A bright lightning bolt of pain erupted inside John’s brain. Electric hate shot through every single neuron and made his gray matter boil from the inside. Pain signaled that he wasn’t dead yet.
A faraway moan rose and ebbed. The anguished, mournful cry sounded once more, and John realized the wail erupted from his own throat.
Another sound, off in the background, drew his attention. Sobbing, as soft as a lamb’s bleat, came from his left. His eyes fluttered and opened a fraction of an inch. The dim light around him knifed through to the back of his skull when he tried to focus on his surroundings. Everything was sideways: the dirty concrete block walls, shelves of beakers, bottles, trays of scalpels, hemostats, and medical equipment. John realized he was the one who was sideways, flat on his back.
To his left, a dark doorway opened to another room or chamber. An irregular, yellow flicker reflected on a wall in that distant room. John recognized a similar light pattern behind him as well—candlelight. The rooms, lit with scores of candles, bore no visible sign of electric lighting, nor windows to the outside. As John’s senses reawakened, the dank, musty odor of the place filled the air. An earthen, tomb-like dampness meant underground—a cellar, the wine cellar from the video at Zack Weber’s place.
The sobbing from the next room distracted John. The familiarity of the cry finally sunk in. “Tommy, is that you?” he said in a weak voice.
A shadow loomed directly overhead and shifted to John’s left, where the candlelight caught Winnow in profile.
“I’m very disappointed, Detective,” Winnow said.
“Where’s my son?”
“Near.”
“I did everything you asked.”
“I told you to cooperate.”
“I won’t cooperate with a sick bastard butchering innocent people.”
Winnow’s hand snaked out from the shadow and clamped down on John’s face. He forcibly shook the detective’s head. “No. No. No. That’s not right. No one is innocent.” Winnow released his grip after the scolding.
“They know all about you, Winnow, or Horn, whatever you call yourself now.”
Winnow leaned and cocked his head to one side, as if inspecting an insect. “You know nothing. Patrick Horn was weak. Look what I’ve become—powerful, feared, and revered.”
“Who the fuck reveres you?”
“Who indeed? You, for one. So did every last person who did as I instructed for a chance at life.”
John didn’t respond fast enough. Winnow tapped on John’s forehead with a sharp fingertip in synch with his words. “You. Don’t. Get. It. Every last one of you knew what you were dealing with. The organs you wanted have to come from somewhere. You chose me.”
“I didn’t choose you. Johnson, Mercer, and Cardozo didn’t ask for what happened to them,” John said.
The killer clucked his tongue. “Detective, really? They were of no value.”
“How would you know?”
“I’m disappointed you didn’t make the connection. Every last one of them was a drain, a parasite that needed to be cut off. Gang members sucking at the public teat. Hell, I had the gangs giving up each other. Welfare, disability, unemployment, prison, all draining resources without contributing. Until I found a way to thin the herd.”
“What about me?”
“The single thing my stepfather taught me was when a pig costs more to support than it’s worth, it’s time to butcher it.”
“What did your stepfather mean when he told me that it was his fault?” John asked.
Winnow paused as he considered the question. “Did he, now? He showed me everything I know about slaughtering pigs, all different kinds of pigs.”
The dead echo of the wine-cellar walls, damp and loamy, meant any scream would disappear into the earthen tomb, unheard.
“Layton didn’t teach you this.”
“He’s used that simple farmer persona more than once.”
“It’s time to stop. You got your revenge on your stepfather, if that’s what this was about.” The words fell hollow, more pleading than John intended.
Winnow’s shoulders tensed. “Revenge? This isn’t revenge. This is justice.”
“Let Tommy go.”
“It’s a little late for that. The game has changed. Your FBI lady friend was more than a little pissed off when the news crews had nothing to show from her raid on Raley Field. As far as the feds are concerned, you found Tommy and fled.”
“That can’t be—how long have I been here?” John said.
Winnow ignored John’s confusion, dragged a tall stool out of the shadows, and positioned it next to John. “You know what the surprising part of this was? Agent Lincoln was so eager to claim victory in solving the case and carve a notch in her bedpost that she had tunnel vision.”
“You’re a murderer,” John said.
“I’m a harvester. When I started this, it was all about ‘the greater good,’ where the sacrifice of the one benefits the many. Then, I became.”
“Became? What the hell are you saying?”
Winnow laughed. “I became enlightened to the almighty dollar. Not the psychobabble you had in mind?”
“You butchered innocent people and sold their organs on the black market.”
“We’ve been over this. Garbage people. They weren’t human. I harvested for those who couldn’t afford to pay the outrageous medical bills, those who couldn’t get on the lists for transplant because of bureaucratic red tape. They got what they wanted. I made a buck or two in the process. It’s a win-win.”
“Like the Cardozo girl?” John asked.
“Yes. Exactly. That girl deserved a chance.”
“So you played God and decided who lived and died? How is that any different?”
“An innocent girl needed a transplant. Her father was a match, so I made that happen. He saved his daughter’s life; it’s probably the only decent thing that man ever did. You would have done the same.”
“What about my son? Why did you put him through this?”
“You asked for my help.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I have ten thousand dollars that says you did.”
“I didn’t pay you.”
“We knew you’d eventually come to us. Zack Weber was exceptionally bright. He set up an entire dark web and connected to the transplant database through a programming back door so we could make harvesting decisions to maximize profit. Really quite elegant.”
“Like my son?”
Winnow nodded. “Yes, well, not at first. But when I found out you were the cop, it was too good to pass up. In a way, you made me what I am. At some point, we knew we would make you come to us. Zack trolled for people like you. Transplants got cancelled, donor organs disappeared. Matching blood test results were wiped from the system. We grabbed the organs for shipments to Mexico, Asia, and South America, where desperate people will pay any price, or had them slipped into the legitimate market. Laundered like drug money.”
“Made you what you are? Tommy didn’t do anything to deserve this.”
Winnow stepped away, out of John’s field of vision. He shuffled some glass bottles, which made tinkling sounds.
“I tend to agree with you. Tommy didn’t, but you deserve to feel loss. But you see my predicament. I can’t let him go now. You either.”
“You have no reason to keep him. You have me. Let him go home.”
Winnow returned to the table and looked down on John. He held a clear syringe in one hand and flicked the cylinder with a finger, chasing out the air bubbles.
“What about Agent Lincoln?”
“Agent Lincoln will believe you absconded with your son and hit the road. She’s watched too many bad movies. She’ll think you were making a run for the border to Mexico.”
Winnow flashed the syringe in John’s face.
“Good-bye, Detective. Any last words for little Tommy?”