Hollow's Eve

by Hannibal Adofo

  They remained silent.

  “Why?” Vincent said. “Why are you doing this? Tell me what’s going on. If I’m going to die, I damn sure want to know why.”

  “You don’t deserve spit,” Hoyt said. “So just keep your mouth shut.”

  Vincent shook his head. “I knew it.”

  “You knew what?”

  “That you were going to kill me.”

  “No one said that.”

  “You just did, in so many words. And now you’re trying to run out the clock while you debate which one is going to do it, because neither of you have killed anyone in your life. Have you?”

  Hoyt became visibly fidgety the more Vincent spoke.

  “How are you going to do it?” Vincent said. “I mean, if you can do it. The two of you do look…pretty soft, at the end of the day.”

  Vincent was throwing everything he knew at them.

  “Come on,” he said. “Tell me. Tell me how you’re going to kill me. A gun? A knife? A barrel of acid? Something more elaborate? Come on, guys! I want to know. Maybe I’ll even get lucky and you guys will let me pick!”

  Hoyt spun around and screamed, “Shut up!” The vein in his head became pronounced.

  “Calm down,” Messer said. “He’s just trying to get inside your head.”

  “Christ,” Hoyt said, throwing his hands up. “Can’t we just…”

  “Can’t we just what?” Vincent said. “Kill me now?”

  Hoyt looked at Messer. “Don’t,” Messer said.

  “He’s wants to do it now,” Vincent said to Messer. “Doesn’t he? I can tell. He’s getting all revved up. I bet if I annoy him more, he’ll try and do it without your permission.”

  “Sit back and shut up!” Messer said.

  “We’re past that point,” Vincent said. “And two somewhat competent, semi-intelligent people in your position who are capable of killing another human being would have actually done it by now.”

  “I’m getting sick of this,” Hoyt said to Messer, shaking his head. “I can’t take this anymore.”

  “Because you’re weak,” Vincent said. “You’re too incompetent to do anything of real significance, and that’s why you’re not the ones who are in charge of this whole shebang. You’re nothing more than pawns—worthless drones doing the dirty work of someone else.”

  “I’m not going to tell you again, man,” Hoyt said. “This is your final warning.”

  “Or what?” Vincent said. “You going to do something about it, you creepy, overweight Midwestern punk!”

  Hoyt screamed with rage. He reached underneath his seat to fetch something.

  “No!” Messer shouted. “Hoyt, don’t do it!”

  But it was too late—Hoyt produced a Beretta. He loaded a round into the chamber.

  “Oh, shit!” Vincent said.

  No time to wait. Do something!

  Not knowing what else to do, and seeing that Messer was distracted, now driving the cruiser at fifty miles per hour, Vincent slid onto his back, folded his right leg in, aimed in the direction of Messer’s head, and kicked.

  Messer’s head smashed into the glass, not hard enough to break it but hard enough to knock him silly for a few precious seconds. Hoyt, still clutching his gun, turned around and took a hurried aim at Vincent.

  Vincent jerked forward with his head and smacked Hoyt in the nose, then fell back into his seat and shook off the dizziness as Hoyt dropped his weapon and blood poured out his nose. He put his hands to his face to stop the flow. “Son of a bitch,” he said, talking through his palms.

  Messer shook himself out of his trance and turned to look at Vincent.

  Vincent fell onto his back once again, folded his leg, and kicked Messer in the head, this time knocking him out for good as he jerked the steering wheel sharply to the left.

  The car lifted up on the right side, spun in a ninety-degree arc, and flipped over itself six times over before crashing onto the highway in a crumpled heap.

  29

  Vincent regained his consciousness in waves. Several minutes had passed since the car flipped out on the highway, and it was another several seconds before Vincent slowly came back to his senses.

  He saw that was relatively unscathed.

  A goddamn miracle.

  That was when his head started to pound. His wrist felt sore and somewhat hyperextended. A copper taste had filled his mouth from where he’d bitten the inside of his cheek.

  “Oh, man. Some night…”

  He looked in the front seat—Hoyt and Messer were still passed out.

  “Okay,” Vincent said, gathering his bearings and trying to figure his next move. “Keys… Where are the keys?”

  He looked around the car and saw that more than a few things had been tossed around in the accident. His eyes landed on a little glint of silver resting on Hoyt’s seat.

  Must have slipped out of his pants, Vincent thought.

  “Okay,” he said, leaning forward and dipping his head down to see if he could reach it.

  Using his teeth, Vincent managed to retrieve the key. He spat it out on the seat beside him, and then turned around and begin fiddling with the lock.

  Vincent attempted many times, the process feeling like it was taking an eternity as Hoyt and Messer started to awaken.

  “Shit,” Vincent said, trying to work faster. “Come on! Come on!”

  Messer moaned and started to move.

  Hoyt’s eyes opened, consciousness slowly returning.

  Vincent turned, fiddled, and twisted—and then the cuffs came off with a click. He then dove toward the front seat, grabbed the Beretta that had fallen to the floor mats, and took aim at Hoyt just as Hoyt tried to make a move for it.

  “You move,” Vincent said, “you die.”

  Hoyt froze.

  Messer shook his head and slumped back into his seat. “Nice job, asshole,” he said to Hoyt. “I told you to leave that shit alone.”

  Seconds later, sirens could be heard in the distance.

  Hoyt smiled, hands still in the air and a shit-eating grin stretched across his face caked with blood. “Doesn’t matter now,” he said. “You hear that, Vincent? That’s the cavalry.”

  Vincent shook his head.

  Damn it. I need to keep moving.

  He moved for the door to his left and pushed it open, gun still trained on Hoyt. “This isn’t over, you son of a bitch. Not by a long shot.”

  The sirens grew louder. Hoyt pointed in the direction of their wailing with his thumb and said, “You better get moving. Seems that you don’t have much time.”

  Fed up, Vincent struck Hoyt with the butt of his gun. Hit him right in his already busted nose. Hoyt hollered and cursed as Vincent slipped out of the car, ran to his left, and disappeared into a cornfield that stretched on for acres.

  Vincent had run nearly a mile and a half before slowing down, his breath was like fire from his chest and every muscle in his body aching as he stopped in the middle of the fields for a second so he could catch his breath. He looked over his shoulder, the sirens faint but still close enough that he knew he needed to keep moving.

  He coughed, drew a deep breath, and kept on running for another half-mile before arriving on the outskirts on a farm. The house was a two-story colonial. Faded white paint. A barn to its right. And an old pick-up truck that looked in great condition lying in wait.

  I can hot-wire that model! No problem.

  Vincent crept up in a crouch toward the driver’s-side door and slowly opened it, his head swiveling like a hawk to make sure that the owner wasn’t alerted.

  He reached underneath the steering column and fiddled with the wires, recalling the times when he was a kid and hot-wiring cars with his friends. Most of whom were behind bars now. It was the reason he had opted to become a cop and stay out of trouble. Crime didn’t pay, but it could sure teach you some lessons.

  The engine roared to life, and Vincent sighed with relief.

  “Okay,” he said, collecting his thought
s. “Inventory.”

  He searched his pockets and took account of the contents—he still had his wallet, two hundred in cash, and the Beretta. His phone was somewhere back in the crashed cruiser, but he knew it was both fruitless and pointless to retrieve it.

  For now, though, the plan was simple. Vincent put the truck in gear and drove west, away from the blaring sirens a couple miles off.

  Find somewhere to lie low.

  Get a hold of Brandt.

  Find out what the hell is going on.

  Vincent drove an hour without incident to a seedy little motel off the highway. He booked a room at the far end of the motel, paid for it in cash, and settled in. The room was sparse and smelled of stale cigarettes.

  Doesn’t need to look pretty. I just need somewhere to clean up.

  He took a look at in the bathroom mirror and saw that he was a little worse for the wear. There was a cut on his forehead, a bruise on his right cheek, and a few cuts and tears in his suit.

  Vincent stripped off his jacket and saw that his dress shirt was in decent enough condition, save for the blood on his sleeves. He rolled up the sleeves, used a towel and hot water to clean his cuts, and splashed water to smooth the wrinkles on his wardrobe.

  He checked himself out in the mirror—now he looked presentable. Not great, but decent.

  Vincent walked into the living room, picked up the phone, and dialed Brandt’s cell.

  “This is Brandt.”

  “It’s me,” Vincent said.

  Brandt breathed a sigh of relief. “There you are. I’ve been calling your cell all night.”

  “Yeah. About that…”

  “What’s going on?”

  Vincent shook his head. “Those guys from the state’s attorney’s office just tried to kill me. They arrested me at the station and pulled a gun on me after we drove off.”

  Brandt stayed silent for several seconds. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Wish I were,” Vincent said. “Now I’m hiding out in some dump outside of town.”

  “Are you all right? How did you break free?”

  “I got the drop on them. The car wrecked afterward. I’m sure they’re out looking for me as we speak.” He realized something. “Wait. How do you not know? This happened two hours ago?”

  “I’ve been with Brackett,” Brandt said. “We’ve been interviewing the kids. No one knows about what happened with you, I don’t think.”

  Vincent thought about it. “Riley is trying to keep a tight lid on this thing,” he said. “Everyone is. Hoyt, Messer. Heck, maybe even the state’s attorney’s involved somehow.” He sighed. “Something is going on. Something at a much deeper level than what we thought.”

  “Funny you should say that,” Brandt said, “because when I looked at the toxicology reports for both Ethan Travis and Desiree Messenger, I found something very interesting.”

  “What is it?”

  “Both of them had a significant amount of GH1 in their system. Copious amounts of it. That and erythropoietin.”

  “What? Human growth hormone? Both of them?”

  “Both of them,” Brandt said.

  “But HGH?” Vincent said. “Why HGH and erythropoietin? And how the hell did they get it?”

  “Not sure. It’s not impossible to get.”

  “But these kids were teenagers in a small town. Someone had to have given it to them. Maybe someone at their school, even.”

  “A likely scenario. But do you think that has something to do with the murders, or is it just a coincidence?”

  “Hardly a coincidence,” Vincent said. “In Hollow Green, at least from what I’ve learned, there are no coincidences. And drugs can fuel a lot of crime. You and I and damn near everyone know that.”

  “So what happened?” Brandt asked. “How do you think it’s connected?”

  Vincent thought about it. “Maybe they weren’t paying their dealer—maybe they were planning on snitching.”

  “Hmm… Snitching? I’m not so sure I buy it.”

  “No?”

  “No. If these kids were athletes, especially as competitive as this group was, they want their supply coming in steady. They wouldn’t want to snitch on the person providing them their stuff.”

  “Good point,” Vincent said. “And the money part I don’t buy. I met these families. I knew Ethan Travis. He had money. He wasn’t spoiled, but I know the kid never wanted for anything. And I’m sure, based on this group, that they covered for one another if they needed a fix or help with some cash.”

  “I was planning on calling Ronny Elder about this,” Brandt said. “See what he has to say. I’m surprised the families didn’t mention any of this when we questioned them.”

  “They might not be aware. Kids are good at hiding things. Plus, even if they did know, most parents wouldn’t say anything. It’d be too embarrassing to divulge that their kid has a drug problem.”

  “Even during a murder investigation?”

  “Even then.”

  “Well,” Brandt said. “What now? What do we do?”

  “No one seems to know what’s going on. Like I said, Riley is trying to keep a tight lid on this thing, which means that he, or whoever is doing this, is going to use people they know to look for me. People they trust.”

  “We have to prove you’re innocent. We have those prints on file. We have enough to show people the truth about what’s going on.”

  “We can’t. Not yet. There’s too much corruption going on. We have to learn more before we can make a strike or a stand.”

  “Right. You’re right…”

  “And as of right now,” Vincent said, “there are only two people I trust with bringing that truth to light: you and my friend, Miranda, the FBI agent. I need you to call her. I need you tell her what’s going on. I need to stay off the phone as much as I can. I need you to be my proxy.”

  “Understood,” Brandt said.

  “I’m gonna lie low for now. Gather my thoughts. I need you to work those receipts, talk to the families of the other kids on the list, and see if you can get them the hell out of town. Whoever is doing this might try to come after them now.”

  “Understood. What about Ronny Elder?”

  “I have a feeling his family saw this coming. He went out of his way to talk to us, like he wasn’t supposed to. The nerves he had at the time are starting to make more sense now. Time is running out, Brandt. Stay frosty.”

  Vincent then sat in silence for several minutes after hanging up, his head hung low and his adrenaline peaking as his thoughts rested comfortably for the briefest of moments on his daughter.

  Oh, Claire, he thought. No matter how far I run away, no matter how much I change, trouble seems to follow me.

  I’m sorry, Claire bear. I’m sorry for never being there.

  As Vincent breathed and calmed himself, he started to wonder if the Hollow Green curse that he’d spoke of was more about him than the town.

  30

  Vincent fell asleep two hours later. It wasn’t intentional, but the fatigue and his injuries had caught up to him.

  He awoke sometime in the wee hours of the night to the sounds of shuffling outside his room. He shot up in bed and looked at the clock on the nightstand. One a.m.

  His attention then focused on the door—a pair of feet were visible under the door.

  Maybe it’s the manager.

  Or maybe it’s someone else.

  There was no knock or call from the other side. Vincent saw the feet take a few paces back as someone drew in deep breath from outside the door.

  They’re going to kick it in!

  Vincent stood, rushed toward the door, and threw his shoulder into it just as the door was kicked open. He threw all his weight into the door as it opened and slammed it on a booted foot trying to edge its way inside.

  The person on the other side then threw his weight into the door as both of them pushed and pulled on their sides.

  Vincent decided to change his play. He opened the
door, reached out, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled it toward him. A man dressed like a cowboy, minus the Stetson hat, was pulled into the room with his face coming in full view as he fell to the floor.

  Chief Riley.

  Riley shot up off the floor and tackled Vincent, knocking the wind out of him. Once Riley climbed on top of him and got the upper hand, he curled his fingers around Vincent’s throat and began to squeeze.

  Vincent, his two years of wrestling back in high school still giving him an advantage, wrapped his legs around Riley and twisted. He then made a fist, shot it under Riley’s chin, and then gave him a jab that knocked Riley’s grip loose and allowed Vincent to move out from under him.

  Vincent rolled over, rose to his feet, and punted Riley in the face. Riley fell onto his butt, but somehow remained conscious.

  Vincent then made a move for the Beretta he had stashed on the nightstand, but was quickly foiled when Riley lurched forward, grabbed Vincent’s leg, and caused him to trip. Vincent fell on his stomach, Riley coiling his arm around Vincent’s throat as Vincent got to knees and tried clawing his way out of the choke he now found himself in.

  Riley squeezed. And squeezed. And squeezed. Vincent tried to get off his knees, squirming like a fish out of water. But it was fruitless. He was slowly passing out.

  It was just a matter of seconds…

  But Vincent twisted, locked a leg around Riley, pushed them both onto their backs, and then slithered out of the chokehold before settling on top of Riley. He then balled a fist, punched Riley in the groin, stomach, and throat, stood up, rolled across the bed, reached for the Beretta, and aimed it at Riley’s skull.

  “Go ahead,” Vincent said, “do something dumb.”

  Vincent ordered Riley to take his cuffs and then locked his hands to the bed-frame.

  Vincent was seated in a chair in the corner, the Beretta aimed at Riley tethered to the bed-frame.

  “I’m gonna ask some questions,” Vincent said. “And you damn well better answer them.”

  “To hell with you,” Riley said.

  “I’m not going to play games with you. I want to know what’s going on. And I want to know now.”