by Ethan Cross
Andrew nodded. “I’m with you. I just wonder if there’s a piece to the puzzle we haven’t seen yet.”
“Let’s hope not.” Marcus looked to the double doors and said, “Did they go all the way back to the mine for that body? We’re wasting time here.”
Andrew said, “Patience.”
“That’s your job. My job is to find the shortest path to our bad guy. Sometimes that involves busting some heads, and if those two are out there taking a smoke break, I swear to all that is holy that I will—”
The double doors swung open and the two techs wheeled in the second body bag. The saggy-eyed lab assistants barely acknowledged Marcus and Andrew as they lined up the second gurney beside Debra. The female tech, a twenty-something with a nose ring, said, “The ME is on his way.”
Marcus didn’t really care about the medical examiner at that point. He simply needed a confirmation. If he was right, then a quick look would tell him that this was not Bradley Reese.
He pushed the techs aside, unzipped the bag, and was greeted by the face of a man who looked like he had fallen down a mineshaft.
Andrew said, “He’s pretty beat up, but that sure looks like Bradley Reese.”
Marcus realized that all his muscles were trembling. He whispered, “His hands. I noticed ink on them earlier.”
He couldn’t force his muscles to move. He couldn’t get his arms to unzip the bag any farther. Andrew finished unzipping it for him. He looked down at Reese’s hands. And there, in the same exact patterns he had captured earlier with his eidetic memory, were the ink stains.
Marcus said, “That’s it. I give up.”
Then he stormed from the room.
*
FILE #750265-6726-695
Zolotov, Dmitry - AKA The Judas Killer
State Exhibit F
Description: Diary Entry
Father caught up to us in front of the clock tower at Kiyevsky Railway Terminal as Stasi and I were waiting for the last train to Vienna. He had his rusty old .38 special in his hand and a murderous gleam in his eye. I had seen that look many times before and, when he forced us into the back of the theater’s van, I knew that he didn’t plan on bringing the wayward children home like a dutiful father.
He had other things on his mind.
He took us back to the basement of the old theater house. At that time of night, the place was abandoned, and there was no one within earshot to hear us scream.
He tied me up, hanging above the floor by my wrists, my feet dangling. Then he made me watch and look into Stasi’s eyes as he raped her and slit her throat.
At that point, he should have killed me … because I was damn sure going to kill him.
But he didn’t, and it’s taken me years to realize why. I used to think that he hated me, but I’ve come to believe that Father actually loved me in his own way. And it’s been my experience that people are far more likely to destroy what they love than that which they hate.
Instead of killing me, he stripped me naked and pulled out a knife and a big, fat rubber band. The kind a schoolteacher may wrap around a thick bundle of markers.
As he stumbled toward me, the smell of vodka strong on his breath, in slurred English, he said, “When I was a boy on our farm outside Osnovo, my brother and I used to take pleasure in castrating the livestock by wrapping a rubber band just like this around their testicles. The animal’s nuts would eventually die and fall off. But don’t worry, my little Judas, we won’t wait for that. I’ll finish up the procedure with the knife. After a few hours of excruciating pain to teach you a lesson, of course. I know this may seem cruel to you now. But you will do so much more with your life without worrying about the shlyukhas and children. They will only lead you to ruin. Trust me, my son … I’m doing you a favor.”
*
As she lay there on the floor of Powell’s office—bloody, beaten, and quickly losing the will to keep fighting—Maggie Carlisle realized that she was going to die at the lowest point in her life. Things were rocky between her and Marcus. The twentieth anniversary of her brother’s abduction was quickly approaching, and she was no closer to finding the man who took him than she had been when the SO recruited her. She had been drinking far too much far too often. She felt constantly on edge. And now she had learned that she was unable to have children due to some condition she couldn’t even pronounce. She would never hold her own baby in her arms. She would never be able to experience that feeling with Marcus.
She realized that she didn’t even care if Jerry ended her. She almost welcomed it. Her child wasn’t dead. It had never even been given a single spark of life. But she couldn’t help feeling like she had just lowered a baby into the ground.
Jerry Dunn aimed her Glock and said, “We could have been something special. If you had just … ”
Maggie then realized that one added bonus to being barren was that, when Jerry raped her, she wouldn’t have to worry about getting pregnant. Of course, that really wouldn’t be a problem because at some point—before, during, or after—he would also strangle her to death.
She started to laugh, but it turned into a cry. Within a moment, she was weeping. She hated that Jerry would think her tears were born out of fear of him. When, in reality, her tears had little to do with Jerry Dunn, and more to do with her own shortcomings.
Jerry started unbuttoning his pants and said, “I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised.”
Maggie was about to tell Jerry where he could stick his pleasant surprise, but another voice from across the room—a man’s voice, deep and soft with an edge of menace, and dripping with arrogance—said, “I’m just going to stop you there, Jer Bear. You can keep your pants on for this.”
Maggie pulled herself up onto her knees and looked across the room at Francis Ackerman Jr. He stood there by the stairs with a coffee cup in his hand like he was just showing up for work.
She spat blood on the floor and said, “It’s about time. How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to assess the situation,” Ackerman said. “I told you I’d come for you. And I’ve never lied to you, little sister. At least, not when it really counted.”
Jerry Dunn said, “How did you get up here? How did you get past the guards?”
Ackerman took a sip of his coffee and made a face. He said, “This coffee is terrible. And cold. It actually belonged to one of the dead technicians. I figured they wouldn’t mind, and I needed a boost. Maybe my age is catching up with me, but I just can’t stay up for days on end like I used to. But in regard to your friends, I’m afraid that they have been incapacitated and, even as we speak, Ms. Spinelli is working to retake control of the computer systems.”
Jerry raised the Glock and said, “Don’t move.”
Ackerman appeared to be unarmed. He took another sip of his coffee, made another face, and then raised his hands in surrender.
Jerry made a dash for the computer on Powell’s desk. Ackerman didn’t move, and Maggie was in no condition to do much of anything. Jerry furiously tapped at the keys of Powell’s computer.
He said, “There must have been an error that disabled both the CCE and this office. But I’ve reactivated all security now. And I have complete control of the system from here. Isn’t that right, Agent Carlisle?”
Jerry pressed another key, and Maggie felt an electrical current surge through her body.
*
Ackerman watched Jerry Dunn’s gaze fall to Maggie’s writhing form. And again there was that hunger in the young man’s eyes. And again Ackerman wanted to pop out Jerry’s eyeballs with a spoon.
When Dunn looked to Maggie again, Ackerman tossed his coffee into the air, pulled both of the Tasers he had tucked into his waistband, and discharged the first into Dunn’s chest. The muscular little man trembled and dropped as the barbs penetrated him just like he had planned to penetrate Maggie.
Ackerman calmly walked around Powell’s desk and stared down at Jerry Dunn. Maggie had stopped shaking now
, but she was still on the ground. He could see her labored breathing. She needed to get those ribs looked at.
Jerry started groaning, and so Ackerman pulled the trigger of the Taser again in order to send an additional shock. Then he said, “See this, it’s better to give than to receive. Isn’t that right, little buddy?”
Maggie pulled herself up into one of the high-back leather chairs and said, “I don’t think you’re using that saying in the right context. Better to give doesn’t refer to pain.”
“I feel it’s applicable.”
“You could have used that Taser on him before he shocked me.”
“I was feeling out the moment. You were never in any danger.”
Maggie said, “It felt pretty damn dangerous. I could have some heart defect or—”
“I’ve seen your medical files. Your heart is fine. What should we do with our friend here?”
To emphasize the point, Ackerman shot Jerry with the second Taser.
Maggie pulled herself up onto trembling legs and hobbled around the desk. She scanned the floor for her Glock. She found it, picked it up, and aimed it at Jerry Dunn’s head.
Then Maggie said, “Rape this, you sick—”
She squeezed the trigger.
Ackerman watched her finger, with one twitch of a few muscle strands, pass a death sentence onto Jerry Dunn. He traced her aim. He knew her target. The T-zone. The sweet spots on the skull. She wasn’t trying to scare Jerry or prove a point. She intended for that finger to twitch and for him to die.
But that didn’t happen.
Instead, the gun made an audible click and then remained silent.
Maggie screamed and threw the gun across the room, and then she dropped to the floor, sobbing. Beneath the blubbering, Ackerman heard her say, “I can’t even kill someone right.”
Ackerman said, “First of all, there is no right or wrong way to kill someone. It’s all just personal preferences. Although, it is kind of a pass or fail thing. And he is still breathing. And I do agree that you should have known the gun was unloaded. He obviously had you under control without it—I mean, look at this guy, he looks like some super-soldier experiment gone awry. He wouldn’t have given you the opportunity to overpower him with a gun that he didn’t even need or want to use.”
Maggie said, “Please shut up.”
“Plus, you should have been able to feel it was empty from the weight of it.”
“I hate you so much right now.”
“I just saved you from being raped and murdered. I didn’t expect a medal but—”
“You want to do something for me? Remove this piece of human garbage from my universe. You want to earn my gratitude? Simple. All you have to do is execute Jerry Dunn.”
*
Ackerman considered Maggie’s proposal.
On the surface, it was simple enough. He could easily end Jerry’s life in a variety of different ways, all with various levels of associated satisfaction. In Dunn’s pacified state, Ackerman could snap the man’s neck. Or tear out his windpipe with his fingers. Or jam his thumbs straight into those filthy, hungry eyes until he could scrape his fingernails against the backside of Jerry’s skull.
He said, “I made a promise to my brother.”
Maggie said, “Marcus isn’t here and never has to know. This is about me. You’ll be doing me a favor.”
“Marcus would find out. It’s kind of what he does.”
“Okay, I’ll tell Marcus that I ordered you to do it. I’ll tell him that it was all me.”
“We may need Jerry.”
“He’s worthless, and you know it. What’s the matter? You suddenly sprouting a conscience? What’s one more murder? You already have so much to atone for, what’s one more?”
Ackerman considered this and then pulled a prison shank that he had taken from Winston. Jerry was still quivering on the floor. Ackerman grabbed him by the foot and stabbed the homemade blade straight through Dunn’s Achilles tendon.
The little man kicked and thrashed, but he was unable to keep Ackerman from repeating the same act of mutilation on his opposite foot.
Ackerman said, “If you recall, I’m going to title our little game, A Lesson in Loss. And trust me on this, Jerry, there is so much more that I can take from you than just your life.”
*
Andrew found Marcus sitting on the curb in front of the medical annex. He walked over and said, “Mind if I pull up a stool.”
“Be my guest.”
Andrew cleaned off a spot as best as he could and then sat down. “It’s not a big deal. You were wrong about Reese. You had a theory, and it was a good one. It just happened to be wrong. And that’s okay.”
“Is it? When I’m wrong, people die.”
“That’s not on you.”
“And what else am I wrong about? Tell me the truth as a partner and friend. Am I wrong to trust Ackerman?”
“The verdict is still out, if you want my honest opinion. But I don’t think we’re wrong to find out. I mean, Ackerman is tough as hell, and he can provide insight that can help save lives. We just need to proceed cautiously.”
“If you see me doing otherwise, you call me out on it. Iron sharpens iron. My dad used to say that, but I only recently thought about it and realized what he meant. It comes from a Bible verse about guys needing other guys to call them out when they’re being jerks. Dad always quoted it in reference to his poker buddies when he was arguing with my mom. I guess what I’m trying to say is that you’ve made me a better person by being my friend. Like Dad said, ‘iron sharpens iron.’ I’m not good with this touchy-feely crap, but I want you to know I appreciate you always being there.”
Andrew squeezed his friend’s shoulder, held the pressure for a few seconds, and then slapped Marcus hard across the face. “Stop talking like they’re getting ready to send you off to the glue factory. Reese isn’t Judas, but he may lead us to him. And that may lead us to a way to put an end to this standoff and help our friends. So we have two leads just waiting to pan out. Stan will get Debra’s phone back, and while he does that, we’ll go check out that address Reese kept visiting. What do you say?”
Marcus took a deep breath, then stuck out his arm and index finger, and tucked in the other arm like he was a flying superhero. In his best Adam West voice, Marcus said, “I say … to the minivan, Robin.”
Andrew said, “I am not the Robin to your Batman.”
Marcus slapped Andrew on the shoulder as he stood and said, “Come on, little buddy. You can’t fight your destiny.”
Then, before Andrew could respond, Marcus headed off toward the van. Andrew frowned and grumbled under his breath, “I’ll tell you what you can do with that little buddy …” then Andrew yelled after Marcus, “The only one I might give you is me being the Murtaugh to your Riggs.”
Andrew didn’t think his partner had even heard until Marcus yelled back, “You’re getting closer. Maybe you can be Goose to my Maverick.”
“No way am I Goose!”
*
Jerry Dunn pulled himself along in a backwards crawl away from Ackerman, his wounded heels smearing blood all over Powell’s nice, clean floor.
Ackerman fought the urge to pounce on Jerry and gouge those filthy eyes right out of the little man’s head. He had plucked out eyeballs before; he had done damn near everything at one time or another. He could almost feel the vitreous fluid on his fingertips. He could almost taste it from memory. Sort of a salty-sweet.
He didn’t hear his father’s voice in his head at that moment, but he could feel the old man’s presence. Like Ackerman Sr. or Thomas White or whatever name he was calling himself now was watching from the corner of the room and urging him on.
Ackerman took his blade and slashed its edge across his own forearm. He savored the pain a moment, and then, with no warning, he pounced onto Jerry Dunn’s chest. Ackerman pinned Jerry’s arms and pressed the blade to the little man’s windpipe. It would be so easy to puncture it and watch Jerry gasp for air and dr
own in his own blood.
Ackerman fought the urge.
He said, “I want to kill you, Jerry. It’s not just that I would kill you, if you make a move, it’s that I’m hoping you will give me the slightest justification to end your life. And, if that should happen, I will make the last minute or so of your life something you’ll remember for the rest of eternity. Don’t speak. Just blink if you understand.”
Jerry blinked.
“Good. I feel it’s important for you to understand the distinction, Jerry, because I like to get to know the people I kill. So here’s something you’ve never heard before: let’s talk about you.”
Jerry said, “I’m the guy who’s going to kill you.”
Ackerman laughed and pressed the blade deeper into Jerry’s skin. A line of blood started to trickle out and pool around his neck.
Ackerman said, “Can you hear the angels, Jerry? Can you hear them singing? With all the people I’ve killed, if angels do carry us into the next world, I would have been in the presence of angels many times. I’ve often wondered what those angels thought about me when they collected those souls. Do they care about the affairs and feelings of men or are they merely automatons with a task to complete? Did they weep for my victims? Do they sing their song of mourning for my soul? Do you hear them, Jerry? Can you hear the angels crying?”
Jerry said, “Please, I’ll tell you everything I know about Demon, and his operations. Just don’t kill me. I know I hurt Agent Carlisle, but you’re federal agents. You can’t just kill a suspect in custody.”
“A suspect!” Maggie screamed, but Ackerman held her off with a raised hand and bit of nonverbal communication with his eyes.
Ackerman said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Jerry. I’m not going to kill you. How would you learn about loss if you’re dead?”
Then he grabbed a can of compressed air, which he had noticed sitting atop Powell’s desk. It was a simple tool often used for cleaning keyboards and computers that shot out a blast of compressed air, which swept away any dust or lose particles. But Ackerman didn’t intend to use as directed. He knew that a can of compressed air had another potential utility.
