by Lyle Howard
There was no longer any doubt that she had to get back to Gabe. This situation was spiraling out of control. Too much to handle herself.
She had only lowered her gun for a split second when, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a fleeting movement in the shadows. Before she knew it, he was upon her. Like a linebacker charging a ball carrier, he barreled toward her, his head down, shoulder aimed at her mid-section. The collision jarred the pistol from her hand and knocked the wind from her lungs, hurling her backward over the coffee table like a circus acrobat, but with far less grace. Dazed and barely able to catch her breath, she felt the assailant hoist her off the floor by the collar of her coat, as easily as someone would lift a can of beer. He was brutally strong. He held her up by one gigantic hand and shook her sadistically. Her head snapped back and forth so hard she heard the bones cracking in her neck.
In the chalky light, it wasn’t easy to make out his features, but what stood out through the gloom were his eyes: two black pearls burning with evil intent. He carried her toward the window, her arms beating against his shoulders to no effect, her legs flailing helplessly. She scratched at his face, gouged at his eyes, but he continually blocked her awkward blows with his free hand. There was no stopping him! What was this monster planning to do? Ram her into the window?
He twisted her around until she was facing the broken window. Through the busted panes, she spotted the brass ball atop of the flag pole outside, the cord used for raising the colors clanging wildly in the gale. Hansen lifted her legs to stop her forward motion, but knew she was only delaying the inevitable. Her bare feet hit the glass kicking. She could feel her attacker’s torrid breath on the back of her neck as he grunted angrily.
“Put … her … down … you … motherfucker!”
Wait! That was Gabe’s voice!
Hansen was spun around so fast she thought she was going to be ripped in half. Her assailant still held her around the waist and positioned her to partially shield his body.
“Don’t make me tell you again, asshole!”
Gabe Mitchell had his gun aimed right at them as he held the door frame with his free hand for support. “You alright, partner?”
Before she could answer, the behemoth had his hand over her mouth, his massive fingers probing for her tongue. She tried to bite him, but his digits were so thick she couldn’t shut her jaws.
“Don’t you know how unsanitary that is?” Gabe grunted, as he pulled the trigger.
* * * * * *
With no clear target, Gabe shot out a second window. A deluge of rain and freezing air came rushing into the room as the devastating squall unleashed its hellish fury upon everything in sight.
The primal wrath of nature was demolishing the teacher’s lounge as nearly every book in the room was blown off the shelves. A normally harmless cup of pencils turned into a quiver of deadly projectiles that shot across the room and impaled themselves inches from Gabe’s face like darts in a cork board. The unbridled wind reverberated inside the room like an approaching freight train.
In a rather disgusting display, Jamal Wallace’s dangling body thrashed around in the gale like a child’s piñata. Reams of loose paper were caught up in the swirling wind and flew round the room making it nearly impossible for Gabe to pick a clean line of sight to target another shot. He took another shot anyway, this time firing upward into the acoustic ceiling tiles.
With surprising agility, the goliath dropped Hansen, spun, and dove head-first through the missing window.
Gabe fired one more shot blindly into the storm as he stumbled across the room, swatting away flying debris and paper. When he finally reached the window, he had to protect his eyes from the onslaught of water. After he managed to clear his vision, he couldn’t believe what he saw. Hansen’s attacker had caught the flag pole, slid down it like a fireman, and was making his escape across the school’s front lawn.
“Can you make it?” Gabe yelled to his partner over the driving rain.
Hansen stared out at the metal pole that couldn’t have been more than eight inches in diameter and probably 20 feet away. “Are you out of your mind? I’m not jumping!” she screamed back.
Gabe was drenched to the skin, but thankfully his nausea and headache had passed. Shivering in the icy air, the cleansing rain had already washed away most of the vomit from the front of his clothing. “Then let’s get moving,” he shouted, pulling Hansen away from the window. “If it’s the last thing either of us does tonight, this son-of-a-bitch is going down!”
* * * * * *
Gabe Mitchell always thought of himself as invulnerable. Or perhaps lucky might have been a more apt description. During his 15 years on the force, he had finagled his way through some incredibly tense situations, but nothing in recent memory could compare with what was going down tonight. He was normally the embodiment of levelheadedness, but now, crouching in his bare feet, gun drawn, at the entrance to a pitch dark alley nearly three miles from the school, his knees were actually knocking!
The weather refused to let up. It was easily the coldest night of the year—cold enough to see each exhalation as Gabe strained to catch his breath. The rain was unmerciful. It was coming down in sheets so thick, he could barely see Hansen positioned behind a dumpster ten feet across the alley.
“You okay?” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
The garbage dumpster she was squatting behind was beneath an overhang, but she too was soaked to the bone. “I didn’t know you could run that fast!” she yelled back.
Gabe had his back against a brick wall. His sopping wet hair hung limply in his face. He was breathing in great gasps. Hansen laughed nervously at the sight of him. “How do you wanna do this?”
Gabe reached into the pocket of his leather jacket for a fresh clip and jammed it into his gun. “This asshole’s raped and mutilated at least five women that we know of,” he yelled, wiping the water from his eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s bagged his limit! I say we shoot first and ask questions later!”
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Hansen yelled back.
Gabe brushed his wet hair back with his free hand. “I’ll be fine,” he said, trying to sound convincing. But bile was once again rising in his throat.
“You had me worried back there!” Hansen shouted.
“That makes two of us,” he mumbled under his breath, as he massaged a sudden numbness in his left arm through his coat sleeve
“I’ve called for back-up,” Hansen yelled, wiping the rain out of her eyes. “They’ll be here any minute. Maybe we should wait!”
Gabe’s chest felt like an elephant was sitting on it. He wasn’t used to walking three miles, let alone running the same distance, through backyards, over fences, and around speeding cars. “No way! This guy’s going down now!”
Hansen nodded. “Go ahead then! I’ll cover you!”
Gabe drew in a deep breath. The freezing air rushing down his throat felt like swallowing a mouthful of needles. “I’m ready.”
Gabe stayed low as he entered the alley. The smell of rotten Chinese food hung heavy in the air, making his stomach even queasier. The narrow passageway appeared to span half the width of the block with no apparent exit: a dead end. Five-story buildings flanked each side of the alley, making the access where the two detectives were positioned the only way out. If the killer wanted to escape, he would have to get through them. Only this time, Gabe wouldn’t be firing any warning shots.
Garbage dumpsters were scattered on each side of the alley. He and Hansen would move in tandem from cover to cover. In the distance, the faint sound of sirens could be heard between the unrelenting claps of thunder.
“Work your way up to the next dumpster. I’ve got you covered!” Gabe shouted.
Hansen nodded, and sprinted for the next oversized waste receptacle less than 50 feet away. With his gaze fixed on the insignia that read Humpty Dumpster, Gabe never saw his partner crash into the rubber trash can that had been blown into her path by th
e wind. She hit the obstacle running full speed and sprawled face first across the slick pavement. When her hand hit the asphalt, her gun flew out and skidded off somewhere into the darkness.
“Are you alright?” Gabe shouted.
There was no sound, aside from the unstoppable rain.
“Jo-Jo!”
Still no answer.
Gabe stepped out from behind the dumpster with his gun pointed straight ahead into the stinking emptiness. Thunder crashed off the high walls of the alley, making him feel like he was standing inside of a huge kettle drum. “Hansen? Answer me, goddamn it!”
Straining for any sound that would give him a clue to her exact location, Gabe suddenly began to feel that dreaded ice pick jabbing at the back of his neck. This can’t be happening again! Not so soon after the last one!
Gabe’s lightheadedness was back and attacking with a vengeance. The darkness that had been merely patrolling the perimeter of his head a few seconds before had now become frighteningly disorienting. “Joanne!” he screamed again. “Where are you?”
The sirens were growing louder by the second, but they seemed to be taking forever to arrive. On a normal evening, a helicopter unit would have had this alley already lit up like midday, but in this pea soup the choppers were still strapped down to their landing pads.
From out of the abyss came a piercing scream that Gabe would carry with him into eternity: “Gabe!”
Lightning exploded overhead briefly revealing his partner once again tangled in the giant mauler’s clutches. He had her by the throat, her legs dangling a good three feet off the ground. A long, strawberry blemish was torn down the side of her face.
Gabe raised his gun, but his arms felt like boat anchors. “Put her down!”
The killer turned his head slowly, growling and grunting with a guttural savagery that could only be described as inhuman. His maniacal eyes seemed to open wide with vicious glee, penetrating the darkness like a pair of demonic headlights. Totally ignoring Gabe’s warnings, he spun around, once again using Hansen’s squirming body as his first line of defense.
“I said, put her down!”
He had no shot. It was too damned dark! He might hit Hansen!
The giant began to back into the shadows, taking Hansen along with him.
“Don’t you take another step with her, or I swear—”
Gabe’s admonition was greeted with low, throaty laughter that made his skin want to pack a suitcase and leave town. There was nothing worse than someone who didn’t care whether they lived or died.
“Shoot him, Gabe!” Hansen demanded. “He’ll kill me anyway. Just go ahead and sho—” Her selfless plea was cut off mid-sentence, as the murderer constricted his beefy hand around her throat.
What if he accidentally shot and killed his own partner? No matter how much Hansen begged, he couldn’t just fire blindly into the dark!
Gabe didn’t have to dwell over his dilemma for very long: before he had time to pull the trigger, his body was gripped once again by his paralyzing disorder. With the alleyway suddenly ablaze in flashing blue and red lights, Gabe’s equilibrium went haywire and he lost complete control of his motor functions. As his legs gave way, he thought he heard a gunshot, but it must have been thunder.
Seconds later, he lay incapacitated at the mercy of a deranged madman.
Excerpt from the Arizona Republic Newspaper—
“Acquitted Televangelist Richard Hillard Set to Confess His Version of Scandal to Curious Red Rock Crowd”
SEDONA, AZ—“Champion of religion,” “conniving showman,” and “acquitted murderer” are all epithets that have been used at one time or another to describe the Reverend Richard Hillard.
In his first public appearance since his exoneration on murder charges stemming from the April 2005 beating death of 18-year-old Christina Malloy, Hillard will be preaching tomorrow night at the Red Rock Amphitheater.
The sensational trial, which grabbed national headlines and turned the local faith healer into a notorious celebrity, ended last Thursday with a controversial verdict of “not guilty.” Hillard’s acquittal sent immediate shock waves throughout the country, calling into question once again the validity of the American judicial system.
Hillard had been charged with the murder of Christina Mary Malloy when it was discovered the two had been having an illicit relationship for the six months leading up to her death.
Friends of the slain Tempe Junior College student testified during the two-month-long trial that Hillard physically threatened Malloy when she attempted to end the abusive affair. Malloy’s body was found bludgeoned and bound three days after that alleged quarrel, in an alley behind a Tempe restaurant.
What the 45-year-old Reverend will reveal in this first public sermon is anyone’s guess, but sources close to the flamboyant clergyman say he is most certain to address the events of the past year.
Hillard is scheduled to take the pulpit tomorrow night at 8:00 P.M. The Red Rock Amphitheater is already sold out, and security will be at an all-time high since Hillard claims that he has been receiving threatening phone calls from angry detractors whom he loathingly refers to as “promulgators of the lie.”
Could all of this rhetoric be just another attempt by the Reverend Hillard to revive his once lucrative televangelist empire? One thing is for certain: we will all learn the answers tomorrow night.
4
Sedona, Arizona
Desert Blossom Motel
6:30 P.M.
In 2004, Cory O’Brien was going to the Olympics. To the average 15-year-old from Santa Barbara, California, Athens, Greece probably seemed as far away as the craters on the moon—and just as unreachable—but Cory had earned her way.
Pike, layout, tuck, cutaway, gainer: all terms that might seem foreign to the uninitiated, but Cory knew the meaning of these competitive diving terms before her fifth birthday. Her father Shaun was favored to win gold in the 17th Olympiad in Rome in 1960, but to his endless humiliation came home to America empty-handed. He was unrelenting in his persistence to make sure that his daughter would not repeat his failure, to the point where his determination actually backfired and became a self-fulfilling tragedy.
This moment of solitude during the last hours of her life made her contemplative once again. The decision to do this was never a very difficult one. In truth, it was probably better for everyone involved. Perhaps it was the sedatives talking, but the burden of her life was far too much for any family to endure. Her parents didn’t know that she heard their conversations late at night. Her “electric chair,” as Cory came to call it, could be pretty damned stealthy when she wanted it to be. She only needed eyes and ears to sense the decline in the family lifestyle since the accident. There was the van that hadn’t been replaced in nearly ten years that was held together by spit and glue; she heard her father gripe every time it broke down again. There was the constant doting on her, even though she told them she didn’t need anything. How quickly they both had aged, seemingly overnight. She thought that might have been the final straw, but it wasn’t. That day came a week before Christmas. The phone was ringing so long, and so often, her father ended up tearing it out of the kitchen wall. “Just another creditor,” he bristled under his breath, but Cory still heard him.
One fractional error in judgment on her part, and her father was about to declare bankruptcy. It was the family’s only way out, or so she thought.
Cory was snapped out of her woeful daydream by the sound of Darrin Weber entering the room.
“It’s time, Cory.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him in the mirror. His eyes seemed puffy, as though he might have been crying. She had only known him for a few hours, but he seemed as focused as she was to make this happen. “Has it really been an hour already?”
Weber came up behind her chair and unlocked the brakes. “Almost an hour and a half. We really need to get going.”
Weber stepped behind her and began rolling her chair toward the d
oor. “You are quite a remarkable young woman, Cory O’Brien. I would have really liked to have known you under different circumstances.”
The specially-equipped van was as nondescript as any vehicle that had ever left a Detroit assembly line. Plain white, with an untraceable license plate, the van rumbled slowly toward the south with Cory secured in the back and Weber sitting next to her. Cory could see that the driver up front was a woman.
“Weber?” Cory whispered. The van glided to a stop at a busy intersection. “What’s with the driver?”
Weber glanced at the chauffeur’s eyes in the rear view mirror. The eyes that stared back at him were as green as the traffic light they were waiting for. “Don’t worry. She’s with us. Sort of a guardian angel, I’m told.”
In the mirror, Cory saw the driver’s attention shift to her. “Nice to meet you,” Cory said innocently.
The driver nodded wordlessly, a tuft of bright red hair peeking out from beneath her L.A. Dodgers baseball cap.
It wasn’t only her lack of conversation that told Cory this person was not someone to be messed with. This woman had that indescribable something, be it her mannerisms or just the way she carried herself, that warned you to stay clear.
“Are you coming in with us?” Cory asked politely, trying to prove that her instincts might be wrong.
Weber’s finger shot up to his lips. He gestured that perhaps it would be better if Cory were to leave the driver alone.
“I’ll be there if you need me,” the driver replied, her native Irish inflection creeping through. “Otherwise, you won’t even know I’m there.”
Cory couldn’t hide her apprehension. “Weber, can we go over the plan again?”
Weber fidgeted nervously in his seat. “We’ve already discussed it a thousand—”
“One more time … please?”
5
Sedona, Arizona
Red Rock Amphitheater