For Everything a Reason (18 page)

Chapter
Thirty-Four

Carter hit the brakes, swerved around the oncoming
traffic and then pushed the gas all the way to the floor. The Sedan tore past
other vehicles, leaving them behind in a blur. The blue and red beacon flashed
in a wide arc and the siren screamed out its warning. This was no covert
operation. Carter wanted everyone to hear him coming.

“Almost there,” he said,
speaking to Joseph.

“Hurry,” Joseph replied, from
the passenger side.

The heavy evening traffic began
to filter away as they entered a more secluded part of the neighbourhood. The
squat buildings of commerce gave way to tall apartment buildings.

“Which one is it?” Carter
asked, understanding that the old pro lived in one of the high-rises.

“That one, over there,” Joseph
directed, pointing to the furthest tower. Unlike the rest, this one seemed to
stand in total darkness – even the lights from the stairwell appeared to be
doused. Joseph’s imagination ran wild. “They’ve cut the power,” he said,
picturing a gloved hand with wire cutters.

“Calm down, Joseph,” Carter
urged.

Joseph took a deep breath,
pushing his fear all the way down to the pit of his stomach. There, it thrashed
about like a fiery serpent.

“You sure you don’t have a
number to call?” Carter asked.

“No phone,” Joseph replied.
“Not even a landline.”

“How the hell does this guy
live?”

“Quietly.”

“I hope you’re right, Joseph. I
hope you’re right.”

The detective threw the vehicle
in a large arc. Twin headlights cast long shadows and the flashing lights
granted them macabre faces. The siren gave them voices, screaming voices, which
called out an impending doom.

Carter brought the vehicle to a
halt. Tyres screeched noisily and the Sedan slid across the wet blacktop,
coming to rest at an awkward angle. The detective was out in an instant. Joseph
climbed out unsteadily, relying heavily on the door for assistance.

“You okay?” Carter asked,
stepping around the vehicle, ready to help him.

“Fine. Go. I’m right behind
you.”

The detective turned and headed
towards the base of the apartment building. He arrived to find a steel doorway
at the bottom. A glass window had been cut into the thick metalwork, reinforced
by wire mesh. Access would by granted by one of two ways. First, the simple use
of a key; secondly, by activating one of the telecom buttons, which were
mounted on the wall opposite.

Carter reached out. His finger
stopped a few inches short. “Which number?” he called to Joseph.

“Four-D!” Joseph yelled back.

Carter pushed hard against the
button.

Nothing.

No indication of operation: no
buzz, beep, bell, nothing.

Carter waited impatiently. He
allowed a few seconds to pass before jabbing at the button again. Now worried
for the safety of the old man and the boy, he began pressing buttons at random.

The speaker before him crackled
to life.

“Yeah?” asked a voice full of
annoyance.

“Police. Open up. This is an
emergency.”

“Really?” the voice questioned,
the single word laced with suspicion.

“Hurry!” Carter ordered.

“Listen – asshole, you think
that one hasn’t been tried before?”

“This is Detective Thomas
Carter from the Fourteenth Precinct. Now open up.”

“Yeah – well. This is Jack
Johnson, recently removed unnecessarily from the crapper! Now go away!”

The speaker fell silent.

Joseph reached the doorway,
panting slightly, but eager to get inside.

“No answer?” he asked,
fearfully.

“Nothing.”

“What now? We need to get
inside.”

“I know,” Carter acknowledged.
He took another look at the small window, and then turned to Joseph. “You keep
trying Four-D, and as many others as you can.” He took a step away.

“Where’re you going?” Joseph
asked.

“Trust me.”

The detective quickly headed
back the way he’d come. He was gone for just a minute, no longer, but it seemed
like an eternity to Joseph.  

“No luck?” he asked, finding
the doorway still tight.

“No.”

“Stand back,” Carter ordered.
His arm rose from the darkness, and the limb appeared to be two sizes too long.

“Wait,” Joseph said, seeing the
riot shotgun. “What if we’re wrong? Over-reacting and they’re merely asleep.”

“Then I guess they’re in for a
rude awakening.”

Joseph reached out to press
Profit’s number again. “One last time,” he explained.

The weapon stayed poised.

Finally, unexpectedly, the
speaker crackled and the old pro’s voice came to them, metallic and distant sounding,
over-masked by the hiss of interference, but Profit’s nonetheless.

A smile started to form on
Joseph’s face.

The single word that followed
dropped the smile like a dead weight.

“Help..!”

Carter dragged Joseph out of
the way. He pushed his face against the glass window, making sure no one was
standing behind or nearby. The window was pitch-black, with not a glimmer of
light insight. He took a step back, brought the weapon up, pressing the muzzle
against the window. He paused for just a second, now understanding that
discharging a weapon within city limits would lead to a mountain of paperwork.
Yet the urgency of the situation outweighed any promise of a late evening
filling in forms.

He pulled the trigger.

The window imploded, glass and
wire disappearing instantly. The hallway beyond it lit up spectacularly for
just an instant before the gunfire extinguished itself.

Now, a crude hole had been
blown into the glass. Taking a short step back, Carter fired again, widening
the opening. He jabbed his hand through and hastily felt around for the inside
latch.

“Got it,” he cried, pushing
open the door.

He fell through in his haste to
get inside. Joseph found him on one knee, crouched in darkness.

“Hang on,” Joseph said. He ran
his hand along the surface of the wall, finding a light switch. The corridor
came to life in a blaze of harsh white lights. No doors were situated on this
level, just a tight hallway with stairs leading into darkness, and an old
elevator with a crisscross safety door pulled tight.

Carter climbed to his feet.
“Stay here,” he said, taking the first of the steps.

“Like hell,” Joseph replied.

“There’s no time,” Carter
explained. He paused, reached under his jacket and produced his handgun.
“Here,” he said, tossing the weapon towards Joseph, who caught it with unsteady
hands.

“You know how to use that?”
Carter asked.

“Yeah,” Joseph lied.

Carter turned his back and
started to take the stairs three at a time. The steps gave way to a short
landing with four different doorways. Despite the amount of noise his entrance
had made, not a single glimmer of curiosity had presented itself. All four
doors were locked tight. Sensible living, Carter thought, as he tackled the
next flight of steps. Levels 2 and 3 were the same: four closed doorways,
offering no hint of life. Was the whole block vacant, or the occupants inside
hard of hearing?

Level 4 was entirely different.

Two doors stood ajar, both
interiors illuminated slightly by the stairwell lights. Carter reached the
first. No number on the doorway. He took a long stride to the next. Again, only
frayed screw holes could be found. Wasting no more time, he entered the nearest
door.

A dark hallway stretched out
before him. He yelled, “Police!” and then, with the shotgun levelled out in
front of him, quickly walked the short distance to the first doorway. The
interior opened out to a small, compact kitchen. Nothing there. Move on.

The door on his right opened
out to a living room. An empty sofa, chair and everything seemingly intact gave
no indication of a struggle. The next room was filled with the stench of blood.
A figure outlined by bright lights lay on the bed, beneath thick, blood-soaked
sheets. Twin reading lamps illuminated the ghastly sight. A shock of white hair
played starkly against the deep running red that had begun to pool around the
victim’s severed neck. In seconds, Carter’s analytical mind played out what had
happened. The killer had sneaked in undetected and slit the old man’s throat
whilst he lay sleeping. Then, the switch had been thrown, to reveal the killer
had made a mistake.

This wasn’t Eugene Profit.

Carter tore back the way he’d
come, passing quickly through the second doorway. Here, he could see the
telltale signs of a struggle. A calendar had fallen to the floor, its pages
spread wide like the wings of a downed bird. A boxing trophy lay against the
wall, the statuette’s leading left hand holding it upright.

However, the most obvious thing
was the handset to the intercom. It dangled uselessly on its coiled wire,
swinging gently, dark liquid glistening off the plastic surface.

Blood.

Carter bellowed, “POLICE!” He
repeated the process he’d followed in the first apartment. First checking the
kitchen. Then the living room. Both were empty. Next came the bedroom. He held
his breath, prayed silently that what lay beyond wouldn’t shock him to his
core, and then stepped inside.

The bed in the centre of the
room was unoccupied. The sheet lay crumpled in a heap at the foot. Similarly,
Eugene Profit lay slumped on the furthest side of the bed. Carter pulled open a
closet door – nothing there. He ignored the old man for now, concentrating on
the last remaining room. The doorway to a washroom offered the last chance of
concealment. The detective pushed open the door and dropped to one knee, brought
the shotgun up to head height. A showerhead dripped heavy drops of water into
the empty white tub. 

“Jake?” he called.

The boy didn’t respond.

Carter slipped back outside,
first checking that neither of the other two doors had opened. They hadn’t. He rushed
back to the landing. It was then that he heard the whir and whine of old
machinery. He pressed his face against the dirty window, cut into the elevator
door. The drop of cables before him twitched as the booth continued its
descent. He tried to prise open the door, but the mechanical safety held it
firm.

Carter returned to the
stairwell. He filled his lungs to capacity and then bellowed, “JOSEPH. HE’S
HEADED YOUR WAY!”

***

Joseph stood back from the booth, the whine of machinery
announcing its imminent arrival. He heard Carter cry out to him and his hand
tightened around the gun. The weapon felt surprisingly heavy and the grip had
turned slick with his sweat. He braced himself, ready for confrontation. The
bottom of the car appeared, and Joseph gritted his teeth.

This was it.

He panicked then, realising
that this was beyond anything he’d ever experienced. What the hell, he’d never
even held a gun before – let alone fired one! He checked the weapon, now aware
that it must have a safety. True, a small notch was fixed to the side of the
weapon. Joseph flicked it with his thumb. Damp with sweat, his thumb brushed
uselessly over the switch. He tried again, and this time it clicked over.

The elevator arrived.

Through the dirty window,
Joseph watched as a gloved hand pulled open the crisscross metal barrier. It
slid open with a squeal of dry hinges. Next, the main door opened and the
attacker from the hospital appeared.

Clamped roughly under one arm,
limp and lifeless, was Jake.

The guy looked up, surprised to
see Joseph there with a gun pointed in his face. Cowardly, he pulled Jake up in
front of him, using the unconscious boy as a human shield.

“Let my boy go!” Joseph
demanded.

The face behind Jake’s grinned
with unholy glee.

“Let him go!”

The guy changed his grip on
Jake, using just one arm, tightly across his midriff, to hold him in place.

“Shoot and boy will die,” the
killer said.

The slightest glimmer of hope,
relief, offered itself to Joseph. Jake must still be alive, or the killer’s
threat would be meaningless.

“Just let him go,” Joseph
pleaded. He could not – would not – shoot. Not this close to Jake. “Please…” he
pleaded.

The killer smiled to reveal his
film star’s perfect white teeth.

“What do you want?” Joseph
asked, trying to buy time, desperate to find an opening, anything to pull his
boy to safety.

The killer’s smile widened. “I
want you.”

“For what?”

“This.” The killer’s other hand
appeared holding a handgun. And, even with Joseph’s limited knowledge of
firearms, he still recognised the silencer that had been attached to the
barrel.

“What is this?” Joseph asked,
this insane predicament beyond his understanding.

  The guy just shrugged
apologetically. “Simple case of wrong place, wrong time. Nothing personal.”

“My boy?” Joseph asked, fear
for himself the furthest thing from his mind.

“Don’t worry,” the killer
began, “he didn’t see my face. I’m not a monster.”

“Then hand him over.”

“Sorry, Joseph. This is where
it ends for you.”

“Why? What have I done?”  

The killer smiled his
bright-white smile again. “You have seen Yurius’s face. Not good.”

This acknowledgement of a name
– Yurius – sent a shiver down Joseph’s spine. Until now, the killer had been an
enigma. Something to be feared, yes. But a figure that could be vanquished,
like a fictional creature, nonetheless. Now, though, this inclusion of a name
added another dimension to the killer – substance and authenticity – that made
him far more menacing and real.      

“But I hadn’t seen you,” Joseph
said, referring to the previous night.

“Couldn’t take chance. Too
dangerous.”