The Devil's Interval

by Kevin Tumlinson

  The parents that Kotler had watched earlier—three couples who had sat stiff and unmoving—were now on their feet. Each was holding a weapon, and each had it aimed at the children on the playground.

  One of the other parents screamed, and a man ran forward, trying to tackle the nearest armed parent, but he was forced to take cover as the woman turned and fired at him.

  It was clear. They had been programmed to take aim if Chandler were captured, and to fire at anyone who approached.

  The children, within the meshed fence of the playground, had all hidden in the playground equipment at the first shot. Kotler could hear crying and whimpering.

  “Let me go, or they die. All of them,” Chandler said.

  Denzel raced up then, his weapon drawn.

  Kotler relaxed his grip, and stood, stepping away from Chandler.

  “What are you doing, Kotler?” Denzel asked.

  “He’s controlling the parents,” Kotler said. “They’ll shoot the kids.”

  Chandler rose to his feet. His dress was torn and dirty, and the wig he wore was skewed. Blood pooled on his lip and ran down his chin. The whole scene was ghoulish and disturbing, and Kotler felt like throwing up at the sight of it.

  Chandler started to back away, watching them as he went. “Let me go, or they die,” he repeated.

  Denzel kept his weapon trained on Chandler. “I can’t let you leave, Chandler. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Chandler laughed. “I don’t need my hands. The weapon’s already been fired. I’m leaving, Agent Denzel. Do not follow me, or those parents start shooting.”

  He turned and walked away from the playground, straight to one of the squat industrial buildings, opened a door and ducked inside.

  “Not again,” Kotler said, gritting his teeth.

  “We have a counter measure for the devices,” Roland said. “I can get it here quick. We just have to keep those people from firing.”

  “You heard the rules,” Kotler said. “Let Chandler go, and do not approach them.” He looked at Denzel. “I can stop him,” he said.

  Denzel shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’m going,” he said. “You have to stay. You have to keep them from killing those kids. You’re the only one with the authority to make those people listen to you.” He nodded to the frantic parents, hovering close by. Any one of them might decide to do the wrong thing, to rush the people who had guns aimed at their children.

  Denzel looked from the armed parents to the unaffected parents who were becoming more frantic.

  He engaged the safety on his weapon, and handed it to Kotler.

  “I’m probably going to be reprimanded for this. Or worse,” he said.

  “Tell them I took it when you weren’t looking,” Kotler said, smiling.

  “That won’t go over any better,” Denzel replied. “Go. Stop him. I’ll take care of this.”

  Chapter 28

  Kotler burst through the door of an industrial building, where Chandler had disappeared from sight. He had Denzel’s weapon leveled and ready to fire. There was no sign of Chandler inside, and Kotler rushed in, and kept low. He checked every side door as he went, but he was sure he knew Chandler’s plan.

  He must have had a car ready. And if Kotler wasted too much time, he’d lose him again.

  He made a few quick decisions. If Chandler had a car ready, it would likely be outside, and probably on the other side of this building. The best chance was for Kotler to run full tilt, find the first exit he could, and hopefully catch up to Chandler before he got moving.

  The building was abandoned, and looked vacant. The corridor Kotler ran down eventually ended at a T, and Kotler glanced from side to side, trying to find a clue to where Chandler would have run.

  He caught a glimpse of light at the end of the corridor on his left, decided that was as clear a sign as any he could hope for, and raced in that direction.

  At the end of the hall was a double set of doors, and Kotler pushed through these and to the outside in a rush. He blinked in the sunlight, weapon once again sweeping in front of him, and heard the car starting. He sprinted around the corner just in time to see Chandler squeal away.

  Kotler dropped to one knee and took aim, then fired, and fired again. His second shot hit the car’s rear tire, and the blowout was enough to cause Chandler to lose control and ram into a dumpster at the corner of the building.

  Kotler raced forward, pulled the driver side door open, and was about to say something when a shot rang out.

  Kotler rolled away, fell to the ground, and scrambled back to take cover at the rear of the car. Chandler, taking advantage of the opportunity, raced away and into the street.

  Kotler ran after him.

  “Chandler, you have to stop! It’s over!”

  Chandler answered by ducking behind a car parked on the street, and firing at Kotler again. It was clear Chandler was no marksman. He was aiming wildly, and though Kotler didn’t feel particularly endangered, he worried for the homes nearby. A stray bullet could hit someone.

  He had to end this.

  He took aim, steadying himself, and fired.

  The round grazed Chandler’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground with a scream. He scrambled to his feet and fired three wild shots at Kotler, his aim even worse now that he was injured. But it was enough to make Kotler take cover, which gave Chandler time once again to run.

  This time, Kotler hadn’t seen which direction he’d gone. He could be anywhere, which made this situation even more dangerous.

  Kotler had to move cautiously now, unsure of where an attack might come from.

  When he reached the spot where Chandler had taken cover, he saw blood on the trunk of the car, and spatters on the ground. He could track these, following the trail to the side entrance of one of the buildings. Kotler cautiously pulled a metal door open and ducked inside.

  This was a furniture warehouse, filled with stacks of wood and woodworking machinery. Thank God it was closed for the weekend.

  As Kotler moved deeper in, he passed through an area with large bolts of cloth, spooled in towering racks that made the room maze like. He moved cautiously and quietly, watching for signs of blood or any other trace of Chandler, and keeping himself hidden as much as possible.

  “You know,” Chandler’s voice called out from somewhere in the room. It was hard for Kotler to pinpoint it. “I have to say, I’m very impressed with how you figured everything out.”

  Kotler said nothing. He didn’t want to give away his position, but he also had nothing to say to this man.

  “I meant it when I said I was a fan of your work,” Chandler said. “I had followed your story, the Viking thing. But I knew of you before that. I read about you, years ago. About your family. About what happened to you.”

  This was a game now. Chandler was trying to rattle him, to get him upset or off guard. He was trying to level the playing field, since he was now injured. He figured he could get to Kotler through his past. But it was a mistake.

  Kotler had come to grips with his past. He had learned to accept it as part of who he was. Just like the ancient cultures he studied—their tragedies were as much a part of the culture as their victories and successes. So were his.

  He heard something to his right, and peered past a rack of fabric. He could see Chandler now, across the room, hold up in a space where he had decent cover on just about every side. He had torn some material and was using it as a compress, to staunch the flow of blood from his shoulder.

  Kotler couldn’t approach Chandler from here without being spotted. He wouldn’t be able to take him down that way. If he alerted Chandler to his presence, even if he had his sights on him, this would turn into a protracted gun battle, with an uncertain outcome. Too dangerous.

  Kotler wanted Chandler alive.

  He wanted him to pay for Ashton Mink’s murder. And he suspected that Chandler murdered Lawny Bristol as well. He should pay for these crimes.

&nb
sp; Looking from Chandler to his surroundings, Kotler spotted a rolling staircase nearby. Possibly used to reach cloth from higher on the racks. It was currently sitting opposite of the rack of material that Chandler was using for cover.

  Chandler had forgone the wig, and was pressing the compress against his shoulder. The material he was using had been bright yellow, but now was soaked red.

  Despite the compress, however, Chandler still had the gun in his hand, and Kotler had no doubts that he’d use it.

  Kotler moved away, and began to circle back around, trying to get to that ladder without being seen or heard.

  He kept low, and struggled to keep Chandler in view, snatching quick glances of him from between gaps. It became increasingly difficult, however, as overlapping bolts of fabric formed an impenetrable barrier.

  At last, Kotler reached the stairs. They were metal, and Kotler was certain they would make noise as he walked up. He looked around, and pulled at one of the bolts of fabric, but stopped when he saw a bin filled with scraps. He rushed to it, grabbed several of them, and ran back to the steps.

  He laid cloth on all the steps he could reach, and carefully made is way up. It worked. The material dampened each step, and when he got to the second half of the staircase he laid down the rest of the fabric, and walked up to the top. Now he could crawl on top of the rack of cloth, and peer down at Chandler. He moved carefully, balanced himself, and managed to get to the top of the rack, with great effort. He carefully glanced over and …

  Nothing. Chandler was gone.

  He heard someone clear their throat from below, and looked down to see Chandler, grinning and aiming his weapon at Kotler, who was now in plain sight.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Dr. Kotler,” Chandler said.

  Kotler, reacting quickly, turned his weapon and fired, blind, as he fell backward. On his way down he grabbed at the bolts of material, yanking his arm and spinning himself jarringly. There was excruciating pain in his shoulder, and his weapon dropped from his other hand. His feet were aimed down, at least, and he was able to slowly lower himself to the floor. He recovered his weapon, and did a quick glance around the edge of the rack, to see if he could spot Chandler.

  He swept with his weapon as he stepped around the corner, but lowered it immediately.

  There was no need to worry now. His blind shot had been too true. He had caught Chandler in the chest, hurling him back against one of the racks and onto the floor.

  Kotler engaged the safety on his own weapon, and tucked it into his belt. He limped a bit, toward Chandler. He rubbed at his own shoulder, which felt sore from being yanked hard during his fall. The pain was fading, but it ached.

  He knelt and checked Chandler’s pulse, to be sure.

  He felt something.

  It was a thread, a light flutter. Weak, but still there.

  Kotler reached down and took Chandler’s weapon, and then picked his phone out of the front pocket of his pants. He called 911 first, gave them the report of a man with severe gunshot wounds, and requested an ambulance. He also advised them that there was an FBI agent on the scene. No need to mention it wasn’t Kotler himself.

  Kotler had only basic medical training, but he put Chandler on his back, and started tearing bits of material from the racks to work as a compress and bandages. He wasn’t sure if Chandler would survive, and the man had already lost consciousness. But for the first time since discovering that it was Chandler behind all of this, and possibly since the moment he’d seen Gail McCarthy back at that metalworks, Kotler felt some hope. He felt like justice might be served.

  His next call, then, was to Denzel.

  Chapter 29

  Denzel was holding his badge up, hoping it would provide at least some assurance to the frantic parents. “Please, stand back!” he shouted. “If you approach them, they will fire!”

  “Do something!” one man shouted.

  “I have help on the way, sir, but for now we have to stay calm and stay away from them.”

  “That’s my husband!” one woman cried, pointing at one of the parents who was aiming a handgun at the children. “Rob, what are you doing? Put the gun down!”

  “He doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Denzel said. “He’s being controlled. It’s a very long story, but these people are not responsible for their actions. As long as we do not approach them, they will not harm your children. Understand?”

  Everyone was silent but nodding.

  Denzel wasn’t entirely sure what the play should be here. Nothing about this scenario was acceptable. He was unarmed, but even if he’d had his weapon, could he justify firing on these people? They were as innocent as the parents watching in horror.

  He couldn’t just let them keep their weapons trained on those kids, though.

  One of the parents, the man who had shouted for him to do something, began to creep forward, toward the fencing around the playground. Denzel looked and saw a child—a little girl—crying and walking toward the fence.

  “Daddy,” she said, sobbing.

  One of the armed and controlled parents shifted and started to aim her weapon in that direction, though Denzel couldn’t decide if she was aiming at the man or the child. Either way, it didn’t matter.

  “Stop! If you go any closer, she’ll fire!”

  The man looked up, saw the woman, and looked with fright toward Denzel. “I can’t let her shoot my daughter!” he said.

  There was sobbing all around now, from both parents and children, and Denzel felt that drive again, to do something.

  “Hey!” he said, waving his badge and stepping forward. “Hey! Over here!”

  All the parents turned then, slowly, as if they were animatronic robots simply running on a pre-programmed circuit. Denzel was relieved to see that even the first woman had turned from the father and child, and was now aiming at him instead.

  How far could he push this? How close would be too close? Would they fire eventually anyway?

  It didn’t matter. If he could hold their attention, their weapons weren’t pointed at those kids. “Go around!” he shouted to the man. “See if you can find a gap on the other side of the playground. Stay hidden behind the equipment!”

  The man nodded, and then he and some of the other parents started moving. One woman ran to a minivan parked nearby, opened the hatch, and produced a tire tool with a pry bar end.

  Denzel needed to keep the armed parents distracted, hopefully without getting shot.

  He started shuffling to the side, angling away from the playground, but staying close enough, he hoped, that he would still seem like a pending threat.

  The parents followed him, keeping their weapons trained on him. That was perfect.

  The day was cool, and there was a nice, light breeze, but Denzel still felt sweat running down his sides. A drip of sweat rolled from his forehead, down to the tip of his nose. He dared not move to brush it away, in case the armed parents saw it as an aggressive move.

  Right now, he was having a staring contest with a swarm of angry bees. No sudden movements.

  He had called for backup, and had asked for the countermeasure to be brought along. It would take some time for anyone to get here, even if they came by helicopter. This was going to be a long battle. Denzel’s hope was that the parents could somehow get the children out of the playground and safely away before something went wrong.

  The children started moving, on the other side of the fence, and one of the armed parents noticed. They turned then, taking aim once more at the playground itself.

  “No!” Denzel said, waving the badge and stepping forward once more.

  There were six armed parents, and five were aiming at him. As he stepped forward, all five fired, and the sixth turned to aim at him again.

  He gasped, closing his eyes, ready to feel the bullets tear into him. But nothing happened. He opened his eyes and saw that all five parents had shot at the ground at his feet.

  Warning shots.

  He was sure he wouldn’t
get another set. The next time those weapons fired in his direction, he’d be dead.

  To his relief, however, he saw that all the children were out of sight, on the other side of a large structure that was festooned with slides and ladders and netting. The unarmed parents were also out of sight, and Denzel hoped that meant they were making progress.

  If Denzel stood here, making no sudden movements, the kids should be safe. And so should he. Theoretically.

  His phone rang.

  There was no way he could answer it, and he silently prayed that it wasn’t more trouble. Kotler had taken off after Chandler, with Denzel’s weapon, and there was just no way to know how that scenario would play out. Kotler was trained, though. Denzel decided to trust that he could handle everything.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. They couldn’t be for him. His people wouldn’t come in with sirens blaring, and they would still be several minutes out, by his estimate. Maybe someone in the neighborhood called the police.

  This was going to get tricky.

  From the corner of his eye he noticed movement on the other side of the playground. He turned his head, and saw that the parents had managed to get their kids out of the playground, and were running them to the opposite side of the park.

  Denzel sighed with relief, and then took two steps back.

  The armed parents turned again to the playground, aiming at the empty structures as if there were still children there. Apparently, Chandler’s instructions hadn’t been too thorough. Denzel wondered what he’d told them to do, simply aim at the playground and fire if anyone approached? That could still be dangerous for bystanders. But for now, he was willing to let them keep playground equipment hostage for as long as they needed.

  The sirens grew louder, and an ambulance rounded the corner, headed down the block. Two police cars came from the opposite direction, and all stopped in front of a building just down the way.