Vanished - A Mystery (Dixon & Baudin Book 1) (23 page)

53

Baudin sat on the couch in Jessop’s office as the five o’clock news played on the television. The letters on the screen and the words coming out of Rebecca’s mouth seemed almost comical to him—mostly because he was picturing Chief Crest, his face bright red, a cigar in his mouth, exploding in his office at anyone near him.

Jessop watched the entire broadcast. Rebecca had gone through what she remembered in detail with one fabrication: that she later saw the chief’s photo online and that was why she called the news. It helped bolster her story that two police officers had taken her statement at the hospital, verified by a nurse who was there, but had never filed a report. The officers had informed dispatch that the woman was “unreliable” and that they would look into her story, but had never done so.

“Captain?” a female voice said through his phone’s intercom.

“What?”

“I have several reporters wanting comments. The chief and assistant chief can’t be found.”

“Tell the reporters to fuck themselves.”

“Um… okay.”

“No, Erica. For shit’s sake, don’t tell them that. Just tell them no comment.” He leaned back in his chair, eyeing the two detectives. “You two have anything to do with this?”

Baudin said, “Why would we have anything to do with this?”

“Don’t be cute. I’m serious.”

“Cap,” Dixon said, trying to take the spotlight off of them, “two uniforms took her statement and didn’t do shit about it. You know how that’s gonna look? Whether the chief is innocent or not, he’s already been convicted.”

Jessop sighed. “I know. He’ll have to resign. There’s no other way. He was a friend to the detective division. We needed him.”

Baudin folded his arms. “I want to put her in a safe house.”

“What? Are you shitting me? She’s accusing the chief of police of kidnapping and raping her. You want us to spend funds putting her in a safe house?”

“You don’t have to spend anything. My realtor said we can use an abandoned house on Claremont Ave. She doesn’t need a detail, I don’t think she’s in any danger. But the chief has a lot of friends that might try to intimidate her. I think the safe house is a good bet for a while.”

Jessop looked to Dixon, incredulous, seemingly searching for anything that would explain what Baudin had just proposed. “She’s just a kid, Cap. We’ll drive her to the safe house, and that’s it. A few days there, and then she’s on her own.”

He shook his head. “Shit, why not? The whole damn department’s goin’ to hell. We might as well protect the enemy, too.”

Baudin said sternly, “She’s not our enemy.”

The two men glared at each other. Baudin had done his homework. Jessop was not an alum of Sigma Mu. He’d gotten a two-year degree from a community college in criminal justice when he was in his thirties and never took part in the college life. He was just a blind cog in a big, powerful wheel.

“Few days,” Dixon said, “then she’s on her own.”

Jessop nodded. “Few days. Don’t tell anyone. And take a good statement from her so we don’t look like we’re in on this shit, too.”

Claremont Avenue was as middle class as it got. As Baudin stared out the window at the dwindling sunlight, he saw several men driving home from work. Most of the cars here were trucks, large work trucks with mud spattered on the wheels and undercarriage. The men looked tired by the time they got home, trading sweat for money. Sometimes, the thought of working outside all day with his hands sounded more appealing than almost anything else. He wondered how people found what they would enjoy the most. If someone would really love to be a chef but had never cooked, how would they know that was their chosen path in life?

Maybe he had a path, too. Something he was meant to do that never came to fruition. Painter, perhaps, or writer… revolutionary.

More than any other moment in history, he would’ve liked to have seen the French Revolution with its upending of society and replacement with something else. The upending wouldn’t have been beautiful. It had been bloody and vicious: some of the proletariat ate the bourgeoisie in the streets. Cannibalism, the ultimate act of conquest. The streets must’ve been coated in blood so thick it would’ve soaked the shoes… and Baudin always returned to the same question when he thought these thoughts: could it happen here?

The door opened, and Dixon hurried in, carrying a thick canvas bag that looked as though it contained a cello. He put the bag down in the center of the empty living room and unzipped it. Inside were two M4A1 assault rifles.

Dixon picked one up. “Smaller and lighter than the M16. Thirty round mags, high fire rate.” He tossed it to Baudin, who caught it, running his hands along the smooth surface.

“Where’d you get military assault rifles on such short notice?”

Dixon grinned. “Shit, man. This is Wyoming.”

Baudin lifted the weapon and looked down the barrel. It felt light, much lighter than he’d expected. He swept back and forth with it and then leaned it against the wall. Also inside the bag were two pistols, several boxes of ammunition, and two Kevlar vests. He took one of the vests and put it on over his shirt as Dixon did the same. CPD was written in bold print across the back.

The men looked at each other. Baudin felt like asking if Dixon was certain he wanted to be here but thought he already knew the answer. And somehow, just the asking seemed insulting. Instead, he grinned.

“Now what?” Dixon said.

“Now we sit on our asses until they get here.”

54

Folding chairs next to a window wasn’t exactly the most comfortable position Dixon had ever sat in for a long period of time. But it probably wasn’t the worst, either. As he ate a Hershey bar, the M4 between his legs, a cap turned backward on his head, and his eyes out the window, he somehow felt more like a real cop than ever before. That was in spite of the fact that what he was doing would not only cost him his job but probably his freedom as well.

He didn’t expect the chief to show up. Neither one of them did. But if they were right, someone would have to come down. Jessop was loyal to the chief and would tell him what they were doing.

If someone did come, then Baudin and Dixon were correct, and the chief of police of Cheyenne was a monster. Once he had that certainty, Dixon would do anything to stop him. Right now, he didn’t feel that. They had to be certain.

Outside was pure black with only the porch light illuminating the lawn. Most of the neighbors had gone to bed, and the street didn’t have much traffic. Dixon took another bite of chocolate and scratched his scalp underneath the cap.

“There’s someone out there,” Baudin whispered.

Dixon froze. Slowly, he put the chocolate bar down. He pulled the curtain back just slightly, peering farther onto the lawn.

At first, he didn’t see anything. Just an empty blackness that fought any visual penetration. Then, slowly, he could see movement. Just on the outskirts of the blackness, a figure moved across the lawn. It skimmed along the edge, around the house, and disappeared in back.

“On it,” Baudin said, before rising and silently disappearing to the back of the house.

Dixon’s heart was in his throat, and he wished he hadn’t eaten anything. Nausea was clawing at him, and he fought it the best he could.

On the other side of the house, he saw the same movement. A dark figure scurrying through the blackness. It didn’t go around back. It came right to the porch.

A man, tall and lean, dressed all in black, with a black mask. He tried the doorknob, and when it didn’t open, he took out a small kit. He inserted something into the lock and began jiggling it. Baudin had been right; Jessop wasn’t Sigma Mu, but he was in on this. At the very least, he was reckless.

Dixon took the M4 and duck-walked to the front door. He perched on the stairs leading to the second floor and aimed the weapon. Sweat stung his eyes, and his heart was so loud he thought the intruder could hear it.

The lock clicked open, and the door creaked. Nothing happened at first, no one came in. Then the figure in black casually stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He scanned the space, starting on the right, the direction opposite where Dixon was.

Dixon stood up. “Put your damn hands on your head.”

The man’s head whipped around. Dixon expected him to run, or surrender, or scream, but not to attack. But that was exactly what he did. He ran at Dixon and jumped on him like a cat. Dixon squeezed the trigger, and the rifle shot along the wall and up into the ceiling as he was knocked back onto the stairs.

The figure struck him in the face with a fist so hard his head bounced off the step behind him. He struck again and again, and finally Dixon rolled to the side and then swung wildly, impacting against the man’s jaw just enough to stun him. Dixon wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat and squeezed. The man did the same. The air was cut off. He felt his eyes bulging, and his head felt as if it were being blown up with air like a balloon about to explode.

Dixon let go and slammed his fist into the man’s face in a succession of blows that loosened his grip. He kicked out with his legs, and the man tumbled back. He hit his head on the hardwood floor, and Dixon was on him.

Now on top, he was pummeling him with his fists as he heard rounds fired in the back. But he didn’t stop until the man wasn’t moving anymore. Not until his hands screamed, and he felt as though he’d broken his knuckles. With every blow, the fear left him a little. He didn’t stop until it was nearly gone.

Out of breath and bleeding, Dixon rolled off the man and lay next to him on the floor. He felt as though he’d been drowning and had just been rescued. Every muscle cried for relief, but no matter how deeply he breathed, it didn’t come.

The figure was breathing, too. A shallow, dry breath. But he wasn’t moving.

With the last ounce of strength he had, Dixon got to his knees. He crawled up the stairs and retrieved the M4. Before he could turn around, the figure had him again. His arm was wrapped around Dixon’s throat, squeezing the life out of him.

Within moments, Dixon felt himself passing out. In a Hail Mary, he flung himself off the stairs, landing with the man still on his back. The grip around his throat loosened, and he rolled over. He wrapped his fingers around the figure’s throat again and pressed.

The man’s windpipe crushed under his grip like dry cereal, and a gasping, hacking sound came from the figure. Dixon moved away as the man thrashed violently, his hands at his throat in the universal sign of a lack of air. Dixon didn’t move. He probably didn’t have the stamina to help even if he wanted to. But he’d also never killed before and didn’t want to. He pulled out his cell phone to call an ambulance, and it was ripped out of his hand.

Baudin flung the cell phone across the room.

“What the hell!” Dixon shouted.

Baudin ripped off the man’s mask. The man was young, and his eyes were wide with terror. He was sucking breath like a fish that’d been thrown from a lake onto dry land.

“I know him,” Dixon said. “That’s Josh Everett. He’s a uniform with the city.”

Baudin lit a cigarette. “Not no more.”

Dixon watched him. He had a flicker in his eye, the terrible calmness of someone in his element. “We can’t let him die.”

“Why not?”

“Because we ain’t murderers.”

He shrugged. “I don’t think calling anybody’s gonna help. He’ll be unconscious in about thirty seconds and dead in three minutes. Brain death will happen two minutes after that. He’s already gone.”

Dixon rushed over to his phone. He called it in and gave the address, requesting an ambulance. When he’d hung up, Baudin was still smoking over the now unconscious man.

“One in back’s still alive,” Baudin said.

They headed to the kitchen. A man was lying on the linoleum with blood pooling around his legs. Baudin had shot out both knees. Baudin bent down over the man and stuck a finger in one of the holes the M4 had torn. The man screamed.

Dixon recognized him, too, another uniform. The two who’d taken Rebecca’s statement at the hospital.

“Tell him what you told me,” Baudin said. “Go on now.”

“The chief…” the man said in a quivering voice, “the chief said we had to get rid of her.”

“Rid of her how?” Baudin said, taking a drag.

“Su—suicide.”

Baudin grinned. “I do amaze myself sometimes.”

“This isn’t funny,” Dixon said, staring down at the man.

Baudin stood up. “I told you, freedom is painful. Well, you’re free now. And you can see the horror behind appearances. It’s a rare gift, Kyle. Not everyone can survive it, but some people can grow stronger from it, and use it to their advantage.”

“Like you?”

He put his cigarette out on the wall and shoved the butt in his pocket. “I don’t think we should be here when the ambulance arrives.”

“No, we’re doin’ this part my way. We are gonna be here, and we’re giving statements about what happened. Then I’m going to go over to Chief Crest’s house and put those damn handcuffs on him myself.”

Baudin chuckled. “It’s good to see you passionate about something for once.”