R.S. Guthrie - Detective Bobby Mac 03 - Reckoning (8 page)

“Nope. Not letting you take the fall on this one, boss.”

“You’re a good kid, Manny. And I appreciate you having my back more than you know. But let me talk to Shackleford. Alone.”

I dropped Manny at the shop with strict instructions to tactfully avoid any deep discussions with the lieutenant (Manny’s poker face sucked; we were working on that at the regular every-other-Thursday cop game.) He was to get them to look at the call; it would no doubt be a burner or a tossed SIM or both. He could then start going over the video, especially now that we
probably
knew who we were after—or at least who our number one suspect now was. In detective work you learned not to jump too fast and you learned it painfully. I was taking the rest of the afternoon on personal time. I needed to think, clear my head.

I took Granger, my new Border Collie, to the same dog park near my home where Spence Grant called me all those years ago. Granger was a sweetie. She was three now. It took me a while to get over grieving Tina and Sketch. I’d never own another Russell again. Those two were that special.

And god I loved the energy Granger brought to the house. She
adored
the triplets. Amanda was not a huge dog person—which primarily meant she did not grow up around them—but she and Granger were inseparable at times; enough, even, to make me jealous. Amanda was home all day with her much of the time; raised her when she was a piddling-on-the-carpet puppy, so it was inevitable.

Borders were
smart
, like Russells. She helped with the kids more than she hurt. Amanda trained her to pick up clothes and put them in the laundry room basket, watch and warn for any crying when the girls were out of earshot, and a slew of other great jobs that amazed me. I only ever played ball with Tina and Sketch, though they loved me as much as I ever loved them.

As I threw the Frisbee for Granger, I tried to reach my Zen
anapanasati,
a consciousness of in and out breathing. I picked up on Zen practice a few years back. The only path to calm for me then, and I really needed to reprogram and rearrange the mind and all it had been accumulating the past few years.

Jax.

God I had tried so hard over the years to come to grips—or at least a peaceful understanding—with his death. His loss. Whatever the hell it was.

He was gone and I was never going to see him, and the fact that the man I knew was gone even before I saw him fly off that thousand foot cliff—no longer my brother—somehow assaulted me more egregiously than anything else.

I missed him. Three simple, cliché words. But there was no better way to sum it up.

Granger brought the Frisbee back after snagging it airborne, panting and showing me her happy, smiley face. It made me feel better. Her perpetual happiness at everything always restored and reenergized me. I mistrusted people who didn’t like dogs. Canines were just so absolutely loyal and loving and unconditional. They were far better “humans” than we were.

Allergies aside, if you didn’t appreciate the dog, I was pretty sure I’d have a hard time appreciating you. That was just the way it was. That was why I always gave Jax so much shit about his alpacas. At least he had some working dogs to keep the wannabe llamas in line. But he didn’t appreciate their hard work or loyalty. He didn’t love them.

But I didn’t hold it too much against him. As I said, he was my brother. For real. Yes, all cops (male and female) were my brothers. I had friends that treated me
better
than did my own blood. Still, nothing could change the fact that I’d have done anything for Jax.

SPENCE FELT the plans were right on schedule, or the thing Spencer Grant had become—it had never been as if he were a single entity; he was the embodiment of who he had always been and who he was now capable of being with the passenger that rode forever inside him, whispering to him at times, howling in rage at others. It had been years since he knew the difference between the two Spences.

It didn’t help that he looked nothing as his former self then. On the outside, those first few months in Denver, the thing inside him had changed his appearance so many times that he was forced into wonderment each new day as to who he might see in the mirror looking back at him. He always looked the very definition of “average” or “nondescript”, though the thing inside was so evil Spence was sure it could have made him so ugly he’d have made newborn babies screech in horror.

No, the thing knew the plan; the thing was
in charge
and had been since the days in Idaho. Since he’d murdered his family. And once they were hiding in Denver—not just hiding, but holding out for more than
ten years
, Spencer Grant needed to never look the same twice.

After five years, his exterior was changed permanently. Or until the next time the beast inside wished him to look different, he supposed. But in any case, he no longer physically resembled his former self and hadn’t for such a very long time. So much so that Detective Bobby Macaulay and Manny Rodriguez stood next to him in the store, and thanks to Bluetooth technology, were carrying on a conversation with him as he stood near a bus stop, just out of earshot.

Ten years. They’d waited
so long
and he’d killed
so many
.

The “famous crimes” posing was his idea. In his previous life, with the wife and children, he’d loved true crime television. He knew all there was to know about all the famous killings. This way he felt involved. The plan had nothing to do with the way the bodies were placed and the thing inside no doubt felt Spence’s little improvisation was acceptable as it would keep the police on their toes, turned the wrong way (or thinking the wrong way when they were turned the right way, as that day at the 7-11).

The beast within was not pleased with Spence for that arrogant move. The call was preordained, but not the proximity from which Spence made it. It was a delicate relationship, that between him and the thing inside him. It wasn’t that he ever really felt like the old Spence, but he felt at least
human
much of the time.

The thing inside, when it appeared physically, was humanoid in form but emanated such evil that Spence could not bear to look upon it. It didn’t reveal itself to him often and for that he was beyond grateful. It was indescribably horrifying when it appeared, probably in part because it usually only appeared when Spence had made a mistake that required a reminder—an aide-mémoire of what LIVED inside him.

Also a gauche reminder of who ran the show.

What Spence had begun to call “the humanoid” for lack of a better name for the physical manifestation of his inner demon, appeared after the 7-11 incident and the phone call.

Spence was watching television in the upper level of the warehouse he’d converted to a dungeon and execution chamber under and behind the façade of a business he called Alberta Shipping. All the papers were in place for Alberta; Spence had filing cabinets full of falsified shipping records. The office was next door to the small apartment-sized area Spence called “home”. The horror all happened below.

“You were a stupid, stupid human today,” the beast said to him, its voice crackly and throaty. Like it needed a perpetual clearing. The very sound of the thing almost made Spence piss himself, both because of its horrifying nature but, too, because there was never a precursor; nothing to warn Spence that dad was coming to punish his little boy.

And it was just as mortifying, even now after hearing it a hundred times.

“I’m sorry,” Spence whispered, praying that his inner demon would not require his full visual attention. He didn’t want to see it; didn’t
need
to. The voice alone—the thing’s declaration—was more than enough to teach him that his behavior was selfish and stupid.

“Turn and witness me when I address you. Remind yourself of who I am and that I am now a part of you.”

Spence began to whimper. “I swear, it won’t ever—”

“Turn. Around.”

It wasn’t exactly that it was different every time, though in a metaphysical way, it was. Each time it appeared was somehow magnitudes worse than the last, even though the humanoid shape and exterior looked like a newborn body covered in clear, dripping honey, the force that derived from inside the thing and filled the room was not something a human being was capable of comprehending and thus played horrible games with the mind.

Evil was unimaginable as pure embodiment. Those who’d never actually seen it—and there were so few who had—could not possibly imagine the raw, unbridled terror it caused the very soul of a human to look onto its formation. To sense of what it was capable; to
feel
what could only be described as hatred of Good, and of humans, and of anything normal—it was quite literally demonstrative to the spirit and capable of causing permanent scarring that could not be driven away by a stadium full of psychiatrists.

Spence slowly turned to the side, where he knew the creature had chosen to appear. The smell had hit him already and thankfully he’d grown accustomed to the stench—that, at least, was a tangible. As detectives and police became accustomed to decomposition or meat factory workers to opened flesh, Spence had become desensitized. It was the only reason he did not vomit as he had
the first dozen or so times. The most fear came in the moment
before
he looked upon his demon. The anticipation.

When he looked, mercifully, the horror was so overwhelming he immediately lost control of all bodily functions and collapsed unconscious.

He awoke hours later in pools of his own excretions. It was nauseating, but the fear of what he’d experienced in his mind and soul before passing out was far more damaging than the smell of anything
human
, excrement or not.

Spence checked the day and the time. He had no idea how long he was out, but the freshness of the mess in which he rested suggested it had not been too long. It was four in the morning. Mac wasn’t due a call for his next surprise until the next day. The thing wanted
MacAulay
, as it referred to him, emphasizing verbally the traditional spelling, to know he was always a step behind. Cat and mouse. More than once Spence wondered what Mac’s family had done to so enrage the Evil of the world.

Truthfully, he didn’t want to know.

He decided instead of such contemplations he would clean himself and his apartment.

“Manny, I had an important realization yesterday.”

“Good to see you again, boss,” Manny told me.

“Run a profile on Melissa Grant, from Rocky Gap, Idaho. I want to know everything the system has on her. Also call the police up there, the new Chief, uh, Brown. Jeffers Brown. Get everything they have, too. I mean BOLOs, everything.”

“Done.”

“We need her birthdate first,” I said.

“Give me a minute,” Manny said, and spun in his chair. “I can get that for you in a shake.”

Technology. I loved it. God it made the cop’s job easier.

“September twentieth,” Manny said two or three minutes later.

“She’ll be nineteen,” I said.

“What?”

“Nineteen. In a month. We’ve got one month to get to Spence Grant or his daughter will die.”

“Mac, we don’t even know if she’s alive. He could have let her go. More likely—and I hate saying this, partner—but he probably killed her before scooting out of Idaho. Buried her in the wilderness, bones now picked clean.”

“He told me he brought her with him.”

“He could have lied. Probably lied. No matter how much he disguised himself, no matter how many times, do you know how much harder it would be to live in a city on the lookout for the child that was with you—for a month, much less for
ten years
?”

“I know. I know what the books and the procedures and the odds say. But I think I may have figured a pattern that relates to the number nineteen. The victims’ ages. They’re not random. This is another of his crazy games. Running the rat through the maze.”

“Who’s
he
? You’re sounding kind of paranoid, partner.”

“How many victims?” I said.

“Hailey Carpenter made nine,” Manny answered with that young man, everything-was-a-bet-or-competition swagger.

“Your confidence betrays you,” I said.

“Meaning?”

“You’re thinking
nine bodies plus one, Melissa Grant, does not equal nineteen.
That we’ve got nine more bodies coming for Melissa Grant to make number nineteen on her nineteenth birthday—which there’s not time for based on the length of time in the killer’s M.O.—so there’s no way my ‘nineteen being special’ theory is correct.”

“Okay, well, yeah, I
was
thinking something along those lines. It’s the detective in me, boss. Sorry.”

I loved that kid. He had all the makings of a
great
detective. Better than me. He was still too young for me to say so, because it would ruin him. I was grooming him like a racehorse. Slowly. Giving him his confidence a day at a time. No rushing a work of art, and I wanted Manny to be my legacy in the department.

I hadn’t told him about my thoughts of retirement. Thing was, I could not leave until Manny Rodriquez was as good as I could make him. I figured a year, two tops. Then I could retire and give back to my wife what I had selfishly taken from her: chasing the bad guys.

I could do that for her.

But not until Detective Manolo Rodriguez was ready.

“You much of a math guy in school?” I said.