Creatures of Appetite Page 8

  “Anybody, even kids!” Johnson yelled. “Watch the … watch the road, you can’t go this fast!”

  The van slipped and slid down a narrow county road after the fast-moving snowmobile, which skied through the snowy ditches next to the road with ease. Thorne cranked the wheel and barely made another turn, keeping parallel with Robertson.

  “Where’s he going, where’s he going?” Thorne struggled to control the sliding van. Kane braced herself on the ceiling of the van.

  “He’s going for the river, he knows we can’t follow him there!” yelled Scroggins.

  “This little cocksucker is not getting away from me!” Thorne gritted his teeth.

  “Watch out for the …” Kane began.

  The snowmobile vaulted the ditch and jumped across the road right in front of the van. Thorne swerved and just barely missed the snowmobile. The van slid into a one hundred-eighty-degree turn before flipping onto its side and sliding into the ditch. It kept sliding on its side until stopped with an ugly crunch by a tree.

  The driver’s side door opened and Thorne climbed out, weapon drawn. He jumped off of the van and ran for the road, but Robertson and his snowmobile were both long gone.

  “FUCK!” Thorne screamed.

  Scroggins climbed out of the driver’s side door. He stooped to help Kane out. The back doors of the van opened, tumbling Gilday and Johnson out into the snow.

  “Fuck shit piss cocksucker! Goddamn it!” Thorne continued his tirade.

  “Everybody okay?” Scroggins asked. “Jeff, Bill? Bill, you’re bleeding.”

  Johnson touched his forehead, finding blood. He got paler, if at all possible, and quickly sat down on a convenient bank of snow. Gilday took a look at the cut.

  “It’s okay, couple stitches probably,” Gilday said.

  The radio on Scroggins’s belt crackled and he put it to his ear.

  “Well,” Kane brushed herself off, “at least we know for sure who he is, right?”

  “Fucking pock-marked asshole!” Thorne kicked the van.

  “Shit!” Scroggins got everyone’s attention. “Hey, guys, he just snatched another kid, not five minutes ago. At a school bus stop, drove right up, knocked down the mom, grabbed the kid and drove off. They lost them in the woods along the river. Positive ID.”

  “He knows we’re onto him so he’s gonna have one last hurrah,” Gilday said. “But where’s he going?”

  Something just over Gilday’s shoulder grabbed Thorne’s attention. Gilday turned to see what was. Off in the distance were Brainard’s grain silos.

  Gilday turned back to Thorne.

  “Are you up for a little Dungeons and Dragons?” Thorne asked him with a grin.

  Thorne didn’t wait for an answer, just ran down the road toward the silos, Gilday close on his heels. Scroggins and Kane looked at each other and pulled their weapons. Johnson struggled to stand.

  “What? What’d I miss?” Johnson asked, still wiping blood out of his eyes. “Where are we going?”

  “Stay here,” Scroggins pointed at him. “Call it in, he’s going for the silos!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thorne and Gilday arrived at the foot of the Brainard grain elevator, puffing from the run. It was still dark, though the morning sun was now beginning to make its presence felt. Brainard’s grain silos were much larger than the silos in Garrison, at least five hundred feet in the air and additionally there were three of them.

  Robertson’s snowmobile sat right next to one of the steel trapdoors leading down into the ground. Gilday and Thorne threw open the gallery trapdoor just as Kane and Scroggins arrived. Thorne took out his flashlight.

  A child’s scream echoed from somewhere deep in the tunnels.

  “Okay, kids, here’s where it gets fun,” Thorne grunted as he slid down the ladder to the darkness. Everyone followed. Kane could feel her pulse beat in her wrists and throat and struggled to control it.

  Down in the tunnels, weapons ready, they all proceeded more cautiously. The concrete walls appeared to go on forever and this gallery was definitely bigger and more complex than the one they were in previously. The tunnel branched into two directions and they stopped at the intersection to get their bearings.

  “Anyone by any chance know their way around down here?” Thorne whispered.

  “No, man, all galleries are different,” Scroggins replied. “They wind around and around and then back on themselves.”

  “Shit,” Thorne sniffed. “All right, Staties go right, Federales go left. Stay salty and check your targets, if I get shot by one of you I will personally ruin your day.”

  The child’s cry echoed through the tunnels again. Scroggins and Gilday ran the left tunnel and Thorne and Kane ran the one on the right.

  Kane and Thorne came to a steel stairway and descended, only to arrive at another fork in their tunnel. In addition to the child’s cries, they could hear Robertson cursing in the darkness. Kane sweated, despite the cold, and looked pale. Thorne motioned for her to take the branch on the left. Kane nodded and disappeared down her tunnel.

  The cursing and crying got louder as Thorne followed his route. Thorne came to another steel stairway that opened out into a much larger space than the tunnel, the silo itself. A flashlight from below splashed across the concrete walls. Thorne carefully stepped onto the stairs, clicked off his flashlight and peered down below.

  Robertson, back to Thorne, was on the floor below, cursing and tossing some equipment into a bag. A young girl sat against the wall and cried. Robertson was skinny, with lank greasy hair and a face cratered with acne.

  Thorne checked out the environment. Multiple steel stairways on each wall led to the different levels of the gallery. Thorne noted the multiple exits on the floor below. Too many outs and Robertson probably knew them all. Thorne would have to get close. His weapon poised, Thorne crept down the steel steps behind Robertson.

  His shoes still covered with snow, Thorne slipped on the stairs just a few steps from the ground floor. He had to grab the railing to keep from falling and in doing so Thorne dropped his weapon. It clattered to the floor below.

  Robertson spun and pulled out a nine-millimeter pistol. Thorne ducked back into the shadows. Robertson grabbed the little girl and held her in front of him as a shield.

  “Who’s there! Who’s there, come out!”

  Thorne spotted his weapon lying on the floor down below the stairs, in the shadows, well out of his reach. He cursed under his breath.

  “Come out or else I’ll fuckin’ …”

  Thorne stepped quickly to the railing and waved.

  “Hey, kid, how ya doing?” Thorne walked down the last few steps casually.

  “Who are you!”

  “Hey, easy, easy! Listen, if you and your sister want to camp out down here …”

  “Who are you?” Robertson cocked his pistol.

  “Easy, easy!” Thorne reached into his jacket and flashed his identification at Robertson real quick. “Jacob Thorne, Nebraska Grain Association. Like I said, if you and your sister …”

  “Who?” Robertson asked. Thorne was now on the lower floor, facing Robertson. Thorne’s weapon was not far away, still hidden in the shadows. He edged over to it.

  “Jacob Thorne, Nebraska Grain Association. What’s the gun for? Listen, I don’t mean you and your sister any harm, honest.”

  “Nebraska Grain Association?” Robertson asked.

  “Yeah, the Nebraska Grain Association. The NGA. You’ve heard of it, right?” Thorne now stood right next to his weapon.

  “Right,” Robertson said after a moment and lowered his gun. Thorne casually started to bend down.

  “Hold it,” Robertson stopped him, bringing the nine back to bear on Thorne again. Thorne slowly straightened back up.

  “What are you doing down here?” Robertson demanded.

  Kane appeared in the exit behind Robertson, on his level. She aimed her weapon carefully at Robertson, mindful of the hostage.

  Thorne saw that K
ane had a clear shot, smiled and raised his hands.

  “Checking the grain, there’s been some reports …” Thorne said. “Listen, if you and your sister want to camp out down here, it’s no skin off my ass, I’m just here for the grain. Could you lower that thing, guns make me nervous. What’s the gun for?”

  The end of Kane’s pistol shook. She had trouble holding the target.

  “It’s a dangerous world,” Robertson slid the little girl behind him and lowered his weapon. “A man needs some protection.”

  “Brother, I hear ya. But like I said, I’m just here to look at some grain.”

  A short but very pregnant pause followed this exchange. The end of Kane’s pistol shook uncontrollably. The little girl cried silently. Robertson stared at Thorne with more suspicion.

  Scroggins and Gilday suddenly appeared on the upper stairs, one level up, to Robertson’s right.

  “Robertson, drop the weapon now!” Scroggins ordered.

  Robertson turned and fired his weapon up at Scroggins and Gilday. Bullets ricocheted off the walls in their tunnel, wounding and stunning both men.

  Robertson saw Kane behind him and fired at her. She ducked just in time and the bullets whined overhead. Kane fell on her rear and dropped her weapon. It bounced away, too far for her to reach.

  Kane dead in his sights, Robertson chambered another round.

  “Hey, Ryan, wait a second!” Thorne said.

  Robertson whirled back around and pointed his weapon at Thorne’s face. Robertson held the girl by her hair. Thorne stood in the exact same spot he was before.

  “Easy, easy,” Thorne said. “You know what, Ryan? I lied to you before, I’m sorry. I’m not with the Nebraska Grain Association. You want to know who I really am?”

  “Who?” Robertson asked.

  Thorne quickly raised his weapon and fired three times, hitting Robertson in the chest. Robertson flew backwards, hit the wall and fell to the floor. The little girl stood with her hands over her ears, crying.

  “I am Shane,” Thorne said.

  Thorne walked over and calmly kicked Robertson’s weapon away from his body.

  “We’re clear down here, clear!” he said.

  Kane stood, went quickly to the little girl and picked her up. As she held the girl, Kane looked at Thorne for a moment before dropping her eyes. Gilday and Scroggins clambered down the stairs. Gilday’s face bled, as did Scroggins’s left arm. They both went to check Robertson’s body.

  Lights splashed over the walls of the space, coming from the level above. Voices and sirens could be heard.

  “Cavalry’s here finally,” Thorne said, looking up. “Status?”

  “We’re bleeding but alive and mobile,” Gilday replied.

  “This piece of shit is still alive,” Scroggins exclaimed over Robertson.

  “Three slugs and he’s still alive? Well, fine by me,” Thorne said. “Now the parents of the kids he killed can be there when he gets the needle. Hey. You know what?”

  “What?” Gilday asked.

  “I’m hungry,” Thorne said. “You guys up for some flapjacks?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kane sat by herself at a table in the cafeteria of Brainard Memorial Hospital, an untouched tray of food in front of her. Gilday, bandages on his face, entered the cafeteria and walked over to Kane.

  “Hey, Emma.”

  “Hey, Jeff, how are you?”

  “Just scratched,” he replied, “cement chips from the ricochet. Gerry got a chunk of it in his arm, but he’s all right. They’re gonna cut him loose soon.”

  “Good,” Kane said, toying with her food.

  Thorne entered the cafeteria carrying a tray loaded with food. He plopped it down across from Kane, sat and started to dig in.

  “Hospital food, it sucks. It’s so bad it’s a wonder anyone ever gets well,” Thorne said as he chewed.

  “Hey, Thorne. Guess who I ran into upstairs, checking on Gerry?” Gilday said.

  “Who?”

  “Captain Forsythe.”

  “Yeah? Did he look constipated?”

  “Now that you mention it, I think he did, yeah.”

  “Good.”

  Gilday watched Kane for a moment before nodding good-bye. “Okay then, I’ll see you guys at HQ.” Thorne and Kane nodded back to him and Gilday left.

  They sat alone for a moment with the only sound of Thorne chewing as company. Thorne reached for the salt just as Forsythe walked by the doorway of the cafeteria, stopped and stared at them. They stared back.

  “Fucking cowboys,” Forsythe shook his head and continued on his way.

  “He does look constipated,” Thorne remarked. He ate in silence for a while.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?” Kane asked finally.

  “About what?”

  “About me, losing it. Not taking the shot. We’re always supposed to take the shot. I had the shot. I got the shakes and didn’t take the shot.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that.”

  “Aren’t you going to say something?”

  “Should I say something?”

  “You usually do. Isn’t this where you say something nasty about me being weak and girly and that they shouldn’t send a woman to do a man’s job, some kind of shit like that?”

  “Hey, if you say it then I don’t need to. We nailed FunnyPants, that’s the only thing I care about.”

  “Seriously? You’re not going to nail me with some smart-ass sexist remark?”

  “Not right now. I’m on a shoot-a-serial-killer high,” Thorne said. “But don’t worry, I’ll get around to it later. Right now I just want to eat and enjoy my buzz.”

  “Well,” Kane said after a moment, “there is one other thing. You saved my life. Thank you.”

  Thorne looked at Kane, chewing. He swallowed and smiled at her. “That must have cost you, having to say that to me.”

  “It does, you’re right. I wasn’t looking forward to it.”

  “Well, don’t let it go to your head. There wasn’t anything personal about it, I just didn’t want to have to deal with all the paperwork involved if you got yourself killed.”

  “I should’ve known.”

  They sat in silence. Kane pushed the food on her plate around with a fork.

  “You were really on fire about Robertson. If we hadn’t have beaten him back here to the hospital, he’d be sitting behind a lawyer and a decent alibi.”

  “He’s small potatoes,” Thorne grunted.

  “Still, it was good to see you get going. I was beginning to wonder if all the talk about you was just that, talk.”

  “You know what I’m wondering about?” Thorne asked.

  “What??

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “You. Gonzo cop, attitude and balls to spare. Says so in your file.”

  “You read my file?”

  “I read your file. Expert marksman, black belt, the works. Smarter than most, too, at least according to all the tests they give you rookies these days. It also says that while you were working undercover in DC, you shot and killed three men.”

  “True. So?” Kane shifted a bit.

  “So why now the shakes? Hotdog like you? Never saw that coming.”

  “I thought that you knew everything.”

  “I didn’t say I knew everything. I said that I’m always right. There’s a difference.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Knowing everything is knowing everything,” Thorne said. “Being always right is knowing what you KNOW, knowing what you DON’T know, knowing what you NEED to know and then defining the relationship between all three of them. That’s what always being right is.”

  Kane pondered that. “I see. And you think that there might be something that you need to know about me?”

  “Hey, if they’re going to give you a weapon and tell me that I’ve got to run around in the dark with you, then yeah, there might be a few things that I’d like to know about.”

  �
��Such as?”

  “I think that there was a lot more to the DC story than what was in the file. I’d like to know what that more is.”

  “Would you?”

  “I would.”

  “That works both ways. I’d like to know why you were retired off of the Mercy Killings.”

  Thorne finished his meal and slid the tray away.

  “Show you mine and you’ll show me yours, is that what you’re getting at?” he asked.

  “If you’ll remove any and all sexual connotations from that observation, then yes, that’s exactly what I’m getting at.”

  Thorne sniffed and shrugged. “All right, why not?”

  “You first.”

  “Why do I have to go first?”

  “Age before beauty.”

  Thorne snorted. “First, you tell me what you know about the Mercy Killings so far,” he said.

  “Mercy killings,” Kane sat up a little straighter. “Biggest case in the Bureau, biggest case in the country and maybe the biggest case in the history of murder. There are more people working on it than anything else. Single killer, been operating five years or so. He has over a hundred kills that we know of, from all over the United States.

  “The size of his Kill Zone is one thing that makes him unusual. He has confirmed kills in over twenty different states. Once in awhile the victims are forced to write MERCY on whatever’s near, hence the name the Mercy Killer, but he doesn’t do that every time. He takes the tongues of his victims. He last struck in Georgia, about two weeks ago, a clerk at a copy store. That’s what I know. Not much gossip gets out from the brain trust running the case. They’re keeping it tight even among law enforcement. Case is a media carnival. There’s already been two cable movies made about him, a mini-series, a bunch of books and who knows what else. The Mercy Killer is bigger than Ted Bundy, Jack the Ripper and the DC snipers all rolled into one. That’s what I know.”

  “He is the biggest, bar none,” Thorne cracked his knuckles with relish. “The Shaquille O’Neal of serial killers.

  “Around the campfire they call him Kevorkian, or at least we did in the beginning,” Thorne continued. “We eventually got official memos not to refer to the killer as Kevorkian ever, not even informally in communication with each other, and some guys got letters of censure for doing so, yours truly being one of them. Fuck it, Kevorkian is a much better tag for him than the Mercy Killer, that’s what I always thought.