Authors: Brian Matthews
With a cry of fury, Webber charged, his clenched fist swinging wildly toward J.J.’s head. J.J. blocked the blow with his forearm. But Webber surprised him with a quick jab to the stomach, followed by a blistering right to J.J.’s chin. Blinking from the pain, J.J. brought his arms up to protect himself. Webber used the opening to pound J.J.’s back into the wall and knee him in the groin. J.J. collapsed to the floor. Webber knelt down, grabbed J.J.’s shoulders, and hammered his forehead into the boy’s nose. Bone and cartilage shattered, a burst of phosphorescent pain exploding brightly behind his eyes. Blood ran freely down his chin and neck.
J.J. curled up, holding his broken nose.
Webber’s face appeared close to J.J.’s again. His words were frighteningly quiet. “Where’s your brother?
Blinking up at Webber, J.J. spat, “Kiss my ass!”
Webber reached out and grabbed one of J.J.’s wrists, yanking it from his bloody face. He forced J.J.’s hand open, gripping his index finger. “It’ll be hard to intercept passes with broken fingers. Now, talk to me. Where’d you hide him?”
J.J. glared at the man. “Fuck off.”
Calmly, almost clinically, Webber bent J.J.’s finger back until there was a loud pop and it broke at the knuckle. J.J. cried out, but when Webber gave the digit a vicious twist, ripping tendons and ligaments, his cry turned into a shriek. Black spots swam across his vision.
“I can do this nine more times,” Webber said calmly as he reached for J.J.’s middle finger. “Then I’ll have to start getting creative. You don’t want to go there. Now—where’s Kevin?”
J.J. tried to pull his hand away, but the pain had weakened him. Through his tears, he begged, “God, no, stop! Dad! Help me! Make him stop!”
Jack sat on the bed, his face expressionless. “I warned you. In over your head. Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.” He made no move to get up.
Webber slowly began extending the digit backward. “And this little piggy couldn’t catch a football to save his fucking life.”
J.J. could feel the skin tightening on his hand, the pressure mounting in his knuckle as his finger was bent backward. Already, the pain in his hand was hot, searing, as if he’d stuck it in a pile of hot coals. So much pain. It tore through him. No more. He couldn’t take any more
.
He thought briefly of Kevin, of the sweet smile he’d given J.J. before he left, only hours ago.
I tried, Kevin. I’m sorry, but I tried. Please, forgive me.
Before another finger broke, J.J. cried out, “No! No! Stop! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!” Sobbing, he said, “Katie’s. He’s at Katie’s house.”
“You told your dad he can
do
stuff. What can he do?”
“I’m not sure. He—he talked normal, like his autism was gone. Said something about a man. And a woman. And a thing. I don’t know what it means.”
Webber’s eyes widened with surprise, and J.J. felt the man ease up on his finger.
Fresh tears ran from his eyes. “Please stop. Don’t hurt me anymore.”
A sneer erased Webber’s shocked expression. “See,” he said, “you
can
be cooperative.” Then he jerked J.J.’s finger back, the knuckle cracking apart, until the digit rested flat against the back of J.J.’s hand. After J.J.’s screaming, he said, “That’s for making me work at it.”
J.J. sent out a silent plea to his brother.
Run, Kevin! Hide!
Then, like a cheap horror movie, the world faded to black.
The white-and-brown Luce County Sheriff’s car rolled into the Hiawatha Trails Motel parking lot, newly fallen snow crunching under its black tires. Inside, Patrolman Steve Campbell radioed his arrival and status as unavailable, responding to a call. He checked his gear, made sure his notepad and pen were in his shirt pocket, and got out of the cruiser. The snow was slippery. He was careful not to fall as he made his way to the manager’s office. Missing the start of deer season with an injured back and doped up on painkillers wasn’t his idea of fun.
Campbell pushed open the office door. A little brass bell attached to it jingled. Like most hole-in-the-wall dives, this motel’s lobby was sheathed in pine boards which had been stained dark with age rather than varnish. Frayed red-and-white-checked drapes covered the window. There was no television turned to ESPN, no radio playing the music, not even a wire rack full of brochures highlighting the usual tourist traps.
He heard movement from the room behind the counter.
“Be right with you,” a voice called out.
“It’s just me, Deke,” answered Campbell.
Deke Frenz emerged from the office. The motel’s owner was in his mid-fifties. A fringe of gray hair ran in a semi-circle below the green John Deere cap perched on top of his head. His eyes were sunken. The laconic set of his jaw gave the impression that the man couldn’t be surprised by anything short of the Apocalypse. He wore a flannel shirt that matched the drapes and a pair of old jeans with one of the belt loops missing.
“Afternoon, Stevie,” Deke said as he withdrew a small red tin of chewing tobacco from beneath the counter. With a smooth, practiced motion, he wedged a wad between his cheek and gums, making him look like the world’s most laid-back chipmunk. “Thanks for comin’ by.”
“Sure,” replied Campbell. “Another disturbing the peace?”
Deke nodded. “Yep. Fella in room 7 complained about the noise comin’ outta the room next to him. That’d be the south one. Room 8.” He flipped open the register; computers hadn’t quite made it to the Hiawatha Trails Motel. “Guy signed in as Jack Snow. Paid cash.” Nicotine-stained fingers scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Seen three of ’em, though. Came in drivin’ a Silverado. Anyway, I’d’ve checked it out myself, ’cept one of ’em gave me the creeps. So I called you.”
“Gave
you
the creeps?”
Deke nodded, his eyes serious.
Campbell wandered back to the door and peered out. “I see a Charger, but no Silverado.”
Deke shrugged. “Must’ve left. Same as that fella from 7. Do me a favor, Stevie. Check it out anyway.” He tossed Campbell a key to the room. “Let me know if there’s any damage.”
“Sure,” Campbell said, catching it easily. He smiled back at Deke. “You all baited?”
“Was out to my blind last night,” said Deke. “There’s some big-ass buck out there. The rubs are huge. I’ll find ’em. Then I’ll kill ’em.”
“Do you ever miss?” Deke was an ex-Army Ranger and one of the best shots in the county.
“Not since you was in diapers.”
Campbell chuckled. “I’ll be right back.”
Deke spit tobacco juice into an old coffee can. “Just be careful, Stevie.”
Heading out the door, Campbell swung right and made his way down the walkway. He passed several rooms and came to a stop in front of number 8. He knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he knocked again. Then pounded.
“Police! Open up!”
He tried the door. Locked.
While bringing the key to the lock, Campbell heard a muffled thump come from inside Room 8. Quickly, he palmed the key into his other hand, drew his gun and swiveled away from the door, his back pressed firmly against the wall to the left. With a clenched fist, the plastic key fob digging into the flesh of his palm, he hammered on the door twice.
“Luce County Sheriff’s Department! Open the door!”
He listened, ears straining, sweat trickling down the back of his neck despite the cold. All he could hear was the sound of the wind blowing ropy snakes of snow across the parking lot. Something didn’t feel right here. In fact, it felt completely
not right
. He briefly considered calling for backup but decided against it. If this ended up being a bunch of guys jerking each other off, it’d mean months of ribbing from his fellow cops.
“Damn.”
Reaching down, he slid the key into the lock. A sharp twist and it released. He eased the door open with the flat of his hand. The hinges screeched like an alarm. Hot air washed out from the room like the devil’s breath.
“Hello! Anyone in there?”
Still no answer.
Lips pressed into a thin line, he gripped his weapon with both hands and spun into the room. Arms out straight, he peered over the barrel of his gun, swiveled left, then right. Bed. Table. One chair knocked over. Dresser. Small closet to his right. Bathroom to his left. Hit the light. No one.
The room was empty.
Had the sound come from somewhere else? Maybe another room? The person who owned the Charger, perhaps? He should have asked Deke if any of the other units were occupied.
Campbell crossed the room to put the chair back on four legs—and that was when he saw a damp stain on the carpet. He crouched down, careful not to touch anything. It looked like blood. Not so much as to suggest someone was shot or stabbed, but definitely more than a nosebleed. Looked like there’d been a fight, and someone had caught the worst of it.
He heard the thud again, this time not so muffled.
He rose and spun around. The noise had come from the small closet near the door.
Stepping quietly, he approached the closet. The doors were mirrored glass. They slid sideways rather than opening like a regular door. He tried to ease one of them open, but it was caught on something or broken and wouldn’t budge. He pulled on the other one, and it gave slightly. Felt like something heavy was pressed up against it. He gave it a firm yank, the door skidded open, jumping loudly on its tracks, and a body spilled out onto the carpet.
“Shit!” cried Patrolman Campbell, jumping back.
It was a kid, and he was pretty messed up. His arms and legs had been duct taped together. A wide strip of silver tape had been placed across his mouth. His nose was mashed out of shape. Dark rings circled his closed eyes. Blood had drenched his shirt and jeans. His hands had been taped together like he’d been praying. Two of the fingers looked funny, and that was when Campbell realized they’d been broken. There was a Kinsey High School varsity jacket crumpled under him.
The boy’s black-rimmed eyes cracked open and gazed dully at Campbell.
He reached for the mic clipped to his shirt. “19 to base. We need an ambulance at my 20 ASAP. Injured teenager.” After he’d received acknowledgment of the call, he gently removed the tape from the boy’s mouth. The kid drew in a thin, shallow breath. Whoever had done this was lucky the kid hadn't suffocated trying to breathe through that shattered nose.
Or maybe whoever did this had wanted the kid to die that way.
“It’s okay,” he said to the boy. “I've called for an ambulance.”
The kid stared back at him with uncomprehending eyes. His mouth started to open, but his eyes lost their focus and closed. He’d passed out.
A quick search found a wallet and driver’s license. He reached for the mic again.
“19 to base. Someone call Kinsey PD. We’ve got one of their kids. A Jack Sallinen, Jr. See if they can locate his parents. Tell them we’ll be transporting him to Newberry Hospital.”
Patrolman Campbell shook his head at the wrecked form lying on the carpet.
“Jesus, kid. What’d you get yourself into?”
Izzy Morris sat behind her desk, chafing at a morning full of delays.
Her office door opened, and Gene walked in, followed by Katie and Bart Owens. The old man was now dressed in a plain gray sweatshirt and jeans that Gene had retrieved from the hotel room where Owens had been staying. His bloody garments had been conveniently and quietly disposed of.
“Are you feeling better now?” Izzy asked Owens after they had sat down. Despite his remarkable healing, he had required more rest. Izzy had placed him in Sten’s office, covered him with a blanket, and let him sleep.
“I’m fine,” he replied. He looked curiously at her. “And you and I? Are we okay?”
Izzy slowly pulled in a breath. After Owens’s revelation that he might be responsible for her husband’s heart attack, she had first felt stunned, and then angry—angry at the old man for telling her, angry at Webber and Jack Sallinen for starting this nightmare, and, ultimately, angry at Stanley for attacking Owens.
Ever since Natalie had disappeared, roadblocks had been thrown up that kept her from finding her daughter; three days later and she was no closer to finding her than she was when she started. Owens’s admission had simply brought her closer to the snapping point. She suspected that he had seen her anger and had used his need for rest as an excuse to give her time to calm down.
“Yeah, we’re good,” she told him. “I guess I can’t blame you for protecting yourself. But knowing that was another complication I didn’t need right now.”
“How’s Stanley doing?” asked Gene.
“I called the hospital. There’s been no change in his condition. They don’t know why he won’t wake up.”
“And the State cops?” he added.
Izzy grunted. “I suppose that could’ve gone worse.” The State Police investigator had been your typical hard-nosed bastard. He asked all the questions she’d expected, and some that she hadn't. Ultimately, it had come down to the photos found in Jack’s office: they tipped the scales enough in her favor that she felt she would eventually be exonerated for shooting Carleton Manick. She just needed to bring Jack in to establish the connection between him and Manick. “I’ve still got a job for now.”
“What about the search for Webber and Mr. Sallinen?” asked Katie. “Any luck with the hotels?”
Izzy shook her head. “I’ve only had an hour to try and find them.” She looked at Katie and Gene. “Were you able to clean up the resource room?”
“There wasn’t much we could do about the door,” said Gene. “Or the file cabinet. But we picked up the debris and put the table back where it belonged.” He gave her that familiar lop-sided grin. “You’re going need the Extreme Makeover—Monster Edition crew to fix the place up.”
“Very funny,” she returned with a half-hearted smile. Then her attention turned to Owens. “You know Webber better than anyone. Can you tell me anything that would help me find him?”
Owens quietly regarded her. His blue eyes had lost none of their intensity, but the flesh under them was now darker than the rest of his skin.