S. Tooley - When the dead speak

Shadows moved along the edges of the building as Sam inched her Jeep to the end of the block. Every nerve ending in her body was dancing a jig. A voice in her head told her to turn the Jeep around and drive out of there. She checked the address again on the side of the warehouse. It stood dark and abandoned, windows broken, weeds snaking up the sides of the building. Pressing the button on her pen light, she checked the address on her notes, then checked her watch. It was ten o’clock.

She pulled around to the side of the building. A patrol car sat in the middle of the parking lot. She breathed a sigh of relief. After backing her Jeep up to a freight door, Sam checked her Glock 26 9mm and shoved it into the pocket of her jump suit.

The tightness in her chest from her encounter with Jake had ceased with Cain’s phone call. It had now been replaced with a persistent pounding. Walking cautiously along the concrete drive, she looked for movement in or near the squad car. Her black clothing helped her blend into the shadows. One dim bulb on a building across the street did little to help her view of the dark lot.

Pulling her gun from her pocket, she carefully took the safety off. Staying in the shadows, she made her way around the back of the building. Darkness stared back at her from the scum-and-soot-covered windows. She pressed her back against the building and listened for several minutes. A kite, caught in the burned-out bulb of a street light, flapped softly in the breeze. Birds flitted in and out of the windows of the steel container corporation across the street. The thought crossed her mind that birds don’t fly at night, or do they? Or were those bats she was seeing?

A cold chill shot up her spine. Her eyes finally adjusted to the dark. Slipping her gun hand into her pocket, she slowly approached the patrol car. The driver’s side window was rolled down. A notepad and clipboard lay on the passenger side. The radio, a cop’s lifeline to headquarters, was turned off. Her eyes scanned the top floors of the warehouse. Suddenly, she felt like an ideal target, out in the open with only the car to shield her.

“Anyone here?” she called out. Slowly she walked around the back of the car, her eyes scanning the dark, the buildings across the street. When her foot touched something by the passenger side, the adrenaline rushed through her body. Tiny pulses of electricity raced up her spine, lifting the hair off the back of her neck. Run, a voice in her head screamed.

The body of the police officer was lying face down on the gravel-pitted pavement. She felt his neck for a pulse. Nothing. Sam reached through the opened window for the radio. Ping. She ducked as a bullet shattered the front windshield.

“Don’t even think of calling for backup,” a voice in the darkness called out.

Sam peered over the side mirror, her eyes searching the building for shadows, the upper story of the warehouse for movement. “I thought you wanted to talk, Cain?” Tightening the grip on her gun, she moved forward, toward the front of the car only to be met with another barrage of gunfire. To remain here was suicide.

Think before you act. Jake’s words nagged inside her head and she hated the fact that he was right. She had held a faint hope that Cain really did want to give up Preston on a silver platter. Maybe had proof that Preston was the mastermind behind Hap’s and her father’s deaths. Maybe that Cain wanted to testify against Preston in exchange for a lesser charge.

“I AM talking,” the cottony voice yelled back. It was followed by more bullets riddling the front of the car, flattening the tires.

He’s aiming for the gas tank, Sam told herself. The damn car is going to blow up.

Suddenly, the air was filled with the odor of oil and gasoline. A small stream was etching its way across the pavement. A maniacal laugh sliced through the air. She couldn’t chance returning gunfire. Instead, she bolted, away from the car, away from the warehouse. A spray of bullets stalked her retreat, followed by an explosion. A blast of hot air picked her up and tossed her to the ground like a match stick. Her gun, which she had thought was gripped firmly, popped out of her hand on impact.

As she rolled her body away from the car, she made a mental assessment of bodily damage. She could still breathe — no broken ribs. Her brain didn’t register any excruciating pains.

As soon as she tumbled to the safety of the corner of the building, she jumped to her feet in time to see a second explosion lift the back of the patrol car. Her hand slapped against her chest, feeling the bulk of her medicine bundle beneath her jump suit.

Once she reached the safety of her Jeep, she didn’t feel very safe. Panic gripped her like a winter deep-freeze. Her hand shook as she turned the keys in the ignition.

As she drove off she heard the faint sounds of sirens in the distance. She reached across the seat for her cellular phone but it wasn’t there. Leaning over, she patted the floor on the passenger side, then under her seat.

The thought that Cain took it, that he had been in her Jeep became apparent. A new sensation overcame her fear. It wasn’t just the panic that gripped her. This was different, and it was over-powering. She felt the overwhelming sensation of impending doom… death.

Cain stood and watched the inferno with immense satisfaction. He smiled as Sam’s tail lights faded in the distance. There were so many innovative ways to make a bomb these days. Not like the dynamite he had used on Samuel Casey’s car. Today there was plastique. It was efficient, clean. And by setting a heat sensor on the thermostat, his victim’s Jeep would be miles away before it blew up.

Walking toward the burning police car, he picked up Sam’s gun with a gloved hand. The heat from the explosion was intense. The officer’s uniform was smoldering but the sounds of the sirens told Cain that the fire would be put out soon.

“Just can’t trust these cops nowadays.” With a smile, he pointed Sam’s gun at the officer’s back and fired three times.

“I’ve made several copies. Study his face carefully.” Preston passed Cain’s picture to the three security guards, copies of the picture Sam had left with him. “You can check with Chief Murphy if you want. This man is suspected in the possible murder of a Korean War veteran in Dallas and the MIA whose body was found recently in a concrete overpass. He’s been seen in Chasen Heights and I could be his next target.”

The three guards were former mercenaries who had trained with the Secret Service. Preston had used them in Springfield when he had received numerous death threats after introducing a bill to end welfare as we know it. On the surface, his argument for the bill had basis. There were almost ten thousand alcoholics and drug addicts receiving Social Security benefits. Preston had argued that all they did was take their checks to the nearest bar or drug dealer.

But Preston actually was targeting the black inner cities. He had made a statement to a close friend that welfare to the blacks was nothing more than a way for them to receive monetary restitution for years of slavery suffered by their ancestors. He hadn’t realized the cameras were rolling.

The guards were well-trained and heavily armed with Ruger police carbines, Stealth C-1000 9mm handguns, laser sightings, and night vision glasses. They would spend the night patrolling the grounds.

Two of the guards referred to the taller one as, “Sergeant.” Sergeant Cowles passed out walkie-talkies to his men instructing them what channel to use. They were dressed in dark jumpsuits and combat boots.

“This man is armed and dangerous,” Preston continued. It was unfortunate, but Preston couldn’t leave any witnesses behind. The only other person who had seen Cain in the house was Juanita. This morning he sent her back to Mexico on a one-month vacation. In a week, he would send her a telegram informing her that her services were no longer needed.