries. Like Blackwater?”

  “Something like that. They’re here to assist in the capture of Francis
Ackerman Jr.”

  “You mean they’re here to kill him. We’ve talked about this. We need Ackerman alive. He has knowledge about—”

  The Director raised a hand. “Let’s take this in the other room.”

  The man who had recruited Marcus to be a Shepherd walked into the apartment’s small bedroom with Fagan at his heels. Marcus was the last to enter. He shut the door behind them. The room was empty except for some blankets and an air mattress stuffed into one corner.

  Fagan opened the briefcase and handed a manilla folder to Marcus. In his soft voice, Fagan said, “That’s your psych eval.”

  Marcus didn’t open the folder. The pounding behind his eyeballs grew in intensity. “Why don’t you give me the short version?”

  Fagan nodded. His demeanor reminded Marcus of an airline rep about to tell him that they had lost his luggage. “Sure. According to the evaluation, we should pull you from active duty. Here are the highlights that I remember.” Fagan started counting off points on his fingers as he paced the room. “Paranoid, impulsive, a problem with authority, chronic insomnia, migraines, possible addiction to painkillers for the headaches, patient doesn’t seem to care whether he lives or dies to the point of having a death wish, irritability, verging on a nervous breakdown. Did I miss anything important, Director?”

  The Director sighed and wouldn’t make eye contact. “I think that about sums it up.”

  An air-conditioning unit rattled annoyingly in the window. Marcus broke the unit down in his mind into each component and examined them—screws, metal, knobs, condenser fan, blower, plastic grille, filter, condenser coil, evaporator coil. He tried to imagine the problem that was causing the rattle. He repeated this with the window and the housing keeping the unit in place. Fagan’s leather shoes squeaked on the hardwood floor. The bureaucrat wore some kind of padded inserts and walked with too much pressure on his heels—he most likely suffered from heel spurs. He favored his right leg, sign of an old injury. The Director had missed a small spot when shaving his head just above the left ear, leaving a patch of dark stubble. The five operators in the other room were moving around. Marcus could hear their boots on the linoleum in the kitchen and on the hardwood near the windows. Probably verifying the integrity of the surveillance system. A lemon-colored moth flapped against the light overhead. The high-pitched beep of a car horn sounded outside the window. Probably a compact car. A door opened in the apartment upstairs and footsteps padded across the carpeted floor.