Double Vision

by Colby Marshall

  What was the opposite of jungle green?

  Your colors don’t work that way, Jenna . . .

  But somehow, even as she consciously knew they didn’t always, that her brain picked colors for associations at random most of the time, her gut said that this time, it would work. She closed her eyes and pictured the color wheel.

  Red-violet hues occupied the positions across from the large slice of the color pie made up of, among its many other shades, jungle green.

  The hue of ripe red grapes flashed in, the Tyrian purplish color of problem solving. Plotting answers, laying down framework for well-designed puzzles happened to be directly across from the color she’d associated for such a long time with figuring out the most difficult complexities.

  The same family of colors she’d been thinking of the day she figured out Molly’s connection to the sevens in this case, as coincidence would have it.

  She typed again as the helicopter drifted lower, landing zone in view.

  I’m almost there. Announce your presence to him, but from a distance. Work on sending a phone in to establish contact. Treat it like any hostage negotiation situation.

  Jenna stopped writing, afraid of what she had to say next. Even if she was right, it scared her. This could go wrong, and if it did, she’d never forgive herself.

  She gulped in breaths, steeling her will. Building her confidence.

  Reminding herself she was good at what she did.

  She finished the message and sent it before she had a chance to overthink the words.

  Jenna sat and stared at the screen, her last text to Victor still glowing on her phone’s face:

  In fact, escalate it TO a hostage situation if he doesn’t realize it’s one already. We need to do something he won’t expect. He won’t think we’d want a hostage crisis.

  58

  Yancy rushed the doorway of the small room behind Liam Tyler’s office when the gunshot rang, his own gun at the ready to take on the enemy.

  But what he saw took him off guard, and for a second, he was mesmerized. Another painting of The Last Supper, this one scrawled with names, pictures of dead bodies tacked underneath each apostle pictured in the painting. Though the men in the photos posted under figures in The Last Supper—one corresponding to each apostle—had already met their fate, if the blood, their crumpled positions, and staring eyes were indications, every one had feet in the pictures. All their feet. On the pictures of some of the dead, large, heavy black X’s, seemingly drawn with permanent marker, had been scratched atop feet. Some bodies, two X’s. Some one. A few didn’t have any of the horrifying markings, but they were in the minority. Yancy’s gut had flipped a somersault, threatening to send up his lunch at the sight of the black X’s. Molds of plaster hung on the wall that looked similar to those hanging in Liam’s office, only these were quite obviously upside-down footprints of . . . God only knew who. The people tacked under the painting, he supposed.

  “You like my little display?” a voice said.

  Yancy whirled to see Liam Tyler holding Molly in front of him with one arm, the other holding a gun to her temple.

  Yancy’s heart skipped a beat, and his hand trembled.

  “Oh, put the gun down, hero. We both know all it’ll take is me giving you a countdown to when I put one in her skull if you don’t, and you’ll do it anyway. So let’s make this simple and save little Molly the anxiety.”

  Yancy’s hand lowered by instinct. Then he dropped his weapon. What else could he do? With Molly in front of the evil fuck, even he wasn’t reckless enough to take a shot.

  “That’s a good lad. Now backpedal toward the wall there and join our other friend,” Liam said, gesturing to a wall behind Yancy and to the right. “That is, if backing up won’t trip you up . . .”

  Liam chortled at his own joke.

  Yeah, yeah. Very funny, psycho.

  “Ah,” Liam sighed, finishing a good chuckle. “Now, now. You’re right, I probably shouldn’t be rude. After all, you were admiring my work.”

  How can I be right if I didn’t say anything to you? And admiring is one way to describe what I was thinking. One wrong way . . .

  Something hard collided with Yancy’s back. The wall he’d been commanded to back toward.

  “Right, now. Have a seat, will you? Now, Molly, go sit with Mr. Hero over there,” Liam commanded.

  Molly half trudged, half ran to where Yancy was lowering himself to the floor near a confused Eldred Beasley. Meanwhile, Liam took a step toward his awful canvas.

  But Yancy didn’t watch him for long. A still mound near the back corner caught his eye.

  A man lay unmoving on the loose earth, and from here, Yancy couldn’t tell how bad he was wounded, whether or not he was breathing, anything.

  Molly, who had taken a seat between him and Eldred Beasley, leaned over and whispered, “That’s Special Agent Dodd.”

  Yancy gave her a nod so she’d know he’d heard her, but no more, hoping their quiet would keep Liam’s attention off of them as long as possible. Right now, Liam was gazing at his own handiwork, turned sideways so he could see both them and it.

  “Most people would probably attribute my . . . spree, they’d probably call it. Yes, they’d say my spree was prompted by religious radicalism, some brand of insane preoccupation with beliefs, all because what I did was inspired by one of the most famous Bible-based paintings, a piece of artwork most known by Christians. Fools. Just because I’m a minister, the rank and file assume so readily I’m a man of God,” Liam said. He laughed. “God is for the weak, but more than that, he’s for those who need him to exist because he gives them a purpose.” Liam snickered again. “Well, then again, like I said. The weak.”

  Yancy’s gaze followed Liam as he strolled beside the painting with its gruesome addendums. If this twisted asshole thought it was strong to kill people and chop off their feet for some reason, then he had to think he was a damned fortress . . .

  Wait. That’s it.

  Yancy glanced at the painting again, this time ignoring the pictures of dead bodies and looking at the one figure without a companion photo. Jesus.

  Two feet showed from under the robe of the depiction of the Son of God, resting on the floor beneath the table. Yancy bit his lip, let his eyes roam the rest of the pictures again. He had to suppress a mirthless laugh as the new glance at the photos confirmed his suspicion. If he’d been looking at this in any other context, he’d not only find it fascinating, but he’d be flying high from solving the case.

  As it was, all he could do now was stare at the lifeless men, their bodies contorted in what had to have seemed meaningless ways to most, including those who had previously investigated the case. Yancy chanced a quick look at Dodd, but still saw no movement or signs of life. He turned back to the photos of the dead, who he now realized had not only lost feet according to whether or not those of their corresponding apostle were visible in the painting, but who had been positioned in ways similar to those matching their apostle partner as well. One closely groomed dark-haired man had been rolled partway onto his left shoulder. His head looked to his left, his left arm draped across his body, hand open in what might be a gesture toward something at his back or side. His right arm stretched straight out to the right, palm up and open in a gesture that complemented the one implied by his other hand. On the opposite side of the painting, on the left-hand side of Jesus from Yancy’s viewpoint, another dark-headed man, this time with facial hair and a bushier mane atop his head, had been lain diagonally with his feet closest to the camera. His chin was tilted up, his head looking in the direction of his left shoulder. His right arm was bent at the elbow, and his fisted hand lay on his chest. The other hand was outstretched to the right and forward, palm down, almost as if it were waiting to clasp something.

  Christ. They even look like the apostles, too . . .

  Suddenly, Yancy realize
d Liam was staring straight at him, wearing a close-lipped grin. He nodded. “You’ve noticed it, haven’t you?”

  Yancy gave a silent nod. I’ve found Jesus. I wish I hadn’t.

  Liam nodded, too, smiling wider. “Yes, for the strong don’t need a god to give us goals and ambitions. We can find our own purpose, our own passions to occupy time. If there were more of us, maybe there wouldn’t be so much pointless war and pathetic religious squabbling to begin with. People go to church and war for the same reasons: they’re bored and they need a reason for being. I suppose when you’re easily bored it’s hard to find one. So, they congregate with people who will tell them that reason, then give them cause to fight when it’s ‘threatened’ by vague, shadowy people and concepts. They’re off fighting for what they’ve been told to believe, and all the while, here I am,” Liam said, chuckling again and using his gun to gesture toward the painting. “An artist with my own ambition—nobody needed to tell me which direction to go—creating my masterpiece, the only real danger to any of them. And they’d never even know it. They’re too busy hunting illusions to realize the threat to them is their own blind eye.”

  Yancy squirmed as his gaze drifted again toward where Agent Dodd lay still in the corner. Everything in him urged him to move toward the man, check his pulse . . . start CPR. But the man with the gun holding them all at bay had other ideas.

  What now, superhero? How are you getting yourself out of this mess? Haven’t you had enough of putting yourself in places you can’t get out of? Like elevator shafts?

  And yet, he couldn’t help but listen to that other little voice. The one the bigger, derogatory voice in his head usually bitch-slapped into silence. The voice that, deep down, told him his being in these situations—last year, Denny, this—wasn’t a coincidence. He was here because he was supposed to be, for whatever reason. He was here for the same reason he showed up at the shelter the day Oboe had been scheduled to be put down.

  Because he should do some good.

  A rustling from the hole in the crawl space. From the way the other heads in the room turned, Yancy knew they’d all heard it.

  Liam took aim and fired, but his shots were met only by a voice.

  “Mr. Tyler, my name is Officer Victor Ellis with the Virginia State Police. You’re surrounded by a SWAT team, sir. We don’t want anyone hurt here today. We just want to get us all out of here, everyone okay. That includes you. We have a negotiator on the way, but we want to send in a phone so you can talk to us at a distance without us needing to yell in this manner. Can we do that?”

  Liam Tyler’s bemused face from moments before had changed to pissed, confused, and enthralled all at the same time. More than anything, the energy in his body said one thing: wired. He aimed the gun he held at the three of them, letting it drift back and forth over them all as if to say “Make a move. I dare you.”

  “Prepaid cell phone still in the packaging only,” he called. “The kind in plastic packaging. No boxes. Anything else, and I won’t talk.”

  A moment of silence, then, “Okay.”

  And with that the conversation—and the presence of help—was gone.

  Yancy wiped his palms on his pants, but it did no good. They immediately soaked with nervous sweat again. Think.

  They were sending a negotiator. It would have to be Jenna. She was the one on the BAU team involved in this case who was trained in depth in that sort of thing. If Jenna was coming in, that could be his greatest advantage, because he knew how she thought. In some ways, anyhow. It was why he’d known after his 911 call with Molly at the grocery store to tell Jenna to look for Molly. He’d just known she’d find the little girl useful.

  Next to him, Molly patted Eldred Beasley’s leg, her own head lying on her knees, probably to keep from having to look at the disturbing shit in this room. Yancy couldn’t save her from that, but maybe he could get her out of this mess alive.

  Again, he studied the “evil twin” painting of The Last Supper in the room where they now sat. He squinted, chewed harder on his lip.

  Victor’s voice had come from the tunnel back to the left behind him. The painting in Liam’s office was behind the desk, which he’d crossed in front of to enter the closet. When he’d come in, the tunnel in the closet had opened up in the corner and snaked right, but the closet’s actual end put its edge several feet deeper into the room than the desk. And the painting was behind the desk.

  Oh, now, cool guy. Maybe you have something here.

  The glowing in the office before he’d stepped into the closet. The glow from the hole at the tiny space’s base. He’d known to follow Molly.

  His own text popped into his head. After he’d heard Liam muttering about lying to the police, Yancy had told Jenna not to believe Liam if he said Molly was all right without seeing or talking to her. The phone was coming.

  Liam stood off by himself, too close for them to try to move at all, but in his own world, talking to himself again. Dare he chance it?

  “Molly,” he whispered. “Don’t look at me, and don’t say anything back. Just listen, then nod once if you understand. Jenna—I mean, Dr. Ramey—is going to be on the phone soon. There’s something really important I need you to do . . .”

  Yancy talked fast out of the corner of his mouth, explaining his plan. When he was done, he watched her in his periphery for affirmation.

  She gave a barely visible nod.

  Please, God. Let this work.

  59

  They put down the chopper on a high school baseball field a few blocks down from where the action was currently taking place. Jenna exited the chopper and jogged down the street toward the Tyler home just in time to see Victor coming out the door of the SWAT command center. He stretched his hand toward her, and she realized it held a cell phone. She took it from him as she and Saleda ran in his direction, away from the helicopter.

  As soon as they could hear again, Victor said, “He’d only bite for prepaid, still in plastic. So that’s what he got. I’m good at following instructions.”

  Jenna nodded as she climbed the steps, following Victor into the armored vehicle that was serving as the current SWAT command center. Inside, she could see views of several places in the house on computer monitors, and one showed Liam Tyler’s office. Two SWAT team members stationed there, two more in the closet, ready for action.

  She looked to Saleda. “Any last minute thoughts?”

  Saleda just gave her a nod. “Go get ’em.”

  Victor had already dialed the prepaid phone’s number, so Jenna pressed send. If there’s a God in heaven, he wouldn’t let a little girl die at the hand of her stepfather. Even if he is a cold-blooded, murdering sociopath.

  The ringing at her ear stopped. Breathing.

  “To whom am I speaking?” Liam Tyler’s voice asked.

  “This is Dr. Jenna Ramey, FBI. We’ve met before,” she said, heart thumping in her chest.

  “Oh! Dr. Ramey. So good of you to call. I’m glad you weren’t with Special Agent Dodd this time around. It didn’t turn out so well for him, so better for you to be out than in.”

  Jenna held back her gasp, but wildly gestured to Saleda for a pen and paper. The items were passed to her, and she scribbled as she talked. “What is Special Agent Dodd’s current condition, Liam?”

  She finished writing, “Dodd down there,” and pointed emphatically at her note as if Victor and Saleda weren’t already angling for position, trying to read.

  “Maybe dead,” Liam said matter-of-factly, his voice ambivalent. “Either is or will be. Shot was good. Sorry about that, Doctor. I do know how you folks hate to lose your own.”

  Jenna took in a calming breath. She couldn’t let him get to her. Not now. Too much was riding on what she did next. Too many people needed her to keep cool.

  “And you have other folks down there,” she said, her best attempt at pretending his st
atements about Dodd didn’t affect her. “What will it take for us to get them out in better condition?”

  This time her question was met with a laugh. “Oh, Doctor. You know as well as I do that this won’t end well for me.”

  So why are you holding hostages instead of popping them and then trying to take as many of us down with you as you can when we come for you?

  But Jenna already knew the answer, and so did Liam, even if he said one thing to her and thought another. He was a narcissist. So while he was smart and maybe even realistic at times, he hadn’t given up on finding a way out. He was holding the hostages to guarantee some time to think and some leverage if he came up with a plan.

  “If you’d decided that already, we wouldn’t be talking, would we?” she asked, even though it wasn’t a question. Talk to him as though you’re on his level. He’ll underestimate. What he’d be underestimating, exactly, Jenna wasn’t sure. She didn’t have a plan, either. Yet. “So now that we’ve cleared that up, any ideas so far?”

  Quiet met her ears.

  Then Liam spoke again. This time, the mocking in his tone from before had evaporated. “I want complete and total immunity.”

  Jenna couldn’t stifle a laugh. “Oh, yeah? And onion rings on the side?”

  Liam Tyler clicked his tongue. “Actually, Doctor, this is pretty straightforward, and everyone makes it out happy. We both know I can’t escape without it getting messy, and the messy half of the equation is the part you don’t want. Stepping over bodies of friends and children is never fun. However, we can avoid that altogether. You find me a nice DA, introduce us. He makes me a little deal. I cooperate and give you everything you need to know about the Triple Shooter—he is, after all, a very bad boy. You’ll put away an unstable killer who has wreaked havoc in this area for months, your friends will walk away from this crawl space room without bullet wounds, and we can all call an end to the day. In exchange for all of my help, I’m presented with my stay-out-of-jail-free card. I mosey on my way, and none of you have to hear from me again. Now doesn’t that sound lovely?”