The Cycle

[MessengerOfDreams]

Charachter Development alert! Loving it!

[MICrophone]

Oh hai. This is back.

[MessengerOfDreams]

Mic is BACK! YESH! 10/10

[Blablob]

Very, VERY nice story so far! I like how it's set up and what it's leading to. Very suspenseful. The end of chapter 5 is a big cliffhanger. I didn't notice many grammar mistakes--maybe one or two here--but very nice. However, I can't really say I've been pulled in just yet. My favorite parts were the action parts, and there were few of them. But the story to go along with it and the diologue is very nice.

Setup: 9/10

Characters: 8/10

Plot: 10/10

Grammar: 10/10

Suspense: 9/10

Diologue: 9/10

Overall: 9.5/10 (Not an average)

Keep it up!

[MICrophone]

Thanks to MOY, I cooked up some motivation to do a little more of this. The result is Chapter 6, a longer and meatier chapter than the previous. Please read and comment!

[MessengerOfDreams]

Glad to be of service. Unfortunately I cannot view it from my phone so if you do not mind PMing me (which reminds me that I need to read Vags if I ever get on a computer) I would appreciate it. Btw I reread it a bit and took note of the smiley faces in blood thing. There is a TV show called the Mentalist, and the villain, Red John, draws big smiley faces in their victims blood

[MICrophone]

Really? Interesting…never seen the show. Anyhow, I would be glad to PM it to you. How much of VAGs have you yet to read? I could PM you that too.

[MessengerOfDreams]

The entire new chapter. I reckon I already asked Azn but to no avail last time I was in trouble, hence I missed it. Thanks!

Edit: REVOO TIEM

It kinda creeps me out that a 13 year old kid who never watches TV is more sexual than I am. Overall, though, a surprising turn. I didn't expect this at all. 9/10

[MICrophone]

Fudge, forgot to reserve space. Sigh…the story will pick up in this post.

Anyhow, Chapter 7 is finished! This is shorter than the last and more of a transition chapter. Fear not MOY; there are many, many more surprising turns to come…also keep in mind that while I don't watch TV, I do watch movies. So anyhow, please read and comment! And I'm talking to people other than MOY, since I know he is very reliable when it comes to that.

---

Chapter 7

Sam Wexler woke up to darkness. He was standing straight up against a rigid vertical board of some kind. He had no room to move in any direction except up. He reached up and found that he had roughly two feet of room above his head. Having a suspicion as to what he was enclosed in, he pulled out his gun and fired it several times. Almost instantly, the wall in front of him fell forward to reveal a room only dimly lit by the sunrise through closed windows. Sam stepped forward and examined the wall only to discover it was actually a door; he had been locked in an empty closet, as he suspected. He looked around the room. Three cops and six other men lay dead on the floor. What had happened? Sam tried to recollect. The room seemed familiar to him, but he could not recall from where. He looked over the dead bodies. It seemed as though all but one had died via multiple gunshot wounds; it would appear that they all killed each other. Only one man was some distance from the others; an older man lay behind a desk in a pool of blood, still not entirely dried up. Whatever had taken place had not taken place too long ago. Surely he had not been brought here after this. He must have been present. He tried to remember. What might I have been doing here? He struggled to think. I'm a cop. A detective. So I must have been investigating something. Deciding that in order to find out what he was investigating, he ought to figure out what had happened, Sam exited the room and entered a hallway. He stepped over the body of a woman whom he recognized but could not place. She was topless. Sam remained unperturbed and went down a staircase.

At the bottom was an entire room full of dead people. My God, thought Sam. This was a massacre! There was a good mix of cops and what were likely criminals strewn about the area. What had happened? How was I involved? Sam couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything that had happened in the past few days, upon reflection. The last thing I remember, he thought, was a pursuit on a bridge…who was he pursuing? Could that have had anything to do with this? Suddenly he remembered that he had pursuing the serial killer that he had been obsessed with for months and was investigating some of the people who were friends of Gregory Matton. Had he found anything out? He couldn't remember. But clearly there would be nothing more to find out here. He searched his pockets and pulled out a few pieces of paper. Warrants for several addresses. Might as well start there.

As he exited 18 86th Street, he realized that he was piecing together not just the identity of the serial killer but also his own life.

---

"Dan!"

Jimmy Sanborn ran past the cluster of cubicles in an attempt to reach Dan Briggs, who was running around the 24th Precinct like a chicken with his head cut off. It had been fifteen minutes since he had dispatched half of the squadron to 86th Street, and none had returned. He had sent most of the remaining members of the Precinct to investigate.

Everybody's dead Briggs.

The words reverberated in his head endlessly, and whatever he did, it wouldn't go away. It was worse than a migraine, he thought, as he desperately tried to handle the mess that had ensued. He was only too glad to talk to Jimmy; anything that could distract him was a good thing.

"What's up?" he said.

"It's Sam sir."

"What about him?"

"They couldn't find him."

"So? He's working undercover. He probably left."

"Sir, there are a few problems with that."

"Which are?"

"The biggest one is that they found his walkie talkie there. Which means if he's not there, he's forgotten it and has no way of reaching us unless he uses a public phone."

"Damn!" exclaimed Dan. "Well, he'll contact us soon enough."

"Maybe not sir."

"Why not?"

"There's more."

Dan just stared at Jimmy. "More? Good God help me. Well, keep it not from me. Quickly let me have it."

"We got word from the doctor who cared for Sam at the hospital following the accident. He profusely apologized and said that he overlooked something critical in the various tests."

"Well?"

"Sam suffered some major brain damage. It is quite possible that he may be suffering from increasingly severe memory loss, as seen in dementia. If he's not found soon, he may soon lose most to all of his memory."

"Jesus Christ. So it may not even occur to him to contact us?"

"Quite possible."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Dan grabbed a cup and poured himself a cup of coffee from the freshly made batch. "Can anything else go wrong?"

"Well, the Mets lost again."

"♥♥♥♥."

"But there is one piece of good news."

"A bloody miracle. What is it?"

"The killer turned himself in."

"What killer?"

"The one Sam was tailing."

Dan froze and dropped his coffee, stunned. "He turned himself in? But why?"

"We don't know. He won't say. But he matches the build of the killer, turned in a .41 caliber gun, and can draw a very good smiley face."

"None of this makes any sense."

"I know sir. I'm just as clueless as you."

Dan pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. "You know things are bad when I smoke. I never smoke." He pulled out a lighter and lit the cigarette, then took one puff. "God, this stuff is disgusting," he said, and instantly threw the cigarette out. "Normally I'd get Sam to sort out messes like this. But he's…occupied. So I've only got one other option."

"Which is?"

---

Mark Burgess paced his study in the modest yet cozy residence Columbia University provided him. He had been very busy as of late. He was in the process of writing a textbook on forensic science as well as a second book on the infamous Sacco and Vanzetti case of the 1920s. He had hit a bit of a writer's block and, as was a common practice of his, was pacing around his study thinking about whatever came to him.

Needless to say, he was not thrilled at being interrupted by that blasted invention known as the telephone while pacing. He groaned, then walked over to the small table on which lay the telephone. He looked at the caller ID. "24th Precinct," he said to himself. "Of bloody course." He picked up the phone. "Briggs! I don't care what you say! I'm not going to rejoin the force! So would you please leave me alone?"

"Mark," said the voice on the other side of the line, "this is different."

"Oh sure it is! Dan, I have a lot of respect for you. Now don't blow it! I'm not coming back and that's my final word!"

"Mark, can you let me get a word in? This is about the Wexlers!"

Mark went silent. "You know what happened to Sam's son, Dave, right?" the voice continued.

More silence. A very somber tension. "Dave is my student," Mark said softly. "He's one of the best I've ever had. Just like his father." He took a deep breath. "Yes, I know."

"Well, something's happened to Sam."

Even more silence. "Sam?"

"Yes, Sam."

Mark found himself a chair and sagged into it. Sam had been Mark's protege while he had been in the force, and with his guidance became an even better detective than he. More than that, he had been his closest friend for many years. "Well?"

"He's gone missing."

"What?"

"Well, you heard about the accident on the G.W.?"

"Yeah."

"The doctor missed some critical brain damage. He's losing his memory fast. Complicating things are that he was working undercover. We found his walkie talkie with which he was supposed to contact us at least daily, so we have no idea where he is. If he isn't found soon, who knows what will happen to him."

"I see."

"So both father and son have gone missing."

"Yeah, so?"

There was a deep breath through the receiver before Mark heard Dan said, "Mark, besides Sam, you're the best detective I've ever known. I need you. We can't find Sam's son and we've been searching for over 24 hours. And now Sam's missing. You're the only one who can find them Mark."

Mark lowered the phone and stared out a large window opposite him. It had begun to rain, and the window slowly gathered drops as Mark looked on. Then there was a great flash as lightning struck. Then a great noise as thunder boomed its announcement of the storm's arrival. "Mark?" said the voice through the receiver. "Are you there?" Mark continued to look out the window. "Mark? Can you hear me?" At last, he raised the phone back up to his ear.

"All right Briggs. You've got me, but only till I've found Sam and Dave. As soon as I've found them both, I'm gone, you hear?"

"Roger that. Can you be there in ten minutes for a full briefing?"

"No problem."

"All right Mark. See you there."

"Looking forward to it." He waited to hear the click before adding, "You son of a ♥♥♥♥♥."

Chapter 8

"So that's all you know?" Mark Burgess said incredulously.

"Well, what did you expect?" replied Dan Briggs. "If this was as simple as walking outside and picking a man out of crowd, I wouldn't have you here. I'd have politicians here for the sole purpose of dragging this out."

"Good God, what has happened to this department?"

"Oh, for my sanity's sake Mark, I've had the worst night of my life and now you have to give me this ♥♥♥♥?"

"If you'd like, I could leave."

Dan shook his head and got up to pour himself more coffee. "Here's the deal. Sam was last seen - "

"Did you even think to question the killer?"

"What?"

"Jesus Christ, cure the 24th Precinct of its incompetency," lamented Mark, standing up, pacing, and holding his hands up as though praying. "It shows more than leprosy!"

"You know something," said Dan, "if you weren't so damn good at this, I would've shot you by now."

"Oh no," said Mark smiling. "If it had gotten to that point I would've gotten you a long time ago."

Dan nodded as if in agreement, then said to another officer standing by, "All right, take him down."

---

"Hello officer. Have you had a nice week?"

"The best, sir, until tonight. Yours?"

"Very productive, to be sure," replied the killer, smiling maliciously.

"I've heard," said Mark, pulling up a chair outside of the killer's cell. "Now then, do you have a name?"

"He matched no records," interjected Dan Briggs, "and he wasn't very cooperative. He only turned himself in and provided us enough information to conclude he was a likely suspect."

"For the sake of decreasing the formality of this conversation," said the killer, "you can call me Sid." He paused. "You know, I really find formal conversations so depressing. You're so focused on sounding formal that you don't even bother with the conversation and you end up sounding like a goddamn stuck up."

"You sound like a contemporary philosopher," quipped Mark, "Well then, Sid, why wouldn't you cooperate with the fine chaps here at the 24th Precinct? Since you've turned yourself in, why would you have something to hide?"

"Who said there was a reason?"

"There is very little man does spontaneously," replied Mark.

Sid's eyes narrowed. "Are you a college professor?"

"I am. What's it to you? I highly doubt that I can get you a degree."

"You talk like one," replied Sid.

"And you would know because you attended college?"

"And you're clever like one," continued Sid. "You don't miss a beat. You seem experienced."

Mark looked at Dan and grimaced. "I was with this department for nearly twenty years. They were the best years of my life."

"Was? So you quit?"

"I got tired of it."

"And they called you back cause they need you're help and you're the best?"

"Besides Sam, one of the two guys I'm supposed to find, yep."

"You mean that pest who's been tailing me and who got into that jam on the Washington Bridge?"

"That's Sam," Mark replied.

"I see."

"I'm so glad," Mark said dryly. "Now then, why'd you turn yourself in?"

"I got tired of it."

"Of killing? That's unusual."

"So is quitting a job you've been doing for over twenty years that you claim were the best years of your life."

Mark looked over the serial killer. He was probably in his thirties. He was white, had dark hair, blue eyes, and a rather square face. Good to keep in mind. "All right then. I suppose you're right. So on to the next matter of business. Probably a long shot, but did you kill Dave Wexler?"

"What do you think?"

Mark thought about it. "I honestly don't know. I can see it both ways. But you are, to your credit, the most difficult serial killer this part of town has seen is a long time. You can't afford to be predictable."

"Fair enough. So figuring it out will be all the more fun for you," Sid said before breaking out in a maniacal laughter.

"All right. What about Sam? Do you know where he is?"

"I do."

"You wanna tell me where?"

Sid clicked his tongue. "I'll tell you one thing. Search a planet made up of seventy percent water."

"Thank you," replied Mark dryly. "You're almost as informative as my dog."

"You're almost as complimentary as a housewife," retorted Sid.

Mark stood up. "That'll be all," he said before starting to walk away.

"That'll be all?" said Dan. "Mark, you hardly asked him anything!"

"I know enough," Mark called back. Dan ran to catch up to him.

"Oh yeah?" said Dan. "What did you find out?"

"He's familiar with high society, he attended college, and he's not married. I bet you didn't run those through your background checks."

"How do you know?" said Dan, impressed.

"He hates formal conversations, said I talked like a professor, and when telling me how complimentary I was said, "a housewife." If he was married, he would've said, "my wife."

"You never cease to amaze me," Dan replied.

"Well, you certainly compliment better than I do, or so I'm told," Mark returned.

Dan laughed. "What else?"

"He wasn't going to tell me anything directly pertaining to the case, which I expected. It was worth a try though, and I did learn a few things."

"That's all?"

"One more thing," replied Mark. "Something is very fishy about him turning himself in. It goes against his pattern, his style, everything he's done. The way he acted confirmed it; despite having turned himself in, supposedly marking the end of his criminal career, he still was uncooperative."

"So?"

"So it means he's not planning on staying long," Mark concluded grimly as they reached Dan's office. Mark grabbed his coat and a hat off of a chair and a handgun off of a shelf. "I'm gonna have a look around on 86th Street."

"It's not pretty," said Dan unhappily.

"I'm sure," replied Mark, heading for the door. He called back, "Might wanna double the security on our suspect," before vanishing around the corner.

Chapter 9

Mark approached his destination; he knew it because it was the one with millions of flashing lights screaming, "This is the building where the 24th Precinct ♥♥♥♥ up again," he muttered, shaking his head as he reached the cluster of mayhem. Paramedics were practically running in and out of with bodies, many badly bloodied. He heard one of them say into a cell phone, "We don't have enough ambulances! Yes, send all the bloody help you can muster!"

Good God, Mark thought. And I always thought the day that New York City ran out of ambulances was the day that the apocalypse occurred. He watched as a few more bodies were rushed outside, then moved to enter. Suddenly, a female police officer approached him.

"Sorry sir," he said, "But nobody can go in at this time."

Mark looked over the woman, then made the connection. "Have I grown gray beyond recognition Simmons?"

The woman raised her hand to her mouth in shock and embarrassment. "Oh, I'm so sorry sir! I just…uh…was - "

"Don't sweat it," replied Mark, patting her on the shoulder before walking in.

The main barroom had mostly been cleaned up by this time. Paramedics rushed by him to remove the last few bodies while he examined the room. Nothing in particular caught his eye. But if he were Sam, he wouldn't have been snooping around in a crowded room. He walked forward to the staircase and ascended it. The first sight to greet him was that of a half naked woman lying face down in a pool of blood. A charming sight, needless to say. Trying as hard as he could to keep his hands clean, he turned over the body. To his surprise, he saw in her hand a gun which he instantly knew was Sam's. How did she get it? He took the gun out of her hand, then stood up and went to the top of the staircase. He saw the policewoman named Simmons at the bottom.

"Simmons!" he called.

"Yes sir?" she responded, looking up.

"Quit with the sir, will you? Mark's fine."

"Sorry Mark."

"Anyhow, can you get some folks up here to clear this body? At least put a blanket over it…make it look remotely respectable."

"Yes Mark," replied Simmons.

"And Simmons?"

"Yes?"

"Can you have her identified as soon as possible?"

"No problem."

"Thanks," Mark finished, returning to the hallway. He stepped over the dead body, then checked the doors. Most of them were locked, which meant that he had to pick the locks. He had this done in no time. In each of the locked rooms he found the same thing; a room with a window, a mirror, and a bed. Nothing of value and no people, dead or alive. He was almost relieved.

Then he reached the room which had the number four on it. It was open a crack. He pushed it open to reveal a room practically identical to the others. However, one thing caught his eye. On the mirror was a reddish-pink smudge of some kind. He ran his thumb through it. Lipstick. He kept looking at his finger as he walked back outside, where two paramedics were taking the woman's body away on a stretcher.

"Hold up a moment, would you?" he said. The paramedics stopped as Mark reached them. He pulled away part of the blanket she was under to reveal the woman's head. He lowered his finger to her mouth. "Yep, the color matches," he said, recovering her head. "Thank you," he said, wiping the lipstick off of his finger and entering the remaining unchecked room, which was closed but unlocked. He turned the handle and pushed it open to reveal several more dead bodies; six, to be exact. Five had guns on them; one didn't. This room had a desk and appeared to be more of a office, so Mark came to the conclusion that it likely was in fact an office. He also concluded that the five guys near to each other were bodyguards and the one older man behind the desk was the head of operations in this joint. He went to the one man who did not have a gun and pulled back his shirt collar to reveal the tag. "Johnny Wilkins," Mark muttered as he took out a small notepad and a pen to write the name down.

"Sir?" said a voice behind him.

Mark turned around to see a paramedic in the doorway. "Yes?"

"Can we clean up in here sir?"

"Yes, that's fine. Also, could you ask policewoman Simmons to trace the source of all of the guns found here excepting that of the woman who was found in the hallway?"

"Yes sir," replied the paramedic.

"Thank you," said Mark, as he continued to look around. The door to a closet in the corner had been shot off of it's hinges and was lying on the floor, a gigantic crack running through it's center. A lamp lay broken in half on the floor. Satisfied that he had investigated everything else thoroughly, Mark approached the last item of interest; the man behind the desk, the man who likely would get him somewhere.

He was stunned to discover that he knew the man with a hole in his head.

---

"All right Briggs," said Mark. "Here's what I've learned."

"Go ahead," said Dan, looking at a computer screen.

"First of all, all of the guns found in the place were bought from the same dealer. They were purchased legally by four different people, who then distributed them illegally."

"You have the name of the dealer?" asked Dan as he typed the information into the computer.

"Yeah, Gordon Thames."

"You'll pay him a visit?"

"I will."

"Good. Go on."

"Second is that a prostitute named Rose Sanchez was found dead in that disaster on 86th. Sam's gun was on her."

Dan nearly jumped out of his seat. "What?"

"Are you having hearing problems Briggs?"

"Are you sure it was Sam's gun?"

"Positive. I had it run through the records."

"A prostitute?"

"Sam probably was approached by her. If he had refused, he would've drawn attention to himself. I would've done the same thing, and I'd be stunned if he voluntarily went with her. His discomfort with the situation would've distracted him, which would explain how she got the gun."

"What else?"

"One gun was missing off of a bodyguard, which I'm guessing Sam took off of him. The gun is a .40 Smith & Wesson."

"Good gun."

"Yep. Anyhow, that might also come in handy."

"Sure. Anything else?"

"Yes. Remember Sonny Faulkner?"

"Of course. He was your first big case."

"Indeed. He got twenty years, remember?"

"I do."

"Well he's been out for a few years now."

Dan looked as though he had just seen an alien. "Are…are you saying…"

"Sonny Faulkner was the man who ran the operation on 86th."

Dan sank back into his chair. "So…do you think he's running around with his old cohorts?"

"It's possible," replied Mark. "It's a pity he died. I would've liked to have questioned him."

"I know. It certainly would've been interesting."

"Well, in any case, I'm going to move on to the next place on Sam's list and see if I can find him."

"Where's that?"

"Down on 54th."

"All right," said Dan. "I'll catch you later."

"Right," replied Mark before exiting.

---

Sam was surprised to find the door to the abandoned two-story building on 54th Street locked. He knocked three times, then stood outside for a few seconds waiting with his hands in his pockets. There was no response. Sam clicked his tongue, then stepped back and counted to three. Then he charged forward and kicked the door open. As he fell forward into the room, he pulled out his gun, and once he confirmed that there was nobody in sight lowered it. He then regained his balance and started looking around. The room was completely empty; no furniture, only bare empty walls and a completely uncovered floor. Sam checked several of the other rooms on both floors but found nothing. It didn't make sense. Wasn't this supposed to be somebody's house? After returning to the first room, he took out the warrant and read it. Yes, it was supposed to belong to a friend of Gregory Matton. But it was clearly abandoned. Something wasn't right.

It was at this moment that Sam noticed a large cardboard box in the corner of the room. He approached it. It was sealed with packaging tape. Who leaves an unopened package sitting in an abandoned building? He took out a pocketknife and cut through the tape. He then wrenched the box open.

"Holy ♥♥♥♥!" he cried as he stared at the contents: a significant amount of dynamite attached to an electronic timer that read, "5:00…4:59…4:58."

This much he now knew: There was something here and he had five minutes to find it. He slid the box out of the corner and saw that it was hooked up to several wires that ran into the wall. He didn't have the time to figure out what it meant now. What he did care about was that under the box was a trapdoor. He hooked his finger around a slight lip at one end of the trapdoor and lifted it only to be greeted by gunfire from below.

"Jesus Christ!" he swore as he jumped away from the open trapdoor. He looked up at the ceiling, which now had about ten holes in it. How the heck was he gonna get down there? As he thought about this, he realized the irony of his existence. He's the guy who goes down into an underground room filled with gun-wielding criminals with four minutes to go before the entire place blows.

He quickly devised a plan. He took out his pocketknife, took a deep breath, then sliced his palm. He winced in pain, but held back a cry. He then placed his hand on his shirt and smudged the blood all around. After he looked substantially bloodied, he then took out his gun and shot three times into the ceiling, then quickly faked stumbling backwards, concluding by falling down the short staircase leading down from the trapdoor. He closed his eyes and waited for a reaction.

"Holy ♥♥♥♥," said one of them. "There's somebody else up there. Look at him! He's dead! He's been shot!"

"Come on man, we've gotta get out of here," said a second. Two more voiced the same opinion, and then they took off running.

Sam opened his eyes a crack to watch the four go, then quickly stood up and looked around. It looked like a very large storage room, only what was being stored was a massive supply of drugs. Marijuana, heroin, cocaine, you name it, it was there. He had never seen a stash this big.

He looked at his watch. Three minutes. He quickly took off after the four men, using the sound of their footsteps as a guide, but then stopped when he rounded a corner and saw the four men stopping to put some drugs in their pockets and in cardboard boxes. Neither of them had their guns out and they had not taken notice of him. He took advantage of the opportunity and drew his gun.

"Put your hands up in the air," Sam said. "Now."

The four men turned towards Sam and raised their hands, stunned. "B…but how?" stammered one of them.

"This isn't the time for questions. You're under arrest for drug possession and possibly other crimes once I learn some more about what you've been up to. Now lead me out of here, or I shoot you all. Don't try anything fancy, or else I'll blow your heads off. You got that?"

"Sure, I've got it," said one of them. "That doesn't mean I'm gonna do it."

"Fine," said Sam. "Then you've got two minutes to talk. Who do you work for?"

"I'm not telling."

"Did you kill Gregory Matton, huh? Some bad blood between you?"

"What makes you think I'm gonna tell you?"

"Maybe I'd let you go if you did. If not, you've only got a minute and forty-five seconds to live."

"Well, you've only got ten, so that's all right."

"Ten? What do you-" but suddenly Sam realized the meaning of the statement. Before he had the chance to turn around, he heard the fatal gunshot and his life flashed before his eyes…

…and then suddenly he wasn't dead, he heard someone else slump to the ground. He turned around and saw the fifth cohort dead, with his gun resting on his fingertips.

From around the corner stepped Mark Burgess, warm gun in hand.

"M…mark!" stuttered Sam, who then suddenly wheeled around to discover the four others had already vanished in the distraction. Realizing that chasing them now would be futile, Sam turned back to Mark.

"What are you doing here?" said Sam.

"Not much…just checking in on you," replied Mark with a small smile. "Anyway, come on. We only have a minute to get out of here."

Sam nodded and began to walk towards Mark, but then stopped suddenly. "Wait, why are you here really?"

Mark replied, "I was sent to find you."

"Find me!" said Sam, suddenly angry. "What am I, lost?"

"You've suffered some major brain damage Sam. You may be losing your mind."

"Like hell I am! What are they gonna do to me, lock me up in an asylum?"

"Sam, we don't have time for this! We only have thirty seconds!"

"Yeah, well, ♥♥♥♥ you, you know that? ♥♥♥♥ you!"

"Look at yourself Sam!" cried Mark. "This isn't you and you know it!"

Sam simply stared at Mark, who reached out a hand. "Come on Sam. We have to go."

Sam began to reach out his hand, but then suddenly turned around and started to run the other way.

"Jesus Christ!" cried Mark, who then quickly turned and ran the other way. He ran around the corner, past the shelves filled with bags filled with white powder, up the staircase, towards the front door, and dived out just as the building was rocketed by a massive explosion.

Chapter 10

"Jesus H. Christ! So what happened to Sam?"

"I don't know," replied Mark.

Dan hung his head. "You know how badly I need some good news?"

"Yeah, well, asking a pessimist is not a good idea if that's what you want."

"Touché," replied Dan, who then stood up and began to pace his office. "So is he alive at least?"

"I don't know that either Dan," said Mark wearily. "There was no sign of him in the wreckage, which means one of two things. Either he managed to escape, or there was nothing left of him after the explosion."

"God damn it," said Dan. "And he acted irrationally, you say?"

"There's no doubt in my mind that he's losing his," Mark replied. "Look, I'm tired. I've been running around this city like crazy. I nearly was killed by a bomb today. I'm tired as ♥♥♥♥. When I'm done with work today, can I go home and get some sleep?"

"Yeah, of course Mark."

"No, I mean no phone calls, no disturbances, no nothing."

"Fine, whatever you say. I probably ought to get some sleep myself. But first let's figure out what you're doing today."

"Fair enough."

"There was a lot of drugs in that building, is that right?"

"Yeah."

"All right. It seems increasingly evident that this all has to do with a drug trafficking operation gone wrong, given that Matton also had marijuana. It would seem logical to conclude that Sonny Faulkner was likely the orchestrator of this operation. Your next move should be to talk to the weapons dealer - what was his name?"

"Thames."

"That's right, Thames. Talk to him and see if you can figure out who else was involved - maybe Faulkner's old cohorts. If he doesn't know, I would pay his old cohorts a visit anyway. They've got to have something to do with this."

"Yeah, probably. But can I call it a day after Thames?"

"Yeah, guess so."

"Thanks."

"All right, so it's settled. Call me and let me know if you find anything."

"Fine."

---

Gordon Thames knew all about Mark.

"It's funny, you know? Sonny was one of my best childhood friends. We went to school together. After high school we drifted apart, but then Sonny started buying a whole bunch of weapons from me once I got into it. It was all legal, but I admit to being suspicious of what he was doing."

"You didn't report these suspicions, right?" asked Mark.

"No," replied Gordon. "I didn't see why I should. I really had no basis for these suspicions, and since my sales were legal and it was good business, it wouldn't be good for me."

"I see."

"When you put the finger on him, I read about you and him in the papers. I hated you for a while. I lost a lot business. But then I realized that you were just doing your job, just like I do mine."

"Understandable," Mark nodded.

"So since I sold weapons to all of Sonny's business partners, I know all his friends. I also know who was working with him these days." His eyes suddenly darted around as if looking for somebody hidden. After a few seconds, he relaxed, then said slightly nervously, "I don't want no trouble mister."

"I'm sure you don't Mr. Thames. I need you tell me who he was working with. Was it the usual crew?"

Gordon nodded. "Well, not Johnson. He's dead. You knew that, I suppose?"

"Actually, I didn't."

"Cancer. Few years ago. Sonny was pretty bummed about it."

"All right. So I need to talk to Wilson and Schwab?"

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

"Anybody else you know of?"'

"Everybody else is working for them," said Gordon. "Actually, wait. There's one other, I think. One time one of the kids came by to purchase some weapons. I asked him if he worked for Faulkner, Wilson, or Schwab. He said that he was working for a fourth guy."

"Did he give a name?"

"I think so, but this was some years back mister. I'm sorry, but I just don't remember."

Mark smiled sympathetically. "It's all right…I didn't really expect you to."

"Anything else?"

"One more thing. You know this serial killer who's been running around?"

"The smiley face dude?"

"Yeah, him."

"Oh, yeah, I've read about him in the papers."

"Do you know who he is? Or if he's in league with Faulkner and Co.?"

"Hmm," Gordon said, leaning back in his chair. "Well, I don't know who he is, and I don't really know if he's working for Faulkner or one of the other guys…but I noticed that a lot of the victims seem to be clients of the group, I'm pretty sure."

"Clients?"

"In drugs."

"So that is what they've been doing." Mark said triumphantly, standing up. "Thank you so much for your help Mr. Thames." The two shook hands.

"If you need anything else, drop by or call me," said Gordon.

"Will do," replied Mark as he walked towards the door. He bid Gordon farewell, then stepped outside as Gordon shut the door behind him. He then reached for his cell phone and dialed Dan Briggs.

---

Nighttime. Mark was sleeping. He had been asleep for more hours than he had been in the previous two days combined, yet still had only gotten six hours of sleep when the telephone rang. Without opening his eyes, he groped around for the phone and upon finding it grabbed it and brought it to his ear.

"God damn you Briggs," Mark said. "I'm going to ♥♥♥♥ kill you when I get to the station."

"Sorry Mark," said Briggs, "But I figured that this was too important."

"What's up?"

"Gordon Thames, Chris Wilson, and Matt Schwab are all dead."

Mark suddenly opened his eyes. "What? How?"

"It was the killer. The one Sam was tailing."

"Wait, how's that possible? He's in pris - " his voice trailed off suddenly as he realized the truth. "Jesus Christ, that man was a decoy?"

"Apparently."

"♥♥♥♥! Now what?"

"I don't know."

Mark shook his head. "And to think I was gonna get some sleep tonight. I'll be at the station as soon as I can get ready."

Chapter 11

Coming whenever.

[MICrophone]

Reserved space.