The Six: Complete Series

by E. C. Richard

  As she went to grab a tissue from her pocket, she felt the paper crinkle against her fingers. She carefully unfolded it and laid it out on her knee. As she read Lila’s last words, the tears dried up. There were others with her, trapped somewhere. That’s where she’d been all these weeks; not on some bender in Vegas, but kidnapped.

  The guilt hit her like a two-by-four to the side of the head.

  Lila hadn’t killed herself. She did this all for a bigger purpose. She wanted to save those other people and this was her only way.

  Whatever it took, Hannah thought, I will get them.

  For those people.

  For their families.

  For Lila.

  BOOK 3

  He was going to die in this room.

  That was the only thing in this world that Dennis was sure about.

  That, and the fact that Lila wasn’t coming back.

  Dennis hadn’t slept since they’d taken her. When he fell, his head had banged against the wall and it hurt like hell. She had been the only one who cared about him and now she was gone. He was trapped in a room and surrounded by idiots.

  The escape plans were scrapped long ago. After hours of trying, his legs ached, his arms were sore from pulling at the door, and his fingers were cut up. The others didn’t want to get out as much as he did and it didn’t much matter anymore. Even if he wanted to try again, he wasn’t sure he could stand up without falling.

  “What do you think happened to her?”

  The lawyer had asked the same question every hour, like clockwork. It went out into the ether and hung there as he waited for someone to answer. The only person who had any idea was the singer kid and he wasn’t talking.

  The other guy, Simon, hadn’t stopped shaking since they brought him back. There was something wrong with him. That kid reminded him of his brother after he got back from Afghanistan. All he wanted to do was to be left alone. When they brought him home, he’d sit in the living room for hours without acknowledging a soul. The smallest noise would set him off. A loud TV, a sudden shout, or a slamming door would send running to his room where he shook and cried under his sheets. It was terrifying to watch. This kid was lost in something much bigger than this room. There were demons in him, too.

  If he cared, Dennis would’ve tried to talk to the kid. After a particularly bad episode, his parents made the whole family go to hours of meetings and trainings on how to deal with Brian. He knew how to calm someone down when they were in the throes of panic, but he didn’t have the energy to invest in another person.

  All he wanted was to get out and see his family again.

  “When are they bringing food?” the psychologist asked. His head throbbed so loud that he hadn’t noticed that they hadn’t been fed in almost a day.

  “Who knows,” mumbled the singer kid. “They probably forgot about us.”

  The water jug by the door was nearly empty. The lawyer kept sipping on it because he was bored or sweating or it was some old man crap. Lila used to bring him water every few hours when he was too exhausted to get up. Now his throat was raw and he could feel every cell in his body shrivel up more with each passing moment.

  Out of the silence, there was the familiar thud of footsteps above their heads. It was either food or another abduction. He couldn’t watch another one of them go. As his headache crescendoed, Dennis shut his eyes.

  The footsteps thudded closer and closer and stopped outside the door. None of them spoke anymore. Lila used to let out a little squeal as they came in. Invisible was good, he figured, so he stayed quiet.

  The heavy door clanked open and the familiar clack of that horrid woman’s heels broke through the silence.

  “Where is the girl? Where did you take her?” the lawyer asked.

  Dennis knew where she was but he didn’t want it to be true. She was dead. They had killed her. That was why they weren’t answering the lawyer because it would only incite panic.

  The woman hummed quietly to herself as she circled the room. “You need more water?” she asked quietly. The singer kid grunted in agreement and she moved on.

  The sound got closer to him with each step. She was coming towards him but he didn’t dare open his eyes. As the noise got right up against his ears, it stopped. He heard the gasp from the other side of the room.

  It was him. They were taking him.

  “Dennis DiMarco.” It was a soft Southern voice with the stern tone of an angry schoolteacher.

  All this time, he thought it wouldn’t bother him when his number was called. But he was wrong. He had never been more terrified.

  “Get up.”

  He couldn’t. Dennis felt the goons impatiently lean over his body.

  “Now,” she ordered.

  “Dennis,” the lawyer pleaded, “just do what they say.”

  He was too scared. Once they had him, there was no chance of escape. He would be under their power and he didn’t have the strength to fight back. After her third command to stand, the guards grabbed him by the arms and violently pulled him to his feet.

  Dennis’ knees wobbled and he collapsed under his own weight. They hoisted him up and used their heft to keep him upright. They let his feet drag across the floor as they pulled him towards the door. As the three of them got to the edge of the room, he finally peeked at where he was heading. The hallway outside was bright, blindingly so, and long. The woman was halfway down already, with her arms crossed as she tapped her toes. Before they could shut the door behind him, he glanced back at what he left behind. The only person he could see was Simon, whose terrified eyes told the whole story.

  The door slammed behind them as the guards threw him against the wall. “Can you stand up?” one of the men asked.

  The bigger of the two had his arm pressed against Dennis’ shoulder and pinned him upright. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. It was the first time he’d spoken in days. His voice was thready and slight, not the baritone that used to tower over every other sound in the area.

  “You sure?” the man said.

  Dennis felt the room spin around him. The bright light and the warm air ate at his last reserves of energy. But, like the runt of the litter, he was liable to get cast out if he proved too weak. If there was a chance, no matter how small, that he could see his family again, he needed to do everything he could to make it happen. Even as the room fluctuated beneath his feet and he could barely see straight, Dennis nodded. “I’m fine.”

  He tapped the hand of the man holding him up. As the support left, he was there, barely standing on his own two feet. His stance was unsteady as he pressed against the wall to gain balance.

  “Yeah, all right,” the man said with a chortle.

  The finish line could only be so far away. Dennis took a deep breath and followed behind them. He forced his feet forward to keep in step.

  Dennis stood as straight as he could as he walked through the last door. The burly men eyed him skeptically as he shuffled towards the cheap folding chair set out in the middle of the room.

  The blonde woman crossed in front of him and settled into her cushy chair.

  “Mr. DiMarco,” she said, “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  She spoke with indignant disrespect. Her little smile and glassy eyes rubbed him the wrong way, but he smiled right back. “You, as well,” he said.

  “I’ve read a lot about you. It’s quite exciting to have such an accomplished man in our little building, isn’t it?” She turned to the men on either side who grudgingly agreed.

  Dennis smiled politely. “Thank you.” He needed them to think he was on board with their little plan. That way there would be a shred of trust built in. If he needed to lie and suck up to see his family again, then that was what he had to do. He had little strength to do much else.

  “Oh, I imagine some congratulations are in order,” she said. “You must be so proud. He’s rather handsome, your son.”

  The word son hit him like a truck.

  He
had a son.

  Dennis felt the tears well up from the pit of his stomach. “A boy?” he choked out.

  She smiled. “Yes, a little boy. Eight pounds two ounces. Nice and healthy.”

  Dennis wiped a tear that began to roll down his cheek. “How is he?”

  “They’re all doing fine. Your wife brought little Charlie home the next day.”

  “Charlie?” He’d lobbied strongly for the name Charles. It was his favorite uncle’s name, but Grace had hated it. She thought it sounded like the name of beady-eyed puppet. After the hours of fighting, he’d finally won.

  “Charles Dennis, in fact.”

  He bit his tongue to keep from crying. All he wanted was to run out of the building and hold Charlie in his arms, just for a minute.

  The woman slid a folder towards him. “Would you like to see him?”

  More than anything. He grabbed at the folder but she snatched it away. “Not so fast,” she said.

  He’d never wanted something so much. “What is it?”

  “We need to have a little talk about what you’re going to do for us.”

  As much as he’d prepared for whatever thing they said, his felt his lip quiver. “Okay. Whatever it is.”

  She opened up the file and slid a picture across the table. It was the exterior of a nondescript brick building. On closer examination he made out the word “school” over the front door. “What is this?”

  The woman pointed at the picture. “That is Carter Elementary in Palo Cuesta.”

  His heart began to sink. “What do you want me to do?”

  She pulled out another photo. It was of a man, a nice looking young guy in a plaid sweater vest. He was caught mid-walk, with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “This is Christopher Kimball. He teaches third grade.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dennis said.

  The woman put up her finger for him to be patient. “Mr. Kimball has been very naughty.”

  “What has he done?” he asked with a sheepish voice.

  “Not important,” she said. “You just need to make sure he doesn’t do it again.”

  His brain rattled through a thousand scenarios but he couldn’t put his finger on what she meant. “I don’t understand.”

  Her smile was condescending, like she was speaking to a small child. “You need to kill him. In the school.”

  “Shit.”

  The word kill circled around in his brain until that was all he could hear.

  “Mr. DiMarco?” she asked. “Are you still with us?”

  He couldn’t do it. How could he do that to a man who seemed like nothing but a kind good-hearted person?

  “Yes,” he whispered. “I don’t know... I mean how?”

  She leaned back in her chair heroically. “We have it all set for you. What third grade class wouldn’t be thrilled to have such an honored sports superstar speak to them? Mr. Kimball jumped at the chance to have you talk to the kids. You’re one of his heroes.”

  He felt sick. “In front of the kids?”

  She nodded. “Yes, Mr. DiMarco. That’s what you need to do. You deviate and you will be terminated. It’s not so hard to understand.”

  “I don’t... I mean... won’t they all know it’s me that did it? Won’t the kids know my name?”

  She shrugged. “You won’t be caught, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  That wasn’t it. His wife, his son, his entire family would know what he’d done. Even if he made it out of this whole situation alive, they would never be able to forgive him. “Can I change my name or wear a disguise or something?”

  “Mr. DiMarco, you are not in a position to negotiate, do you understand? You will be given your instructions. That is it.”

  “I want to see my family,” he said. This was his last chance.

  “Excuse me?”

  “After this. I want to see them.”

  The blonde woman looked at him for a moment before she broke into a friendly smile. “Okay,” she said. “After you return, you can see your family.”

  “Seriously?” There was a chance. He could see them again.

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

  He couldn’t believe it. “Thank you,” he said. The excitement welled up in his stomach. “May I see Charlie now?” he said.

  She shook her head. “I need to know you agree. Do you agree, Mr. DiMarco?”

  He had to, for his son’s sake. “Yes. I do.”

  They took him to a small room filled with barber shop equipment and racks upon racks of clothes. There was hardly room for the two of them to walk around.

  With the peaceful whir of the razor, he felt safe for the first time in days. As he shut his eyes, he saw his son’s big blue eyes as they looked up at him. He seemed so happy cradled in his wife’s arms.

  Charlie was a beautiful baby. He looked just like his wife, even down to his bright blue eyes. All he wanted was to hold him once, and let him know that his dad didn’t leave him because he didn’t love him.

  The little man with the scissors pointed towards a makeshift closet. “Would you like a jersey or a suit? I wasn’t sure what you would want so I made both for you,” he said as he ran a handful of gel through Dennis’ hair.

  “Not a jersey,” he said, without having to think.

  “Are you sure? The kids would probably love to see you in a uniform.”

  “No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

  He’d spent four years in those navy pinstripes. The man in that uniform had gone down to hospitals to visit sick kids and played on the field with inner-city teenagers who desperately wanted to play baseball. Those stripes wouldn’t be tarnished. If his name was going to be dragged through the mud, it wasn’t going to be with his uniform on.

  The room was pristine, even in the dark muted lighting from the single flickering fluorescent bulb above. After every snip, the man kicked the hair into a small pile by his feet. It was a painstaking ordeal that Dennis felt was elongated on his behalf. As long as he stayed in the room, they couldn’t touch him.

  “You know,” he said, “I watched you play with my dad. We had season tickets a few years back. It was his 80th birthday present. We had pretty decent seats, near third base. You had a wicked arm back then.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Not too many people remember when I played third. Wasn’t our best year.”

  The man laughed. “Yeah, Dad didn’t care, though. Man, you guys fell apart after Sanchez busted his knee. Definitely medicated myself on beer that year, hoo-ey.”

  It was nice talking about something besides speculating on when food would be delivered and to what degree the kid in the corner was about to have a nervous breakdown. “Sorry about that. Next year was good though. We made it to the post-season.”

  The man whipped the apron off of Dennis’ chest. “I didn’t get us tickets that year. Watched you guys on the TV, though. Some good games. You had real skills back then.”

  “What’s your name?” Dennis said. “I’ll look you up after this is all over and take you and your dad out for dinner.”

  “Fred. Fred Turner. But sir, I don’t...”

  Dennis put his hand up. “When we get out, we’ll meet up. I’ll find you.” He didn’t want to hear the hopelessness in Fred’s voice. There was a way out for both of them.

  The suit that Fred gave him was nice, but not too nice. He reasoned that it would be conspicuous if a middle-class former baseball player showed up in a perfectly tailored Armani jacket to an elementary school show-and-tell. As he tied the shiny brown dress shoes, he caught his reflection. Freshly shaved and coifed, he hadn’t looked this good in years. His wife wouldn’t even recognize him.

  They shoved him in a car after Fred had finally let him go. They grabbed him by either arm and took him to a garage where a half dozen black SUV’s were parked. They threw him in the back seat and locked the doors. As the driver merged onto the highway, he was treated to music cranked so loud that he could hardly think.

&
nbsp; “Hey, buddy,” he said, “do you think you could turn down the music a little?”

  The man shook his head and sped up the car. One of the guards had given him a proper meal before they shipped him off to Carter Elementary. They fed him his favorites. After two servings of mashed potatoes and a medium rare bacon cheeseburger, his energy level was back to where it used to be.

  All he had was his strength. It was nowhere as strong as it used to be, but it was enough. The partition was down and the driver was within arm’s reach. Years of dealing with athletes who were far bigger and far more aggressive than he had taught him to never just go for the punch. Out-thinking the brute made the fight more even.

  They were driving down the freeway at seventy miles an hour. Startling the driver would result in a head-on collision. No, he needed to get the car stopped. Then he would be able to make his move.

  All through high school and college, he was on buses constantly. His schools weren’t rich enough to fly them anywhere, so he endured thirty sweaty jocks crammed onto buses for hours at a time. He had traveled thousands of miles through sleet, rain, and blizzards; and their drivers never took so much as a smoke break. The only time a bus driver ever stopped was when the assistant manager had a seizure. Schedules went out the window and they pulled over for more than an hour waiting for the ambulance to come.

  He knew what he had to do.

  Dennis situated his body in such a way that the driver could clearly see him in the rear view mirror. He let out a little cough to get the man’s attention but it was lost in the chorus of a heavy metal ballad. This would need to be more of a production if he wanted the car stopped.

  He contorted his face into a sickly grimace. “Hey,” he shouted into the driver’s ear.

  When the man ignored him again, Dennis shouted even louder. “Hey!”

  The music went down just enough to talk over. “What?” he said.