“Sorry, sweetie, but plenty of journalists—real journalists—will be writing about me long after your DNA is scrubbed from the carpet. And they’ll get the story straight. I’ll be swift and merciful in how I take you out. Do you want it in the head or in the heart? The head will be faster. I know just where to aim to turn those lights out quickly, but I can’t give you painlessly.”
“Agnew, this is bad business,” I plead. “You’ll need me alive to evade capture. Every exit in this place has to be covered.”
“I’ll get out of here,” he says. “I always do.”
“How do you expect to get out of the building without walking out of the room with a hostage?”
“That’s my business,” he says, raising his gun toward me.
Before he can squeeze off a shot, I dive on the floor, reach up, and pull Richard’s carcass from the chair. I suddenly understand the concept of ‘dead weight.’ I wrap my arms tightly around his body and yank him back. By doing so, all 180 pounds of his lifeless body should protect most of my vital organs. If only I were able to snap a selfie while using his bloody corpse as a shield. The gruesome photo wouldn’t likely win me a Pulitzer, but it would possibly be the highest-viewed image on google.
Agnew walks around the table and stands above me. “You are going through a lot of effort to gain an extra minute or two of life. All you’re doing is agitating the fuck out of me. If you insist on dicking around, I will make sure your death takes a long-ass time where there’d be no possibility of an open-casket viewing. How do you want to be remembered? Just know that I’ll get a sick rush watching you bleed out.”
“Please, Agnew,” I cry out, hiding my head behind Richard’s blown-out skull. “Surely, there must be some humanity within you to spare my life.”
“Sorry, sweetie, but you are not significant enough to be granted a stay of execution,” Agnew says, motioning with the gun to move. “Stand up right now, or I promise to make each shot extremely painful. That flower vase is full of bullets, so I’ll shoot you in places that will make your final minutes on this spinning rock feel like a hellish eternity.”
I can only imagine the type of pain he plans to inflict. After pushing Richard’s limp body off my chest, I timidly get to my feet. I have built my happiness around sensationalistic journalism only to end up a victim of the very murderer I continually placed in the spotlight.
I lean up against the wall, hoping the police will kick in the door at any second. I should scream, but I’m not confident that anyone perched outside the door would hear my cries of terror. Agnew pushes the barrel against my forehead, applying intense pressure so I can feel the cold metal piercing my tender skin.
“Agnew, please,” I sputter, practically in tears. “Killing me will change your signature. The infamous always have a distinctive style and stay consistent. You don’t want to lose your calling card. It will make you look unreliable.”
“After they see the finesse of what happened in this room, they’ll totally overlook that I didn’t leave your arrogant ass breathing.”
“Let’s talk about this. I’m begging for my life, and begging in any form is not my style. I just have so much more to say to the world. There are so few feisty journalists like me.”
“You’re out of favors, sweetie. Make peace with your maker.”
I close my eyes because I don’t want to watch him pull the trigger. Suddenly, I don’t feel the barrel of the gun poking into my forehead and no longer hear him breathing. I open my eyes. Agnew is no longer holding the gun to my head—he has vanished from the room. I survey the area. He isn’t anywhere to be found. From what I can see, the door is still locked. It isn’t just locked; the deadbolt is fastened from the inside. That is impossible!
Who cares? Hurray for huge miracles!
Why would he have departed the room without killing me? This isn’t a complaint. Was it a test to see whether or not I’d take a dump in my pants? How could he have exited a secure room so quickly? The heating duct is too small, the shades are still drawn, and there is not even a crack in the ceiling.
From shielding myself with Richard’s body, my blouse is quite bloody. When I exit the conference room, I will need to look as if I just went through a war zone. I need big ratings from this ordeal and a fuckload of sympathy. The bloodier I am, the better chance I’ll have of making every headline and lead-in news story throughout the country. I look around for something sharp to cut my arm. I quickly change my mind regarding self-desecration. Due to the newfound popularity from all the media coverage, a Maxim spread may just come my way. Therefore, my body needs to remain as unimpaired as possible. So many camera lenses will probably be pointed in my direction that I’ll likely feel like the belle of the ball.
Although it’s unconscionable, I smear nearly a pint of Richard’s blood in my hair and rub it over my arms and legs. I move around the table to each body and soil my clothing with whatever red fluid hasn’t become too sticky to spread. I avoid getting too much on my face because I refuse to exit the building looking like Carrie as she walked out of the prom; I still need to look beddable to my male viewers. Years ago, I was told that it takes blood and sweat to make it in this business, so I’m expropriating several pints worth. Someone will just be mopping this mess up anyway.
I place my ear against the left entrance but cannot hear any rustling due to the tight seal on the doorway. The hallway must be full of armed policemen. I need to get their attention before Agnew comes back to finish the job or the cops shower the room with tear gas. At least one cameraman should be filming from the perspective of the hallway. My exit will need to be as dramatic as humanly possible. It’s time to seize the moment!
I slide down the deadbolt, unlock the door, crack it open, and yell, “It’s Melinda James. Is there anyone in the hallway?”
Chapter 25
Derek
As I watch the most recent live report of what’s happening with Agnew in Chicago, newscaster Melinda James was escorted from the building covered in blood. The paramedics cleaned her off, and she’s about to make a statement to the press. Seems a little risky since Agnew hasn’t been found anywhere.
Considering Agnew cannot be located inside the television station, he’s a wildcard right now. Until they find the little bastard, I’ll be worried about Mandi’s safety.
I pull the napkin from my pocket and dial the number she scribbled down at the restaurant. Before the first ring, I receive an “out-of-service” message. Chances are good that this was the cell number she knew from her parallel life. Since that number fails to connect, I call Kevin to locate her cell number from the server.
“I can grab it in about ten minutes,” he says in a hushed tone, “but I’m presently not at the station.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m down at the Java House,” he whispers. “I’m watching this thing unveiling about Agnew. Since the situation in Chicago had nothing to do with us, Prichard wouldn’t allow any of us to watch it. Agnew isn’t exactly his favorite person. I wasn’t about to just catch the recap on Fox News tonight and miss it all in real time. The only one left alive was the newscaster with the sexy dimples and the dominatrix in her tone.”
“I just caught the update about Melinda James too. That footage of her was gruesome.”
Kevin probably has submissive fantasies about Ms. James, so he must be relieved that she survived the ordeal. “At least four-dozen sharpshooters are still aiming at every conceivable exit, but they cannot find Agnew anywhere inside,” he adds. “The building has a huge parking lot on all four sides. He couldn’t have slipped out undetected unless he’s tunneling under the ground like a vole.”
I feel foolish for leaving the Internet off all day—especially considering how little writing I’ve been able to accomplish. I should have known a significant event would occur.
“Did you find out how Melinda James survived the ordeal?”
“The reports are a bit sketchy at this point,” he says. “Melinda clai
med that the deadbolt was locked from the inside of the boardroom when Agnew disappeared about 30-minutes ago.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yeah, she’s sticking with that testimony. She said Agnew was about to shoot her and could even feel the cold barrel of his gun against her forehead. She apparently closed her eyes for a few seconds, and he was long gone—as if he vaporized into nothingness.”
“She’s probably making that up! That woman would sell out her grandmother for a good story.”
“It does have the stink of bullshit to it. Although when the camera panned tightly on her forehead, I could see the circular indentation of the barrel—one deep enough to nearly break the skin.”
“She could have done that with the inside ridge of a magic marker cap.”
“That could be the case, but it looked real,” he says. “They interviewed her a few minutes ago, and she was completely distraught. Normally, she has a cockiness in her tone, but it was obvious she just went through a traumatic life-or-death situation. The mystery is how Agnew got out of that room. Chicago PD had been watching the floors above and below the boardroom as well as outside the room. That television station is not like Mission Impossible with built-in escape hatches. They still have landline jacks wired in the walls, so it’s far from state of the art. The only logical explanation is that he squeezed through a three-prong outlet.”
“I highly doubt that is even a possibility, but something is very peculiar about what is going on over there.”
“Outside of being teleported from the building like Seth Brudle in The Fly, I cannot come up with any rational explanation for the vanishing act.”
“He’s probably hiding somewhere in the ventilation system,” I suggest. “An ex-Marine would know how to tuck himself inside a tight place. Do you remember when the monster in Alien was hiding in the escape hatch? It knew how to blend into its environment. Agnew might be concealed in the same type of way.”
“They’ll be smoking out the ventilation system shortly, so they may flush him out. You know, if Agnew did escape while being surrounded by the Chicago PD, our blunder will finally be old news,” he poses. “I’d better head back. Prichard will be wondering why it took 40 minutes to grab a cup of coffee.”
“Good call,” I say, knowing that the last thing he wants to do is to get on the wrong side of Prichard. Once you’re on his shit list, there isn’t much chance of getting back to even.
“If you get the chance, watch a few minutes on WBTT. They keep showing surveillance footage of Agnew coming into the building and some of him walking into the boardroom, but there isn’t a single frame of him leaving the room. For the life of me, I can’t see how he disappeared from that building; they have that the place sealed up tighter than a vacuum-packed prom dress.”
After McDaniels hangs up, I am curious how Agnew escaped from a building with 50 cameras pointed at it from each direction. Agnew may possess a superpower that makes him able to slip out undetected—like how the Flash is able to mold himself into odd shapes! Can he become similar to a chameleon and blend into his environment? He is like a shrewd animal that outsmarts its prey because he has discovered a way to adapt to his surroundings.
Why would Agnew depart seconds before icing Melinda James? She’d practically be the equivalent of a trophy to a big game hunter. Theoretically, Agnew could have escaped with help from a powerful woman like Abellina. Could this mystery woman somehow be interlaced with both McAllister kids? What if Abbey has been assisting Agnew to escape from each violent escapade? The bastard would always be one step ahead. Shit, if that has been the case, it would explain how he got away when we had him surrounded, and as to how an umbrella ended up in the reflection of that bank mirror.
On the day we were outside the First National Bank of Bluff Ridge, I kept anticipating for Prichard to order the use of tear gas. Naturally, the asshole was worried about our department getting slapped with a lawsuit by the civilians being held at gunpoint. He always agonized about later ramifications popping up opposed to effectively handling the situation.
“Prichard, we can’t concern ourselves with potential lawsuits when innocent lives are at risk,” I pointed out. “Agnew will kill all of the hostages if we don’t act. Many of them may already be dead.”
“He will keep them alive for leverage,” he barked. “Keep your rifle aimed at the window and quit bothering me with your theories. Don’t forget that I’m the one in charge here.”
Nearly fifteen rifles had been pointed at the bank from various angles. An intense whirring was generated in my body by what was happening inside the bank. When my attention was slightly diverted, a gunshot fired from the window. As the echo of the shot faded, no one seemed to have been hit. I turned back toward the bank and raised my gun. In what felt like the blink of an eye, I found myself flat on my back with no recollection of how I got there. If being on the dirt wasn’t bad enough, it felt like a ball-peen hammer had struck my forehead. The only silver lining was the strong inner vibration had ceased within me.
Nelson and McFadden were standing to my left and hadn’t flinched. Utterly perplexed, I motioned for McDaniels to aid me before anyone noticed. If Prichard got an eyeful of me lying on my back instead of pointing a rifle toward the front of the bank, I would have been suspended for disobeying a direct order.
“Why are you down there,” McDaniels asked. “Delaney, I think you’ve been shot. Jesus Christ.”
“Huh?” I saw where his eyes were focused. I turned, catching a glimpse of blood pouring from my bicep. I don’t think I even felt the bullet transpierce my arm. Admittedly, there was a pinch no worse than a bee sting, but my attention had been on the bank. Now, it was centered on my aching head and my unanticipated rearward slumber upon the hard dirt.
“Fuck me,” McDaniels said, closely inspecting my wound. “I thought the gunfire was what had shattered the windshield on Prichard’s car. How is that for a surprise? I figured it was a warning shot; I had no idea the little fucker shot at one of us. You are fortunate he didn’t aim somewhere that can’t be easily stitched up.”
“I’ll try to remember when they’re pulling out the bullet,” I said. “Hey, does my forehead have a gash on it?”
He squinted, looking at closely at my head. “It’s a bit red, and there’s a slight indentation, but nothing I’d worry too much about. Nothing is bleeding there.”
“My head hurts like a bastard.”
“Maybe the stock of your rifle collided against your head when you were shot,” he said. “You may have lost your grip after the bullet penetrated your arm.”
“That’s probably it.” I didn’t think that was it at all. I lacked the guts to tell him that I didn’t feel the bullet enter my arm and had absolutely no recollection of tumbling backward. Losing time—even for a few seconds—is not something any cop wants to admit during a standoff.
While being led to the ambulance, I said, “I have a suspicion that Agnew is out of the bank.”
“That’s impossible,” McDaniels said. “No one, aside from the two of us, has taken their eyes off the building for more than a few seconds. One of us would have noticed a door or window opening.”
“Agnew is gone and getting further away,” I said. “I can practically guarantee that he’s not in there. We should have a few checkpoints on all the roads leading out of Bluff Ridge. Call it a hunch.”
“The hunch might be a symptom of shock,” he said, clearly discounting everything I said. Anytime fluids are about to be pumped into your arm through a clear tube, the credibility of your intuition shrinks to about nothing. “You need to worry about the bullet in your arm and not what Agnew is doing. We’ve got this, Deke.”
I couldn’t exactly tell him that the vibration went away shortly after the bullet entered my arm. I had no logical way to explain what sparked my instinct.
When our department stormed the bank 20 minutes later, the hostages were all dead except for a young teller tied to a post. When interviewed, she said t
hat Agnew had taken a single shot from the window. Within a minute of the gunfire, she didn’t see or hear him again.
At the time, I figured the teller was suffering from acute trauma. If Agnew had a cunning way to escape, why didn’t he kill us all? I was the only one outside the bank that he harmed, and it was far from being his customary kill shot. He somehow just disappeared comparable to what’s presently happening in Chicago. It could be coincidental, but through a pause in time, he may be able to slip away without a trace.
We’re conditioned to look at the world from a logical viewpoint, not a distorted one. Unfortunately, I consider every angle when something doesn’t ring true; I rarely accept the simple solution. It’s a long shot, but Abellina may be playing both sides. I’ll need to get Mandi in protective custody. I’m not sure how much anyone would be able to protect her from a parasite like Agnew, but getting her out of Wilkinson Creek is undoubtedly the first move.
I pull out my phone and locate Trudy’s home number. Since she’s an old timer, she is still listed in the directory. She may know Mandi’s whereabouts or should at least be able to tell me how to get in contact with her. I can’t wait ten minutes for McDaniels to return the call. By the time he pours the cream in his coffee, I could be waiting close to an hour. I dial Trudy’s home number. On the fourth ring, a woman picks up the line with a heavy sigh—I don’t even get a damn greeting.
“Is this Trudy McAllister?”
“It is, and I’m not at all interested in whatever you’re selling.”
“I promise that I’m not selling anything. My name is Officer Delaney from Bluff Ridge. I need to get in touch with your granddaughter, Mandi. Would she happen to be home?”
“She’s not! What did that good-for-nothing dolt do today?”
“She didn’t do anything,” I say, hoping to settle her apprehension. “I’m trying to contact her about a personal matter that I’m following up on.”
“Whenever an officer of the law is calling, it’s never about a personal matter that shouldn’t concern me. They’re usually trying to track down some shiny object she skillfully shoved into one of her pockets. What did she steal this time? I can look around her room for the merchandise, but it’s probably been fenced to get whatever drug she can ingest the quickest.”
In Dark Places Page 30