Father of Fear (25 page)

Ackerman stepped from the rickety old boathouse with his procured pistol aimed at his opponent, not taking any chances nor trusting the mercenary to be as good as his word. New daylight shone across the water and through the water elms and cypress trees, casting shadows across the yard that resembled bony fingers. He said, “All your weapons.”

Craig held out his arms. “So you were in there the whole time. How did you know I wouldn’t kill Maggie?”

“Because you’re not stupid. Killing her would eliminate your only hold over me. If she were dead, I’d have little reason to stick around. I could have just slipped away into the swamp and finished you off six months from now when you were least expecting it. I would have rather enjoyed that, actually.”

The big blond man shrugged. “Fair enough. Are you ready?”

Ackerman repeated, “All your weapons. Then we dance.”

Craig smiled. “Fine.” He produced a concealed pistol from the back of his waistband and tossed it back toward the house. Then he pulled a KA-BAR knife from his boot and tossed it beside the pistol.

Ackerman dropped his pistol in the entryway of the boathouse and stepped farther into the yard. He pulled the Bowie knife from its sheath and threw it skillfully into a spot in the ground between him and Craig. It twisted through the air and stuck into the earth with the bone handle pointing toward the new morning sky.

“The legend goes,” Ackerman said, “that Jim Bowie, the namesake of that knife, was a gambler and a bit of a rabble-rouser. In the version I was told, if Bowie had a problem with someone, he would take them out into the street, stick his signature knife into the mud, and then they’d fight to the death with the first man who could pull the knife from the ground gaining a distinct tactical advantage. A little reminiscent of King Arthur and the sword in the stone, I suppose. Whether the legend is true or not, I find it to be a fitting conclusion to our relationship. Two killers, one knife. Two men enter, one man leaves. Just like in the days of—”

Craig had apparently heard enough because he took off in a sprint toward the knife, his gaze locked firmly on the prize. Unable to keep a small smile from spreading across his face, Ackerman followed suit and rushed forward to intercept the other man.

Apparently, Craig had never played this game. The knife was a distraction, a ruse. The inexperienced player would always go for the knife first in an effort to end the fight quickly, but their eagerness also opened them to attack. They always seemed to think that the other person would be going for the knife with equal fervor, instead of completely ignoring the knife and focusing on their assault.

The knife was off to the side, and so Ackerman took an angle that would allow him to intercept Craig’s run. He dropped low and slid through the mud to sweep Craig’s legs out from beneath him.

The large blond man landed on his stomach and, realizing his mistake, rolled to his feet and focused on his attacker. Ackerman rushed forward and sent a front kick toward his opponent. Craig dodged and came in close for a series of quick rabbit punches. Ackerman blocked them and matched him blow for blow, each man slapping and striking with open-palmed thrusts.

Craig landed a firm blow squarely against Ackerman’s chest, causing the killer to stumble back. Ackerman rushed forward again, but Craig anticipated his enemy, dropped to one knee, and used Ackerman’s momentum against him. Using a fireman’s toss, Craig caught Ackerman’s right wrist with his left hand and slid his right arm between Ackerman’s legs. He then flipped him over and slammed him into the mud.

The ground was soft, but the slam still disoriented Ackerman. Craig didn’t relent. He rolled onto Ackerman and starting bringing down fierce hammer-fisted blows, using the undersides of his fists and forearms to strike Ackerman’s head and chest.

Ackerman twisted his hips and rolled Craig over. Each fought for position with neither gaining much ground. Ackerman tried to get a grip on Craig’s arm and was almost in a position to snap the limb, but Craig’s arm was by now slick with mud, and he was able to squirm free. They were a writhing mass of striking elbows and fists, but then they finally rolled away from one another and got back onto their feet.

They circled each other, each looking for an opportunity to attack. Craig said in a breathless voice, “Nice elbow technique. Brazilian jiu-jitsu?”

Ackerman offered a crooked half-grin. “Muay Thai, actually.”

Craig moved in first, rushing forward and punching at Ackerman’s head. Ackerman dodged but then realized that the attack had been disguised and wasn’t a punch at all. He felt Craig’s left hand ensnare his right wrist. The feigned punch then allowed Craig’s right arm to slide over Ackerman’s shoulder, gripping it with his elbow. Craig pushed down with his right arm to hold the shoulder and then jammed Ackerman’s right arm behind his back in a move known as the standing kimura.

The move was fairly standard, but the technique was flawless. Ackerman felt the pressure wrench at the joints in his shoulder, the tendons bending to their limit. Craig followed with three violent knees to Ackerman’s face.

Although dazed, Ackerman spun away from the attack and ripped his arm free of his opponent’s grasp before Craig could snap the bone.

But instead of just breaking free and retreating, Ackerman reversed the move into a devastating scissor takedown, known in judo and other Japanese arts as the Kani basami. He placed one palm flat on the ground and threw his legs around Craig’s knees, using his legs like a pair of scissors to cut the other man’s legs out from under him.

Ackerman turned the momentum of Craig’s falling body into a leg lock that snapped the limb at the knee with a sickening crunch. Craig screamed out in pain, but the sound soon died away as Ackerman rolled onto the blond man’s chest and dug his fingers into his opponent’s throat.

With a wet twist and squeeze, Ackerman ripped Craig’s Adam’s apple and throat from his body. Craig issued a tinny robotic-sounding rasp direct from his esophagus as he choked on his own blood. A crimson spray spurted out from the gaping hole in Craig’s neck and covered Ackerman’s face and chest.

Ackerman leaned over and looked into the dying man’s eyes. Then he kissed Craig on the forehead and said, “Thank you. I enjoyed that immensely.”

While Ackerman and Craig had been fighting, Maggie had worked on freeing herself using Craig’s discarded KA-BAR knife. She was able to cut through the ropes in time to witness Craig’s bloody death throes. She had to look away, bile rising in her throat. She had seen people die many times before and had visited the scenes of several brutal murders after the fact, but never before had she been physically present at the conclusion of such a violent and bloody struggle.

She looked away into the morning sky and tried to purge the images from her memory. Craig had brought it on himself, even asked for it, and would have done the same to Ackerman if he’d been given the chance. Still, she couldn’t shake an irrational feeling of pity for the man.

She couldn’t bring herself to look at Ackerman or at Craig’s body, not now, not while it was all so fresh in her mind. So she went back into the house and freed Louis Ackerman from his bonds.

“They’re all dead, aren’t they?” he asked. “Those men. My grandson killed them all, didn’t he?”

The memory of Ackerman straddling Craig and tearing out his throat flashed before Maggie’s eyes. She couldn’t find her voice, and so she just nodded in affirmation.

“Did he have any other option?”

She shook her head. “No, those men were killers in their own right. They probably would have killed all three of us. And if not us, then definitely him.”

“So it was self-defense.”

“I suppose.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“No, it was definitely self-defense. But he… It doesn’t really matter.”

“What, girl? What were you going to say?”

Maggie looked at a deep gouge in the hardwood floor as if the answers would appear from the swirls in the wood. “I guess it just bothers me how much he enjoyed it. Taking another life should never be that easy, even if it’s justified and necessary.”

The old man nodded. She could see the years of pain and guilt in his eyes. “You never did tell me why Francis is with a federal agent.”

“I guess you could say that he’s a special consultant. To be honest, I really believe that he wants to make some kind of amends for what he’s done.”

“So you think there’s hope for him?”

“I don’t know, but I do know that there’s still hope for your other grandson. You said that you may be able to help us find your son. Please, you can still help make this right.”

A single tear rolled down the old man’s cheek. “I don’t know if that’s possible, but I’ll do what I can.”

The building looked like sandpaper, but the apprentice couldn’t remember where it had ever seen sandpaper. There was some hazy recollection of a man with dark hair and rough hands working on an old boat, sanding down the rough surfaces. It remembered using the coarse material to work beside the man. But it couldn’t recall much more than that. It couldn’t connect the man with itself. The memory was like a light bulb that had been pulled from its socket. Without the connection, it was useless.

It walked up to the service entrance of the sandpaper building and swiped the stolen keycard that had been given to it by the master. The master had stressed how to behave in this place. It replayed the words in its head.

The master had said,
People ignore and tolerate weird, but they pay attention to fake
.
In this politically correct world, if someone thinks you’re strange, they immediately wonder if you have a disability. And it’s repugnant to harass someone with a disability. So if anyone questions you, just stare at your shoes and mumble and say, “I’m sorry.”

Luckily, it was able to pass by security with ease while wearing the stolen janitor’s uniform and pushing the trash cart. There was no need for staring or mumbling.

It entered the empty courtroom through a door that read 16th Judicial Circuit Court of Missouri. Then it moved to the hidden spot near the center of the room but close to where the judge would sit. It found the spot exactly as the master had described. It reached into its cart of supplies and retrieved the two liquids disguised as gallon jugs of cleaning fluids.

But it knew that these were not for cleaning. The master had used the words binary liquid and said that these were part of the bomb. It knew that word. Knew that a bomb was bad in some way. But it couldn’t remember why.

Marcus had grown numb from the events of the past few days. He felt as though he was trapped in an eternal mist, some kind or purgatory or nightmare from which he would never awaken. Maybe this truly was hell. If so, then his own father was the devil.

This time, when the devil opened the door of his cell, he didn’t fight back. He didn’t even say a word. He just stood up on two shaky legs and stumbled into the adjacent torture chamber. The metal table and chairs were still there. Another woman sat at one end of the table. But this time Marcus didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on the stone floor and tried to disassociate himself from the situation. He had often read about people having a psychotic break with reality, and he hoped that would happen to him soon. But perhaps it already had. Perhaps none of this was real.

Ackerman Sr. took his place on Marcus’s right. He wore a black dress shirt, gray slacks, and expensive shoes. He said, “Today’s game is special. It’s an intersection of my two pet projects at the moment. The re-education of my son, and the…let’s say…lesson that I’m teaching the people of Kansas City, specifically the judicial and law enforcement communities.”

Marcus scowled and said, “A lesson? That what you call it?”

“You don’t approve?”

“Your killing spree isn’t some kind of sermon you’re preaching to them. It’s more like the tantrum of a petulant child.”

Ackerman Sr. laughed a deep throaty bellow that echoed across the stone. “That’s good, Marcus. And you’re right. It isn’t meant to be a lesson or a sermon. And it’s not truly vengeance, either. It’s my magnum opus. It’s a memorial, a tribute. I’ve brought that city to its knees because they stole my soulmate from me. But I’m not trying to avenge her death. I’m doing all this to honor her memory. It’s my gift to her.”

“How romantic.”

“I think so. But as I was saying, today’s experiment serves many masters. I get to strike a blow in one arena while continuing your treatment. Are you familiar with the trolley problem?”

Marcus said nothing. He continued to stare at the floor.

“I’ll take that as a no. The trolley problem is a moral thought experiment involving sacrificing one for many. It’s a question of human morality and an example of a philosophical view called consequentialism. This view says that morality is defined by the consequences of an action, and that the consequences are all that matter. The setup is that a trolley with five passengers is hurtling out of control and about to crash. Everyone on board will be killed. But you’re in the unique position to flip the trolley onto an alternate track where everyone will be saved. However, a single innocent bystander is walking along that track and will be killed. Do you save five people and sacrifice the one?”

The woman at the table started to scream behind her gag. Marcus thought the muffled yells sounded like the word “help.” Ackerman Sr. turned to her and said, “Please don’t be rude, my dear. We’ll be with you in a moment.”

Then he continued his story. “So now think of the same setup. Only this time you don’t just have to flip the switch to save the trolley. You’re standing beside the man and can push him onto the tracks to save the others. Most people presented with the quandary say that the first is permissible and the second is forbidden. But what’s the difference? Both examples end in the man’s death. Why is there a distinction between actively killing someone and simply allowing them to die? They’re still just as dead. It’s a fascinating philosophical debate, don’t you think?”

Ackerman Sr. leaned forward and placed his hands on the table. “Here’s what I want to know, Marcus. If you were in either of those positions, what would you do? Would you divert the trolley? Would you push the man onto the tracks?”

“Neither. I’d throw myself in front of the trolley to save them,” Marcus said.

His father chuckled. “Always the hero. Always the martyr. For the sake of argument, let’s say that’s not an option. What do you do then?”

“Who cares? It’s just a stupid hypothetical problem.”

“No, actually, it’s not. You see, I’ve set up a real-world example of the trolley problem. My apprentice has planted a bomb in a courtroom within the Kansas City Municipal Building.” Ackerman Sr. held up his cell phone. “It’s activated by a cellular device and will kill at least five people, probably many more. But you can stop that. All you have to do is sacrifice this woman.”

Marcus looked up at her for the first time. She had mocha-colored skin and full lips. She wore the scrubs of a nurse or hospital worker. He could detect that antiseptic hospital smell on her. She had kind eyes.

“If you ask me to, I will kill this woman and spare the others. I’ll let the bomb go undetonated and tell the authorities where to find it. You’ll save all those people. Just say the word.”

“How do I even know that you’re telling the truth? Maybe there is no bomb.”

“You just have to take my word for it.”

“Your word is worthless.”

“I assure you that there is a bomb. And I will spare them. If you choose to kill for them.”

“No matter what I do, it’s not my choice. It’s yours. You’re the one responsible. I choose nothing. I won’t play your game. I won’t sacrifice a single innocent person. No matter what the consequences are.”

“Interesting, but what if it was me? What if you could push me onto the tracks to save those people?”

Marcus looked deep into his father’s eyes, his hatred shining bright. “I wouldn’t hesitate to send you straight to hell.”

“Of course you would. But, out of curiosity, how do you morally justify that?”

“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me what’s ‘morally justified’ anymore. That’s what my heart tells me. So that’s what I’d do.”

Ackerman Sr. smiled. “And you’re not afraid to do what your heart tells you. That’s excellent. We’re making real progress, son. We still have a long journey ahead, but we’re well on our way.”

His father pressed a few buttons on his cell phone and said, “I just detonated the bomb.” Then he raised his Beretta pistol and shot the nurse in the head.