The chemist, p.1
The Chemist, page 1
part #1 of The Chemist Series
Also by Janson Mancheski:
The Chemist
Trail of Evil
Mask of Bone
Shoot For the Stars
The Scrub
The Greatest Hits—Best of The Chemist Series
In memory of my brother-in-law, the late Norbert “Nubs” DeCleene, a gallant marine, a good cop, and a rarity in this day-and-age: an honest politician. Now patrolling the skies as a guardian angel.
THE CHEMIST
Janson Mancheski
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHASING A GHOST
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
PART TWO
OLD COLLEGE ROOMMATES
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
PART THREE
ONE FINAL VICTIM
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
Jagged clouds scudded across the starless June night sky. A dark SUV bounced along the gravel access road, the countryside vegetation thick on each side and covered by high trees. The foliage thinned near a small boat landing where fresh lake waters lapped at the rocky shoreline.
The SUV eased to a halt. Three men with skin as dark as the surroundings emerged, closing the doors. The night was serene, the humid air thrumming with insects abuzz in the unkempt patches of sawgrass.
One of the men popped the vehicle’s rear latch and opened the backdoor. With modest effort, they lifted an unconscious woman—naked and gagged, wrists and ankles bound with plastic zip-ties—from inside.
The team leader, barrel-chested and pock-faced, was an African in a dark sports jacket. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He led the silent procession, his underlings carrying the woman up the narrow dock toward a small skiff rocking gently in the water. Minutes later they were heading out across Lake Michigan, the sky heavy above them like a black coverlet.
A quarter-mile out, the skiff’s engine was cut, and the craft bobbed in the deep water. One of the men used a knife to slice the plastic ties that bound the woman’s hands and feet. He removed the gag from her mouth. They raised their silent victim to a kneeling position on the port side of the boat. Behind her, the bulky African withdrew a ceremonial sword from a case of polished teakwood.
“Keep her head up,” he ordered, speaking his native tongue.
One of the underlings grabbed a fistful of the woman’s blonde hair, holding his arm out straight. He leaned aside, mindful of the space between himself and where he guessed would be the blade’s impending arc.
The woman moaned, coming around from her stupor. She sensed, perhaps, the danger she was in on some limbic level.
The African gripped the sword’s handle in both hands. Without hesitation, he swung the blade through the still night air. A sound like halving a watermelon was met by the slap of a wave against the side of the skiff. The woman’s headless body pitched into the black water with the barest ghost of a splash. It disappeared, swallowed whole, as if the lake itself were a giant mouth to be fed.
“The head, too?” The man still held the dripping, stark-eyed object by the hair like a pumpkin by its stem.
The larger African wiped his blade clean with a soft cloth and placed it back inside the ornate wooden case. “Double–bag it. No bloodstains on the boat.”
The third man cranked the engine, which let out a gravelly cough in the silent night. The skiff began easing forward, headed back toward the silhouetted shoreline, almost invisible against the starless sky.
“What you want the head for?” the holder asked, uneasy.
The pock–faced African’s smirk was invisible in the darkness. “Make a nice paperweight, don’t you think?”
——
The massive cargo freighter Kwensana sat perched in high water at the North Shore docks in the port of Chicago. The city’s famous skyline stood guard in the background, stretching high enough to gaze the low ceiling of the bruise-colored clouds. It was a windy, gloom filled night, but the ship was too large to be affected by the breeze that rocked her, imperceptibly, against the thick-roped moorings.
The bulky African lumbered along the deck of the freighter in a dark business suit, phone in hand. His round shoulders and thick torso tested the limits of the jacket. Behind him, in dark coveralls, his two partners each carried a heavy canvas sack. Out of the wind, on the port side, the small parade made its way to the hatchway and disappeared inside.
Deep in the Kwensana’s cargo hold, in a private storage area, three oversize crates stood empty. The crates, upright, were labeled with stern warnings: “DANGER. EXOTIC ANIMALS. DO NOT TOUCH.” Each crate bore a series of perforations near its base and upper lid, allowing for air circulation inside. Large skull-and-cross bones were stamped in black ink on all sides— warnings to inquisitive workmen.
The men set their sacks down on the cool floor. The large African muttered something, and the men began to unfasten the canvas bags. They loosened the drawstring openings and unveiled a pair of unconscious females. The women were garbed in loose-fitting hospital scrubs, shoeless. Their mouths were gagged with cloth, hands bound behind backs.
“The third box?” one worker asked.
“Maybe your size?” The African leader let out a throaty laugh. His partners joined nervously, not certain he was kidding.
The workmen tipped one of the boxes sideways, lowering it to the floor. They unfastened the lid and eased one of the women inside. Feet first, they pushed, pressed, and slid her into the coffin-like crate. They secured the lid and raised it back upright.
Then they moved to the second crate.
PART ONE
CHASING A GHOST
CHAPTER 1
On a gray Friday morning in spring, a blue windowless panel van sat in wait, patient as a hearse outside a church. Puddles spotted the grocery store's parking lot, the final traces of winter snowmelt. It had taken less than thirty minutes for the chemist to spot his victim. A slender, determined young woman—age twenty-two, maybe twenty-three—exited her green Honda Civic and walked toward the store's entrance. She was blond and dressed in workout leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. From her gait and demeanor, he calculated she would not be inside for long.
A worn leather medical bag sat on the van's passenger seat. He opened the wings and withdrew a plastic squeeze-bottle filled with clear liquid. The wording on the bottle read “Compact Disc Cleaning Fluid.”
Gazing out the van's front windows, checking all directions, the chemist exited the vehicle. He was a picture of calm as he strolled around his van under the pretense of checking tire pressure. He wore black jeans and a dark navy peacoat, collar turned up to the cool spring breeze, ballcap pulled low against CCTV. His hands were covered in paper-thin lambskin gloves.
No actor in Hollywood could have feigned interest in Goodyear Polytreads with greater aplomb. From the corner of his eye he watched a handful of people as they moved toward the store's front entrance. As far as they were concerned, he might as well be invisible.
Wandering from the van, he slipped between the rows of parked cars. He sidestepped a bumper, then a wayward shopping cart. Withdrawing the plastic bottle from his coat pocket, he doused the driver's-door handle with a clear, slightly viscous fluid, employing practiced casualness.
Back inside his van, he fought to keep his heart from galloping. His forehead was damp near the hairline; his shirt was clammy at his lower back. The trap was set. Now it was time to sit and wait.
It was beginning to mist outside the van. Though the precipitation was mild, it concerned the chemist. Dilution might affect the solution’s effectiveness. He stared out the window and watched the automatic doors of the store open and close. Dark tortoise-shell glass es framed the eyes of a predator. Patience, he reminded himself. Skilled hunters had patience. Wait for the trap to be sprung.
While he waited, he eyed the medical bag sitting on the seat beside him. The liquid concoction inside was his finest discovery. It had transformed him. Set him on his course of…liberation? Yes, that was accurate. Thanks to his invention, he had never felt so free. A simple chemical compound, yet its discovery had turned him from a casual dreamer into a catcher of dreams.
"Dream catcher," he said aloud. The chemist smiled. He liked the way that sounded.
The doors to the store slid open again, and the girl in the workout leggings and sweatshirt emerged and moved in the direction of her car.
His gloved hands gripped the steering wheel. He could discern the narrow lines of her body as she walked, dodging muddy puddles in her white cross-trainers. Perfect balance. Lean and graceful as a dancer.
Lost in thought, she paid little attention to the meandering people who moved around her. And even less to the blue van parked three slots down from her car.
The chemist turned the key in the ignition.
——
Cindy Hulbreth tucked the grocery bag under one arm and fished in her sweatshirt pocket for her keys. She popped the door locks of her Civic with the remote, grabbed the door handle, and opened the door. The handle was damp with what she decided was mist. She stared at her hand, rubbed her fingertips together, sniffed them. It felt weird, but there was no odor. She smoothed the dampness off on her leggings, deciding it shouldn't stain.
Cindy placed her groceries in the small backseat. She slipped inside, pulling the door closed. As she fumbled with her keys, she glanced in her rearview mirror. Some idiot in a blue van had pulled in behind her, blocking the way. She exhaled, sliding the key in the ignition but not turning it. Another glance in the rearview showed the van still there.
Turning in her seat, staring out the back window, Cindy wondered what the hold-up was. The van remained in place. Waiting for someone up ahead, perhaps? Some other car? An elderly pedestrian with a shopping cart?
She considered leaning on her horn. She didn’t want to be rude, but her clothes were gamey from her workout, and there was a hot shower waiting at home.
Cindy ran her tongue over her teeth. Her mouth felt cottony. She licked her lips for moisture and rummaged through her pocketbook for a piece of gum. She crumpled the wrapper in the ashtray and glanced again out the back window.
——
One-forty-six. One-forty-five, one-forty-four…
The chemist glanced at his wristwatch above the edge of his glove. The silent countdown in his head matched the precise time on the onyx dial.
——
Becoming vexed, forehead growing warm and her neck flushed, Cindy continued to watch the van sitting behind her like a lump.
"For Christ sakes!" she cursed out loud. "Move your fat blue butt!"
She blinked. Through widened eyes she stared out the front windshield—at nothing really. Cars, the parking lot, the gray April sky. Small auburn blotches, web-like, bloomed at the periphery of her vision. Shaking her head, the blotches failed to dissolve. Should she be amused? she wondered. Brown kaleidoscopic patches were now spreading across her visual field. Sparkles were shooting off at the edges. Jesus! If she didn't feel so rotten all of a sudden, this would be entertaining to watch. Fireworks going off inside her eyeballs.
——
Thirty. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight…
——
Cindy felt her chin droop against her chest in the manner of a weary prizefighter between rounds. Rubber Leg Street, she remembered her dad calling it once, while watching some TV boxing match. She remembered laughing at the term. She'd been ten, maybe eleven at the time. This moment was far less humorous. Her head felt as heavy as a concrete block.
A rush of panic made her cry out. A rasping sound escaped her lips.
——
The chemist watched the girl inside the car keel sideways in her seat, restrained by her seat belt. She reminded him of a fighter pilot who'd crash-landed.
Checking his mirrors, front and behind, he slipped the van into gear. He eased forward and pulled into an open slot just up the row. Exiting the van, hands tucked inside his peacoat, he moved forward. In the open, exposed, with his head down he walked between the cars, headed toward the Civic.
He opened the passenger door and leaned inside. Three times previous, a year ago, he had learned that the passenger-side door provided the best access to the seat belt clasp. It was easier to pull an unconscious person toward you than push one away.
He unlatched the buckle, and the blond-haired girl toppled toward him onto the passenger side. Grasping her beneath one arm and the opposite shoulder, he pulled her into the vacant seat.
Seconds ticked in his head. The chemist closed her car door and edged around the vehicle to the driver's side. Employing the hem of his dark coat, he cleaned the door handle of residue. He opened the door and slipped inside.
Silence.
Save for the roar of pulse in his ears. His heart was tom-tomming against his sternum, but damn if he didn't feel alive. With a gloved finger he felt the girl's neck. Her pulse, unlike his own, was steady. Her heart-shaped face was pretty even without makeup. After a workout, rained upon, and face slackened from her stupor, he doubted she'd consider herself attractive at the moment. How wrong she was.
In the distance a dozen people were walking from different directions, moving with apparent purpose and bored looks on their faces. They were headed either toward or away from the store's sliding main doors.
Key already in the ignition, the chemist started the car and eased from the parking spot. He was careful, mindful of any traffic. After pulling free, he cast a sidelong glance at the sleeping beauty next to him. Seeing her peaceful face, he began to relax.
Moments later the small green car turned out of the parking lot and accelerated up the road, moving away from the scene.
CHAPTER 2
Late Friday morning, the green Civic rolled up the driveway and disappeared into the maw of the shadowed double-stall garage. The door ground closed behind him and the chemist sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the automobile's pinging engine.
"Son of a bitch!" he cursed out loud. He pounded his gloved hand on the steering wheel.
This was not his fault. Who would have guessed the stupid cow would’ve allowed her gas tank to run down to fumes? "Bloody son of a bitch!"
The echo of his outburst hung in the stale air of the compact car. He forced himself to calm, counting backward from thirty. He cricked his neck to one side, then the other. Worked his jaw. Exhaled. Pictured serene water, fresh azure skies, a caressing mountain breeze.
In spite of these efforts, the chemist could not stop his insides from tightening. Adrenaline revved him up, caused his neck to warm and pupils to dilate. The fear of getting caught, the abject horror of failure…whatever its genesis, the effects held him in a python-like grip.
Unwilling to chance running out of gas—what greater monumental fuck up could there be?—he'd been forced to stop for five dollars’ worth. There had been no alternative short of abandoning the abduction. That would have been an unacceptable scenario, putting him at even greater risk. It would have meant wheeling the car around, parking it somewhere back in the store lot. Exiting. Hoofing it back to his van.
All the while risking greater exposure.
Instead, he’d pulled into the nearest filling station and pumped enough gas to get him home. Eyes lowered, he'd paid the youthful attendant without uttering a word. Then he was gone, quiet as the wind. Invisible.
Or so he hoped.
The capture had been clean. The escape, however, had been compromised to an amateurish level.
Not my goddamn fault.
He glanced at the girl still slumped in the passenger seat. She had moved no more than inches during the entire fifteen-minute drive. The chemist reached over and felt her neck for a pulse. Steady. She moaned soft and her left leg twitched. He still had plenty of time to secure her.
Five minutes later, in the basement of the house, he plopped his victim on the unmade, coverless bed. It was a small bedroom without windows.
The house was an isolated ranch at the far end of a cul-de-sac in an almost rural section of outer suburbia. Modest landscaping made cozy by a number of mature trees—or so it had been described on the real estate spec-sheet. Decent-sized backyard. A five-acre span of woods stretched behind the back of the property line. Beyond that an abandoned cornfield. Then another copse of trees, which revealed an isolated old farmhouse.
