Grant Mckenzie Page 13

  Zack pointed at the trap. ‘That was set in the floor of one of the original bars or whorehouses. Drink too much or drop your pants in the wrong room and the owner pulls a lever. They’d usually leave an old mattress on the ground to make sure you didn’t break a leg, since no one would buy a lame sailor. When you hit the mattress, one of the bullyboys would crack you over the head with a sap. Then you’re off to a cell to await the next ship. It could take three to six years before you ever saw home again.’

  ‘Why have I never heard about this before?’ Sam asked. ‘It sounds horrible.’

  ‘After prohibition – since the tunnels were busy then, too – the city tried to bury its sordid history and focus people’s attention on bridges and rose gardens. People forgot about the tunnels and the smugglers. It wasn’t until the 1970s, when the city had to do some serious roadwork in these old neighbourhoods, that local historians rediscovered them.’

  ‘And your friend reopened them?’ Sam asked.

  Zack shrugged. ‘This is the only one I’ve seen.’

  ‘You came here last night?’

  Zack nodded. ‘Wish I could have seen it when I was writing the paper. Most of my details came from dusty old records and historical diaries.’

  Sam studied the large cavern with the red carpet, wondering what the hardened crimpers would think if they could see it now. In one corner stood a large, semi-circular couch in a matching shade of red that was so fabulously plush it inspired visions of a Playboy photo shoot. It faced a large plasma TV similar to the one Sam had coveted in the window of the Sony store.

  ‘This place is impressive.’ Sam’s gaze swept the other walls, taking in two more imposingly constructed archways. The tunnel beyond the first doorway on his right remained ominously dark, while the second was sealed by a wooden door. It was medieval thick and studded with rusted iron dimples.

  The archway above the door was inscribed with mysterious symbols.

  ‘I haven’t been able to figure those out,’ Zack said. ‘You’ll find them all over the tunnels. The language of the day was English with a few bits of Chinese thrown in from the imported labourers who built the railroads and docks. But these symbols are neither. Closest I can guess is some kind of Masonic code left behind by the builders.’

  Zack rapped knuckles on the heavy door. The ancient wood absorbed the sound as though he had pelted it with cotton wool.

  ‘I think you’re supposed to hit it with a studded mace,’ Sam said. ‘Your knock didn’t even echo.’

  Before Zack could respond, the door was opened by a large Asian man with muscled shoulders almost wider than the archway, his shiny black T-shirt moulded perfectly over carved pectorals.

  The man’s shaved head glistened in the cold artificial light and the sneer on his face was enough to turn lesser beings into pillars of salt.

  ‘He’s expecting us.’ Zack’s voice was surprisingly firm.

  56

  The guard opened the door wider and stepped aside to let them pass, but he left one of his trunk-thick arms locked on the doorframe, forcing both Zack and Sam to duck under.

  Inside the third cavern, Sam was stunned by yet more opulence. Rich curtains draped the cavern walls, and Persian rugs blanketed the floor. On several walls, the curtains had been pulled back to expose vibrant oil paintings by artists rarely exhibited outside of museums.

  Sam gawped at a small seascape, which looked identical to one he had read was recently stolen from a gallery in Amsterdam.

  ‘Are you an art lover, Mr White?’ asked a raspy male voice.

  A thickset man in a tailored black suit had appeared from behind one of the curtains. The suit did little to disguise his bulky figure. Built from the ground up for manual labour on the Siberian Steppes, the man had thick legs, a barrel chest and the largest hands Sam had ever seen on someone so short. Although standing at least four inches shorter than Sam, the man radiated muscle and power.

  ‘Is that really a Van Gogh?’ Sam asked.

  The man shrugged. ‘Probably. I don’t know much about it myself, but the boss likes his luxuries.’

  Zack stepped in to make the introductions. ‘Sam, this is Vadik. He and his daughter were sent to my clinic by a mutual acquaintance.’

  ‘So modest,’ said Vadik. ‘Dr Parker saved my daughter’s life. She was badly burned and the scars were . . .’ He shivered. ‘The scars were devastating.’

  ‘But Tasya is well,’ Zack said.

  ‘She is beautiful,’ Vadik said proudly. ‘Thanks to you. So come, let me help.’

  Vadik led them to the far corner of the cavern where a solid horseshoe-shaped desk glowed from the light of four large computer monitors. Each monitor pulsed with an abstract screen saver that reminded Sam of the movie, Matrix.

  Zack and Sam seated themselves on a pair of leather armchairs while Vadik settled into a swivelling office chair. The imposing guard stayed by the door, his eyes never leaving the visitors.

  ‘Dr Parker has told me of your plight,’ Vadik began. ‘And I want to say how sorry I am. If you find you need guns or muscle, just let me know and they’re yours. No upfront fees. Fair enough?’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Vadik slapped his hands together. ‘Now I’m also told you want $250,000.’

  Sam tried not to look guilty.

  ‘As Dr Parker explained it,’ Vadik continued, ‘you have no means, nor intention of paying it back, and we won’t see any interest. This is an unusual request.’

  ‘Please can you help me?’ Sam blurted.

  Vadik smiled darkly.

  ‘Dr Parker also informs me that by the time your ordeal is over, there is a very good chance you will be either in prison or in a grave. Is that not correct?’

  Sam glanced over at Zack. He was sitting rigid, his eyes locked unflinchingly on Vadik. Sam was on his own. No more secrets, he said to himself, recalling Zack’s words, no more lies.

  Sam nodded, deflated.

  ‘Not to worry, Sam,’ Vadik assured. ‘Dr Parker and I go back a long way. If I didn’t believe I could help, you wouldn’t be here. I’ve already spoken to my boss and he has given me free licence.’

  Sam stared into the man’s dark brown eyes. ‘I’ll do anything,’ he said, and meant it.

  ‘Good. Now I understand you can acquire access to your place of employment.’

  ‘The mall?’

  ‘Precisely. In exchange for the money, we require full access to the mall.’

  Sam looked puzzled. ‘You’re going to rob a store?’

  Vadik chuckled. ‘Nothing so common as that, Sam. We’re going to rob the entire mall. Every store on every floor, and you’re going to make sure we’re not disturbed until we’re done.’

  57

  The men hadn’t returned.

  The woman worried when she opened her eyes that they had taken away their meager supplies as punishment, but they had retreated without thought for the food. They obviously preferred physical punishment. From the pain that coursed through her ribcage when she breathed, the woman was sure she had suffered broken ribs from a sharp-toed boot while she lay defenseless.

  Her strategy of trying to engage the larger one in conversation had had little effect. She had read in a psychology book that kidnap victims should repeat their names in order to get the kidnapper to see them as flesh-and-blood human beings. If he could recognize them as woman and child, rather than disposable cargo, it might spark some memories of a mother, a sister, of someone he must have loved. But the man was unmoved, showing not the slightest glimmer that he heard her pleading words.

  The woman had used some of their precious water to clean the blood off the child’s face and to examine her bones for any breaks. Her nose was badly swollen and her eyes were puffy, but the woman was fairly sure everything was where it was supposed to be.

  It had taken her a long time to soothe the child after she had been returned. Although physical wounds could always be mended, the woman worried for MaryAnn’s spirit. Once that
was broken, there would be nothing to stoke her will to survive.

  The woman had thought her own spirit was lost, but the child had given her the strength she needed to stay alive long enough to make someone pay for everything that had been done to them.

  58

  Zack pulled into the parking lot of a Wal-Mart superstore and turned off the ignition. Neither of them had spoken since leaving the tunnels, although Sam had twice opened his mouth as if to start, but then closed it without a word.

  Finally, Zack said, ‘What is it?’

  Sam sighed. ‘I wanted to ask if you think we can trust him, but what the fuck good does that do? I mean, what good is your word to me now?’

  ‘I got you the money, didn’t I?’

  ‘No, you introduced me to a gangster who wants to use me to rob a mall.’

  ‘And pay you a quarter million to do it. Did you have a better idea?’

  ‘Fuck!’ Sam punched the ceiling.

  Zack bristled. ‘If you don’t trust me, Sam, I’ll leave and find Jasmine on my own.’

  Sam met Zack’s icy glare.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be successful,’ he continued. ‘But I don’t think you will either. So we have to put this behind us and work together or we go our separate ways and our loved ones die. What’s it to be?’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

  ‘No,’ said Zack, ‘that’s the God’s honest truth.’

  He stuck out his hand.

  It trembled until, finally, Sam took it in his and squeezed.

  ‘Now we need new licence plates,’ Zack said to change the subject. ‘If the police connect us, these California plates will stand out like a beacon.’

  Sam scanned the parking lot. ‘Look for a car that doesn’t get washed too often and they shouldn’t notice the switch.’

  Zack opened his door.

  ‘And then we need to find a high school yearbook,’ Sam continued. ‘The fucker who has my family must be in there somewhere. Name, photo, the works.’

  59

  ‘So what do you think?’ Hogan asked.

  The two detectives sat at a picnic table in Waterfront Park while a stream of joggers clogged the river path in front of them.

  Preston squeezed some hot mustard on his first steamed hotdog and licked the excess off his fingers.

  ‘It’s like I said before,’ he began, ‘the actor’s gone off the deep end and is in a full-blown killing spree.’

  Hogan took a long sip of root beer.

  ‘I don’t buy it,’ he said. ‘People don’t just wake up one morning and decide to a) kill their family, b) kill somebody else’s, c) blow up their house, d) rob a liquor store for two lousy bottles of booze, and e) kill some down-on-his-luck schmuck for his cellphone.’

  ‘That’s very impressive.’ Preston stuffed half the hotdog in his mouth and reached for his own can of root beer.

  ‘What is?’ Hogan asked.

  ‘The way you keep the alphabet in order like that.’

  Hogan ignored the jab. ‘Your theory suggests that Mr White, a reasonably normal man by all accounts—’

  ‘An actor,’ Preston injected as he stuffed the second half of the hotdog into his mouth.

  ‘Woke up one morning and decided to become a – what? – mass murderer? . . . Serial killer?’

  ‘If he had stuck with killing the two families, his own and the mystery pair in the morgue, then he might be a serial.’ Preston wiped mustard stains off his lips with a fresh paper napkin. ‘But he messed that up with the cellphone and liquor jobs. So I think we’re left with whack-job, which definitely makes for a trickier, although often wittier, morning headline.’

  ‘But why?’ Hogan asked. ‘We don’t have a motive and so far we can’t even connect the victims. There’s no logic.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with you.’ Preston loaded his second hotdog with mustard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You love to poke holes in a nice, simple theory.’

  Preston took a large bite of his hotdog, and Hogan looked away. He had lost his appetite.

  60

  Zack drove the Mercedes into the teachers’ lot of Brookside High and parked in an empty spot marked for visitors.

  ‘It’s smaller than I remember,’ he said.

  The building was spread over two floors of industrial grey stone that engulfed nearly an entire city block. Designed for capacity rather than aesthetics, the only break to its boring box dimensions came in the form of an M-shaped canopy roof across the main entrance.

  Sam noticed that several of the windows were boarded over, and there was more graffiti than he remembered. The school looked tired, past retirement and finding itself slumping, but too old to give a damn.

  A group of teenagers hung out by the front doors, all attitude and hair, with logos emblazoned on everything from skateboards to underwear.

  ‘Did we ever look that young?’ Sam asked. ‘I remember feeling so . . . cocky back then, like I had the world by the tail and everything would just magically fall into place.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Zack agreed, ‘we thought we knew everything there was to know.’

  ‘Davey said it was like walking among gods.’

  ‘A bit extreme, but I can see his point. We were so sheltered, so cocooned in our own shells, that minor celebrities stuck out like fireflies. The football player, the cheerleader . . .’ Zack turned to Sam. ‘The actor.’

  Sam returned Zack’s stare. ‘The science nerd?’

  Zack paused and inclined his head. ‘The general population didn’t notice us, except as targets of ridicule. But a younger geek may have looked to us as role models.’

  ‘And somehow you . . . what? Shunned him so badly he became a psychopath?’

  ‘As did you, apparently,’ Zack added defensively.

  ‘That’s tough logic to follow. We’re looking for someone who felt betrayed by both of us to such a level that he seeks revenge decades later when – what? – he has a mid-life crisis.’

  ‘And not just us,’ Zack interjected. ‘The targets he sent us after. Your friend last night, Iron—’ Zack faltered, his voice breaking at the memory. ‘Shit. What could we have done to cause this much pain?’

  ‘Maybe we didn’t do anything,’ Sam reasoned. ‘That’s why we can’t solve the riddle. Whatever it is we’re being blamed for, it’s been twisted to such a degree inside this freak’s mind that there’s no logic left. He’s been stewing about something so insignificant to us that it doesn’t even register in our memories, yet it scarred him so deeply he’s become a monster.’

  ‘So how do we find him?’ Zack asked.

  Sam nodded towards the school. ‘We walk down memory lane.’

  61

  Hogan’s cellphone rang as Preston drained the last of his root beer.

  ‘Detective Hogan?’ asked a gruff voice.

  ‘Speaking. Who’s this?’

  ‘Walt Toler. Toler’s Tonics. I got smacked in the head for two lousy bottles of booze.’

  ‘Right, Mr Toler. What can I do for you?’

  ‘One of the officers gave me your card, said if I remembered anything to call.’

  ‘Which you have.’

  ‘Yeah. Listen, I thought I recognized the guy, but wasn’t sure. Then I was watching some TV here, and there he is.’

  ‘On TV?’

  ‘Yeah, in a fuckin’ commercial for the Beavers.’

  ‘We know the suspect is an actor.’ Hogan prepared to hang up.

  ‘But that’s not where I know him from,’ Walt continued.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No. It took a moment to click, it’s been a few fuckin’ years, but I went to high school with him.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. We didn’t hang out or nothin’, which is why it didn’t click. But I saw a couple plays he was in cause there was some hot chicks in drama who didn’t mind shakin’ it a bit, you know?’

  Hogan thought for a moment. ‘Did he recognize you?’

  ‘Na
h,’ Walt said dismissively. ‘But then I don’t look nothin’ like I did back then. The Viking they called me. My hair was down past my shoulders and the colour of Tropicana orange juice.’

  Hogan smiled into the phone as he tried to picture the balding man with the walrus moustache sporting long red hair.

  ‘That must have been something to see.’

  Walt laughed. ‘Yeah, The Viking and Ironman ruled the fuckin’ roost. Chicks, booze . . . crazy, crazy times.’

  ‘Ironman?’ Hogan’s brain twitched from the possibility. ‘Not Rick Ironwood, by any chance?’

  Walt laughed again. ‘Sure. You know the Ironman?’

  ‘I was just at his house.’

  ‘No shit! I haven’t seen him in ages. How’s the old bastard doing?’

  ‘He’s dead. Murdered,’ Hogan said flatly. ‘I was there on official business.’

  ‘Oh, crap.’ Walt released his breath in an audible wheeze. ‘I always meant to give him a call, get together for a beer. Shit. Time slips through your fingers, don’t it?’ A pause. ‘Any idea who did it?’

  ‘Do you?’

  Walt sucked in another deep breath. ‘I don’t like to speak ill of old friends, but Ironman had trouble keeping his shit together, you know? He owed some money. He liked his dope. Could be a hundred people who hated his guts. He was an all right guy, though. It was just . . . he never really got over not making it in college.’

  ‘What happened in college?’ Hogan asked.

  ‘Ahh, shit, you know? They expected him to make grades. Ironman was great on the gridiron, but none too bright in the classroom. Lost his scholarship and that was that.’

  ‘What about Sam White?’

  ‘Huh?’ Walt was stumped.

  ‘The man who attacked you,’ explained Hogan.

  ‘Oh, right. That was his name. That’s been bugging me. I paid more attention to the chicks. What about him?’