R.S. Guthrie - Detective Bobby Mac 03 - Reckoning (15 page)

As soon as she made it outside into the cool night air, she ran. She ran like she’d never believed possible. The adrenaline had her moving fast, but she’d grown to young womanhood in a warehouse—home-schooled, aware only of how many paces to this spot, how many to that.

Turns out Melissa Grant was a bona fide track star and didn’t even know it. She reached the edge of the compound, fortified by chain-link only. They obviously had not wanted to draw too much attention to their little encampment of terror. Razor wire might have done just that, she thought, as she leapt for the grid of the fence.

It was at least ten feet tall—a lot of climbing. And just as she began her quest for freedom, Melissa heard both the police siren in the distance and the pair of pursuers reach the front door.

Spence saw Melissa hit the fence running, jumping at least six feet in the air and landing on the metallic wall like a jungle cat, all four appendages spread, hands grabbing the chain-link. And she began crawling like a fucking spider monkey. It was actually impressive and the part of Spence Grant that was still Spence Grant cheered silently for his daughter.

Go, Melissa, go.

But the part of Spence that was monster caused his stomach to triple over in cramps, a tiny reminder of who he was and what his fate and mission had always been.

Spence ran faster. The beast, who was almost completely human now, ran beside him.

“If she escapes, I will kill you,” it said, breathing as normally as if it were sitting in a chair, watching television.

In the distance Spence heard the siren. He actually heard it the moment Bobby Macaulay turned it on. And he sensed the detective’s approach deep within. Or the humanoid sensed it and therefore, so did he.

Melissa was already halfway up the fence. There was no way they’d reach her before she scrambled over the top. But the sound of the approaching Macaulay was still three, maybe four minutes away.

The presence within Spence Grant reached out, invisibly yes, but with so much influence and power—it reached invisibly for the girl’s mind.

Melissa was smiling. The top was moments from her grasp. But what then? Which way to turn? Which road? Should she stay on the road even? Of course she should stay on the road—Macaulay wouldn’t be able to—

No. Take to the trees.

There was a huge hill—practically a mountain—behind the warehouse district, a veritable forest of undergrowth and scrub and evergreen trees. Maybe that was a better idea.

It is
.

Maybe if she could hide in the trees she could wait until Macaulay arrived and pick her moment.

You can. The trees are your salvation
.

Melissa reached the top of the chain link fence, rolled over the top, and jumped into a thicket where the landing would be softer and not so jarring.

And then she left the road and headed for the foothills.

I knew we were down to the most important few minutes of the entire case. My eyes scanned the roadway. Melissa was an intelligent girl. She knew that the road was salvation; the road is where “Macaulay” and she intersected, her running toward the sound of my siren, me driving as fast as I could and not run her over or drive right past her.

I was almost there. In fact, I was a little surprised to have not seen Melissa yet. I could still hear the muffled, jostling sounds so I was pretty certain she was still on the run. We couldn’t be more than yards apart at this point, assuming she stuck to the road.

Melissa stopped running. She was deep into the trees by now and realized that in running to the trees, not only was she hiding herself from her rescuer but she was running in the
opposite
direction of his approach.

She looked down at the road just in time to see the blue flashing lights pass her position, at least a half mile away, still heading toward the warehouse where now, certainly, Macaulay would assume she never made it out and begin hunting for her room by room. No one would be stupid enough to choose a direction
away
from safety.

It was then she felt the large, cold, vise-like hand clamp down on her shoulder. She turned and looked into the eyes of a complete stranger.

“Hello, Melissa,” the man standing before her said. “My name is Father Rule.”

BY THE time I arrived at the warehouse, I knew I’d lost her. I sat outside the closed doors of the warehouse in my car as a light rain began to tumble down upon the roof and windshield. There was no rush now. I knew what we’d find inside. Nothing, not any
one,
at least. Just a haunted house where young girls had been tormented, starved, and hanged.

There would be no people and there certainly would be no Melissa Grant. I had lost that race. The brass ring. That one time when fate shows you an opening. It doesn’t happen a lot in our line of work, unfortunately, and when it does, a detective better be alert and ready to leap through.

I played the events through again and again in my mind, dissecting the way I handled the surprise situation.

There was no bigger critic of Bobby Mac than me. Yet I just didn’t know how else I could have played it.

Tell her to hide somewhere?

Maybe. With a different set of pursuers. But these things—these supernatural beings—would’ve found her almost immediately. And it was hard for anyone, much less a young woman, to stay motionless, silent, and above all
hidden
for any length of time with people looking hard for her.

I had been close enough that it made sense for her to come toward me. That and the cell phone really—

I grabbed my phone and speed dialed the Tech department.

“Tech.”

“It’s Macaulay. I lost her, but what about her cell signal?”

“Still pinging towers. We thought you had her; she’s on the move.”

Smart girl, Melissa. Fucking genius.

Or maybe an accident. Either way—

“She’s not with me. You are now tracking an abduction. How long can you stay with her.”

“Until she’s out of range of cell service or the battery dies,” the technician said.

The battery. Burners were notorious for short battery life. The shorter the battery life the more burners you had to buy. Fucking economics.

“Stay with her,” I said and disconnected.

This wasn’t over yet. I dialed Lieutenant Shackleford and Manny, who should already be en route, in that order.

The man named Father Rule wasn’t dressed like a priest, but he looked normal to Melissa. Even friendly. Maybe if she didn’t tell him who she was or what was going on, he would eventually lead her to freedom.

As they walked along together she allowed Rule to get just a half-foot in front of her, out of his peripheral vision. She had to hide the cell phone and keep it active until it died. She’d closed it, disconnecting from Macaulay, but she was pretty sure if she kept it powered, it could still be found.

But where to hide it
, she thought, as they walked through the forest, ostensibly to safety. It was disgusting but she could only think of one place where they wouldn’t look. Melissa slipped the cell from her front jeans and reached down the back of her pants and slid the folded phone in between her butt cheeks.

If anyone looked there, she was in a lot more trouble than she imagined.

“We need to get you out of this cold,” Father Rule said. “It’s starting to rain you know.”

He was walking them away from the warehouse. That was good.

“What were
you
doing all the way out here in the woods?” Melissa said.

“Didn’t your parents teach you it is rude to answer a question with a question?”

“My mother is dead and my father is a—a—”

“A what,” Rule said. “A monster?”

Melissa looked up into Rule’s eyes. They were so devoid of light as to be like holes in his head. A shark’s eyes. Marbles. There was no more life to them than that.

“Who
are
you?” Melissa said.

“Who I am will become the most important thing in the world soon,” Rule said. “But for you? Now? I am your salvation.”

Spence Grant and the humanoid demon hid in the bushes as Detective Robert Macaulay drove by in his car.

“The warehouse is useless now,” the creature said.

“I-I’m sorry. I—”

“Shut up,” the creature said and backhanded Spence so hard his glasses flew from his head and he stumbled backwards, hit a tree branch with his Achilles’ heel, and dropped straight on his tailbone. It hurt like crazy.

“OW,” he said.

“Ow?” The creature said, mocking his tone.

Pretty soon you’re going to be about as useful to them as the warehouse,
Spence thought but did not say.

“I know who you are,” Spence said, still sitting on the ground, spitting out a string of blood from a bit lip. “I know what to call you.”

“We must go to the safe-house,” the thing said. “Rule has your daughter. I can feel it. Time for the next evolution.”

“Did you hear me?” Spence said.

“I heard you.”

“I deserve to know what the fuck is going on.”

“You don’t even deserve to be alive.”

“At least I’m not a MacAulay,” Spence said.

The humanoid fell on top of him and pinned him to the forest floor, its hairless, nearly formed face not an inch from Spence’s own. “Say it then. Say it and I will kill you.”

“Jackson Macaulay,” Spence managed. He wanted to die. It might as well be then.

Nothing happened. The monster stayed there, motionless, silent, breathing its putrid breath up Spence’s nostrils.

“I don’t care if you kill me, Jax.”

“But you will care
when
I kill you, Spencer. Because
when
I kill you, I
will
hear you beg forgiveness for speaking my name aloud.”

“And?”

“And I won’t grant it,” Jax said.

Shackleford and Manny arrived shortly after the Forensics Team, the Violent Fugitive Unit (VTU, we called them), S.W.A.T., a bus—ambulance—and about twenty marked and unmarked police cruisers. Maybe fifty cops.

“You think we have enough firepower here,” I asked, a little embarrassed by the overreaction to my call. For the lieutenant, that is. He was the idiot who called all this in; I just wanted Manny and two other detectives.

“God knows what we’ll find in there,” Shackelford said.

“God forgive us for what we’re going to find in there,” I said. “But there aren’t going to be any warm bodies.”

“Bullshit,” my boss said.

“Due respect, L-T,” I said. “You’re wrong on this. And I have Techs working a ping trace—”

Shackleford turned to me and ground his teeth so hard his cheeks pulled on the skin of his face and made him look old and battle-scarred and he seared me so completely not just with his eyes but rather his very presence of self, and, more importantly, of
rank
that I had already decided to stop arguing, whatever he had to say, if anything.

The last thing I wanted was to get in an ego cage match. I needed to be kept on this case; I needed to keep after Melissa Grant, and I could not afford to have a loose cannon boss pull my ass and put me on cold cases for spite.

“My scene, my call,” was all he said with his mouth, but his countenance promised the fire of Hell to any man that stood up to him then. I’d already decided to shut up and just be Bobby Mac. No, that’s not right. Mac would’ve punched Shackleford in the face for being such a gregarious farce as a cop and for being nothing but a man in a suit and tie and a desk jockey and then would’ve gone after Melissa Grant.

As a detective and a professional I played the game by the rules this time. Better to have Shackleford on my side when I really wanted something—when I had a better idea where they’d taken Melissa.

“You’re right,” I said. “Let’s take these fuckers down.”

Shackleford actually smiled. So did I and I actually felt a twinge of “better” for the first time in a month.

If you can’t be John Wayne once in a while, where’s the fun?