Purgatory (Jon Stanton Mysteries Book 11) Read online

  “How?”

  He smiled. “He’s an angel.”

  “An angel?”

  “Yeah, an angel. An honest-to-God wrathful angel here on earth to exact vengeance on the dust, bless His name.”

  “How do you… I mean, how do you know he’s an angel?” she said, playing along. Sudden fear gripped her: they weren’t just criminals, they were insane.

  “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen his glory. When he’s overcome by the power of God, there’s nothing that stops him.” He stared at her, wide-eyed. “You’ll see it, too. You’ll bask in his glory like sunlight.”

  “Can’t wait,” she said, forcing a smile.

  He laughed. “Shit, you don’t believe. That’s why the world’s so fucked up now—no one believes in anything anymore that they can’t see or touch. There’s magic in the world, too. The power of the Creator.”

  She waited a few moments, the silence between them like a wall. She swallowed. “Can I use the bathroom?”

  He pointed with his beer. “Down the hall.”

  She stood up slowly and walked past the couch, her body bracing for him reaching out and grabbing her. But he just lay there, staring at the television. He’d smoked too much pot and didn’t seem to have the energy to do anything.

  The bathroom was small, and she locked the door. She began to sob and had to put her hand over her mouth so that Mackie couldn’t hear. Leaning against the wall, she slid down and let herself cry for a few moments before she realized that this was her one and possibly only chance to get away.

  She stood up, wiping her tears away, and looked around the bathroom. She opened drawers and checked the cupboard under the sink. Everything was empty. She pulled aside the shower curtain… and there was a small window. It was positioned high enough that someone looking in wouldn’t see anything. She guessed it was only fifteen inches wide. She took a deep breath and opened the door. “Mackie? I’m going to take a shower if that’s okay. I’m really dirty.”

  “Whatever. Just be out before Dane comes back.”

  She shut the door. Pulling together the scraps of strength she had left, she turned on the shower and stripped off all her clothes except her bra and panties. After getting herself wet, she took the bar of soap from the corner of the tub. She moved the shower aside but left it running and rubbed the soap over her entire body until it lathered every inch. Then she took a few deep breaths and pulled herself up onto the window.

  It opened out, and she pushed it as far as it would go, snapping the hinges and, as quietly as possible, pulling the two pieces down and tossing them outside onto the dirt. Her shoulders got caught and she pushed as hard as she could, rounding them as much as possible. But it was no use. They wouldn’t fit.

  She readjusted and stuck one arm and one shoulder through before forcing out her head. The sides of the window scraped her face, but the soap let her face slide through. One arm and her head were outside, and she felt the warm air of night and saw the crescent moon up in the sky. Using her free hand to push on the outside wall of the house, she jammed her other shoulder into the window opening and pushed.

  Her shoulder felt on fire as she pulled it through. Even with the soap, the metal of the frame scraped her skin and ripped a large gash in her white flesh. Drops of blood beaded slowly at first, then dribbled down like rain off a rooftop. She felt the warm flow run down her arm. Pushing harder, she nearly screamed and had to bite her tongue hard enough to draw blood to keep the sound in. She pulled the rest of her body out and landed on her hands.

  Holding her injured shoulder, trying to stop the flow of blood, she ran.

  25

  Stanton sat in a chair against the wall as several uniforms looked around the plant. Lorenzo, Jimmy, and a few other forensic techs analyzed the scene. He was too tired to look over their shoulders to see what they were finding. It didn’t matter anyway. He didn’t think people who did something like this left much behind.

  “Nasty, nasty, nasty,” Lorenzo said, coming back down the ladder with a mess of flesh and lime in a plastic container. He lowered the plastic mask from over his mouth and nose. “Dude’s juice now. Only thing we got to ID him is the teeth.”

  “It’s him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen a photo. It’s him.” He sighed. “I’ll need to let the wife know. Please text me if you find anything, and I mean anything.”

  Laka hurried in and stopped to stare at the translucent plastic jar Lorenzo was holding.

  “What the hell is that?” she asked.

  “This,” Lorenzo said, “is the remains of Thomas Wells in liquefied form. Want a drink?”

  “Ew, Lorenzo, you’re fucking disgusting.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll grow on you.”

  Stanton watched as he set the container down, pulled his mask over his face again, and headed back up the ladder.

  “How did you find him?” Laka asked.

  “The identification code on the container was upturned. All the others are on the sides.”

  “Stupid bastards didn’t check, huh?”

  “I doubt that. If they didn’t want us to find him, they could’ve dragged him out of here and dumped him in the Pacific. They wanted us to find him, just not right away. Maybe because they wanted him to dissolve more, maybe it’s a game to them… I don’t know. A lot of psychopaths are absolute failures in life and get their sense of confidence from feeling they’re outsmarting the police. This might just be a lead to get us on his trail.”

  “Poor bastard. What a way to go.” She paused. “You look worse than yesterday.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “What does your therapist say?”

  He grinned. “You sound like Julie.”

  “Well, believe it or not, there are people who actually care about your dumb ass. What’d the therapist say? Have they checked for tumors or… I don’t know. Something biological?”

  “She doesn’t think it’s that. Her best theory is that it’s related to some stress in my life. That my unconscious mind has picked up on something, some secret, that my conscious mind hasn’t, and it’s causing a rift between the two, leading to depression and insomnia.”

  “And what do you think about that bullshit?”

  “It’s a real phenomenon. A lot of people involved in the financial crisis who worked at big banks suffered deep depression and insomnia well before the crash. Their unconscious had figured out what was happening and that they were involved in something horrific, but their conscious minds hadn’t. Our unconscious, as much as we like to talk about free will, guides our life, and it can’t be fought. In fact, the harder you fight, the more it controls you.”

  He rubbed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “I need to lie down. I’m going to let his wife know tomorrow. Would you mind sticking around and texting me with whatever they find?”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  “Thanks.”

  As he was leaving to go home and lie down, Stanton got a text. Stephanie had gotten a hit on the license plate of the stolen car, and it had been reported stolen on Saturday. It belonged to a man named Winston Bailey, and she sent him the address. In spite of the adrenaline, he also felt disappointment and dread. He needed to be alone for a while and lie down. But he knew he had to get out there and talk to this man.

  Stanton drove to the address after stopping for another Red Bull. They didn’t really affect him anymore. He had gone from drinking half of one to drinking the large canisters, and the rush was starting to fade. He would have to drink two from now on.

  Bailey’s house was small with peeling white paint and an overgrown lawn in a dying neighborhood of homes ready to be torn down. And yet Stanton saw multiple families out on their porches, drinking and passing the time laughing and joking. He couldn’t remember a single time his family had ever laughed together when he was a kid, and it bothered him. There had to be at least one time… but he couldn’t remember it anymore.

  Stanton parked in the dr
iveway and got out. When he rang the doorbell, a man in an undershirt and boxers answered.

  “Are you Winston?”

  “Yeah,” he said, a strong odor of alcohol wafting into Stanton’s face.

  “Winston, I’m a detective with the Honolulu PD. You reported your car stolen on Saturday, is that right?”

  “Yeah. You find it?”

  “Sort of. Can I come in and chat with you a second?”

  “Well, where is it?”

  “Can I come in?”

  He hesitated and then opened the door. Stanton walked past him and into the house. Dishes were piled everywhere, old pizza boxes and candy bar wrappers on the couches and tables. Stanton sat down on a loveseat, and Winston sat on the couch, turning down the television with a remote before he said, “Well, where is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Then what the hell you—”

  “Your car was used in a crime. Whoever committed that crime still has it or, most likely, has dumped it somewhere, and we haven’t found it yet. We saw the license plate on a video and tracked you down.”

  He breathed out heavily and leaned back onto the couch. “Need that car. Been takin’ the bus to work and been late every damn day.”

  “I’m sorry, I promise I’ll do all I can to find your car.” He leaned forward. “Would you mind telling me about the day your car got stolen?”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, let’s start in the morning and run through it.”

  Winston shook his head. “Nothin’ to tell. I woke up, went out for breakfast with my girlfriend, and a few hours later it was gone.”

  “Where did you go for breakfast?”

  “Um… Breakfast Cabin. That place up on Halua Drive. We ate, then left and—”

  “Would you mind going into more detail? Like people you talked to, anything unusual that happened or that you saw… things like that.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. We was eating and getting ready to leave… Didn’t really see anything. Table next to us was loud.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know, three guys.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Young, good-looking guys. They was just talking loud, laughin’ a lot.” He grinned and stared off into space. “I remember when I was that young. No woman was safe. Shit, that’s a young man’s game though, ain’t it? Older you get, the lonelier you get.”

  Stanton felt for him and wanted to say something comforting, but nothing came to him. He felt on the verge of fainting and wished he would. Even unconsciousness would be rest. “What else do you remember about these men?”

  “Um… I don’t know. One was covered in tattoos.”

  Stanton took out his phone and opened his notes. “What kind of tattoos?”

  “Really dark ones. He had this one that was a dragon. It started on his neck, like really close to his face, and went down his body. I saw it on his arms, probably went down even more. Don’t know why anybody would get a tattoo on their face. How you gonna get a job like that?”

  Stanton took notes and said, “Any other tattoos you remember?”

  “Yeah… he had a red… like a drop or something, under his eye.”

  Stanton felt a prick of excitement. “Red drop? Like a drop of blood? Under which eye?”

  “The right one, I think. Yeah, I guess it could’ve been a drop of blood.”

  Stanton knew the tattoo. A street gang on the island called the White Kings used it to mark themselves as members. That way, even if they left, they never really left. Stanton knew one of the big shots in the gang, Kale Burton. Stanton had tracked down the murderer of one of his friends and Kale had been grateful, even though Stanton knew he would’ve rather put a bullet in the murderer’s head.

  “Anything else?”

  Winston shook his head. “No. The other two didn’t have tattoos that I saw. They was wearing jackets. Just normal-looking guys.”

  “What happened when you left the restaurant?”

  “We went over to the bank, the ATM, to get out some cash, but the ATM wasn’t working, and we went inside to get it. When we came out, the car was gone.”

  “Did you leave the keys inside?”

  He shook his head. “No, keys in my pocket. Bastards were lightnin’ fast. We couldn’t have been in there more than a few minutes.”

  Stanton rose. He took out one of his cards and left it on the coffee table. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

  “Don’t know nothin’ else, but alright.”

  Stanton stepped outside, fatigue washing over him like warm water, beckoning him toward the sleep he knew wouldn’t come. He got into his jeep instead, texted Julie to let her know he wouldn’t be home until late, and headed to H Town, a section of Honolulu even the police didn’t like going to at night.

  29

  The darkness didn’t envelop her like she thought. The moon and stars were out and so far from town, Rachel could even see the Milky Way.

  The blood hadn’t stopped. She was worried she would get an infection or maybe even bleed out before she found help. Her feet hurt as she was barefoot—better than running in high heels, she thought, but still painful.

  The road was long and winding, and sharp gravel on the sides of the road made it impossible to run there. She had to run on the road itself and was worried about Dane coming back and seeing her. With the fear came a heightened awareness, and she thought she would probably be able to see a car before the occupants would be able to see her.

  If she had let it, panic would probably have taken over, so she occupied her mind by trying to remember every little fact and detail she could, running through the story she would tell the police when she found help. She would have preferred not to get the police involved, especially since she wanted to be on the first flight off the island and never come back, but she felt she had to report the men. Who knew who they really were and if they would come after her?

  The valley opened up, and down the hill she could see the lights of Honolulu. She estimated she was ten miles away from the nearest person.

  Her legs burned, and she felt bile rising in her throat. A minute later, her lungs simply gave out, and she couldn’t run anymore. She stopped for a second, bending over, her hands on her thighs as she gasped for breath. Dizziness was the enemy now. She felt like she had to lie down and take a break, but she didn’t know if Mackie was behind her or not or how far away Dane was down the opposite direction, so she took a few deep breaths and started walking.

  Her feet burned with pain. At one point, she had to stop and remove something sharp from her heel, maybe a thorn or sharp splinter. As she took it out and stole a second away to just sit there and rest, she heard a quiet rumbling in the distance—a car.

  Farther down the road was a patch of shrubbery. She scrambled on her hands and knees and crawled into the hedges along the road. The sharp vegetation cut her, sending dozens of stings into her flesh. One caught on the gash in her shoulder, and she would’ve screamed if she hadn’t covered her mouth with her hands.

  As tears ran down her cheeks, she flattened herself against the ground and closed her eyes.

  30

  Stanton got to H Town and the restaurant Kale owned. It was a Chinese place, though he was as white as it got. He was a transplant to the island, born in Iowa, who changed his first name to a Hawaiian name to fit in. Stanton knew he was responsible for at least half a dozen murders; he couldn’t rise to the top in a violent gang like the White Kings without proving himself.

  A few men stood outside the restaurant, smoking a potent mix of pot and cocaine from joints. Stanton showed them his badge and said, “I need to talk to Kale.”

  All the men had blood-drop tattoos, which they earned by killing somebody from a rival gang. One of the men motioned with his head inside the restaurant and Stanton, wishing he had come armed, went inside.

  The restaurant had dim red lighting, and a couple of men sat in
the corner. The scent of frying pork and vegetables filled his nostrils, and he realized now even the thought of food made him sick. It seemed like the act of chewing, mixing food with saliva, and swallowing were the most disgusting things he had ever heard of.

  He went to the counter and ordered a Sprite. Stanton left a couple of bucks on the counter before heading to the back room.

  Kale sat in an office with calendars of nude women hanging around him. The office was clean and empty other than a huge neckless man standing behind him. Kale saw Stanton and motioned for the man behind him to leave. Stanton sat down, and Kale shut the door.

  “What you drinking?” Kale said.

  “Sprite.”

  “I got something better if you want it.”

  “Sprite’s fine, thank you. How’ve you been?”

  Kale sat and leaned back in his chair. “Can’t complain. My lady’s knocked up.”

  “Congratulations. Your first?”

  He nodded. “Didn’t think I’d ever be a daddy. Dudes like me don’t live long enough for that.”

  “You can always leave the game.”

  He chuckled. “Shit, ain’t no leaving this game. Where am I gonna go? Who the fuck would give me a job with my record and lookin’ like I do?” He took out a marijuana cigarette and lit it. “So what you want?”

  “Three men recently kidnapped and killed a man, Thomas Wells. Do you know who that is?”

  He shook his head and blew out a puff of smoke. “No.”

  “Owned some factories and warehouses other companies used for delivery and storage. One of the men that killed him had a White Kings tattoo under his eye.”

  “No shit.”

  Stanton nodded. “I’d be really grateful if you helped me find this man.”

  He grinned. “We got over a hundred brothers. How the hell do I know which one of them it is?”

  “It would probably be someone who recently left the gang. If they were still in, I doubt they would do something like this without running it by you first. Do you know of anyone who’s left recently?”