Psycho Save Us (43 page)

Now you know
, said the
monster.

Wet warmth
spread from her legs.  In her hyperaware state, the urine was so pungent that
it made her gag several times, though she hardly noticed, so reflexive was it,
and so far removed was she from herself.  “Yes,” she said to him.  “Now I know
you.”

From a thousand
miles away, Bonetta said, “Kaley?  Kaley, what’s goin’ on?  Did…did you hit
your head?  Who’re you talkin’ to?”

He zipped up his
pants and considered his next move.  The Glock was replaced at his waistline,
and he stood looking down at the piss-covered thing that had formerly been
Yevgeny Tidov.  Now, it was merely a temple for bacteria and germs.  For so
long they had been kept in check by red and white blood cells, but now, the day
of the bacteria and germs had finally come.  The world was their oyster—at
least, Tidov was their oyster—and they lapped up the savory juices of him.  Any
moment now, the bacteria and germs would realize a major tectonic shift had
happened in their favor.

Get moving!
the Voice commanded.

It shook Spencer
from his reverie.  Usually, he would’ve been pissed at someone issuing an order
at him, but at the moment he was still so focused on Dmitry (
She called him
Oni
, he thought) that little else mattered.

Spencer climbed
up the ladder, purposely using Tidov’s head for his first step.  He slowly
pushed the manhole cover aside, and then peeked out.  The spot he’d chosen was
a block away from where he’d parked Tidov’s car.  He’d carried the fucker in a
fireman’s carry behind an alley of a store that was closed but nevertheless had
the words
MONEY
TO LOAN
flashing in a garish neon pink sign.

There hadn’t
been anyone in the vicinity when he took his captive to the sewer, and there
still wasn’t anyone around.  He couldn’t return to the Russian’s car, though,
because the cops would be at his house by now, and would probably put out an
APB for Tidov’s Buick.

He would have to
find something else to drive him the nineteen or so miles to Avery Street. 
Without a vehicle, he’d never make it in time, not on foot, not before the
vory
slit the throats of the only witnesses who knew their faces and bugged out
completely.

“
Seasons don’t
fear the Reaper,” he sang.  For no reason at all, the Blue Öyster Cult was back
in his head.  “Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain…we can be like they
are…come on, baby…don’t fear the Reaper…”

“…baby take my
hand,” she sang.  “Don’t fear the Reaper…we’ll be able to fly…don’t fear the
Reaper…baby I’m your mannnnnnnn…”

12

At
4:12
AM
, on the
authority of Judge Roy Talbot Hodgins, the Atlanta Police Department busted
down the front door of 42 Clayton Road.  They were joined by one sheriff’s car
outside and a Georgia state patrol car at the end of the neighborhood, blocking
the street and checking all cars that moved through.

SWAT moved in
first.  Judge Hodgins had been so alarmed by what had been told to him over the
phone—the bodies on Townsley Drive, an injured APD officer, the probable
involvement of a wanted serial killer, the involvement of the
vory v zakone
and the Rainbow Room, and both the FBI and Interpol’s interest in all of
this—that he’d been granted a no-knock warrant.

The battering
ram separated the door from the doorframe, sending splinters inward as the
second man stepped forward and gave the door a swift kick to send it swinging
wide.  They moved inside, screaming, “Atlanta Police Department!  Search
warrant!  Search warrant!”

Leon waited
outside on the front lawn.  Clouds had gathered overhead, and thunder rolled
nearby.  He was joined by Agents Porter, Mortimer, and Stone.  They’d hung back
by their SUV and held a conference between themselves.  Flanking the front door
on each side were two APD officers, each one with their Glocks drawn and at
ready-low.  Leon watched the operation with mounting frustration.  He wanted to
be inside with them, but had to wait for the all-clear.

 A squad car
pulled up behind him to join the others.  It was car 1A4.  Leon knew that car. 
He turned and walked quickly over to David Emerson, who was rubbing at his left
eye profusely as he stepped out.  “What the hell are you doing?” Leon
demanded.  “Why didn’t those medics send you to the hospital with Beatrice?  I
swear, I should beat their asses, and
yours
—”

“I’m still good
for duty,” David cut him off.

“The hell you
are.”

“I don’t have a
corneal abrasion, I don’t have any serious injuries, I won’t need stitches, and
no body parts are missing.”

“You
were involved in a shooting—”

“And my shift’s
still not over,” David returned.  “You’re still hunting him, so you need every
set of eyes you can get.”

Leon was about
to say something when his radio blared.  “Detective Hulsey?”  It was Lieutenant
Hennessey, and he sounded urgent.

“Go ahead for
Hulsey,” he said into the radio.

“We’re all
clear, Detective.  You need to come in here and take a look at this.  We’ve got
a body and some contraband with some pretty serious implications.”

“On my way up.” 
He gave David a level look, and then turned towards the house.

Inside was an
average-looking bachelor’s home.  Not many decorations, but there was a couch
that was probably bought used with a few tables and a Sony VPL projector
situated on one wall so that it could project against the opposite wall.  Wires
from surround sound speakers were covered by a cheap rug, and the windows were
covered with black curtains.

Leon sniffed. 
The house smelled…sweaty.  Uncleaned.  It wasn’t particularly filthy, but it
definitely had the smell of cramped humans.  Years back, Leon had been on a
team that opened a U-Haul truck filled illegal immigrants, all bundled up and
packed tight like sardines.  That truck had smelled something like this.

Footsteps
behind.  It was the agents, stepping inside, taking a pair of blue rubber
gloves from their pockets and squeezing them on.

“Up here,
Detective,” called Hennessey.  He was at the top of the stairs immediately to Leon’s
right, peeking out from the first door on the right.  He hustled up the stairs,
slightly resentful of the quick steps of the feds behind him.  No matter how
much he knew they needed these feds, a part of him would always resent the
feeling of being watched over, no matter how illogical it was.

Hennessey had
removed his helmet, and he pointed with his MP-5 rifle into the room. 
“Recording equipment.  Sound and audio.  A stage of children’s toys and clothes
set up.”

Leon had to
brace himself against the smell of ammonia.  “Jesus Christ,” he said, eyes
watering.  “Where’s the body?”

“Bathroom.  Or,
what used to
be
a bathroom.”  Hennessey led him past three other SWAT
officers who were inspecting the room further.  When they came upon her, the
black bag was already opened, and the little one looked like she could be
sleeping, except for her eyes, opened and rolled back as they were. 
“Hydrofluoric acid in the bottles along the wall there,” Hennessey informed
him, pointing about the room with his black gloved hand.  “Bathtubs been
removed.  Plastic tubs probably used for melting vics down.  God damn,
Detective, what the fuck’s goin’ on here tonight?  What’ve we stumbled on?”

Leon was about to
answer when suddenly the room came alive with screams.  It was the screams of a
little girl, and someone shouting at her in another language.  The volume was
tremendous and shook the walls.  The sound stopped as abruptly as it started,
and Leon screamed, “Fucking
Christ
, what was that?”

“Sorry,” one of
the SWAT officers called.  “Touched a button.”

Leon swept back
into the staging room and said, “Hit it again, but this time find the volume
knob and turn it the fuck
down
first.”  The officer did as told, and a
few seconds later the seven or so men in the room stood there, transfixed by
what they were hearing.  In all his years on the force, Detective Leon Hulsey
had never heard torment quite so bottled, crystallized, and packaged, to be
replayed again and again.  Few people knew what it was like to have a job like
a policeman. 
Somebody
had to watch those tapes created by pedophiles in
order for the taps to be submitted as evidence,
somebody
had to
chronicle what was in those recordings, so that
somebody
could testify
later as to what was on those tapes.  It fell on people like Leon Hulsey to go
through video evidence of people being raped and murdered in order to ascertain
the truth in an investigation.

But this was
different.  He’d been forced to both see and hear some of the most disgusting
things human beings could do to one another, men and women, young and old,
black and white, religious and non-religious, but never had it been served up
like this.  Never had the screams been so well recorded, made so crystal clear.

The girl’s dying
screams rose to a crescendo, and Leon said, “Turn it off.  Now.”

The officer did
as told, and when he did the room was left in an unbreakable silence.  Most of
the guys in the room looked pissed off, a couple looked queasy, and none of
them would have any humor for the rest of the night.  Police officers and
firemen saw a lot in their day, and made morbid japes about a lot of it, but
not tonight.  Tonight, none of these men would be able to sleep.  Leon would
stake his badge and his life on that.  “All right,” he said.  “Enough’s
enough.  I want this motherfucker pulled in.  I want
all
of these
cocksuckers pulled off the streets.  Tonight.  We need to find Tidov.  And
Pelletier.”

Agent Porter
said, “I’ve already called the bureau and they’re putting out a description of
the Russian to all police agencies in the state.  And Pelletier’s face is gonna
be on every news channel for the next forty-eight hours, I can guarantee that.”

Leon nodded, for
the moment glad of the feds’ involvement.  “We’ve been going around and around
with this all night.  We’ve been one step behind him all this time, and we’ve
just barely missed him at each stop.  I’m fucking fed up.” 

Lieutenant
Hennessey cleared his throat.  “There’s more you should see down the hall,
Detective.”

They stepped out
of the room and walked a short ways to the end of the hall, and there they
found the cages, as well as the animal feeder and a few empty buckets in the
corner that looked good and washed out.  Undoubtedly waste buckets for the
captives who remained here.  “Inch-thick steel,” Leon said, gripping one bar
and tugging on it several times.  It never budged. 

“God damn,”
Sergeant Warwick said.  “This is what monsters do.  I mean, true to life, no
bullshit,
monsters
.  Like something out of a God damn Stephen King
novel.”

“Stephen King
never dreamt up something like this,” Leon said darkly.  He bent to examine the
locks, which were heavy-duty ADEL Trinity-788 biometric fingerprint lock.  It
wouldn’t open for anybody without the right fingerprint, and no amount of
lock-picking would work on it.

Leon jumped as
someone shouted over his radio, “
We’ve got a live one down here!
”

Lieutenant
Hennessey got on the radio, “Say again?”

“
A survivor! 
In the basement!  Pulling him out now!
”

Leon turned and
looked at Porter, and then all at once they fled from the room and raced down
the stairs.  The house was filled with the thunder of dozens of booted feet
clomping their way down.  Rorion Vaulstid and Joey Heinrich were standing there
in the doorway that led down a set of bare wooden steps.  Vaulstid was on the
radio, calling for the ambulance.  Leon hustled downstairs, Hennessey just
ahead of him and the agents behind.

It was a
finished basement that was brightly lit with both lamps and overhead
fluorescent lighting.  A workbench with a wide pegboard dominated most of the
room, the pegboard adorned with tools of any sort one might imagine, from commonplace
to industrial, from Black & Decker drills to monobolt guns to a
jackhammer.  There were soldering guns piled high on a tungsten welder, and a
smattering of old
Hustler
magazines spread across the floor.  There was
also a stack of comic books, a
Daredevil
graphic novel and a bundle of
Savage
Dragon
issues.  Leon recognized these at once, because he’d gone through an
Erik Larsen phase of his comic reading.

“Where are you?”
Hennessey shouted.

“In here!”
another officer cried.  They followed the sound of his voice, and came to a
darkened room at a corner of the basement.  The door had been kicked down, and
inside it was nothing but a concrete floor and a trap door.  Two SWAT officers
were inside, one kneeling at the trap door’s edge, the other pushing out a
creature in a small bundle.  When he got close, Leon saw that it was a boy, African
American, his skin ashy and his arms skinny as rails, his eyes wide with
terror, his face covered in soot, fingers caked in dirt and clutching at the
purple blanket around him.  Leon could smell the filth on him.  “It’s okay, son,”
the officer said.  It was Klein.  “It’s okay, you’re gonna be all right now. 
Warwick, get that light outta his face!”  The boy had winced and shrank from
the light.  “Clear a way!”