No Escape (No Justice Book 2)

by Nolon King

  “So, how do you know you saved me?”

  Jasper, tears now dried, turned to Jordyn, “Because a kid at the camp did get hit by lightning that summer. And he died.”

  Jordyn’s eyes went wide. “Really? How come I never heard about that?”

  “You didn’t know him. And besides, what kind of father would tell their kid terrible things that they couldn’t do anything about?”

  “Okay, that was one time. But you can’t not take your pills on the off chance that you might get some vision about me. You’re suffering. You think you see Mom. And it’s not healthy.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Well, I do,” she said, approaching him, “You need to take your medicine. I’m going to tell your doctor if you don’t. And I’ll tell her that I don’t feel safe in the house, which means someone will probably come and put me in a foster home. Is that what you want, to lose me?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then you need to choose. Do you want to hold onto a ghost or me?”

  Jasper turned to see Carissa, now just inches away from them, as if she was about to hug both of them. She met his eyes, and without saying a word, Carissa conveyed a bottomless well of love and encouragement.

  She nodded.

  “Okay,” Jasper said, taking the bottle from Jordyn. He unscrewed the cap, spilled a tiny pill into his palm, popped it in his mouth, and swallowed.

  Then he opened his mouth to prove it was gone.

  “Thank you,” she said, hugging him. “I’m going to make sure you take these pills every day. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said, hugging Jordyn as he looked at Carissa, wondering how many hours or days until she finally left him forever.

  After Jordyn went to bed, Jasper put his gun in a lock box in the bottom of his nightstand, then slipped the key into the top drawer.

  It was an extra step that he hated, but it was the responsible thing until he could trust himself not to shoot up the house.

  Carissa talked to him a bit after Jordyn went to bed, telling her how proud she was of him.

  Then she vanished, which she often did at odd times. He wondered if that would be the last time they’d see each other.

  And that made him anxious.

  He went downstairs, made a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, pounded a tall glass of milk, then sat in the living room and turned on the TV.

  It automatically went to the local news where the weather girl was discussing the dry climate and the burn ban in effect. Then the anchor cut to a reporter standing outside a house, fronting a battery of sheriff deputy vans and vehicles.

  “We’re coming to you live from Creek County where a man is in critical condition following a shocking crime. Authorities are calling this a home invasion gone bad. It all began earlier this evening when intruders broke into a house on Coventry Road and robbed Anthony Alvarez and his family at gunpoint before murdering his wife and son with a machete, then stabbing him and leaving him for dead. Suspects are described as two African American males wearing black hoodies.”

  Jasper was paralyzed, staring at the television, a creeping dread washing over him.

  No, no. It has to be a coincidence.

  Jasper had been having visions all his life, but not of murders. That would have been helpful if he hadn’t been medicated during his years on the force. He wanted to deny that this was a vision. Yes, the man was named Anthony. Yes, mother and child were murdered.

  But that could be a coincidence.

  Carissa laughed.

  He was relieved to see that she hadn’t left yet.

  “So, you’re willing to believe that I’m here talking to you, but you try and deny that this was a vision? Wow, Jass, the mental gymnastics you must go through to stay in denial.” She glanced at the TV. “Uh-oh, you may not want to look.”

  He did. And Jasper saw the last thing he wanted to see — confirmation that he wasn’t dreaming, a photo of Anthony Alvarez, his wife, and son.

  “No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Fuck. Why the hell did I see that? I can’t do anything about a murder that’s already happened.”

  “Well, you’re taking the meds now, so maybe you won’t have anymore.”

  He stared at the television with an overwhelming sense of loss and helplessness. He’s seen the murder as it happened, or maybe just before. Hell, or right after. No time for him to intervene, even if he’d been able to get a name and address.

  This was even worse than the helplessness he sometimes felt as a cop. At least then, on a good day, Jasper had a chance to prevent a murder. Failing that, he could at least help to put the killer away and stop future atrocities. But there was nothing he could do here.

  “So, the sheriff’s department thinks Tony is a victim?”

  “Hard to say,” Jasper said. “He must’ve staged the scene and cleaned it well. But I’m sure they’re still looking at him as a potential suspect. The husband is always a suspect in crimes like these.”

  “What if they don’t? What if he gets off? Maybe you should call the sheriff’s office and tell them what you saw?”

  Jasper turned to her, laughing. “And say what? That I had a vision? That I’m psychic? Um, no thanks. I’m not getting involved. The evidence is there. Most people don’t know half the things that’ll trip them up in a murder investigation. There’s no way he’s getting off on this.”

  “I dunno, they’re putting out a description of two black males in hoodies. Sounds like they’re at least entertaining the idea.”

  “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

  Jasper kept staring at the TV, listening to the report repeating itself.

  He looked to see if Carissa had anything else to say, but his wife was already gone.

  Chapter 30 - Mallory Black

  Mike asked Mal a question before she even said hello.

  “You ready to come back to work?”

  “That depends. Is it sitting at a desk or out in the field?”

  “Out in the field. Riding with me. If I’m without a partner too long, they’ll probably put Skippy with me again.”

  She laughed.

  “Orestes has another countdown. Five hours.”

  “So, what’s the play?”

  “We’ve got undercover deputies and FBI agents at all three strip clubs in town.”

  “Why do you need me? I’m not going undercover as a dancer.”

  Mike laughed. “Oh, come on. I would do it.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you would.”

  “No, nothing as exciting as undercover work. Just ride with me, do whatever the Feds tell need doing.”

  “Did Gloria clear me to come back?”

  “I wouldn’t be calling if not. She wants you here. So does Wilson. And no, the investigation into your shooting isn’t over, but … special circumstances and all. No point in sitting this out.”

  “Yeah, I’ll come in,” Mal said, glad to have some distraction to prevent her from wallowing in the misery of what happened with Katie. Less time alone meant the less likely she was to turn to pills.

  The Situation Room was abuzz with activity as the clock ticked down toward Orestes666’s strike. An hour to go.

  The FBI and Creek County PIO were fielding questions from media organizations from across the country as well as concerned residents and business owners who were scared shitless that they could be at a place where the killer might strike. Many of the stores and restaurants were planning to close early.

  Everyone in the room was either consulting with one another or on phones coordinating efforts between the various organizations. The situation seemed to be escalating into something just shy of a military offensive.

  Mal needed to get out of the room. She needed to be up, not sitting. Even if it was only to pace. Being cooped up in a busy room only made her that much more removed from the case.

  She needed to be out in the field, at a crime scene that didn’t exist yet.

  It was an odd feeling to
want the murderer’s next strike behind them, so that they could get on to the next step, whether that meant capturing him before he could kill, or processing the crime scene.

  Anything was better than sitting around waiting.

  Mal stepped out, to the adjoining break room, hitting the vending machine for a Diet Coke.

  Wilson and Mike were standing in front of the coffee machine shooting the shit.

  Wilson looked up at her as she approached.

  “You hear what they’re calling this fucker?” he asked, pointing to the TV which was tuned to TV 15.

  A reporter Mal hadn’t seen yet, a young blonde named Stephanie Ryan, stood outside the Sheriff’s Office in a charcoal and blue dress, talking about the looming deadline. Beneath her a graphic read, ANON KILLER TO STRIKE TONIGHT?

  “Anon Killer?” Mal said. “Who gave him that name? And who told the press?”

  “As of about an hour ago, that’s all anyone’s calling him. It’s like the media all got together and decided, Hey, this Orestes666 thing isn’t scaring people enough, what could we call this fucker to get people to watch? Oh, I got it, Anon Killer.” Mike laughed. “Well, the story ends tonight. As to who told them, who knows?”

  Wilson refilled his coffee cup. “If our tip pays off. But maybe the tip was to throw us off?”

  He looked at Mal, looking for her to weigh in. “You don’t have any idea who called?”

  Mal had already talked to Terry McDaniels and the sheriff, telling them everything she could, without revealing the Mystery Man’s involvement.

  “No idea.”

  “So why are we even listening to this? What’s to keep him from sending us all to strip clubs while he shoots up a church?”

  “Because at the moment, we’ve got a room full of experts but no actionable anything. We have to hope that either the killer is trying to turn himself in, or it’s someone who knows the killer but is too afraid to come forward publicly.”

  Wilson shook his head. “Well, I hope you’re right. Because this shit needs to end tonight.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard,” Mal said. “Gloria is freaking out, but at least the Feds are in town to take some of the heat off her. She’s doing everything she can. I don’t think anyone can use this against her in the election.”

  Wilson laughed. “Ah, the naïveté of youth. You think this won’t be used to hurt her?”

  “I don’t know. I’d like to hope that her competitors wouldn’t use a tragedy this big to score political points. That’s just so cynical.”

  Wilson laughed again.

  Mal nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Which is all the more reason to hope that tonight goes well.”

  Mal stared at the TV, then at the clock.

  Twenty-five minutes to go.

  Chapter 31 - Jeffrey Brown

  Jeff imagined himself strolling into The Purple Pole strip club, blowing away the bevy of whores, drunk assholes, steroid case bouncers, and anyone else who got in his way.

  He imagined finding Eugene, probably in the back room getting a lap dance, maybe some head — the last he’d ever get if his marriage to the bitch was anything like Jeff’s.

  It would also be the last head he got on the count of the bullet holes in the back of his cranium.

  Maybe he’d even kill the stripper choking on Eugene’s tiny cock.

  He smiled at that image.

  Jeff had never had the time to stage a crime scene, what with the public nature of his sprees. When he was fifteen, he found true crime books in the library. He was stunned by some of their graphic content, explicitly detailing graphic and sometimes sadistic sexual mutilations. Sometimes he’d take the books home and read them in bed, furiously masturbating and imagining some of the more sexually violent scenarios.

  He’d tried to introduce some violent sex play into his marriage, but even the slightest hint at a slap and Sandra freaked out, always asking what the hell was wrong with him.

  Judgmental cunt.

  What kind of woman judged her husband for sexual fantasies? It wasn’t like he really wanted to hurt her. It was a fantasy, just enough to get his heart pumping harder. He loved her, like a blind fucking fool, until she dumped him.

  Now he’d love to hurt her. Hell, maybe he would rape her first. Let every sick fantasy off of the leash.

  He imagined her recoiling at his touch. That only made him want her more.

  He still couldn’t understand how the hell a bitch could just up and leave her husband. Wasn’t it supposed to be until death do you part?

  He hadn’t fucking died, so why should she be allowed to part?

  Times like this, he wished they lived in a part of the world where a woman couldn’t leave her husband without getting stoned to death.

  He laughed at the thought of Sandra crying, begging for him to take her back in front of a swarm of men clutching rocks.

  “Okay, I’ll spare you if you suck every one of us off.”

  And then when she was done, they’d stone her anyway, for being a slut.

  He thought about all the whores in the club. He’d been to The Purple Pole a few times. The women were fake as hell, but a lot prettier than the ones at that shitty little club in Butler, filled with trailer trash whose tattoos battled with their meth acne in a war for which could occupy the most room on their skin.

  A blonde there who had milked him for drinks and tips working him up to getting a private dance. He must’ve spent $150 on her before he even got the lap dance, and then when it came time to go back to the “champagne room” she wouldn’t even grind on him to get him off. When he’d put his hands on her hips to guide her, she pulled away and waved her finger, saying, “uh uh uh” like he was some fucking child putting his hand in a cookie jar. Like he wasn’t a man who’d just dropped $150 for her to do what whores did.

  He wished he could freeze time while in the strip club. He’d find that bitch, assuming she hadn’t died of an overdose. He’d find her, and he’d get what she owed him — dead or alive.

  He imagined forcing himself on her. Maybe he’d leave her alive long enough to hate what he made her do. Then maybe he’d slit her throat while he came in her. Or maybe put his gun in her mouth and pull the trigger as he finished.

  He was aroused just thinking about it. He reached down and adjusted his dick, squeezing the end of it hard as he imagined the filthy things he’d see.

  Maybe he could take a minute to bust a nut before leaving. If not, at least he’d have the footage of his spree. He could watch that later, imagining scenarios.

  Red and blue lights filled his cabin.

  He looked in the rearview mirror to see a Creek County Sheriff’s car behind him.

  Shit.

  He looked down at his speedometer and saw that he was going two miles per hour over the stated 45 speed limit.

  He swallowed. The traffic stop played out in his head. They’d pull him over; maybe it was one of their random stops, maybe they’d want to search the vehicle. Not only did he have the AR-15 sitting beneath a blanket between the seats, but his trunk was full of more weapons he planned to use tonight.

  But he was likely fucked even before then. The moment they ran the stolen plates, then tried to match them to the stolen white Toyota Camry, he’d be fucked.

  He had a choice to make. Stop and hope they didn’t run his plates, or make a run in a car that wasn’t nearly as suited to a high-speed pursuit as the Dodge had been.

  He watched, hoping the patrol car would peel away and follow somebody else.

  But when he didn’t pull to the side of the road the officer blurted the siren twice to get his attention.

  Shit.

  Fuck.

  Cunt.

  Jeff pulled over. He was along one of the few deserted stretches of beachside road in Creek County with a few homes to the left and nothing but a few dozen feet of sand and ocean to the right.

  Not another soul in sight.

  His plans to murder Eugene were on hold. But that didn’t mean
he couldn’t give his followers a show.

  He wouldn’t be able to livestream this one. There wasn’t enough time to set everything up. But he could record and post it later.

  Jeff took the stolen phone, connected it to the GoPro mounted camera already strapped to his chest, and slid on his ski mask.

  He stepped out of his car, AR-15 in hand.

  Before the officers even had a chance to ready their weapons, he fired into the windshield.

  Bullets ripped through the windshield, then into the officers’ heads.

  They never had a chance.

  Dogs barked, the closest a block or two back in the residential neighborhood.

  A light went bright in the second story of a house directly in front of him, a nice home with a red tiled roof and a beautifully landscaped yard. Well-lit. The house probably cost at least a million.

  Jeff saw a shadow appear in the window, looking down at him.

  It quickly vanished.

  He ran toward the house, went to the front door and looked up. Through the window, he saw a man in his early forties yelling at his wife to get up and hide as he picked up his phone.

  Too late.

  Jeff shot through the window, hitting the man in his chest, causing him to drop phone. The woman screamed and ran toward an open patio door in the back of the house. Jeff raised his gun and fired, hitting her in the back.

  She stumbled forward and splashed into the pool.

  Jeff considered reaching in through the broken window, opening the door, and making sure both people were dead, but he didn’t have time — especially if the officers had called in his plate.

  It was time to go.

  He looked back and saw a red Lexus sitting in the driveway.

  Maybe I should go inside after all.

  He turned his camera off and headed inside the house to get the keys.

  He saw a blue Southwest-style plate atop a wooden shelf just inside the doorway, holding a wallet and two sets of keys.

  He grabbed the keys and was about to leave when he spotted the framed photo on the wall of the man and woman he’d just killed. With them, a young boy, around eleven.