Fourteen Days

by Steven Jenkins

  “Please, just let me go,” he pleaded loudly over the cries.

  “You’re not going anywhere.” He winced as the baby’s shrieking increased. “I wanna know how the hell you know my name. And no more bullshit, or I swear to God I’ll blow your brains out all over that wall! And no one’s gonna hear it.”

  Finding it difficult to breathe, Richard could feel tears trickle down his cheeks, onto his lips. He wanted to answer his question—but how could he? No one would ever believe it. But then, how could he not say with a shotgun pointed directly at him? He decided to go for broke. “I know what you’ve done.” He couldn’t quite believe what he was about to say, but was unable to stop himself. “I know what you did to Christina Long. And so do the police.” He glanced at the window. “The house is surrounded by them.”

  Peter’s face changed from a look of anger to shock. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said, without conviction. “Who’s Christina Long?”

  Unconvinced by Peter’s failure to come clean, Richard continued. “You know exactly who Christina Long is. There’s no point denying it. The police know everything about what you did to her. They’ve been watching you for weeks.”

  With an unsure look on his face, Peter continued aiming the gun at him and walked backwards over to the window, pulling the curtain slightly to the side. The sun shone through the open curtain as he scanned his farm. “There’s no one out there. You’re full of shit.”

  “Do you really think they’d let you see them? They’re hiding. They’re not stupid.”

  “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’ve never even heard of this woman.”

  “You can deny it all you want, but they’re out there. Waiting for you.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said, moving away from the window. “You’re just some attention-seeking nutter.”

  Richard shook his head, keeping his eyes locked on the gun. “I’m not. And I’m telling you the truth. That’s why I’m here—to talk you out.”

  Peter’s hand had started to shake, causing the shotgun to quiver. Beads of sweat had gathered on his brow. He wiped them away quickly with his sleeve. “You’re talking shit,” he stuttered. “Nobody even knows I’m up here.”

  “They know everything, Peter.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “They’ve been to your house on Old Hall Street. They know you kept Christina locked in the house.”

  “Bullshit!” Peter screamed, his voice quivery.

  “They know you tied her to the bed.”

  “You’re lying!” He was now almost in tears, with the tip of the gun pointing down at the floor.

  “They know you brought her body here.”

  “How the hell…”

  “And they know you took her baby.”

  Stunned, Peter turned to the child, who had stopped crying. “This is my baby. And no one’s gonna take him away from me.”

  Richard, as discreetly as possible, tried to pull his ankles and wrists apart to create enough space to pull his hands and feet out. “He’s not your baby. He doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Yes he does. He’s mine!”

  Richard’s feet were almost through the rope’s loop. “No he’s not. And they’re gonna come for you. But I promised them that you’d go quietly. They know what you’ve been through, they understand. That’s why they agreed to send me in first.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “It’s not bullshit. It’s the truth. They know absolutely everything. They know that you loaded Christina’s body into the boot of her car. They know you wrapped her up in a white sheet. They know she was wearing a white dress the day you took her. And they even know about your sister’s involvement.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with my sister! You leave her out of this!”

  Cautiously, Richard slipped a shoe off his foot, allowing more space to part his ankles. He wriggled his feet subtly until finally he managed to free a foot from his bounds. Peter hadn’t noticed. “They will—as long as you promise to give me the baby. Otherwise she’s an accessory to murder.”

  Peter shook his head in denial, clearly unable to comprehend what was being said. He sat heavily on the sofa chair, as if his body carried the weight of his problems. His head dropped and the grasp of his gun loosened. “He’s mine,” he mumbled quietly. “He’s my baby.”

  Richard’s wrist was merely an inch from freedom. He pulled and pulled, all the while trying not to show any strain on his face. He could feel the flesh under the rope blister as it rubbed back and forth. “You have to do what’s right. It’s not too late.” He gave one last tug until he finally managed to slip his hand free; his wrist was bright red and sore. This was his chance to make a break for it. Leaping to his feet, with his heart beating fiercely against his chest, he made a dash for the front door directly behind him. Grabbing the handle, he frantically turned it. Locked. Panicked, he unbolted the large sliding-lock at the top of the door. Pulling at the handle again without luck, he reached down to unbolt another lock, but stopped suddenly when he felt something hard touch the back of his head.

  “You stupid fucker!” Peter yelled, pressing the end of the shotgun against the back of Richard’s skull. “You think I’m stupid enough to leave that door unlocked.”

  Richard didn’t reply as he raised both hands up in surrender.

  “Turn around. Now!” Peter ordered.

  Richard slowly turned as Peter backed off slightly. “Don’t try anything clever, ’cause I swear to God, I’ll blow your head off.”

  Terrified, Richard followed him back toward the living room. Just as Peter approached the stone archway, leading back into the living room, he accidentally backed into the wall, causing him to lose focus of Richard. Using the distraction, Richard leaped forward, grasping the gun and pushing it so that the end was pointing up at the ceiling. The two men wrestled to the floor, with Richard on top trying to prize the gun from his grip. But it was no use, he was no match for Peter’s strength. Using the gun’s stock, Peter smacked Richard’s chin, causing him to lose hold of the gun and roll off Peter in agony. Clutching his jaw, Richard reached for the gun again, but Peter drove his thick leather boot into his face. Richard tasted blood as he flew back, hitting his head hard on the stone archway.

  Panting with exhaustion, Peter got to his feet and glared down at Richard’s semi-conscious body. “You stupid idiot. You’re gonna get yourself shot.”

  Lying on his side, Richard tried to look up at him but couldn’t. Every muscle in his body had gone limp, and his eyelids weighed a ton. The back of his head felt cold and wet where he had collided with the thick stone. He could feel blood slowly drip down the back of his neck, down onto his tee shirt. Stay awake! a voice in his head cried out. Don’t fall asleep! Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep! But the more he fought it, the more his eyes closed. Open your bloody eyes. You have to—he’s going to kill you. Come on, Gardener—focus. You have to stay focused. What’s the matter with you? You have a job to do. You have to take the baby out of here. If you don’t do it, then no one will. Come on…

  He started to lose focus of his thoughts. Come on, Gardener, you’ve got a job to do…This company won’t run itself. The room darkened as his eyes fully closed. Come on, Gardener—Leah’s waiting…for that report. The baby is…waiting… for…

  Unaware if days or mere seconds had passed, Richard slowly opened his eyes. He was still in the exact same spot. Peter was nowhere to be seen. Disoriented, he painfully lifted his head to see if the baby was still in the cot—he wasn’t. Relief washed over him. But disappointment followed when he thought of losing contact with the child.

  Reaching into his jeans pocket, he pulled out his cell phone, still with no reception. He groaned in frustration. He noticed the time in the corner of the screen: 7:05 a.m. Monday. Attempting to get to his feet using the wall for support, he immediately fell back down, his head spinning, his legs like jelly. Clearly he had not fully come to yet. Come on, get up, he thought, you have t
o get the police. But just as he was about to slip the phone back into his pocket, he noticed one bar of signal at the top of the screen. Frantically he dialed 999 and held the phone up to his ear. The call struggled to connect, forcing him to try again.

  After several further attempts, the call went through. Just as he was about to speak to the operator, the loud clumping of boots startled him. Turning his head back into the living room, he saw Peter run toward him from the kitchen, the shotgun in one hand, the baby in the other. Panicked, Richard tried to rush his call for help. But before he could even get a word out, Peter managed to kick the phone out from his hand. It flew across the hallway, crashing against the front door. Peter raced over to it, picked it up, cancelled the call, and then proceeded to crush it with his foot into the hard tiled floor.

  The baby started to cry again. “Shh. Shh. Shh,” Peter softly said, gently rocking him. Pointing the gun down at Richard’s helpless body, he stepped over him and made his way back into the living room, then lowered the child into the cot. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, still aiming the gun.

  “It’s too late,” Richard said, now sitting up against the stone archway. “They’re coming for you.”

  Smiling, Peter shook his head. “I don’t think so. You’ve been here since yesterday. I’m pretty sure they would have burst through that front door hours ago. But I’ve heard nothing. And I’ve seen nothing. So what’s your next lie going to be?”

  “I told them to wait for my call.”

  He shook his head again. “Bullshit. That call didn’t go through. You’re on your own. So tell me—who the hell are you? And no more lies, ’cause I’m getting a bit sick of them. Because you’re definitely not a cop. And even if the police are outside waiting for me, I know you’re not one of them.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because every time you refer to them, you refer to them as ‘they’ and not ‘we’. So give me a little credit and tell me who you really are.”

  Richard was stumped. Physically and mentally, he was too exhausted to talk his way out of it. All he could think about was finding a way to get out safely with the baby, and getting home to his wife. “Does it really matter who I am?”

  “Yes, of course it matters.”

  “Put the gun away and I’ll tell you.”

  “Tell me or I’ll shoot you in the face.”

  Richard exhaled loudly, causing his jaw to excruciatingly crack. Closing his eyes briefly as the pain settled, he decided to confess. No more lies. No more stories. The truth. He had to. He had run out of options. “All right, I’ll tell you.” He braced himself. “My name is…” But then, as if instructed by a voice in his head, he changed his mind. “…Carl Jones.” He started to pull himself up from the floor. “And that’s my baby you’ve got in there.”

  Peter’s eyes widened in shock as his grip tightened around the gun, his hand trembling again. “Stay the fuck down!”

  “And his name isn’t Jake.” Richard was still holding onto the wall, almost to his feet. “His name is Dean. Dean Long. And I’m taking him home with me.”

  “How the fuck do you know my son’s name?”

  “I already told you.” He was standing up straight now. “The police know everything.”

  “Get the hell down or I’ll shoot you,” Peter warned, sounding panicked. “I mean it. I’ll blow your brains out!”

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t find you? Did you really think that the police wouldn’t be able to track you down?”

  “I don’t give a fuck who you are, just get down on the floor! Now!”

  “All we had to do was check Christina’s address book, find out what clients she had on her books. There were only so many clients with a motive to steal someone’s baby. And you were top of the list.”

  “Shut up! I’m warning you!”

  “Did you really think the police would just forget about a missing midwife that was pregnant?”

  “Just shut up!”

  “Yeah, they were too late to save Christina from weeks of torture—but it was only a matter of time before they caught up with you. It wasn’t that hard. How many places does a lowlife like you have to hide? How many farms do you think there are in St. Clears with the surname Young? Just one. Just one place to hide.”

  “You know what, I don’t care who you are—you’re not taking my baby.”

  “He’s not your baby. He’s mine!” Richard edged nervously forward, his eyes fixed on the gun. “And I’m taking him home.”

  “Stay back!” Peter warned, spit flying from his mouth, his hand still quivering. “I’ll shoot anyone who tries to take my son out of this house. I swear to God, I’ll blow their heads off! I’m not afraid!”

  Richard stopped in his tracks, holding out his palms in defense. “You can’t keep him. He’s not yours—he never was.”

  “Yes he is! He was always mine!”

  Richard shook his head. “No he’s not. And he never will be. Can’t you see that? What are you going to tell him when he grows up? How are you going to explain to him that you kidnapped his mother, that you snatched him from her womb—that you let her die? How are you going to explain all that? More lies?”

  “I’ll tell him the truth—that his mother died giving birth to him.”

  “But that’s not the truth, and you know it! You stole him.”

  “No—she stole him from me. She let my baby die. And she as good as put the noose around Sophie’s neck. It was her responsibility to keep them safe. And she failed us. She goddamn failed us!”

  “You’re right—it was her responsibility to keep him safe, but only to a point. It wasn’t her fault he died. It was no one’s fault. Can’t you see that? And what about your responsibility? You should have kept Christina safe. You should have taken her to a hospital. Instead you let her bleed to death on a dirty bed. And then you took away her baby.”

  “I never meant for her to die. That was a mistake.”

  “What did you expect to happen? Did you really think that everything would be all right? That everything would just work itself out? You tied her to a bed and left her to rot. You nearly killed them both. What kind of a father does that make you?”

  “Shut up,” Peter sobbed. “You don’t know what it was like. I lost everything. Every-fucking-thing!”

  “And what about me? You took away the woman I loved, and my only child, everything that meant something to me.” Richard began to creep forward again.

  “Stay back! I already told you I’ll shoot anyone who comes near Jake.”

  “And I already told you—his name is Dean!”

  “Stay back! I mean it! Don’t push me!”

  Richard stopped again. “The police will be through that front door any minute now to take him away. If you let me walk out that door,” he said, pointing behind Peter at the front door, “with the baby, then they’ll go easy on you. They promised me.”

  “I don’t care what they promised—I’ll shoot anyone who comes through that door. I mean it.”

  “They’ll shoot you first, Peter. That’s what they’re trained to do. And what good will that do? You can never get your life back. You can never be a dad then.”

  “I am a dad!”

  Just as the baby’s cries intensified, the sound of a car pulling up outside filled the room.

  “They’re here,” Richard said. “Time is almost up. What’s it gonna be?”

  “I’ll never give him up—he’s mine!” He redirected the end of the gun to the front door; his hands trembling uncontrollably, sweat and tears dripping down his face.

  The front door handle started to turn noisily. Peter, still aiming the gun, eyes wide with terror, watched the door like a hawk. Then silence. He glimpsed at the window, clearly too afraid to draw the curtains. Breathing loudly, the gun shaking in his grip, he began to turn his attention back to Richard. Just as he did, the sound of footsteps from the kitchen caused Peter to turn suddenly.

  Peter fired the
shotgun.

  The noise echoed around the living room, almost deafening Richard, drowning the baby’s howls. He had never before heard such an awful, ear-piercing sound.

  Hands covering his ears, he could see Peter, on both knees, still holding the smoking shotgun, peering down at the figure sprawled out on the floor. The kitchen doorway, the walls, and the baby’s cot were sprayed in blood. Still in a state of shock, with his ears ringing, Richard edged closer. To his horror, the figure belonged to a woman.

  Peter’s sister.

  Rocking gently back and forth as he watched the blood seep from her chest, Peter wept hysterically, mumbling something inaudible. Richard tried to listen but his ears had still not recovered from the deafening gunfire. He could see the baby, red-faced from sobbing, with specks of blood across his white blanket.

  “Take him,” Peter said faintly, his words buried in tears, his eyes still staring down at his sister’s motionless body. “Just take him home.”

  Richard’s stomach began to turn; a mix of excitement and uncertainty bubbled up inside him. Had he just heard the words he had fought so hard to hear all night? Or was it just his ringing ears playing tricks? He couldn’t be sure.

  “I’m sorry,” Peter sobbed. But Richard was uncertain if he was referring to him, or his sister. “I’m sorry for everything.” He sniffed loudly. “Take him away from here. Take him home with you.”

  Not taking Peter’s sudden change of heart for granted, he marched over to the cot, reached in, and pulled the baby out, still wrapped tightly in the blanket. Not looking at Peter, and with the child clutched tightly to his chest, he started carefully for the kitchen, praying that Peter wouldn’t take back the gesture. He entered the kitchen and headed for the wide-open back door; his journey in tunnel vision, his focus on the strong, blinding light beaming in from outside. Stepping out onto the stone pathway, the sunlight hurting his eyes, he fast-walked down the long, overgrown driveway toward his parked car.

  Not looking back for anything.

  Not even when he heard the loud shotgun fire again from inside the house.