Goblins (4 page)

As soon as he got the guy in his sights, he knew it was going to end badly for the man. But he hoped the guy would listen.

The shooter slapped the magazine in place, then racked the slide.

Hale's heart beat even faster. Sweat tickled his spine.

The perp raised the weapon.

Hale fired. Once, twice, three times. All three bullets hit the man's chest, center mass. The shooter's body jerked with each impact. He teetered for a moment. The gun fell from his grasp and then he collapsed backward to the pavement with a thud.

Hale's breathing was shallow as he watched the scene come to its completion. It was over. He knew the man was dead but kept his gun trained on the body as he approached. He picked up the gun and tucked it into his pants. The man lay with his eyes open, blood trickling from his mouth. His white T-shirt was flowered with crimson. Hale checked for a pulse. Found none.

A pool of glistening blood was forming around the corpse, spreading out like poured pancake batter.

Hale took a few steps back. He holstered his weapon. He was numb. Knew he'd done the right thing. The only thing. But he'd killed another human being. He secured the scene as best he could until his brothers and sisters in blue arrived.

Police vehicles crowded the landscape, along with two ambulances. Onlookers came from their houses and gawked from behind the police barricade. Hale was checked on by paramedics. Besides feeling shaken up and exhausted, he was physically fine, at least until the suspect's car was searched and the body of a twelve-year-old girl was discovered with one of Hale's bullets in it.

The suspect's name was Kim Dates and he had a rap sheet a few miles long. He'd been arrested numerous times for drug possession and assault, the most recent arrest for beating his girlfriend's fourteen-year-old daughter with a pipe. He'd been in and out of prison since he was sixteen and had never been a model prisoner either. Marcus Hale had done the world a favor when he put three bullets into him. Unknown to anyone before the shootout, Dates had upgraded his crimes to include kidnapping.

A twelve-year-old girl, Rebecca June, had been discovered in Dates' trunk. She'd been missing for three days from Lanford. Dates was moving her from wherever he'd been keeping her when Hale pulled him over. During the shootout, one of Hale's bullets struck the trunk and then Rebecca. She'd been shot in the head and, according to the coroner, died instantly. The funeral had been closed casket due to the facial destruction.

Despite the girl's death, Hale still came out a hero in the eyes of his fellow officers. Rebecca's parents were distraught, but in no way blamed him. Everyone knew it was Dates' doing that caused the girl's death. The autopsy revealed she'd been raped, beaten and starved, but had been alive.

Regardless of the atmosphere, Hale took the girl's death hard. Deep down, he knew it wasn't his fault. But for some reason, he couldn't shake how awful he felt, as if the logical part of his mind couldn't agree with the emotional part. He saw the department psychologist, which helped, but it didn't make him want to put the uniform back on. The bottom line was he had killed a little girl.

He constantly replayed the shootout in his mind, especially at night while he lay in bed tossing and turning. He wished he'd been more careful, took his time aiming and making sure the bullets went where they were supposed to go. He knew he was being stupid. Shootouts were chaotic, unpredictable and dangerous. He'd done nothing wrong during the encounter, yet he still couldn't put the uniform back on. He blamed himself for the girl's death and couldn't get past it.

After taking a few weeks off—paid medical leave—he decided to retire. Chicago wasn't the place he could be a cop anymore. It was too crime ridden. He'd spent years dealing with the worst of the worst and staring at too many corpses to count. He didn't want a desk job either. It wouldn't change anything. He'd still be in the middle of all the death and hurt that the job brought with it. He loved being a cop. His father was a cop and his grandfather too.

He'd been on the force for fifteen years, not long enough for a full pension. When he went to his captain to turn in his shield and formally resign, the man asked him to reconsider.

“Marcus,” the captain said. “You're a hell of a detective. Your blood is blue. Take more time if you need it. But don't throw away all you've accomplished. All the families you've helped and murders you've solved. Five more years and you'll get a full pension, then you can sail off into the sunset.”

“I can't,” Hale said, shaking his head. He wasn't happy with his decision, but he had made it.

The chief exhaled noisily, obviously frustrated. He sat back in his chair. “Tell me what you need. More time? Different area of the city? What?”

Hale told him all the reasons why he couldn't be a cop anymore.

“So it isn't that you don't want to be a cop, just not in Chicago?”

Hale wasn't sure about that. Maybe he could be a cop in some small town where the biggest crime was the neighbor's dog pissing on someone's azaleas, and where the jail was filled with nothing more than drunks sleeping off benders. But finding and getting a job like that in a small town would require a lot of time and effort.

“I think I might have the perfect job for you,” the captain said and told Hale about a Chief of Police job that had recently become available in North Carolina on Roanoke Island. The former chief had died in a car accident while vacationing in England. “Crime is everywhere these days,” the captain said, “but the department is on a small island and the kind of place people come to relax and sightsee, not smoke crack and rob each other. The locals are hardworking folk. Tourist season is short. And most of them are lovebirds wanting a romantic weekend or families simply vacationing. It's small town living. Perfect for what you're looking for. The crime rate is extremely low.”

Marcus's interest was piqued.

“What do you say, Hale?” the captain asked, breaking the silence. “It's perfect for what you told me you want. What you need. You'll still be a cop. Hell, if after five years you've had enough, you can retire right there on the island.”

Hale did want a change of scenery, and getting out of a big city would be good for his frame of mind. “I just don't know if I'm ready to be a cop again,” he said.

“You are still a cop. You haven't turned in your badge yet.” The captain sighed. “If I can get you an interview, will you at least go?”

“Sure.”

Two days later, Hale was on a flight to Roanoke Island, having had no idea the place had an airport. He flew in on the governor of North Carolina's private plane, the man a personal friend of his captain's. As soon as he found this out, he knew the job was his if he wanted it. He checked out the island, talked with a few of the officers and by the time he flew back home, he felt like he'd found exactly what he had been looking for, and decided to take the job.

The community was quaint. Most people knew one another and everyone seemed kind. He was living the southern way of life. It was refreshing to say the least. The most common crimes were drunken brawls at some of the watering holes, kids using their skateboards on sidewalks in town and out-of-towners speeding. There was the occasional drinking and driving arrest, but no corpses, shot up residences or gangs roaming the neighborhoods.

For three years, life had been good. Not just for Hale, but for everyone on the island.

Now, it was as if a monsoon had come tearing through Roanoke. The community was cracked, but had come together. A kid had gone missing and it looked more and more like he'd been abducted. There was no clue as to what had happened to him. And to make matters worse for Hale, it involved a kid.

Chapter Four

Three days went by and there was still no sign of their son. Dean Brown stood in his basement and stared at the bottle of Jim Beam resting on his workbench. He was fifteen years sober and hadn't had a drop since the day he hit his wife, Sonya. That had been the low point for him. The point where he'd reached rock bottom. Sonya didn't go to the police afterward, but she did move out. Back to her mother's. Once was one time too many for a woman to be abused.

Dean had realized he needed help. He loved his wife and wanted her back. He'd attempted to give up drinking before, but it never lasted more than a month. His wife had always put up with his drinking and drunken tirades. And after each episode—usually the following morning—he'd apologize and promise to stop. She'd asked him to get help. Go to AA. But he'd told her he could kick the stuff on his own. “Those places are for drug addicts,” he'd said. “People addicted to cocaine and heroin. Serious stuff, not alcohol.”

Like most addicts, he'd been in denial. He'd begged her to come home. Spent the first week crying himself to sleep. When it sank in that she wasn't coming back, he knew he needed to change. She even threatened divorce. She wasn't going to spend the rest of her life with a drunk.

Not wanting to lose the love of his life, he went to an AA meeting the next night. It was held at a church not far from his house. He saw a man from the neighborhood there, along with a number of familiar and not so familiar faces. He knew no names.

He felt stupid, ashamed. He wanted to leave as soon as he walked in and eyes settled upon him. But he thought of his wife and remembered where he was and that all the people in the room were like him. They were equals. Copies of himself. He'd seen enough movies to know this, and though it was hard to sell himself on the idea that he was an alcoholic, he did.

He didn't speak during the first meeting, except to introduce himself. He knew he was supposed to say something like, “Hi, my name is Dean and I'm an alcoholic,” but he simply said his name. The length of sobriety for the people attending the meeting ranged from six months to thirty years, the meeting's leader having the longest stint without a drop of alcohol.

Dean sat quiet during that session and listened to men and women tell their tales. They ranged from sad to frightening, one fellow even getting raped by another man after he passed out in an alley. One woman left her kids alone for two days while she partied with a boyfriend in Atlantic City. Her kids were five, seven and ten. On the second night of her getaway, her five-year-old wound up choking to death. Many of the people at the meeting had ruined relationships and lost loved ones. The tales were shocking and eye opening to say the least.

As difficult as it was, Dean returned to the next meeting. It was at a different location, but most of the same people were present. He was reeling from not having had an alcoholic drink since his wife left. The pain of what he was going through was only making it worse, making him need the drink more than ever. But he fought the urge. He called his wife on the way there to let her know what he was doing. She was happy for him, but still wasn't coming home.

Simply being at the meeting helped make him feel better. He was among peers and everyone there knew what he was going through. They'd all gone through it themselves. He introduced himself again, this time saying he was an alcoholic, and when it came time to talk, he did.

After the meeting, people meandered and he met Gary, the man from his neighborhood. Gary had been sober for twenty years and offered to be Dean's sponsor. It made sense since they lived near each other.

Dean had called the man a number of times during non-meeting nights. Gary had been a savior, helping him through the tough times. Gary was a true pro, but he hadn't always been so.

Gary had been a mean drunk who beat his wife and kids and wound up losing them. His wife took the kids, moved out and eventually married another man. A good man who became a good father to his kids. His story hit home with Dean.

Dean called Gary numerous times—on his way home from work, at night and even in the morning, a time Dean never thought of drinking until he started AA. It was the withdrawal, the cold turkey, that caused his body and mind to feel so stressed, so without a net. Gary had become his net, and catch Dean a number of times he did.

Dean had learned new routes to get where he wanted to go, especially when he came home from work. All the routes were without liquor stores, though it was impossible to find a route that didn't have beer on it.

The going was tough, but with AA and his sponsor's help, he managed and thrived. Sonya eventually returned home and they got a second chance at happiness.

Today, he was faced with a living nightmare. Sonya was a wreck, taking doctor prescribed pills. Dean could use some too, but didn't dare. The angst racking his body was incredible. Worse than any withdrawal he'd felt. His need for a drink hit new heights these last few days. He'd resisted, even now, but had stopped off and purchased a bottle of his favorite bourbon, Jim Beam.

He'd learned to live day by day, but it was getting harder. Hell, it was impossible. His only son was missing. Maybe dead. He needed his old pal, his evil savior. Gary was away on vacation. But that was an excuse. He could call someone else. He didn't want to.

The Jim Beam was a just in case item, that's all.

In case of what?
he asked himself.

He didn't want to think about it. Think about
what if
, but his mind kept going there. Jacob might turn up in a ditch with signs he was— He couldn't go there. He had to think positively. His son would be okay.

But child molesters did bad things to children
.

“Stop it,” he said aloud. He didn't know who had abducted his son. Like the police had said, it might've been someone who lost a child and wanted to replace him or her.

Dean ran a hand over his head and paced the basement. Something clanged against one of the support posts as he walked by it. He looked down at his right hand and saw that he was holding the bottle of bourbon. He didn't remember picking it up, let alone that he was clutching it. He focused on the bottle, then opened his hand and pulled it back, as if the glass container had turned into a cobra. It fell to the cement floor where it shattered. Shards of darkened glass scattered in all directions along with the throat-burning liquid.

Dean was enveloped in the liquor's aroma, wrapped in its sweet smoky smell like two lovers embracing.

“Shit,” he said and squatted over the catastrophe with his arms out to his sides. “No, no, no.” He moved to scoop up what he could with his hands, but stopped himself. He could save a decent amount in a container, then lick his palms clean.

He shook his head and stood. He walked away and came right back and stared at the darkening floor.

Damn, he was desperate. Falling apart.

Screw it, he thought and squatted. He began pushing the liquid together using both hands until a piece of glass bit him. “Ouch,” he said and moved to suck on the wound. He stopped himself, realizing to do so would mean to taste the devil. Dean felt his legs want to give out.

That seemed to do the trick. He stood and swore. What the hell was he doing? He was about to throw away his sobriety and his ability to be there for his wife and son. They needed him to be at his best. His boy would come home and Dean wasn't going to be a drunk when he did.

Movement from above.

He froze, wondering if Sonya had heard the bottle break. Maybe she was coming to check on him. She'd smell the liquor.

No, he was being paranoid. She was on the second floor. There was no way she could hear anything from there, especially if she was drugged up.

Dean waited anyway, and after a few minutes, breathed easier. His wife wasn't coming.

Now, he needed to act fast, just in case she did come down. How would he explain the mess? Looking down at his feet, he realized his slippers were soaked through. He quickly kicked them off and hurried upstairs and out to the garage. He thought about tossing them in the trash and then spraying the can with something, but he decided it would be better if he got them out of the house.

He went back inside, listened to make sure his wife wasn't downstairs, then went to the hall closet and put on his shoes. From there, he went out the back door and over to the tree line at the side of the house. Reaching back, he tossed one slipper into the woods. Then the other, grunting with effort and making sure it was far enough from the property.
Far enough from what?
he wondered. His wife never went into the woods. He was fine now, as long as he cleaned up the basement—a place his wife only visited to do laundry, which she was in no state of mind to do. He could leave the spilled bourbon where it was for a while and not worry.

A minute later, he was back in the basement with two rolls of paper towels and a bottle of disinfectant. It took almost an entire roll to soak up all the liquid. He placed the wet paper towels in a black garbage bag, then swept up the broken glass and deposited it in the bag too. He went back out to the garage, and grabbed the container of kitty litter he used for soaking up oil stains, and poured a layer over the darkened areas of the basement floor. Then for overkill, he emptied a can of air freshener and coughed like a two-pack-a-day smoker as he hurried up the stairs.

He stood in the kitchen thinking he'd done a pretty good job. His wife would never know. Later, maybe even tomorrow, he'd go back downstairs and clean up the kitty litter.

He went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of orange juice. Sitting at the table, he glanced at the microwave and saw that the time was ten minutes after midnight. Shit. It was late. As he brought the glass to his lips, some of the orange liquid spilled. His hands were shaking—not just from nerves, but from needing a drink. As much as he'd snapped out of it, he would still love one. He needed to call his sponsor. But the man was on vacation and Dean didn't want to bother him. There was a backup sponsor, Fred Binks. Dean didn't particularly like the guy, but if he had to call him he would.

He didn't know how he was going to make it through all this without a drink, especially if his son turned up dead. No, he couldn't think like that. Jacob was going to be fine. The cops knew what they were doing. They'd bring him home.

As Dean gulped down the rest of his juice, a scream from upstairs shattered the silence. He slammed the glass down and jumped to his feet. His heart was racing again.
Shit
, he thought,
she must be having a nightmare
. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, trying to calm down before he went upstairs. He needed to be the strong one now. Tell her it was only a dream and that everything was going to be okay.

He took his time heading up the stairs, his legs feeling weak. It was as if with each step up, gravity grew heavier. It was dread, he knew. The dread of seeing his wife's terrified face and having to lie to her. Telling her that their son was going to be okay was a guess. It wasn't the truth, and if their boy turned up dead, she'd hate him.

Halfway to the second floor, Sonya cried out for him. It wasn't a frightened call but a shocked one. A few moments later, he entered their bedroom and nearly toppled over. Jacob was standing at the end of their bed. He was shirtless and shoeless, wearing only raggedy brown pants. Sonya was up against the headboard, her legs pulled closed to her chest.

“Jacob,” he said, his words barely above a whisper.

“It is him, right?” Sonya said. “I'm not seeing things? Tell me I'm not dreaming this, Dean.”

“No. This is no dream.”

Sonya's face brightened and she jumped out of bed and made her way over to Jacob, stopping short. Her face wrinkled in disgust and she covered her nose and mouth with her hand.

Dean still hadn't moved. He was taking in the whole scene, transfixed in place for some reason. He was confused by his wife's actions and wondered why she wasn't wrapping their son up in a hug. He wanted to witness the reunion, etch it in his mind forever.

Then the smell hit him and he felt bile at the back of his throat. The odor reminded him of the time they had gone away for a week and forgot to throw out the garbage. The house smelled awful, the kitchen an unbearable place to remain for more than a second. They'd had to open all the windows and use a number of deodorizers. The counter, table and chairs, toaster and fridge—everything—had become coated in a palpable stench. He and Sonya had wiped down every inch of the place.

He wasn't going to let his boy stay another second without embrace. Screw the odor, his son needed love.

Dean sprang forward, breathing through his mouth and was about to hug the boy when a thought halted him in his tracks. It might've been the same reason his wife stopped.

Evidence!

Jacob might have crime scene particles—his abductors' DNA—on his person. He couldn't take a chance of contaminating it. Those motherfuckers needed to go down.

Sonya rushed forward and enveloped Jacob.

Dean raised an arm and went to call out, but it was too late. He rushed forward and tore Sonya away. She struggled and cursed, asking him what the hell he was doing.

“He might have evidence on him,” Dean said, holding her in a bear hug. He felt her muscles relax. He let her go. She stood still, head angled down at her son, who stood where he'd been. His arms were at his sides and his facial expression hadn't changed since Dean had laid eyes on him. It was a blank stare, eyes wide with an occasional blink. His small mouth was slightly upturned at the ends. Dean thought it was a smirk.

“What are you saying, you believe he was kidnapped?” Sonya asked.

“I don't know what to think, but we need to call the police.”

“No, he wasn't kidnapped. Look at him. He was just lost in the woods and now he's found his way home. You think kidnappers would let him go? Just like that?”