by Moore, TJ
Amy looked back at Cameron and nervously rubbed her hands together before sliding the mirror all the way open. Cameron lowered his camera in amazement. The sliding mirror revealed gun after gun after gun after gun – all organized by size and type. There must have been close to one hundred guns total. Other weapons such as knives and tasers also hung in the back of the closet.
Vince whistled. “This guy is loaded.” Then, he eyed Cameron. “Now I really wish he was my Uncle –what a badass.”
Cameron photographed the closet. “Yeah, I’m sure he’d let you take one of those cockroaches home as a pet.”
“Guys.” Something caught Amy’s eye. “I have a feeling Hansen will be back soon.” She lifted a large plastic baggie from the closet filled with wads of fifties and hundreds. “Just a guess.”
“How do youknowhe’s in New York?” Cameron asked.
“I found this airline receipt on the front step,” Vince said. “He must have dropped it when he left for the airport.”
“Let me see that,” Amy said, grabbing the paper from Vince. “Wait. Vince, you’re even dumber than I thought. This receipt is from three years ago.”
“What? No…”
“Look. Right there. Hansen just left this to distract you.”
“Really? Shit.”
“Hansen’s probably just driving around town or crashing at a friend’s house. I mean, where would you be if you committed murder? You wouldn’t just sit around at home eating chips and watching wrestling on TV…”
“I don’t know, Amy. That’s ahuge TV.”
“Not the point,” Amy said. “Whatever he’s up to, he’ll probably be back to withdraw a couple bills from his stash. So here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll leave an alarm on the closet door. And when he comes back for his money, we’ll come back and take him for a ride downtown.” Amy took a magnetic, remote-triggered alarm out of her pocket, attached it to the closet door, and slid it shut.
The activated alarm blinked while the lonely guns awaited the return of their master.
In the silence of her home office, Jen pushed a straight edge across the surface of the bank blueprints. She was working on a new design for the second floor. Holding the white-tipped marker only millimeters from the paper, Jennifer Frost tried to concentrate on the real purpose of her work. She was essentially making the bank into a shield. Pressing the marker along the straight edge, she drew another set of parallel lines. In order to strengthen the layers of this “shield” she would have to think like a thief. This was her chance to make the bank impenetrable.
After another sleepless night, her mind searched for alternative plans, but she was hypnotically pulled toward one brilliant concept.
“Jen, you can’t be serious.”
“Look, I’ve thought this through a hundred times. It’ll work.”
Cameron paced around the coffee table as he imagined the risk involved. His many nights of pacing had worn a trail in the carpet, and his big toe protruded from a hole in his stressed socks.
“Cam, I’ve weighed the other options. I know how this works. I don’t think…”
“No, you don’t know how this works. Have you considered what might happen to Sarah? What if they enter our home?”
“That’s not going to happen. You know the house is protected.”
Cameron’s gut churned with nervous energy. “If they injured the bank guards just think what they might do if they broke into our home.”
Jen sat on the couch and watched her husband blaze another trail in the carpet.
After a moment of silence, she stood and folded her arms.
“I’ve already made my decision about this. Now, you need to trust me. Besides, no one will ever figure this out. The vault will be safe. Security always comes at a price.”
“And what about our own security? This house. Our home. It’s our job to protect Sarah. You act surprised that I’m not excited about this? Come on! Don’t be so selfish! Nothing is more important than our daughter right now.”
“I’m not going to be humiliated again. Do you want me to lose this job?”
“Would you rather lose your job or your daughter? Because that’s what we’re talking about here.”
“Look, Cam, our house has more locks and alarms than most jewelry stores. No one is going to hurt us. No one is going to hurt Sarah.”
“She’s ten years old, Jen. She has her whole life ahead of her. Why do you have to involve her in this?”
“We’re not talking about it anymore. I’ve made up my mind.”
Jen ran upstairs and slammed the bedroom door.
It was now 2:30AM.
Cameron realized he’d have to spend the night on the couch.
He turned off the living room lights and tried to calm his mind, but a rustling penetrated the silence in the kitchen.
What was that?He thought.Cameron, settle down. It’s nothing. The house. Yes, the house is shifting.
The rustling grew louder.
It’s just your imagination.He laydown on the couch.Get some sleep.
Then, the kitchen floorboards squeaked. Paranoia tapped him on the shoulder, taunting him.
Cameron. Stop. It’s nothing. Just the…
*Squeeeeak*
He quieted his breathing.
Was someone in the house? An intruder?
Cock-eyed faces flashed across Cameron’s mind, projecting an increasing sense of terror. The faces were non-descript criminals – the recent culprits of closed investigations. Along with the faces, he saw flashes of red. Streaks of red. He shut his eyes further, avoiding the sounds altogether.
Was Jen wrong? Did they forget to set the house alarms? One night would be all it took.
He opened his left eye.
The fridge door opened and spilled light into the living room. Cameron thought if he stayed quiet, he might be able to sneak up on the intruder, maybe even tackle him from behind.
No, too risky.
Either way, the gun he kept in the bedroom upstairs was out of the question.
Too far away.
Just then, the fridge slammed shut, drawers jostled open, and glasses clinked in the cupboards. Clearly, there was no time to get the gun. He would have to confront them before they reached Sarah’s room.
They are not taking her. Not tonight.
A glass shattered on the kitchen floor followed by a scream.
Cameron ran into the kitchen, flipped on the lights and found Sarah sitting on the floor crying. Blood trickled from her right leg.
“Dad, I’m sorry.”
“Sarah, you scared me half to death.”
“I was just trying to get some apple juice.”
“Honey, it’s ok. You’ll be fine. Next time, turn the lights on so you can see where you’re going, alright?”
Cameron noticed his daughter’s innocence. He cleaned Sarah’s cut and poured her some juice before sending her to bed.
Laying in dark silence, Cameron tossed and turned on the couch, fading in and out of short nightmares. Paranoid thoughts tapped him on the shoulder again. Even though he’d already seen Sarah in the kitchen, his mind continued to play tricks on him.
Only thirty paces to the gun upstairs. If the floorboards creaked again, it still might buy me some time. No, if the glasses clinked twice, they’re two intruders. One for each clink.
The thoughts tumbled around and eventually faded. Cameron glanced at the digital clock on the kitchen oven. The small, green screen showed 4:45AM.
Jen’s meeting with the bank manager was only a few hours away. He had to stop her. Cameron lurched forward and stood. Pacing proved a moderate remedy for his anxiety, but he knew it wouldn’t change anything. The blunt pressure in his forehead was turning into a migraine, and Cameron decided he couldn’t let Jen leave. He thought he’d interrupt her before she left. Then, he’d talk her out of it.
With the pounding migraine, the pacing only made him dizzy, so he turned on a light under the microwave and sat at the kitchen t
able. He tried to read the newspaper, but the text began to blur.
Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window as Cameron jolted awake at 9:25AM.
Jen had already left for work.
In fact, the meeting with the bank manager was half over. Wiping sleep from his eyes, Cameron went back to the living room to pace. The stress led to another hole in his sock.
He’d have to confront her when she got home.
Still sore from sleeping at the kitchen table, he drove to the Fourth Precinct, already knowing he was late.
Amy stared at the evidence board, rocking on the soles of her shoes. Sometimes, this motion helped her to look at the evidence in a three dimensional manor. Instead of focusing on the content of the images, she tried to recreate the visceral feelings she experienced at the scene of the crime.
This way, she was able to clear out cluttered thoughts and narrow her gaze. Amy would often test herself by staring at just one picture at a time, studying the image as if she’d never seen it before. Then, she’d close her eyes and try to see what pieces of the picture stayed, letting the important parts burn beneath her eyelids. Although it sometimes took a few tries, this process forced Amy to digest the images objectively.
There were certain cases she avoided the open-shut method, especially if the entire evidence board was filled with pictures. Amy had to be careful. She knew that these pictures were more powerful than the graphic images shown on the news or in fictional TV. These images were real. They showed real victims and real killers.
To anyone off the street, the photos would be the stuff of nightmares. But Amy had to look further. She didn’t become a detective to allow violence to permeate her life, and she certainly didn’t want it to overpower her own mental health. However, there were still some cases Amy could never leave at work. She never planned for it, but sometimes the evidence would slither into her coat, riding her back as she left for home. And there, in her apartment, the weight of the invisible creature would unlatch itself from her, waiting until she turned out the lights.
It never appeared right away. The evidence might wait for Amy, watching her as she brushed her teeth, watching her as she sat alone in a sleepless stupor. These were the moments when she was the most vulnerable to its powers. And these were also the moments the evidence was vulnerable to her powers.
There, in the serenity of her apartment, Amy would confront the hellish presence as if she were doing battle with evil itself. To do this, she had to be brave.
Whatever evils caused the violence in the cases, Amy knew she was stronger than her past.
Real victims with real killers.
Evil had its chance, and now it was her turn. Sometimes, she thought, even evil might experience guilt. Even evil might recognize the losses and gaze upon the blood trails, counting them in fault.
Amy never found resolve in believing evil would dissipate on its own. Like a squirming beast before her, Amy wrestled with what she knew. The documentation of each crime scene revealed different beasts of different sizes. Some spewed fire while others spewed ice.
Amy’s mental network of knowledge was her defense against the beasts. Of course the answers weren’t always clear at first, and not every case had a complete chain of solutions. Still, even when fear manifested as an inner trembling, Amy did not back down.
Over the years, she’d disciplined her mind to decipher the lies in the evidence. The times when it seemed there was no progress, no overarching developments in a case, Amy remembered that evil always left traces of its desolate work. In its path of destruction, even after bleaching and scrubbing, evil would always forget something. The cleanup was always rushed because it was already looking for its next victim.
Similar to the nature of a lie, some cases had a way of growing, gaining momentum and volume in the passage of time. Other cases underwent the negative powers of time, growing colder as the clock ticked on. When residual images crawled on her back, Amy felt their weight bearing down on her. Many nights, she winced as tiny claws pierced the muscles in her back, scratching down, digging into her skin.
The times when she felt its presence Amy already knew she was going to win. Somehow, she had an instinctive advantage. The beast would usually latch on during her drive home after work.
Even when she felt the claws dig in, she just kept driving. There were a few recent cases where the claws dug too deep, almost causing her to swerve off the road.
Those nights, she didn’t care if she got home. She would stop the car, slam the door, and run her hands over her back, clutching the weight and ripping it from her. She’d throw it to the ground and watch as it scurried across the grass, pawing the green blades with sour vengeance. Amy could never injure the beast or call its name. Instead, she’d watch it race down the street like a hungry predator.
But Amy always knew it would return.
Once the bitter, orange sun dipped behind the horizon, drops of fear would drip from her fingertips. Amy didn’t have to fall asleep to wrestle with the nightmares. And she preferred it that way. When she was awake, Amy had a fuller sense of time and space. She could analyze the beast and rebuke it, throwing it from her repeatedly if necessary.
And if the nightmares crawled back too quickly, Amy would run. She’d pull off to the side of road, opening the door like a crazy person. Then, she’d run from her car, not looking back. And as she ran, the blood flow to her brain would bring her back to reality. The oxygen-rich blood had a way of restoring her sanity and refreshing her mind.
Then, as her feet hit the pavement, she had the time to think. As the mass of information galloped behind her, Amy played the options over and over, unfolding paradoxes and linking ideas.
Certain cases, the really grisly ones, Amy never wanted to stop running. On those cases, she deeply feared the sunset since it signaled a literal and metaphysical darkness about to fall over the city.
Amy had solved many cases on these runs. Surely, they were more effective than the times she sat stagnant in her apartment, scouring the walls for answers.
In the kinetic energy of running, Amy was able to focus. She wasn’t running from the evil. Instead, she was confronting it by not letting it sink its claws back into her body. When she ran, jumping over curbs, winding streetlights, shifting for every turn, Amy stayed ahead. The many diversions in her physical path matched her efforts of tricking the evidence to confess its filth.
Of course, not all cases unfolded on her nightly runs. Amy’s time at the precinct during the day was also a vital part of her methods. There, in the safety of the office, the darkness in the evidence was subject to light.
Posted on the evidence board, the photos, documents, and suspects had to squint in the fluorescent judgment of the precinct lights, subjecting the evidence to a sort of interrogation.
The daylight hours revealed logical details, and as the hours passed each day, Amy both feared and reveled the chance to battle the case in the dark. As long as she kept running through the glaring streetlights of San Francisco, she still had a chance to come out on top.
But she wasn’t just running from evil.
Ultimately, Amy was chasing truth.
The pictures from Stefani’s shrine didn’t quite make sense. His bombs surely weren’t meant for random civilians. Amy thought the victims were probably targeted out of revenge.
What else was there? The fish tank. Bleach. Bobbing, dead fish.
Amy noted even those weird things, but weird didn’t mean important. Sometimes weird just meant weird.
Then she thought of the web of terrorist articles. Amy closed her eyes and rewinded through her thoughts, scanning the front pages of past newspapers in San Francisco regarding possible threats. Her photographic memory made exercises like this a breeze compared to the hours other detectives spent scrolling through microfilm or online sources.
She recalled the front-page reports of the recent bombings. Back then, no one knew who the real bomber was. Amy now had the luxury of knowing the bomber�
��s identity, but she didn’t want to focus on the past bombings.
Now that she had strong evidence Stefani was the San Fran bomber, Amy still had a nauseous feeling that his work wasn’t finished. If Stefani acted on revenge, Amy suspected he wouldn’t even let his own death prevent him from finishing off the targets on his web of photos.
Amy rewinded through her mental videotape, recalling the various houses and locations of the bomb-fire victims. But again, there didn’t seem to be an obvious connection between victims.
She leaned toward the pictures on the evidence board, further studying Stefani’s shrine. Nothing jumped out at her, so she looked to the photo of the glass room underground where Stefani kept the touchscreen computer.
Unfortunately, without the hard drives, there was no way to gather a list of Stefani’s black market clients. Amy feared Stefani’s accomplice, the white-haired man at the keyboard in the glass room, had the power to continue Stefani’s revenge mission. Even though the man vanished from the glass room, Amy was certain the hard drives from that computer still existed and therefore still posed a threat.
She tried the open-shut method with her eyes.
Eventually, one photograph stood out to her: a sign to Highway 17. She saw it mid-blink, and the image burned itself behind her eyelids.
Amy was determined not to let this clue fall into oblivion.
Cameron rushed into the precinct and dropped his leather jacket on his chair. Out of breath, he walked up to the evidence board next to Amy, asking something in a mumble, but she shushed him.
“First, Cam, you’re late. Second, be quiet. I’m working here.”
He gave her some space and leaned down to tie his shoes. He’d almost tripped running out of the house. It was usually best to just leave Amy alone when she was in her trancelike state; so Cameron went to the break room for some coffee.