Authors: M. Z. Kelly
Dawson broke all the speed limits getting to the university, blowing through a couple of traffic lights on the way. The University of Kansas was located on a hill, the highest point in an otherwise flat landscape. It was a beautiful campus that I learned from Google had some outstanding academic programs and a pretty good basketball team.
“The dorms are located at the perimeter of the school,” I said. “According to what I read, there are several.”
Dawson was passing a building when I saw the name Corbin on the exterior. “That’s one of the dorm buildings.”
He slammed on the brakes, pulled over, and ran into the building with me following. When we entered the dorm an elderly woman with a name tag that read
Daisy
greeted us from behind a reception counter.
Dawson took out his credentials, tried to catch his breath, and said, “We need to talk…to a student—Abigail Stewart.”
Daisy put on her reading glasses and took her time examining Dawson’s credentials. She then removed the glasses and looked at him. “Very impressive, but I’m sorry. We have strict policies regarding student confidentiality. I can’t help you.”
Dawson glowered at her. “Listen to me Daisy Duck. I don’t know if you watch TV, but the whole country is about to erupt into violence and we have reason to believe Abigail Stewart knows something about it. You either tell me where she is, or I’m going to march you across the street and put you in the water fountain where you belong, until you tell us.”
Daisy smiled and cocked her head at Dawson. “Does it make you feel powerful bullying women? Is that why you went into law enforcement?”
Dawson started around the counter to where she was sitting. “Sorry, Daisy, no time for psychoanalysis, but, just so you know, I’m bipolar and starting to feel a little manic. Let’s go for a swim.”
He took her by the arm as I went over to them. “Wait.” I turned and called out to the students who had seen what was happening and had gathered around. “Does anyone here know Abigail Stewart?”
A girl with mousy brown hair stepped forward. “I do.”
“Silence,” Daisy said to her.
Dawson put a big paw over her mouth. “Good idea, Daisy.” He turned to the girl. “Where is she?”
“She’s in one of my classes and was staying at Naismith Hall, but she moved out about two weeks ago. I think she rented an apartment over on Williams Drive.”
After getting more information about where the girl thought Stewart might be living, Dawson released his elderly hostage.
Daisy caught a breath and said, “Just so you know, I’m calling the police.”
As we were leaving, Dawson called back to her, “You do that, Daisy. Tell them you want to be arrested for violating section 213 of the Kansas Penal Code.”
“What’s that?” I asked Dawson as we went through the door.”
“Being the biggest pain in the ass in the state of Kansas.”
***
After spending the next hour trying to find Abigail Stewart’s apartment building and getting lost, we finally located it and found an onsite manager.
“I rented the place to her, but now regret it,” Carlos Renteria told us. “I got a call last night. There was some kind of disturbance here.”
“You got a key?” Dawson asked him.
He shook his head. “Not with me. It’s back at my office. I can go…”
“No time,” Dawson said, raising a big foot and kicking in the door.
“You just damaged my property,” Renteria said, following us into the apartment. “And you have no right to break in.”
Dawson swiveled back to the apartment manager. “You ever hear of Tourette’s Syndrome?” A nod. “My foot’s got it. Can’t control the spasms…or my mouth.” He smiled at Renteria. “Sorry, motherfucker.”
“Joe, over here,” I said, calling over to him after checking the bedroom. “It looks like there was a disturbance in here. There’s some blood.”
The bedroom was destroyed, the dresser knocked over, and there was blood on the floor.”
“What do you think?” I asked, after he’d examined the scene.”
“I think Nigel York has Abigail Stewart. And, if I were a betting man, I wouldn’t take odds on her still being alive.”
Dawson called Drew Barry, the agent in charge of the tactical teams, and told him what we’d found, while I called the local police. Within minutes the apartment complex was full of agents and a handful of Lawrence cops.
“Why the hell did you go off on your own?” Agent Barry demanded of Dawson. “This isn’t your show.”
Dawson took a step toward the much smaller agent and pointed a finger at him. “If we hadn’t acted, you’d still be in the motel parking lot, trying to decide which way to go.”
“You follow my orders or else.”
“Or else what?”
Barry lowered his eyes and took a step back. “Or I tell my superiors.”
“Go head. While you’re at it call Abigail Stewart’s parents. Tell them their daughter’s probably dead because you were busy eating donuts at the Holiday Inn.”
Barry walked away, mumbling something about the lower portion of Dawson’s anatomy. While the two men had gone at it, I’d called Selfie and gotten an address for Abigail Stewart’s parents.
“They live in a small town called Hillsdale, just south of here,” I told Dawson. “I’ve got an address.”
“We need someone who knows the area, faster wheels.” He turned, seeing that another marked police car had arrived at the scene. Dawson hurried over to the officer that got out. I saw that he was a lieutenant.
After taking a couple of minutes to explain our circumstances, the officer in charge told him, “You can take Hayden and Bean.” He pointed to the two uniforms that were leaning against their cars while the FBI teams continued to go through the apartment. “They were born here and know how to get around.”
We went over and were briefly introduced to Kirk Hayden and Marvin Bean. Officer Hayden was older and big around the middle, in that way some cops who drink too much get. His partner was at least ten years younger, with an overbite. He seemed nervous and kept looking over his shoulder like someone was coming after him.
“Let’s go, Barney,” Dawson said to the younger cop after their supervisor had given them orders to drive us. He opened the door to the police unit. “Put this bugger box in gear. We’ve got a hive of angry bees out there and less than four hours to stop it.”
Dawson rode up front with Officer Bean while Hayden and I piled in the back seat. It took the big cop several tries before he got his seatbelt buckled around his ample girth. Dusk was beginning to settle in as we headed south, and it felt like we were running out of time. I’d overheard one of the FBI agents saying most of the cities had already erupted into violence.
“Are y’all working on that swarm of killers threatening to set off explosions tonight?” Hayden drawled, after settling in next to me and catching his breath.
Before I could answer Dawson cocked his head in the big cop’s direction and said, “Listen up, Haystack. If you see them coming, I want you to put that big belly of yours between us and them, use it as a bounce house.”
The big cop made a face but otherwise didn’t respond. It was a wise decision, considering my FBI partner was also in violation of section 213 of the Kansas Penal Code.
“Step on it, Fife,” Dawson said to Bean, making another reference to the bumbling TV cop from a sixties sit-com. “This is your lucky day. You get to drive fast and shoot people.”
Hillsdale was a little town about an hour south of Florence, with a post office, a tavern, a railway crossing, and not much else. There was a scattering of houses on the outskirts where we found the dilapidated craftsman style home with a broken down car in the driveway owned by Colleen and Bob Stewart.
Dawson pounded on the front door while we all waited on the porch behind him. There was no answer. It was dark now and there were no lights on inside the house.
“Maybe they’re somewhere in town,” I suggested.
“Or maybe they’re just deaf.” The big FBI agent found a rock and threw it through the front window. He was reaching inside to unlock the front door when Officer Hayden said, “You can’t just go ‘round breaking out people’s windows.”
Dawson pulled his hand back, apparently frustrated over his inability to unlock the door. “You’re right, Haystack.” He used a foot and broke the door in. “Might as well do a complete remodel while we’re at it.”
We went inside, announcing ourselves but not getting a response. Dawson was checking the master bedroom when he called us over. “Looks like our boy took care of the future in-laws.”
We all went over to the bedroom and saw that the middle-aged couple had been shot. They were lying in a pool of blood, a few feet apart from one another. I turned in time to see Officer Bean running out the front door, where he vomited. It reminded me of a homicide cop I’d worked with named Harvey Gluck, who was known as Upchuck Gluck.
I went over to Dawson. “Any ideas?”
He scowled. “Let’s look through the house, see if there’s anything that might give us an idea where they went, while Barney bounces his cookies.
We were looking at paperwork in a home office when I happened to glance at my phone. “Oh shit,” I said.
“No time for a potty break, Buttercup,” Dawson said as he rifled through a mound of papers. “You’re gonna have to keep your cheeks together.”
I glanced up from the gruesome video on my phone. “It’s The Swarm, Joe. They just put a video feed up on their website. It shows the Florence victims being beheaded.”
“I’ve got something,” Officer Hayden said, a few minutes later. “It looks like the Stewarts own a cabin over at the lake.”
Hillsdale Lake was located a few minutes from the Stewarts’ house. The large body of water served as a reservoir with a scattering of small nearby houses and cabins.
I googled the address of the cabin and we ran for the car. A few minutes later Dawson voiced his unhappiness when Officer Bean turned down the wrong driveway. “Barney, don’t be a David Adam. Turn this ass can around and pound the pedal.”
“David Adam?” Officer Hayden said to me as his partner made a U-turn in the darkened driveway.
I knew that what Dawson had said was police parlance for dumb ass. “It’s just a term of endearment,” I lied.
“There it is,” Dawson said a couple of minutes later. He pointed at a small cabin that fronted a swampy portion of the lake. There was a newer model car in the driveway, and a light was on inside the residence. He turned to Bean and Hayden. “You yokels listen up. Our suspect is armed and dangerous. Don’t take any chances. If we get the opportunity, we take him alive, get him to talk, and then send him DTJ.”
Hayden whispered to me. “Guess I need a translator.”
I’d been around Dawson long enough to know the vernacular. “Direct to Jesus.”
We drove past the residence, killed the headlights, and parked up the street as Dawson said, “We could have already been made, so let’s go in through the backyard.” He looked at the Lawrence cops. “Kate and me will go in the back door. I want you two to cover the front.”
Ten minutes later, Hayden and Bean were moving through a side gate of the small cabin while Dawson and I approached the rear door. As we got closer I could hear voices. We ducked down as we drew our weapons, stepped up to the porch, and heard a man say, “It’s going to get a lot worse before this is over, Abby.”
“He’s torturing her,” I whispered to Dawson.
Seconds later there was a blast of gunfire that shattered the rear window. “Stay low!” Dawson yelled, as we scrambled off the porch.
We’d found cover behind a storage shed when moments later we heard shots being fired in the front yard. A few seconds later a car engine was revving. By the time we got there, we saw that Officer Bean was down in the yard. The car that had been in the driveway was fishtailing wildly onto the highway. Dawson lowered his weapon, firing several shots in the direction of the car, before it disappeared up the street.
I went over to Officer Bean. “Are you okay?”
He moaned, “I’m shot…in the leg.”
“What the fuck happened?” Dawson said as Bean’s partner came over and began using his shirt as a tourniquet on his partner’s leg.
“He came out of the house shooting,” Hayden said. “We were surprised.”
“Fuck.” He turned to me. “Let’s check the house.”
We found Abigail Stewart in the kitchen. She was tied to a chair, and there was blood everywhere. Her captor had used a kitchen knife to carve up her face.
“Please help me!” the young woman screamed. “He killed my parents.”
I untied her while Dawson asked, “Any idea where lover boy went?”
She shook her head and sobbed, “No…he’s insane.”
Dawson waved a hand at me. “Let’s go.”
As we were heading out the door, I told Stewart, “We’ll call for an ambulance. They should be here any minute.”
I hated leaving her, but I also knew that if we didn’t move quickly, Nigel York would get away. Dawson got the keys from Hayden, who was still tending to his partner.
When we got to the police unit he tossed me the keys. “You drive, I shoot.”
Minutes later, we were back on the main highway. We headed south, reasoning that York would want to get away from any populated areas. There was little traffic, and after a few minutes we spotted his car. He began accelerating away from us, even as I stomped on the accelerator.
“He’s made us,” I said.
The passenger side window came down and Dawson’s gun came out. “Faster, Buttercup. I wanna be able to see the fly on his rear window when I unload.”
“Remember, we need to take him alive,” I said, stomping down harder on the gas pedal and moving up until we were a couple of feet from York’s bumper.
Dawson squeezed the trigger twice and the rear window of York’s car shattered. An instant later, the car swerved, went off the highway, and flipped over three times. It landed upside down with the headlights still on.
As I slowed down and pulled off the highway, I had the feeling we had failed. We had less than two hours before the explosions in the cities were set to begin. Nigel York would be dead and we wouldn’t be able to stop The Swarm.