Chapter 31 #2
He didn’t have any idea where to start, so he palmed the weapon he had borrowed from Schaffer and started with the row of units closest to him.
When he eased around the corner of the next row, he spotted Grace’s SUV. Moving quickly now, he made his way there. Anticipation had his heart thundering in his chest.
The SUV was empty.
“I knew you’d come.”
He pivoted and faced the voice.
Martin Fincher.
What was probably Grace’s weapon or maybe Worth’s was aimed at him.
“Place your weapon on the ground and kick it under the SUV,” Fincher ordered.
Taking his time, Ryan crouched down and laid his weapon on the ground.
“Now scoot it with your foot.”
Slowly, his hands out to the side, Ryan pushed back to his feet, then toed the weapon away as ordered.
“Now the cell phone.”
He did the same with his cell. “You’ve got me now,” he suggested. “Why not let Grace go?”
Fincher smiled. The glow from the overhead security lamp highlighted the amusement in his expression. “I can’t. She’s not here. And I am certain I will need her to keep you in control.”
Fury whipped through Ryan. “Where is she?” He was just about through playing the bastard’s games.
“Behave yourself and I’ll tell you.” He motioned to his right. “But first we have to take a little ride.”
“What about the reporter, Goodman?” Ryan demanded. “You made her call me, where is she?”
“She’s in her van with her cameraman. They’re a little tied up right now. I doubt they’ll make the morning news with this. I did find it rather convenient that she followed me to the decoy location. Prevented the need for making the call myself. This way was much more interesting.”
Ryan started walking in the direction Fincher had indicated. “I don’t want Grace hurt, Fincher,” he said. “She isn’t the one you want to hurt.”
“We’ve had this conversation already, McBride. Just keep walking.”
When Ryan reached the end of the row, Fincher said, “Left here.”
He took the left. A white Impala was parked between the next two rows of storage units.
“Get into the driver’s seat,” Fincher ordered.
When Ryan had dropped behind the wheel, Fincher got into the rear passenger seat. He tossed the keys into the front seat. “Take a right out of the parking lot.”
“Where’re we going?” Ryan started the engine.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Turn by turn, Fincher gave the directions. Ryan followed them verbatim. Anything to get Grace’s location. “Are you going to tell me where she is now?” He made a final turn into Elmwood Cemetery on Martin Luther King Drive.
“Soon,” Fincher promised.
A short distance onto cemetery property, Fincher ordered him to stop.
They got out simultaneously. Fincher held a medium-size brown paper bag in his left hand, the weapon in the other. “Start walking straight ahead,” he ordered.
“We here to visit someone you know?” Ryan asked in an attempt to rattle him.
“Turn left here,” Fincher told him.
“I hate to keep repeating myself,” Ryan said, “but I’d really like to know where Grace is.” He could take this guy, he was reasonably sure. But he couldn’t make a move and risk him ending up dead before he got Grace’s location out of him. This round had to be played by his rules.
“Stop right there.”
Ryan stopped in front of a headstone. The moonlight provided enough illumination for him to make out the name.
Daniel Fincher
Our Angel
“Ryan McBride, meet Daniel Fincher, my son.”
When you got past all the other bullshit, for Martin Fincher, this was what the whole nightmare was about. This and the wife he’d kept at home long after her death.
Ryan turned to face Fincher. He wagged the weapon to remind Ryan not to forget.
“I’m sorry about your son, Fincher. But hurting Grace won’t bring him back.”
Fincher shook his head. “It was all their fault. They should have been more careful. Walmart trains their employees to watch for things like that.”
“What about you?” Ryan asked, taking a risk. “Where were you when Daniel went missing?”
Fury contorted Fincher’s face. “Daniel and his mother went to Walmart. Deirdre fainted and the paramedics had to be called. Her heart,” he said pointedly. “We didn’t know then. Katherine Jones should have been watching out for Daniel, but she wasn’t. By the time I got there, he was gone.
“And that Allen Byrne,” Fincher snarled, “he sacrificed security to make another dollar when he already had more than he could possibly ever hope to spend. Trenton, Worth . . . they were all responsible for the pain. They all found their atonement.”
“Some more than others,” Ryan reminded him. “Worth is dead.”
“That wasn’t my doing.” Fincher shook his head firmly. “That was your mistake.”
“You’re right,” Ryan agreed. Trying to cajole the guy since confrontation hadn’t worked. “It was my fault.”
“Sit down,” Fincher ordered. “Lean against the headstone.”
Ryan held his ground. “I’ve done everything you asked. But this is as far as I’m going. If you don’t give up Grace’s location, you’ll just have to shoot me now.”
“I am not a murderer.” Fincher inclined his head and studied Ryan.
“You must know I would never be so crass. Deirdre would never forgive me. I cannot let her down. She needs a hero, and since you have failed to live up to her expectations, I have no choice but to step up to the task. I’ll be her hero now. ”
Sweat rose on Ryan’s skin. The fear expanding inside him closed his throat. Fincher was right. Ryan knew better than to believe it would be this overt or easy.
Fincher glanced at his wristwatch. “In twenty minutes, unless help arrives, the lock on the door to the unit where Nameless is being held will be released with a nice little popping sound that will alert him to the change.”
Ryan gritted his teeth to hold back the anguish ripping him open inside.
“How long do you suppose it will take him to get to her?” Fincher shrugged. “There’s a hammer and a crowbar lying outside her door. The handy backpack in the SUV was full of wonderful tools. Oh,” he added as if he’d only just remembered, “and the key to the lock on Agent Grace’s door.”
Sheer hatred lashing through him, Ryan lowered to a crouch, then took a seat atop the blanket of earth covering Daniel Fincher. He leaned against the headstone when what he wanted to do was pounce on that son of a bitch. But he couldn’t. Not until he knew Grace’s location.
“Your blood is going to spill, McBride,” Fincher warned, “in atonement for your sins.” He set the brown bag on the ground at Ryan’s right hand. “Drink. It won’t hurt so much if you numb yourself.”
“Nice to know you’re concerned about my comfort.” Ryan reached into the bag and brought out a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. It was the first good thing that had happened all night. He opened it and took a healthy swig. “Now make the call,” he told the bastard, his tone dead cold.
“More,” Fincher ordered.
Ryan chugged a few more swallows, his throat and gut seizing at the burn. “Make the damned call,” he repeated. He didn’t need a watch to know the minutes were ticking down.
“In the bag,” Fincher said then, “there is a blade from a box cutter. Take it out.”
At least now he knew what Fincher had in mind. Ryan reached into the bag and pulled out the blade.
“Cut your right wrist first, then your left. As soon as you’ve made the second cut, I’ll call 911 and provide Grace’s position. I’m certain the Bureau will be thrilled to have captured the other half of the accomplice killers known as Nameless in addition to finding Grace alive and well.”
“You keep saying you’re not a murderer,” Ryan reminded. “This is murder.”
Fincher shook his head adamantly. “I won’t be a murderer. You’re going to take your own life, McBride.”
“If you’re not a murderer,” he countered, “then I can just get up and walk out of here and you can’t shoot me.”
A smile spread across Fincher’s lips. “That is correct. But then Agent Grace would die. And that would be your fault for failing to obey me.”
“How can I be sure you’ll do what you say you will?” Ryan argued, barely, barely hanging on to his fury. “Let’s face it, it’s a lose-lose situation for me.”
Fincher pressed the weapon’s muzzle against his forehead. “You don’t have a choice, McBride, you’re going to have to trust me.”
“Can I at least have a smoke first?”
“Suit yourself,” Fincher said impatiently. “Just remember that the longer I wait to give Grace’s location, the less time help will have to get to her.”
Ryan tamped out a Marlboro, fished out his Zippo, and lit it. He took a long deep drag. “I cut one wrist, whichever I choose, and you make the call. Then I’ll do the other one. No negotiation.”
Fincher considered his offer. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. “One cut, then the call.”
That was probably the best deal he was going to get. Might as well get this over with. He positioned the blade but hesitated. “Put it on speaker.”
“You’re wasting time, McBride.”
That was all too true. Might as well get this part over with. Ryan could think of better ways to die, but he couldn’t think of a better reason.
“Just one other thing,” Fincher said.
Ryan exhaled a lungful of smoke. “What’s that?” If this bastard didn’t hurry . . .
“Do it right the first time,” Fincher warned. “If it’s not deep enough, I won’t make the call. Seventeen minutes are remaining, McBride. How fast do you suppose the police will be able to respond?”
Ryan made the swipe. Pain seared along his nerve endings despite the buzz the alcohol had provided.
Fincher watched in morbid fascination.
“Make the call, asshole,” Ryan demanded, resisting the impulse to stop the blood flowing from the gash on his left wrist.
Fincher entered the three digits, set the phone to speaker.
The first ring strummed the air.
Ryan’s heart started to pound. He ordered it to slow. Didn’t work.
Second ring.
“911 operator, what is your emergency?”
Relief almost numbed the pain. Almost.
“This is Martin Fincher. Please inform the FBI that Agent Vivian Grace is being held at the U-Store-It facility downtown. They have fifteen minutes to save her.”
Fincher ended the call and smiled down at Ryan. “Your many sins will be atoned with the second swipe, McBride. You will have made the ultimate sacrifice. Given your life for another. Now, make the other cut.”
Ryan struggled to hold the blade. The fingers of his left hand didn’t want to work now. Somehow he maneuvered the blade to his right wrist, watched as Fincher’s attention settled there. Then he made his move.
Ryan swung his leg hard and wide, swept the man’s feet from under him. Fincher hit the ground like a rock. The weapon flew across the grass.
Holding his cigarette tight between his teeth, Ryan scrambled on top of Fincher.
The older man was stronger than Ryan had expected, or maybe he was just weak.
They rolled, and it was all he could do to keep him pinned down with his right arm.
He jammed the fiery end of the Marlboro into Fincher’s cheek. Fincher screamed.
Ryan snatched at the weapon, but he couldn’t hold on to it with his damaged hand.
He let go of Fincher and grabbed the weapon with his right hand.
Fincher clutched at the weapon and Ryan couldn’t draw it away fast enough.
They struggled. The weapon fired. He felt the hot lead sear through his flesh.
Fuck. He couldn’t let this bastard go free. He fought harder. Got his fingers back around the weapon. Fired once. Twice.
Surprise claimed Fincher’s expression. He touched his abdomen where a hole leaked red, but it was the one in the center of his chest that would kill his sorry ass.
Fincher’s gaze connected with Ryan’s one last time, and then he collapsed across his son’s grave.
Ryan shook his head to clear his vision. He was dizzy and weak from the booze and blood loss. Damn, He’d cut deeper than he meant to. The bullet had entered his gut. Couldn’t tell if it was bad. Plenty of blood. Not much pain.
Had to stop the blood pouring from his wrist. He toed off one shoe and yanked loose a sock. He wrapped it around his wrist, had to use his teeth to help pull it tight.
He was cold. He shivered.
Nothing he could do about the gut wound.
His movements stilted and shaky, he crawled on his elbows and knees to where Fincher’s cell phone lay in the grass.
He collapsed on the ground, tried to focus on the keypad.
His hand shook and his vision blurred. He pushed what he thought was the right numbers, but darkness . . .
Darkness closed in on him.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
The voice dragged him back. “Elmwood Cemetery,” he muttered. “Send paramedics. FBI. Agent down . . .” The world was spinning hard. He had to close his eyes.
His face flattened into the wet grass, and he pictured Grace.
As long as she was safe, he had done this right.
He’d been looking for an excuse to die for about three years now. His eyes slowly closed. Looked like he’d finally found it.
Just when he’d discovered a reason to live. What a fucked up . . .
Grace.