Slaves to Evil - 11 (8 page)

He took out a chisel and got back under the desk. He stabbed the sharp end of the chisel into the thin wood where it met the back of the drawer. The space he had to work in was cramped and awkward, and it was tough to get any momentum with the chisel, but he hit the same spot a few more times and broke through. He used the tool to pry the bottom piece away from the back, popping out the small nails that held it in place.

Matt worked his way around the drawer, removing all the nails. He twisted his bad shoulder and the wounds opened again. He could feel blood oozing into the gauze pads covering each. He ignored the pain and pried out the bottom panel of the drawer.

He reached up to the files, which were hanging on two thin metal rails. He maneuvered the folders loose one at a time and pulled them out. Most were uninteresting, containing insurance paperwork and escrow documents. He confirmed that the new house was pricey, more than a quarter of a million dollars. He found evidence of other big purchases, including expensive art and a new Mercedes convertible. The drug business must be doing well.

As he removed files, Matt could see the underside of the smaller drawer above. There was an unmarked manila envelope taped to it. He reached up and pulled the envelope down.

Inside was a collection of glossy five-by-seven photos. Each one showed a different young woman sitting on a folding chair with her hands tied behind her back. One girl looked no older than fourteen. Some had fresh bruises on their faces and arms. An Asian girl had a broken nose. All faced the camera with wide, terrified eyes.

There were twenty-three pictures, each a tragic story of its own. Had he discovered Lennox’s stash of sick jerk-off material? Mementos of S and M encounters with prostitutes? Or were these women really in trouble? He saw a number written on the back of one girl’s photo: ten thousand dollars. Matt didn’t have much experience with hookers, but that seemed like a lot to pay for a night with one, with or without bondage. Maybe that wasn’t the cost of a night with the girl, he thought. What if it was the cost of the girl?

He tucked the picture in his shirt and put the rest back into the envelope. He taped it back in place. Then he replaced each of the file folders. He’d been careful to keep them in order. He slid the bottom of the drawer back into place and put the bent little nails in his pocket to throw out elsewhere. He was fairly confident that Lennox wouldn’t feel the need to inspect the undersides of his desk drawers anytime soon. Matt snuck back through the house and out the side door, locking it again before he left.

As the sky lightened to gray, he thought about those pictures. It didn’t escape him that he was holding a young woman captive himself. He certainly wasn’t hitting her, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t scared. Could Elena be as terrified as those women seemed to be? Maybe she just hid it better. He needed to know what the pictures, and that price, really meant. And he’d be glad for some help.

Matt lurked outside the Sheridan residence as the sun got higher in the sky. Finally he heard stirring inside. He knocked at the front door. Again Haley answered. And again she wasn’t too pleased.

“The friend,” she said.

He offered her a smile. “Good morning. I need to speak to Alan. It’s important.”

Haley looked up at him, unmoved. “He’s still asleep. Try him at work later.”

“I’m sorry to bother you like this, but could you wake him for me? It’s really…”

“Important, yeah.” She considered it. Matt was gearing up for a charm offensive when she said, “Hold on,” and disappeared into the house.

He stood on the porch in front of the open door for a few minutes. Inside, a five-year-old girl poked her head out from the kitchen to peer at him. When he smiled at her, she retreated. Then Sheridan came out, closing the door behind him.

“What are you doing here?” He squinted in the sunlight.

“I found out a few things about your fellow cops. Woronicz and O’Neill are dealing drugs. And using them.” Sheridan didn’t seem surprised. Matt went on. “I think they’re also involved in prostitution. Maybe even slavery…”

“Stop,” said the sergeant. He looked pained.

“You already know,” concluded Matt.

“No,” Sheridan protested. “Nothing specific. I don’t ask.”

“You don’t ask,” Matt repeated, with growing anger.

The other man wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You don’t know how it is. Anyone who crosses Lennox…”

“Gets dead.” Like the decapitated drug dealer.

Matt pulled out the picture he’d taken from Lennox’s house and held it in Sheridan’s face. “So you keep quiet. You stay safe while this is going on.”

The cop wouldn’t look at the picture, so Matt brought it closer. “How can you live with that? You have daughters of your own.”

“Who do you think I’m protecting?” snapped Sheridan. He glanced back at the house, then grabbed Matt’s arm and moved him out into the driveway, near the pristine Mustang. “What’s all this to you anyway? Who are you?”

“What answer would make you help me?” asked Matt. Silence.

Sheridan paced a few steps back and forth. “Shit,” he growled. “Shit!”

“Alan… ,” Matt ventured, but the other man cut him off.

“I can’t,” said Sheridan. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

So that was it. The cop wasn’t evil or violent, but he was compromised all the same. Matt put the picture away. “OK,” he said. “Then at least help me find them. You said the others go someplace to party.”

Sheridan nodded, not meeting his eye. “A house. Up by Grand Lake.”

“Address?”

“I don’t know. But there aren’t many places up there. It’s all vacation rentals. Most of them are empty this time of year,” he told Matt.

An isolated house, the perfect place to keep captives, as Matt knew too well. He faced Sheridan, frustrated. He was on his own against the forces of evil. As usual.

“One more thing,” said Matt. “I’m borrowing the Mustang.”

Maple Grove, North Carolina

Brady came around the side of the car, but Matt was already moving, keeping the Volkswagen between them. Owen closed in from the other side, cutting off Matt’s escape. He lunged forward with a six-inch switchblade. Matt ducked the knife and aimed a kick at Owen’s right knee. The joint popped as it overextended backward. Owen yelled and staggered back.

Matt slipped past him as Brady fired again. The bullet went wide, hitting another car and setting off its alarm. The throbbing blare of the siren echoed in the closed space.

Everett pulled a tire iron from the back of the SUV. He swung it at Matt, catching him just above his left elbow. It hurt, but the blow wasn’t strong enough to break bone. Matt grabbed Everett’s arm and twisted it, trying to wrench the iron loose. The big guy was surprisingly strong.

Peter approached and slugged Matt in the jaw. Matt clung to Everett, still wrestling for the weapon. Peter hit him again. He would gladly have kept going if Brady hadn’t shouted, “Hold him.”

The boy grabbed Matt’s arm, pulling him back so Brady could get a clear shot. Matt suddenly released Everett, let his legs go limp, and dropped to the ground. The other men weren’t expecting this. Peter’s grip on his arm faltered just enough for Matt to pull free.

Brady’s next bullet caught Matt in the side of the neck. His hand went automatically to the wound, and he felt his own blood spurting out. If his carotid artery was severed, he knew it was all over. But since he didn’t have time for a clinical diagnosis, he rolled toward Brady, knocking the man off balance. He grabbed for the gun.

Matt’s hand closed over Brady’s. Everett charged in, swinging the tire iron toward Matt’s head. Matt swung the gun toward him and squeezed the trigger again. The bullet hit him high in the gut. Everett fell back, the iron clanking onto the concrete.

Matt had counted six shots. The gun was now empty. Peter’s tattooed arm closed around his throat. The boy had him in a headlock. Matt let go of the gun and clawed at Peter in a futile effort to loosen his grip. Panic flared as he struggled for breath. The wail of that goddamn car alarm filled his head.

He remembered the keys in his pocket. He dug them out and made a fist with a single key poking out between his fingers. Matt swung his fist back toward Peter’s face, feeling the key make contact. Peter cried out but kept his hold. Matt struck again, then again, causing minor damage as he felt his consciousness fading. His next strike saved his life. The two-inch key plunged into Peter’s eye.

The boy released Matt with a shriek of pain. He yanked out the key, and a freshet of blood poured over his face. A significant pool was also spreading beneath Everett, who lay dying a few feet away. Matt dove for the weapon the man had dropped: the tire iron. He grabbed it just in time to swing it around at Peter, who came at him again. The metal connected solidly with Peter’s skull, caving in the bone. He collapsed.

Then Owen was there, limping, brandishing his switchblade. Matt swung the tire iron back and forth to keep him at bay. He felt light-headed and wondered if that was due to the near strangulation or loss of blood from his neck wound.

Brady picked up the gun. He flipped open the empty cylinder and pulled a handful of new bullets from his pocket. Matt couldn’t let him reload. He ran past Owen, striking a glancing blow with the tire iron, and tackled Brady. Bullets scattered on the ground, rolling in every direction. Matt grabbed the gun and sent it skittering away across the concrete. It came to rest under a car.

Brady punched Matt in the kidney, a quick, brutal jab that set off an explosion of pain. Matt half-curled into a fetal position but was able to get his arm up to block another incoming blow. Brady tried to hit him again, but Owen got in his way with a clumsy stab at Matt. In that confused moment, Matt gripped the tire iron, which he’d miraculously held on to, and smashed it into Owen’s good knee.

The man went down. Matt quickly followed up with a blow to the head, and another. Owen’s skull cracked open. Gelatinous brain matter dribbled out. Brady seized the bloody tire iron and tried to wrench it away. With his free hand, Matt snatched Owen’s switchblade. He yanked on the iron, pulling Brady closer, and slit the Patriot’s throat.

Something sharp dug into Matt’s back, slicing between two ribs. He whirled around to see Peter, wielding a broken bottle, staring at Brady in anguish as the man fell. One of Peter’s eyes was gored and a chunk of his skull was shattered, but he kept coming. He ran at Matt again, aiming for his face this time. Matt swung the tire iron, hitting Peter’s head. The boy staggered back and went down to one knee, the left side of his skull a complete ruin. Then he forced himself to stand and attack his enemy again.

Matt still held the tire iron, but hitting the kid’s head wasn’t working too well. He raised the weapon as Peter approached and brought the sharp end down hard. It pierced Peter’s chest with a sickening, wet crack. The boy looked down at the iron protruding from his body with genuine surprise. He looked back up at Matt, then abruptly collapsed. It was over.

Pools of blood surrounded the four men, running together into a larger slick. He never got used to the sheer volume of blood a single body could spill. He spotted the car keys on the ground where Peter had dropped them after pulling one from his own eye. Matt picked up the key ring and took it with him as he headed for the exit, the car alarm still blaring in his ears.

He felt the wound in his neck. Blood was now oozing rather than spurting. Still, he should probably give himself a few stitches. There might be a bathroom he could use in this garage, but what he needed most right now was distance from the latest battle in a seemingly endless war.

Thinking back, Matt realized that he hadn’t checked Peter to confirm that the rot on his skin had vanished, as it always did after death. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to see what the teenager he’d killed really looked like. But now it was even worse to imagine the kid lingering near death for however long it took the paramedics to arrive and get his statement about who was responsible. Which had sent Elena on her mission.

He should check on her again before heading up to Grand Lake. If there really were captive women and evil cops to deal with, he could be gone for a while. Then another new worry occurred to him. What if he didn’t make it back at all? What would happen to Elena? Someone would find her eventually, wouldn’t they? He decided to write a letter to Sheridan, telling him about Elena. When he received it, Matt would be long gone. One way or another.