Dennis pointed towards his head. “I don’t feel well,” he said. “Do you think you could pull over for a minute? I need some fresh air.”
They zoomed past cars going far above the speed limit. The driver had one hand on the wheel as he casually changed from lane to lane. Dennis didn't have any time to waste. He gripped the back of the seat and leaned back. He began to wheeze and cough. "Help," he gasped as loud as he could.
The driver quickly glanced back but brought his eyes back to the road. It wasn't enough. Dennis grabbed his chest and let his eyes roll to the back of his head. His breath came out in labored gasps. His eyes fluttered before he collapsed.
He heard the driver mutter, "Shit" before the car slowed to a stop.
The music clicked off and the driver kept muttering to himself. There was little time. Dennis ran through what he'd need to do next. The driver was big, probably six-one, but all upper body strength. Getting into a punching match would end with Dennis on the ground with a black eye and a few broken ribs.
The driver would hover over him and reach for a pulse to make sure he wasn't dead. His arms would be right over his head and it would take moments to grab his wrists and strike him off-balance.
The keys were pulled out of the ignition and the front door opened. Dennis couldn't stop the act. The driver needed to believe him completely if this plan had any chance of working. He did a last contorted shudder as he heard the crunch of the driver’s shoes against the road.
The back door opened and the man's hands gripped Dennis' suit lapel. "What's wrong with you?" The driver’s cold hands pressed against Dennis' neck. His heart raced as he tried to figure out what to do next. Once he acted, he wouldn’t have long.
"Hey buddy," the driver said in a sing song voice as he gently slapped Dennis' cheek. As he felt the hands move away from his face, Dennis grabbed an arm in either hand.
"What the fuck?" The driver tried to pull away, but the vice grip tightened every time he resisted. Dennis burst his eyes open and twisted the man's arm. It doesn’t take much to break someone's arm, or pop the shoulder out of the socket and he was on the precipice of both.
"What are you doing?" the driver said. The man’s face had turned red as he kept pulling which just made it worse.
With his back against the seat, Dennis didn't have much leverage, but he did have the balance of power tipped in his direction. Half of the driver's body was dragged into the car and Dennis could snap something with a twist of his hand. The man had his foot pressed against the edge of the car and pushed against the door.
“Let me go,” he grunted.
Just holding his arms, even if he was able to break something, wasn’t enough. He was already beginning to get loose.
Dennis let one arm go and sent it straight to the driver’s throat. He dug his nails into the man’s skin until he screamed. There was a metal clang as Dennis banged the man’s head against the frame of the car.
“Let me go,” Dennis said through gritted teeth.
His eyes bugged out and he gasped for air. “I can’t.”
Dozens of car sped past them as the driver’s body began to grow limp.
“Why not?”
The man’s eyelids fluttered. “They’re... watching.”
Dennis loosened his grip. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s... a camera. They’ll kill... you,” he said between gasps for air.
Of course there was. He should have figured as much. Dennis looked up at where the driver pointed. There was a small piece of plastic that jutted out from the top of the rearview mirror.
Dennis let go.
“They’ve killed for a lot less than this,” the driver said as he massaged his aching neck.
There was no escape. Murder was his only option. Sickened, he backed away from the enraged man in front of him. He raised his arm, ready to punch Dennis, but held back. Instead, he slammed the door behind him as hard as he could.
It was useless. The heavy metal came back on, this time played as loud as the car speakers could handle. The driver swerved between cars and drifted next to semi-trucks, nearly letting Dennis’ side scrape against the other vehicles.
There was no stopping this. He had to do this for Charlie.
He needed to stay strong for his son.
Marie couldn’t imagine what her brother was going through right now. After he won the election, everyone had been so proud. Jacob had worked so hard, and for so long, and he deserved every bit of the accolades. Decades of exhausting internships and mindless dinner parties resulted in a brilliant campaign for governor.
His daughter, his little Brianna, was what kept him going. It took his wife three years to get pregnant and Brianna was born right as they were about to give up. She was their little miracle.
And now she was gone.
That monster had killed her.
Marie hadn’t seen her niece in a few months, since Christmas. She was a sweetheart in her core, but there was a lot about her personality that rubbed the family the wrong way. The last time she ever spoke to her was to reprimand Brianna for blowing off the summer, when she could be interning or taking classes. It was an unnecessary argument brought on by one too many glasses of wine and a long day with a difficult client. Her last words were “I’m just disappointed” which made Brianna start to cry. The night ended with both of them walking away, bitter with each other.
If only she had one more chance to make things right.
Before all this, she’d felt bad for Simon. She’d long ago diagnosed the boy, especially after Benjamin filled her in on his background. A part of her had recalled the story, but she had been in the throes of her dissertation back then, so the name Simon Archer had settled into her tabloid subconscious.
He had acute anxiety and posttraumatic stress disorder; she was sure of that. The mental and physical overload of being in the same situation that caused the original trauma had shut down his system. He came back in shock and now he barely spoke. When he did venture to speak, it was with a complete detachment to what he had done. If he had come into her office, she’d revel in the challenge of unraveling such a complex case. But she didn’t care a bit about this kid.
Any other client who came to her in grief would get the lecture on the stages. She’d told weeping patients hundreds of times that they needed to move past the anger and process what happened. But, she was having trouble taking her own advice. Not many people had to sit ten feet away from the person who murdered a family member. It made forgiveness that much harder.
It took so much energy to hate, and she wanted to feel better again. Grieving was so exhausting. All she could do was sprint through the process and get back to her life.
Every time she felt like she was getting better, the image of her brother going through this all alone tore up her heart. His current wife, Gloria, would be useless. She was a piece of arm candy that he married shortly after Brianna’s mother passed away. Brianna’s mother had been a good woman, and great for her brother.
Gloria was more interested in the parties and notoriety that came with being the governor’s wife. She campaigned for him, unless someone forced her to make a speech or mingle with the common folk. Brianna, even though she was just a kid and busy as hell, went to every rally, and went out of her way to get her face out there so her dad could win.
No, her brother would be alone to grieve. Without Marie, he had no one else.
She wasn’t shy about crying. Every wail echoed through the room. It should hurt. She wanted Simon to feel what he’d done and how Brianna’s death wasn’t all about him. His actions had affected others, too.
Milo squirmed with each cry but she didn’t care. She had wasted hours talking to him and trying to get to bottom of his anger. It wasn’t just the situation. He was on the brink and she was afraid he’d attack them in the middle of the night.
Marie looked up to see Milo staring at her with unblinking eyes.
“Just stop it,” she said.
“Stop what?”
“You’re staring at me. Why are you doing that?”
Milo gestured around the room. “There’s something about this that doesn’t seem right.”
She wiped away a tear. “What are you talking about?”
He pointed at Simon who had fallen asleep in the corner. “Why, of all people, would they hurt your...”
“Niece. She’s my niece.”
“Your niece. There are plenty of girls out there who are just as famous as her. I mean I’ve heard of her, but she’s not like, anything special.”
She began to retreat to the darkness of her corner. “What is your point?”
“Why would they pick her? They knew you’d find out, I mean, that’s pretty obvious.”
Benjamin stepped away from the wall where he’d been standing for the last few days. Of them all, he seemed the least fazed by the whole situation. Except to be the strong arm of the law when one of them would act up, he hadn’t done a thing. He barely spoke, hardly moved, and ate the least of all of them. Despite all that, he looked like he’d stepped in from the rain before an important dinner, not like he’d been trapped in a dark room for weeks.
She knew there was a darkness to him. There was something he hid from all of them, but he wasn’t ready to tell her. He kept the pain, whatever it was, deeply hidden beneath a sympathetic shell.
“Milo, please.” Benjamin strutted to where Marie sat. As he bent down to face her at eye level, she saw his face in proper light for the first time in days.
“Did you—” She pointed to his bare chin. Milo had the stubbled week-old beard of an adolescent, as did Dennis before he was taken. But Benjamin’s face was clear.
“Did I what?” His eyes narrowed.
Milo’s eyes widened as he realized what she was talking about.
She shut her mouth and begged Milo with her eyes to do the same. To arouse suspicion was one thing. To flat-out accuse him of something was another.
Benjamin stroked his chin self-consciously then flipped the collar of his shirt in a fruitless attempt to disguise his tell. “Marie, I just wanted to say I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said. It took every ounce of willpower that she possessed to not jump back when he grabbed for her hands.
“Thank you,” she said through gritted teeth.
“My daughter,” he said with a mannered tone, “died a few years back. I know how hard...” His sentence trailed off as his eyes began to water. Instinctively, she squeezed his hand back to comfort, but now she didn’t know whether to believe him or not.
All she knew was that she wanted him to leave.
The driver, Eduardo, kept the partition down the rest of the trip. It was only done for show as it gave Dennis a straight-on view of his finger on the “kill button”, as he so affectionately called it. One more move like that and he wouldn’t even have the chance to save his own life.
They rounded a corner and Dennis could hear the sound of a school bell ringing and children running back into their classroom.
He felt his pulse pound in the back of his head. His son, his little boy, would be one of these kids in a few years. What these children were going to witness would damage them for years. He was about to be the cause of nightmares and years of therapy in the name of childhood trauma. After years of doing Make-a-Wish and hosting Kid’s Nights on the baseball field, this would be his legacy.
Eduardo suddenly stopped the car and Dennis, who had long ago unbuckled his seatbelt, hurtled into the back of the seat in front of him.
“Let me get out first,” Eduardo said. “I’m going in with you.”
“Won’t they think it’s strange?” he asked, fully knowing it would be stranger if he came in alone.
“You’re bringing your bodyguard with you. They told Kimball that you had a stalker and you don’t want to take any chances, ’specially with kids around,” Eduardo said.
They walked slowly to the front of the school, with Eduardo walking within punching distance of Dennis. He didn’t need a gun to intimidate. He had made quite the show of bringing the kill switch along and shoving it into his jacket pocket for easy access.
The person who did have a gun was Dennis. It wasn’t the first time he’d held a gun, not even close. For a year after he quit the majors, he’d been a cop. His uncle, his dad, and his younger brother had all been cops and it seemed like the inevitable next step for a C-level athletic star. He wasn’t anything special in most spheres but in the world of young guys who were knee-deep in fantasy leagues and baseball cards, he was the equivalent of Brad Pitt walking into a sorority house.
He had been an average cop, nothing spectacular but not terrible. It wasn’t until he tore his ACL, again, that he decided to quit so he could stay home with the baby. But, until then, he had been a great shot. Years of throwing a baseball with precise aim had given him amazing hand-eye coordination. He’d loved having a gun at his side, ready to take down the next bad guy that crossed his path. Now it felt like an albatross around his neck, one that bolted him to the ground.
Dennis clamped a hand over the pocket it sat in. It felt so obtrusive in his jacket and he felt that everyone could surely see it. He would take one step in the school and there would be a SWAT team ready to take him down.
As he walked into the school, he was hit by a familiar smell. School always had the same stench; that concoction of dirty shoes, bananas and craft supplies. It felt comfortable, like a memory he hadn't realized he’d been missing.
“You’re walking straight to the room. They’re waitin’ for you,” Eduardo said.
Dennis pointed to the principal’s office mere feet away. “Shouldn’t I check in or something?” He needed more time. He wasn’t ready to see this teacher just yet.
“You want your name on more shit in this school?”
The fewer people that saw his face, the better. “I understand.”
Eduardo pointed to the room to their right. It was covered in bright blue butcher paper with twenty-something little children’s face plastered across its face. They were happy with their missing front teeth and smirking grins. At the bottom was a handsome young man in a plaid sweater. There was a label on the bottom, in sparkling letters that said “Mr. Kimball’s Crusaders”.
Dennis placed a hand on the knob but he couldn’t turn it.
“Go,” Eduardo snapped.
His hand physically couldn’t open that door. He felt stuck against it. Mr. Kimball’s face looked up at him with hopefulness.
“I can’t,” he said.
Eduardo didn’t have to lay a hand on Dennis’ body. It took one look down at his pocket and back up. “I will.”
In video games, he would shoot innocent soldiers and sympathetic zombies just to move onto the next level. That’s all this was. This teacher was just the boss level and he had to defeat him to move on. If he beat this level, he got to see his son.
The only way out of this game was through Mr. Kimball.
The class all sat straight up and kept their eyes trained on the whiteboard. The teacher stood with his arm outstretched over the math problem he created.
He put the finishing touches on the five and spun on his heels to face the class. “Zoe, what do we think? What’s three times five?”
Dennis opened the door a little wider, just enough to see little Zoe’s face squint as she tried to conjure the answer.
“Twelve?” she said with trepidation.
Mr. Kimball smiled. “Real close. Try again.”
The kids were enamored by this energetic young guy who drew smiley faces on the board and wore bright tennis shoes. Dennis stood at the door and watched as the kids sat, transfixed, at a multiplication problem.
“Go in,” Eduardo said.
He took a deep breath. One more step and these children’s lives would never be the same. All he needed to do was separate himself. The guy who walked inside was not a new dad or respected athlete. He needed to walk in and get this done.
Dennis knocked on t
he side of the door. Half the class looked over and a few hyper boys pointed at the stranger. “Mr. Kimball! He’s here!”
Mr. Kimball put down the yardstick he had been using as a pointer and raced to the door. “You must be Dennis DiMarco.”
Eduardo pushed him inside. “Yes. Dennis... DiMarco. And you are...”
“Kimball. Christopher Kimball. So glad you could make it.”
Christopher stuck out his hand for a shake. The man was so happy, so purely excited. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m happy to be here.”
Dennis walked tentatively to the front of the room. “Kids,” Christopher said, “this is Dennis DiMarco. Can we say hi to Mr. DiMarco?”
In unison they greeted him. He forced a smile to his face as the sweet little girl with the long blonde braids waved at him.
Christopher wrote Dennis’ name on the board in big block letters. “Mr. DiMarco was a player on the San Francisco Giants for four years. He played first base and hit eighty-three home runs.”
There were rumblings of impressed kids throughout the room.
“He even caught a ball that was so close to going over that he ran all the way to the wall, and jumped straight up. And guess what? He did backflip right into a big fat guy with a yellow hat,” Christopher said, doing his best to act out the whole event. The class erupted in laughter.
“Did you catch it?” the little blonde girl asked as the hilarity died down.
Dennis had forgotten his epic catch in the Cardinals game. He’d just about broken his shoulder when he ran into that guy’s knee. “I did. I caught it.”
“Wow,” the girl said.
Christopher slapped Dennis on the arm. “Wow, is right. Mr. DiMarco was a great player. Eh, check it out guys.” He ran to his computer and an image popped up on the projector. It was a faded Polaroid. Dennis recognized his dingy white uniform with his arm wrapped around a young teenager.
“Shit,” he muttered. It was Christopher with the same black glasses and wide smile.
“You remember?” Christopher said. He began to laugh. “Of course you don’t.”
“Is that you, Mr. Kimball?” one of the kids asked.
The Six: Complete Series Page 12