Code Four (#4) - paperback

Chapter 1

There was no moon out.

Not that it mattered in this neighborhood.

At the west end of the block sat a McDonald’s, its interior dark and quiet. A couple of hours had passed since the last burger was sold for the evening. A rusty pickup remained in the parking lot, but no employee was inside the building. Overhead lights encircled the property and bathed it in a bright, sickly white.

Across the street to the south was a vacant lot. Standing in the middle of the property, a real estate skid sign leaned from a broken support. Had it been in another neighborhood, this land might have been dark. However, the McDonald’s provided enough illumination for two parcels.

The Burger King immediately next door furnished even more light. Newly constructed with modern finishes and updated logos, the establishment proudly announced its presence with brightly illuminated signs and even more energy-efficient parking lot lights than its competitor.

It didn’t matter that both fast-food restaurants were on Division Street, the most heavily trafficked corridor and busiest retail strip in Spokane, Washington. It also didn’t matter that both restaurants were now closed, and the gleaming parking lights were only to deter criminal activity and promote public safety.

What really mattered was that there was no physical barrier from the rear of either establishment before the start of the nearby neighborhood filled with post-World War II houses. A row of trees at full bloom would have been a welcome relief to the residents of the small, mostly rental homes. Much like the light pollution, the trees were probably an afterthought. Which meant that the nearby tiny houses with postage-stamp yards were lit up every night almost as severely as a prison yard.

Almost, but not quite.

At least, that’s what Tyler Garrett supposed.

Even though he’d been a police officer for more than a decade, he had never been inside a prison. Not that this was any kind of anomaly, since most cops had never seen the inside of a prison. For that fact, most had never been inside a local jail. Oh, they would have seen the booking area, of course, and probably even the in-processing station, but that was about as far as most officers would take any curiosity into the correctional system.

Garrett, however, had actually seen the inside of a jail cell. He’d been in there after he was in-processed, escorted to a cell, the lock was secured, and a jailer walked away. It had occurred a couple of years ago, but that was in the rearview mirror now. And if he was honest with himself, which he was nothing but these days, it wasn’t as bad as every-one made it out to be.
The jailers couldn’t get inside his head any more than others outside those concrete walls could. If that was the case—if his mind could remain his own—then he was free to be himself. A game was still a game and the pieces had to be moved.

Who cared where the board was?

Garrett checked his watch to find that it was shortly after two. He needed to get some sleep soon or tomorrow’s shift would be a bear. For almost an hour now, he’d sat off the little tan house, the one directly behind the vacant lot, the one awash in light from both the McDonald’s and the Burger King. This was the last known residence of Veryl Wooley.

Veryl.

It was a redneck name, for sure, but the man had been a good earner. Smart and loyal, too. At least, that was what Earl Ellis had told him. Garrett never had direct contact with Wooley, so he had to go with Earl’s feedback.

It had been a few days that he’d sought the man. Garrett knew where he lived and what he drove. Well, where he supposedly lived and what he supposedly drove. Garrett observed this house at various times and never saw a 2012 Mazda 3 in front. The little house didn’t have a driveway and, therefore, didn’t have a garage.

Perhaps Wooley had moved. Maybe he was staying with a girlfriend. Or he could have taken a trip to see a family member. Hell, his car might be in the shop. There was an end-less list of reasons for the car to not be there. The same could be said for Veryl Wooley.

Garrett could give himself a headache thinking about the reasons.

Hunting Wooley might be a fool’s errand. That didn’t panic him, though. Besides, why should he worry? He knew what risks faced him now and he’d done his best to contain them. He minimized those few he couldn’t control by compartmentalizing them—they couldn’t hurt him if they couldn’t get close to him. Therefore, worrying now was a waste of energy and imagination. His energy. His imagination.

The only thing that truly bothered him at that moment was getting enough sleep. The new day shift assignment was a crimp in his lifestyle. It wouldn’t stop him from doing what needed to be done, but it still sucked.
With a resigned sigh, Garrett reached for the ignition switch. He felt its tension against his gloved fingers as it waited for the opportunity to fire the engine to life. In mid-turn, he froze, stopping before the engine could alert anyone of his presence. His fingers now returned the ignition switch to its resting place.

The front door to the little tan house had opened. Even though no light came from inside the house, nor a porch light, the figure who emerged was illuminated by the neigh-boring parking lot lights.

A short, skinny white man now stood on the concrete steps of the tan house.

Even from this distance, Garrett was sure it was him—Veryl Wooley. He’d seen his booking photo on the department’s computers.

Wooley wore loose-fitting jeans, an over-sized shirt, and a baseball cap turned back-wards. He glanced up and down Heroy Avenue once, then twice. He reached back and pulled the door closed before looking down the block again. Satisfied he was alone, the man bounded down the stairs. He held his unbelted jeans around his waist as he did so.

“Typical,” Garrett muttered.

Wooley either didn’t have the Mazda anymore or it was parked elsewhere. Once on the sidewalk, he headed west toward Division Street. It was too late to catch a bus—they stopped operating shortly before midnight—so either he was going to the nearby convenience store or he was meeting someone.

If Veryl decided to bolt across the busy arterial, there was no way for Garrett to cross the concrete median in his car. He would lose the man as well as alert him that he was being followed. It was a sucker’s play to do that.

Garrett slipped out of his car. His hand touched the gun holstered in the small of his back to ensure it was secured. He wore a long-sleeved black T-shirt, black jeans, and ankle-high black patrol boots.

At Division Street, Wooley paused for the three lanes of northbound traffic. Even at this hour, the flow was sporadic enough with the late-night bar crowd heading home to make caution worthwhile. Wooley took an unnecessary look north to ensure no traffic was heading the wrong way then stole another glance south. Something in that second glance must have caught his eye because he looked back from where he came.

Garrett was only a few feet away when Wooley’s eyes widened, and he stepped into the road.

A northbound Mustang slammed on its brakes and skidded. Its squealing tires sounded extremely loud at this late hour. The Ford’s horn pierced the night.

“Stop!” Garrett yelled. It was a foolish command, especially since he wasn’t in uniform.

Veryl Wooley sprinted across the northbound lanes of Division Street over the concrete median then the southbound lanes. Garrett was on his heels, albeit a bit slower as he heeded caution to avoid oncoming cars.

Maybe it was instinctual or maybe that’s where he had planned to go all along, but once Wooley made it to the safety of the well-illuminated Office Depot parking lot, he turned north and ran toward the gas station at the corner.

Garrett sprinted after him. He was faster than his quarry. Some of this was physics since he was a bigger and stronger man. Some of this had to be training, since Wooley was not the type to have spent any time in or around a gym.

As he neared the man, Garrett yelled, “Veryl!”

Hearing his name, Wooley glanced over his shoulder and saw Garrett within arm’s reach. The man panicked and turned deeper into the parking lot, forsaking the convenience store.

This move surprised Garrett and when he planted his foot to turn, it slipped out from underneath him. He slammed to the asphalt. He grunted as his shoulder and hip hit the ground at the same time. Without hesitation, he scrambled back to his feet and ran.

When Wooley made it to the darkened alley behind the office supply store, he turned southbound. A neighborhood abutted the corridor.

Garrett leaned forward and pushed himself harder. The rubber soles of his boots slapped the asphalt. When he entered the rocky, uneven terrain of the backstreet, the rhythmic slap of his soles changed to a crunching beat.
The short stretch of alley was dark but in the distance was light from the next road several hundred feet away. He couldn’t remember the street’s name, but—

Garrett suddenly slowed. Where did Wooley go?

The alley was empty and there was no way that the shorter man could have run the entire length of the shopping center to turn back into the front of parking lot. Garrett’s trot slowed to a walk. Blood pounded in his ears as he inhaled deeply through his nose. He held the breath for several seconds before pushing it out in a long, slow exhale.

Did he jump a fence into a nearby yard?

That’s what I would have done.

But Wooley hadn’t done anything Garrett might have considered.

First, Tyler Garrett would never have left the safety of the lit Office Depot parking lot.

Second, he would have continued toward the sanctuary of the convenience store where there was more than likely an employee working. That meant a witness.

Third, he would have stayed at the lit intersection where the heavy traffic would have provided additional witnesses.

But Garrett had to give the man credit for something. Against all the things Garrett wouldn’t had done, Veryl Wooley unexpectedly broke left toward the darkened alley and got away.

So where will he go now? Home?

That seemed the natural play. It might take some time, but he would eventually go there.

Garrett turned around to head back the way he came and suddenly stopped. It was hard to place over the traffic sounds on the nearby arterial and the blood still pulsating in his ears, but he thought he’d heard something.

His eyes strained to see in the low light. Trash cans lined the length of fence that separated the houses from the alley.

There it is again.

The sound he first heard—a faint wheeze followed by a ragged gasp of air.

He hunched as he hurried through the alley. This time, though, he searched along the fence line. He checked behind a couple of large, rectangular trash cans. Long, sticky weeds protruding from the fences grabbed at his pants. The alley smelled like feces and garbage.

As he moved toward the next set of trash cans, they rocked suddenly. A darkened figured burst from a hiding place behind them. Veryl Wooley managed one step before Garrett grabbed him with both hands. They pirouetted together for a moment until Garrett tossed the smaller man into the nearby fence line. He bounced off and knocked over a trash can.

The smaller man exhaled loudly, “Oof!” then fell over the can. His knees struck the ground and his chest flopped onto the side of the can.

Garrett stepped behind him and punched down onto a kidney, compressing it between his fist and the hard plastic of the trash can.

Wooley straightened and squealed. His guttural cry was that of a wounded animal.

Garrett punched again, but this time into the opposite kidney. Veryl Wooley rolled away and tucked himself into a fetal position against the fence. He hollered, “I give! I give!”

A light came on at the back of the house nearest them. The back door squeaked opened, and an elderly man poked his head out. “The hell is going on out there?” he yelled.

“Police!” Garrett shouted. “Caught a prowler out here.”

Wooley shouted, “He’s not—” but Garrett kicked him to cut off his protest.

“Need some help?” the elderly man asked. His voice, although clearly aged, was not frail. “I can grab my gun and come out.”

An armed citizen was the last thing Garrett needed. “My partner is on the way. Please stay inside.”

Garrett kicked Wooley again for good measure. The smaller man whispered, “I didn’t say nothin’.”

The back door started to close then it squeaked open again. “If you’re gonna give ’em hell, will you keep it down? I gotta get some sleep.”

The door squeaked closed, but the rear light remained on. Garrett bent down then and whispered, “Where’s Earl?”

“Who?”

Garrett punched Wooley in the midsection. He didn’t connect with anything important as the man was turtled up with his arms crossed over his belly, but the simple act of hitting the man was part of the process.

“Earl Ellis. Where is he?”

“How would I know?”

Garrett kicked him.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!”

“Keep it down,” Garrett ordered. “We don’t want to wake the old man again.”

“Then stop hitting me,” Wooley whined.

He knelt. “I won’t hit you if you tell me where Earl went.”

“But I—”

Garrett faked as if to strike Wooley in the face. The smaller man cowered in response and covered his head with his arms. Garrett punched his exposed belly.

Spittle flew from Wooley’s mouth, and he coughed several times. When he finally re-covered enough breath to speak, he rasped, “If I knew where he was, I’d tell you. I promise, man. I wouldn’t hold out. I promise.”

Garrett studied Wooley for a moment. The two men remained motionless in the quiet of the foul-smelling alley. Finally, Garrett nodded and patted Wooley’s leg. “I believe you.”

The smaller man visibly relaxed. “You do?”

Garrett reached behind his back and slowly withdrew his gun. When he pointed it at Wooley, the cowering man whined, “Ah, man.”

“Shut up and listen. You see or hear from Ellis, you tell him to get in touch.”

“I will,” Wooley said, his voice laced with fear. “In touch with who?”

“He’ll know.” Garrett cocked his head slightly. “Do you know who I am?”

Wooley’s eyes widened and he started to nod his head.

Garrett extended the gun.

“No.” Wooley exaggeratedly shook his head side to side. “I have absolutely no clue who you are.”

Garrett slipped his gun back into his holster and stood. “And the next time you see me, don’t run. It just makes me mad.”

“For sure, man. I won’t—”

Garrett kicked him a final time. This time was in the shin, which elicited a howl of pain as Wooley grabbed his leg. He left the man moaning and rolling in the alley.

As he walked back to his car, Garrett’s thoughts drifted away from Veryl Wooley and the missing Earl Ellis to the thing that worried him the most right now.

He checked his watch. It was almost quarter of three now.

If he didn’t get some sleep soon, tomorrow would be rough.