Fire Baby

By Will Decker

Mike Hennessy has worked the streets of Portland for more than 20 years; first as a beat cop and more recently as a Lieutenant Detective. He has been honored many times for his bravery, often taking risks that most would never consider and always putting his job first, doing whatever it takes to close cases and bring bad guys to justice.
But Mike is more than just good at his job; he is excellent at it. Because unknown to anyone else, Mike possesses what he believes to be a very unique talent; an ability that lets him literally get inside the heads of his suspects; an ability that with the passage of time and experience, Mike has come to know as a dangerous and potentially deadly curse.
When Mike is assigned the headline grabbing psycho-serial murder case in which more than 20 horribly mutilated bodies, all young, all female, all blonde hair and blue eyed, have already been discovered along the banks of the Columbia River Basin from Portland east to Pendleton, the suspect whose head he gets inside doesn’t play nice. And it isn’t long before Mike discovers that the killer is not only aware of his ethereal presence each time he enters into the sociopath’s subconscious thoughts, but the psychotic killer is also able to interlope back into Mike’s subconscious whenever Mike lets his guard down; such as when he dozes off or sleeps; something Mike has never experienced in all of his other cases since first discovering this unique ability. And it’s getting worse as he can no longer slip into the evil being’s head undetected. And Mike is losing a lot of sleep lately. At least, this is what Mike would have you believe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will Decker
• Release date: Jan 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310142819

Will Decker

Hello,There have been some dramatic changes going on in my life and because of them I am finding that I now have more available time. Yeah, that's a laugh. Now it seems like my days are even more hectic than they were before. Hence, I have decided instead of using the narrow sighted approach to marketing my books, I am going to use a much simpler approach. No longer will my books be available through Amazon markets, but instead, my plan is to make them all available through the Smashwords site as well as their affiliated markets for FREE. However, this will take time so if you have read any of my books and are looking to read more of them, bear with me, I promise you they are coming. I hope this works for my dedicated (few) readers. On a different topic, as you can see, most of my writing efforts have been serials.With that said, you will never find a Cliff Hanger amongst my works. All of the stories have beginnings and endings and can stand on their own. Their common thread might be the characters and in some cases, the planet, but all are Stand-Alone novels! I really despise Cliff Hangers with a passion. Can you tell?Thanks for taking the time to get to know me a little better, WillHope you have a great day.Sincerely, Will Decker

Book preview

Mike Hennessy has worked the streets of Portland for more than 20 years; first as a beat cop and more recently as a Lieutenant Detective. He has been honored many times for his bravery, often taking risks that most would never consider and always putting his job first, doing whatever it takes to close cases and bring bad guys to justice.

But Mike is more than just good at his job; he is excellent at it. Because unknown to anyone else, Mike possesses what he believes to be a very unique talent; an ability that lets him literally get inside the heads of his suspects; an ability that with the passage of time and experience, Mike has come to know as a dangerous and potentially deadly curse.

When Mike is assigned the headline grabbing psycho-serial murder case in which more than 20 horribly mutilated bodies, all young, all female, all blonde hair and blue eyed, have already been discovered along the banks of the Columbia River Basin from Portland east to Pendleton, the suspect whose head he gets inside doesn’t play nice. And it isn’t long before Mike discovers that the killer is not only aware of his ethereal presence each time he enters into the sociopath’s subconscious thoughts, but the psychotic killer is also able to interlope back into Mike’s subconscious whenever Mike lets his guard down; such as when he dozes off or sleeps; something Mike has never experienced in all of his other cases since first discovering this unique ability. And it’s getting worse as he can no longer slip into the evil being’s head undetected. And Mike is losing a lot of sleep lately. At least, this is what Mike would have you believe.

Prologue

Unable to pull my eyes away, I stare in horror as the blade slices cleanly through the tender pink flesh, a hot crimson liquid rising to fill the void left by the departing steel. Slowly, deliberately, the blade rises from the red tinged flesh and finds another, yet untouched span of milky white skin, again slicing deeply, leaving in its path a pink valley like the parting of the Red Sea that quickly fills with her hot, crimson blood.

Something snaps deep within my soul, a torrent of pain ripping through my gut as I try in vain to block out the horrendous scene slowly unfolding before me. My hands are shaking of their own accord and tears of salt laden sweat run unabated over my bushy brows, burning mercilessly into my eyes. The chilly night air seeping into the unheated basement through the many broken windows in the warehouse above flows unabated over the sweat lathered muscles of my back and forearms; the flow of blood to my manhood intensifying with each quickening beat of my heart.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I am draining her of her life and there isn’t a damned thing I can do to stop it! I am locked inside this head and it isn’t letting me out; there is no release. He knows I’m here and he’s enjoying every damned second of it. It’s as though he is drawing more pleasure from my tormented anguish than he is the physical pain being inflicted on the young woman lying naked and tortured on the table before him. And although she still lives for a time, she is one of the early ones, the first in what will become a long line of tortured victims.

Chapter One

The streets are quiet. It’s 2: AM; not unexpected for it being a Wednesday. The air is cool and dry, the sweat ladened collar of my shirt lying heavily against the back of my neck. The police scanner in the unmarked sedan is even quieter than the darkness of night itself. Considering everything that had gone on during the day, beginning with the fight down at the courthouse between two opposing attorneys that couldn’t leave their work in the courtroom, to the idiot that tried to rob a bank while riding a stolen child’s 20" bike and brandishing a green plastic squirt gun at the drive-up window, all the way to the medley of bar fights strung out across town and into the evening, it had grown too damned quiet to be good.

And I had dozed off again.

My eyes were only closed for the briefest of moments, and yet, the nightmare had burned itself into my subconscious, bringing out the cold fear in my soul and the sweat from my pores. It was as if I were in the killer’s mind, seeing through his eyes, sharing his thoughts, even feeling the high that he’s feeling and yet, unable to control any of it. But even worse than not being able to control his actions is the helplessness that washes through me from being unable to stop him.

Reflexively, I start to roll up the window and reach for the heater knob when a bright flash peels across the eastern sky above the outline of rooftops, their darker silhouettes momentarily visible against the murky sky. Slowly continuing to crank the knob, I subconsciously count off the seconds in my head, waiting expectantly for the crash of thunder when I am suddenly startled by a loud clap on the roof of the car.

Bolting upright in the seat, I instinctively grab for the Glock 23 tucked securely in its holster beneath my left armpit. Yet, even as my body goes through the motions of self-preservation, my head turns toward the passenger’s door where I immediately recognize the grinning face of Emmanuel ‘Manny’ Hernandez, my soon-to-be ex-partner, staring back at me.

Damn it Manny! I angrily shout at him, his face looking distorted against the flat glass of the window as he laughs uncontrollably.

Still laughing, he steps back and pulls the door open. You should have seen the look on your face, man, he says a bit breathlessly, trying to steady a cardboard tray with two cups of take-out coffee balanced precariously in the shallow divots while extending it across the seat toward me.

Pissed, I grip the wheel of the sedan and stare forward, ignoring the proffered coffee despite the delicious smell assailing my nostrils. Go ahead, take one, he insists, pushing the tray even closer toward me, his voice almost serious as he studies me, taking way too much pleasure in my anxious state.

Turning, I give him a Go-to-Hell glare and reluctantly extract one of the coffees from the cheap cardboard tray just before he pulls it away, takes the other in his free hand and tosses the tray on the dash where it quickly disappears among all the other forgotten garbage lying up there.

Sliding into the seat and pulling the door closed, he looks over at me, a mischievous grin lingering on his face. Man, he says slowly, savoring my anger as if it were a choice piece of meat. You really should have seen the look on your face. I thought you were going to shit yourself or go into cardiac arrest or something.

Manny, like all the rest of the guys back at the squad room are unaware of my unique ability. If he had any idea what I was seeing in the moments just prior to him startling the heebie-jeebies out of me, he might believe his own statement about me having a heart attack, or even shitting myself for that matter. But unaware of the latest horrific scene that just played out in my mind, he is quick to take all the credit for my agitated state of being.

You need to chill, man, he adds, his voice turning serious.

If you weren’t playing your childish fucking games all the time, I grumble, letting the rest of the sentence trail off. There wasn’t any upside in arguing with him; I’d learned a long time ago that with Manny it seemed the more agitated and argumentative I became, the more he enjoyed it.

Anything happen while I was gone?

I take a sip of the coffee, mildly surprised that he hadn’t sabotaged it, and look at him with an expression that says, "Would I be sitting here calmly sipping coffee with you if something were going down? My short answer is simply, No."

He gets the drift and slowly turns away, when suddenly his attention is drawn forward, through the front windshield. Up there, he whispers anxiously, nodding toward a slow moving Chevy low-rider as it creeps through an intersection 2 blocks away, a Latino face looking out the rear side window momentarily lit up by the moody overhead streetlight, his eyes staring blankly in our direction.

Before I can answer Manny, the vehicle with its passenger has passed through the intersection and is lost from sight. But then, moving in the same direction at the same rate of speed is a white, windowless delivery van, the driver staring straight ahead, his attention riveted on the low rider directly in front of him.

Without a word, we quickly roll down the side windows and toss our coffees out before springing into action. While I turn the key, bringing the engine to life and pulling the shift lever into drive, Manny subconsciously checks his backup weapon by running a hand down the side of his leg to his ankle, a move that I hadn’t registered him ever doing before, and we’d been working a few cases together now.

Straightening up in the seat, he pulls his service automatic from the shoulder holster beneath his left arm and ejects the clip. After a quick check to verify it’s full, he slips it back into the Sig .40 caliber and chambers a round. As if in reference to his manhood, Manny has always preferred the larger .40 caliber Sig P226 to the standard issue 9mm that I carry, and his backup is a Smith and Wesson double action .38 revolver with a semi-modified barrel.

Satisfied that he has a round in the chamber, he looks straight ahead and says, Hang a left here and step on it, let’s get ahead of them. I’d rather be waiting for them than arrive late to the party.

Doing as he suggests, I turn left one block before where we saw the vehicles going by and head west on Durban Street, running parallel and anticipating that if they haven’t sped up we can easily get ahead of them. We have a good idea where they’re headed, and we want to be set up before they arrive. This deal has been in the making for a long time, and only thanks to Manny’s snitch dropping a dime earlier this evening were we apprised of it. In fact, if I took the time to think it through, it seems like this entire case has been all Manny and his snitches’ intelligence reports while I’ve just been along for the ride. Of course, this isn’t the serial murder case that was just recently assigned to me. But rather, it’s ‘old’ business that just reared its ugly head at an inopportune time.

Accelerating hard, we shoot up the dark and deserted streets, barely slowing as we blow by darkened businesses and through signed intersections while speeding up for the few with flashing yellow lights, typical for this time of the night. Manny seems to know exactly where we’re going.

According to Manny’s new snitch, our destination is a small warehouse complex that houses several construction type businesses and a lot of open ground consuming an entire city block strewn with leftover construction material and heavy equipment. There is only one way in with a vehicle, but lots of holes in the chain link from all the neighborhood kids that rip off materials during the night and then sell the same materials back to the businesses during the day to come up with their drug money. And even though the businesses know they are buying their own materials back, they are paying pennies on the dollar and keeping the neighborhood thugs from doing worse. Call it insurance, call it public relations, or call it whatever you will, it beats the hell out of getting sand in your equipment fuel tanks or a Molotov cocktail on the roof.

While the low rider and the white van will be turning south into the warehouse complex gate, Manny and I will drive along the southern boundary of the fence until we clear the end of the lot and take up a position out of sight on the west side of the complex behind the few single-story buildings. Having surveyed this area before, Manny isn’t concerned about finding a precut entrance through the fence.

As we leave the pavement, I kill the lights and tear along the dirt lane running parallel to the fence, Manny watching out the side window for the two vehicles while the sedan kicks up a hail of gravel and dust that is practically invisible in the dark, even with the low wattage lights scattered around the complex.

Just before we turn the corner and pull in behind the nearest of the buildings, Manny tensely alerts me, Here they come.

Their headlights sweep along the fronts and edges of the buildings, just missing our unmarked cruiser before being engulfed in their own cloud of dust from the dry packed clay of the yard churned up under their tires. The vehicles have no sooner stopped when we hear male voices talking excitedly and car doors banging shut as the occupants pile out and head toward the building next to the one we’re concealed behind. It is also the only building with a light on inside and two more late-model sedans already parked outside. All of the other buildings in the compound appear dark and deserted, which is the way they should be at this time of the night.

If Manny’s intel is correct, the white van is hauling in a major shipment of heroin and the low-rider is carrying the most dangerous drug dealer on the west coast, all the way up from L.A. This is going to be one of the largest drug busts in Portland in close to 2 years, and that is why Manny and I are here now. With the big case I’ve just been assigned and my recent promotion to Lieutenant, which actually prompted the Captain to assign me the serial case, anything less would have been handed off to a subordinate. And even now, if it hadn’t been for the short notice Manny’s snitch gave us, I still might have handed this off to one of the other equally competent detectives; it’s not like I’m a publicity hound looking for recognition or accolades.

It isn’t coincidence that my promotion came as a result of my work in narcotics. Before the visions of tortured young women were manifesting themselves in my head, I was having visions of drug deals and shipments, which made it easy for me to get ahead of the players. After their arrests, some even argued that I had set them up, because there wasn’t any other way for me to know they were going to be hauling on that particular night. But it was easy to credit my intel to anonymous snitches and not the real source.

I made a lot of enemies doing my job so well; people that won’t readily forget the grief I bestowed upon them. But I will be putting all of that behind me now that I am working homicide. After tonight, if I never lay eyes on another kilo of meth or a bale of weed, or a dead junkie with a needle hanging out of their arm it will be too soon.

Something else that has been on my mind since leaving the station house earlier is the knowledge that this will be the last case I have to work with Manny Hernandez. A bust of this size will be a good way to end a strained partnership; not all opposites attract, and Manny and I are extreme opposites that have not melded. Manny likes to play it loose and off the cuff with a flamboyant playboy style while I prefer a more planned and thought out approach. He parties in all the hip night spots while I go home to a cold Bohemian beer and Hungry Man from the microwave. But with this bust behind us we can both go our separate ways on a high note. At least, that’s the way I’m looking at it.

I’ll call in backup, I whisper, slipping out the door with the mic to the radio in my hand.

Hold off on that until we know for sure what’s going down, he quickly replies, giving me a look to make sure I’m on the same page he is.

Though it doesn’t feel right, I flip the mic onto the front seat and pull out my Glock, gently working the slide and making sure I have a round in the chamber. At most there are only 6 suspects and they’re all in one room; backup does seem like overkill for a couple of experienced police officers, especially since we have the element of surprise on our side. We can call for a wagon after we make the arrests. That’s the way Manny and I have been working it in the past, which steams my Captain to no end. Others in the station house even refer to us as a couple of hotdogs, but I don’t see it that way. We just get the job done and let others do the cleanup work.

Chapter Two

As I step around the front of the car and make my way in a hurried crouch toward the hole in the fence, I’m suddenly struck by a sharp, blinding pain in my right temple. Stumbling over my own feet, I instinctively reach up and put a hand against the side of my head as though to press the pain away, my other hand still gripping my weapon reaches forward, connecting with the steel chain-link fence setting off a loud rattling sound up and down its length.

Anxious, glancing nervously to the left and right, Manny hurries up beside me, resting his free hand on my shoulder to steady me. Whispering frantically as he looks toward the front of the building where the men entered, he asks What is it man? You all right? You made enough noise to wake the dead.

Though his voice is anxious, I fail to register any real concern for me or even fear that we might lose the element of surprise, which could turn events against us very quickly. The pause does, however, give me time to catch my breath and the pain ebbs away almost as quickly as it struck. Yet, there is a familiarity in the residual pain and it quickly registers into a feeling that I recognize all too well; the bastard’s inside my head, watching through my eyes, silently residing within my consciousness.

He can talk to me, or more specifically, communicate with me if he is so inclined. But for now, he is simply along and watching; watching and waiting.

If I were alone in my apartment I might be able to force him out, drive him back to the Hell that he came from. Or I might even learn something valuable by his presence, despite how unnerving it is. But now is not a good time for distraction, and he is definitely distracting.

When I don’t immediately answer, he asks again, You alright, Man? If you’re not up to taking the lead…

The tone of his voice is much more challenging than sympathetic. There is no doubt that he is pushing me to continue forward, to be the first through the fence and hence the first through the door of the warehouse, and now the presence in my head suddenly speaks up.

It doesn’t really speak, in the sense that you would imagine two people conversing through the use of their vocal cords and sound. It is more of a thought being forced into my consciousness where it can’t be ignored. If I didn’t know what a demented being generating these thoughts was, I might appreciate the warning that he is now imprinting in the forefront of my mind. But as I realize his concern for my current wellbeing, I also realize that his thoughts are entirely selfish; he has other, more dire plans for me and he is only watching out for me so that my demise and suffering comes at his hand and no one else’s.

No, I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute, I rasp through the receding pain, sweat seeping from the pores on my forehead and feeling chill in the night air as I force myself upright, letting his hand slide from my shoulder; his touch neither steadying nor comforting.

Having been inside other people’s heads gives me an edge in recognizing the momentary confusion that I am sensing in this being’s thoughts. It also gives me an edge in recognizing the individual that is projecting into me.

Just give me a minute, I rasp back, taking him in with a sideways glance and noting that he doesn’t make eye contact with, but instead quickly looks away, his nervous demeanor adding credibility to the evil being’s warning inside my head.

Taking a couple steps back, I lean heavily on the hood of my unmarked sedan while purposely keeping Manny in the peripheral of my vision. Suspecting someone of something and believing them capable of something are two entirely different things, and Manny just confirmed the horrendous depth of his corruption. I would not have been surprised to confirm that he was taking kickbacks and turning a blind eye to the drugs and violence being perpetrated on the general public by certain gangs within his old neighborhood, and currently his jurisdiction as an officer of the law, but I am taken aback by the knowledge that he is probably up to his eyeballs with complicity in the death of his former partner.

The gun still held in my right hand, I slowly turn to face him, watching the revelation and surprise in his eyes as he comes to know that I am on to him. They didn’t come charging out of the warehouse despite all the noise I just made because that isn’t the plan. Am I right? I ask, my voice cold and level as I wait for the move that I know is coming.

What plan? he nervously sputters, feigning naivety, his face a twisted smile. What are you talking about? There is no plan.

Put both your weapons on the hood of the car and then take a slow, steady step backwards, I tell him, my voice calm and steady. I’m going to call backup now and we’ll deal with this the right way. No one has to die tonight, especially you, I add, hoping that he does what I asked, but not believing for a New York minute that he will.

Watching his eyes, I see the indecision playing back and forth. All the scenarios of how this could play out are running through his mind while he weighs the odds of being able to kill me before I can stop him.

Don’t try it, Manny, I say softly, not expecting him to take my advice and not even sure I want him to.

His eyes flicker even before the conscious thought to draw down on me has fully formed and his hand twists the 40 caliber sideways, bringing the ominously large barrel to point in my direction. Reading his eyes, my own hand is already rising from the hood of the sedan, the barrel of my weapon swinging to come in line with his heart even as my finger gently squeezes against the trigger.

Both weapons explode simultaneously, the lead slugs propelled toward their respective destinations by the forceful burning of fuels and expanding gasses. I feel the impact of the 40 caliber slug even as the sight of Manny’s body is twisted sideways from the impact of my own slug tearing into his right side, spinning him away in a cloud of smoke and atomized blood mixed with flesh and fabric from his jacket.

The impact of his weapon throws me backwards, and I stumble over my own feet, landing hard on my back, the wind knocked out of me. Gasping for breath and unable to draw in any air, I become aware of movement off to my right, just beyond the chain-link fence and I think to myself, I’m going to die.

Bullshit!

The thought is angrily imprinted in my consciousness, but the thought isn’t just mine. And then the first glorious lungful of air reaches my chest, and I roll away to my left, trying to put as much of the sedan as I can between me and the fence.

Even as I move, I hear the pop, pop of several weapons firing and feel the ping of dislodged dirt and rock chips peppering me through the thin fabric of my trench coat.

Move it, move it, move it! echoes inside my head. Whether the thoughts are mine or the interlopers, I have no idea, I just listen to them and roll all the faster.

A bullet strikes the back side of the front tire next to my head and the car drops down on the rim, the quick deflation of the tire kicking up a small cloud of dust in my face. Had I made it under the car like I first intended, I would be dead now, crushed by several tons of iron. My breathing is a series of ragged gasps, each breath bringing more clarity to the situation. I draw my weapon up against my chest and hold it steady with both hands. At any moment, the thugs from the warehouse are going to move out to my side, flanking me and taking away what little protection the sedan is offering. I need to take the battle to them before that can happen.

Pulling in a ragged chest full of air and holding it, I roll out and away from the relative safety of the sedan, coming to a stop in a prone position, my arms stretched out above my head. Bringing the 9 mm to bear on the tattooed thugs, I sight along the barrel, ignoring the muzzle flashes from their weapons and the whiz-pop of bullets flying by my head faster than the speed of sound. With a calm that surprises even me, I squeeze the trigger, taking the nearest in the upper thigh.

Wounded, the young man screams like a girl and drops his weapon as he clutches at the wound in his leg, his hands turning dark in the dim light as blood flows over them.

A bullet kicks up dirt in front of my face, causing me momentary blindness and driving me back to the limited safety and concealment of the sedan. Reaching up, I pull open the door and come face to face with Manny. With a wild look in his eyes and blood drooling from his mouth and down his chin, he grins at the sight of me, only inches separating us.

Next to his head the 40 caliber rests on the passenger’s seat cushion, still held loosely in his right hand.

Why Manny? Was it the money? I asked, aware that he is only moments from death.

He smiles, a display of bloodied teeth creating a ghoulish effect. If you have to ask, you’ll never know, he whispers, and then falls into a fit of coughing that ends with him hacking up a bloody lunger before he settles deeper into the hard cushions of the front seats.

Don’t tell me it was about respect, Manny, because you had that right here on the force until you threw it away. The door glass suddenly shatters from the impact of a bullet and rains down slivers on us. I instinctively duck, and then finish my thought, determined that Manny take it with him to whatever Hell is waiting for him. They don’t respect you, Manny, I almost shout, wanting him to hear me even as his eyes are drifting away with the sleep of the dead. They only used you! You were nothing more than a fucking puppet!

My words fall on deaf ears, his spirit no longer bound by the confines of flesh and blood. All I can do for him now is pray; so I silently pray that he took my last words with him to ponder for all eternity.

I like this side of you, comes the interloper’s thought.

Get the fuck out of my head! I fire back while turning my back on Manny’s lifeless corpse and prepare to take the battle to the thugs beyond the fence.

Only then do I realize that I am surrounded by silence. Furtively, I steal a glance through the missing glass of the door and see that the gang members are making a hasty retreat to their vehicles, two of them dragging the wounded one between them as they head for the open side door on the van.

Although the gun battle is over, I stay hidden behind the relative safety of the door as I hear motors coming to life and the sound of gravel being kicked out from beneath accelerating tires. Only then do I notice a stiffness and pain in my left arm and look down to see a growing blood stain emanating out from just below my left shoulder. Cautiously, I flex the fingers of my left hand, opening and closing them into a fist and feeling relief that they function just fine.

With timidity, I raise my left arm and am almost surprised that it moves, though there is a sharp pain just below my neckline and running through my shoulder blade, causing me to take a sharp inhalation of breath. Miraculously, the bullet struck the flesh just below the collar bone. Whether it is still lodged inside me or went through,