Cold Blooded III: Sins and Sanctions (Nick McCarty Assassin Series Book 3) (36 page)

Jerry, surprised at first with the intensity Nick displayed, then grinned, hunching his shoulders. “Thanks, Nick. I will keep you in mind, but I’m okay for now.”

“Don’t wait until you’re not, brother,” Nick stated, releasing his hand, and moving toward the door with his entourage of Deke, Gus, and Jean all waving as they followed Nick out. “I’ll think of it as a personal insult if you don’t.”

* * *

Jerry paused. Nick’s stating he was not on the pad for anything meant a lot to him. He wasn’t afraid of Nick. He understood a relationship with one of the most dangerous men on the planet to be one which must be respected. Like Nick, Jerry didn’t stupidly aid anyone with a dollar bill in their hand. In retrospect, he never understood Nick’s motives. Nick never mentioned favors. He presented a job he needed help on without any flourish or reference to the past. Although Nick never hinted he would be upset if Jerry said no to a job, Jerry had never even considered saying no.

He watched the group laughing as they walked away. Both fear for his very strange friend, and joy pumped into his consciousness. The Nick he dealt with now hardly resembled the cold-eyed apparition, who he contracted with in the past. Although TV movies speculated what a cold blooded, psycho killer would do if his own family was in danger, Jerry resisted the thought of sheer casualty numbers if someone put Nick’s back to the wall. He almost felt a lightness of spirit giving the ‘throwing knife set’ to Jean. Then remembering the look of adulation on her face as Nick targeted the throwing knives to perfection, followed by her jubilation at the gift, Jerry lost his spiritual moment.
Shit! I think maybe I should have given her a Barbi Doll
.

* * *

“Can I go with you and Gus?”

Jean’s question halted their progress in a heartbeat. Nick twisted to stare at Jean, not positioning his feet differently, as if he planned on lying to himself about what he had just heard. Instead, Nick stuck his hands immediately in waiting jacket pockets. He allowed his feet to turn for a more comfortable direction in facing Jean. After a short moment, Nick held his hands out in pleading form to Jean.

“Are you stupid?”

Jean grabbed Nick’s hand in both hers. “Jerry was right, Dad. I don’t want Barbi Dolls, or playing dress-up. I should go with you tonight.”

“Don’t confuse issues, Dagger. You play softball. You don’t dress up unless ordered to do so, and you hate the thought of makeup. Those facts have nothing in common with suddenly asking to go along on a jaunt you suspect, rightly so, should not even be mentioned between us. I’ve already given in to your demand I teach you how to throw a knife. Don’t push me, or the closest you get to those knives will be when I cut them into pieces with my torch.”

Surprise followed by fear lanced across Jean’s face. She jerked her hands away from Nick’s. “Don’t. I’m sorry I said it. I was joking. I know you and Gus have to do something with the guy locked in our safe-room. Thanks for telling me the truth it’s that guy who kills girls like me.”

“I won’t melt the knives down, but you better rein in the jokes. I bet Gus’s heartbeat still hasn’t returned to normal after that curve ball you threw at our heads.”

Gus suddenly let out his breath in a rush. “You sure have that right, partner.”

“Sorry… I crossed the line,” Jean admitted. “So, when do we start training with the knives, Dad?”

“Madre de Dios! Get inside before I start thinking about you in terms of little girl ‘Beauty Pageants’, the Campfire Girls, and tap dancing.”

A short horrified gasp later, Jean streaked for the door. Gus stood next to Nick with Deke at his side, fascinated by the Nick and Jean exchange.

“I learned a couple knowledge gems in that conversation - the most important is we have a few weapons to use against her when she stops acting like a nine-year-old, and begins acting like a know-it-all oracle.”

“Don’t bet on it. Let’s get Ollie wrapped and whisked out of the house before Jean gets any more bright ideas.”

“Are you planning to teach her to throw knives for real, Muerto?”

“I don’t see an option, Payaso. I’m a pragmatist and realist. If one of the girls Dansing killed would have been trained in firearms, and how to throw a knife, maybe we wouldn’t be making ready to go help him find hell. Maybe he’d already be there.”

“Do me a favor, Nick. Don’t share that opinion with Rachel. It won’t go well for you.”

“Agreed.”

* * *

Oliver Dansing awoke in pain, his head lulling from one side to another, but his eyes blinked open. He was duct taped shirtless to one of his oaken kitchen chairs with armrests. Dansing realized the shooting pains were from being anchored on his knees, while being restrained to the chair. He tried moving, but the chair could only be slid a few inches either way, as it had another chair duct taped to it, braced so it could not be tilted. He worked on moving until the excruciating pain of his knees on the tile floor forced him to quit moving. Dansing with his mouth duct taped shut, sniffed in air through his nose in loud rasping intakes.

“Oh look, Gus, Ollie’s awake,” Nick said, crouching and waving with friendly fervor in Dansing’s face. “We thought I’d given you a bit too much nappy time juice. I couldn’t have you asleep for your big performance of redemption. I brought along a souvenir set I found on a business trip in the Orient. It’s beautiful… isn’t it?”

Nick held a hinged box lined with oil cloth, displaying an ornate sheath and matching blade. Dansing stared at the set with terrified eyes. Nick placed the box to the side. He took out the blade from its setting, holding it loosely on his fingers as if serving it to Dansing. The man’s shoulders began shaking while he issued a tortured squeal from behind the duct tape.

“See, Gus, Ollie’s sorry already.”

Gus moved closer, smiling into Dansing’s face. “Yep… Ollie is really sorry. I bet he’d take back all those murders he committed if he could. Wouldn’t you, Ollie?”

Dansing continued his sobbing movements, but nodded his head fervently.

“I’m afraid we can’t take your word on an issue like this, Ollie,” Nick said. “Those girls you murdered had sisters, brothers, moms, dads, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and friends. You blistered many lives, probably in the hundreds. Don’t you worry though. We’re going to help you win back a small amount of redemption by helping you perform a ritual suicide, the Japanese refer to as Hara-kiri.”

Nick stood to the side with blade out, waving it slowly side to side in front of Dansing’s face. “Really, a bullet in the head suicide wouldn’t do for a modicum of heartfelt redemption. Don’t worry. We need a believable scene for the police, so I won’t be able to spend as much time as I’d like, helping you with this penitence. Okay Gus, get the last three inches of the blade cherry-red.”

Gus took the blade to Dansing’s gas burner stove. Nick positioned himself to brace his chair restraints while practicing the movements he would need with the knife. Gloves in place, Nick waited for Gus. He checked the bindings and sturdiness of his cobbled together torture brace. Gus handed him the blade, holding it at the middle. Nick gripped the knife in the proper position for his carrying out the suicide scene.

“Grab on tight, Payaso. This will be a bumpy ride.” Nick brought the red hot tip to the insertion point as Gus steadied the torture brace across from Nick. “This is going to hurt, Ollie… you sick fuck.”

* * *

Gus watched his partner meticulously clean all signs of duct tape from both Dansing, where he had used folded cloth between the skin and duct tape, and the chair. When Nick finished, he checked over each piece of wiped down furniture, and every inch of tile away from the staged suicide scene. Lastly, he examined the positioning of Dansing’s now bloody hands holding the Hara-kiri blade in the last rip upwards in the disemboweling ritual. Stepping away, Nick made certain of every angle in the way he had allowed Dansing’s body to drop sideways after supposedly completing the ritual suicide in sorrow over his murders.

“How’s it look to you, Payaso?”

“Masterful, Muerto… masterful. No one on earth could possibly be better than you at staging your Kabuki theater scenes. C’mon. We have to get home without being seen, and turn over our discovery of Dansing’s address to your police buddy, Dickerson. You stay here, and quietly go over every inch again. I’ll sneak to the Nissan. Put your phone on vibrate. When it buzzes, the Nissan will be ready at the end of the street.”

Nick saluted. “By your command, Payaso. Let’s make sure we don’t ruin all this nice work with a flubbed stealth exit. Don’t get cocky.”

Gus stopped for a moment, turning again toward Nick. “That was one bloody awful piece of Karma you delivered tonight, Muerto.”

“Ollie’s lucky I couldn’t think of a plausible way he could have committed Hara-kiri, and poured bleach on his intestines.”

“Oh yeah… lucky.”

Chapter Thirteen

A Loved One Passes

Sergeant Dickerson arrived after Nick and Gus returned from walking Jean to school with Deke. Nick answered the door. “Hey, Neil. C’mon in. Gus, Deke and I only a moment ago finished our escort into school duty. Want some coffee?”

“Sure.” Dickerson followed Nick into the kitchen, sitting down on one of the seats as Gus brought him over a cup. “That was an incredible workup you guys did on this killer I laid on you. We went to his place in San Mateo right after you sent us your updated file.”

“Please don’t tell me the prick got away.” Nick pushed the small server in front of his visitor with a variety of coffee additives. “I wouldn’t imagine you coming here like this without either good news, or bad news. You’re killing me here. Which is it?”

“SWAT went to the address you gave us. You were right all along. By the time we arrived, this Oliver Dansing had committed suicide in a brutal way I’m not allowed to divulge at this time. We got him… thanks to you and Gus.”

Nick put on his overjoyed look, with only slight reservations showing in his attitude. “That’s incredible! So… this clunker had a moment where twenty-six young girl deaths either got to him, or he didn’t want to be caught alive. Too bad… they would have fixed him in prison - at least one of the inmates would get a visit once too often from his kids, and decide to gut Dansing like a trout. I guess that saves the county a lot of money in extradition and court costs.”

“You have no idea. That’s why I called though. The FBI Agents were more than a little impressed with how you found out Dansing’s address. I already showed them how an internet moron like me muddles through this crap. We need consultants who can track leads with more than nerd sense. We need people with the instincts and imagination to give us more than vague notions.”

“Neil. You’re recruiting for someone. I have FBI credentials already. Shame on you. Okay… which relative does this person have of yours locked away somewhere?”

“I suck at this. That Detective Stilling wants you in a new task force he’s been asked to head. I told them you’d never leave Pacific Grove, but I agreed to mention it. I think they want to dissect each step you took drawing you to that address. Maybe Stilling thinks you’re one of those paranormal consultants.”

Nick laughed. “It’s in the report. You seemed to understand it when I explained it to you. A small amount of imagination is required. I’m already consulting with the police. Where’s Stilling going - to DC? He’ll hate the weather. What’s this about?”

“I think he would report to DC, but only go there occasionally. He’s been asked to have a ready room of people who can use their imagination with technical expertise, backing up a fast moving special operations team, who can act on the data given at a moment’s notice. I’ve agreed to be with the special ops team. We get some extra money to train and be on call if something requires a task force caliber group on anything from serial rapists to bank robbers. We would stay with our own units, but train together six hours a week.”

“Sounds like a great way to get thrown into prison by the usual political opportunists who would sell their own mother to Chinese slavers for a vote. Then, of course, my dear Neil, would come the media labeling your new strike group the new ‘jack booted thug militia’.”

Dickerson toasted Nick with his coffee cup. “That’s how I see it coming down too. I’ll tell him you weren’t interested. I may give it a shot for a while if I can keep my old job.”

“I’d be interested in consulting. I won’t train though. Been there, done that. I don’t mind looking at anything he gets on the plate of his new group,” Nick said. “Gus will be in with me.”

“I’ll tell him. Thank you.” Dickerson stood to leave. “I appreciate your cynical nature. I would hope if we do work together, you’ll let me know when I’m getting hung out to dry by someone in the ‘think tank’.”

“I would indeed. Thanks for stopping by.”

“Great work on finding the killer. I guess he felt you coming or something, huh Nick?”

“Yeah… or something. Don’t let your imagination run away with you too far, Sergeant.”

“I think we can agree that ain’t happenin’.”

Gus waited until Dickerson drove away. “What the hell do you think of that? You murdered your way onto a special crimes task force. That is so wrong… on so many levels.”

“No one says anything about murderers playing on major sports teams,” Nick objected.