Detective by the Wayside Part One

Detective by the Wayside – Part One
by Vladimir Vorobiev Abadenskiy

Chapter One
Toronto, 1970. June. Night.

The road along the shoulder shimmered under the gleam of headlights. Highway 401 was nearly empty. Anxious radio reports buzzed past, blending with the rhythmic hiss of tires on wet asphalt.

Jonathan Quinn drove slowly, his eyes locked on the dark patches ahead. Something snagged his attention — a red blotch on the soaked pavement, fresh. Almost warm.

“Goddamn kids, goddamn night, goddamn city,” he muttered.

The click of a lighter broke the silence. Quinn cupped the flame with both hands, lighting a cigarette, his eyes narrowing into the dark. No one there. Only fog. Only cold slime crawling over the asphalt.

Three hours earlier, an eight-year-old girl named Lily had vanished. She was walking home after a neighbor’s party — and never made it. In Quinn’s mind, the case was already assembling itself: a child, twilight, walking alone. Too easy. Too fragile a target.

Overhead, a search helicopter thundered past. The blades chopped the stillness apart. That sound meant time was running out.

From the right side of the shoulder, Senior Officer Ray Horn emerged. His blazer was soaked, hair stuck to his temples.

“John, we found a sneaker in the brush. Red, with a white stripe. Looks like hers.”

The words hit Quinn like a fist. He nodded, exhaled smoke toward the road.

“We’re chasing a shadow now.”

Horn shoved his hands into his pockets and scanned the gray emptiness.

“Fifth disappearance in two weeks. Kids, women, one man... Son of a bitch.”

Quinn gave a dry laugh.

“You think he’s choosing victims at random? Spinning a wheel?”

Horn waved a hand like brushing dust from the air.

“He picks the weak ones. The defenseless. The alone.”

A siren cut through the silence. A black Dodge screamed down the road with its lights flashing.

From the haze of rain emerged a short man in a soaked trench coat. Harry Murlow, crime tech. As grim as the night itself.

“Found something,” he rasped, holding out a plastic bag. Inside — a filthy white hair ribbon and a torn fragment of a map, the outline of Lake Ontario just visible.

Quinn’s brow furrowed.

“Rushed? Or deliberate?”

“He’s playing,” Horn said.

Quinn pressed his lips into a hard line.

“We’re moving. Steeles and Jane. There’s an old warehouse.”

They turned off the shoulder, driving into the dark wasteland.

The warehouse stood crooked, in the middle of an abandoned field. Parts of the roof had caved in. The walls peeled like burned skin. The air was thick, heavy with damp.

Quinn led the way, flashlight cutting through gray mist.

In the rear lot, they found five containers. All dented and rusted. On one, scratched unevenly: 13B.

Horn slipped in a key they’d found earlier. The lock gave a sick groan and clicked open.

The door swung wide. A wave of mildew and rot poured out.

Inside: a single plastic chair. Torn ropes on the floor.

On the wall — a child’s drawing scrawled in marker: a house, a sun, and a strange faceless black figure.

Beneath the chair lay a scrap of map and a tiny doll’s shoe.

Quinn picked up the scrap. On the back, written in thick marker:

"Look for me where the dark forgets the light."

Something white caught his eye in the far corner.

A headless rag doll.

On its chest, a button carved with one word:

Lily.

Horn stood silent, fists buried in his pockets.

“He’s mocking us,” he finally said, voice low.

Quinn nodded slowly.

“This isn’t just murder. It’s theater.”

Harry swept his light across the walls.

Etched in coal on rusted metal, a single word stood out:

GAME.

Quinn inhaled deeply, smoke trailing from his lips.

“Remember this, Ray. This case will change everything.”

Silence dropped over them like a bell.

Far in the distance, in the blackness, something shifted.

The night closed behind them, heavy and mean, full of someone’s breath.





Chapter Two

The rain hadn’t stopped by morning. Clouds hung over Toronto like a lead weight, pressing the city down. Inside the precinct, the air smelled of damp paper, burnt coffee, and rising tension.

Jonathan Quinn sat at his desk, sifting through the remnants of the night’s operation. Photos of the container. The torn map. The child’s hair ribbon. They lay before him like a silent accusation.

Beside them — a folder stamped: Missing: Lily Bryce.
He traced a finger over the label, feeling that familiar bitterness crawl up his throat.

Horn appeared in the doorway without knocking. His coat slung over one arm, boots squelching on the floor.

“Good morning—if that’s what we’re calling it,” he muttered.

Quinn didn’t look up.
“Forensics?”

“Nothing. No prints, no DNA. Washed away or wiped clean. Professional.”

Horn dropped another file on the desk.

“Got a witness. Old guy from the trailer park saw a van. Black. No plates. Or so he says.”

“Or so?” Quinn raised an eyebrow.

“Guy was drinking moonshine. Eyes like fog. But he’s sure: black van, parked by the warehouse around 3 a.m.”

Quinn flicked his lighter, didn’t light the cigarette. Just stared into the flame.

“So not entirely blind,” he muttered.

The door opened again. A young woman stepped in — Tammy Crowe. Analyst. Sharp, stubborn, capable.

“We’ve got a problem,” she said, getting straight to it.
“Another one’s missing.”

Quinn turned his gaze toward her.

“Who?”

“Boy. Eleven years old. Name’s Kevin Walsh. Disappeared on his way to school. Same area. Same night.”

Horn cursed under his breath.

Quinn clenched his fists on the desk.

“Damn it. He’s escalating.”

They looked at each other. The room fell silent, like just before something blows.

“We have to move faster,” Horn said. “Otherwise we’re not running an investigation. We’re organizing funerals.”

Quinn nodded. Something cold and dark shifted inside him.

“Tammy, pull camera footage from the past two days. Five-mile radius around the warehouse.”

“Horn — schools, parks, bus stops. Anyone who saw a van. Now.”

She gave a quick nod and left, heels tapping down the hall.

Horn handed Quinn a steaming cup of bad coffee.

“No sleep for a while.”

“I’m used to it,” Quinn said flatly.

He looked again at Lily’s photograph. A child’s face. A smile. And behind it — a shadow, hand already raised.

Quinn gritted his teeth.
No more mistakes. No more leniency. No more second chances.

He stood up.
Coat. Hat. Weapon.

The city was waiting.

And someone out there — in the shadows — had already set the next trap.

They walked the corridor together, Horn matching his pace.
Rain lashed the windows like time itself was leaking from the sky.

Outside, the cars waited, engines humming low.

“We start with the trailer park,” Quinn said.
“The old man may know more than he realizes.”

Horn slid into the driver’s seat. The engine growled like an angry beast.

They tore off into the gray haze of morning.

Ahead — the city.
Wet. Cold. Angry.

A city where someone was hunting.
And every hour cost a life.

Quinn stared into the fog where the skyline bled into the clouds.

He knew it in his gut —
The game had truly begun.



Chapter Three

The trailer park in Toronto’s west end looked like it had been looted by storms and abandoned by time. Tiny homes on wheels sagged in puddles. Cracked windows squealed in the wind. Rust coated everything like a scab.

Quinn stepped out of the car, slowly pulling on his gloves.
Horn slammed the door behind him, stretching with a wince.

“You think this guy really saw something?” Horn asked, frowning.

“I think he saw more than he’ll want to admit,” Quinn replied.

They trudged through wet clay toward trailer number three.
The door creaked as Horn knocked.
Inside: shuffling steps, a dry cough.

The old man who answered looked like a survivor of a hundred winters. Beard overgrown, red-rimmed eyes, shaking hands. He reeked of alcohol and mildew.

“Who are you?” he grumbled, squinting at them.

“Police,” Quinn said calmly. “We want to talk about what you saw last night.”

The man snorted.

“I didn’t see anything. Get lost.”

“Hold on, friend,” Horn stepped forward, flashing that weary-cop half-smile.
“A kid’s gone missing. Can you really keep sleeping with that on your conscience?”

The old man hesitated. Quinn said nothing — just stared, unblinking, into his eyes.

Finally, the man sighed and waved them in.

Inside smelled worse. Empty bottles. A moldy mattress. Broken dishes.
They took seats on a peeling couch.
The old man sank onto a stool.

“Black van,” he croaked. “I saw it. Parked by the road. Lights off. Someone was inside. Smoking. I saw the lighter flicker.”

“Did you see a face?” Quinn asked.

The man shook his head.

“No. Just a hand. Big. Pale. A man’s.”

Quinn jotted it down.

“License plate?”

“None. Rear panel was blank. Like a ghost.”

Horn wiped his brow.

“Anything else? Anything strange?”

“Yeah.” The man furrowed his brow. “There was… a sound. From the van. Like music. Real faint. Rattling. Like one of those old crank music boxes.”

Quinn froze.
That detail wasn’t the kind a drunk would invent.

“What kind of music?” he asked.

“Children’s, maybe. A lullaby. But twisted. Off-key. Like something from a nightmare.”

They exchanged a look.
Horn swore under his breath.

“Thank you,” Quinn said. “If you remember anything else — call us.”

The man nodded and hurried them out, slamming the door behind them.

Outside, Horn inhaled deeply.

“So we’ve got a maniac in a van with a music box. Great.”

Quinn said nothing.
Something in his gut had gone cold.

“We need to run a list of all black van owners in the area,” Quinn said. “And issue a BOLO.”

Horn pulled out his notepad.

“Black van. Pale hand. Lullaby. What’s next — clowns?”

Quinn stared at the sky. Grey. Heavy.

“A body. And we’ll find one soon… if we don’t catch him first.”

They climbed into the car.
Rain drummed on the roof like someone tapping out a countdown.

Quinn hit the siren and roared off the curb.

Somewhere in the city, someone was killing.

And someone wanted to be noticed.

But they weren’t just chasing a killer now.
They were being led — step by step — into his game.



Chapter Four

The overnight report was worse than expected.

Quinn stood in the narrow hallway of the precinct, head bent over the latest paperwork. Two more missing persons in the past 48 hours — both adults. A forty-year-old man. A twenty-eight-year-old woman. Different neighborhoods. Same pattern. Gone at night. No witnesses. No sound.

Horn approached, holding two cups of terrible coffee. The air reeked of burnt rubber and wet wool.

“We’re gonna work ourselves to the bone,” he said, handing one cup over.

Quinn took it, but didn’t drink. His eyes were dry. His face, stone.

“Call Tammy. Tell her to bring the city maps. We need to find the overlap points.”

They moved into a small briefing room. Tammy Crowe was already there. On the table: a massive map of Toronto.

Quinn stuck red pins into the locations of each disappearance.
The pins formed a crooked arc — stretching along the city’s old industrial zone.

“Someone’s moving along an old line,” Quinn muttered. “Like they’re following a route.”

“Or following someone,” Tammy added. “Or something.”

Horn rolled a toothpick between his fingers, his face dark.

“You think he picks targets by map? Or just grabs whoever’s vulnerable?”

“Both,” Quinn said. “He plays by his own rules. But even players repeat themselves.”

A young patrolman stuck his head in the door, ears red from the wind.

“Sir — we found the van!”

Quinn snapped upright.

“Where?”

“East district. Abandoned parking lot. Matches the description — black, no plates.”

“How long ago?”

“Five minutes.”

“We move,” Quinn ordered.

Horn was already pulling on his coat.

Outside, the wind tore at their coats. The streets were soaked, alleys reeking.
Quinn’s car tore through the city, tires screeching.

The east side greeted them with decaying warehouses and puddles like oil slicks.
And there it was — the van. Sitting at the edge of the lot, like a forgotten shadow.
An old Ford. Doors shut. Windows fogged.

Quinn raised a hand.

“Careful. No mistakes.”

They approached from opposite sides.
Horn held his weapon low.
Quinn rapped on the window.

Silence.

He tried the handle.
Unlocked.

The air inside hit them like a fist — mildew and something sweet… and wrong.

Empty. No driver. No blood. No struggle.

Just a music box on the floor.

Its crank turned slowly.

A lullaby played — creaking, bent, off-tune. The song scraped at the nerves like a blade.

Quinn leaned in.
On the interior wall, someone had scratched a message with a nail:

“This is only the beginning.”

He straightened up. Heart hammering in his ears.

“He’s taunting us,” Horn muttered.

“No,” Quinn replied. “He’s warning us.”

They swept the van. No prints. No blood. Nothing but that message — and the music that still hadn’t stopped.

“We tow the van,” Quinn said. “Let forensics tear it apart.”

Horn nodded.

“Citywide alert?”

“Absolutely. He’s already one step ahead. We can’t let him go further.”

Quinn looked up at the rain-spattered sky.

He felt it in his bones — they’d walked straight into someone else’s game.

The rules weren’t theirs.
And losing meant death.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Cars were closing in.

But Quinn knew —
They weren’t chasing the van.

They were being hunted too.




Chapter Five

Night in Toronto sat heavy, as if the city bore the weight of every unpaid debt.
Jonathan Quinn sat alone in his apartment, slouched in an old armchair across from a dusty mirror.
The whiskey in his glass barely moved — time itself seemed frozen.

He stared at his reflection, but didn’t see himself.
He saw the man he used to be.
The man he lost.

He raised the glass and swirled it, listening to the soft tap of the liquid against the sides.

“What are you doing, John?” he whispered to the mirror.

In the glass: a tired man. Sleeves rolled. Eyes that had forgotten how to believe in daylight.

He drank. No flinch.
The bitterness burned down his throat and sat heavy in his chest.

“You think you’re going to catch him?” he asked again, voice low.

The reflection stayed silent.
Its gaze only grew heavier.

On a nearby shelf sat a framed photograph.
Two smiling faces stared back at him — a woman and a little girl.
His wife. His daughter.
Everything that once made the world make sense.
Everything he failed to protect.

Quinn took the photo in trembling hands.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wasn’t there. And now all I have left is emptiness and bullets.”

Marie — his daughter — smiled in the picture, pressed against her mother.
Tiny hands. Sunlit eyes.
Gone in one night.
A stupid accident. Or maybe murder.
No one ever figured it out.
Only the black body bags on wet asphalt.
Only the sirens.
Only the scream that tore his soul apart.

He placed the photo back down. Looked again at the mirror.

The man staring back wasn’t him.
It was a ghost — a man chasing shadows because the alternative was vanishing.

He poured another.
Drank again.

Outside the window, the city exhaled like a predator waiting to strike.

Quinn closed his eyes.

“If I don’t stop him… someone else’s daughter, someone’s wife — they’ll end up where you are.”

He heard something.

A whisper. Or maybe nothing.

But in the mirror — he thought he saw movement.
Like someone standing behind him.

A faint trace of perfume drifted through the room.
Her perfume.

He didn’t turn.
Didn’t tear his soul wider than it already was.
Just sat.
Just drank.
Just whispered:

“I’ll find him. I swear to you. I’ll find him for you.”

The night offered no reply.
The mirror turned back into plain glass.
Empty.
Dead.
Like him.

The whiskey was almost gone.
Quinn rubbed his face.
There was too much work.
Even more pain.
And no way around it but through.

He stood — slow, like an old man.
Threw on his jacket.
Locked the door behind him.

Outside, the street waited.
It smelled of rain and blood.

And somewhere out there, a killer moved freely — seeing people as nothing more than pieces on a board.

Quinn stepped into the dark.

Like a soldier going to his last war.

And behind him, the photo frame waited, quietly…
for a man who might never return.



Chapter Six

Toronto greeted the morning with a gray fog, like an old shawl draped over its shoulders.
Quinn arrived at the precinct earlier than usual.
He hadn’t slept.
Just sat through the night, listening to raindrops drum against the window, lost in thought.

Tammy Crowe was already waiting inside — quick, alert, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.

“John, we’ve got movement on the cameras,” she said, handing him a stack of printouts.

Quinn scanned the images.
The van.
Black. No plates.
Captured near a playground in Rexdale, around 6 p.m. the previous evening.

“Any faces?” he asked sharply.

“No,” Tammy shook her head. “Driver was hidden behind a newspaper. Just a silhouette. Male. Big.”

Quinn studied the photos again.

“What about the playground?”

“Already swept. No signs. But he’s watching. He’s choosing.”

“He’s got a type,” Quinn muttered.

Horn walked in, carrying two cups of stale coffee.

“So what’s the word, brain trust?” he said, dropping into the chair beside them.

Quinn handed him the photos.

Horn grunted, flipping through them.

“Clever bastard. Shadows, covers, timing. No mistakes.”

“He’s hunting,” Quinn said. “And we don’t know when he’ll strike again.”

They sat in silence for a moment.
Each wrapped in their own grim thoughts.

“We have to get ahead of him,” Quinn finally said. “Otherwise all we’re doing is cleaning up corpses.”

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” Horn asked. “He’s smoke.”

Quinn looked up.

“I want to play on his field.”

Horn frowned.

“Speak English.”

“We set bait. A park. A girl. Plainclothes officers in position.”

“You want to use a child?” Horn’s voice rose with alarm.

“No. A volunteer. Adult. Undercover. Looks like a teenager. No risk.”

Horn rubbed his jaw.

“It’s dangerous.”

“Everything’s dangerous,” Quinn snapped. “And if we don’t try, someone else disappears. Maybe tonight.”

Horn exhaled.

“Fine. I’m in.”

Tammy nodded, hugging her tablet to her chest.

“I’ll find someone who fits.”

The precinct smelled like burnt coffee and fear.
But the fear was the right kind — the kind that sharpens you.

Quinn dropped the photos on the table and stood up.

“We meet in the park in two hours. Quietly. No errors.”

Horn rose as well.

“If only it were that simple.”

“It never is,” Quinn said.

They each walked out in different directions, carrying different weights.

In the parking lot, Quinn zipped his coat to his chin.
His heart beat low and heavy.
His mind moved cleanly — no illusions. No hopes.

He started the engine.
The car roared into the fog like it was hunting something too.

Ahead of him:
The hunt.



Chapter Seven

Riverside Park sprawled out in a foggy valley — as if it had been built for nightmares.
The swings creaked in the wind.
The sandboxes filled with dirty water.
Trees loomed like silent witnesses to some ancient horror.

Quinn stood beneath an old linden tree, watching the operation unfold.

The volunteer — a young cadet from the police academy — was dressed in a school uniform, sitting on the swing with a book in his lap.
Still. Vulnerable.
Perfect bait.

Plainclothes officers were scattered along the park’s perimeter.
It all looked peaceful.
On the surface.

But Quinn could feel it in the air.
A kind of pressure.
A predatory silence.

His heart beat slow and steady — like a drum before an execution.

Horn walked over, adjusting his earpiece.

“Everyone’s in position. Ready.”

“Good,” Quinn said, his voice tight.

Minutes passed.
Each one stretched like a wire.

And then — he saw it.

The van.
Black. No plates.
Rolling slowly along the park’s edge.
Headlights off.

Inside — a shadow.

Quinn tensed, every nerve drawn tight.

“Standby one,” he murmured into the mic.

The van stopped.
The door cracked open.

For a split second — a hand appeared.
Pale. Male. Heavy like a hammer.

The volunteer on the swing lifted his head, just as planned.

The van sat motionless.

Then the door slammed shut.
The van started to reverse.

“Go!” Quinn shouted.

Officers burst from the bushes.
Sirens roared.

The van lurched forward, tires shrieking.
Mud sprayed like blood.

“Intercept! Intercept!” Horn barked.

Police cars surged onto the trail.
No bullets — but the air smelled like danger.

The van tore through the park, knocking over trash bins.
Quinn ran, lungs burning.
They were chasing a ghost.
Chasing fear made flesh.

But they didn’t catch him.

The van disappeared over the hill — leaving only exhaust and shattered adrenaline.

Quinn stopped, hands on knees, breath ragged.

“Damn it!” he gasped.

Horn caught up, red-faced and cursing.

“He’s gone!”

“He won’t get far,” Quinn growled.
“We’ll find him. We’ll bring him down.”

But deep inside, he knew —
They were too late. Again.

Somewhere in the city, someone was crying.
Somewhere, a mother was calling a name that would never be answered.
And the blood was already soaking into the pavement.

Back at the swing, the cadet was shaking.
His mouth a tight line.

“You did good,” Quinn said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
“You were brave.”

But Quinn didn’t feel brave.

He felt hollow.

Like the world was fraying at the edges — and he was just barely holding the seams.

The command center was quiet.
Even the phones stayed silent.

Horn stared blankly at a wall.
Tammy flipped through reports with trembling fingers.

“Two more gone,” she whispered. “Two children. One from a park. One from a school. Same area. Same timeline.”

Quinn shut his eyes.

Faces rose in his mind — kids, mothers, screams, and red on sidewalks.
One word echoed in his brain like a verdict:
Too late.

He stood up.
Took his badge from the table.
Gripped it so hard his knuckles turned white.

“I won’t let him win,” he said.
“Even if I have to burn with him.”

Horn looked up.

“How are you going to find him?”

“By the scent of blood,” Quinn said.
“By the trail of pain. By the broken voices of parents.”

He would drag the bastard out of whatever pit he was hiding in.

Even if it meant descending straight into hell.

He walked past desks.
Past fear.
Past exhaustion.

And outside, the rain kept falling — like someone up there was already weeping for those they couldn’t save.




Chapter Eight


Night poured through the streets of Toronto like thick black tar. The sky held neither stars nor moon—just darkness and cold. Quinn gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened. The interior of the car reeked of wet wool, old paper, and the kind of sweat that came from too many hours chasing the unspeakable.

“Dispatch, this is Quinn,” he said into the mic, voice low and clipped. “Where was the last ping on the suspect’s van?”

“South Port,” came the tired reply. “Warehouse sector. Container yard.”

“Copy.”

In the backseat, Horn was silent, his face tight, cut from stone.

“We need to catch him tonight,” Horn said.

Quinn didn’t look back. “If not, we start the morning with another funeral.”

Rain hammered the roof. It sounded like the fingers of lost children drumming on the glass. Headlights sliced through silhouettes of derelict buildings and scattered machinery. Quinn turned off the main road and rolled into the forgotten port. No sirens. Just silence and the stench of rust and old water.

“There,” Horn said, pointing.

The van sat at the edge of the lot, immobile, quiet as a gravestone.

Quinn killed the engine. The car slid to a stop. “Quiet. No noise.”

They exited carefully, hugging the shadows, moving between twisted scraps of metal and puddles of oil. The fog wrapped around their legs like wet cloth. The scent of rot and sea air crept into their nostrils.

The van’s doors were open. No one inside.

A puddle of blood stained the metal floor. And next to it—a faceless rag doll.

Quinn picked it up with two fingers. On its chest, a single button had a name carved into it: “Emily.”

“Goddamn it,” Horn whispered.

On the van’s inner wall, someone had carved a message with a blade: “Follow the stars.”

“He’s mocking us,” Horn said.

“No,” Quinn murmured. “He’s leading us. On his terms.”

Something glinted in the mud. Quinn bent down and retrieved a child’s medallion. Inside, a smiling boy stared out from a photograph.

“He’s nine… His smile…” Quinn faltered. “Just like Marie’s.”

Horn placed a hand on his shoulder.

“John…”

Quinn exhaled slowly. “Let’s move.”

They searched the area. The killer was gone. Only the silence remained—thick, sickening.

Tammy’s voice broke through the radio: “New report. A woman’s called in. Her son didn’t come home. Nine. Blond. Blue jacket.”

Quinn closed his eyes. “Hell.”

They tore through the rain, lightning flashing, thunder snapping overhead. At the station, the boy’s mother was on the floor, sobbing. Her dress soaked, her cries raw.

“Please… please find him!” she begged.

Quinn knelt beside her. “We will. I swear it.”

She clutched his sleeve. “He told me yesterday… ‘Mom, I love you.’”

The words stabbed deep. Quinn rose, steel returning to his face.

“Where was he last seen?” he asked Horn.

“Park. Five o’clock.”

“Park again,” Quinn muttered.

Tammy rushed over. “I found a pattern. The abductions align with old sewer lines.”

“What?”

“Old tunnels. They run beneath every scene.”

Quinn stared at the map. Red pins drawn in invisible arcs.

“He’s using the tunnels.”

“Then we sweep them,” Horn said.

“Now. All of them,” Quinn barked.

He descended first. The flashlight pierced the black. The stench was overwhelming. Boots splashed in filth.

Then—a sound. A stifled cry.

“Here!” Quinn shouted, charging ahead.

In the far corner, bound and gagged, was the boy. Alive.

Quinn slashed the ropes and lifted him into his arms. “You’re safe now.”

The boy wept into his chest.

They emerged into the storm. Behind them, darkness receded—but didn’t vanish.

Somewhere, the killer was still watching.

And laughing.




Chapter Nine

They returned to the precinct just before dawn.

The boy slept on a witness room couch, wrapped in an old police blanket. Tammy sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his, her face pale and hollow with exhaustion.

Quinn stood by the window, staring into a sunrise that brought no warmth. The sky above Toronto bled a dull, bruised red — the color of old wounds that never healed.

“He’s alive only because this was a setup,” Horn said as he walked in, two steaming cups in his hands.

Quinn didn’t move. “He left the boy behind on purpose,” he said. “Gave us hope just so he could take it away later.”

He took the cup but didn’t drink. The scent of burnt coffee blended with the acrid taste of defeat.

“We’ll have to talk to the kid,” Horn said. “When he wakes.”

“Not yet,” Tammy cut in quietly. “He’s terrified. Don’t push him too hard.”

“I’ll do it,” Quinn said. “Just me.”

He walked over, knelt beside the couch.

“Martin,” he said softly. “Martin, can you hear me?”

The boy stirred. Eyes fluttered open.

“You’re safe now,” Quinn said. “No one will hurt you.”

Martin’s lips trembled.

“He said… he said… he’s coming back…”

Quinn stayed calm.

“Who? What did he look like?”

Martin curled into himself.

“Big man… no face… eyes like holes…”

Tammy gasped. Horn muttered a curse under his breath.

Quinn squeezed the boy’s hand gently.

“We’ll find him. I promise.”

Martin let out a shaky breath and fell back asleep.

Quinn rose slowly. His face was hardening again.

“We need to stop him before he strikes again.”

Horn looked at him.

“How?”

Quinn turned to the wall map. Red pins stabbed into neighborhoods like scars.

“He’s following a route,” Quinn said. “We can predict the next move.”

Tammy stepped up.

“I can overlay the tunnel systems with the abduction sites. I’ll need some time.”

“You have thirty minutes,” Quinn said sharply.

She paled, but nodded and got to work.

The silence in the room was thick.

Quinn replayed Martin’s words in his head: no face… eyes like holes…

“He wears a mask,” Quinn said suddenly.

Horn raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“He’s hiding his face. Doesn’t want to be remembered. That means he’s afraid of being recognized.”

“Or he already has been,” Horn said grimly. “Maybe he’s one of us.”

The thought dropped like a stone into the center of the room.

Tammy broke the silence.

“I’ve got something. A match.”

They gathered around.

“Here,” she said, pointing. “An old amusement park in the southern district. Closed for years. It matches the tunnel system. It’s the next likely point.”

Quinn clenched his fist.

“Perfect place for a hunt.”

Horn was already heading for the door.

“I’ll get the team.”

Quinn nodded. “No lights. No sirens.”

They drove in silence. The city was still asleep. Only the broken-hearted were awake.

The park loomed like a fossilized beast. Rusted rides, twisted swings, weeds growing where laughter used to be.

Quinn stepped out first. Every footfall echoed like a warning.

“Over here,” Tammy called.

Near the carousel, a pink jacket lay on the ground.

Quinn knelt. Touched it. Still warm.

“A girl,” he said. “Recently taken.”

Horn checked the perimeter.

“No signs. He’s already moved.”

Quinn’s gut twisted.

He turned.

A figure darted between pavilions.

“There!” he yelled.

They gave chase.

The figure ran like smoke. Ducked shadows. Climbed fences. Sped through the dark.

Quinn caught up near the gate.

A blade flashed in the figure’s hand.

“Stop!” he shouted.

But the figure didn’t.

Quinn tackled him.

They hit the concrete hard. Rolled. Fought.

Horn arrived, cuffing the suspect.

The mask slipped off.

The man beneath was… ordinary. A face that belonged in a grocery line, not a monster’s lair.

“Why?” Quinn asked, trembling with rage.

The man smiled.

“Because I can.”

His voice was hollow. Like a grave without a name.

Quinn punched him once, hard.

“For Lily. For Kevin. For every one of them.”

The man laughed — a rattling, joyless sound.

Horn pulled Quinn back.

“That’s enough. He’s ours now.”

Quinn wiped blood from his mouth. Watched as the killer was led away.

And in that moment, he realized:

This was a battle.
But the war wasn’t over.
Not even close.



Chapter Ten

The precinct smelled of sweat, mildew, and unresolved things.

Quinn sat in his office, staring at the corkboard cluttered with photos. Victims. Children. Their smiles frozen in time. Lives he hadn’t saved.

The door creaked open. Tammy stepped in.

“John,” she said. “We’ve got a problem.”

He didn’t look at her. Just muttered, “Tell me.”

Horn followed her in, holding a folder like it was about to catch fire.

“We reviewed the surveillance again,” he said. “The man we arrested… he wasn’t at the locations when the kids disappeared.”

Quinn turned, slowly. “What?”

“It’s a setup,” Horn said. “He’s a decoy.”

Tammy laid another sheet on his desk.

“A new report. Another girl. Nine years old. Disappeared last night. Near the waterfront park.”

Quinn stood. Like something had snapped inside him.

“Who called it in?”

“Her father. He went back for ice cream. She was gone when he returned.”

Quinn’s hands curled into fists.

“Alert all patrols. Lock down the area.”

Horn nodded. “I’ll head there myself.”

Tammy added, “We found something else. A note. Left at the scene.”

Quinn didn’t blink. “What did it say?”

Tammy hesitated.

“‘You’re chasing shadows. I’m right beside you.’”

His jaw clenched.

“He’s mocking us again.”

They raced to the scene.

The park was sealed off. Spotlights carved the night into jagged pieces.
People gathered at the barricades — some crying, others just watching, hollow-eyed.

Quinn approached the site.

A patch of grass.
A broken swing.
And lying in the dew-soaked grass — a tiny white shoe.

He knelt. Touched it.
Still warm.

“We were close,” he whispered.

“Close doesn’t count,” Horn growled behind him.

The radio crackled.

“We’ve got a trail. Behind the park. Alleyway. Possible lead.”

Quinn bolted.

The alley was dark. Choked with trash. Smelled like mold and old oil.

He moved slowly.
Gun drawn.
Heartbeat in his ears.

A whisper.
A scrape.

He raised his voice. “Police. Come out.”

Silence.

He stepped forward—and stopped.

On the brick wall, scrawled in red paint:

“While you look, I create.”

Below it, a doll.

Its face was slashed.
Pinned to its chest — a name: “Mary.”

Horn arrived, panting.

“He’s still taunting us.”

Tammy caught up, gasping for breath.

“We’ve got a witness. Homeless man. Says he saw a kid being carried toward an abandoned warehouse. Two blocks north.”

“Let’s go,” Quinn snapped.

The rain returned, drumming hard as they ran.

The warehouse was a gutted ruin.
Windows shattered.
Walls crumbling.

Inside — shadows and the reek of old death.

Quinn led the way.
Flashlight slicing through filth.

They found her in a crate.
Tied.
Alive.
Crying.

He pulled her out.

“It’s over,” he said.

But he knew it wasn’t.

Tammy called for an ambulance.
Horn checked the building.

Quinn noticed something under a pile of splinters.

A photo album.

He opened it.

Hundreds of pictures.
Children.
Not just missing ones.
More. Too many.

Each photo marked with dates.
Notes.
Grades.
Names.

Quinn flipped faster.
The horror expanded.

“This isn’t one man,” he said.

Horn turned. “What?”

Quinn held up the book.

“It’s a network. A ring. A whole goddamn structure.”

Tammy paled. “We’ve been hunting one. But there are dozens.”

He closed the album.

“This case just exploded.”

Horn leaned against the wall.

“Where do we even start?”

Quinn looked out into the night.

“At the blood. The pain. The names we already lost.”

He gripped the album like a weapon.

And made a silent vow:
He wouldn’t stop.
Not until they were all found.
Not until the city learned to sleep again.

Or until it swallowed him whole.



Chapter Eleven

The precinct was silent, heavy with the kind of silence that comes after too many answers. The overhead lamps buzzed faintly, casting long shadows on the floor. Every breath seemed louder than it should have.

Quinn sat hunched over the photo album. Page after page, he turned them slowly, as if flipping through other people’s deaths.

Children. Dozens of them.

Each photo labeled by hand. Dates. Initials. Some had ages. Others had red X’s drawn across their faces.

Horn stood nearby, his arms folded, jaw locked.

“We were wrong,” he said at last.

Quinn didn’t look up. “We were chasing a monster. Turns out, we found an army.”

Tammy burst into the room, holding another folder, eyes wide with disbelief.

“John… I went through the old archives. These disappearances… they go back to the late 1950s.”

Quinn’s fingers froze mid-page.

“No one noticed?” he asked.

Tammy’s voice cracked. “No one wanted to.”

Horn began pacing, slowly. “So what now?”

Quinn shut the album. The sound was final.

“Now it’s war.”

On the case board, Tammy began connecting new pins. Red threads ran like veins between incidents — crisscrossing years, generations, entire neighborhoods.

“I overlaid the locations on the city map,” she said. “There’s a pattern.”

Quinn and Horn leaned in.

“Every location,” she said, “every abduction, every last sighting — they all happened near the same kind of buildings: abandoned orphanages, condemned schools, forgotten warehouses.”

“Orphanages?” Horn narrowed his eyes.

Tammy nodded. “Some were shut down after scandals. Abuse cases. Missing children. All of it swept under the rug.”

Quinn stood.

“Then that’s where we go.”

Horn grabbed his coat. “How many sites?”

“Thirty,” she said. “Across the city.”

“Thirty goddamn gravesites,” Horn muttered.

“We start today,” Quinn said. “Quietly. No press. No panic.”

At dawn, they arrived at the first location — Saint Jude’s School.

The building was a relic. Bricks crumbling. Windows shattered. The air around it felt dead.
Quinn stepped through the front doors first, gun drawn.

“Careful,” Horn whispered behind him.

Inside, the air was damp and thick. The corridors were lined with rusted lockers, overturned desks, and graffiti left by time and pain.

One of the classrooms still had a blackboard. On it, someone had scrawled in charcoal:

“The Game Begins.”

Tammy recoiled.

Quinn stepped forward and ran his fingers across the words.

“He knew we’d come.”

In the corner of the room lay a white faceless doll.
Pinned to its chest was a note: “Dig deeper.”

“The basement,” Quinn said.

They found the stairwell. Each step creaked like a scream.

The basement air was dense. The smell of mold, dust, and something metallic.

There, in the shadows — bones.

A child’s skeleton.
Still dressed in what had once been a school uniform.

Horn turned away.

Tammy clamped a hand over her mouth.

Quinn stood frozen, fists clenched at his sides.

“How many more?” Horn whispered.

“Too many,” Quinn said.

On the wall, someone had carved names into the stone. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.

Scratched by fingernail.
Or something worse.

The letters bled into each other. Dates stretched back decades.

Tammy was crying now. Not from fear. From rage.

Horn stared at the wall like it was a map of hell.

“This isn’t just murder,” he said. “It’s systemic. Ritual. Organized.”

Quinn didn’t speak.
He just stared at those walls — and felt the weight of every name etched there press down on his chest.

When they emerged, the morning light felt wrong. Too clean. Too bright for what they’d just seen.

Horn lit a cigarette with shaking hands.

“We’re not going to stop this, are we?”

Quinn looked at him. His eyes were stone.

“We’re going to try.”

They got back into the car.

Silence hung between them.

“Where next?” Horn asked.

Quinn opened the city map. His finger pointed east.

“Saint Agatha’s Orphanage.”

“You think it’s the same?”

“I know it is.”

They drove through empty streets. The city still asleep. Oblivious. Complicit.

Saint Agatha’s loomed like a mausoleum. Boarded windows. Cracked statues. A cross on the roof that had fallen sideways.

Quinn checked his weapon.

“You ready?”

Horn cocked his pistol. “Always.”

Tammy followed close behind.

Inside — the smell hit first. Urine. Decay. And the unmistakable stench of death long buried.

In the main hallway, a message in black paint:

“One of you won’t leave.”

Tammy turned pale.

Quinn said nothing. Just motioned forward.

Room by room, they cleared the building.

And then — Horn screamed.

Quinn ran.

Horn was on the floor, gripping his leg. A rusted bear trap had snapped around his shin, blood pouring fast.

Tammy screamed. Quinn dropped beside him.

“Hold still. Tighten this.” He used his belt as a tourniquet.

Horn groaned through gritted teeth. “Son of a bitch…”

“Look,” Tammy said, pointing.

A rusted hatch in the floor. Hidden beneath old floorboards. Now partially torn open.

Quinn looked down into the black pit.

A breath of air hit his face.

It wasn’t cold.
It was waiting.

He gripped the edge.

“We go down.”




Chapter Twelve

The precinct was quieter than a tomb.
The lights flickered overhead as if even electricity wanted out.

Quinn stood in the briefing room, arms crossed, staring at the board.

Not the old board — the new one.

This one wasn’t for a suspect.
It was for a system.

Thirty locations.
Dozens of missing.
And now, undeniable proof of a network beneath the skin of the city.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Tammy asked.

Quinn didn’t answer.

Horn sat nearby, his leg bandaged, foot elevated. Pale but alert.

“I should be going down there with you,” he muttered.

“You can barely stand,” Quinn said. “You did your part.”

Horn clenched his jaw.

Tammy stepped forward. “I’ve mapped what I could. The tunnels from Saint Agatha’s lead into the old asylum district. But after that… it’s black space. Nothing’s been recorded in decades.”

Quinn zipped his coat.

“Then we record it ourselves.”

Outside, the day was grey, as if the sky was mourning what hadn’t yet happened.

They returned to Saint Agatha’s.

The building loomed like a sin waiting for confession.

Quinn led the way, Tammy behind him. Horn stayed back in the car, radio in hand.

They descended through the hatch.

The air changed instantly.

It wasn’t just colder.
It was ancient.
Heavy.

The tunnel was narrow, its walls moist with condensation. Pipes ran like ribs overhead. Each step echoed as if the ground remembered pain.

Tammy lit her flashlight. It flickered. Fought the dark.

“Something’s wrong,” she whispered.

“Everything’s wrong,” Quinn answered.

The passage turned. Widened. Opened into a vault-like chamber.

There were beds.
Tiny ones.
Rusty iron frames.
And next to each — restraints.

Tammy gagged.

Quinn scanned the walls. They were covered in children’s drawings. But not playful ones — these were frantic, scratched into stone. Stick figures bleeding. Dark suns. Faces with no eyes.

“This was a holding cell,” he said quietly.

“For what?” Tammy whispered.

“Whatever they were doing.”

In the corner stood a cabinet. Inside — journals. Notes.

Tammy flipped through one. Her face drained of all color.

“They documented it,” she said. “The abductions. The conditioning. The selections.”

Quinn turned a page. His breath caught.

His daughter’s name.

Marie Quinn.
Age: 7.
Disposition: defiant.
Outcome: marked as ‘accidental fatality.’

He dropped the folder.

“No,” he whispered.

Tammy touched his arm.

“John…”

He stepped back. Then clenched his fists.

“They killed her. Not a drunk driver. Not a random hit. This place.”

Tammy said nothing.

Further inside — another room.

Chains hung from the ceiling.

Photographs lined the walls. Polaroids. Children restrained. Faces blurred. Some screaming. Others…

Quinn turned away.

Tammy wept silently.

Then — a sound.

Footsteps. Not echoes. Not rats.

Deliberate. Measured.

They turned. Lights out. Guns up.

A figure appeared in the tunnel. Tall. Pale coat. Face obscured by a mask — blank and white.

“You found it,” the figure said. Voice low. Educated.

“Hands where I can see them,” Quinn growled.

The man raised his hands.

“I came to make sure you understand. This isn’t one person. Not ten. We are the correction. The equilibrium. And we never stop.”

Tammy fired.

The shot hit the wall — the figure vanished.

Gone. Into tunnels older than the city itself.

Quinn didn’t chase. He stood frozen.

“This was never about one case,” he said.

“No,” Tammy whispered. “This was built into the bones of the city.”

They collected everything they could.

When they emerged from the tunnel, it was already dusk.

The world looked the same. But nothing was.

Horn limped toward them.

“Did you get him?”

“No,” Quinn said. “But we saw what he wanted us to see.”

Tammy held up the journal.

“We have enough to start tearing this apart.”

Quinn shook his head.

“We’re not tearing it apart.”

They both looked at him.

“We’re burning it down.”

And as night fell again over Toronto, a siren howled in the distance.
Not one of warning.
One of reckoning.





 End of Part One
To be continued…