Behind the Closed Door: A Detective Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers (The Jacob Hayden Series Book 2)

by Charles Prandy

Jack unzipped the suitcase. The First Lady was regaining consciousness. He turned on his flashlight and placed it on the floor so that the beam shot to the ceiling. He stared at her as she started opening her eyes, oblivious as to where she was. Jack found a chair and sat her in it. She was woozy but strong enough not to fall over. She looked around the room with squinted eyes, seemingly ignoring Jack. When she spoke her voice was soft and delicate.

  “Where am I?”

  Jack didn’t answer right away.

  “Did something happen to the President?”

  Jack figured she must think she’s in a safe house or a bomb shelter. He knew the effects would slowly wear off and that right now her mind was clouded and her vision blurry.

  “The President is fine,” he said.

  “Where’s Agent Thorn?”

  “He’s not here Ms. Hubert.”

  Suddenly the First Lady stopped looking around. She appeared as though a ghost from a past life had just come back to reclaim its skeleton.

  “Who are you?” her voice trembled with each word.

  “It’s me.”

  She looked at his face and recognized his eyes, “Jack?”

  “Yes, it’s Jack.”

  Her mind appeared to be clearing. She looked around the room again and Jack saw her recognition of it.

  “Jack, what have you done?”

  “I brought us back to the beginning.”

  “But, Jack, do you know what you’ve done? I’m the First Lady. How’d you…where are the agents guarding my room?”

  “They’re dead.”

  “What?”

  He said it slower this time, “They’re…dead.”

  “I don’t understand. I was in my room…how’d you”

  “I’d rather not talk about dead agents, Ms. Hubert. I want to talk about us.”

  “Us? There’s no us, Jack. I’m married to the President.”

  “I know.”

  “Jack, you need to take me back. The whole country will be looking for me.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Ms. Hubert.”

  “Why do you keep calling me by my maiden name?”

  “That’s the only name I know you by.”

  Jack walked closer and knelt down in front of the First Lady. He ran his fingers through her hair, neatening out the strands that were out of place from the suitcase.

  “Do you remember?” he asked. “That first time?”

  It took her a few seconds to respond. “What are you talking about, Jack?”

  “The way you grabbed me from behind? Your perfume stayed on me that whole night. I didn’t take a shower for two days because I didn’t want to lose your scent.”

  “Jack, please. You’ve got to take me back to the hotel.”

  “Why did you leave me?”

  Tears started falling from the First Lady’s cheeks. “Jack, I can’t do this.”

  Jack felt heat swelling in his body. His pulse quickened as his temper flared. Twenty-seven years he waited to have her back in his life and she just said she can’t do this. Anger shot through his mouth as his voice roared, “And you think I can?”

  The First Lady startled back. Jack quickly stood up and kicked the rusted green door.

  “Do you know what you took from me? My life!”

  The First Lady was now sobbing.

  “I was only thirteen years old. You made me love you. And then you threw me away like some chewed piece of meat that you couldn’t swallow.”

  The First Lady slowly stood from the chair. “Jack…I’m sorry.”

  Jack shook his head. “You know, after twenty-seven years I was hoping you would have said something else.”

  “What? What do you want me to say?”

  “If I have to tell you it must not have meant anything to you.”

  The First Lady didn’t say anything else which unfortunately confirmed for Jack what he was going to do. All along he had two plans in place. He was hoping for the first, but was prepared for the second. Jack reached for the back of his pants and pulled out two Smith & Wesson’s.

  The First Lady screamed.

  “You said you were sorry for what you did to me, but you never said you loved me. I’ve been thinking about you practically my whole life.” He looked at the two guns. “Now you’ve broken my heart again for the second time and I can’t live with that.”

  “Please, Jack, you don’t have to do this,” the First Lady said with her arms outstretched.

  “Yes, Ms. Hubert, I do.”

  Jack raised one of the guns towards the First Lady. He clicked off the safety and was ready to pull the trigger when suddenly it sounded as if God himself, with a booming voice, had called his name, “Jack Smith.”

  Seventy-six

  State Troopers already had a one mile radius zoned off when we arrived at the school. The FBI had two elite SWAT teams set up on the school grounds near where I suspected Jack took the First Lady. Jack’s mother said that the sex happened in a back storage room with a green door. I believed that’s where Jack took the First Lady. And we got confirmation while we were in the air that a black sedan was parked in the rear parking. That had to be Jack.

  When we arrived at the middle school there was what I called quiet chaos going on. State Police, FBI and Secret Service Agents literally had the school surrounded, but made very little noise. We were informed that the back storage room wasn’t attached to the school, but stood right behind it. As we parked and entered the back of the school, one of the SWAT members confirmed that Jack Smith and the First Lady were inside the room.

  “We were able to slip a tube camera under the door and get a look around the room. The First Lady was sitting on a chair and the target was standing across from her.”

  We hurried to where the SWAT team member told us was the best place to see the door but yet also be covered.

  “There’s three possible entrances inside,” the SWAT leader said to all of us, but mostly kept his eyes on Director Spellman. “There’s two side windows which have a whole lot of boxes in front of them and there’s the front door. The front door seems to be our best option. Our team is ready to breach whenever you’re ready, Sir?”

  Director Spellman nodded. “Let’s see if we can draw him out.”

  Ken Rogers, from the FBI’s CNU or Crisis Negotiation Unit lifted a bullhorn to his mouth and called Jack’s name.

  There wasn’t a reply.

  “Jack Smith,” Ken said again, “This is the FBI. We’d like to talk to you about the First Lady.”

  Still no reply.

  “Jack, there’s no reason why we can talk about this.”

  Still no reply. Seconds later a piece of paper slid from underneath the door. One of the SWAT members grabbed it and brought it to Director Spellman. The Director read it and looked at me. “He wants to talk to you.”

  My eyes grew wide, “Me?”

  Director Spellman told Ken Rogers to give me the bullhorn. I placed it to my mouth, “Jack, this is Detective Hayden.”

  Another piece of paper slid from underneath the door. The same SWAT member brought it to us. Director Spellman read it and handed it to me. One word was written on the paper which got my pulse pumping. It read: Inside.

  Seventy-seven

  I walked slowly towards the green door. I knew that every eye within range was on me. There was a bit of a debate between Agent Thorn and Director Spellman about whether I should go in. Thorn didn’t think it was a good idea. Spellman said that if it wasn’t for me, we wouldn’t even be here. We couldn’t figure out how Jack knew I was here, but we figured that since I was the one investigating his death, Jack was most familiar with me.

  In the end, it didn’t matter why Jack wanted me. We all had one common goal and that was to get the First Lady out alive.

  From the outside, we knew that the storage room wasn’t that big and from what SWAT was able to tell from their peek under the door, the room was filled with boxes and other school stuff. So that told us two things:
the only way in or out of the storage room was through the green door and there wasn’t must free space to roam around.

  With my hands raised, I walked towards the door.

  “Jack, this is Detective Hayden. I’m coming in now.”

  I placed my hand on the doorknob. My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. I’m not a trained hostage negotiator, so I don’t know the tricks of the trade that are used to bring a hostage to safety. Ken Rogers told me to observe as much as I could, keep Jack calm and find out what he wants. So that’s what I planned to do. The door opened with a squeak. The room was dark. I immediately saw the suitcase from the security video and the chair that SWAT said the First Lady was sitting in, but I didn’t see the First Lady.

  “Step in Detective.”

  The voice came from behind the door.

  I stepped inside and Jack pushed the door closed from behind.

  “Well, well,” he said, “we finally meet at last.”

  Jack turned on a flash light and placed it on the floor in front of him. I could see him now. He was a big man in person and looked every bit like his twin brother.

  “Please step back,” he said.

  I took a couple of steps back.

  Jack took a step forward. The First Lady was by his side and it appeared that he had his hand wrapped around the back of her neck.

  “You arrived just in time,” Jack said.

  “In time for what, Jack?”

  “To be the hero.”

  I didn’t like the way that sounded.

  The First Lady looked a wreck. On television, her hair was always done to the nines and her make-up flawless. She usually walked with her head up and posture straight as if she knew that everyone’s eyes in the viewing world were on her. But standing next to Jack, she looked small and frail. Her hair was a mess and she lacked the confidence she normally carried around.

  Jack motioned for the First Lady to sit back in the chair which was positioned in the center of the room. I didn’t notice it at first because of the dullness of light, but Jack was holding two handguns.

  “Jack, let’s be smart about this.”

  “Don’t worry Detective, I am.”

  He spoke with a calmness in his voice that didn’t reflect the gravity of the situation. Outside the door, there were more than three dozen federal agents waiting to storm the room and take Jack down, but if you were just judging the situation on Jack’s voice, you’d never know the seriousness of it.

  “Jack, I know what happened to you when you were thirteen.”

  “I figured as much, Detective. How else would you have found me?”

  “I can help you.”

  With his right hand, Jack waived one of the guns in the air, side to side. “Detective, don’t con me.”

  “Tell me then, what do you want?”

  “What do you think I want?”

  I was caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

  “If you were me, what do you think I’d want? Think, Detective, you’re a bright man. After all, you found me.”

  This is where my lack of hostage negotiation experience kicked in. I wasn’t sure how to answer. Do I give him what he wants? Make him feel in control? I looked at the First Lady, she didn’t look at me. She slouched in the chair.

  “I don’t know, Jack.”

  He smiled. “What would you do if you could bring back your dead wife?”

  “What?”

  “Your wife. She was killed. You loved her I presume. What would you do if you could get her back?”

  I wasn’t sure where he was taking me, but I didn’t like it.

  “There’s nothing I can do, Jack. She’s gone and I’ve had to accept that. But we’re not here to talk about me.”

  “Of course we are. You see, you and me have the same problem.”

  “And what’s that, Jack?”

  “We couldn’t stop the one’s we loved from leaving.”

  The First Lady’s head slouched even lower.

  “Jack, I get that what happened to you was traumatic. Yes, you were only thirteen and it never should have happened. But kidnapping the First Lady, what good will that do?”

  Jack’s facial expression changed. I think I may have triggered a negative emotion.

  “When you lie in bed you probably remember what your wife used to sound like or smell like or feel like,” Jack said. “You remember the good times together. You see her as the angel that she once was. Do you know what I get to see? I see her standing next to the President smiling and walking around like she’s the queen of the world. I get to see a woman who took me to heights I never experienced before, sit on her high horse and act like I never existed. Do you know how tormenting that is?”

  “Jack, I can’t begin to understand what you went through, but we can get you help.”

  His next words came out slow and methodical. “No, Detective, you can’t.”

  I’ve heard those words before. It was right before Russ Ackers shot himself in the head in Annapolis. He spoke in the same monotone way Jack Smith just did. His mind was already made up and he knew I wouldn’t be able to help. Just like Jack.

  “Jack,” I said as calmly as I could, “don’t do this.”

  He didn’t reply. Instead, his eyes bore into mine. It felt like I was seeing his soul. I wasn’t looking at the forty-year-old Jack Smith standing before me, I was looking at the thirteen-year-old Jack Smith, the one who was seduced by his teacher and then left with a hollow heart. I wanted to grab ahold of that Jack Smith and tell him that it would be ok. But then the softness of his eyes left, only to be replaced by a cold and empty sphere. Gone was the naïve thirteen-year-old. Gone was the confused soul. The Jack Smith who killed his brother in cold blood, faked his own death, robbed banks and killed his wife, stood before me with what I can only describe as a devilish grin.

  The next string of events happened within a blink.

  Jack’s eyes shifted to the First Lady. He looked like a man possessed. I had no time to think, I had to react. My side arm was out of its holster and I was raising it towards Jack. Jack raised both of his guns: one aimed at the First Lady, the other aimed at his temple. I don’t know what came first, my screaming “no” or the sound of three shots going off. In the small room, the shots sounded like loud firecrackers echoing in my ear. Seconds later, the door burst open and SWAT rushed in. Two jumped on the First Lady and acted as her shield. The rest happened in a blur. I was knocked over. The First Lady was rushed out of the storage room. There was all kinds of screaming going on. Two SWAT grabbed me and pulled me out of the room. I was lead back to where I was before I entered the storage room. Then I heard several voices from inside say, “He’s down! He’s down!”

  I looked around and saw the First Lady being whisked off the grounds by Secret Service Agents. Everything happened so fast. I didn’t know if she’d been hit. Agent Davis rushed over to me and asked if I was hurt. I shook my head. Jack wasn’t aiming the gun at me.

  “The First Lady,” I said, “how is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Finally SWAT started coming out of the storage room and I heard one of them say, “He’s dead.”

  There was nothing around for me to lean on so I sat on the grass. Agent Davis knelt down and took my hand.

  “Jacob, are you all right?”

  “Yeah, everything happened so fast. I just need a minute.”

  She nodded and stood up.

  I took in a deep breath. My ears were still ringing from the three loud shots. Adrenaline was still pumping through my veins. Director Spellman came over and saw me sitting on the ground. I quickly stood up.

  “The First Lady?” I asked.

  “She’s fine.”

  A sigh of relief oozed from me.

  “Jacob, we’ll need to debrief on the plane. Don’t say a word to anyone about what just happened.”

  “Understood.”

  He shook my hand and walked away.

  Agent Davis was talking to
another agent.

  I stood alone for a moment. A lot was going on around me but I tuned everything out and dove into my own thoughts. The past couple of months I’ve been trying to figure out who killed Jack Smith. I looked at the shed and a quote popped into my head from the movie, The Matrix. “Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony.”

  Who killed Jack Smith? Now I knew.

  Seventy-eight

  One Week Later

  Another muggy August morning. This is the part of the year where I crave for the fall to hurry and come. The heat combined with the humidity makes for an uncomfortable walk with Henry. We’ve only been outside for ten minutes and my shirt was already drenched with sweat. And Henry decided that this was the morning that he wanted to take his time looking for the right place to poop.

  Finally, after sniffing for what seemed like the entire neighborhood, he found a comfortable spot. Now came the other bad part, having to pick up after him. Henry weighs sixty pounds so you can imagine how much fecal matter comes out of a sixty pound dog. Not fun on my part.

  We turned back and started heading home. When we got into viewing distance of my yard, I saw a black Chevy Tahoe with government plates parked in front of my house. I didn’t have to wonder too hard who they were. The Secret Service told me they would be stopping by sometime this week.

  I walked up to the Tahoe and an agent got out of the passenger door.

  “Detective Hayden, I’m Agent James Hunter.” He showed me his badge. He wore dark sunglasses and a black suit. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he came straight out of the Men in Black movie. “The President has asked for a meeting.”

  “The President?”

  I looked at my clothes. I was wearing cargo shorts and a tank top.

  “I’ll need to change.”

  “We’ll be waiting.”

  Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in the back of the Tahoe being taken to the White House. Once there, we went through a metal detector. I was asked to leave my weapon behind while inside the White House. An agent led me to the infamous Oval Office where the President was writing something at his desk.