What Hides Within

by Jason Parent

  Hurriedly, Morgan reached for its glass shell. Looking it over, Morgan was overwhelmed by disgust.

  Alex Rodriguez? Jorge Posada? Andy Pettite? Kevin was a fucking Yankees fan? For that alone, he deserved to die. Still, this thing has got to be worth something. Seems a shame to damage it.

  Fuck it. She heaved the collectible keepsake, packaging and all, against the corner of the bureau on which it had rested. The glass shattered, sending diamond-sized sprinkles onto Morgan’s loose sweatshirt and dagger-sized shards to the floor. Morgan snatched the bat from the remnants of its glass cocoon and hid with it behind the safety of Kevin’s wall. She knew she didn’t have much longer to wait.

  Standing behind the wall, she prepared herself for what was to come. She stayed true to her intentions. Nothing would come between her and Clive. Nothing. The angels were on her side.

  “You’re not taking him,” she said. Her grip tightened around the bat.

  “Last chance to come out all nicey-nicey,” Reilly shouted. “If you don’t come out with your hands up, we’ll drag you out by your feet!”

  “You don’t feel like following any rules today, do you, Samantha?”

  Sanchez frowned. He didn’t seem to like his predicament. There was a system in place for everything they did. It was intended to make sure the bad guys stayed locked up.

  “Rules only apply to those who know about them,” Reilly said.

  “His lawyer will know about them.”

  “We’ll call it exigent circumstances then.”

  “How is this exigent?” Sanchez asked.

  “I have to take a wicked piss. That’s pretty exigent to me.”

  “I hardly think that warrants a Fourth Amendment violation.”

  “Unlike you men, we can’t just whip it out and go anywhere.”

  “There are laws against that too. Anyway, there’s a Dunkin Donuts around the corner if you have to—”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Horatio!” Reilly sighed. She thought of a way to appease her subordinate. “Menard fled Donnelly’s house. We followed him here. Fugitive on the run. Exigent circumstances. Does that work for you?”

  “It’s not entirely accurate.”

  “Who’s to know?”

  “Well—”

  “Well,” Reilly interrupted, losing her patience. “We could stand here all fucking day talking about this, or we could do our jobs and catch ourselves a killer. What’ll it be, Horatio? Personally, I’m for taking this motherfucker in.”

  “Okay. I’m with you.”

  “Good. Okay, then. On my mark. One…”

  “Can you count backwards from three? It’s just easier for me that way.”

  “Fine. Can we just do this already?” Reilly said.

  “Do we go on ‘go’ or on ‘one’?”

  “You know what? Fuck the counting.” Reilly hopped down a few steps. She needed to gain some momentum before she slammed her shoulder into the door. She doubted it was going to work on the first try and was certain she’d be horribly bruised in the morning.

  “When this door gives way, follow me in.”

  “Ladies first,” Sanchez said, stepping out of Reilly’s way. He raised his gun to eye level.

  Reilly set her jaw. With a growl, she charged at the door.

  CHAPTER 51

  C live dragged himself into his bedroom. Each step was heavier than the one before. Morgan’s command didn’t make sense to him. Go to his room. Lock the door. Let her handle everything. He could think of nothing better to do except perhaps sleep. That wasn’t going to happen. Chester would never let him sleep.

  He entered his bedroom, swinging the door shut behind him. His weight became too much for his frame to shoulder. His strength gave out, and he crashed like a dead man into his cushy mattress. The scissors hidden beneath his shirtsleeve slipped out as he fell. Their sharp tip scraped along the width of his palm. A few drops of blood trickled onto his bedspread. Clive barely noticed.

  What do you got those scissors for, eh, Clive? Chester sounded amused. Clive’s life had been her movie. He wondered if she was its director. She’d watched it play out for some time now from behind his lenses. Had it finally gotten to the good parts?

  They’re coming for you, Clive. They’re knocking on your door, quite literally speaking. What do you plan to do?

  Clive fiddled with the scissors beside him. He had no idea what had made him grab them from the rack. Survivalist instinct? Suicidal tendencies? Desperation? Chester? He caressed their handle with his fingertips. It was smooth, almost pleasant, to the touch. He lifted them and sat against the headboard. There, he leaned against the inflexible wood frame, awkwardly seated atop his pillow. He twirled the scissor point into the tip of his index finger.

  Do you plan on stabbing the detective with those? Chester said. That probably won’t do you much good unless your goal is to get yourself shot.

  Chester’s chiding had no effect on Clive. He slouched—lost, spent, lifeless. He could have plunged headfirst into oblivion if only an opening into its depths would appear. No one would have cared. He wasn’t even sure if he cared any longer. But that didn’t stop Chester’s provocation.

  Poor Clive. Poor, poor Clive. Life didn’t turn out the way you expected, did it? Officers are on their way to take you away. I bet you wish you had listened to me now.

  “Huh?” Chester struck a nerve. “Listened to you? Listening to you is what put me in this position in the first place.”

  It’s unfortunate. You really do believe that, don’t you? You never even asked, “Why me?” Didn’t you ever wonder why I’m in your head and not in someone else’s?

  “Because I knocked down your disgusting cobweb home. I’d take it all back if I could, believe me. Not because I give a shit about your precious little spiderwebs, but because I’d do anything to be rid of you.”

  It’s true that when you destroyed my home, I came into yours. You destroyed a safe haven that took many years to create. Under that bridge, I hid away. No frog could reach me. No bird could pierce my intricate veil. I languished in exile in complete solitude, undisturbed. You ruined that. But revenge would have been simple. Too simple. One bite, and you’d end up like Derek. I could have done it right then and there, in the water that day, right in front of your bitch girlfriend.

  Yet you convinced me not to kill you, or at least, your memories did. You reintroduced me to humankind and the filthy, revolting excrement it calls “civilization.” I had retreated from your world, taken a vacation from my earthly punishment. I should have known my vacation, though decades by your standards, would be short-lived by mine. When I saw the world through your eyes and memories, how it had changed into something even fouler than the one I’d left, I had to return. There was work to be done. You rekindled my hatred for your kind, a hatred that you yourself shared! Our meeting was too remarkable to dismiss as sheer dumb luck. So, I took a vested interest in you, Clive. I could have left you at any time. I could have found myself a stronger host. Instead, I stuck around, always figuring that the two of us together could cause far more chaos than either of us alone. We were a match made in heav—well, a portentous pairing, indeed. I believe your kind would call it destiny.

  “I always thought it more like I won Shirley Jackson’s lottery.”

  Is that all I am to you—the culmination of your misfortune? I gave you a tremendous gift, Clive. I gave you an opportunity to do more, to become something more than you were ever capable of realizing without me. The credit would have been yours alone for the taking, with me being nothing more than a footnote in your story. I should have known you’d be too weak to carry out our plans.

  “We have no plans. It’s just you and your sick-fuck delusions. I don’t hate anybody. I was perfectly happy until you came along.”

  Ha! You were happy? Do you even know who you are, Clive? Do you know where you go when this feeble side of you sleeps? Do you know the evil that resides within your heart?

  “The only evil within me
is an eight-legged turd inside my head.”

  Oh, but you’re so much more. We are all light and dark, Clive. Do you know what your darkness is capable of?

  “I know what you’re trying to do. Push my buttons. Play up on my insecurities. It won’t work. You know that I’ve been feeling a lot of guilt about Kevin’s death and my part in it, but I had no part in his deviant tendencies.”

  I’m not debating that. Kevin was his own demon. He got what he deserved. Still, you’re wondering whether or not you had something to do with the ingenious bombing spree providing some excitement to this otherwise dull county. You can’t remember any of it, can you? Why do you repress it? Even living here, inside your mind, I can’t unravel all of its many intricacies. Your other self knows everything you do. He even seems to enjoy my company. He certainly enjoys our work. You did, too, not long ago. Sure enough, Clive, just as you had no part in Kevin’s crimes, he had no part in yours.

  “What crimes would those be? Huh, Chester? What crimes?” Clive frothed at the mouth. He had to defend himself to this fiend. His other option, to accept Chester’s accusations as truth, would mean the guilt he’d been feeling was justified and would consume him. He scrambled for a defense.

  Don’t be so naïve.

  “Morgan,” he concluded. “She was with me. She told the police that I was with her on the nights things around town went kaboom. So you see? I couldn’t have done it.”

  Yes, Morgan. The ever-helpful pawn. She does her best to protect you. I wonder—how far do you think she would go to keep you, her lover and lifetime friend, safe? Maybe she would even lie for you? Kill for you?

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” The idea seemed preposterous. Sure, she loved him. But Morgan wouldn’t sacrifice everything for him, would she? “Morgan’s always had her shit together. She’s practical, sensible, logical, and sane. I’m the loose cannon, not her.”

  Certainly, she’s the stronger of the two of you. But she never had the one thing she always wanted most. Not until now, anyway. Now that she has you, do you think she’ll give you up so easily?

  “Morgan wouldn’t do… Morgan!”

  Clive filled with newfound energy. He jolted upright, intending to charge out to Morgan’s side, to be the knight she always envisioned he could be. A sharp, piercing pain threw him back into bed, paralyzing him.

  Our conversation isn’t over, Clive.

  “What have you done to me?” Clive shouted. “I have to help Morgan! I have to stop Morgan!”

  I apologize for the crude methods. I assure you, I only gave you the smallest dose. The toxin should wear off in approximately five minutes, judging by your height and weight. I did recently kill a cat with the same dose, but you should pull through all right as long as you keep your heart rate down. So do try to stay calm.

  “You paralyzed me?”

  Only temporarily. While I’ve got you here, we might as well conclude our talk. We were getting somewhere, I think.

  “It burns!”

  Oh, toughen up! You’ll be okay, you big sissy. “Oh no, a spider bit me and now I’m paralyzed!” Geez, Clive, I know little girls who are tougher than you. Besides, I can’t have you running off all willy-nilly-like. You might get yourself shot. Don’t get me wrong. That in and of itself is no tragedy, but there’s always that slim chance the bullet could hit me too. I haven’t gotten this far in life by taking unnecessary risks. Although, that Detective Reilly would have to be a real bitch to aim for the head.

  “Please, Chester,” Clive begged, tears streaming from his eyes. “Please… let me go.”

  As dismal as this looks, I still haven’t given up on you. Sure, you’ve been a real pain in the ass lately, but I have to admit, there’s a part of you that’s truly special. If you hadn’t gotten too cocky and gone off on that solo rampage just to appease your egocentric desire for infamy, none of this crap would be happening. With your hands and willingness to use them and my knowledge and strategy, we were unstoppable. You provided the raw material, and I refined it into something beautiful.

  Apparently, though, without me around, you’re uncontrollable. And the mayor, Clive? Yes, people took notice of your “grandeur,” but you only killed one guy! One! I thought we agreed on quantity over quality? After all our other explosions, that one was so anticlimactic. Cheap, even.

  “That night? The Fall River mayor? I was with Morgan…”

  Clive’s words trailed off. Part of him believed Chester. Most of him didn’t want to believe her.

  Still resisting? Or have we finally put a crack in your walls? I thought that, in time, you’d come to grips with who you are. Maybe even embrace it. I didn’t want to have to show you this way because I’m not sure what this will do to you. But we’re running short on time. I’m going to let the other Clive out, the one you refuse to believe in, the one this Clive represses. I’ll let him out, and you can take up your qualms with him. We’ll see which of you wins. Frankly, I’m rooting for the other guy.

  Clive could feel Chester scurrying around inside his head. Whatever she stepped on, she plucked like the strings of a piano. He couldn’t tell if she was manipulating his brain or her webs or if they were now one and the same.

  He felt no pain, thanks to the venom coursing through his system. After the initial burning and swelling, his body numbed and twitched. He lay still, his senses inoperative.

  His mind, on the other hand, awakened. Hidden memories flowed from one hemisphere to the other. In them, he saw himself doing things he couldn’t recall doing. Things that scared the shit out of him. Violent, evil things. Were they real or artificial? It was like someone else had played out part of his life for him. And that someone else wasn’t someone decent.

  Clive saw himself build. He saw himself plant. He saw himself detonate. He saw himself kill. But worst of all, he saw the faces of his victims. He heard the sounds of their agony. He was instantly haunted by their screams, echoing endlessly through his head.

  “Aahhhh!”

  That scream was all too real and all too external. It came from outside his apartment, the roar of a gladiator charging into battle. It was accompanied by a loud blast, the force of which caused his soul and the walls around him to tremble. Clive envisioned the worst. Then he heard the gunshot.

  “Morgan,” Clive pleaded, but she didn’t come for him. Unable to move, he was forced to wait on the sidelines, wondering who would be first to come through his bedroom door.

  CHAPTER 52

  “W

  ait,” Sanchez warned. He threw his arm out, halting Reilly’s charge. “I heard something. It sounded like glass breaking. We’d better be careful.”

  Sanchez stepped between Reilly and the door. Reilly thought she might charge anyway, whether or not he got out of her way. She froze and listened but heard nothing.

  “Let me listen,” he said.

  Reilly huffed. She was ready and willing and, in fact, wanting to move in on her prey, yet she appeased her part-time partner and took a few steps back.

  Sanchez crept up to the door and pressed his ear flat against it. “It’s quiet in there,” he whispered. “Maybe they took off down the fire esca—”

  A blast from inside the apartment unhinged the door and propelled it airborne and Sanchez along with it. His body smashed into Reilly’s Gran Torino far below. The impact dented the car’s metal frame and spiderwebbed the windshield.

  Fortunately for Reilly, the door and her partner took the brunt of the explosion. A strong gust from the blast sent her tumbling down the flight of stairs. But other than a few bumps and bruises, she was as fine as she could possibly have hoped to be, considering her partner’s fate.

  She dusted herself off and ran to Sanchez. When she reached him, Reilly cried out anger and disbelief. She didn’t need to check for signs of life. Sanchez’s open, unseeing eyes and his horribly contorted pose told all. She silently vowed revenge.

  Ignoring her pain, Reilly darted back up the stairwell. Her entry was no longer blocked. There
was no door left to ram through. Everything had been blown wide open. Most of the top half of the staircase was in ruin. Parts of it were missing altogether. A gaping hole exposed the four-bedroom, two-bath apartment below, much bigger and nicer than Clive’s, now missing some ceiling and contaminated by dust and debris.

  In the room beneath her, an Italian greyhound with its tail between its legs pissed all over itself and the floor. It whimpered up at Reilly, who had little sympathy for the animal. She had herself to think of. There was so much destruction where she and Sanchez had been standing. Someone wanted her dead.

  The attempt on her life left collateral damage. Reilly would mourn Sanchez later, but for the moment, she only sought vengeance, an Old West kind of justice.

  The structural integrity of the upper staircase and a large section of Clive’s living room was questionable, but enough floor space remained to allow a circus acrobat or a pissed-off detective hell-bent on revenge to crawl, climb, and jump into the more intact portions of the room. Reilly made her way as cautiously as she could without sacrificing speed. She had an appointment with a certain Clive Menard. She held her gun ready.

  Smoke filled the air. It blanketed the room like fog rolling over water. Black powder and splintered wood covered everything. Reilly felt the toxic air work its way into her lungs. She coughed it out and covered her mouth with her sleeve.

  “He-elp,” a scratchy voice called from within the grey blizzard.

  “Who’s there? Show yourself,” Reilly demanded. All the while, her hand held steady, aiming the pistol in the direction of the voice.

  “It’s Clive… he’s not well. He did this.”

  “Ms. Donnelly?”

  The smoke-blind conditions began to lift. The shadowy outline of a woman’s figure emerged only a few feet in front of Reilly. The detective didn’t flinch. She’d shoot Morgan if she felt even the slightest threat.