Apocalypse Journeys (Book 2): Finding AJ Read online

  Finding AJ

  Apocalypse Journeys 2

  Russ Melrose

  Finding AJ, Copyright © 2018 by Russ Melrose

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form whatsoever or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to acknowledge the support I receive from my family. They encourage me and support me in my writing endeavors in various ways. Thank you all. I greatly appreciate your help and support.

  Nature rests in its eternal beauty

  Content in its wondrous creations

  The great provider to all

  Poetic without the need for words

  And in its ever-tolerant state,

  Oblivious to human drama

  Chapter 1

  Kingman

  Jules sat on the gravel in the shade of the Cherokee. She'd parked the jeep at an angle, its back half intruding on the road's southbound lane. Not that she was worried about it. No one would be traveling on Highway 93 today, any other day for that matter.

  Her arms cradled her legs and her forehead had settled softly into the bare skin between her knees. She shuddered from the crying and took in a ragged breath to calm herself. With each crying breath came the hiccup-like whimpering sound she made whenever she cried. Jules found the sound embarrassing. She hated crying even when no one was around to hear her. She wanted to stop but knew her emotions needed an outlet. She had to get herself straight before she got to Kingman.

  After the whimpering subsided, Jules brushed away a lingering tear with the heel of her hand. She sniffled and took in the expanse of the Mojave Desert as it rolled out in front of her. The desert had a pale, shell-colored floor, parched and flat, broken up here and there by saguaro cacti and rickety elephant trees. The mountains to the south were baked a dusty gray and bore little vegetation. Jules thought of the desert as a bleak, alien place, barren and unforgiving, a place she wouldn't miss.

  A sudden morning breeze chased a lone tumbleweed across the desert floor. It skittered and tumbled across the landscape as if it were trying to escape some invisible force. She had no idea what a tumbleweed would be trying to escape from, but she understood its innate need to move. She even felt a strange kinship with it.

  Jules patted her eyes dry with the inside crook of her arm. She got up and dusted off the seat of her shorts before climbing back into the Cherokee.

  She touched her collarbone with the tips of her fingers. It was painfully tender but wasn't broken, just bruised.

  Jules lowered the visor and took stock of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red and swollen, unsightly, but they weren't the catalyst for her angst. She angled her head and inspected the bald spot where the clump of hair was missing. The spot was the size of a large grape; the skin there a bright red. She ran her hand through her short, scruffy hair trying to cover it up, but it was no use. Her hair was less than two inches long now. She'd cut it before she'd left Henderson. She didn't want to have to deal with her shoulder-length hair out on the road. And while there was no point in rueing over a decision she'd already made, Jules did it anyway.

  She flipped the visor back up and started the jeep. Before pulling away, she removed the Glock 23 from its holster and chambered a round and set it on the passenger seat. Same for the Remington 870 shotgun. She pumped a round into the chamber and placed it next to the Glock. She put the gear shift in drive and drove off. Twenty more minutes and she'd be in Kingman.

  She glanced at the two files underneath the Glock and the shotgun. Jules needed to keep her mind busy. Focus on the task ahead and nothing else. She needed to forget what had happened. Thinking about it wouldn't help anything.

  The top file belonged to Andrew Glickman. Glickman had spent ten years in prison after being found guilty of aggravated sexual assault. He was suspected of several more rapes but had been meticulous and hadn't left any evidence at any of the other crime scenes. His affinity for using a knife, along with the fact that the killings started a few months after his release, eventually made him a suspect in the Calligrapher killings.

  Glickman was an organized criminal with a distinctive pattern to his sexual assaults. He would break into the homes of his victims through windows using a circular glass cutter tool. His victims lived alone and his attacks always took place in the middle of the night. Glickman would wear a stocking over his head and use a knife to force them to undress, then he'd make them take a bath at knife point. After the bath, he'd pick out a clean dress for them to wear before sexually assaulting them. Then he'd tie them up before leaving.

  He was careful not to leave any evidence behind and always used a condom. He even went as far as to take the bed clothing with him when he left. The lone time Glickman was convicted, a faulty condom sent him to prison, the DNA evidence irrefutable.

  Jules didn't believe Glickman was the Calligrapher. His crimes lacked the staged, meticulous choreography present in the Calligrapher killings. And, as far as they knew, Glickman had never killed anyone. But Jules would check him out anyway. There had to be a reason Beckerman had Glickman's file.

  She'd interviewed Glickman five weeks ago and flashes of the interview came back to her now. Glickman lived in a wood-sided home with badly chipped green paint. It was a rundown cookie-cutter home with a single bedroom, a kitchen, a living room, a bathroom, and a basement with boarded up windows.

  Inside, the house was filthy and cluttered. Half-eaten fast-food meals lay on the coffee table and dirty clothes littered the old scratched up wood floor. But it was the smell Jules couldn't forget. The house had an acrid smell as if someone had set a pile of sweaty gym clothes on fire. The memory of it teased her nostrils.

  Glickman was fifty-three, six foot two with a wiry build and thinning black hair combed back over his balding pate. The day Jules interviewed him, Glickman had a week's worth of coarse salt and pepper stubble covering his face and neck. His cheeks were hollowed out and filled with dime-sized crater-like acne scars. He wore jeans and a grease-stained, short-sleeve t-shirt that was too small for him and clung to his torso. A pack of cigarettes tucked inside a rolled-up sleeve bulged from his t-shirt. When Glickman greeted them at the door, his mouth twisted into an adversarial sneer. "What the hell do you want?" he spit out.

  Jules stood quietly and watched Beckerman go to work. Beckerman made quick work of Glickman's sneer. He spoke to Glickman in a monotone voice devoid of emotion. He explained to Glickman that they could interview him at his home, or they could take him back to Vegas for an interview. It was up to him. After he'd explained the options to Glickman, Beckerman sighed and waited. Glickman appeared confused and didn't seem to like either option but decided on the lesser of two evils and let them in.

  Two standing fans rattled noisily as they rotated back and forth in the living room, cutting shifting swaths through the stagnant, heavy air.

  Once inside, Beckerman went stone silent and let Jules do the talking. Jules glanced at Beckerman as he sat next to her on the couch. He was examining his nails as if considering a trim. Jules knew Beckerman was evaluating her.

  Glickman sat slouched in an arm chair across from them, leaning forward, his back bowed like a turtle. He looked Jules up and down, appraising her like a persnickety customer examining a product he knew he could never afford. He ignored Beckerman altogether.

  Years ago, Glickman would have made Jules' skin crawl, but she'd become
well-practiced at dissociating herself from suspects during interviews, no matter how repulsive.

  "I'm Agent Vandevelde, Jules Vandevelde," she started. "This won't take long, Mr. Glickman," Jules told him. "We only have a few questions for you. We thought you might be able to help us with an investigation we're conducting."

  "What?" he asked, looking at Jules doubtfully. "So, you're saying this doesn't have anything to do with me?"

  "No. Not really," she reassured him.

  She exhaled audibly and leaned slightly forward, rounding her back to mirror Glickman's posture.

  "You could say we have need of your expertise, Mr. Glickman."

  Glickman eyed Jules suspiciously. "What expertise would that be?" he asked.

  "Well, you've been known to use a knife in the past, to great effect, and we were wondering what it was that led you to choose a knife. We're trying to understand the reasoning someone might have for choosing a knife as a weapon in a sexually-based crime. We thought you could help us."

  "I never used a knife. That was total bullshit they used at that trial. Total bullshit. I'm an innocent man," Glickman said, raising his eyebrows to emphasize his sincerity.

  Jules didn't say anything but kept looking at Glickman expectantly.

  "But if I had to guess," he shrugged. "I'd imagine someone might use a knife in a situation like that 'cause a knife can be a frightening weapon. Women don't like knives."

  Glickman smiled quietly to himself as if he were retrieving a treasured memory. He looked up at Jules. "No, ma'am," he drew out slowly. "Ain't a woman out there wants their face all scarred up. They don't like knives. At least, that's what I would suppose."

  Jules nodded in an "I see" gesture as if Glickman's explanation had suddenly clarified things for her. She still didn't say anything but looked at Glickman attentively and waited for him to continue. She wanted him to keep talking.

  Glickman chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment as if he were contemplating what to say, and he leaned forward. "A woman's likely to do whatever you ask if you got the tip of a knife touching her pretty little face."

  Glickman took a measured breath and a smile began to form across his meager, wet lips.

  Jules believed Glickman was comfortable enough now to open up, and she was ready to take the interview in another direction when Beckerman suddenly cut in.

  "Ever been to Tempe, Andrew?"

  Jules stared at Beckerman incredulously. Beckerman's question had caught her off guard. For whatever reason, Beckerman had decided to terminate the interview.

  Glickman stood up. "What? You think I'm stupid?" he asked. "I know about that thing in Tempe. I had nothing to do with that. You two peckerwoods are trying to entrap me. I ain't playing your dumb ass games. Get the fuck out of my house."

  He walked to the front door and opened it and waited for them to leave.

  As Jules passed by, Glickman leaned in close, a sour odor wafting from his body. "Come back anytime, darlin'," he whispered. "But leave the stuffed shirt behind. He's a drag. And wear a dress. I like dresses."

  *****

  Highway 93 merged seamlessly into Interstate 40. The freeway was virtually empty, just a few abandoned cars here and there. When the time came, Jules headed east in the westbound lane. While it felt strange to be driving the wrong way down the freeway, she knew it would be easier to spot Glickman's house from the westbound lane.

  Jules would avoid the freeway exit. If she used the freeway exit, she'd have to travel a couple miles over surface streets to get to Glickman's, exposing her to groups of infected roaming the streets. It would be safer and easier to go off-road to get to Glickman's.

  She drove thirty miles per hour and scanned the area north of the freeway. When the homes became sparse and spread apart, she knew she was getting close. She stopped the jeep and dug out the binoculars from her travel bag. It only took her a minute to spot Glickman's green house. She took a moment and mentally mapped out a course that would get her there, a route that would avoid any groups of infected in the area. She noticed a few small groups scattered here and there in the neighborhoods. They looked like escaped mental patients wandering the streets, their heads canted at odd angles, trudging along like morose sleepwalkers.

  Jules would park on the block below Glickman's and hide the jeep in front of a house that would give her cover.

  She drove to where the guardrail ended right before a hill rose up next to the freeway. The incline wasn't too steep, and Jules avoided the large rocks scattered around the slope. It was an easy trek down to the nearest street.

  Five minutes later, Jules found herself on the block below Glickman's.

  She'd passed a few grays on the way, but they posed no real threat. She coasted to a stop in front of a two-story home and killed the engine. Jules dug a nose clip out of the travel bag and slipped it into her pocket. She put the Glock back in its paddle holster and grabbed the shotgun off the seat. For a brief moment, she questioned the wisdom of confronting Glickman alone. It was foolhardy at best. He could kill her and no one would bat an eye. No one would ever know.

  Jules had no real authority, not that it was needed these days. The viral attack had changed everything. The FBI was gone. It had died a quick death along with everything else. Whatever happened at Glickman's, either way, would fade from the world without consequence. There would be no repercussions.

  Jules cracked the jeep's door open as quietly as she could and slipped out into the sunshine. She left the door open. She didn't want to make any more noise than she had to. She checked her watch. It was nearly nine o'clock. The Arizona sun was already piercingly hot, and she winced at its brightness.

  Kingman was located on the eastern edge of the Mojave, another one of those small cities inexplicably parked in the desert. She couldn't fathom a reason for its existence in such a barren, hostile landscape.

  A moment later Jules was standing by the corner of the two- story, leaning against the vinyl siding, spying on Glickman's house. Glickman's house wasn't directly in back of the two-story home, but off to the left at a skewed angle, its windows shuttered up. That was good news. The shades and curtains were drawn on all the windows in the back and on the side of the house. There was little chance Glickman would be able to see her as she approached the house.

  Three large black garbage bags lay in the backyard about ten feet from the back door. Two of them were caked with dust but the third looked shiny and fresh as if it had just been put out. The shiny garbage bag meant Glickman was likely still alive.

  Jules couldn't decide the best strategy to enter Glickman's house. It was critical she get the drop on him. But unless by some miracle Glickman had left the back door open, she didn't see any good options.

  The house was a hundred feet away. The terrain between the homes was hardened earth sprinkled with sagebrush and desert-resilient weeds. A waist-high barbed wire fence separated the two properties. The fence was rusty and looked to be a hundred years old.

  To be safe, Jules would take a forty-five-degree angle as she approached the back corner of Glickman's house. Even if he peeked out a window, he'd still have trouble spotting her.

  Jules ran crouched across the hard ground, holding the shotgun close to her chest, keeping her eyes fixed on the windows. At the barbed wire fence, she set the shotgun on the other side of the fence against a post. She pushed down the top line of barbed wire and meticulously stepped over, careful to avoid the barbs. Once over, she picked up the shotgun and hustled to the back corner of Glickman's house.

  She moved to a position underneath what she believed to be the dining room window. From what she could recall, it wasn't much more than a small alcove. A soiled yellowing shade covered the window.

  Jules stood quietly and listened but couldn't hear a thing.

  Watching the ground closely, she moved silently to the back door. She tested the door knob. It was locked. The back door had a window and the shade was drawn on it too.

  The back door looked f
limsy. She could shoulder it open, but the noise would likely alert Glickman and give him a chance to arm himself if he wasn't already armed. She wondered if Glickman had a gun. When Jules had vetted his file, there was never any mention of him having or using a gun. Everything she'd read indicated that Glickman was in love with knives, but Jules would assume he had a gun.

  She put her ear against the door's window and strained to hear something, anything. She waited but heard nothing. She thought Glickman might still be sleeping. The back door would be her best chance to get in. A window, if one weren't locked, would take too much time and be too noisy. The front door wasn't an option either. From what she could recall, the front door was solid oak.

  Jules decided to shoulder the door open. From memory, she visualized the home's layout. She remembered seeing the dining room through the living room archway across the hall; from that, she surmised the bathroom and bedroom had to be down the hallway.

  Determining Glickman's whereabouts would be key to staying alive. The moment she entered the kitchen, she'd do her best to determine his location and proceed from there.

  Jules slipped the nose clip from her pocket and fitted it on her nose. She pushed the shotgun's safety into the off position and braced herself. She took a breath and gritted her teeth, then she leaned down and drove her upper arm and shoulder into the area next to the door knob. She heard wood splinter and the door shuddered in the jamb, but it didn't open. She shouldered the door again with everything she had and the door flew open, smacking into the fridge. She quickly looked around, hyper alert. The room was empty. She listened for footsteps or movement but heard nothing.

  She moved toward the kitchen entryway, holding the shotgun level in a firing position. The portion of the living room she could see across the hallway was empty. Jules didn't know what to think. Was Glickman hiding somewhere? She leaned against the entryway jamb and took a quick peek down the hallway. Again, nothing.