Текст книги "Blood Men "

Автор книги: Paul Cleave

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

chapter fifty-four

The second name on the list, Zach Everest, is a bust. The Armed Offenders Unit ended up breaking into a house that Everest hadn’t set foot in for about two years, and the new residents weren’t thrilled at the intrusion—let alone the kids who, having heard the commotion, were horribly disappointed to see six men in black storming into their home instead of one man dressed in red. There are no other known addresses for Everest, but Schroder knows it’s only a matter of time now—probably less than a day, he guesses—before they have him in custody.

Reports have already come in about the gunshot victim half an hour ago. Tyler Layton was tied to a chair and executed. Witnesses woken by the noise reported two men fleeing the scene in a four-door sedan that certainly doesn’t belong to Edward Hunter, because Hunter’s car got busted up in town, but which might have been his wife’s. At this point there’s nothing to connect Hunter and his dad to the killing, and nothing to connect Tyler Layton to any of the men responsible for the bank robbery or the abduction of Sam Hunter—but Schroder is confident there will be a link somewhere. Layton has a criminal record long enough to pretty much guarantee some interaction with Jack Hunter or the bank robbers—and the way the night is going, Jack Sr. seems to be the catalyst for all the violence around here.

At the moment Oliver Church is the far more urgent target. Church kidnapped and killed a boy, for which he only served six years. Schroder knows Church’s involvement ups the danger factor for Sam Hunter. Bracken didn’t choose somebody who would just stash the kid away for a few hours and free her somewhere, but somebody capable of ending the life of someone so young.

He redirects the assault team to Church’s address, and twenty minutes later it’s all for nothing. The address is current—there’s mail inside addressed to Church, there’s fresh food in the fridge and a half-empty packet of cigarettes on the table, but no sign of Church.

More detectives arrive, among them Detective Watts, who has Church’s criminal record with him.

“A model prisoner,” Watts says. “According to the file he made every meeting with his probation officer.”

“There has to be another address.”

“Only other thing listed here is his parents,” Watts says.

“And we’ve already sent people there. He’s probably somewhere with the girl, somewhere he’s stashed her away with nobody else around.”

“That could be any one of a thousand places,” Watts says.

“That’s not real helpful,” Schroder snaps at him. “Look, there can’t be too many possibilities. It’s probably somewhere he knows, right?” He looks back down at the file. “Last time he took the kid to the North City Slaughterhouse.”

“You think he’s taken her there?”

“Only one way to find out,” Schroder says. He needs coffee and he needs a break and he needs this all to be over and for Sam to be returned safely. “It’s as good a place as any.”

He calls Landry for an update. “Johnson knows nothing,” Landry says. “He certainly robbed the bank, but he’s not giving anything up. I think he knew Sam Hunter was going to be taken, but I don’t think he knew who by, or where she’s being held.”

Liam Marshall comes over. “We’re all ready to hit the next house.”

“Let’s go,” Schroder says. On the way he makes a call to the station and asks for a patrol car to head out urgently to the North City Slaughterhouse to take a look around.

chapter fifty-five

Everything looks normal. Take away the fact that the man sitting down playing on a handheld games unit isn’t anybody I’ve seen before. Take away the fact the floor is concrete and the windows are boarded up and the walls have graffiti on them. Ignore the damp air, ignore the smell that’s etched into the walls like a stubborn stain, ignore the fact the mattress my daughter is lying on is a hundred years old, and it’s all normal, just a night in at home.

The light coming from a battery lantern is pale blue and doesn’t make the room any prettier. There’s a couple of relics in here—an old rusted filing cabinet, a laminated table that must weigh close to fifty kilos, cables and wires hanging freely from the ceiling like spiderwebs. Church lowers the game unit. It keeps making animal fighting sounds. There’s a cell phone on the table next to him and I wonder what he’s waiting for.

“Oh Jesus, please don’t kill me,” he says, and it’s taking all my willpower not to. He’s as thin and as creepy-looking as he was in the photos in his file.

“You took my daughter.”

“I know, I know, but it was just business.”

“And so is this,” I say, and I pump the shotgun.

“Wait, wait,” he says, putting his hands up. “We can deal,” he says.

“Deal?”

“I can give you a name.”

“Yeah? What name? Austin Bracken?”

“Shit.”

“Exactly.”

“Wait, wait, there has to be something I can offer.”

I move toward Sam, keeping the gun trained on Church. When I reach the mattress I squat down but decide not to wake her. My little princess is dreaming of much happier times, her little mouth wide open.

My father walks into the room. He’s found a piece of rebar about half a meter long with a small chunk of concrete attached to the end. He looks at Church, then at me, then down at Sam, and he smiles at her, comes across, and crouches down. It’s the first time he’s ever seen her and the emotion gets to him. I’ve never seen it before—but my father starts to cry.

“So this is my granddaughter,” he says. “She’s beautiful.”

“She’s exactly like her mother,” I say.

Mummy’s a ghost.

I stroke her hair back. “He doesn’t know anything useful,” I say, nodding toward Church.

“You sure?” he asks, wiping at the tears.

“Please, guys, I can help you.”

“I’m taking Sam out to the car,” I say.

“I think that’s best, son.”

“You’ll be okay here?”

“It’s been twenty years, son. I have certain needs. Best you hurry up and get your little girl out of here. If he knows anything more, I’ll find out. I promise.”

I scoop Sam up. She tightens her arms around my neck without waking. “I’m done,” I say to Dad, keeping my voice low, not wanting to wake Sam. “Whether you learn anything or not, I’m done now. The police can do the rest. Whatever this bastard has to say, we’ll hand the information over.”

“Okay, son. I understand. Leave me the shotgun, would you?”

“Come on, let me help you out here,” Church says, “All I know is my old probation officer called me up and told me I had to help him out. He said if I didn’t he’d make life hard for me. I don’t know anything else. There’s no need to do this, any of this. It was business, I swear, just business.”

“Shut up,” Dad says, then turns toward me. “The shotgun, son.”

I think about Jodie and her parents, then I think about the cop parked outside their house and the bank manager and then I think about Gerald Painter. I hand Dad the shotgun and carry Sam outside.

chapter fifty-six

The dark sky is breaking on the horizon, a purple-colored light bruising the edge of the world. I carry Sam over my shoulder and she’s chilly; I wonder if her blanket is still in Jodie’s car. I walk quietly. I keep waiting for the gunshot that will send hundreds of birds into the sky and Sam jumping out of her skin. I buckle her into the backseat, tucking the blanket in around her and under her chin. I sit in the driver’s seat and wonder what Dad is doing right now, but I don’t go and check. I look at the cell phones, killing time while my father kills time in a different way. I’ve missed a couple of calls from Schroder but I don’t phone him back. I turn them off. I don’t care about anything else now except Sam.

After a couple of minutes an engine revs loudly, then headlights appear as a car races toward us, slightly out of control, as if driven by someone who hasn’t driven a car in twenty years. It swerves past us, then it’s gone, a dust cloud following it.

I turn the key but nothing happens. I try a couple more times but the result is the same. I pop the hood. Dad hasn’t done any damage. All he’s done is tug the leads off the spark plugs. It only takes me a minute to secure them back into place, but it’s all the head start he needs. I pop the boot. The bag of money is gone. The taillights of Dad’s new car have disappeared; he’s getting further away, with a shotgun and a bag full of cash and his desires of the last twenty years no longer suppressed.

I don’t bother chasing him because I’d never catch him, not unless I drove at speeds that would put my daughter’s life at risk. What I said to Dad earlier still stands now—I’m done with it. The police can catch the rest of the men—they surely know by now who they’re looking for. On the chance they haven’t been caught, I can’t go back home and can’t go to my in-laws’. Driving into the police station is an unknown—too many reasons for them to arrest me. By now they want to put me away, if for nothing else than for freeing my father. They’re out there searching for him too. Before I end up in jail I want to at least spend Christmas Day with my daughter.

My head is jumbled up with anger and hate and fear, and I’m so tired that, in the end, the easiest decision is to head to a motel. I find a place modern enough to have been built this year, with a sign out front saying VACANCY. I park outside the office and ring the bell and a couple of minutes later a sleepy man in his fifties appears and helps me out. I pay with cash.

The room is as modern as the surroundings would suggest, but I don’t really take the time to check them out. I carry Sam and put her gently into bed, taking off only her shoes, then I collapse on top of my bed and fall asleep.

chapter fifty-seven

They’re shooting one in four. They found Kelvin Johnson, but the other two bank robbers are in the wind, along with Oliver Church—though news of another body means Church may have been found. Dawn has come and gone and Schroder is dead on his feet. They all are. They all feel like zombies and look like zombies and it’s nights like these that keep divorce lawyers rolling in cash.

The Armed Offenders Unit is long gone now, having packed away its guns and headed for home, all of them still on standby if needed—all of them probably tempted to switch off their phones. Schroder knows that he is. They’ve busted into four houses and for all their efforts they’ve come away with one suspect.

The patrol officers sent to check the slaughterhouse have reported a body, the head of a male so badly damaged that identification was impossible. No sign of anybody else, but a couple of magazines, a small games unit, and a battery-powered lantern suggest whoever was out there had been there most of the night.

It’s a twenty-five-minute drive to the slaughterhouse from his last location. He’s too tired to drive fast, and has the window down so the air can whistle around his face to keep him awake. He makes a couple of calls to get the ball rolling, organizes the forensics techies to come out; long nights for everybody now turning into long mornings too.

The slaughterhouse is an imposing building in the early-morning light. It’s mostly made up of concrete that could probably survive an atomic bomb. There’s a police car parked outside with two officers sitting in it. The air is full of birdsong and the loudest sound is Schroder’s feet across the ground. The officers lead him inside and he keeps yawning on the way. Assuming he ever makes it home, he’s going to sleep for about twenty-four hours, he thinks; but at this stage it’s an assumption he wouldn’t bet his life on.

Oliver Church is surrounded in blood. He thinks it’s Oliver Church. The clothes certainly suggest it’s not Edward Hunter or his father, and he doesn’t see too many other possibilities at this point. Church’s head is twisted to the side with a large indentation in the side of it which has elongated the front of it, so the distance between his left eye and the left side of his mouth is far greater than the right. He looks like he’s fallen from a great height, so much so that for a moment Schroder is reminded of Suction Cup Guy. A piece of rebar with a bloody lump of cement on the end lies next to him. No way of knowing at this point if Church was tortured to give up more information, or tortured for taking Sam Hunter.

“No other cars out there?” Schroder asks.

“None.”

Probably Jack Hunter took Church’s car, which means father and son have separated. There’s an old mattress lying on the floor. Jammed between it and the wall, barely in sight, is a small teddy bear. The bear isn’t that old but seems to have had a hard life. He bets Sam Hunter cuddled that bear every night of her life, and wonders what she called it. His own daughter has a bear that she sleeps with. For a second he imagines it was her out here and not Sam, and the image is so strong it makes him want to cry. Jesus—he’s so tired.

“You think he found her?” Landry asks on the phone.

“I think so. I think Oliver Church paid the price for taking her.”

“He deserved what he got,” Landry says. “Deserved it years ago.”

“I know. But now I have to lock Edward Hunter up for it. Wasn’t his job to find Church, wasn’t his job to get his daughter back.”

“Wasn’t it?” Landry asks.

Even if it was Jack Hunter who pounded in Church’s skull, it still comes back on Edward for freeing the old man. Edward has to go to jail now, and that leaves Sam where? Maybe, if he’s lucky, he could get a suspended sentence—if he can prove he didn’t kill any of the others. Maybe.

Schroder bends down and picks up the teddy bear. Jack Hunter is on the loose and there’s already a task force looking for him—but that’s not his job, his job is to find the men who robbed the bank, and that job is almost over.

“There’s nothing more we can do tonight,” Landry is saying. “The girl was there, and she’s not there anymore. Edward Hunter got her, has to be him. He’ll have taken her somewhere safe, and he’ll keep her safe until all this is over. We’ll get the rest of the bank crew today, you know we will. Tomorrow at the latest.”

He hangs up and walks past the two officers. “Call me if anything changes,” he tells them. And with that he gets into his car and heads home, hoping for at least a couple of hours’ sleep and some time with his family before he has to start up again, right where he’s left off.

chapter fifty-eight

I wake up in the early afternoon with Sam cuddled up next to me. I let her carry on sleeping while I make some coffee and go about waking up some more. I switch on the TV and can’t find any news anywhere, as if this city is sick of the news now. There are holiday movies on, a fantasy on one channel, action on another, drama everywhere else, and I wonder what Hollywood would think if one day a Christchurch story showed up on its doorstep—whether it’d think the tale was too dark or too real to turn into a Christmas blockbuster. I prop Sam up in front of one of the movies and she watches it quietly, not laughing or smiling or even saying a word. She misses her mum and she misses Mr. Fluff ’n’ Stuff and she doesn’t understand why we’re spending Christmas Day in a motel room instead of our home, or with her grandparents.

I take Sam to the cemetery so she can spend some time with her mother. With all that’s happened, I figure it’ll be the last time the three of us are together for a while. I carry Sam out of the car and sit her down by her mother’s grave and we hold hands and I tell her over and over that everything is going to be okay. There are plenty of other people out at the cemetery, all of them like me, spending time with the dead; Christmas Day is a day for celebration no matter what world you’re in. When I head back to the car with Sam, people keep watching us, and though I’m used to it, this morning it bothers me more than ever. I shield Sam from their stares and drive her back to the motel. She’s asleep again before we get there, and I lay her back on the bed and check on her every five or ten minutes, sometimes holding her hand, not sure what I should do next. I leave the TV on and flick channels but nothing of any interest comes up. Outside, Christmas afternoon is looking like a hot one; only a couple of clouds in the sky, the sun beating down on the city. Mine’s the only car in the parking lot out front. I figure everybody else has family or a better place to be than this motel.

I sit at the window watching the Christmas day, thinking about what today could have meant, about the presents we didn’t get to give, the family time we never got to have, the Christmas lunch and barbecue dinner and the excitement of Santa. I think about my dad, wondering where he is now, what or who he’s looking for. I think about the darkness he’s trying to satisfy. My own monster is quiet now, and maybe that’s the way it’ll stay.

My thoughts turn to Schroder when his car pulls in to the motel parking lot. Two patrol cars pull up alongside him, but Schroder is the only one who gets out. A fourth car, a dark station wagon, also pulls in. I watch Schroder go to the office; he disappears inside for about sixty seconds, then comes back out. It’s Christmas Day and I figure he’d rather be anywhere else but here, and I’m the same—except there are still a few places worse than this, for me. Jail is one of them. The slaughterhouse is another.

He walks past my window and glances in and sees me but doesn’t stop. He heads right to the door and knocks on it.

“Come on, Eddie,” he says, going with Eddie instead of Edward, and I figure he thinks it makes him sound friendly. “Open up.”

“Leave us alone,” I say.

“Eddie . . .”

“It’s Christmas.”

“You can’t keep her here.”

“What?”

“You can’t keep your daughter here. It isn’t right.”

“There are plenty of things that aren’t right.”

“I know that, Eddie.”

“You were wrong.”

“About what?”

“About a lot of things,” I say. “Mostly about this city being on a precipice. It’s already fallen, don’t you see that?”

“Open the door, Eddie.”

I get up and open the door. There’s nowhere to run, and no need to. It’s all over. I have my daughter back and the police can deal with the rest, they can find my dad, they can find the men who killed my wife. Schroder doesn’t look as if he’s slept. He steps inside, carrying a brown paper bag.

“Don’t take her yet,” I say.

“Eddie . . .”

“Please, it’s Christmas.”

“I know. It’s not fair. It’s . . . it’s just the way it is.”

I take a step back. Schroder looks over at the other cars and the station wagon turns around and backs toward the room. Schroder comes in and looks down at Sam, who isn’t even aware of his presence.

“Such a beautiful little girl,” he says.

“I know.”

“I have a daughter of my own,” he says. “And a son.”

“And?”

“And I don’t know, I guess I wanted you to know. Maybe what you said about this city, maybe I should take your advice and get out of here.”

“Then who will protect it?”

Two men step out of the station wagon and open the back of it. They lift out a gurney and a sheet.

“Let me take her,” I say.

“It’s not how it’s done.”

“Please . . .”

“I’m sorry, Eddie, I’m really, really sorry.”

At first I stand back as the two men come inside, and then Schroder has to hold me back as they lay Sam on the stretcher. They unfold a sheet and drape it over her, then carry her away. Schroder opens the paper bag in his hand and pulls out Mr. Fluff ’n’ Stuff. He lifts the sheet and tucks it between Sam’s arm and her body.

“We’ll take good care of her,” he says.

I try to say something but can’t. It feels like Schroder has extended his fist right down my throat. I cry, and right then Schroder embraces me and I let it all out, crying on his shoulder as the two men take my dead daughter out of the motel room and out of my life.

chapter fifty-nine

Edward sits in the passenger seat saying nothing on the way to the police station. When they arrive, Schroder leads him into an interrogation room and heads back out to grab a couple of coffees and to let Hunter compose himself. The police station is busier than it’s ever been on a Christmas day; the task force to find Jack Hunter is operating at full speed, as are the people searching for the final two bank robbers. It’s only a matter of time now—but of course everything is always just a matter of time.

Seeing the little dead girl was hard. Once again he imagined it was his own daughter, and once again it brought him close to tears, and when he hugged Edward and held him he had no idea he was about to do it before it happened, and no idea of the impact it would have on him. Hunter sobbed into his shoulder, his entire body convulsing, and they stayed that way for what seemed like ages before Hunter pulled himself away.

It was almost seven o’clock in the morning by the time Schroder got home. His family was awake. They hadn’t waited up for him—his daughter had woken early because that’s what Christmas was all about, at least for the kids. His wife had let her open just one present; she was waiting for him to get home before opening the rest. He managed to stay awake for another hour before going to bed, and had got almost four hours’ sleep before his wife came in to wake him. She handed him his cell phone. He didn’t want to answer it but he had to. Witnesses had spotted Edward Hunter that morning at the cemetery where his wife was buried. They’d phoned the police because Edward was carrying his daughter around and his daughter obviously wasn’t just sleeping. Before the phone call was over, there was more news—another body had been found.

A week ago Hunter had everything—a wife, a child, a job, he had dreams, the family had Christmas, they all had a future. It makes Schroder sick to know that on any given day your entire future can change.

He makes his way back toward the interrogation room and has his hand on the door handle, the two cups of coffee balanced in his other hand, when his cell phone rings. He steps back from the door and almost drops both coffees while fumbling for the phone.

“Schroder,” he says.

“Hey, Carl. I hear it’s been a long night,” Tate says.

“You got something for me?”

“Yeah. I know who put Roger Harwick up to stabbing Jack Hunter.”

“Who?”

“You’re not going to believe it,” Tate says, but he’s wrong, because Schroder does. After all—the last twenty-four hours have been nothing but believable.