Chapter 10 Everett
You Can Run, Adam Jones
The cold concrete welcomes me as I brush my fingertips along the walls of the underground tunnels. These tunnels were created for shelter, in case of aerial strikes or other potential dangers townspeople could need protection from. We also utilize the tunnels to move merchandise and bodies.
I focus on my breathing.
Inhale— one, two .
Hold my breath.
Exhale through my mouth —three, four, five .
After a difficult time sleeping, I drove back into town to run away from the familiar, haunting eyes of my frequent night terrors. The tunnels are a stark contrast to the underground bunkers I was tortured in during the war. Here, there is a sense of familiarity.
Clarity.
Quiet.
After several minutes to myself, I hear the echo of pounding steps resonating through the tunnels.
“ MR. EVERETT, SIR !” Clint’s voice comes closer with each step. Stopping in my tracks, I turn to face him, studying his reddened face, panting body and the stark terror flooding his eyes.
“Clint, it is four o’clock in the morning. What are you doing up?” I ask, like an irritated parent.
Placing his hands on his knees, he bends forward trying to regain his breath. “Sir. There’s been…another…attack. Another lady is…dead,” he states in between breaths.
Shit . I want to throw my fist into the concrete, but I maintain my composure. Striding toward the exit, I motion for Clint to follow me. “Where? When? Details, Clint, give me details,” I order.
He jogs behind me. “Sir, your mother found this one. She was called to the massage parlor to help a girl, but when she arrived she found her dead, ’bout thirty minutes ago or so, sir. We’ve been looking for ya, and someone saw you comes down here.” We take the vast staircase leading up to the Den.
It has been a couple weeks since the last murder, and still no clues have popped up to guide us in the direction of the killer.
As I approach my office on the third floor of the building, I find my mother already sitting in the lounge chair across from my mahogany desk.
“What happened?” I bluntly ask.
She takes a long drag of her cigarette and proceeds. “I got a call from a man saying one of our girls needed ‘assistance.’ She found out she was pregnant and was going mad over her predicament.”
“Why would they call you?” I narrow my eyes.
She blows smoke in my direction. “I don’t fucking know, maybe that was the only number they could reach? Doesn’t matter. When I arrived, the poor girl was gutted like a pig. Absolutely disgusting. Who’s gonna clean that room? It was awful.”
Her remark pisses me off but I maintain a sharp tone. “You’re more concerned about how a room is going to get cleaned than the fact someone lost their life? ”
Mum rolls her eyes at me then fashions an irritated expression on her face.
My patience snaps at her idiocy. “It was our job to protect those women. That place is to give them autonomy. We’ve failed twice now. Those are someone’s daughters, sisters, friends, and now I must tell their poor families we failed to do the one job we swore to do for them .”
A short knock raps on my office door and I open it to find the chief constable. I usher him inside the office and he stands against the wall.
The chief constable was placed in his position by my father.
The prior chief had a greedy hand, taking money from rival gangs, fucking our family over left and right as well as other accompanied gangs.
Unfortunately, his luck ran out when Billy Kimber realized, the chief of the bobbies aided Sabini in the Epsom Road Battle of 1921.
The current chief is a former Adder. Stamped and loyal. No bullshitting around him.
“The girls were similarly gutted, though neither showed signs of sexual assault,” he says. I look up to find him wringing his hands together.
“You think the same person did these crimes?” I ask, tapping my thumb on my desk.
“Correct. The bodies were cut in the same fashion. No murder weapon has been found, but the edges of the skin of both bodies are serrated in the same way. Not a smooth knife. Nothing was stolen from either room, no forced entry.” He lets out an exhale of frustration then leans his head against the wall, staring at the ceiling.
“We have no leads, no witnesses. Like a facking ghost, Everett. A facking ghost.”
Shaking my head, I slam my fist into my desk, causing both parties to jump.
“Place patrols on the parlor. Hell, even undercover if we have to—find women to be undercover participants. This is starting to get out of hand. I refuse to have a third victim. When you find this perpetrator, you bring them to me. ” Chief nods his head at me then exits the room.
I look up to find my mother staring at me with her dark, cold eyes.
“May I help you?” I ask plainly.
She shrugs her shoulders with nonchalance. “Heard your attentions have been elsewhere .” Her eyes glare at me .
“Mother, I don’t have time for your stupidity today. What can I do to get you out of my office?” I turn my stoic face toward her.
“ You know what all women want, Everett. I don’t want some whore coming in and ruining our enterprise just because you are entranced by some cunt.” She proceeds to light up another cigarette.
“Thank you for your concern, Mother, but you are still receiving your weekly checks. Everyone else is receiving their weekly checks. I run this enterprise and have been for quite some time now, and business is booming. So whatever insecurities you are trying to project onto me, please let them and your entitlement fall down on their own sword. For you haven’t sacrificed enough for this family, for this country, to speak in such a manner. ”
She abruptly stands. “ How dare you!? I raised you, brought all you and your bastard brothers into this world.”
“Yet you never truly mothered us. Baba raised us, alongside some nannies—” I proceed while counting on my fingers “—while you shopped, hated Father. Resented pushing out children, yet still slept with him. Then danced on his grave after you were both shot at during a drive-by. I often wonder what life would be like if he’d lived and you’d died. ” My words drip out like venom.
Her facial features skew and I can tell she is about to spit something awful back in my face.
Her hands ball up at her sides. “No one could ever love a piece of shit like you. The war changed you into this monster. You look like a monster with all your scars. What woman would ever find that attractive? You carry your trauma around like it is some badge of honor, but it is your weakness. All you care for is yourself, the business and power. Feeling like some sort of god because you write our checks, because your bastard father left you in charge instead of Freddy or Kenneth!? You’re replaceable.
All of you are! And just so you know—” Her words cease.
Words she has spewed time and time again at me.
The room falls to silence, as a black adder slithers across my desk.
Her eyes track its movement. She never respected the snakes.
She always resented them and feared them, poetically just like my father and his business .
I calmly pick up my scaly friend and it dances in my palm, its tongue occasionally sticking out toward my mother as it curls around my wrist. Sometimes the adders make their way out of their confines and venture around the city.
She shivers but stays where she is.
“Replaceable, yes. We all are, Mother. You say all I care for is myself, business and power, yet you suggest I am distracted by pussy. You make no sense. Why don’t you go on an all-expenses-paid vacation?
I’ll foot the bill.” The snake slithers down my arm and coils upon my desk, its attention still aimed toward my mother.
She swallows. “Where?”
A chuckle leaves my throat as I stroke the back of the snake with two fingers. “Germany, Mum. I hear it is beautifully war-torn. You can find a nice Kraut there and choke on his fucking sausage.”
She gasps, then shouts, “YOU BASTARD !” Storming out of my office as the adder strikes toward her retreating form. I catch it before it flies off the desk.
Her presence always leaves me unsettled and irritated.
Rolling my neck to either side of my shoulders, I decide to call my contact who was looking into my little dove. I need to know more about her since she wasn’t so forthcoming herself.
I call him up, finding out some peculiar details I will need to present to her for questioning—but what manner of questioning shall it be?