The section of R Street near Tenth was a mix of commercial businesses, restaurants, and a couple of trendy bars. As directed, John pulled up to a warehouse on the northeast corner, and it appeared abandoned, with a faded sign that read, For Sale or Lease.
“I’m here,” John said into the cell phone.
“Good. The door is locked with a combination lock. Spin the dial to 23-30-7 and go inside.”
John held the phone against his chin as he worked the combination. The lock unsnapped on the first attempt. He pocketed the lock and hefted the rust-covered door, only to find it opened on smooth, well-oiled hinges.
“Is Tommy here?”
“Go inside. Light switch, on the wall by the door.”
“You didn’t answer me,” John said.
“No, I didn’t. Now do as I say, quickly.”
John felt around the doorframe and located the light switches. He remembered his near electrocution at the last warehouse, but he pushed forward until he found the switch plate. He toggled the switch up, and heavy-duty industrial lights buzzed overhead, the bulbs growing brighter as they warmed. He closed the door behind him.
“All right, I’m inside,” John said.
John peered into the cavernous warehouse. A separate structure sat squarely in the center of the floor. As the lights brightened, John recognized the building as a metal storage shed, large enough to cover two full-size cars. All along the outside walls of the shed, cotton pads, old mattresses, and insulation were draped over the panels—makeshift soundproofing to deaden audible noises from inside the box. The thought of Winnow eviscerating his victims in this place brought bile into John’s throat.
“See the table, in front of my workroom?” Winnow asked.
A folding table, with a stained white plastic top, sat on one side of the shed. Cardboard boxes, glass bottles, and coils of clear rubber tubing covered the table’s surface. Under the table, five-gallon containers of industrial solvents and cleaners lined the floor.
Mud fell from John’s shoes in large clumps as he approached the table, but his attention honed in on the sliding shed doors. A sliver of light slipped through the crack between the doors from inside.
“Penley, pay attention here. On the corner of the table, there is a Bluetooth earpiece for the phone. Get it. You’re going to need to use both hands.”
John put the phone on the table while he put the earpiece in his right ear.
“There, you should be able to hear me now, Detective,” Winnow said.
John wheeled around. The only way Winnow would know that he had picked up the earpiece was if he watched him do it. He only half expected the man to show himself and wasn’t surprised when he spotted the camera mounted on a beam above.
“Yeah, I hear you,” John said, staring back at the camera’s black eye.
“Good. Pocket the phone. You have a lot of work to do in very little time.”
“When do I get my boy?” John said. He noticed the battery meter on the cell phone registered 20 percent.
“Maybe the boy is behind those doors.”
John shoved the phone in his pocket, sprinted for the shed’s sliding door, and shoved it aside. The garage-sized space was a fully equipped surgical suite. Monitors, wires, and tubes hung limp from stainless-steel racks. Meat hooks, reminiscent of those John had stumbled into at the Layton barn, draped from an iron frame. Two huge boom lights shone down on a pair of autopsy tables. The lipped tables had a slight angle to contain and direct blood and bodily fluids out a drain at one end. One-inch rubber tubes connected the tables to a floor drain, and the brown discoloration was evidence of repeated use.
John’s knees buckled when he recognized that one of the tables held a body, covered with a plastic tarp from the neck down. An instant rush of guilt and relief washed over him when he registered that the body was too large to be Tommy’s.
He approached the body, and from the gray pallor of the skin, John knew this man was long dead. He pulled back the tarp and found the trademark Outcast Killer incisions and empty chest cavity.
“You haven’t come very far from your stepfather’s barn,” John said.
“Layton was an animal!” It was a momentary loss of composure, a fissure in the cool facade Winnow projected.
“Whatever—Patrick. Enough of your sick game of show-and-tell.”
“It is my game, don’t forget that.”
Winnow paused, and his voice came across cold and composed once more. “Meet James Lind. Mr. Lind’s donations will allow more than a dozen transactions to occur. His A-positive blood type is very popular in certain Asian countries. That’s what it’s all about. The high-demand blood types, A positive, AB positive. We track them and go find them.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you are going to help me,” Winnow instructed.
“I can’t do this.”
“Want to see little Tommy again?”
“You can’t ask me to cut somebody up,” John said.
“No, no, Detective, I couldn’t trust you to handle such a delicate task. I’ve harvested the good bits from Mr. Lind. See the three briefcases on the floor?”
John turned and spotted the cases, identical to the one left at the old ice plant. “Yes, I see them.”
“Take them to the worktable out in the main room. I will guide you through the next steps.”
John hefted all three cases at once and brought them to the worktable, setting them atop one another. The odor of chemicals, especially acetone, near the table and Lind’s body burned his nose. “Okay, what am I supposed to do?”
“You are going to replace the perfusion pump in each case with a new pump and battery pack.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“You’d better learn fast. You are on a deadline here, remember?”
“What do I do?”
“Open one of the cases. The perfusion pump is the clear, circular object with tubes attached to each end. Take a new pump from the boxes to your left, clip on a new battery pack, and swap out the old one in the case.”
John recognized the pump from the discussion he’d had with Dr. Kelly. His fingers trembled as he popped open the first case. He raised the lid and revealed a thick, foam-padded interior with sections cut out for the battery, perfusion pump, and a clear plastic container. The case held a human heart submerged in icy-cold perfusion fluid. Liquid coursed through the pump to the stolen heart with a low hum. John winced at the grotesque display.
As instructed, John took a new pump from the box, clipped on a new battery pack, and removed the old mechanism from the case. The pump stopped its low purr when John disconnected it. He expected a burst of perfusion fluid, but the one-way valves in the lines prevented the frigid solution from escaping. John finished the swap, then closed and secured the locks on the case.
“Good. Quickly now, get to the next two,” Winnow said.
John quickened his pace and swapped out the pumps and battery packs in the other two cases. One held a pair of kidneys, while the other container had a mass of tissue, which could have been liver, pancreas, or spleen to John’s harried mind.
“I’m finished.”
“Almost.”
John faced the camera. “What?”
“Take your gun, badge, and wallet and place them on the table. No, I didn’t forget about the gun, Detective. Then take the cases to the car.”
“I’m your delivery boy now?” John questioned. Following the killer’s instructions, the gun, badge, and wallet went on the table.
“Before you leave, look behind you.”
John swiveled, hoping that the madman would reveal Tommy. Instead, an electronic click-click-click rattled inside the shed, followed by a quick, bright flash of flame. The Outcast Killer torched his acetone-saturated workroom by remote control.
The flames spread quickly, pouncing on Lind’s body and the equipment inside. The insulation on the walls of the shed served as tinder to the flames, intensifying the height of the inferno. John put up a hand to shield himself from the heat, and in his earpiece, he heard, “Better hurry, Detective.”
John lugged the cases and made it to the door as a chemical explosion lit up the interior of the warehouse. Within seconds, flames licked through the roof. The fire spread quickly; clearly, Winnow had wired the place to burn.
Patrons from a nearby bar started coming out onto the sidewalk and pointed at the burning warehouse. A couple of them yelled while John put the metal cases in his trunk. He couldn’t hear what they said, but he knew what it looked like, fleeing the scene of a fire. A dozen witnesses watched him in front of the burning building, loading containers into a car that would trace back to the police motor pool. He wished the gawkers were more interested in calling the fire department than in taking cell-phone videos of the blaze.
John started the car, spun the rear wheels in reverse, shifted into drive, and sped off down R Street. In the rearview mirror, a blonde woman pointed her cell-phone camera and captured video of his escape.
“I’m not your errand boy! Let me have my son.”
“I prefer to call it insurance. Don’t make me cancel the policy.”
John’s knuckles seized hard on the steering wheel when he saw a swarm of red emergency lights flock toward him. They would stop him, arrest him for the arson, and find body parts in the trunk. Human remains would take time to explain. He couldn’t afford the delay in finding Tommy.
“What am I supposed to do?” John demanded.
“Don’t get caught,” the voice said through the earpiece.
“I’ve done what you asked.”
“Go to Mather Field.”
The blaring siren from a fire engine drowned out the killer’s instructions. A second truck followed close behind, bleating an air-powered horn. No black-and-white police units converged on the intersection to cut off John’s escape.
The moment the sound diminished, John said, “Mather?”
“There is a chartered Learjet parked and waiting on the tarmac. Get there and deliver the containers to the air ambulance staff.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” he asked, turning east on B Street.
“Figure it out. You have fifteen minutes.”
“I can’t get there in fifteen. I need more time.”
“You have those containers on that plane in fifteen minutes, or Tommy takes their place.”
John whipped the sedan around a white-and-blue Regional Transit bus, cutting off traffic in the lane to his left. He sped up, taking advantage of the light night traffic.
He heard nothing in return from the killer, only an extended silence.
“You hear me? I need more time!”
The cell phone remained silent.
John lifted his hips up off the seat and pulled the cell phone from his pocket. He glanced down at the screen. The call timer ticked off second by second, confirming he hadn’t lost his connection. John tapped the camera icon. As before, the screen flickered, and an image of Tommy appeared. The boy faced the camera, curled up with his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth.
John couldn’t look at the pitiful image without choking up. He clicked the camera off, and white-hot anger swirled in his gut. John hit the gas pedal and shot across vacant downtown intersections. Stoplights meant nothing now.
A dark sedan blowing through downtown draws attention. One with flashing red lights is residue of another gang shooting in midtown, dismissed as background noise. He flicked the switch on the dash, activating the bar of red strobe lights at the top of the front windshield. The wash of the red lights reflected off building facades, and pedestrians paid little notice.
John stabbed at the gas pedal, shot up the on-ramp that connected to the Capital City Freeway, and merged onto US 50, eastbound. He glanced down at the speedometer, and the needle edged at ninety miles per hour. The digital clock on the dash warned that he had burned five precious minutes getting to the freeway.
The Mather Field exit didn’t slow John’s progress. He drifted the car to the right as he made the turn toward the deactivated air force base. The sprawling facility, once the home of a B-52 bomber group, now served as a social services depot and a drop-off point for homeless shelters converted from the old barracks. The decommissioned terminal and runway serviced the local National Guard contingent and scores of air cargo flights.
John followed the signs to the cargo terminal through the maze of squat, concrete buildings.
“Two minutes, Detective. You’re cutting it very close. Take the next left into the cargo delivery gate.”
The killer knew John’s exact location. The cell phone must have a GPS tracker so Winnow could follow his every move. Smart, John thought. He would have done the same thing.
He turned at the gate and slowed, unsure how he was going to explain his way into a secured terminal area. Instead, an armed security guard waved him through the open chain-link gate.
The guard pointed to a lone Learjet parked on the tarmac a hundred feet to his right.
John waved at the guard and steered to the jet, parking behind the sleek blue-and-white craft. Lettering on the side of the plane read, Medi-Flight. Marker lights on the wingtips flashed, and as soon as he opened his car door, a whine erupted from the twin engines mounted high on the tail section.
A man in a blue flight suit with EMT patches on the shoulders jogged down the stairway from the cabin door. He approached John at a rapid pace and extended his hand.
“I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it on time,” the EMT said.
“Who told you to wait?” John asked. He had to yell over the engine noise.
The EMT shrugged. “They don’t tell me that. All I know is that we were to expect an organ transfer, in two cases.”
“Two? I have three,” John said.
“What? Where are they?”
John motioned and walked to the trunk. He unlocked the lid and pulled it open, revealing the three metal cases.
The EMT pulled a sheet of paper from a zippered flight-suit pocket and compared numbers on his document with small numbers near the handles of the cases, numbers that John hadn’t noticed in the hurry to get them out of the burning building.
“These two are mine,” the EMT said, lifting two of the cases out of the trunk.
“What about this one?” John asked.
“Not mine. I gotta get these going.” The EMT turned to leave, and John grabbed him by the elbow.
“Where are you taking them?”
“Flight plan is filed for Mexico City. Where they go once we turn them over is a part of the book I never get to read.”
“Who else is on board?”
“What?”
“Is there a patient on the flight? A boy?” John asked.
“No, only me and the two guys driving this thing.”
John grabbed the handle of one of the cases. “Let me help you with that.” He started walking to the foot of the stairs when a voice whispered into his earpiece.
“You are wasting my time, Detective.”
John hustled up the stairs with the case. Inside the plane, the passenger cabin was vacant. Two pilots hovered over controls and checklists in the cockpit, but there was no sign of Tommy.
“Put the case on that rack,” the EMT said, pointing at a sturdy frame with thick lashing straps.
The case fit into one of the open bays on the rack and locked into place.
“Thanks for the hand, but we gotta get this in the air.”
“You haven’t seen a little boy?”
“No.” The EMT turned away and worked at the lashing straps that made certain the cases wouldn’t budge in heavy turbulence.
John took his cell phone and hit the camera button once more. Tommy remained in place on the ratty mattress.
John got to the top of the stairway, and the EMT closed the cabin door before he hit the second step. A heavy clunk announced that it had locked into place. He trotted down the stairs as the engines changed pitch, growing louder. As soon as John touched the tarmac, an airport employee rolled the stairs away from the jet.
“Where’s my son?” John said over the roar of the taxiing jet.
Winnow answered with, “Leave the car and walk away.”
“What? I’ve done everything you wanted.”
“My game, my rules.”
John turned in time to watch the Medi-Flight jet lift off and bank off to the south.
“Congratulations! Thank you for playing. You’ve completed this round. Your wife is on her way to pick up the boy.”
“How did you . . . ?”
“Doesn’t matter, Detective. I will release the boy to her, as long as you cooperate,” Winnow said.
From the corner of his eye, John noticed a small caravan of black SUVs appear from around a building. Blinking blue lights flashed on their grills. They raced toward his location.
“What’s going on?”
“Cooperate,” Winnow said.
The cell-phone connection went dead. John pulled out the phone, and the display confirmed that the call had terminated. John hit redial and received a recorded response: “The number you have reached is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.”
The SUV caravan came to a stop, one vehicle behind him and one on either side. Men in black tactical vests and Kevlar helmets hopped out, stubby automatic rifles directed at John.
“FBI! Drop whatever you have in your hand! Get down on your knees!” one of the men said, edging closer.
“I’m a cop! My son’s been taken,” John said as he dropped to his knees.
“Face down, Penley. You know the drill.”
“What are you doing?” John asked.
“Sir, we have one,” another officer said from behind John’s car. He lifted the case from the sedan’s trunk. “No sign of Horn.”
An FBI agent called out, “Penley, you’re coming with us. Agent Lincoln isn’t going to be a happy camper.”