Sweet Dreams Page 4

  One of the agents, a short man with thick, blond hair that kept falling in his face, looked at Kirk. “We were done, but after we didn’t find anything abnormal in the samples we gathered the first time, we decided to come back to retrieve samples from the food bins in the kitchen, as well as something from every tray.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” said the other agent, a slim brunette in her mid-twenties dressed in a white, button-up top and black slacks. “If it was in the food, it would have killed the guards who, according to them, ate the same thing as the rest of the inmates.”

  “What about something airborne?” Kirk asked. “A gas or something.”

  “No. That would have done the same thing. It would have killed anyone within range.” The short agent, looking to be in his thirties, scratched his head and pushed a loose strand from his face.

  “Do either of you have a card?” Kirk asked. The pretty brunette reached in her pocket and pulled out a white business card.

  “I’m Cassy—”

  “Good to meet you. I might call you in a few days to see if you have anything new. I’m working with the FBI on this one... Never thought I would work with the feds...” His voice trailed off.

  “No problem. This one’s a mystery to us all,” she said.

  He looked around a little more, then stepped into the kitchen where he spied a file cabinet in a back corner. He pulled out the top drawer and sifted through the files, one by one. Finally, he found a paper that looked like a purchase order.

  One hundred pounds of flour, twenty-five cases of mac and cheese… All the items on the P.O. looked like they came from the same place: Simco Foods.

  He shoved the paper into his pocket. Finally, I’ve got a lead. He looked through the rest of the files but didn’t find anything about where they had acquired their bedding. He wrote a note to himself on a beat-up old notebook he kept in his back pocket and closed the file drawer.

  In the main hallway, he found a hall that led to the cellblocks. He peeked inside several cells, but nothing seemed out of order, except the lack of prisoners. Once he was back in his Crown Vic and driving again, he glanced up at the sky, which was cloudless except for one out-of-place, determined-looking rain cloud. He turned on the radio and had just tuned in to an 80s rock station when the downpour hit.

  He slowed and steered with both hands through the deluge. It was almost impossible to see more than ten yards in front of him.

  He glanced at the dark scar on his left forearm. It had been raining like this back in Detroit when he earned the scar. He’d caught up with a suspected drug trafficker, but as soon as he showed him his badge, the idiot ran. He had pounded the pavement after the dealer and cornered him in a dingy alley behind a laundromat on Sixth Street. The chase ended in a slippery, bloody shootout. He’d been grazed by a bullet, but the criminal—idiot, as Kirk liked to call him—was dead, thanks to two well-placed bullet holes in his heart. He patted his Glock .45 in his side holster and remembered what his shooting instructor had said repeatedly—never leave home without it.

  The sun would be setting in a few hours. He wanted to scope out the food warehouse before it closed and had to work fast before his boss got wind that he’d gone AWOL.

  Whatever. He’d just tell him one of the dead convicts’ mommas told him her little boy had a friend who works there. He smirked as he turned off the expressway and headed

  toward Manhattan.

  CHAPTER 4

  MARK ROLLED OVER, TRYING to ignore the sun rays that streamed into the suite and convince himself he had more time to sleep.

  Warm October air drifted through the open window, filling the suite with the scent of maple trees and roasted coffee beans as it mixed with the diner a block up the street.

  He looked over at K, touched her soft skin and traced the outline of her face. She was everything to him. He thought of how happy he was, and for a brief moment, wished he could freeze time. He wanted to be like this forever, to lie next to his true love, his soul mate, and drink in her beauty.

  But finally he said, “Good morning, honey,” and watched her open her beautiful eyes and smile at him. “It’s ten o’clock, sweetheart. We should get going. I think checkout is at eleven.”

  She mumbled something, then snuggled deeper into the pile of pillows and blankets.

  He kissed the top of her head and stumbled to the bathroom, where he turned on the shower and stepped in. The hot water hit his back. He sighed as he began to wake up from his morning fog. Steam filled his nostrils, and the water massaged his muscles.

  “Baby?” he yelled from the bathroom.

  “I’m up—I’m up,” she moaned. “That is one comfortable bed.”

  Leaving the water on, he tiptoed out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and snuck up behind his wife, who was bent over the suitcase. He grabbed her from behind, making her jump and scream.

  “Mark! You scared me.” She pushed him on the bed, ran into the bathroom and locked the door.

  He was still laughing as he dried himself. He pulled a pair of jeans from the suitcase and slipped them on. It was a perfect day for a broken-in pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

  After they checked out of the hotel, they drove to K’s parents’ house to pick up Sam.

  Kate looked up from the grocery list she was making. “After we get Sam, I need to go to the store to buy a few things for dinner tonight. I think the Super Mart on Third Street has an Office Depot right across from it,” he said. “I need to get a few things there, so I’ll drop you off and pick you and Sam up after I’m done.”

  K nodded but asked him to try to keep it under twenty minutes. He smirked. She knew he would wander around forever, ogling the latest gadgets, if she didn’t give him a time limit.

  When they pulled into the driveway leading to her parents’ three-story house, he could see Sam waving at them from the front bay window, a huge smile lighting her face. He smiled and waved in return. The apple of his eye, his pride and joy, the sweetest, most beautiful little girl on earth.

  He parked the Honda and they both got out to meet K’s parents at the front door. Sam jumped into his arms. He squeezed her tight before turning to his in-laws. “Mom, Dad. Thank you for watching Sam for us.”

  K hugged her parents. “Yes, thank you so much. We had a wonderful evening together.”

  “Our pleasure, as always.” Her father smiled, revealing his perfect, white teeth, and patted Sam’s arm. “Booboo was happy, too, wasn’t she, Sam?” K and her older sister, Lily, owned a white horse they affectionately named Booboo.

  Sam nodded enthusiastically.

  “That old horse needed a little girl to ride her. She misses the little ones.” He handed Sam’s backpack to Mark and shook his hand.

  K thanked her parents again for babysitting.

  “Anytime,” her mom said. ”We love having her around.” Holly was a slim, fit woman, who walked a mile every day, rain or shine. “Nothing makes you feel young again like a child running around the house.”

  Mark set Sam down. She hugged her grandparents, then ran to the car and jumped in the back seat. He watched her climb into her booster seat and buckle herself in. After more goodbyes and thanks, he opened the car door for K before settling into the driver’s seat.

  On the way to the store, Sam told them all about her adventures. “Grandpa tickled me, and Gramma gave me candy and… and…” was all they heard from the back seat. He shook his head, smiling at her nonstop chatter, and squeezed K’s hand. “Like mother, like daughter,” he whispered.

  She snatched her hand away and slugged him in the arm. “Huh-uh. She gets that from you.”

  He stopped the car in front of the Super Mart entrance.

  K opened her door, grabbed her purse, and walked around to get Sam out of her booster seat.

  Sam giggled as K unbuckled her. “Can I ride the horsey?”

  In the rearview mirror, Mark saw her point toward the mechanical horse next to the front of the door.


  “After we’re done with our shopping,” K said as she set her on the pavement. “Then you can ride it two times.”

  “I can?” Sam ran to Mark’s window. “Will you watch me, Daddy?”

  “Sure thing, sweetie.”

  K leaned in to kiss Mark through his open window. “I’ll only be about twenty minutes or so, so don’t get mesmerized in Office Depot and forget us. Sam will never forgive you, if you miss her rodeo show.”

  He nodded. “You’re right. I’d hear about it for weeks.”

  She pointed to his lap. “Better buckle your seatbelt, bud.” Then she smiled. “Love ya.”

  He couldn’t help but smile back. His sweet wife looked radiant without even trying. But he didn’t see any reason to buckle up for a ride across a parking lot.

  “Sure. See you in twenty.” He waved one more time at Sam, then turned into the middle lane and pointed the car toward the Office Depot on the far end of the asphalt. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he could see K holding Sam’s hand as they stepped through the open sliding doors.

  Before the doors closed, a man bolted from the store at a full run, his shirt flapping, and terror etched across his face. A high-pitched whine filled the air. Mark stomped on the brake as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. “Wha—”

  He gripped the steering wheel and stared at the lone, frightened figure sprinting toward him in the mirror. Something was horribly wrong.

  Sam! Kay! He had to get to them, but every limb felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. He wanted to cover his ears to muffle the screeching noise, but his fingers were clamped to the steering wheel. Sam had to be screaming in terror.

  Then the sound overtook him, shooting through his body like a bolt of lightning just before a blast of hot air burst the rear window and an incredibly bright light blinded him. His chest slammed into the steering wheel. His head hit the windshield.

  The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. K! Sam! Were they all going to die? He heard the sound again. This time it was a word in his mind. “KABOOM!” He ducked, his head smashing into the leather seat as the side windows exploded into a million daggers of death.

  The car lifted off the ground like a rocket and flipped end over end. He covered his head with his arms and jammed his legs into the floorboard, wedging himself against the seat and the door, trying not to be thrown from the car.

  The force was like a carnival ride, pulling everything away from the center of the car as it tumbled through the air. He pushed with all his strength at the dash and seat, desperate to stay in the vehicle. The car landed on its top, slamming him into the roof.

  The car stopped moving, but the heat was overwhelming. He had to get out. He pulled his upper body through a broken window, then dragged his legs out and rolled onto his back. He gulped in a deep breath, but the acrid air burned his lungs. He sat up and blinked, trying to focus. His family. He had to find his family.

  He scrambled to his feet and turned to face the supermarket, but it was gone. Where was the store? He took a step toward where he thought the store should be, but his legs gave away, and he fell onto crushed glass and concrete and split his forearm open, sending a flash of hot pain all the way up his arm.

  Furious flames and thick, black smoke filled the air. Metal fragments and glowing embers rained down around him. Cars were on fire. One of them suddenly exploded. Nearby, a man missing one leg lay draped over an overturned, mangled shopping cart, a pool of ruby-red blood forming below the cart.

  He choked back the urge to vomit and turned away. Through the ever-darkening haze, he could see the supermarket walls had been sheared off at about four-feet high, debris piled like garbage on the outer rim. The blast must have been in the center of the store.

  No! He pushed himself to his feet and bolted toward the building, screaming. “K!” He reached the spot where the front doors had been and dug into the mass of hot bricks and rubble with his bare hands. “Sam!” They were alive somewhere in the rubble. They had to be! This was a mistake, a nightmare— “No,” he sobbed, “it can’t be.”

  His hands were soaked with blood as he clawed through the dirt and concrete. He found a strap. It looked like the straps on Sam’s backpack. A fresh flood of hope filled his heart. He pulled, and the strip of fabric popped up. It was only three inches long and burnt at the end, but he knew it was hers. He threw his head back and screamed for God to save his little girl, but his only answer was the ever-increasing wail of sirens.

  Tears coursed down his face, and the inferno around him began to spin. He fell to his knees, feeling something sharp cut through his jeans just before he heard the thump of his head hitting the ground.

  * * *

  KIRK SAT IN THE parking lot of Simco Foods, a huge, metal warehouse with a little office stuck to the front like a tumor. The building was stained with rust, and the weedy parking lot looked equally neglected.

  Taking out his gun, he dropped the clip, made sure it was full and popped it into place. Pulling the slide back, he checked to see if a bullet was in the chamber. He’d never been a boy scout, but he was always prepared. One thing detective work had taught him was that one never knew what a person would do when his back was against the wall.

  After locking the car, he went through the front office door. The receptionist was an older woman with gray speckled hair and more wrinkles than a bulldog. She looked up at him through her gold framed glasses. “Can I help you, young man?” Her voice quivered just as he remembered his grandmother’s did when he was a boy. He had loved going over to his granny’s house. She always had a dish of M&Ms on the coffee table.

  He pointed to the Detroit Police Department badge on his hip belt, flashing her half a grin. The FBI had issued them all identification, but he didn’t want to use it, if he didn’t have to. No one ever looked at the city stamp on the badge, anyway. “I’m Detective Weston, and I’m investigating a homicide. I would like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I can help you with that. We don’t get much excitement around here.” She fumbled with the tiny chain around her neck that was hooked to her glasses.

  “Your company delivers to David’s Island, doesn’t it?” He looked at the faded pictures on the wall. One was of a mountain lake and the other an ocean scene. They looked to be at least thirty years old, like the rest of the office. He smiled and tried to act half-interested in the answer, so as not to give the old woman a heart attack.

  “We deliver to the prison every Friday. Now, let me see…” She shuffled through several folders stacked neatly in an upright file rack on her desk. The phone was clean, and a small photo of a little boy, probably her grandson, sat next to a pencil holder. “Here it is. Yes, Gus Martinez was the driver last Friday.” She handed him a paper with a photocopy of the man’s driver’s license.

  He stared at the picture, memorizing the features. “Is he here? I need to ask him some questions.”

  “Hold on. Let me check.” Pulling out what looked like a time sheet, she glanced at it and nodded. “Yes, he should be out back cleaning his truck. You can go talk to him, if you like.” She pointed to a door behind her.

  He thanked her and headed toward the door, then looked over his shoulder and asked, “Besides food, what else do you deliver to David’s Island?”

  “Just that. We are a food-service plant. We provide anything edible, but that’s all.”

  He nodded and pushed through a set of double doors, ignoring the mandatory safety glasses warning pasted to the wall.

  He looked up. Metal beams stretched between metal columns. The ceiling had to be forty-feet tall and the length well over the size of two football fields. At least that’s what he’d ascertained from the outside. He could not see all of it from where he stood. Loading docks ran along the east wall, and to the west, he saw what must be huge, walk-in freezers. Forklifts drove in and out through hanging, thick, plastic strips that groaned and popped each time.

  He shook his head. The forklift
operators drove like lunatics, honking and zipping back and forth, barely missing each other as they stocked shelves and loaded and unloaded trucks. He saw a stocky thirty-something Hispanic man with thick, black hair and a thin mustache sweeping an eighteen-wheeler at the fourth loading dock from the end. He double-checked the picture in his mind. It was Gus Martinez, all right. He walked toward the truck, careful to stay out of the way of the forklifts.

  Martinez looked up from his broom.

  Kirk knew exactly what he was thinking, that he could tell he was a cop from the badge on his belt and the way he walked.

  The driver shifted his feet as Kirk approached.

  “Are you Gus Martinez?”

  He nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “I’m Detective Weston. I have some questions for you, if you don’t mind.” He was pulling out all of his nice-guy charm. Even added the sappy bull, “If you don’t mind.” He was on a roll now.

  “Sure. Am I in some kind of trouble?” Martinez blinked, then blinked again.

  “No, no trouble. I just have a few questions about your deliveries to David’s Island.”

  Martinez shuffled his feet again and looked at the floor.“Um… What you need to know?” His English was broken but understandable. His dark, unkempt hair had streaks of gray running through it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and jangled his keys.

  “Well, as I’m sure you know from the news, there was an incident out there on Friday, the same day you delivered food to the place.”

  “Some people got sick. I saw on news.” He looked toward the big rollup door then back at Kirk, his eyes darting.

  “No. They all died, Gus. The media was just trying to keep everyone from panicking, just in case it was an outbreak of some kind.” He tensed. The guy was gonna run.

  Martinez’s eyes widened. “Died? But they said—” He suddenly swiveled and bolted for the door.

  Kirk swore and pulled his gun, diving after him, but missing the fleeing man’s shirt collar by a hair.