Sweet Dreams (19 page)

"This is a riot gun or a modified shotgun, it holds nine shells and is semi-auto," He pointed to a little slide on the side of the gun, and Mark liked the look of the weapon. It had a short barrel and was a dull black color with a light mounted to the side of it so you could see what you were aiming in the dark.

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"Now, the beauty of this baby is that all you need to do is point it in the general direction and you'll hit whatever you aim at." Mark held the shotgun and felt the cold metal against his hands--it felt good.

"So how much do you want for it?" Mark asked. Fred thought a minute and took another drag from his cigar. "Eight hundred dollars and I'll throw in a box of shells,"

Mark fired back, "Seven hundred and I'll pay you cash right now." Mark pulled out seven hundred dollars from his wallet and held it up in Fred's face.

Fred looked at the money and an evil glint crossed his face, he looked over his shoulder and grunted and took the cash. "You've got a good deal, man. Now get out of here before I change my mind." He handed Mark the case after he placed the shotgun back into it. Mark thanked him and took the shells and his new toy to his car, which he had left running. He put the case in the back seat and pulled out of the parking lot. He did not allow his mind to think about what he had just done, he did not want to know, he just knew somehow he had to, he did not have a choice.

________________________________________

KIRK WALKED INTO THE Detroit Police station and past all of his long-time coworkers without being recognized. He forgot that he still had a bushy beard and was about fifty pounds lighter, and hair! He never let it grow out and now he resembled a bum that lived under a bridge rather then a Detroit detective. He marched into the chief's office and startled him; he stopped mid-sentence with whoever he was on the phone with and started to stand up.

"I'll call you back," Hanging up the phone; he stared at Kirk and Geoff, who stood behind Kirk like a trained puppy.

"Well, what story have you got this time? And you look like hell!" The chief sat back down in his torn brown chair and leaned back with his hands folded across his chest. Kirk could see that the chief was in no mood to play catchup, so he decided to get right to the point.

"I'm going to need some time off to gather evidence against whoever kidnapped me. I think I might know who is behind it, but I need more proof."

"No, you're not getting any more time off, you were kidnapped, and it's now an active case. You will report anything you have and any new information directly to me! You got it?"

Kirk nodded, but let the warning pass over him like he always did. He was not going to let this go no matter what this old windbag said.

"Now, I know you want to keep looking into the prison case, you had better not even think about it. That case is closed, and I can't afford for the two of you to go chasing down ghosts!"

Kirk could tell from the way his boss was acting that he was under a lot of pressure to keep a lid on the whole thing.
I
wonder what freaked him out, or who freaked him out!

"But..." Kirk stuttered, "I have..."

The chief leaned forward in his chair and glared at Kirk as he raised his voice. "I mean it, Kirk. You let it lay!"

"Fine, have it your way," Kirk was ticked and it was pointless to stand here and argue about it. Kirk opened the door, letting Geoff out, and then slammed the door behind him, sending the chief yelling out curses after them. Kirk grinned and went over to his desk to get a few things. Opening the

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bottom drawer, he pulled out a .45 and a box of rounds. Surprisingly his desk was just as he left it, he figured they would have given it to someone else by now, but then again who really wanted it after Kirk Weston had it?

"Might need these,"

Geoff looked horrified, but did not say anything.

"Let's get out of here, we need to get in touch with Mooch and see if he's turned up anything."

As they left the parking lot of the police station, Kirk smiled at Geoff, who was scrunched up in the sidecar like a giant riding in a Barbie car. He rather enjoyed seeing him uncomfortable...it was his sadistic nature and he grunted at Geoff who didn't complain.

Kirk needed something solid and he was going to run out of time in a hurry if his boss decided to put his foot down.

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Chapter Twelve

MARK'S FACE HARDENED AS HE THOUGHT ABOUT

the death of K and Sam. His anger rose even more when he remembered what Detective Owens told him, the case was closed, no matter what new evidence turned up or how much proof he uncovered. There was something else going on, Mark did not know what it was, but it bothered him down deep in the back of his mind. What kind of justice system was this? Rapists go free on a technicality; murderers get a slap on the wrist because they had a bad childhood or they didn't get to go to Disneyland, as if it justified their crimes.

His eyes narrowed as he drove toward Manhattan; he was going to get some answers one way or another. The sky was a smothering black with only a few stars sparkling like tiny pinpoints of light, but Mark did not notice the time as he drove, it was past eleven o'clock in the evening, but it would not have mattered anyway, he was on a mission and nothing was going to stop him from getting some answers.

________________________________________

THE BLACK LEXUS STAYED three or four cars behind Mark's vehicle as they made their way through traffic. She was an expert in tailing and keeping out of sight but a voice in the back of her mind told her that whatever Mark was planning to do tonight would require supervision. Her black leathergloved hands gripped the wheel with control. As the lights from street lamps, business signs and traffic signals flowed past the Lexus, the mixed colors bounced off her silky black hair making it look like it was wet. She wore dark sunglasses even though the sun had gone down several hours ago, everything about her announced professional, dangerous, mysterious, and beautiful. She was that and much more...

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AFTER TWENTY MINUTES ON the expressway, Mark

made his way into a lower class residential area. He looked again at the address he had written down, making sure he did not miss the street he wanted.

East Bower Street.

Mark turned right down a tree-lined road that had apartment buildings standing on both sides of the road for about two blocks. Seeing a sign marked, 'The Birches' in the front of a large brick complex, he pulled in and drove around to the back.

There
...he saw the number he was looking for,
eleven

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forty-seven, Apartment C.
He pulled in a few doors down and shut off the engine. The red brick building looked worn out from years in the weather and abuse from its tenants who did not treat her with the same respect a homeowner would. Lights from scattered windows lit up the three-story complex like fireflies in a jar; all was quiet in the apartment building but not in Mark's heart.

Now what?

He pulled out the shotgun from its case and loaded it until all nine rounds were in the magazine. Pumping it, he placed it down next to him on the passenger seat. He opened the door and met a blast of bitter cold wind; he quickly made his way up the stairs to the apartment.

Apartment C faced the street, so Mark had to round the corner on the second floor landing to get to it. He noticed the porch light was on and hoped that someone was home. As he knocked, his mind raced with possibilities, and not all of them were good, but before he could go through them all, a little old woman opened the door a crack and peaked out underneath the chain lock.

"Hello, is there something I can help you with?" Her voice was weak and quivered when she spoke, and she was wearing a pink flowered nightgown that went all the way down to her wrinkled toes.

"Yes," Mark said feeling a little sorry for the old woman.

"I was wondering if Pat Rotter still lives here." She looked up at Mark and nodded making her thin white hair flutter and flit like cotton balls.

"Yes, he lives here, but he's out right now. He should be back in a little bit; do you want me to tell him you stopped by?" She squinted nervously as if she knew that Mark was not here for a cup of coffee and a conversation about the old days.

"No, I'll come back some other time," Mark thanked her and hurried off before she could ask any more questions. He pulled up his collar around his neck and shuffled back around the building and down the metal stairs toward his BMW. Getting back into his car, he turned on the heat full blast and sat there, thinking about what to do next. He figured he could wait, he didn't want the old lady to warn him of the strange man that was looking for him, he might spook and run. He needed an answer, and it wasn't going to wait until morning. ________________________________________

THE WOMAN IN THE Lexus sat across the street facing the apartment where Mark had just been. She could see him sitting in his car through the breezeway, and her mind raced as she watched him from her warm car.
What was he going to
do?
She had watched him purchase the gun an hour ago and thought that this might be taking things a bit too far. She sipped on a cup of warm cocoa and waited. She liked cocoa better than coffee and somehow on this miserable night it felt like the right thing to do, funny how the littlest things can put you in a better mood. She smiled...

________________________________________

AN HOUR PASSED AS Mark sat waiting and hoped to God that he would find some answers.
How would he know who he
was? What could he tell him about the explosion?

Mark's mind tortured him as he waited and just when he

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was about to give up, he saw a car pulling up in his rearview mirror.

The little rice burner slipped on the ice as it pulled to a stop just a few spaces away from where Mark sat. The car was red, with little donut tires that did not have much tread left on them. A kid in his twenties opened up the door and got out. He was wearing a beanie cap and a thick winter coat, and he held onto a North Face backpack as he tried to lock his car door with the key, but the lock wasn't cooperating. Mark looked at the college student and from the flat skater shoes to the skinny jeans and thick messy hair, he figured he liked to skateboard rather then go to class.

Mark felt a surge of adrenaline pump through his body as he exited his car and started toward the man. Mark tried to stay calm, but it was too late for that. As he got closer, he filled with rage. He didn't know what he was going to do and his mind went blank as if he just stepped through the looking glass and now was on the other side in a world completely foreign to him. Coming up behind the kid un-noticed, Mark grabbed the back of his jacket and spun him around. The kid staggered and a look of shock and then rage ran across his face.

"Hey! What the..." The kid stared at Mark and tried to break free, but Mark held on and shoved him against the side of his car with more force then he intended but it worked.

"Are you Pat?" Mark demanded in a flat dead tone, and just as he asked, he noticed who Pat was. His memory flooded him like a freight train on speed, as the image of a man running from a building and the same man setting the bomb in the supermarket flashed before his eyes.

It couldn't be, he died in the explosion! Nevertheless, here he stood, his face scarred from skin grafts, and surgeries, half of his mouth sagged down to one side like Batman's adversary the Joker.

"You!" Mark was enraged, took both hands, grabbed hold of the now-terrified young man, and dragged him across the parking lot.

"What do you want from me? I don't even know you, man!" The helpless kid tried to get free, but was met with a knee to the gut that sent him sprawling across the ice-covered pavement. Mark opened his car door and reached in, grabbing the shotgun, he turned toward Pat, who was trying to get up but kept slipping on the ice, between his flat shoes and the fear that tore through his body, he couldn't get any traction.

"One move--and it will be your last!" Mark was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. Inside he could feel his heart pounding faster and faster, any minute he expected a heart attack, but it never came.

Pat froze when he saw the shotgun in Mark's hand. "Hold on, man! Don't shoot!"

"Get into the car, and you might live!"

Pat nodded and slowly moved toward the BMW. Mark opened the back door and shoved Pat inside. He slammed the front door shut and got in the back, making sure to keep the shotgun pointed at Pat.

"Look, man, I don't want any trouble!"

"Too late, you should've thought of that before you blew up a Super Mart!" Mark felt his heart rate start to slow down and wondered if he was calming down or if he was just adjusting to the situation.

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Pat's face went white in horror. "Uh...what are you talking about?" He stuttered and the brief pause made him sound like the world's biggest liar.

"Don't even try it, I have you on video from the store's security cameras...and I was there, I saw you!"

Pat cowered in the seat, trying to think of a way out of the mess he found himself in; Mark leaned over and shoved the end of the shotgun in Pat's neck, making him squeal out in fear.

"Now, you tell me everything you know, or I'll splatter your brains all over this car!" Mark's lip curled as he put more pressure on Pat's neck digging the end of the barrel into the side of his neck.

Pat started to whimper and tears ran down his cheeks, his shoulders shook and snot bubbled from his red nose. "It wasn't me who made the bomb, it was someone else. I just supplied the C-4; they offered me fifty grand to get them some C-4 and fifty more if I put the bomb in the store. Please don't kill me; I needed the money, please, mister..."