Down the Darkest Street (31 page)

The hallway ended and revealed another nook with two offices on the left side, with a door at the far end marked EMERGENCY EXIT. It was open. Pete wondered why the alarm hadn’t gone off. He walked past the first office—he tried the handle, but the door was locked—and picked up his pace. He reached the final door, half-open.

The office was small and sparse. Pete could tell it was a shared area. Two desks were set up facing each other at the center of the crowded room. The light from the hallway was muted in the room, and it took him a second to register that someone was sitting at the far desk. Pete couldn’t make out his face from where he stood, but he knew it wasn’t going to be good. He took a cautious step toward the body, walking around the two desks to approach from behind. He tapped his leg with his gun, as if to remind himself he was still armed and ready in case anything jumped out at him. But he was also certain nothing was going to move. Dead people don’t move.

The man was hunched over the desk, blood splattered on the computer monitor, which had also taken part of the blast. The man’s face was partially blown off, but Pete knew who it was. His eyes seemed frozen in fear, even as his face slid down from the monitor and landed on the keyboard.

Pete was close to the body now. His eyes scanned Raul Aguilera’s familiar features. He’d been too late. Right, but too late. He felt his stomach turn at the sight of Aguilera’s exposed brains and skull, pieces of which were stuck to the destroyed computer screen and desk. He almost failed to notice the blood-stained Post-It note that had landed near Aguilera’s feet.

Pete crouched down to look at the paper. The message was scrawled in blue ink. Pete only had to read it once to understand what the killer meant, and where he was heading.

NO LOOSE ENDS
.

The drive to Baptist Hospital was a blur. Pete couldn’t be bothered with the speed limit, red lights, or any traffic laws that would slow him down. The hospital was to the southeast of the strip mall, in a more residential area—surrounded by seasonally decorated four- and five-bedroom houses, doctor’s offices, and parks as opposed to condo complexes and hair salons—a long trek across major intersections and smaller neighborhoods. Though technically on the same southwest quadrant of Miami’s gridlike layout, the real estate office and hospital were on opposite ends, which didn’t bode well for someone in a rush, like Pete. After about twenty minutes, he found himself on Kendall Drive—the main street that would take him directly to Baptist—and said a silent prayer. He needed to make it down this last stretch of road and get to Emily before anything else could go wrong.

He dialed the number without looking and hoped someone was around.

“Hello?” Dave said. Pete sighed in relief.

“I need your help,” Pete said.

“Where the hell are you, man? Your girlfriend is flipping out over here.”

“The killer is on his way to get Emily,” Pete said, ignoring Dave’s joke.

“Who?”

“Finch,” Pete said as he abruptly changed lanes and went through a red light on 107th Avenue. “Kathy knows what I’m talking about. Her phone’s at, like, two percent. Tell her to get in touch with Harras—with anyone—and let them know he’s heading over to the hospital. He’s going to kill Emily.”

“OK, OK, where are you?” Dave asked.

“Heading over there.”

“You got your piece?”

“Yup,” Pete said, checking his rearview. “Not sure how much good that’ll do me, though.”

“We’ll head over there,” Dave said. The thought was nice, but Pete knew they were too far—a drive from Little Haiti to Kendall was an hour affair, at best. They didn’t have that kind of time.

“We need the cops there, now,” Pete said. “He’s at least ten minutes ahead of me, and I have no idea what he’s driving. I thought you had people watching her, man?”

“Calm down,” Dave said. “We did. But the cops didn’t let them stick around. They kept ushering them out for some reason. It was really—”

The line cut off. Pete looked at the phone. The battery was dead.

***

Julian parked his car in the lot adjacent to the Baptist Hospital Intensive Care Unit.

The Voice had lied to him. The Messenger was a false prophet. Now he’d have to finish what Aguilera could not.

This was a test, Julian thought. A challenge brought upon him just as he thought the path was clear. He’d almost felt the vibrations of clarity. He’d been so close. Aguilera was an amateur, paying homage to a man he had no right to know.

Julian thought back to when he had found a worn copy of the book years ago, in a used bookstore in Nashville. The bold, red letters called out to him from a shelf on the brink of overflowing. REX WHITEHURST: THE METHODICAL MONSTER. Julian was intrigued. After a few chapters, he knew he’d found a kindred soul—a guide, even. He spent whatever time he had researching Whitehurst—his methods, his victims, his message.

In his final days, Rex spoke of a “mass action”—a series of ceremonies performed so fast, so close together, that they merged to create one vibration—a chorus of pain and fear. This unified force would then give Rex a peek into his own future, and allow him to alter it. Rex knew that there was no way to absorb them simultaneously. So the mirrors appeared. As he progressed, his chosen ones began to be discovered in intimate poses. Brutal poses. Bent over with their eyeballs in their mouths. Hands tied to their thighs, their tongues cut out and shoved somewhere unmentionable. And mirrors. Always surrounded by mirrors. The only way Rex could fight back the whispered urges driving him to the next event was by turning the volume so high, he’d be able to eliminate all evil from his mind and the world. He just needed to know how to do it. He needed to see it. Julian could feel it too. His bond with Whitehurst grew the more he read about him. He longed to reach out to him. To be near him.

But the man Julian had discovered as his own god, his Voice, had died at the hands of the Florida legal system a few years earlier. Still, something inside him urged that he push on, almost as if it knew what was next.

Then he found out about her.

Julian packed his things and used the last of his savings to buy a one-way bus ticket to the tropical wasteland of Miami. To find the person who had communed with the Voice. To create his own twisted family.

He found more than just an ex-flame. She had a son. A son that had known Whitehurst. He was close to Julian’s age—a few years younger. Even the discovery that Aguilera was working toward becoming an FBI agent didn’t deter him. He followed him. Watched him from afar. He could tell Aguilera was angry, emotional, and hot-headed. One night, following him out of a dive bar in Florida City, Julian witnessed Aguilera reveal himself—his true self. The future FBI agent, feeling slighted by a beggar asking for change as he walked toward his car, throttled and dragged the homeless man into a nearby alley and proceeded to beat him bloody, the man’s screams muffled by the shattered teeth and bruised mouth Aguilera had demolished. He didn’t kill him. He wasn’t crossing that line yet. There was anger there, and Julian meant to find out how to reach it.

The first box was ignored. A brief note and a burner cell phone with instructions on how to reach Julian. He’d expected that. He tried again a few months later, having learned more about his new friend during the interim: He was a loner, not very close to his mother or his long-dead father. Prison logs showed he had visited Whitehurst sporadically, as if he were struggling with his own desire to stay connected to the man. At the same time, he chose to honor the life of his biological father in public, becoming an FBI agent—a stern operative of the law. He went through the motions socially, dating and partaking in the company of friends and colleagues. But Julian saw more. He saw the darkness inside Aguilera and felt kinship.

The third gift was more direct. The burner, instructions, and a simple note:
HELP ME REACH HIM
.

The call came the next evening.

They spoke a few more times. Despite never seeing each other, they had built a bond stronger than blood. Julian knew Aguilera wanted revenge on those who had hurt his true father, but he didn’t have the means or skill to execute. Julian did. Aguilera became his Messenger, his connection to their shared idol. And together, they killed in his name.

***

Before Julian could move on everything had to be wiped away. He remembered sliding a finger over the back of Aguilera’s head. He tasted his blood. He had such high hopes for him.

He entered the hospital with ease. He put on a pleasant smile and looked like an everyman. He was wearing a pressed shirt, tie, and slacks. He found the reception desk. The receptionist was older, pushing fifty and overweight.

A soft smile, a pat on the hand was all it took.

He made sure to let his eyes linger over her as he walked toward the elevator, the room number written in swirly numbers on a scrap of paper.

The trip up to the fifth floor was uneventful. He scanned the hallway and saw no one in the waiting area. Where were her friends now? Her stupid husband? Harras? Julian would be happy when this was resolved and he could move on. He hadn’t decided where to go yet, but it would take at least a day to get out of Florida by car. He’d decide then. After he’d created some distance between him and this sun-soaked hellmouth.

He turned and began to walk down the hall. He almost didn’t hear him. He slid his hand into his left front pocket. He waited a second before he heard another footstep behind him. It was never going to be easy, he thought. He turned around, unable to hide the smile on his face. But the smile was soon replaced by a surprised snarl.

“Stop right there, you son of a bitch,” Harras said, his gun aimed squarely at Julian. “Put your hands where I can see them.”

***

By the time he reached the front desk of Baptist Hospital’s Intensive Care Unit, Pete was drenched in sweat and unable to fully formulate sentences. The drive from West Kendall to the hospital had gone much faster than Pete expected, but he still felt behind—and any time lost to Julian Finch could mean lives. Emily’s life. He wouldn’t allow another friend to die because of him. He motioned for the stocky receptionist to get off the phone and recognize him.

“Yes?”

“I need to see Emily Sprague,” Pete said between gasps. “She’s on the fifth floor. I’m a friend.”

“Well, she’s not supposed to be seeing any visitors,” the lady said. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come back later.”

Pete didn’t have time for this. “It’s an emergency,” he said. “I need to see her. She could be in trouble.”

“Well, she’s in a safe place,” the nurse said, her voice trailing off. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you up. I’ve already let one friend past, and I really shouldn’t have.”

Pete felt his blood run cold. For a brief moment, while speeding over to the hospital, he hoped he’d misread Finch’s message—that maybe, for whatever reason, he was heading somewhere else.

“Wait, you said you let someone go up to see her already?”

“Yes, a friend of hers,” she said. “A very nice man. He was very polite.”

Pete didn’t bother to listen to the rest of her explanation. He turned and bolted toward the elevator bank, jamming his fingers at the UP button. After a few moments, one of the cars opened and he was gone.

Pete heard nothing as he stepped out of the elevator. The floor’s small reception desk was empty. Odd. Pete walked toward Emily’s room, picking up speed as he got closer. After a moment, he found Emily’s hallway.

The red smear of blood stood out in stark contrast to the off-white tiles that covered the floor. Harras’s body was splayed out in front of Emily’s room at an odd angle—his legs spread in front of him as if he’d been dragged, his arms dangling awkwardly at both sides. There was blood everywhere. His eyes were closed, his face spasming in pain. He was alive, but barely.

Pete ran over to the fallen FBI agent and knelt down next to him. Harras tried to move his mouth, but he was having trouble breathing. He didn’t have long, Pete thought. His eyes fluttered open and closed. He let out a pained cough.

“Here…” he said, his voice sounding like it’d been dragged over broken glass. The pool of blood under him was spreading.

“It’s OK,” Pete said. “I’ll get some help. You’ll be fine.”

Pete didn’t believe his own words. Harras closed his eyes, his mouth still open. He was still trying to talk.

“Aguilera cleared…the floor. That’s…why I came. Something wasn’t…right,” Harras said. “He’s…here.”

Harras’s eyes pointed Pete toward Emily’s room. He gripped Harras’s hand for a second before standing up. He looked away from the grisly scene. He felt his fists clench. Harras was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die like this—alone, bleeding out, no one to help.

Pete took a deep breath and leaned against the wall opposite Emily’s room. He could see inside. She was gone. Where, though? How far could she move? Obviously Finch was armed, probably with the same silencer he had at the realty office. Pete pulled out his own gun and walked in the opposite direction from the elevators. Emily was basically comatose; Finch would have to carry her to get her anywhere. Unless he meant to just finish her off. Pete shuddered at the thought. That was possible. Anything was possible.