The Abbey (33 page)

The woods were thicker than they looked, and I crashed into them at full speed, tripping on roots. Thorns and twigs bit into my hands and face as I fell. I ignored the abrasions and pushed off. I could hear leaves crunching and twigs breaking ahead of me, and I thought I heard my daughter crying.

“I’m coming.”

I screamed it as loud and as clear as I could, but it sounded more like an animal’s snarl than my voice. It gave my quarry pause as he looked over his shoulder. I was almost close enough to make out his features in the moonlight. Megan kicked in his arms. My feet pounded against uneven ground. The soil was loose and light, so it felt almost as if I were running on snow. Tree branches whipped me in the face.

I chased him for another dozen yards, tripping twice, but never slowing down. The terrain rose in front of me, and the figure I was chasing slowed to a stop at the foot of the hill. It was Azrael. My daughter squirmed and cried as he held a knife to her throat.

I raised my firearm, my hand shaking.

“Stop moving, Megan,” I said between breaths. Sweat dripped into my eyes, down my nose, and across my brow. My chest and shoulders rose with each breath. “It’s okay, honey. I’m here.”

“Back off,” said Azrael. He pulled my daughter’s chin up to expose her throat. “I’ll kill her.”

“It’s over,” I said. My heart pounded from the exertion, but it was slowing. “Let her go.”

“No.”

I took a step forward, and he jerked my daughter back. I put my hand up again, hoping to calm him.

“She’s four–years–old. Her name is Megan. She likes to do mazes. She draws pictures of her family and sings songs she makes up with her Mom. She’s a child. Let her go.”

I inched forward, but Azrael didn’t move. I didn’t trust my firearm, and as tired as I was, I didn’t think I could hold my arm steady enough to shoot him without hitting my daughter. My breath came out in quick spurts.

“Her best friend’s name is Sarah. They go swimming.”

Azrael looked down, and I saw him shift his grip on the knife as I took another step forward.

“She wants to be a nurse like her mom. Her favorite food is guacamole. Come on. Let her go. She’s a kid.”

Azrael shifted again, and I saw him swallow.

“Back off, man,” he said. “I know what–”

He didn’t finish speaking.

I heard the crack of a firearm and saw a cloud of blood before Azrael collapsed. Mike Bowers stood about ten yards to my right, a tactical rifle in his hands.

“Get your daughter.”

The paramedics treated us as well as they could at the crime scene. I probably would have been fine going home, but since Hannah was pregnant, they wanted a physician to check her out before releasing her. The nurses in the ER patched up my minor cuts fairly well and a second–year intern was able to get some practice with stitches on my arm. Judging by the placement of bandages on my wife, we’d have matching shoulder scars. It was almost romantic. Megan didn’t have a scratch on her, and with luck, she’d forget the whole thing eventually.

After we got patched up, the nurses wheeled Hannah into a private room for observation. Megan wouldn’t leave her side, and the nurses didn’t have the heart to pry her away. Me, on the other hand, they had no problem prying away. I stayed in a waiting room on an upholstered wooden chair and had what was probably the best night’s sleep of my life.

We went home the next day, but not before I saw a newspaper in the lobby. Our bust made the front page. The Chief of Police who had absolutely nothing to do with the events at Karen’s warehouse got most of the credit, but he did mention me. He claimed I was an invaluable, undercover member of Mike Bowers’ elite anticorruption task force investigating a potential law–enforcement connection with narcotics trafficking. It was nice to hear that I was invaluable. There was no mention of my wife and daughter or Karen Rea; apparently they weren’t convenient for the department’s narrative.

We took a cab home. I expected a detective or two to be on our front porch waiting for us, but it was empty. That was nice. Hannah and I unloaded the munchkin and put her on the swing set in the backyard and started the long, arduous task of cleaning our house. Unfortunately, we didn’t get very far because someone pounded on the plywood sheet that was our front door about ten minutes after we arrived.

It was Mike Bowers.

I went out the kitchen and met him on the front porch. He wore black jeans and a navy–blue shirt with a police shield on the chest, the same thing he had been wearing the night before. He half–smiled, half–grunted when he saw me.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“We need you to come in.”

I looked over my shoulder. I couldn’t see it, but I heard the swing set creak as my daughter played on it.

“I’ve got a lot of stuff to do today. Maybe later.”

“I let you go last night so you could spend some time with your family,” he said. “Please don’t make me regret that.”

“Wow,” I said. “I didn’t expect a guilt trap. You seem like more of the browbeat type.”

Bowers crossed his arms.

“I’ve got a teenage daughter. I do what works. Now come on, I did you a favor. Please do me one.”

It’s hard to say no to something like that.

“Give me five minutes to change.”

Bowers gave me a quick once–over. I was wearing a white T–shirt and the same jeans I had worn the night before. Both had blood stains. He shook his head.

“Keep the clothes on. They’ll help.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I acquiesced and told my wife I’d be back as soon as I could. Bowers drove us to the station like an expectant father driving his wife to the hospital to give birth. He blasted through stoplights, disobeyed every posted speed limit, and tailed other motorists as if he were in the Indy 500.

“Are we in a hurry?” I asked, grabbing the handle on the door and squeezing.

“We need to get to her before the Feds do.”

That was cryptic enough to pique my interest.

We parked in a handicapped spot outside the station downtown and ran inside to the interrogation rooms. A crowd had formed outside of one. I recognized a couple of the spectators, including my former boss, Susan Mercer. I got a couple of pats on the back and congratulations when I walked up, but Susan didn’t move. Her arms were across her chest as she stared at a computer monitor. Karen Rea was alone in an interrogation room. She wore an orange inmate’s jumpsuit, and her hair was pulled back into a pony tail. There was a bruise on her cheek where something had hit her.

“Morning, Susan,” I said, stopping beside her. She looked at me and nodded. “Surprised Jack Whittler isn’t here.”

“That’s complicated,” she said, not batting an eye. “Ms. Rea isn’t talking. Lieutenant Bowers thought you might be able to convince her to speak.”

I looked at Bowers. He shrugged.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I said. “But I’m not law enforcement anymore. I sent my resignation to Jack a few days ago.”

Susan smiled, but there was no levity in her eyes.

“Jack was arrested last night at an illegal poker game organized by a gangster. Because of that, he’s no longer an employee of the City of Indianapolis, and as acting Prosecutor, I refuse your resignation. The US Attorney’s office is picking Ms. Rea up in half an hour, but I’d like to get what we can out of her first. This is your case, so get in there and talk to her.”

I didn’t know if Susan could actually refuse my resignation, but I wasn’t complaining. I rather liked being employed.

“How long has she been in there?” I asked.

“All night,” said Bowers. “Hasn’t said a thing other than to request food and water.”

“And she hasn’t asked for an attorney?”

Susan glared at me.

“If she had, you wouldn’t be here.”

I looked back at Bowers.

“Have you guys searched her house yet?” I asked.

“Didn’t find much, but yeah,” he said.

“She had a picture of an Asian family on her desk. See if you can find it.”

Bowers nodded to one of the detectives I didn’t recognize, and the younger man jogged down the hall, leaving us alone for a moment. Susan went back to staring at the computer monitor, and I went to find a coffee machine I thought I saw on my way in. Bowers followed along.

“You guys find out where Azrael lived yet?” I asked.

“He the guy who took your daughter?”

I nodded.

“Real name was Feng Rui,” said Bowers. “Guy was a doctor, if you could believe that.”

“PhD or MD?”

“MD,” said Bowers.

I nodded.

“Did you find anything in his house?” I asked, finding my way to a commercial, steel coffee maker beside the detective bullpen’s watercooler. I poured a cup and offered it to Bowers. He declined.

“About a hundred vials of blood in his refrigerator and a couple dozen of some other substance we’re still analyzing.”

“Did you find any climbing gear?” I asked, taking a sip of the coffee and wincing. It was scorched and weak. I was tempted to pour it back in the carafe.

Bowers raised his eyebrows.

“What do you know?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“Whoever killed Rolando Diaz might have climbed through his window. Figured Azrael was good for it.”

Bowers’ eyes glazed over for a moment, and he rubbed his chin.

“Yeah. We found nylon rope and some sort of harness in one of his closets. We assumed he was into kinky sex.”

“Might want to rethink that one.”

I took another sip on my coffee. It was as bad as the first; I could see why Bowers declined. When we got back to the interrogation room, it looked like Susan hadn’t moved. I offered her my cup of coffee, but she smartly said no. We waited for another five minutes for the evidence guy to come back with the picture, and when he did, it had already been bagged and tagged. Hopefully it’d work.

“Wish me luck,” I said, taking the picture and holding it up. Susan’s eyes bored into me. Tough crowd.

I walked into the interrogation room, and Karen immediately looked away.

“I have nothing to say to you, Detective.”

I put the picture and my coffee on the table and slid both to her.

“I got you some coffee,” I said.

She took a sip and made an ugly face before spitting it back.

“You can keep it,” she said, pushing the coffee towards me and pulling the photograph to herself.

“I’m guessing the baby is your nephew Feng,” I said. “Are those two his parents?”

Karen nodded.

“Where are they now?” I asked.

She looked up.

“Dead.”

I waited for her to say something else, but she didn’t.

“Why did you want me to go to Hong Kong?”

She didn’t answer immediately, so I pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down to show that I was willing to wait as long as it took. Her eyes were black and hate–filled when she looked up, but I didn’t think they were directed towards me. Not solely, at least. I softened my voice.

“Your nephew is dead, Karen, and my guess is that he died for a reason,” I said. “Don’t let him take it to his grave. What were you trying to do?”

Karen didn’t answer. I waited a few minutes before glancing at the camera and shaking my head to let them know we needed to try another approach. She started speaking when I pushed my chair back.

“They killed them two months after this picture was taken.”

“Who?” I asked, settling back into the chair.

“Soldiers. They were kids,” she said, scrunching up her face as if she didn’t understand. “Twenty years old, and they executed them for publishing a newsletter about democracy.”

“This was in China?” I asked.

Karen nodded.

“So you wanted revenge,” I said.

Karen shook her head vehemently.

“I wanted to make sure they couldn’t do the same thing to anyone else,” she said. “You should understand that. You have a family.”

I nodded as if I had stepped off the bus at crazy town, too.

“But things went wrong and Rachel Haddad died,” I said, leaning forward. I glanced at the camera in the hopes that they were recording the session.

“Miss Haddad was an accident,” said Karen. “My nephew was experimenting with alternative shipping methods, and some of our products were mixed together. We sold irradiated blood to encourage kids to join us. That blood got mixed with a shipment, and Rachel died after drinking it. It was a mistake.”

Somehow I didn’t think that would comfort her family.

“What about Robbie Cutting?”

Karen sat up straighter.

“He walked in while some of our people searched his room. Another regrettable mistake.”

I nodded again.

“There seem to be a lot of those going around,” I said. “So vampires were just theatrics?”

Karen shrugged.

“People will do anything for you if you give them something to believe in.”

I glanced at the camera suspended from the ceiling in the corner of the room.

“Why’d you pick Indianapolis?” I asked.

Karen shrugged.

“Same reason Fedex and
UPS
build hubs here. Half the country’s population is within a six–hour drive.”

That made sense. I nodded.

“So what were you trying to do?” I asked. “I know you weren’t after money.”

She shrugged again.

“I wanted them to feel the same pain I felt.”

“You wanted who to feel what?”

She looked straight at me.

“I wanted everyone in the Chinese government to feel the pain my nephew and I feel every day. I wanted them to suffer as we did.”

Our eyes stayed locked, but Karen didn’t say anything else for a moment. I rubbed my chin.

“And you thought you could develop a virus that would do that for you?”

Karen looked down at her hands, a wistful smile on her face.

“I didn’t think, Mr. Rashid. I did. Now I need someone to deliver it.”

As soon as Karen finished speaking, the room’s only door flew open and the two
FBI
agents I had seen with Bowers burst in.

I stood quickly, but Karen hardly moved. Susan walked in shortly after, her cheeks flushed and her lips compressed to a thin line. She held up her hand, stopping me from speaking.