Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2 Page 15

  Drake couldn’t say anything.

  “I’m going to that meeting tonight, Drake. And I’m going alone. And in the morning, I’ll tell you what I’ve found. If you want to stop me, go ahead, but you’re going to have to use your gun.”

  Drake, so shocked by what had happened, simply sat there as Beckett got out of the Crown Vic and walked to his own car.

  He’s changed, Drake thought. But so have I.

  And then, unexpectedly, tears started to stream down Drake’s cheeks. The silent sobs soon became audible gasps, and eventually, he found himself sobbing into his hands.

  It took five minutes for Drake to collect himself, and nearly as long to look halfway presentable before entering Triple D.

  Inside, he found Screech hammering away at his keyboard. The man looked up as he approached.

  “Jesus, Drake? You okay?”

  Drake nodded.

  “Just tired,” he lied. “You find anything on the Church of Liberation?”

  “Yeah, come take a look.”

  Drake walked over and sat beside Screech.

  “For a church, they don’t have much of a presence online. But I did manage to dip into the archives of a bulletin board, and managed to get this.”

  Screech clicked on an image and it filled the screen.

  “Suffer,” Drake read. “That’s what the pool balls spelled.”

  “Yeah, I know. So, I dug a little deeper into this whole thing, using some of the stuff you told me—you know, all the business about human suffering and the understanding our own mortality… light reading kinda stuff.”

  Screech closed the image and brought up another file. A block of text appeared on the monitor.

  “I know you have cataracts or whatnot, so I’m going to read this for you,” he said, and then cleared his throat. “On balance, every person brought into this world increases the overall suffering. You may be tempted to think that because there are moments of joy in a person’s life, albeit fleeting, that this tips the scales of overall happiness. But from an objective perspective, this simply isn’t true; from the instant a child is born, the suffering in the world increases. This is the general principle of anti-natalism. But I believe that the glitch in human evolution that is self-consciousness, runs deeper than this. Anti-natalism proposes that we should not procreate, but that once a child is born, it should continue to live. This is a cop-out. I believe that the longer a child lives, the more suffering he or she inflicts on the universe. Which is why I’m very much in favor of a pro-mortalist morality. This is especially applicable for those who deliberately cause suffering to others, but no human who lives, has ever lived, or will ever live, is exempt from this morality. The world is simply better off without them, as it is better off without us.”

  Drake squinted at his friend.

  “Pretty heavy stuff, isn’t it?” Screech said.

  “What the fuck is this shit?”

  Screech took a deep breath before answering.

  “I’m no philosophy expert, and I don’t really know anything about anti-natalism or pro-mortalism, but to me, this all sounds like a manifesto, a justification for killing.”

  Drake mulled this over for a moment.

  “And that stuff about people causing suffering…” he let his sentence trail off.

  “You think that this might be related to the fact that all of our victims were ex-cons? That they were targeted because of this, like our Skeleton King is the Robin Hood of suffering?”

  Drake’s mind flicked to Clay, his head cradled in his arms as he died.

  “It just sounds like the preachings of a madman to me,” Drake offered.

  “Mad or crazy or philosophical… I can’t get my head around it. You wouldn’t happen to know of a deep-thinking philosopher, would you?” Screech asked with a smile, trying to lighten the mood.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Drake said, the words even surprising himself.

  Screech raised an eyebrow.

  “Really? Maybe you should pay him a visit then.”

  Drake rocked back and forth in the chair.

  “That’s going to be a bit of a problem.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Well, because he killed three people and kidnapped my ex-partner, Chase Adams. That’s why.”

  Screech laughed his high-pitched titter, but when Drake’s face didn’t change, the man grew serious again.

  “Really? You hang around some fucked up people, you know that?”

  Chapter 47

  Beckett drove straight home, not even bothering to stop at his office at NY Medical or the university.

  He was furious with Drake, furious at the man for always trying to take control of everything when this was his domain.

  Back at his apartment, Beckett took a hot shower to calm his nerves.

  When he was done, he took a moment to observe himself in the mirror.

  No matter how mad he was at Drake, he couldn’t deny the fact that he had spoken the truth. Beckett had changed. A lot had changed since Craig Sloan.

  And even more had changed after what happened in the Virgin Gorda.

  He stared at his reflection in the mirror, first looking at his wet hair, the way it was plastered to his scalp, and then his eyes. He was only in his mid-30s, but over the past few weeks, the crow’s feet had deepened.

  He looked older, but didn’t feel any wiser.

  His eyes traveled down his body to his tattoo-covered chest. On his left pec was a picture of a bull and on his right, there was a large Celtic symbol that meant warrior. Swirls and designs filled the empty spaces between the tattoos, eventually thinning on his abdomen before picking up again on his arms. Each one of the tattoos held a particular meaning for Beckett and was usually related to one of his travels or an important crossroad in his life. But while he had these tattoos for many years now, there were two new ones.

  Beckett lifted his right arm and stared at his ribcage. Unlike the other intricate designs that covered his chest and arms, these two tattoos were simple. They were simple and drawn with an unskilled hand.

  Beckett had done them himself.

  Two horizontal lines, roughly two inches in length and separated by an inch of white space, started just below his dark armpit hair.

  Beckett brought a finger to the top one and ran it across the length.

  “Craig Sloan,” he said under his breath.

  Then he brought his finger to the second line.

  “Donnie DeMarco,” he said.

  Drake was right; things had changed. And Beckett knew that if he went to the church meeting tonight, things would change again.

  If everything went as planned, he would add another tattoo. And when he ran his finger across this line, he would say the name ‘Skeleton King’.

  Chapter 48

  Drake pulled into the parking lot of the psychiatric facility and then removed his gun from the holster beneath his left arm. He reached across the passenger seat and opened the glovebox.

  Inside was a half-full bottle of Johnny Walker.

  Common sense told him that he shouldn’t imbibe now.

  But common sense had no place in Drake’s world, not after everything that had happened.

  Drake put his pistol in the glovebox and pulled out the bottle. He unscrewed the cap and put it to his lips.

  The golden liquid coated his tongue and he swallowed hard. He allowed his cheeks to fill with the next gulp, and then he swallowed that too.

  Then he put the cap back on and put the bottle on top of his gun and shut the glovebox.

  His eyes drifted up to the large, brick building, and he wondered how in the world he was going to get inside. If things hadn’t gone sour with Beckett, he most definitely would have asked him to see if he could pull some strings. But now, like the majority of his life, and especially since Clay died, Drake was alone.

  Better not put too much thought into it; just wing it.

  Drake exited his car and made his way to the front do
or. He tried to open it, but frowned when he found it locked.

  “Please raise your eyes to the camera,” a static-filled voice asked.

  Drake glanced around, trying to determine where the voice had come from, and his eyes eventually landed on a small metal box about eight feet up the wall. Above that, he saw a camera.

  He stared at the camera and was surprised when no longer than a second later, the door buzzed open.

  Drake stepped inside and stood in the entryway for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior.

  When his vision finally cleared, he realized that he was in a holding cell of sorts. Off to the right was a thick glass enclosure, like something you might see at the airport, only there was no slot or speech hole to exchange money or information through.

  Unsure of what to do next, Drake leaned over and knocked on the glass.

  A woman suddenly appeared and her voice rained down on him from a speaker above.

  “Please don’t touch the glass,” she barked.

  Drake retracted his hand.

  “Sorry.”

  The woman had hair dyed the color of midnight, medium-length on top, but the sides were shaved. She also had a silver nose ring in one nostril. She seemed so disinterested in Drake, that it wasn’t clear that she had even seen him. Her eyes were locked on something on the desk, something that was out of Drake’s line of sight.

  “This is a government facility,” she said in a bored tone. “Are you a deliveryman?”

  Drake chewed the inside of his lip and wished that he had taken four swigs of the Johnny and not three.

  “My name’s Damien Drake, and I’m an NYPD—”

  The woman’s eyes flicked up and her mouth made an O shape.

  “Holy shit, you’re him. You’re really him.”

  Drake looked over one shoulder and then the other, wondering if perhaps a celebrity had sneaked in behind him when he wasn’t paying attention.

  “I’m Damien Drake,” he repeated hesitantly.

  “Yeah, shit, I know who you are. You don’t know me?”

  Drake scratched his forehead and stared at the woman for a long time.

  “Maybe if we’re face-to-face you’ll recognize me,” she said. Before Drake could react, she moved away from the desk.

  Drake, still racking his brain trying to figure out who this woman was, waited. There was a click, followed by a hiss, and then the glass door that led into the facility swung open.

  He started to take a step inside, but the woman appeared and stopped him with a hand to his chest.

  “You really don’t remember me, do you?”

  Drake shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “You’re not here looking for him, are you?” the woman asked, looking around furtively and lowering her voice.

  Drake felt a headache start to come on and now wished that he finished the entire bottle of Johnny.

  “I really don’t have any fucking clue what’s going on,” he said at last. “I’m here to see—”

  “I saw you at the station. You’re the one who let Colin Elliott go,” the woman whispered. She leaned in close enough that Drake could smell her vanilla perfume. “But you’re never gonna find him now. I wouldn’t even bother trying.”

  The mention of Colin Elliott caused a memory to trigger in Drake’s mind.

  Back when he’d been working the Download Killer Case, he remembered that a woman had claimed that the killer had raped her. And that that man was Colin Elliott.

  Drake took a step back and observed the woman before him closely. And then it clicked. It was her.

  And now… what? She and Colin are together?

  Drake shook his head.

  “No, I’m not looking for him. I’m here to see a patient.”

  And now it was the woman’s turn to scrutinize him.

  “Are you sure? Because if you’re fucking with me, I won’t ever let you in this place.”

  Drake racked his brain for her name and finally came up with it.

  “Hanna, I swear I’m not here for Colin Elliott. I don’t give a fuck where he went, so long as he doesn’t show his face in New York City and doesn’t appear on crime shows, I couldn’t care less. I’m here to see someone else.”

  This apparently satisfied the woman, because she shrugged and stepped back, allowing him to enter into the main facility.

  “All right. Who are you here to see, then?”

  Drake sighed.

  “I’m here to see Dr. Mark Kruk.”

  Chapter 49

  Hanna walked Drake down a short hallway, nodding at several workers who gave Drake curious looks as they passed.

  Drake would have thought that an institution such as this, one that held the likes of the murderer Dr. Mark Kruk, would be more secure. But it appeared as if the woman who led the way, Hanna, had some clout here, despite also manning the front desk.

  As they walked, passing thick metal doors with only a small window near the top, Drake’s mind drifted back to that fateful night in the snow. The night that he had let Colin Elliott get away, even after Drake had seen him slit his wife’s throat. He still wasn’t sure exactly why he had done that. At first, he had chalked it up to the fact that he was concussed at the time, but now he wasn’t sure.

  Maybe Beckett was right; maybe that asshole preacher was right.

  Maybe the bad guys deserved to be killed every once in a while. And Ryanne Elliot most definitely fit that bill.

  Not long before that, it had been he hovering over Dr. Mark Kruk’s body, a gun aimed at the man’s forehead. The man had kidnapped his partner and had threatened to make Chase his final victim.

  If it hadn’t been for Chase calming him down, he was not sure what would have happened.

  It only took a split second to pull the trigger, but the consequences of a single bullet lasted forever.

  “You wait in here,” Hanna said, indicating a metal door.

  Drake eyed her again, briefly wondering if this was all a big conspiracy, if Beckett and Dunbar and Screech had planned this all along to have him committed.

  “Just do it,” Hanna said. “Just get in there and wait, I’ll bring him to you.”

  Drake shrugged and entered the room. It was larger inside than he had expected, with one table in the middle and two chairs situated across from each other. The lights above were harsh, reminiscent of old factories, and the air seemed stale as if no one had been in this room for some time.

  “You sure—” he started to say, before the door behind him was closed. A second later, he heard a lock click.

  Drake made his way to the small window embedded in the door and peered out. The glass was so thick that even with his eye nearly pressed against it, he could only barely make out Hanna’s figure as she walked down the hallway.

  Drake banged on the door with two fists.

  “Hey! Hey, open up!”

  The woman didn’t slow let alone turn.

  Drake kicked the door once, winced when it didn’t even flex, and then backed away from it. Looking around, he found himself wondering what it would be like to actually be imprisoned here.

  How impossibly horrible it would be to be stuck with your own thoughts, haunted as they were, until the day you died.

  Drake walked over to the table and took a seat. It was far from the most comfortable chair he had ever used, but it wasn’t all that bad. It beat the front seat of his Crown Vic, that was for sure.

  Sometime later, Drake heard the sound of a lock disengaging, and his eyes popped open.

  He must’ve fallen asleep at the table as when he lifted his head, there was drool on his cheek.

  He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  “Hello?”

  The door opened and Hanna stepped in, a smile on her face. She was pretty, he realized, in a very untraditional way given her wacky hair and nose ring.

  Holding the door open, she stepped off one side.

  “You fall asleep on me,
Drake? Tsk, tsk.”

  Drake didn’t say anything, which apparently was answer enough, because the woman smiled.

  “Well, here he is. You got about ten minutes before I have to kick you out,” Hanna informed him.

  A man suddenly walked into the room, a man who had his hands shackled together as well as connected to his ankles.

  When his eyes, hidden behind round spectacles, met Drake’s, the man smiled.

  “What a pleasant surprise, detective. Now, what can I help you with?”

  Chapter 50

  “You know, I really thought you were going to kill me that day,” Dr. Mark Kruk began. “In fact, I was almost certain of it.”

  Drake shook his head.

  “I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t hurt anyone else.”

  “My goal was only ever to hurt those who hurt me—those who deserved it,” Kruk turned his eyes upward. “In a place like this, there’s not much to do other than think. And right now? Right now, I’m thinking that this isn’t a social visit.”

  “No, I’m afraid it isn’t. There’s this case, something that—”

  Kruk raised a finger as high as he could, given his shackles.

  “Before I help you, you have to do something for me.”

  Drake’s eyes narrowed.

  He should have expected as much.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t work for the NYPD anymore. You called me detective when you came in here, but that’s not me. I don’t have any power, any sway. In fact, if it wasn’t for the fangirl at the front entrance, I would never have gotten inside. So, I don’t know what you think, if you want some conjugal visits, more privileges, a reduced—”

  Dr. Kruk smiled wanly.

  “What I want, is something that you can most definitely provide.”

  Drake checked his watch. It was coming up on three in the afternoon, and while Beckett hadn’t specifically stated what time the Church of Liberation was meeting, Drake got the feeling that it was sooner rather than later.