VII. Three of Seven
"Holy shit." breathed Findhorn.
"No, I think it's been pretty well defiled." said Briggs. "Still think my theory is so absurd, Detective?"
"Hell, no. I have to report this." replied Findhorn, reaching for his radio.
"One favor, Detective. Give my another fifteen minutes to find what I'm looking for."
"No can do. It's my duty as a police officer to get a forensics team back here and identify this body."
"I'll trade you the time for some advice."
Findhorn hesitated.
"In fact, I'll give you some now and some more before I leave." Briggs offered.
Findhorn thought for a moment. Fifteen minutes wasn't long... "Deal."
"Right then." said Briggs, walking to the rack that held the remaining barrels. "The odds are against me choosing the only barrel with something to hide. My advice is to have your forensics teams examine each of these barrels.
"Now move, I'm going to see if there's anything behind this."
Findhorn stepped back and watched with muted fascination as Briggs dragged one end of the rack away from the wall. The structure easily weighed a ton--the metal screamed against the basement's concrete floor, leaving deep grooves in its passage. There was the sound of snapping joints as a mechanical contraption mounted behind the far barrel splintered into pieces.
"Ah ha." said Briggs, looking at the device's ruined pieces. "This must've been how they moved this rack. So there must be something back here..."
"How did you do that?" Findhorn asked, awestruck.
"It's all in the wrists." said Briggs, exploring the wall behind the rack. "What have we here?"
Findhorn edged around the rack and found Briggs holding a handle set into the wall. He pulled on it, revealing a door disguised among the wall panels. Briggs went inside and flipped on a light switch.
"Bingo." he said.
Beneath a single ceiling light stood a hexagonal altar with an inverted cross at its center that looked to be made of solid gold. In front of the altar was a white basin with gold inlays of inverted crosses and the number 666, dotted with pink smears. Atop the altar stood a small, transparent vial filled with a red fluid.
Briggs went up to the vial and picked it up. "This is what I've been looking for."
Briggs heard the sound of a gun cocking from the doorway.
"Put it down." Findhorn's voice wasn't loud, but it was forceful. "Gently. That's evidence."
Briggs turned to face Findhorn. The Detective's gun stayed trained on his skull.
"I see you remembered the safety this time." he said.
"Drop it or I swear I'll shoot."
"Oh, I know you will. Just like back in '22 when you shot that seventeen-year-old trying to break into your apartment. Or the two suspects fleeing from that convenience store robbery in '23. Or when you cracked open the skull of a would-be rapist with a tire-iron in '31. Not to mention the pet kitten you deliberately buried alive when you were just ten years old."
"Drop it. This is your last warning." Findhorn's voice didn't waver, but a tear had formed on his cheek.
"You like to think that being a good, uncorruptable cop makes up for it. But you know, deep down, that you're a killer. You like it, and you're damn good at it--"
Two shots echoed off the walls of the small chamber. Inexplicably, the lights went out.
Findhorn stepped back, trying to find the door. His heartbeat seemed so loud that it echoed; his breathing was all he could hear over it.
He grabbed the knob, but a hand clamped down on his wrist. Maybe it was Findhorn's own heightened body temperature, but the hand seemed too cold--room temperature, no more alive than the pickled boy in the next room.
"But you're not good enough to kill me." rasped Briggs.
As the smoke from the gun dissipated, Findhorn realized he could smell Briggs. For the first time, the scent of cigarette smoke had faded enough to smell what was underneath. It didn't smell like sweat, or breath, or skin. Briggs smelled awful, like rotting eggs.
Or sulphur.
"I have what I want, and I'm leaving. But a deal is a deal. The last piece of advice I have for you is this: there is a very good chance your wife will be shot dead before the sun comes up. You should take your time getting home, so you'll avoid the violence."
Findhorn raised his gun, guessed where Briggs' head would be, and fired.
"That's three shots fired. You have four left in your magazine." said Briggs. With that, another cold hand came down over Findhorn's face. For a moment, he saw a vision of a wall of fire--then everything went black.
"No, I think it's been pretty well defiled." said Briggs. "Still think my theory is so absurd, Detective?"
"Hell, no. I have to report this." replied Findhorn, reaching for his radio.
"One favor, Detective. Give my another fifteen minutes to find what I'm looking for."
"No can do. It's my duty as a police officer to get a forensics team back here and identify this body."
"I'll trade you the time for some advice."
Findhorn hesitated.
"In fact, I'll give you some now and some more before I leave." Briggs offered.
Findhorn thought for a moment. Fifteen minutes wasn't long... "Deal."
"Right then." said Briggs, walking to the rack that held the remaining barrels. "The odds are against me choosing the only barrel with something to hide. My advice is to have your forensics teams examine each of these barrels.
"Now move, I'm going to see if there's anything behind this."
Findhorn stepped back and watched with muted fascination as Briggs dragged one end of the rack away from the wall. The structure easily weighed a ton--the metal screamed against the basement's concrete floor, leaving deep grooves in its passage. There was the sound of snapping joints as a mechanical contraption mounted behind the far barrel splintered into pieces.
"Ah ha." said Briggs, looking at the device's ruined pieces. "This must've been how they moved this rack. So there must be something back here..."
"How did you do that?" Findhorn asked, awestruck.
"It's all in the wrists." said Briggs, exploring the wall behind the rack. "What have we here?"
Findhorn edged around the rack and found Briggs holding a handle set into the wall. He pulled on it, revealing a door disguised among the wall panels. Briggs went inside and flipped on a light switch.
"Bingo." he said.
Beneath a single ceiling light stood a hexagonal altar with an inverted cross at its center that looked to be made of solid gold. In front of the altar was a white basin with gold inlays of inverted crosses and the number 666, dotted with pink smears. Atop the altar stood a small, transparent vial filled with a red fluid.
Briggs went up to the vial and picked it up. "This is what I've been looking for."
Briggs heard the sound of a gun cocking from the doorway.
"Put it down." Findhorn's voice wasn't loud, but it was forceful. "Gently. That's evidence."
Briggs turned to face Findhorn. The Detective's gun stayed trained on his skull.
"I see you remembered the safety this time." he said.
"Drop it or I swear I'll shoot."
"Oh, I know you will. Just like back in '22 when you shot that seventeen-year-old trying to break into your apartment. Or the two suspects fleeing from that convenience store robbery in '23. Or when you cracked open the skull of a would-be rapist with a tire-iron in '31. Not to mention the pet kitten you deliberately buried alive when you were just ten years old."
"Drop it. This is your last warning." Findhorn's voice didn't waver, but a tear had formed on his cheek.
"You like to think that being a good, uncorruptable cop makes up for it. But you know, deep down, that you're a killer. You like it, and you're damn good at it--"
Two shots echoed off the walls of the small chamber. Inexplicably, the lights went out.
Findhorn stepped back, trying to find the door. His heartbeat seemed so loud that it echoed; his breathing was all he could hear over it.
He grabbed the knob, but a hand clamped down on his wrist. Maybe it was Findhorn's own heightened body temperature, but the hand seemed too cold--room temperature, no more alive than the pickled boy in the next room.
"But you're not good enough to kill me." rasped Briggs.
As the smoke from the gun dissipated, Findhorn realized he could smell Briggs. For the first time, the scent of cigarette smoke had faded enough to smell what was underneath. It didn't smell like sweat, or breath, or skin. Briggs smelled awful, like rotting eggs.
Or sulphur.
"I have what I want, and I'm leaving. But a deal is a deal. The last piece of advice I have for you is this: there is a very good chance your wife will be shot dead before the sun comes up. You should take your time getting home, so you'll avoid the violence."
Findhorn raised his gun, guessed where Briggs' head would be, and fired.
"That's three shots fired. You have four left in your magazine." said Briggs. With that, another cold hand came down over Findhorn's face. For a moment, he saw a vision of a wall of fire--then everything went black.
posted by Andrew Michael at 5:10 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home