Father of Fear (7 page)

The opposite side of the glass in the interrogation room was a space that few people ever saw. It reminded Kaleb of a walk-in closet. The interrogation room itself was fifteen by fifteen foot square with off-white walls, a gray metal table, three chairs, and fluorescent lighting humming overhead. The viewing room matched the interrogation room’s length but was only a third of the width. Along one wall, it held a small table supporting a computer monitor and some recording equipment. The rest of the space was dedicated to observation.

Kaleb leaned against the back wall. Two senior homicide detectives stood with their noses to the glass as an FBI agent questioned Brad Dunham in the interrogation room. Brad, of course, wasn’t a suspect of any kind, but he might have possessed information about why his family had been chosen or he might have seen something that he didn’t even realize was pertinent. The FBI agent handled Brad with skill and consideration, not pushing too hard but deep enough to get the information they needed. Brad was being helpful but was also growing visibly anxious and agitated. Time was running out, and he knew it.

The door to the observation room opened, and the light stung Kaleb’s eyes. Captain Maria Duran, Kaleb’s mother, walked into the darkness and shut the door behind her. She squinted as her eyes adjusted, and she noticed him in the corner. “What the hell are you doing in here?” she said.

“He wanted to observe the questioning, boss,” one of the lead detectives said.

Her gaze didn’t leave Kaleb. “I would think that Detective Duran would have better things to do than stand around. We do have two people about to be killed out there somewhere.”

Kaleb resisted the urge to rise to her challenge. Instead, he maintained his composure and said, “I’m glad you’re here, Captain. I have an idea that might buy those people some time.”

“The best way to help them is to do your job.”

“Fine, but I was thinking that—”

A commotion in the interrogation room drew the attention of the group. Brad Dunham knocked over his chair and screamed, “I should never have gone to the police! I hope you’re doing more than asking me a bunch of pointless questions!”

The FBI agent tried to calm him down, but fear had overcome Brad’s sensibilities, and he stormed from the room.

“Go after him,” Captain Duran said to one of the detectives.

The detective hurried from the room, and Maria Duran said, “Okay, Kaleb, what’s your big idea?”

The address that Colwell’s mother had given them led to a two-story white colonial. It was the kind of place that would have made a nice home fifty years ago and with a little help from someone who enjoyed working with their hands could be nice again. In its current state, it was the perfect place for someone like Joe Colwell to hide.

Marcus pulled the Suburban up to the curb across the street and two houses down. Then they watched the property for a half-hour, searching for any signs of life. Unfortunately, time wouldn’t permit a stakeout.

“Go around to the back. I’ll come at him from the front. We’ll go in fast and hard on my signal,” Marcus said.

They each stuck small flesh-colored radio receivers in their ears, and Andrew said, “Do you read me?”

Marcus nodded, and Andrew stepped away from the vehicle, winding his way around to the back of the house from a neighboring alleyway. Marcus checked his Sig Sauer pistol and then waited for Andrew to take up position. He cracked his neck to the side, getting in fight mode, and took a deep breath before opening the driver’s door. Situations like this never seemed to get any easier. No matter how good he was, one meth-head with a shotgun could put a real damper on his day. Death was always there waiting in the corner of his eye. He wondered where the Reaper would send him when that moment came. A part of him longed for the release. A part of him feared it.

The boards of the front porch were rotten and sagging. Marcus stepped onto them with care for fear of falling through. Two large windows occupied the house’s face, looking onto the porch, and the front door contained a diamond-shaped window of its own. He tried to watch them all at the same time with his peripheral vision for any signs of movement.

“I’m in position,” Andrew said in his ear through the small receiver.

Marcus pulled the Sig from its holster and said, “Go.”

Some doors were made cheaply and burst easily. This wasn’t one of them. It was a fifty-year-old solid wood door manufactured in a time when people cared about craftsmanship. The latch would be a couple of inches under the knob, and so that was where Marcus focused his kick. He turned sideways with his dominant leg closest to the door. When he kicked, he leaned forward as if he were falling against the door and put all his weight into the blow. His shoe’s sole connected with wood, and the frame shattered under the impact.

The door opened into a foyer with a staircase winding up to Marcus’s left. He glanced at the stairs, but the immediate danger would come from the living room to his right. He pivoted, using the entryway for cover, and scanned the room. It contained a floor lamp, an old brown floral couch, and a couple of side tables topped with smaller lamps. The wind from the open front door kicked up smells of musty fabric and body odor.

He repeated the procedure on the next three rooms—a parlor, a dining room, and a bathroom. All empty. He and Andrew met in the home’s kitchen. A bag of moldy bread sat on the counter, and the space stank of dirty dishes and rotting food. Some would have concluded that no one had lived there for some time, but Marcus had seen people live in much worse conditions.

“Upstairs,” he said to Andrew.

Andrew nodded, and they moved cautiously back through the house to the front staircase. Andrew went up first, the old stairs groaning beneath his weight. They met on the landing at the top, and then Marcus focused on the room to the right while Andrew went left.

Inside the room on the right, Marcus saw a mattress on the floor and some clothes scattered on top of an old dresser. He checked behind the door, looked in the closet. Nothing.

Andrew must have found more of the same because they quickly met back in the hall. The solid oak door of the next room was shut, but there was a bathroom on the left that was open. Marcus slid along the right wall while Andrew checked it. Then Andrew joined Marcus on the opposite of the closed door. With a nod, Andrew turned the knob, and Marcus swung into the room with his pistol at the ready.

This room contained no furniture, clothing, or anything else that one would expect to find in someone’s residence. A metal gurney, the kind you would find in an old hospital, sat in the room’s center. Beside it rested bags of fluids hanging from rusty metal rods. Tubes dangled from the bags and were connected to a woman’s arm. Dirty-looking clothes covered her thin, bruised frame. Leather straps wound around her wrists and ankles. A black hood covered her face.

Andrew checked the closet and then asked, “Is it the Dunham woman?”

“Can’t be. She looks like she’s been here longer than that.”

Marcus pulled off the hood, and the face beneath made him feel as though the floor had dropped out from under him. His heart pounded, and he shook his head in disbelief.

Her skin was ashen, her face gaunt, and her blond hair had been cut short, but he recognized the woman on the gurney. Hers was a face he would never forget.

Brad Dunham pulled his truck up to the car dealership and ripped the 9mm Beretta pistol from the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. It caught on the fabric and came out at an awkward angle. He checked the magazine. Fully loaded.

He wasn’t sure that this was going to work, but he would do anything to save his family. The loved ones of those who had complied with the madman’s demands in the past had been released. There was no reason to think that the same thing wouldn’t happen this time.

All he had to do was murder a stranger.

He could see his target through the front window of the dealership’s show room. The man was heavyset and wore a blue polo shirt displaying the dealership’s logo on the breast pocket.

It was time.

Brad stepped from the vehicle, the Beretta dangling from his left fist. Then he pushed his way through the glass front doors of the dealership, raised the gun, and fired.

Maggie Carlisle stepped into the dining room of the old farmhouse and looked at Ackerman with great satisfaction. Bruises and bloody gashes covered the left half of the killer’s face, and blood had soaked through his shirt from the fresh wounds that the man they called Mr. Craig had inflicted. Her satisfaction drained away as she saw the look in Ackerman’s eyes. It wasn’t a look of defeat and brokenness. It was an almost gleeful look of triumph.

“What the hell are you smiling at?” she said.

“It’s good to see you, Maggie. After all, we’re practically family. I’ve never had a sister before. It’s a nice thought.”

She resisted the urge to punch him. He would just enjoy it. “If it were up to me, you’d be dead already. And if you don’t watch yourself, I may kill you myself.”

“Maggie, that’s hurtful. I thought we could put the past behind us. We’re on the same team now.”

She leaned in close. “Make no mistake. We will
never
be on the same team. We’re barely the same species.”

“I understand. It’ll take time. But I’ll win you over. We both want what’s best for Marcus.”

This time Maggie couldn’t resist the impulse to strike him. She slapped him hard across the face, his head jerking to the side from the impact. He laughed and spat blood onto the floor. “That’s the spirit, little sister.”

“You remember the first time we met, you bastard. You killed a good friend of mine. Alexai. He was a good man. I was the one who had to tell his grandkids that they’d never see him again.”

“I remember him, but I’m afraid we didn’t have time to get properly acquainted. I’m sorry for taking your friend from you. There’s nothing I can do to make that right. All I can do now is attempt to atone for my sins and ask for your forgiveness.”

“That’s really the card you want to play with me? The role of the repentant sinner? I don’t buy it. People don’t change. You’re a murderer. As long as you’re breathing, you’re a danger to anyone around you. And I’m not going to stand by while you cozy up to Marcus and convince him that you’re different now. Besides, even if you have changed, you still have to pay for what you’ve done. Blood for blood.”

“I could tell you that an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind or let he
or she
without sin cast the first stone. But I can see the hatred in your eyes. You should be careful about staring into that abyss, Maggie. It will stare back at you. Hatred has a way of corrupting your soul and poisoning everything good in it. There’s nothing I can say or do, but you don’t have to like me, my dear. That doesn’t change the fact that you need me.”

Maggie’s hand strayed toward the Glock 19 on her belt. She could do it right here and now. He was defenseless. She could pull the gun before the guards in the room could stop her and put two bullets in his brain. He would be feeling the fires of hell before he even realized what had happened. His reign of blood and terror would be over. She had the power to end it, to make it right for all those victims.

But a voice in the back of her mind told her that would make her as bad as him. Another voice said that it was justice, not vengeance.

Maggie was still wrestling with whether or not to end his life when she heard a commotion in the front room and Marcus’s voice yelling for help.

As the paramedics rushed in with the man from the car dealership, Kaleb sat in the hospital’s front waiting room, playing the role of a visitor. No one seemed to give much more than a curious glance toward the paramedics or the nurses that took the patient from them. No one seemed suspicious or out of place.

They had plain-clothes officers stationed at every entrance. One of the questions in the case had always been how the Coercion Killer confirmed that the target had actually been killed. Some felt that he watched the victim’s home or place of business, but they had found no signs of that. Kaleb’s theory was that he came to the hospital to be sure.

“I’m going back to the operating room,” he said into his radio.

The antiseptic white hallways bustled with life. Nurses, orderlies, doctors, visitors. Any one of them could be their killer, but they had no description of the madman. Everyone was a possible suspect.

The nurses and a doctor had brought the target into one of the operating rooms and had shut the door behind them. Kaleb couldn’t see what was happening inside, which meant that neither could anyone else.

A nurse’s station sat directly across from the operating room. The nurse at the desk had been briefed on the situation. She gave Kaleb a nod as he walked past and took a seat. She handed him a white coat. He pulled it over his shoulders and tried to look as if he belonged there.

The nurse said, “This is kind of exciting.”

She was a cute brunette with dimples and full lips. Kaleb gave her a wink. “All in a day’s work.”

He sat there for the next half-hour, watching each person who passed carefully. The loudspeaker called out from time to time, sending doctors and nurses to and fro. The fluorescent lights pulsed and hummed overhead to the point of giving him a headache. No one seemed to pay much attention to the operating room or asked about the patient inside. Some nurses, a few orderlies, a few maintenance people, visitors, doctors, volunteers. They all passed by or stopped and asked for directions or checked on the status of a patient. No one seemed suspicious or out of place.

Still, Kaleb had a feeling that the killer was close.

It entered the hospital through the parking garage and passed men it recognized as police officers. The master had forced it to memorize the faces of all the city’s police officers and the FBI agents that would be working the case. It saw familiar faces near the entrances and in the halls.

But it knew what to do. Its instructions had been very clear. The master was very thorough and planned for every contingency. The master knew everything, saw everything. There was no escape from him or his wrath. He had proven that to it on many occasions. It no longer doubted his infallibility or questioned his will.

It had studied the layout of the hospital. It passed by the operating room that would contain the target. One of the detectives sat at the nurse’s station, pretending to work at the hospital. It knew better. It wasn’t fooled by the ruse.

As it moved past the desk, it saw a mother and a young boy in the hallway ahead. The mother was short, with graying hair and a kind face. Her arm was in a sling. The boy held her good hand. His steps were excited bounces, and his shaggy brown hair flopped up and down with each movement. He wore a blue Spider-Man T-shirt. The boy smiled up at it as he bounced by. It experienced a brief flash of memory. Another vague ghost of a past lived by someone else. Its mind couldn’t make a connection between the memory and reality. Just some emotion that it couldn’t classify or name.

The next corridor veered to the right and contained its destination—a storage closet containing linens for the beds and general cleaning supplies. Nothing valuable. Nothing dangerous. Nothing that would call for the closet to be locked up. The master also said that the security cameras did not have a clear view of this room. It didn’t realize why that was important, but it also didn’t care. The master had his reasons and motivations, and they weren’t to be questioned.

Once inside the tight space, it unslung the small duffel bag from its shoulder and removed the items contained within. Its movements were practiced and mechanical. The master’s instructions were precise and left no room for interpretation or confusion. To disobey them or deviate from them would bring great pain.

It assembled the H&K MP7 A1 machine pistol and attached a long sound suppressor to the muzzle. Then it pulled a black balaclava mask over its face and re-entered the hall.

The master had said that the next part would be the most difficult, and that it should proceed swiftly with no hesitation. It didn’t know why it would hesitate. It wasn’t afraid. It felt nothing, or at least its brain didn’t connect what it felt with anything relevant. There was only the master’s voice in its head. His instructions, and his wrath if it failed.

It pulled the red fire-alarm handle down and then tossed the smoke grenades into the adjacent corridor. They clattered down the hall and came to rest in front of the nurse’s station.

To the nurse, Kaleb said, “So you’ve lived in KC for a year and haven’t been to Oklahoma Joe’s Barbecue?”

She shrugged and smiled. “I don’t get out much.”

“We’re going to have to change that. Maybe we can—”

A loud ringing noise burst into life and filled the hall. The sound battered his ears. The nurse said, “It’s the fire alarm.”

She began to stand, but Kaleb pulled her back down. “Don’t move.”

He heard the metal
ting
of something striking the floor and rolling toward them. A second later, smoke billowed up from in front of the desk and started to fill the corridor. He leaned over the desk’s laminate surface and saw two canisters spewing out white gas.

Kaleb pulled his Beretta pistol from its holster and aimed down the hall. But within a few seconds, he couldn’t see anything, and a mass of people were moving down the corridor, heading for the exits. He heard their coughs and footfalls and saw their vague forms moving through the smoke. He heard shouted directions from hospital staff, a child’s cry of fear, a mother’s assurances, the rasping of heavy and anxious breathing.

And then he heard a series of muffled thumps from across the hall. It sounded like a roofer hammering on a row of shingles in quick succession. The sounds came in a rapid rhythm and died away as quickly as they began.

“Follow them out,” Kaleb said to the nurse.

“What about you?”

“I have to check on our decoy.”

The gentleman from the dealership whom the Coercion Killer had chosen to be Brad Dunham’s target should have been perfectly safe in the operating room. Kaleb’s job was to watch for someone checking on the man’s status, not to protect him. The three officers who had posed as the two nurses and the doctor had drawn that duty. It was their job to sell the ruse and protect the man who had agreed to be their bait.

Still, if they were in trouble, he needed to help. He radioed to the rest of the team that he had heard something within the operating room, and then he moved toward the door.

Kaleb pushed his way through the escaping mob that filled the hallway and groped his way along the wall until he found the door. He knocked four times with loud, clear taps. But no response came from the other side.

He repeated the procedure. Nothing.

Slowly, he pushed the door inward just a crack. He didn’t want any friendly-fire incidents. He said, “It’s Detective Duran. Is everything okay in there?”

Still no response.

Kaleb felt on the verge of a heart attack, and his breathing was quick and shallow. Forcing his shaking hands to come under control, he steadied himself and then pushed into the room with his gun at the ready.

The smell of burned gunpowder and hot gun oil was strong in the air. The three cops and the man from the car dealership were dead. Each had been shot multiple times. Some bullets to the torso, and some to the head. All their dead eyes stared at Kaleb accusingly.

This had been his operation. It had been his idea to stage an attack by Brad Dunham on the target and fake the man’s death. He had thought it to be a sound plan, and his mother had surprisingly agreed and had gone along with it. Faking the attack, he had argued, would not only buy time for the Dunham family and hopefully get them released, but it would also give them the chance to watch for the killer at the hospital.

It had seemed like a good plan. No one would lose and everyone, except for the killer, would win.

This was his fault. Not only had he not saved anyone, he had caused more people to lose their lives.

Kaleb nearly vomited up his lunch. But he quickly recovered, grabbed for his radio, and said, “Lock down the hospital. The killer’s inside!”

It had followed the master’s instructions to the letter. Pull the alarm handle. Throw the smoke grenades. Wait for the people to panic. Join the crowd and slip into the operating room or the morgue, depending on where they took the target. Shoot everyone inside. Ditch the gun and the duffel bag. Stuff the balaclava into its pants, so as to avoid the possibility of leaving behind a hair or skin sample. Slip out among the crowd.

And it had nearly carried out its final instruction—walk out the front door and keep going.

Ahead were two police officers. They were checking each person as they left the hospital, watching everyone closely, checking the pockets of some, questioning others. Still, they couldn’t keep them in the hospital with a possible fire blazing; the master had said so.

And if it was stopped, the master had provided instructions for that as well. It was to fight. To fight until it could no longer move its arms and legs. Until it could truly see and feel nothing. The master had said to “fight to the death.” But it wasn’t sure that it was alive, and so it couldn’t tell if the master had meant the death of the police officers or if that was merely a figure of speech.

In this instance, the meaning didn’t matter. No fighting was necessary. It passed by four police officers without any of them giving it more than a passing glance.

Then it was in the open air and on its way home to the master.