The Crucifix Killer (41 page)

‘You’re fucking kidding me!’

The red digital display was active once again.

59, 58, 57 . . .

‘I pressed the right button . . . that was the fucking deal,’ Hunter yelled at the top of his voice. He ran back to the cage and double-checked the wooden cross. He had no way of freeing Garcia from it. The nails that pierced his hands were deeply embedded in the wood. Hunter noticed that the main body of the cross was slotted into a separate wooden foundation.

42, 41, 40 . . .

His only hope was to lift it off its base and drag it out of the room in time.

33, 32, 31 . . .

He had no more time to think. He quickly placed his right shoulder under Garcia and the cross’s left arm. From his weight-training experience he knew he had to use his legs and not his arms and back to lift it up. He steadied himself on his feet; bent his knees and in one quick push used all his power to shove his shoulder against the wooden cross. It surprised him how easily it all came apart.

The cage door stayed open but Hunter wouldn’t be able to get the cross through it without tilting it. He twisted his body, rotating his waist to the left as far as he could go. Garcia emitted a muffled grunt of pain, but Hunter’s acrobatics did the trick. They were out of the cage. Now he had to make it to the door.

20, 19, 18 . . .

His feet were in agony and he was starting to feel the double weight on his back. ‘A few more steps,’ he whispered to himself, but suddenly his left knee buckled under the weight and he came crashing down, slamming it against the concrete floor. A searing pain shot up his leg, making him dizzy for a couple of seconds – precious seconds. Somehow he still managed the cross on his back.

Hunter wasn’t sure how much longer he had. He was scared to turn around and check the clock, but he knew he needed to get back on his feet. He firmed his right foot on the ground and with a scream pushed himself back up.

9, 8, 7 . . .

He finally made it to the door. He needed to use the twisting trick once again, but this time he couldn’t rely on his left knee to support the weight. Using his right leg as his main balance point he repeated the same movement of seconds ago. He screamed out in pain, praying he could hold on for just a few more steps. He tasted sick in his mouth as his body felt faint and struggled to cope with the unbearable pain. Hunter felt his grip weakening – he was losing the cross.

One more step.

He used his last ounce of strength to push himself and the cross through the doorframe.

No more time.

He let the heavy iron door slam behind him hoping it’d be strong enough to withhold the blast. Hunter let go of the cross and fell over his partner using his own body as a human blanket. He closed his eyes and waited for the explosion.

The ambulance came screeching to a halt in front of the emergency ward entrance. Three nurses were waiting to retrieve its patients. They watched in horror as the first stretcher was wheeled out. A half-naked man with a barbed-wire crown on his head had been nailed to a life-size wooden cross. Blood was pouring out of his opened wounds.

‘Jesus Christ . . .’ gasped the first nurse to reach the patient.

The second man was covered in a thin gray powder, as if he’d been dug out from under a collapsed building.

‘I’m alright, get off me. Take care of him,’ came the loud shouts from the second patient. Hunter was trying to sit up, but being restrained by the ambulance paramedics. ‘Get your hands off me,’ he demanded.

‘Sir, we’re already taking care of your friend. Please calm down and let the doctors have a look at you. Everything will be OK.’

Hunter observed in silence as the nurses hurried Garcia through the double doors at the end of the busy corridor.

As he opened his eyes he struggled to understand what was happening. For a few seconds everything was blurred, then he noticed the white walls. He felt dizzy and desperately thirsty.

‘Good, you’re awake.’ The woman’s voice was soft and sweet.

With great effort he turned his head in her direction. A petite, short dark-haired nurse was staring down at him.

‘How’re you feeling?’

‘Thirsty.’

‘Here . . .’ She poured some water from the aluminum jug next to his bed into a plastic cup. Hunter drank greedily, but as the water hit his throat it burned. A look of pain washed over his face.

‘Are you OK?’ the nurse asked worried.

‘My throat hurts,’ he whispered in a weak breath.

‘That’s normal. Here, let me take your temperature,’ she said, offering him a thin glass thermometer.

‘I don’t have a fever,’ Hunter protested, pushing the thermometer away from his mouth. He finally remembered where he was and what had happened. He tried to sit up but the room did a back flip somersault on him.

‘Wow!’

‘Easy there, mister,’ she said, putting her hand over his chest. ‘You need the rest.’

‘I need to get the hell out of here.’

‘Maybe later. First you need to let me take care of you.’

‘No, you need to listen to me. My friend . . . how is he?’

‘Which friend?’

‘The one who came in nailed to a fucking cross. I don’t think you could’ve missed him. He looked like Jesus Christ. Do you remember him? Supposed to have died for our sins.’ Hunter tried sitting up once again. His head pounding.

The door opened and Captain Bolter stuck his head through. ‘Is he giving you attitude?’

The nurse gave the captain an ivory smile.

‘Captain, where’s Carlos? How’s he doing?’

‘Can you give us a moment?’ the captain asked the nurse as he stepped into the room.

Hunter waited until she was gone. ‘Did he make it? I gotta go see him,’ he said, trying to stand up but collapsing back into bed.

‘You ain’t going anywhere,’ the captain said firmly.

‘Talk to me, Captain, is he alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘How is he?’ Hunter demanded.

‘Carlos lost a lot of blood, what the doctors call a class-four hemorrhage. In consequence, his heart, liver and kidneys have weakened considerably. He was given a blood transfusion, but other than that there isn’t much else anyone can do. We have to wait for him to fight back.’

‘Fight back?’ Hunter’s voice now showing a slight quiver.

‘He’s stable, but still unconscious. They are not calling it a coma just yet. His vital signs are weak . . . very weak. He’s in the ICU.’

Hunter buried his head in his hands.

‘Carlos is a strong man – he’ll come out of it,’ the captain reassured him.

‘I’ve gotta go see him.’

‘You ain’t going nowhere for now. What the fuck happened, Robert? I almost lost two detectives in one go and I didn’t even know what the hell was going on.’

‘What the fuck do you think, Captain? The killer went after Carlos,’ Hunter shot back angrily.

‘But why? Are you telling me the killer suddenly decided to up his game and become a cop killer? That’s not what he’s about.’

‘Is that so? So please tell me, Captain, what is the killer about?’

Captain Bolter avoided Hunter’s eyes.

‘I’ve been after him for over three years and the only thing I know he’s about is torturing and killing. Who he kills seems to make no fucking difference. It’s all a game to him and Carlos was supposed to be just another pawn,’ Hunter said, trying to raise his voice.

‘Run me through what happened,’ the captain ordered in a calm voice.

Hunter went over every detail, from the time he’d received the phone call to when he’d closed his eyes waiting for the explosion.

‘Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you call for back-up?’

‘Because the killer had said no back-up. I wasn’t about to gamble with Carlos’s life.’

‘It doesn’t make sense. If you’d beaten him at his own game, why set the detonator again?’

Hunter shook his head, staring at the floor.

‘He wanted you both dead. No matter what,’ Captain Bolter concluded.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘If he didn’t want you killed, why reset the bomb?’

‘Evidence.’

‘What?’

‘That room was full of evidence, Captain. The tape recorder, the cage, the explosives, the door-lock mechanism, the wheelchair. If we were to get our hands on all of that, something was bound to give us a lead. Blow it all to hell and we’ve got nothing.’

The captain made a face as if he wasn’t very convinced.

‘The cross came off its base as if it had been greased,’ Hunter continued. ‘It was too easy. The amount of explosives the killer used was exactly enough to destroy only the laundry room. We were just about two feet from the door. The killer could’ve arranged for a stronger explosion, one that would’ve obliterated the entire basement floor giving us no chance of escaping. The primary objective of the explosion wasn’t to kill.’

‘So the killer has knowledge of explosives?’

‘At least some,’ Hunter said nodding.

‘What do you mean “At least some”?’

‘I don’t believe the bomb was anything spectacular. Definitely not state of the art or terrorist style. Yes, the killer would need some knowledge of explosives to put it together and build the detonating mechanism, but he wouldn’t need to be an expert.’

‘And where the fuck would he get explosives from?’

‘This is America, Captain,’ Hunter answered with a sarcastic chuckle. ‘The land where money buys you anything you want. With the right contacts and cash you could get an antiaircraft gun never mind a small amount of explosives to blow up a basement room. If the killer has enough understanding of chemistry he could’ve built it himself using easy-to-purchase chemicals.’

The captain shook his head in silence for a few seconds. ‘We’re gonna have to come clean about this case you know that, right? The press is all over this now. Explosives, a detective being crucified alive. It’s a goddamn circus out there, and we’re the clowns.’

Hunter had nothing to say. The room had almost stopped spinning and he tried standing up once again. As his feet touched the floor Hunter let out an agonizing grunt. His new shoes had done a good job of rubbing his feet raw.

‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ the captain asked.

‘I gotta go see Carlos – where is he?’

The captain ran his hand over his mustache and regarded Hunter with a sharp gaze. ‘I told you, in the ICU. C’mon, I’ll show you.’

As he walked past the small mirror to the left of the room door, Hunter stopped and peered critically at his outline. He looked like death. Hundreds of small cuts covered his tired and pale face. His eyes were bloodshot. His lower lip was swollen and disfigured. A blob of dried blood decorated the right corner of his mouth. He’d aged ten years in one afternoon.

‘You must be Anna,’ Hunter said as he entered the L-shaped ICU room.

A short dark-haired woman was sitting next to Garcia’s bed. Her complexion heavy, her hazel eyes swollen from crying.

‘And you must be Robert.’ She sounded weak and shattered.

Hunter attempted to give her a smile, but his cheeks gave way. ‘I’m sorry we’re meeting this way.’ He extended a shivering hand.

She shook his hand with the most gentle of touches, her eyes filling up with tears. In silence all three of them stared at an unconscious Garcia. He lay flat under a thin coverlet. Tubes came out of his mouth, nose and arms looping away through the bed frame and connecting to two separate machines. His hands and head were heavily bandaged and his face bruised and cut. A heart monitor beeped steadily at the corner of the room and at the sight of it Hunter shuddered.

Garcia looked peaceful but fragile. Hunter stepped closer and placed a soft hand on his right arm.

‘C’mon, rookie, you can fight this, this is easy,’ he whispered tenderly. ‘The difficult part is over. We got out of there, rookie. We beat him. We beat him at his own game . . . you and I.’

Hunter kept his hand on Garcia’s arm for a while longer before turning to face Anna. ‘He’s very strong, he’s gonna come out of this easy. He’s probably just sleeping it off.’

Anna had no reply. Tears rolled down her face. Hunter returned his attention to Garcia and bent over to draw level with him. He seemed to be searching for something.

‘Is something wrong?’ the captain asked.

Hunter shook his head and pressed down on Garcia’s pillow around neck height being careful not to disturb his head. Very gently he ran his finger around the back of his partner’s neck.

‘C’mon, he needs the rest and so do you,’ the captain said, moving towards the door. Hunter wanted to say something to Anna, but words simply evaded him. He merely followed the captain and no one said a word until they were back in Hunter’s room.

‘He had no mark,’ Hunter spoke first.

‘What?’

‘On the back of Carlos’s neck . . . no carving. The killer didn’t mark him.’

‘And what does that mean?’