An Empty Hell
Table of Contents
Title Page
Also by Dave White
Dedication
Quote
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Part II
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Part III
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Six Months Later
Chapter 78
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright Notice
The Jackson Donne series
When One Man Dies
The Evil That Men Do
Witness To Death
Not Even Past
To
Jason Pinter
“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”
-William Shakespeare, The Tempest
MATT HERRICK touched the ASP nightstick on his hip and took a deep breath. As he knocked on the door of the log cabin, he thought, This is one of the dumbest things you’ve ever done.
The man inside was in hiding, wanted, and probably armed. Knocking on the door was probably the least safe way to talk to him. Draw him outside, into the open. Give yourself the option to run.
But don’t knock.
Herrick rapped his knuckles on the wood and waited. He tried to listen for movement inside, but the late fall Vermont wind howled in his ears. A couple of dried leaves circled around his ankles. The smell of chimney smoke wafted in the air.
A cabin in the middle of the forest. The closest building was a half-mile back along a dirt road, some hotel popular during ski season. If the man inside the cabin opened fire, no one would hear Herrick die.
The doorknob twisted, and Herrick rested his hand on top of the ASP. His muscles tensed, tight as piano wire. The door opened, revealing the man from the pictures he’d seen.
Well, sort of.
The man’s face was now covered with a beard, sporting flecks of gray. His face appeared red and tight against his cheekbones, probably windburned. He looked how the townies had described him, and nothing like the papers showed nearly a year and a half ago.
“Jackson Donne?” Herrick said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Donne’s shoulders slumped for an instant. He flared his nostrils.
“So has half of New Jersey. Who are you?” he asked.
Herrick introduced himself. “I’m a high school basketball coach.”
Donne tilted his head. He brushed at the left cuff of his shirt. It had a stain on it. He didn’t say anything.
“And a private investigator,” Herrick said. “Matt Herrick.”
“I was one of those once.” Donne half-smiled. “I like your last name.”
“Can we talk?”
Donne nodded toward Herrick’s hip.
“You gonna use that thing?”
“Hope not.”
“I’m gonna have a beer,” Donne said.
He walked away from the door, but left it open. Herrick followed him, hand still on his ASP. The house smelled like wood, and steak. It was nearly barren. No pictures. No TV. Just two easy chairs, and a coffee table with a paperback on it. He could see Donne through the kitchen door, fridge open. Watched as he grabbed two silver cans of beer.
Donne came back and sat in the chair. He popped open one can and put the other on the coffee table next to the paperback. Heady Topper. The odor of piney hops made its way to his nostrils. One of the best beers in America, they said. Herrick thought about asking Donne for some bourbon.
Nope.
Not while he was working.
Donne took a long pull. Herrick stared at the stain on his cuff. Dark brown, like coffee. Or maybe iced tea.
“Can I save that for later?” Small talk was a good strategy.
“It’s not for you,” Donne said. “Maybe you should tell me why you’re here.”
Herrick sighed. “I need to bring you back to New Jersey.”
Donne laughed. He put the beer can down on the floor next to his chair. His right hand was out of sight for only an instant. Then it came back up full of a gun. A pistol, like the sidearm Herrick had carried in Afghanistan. The one he used to…
“I don’t think I’m coming,” Donne said. “I like it here.”
“Just let me explain…”
Donne continued as if he hadn’t heard. “I like my job. I like the weather. I like my beard and even better, I like my beer. Coming back is not in the cards. The second I cross that border, a slew of cops and FBI agents will be looking to round me up.”
Herrick shrugged, trying to counteract his hard-thudding heart. “Ex-cops are dying.”
“Tell me why I should care.” The barrel of the gun didn’t waver.
“Because they’re ex–New Brunswick PD cops. Ex-Narc cops. Guys you either put away or got fired. Remember?”
Now the gun lowered a bit.
“And people think you did it.”
Donne said, “And what do you think?”
“I think it’s a lot more complicated than that.”
“It certainly is,” Donne said.
That was when Herrick realized the stain on Donne’s shirt cuff wasn’t brown. It was dried and red. Blood red.
A Week Ago
BY THE time the Clifton police officer got to the scene, Route 3 was backed up a full mile. Officer Ron Bleeker pulled to a stop on the shoulder, radioed in his location, and got out of the car. A Honda Pilot was nosed into the shoulder, but its back wheels were still in the right lane. Horns honked as others tried to get to the left and past the jam. Bleeker’s car’s lights reflected off their hoods.
He walked up to the Honda on the passenger’s side and tapped on the window. The driver didn’t roll down the window. Bleeker tapped again, a little harder this time.
“Ma’am, can you roll down the window, please?”
She didn’t move. Bleeker leaned in to get a closer look and saw she was trembling. Her lips were moving and tears streamed down her face. A shudder ran through Bleeker. He looked over his shoulder at the line of cars, still honking their horns.
“Ma’am? Are you all right?”
No answer.
The call had come from Dispatch that there’d been an accident, but the person who called it in couldn’t see what the Pilot had hit. The caller was driving too fast, and the road went around a curve before merging with Route 46. Bleeker got there as quickly as he could. The ambulance was on its way as well.
Bleeker walked around the front of the car, seeing no damage to the side fender. As he rounded the corner of the car, he saw it. Blood, flesh, and hair crumpled in a way no body should lie. Bleeker couldn’t see the face, and was glad. He approached the body and crouched down next to it. The man was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. One arm was twisted underneath his stomach; the other lay flat ahead of him.
Bleeker put two fingers under the wrist. No pulse.
NO WONDER the driver of the Pilot was shaking. Bleeker listened for ambulance sirens. They were getting louder.
Half an hour later there were two plainclothes detectives Bleeker didn’t know leaning over the body. Another one was sitting in the passenger seat of the Pilot talking to the woman. The ambulance was there too, but he assumed that was just for show at this point. A paramedic took the driver’s blood pressure. Maybe they were going to take her away in the ambulance. A police helicopter and two news choppers hovered.
Bleeker approached the two detectives and the body. The heavyset cop with the goatee looked up and nodded his chin at Bleeker.
“You take the notes you needed?”
Bleeker nodded.
“What time do you get off tonight?”
“Ten,” Bleeker said.
The cop nodded. “We’re going to be here awhile. Go back to the station and write this up so you can go home.”
“Who is he?” Bleeker pointed at the body.
The cop shrugged. “No ID.”
Bleeker said thanks and was about to head back to his patrol car. The two cops couldn’t see it from their angle, but from his he saw a yellow piece of paper peeking out of the guy’s right hip pocket.
“What about that?” He took a step closer and gestured.
The detective got up and stepped over the body. With his plastic gloved hand, he reached down and tugged at the paper. It slid free. It was folded like the ones his middle-schooler brought home.
After it was unfolded, Bleeker watched the detective read it. His eyes widened.
“What’s it say?” Bleeker asked. The detective’s partner looked over his shoulder.
He turned the paper around and held it up for Bleeker to see. Bleeker felt the air go out of his lungs.
“Don’t put this in your report,” the detective said.
There were three words on the paper, written in magic marker.
FIND JACKSON DONNE.
DREW ISSLER touched his gun as he looked down at the woman’s body, needle hanging from her arm.
This wasn’t good.
The sirens blaring outside, and the flicking red light through the blinds, was even worse.
Issler had only shown up here in this run-down Camden apartment to ask Amesha Collins a few questions. It’s where this case led him. He didn’t expect to find her dead.
He moved to the window and peeked through the blinds. Three cop cars, two cops, each in full-on battle gear. They jogged toward the front door of the building, guns out. Basically, a SWAT team. How did they get here so fast?
Issler ran back to the front door and locked it. He needed time to think. But the footsteps rattling up the stairs weren’t going to give him that time. Issler’s breath caught in his throat. His hand went to the gun again, and then slipped into his pocket where he felt the piece of paper his client had given him.
Did it have to do with this?
He barely had any leads. His client had given Issler Amesha’s name. Issler had done some Internet searches and called a few of her friends and then tracked down this address. He wouldn’t even be in the apartment if he hadn’t smelled the rotten stink of death. It took him ten minutes to pick the lock. He first heard the sirens during the ninth minute.
The thunk thunk thunk of boots grew louder on the stairs. There wasn’t any yelling from the police—not yet. That would come in a few minutes. Issler took a deep breath. They weren’t after him. Whoever had seen Amesha last must have called them. Maybe someone in the building—this decaying, nearly deserted apartment building.
Shit.
Issler’s hand dropped to his gun again. His fingers tingled and sweat formed on his palm. He wiped it away on his jeans and went over to Amesha. He kneeled over to check her pulse again. Still nothing.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Police! Open the door!” Now the screaming started.
“My name is Drew Issler. I’m a private investigator. I have a gun. I’m going to open the door.”
More shouting came from the police to open the door, the words mixing together into something akin to a flashbang. The shouting was disorienting and Issler stumbled as he took a step forward. He could feel his heart slamming against his chest.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” he said. “But there is a dead woman in here with me. I came to interview her. I’m trying to find someone.”
“OPEN UP!” Someone was pounding against it.
Issler took a step forward and unlocked the door. Before he could turn the knob, the door was kicked in. Issler stumbled backwards and threw his hands in the air.
“PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” Men with semiautomatic weapons streamed into the room.
“I’m working a case,” Issler said.
They ignored him. Two men stepped around him and aimed their guns at Amesha Collins’ body.
The rest leveled their weapons at him.
Issler struggled to keep his voice even. “I’ve been hired to find Jackson Donne.”
The cops acted as if they never heard him. The words came all at once, mostly blended together—not as commands, but to overwhelm his senses. Issler was only able to pick out a few sentences.
“HE’S GOT A GUN!”
“PUT THE GUN DOWN!”
“GET ON THE FLOOR!”
“HE’S GOING FOR THE GUN!”
The first bullet hit him before he could even lower his arms. The rest tore through him instantly after that, and the world went black.
ALEX ROBINSON stood in front of the grave, hands in his pockets, bracing against the wind. Somewhere on the other side of the cemetery, the guard was changing in front of the Unknown Soldier. He looked back at the gravestone and wondered what kind of strings were pulled to get her buried here. Not like his parents would let him in on that information. He was lucky to come to her funeral.
He wiped his mouth, whispered good-bye, and turned around. He jumped back, gasping. A tall, wiry man stood in front of him. Horseshoe bald, with a dark five o’clock shadow, he looked like something out of a Wall Street happy hour.
“It’s done,” Lucas Mosley said.
Robinson looked at his watch. “You’re early.”
Mosley sniffled. “I needed to get a map at the tourist spot to find the gravesite. Who knows how many cameras I was on?”
Robinson waved his hand at Mosley. “Don’t worry about it. They won’t be looking for you here. Did you put the notes on both bodies?”
“I didn’t deal with any dead bodies,” Mosley said. “My work was done well before anyone died.”
“The notes?”
They started to walk away from the site, up the long hill toward Kennedy. It would take them a while to get to the flame, but that was where they’d head their separate ways.
“You can count on us. What’s the next step? I’d like to get paid this millennium.”
Mosley walked without effort, while Robinson worked to hide his huffing on the in
cline.
“The next step is twofold. I want you to track down Jackson Donne.”
Mosley didn’t even flinch. “I figured you’d say that. My brother is on it. We know some people, and he’s halfway to Vermont right now.”
“Vermont? Not what I expected,” Robinson said. “Christ, Donne, go south.”
Mosley didn’t respond. He glanced to his right, and Robinson figured he was scanning headstones.
“There’s one more person I need you to take out—and I want it to hurt.”
Mosley shook his head. “I’m a bounty hunter, not a hit man.”
Washington, DC, is the city with the most spies, the most counterintelligence, the most eavesdropping going on in the world, and he said that out loud. But he was worried about being caught on camera. Robinson fought back a grin. The hill crested and they followed the trail left. Some stray leaves blew across their path. Fall was giving way to winter.
“Stop screwing with me.”
“Who is this guy?”
Robinson passed a piece of paper to Mosley. After opening it, he said, “Means nothing to me.”
“I’m going to do the legwork to get this one started. I’m going to hire him to find Jackson Donne too.”
Mosley stopped walking. “You don’t trust me?”
Robinson bit his lip. “I trust you and your brother. But this can’t come out of nowhere. I want it tied back to Donne.”
They stood next to an older couple. The man had his arms around the woman, who was wiping her eyes.
“You’re making this too complicated.” Mosley started walking again.
“I’m settling all family business.”
“You’re not as smart as a Corleone.”
The flickering flame was visible up ahead. Mosley had specified they finish their conversation by then, and without any words, go their separate ways. Everything needed to be ironed out by then.
“This is my idea, and I’m paying you. We do it my way. Matt Herrick, I want him fucked with. I want it to hurt.”
Mosley scratched his nose. “You want me to go full psycho?”
Robinson shrugged. Wind blew hard and leaves and grass rustled.
“And Donne?”
“Bring him back to Jersey, we’ll go from there.” Robinson coughed. “There’s someone I want Jackson to see.”
“You got a place for me to stay up there?” Mosley blew air through his nose, as if clearing snot. “Jersey’s a hike.”