The Vault of Hercules

Chapter 17

Sam decided to disappear indefinitely.

He was on a mission, chasing after the clues fed to him by his informant, Lawrence Hayden, a.k.a. Bad Norris. Sam utilized all of his journalistic savvy to call in favors with old colleagues and police reservists who wished to assist in his vigilante effort to hopefully locate and arrest the monster who had now abducted the fourth girl from her primary school in Paisley. Sam Cleave's vendetta may have started as a personal journey to redemption, but the more he found out about the kidnapper, the more it became a quest to drop him in his tracks for all of the little girls and young women in Scotland.

Norris delivered daily reports on what was slithering through the sewers of the Glasgow/Edinburgh criminal empire. Trafficking in women was almost unheard of, which impaired Sam's likely location of the culprit, but Norris did his best to help his old mate and went above and beyond to get information from his business associates. Now, he finally he had something concrete Sam Cleave could use.

“Look at this. Giuseppe Valdi, born January 4, 1961, recently sprung from Barrenton Psychiatric after a twenty-five year confinement,” Norris told Sam, handing him a folder containing details of the patient, photos, and treatment methodology. Sam perused the information as Norris narrated his well-prepared report like a model student. They were parked at an old, disused drive-in just south of the zoo in Livingston, West Lothian.

“What was he in for?” Sam asked, memorizing the bastard's face from the three mug shots Norris provided.

“Dissociative disorders, paranoid schizophrenia and… some….more unsavory shit,” Norris hesitated. “But that’s basically what he’s about. He was released under very questionable circumstances, by the way. There was no way this man was ever supposed to be released. I mean, this piece of shit belongs in the dungeons of Median with the Berserkers, for fuck's sake. He’s not even fitting for a normal asylum.”

Sam wanted to know everything about the man he was hunting after. “You said he was in for more unsavory shit. I want to know what that is.” He waited for Norris to respond, but the freelancer was pretending to be deep into reading the file. “Norris!”

“God, Sam! Can't you just accept that he’s a mad motherfucker and be done with it?” Norris snapped. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this particular field, it’s that it doesn't matter what’s wrong with someone — what matters is that there’s something wrong. Get what I’m saying?”

“I do, aye. But I want to know the details. It makes it easier for me to profile him when I try to anticipate his next move. Now, tell me what I want to know or I'll just take that stolen police file from you.”

“Okay, okay. Relax!” Norris drew back. The hardened hit man winced. “This guy has been known to indulge in the odd bit of… cannibalism.”

“Jesus Christ!” Sam shrieked. “And you thought that little extra detail wasn’t important to know? Christ, Norris! This man has Paddy's daughter!” Sam's face was ashen. He had to find Valdi before he got the urge to cook. With this extra information Sam knew that his time was shorter than he’d previously thought.

“Don't jump the gun, Sam. Bide your time or you’ll lose his trail. My people have located him, but he’s still moving. They have no idea where he stashed the girls, because he is moving alone. He might have accomplices. I don't know,” Norris explained. “It would be very stupid to expose yourself because of emotion, Sam. One wrong move and he will go under.”

Sam was terrified for Amber and the others. The more he knew about the monster who collected them, the more cause he had for concern. His frustration was dictating his judgment and that was never a good thing. “Okay, listen, where was he last seen?” Sam asked, composing himself, if even just to fool Norris.

“Glasgow. He was seen at a club called Eastern Block, a local hangout for mostly Eastern European gangs and shady businessmen. The place is owned by Papa Hastings, a sick fuck who traffics anything from women to contraband, weapons, and even animals used for pornography and bestiality,” Norris explained, looking thoroughly nauseated from his own words. “A real demented freak, that. I would not be surprised if he had something to do with the abductions.”

“I shudder to think, between these two lowlife shit bags, what those poor girls have coming,” Sam said, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “And you won't help.”

“I’m helping you right now, Sam. Good God! I’m taking huge chances here, gambling with my business and my life to get you this information. I mean, fuck! There are already people asking why I’m so interested in Valdi. So I can’t afford to give you anything more than information,” Norris grated. He grabbed a cigarette and started smoking. “You have to understand.”

“Aye,” Sam said, “I do. It’s just going too slow if I do everything by myself and I'm just worried that time is running out on those girls.”

“True. I know why you’re so high strung, but that’s as far as I can go on this, Sam,” Norris sighed, taking another pull of the smoke. “Give us the photos there,” he motioned for Sam to return the pictures of Valdi he’d been looking at. “I have to get the folder back to the rookie cop who lifted it for me, before he gets busted.”

Sam got out of the Mercedes and met Norris on the other side of the car. The two men said goodbye, embracing briefly. “Where's your cabbie?” Norris asked.

“There,” Sam pointed to the section behind what used to be the drive-in tuck shop. “Don't worry, Mom. I'll be okay,” he smiled at Norris, pulling aside his coat just enough to reveal the dark gray sheen of a Beretta.

“Good! Good to know. Now, make sure you take down the whole lot when you do, alright?” Norris advised as he flicked away his butt and got back into his car.

“I will,” Sam promised, closing the freelancer's door for him. Without being too obvious Sam surveyed the perimeter while Norris drove off over the chapped and potholed tar of the old drive-in, weaving through the few speaker posts that still stood after decades of neglect.

His next stop would be Eastern Block.

“Strike while the iron is hot, Sammo,” he said to himself, traversing the decrepit and abandoned landscape that reminded him of his own life. Once vibrant, entertaining, and full of promise, it had now fallen into disrepair, unneeded and redundant. But he didn’t care anymore.

Long gone were the days of goals and journalistic integrity. Reputation and pointless peer awards seemed so useless now that he walked in the real world where his expertise could change lives, either for better or worse. Instead of just reporting on atrocities, he was now inside the rink, one of the players who had a hand in the competition. Only here it was for life and death, not some praise from a news academy or publishers cheering about book sales. But that was what was making Sam feel useful again.

Actively pursuing this animal gave Sam not only vindication from his own punishment, but it helped alter the course by which the lives of four girls could end up, and that made it worth the danger he was about to face. He got into his car, wary of any intruders in the back seat or trunk, which he’d checked for before driving out through the slanted gates on crooked posts where the ticket office used to be.