Vanished - A Mystery (Dixon & Baudin Book 1) (24 page)

55

The uniformed officers and detectives on scene at Claremont Avenue looked like the survivors of a civil war. The man Baudin had injured repeated what he’d told them to several officers, paramedics, and a detective. The chief of police had ordered a hit. Baudin made sure he understood that he wouldn’t survive the night if he didn’t stick to the truth. “The truth shall set you free,” he whispered to him as the police were rushing into the house.

Everyone was walking around the scene as though they were lost. No one seemed quite sure what to do or where to go. They weren’t even going to take statements from Baudin or Dixon until Dixon requested it.

The statements were given and the two would-be hitmen taken to a hospital. The man with a fractured windpipe had survived, despite Baudin’s pessimism. Dixon wondered whether he had actually wanted the man to die and so hadn’t wanted to get him help.

One detective even said, “What the hell do we do now?”

Dixon replied, “I’m goin’ to arrest our boss.”

Chief Crest’s home was ritzy, ritzier than Baudin had ever seen for a police officer, chief or no. It had a long driveway and a barn in back with at least three horses. A black Mercedes sat in the driveway, and the lights to the house were off.

“Any kids in the house?” Baudin asked as Dixon parked in front of the home.

“No. He’s married, though.”

They stepped out of the car. Several police units pulled up behind them. The district attorney had been informed of the situation and, rather than protecting him, had realized Chief Crest was a lost cause. Better to make him look bad now in case he pointed the finger at others. He’d met with a judge, and a warrant for the arrest of Chief Robert Crest was issued by the Laramie County District Court. Dixon had the arrest warrant in his back pocket.

Dixon hurried to the door and pounded on it with the side of his fist, but Baudin took his time. He lit a cigarette and smoked while staring at the house. He threw the cigarette on the gravel after only a few puffs and withdrew his firearm.

“He’s not answering.”

Baudin kicked at the door several times until it cracked enough that they could break it down. It flung open, splinters of wood raining over the atrium.

The house was dark and quiet. The only sounds were sirens as officers sped up the hill to assist in the arrest.

“I’ll check upstairs,” Dixon said.

Baudin stood still. The home was immaculately decorated. The chief either came from money or had found a way to exploit the police department to get his money. Baudin walked over to the fireplace and touched several expensive-looking vases on the mantle. He was heading to the kitchen when he heard Dixon shout, “Shit. Fuck me!”

“What?”

“His wife. He fucking shot her. She’s gone.”

Baudin froze. These were the actions of a man cutting his losses. He either wasn’t here and was already on a plane to another country, or he was lying in wait. Baudin lifted his weapon and searched the kitchen then the bathrooms. By that time, Dixon was back downstairs. They searched the rest of the home together. Nothing.

“He’s long gone,” Dixon said. “Shit! We shoulda had someone here.”

Baudin spit on the floor. His mouth had a sticky dryness to it that seemed disgusting. He looked down at the linoleum of the kitchen floor where he’d spit and then scanned the entire room. Underneath the dining room table was a slight misalignment of the linoleum. He moved the table aside and bent over it. Reaching into the alignment with his fingertips, the linoleum rolled up, revealing a door. He lifted the latch, and the door came open on a set of steps going down.

The sirens had stopped, and officers were coming into the home. He looked at Dixon and then climbed down.

The darkness was consuming. Dixon fumbled with his keychain, which had a small flashlight on it, but it was hardly more than a glimmer.

They got to the bottom of the stairs, and Baudin couldn’t see anything. The light from the kitchen upstairs was completely gone. They were at least thirty feet below the home.

“Search the walls,” he said.

He ran his fingers over the walls, hoping for a light switch. He came across something thick and smooth and tried to wiggle it but couldn’t. “Bring your light, would you?”

Dixon came over and shone his flashlight on Baudin’s hand. A plastic case covered a light switch. The case had a lock on it. Baudin bashed it with the handle of his gun, breaking the plastic rather than the lock. He broke enough away that he could reach in and flip the switch.

The basement wasn’t a basement. It was a torture chamber.

Chains hung from the ceiling, a board with nails and straps sat in the corner, and various cutting utensils like cleavers and knives hung on a wooden beam. Several small chainsaws hung on another wall, along with tools like blowtorches and pliers.

“Who the hell were we working for?” Dixon whispered.

A voice bellowed, “Glad you came.”

Baudin swung around with his gun just in time to see the figure of the chief flip another light switch. The darkness overtook them, and the last image he had was the chief dashing away.

Baudin fired several times, lighting up the basement with each round. But he knew he hadn’t hit anything.

“You’re the damn chief of police,” Dixon shouted. “I fucking trusted you.”

A voice, hardly a whisper, said, “Why do you think I wanted to be chief of police?”

“Fuck you!” Dixon began firing now, randomly spraying blasts in every direction.

“Stop firing,” Baudin shouted. “Kyle, stop—”

Dixon squealed, a mixture of scream and grunt. His weapon tumbled out of his hand. Baudin could tell because he heard it clatter against the floor. Baudin fired into the wall so he could see what was happening. The chief was behind Dixon, a knife plunged into his back. Dixon’s wide eyes stared at the ceiling.

Baudin rushed to him, feeling the burning pain of a slice across his chest. He jumped back and pointed his weapon as the blade entered his arm. He screamed as the sheer bulk of Crest hit him like a freight train and knocked him onto his back.

He was on the floor, and the gun had dropped out of his hand. He searched the floor with hands and feet but couldn’t find it. A searing pain entered his calf, and he screamed as Crest laughed.

“You boys gonna die with me here. This is our tomb.”

“You gonna die alone,” Dixon said.

Crest swung around. Baudin was up and tackled him. Baudin swung wildly with punches, hitting wall, bone, and flesh. Crest was grunting and fighting back, getting cuts in with the knife.

“Shoot him!” Baudin shouted. “Shoot!”

Dixon fired in the dark. The first round illuminated them, and the second entered Crest’s skull. He stopped fighting. Blood seeped out of him. Baudin could feel its warmth on every part of his body, soaking his shirt, his pants, his soul.

He saw Dixon, or the outline of Dixon, standing over him as the chief’s body collapsed in a heap on top of him. He rolled it off and got to his knees.

They heard footfalls on the stairs, the basement lighting up as someone flipped the switch.

Before them, Crest lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes like marbles. Dixon’s jaw clenched, anger coursing through him, but Baudin reached down and closed his eyes. The two of them stole a quick glance to each other and then headed up the stairs.

56

Baudin had never minded bandages. But the amount he was now wearing made him feel like a mummy. Nothing serious, nothing permanent other than scars, but cuts deep enough that he was given intravenous antibiotics to be safe. Several of them required stitches, the one in his calf being the worst.

When they were through with him, he rose from his bed and hobbled straight to Dixon’s room without checking out. A line of reporters and cameras were in the waiting room of the ER. He didn’t say anything as he passed.

Dixon had been stabbed in the back between the ribs. He’d be going in for surgery because the tip of the blade had nicked a kidney. Dixon’s wife sat next to his bed, her eyes red rimmed from crying, and they spoke softly.

Baudin stood next to the bed. He didn’t say anything, and neither did his partner. He thought the two of them must’ve looked like grinning idiots. Baudin reached out and squeezed his shoulder before he turned and limped out of the room.

EPILOGUE

Baudin smoked as Dixon drove.

Several weeks had passed since Dixon got out of the hospital, and he seemed better than ever. Baudin even thought he’d lost weight. He seemed happy and would talk frequently about his “near-death experience” and the peace it brought him, the comfort.

Baudin wished he felt that way. He knew real life wasn’t ideal, and taking down Crest had only done so much. Without any proof, Jessop was still captain. The DA was still the DA, and everyone else involved was still out there, still breathing, still hunting. The very acts of their breathing insulted Baudin. But he didn’t give up easily. He’d get them, every single one of them. One by one by one. He’d use each one he caught to turn on the others, and then they would start turning on themselves.

But that was a long-term plan.

The car stopped in Dixon’s driveway. Inside, all his friends were waiting for them to get there with the beer. The University of Wyoming was playing some other school that was deemed a rival. Baudin hadn’t really paid attention when he was invited. But he was glad he was.

Dixon turned the car off in the driveway. “I never said thanks.”

“For what?”

“For my freedom.”

He snorted. “Shit, man. We just beginning. Before you know it, you’ll be talking about explosives planted in the Twin Towers.”

“I said freedom, not insanity.”

They stepped out of the car. “I don’t know how much of a difference this all made. Hey, who’s that?”

Dixon looked up and saw where Baudin was looking. He turned and saw the man who was walking quickly toward them. A man in jeans and a baseball cap with something in his hand.

“You Kyle Dixon?”

“Yeah?”

He shoved the papers forward, and Dixon took them. “Consider yourself served.” Dixon hesitated a moment and then opened the papers.

“What is it? Court subpoena?”

Dixon was quiet a long time. He looked up suddenly, and his eyes were different, wide and full of fury and tears. He growled like an animal and bounded across the street, the papers fluttering in the road behind him.

“Kyle, what the hell, man? Kyle!”

Baudin jogged after him. As he ran across the street, he saw the caption of one of the documents:
Laramie County District Court, Motion And Order For Paternity Test
.

“Shit,” Baudin said, breaking into a full sprint. “Kyle, stop!”

Dixon had entered the apartment. Baudin rushed after him.

What he saw when he ran inside sent an icy chill up his back.

Chris was on his knees. Dixon had his weapon out, the muzzle pressed firmly against the man’s head. Tears rolled down Dixon’s cheeks, and his hand was trembling.

“Kyle,” Baudin said gently, “give me the gun.”

“You motherfucker. You motherfucker!”

“Kyle, wait. Look at me. Look at me!”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “no. Tell me this is a fucking lie. Tell me it’s a lie!”

Chris had his eyes closed tightly, his hands behind his head. Baudin took a step forward. The house was quiet, and Baudin wished there was noise somewhere, banging pipes, a dishwasher, anything other than the silence.

“Kyle, don’t ever let a man pull you down so low you hate him. Do you hear me? Give me the gun, Kyle. Kyle! Give me the fucking gun!”

Dixon, his hand shaking, wouldn’t lower the weapon.

“There’s darkness that runs this city, Kyle. It thinks it’s invincible. We gonna get ’em, buddy. Me and you. Every last one of ’em. But right now, you need to go home to your wife. Go home, Kyle.”

“She loves me,” Chris said. “It’s my son, Kyle. What would you do, just leave him? He’s my son.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Baudin said.

“He’s my son, and she loves me. That’s my family.”

“Chris, shut up.”

“You wouldn’t leave them, either,” Chris said. “I just did what anyone would do.” He looked at Dixon. “He’s my so—”

In an instant, the house wasn’t quiet.

The pop echoed through the room, through Baudin’s head. It seemed to go into his bones and shake him. The blood spattered over the carpet and the couch, and bits of brain matter scattered over the rug, a few droplets of black blood even hitting the wall across the room.

The corpse hit the floor, what seemed like gallons of blood streaming out of the head. Dixon put his hands to his face and wept.

“I fucking shot him, Ethan. I fucking killed him. He said… he said she didn’t love me. He said—”

Baudin slowly came up to him and took the weapon. They stared at the body as Dixon continued to cry. Baudin said, “Go home, Kyle.”

“What?” he said, looking up. “I have to… I have to talk to her, and… we have to call it in. I… we have to call it in.”

“We’re not calling shit in. Go home.”

The two men glared at each other. Dixon looked to the body and then back to Baudin. “What’re you gonna do?”

Baudin said softly, “Go home.”

Dixon didn’t have sense or reason left. His eyes were vacant. At that moment, Baudin knew he would do anything he told him to do.

“Go home.”

Hesitantly, Dixon crossed the living room and left the house.

Baudin ran around quickly and closed all the blinds. Then he searched the house. In the garage, he found tools. He grabbed a hacksaw, a hammer, a chisel, a hatchet and one of the thick metal pipes that lay in a pile on the ground. He brought them inside and then locked all the doors.

Baudin stripped nude, laying his clothes in the kitchen before he grabbed the corpse and wrapped a towel from the bathroom around the wound in the head, trying to prevent any more blood from seeping out. He dragged the corpse into the bathroom and lifted it into the tub. It looked almost like a doll, now, with no appearance of once having been human. The instant the bullet hit the brain, that part of him was gone.

He would cut up the body and then leave at night and bury it somewhere in the desert. All the parts in different locations. He would clean this house with hydrogen peroxide and salt water—bleach wasn’t as effective as hydrogen peroxide—and then he would go check on Dixon.

He picked up the hammer and chisel, bent down over the body, and slammed the chisel into the shinbone, breaking it in half. A loud crack echoed in the bathroom.

He inhaled deeply, staring at the blank eyes that gazed up at him from the bathtub, and then pulled the other leg nearer to him.