Hell To Pay

By William Brian Johnson

A man who thinks he's losing his soul meets a man who has.

Detective Michael Bailey is a seasoned homicide detective who can't escape the deaths of twin girls that happened on his watch. Over the years, it slashed at his sanity and sobriety, and now he stands at the crossroads of his life. The murder investigation of a young woman sends him over the edge.

George Graham is an antique store owner who has fallen for the wrong woman. When rejected and berated in public, George runs home to find a strange old man with an antique box wanting to make a deal. George buys the box and inside finds a matted scalp, a relic of untold power.

"Hell to Pay" is a haunting story about the loss of one's life, redemption, and personal sacrifice. This supernatural thriller is strongly based on Joseph Campbell's epic storytelling and mythology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Brian Johnson
• Release date: Jul 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463199268

William Brian Johnson

Like a crow in a field of glass. Brian Johnson is a storm photographer, writer, teacher, adventurer. He's kind of an evil version of Robert Fulghum. Questions, comments, concerns for my eternal soul? Contact me at father_thunder[at]cox.net.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was too hot and humid for early October, but the tendrils of an approaching cold front began to slice through the city. Detective Michael Bailey wiped the sweat from his eyes. The sweat chilled on his neck, forcing goose bumps as he looked around at the team assembled to take down one of the largest meth distribution points in town.

It’s all gone to hell, hasn’t it, Detective? Officer Sanchez asked.

Bailey’s days on the Narcotics team ended a long time ago with a transfer to Homicide, but here he was. The old crew dispersed for the exception of a few star players no other department would touch due to rumor and accusations. All around Bailey were people he barely knew, who he avoided in his day to day work.

For this team, the case detective was out with two shots to the back and the possibility of never walking again. The victim of another bad bust.

How long ago was the purchase made? Bailey asked.

Officer Sanchez went into specifics as Bailey watched the alley behind him. The shadows shifted and congealed.

Bailey caught his breath, Have we heard anything since. . . His voice trailed off as he glanced back into the darkness. Cold green eyes glared back at him. His hellhound watched.

He felt the officers puzzled stares following him, then gaze down the alley. Bailey knew they wouldn’t see it and the talk about Batshit Bailey would come back. He shifted in his poorly fitting body armor and tightened the strap on his helmet.

Bailey, the voice whispered from the alley, taunting him.

Get ready, Bailey said. He pushed away from the van that hid his position and checked out the back of the house they were about to raid. Curtains were drawn in the upper level of the dilapidated Victorian house and the undercover officer inside was silent. The wind shifted from the north.

The hellhound’s fetid breath fell on his neck. He smelled blood and an odor that burned his eyes.

Bailey. It gurgled his name, the noxious breath made it hard to breathe and stung his nose. I’m waiting. Go die for me. It sang the words to him like a lover.

Detective Bailey, Officer Sanchez slapped Bailey on the back. Is that fucking ammonia?

Ammonia, it wasn’t the hellhound.

Beta Team, go, tactical announced over the radio.

Tactical Bailey yelled into his radio, This is an active lab site!

He heard the flash-bang grenades echo through the two-story house. If anything sparked the ether fuming out of the meth stills, they’d be scrubbing cops off the walls.

Alpha Team, follow in, tactical called. Advise this is a live site.

A young black boy gawked out the second story window, at them.

They know we’re coming, this is an active lab and I just saw a kid look out the second story, watch your fire, Bailey shouted as they rushed the house. The Narc squad busted in the back door with a well-placed blow from the battering ram and they swarmed inside.

Voices called out in the confusion.

Go, go, go.

First floor secure.

Watch the steps.

Semiautomatic fire echoed from somewhere in the house and was answered with several shots.

Suspect down, Code Four.

Bailey waited for the explosion to claim them all.

Second floor secure.

All secure.

Bailey felt a slight lift from the overwhelming sense of doom as he trudged up the back stairs. His head swam from the chemicals permeating the atmosphere.

On the upper level, a white teenager lay sprawled on the floor. His bright blood contrasted the brown carpet as he gulped for air. Bailey stayed near the back of the room watching the teen. The Narc boys passed him and laughed as they took inventory of the haul.

Bailey snapped the safety on his gun and slid it back in the holster. The officers opened the upstairs windows letting in the sound of approaching sirens and fresh air. Cooler air slapped him as he checked a couple of rooms. Something still didn’t seem right.

Where is the boy?

Who’s babysitting us this week? someone yelled down the hall.

Bailey walked toward the group that had gathered near the stairs. He passed the boy who had been shot. A young male, white, eighteen maybe, more like fourteen. The shaved head, piercings, and tattoos, along with the meth habit aged him. The fear in his eyes denied the manufactured age. Tears streamed down his face, while wide eyes tried to take everything in. His blood expanded on the cotton T-shirt making a tie-dye pattern.

Jesus, man. A kid? Bailey asked.

Dunbar shot him, not me. Bailey tried to remember the officer’s name, but the unfeeling stare made him move on. Dunbar was the lost undercover cop, whose wireless microphone decided to go dead, while on a drug bust where shots were fired, and someone was injured.

Hey Bailey, before you get your panties in a knot, he shot at me first, Dunbar replied. An officer in his early thirties, whose fat jowls and walrus-style mustache gave him the lazy face of a mastiff.

Bailey heard a chuckle with the comments around him. His stare silenced the wolf-pack of officers as the paramedics rushed in. The kid writhed on the floor as they went through their first assessments.

Bailey moved past the crowd into a closed back room, still searching for the boy who had peered out the window. Even with the attic fan churning the atmosphere, the smell was acrid, industrial; cans of Sterno fuel, starter fluid, and boxes of pseudoephedrine littered the floor. Chemicals impregnated the carpet enough that it was impossible to discern its original color. Seven stills churned the drug in the back room.

Bailey jumped as someone laid their hand on his shoulder. He turned to friendly eyes and found the voice of tactical on the radio. Sergeant John Sheen ran the Narc team when Bailey transferred in, and John would probably die in the position, one of the fallen stars of the Narc team.

You shouldn’t be in here, John said. This place just needs a match to go up and breathing this shit is less than healthy. The paramedics are going to leave you with some paperwork . . . Detective.

Bailey knew John hated to call him that. Now an internal audit was forcing Bailey into a more administrative position. They exited the room.

You called for the entrance on an active lab? Bailey asked.

We had intel on this place for over a month, it wasn’t supposed to be active. You saw it and would have done the same damn thing. We couldn’t waste a bust of this size on bad information.

You jeopardized the lives of two teams in there.

We took at least eighty percent of the meth in Ashton off the street. Tell me we didn’t do some good.

Did you witness the shooting? Bailey asked.

John squeezed Bailey’s shoulder, it was their telepathic way of calling each other asshole.

Yup, John said.

Merry Christmas, you got the endless paperwork prize.

Operation’s done. Go get some air and we’ll meet up later at the station. Thanks for the administrative tag along and I’ll tell you off the books what you can do with the paperwork.

Are the higher-ups going to be happy with another shooting? Bailey asked.

If not, they can bring their asses down here on the ride along. Instead, we’re real happy they shoved you face first into this heap. John straightened up, almost in a military fashion. Seriously, if that kid wasn’t taken out, he would have shot us all. Dunbar pulled a MAC-10 off him, but we can bitch about this later. IA will want a report and the DA wants re-elected. Get back to the office and be our poster boy. Hopefully, you won’t have many more of these to come on.

Bailey nodded. There was a kid on the second level as we were coming in—

The one shot? John asked.

No different, young black male, eight to ten years old.

John called out the description on the radio.

Bailey walked to the stairs. Sanchez yelled something from across the room, Dunbar stared at Bailey, studying him as he approached, looking for the jugular with those lazy dog eyes. Dunbar’s bullying expression changed.

Like a slow motion action movie, Dunbar pointed at the ceiling and hollered. Bailey threw himself to the side as something exploded nearby, grazed his head, and kicked him in the back. He landed hard against the wall. Dunbar and John started muzzle-punching holes into the ceiling as a shotgun fell from the attic panel, its rusted barrel shattered by the bad load.

Bailey got up, dazed, back burning, and hurting. He pulled his gun and trained it on the attic opening, but nothing moved inside as blood seeped from the holes shot in the ceiling.

Code Four, repeat Code Four, John yelled into his radio. Bailey . . . Mike are you okay? Damn it, who called that all clear?

One of the Narc boys ran up the stairs with his riot shotgun. With all four covering the hole, he slid the panel open with the barrel of his gun. The body of the ten-year-old Bailey saw earlier in the window fell silently to the floor. One of the bullets made a perfect bulls-eye in the center of his chest.

Well, Commander. You owe me a beer, Dunbar said.

Bailey looked at him, at a complete loss for words.

Jesus, Dunbar, John said.

Another ambulance yowled close by. Bailey stumbled downstairs still trying to take it all in. John followed on his heels, but it took three mentions of Mike, snap out of it to get a response. John grabbed Bailey’s shoulder and examined the shot held by the bullet-proof vest’s Kevlar fibers. They were out on the lawn and several of the officers stared at Detective Bailey. His head probably bled enough to put him on the cover of a monster magazine.

John helped Bailey off with his gear. The makeshift load from the shotgun had been crammed with screws, bits of metal, and nuts, surrounded by shot. None of it went past the worn Kevlar.

Someone tried to make a homemade round and had no idea what they were doing, John said.

When the ambulance arrived, John handed Bailey off to the paramedics. A flurry of activity took place in the back of the rig as they gave him a serious once over. Just a flesh wound on the head, one of the paramedics said. Although, you better get a tetanus shot. Do you want to go in?

No.

You sure, Detective Bailey? You might want to get that back X-rayed.

He shook his head as they treated his wounds. There was too much going on to wait in the ER for a simple shot or a couple stitches. The paramedics ran on to check the dead child upstairs. The boy was gone and their interventions would be useless. Outside of the ambulance, Bailey counted seven people lying face down and cuffed.

Good haul on a beautiful day, hollered Dunbar.

It made Bailey hate him that much more. He reached for something to say to Dunbar’s blank stare, but the idiot forced him back to reality, as his ears rang and back throbbed.

I’m leaving. Officer Sheen is in command.

Dunbar snapped to a fake salute hard enough it made his chin wiggle. Bailey wanted to bust him for insubordination but doubted it would bring sweet victory.

I’m still waiting on the thank you, Dunbar said.

Fuck off, Dunbar.

Bailey hated his position, hated the people on both sides of the law, and most of all he hated this town.

Ashton was the perfect name for this pit. Once the manufacturing mecca of the Midwest, the industrial city buried in the southeastern corner of Kansas rotted after the economy left with the jobs. Now the only thing produced was meth, prostitutes, and the homeless looking to roost.

Thoughts of satisfaction had crumbled in the last three years. Job and life sucked, and pension was a pipe dream.

Bailey discarded the rest of his tactical armor in the police van, and decided to walk back to the main precinct a little over a mile away. He threw on his old overcoat to cover up his gun belt. It hurt like hell to move his arm.

He left the safety of the van and walked down the street. From a distance, he watched Dunbar accidentally slam the head of a handcuffed male into the doorframe of the cruiser waiting for transport. Dunbar laughed like a moron and it rubbed Bailey the wrong way, but what could he do? Bailey decided to work alone a few years ago, only pairing up with an officer if the situation called for it. Assholes like Dunbar forced that decision. Bailey didn’t want the extra stress of watching out for someone’s ass on these streets, or getting pulled into one of the many illicit rackets going on in the department.

He stared back at the crime scene until Dunbar glanced up at him. Even from a distance he looked like a mongrel. Dunbar half-nodded probably searching for approval from a seasoned cop, but he was nothing but a bully and a bad cop. Someone needed to take him down soon, but Bailey didn’t have the strength.

He flipped him off, torn between feelings about a man that just saved his life and what was right. He was there for a reason. The administration wanted another set of eyes here, just in case. Something could be mentioned in the report but why bother. The victim would sue and make more from a casual knock on the head than Bailey made in a decade.

Just thinking made Bailey boil. Up the street, a gangly brunette approached with her arms full with groceries. She tried to duck behind the bags to conceal her identity as she passed, but Bailey recognized her. He grabbed her arm, a move that made Bailey wince from his new injuries.

Hello, Hanna, he said through gritted teeth.

He spun her hard enough that the contents of the bags spilled: milk, bread, and lots of pseudoephedrine.

Hey, it’s your third straight month with congestion, Bailey said. Why don’t you run on home? The place is swarming with police.

Hanna remained quiet, but the obviously blown pupils spoke volumes about her addiction. She was once an attractive girl, now her hair was ready to fall out, acne deeply pitted her cheeks, and she looked ten pounds under anorexic.

Come on, girl. Not going to talk today?

Dude, you’re bleeding.

Bailey released her and ran his hand up to the bandage. I could call one of the female officers to frisk you.

She sputtered, making excuses, set the remaining groceries down, then pulled out her pockets. Look man, no pipes, no syringes. I’m good.

Those marks on your arms are telling me a different story. So are the eight packs of decongestants. Who sold it to you?

Bailey noticed a car slowing down, parked near them and left the car running. The driver appeared too large for the red Dodge Neon,

Friend of yours, Hanna? Bailey asked.

It’s my boyfriend. Listen man, are you going to arrest me or are you just hassling me today?

Bailey walked over to the car and put the decongestants in his pocket. The muscular freak behind the wheel started to get out.

Don’t even think about it, Bailey said. He pulled his gun and moved around the car. No missing from this range.

What’s the problem, Officer? The driver’s hands gripped the steering wheel, slightly bending it as his knuckles turned white.

License and registration. Bailey hated saying it, brought back too many memories of working as a traffic cop. The driver shifted in his tiny car and pulled out his wallet. After a moment of fumbling, he passed it out the window to Bailey.

Bret St. James, it stated. Bailey flipped on his phone and called the traffic desk. A five-year-old conviction for trafficking with no outstanding warrants.

Mr. St. James, are you on probation?

No, Sir. Finished that last year. Keeping my nose clean.

Bailey holstered his gun. Bullshit. I’m in no mood for playing today. You’re in a known drug area, driving toward a house we just busted. We’re ripping the place apart looking for evidence and if we find anything remotely tied to you—

No, sir. I don’t know anything about any drug houses in the area. I’m just looking to give my girlfriend a ride home.

Hanna crept toward the car. Bailey’s head rose above the roof of the car.

Stop right there.

Hanna froze. Bailey walked around the car.

I’ve busted your girlfriend on more than one occasion and probably could do it today. I’m keeping the decongestants and letting her go. I have enough paperwork at the office waiting for me and don’t need to waste any more time on you addicts.

Hanna gathered the scattered groceries and set them into the back seat as Bret glared at her.

Hanna, if I see you around here again, I’m going to hassle you. Do you understand?

Yes, sir, she said.

You better stay clean.

The two drove off, slowing near the house where Bailey nearly died.

Then looking back down the street, out of the corner of Bailey’s eye, he saw it. His traveling companion that made him slowly accept his own insanity. The big black dog, his hellhound, materialized from the shadows between the houses, and followed him right down the street.

Chapter 2

Bailey stumbled into the Seattle Coffee Market, a new ‘revitalization’ effort by the crumbling city’s fathers. It was barely midmorning and the day’s events had already drained him. He sat in a sunlit corner scanning the local paper.

A presence made him glance up to find a cute blonde waitress eyeing him suspiciously. She looked like the good and rowdy type Bailey needed to make him snap out of his funk. She was cute though, something about her screamed high maintenance and Bailey had been down that road too many times.

Sorry, hard day at work, Bailey said.

Okay, like, you realize you’ve bled through that bandage?

Bailey reached up to his newly acquired wound on his forehead and felt the wetness.

Shit. He stood up and rifled through his coat. His badge glinted in the sunlight.

There’s a bandage in a first aid kit I could give you, but—

But what? Bailey asked.

You’re not staying here bleeding all over the place with the lunch crowd coming in, she said, folding her arms.

Bailey found a bandage in his pocket, held it up defiantly, and moved toward the restroom.

Listen, sunshine. Get me some coffee . . . black, nothing special, and a sandwich. Anything without bean sprouts that has more meat than salad on it.

She cursed as he dragged himself past her into the bathroom. The urinal cake fragrance made him gag, but it covered up his methamphetamine stench. Bailey tore off the blood soaked bandage and realized how bad he looked in the mirror. The dark bags beneath his eyes stood out from his pale skin. He’d seen celebrity mug shots that looked better.

After washing his hands, he went to work on the wound. It needed stitches, but even small head wounds bled like a son of a bitch. A little shrapnel from an exploding gun wasn’t going to make him sit in an emergency room all morning. Bailey pressed the bandage into place and winced from the pain. It should hold until he got to the station.

After washing the blood out of the sink, Bailey closed his eyes and drifted. The thought of the young boy’s lifeless body startled him awake. He wondered if the boy had any family to find and tell, or if he was another gang orphan raised by the gun.

He walked back into the emerging lunch crowd and found his seat occupied by a short, overweight, bald man. Bailey marched toward him and just as they were about to make eye contact, the waitress cut him off.

Okay, I’m going to be blunt, the waitress said. Here’s your coffee and your sandwich, you look like shit and you’re going to bleed through that bandage soon. I want you to leave. If you want to come back on a better day, we have many delicious pastries that I’m sure you and your little cop buddies will just love. Give me seven bucks and I’ll call it even.

Bailey stared into her eyes and gave up. He fumbled for his wallet and produced a wadded up five dollar bill. She sighed and snagged the cash from his hand.

This will do, and thank you for your patronage, cop. Come back again when you’re a little less wounded and can tip.

She stomped to the register and Bailey turned to look at the man in his chair. He looked up and caught Bailey’s glare.

George wondered what was going on inside this guy’s mind. The guy looked down on his luck. Maybe he was homeless like so many others in this town. Down on his luck or insane, either way, the man made George uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat and put a couple dollars on the table. Here, I hope things go better for you, George said not looking up from the table.

The bum stormed off, muttering profanities. George glanced down at the bills on the table and sipped his espresso. Maybe he still has some pride left, he whispered to himself.

George put the money back into his pocket and watched the gorgeous blonde waitress walk by.

A couple of months ago she came into the antique store browsing for curios in the new coffee shop. Samantha. They struck up a conversation about the old part of town being ‘revitalized’ and since then, he watched her every day. The bistro was the only company trying to breathe life into Market Square, and it attracted some new people to his antique store. The antique store’s sales waned since he’d hung out here at lunch, but the other patrons hid his admiration well, in fact, they hid him completely.

George hated coffee and his ulcer saw it as an abomination, but this one toxic drink was his lifeline to Samantha. He wanted to ask her out and searched for the proper words, but she was out of his league by at least a thousand fathoms.

She approached from the register and spoke to a few patrons as he finished his espresso.

George’s stomach seized as she approached. Her blonde hair flowed down to the small of her back, dark thin wonderful eyebrows waxed almost to the point of non-existence, and shoulders that framed the best Victoria Secret catalog breasts George had ever seen. From one table away, she glanced at him and made small talk with a customer while George counted each second with two thumps of his heart.

With his speech ready, a moment of lucid thought struck him, brought on by too strong coffee and adrenaline hammering through his body. He wanted to be a Viking, grab her, and take her to his longship. There would be no talk, just prolonged joyous sex, but that only happened in his mother’s old romance books, and the real world for George Graham delved into the ordinary.

Sir, do you need anything else? She was right there, standing before him in goddess-like beauty. She was Pele, Freya, and Kali all at once, beautiful and horrible at the same time.

Um . . . He had to think quickly, as the moment was fleeting. Could I get one of those pastries? He half-heartedly pointed at the case, and it bought him a few precious moments as she descended from his reality.

I must regroup, think, think, think.

His eyes never left her as she went to the case. Such a figure should be left for musical instruments and sports cars.

The Pepcid George took hours before wore off, giving his throat the acid-wash effect someone might like on a new pair of jeans. She came back to him.

Anything else I can get for you, hon?

You never heard hon in this city. She must be interested in him. This was it. He took in a deep breath ready for his pronouncements of love and future expectations, when his stomach spoke up in a pyloric description of love. A long monotonous bellow from deep within the gut, due to the digestion of a fatty diet that few would call gastric distress.

She arched an eyebrow.

Um, sorry about that. I was curious if you would ever like to see . . .uh, you know that little restaurant down near the car dealership that . . . would you like to. . .go out . . . on a date?

She followed him until he