Hell's City: Hell's Vengeance Series Book 2

Chapter 4: Death’s Playground

Shane had crept into the factory through a broken window. He’d waited for the forensics team on site to head out, so he could get some time alone to check the place over.

From the looks of the walls and ceiling, someone had gutted the copper wiring years ago, and there was no power to the building. The forensics team had set up lighting, all of which was now gone. But there was still enough illumination from the windows for Shane to see where he was going and get the idea of what had been happening.

A buzz from his phone drew his attention and he pulled it from his pocket and saw Jacinta’s number.

“Hey,” he said, holding it to his ear.

“Are you in Detroit already?” Jacinta asked.

“I’m in the midst of not trespassing on your crime scene, actually.”

“Great. Listen, this thing just went to the next level. It’s Hawthorn. This is all Hawthorn again.”

He let the statement hang in the air for a moment as he walked through the factory, towards where the crime scene technicians had been focusing on.

“That a fact?” he finally said.

“I just had a talk with Jessop—the real Jessop, I think. He said Hawthorn took control of him at the Canadian crime scene, made him come here and start killing.”

“Sounded legit to you?”

“Everyone else thinks he’s crazy, but I watched this guy break his own wrist while begging us to kill him before Hawthorn came back. And I felt a hell of a chill in the room before his entire demeanor went from crazed killer to panicky, confused guy.”

“Hmm,” Shane grunted. That sounded fairly cut-and-dry to him. Jacinta couldn’t see ghosts, but she had experience. He trusted her read on the situation. “So, Hawthorn left his body?”

“Seems like. But he can only go so far, right?”

“Only so far from whatever he’s bound to, yeah.”

“So he’ll be back.”

“I’d say that’s pretty certain. You need to watch your back.”

“For something I can’t see.”

“Right. He’s probably going to want to take another swipe at you.”

“No ‘probably’ about it,” Jacinta explained. “Jessop told me as much earlier. So, what the hell am I supposed to do with a ghost in my precinct? He’s got a girl trapped somewhere, Shane. Wayne State student named Mary-Ann Brewster. She wasn’t one of the dead victims found, but he has her somewhere.”

“Alive?”

“No idea.”

He gritted his teeth, reaching for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Things were already way too messy.

If he could get to the precinct, he might be able to track Hawthorn down. But if there was one thing most cops didn’t want to see, it was a man beating a ghost into submission in their own house. They’d need some ruse to get him in the building without getting anyone suspicious. Especially Sandoval.

“You’re sure he’s not pulling a fast one with this missing girl?”

“He has details. Unfortunately, he won’t tell us everything, so we have to play along. This morning, Hawthorn wanted us to let him loose so he could lead us to the girl—and won’t tell us unless we do. Normally we’d sweat a suspect, but he’s not going to care.”

“No, he’s not. He’d let you kill Jessop. Probably why he left his body before the interrogation,” Shane said, approaching a ring of machines in the center of the warehouse. He could smell blood and rotten flesh mixed with the oil and mold of the building.

“What did your guys find at this factory?”

“Nightmare stuff. He’d dismembered a dozen people. Sewed the bodies together into a spider.”

Shane paused, putting a cigarette between his lips. There was still blood and dirt on the floor, and areas where samples had clearly been scraped up for forensic analysis. The crime scene was still being processed, and he didn’t want to interfere, so he kept his distance, only getting close enough to see what limited material had been left behind by the police.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Eight arms and legs sewn onto three peoples’ torsos, with a ridge of severed heads down their spines.”

It was not what he’d expected, but it was elaborate and bizarre, to be sure. He had seen Hawthorn’s trophy room back in Canada, where he had kept heads and other parts from his victims. But that had been the work of a living man, a man with fears and inhibitions. A man who knew he needed to be careful, and who was trying to stage his crimes in precise ways.

The ghost of Hawthorn would not be a thing of restraint or limitations. Some people died and held onto everyone’s unspoken social rules. They’d even do unnecessary things like walk through doorways because they were such ingrained habits. Even over time, that sort of stuff didn’t fade away.