by Ethan Cross
71
After instructing Jerrell to sit in the chair, which was bolted to the floor, the Gladiator had demonstrated his control of the situation by switching the lights to red and filling the room with the high-pitched tone. The dogs charged at Jerrell with frightening speed and ferocity, but Jerrell didn’t remain in his place. He rushed to a corner of the room. Putting his back to the wall, he hunkered low, arms guarding his throat, his makeshift weapon at the ready.
But, at the last moment, the tone lowered in pitch and the lights flicked back to blue. The massive Rottweilers shook with denied fury as they snarled and growled at him, saliva dripping from the beasts’ fangs, but the hellhounds would come no farther. The tone sounded again, and the dogs reluctantly returned to the painted circles.
“Make your choice,” the Gladiator said over the intercom. “Brawn and blood, or brains and imagination. You can either fight my pets to the death or you can pass my test.”
Not seeing any other options, Jerrell sat back down. The eyes of the hellhounds followed him all the way as he crossed in front of them and sat.
“Good. First question. A murderer is condemned to death. He has to choose between three rooms. The first is full of raging fires, the second is full of men with loaded guns, and the third is full of lions that haven’t eaten in three years. Which room should he choose and why?”
Jerrell sat dumbfounded a moment and then said, “Is this a joke? What kind of question is that?”
“This test is designed to establish a number of factors regarding your brain power, including your IQ and cognitive flexibility. Do I need to repeat the question?”
“I’m not playing some stupid game with you!” Jerrell screamed. “Come in here and face me like a man, you little bitch! All big and bad with two bodyguards and a steel door between us. Why don’t you come in here and face me yourself?”
“All in due time. Do I need to repeat the question?”
“The answer is: Go screw yourself.”
“Once again, your choice is simple. Fight the hellhounds or pass the test. Refusal to participate is a choice that results in failure. If you fail the test, the lights turn red and you face trial by combat instead.”
Jerrell gritted his teeth with rage. He squeezed the sharpened drain cover in his right fist. Then he looked at each of the dogs. Their eyes were wide and alert, and they made soft mewling sounds, as if they were watching and waiting as their master dumped kibble into a bowl. Maybe if he struck first and took one of them down he would stand a chance against the sole survivor. Against one of the dogs, he felt he had a chance. But taking on both would be suicide.
He leaned forward in the chair, and the dogs growled. Over the intercom, the Gladiator said, “I wouldn’t do that. Unless, of course, you’re choosing to fight.”
Jerrell leaned back and reconsidered his options. He’d never make it to one of them before they both pounced.
The Gladiator said, “Do you need me to repeat the question?”
“Yes,” Jerrell said. “Repeat the damn question.”
72
Sitting in the chair closest to the podium, Marcus tapped his leg and tried not to focus in on individuals in the crowd or any of the other sights, smells, and sounds that threatened to overwhelm him. Over the years, he had learned to filter out the distractions and maintain his composure. But the less he slept, the less he could focus.
The captain introduced each member of the team—minus Ackerman, who Marcus wouldn’t allow on stage wearing that ridiculous shirt. He wasn’t sure why the young captain felt the need to make such a drawn-out introduction, but maybe the little man was just smart enough to make himself look in charge.
Marcus zoned out for a moment. He looked out onto the assembled detectives and noticed a man in a Hawaiian shirt sitting with some goth chick. He wondered if they were undercover agents.
Once the little man was done making himself look important, the captain called for Marcus to take over the briefing. He heard his name, but at first, it didn’t register. He was off in his own little world. After an awkward pause, Marcus finally collected himself and stepped up to the microphone.
Clearing his throat, he said, “Let’s cut right to the heart of it. We’re from a special unit within the Department of Justice, which is focused on serial murderers. We’ve been tracking down a killer known as ‘The Gladiator.’ A friend within the FBI knew about our case and informed us of a tape which was recorded three days ago by an undercover agent. The Bureau had inserted this agent into a local criminal organization run by a man known as Mr. King.”
As he looked out across the room, he saw that he had everyone’s attention. He was certain they had all heard of the infamous and reclusive crime lord.
“The agent who recorded what you are about to hear has gone missing. The FBI believes, and we concur, that this agent is now being held by the Gladiator. We also believe that the Gladiator and your ‘Skullface’ could be the same killer.”
A wave of murmuring swept over the crowd, with a few of the detectives attempting to ask questions, but Marcus silenced them with a raised palm. “Our technical director has control of your computer system, and he’s going to play the recording, which is between Oban Nassar—who is King’s right-hand man—and an unknown party. I’ll go into more detail afterward, and so I’ll probably end up answering most of your questions then. Go ahead and play that recording, Stan.”
…Hello. Yes, sir … I understand … That is very unsettling news … Decisive action is certainly required, sir. He’s already seen too much. He must be dealt with quickly, in order to mitigate the damage … With all due respect, sir, I don’t believe that this is a job that would require the services of the Gladiator … I wouldn’t argue that, sir, but you know how I feel about the prices that the Gladiator and his handler have been charging us for their services … Do you think it’s wise to send this man to the Diamond Room? … Of course, sir … I understand. Consider it done …
“The man referred to on this recording—The Gladiator—is a contract killer, but we also believe that he’s killed just as much for his own pleasure as he has for money. And although he obviously doesn’t choose the type of target he gets paid to kill, his personal tastes, we believe, align with the profile of your missing girls.”
73
Corin crawled out of a bad dream about falling and awoke into a full-fledged nightmare. Last she remembered, they were in the ornate dining room. Dr. Gladstone had struck her, and then she must have passed out.
But now where was she? Her vision was blurred. She could only see vague shapes and silhouettes swimming in a pool of light.
Her mind was still falling when Gladstone said, “Corin, my dear, wake up. It’s a good morning.”
She tried to raise her arms, but they wouldn’t move. She tried to move other parts of her body, but below her neck all movement had been restricted to only a few centimeters of leeway.
Blinking herself awake, her breathing became short stabs of air that smelled like blood and fire. In front of her, she saw water. The same small lake that had been beyond the glass of the triangular windows of the ballroom. But now, she could see blue sky and smell the algae and muck growing along the lake’s boundaries. She was outside. To her left she saw Gladstone, back in his wheelchair, her fellow captives behind him. The other girls wouldn’t make eye contact with her. The looks of fear on their faces made Corin wonder if this was less a punishment and more an execution.
She said, “What’s up, Doc?”
Gladstone smiled and shook his head. “You’ve been a very bad girl, Corin. You didn’t even let me fully explain the situation. As I was attempting to elucidate earlier, my work goes far beyond this compound and a few kidnapped women. I’m confident the work I’m doing here will one day lead to the salvation of humankind.”
Her world still spinning, she said, “Do you actually hear the words that are coming out of your mouth? I mean, your cheese has slid way the hell off your cracker, Doc. I
kind of wonder if you were just born without the cheese.”
“You’re not in a position for mocking, my child. Once again, you rush to judgment without hearing all the details.”
As Corin’s mind began to clear, she studied her restraints for weaknesses. Her skin felt like ice. She was completely naked, mounted to a piece of curved metal. Only her head was free to move.
They were somewhere in Northern California; she was sure that. She recognized the climate and the kinds of trees. In her youth, Corin had spent time in a foster home nestled just outside the Redwood National Park. Her foster parents had been survivalist-types, and she had always been a quick study when it came to surviving.
Gladstone said, “I don’t enjoy this sort of thing. I really don’t. I’m not a sadist, but there has to be law. In order for our new society to function, you all must accept me as your universal ruler.”
She said, “People like you may live on in infamy, but in my opinion, that’s even worse than being dead.”
He laughed. “You are so naïve, little girl. I mentioned Genghis Khan earlier. In many ways, he’s a model for what I’m trying to accomplish. In Mongolia, the great conqueror is seen as a hero and the founding father of their nation.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
His smile faded. “I’ll make you a deal, my pet. If you can tell me the capital of Mongolia—the name of the city—then you’re free to go. I’ll drive you home myself.”
She didn’t trust his word for a second, but she still searched her memory for the answer. All those moments she had spent studying, memorizing textbooks and arbitrary facts. But when was the last time she had been exposed to that kind of information? Freshman year of college? Senior year of high school?
“Do you give up?”
“I’m thinking.”
The capital of Mongolia?
Was it some derivative of their founding father? But she couldn’t recall ever hearing the names Khanopolis or Genghisia.
Finally, she whispered, “I don’t know.”
“Too bad. Ulan Bator is the capital of Mongolia. But how about I give you a second chance. A slow pitch right down the middle. This one is for your life. What’s the name of Mongolia’s international airport, university, and vodka?”
“Screw you,” she said, her voice trembling, no longer able to hold back her tears.
“Oh, come now, my dear. This is an easy one. No tricks. I’ll give you another hint … His portrait also appears on all Mongolia’s currency.”
She said, “Genghis Khan.”
“That’s correct. In Mongolia and most of Asia, Genghis Khan is revered as a hero and known as the great unifier. His legacy is not only found in the DNA that he passed down to a large percentage of the population, but also through the revolutionary ideas he put in motion.”
“And he was also known as a ruthless butcher. Everyone lived in fear of the Mongol horde. He slaughtered countless innocent people.”
“So what?”
“Listen, Doc, if I have to explain to you why it’s not okay to slaughter thousands of innocent people, then I’m not sure where to go with this conversation.”
He chuckled. “I’m very much enjoying our little dialogues, Corin. I’m glad I chose not to kill you outright for your defiance.”
“I’m glad you didn’t kill me too. Then I would have missed the chance to watch you bleed out. And I want nothing more than to look in your eyes as you die in your own shit.”
Gladstone gazed down at her like a parent secretly amused at a child’s insolence. He said, “Sonnequa, if you would be so kind, please give Ms. Campbell a small taste of the pain to come.”
74
As the federal agent’s presentation steamrolled forward, Baxter Kincaid leaned back in his seat and looked down at his folder full of grainy photos. Agent Williams was a tough act to follow—guy was all business and knew what he was doing. Baxter decided that he better up his game just a bit. But how to accomplish such a feat?
Some unseen technician had magically taken control of the department’s computer systems. The mounted LED display screens overflowed with photos of victims and persons of interest. Special Agent Williams explained the facts and their conclusions in a no-nonsense way. Baxter got the sense that the man was actually telling them everything and doing whatever he could to help in their investigation. Unlike what was often shown on film and television, Baxter had found that, the biggest percentage of the time, law enforcement officers considered themselves to be on the same team, despite jurisdictions and bureaucracy. There were, of course, rivalries, pissing contests, and territorial disputes perpetrated by men with big egos and bigger guns. But, for the most part, he had always found officers of the law to have good hearts and share a genuine desire to stop crime.
As he considered how to up his own game, he absorbed all the information presented. Agent Williams passed the mic off to some of his team members, who discussed other aspects of the profiles. One theory that caught Baxter’s ear was that the Gladiator—or Skullface as the San Francisco Police Department had come to call him—may think of the skull mask as his “true” face, and that this could be indicative of a facial deformity, real or perceived.
It was a detailed and astute presentation, complete with all kinds of fancy graphics and photos. The damn thing was a work of art. And now Baxter was going to have to get up there and make all these guys pay attention to a few grainy photos that he believed might lead to the man that they were all yammering about.
Baxter had already made up his mind that his involvement in this case was about to come to an end. It was way out of his league and not his job. But he also wanted to make sure that the people whose job it actually was paid attention to the juiciest leads.
Watching Natalie take the stage, thank the agents for their presentation, and introduce him, he still had no idea how to leave an impression upon the assembled group of men and women.
She called him forward, and Baxter jogged up the two steps to the slightly elevated stage as if he was about ready to receive an MVP trophy. He grabbed the mic and said, “What’s up, y’all. Most of you know me, personally or by reputation. And so you should realize that I wouldn’t be bringing a lead to this task force if it wasn’t straight legit. So …”
Looking down at his folder, Baxter had a thought. The photos showed a time progression, sort of like time-lapse photography. And when he was a kid he always liked to play with time-lapse photography in a cool and special way. He just needed something to bind them together.
Glancing around at the expectant, tired, and just plain grumpy faces of the gathered officers, Baxter’s gaze came to rest on Detective All-a-that with his slicked-back black hair, dimpled chin, and golden tan. The dude reminded Baxter of a soap-opera actor, and not the hunky cool type, but the one in the role of the villain. A white, three-ring binder rested atop All-a-that’s lap. It was exactly what Baxter had been looking for, perfect for holding his 8 x 10 inch photographs.
Into the mic, he said, “Just one sec, everybody.”
Baxter then stepped down from the stage and snatched the binder from Detective Olivette’s unsuspecting hands. He turned it upside down, flipped the releases, and dumped the stack of paper onto Olivette’s lap. The handsome young detective struggled to catch a few stray sheets and then looked up at Baxter as if he had just replaced the boy’s morning cereal with kitty litter.
The thought made Baxter grin from ear to ear.
Retaking the stage, he laid the binder on the podium and forced the printed photos over the rings. Natalie wore an expression that seemed to Baxter to say, “You have embarrassed me, and I am definitely going to punch you in the balls for this.”
But Nat had yet to see the finished product.
Pointing to the computer sitting at the podium, Baxter said, “This is one of those MacBooks, right? Can you bring up that Photo Booth program for me, Detective Ferrera?”
She glared at him a few ticks longer—with that strange look
of testicular vengeance in her eyes—but then she stepped over to the computer and did as he asked.
Turning the binder over, Baxter placed his homemade flip book in front of the MacBook’s webcam and cycled through the photos as if they were a stop action movie. He flipped through a few times at different speeds, letting everyone get a good look at all the pictures.
Then Baxter laid the binder on the podium and said, “What you just saw was a flip book of still photographs which was taken from a video. My technical consultant told me to bring the video in on something called a flash drive. Looking back, that may have been my bad, but we’ve improvised, adapted, and overcome. So … the photos show the vehicle of one of your missing girls, Corin Campbell, driving away from her apartment on the evening she went missing. The footage shows a man behind the wheel of Corin’s car, a man with a very distinctive tattoo on his right hand. And, icing on the cake, the tattoo looks a bit like the lower jaw of the dude you’ve been calling Skullface.”
Baxter paused to let the info permeate, while resisting the urge to drop the mic.
A few of the crowd members shouted questions, and so Natalie grabbed the microphone and said, “We’ve already run the tattoo through all of our databases with no luck. Now we need all of you to hit the streets and start asking your informants about a guy with the jaw of a skull on his right hand. This could be it, people. This could be our one shot at this guy.”
75
Corin had started to protest when she felt a cold fire ignite on her right calf muscle. Then the cold retreated, leaving only the excruciating pain that seemed to be eating its way through her leg. It felt as though the bit of a drill press was being run all the way through her flesh.
With exhausting effort, she fought the cresting waves of agony. She felt slick with sweat, as if she had just run a marathon. Darkness threatened to overcome her, but she fought the urge to shut down and sleep. It seemed like several moments before she could think over the agony, but pain also had a way of stretching time.
