by David Beers
Four years as a Senator and someone brought an interesting proposition to Hilman. Would he be interested in a run for President? He spoke with his wife and his kids about it; he brought his father and mother in for their thoughts. Everyone said go for it. He had the legislative history to make him look serious and didn't yet have the baggage that comes with decades of serving in congress. Go for it. Run for President. So he did. He started a year early, and he began the same way he had his Senate campaign, by simply talking to people. He talked to them about their wants and about what he could do for them. He talked to the rich and poor alike, drumming up money from the rich and taking what the poor could afford to give him—support. He moved through the primaries dodging accusations; at one point someone even saying Hilman was his father's Manchurian Candidate. For the most part, like much of Hilman's life, it was smooth sailing on a large boat. He made it through the primaries and a man who had grown from an adopted black child found himself on a national stage debating a white man in front of millions of viewers. He practiced for hours before the debates, learning the methods his opponent would use to discredit him, learning what he needed to say himself to discredit his opponent. When the debate came, there wasn't a lot the other side could do. Hilman's time had simply come. He won a majority of the popular vote and became President of the United States of America.
All of that was quite possible. He might even have had some pretty strong accomplishments as President, perhaps keeping us out of wars that other Presidents seem eager to jump into. The kid's future, at seventeen years old, held infinite possibilities both because of his father and himself.
Instead, at five o'clock on a Friday evening, the sun was heading down from its day long travels and Hilman was heading home. He walked on the sidewalk, his pants not sagging horribly but a bit baggy. He wore a large jacket and a hat with a flat bill. More than all of that, Hilman, at seventeen wasn't a Senator or a doctor. He was a black kid who dressed like a black kid.
Hilman was heading to one of the best neighborhoods in New York, however the area he walked through to get home wasn't it.
Two cop cars pulled up and the kid who had a 4.0 in high school didn't slow. Why would he? He had done nothing wrong, except for both being black and walking through a less than desirable neighborhood.
See them, if you can, the cops calling out to Hilman.
"Hey! Come here for a second!"
Hilman stopped, turned around and looked at the four cops, all wearing bullet proof vests under their uniforms. They were looking for a black kid, someone accused of rape actually, and what do you know? The other guy had worn a big jacket the night the rape occurred. Hilman looked at them, his head cocked slightly to the side, and then with an arrogance he surely learned from his father, he turned around and kept walking home.
"Stop! Now!" Someone shouted, each of the cops reaching for their guns as if he had turned on them instead of away from them.
They ran up on the kid, weapons drawn.
"Put your hands above your fucking head."
Hilman smiled at them. An arrogant little grin that probably said a lot, that he knew the differences between the four policeman and himself, that he knew who was in the right.
Instead of putting his hands above his head—which the media went on and on about for a month afterward—
"Well, had he just put his hands up, he'd be alive right now. You need to listen to cops, they're not here to hurt you unless they think you're going to harm them."
"A black kid dressed like a thug and then refusing to listen to police, what do you expect is going to happen?"
"The young man, plain and simple, was resisting arrest. They didn't know he had nothing in his pockets; they had to react as if he was an armed criminal."
—He put his hands in the pockets of that large jacket.
The police didn't wait for him to remove his hands. They let loose a barrage of bullets on Hilman. His jacket exploded in a storm of white cotton, sprays of blood misting out over the white pieces of fabric. Bullets caught him in his face, neck, and torso. His hands came out of his pockets then, flailing, holding only air. They let loose a total of thirty-seven bullets between four men, and in the end, Hilman fell to the ground dead. Out of thirty-seven released, twenty-eight were removed from Hilman's body and eight more were found to have gone straight through his tissues, entering and exiting him.
Hilman Brand could have been President. He had the family ties, the brains, and the work ethic to make something like that happen. Instead he died on a sidewalk with numerous punctures to his vital organs. He died alone. He died scared. He died long before he should have.
Chapter Seventeen
Matthew thought he understood how addicts felt. He knew how stupid it was, how dumb he had to be to do this a second time. He'd taken precautions, as many as he could, but that meant nothing when it came right down to it. Encrypting his computer's IP address would help, but it wouldn't be impossible to crack. It would be hard to do, but not impossible. His encryption could be reverse engineered. No matter what he did, someone might be able to undo it.
Still, he had his headphones on and plugged into his computer. He was ready to use the hotel's Internet connection to call his ex-wife.
To call Rally, his drug of choice.
What the hell did he have to say to her? What could she have to say to him? He knew the answer revolved around nil, but it didn't matter, because he missed her. Had they shot down his wife instead of his son he would be doing the same exact thing he was now. He would be hunting the people that killed her so they could give her life again. So yeah, he was an idiot for risking everything to speak with her, but he couldn't help it any more than he could stop this quest to speak with Hilman again.
He dialed the number and listened to the phone ring in his ears.
Don't let her answer.
Don't let her answer.
But she did, because the police would have made her.
"Hello?" She said, her voice sounding tired. More, exhausted even.
"Hey, Ral." Tears came to his eyes, sitting in the dingy hotel room he rented by the week.
"You shouldn't be calling me."
"I know. I can't help it though."
"You're going to end up dead this time, Matt. Especially if you keep doing stupid things like this."
"That would be for the best, right?"
A long pause came over the line. "Yeah," she answered. "Probably."
"God, I love you," he said, the tears coming down his face.
"What are you doing?" Rally asked.
"Just sitting here."
"Where?"
He laughed. "Room 219, the Sheraton in Las Vegas. You should be able to find it by traveling I-19 west from where you're at."
Another long silence, but Matthew didn't feel any awkwardness in it.
"You know I'd tell you if you promised not to turn me in."
"I know, but I won't."
"Are they there now?"
"They're not here, but the phone's tapped. They're probably listening and trying to trace you if they can."
He nodded. "Yeah, I figured. I just needed to hear you."
"If you stop right now, Matt, I'll talk to you every day until the day you die. If you disappear, I'll call you whenever you want and talk as long as you want. Just don't do what you're about to do. Please."
"Ral, come see me. Just for a day. I'll tell you where I'm at and you come on down and just spend the day with me. I'll give you twenty-four hours to convince me to stop and I promise I'll listen with an open mind."
"And not tell anyone where you're at, of course? You know they heard that right now. You want me to agree to it on the phone? Don't be stupid."
"I don't care how you answer as long as you come down here. If they knew how to catch me, they wouldn't have ever lost me. If you say you'll come, I'll find a way to get you here."
Rally didn't answer, leading to the longest silence yet. He was begging his ex-wife to come s
ee him while the F.B.I. listened. He was forgetting about Hilman, this addiction to Rally was jeopardizing his son's chances of ever coming back. This addiction, her, was as severe as alcohol or heroin. He knew that this conversation could kill him, could ruin everything, and still he stayed on the phone.
"I'll think about it."
"The whole day to convince me not to do this, Ral."
"Shut up. There's no convincing you, so don't condescend. I'll think about it."
The line through Matthew's computer went dead and he remained with the headphones in his ears, smiling. If he could see her for a day, he could go on for another twenty years.
* * *
"You've listened to the call?" Rally said into the phone.
A few hours had passed since her talk with Matt. Hours spent discussing with her husband; hours spent wondering how he would take what she told him. I'll think about it, and she was too. Not for herself, but for the cops who were desperately trying to find him. If she went there, he would trust her completely, never for a second thinking she was in on the trap. She'd always been honest with him before, honest in her plans to help catch him—so why would she not be honest now? Why wouldn't she take him up on his offer to try and pull him away? There was no chance of stopping him and she had told him as much. She was honest then. So maybe if he ignored that then it was his own fault. Not hers.
Or maybe that was guilt tugging at her conscience.
"Yes, Mrs. Allen. Listened to it and have been waiting on your call," Agent Moore said. "Thanks for doing that too, calling us."
"What do you want me to do?" Rally asked.
"We've been talking about that. There are a few options, but I want to know what you feel comfortable doing?"
She felt comfortable pouring a bath and lying in it. She felt comfortable moving to another country and never having to deal with any of this again. She felt comfortable with a nuke dropping on her right now and stopping her from making this decision.
"We could keep you safe if you went, I can guarantee that. It depends on how far you're willing to go to help us." Moore asked again.
"I just can't believe he would go for it."
"You heard him though. He asked. Not you. He wouldn't be calling you down there to hurt you, would he?"
"No. Not at all. I'm all he has left."
"Then you have a unique opportunity to keep others from dying, Mrs. Allen. How far are you willing to go to do that?"
"What happens to Matt if I go?" Rally asked. "Are you going to kill him?"
"We'll do everything we can not to. That's not my job here. I want to apprehend him. That's what I'm paid to do."
Rally paused, thinking out her next words carefully, understanding that this all was being recorded as well.
"No. That's not going to work. If I go to wherever he is, he can't make it out alive."
Chapter Eighteen
Joe Welch opened his eyes feeling like he had never done it before. Light blinded him as if the sun burned in the middle of the ceiling instead of a few light bulbs. He tried to raise his arms to his eyes to partially block out the blinding brightness, but his arms wouldn't move. He tried harder, keeping his eyes closed against the light. His arms still didn't budge and he finally opened his eyes.
"Welcome back, Joe," a voice to his left said.
His eyes moved from the duct tape on his arms to the voice, panic rising with every passing second. The man standing to his left, the one speaking, was a ghost. Not human, but something from the ether that had somehow made its way into reality. A bald head, as white as the underside of a sting ray. His eyes were a pale blue, like a dead angel. His body so thin that he couldn't have tied Joe to this easy chair. He couldn't even have pulled the tape from the roll, let alone held Joe down while he did his business.
Joe watched as the man walked to his chair, watched as the man's hand pulled back, and then felt the world around him explode. The slap sounded off into the room around him and he heard Patricia cry from somewhere.
"Focus, Joe. Focus now. I want you to be awake for a few minutes."
I'm here! I'm focused! His mind screamed at the apparition.
All that came from his mouth was, "Mmhea. Mmfohusd." The tape across his mouth blocked any sense someone might have made out of his words.
"No need to speak. I know what you want to say and I'm going to make sure those cops outside can't hear it."
Joe turned his head, looking through a small crack in the blinds and seeing the police car at its normal spot. Out there, not in here. Out there where there was no goddamn apparition.
"HmmHaricia?" Where's Patricia.
"Not too good at listening, huh? I guess that might happen if you grow up without a father. But I am going to need you to listen to me now, because I want you to know exactly what is going to happen here, okay? Your wife, if you turn your head as far as you possibly can to the right, you might be able to see her. She's behind you, taped up the same to a kitchen chair. Go ahead, give it a look."
Joe was already turning, trying to turn his neck and body against the tape that felt as strong as Superman's grip. He could see her, just like the apparition said, see the silver tape around her mouth and her hair hanging from her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and pleading with him, begging him to get up and come over there, to save her from this.
"PHHHMMM." Please.
"No, no. Let's not beg. Not for her, not for you, and not for your child. Let's not do that."
Jason. Where was Jason?
The apparition walked behind him and Joe did his best to turn and follow. The man grabbed the chair Patricia sat on and dragged it across the wood paneled floor.
"Your father took all I had from me. My ex-wife turned me into the police. My son is dead. Everything I had. You understand that right? He took it and then got away with it. Well almost. I made sure no one got off completely." He set the chair down about five feet in front of Joe, where he and his wife could stare at each other. More tears spilled from her eyes. "So, I'm going to take everything from you, Joe. I haven't had any of what I lost returned to me. Not a single thing. They even took my freedom and I finally just got that back. So by taking from you, Joe, I'm going to begin to regain my life. That's fair, right?"
Joe shook his head. He wanted to speak, wanted to beg for this man's mercy. This apparition who had lived in his dreams so many years ago, who had taken his own father, and who Joe had been daring to show up here, was now touching his wife's hair.
"I haven't felt my lover's hair in fifteen years. You can't imagine what that's like."
Joe shook his head harder, back and forth like a child telling his parents no.
"Jason is gone, Joe. It's important for you to understand that. He's not dead, but you'll never see him again. You will probably hear a lot about him on the news, but that will be the closest you ever get to seeing your child again. Your wife though, I'm going to let you see her as long as you can possibly stand. Would you like that?"
Tears came now to Joe, crying for the first time in years. Sweat was dripping off his head despite that the fan spun above and the air conditioner pumped in cool air. Still shaking his head, he struggled again, raging against the tape that held him down. Grunts and caged screams came from his taped mouth, but not a sound was heard outside of the living room.
"Go ahead. Struggle all you want," Brand said, walking into the kitchen.
His wife's eyes opened and looked at him, stopping him in his fit to get loose. He watched as her fingers stretched out from beneath the tape and reached towards him. She wouldn't ever be able to reach him, but she tried anyway. Joe's tears flowed freely and he reached his own fingers out to try and touch his wife.
"Alright, Joe. I hope you're ready for this. I know I am."
Brand stepped in front of Joe and his wife, blocking them off and forcing Joe to stare at the apparition's back. He watched the man's arm jet forward.
Patricia screamed, and the arm came back, then shot forward again.
&n
bsp; Back and forth.
Back and forth.
His wife screaming through that sticky, gray tape covering her mouth.
Brand moved away from Joe's wife, revealing what he'd done.
Bloody holes stared out at Joe. Holes that leaked blood down her shirt, down her breasts, onto her legs and then fell beneath her chair. Her eyes were wide open, staring out into the room but seeing nothing. He watched as her upper body hitched, trying to gain air through the lungs that suddenly had new openings in them. Her head twitched, up and down in short motions like she was agreeing with something Joe had said, and a low moan came through the tape. A raspy sound, like the moan was being pulled across a rough patch of concrete.
His wife expired with her blood pooling beneath her.
"There. Now I won't take her away from you like they did me. You can sit here and look at her until your heart's content. That's fair, right?"
The apparition left Joe staring at his wife with eyes that would not stop crying and voice box that didn't seem to work any longer.
* * *
Jeffrey watched as Brand exited the house. He carried something bundled up in his arms, carrying it against his body the same as one would a baby. The rest of the house was still.
Jeffrey looked down at his watch. Brand had been inside two hours and now left with something he hadn't entered with. All the lights to the backyard were turned off and the only real glimpses that Jeffrey caught of Brand were revealed by the moon. On the front side of the street, the marked police car sat silently. Sat and thought that by merely being there they would scare off anyone thinking of entering the house. Instead, a person entered and another person watched.
Jeffrey wasn't fooling himself, this was the house of Joseph Welch. Except Welch wasn't the one leaving the house. What had Brand done in there?