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  As the call connected, Russell said, “Hey, Scott, I'm going to need something else from you. You willing to get your hands dirty?”

  Chapter Seven

  Burning the World

  Black, billowing fumes distorted the sundown sunshine, filling the sky with dense black clouds. The moldering rental store, razed to the ground by blistering flames, was drenched in water. The flames were already extinguished by the brave fire department, but the firefighters remained on-scene to secure the location.

  Backed up in the congested traffic, Taylor leaned forward and planted his chest on the steering wheel to get a better view of the incident. Only a few cars away, he could see the emergency personnel scurrying about in the parking lot. Police officers, firefighters, and paramedics worked together in perfect harmony.

  Taylor murmured, “What the hell happened here?”

  The wheels screeched as the unmarked black sedan pulled into the lot. Taylor exited the vehicle, then he shuffled in his black trench coat. Beneath his coat, he wore a navy button-up shirt with a black tie; his black slacks and matching dress shoes completed his fairly standard uniform. He was not dressed to impress. He was not concerned with his appearance. Taylor examined the bustling scene, then he nodded as he spotted his partner – Detective Sam Goodman.

  Leaning on the hood of his black sedan, Goodman stood a towering six-three with a brawny physique. He had straight brown hair and crystal blue eyes. He wore a black coat over a white button-up shirt with a red tie. His black slacks were rumpled and his black dress shoes were scuffed. The black bags beneath his eyes, the tousled hair, and the paperboard coffee cup were blatant symbols of exhaustion. He was a busy man, running from sleep and chasing nightmares.

  As he approached, Taylor asked, “Goodman, what's going on? What's this call about?”

  Goodman took a sip of his searing coffee and pointed towards the rental shop directly ahead. Taylor glanced at the crime scene, but he couldn't connect the pieces – flames were not his calling. As he stared at the smoldering building only twenty meters away, Taylor held his forearm over his nose. The black smoke was toxic.

  Goodman loudly gulped, then he explained, “We just got some details a few minutes ago. This wasn't some random accident. It's going to be investigated as an arson and murder. That's according to the investigation so far and the neighbors, at least. We'll have to wait and see.”

  Gazing at the swaying smoke, Taylor asked, “How many victims?”

  “One. An employee at AJ's Video Store. A very young woman, probably a college student. She was caught in the fire. Again, that's just what we think right now. We have to wait until we get in there to verify.”

  Taylor kicked at the pebbles on the ground and responded, “You're saying this one's going to be ours? I'm already busy with the Wheeler case, Goodman, I can't stretch myself thin right now. I've got interviews with the girl's friends, her...”

  Goodman interrupted, “It's connected to that, too, Taylor. Apparently, our buddies over at the FBI have been watching this place for some time. They've had their eyes locked on this simple store. Something about 'distribution of obscene materials' or some bullshit. They're going to be sweeping the building for anything recoverable when it's secure. You know, they don't like getting their hands dirty during the clean-up.”

  “Obscene materials? This has... This has something to do with Carrie's footage, I assume.”

  “More than that. Much more than that, apparently. They're linking the pieces faster than us. They've already got the groundwork setup for their operation. They want to talk to you about your investigation, too. Particularly, they'd like to discuss a 'Russell Wheeler' with you. I'm sure you've heard of the man. I think I've heard enough about him for one lifetime.”

  Taylor furrowed his brow upon hearing the name – Russell Wheeler. The common name struck him like an 18-wheeler, crushing him like a tank running over a tiny critter. His investigation was focused on Carrie and justice. He foolishly omitted Russell and vengeance. The possibility seemed much more plausible considering the circumstances.

  Taylor asked, “Did Russell do this?”

  Goodman sighed and shrugged as he sat on the hood of his car. He said, “I don't know. I just know it's going to be a long investigation because of this guy.”

  Taylor glared at Goodman as he walked in front of him. He didn't want Goodman to focus on anything but his eyes. Goodman could see his partner was dour and stern. His character shifted from teammate to nemesis in an instant.

  Goodman shrugged and asked, “What? What the hell's wrong with you?”

  Taylor asked, “Why would they need to ask me about Russell? What did they say? What the hell have you heard, Goodman?”

  “I don't know, man. I heard a little chatter, but not much. I mean, we have a witness who saw a man resembling Russell prior to the fire. If that's true, then we have another witness who saw the victim rush to the back of the shop and confront Russell before the fire. Then, we have the actual fire and a supposed snuff film, or 'obscene materials.' We have a lot of shit to sort through. The pieces are there, Taylor, these guys at the FBI are just connecting them. I can't tell you things I don't know, alright? Go talk to them if you're so damn concerned.”

  Goodman hopped off the vehicle, shaking his head and indistinctly muttering like an irate elderly man. He was vexed by Taylor's aggression and distrust. He strolled away with the empty coffee cup in hand, searching for a trash can on a street littered with garbage. Although he cared about Goodman's opinion, Taylor couldn't bring himself to apologize for his hostility.

  Taylor turned towards the smoking building, baffled. He ran his fingers through his slick hair as he stared through the black smoke. The fumes danced in the wind like black phantoms. The heinous crime was too much to fathom. He was feeling guilty for another man's actions, serving time for another man's crime.

  Taylor said, “If he's really doing this, we have to find him before he kills someone else. He can't burn the city for vengeance. He can't burn the world for Carrie... He can't...”

  Chapter Eight

  Kidnapping the Messenger

  Scott sniffled as he sat in the driver' seat, fiddling his thumbs as he absently gazed forward. He rolled the sleeves up on his white button-up shirt, then he unfastened the button on top. The high humidity was uncomfortable. Russell sat in the passenger seat, peering at the small market across the cramped parking lot. Miraculously, he still wore a black leather jacket above a tattered white shirt. He was not bothered by the humidity as much as he was disturbed by his brooding thoughts.

  The black sedan was protected from the balmy morning sunshine by the sturdy shade tree behind it. There were eight vehicles of all shapes and sizes parked in the center aisle; the trees on the raised island did not obscure Russell's vision. The parking spot was perfect for their surveillance, offering a wide view of the targeted shop.

  Scott sighed from the blatant boredom. He asked, “What are we doing here, Russ? What are we waiting for?”

  Without taking his eyes off the market's entrance, Russell responded, “We're waiting for a young man to walk out of those doors. A... A 'Stephen Berman.' From what I remember, he works a shift here on weekend mornings. I think it's just a guise, you know. It's a 'legitimate' job that he can tell his friends and family about.”

  “Okay, what's so important about this kid? Huh? Is he part of Mr. Wu's gang or some shit? Was he the one on the video?”

  Russell scratched the nape of his neck and explained, “I don't know. He was... He was Carrie's boyfriend, I guess. I never liked the bastard. I just never trusted him. He had too much money to be... real. He comes from a poor family, you know. No way in hell this bastard was making a legitimate living. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  Russell breathed heavily as he despondently contemplated the past. He kept his eyes locked on the door as he pondered Stephen's role in Carrie's death and the accumulating evidence. The pieces of the puzzle were connecting –
the picture was focusing. From the beginning, Stephen was a suspect. Russell was simply too preoccupied with the grander scheme to notice.

  Russell said, “I should have seen it when that detective told me about it. When he told me about the flashy car the delivery boy was driving. This motherfucker drives a car worth more than my shitty house. No way he could make that sort of money as a bag boy. No way he could flaunt his cash as a cart-pusher. No, he's in someone's pocket. He plays dirty...”

  Scott stared at his guilt-ridden friend. The devil sat on his shoulders and pricked at his conscience. He was burdened by regret and fueled by anger. The deeper he delved into the mystery, the further he delved into his former psyche. The reformed criminal was cracking, his sinister persona was surfacing. Scott could not stop the inevitable warpath. He couldn't even conjure the words to comfort his friend in a time of need.

  Russell said, “Carrie never listened. You know how these young girls and boys are. The more you pull, the more they push. She loved the boy and I couldn't say anything about it. Everything I said was nothing to her. It's not her fault, though. You don't blame the dead for their deaths... Maybe... Maybe it was me. Maybe I didn't speak loud enough.”

  Scott patted Russell's shoulder and said, “Don't beat yourself up over this, buddy. None of it is your fault. If anything, it's this punk's fault. This punk was involved with all of this, right? He might be the killer, man. Hell, he might even be Mr. Wu himself! You know these young kids are trying to make it big with their 'start-up' bullshit. This could be him. Don't punish yourself, punish him.”

  Russell stared at the market entrance without uttering a word. Only a sparse customer entered and departed every five minutes – business was slower than a garden snail. The morning shift was reaching its conclusion, crawling to an end. Russell's eyes glistered with hope. A newfound sense of determination sparked within.

  Scott said, “Whatever you have planned with that truck, I've got your back. I know I said most of my associates wouldn't get involved, but that doesn't matter to me. I'm always willing to help my loyal friends. You, Russell, have been very loyal. You're trustworthy and I like that. So, if you're going to go in headfirst, please use my head as a battering ram, you understand me? Allow me to open the door for you.”

  Scott chuckled at his own wordplay. Russell appreciated the offer, but he did not respond. Scott's words were not inspiring or heartfelt, but his assistance and reassurance were enough to motivate. The motivational sensation alone was enough aid from Scott. Scott bit his bottom lip and nodded as he turned towards the steering wheel.

  Russell's eyes widened as the market doors slid open. He whispered, “I'm going to punish him...”

  A young man, no older than his mid-20s, moseyed through the doorway. The man stood six-one with a lean physique. He had lengthy beach blonde hair, shimmering blue eyes, and a clean-shaved face. He wore a green polo shirt, black slacks, and black work shoes – a basic uniform. Russell instantly recognized the suave and handsome man – Stephen Berman.

  As he hopped out of the vehicle, Russell murmured, “I'll teach this spoiled bastard a lesson...”

  Scott furrowed his brow as Russell departed. He leaned over the passenger seat and asked, “Is that him, Russ?” Baffled by Russell's impulsive actions, Scott returned to his seat and whispered, “What the hell's this man going to get me into?”

  ***

  Stephen strolled out of the market with a jolly smile plastered on his face, walking down the sidewalk on the side of the building. He swung a rustling bag in his right hand and walked with swaggering steps. He was unperturbed and nonchalant, like if there were nothing wrong with the world. Carrie's death was obviously not on his mind.

  As Russell stepped onto the sidewalk from the parking lot, Stephen froze in place. The smile was immediately wiped from his face. Only the rustling bag and the occasionally coughing engine of a lugging car echoed through the parking lot as the pair gazed at each other. The deadlock was grueling, each man waited for the first word.

  Stephen said, “Mr. Wheeler, it's... it's nice to see you again. I was going to call you and...” He paused and bit his bottom lip, perplexed. He said, “I'm... I... I'm sorry, I don't know what to say to you. I'm sorry.”

  Russell glared at Stephen, piercing into his pusillanimous soul. He said, “Stephen, you look happy. You look very happy. Why? I can't help but ask. Why the hell are you grinning like a child on his birthday a week after my daughter's death? A week after your girlfriend's death? Did you forget about her? Did you win the damn lottery?”

  Stephen took one step in reverse, then he glanced around his surroundings. The parking lot was empty. There was no one around to rescue him. He contemplated running, but he would not make it far. Stephen knew Russell was strong despite his age. His chances of a successful escape were slim. Words were his only weapon.

  Stephen stuttered, “I–I'm not happy... I'm... I'm heartbroken, really. I'm just, I don't know, I'm just trying to cope. I'm not happy, sir, I swear.”

  Russell glanced at Stephen's bag and asked, “What do you got there?”

  “It's just some milk and... and bread for my mom and my little brother. Just something to eat. That's all.”

  “Your little brother? Yeah, that's good for you. That's good...”

  Russell could see the sincerity in Stephen's eyes. The young man clearly cared for his family. His lust for riches, however, led him to a world of sinister actions. The motives did not justify the diabolical consequences. The results were unforgivable.

  Russell stared at the parking lot and said, “You're not driving that expensive car anymore. What happened to it?”

  Stephen took another step in reverse. He responded, “It's... It's in the shop.”

  “The shop? I could have fixed it up for you, Stephen. We're like family, remember? You should have came to me instead of some prick who'll overcharge you... Anyway, I always wondered: how did a young man like yourself make enough money for a car like that? Huh? Where do you get the money to roll around town so carefree? What do you do? You a drug dealer?”

  Stephen shook his head like a dog out of a bath. He said, “No, no. I work at... I work right here at the market. You know that, sir. This is... This is where I always met up with Carrie, remember? I don't mess with drugs. No, I work here.”

  Russell huffed, then he said, “You make enough money to drive a... a $150,000 car by working at a market? A market with four, maybe five customers at a time? Jeez, kid, why don't we go inside and ask your manager to give me a job. I can use the extra funds. I'm tired of shoveling shit for wicked people, you know? I'm tired of the bullshit.”

  Russell chuckled and shook his head as he stepped closer to Stephen. Stephen's lies were vexatious. He was dodging the truth with blatant dishonesty, hopelessly trying hide behind a facade. The duplicity was infuriating. Stephen stammered indistinctly, searching for an excuse in his cluttered mind. Russell was not hearing it, he refused to tolerate the man's crap.

  Nervous, Stephen said, “I... I'm sorry... I'm sorry about everything, sir. I'm heartbroken. I have... I–I have to go home. I'm sorry...”

  Before Stephen could walk away, Russell sternly said, “I know what you do, Stephen. I know what you did to Carrie, too. You fucked her up. You really fucked her up and I don't know why. She trusted you, she loved you, and you betrayed her. I can't... I just have trouble thinking about it. Now, you're going to help me find someone. You understand me? You're going to pay for Carrie's death in information and blood.”

  Stephen indistinctly murmured as he staggered in reverse. His bottom lip quivered as he struggled to speak and his eyelids flickered from the disbelief. The plastic bag fell to the floor. The carton of milk exploded from the collision. As Russell pulled his handy framing hammer from the back of his waistband, Stephen stumbled away.

  Stephen lurched through the market entrance. As he slid on the white tile flooring, he yelled, “Help! Help me!”

  Before he could utter another word,
Russell grabbed a fistful of Stephen's hair, then he pulled him back. Stephen yelped from the pain. Russell lifted the hammer over his shoulder, then he struck the center of Stephen's forehead, controlling the force of the attack with a steady hand. He didn't want to kill the young man. The cashiers, donning the same uniforms as Stephen, screamed upon spotting the violent attack.

  Russell did not care to suppress the hysterical employees. He dragged his prey out of the market, nodding at the cashiers with somber eyes – I mean no harm to you. Stephen's legs twitched and his head swayed from the devastating blow. Blood spurted from a gash on his brow as he mumbled and groaned. He was lost in a realm of pain and confusion. Scott sprinted to the sidewalk with his hands planted on the sides of his dome.

  Wide-eyed, Scott asked, “What the hell are you doing, Russ? Everyone saw you!”

  Russell sighed and pointed at Stephen with the hammer. He said, “Get him in the car. We're taking him to the lot. Come on.”

  Scott glanced at his car, then he said, “But... But, we'll get blood on my seats, man. You didn't tell me you were going to beat the crap out of the kid. I would have brought a throwaway...” Russell glared at Scott, repeating himself without uttering a word. Scott nodded and said, “Okay, okay... Let me give you a hand...”

  Scott tossed Stephen's arm over his shoulder. Russell lifted Stephen from his waist. The pair lugged the young man through the parking lot. Scott constantly glanced over his shoulder, searching for any signs of trouble. Russell's actions caught him off guard. The duo tossed Stephen into the backseat, then they peeled out of the parking lot.

  Chapter Nine

  The Pit

  “Help me! Somebody help! God... Goddammit, I'm here! I'm in here! Help!” Stephen shouted as he squirmed on the dirt. There was no response to his calls for help. As he whimpered, the young man whispered, “I'm sorry. I'm so... I'm so sorry. It wasn't... I didn't want this to happen. It wasn't supposed to happen this way... Oh, God...”