Текст книги "Blood Men "

Автор книги: Paul Cleave

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chapter fifty-one

It’s all happening so fast. The night is becoming absolute chaos. Jack Hunter has escaped—helped by Edward—and Schroder has to push that fact to the back of his mind right at this moment and deal with it soon. At this rate he’s doubting he’ll make it home on Christmas Day for even five minutes. His wife will hate him, his daughter might too. Thankfully his son is only a few months old so at least somebody won’t be pissed at him.

The Armed Offenders Unit is running at about 50 percent, the other half having already left for the holidays or drunk already and not returning Schroder’s calls, giving him a team short on manpower but a team nonetheless, still extremely capable. Schroder has already died once tonight and doesn’t want that to be the start of a pattern. He has a better use for the team than he did half an hour ago, with them driving around looking for Hunter.

When his cell phone rings again, it’s Anthony Watts, a detective who is currently with Edward Hunter’s in-laws.

“They don’t recognize any of the photos from the files,” Watts says. “I mean, the only one they recognize is the victim lying dead on their living-room floor.”

“Okay. Get back down to the probation offices. If Bracken scrambled to put all this together since finding Kingsly’s body, then maybe this other person has a file he accessed today. It could give you a fresh set of mug shots.”

Kelvin Johnson is on the top of the list of six names he printed out, predominantly because three of the other people are dead—including Ryan Hann, who died by pencil. Bracken wasn’t on the list, giving Johnson a one-in-three chance of being the first. Incarcerated nine years ago for the robbery of a jewelry store in which a sales assistant permanently lost the use of one arm after he shot her, Johnson was released four years ago and upon his release had contact with his parole officer once a week for two years, then once a month for the following year. As of a year ago the justice system was satisfied that Kelvin Johnson was a model Christchurch citizen, having undergone the exact amount necessary of jail time and a probation period afterward.

Johnson lives in a government-subsidized house in an area of town that seems to attract violence the same way rotten food attracts flies. At the moment they’re all parked four blocks away, a miniature command post set up.

“Two things,” Schroder says, and the team of men listen intently. “First, we don’t know for a fact Johnson was part of the robbery. Second thing is, even if he was, we don’t know that he has anything to do with Sam Hunter being kidnapped, or if she is here. That means we need to be careful; we need to make sure there are no slipups, and that we get him in one piece. Any questions?”

There are always questions. They spend another ten minutes going over it. When they’re ready, two vans pull in to the street where Johnson lives, one from each side. A drive-by three minutes earlier had confirmed there were no lights on inside the house, and no signs of life. A team of two people are parked on the street behind the house in case Johnson climbs the back fence in an attempt to get away.

The Armed Offenders Unit members move quickly. They’re all dressed in black and they hit the house hard and fast, busting in the door, and then there’s thirty seconds of shouting and no gunfire. Schroder and Landry wait out on the street, and a minute later Johnson is led out in a pair of pajama bottoms and handcuffs.

“There’s nobody else,” Officer Liam Marshall, the man leading the unit, says. “No sign of any girl. The house is secure.”

“Get him in the van,” Landry says. “I’ll try to convince him to talk while you check out the house.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know where she is.”

“Maybe,” Landry says, “but we’ll know soon.”

It takes Schroder three minutes to find the money. It’s hidden above the manhole in the ceiling. Things are always hidden up there; he figures there isn’t a burglar yet who hasn’t considered hiding something in the roof.

He calls Landry and updates him. “He’s definitely one of them, but there’s nothing else in the house to suggest he had the girl here. If he’d taken her, he’d be with her now.”

“Not if he’s already killed her,” Landry says.

“I know. I know,” Schroder answers, and hangs up.

“One down and two to go,” Marshall says, “and we’re set for the next location.”

“Let’s go,” Schroder says, and he gets in his car. He’s about two minutes away from the second name on the list when the call comes in of a gunshot. The address doesn’t match either of the other two addresses he still has to visit, and he wonders if the gunshot is random, or whether it means Hunter has found his daughter, or brought himself one step closer.

chapter fifty-two

Tyler’s screams stop around the same time we reach the car. The gunshot tore through him and the seat of the chair and made it collapse into a splintery heap. His genitals and lower intestines are splashed out all over the floor. The arteries in his thighs are all torn up and coating the room in squirts of blood.

Could be this is the kind of neighborhood where nobody would even call the police, but we’re not hanging about to take a poll. We reach the car and pick a direction and stick with it.

“Holy shit, Dad, you just killed an innocent man.”

“No I didn’t.”

“What? You just—”

“You said innocent, Jack. Tyler was far from innocent. You could see that right off, right? It’s why you gave me the gun.”

“I gave you the gun to speed things along, that’s all,” I say. “Sam is out there somewhere, and you’re turning all of this into you. You won’t help me until I get you out of hospital. Then we go and see somebody who has nothing to do with what we’re trying to do. All you’re doing is proving we are absolutely nothing alike.”

“He had it coming,” Dad says. “And the darkness—it needed to be fed.”

“To be fed? He said he hadn’t seen you in four years. How’d you know where to go? No way you would have been keeping tabs on where he lived, not unless you were planning on making a visit. How’d you know you’d be getting the chance?”

“I didn’t know,” he says. “But before you showed up at the hospital, I was able to find out.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why though? Why’d you want to find out?”

“You just sermonized about me making all of this about myself,” he says, “now you’re the one doing it. I thought you only cared about finding Sam.”

“And it’s obvious that’s not your priority at all,” I answer. “Because it all doesn’t fit properly.”

“You want my help or not?”

“That depends on whether you’re going to actually start helping me, and I’m thinking you have no idea who to speak to next.”

“Okay, okay,” he says. “Bracken was the parole officer, right?”

“Right. But he took the money from Kingsly and didn’t tell the others. Everybody thinks I have it.”

“You do have it.”

“Yeah, I have it now, but I didn’t have it earlier, and now I don’t know how to get hold of any of them.”

“Maybe they know how to get hold of you? You took his phone, right?”

“Yeah—but nobody’s called.”

“He give you anything, anything at all?” Dad asks.

“Bracken? No. Nothing.”

“You search his house?”

“Yeah. And his office. There was a cell number in his phone but it doesn’t connect.”

“You went to his office?”

“I didn’t find much. Just some files that didn’t lead anywhere.”

“Where are they?”

I nod toward the backseat. Dad reaches over for the bag and grunts when he tries to lift it.

“They’re on top,” I say, and a moment later he has them in his hands.

“Who the hell are these people?” he asks, opening the first couple of folders.

“Nobody,” I say. “Just files the probation officer had in his drawer.”

“So they’re clients he has. You went to his office and found his current work and nothing else.”

“I didn’t have time to keep looking.”

“You should have made the time. These are useless,” he says. “Some of these people don’t even have a record for armed robbery. What have we got here,” he says, thumbing through them, “we’ve got half a dozen armed holdups, an arson, a couple of rapists, a couple of drug traffickers, a kidnapper, a compulsive shoplifter—any of them could be part of this thing.”

“I know, Dad, I already know. Two men took Sam tonight, one of them I killed, the other one has her. Nat and Diana, they saw the other guy.”

“Have you showed the folders to them?”

“I can’t. The police are with them. Schroder was going to get them to check out some mug shots.”

“So maybe they have a name already. Maybe the police have already found Sam.”

“And maybe they haven’t.”

“Call them.”

“The police?”

“No, your in-laws. Maybe they’ve made an ID and can give us a name.”

“I’ve been trying.”

“Well, try again.”

I pull over. After ten rings I’m about to hang up when suddenly it’s picked up.

“Hello?”

“Nat?”

“Jesus, Eddie, where the hell are you?”

“I’m looking for Sam. Where the hell else would I be?”

“With your father? The police say you broke him out.”

“He’s helping.”

“He’s a monster.”

“So is the man who took Sam. Were you able to make an ID?”

“Not at first. The cops know who the bank robbers are but none of them took Sam. The detective who showed them to us brought back a new batch of photos. We picked him out right away, Edward. The police know who took Sam.”

“They have the name, but that’s not the same as having Sam, is it?”

“Well, no.”

“Then give me the name of the man who took her.”

“I don’t know, Eddie. I think the police are better equipped.”

“The police, if they find her, will put the man who took her in jail for five or ten years and then let him go. That what you want? Remember when you said you wished you could have time alone with the people who killed Jodie?”

“We only want Sam back safely.”

“Give me the name. I swear to you, Nat, I’m not going to do anything that puts her at risk.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“I deserve to know the name of the man who kidnapped my daughter, Nat. Jesus—she’s my daughter. My daughter!”

“Oliver Church,” he says, and I recognize the name. “That’s all I know. I don’t know any addresses or anything else.”

“Thank you,” I say, and I hang up.

“See, I knew they’d answer the phone,” Dad says. “I’m your good-luck charm.”

“Give me the folders.”

He hands them over. The fourth one in belongs to Oliver Church. Out of the list of crimes in the files, Oliver Church is the only one who has kidnapping and manslaughter next to his name, but there are no details of the crimes.

“Address won’t be current,” Dad says, “so no point in going to his house, and even if it is current he sure as hell won’t have taken Sam there.”

“You ever hear of him?”

“Never. Can’t your in-laws go online and find out about him?”

“They barely know what online means.”

“Well, there has to somebody you can ask.”

“Not really. What we need is a computer,” I say, looking out the windows, knowing that nine out of every ten houses out there has one. I think about all my conversations with Schroder, about my dad in jail, about the stabbing, about the ex-cop working for Schroder trying to solve part of the case.

The ex-cop.

Because Christchurch is clinging to the past, it’s still possible to pass an occasional phone booth, and I drive back toward town to find one. The Yellow Pages have been torn out, and so has the phone receiver, but the White Pages are still there and I use them to look up a name and address.

chapter fifty-three

All the lights are off inside the house, as they are in every other house in the street. The difference between this house and the others is the others all have a Christmasy look about them, lights and decorations in the window, oozing joy and peace to the world. This house is cold and certainly empty, and when I break a window and make my way inside it feels like my house, like something has been lost from this home the same way something was lost from mine.

I use the cell phone to create some light, then decide that it’s so late in the night I’d have to be really unlucky if somebody saw the lights burning, so I flick them on. I open up the back door for Dad and he comes inside.

It’s a three-bedroom home with one bedroom set up for a young girl, perhaps one similar to Sam’s age. The room hasn’t been slept in for a long time, and it’s far tidier than any young girl would ever leave it. There’s an office with not much in it, but it has a computer, and the remaining bedroom has a big bed with folded clothes lying on top.

“Who lives here?” Dad asks, looking at some of the photos. “You know this guy?”

“Not really,” I say.

“He seems familiar.”

“Maybe you’ve seen him around.”

“Only place I’ve been around lately is jail,” Dad says.

“And there’s your answer.”

The house belongs to Theodore Tate—the ex–police officer Schroder told me about a few times, the man in jail for drunk driving, the guy who figured out who stabbed my dad. There are other photos on the wall—a pretty woman and a young girl around Sam’s age. I wonder what happened to Tate’s family, and have a real bad feeling that somehow the virus got them the same way it got mine. Maybe Tate lost his wife and went seeking revenge in an attempt to save his daughter. Maybe when he gets out of jail he’ll keep on searching.

I go online and quickly scan the latest news reports. The name of the man I ran over this afternoon has been released—Adam Sinclair. There are already many details: a year or so ago there wouldn’t be any names released for at least a day, let alone facts, but these days you can see a dead body on the front page of the newspaper.

The reports spell out the events and are unusually accurate. They say two men tried to kill me; one of them was hit by a car when I fled the scene, and the second man then executed the first. The reports are unclear on why the men were after me—but hint at my involvement in the killing of Shane Kingsly. The phrase “revenge killing” shows up about five times—as my hypothetical reason for killing Shane Kingsly, and as their reason for trying to kill me. It’s the first time in twenty years that the media has guessed correctly what I might be capable of.

Tonight’s deaths are still too soon for there to be any details, plus it’s Christmas, so most of the reporters are doing society a favor and taking the night off. There’s only a vague outline with no names, stating that one of the two victims is a police officer. Bracken’s death is still too early to even get a mention.

I type Oliver Church’s name into the computer and a minute later we have his story.

Nine years ago Church kidnapped a six-year-old boy and tried to ransom him back to his parents, but he got busted when he went to pick up the money. Church took the child to an abandoned slaughterhouse north of the city. When he got caught, he wouldn’t give up the location of the child. He tried to make a deal to cut back jail time for the safety of the child. Lawyers came to the party, but by the time they struck a deal the child had died—combination of cold and hunger and everything else that happens when you tie a kid up and leave them in a place like that. Poor kid probably died of fright. That’s why it was manslaughter and not murder. Because of the deal he made, he only got six years. Didn’t matter that the boy had died: the deal was for the boy’s location, and since nothing specific was put in writing saying the boy had to be alive, nothing could be done to reverse the deal.

“You think he could kill a child deliberately?” I ask Dad.

“Make no mistake, son. That is what he did. He was in custody for three days without giving up the location. He knew that kid was going to die and he did nothing to stop it. That means he can do it again. It should only be about the money, but this guy—shit, look at these stories. The men who robbed the bank, maybe they’re all killers, maybe just one or two of them, but if Bracken hired this guy it means none of that crew are capable of killing a child. Church is.”

“Oh Jesus, Dad, what do we do? What the hell do we do?”

“He’s not going to take Sam somewhere she can figure out how to lead the police back to. He’ll have somewhere else. For now, it’s about the money.”

“But there is no money, don’t you get that? There never was! Bracken knew I never had it, he was just playing the game so the others would believe.”

“Then maybe Oliver Church believes it too,” Dad says. “You better hope like hell that he does.”

“It still doesn’t tell us where she is.”

“Criminals return to what they know best,” Dad says. “That I know for a fact. The slaughterhouse has been abandoned a long time,” he says. “Way back when I was a teenager. We used to call it the Laughterhouse.”

“You think she’s there?”

“At this stage we have nothing else.”

It’s a twenty-five minute drive which I cover in about twelve, at times hitting speeds that Santa would be impressed by. Christmas decorations pass us in a blur, turning into streaks of light. We don’t see a single car on the road. I slow down at red lights before blowing right through them. Suburbia ends and the pastures start again like they do in every direction in this city—except for the east; only way you can keep going east in this city is if your car can float. I try the cell phone number from Bracken’s phone again but there’s no joy, which isn’t fair because Christmas is supposed to be a time of joy.

When we reach the slaughterhouse we pull up short of the road leading up to it. I leave all three cell phones—my one, Kingsly’s, and Bracken’s—in the car, and we get out. The ground is cool and damp, as if the ghosts of thousands of animals have drained into the soil. I stash the bag of money in the boot and grab a flashlight from the emergency breakdown kit.

“This prostitute at the probation officer’s house, you get a name?” Dad asks.

“What? Why?”

“Just curious.”

“No. No name.”

The road is ankle-breaking material, cracked and busted from the weight of trucks that once upon a time used to go up and down it, so we walk off to the side where the dirt is hard packed. We have to walk slower because of our wounds, Dad’s and mine. I figure it’s been a long day for him too.

Christmas doesn’t quite reach out here. No tinsel or lights, just a bleak setting with shadows cast only by the moonlight and stars.

“What’d she look like, then?”

“What?”

“The prostitute. What’d she look like?”

“I don’t know. The way they all look.”

“They all look different, son. Trust me. It’s only on the inside they look the same.”

I don’t ask him what he means by that and thankfully he doesn’t elaborate. We keep walking.

“You’re not really going to take me back after all this, are you, son?” he asks.

I don’t answer him.

The slaughterhouse comes into view. It seems to grow out of the earth the closer we get, looming out of the darkness and bearing down on us. The words NORTH CITY SLAUGHTERHOUSE have been stenciled in letters a meter high, big enough to make out in the dark. The smell is still here, even decades after the place has shut down, hanging in the still air. Or maybe the smell is only in my imagination. There’s certainly something here. I wonder how bad it smelled back then. The slaughterhouse was only up and running for two years or so before it was closed down, a victim of expanding suburbia that never did expand. The building was shut down before the road leading up to it could be repaved in thicker cement, the land sold, and then nothing, until somebody came along with a couple of tins of spray paint and blacked out the “S” on the word Slaughterhouse.

Fifteen years ago this building was the scene of a double homicide, and nine years ago it was used to hide a boy who died from fear while a man tried to shave some years off his sentence. Tonight it possibly holds my daughter.

A dark four-door sedan is parked in front of the building. We split up; Dad heads toward the back and I head toward the car. We work well together, not having to talk, only a minimum of hand gestures, as if we’ve done this before. I can tell my dad is enjoying it and I hate him for that. I reach the car and take a look inside before moving on.

The slaughterhouse walls are mostly made up of concrete blocks, with some sections of corrugated iron. The base of it is lined in mold that grows up the walls, darker near the bottom where it grows the thickest, and there are plenty of weeds growing up through the cracks in the sidewalk. I reach a window but can’t see a damn thing inside. The side door leading into an office area is lying on the ground, the top hinge busted, the bottom hinge still attached but twisted ninety degrees. The temperature drops when I step through. I stand still and listen before turning on the flashlight. There’s no furniture anywhere, nothing hanging on the walls, nothing on the concrete floor. The room has been completely stripped. The door to the corridor has been removed. I head through, and another empty doorway later and I’m in the slaughterhouse, a huge, cavernous room that smells of rot. The air is graveyard cold, and the darkness seems to suck at the back of my eyeballs. The flashlight doesn’t even break the dark, just lights up a thin beam of it and is lost. I can sense large hooks hanging from the ceiling ahead of me somewhere, but can’t see them. There’s machinery left here to rust—the tools of the trade that started the animals down the path from living, breathing entities to supermarket specials and hamburgers. No wonder a young boy, tied up and left alone out here, died.

I turn back into the corridor. There’s a bend in it, and once around it I can see a light coming from beneath a door not too far ahead—one of the few doors remaining. It’s a heavy wooden door, the bottom of it lined with vertical scratches, probably from rats. I reach it and put my face against it and listen but can’t hear a thing.

I suck in a couple of deep breaths, tighten my grip on the shotgun, and swing the door open.