The Screaming Room

by Thomas O'Callaghan

  Driscoll hesitated, not sure how she’d react to his next order. But he gave it. “I want a SWAT team onsite. Shooters in position.” He was sure he heard her take a breath. He held his, waited two seconds, then heard her say, “Done.”

  Thoughts collided inside the Lieutenant’s head as he raced south on the Henry Hudson Parkway. Although Novak raised the possibility that Sanderson might still be alive, it’d be unlikely the twins would seek refuge in their father’s building if he were still in the picture, and every instinct told Driscoll that’s where they were. But were they alone? These two were psychos. Angus said the old man was dead but he didn’t say buried. Driscoll hoped they hadn’t pulled a Norman Bates or a Jeffrey Dahmer. Then there was Novak, who had confessed to pushing drugs. That couldn’t go unreported. Put an end to the killings first, wisdom suggested. The inmate’s not going anywhere.

  Chapter 88

  “You’d like to see the sights of old New York, would ya?” Timothy Alfreds beckoned to a strolling couple, in his best histrionic cockney. The closest he’d come to London’s East End, though, was his being born on East Seventeenth Street, long before Starbucks opened at both ends of the block. Alfreds felt the accent added to the flavor and tranquility of the horse-drawn carriage ride through the park.

  While he was fluffing the passenger pillows behind him, he heard a woman’s voice. When he turned about, a gold shield and a police ID were six inches from his nose.

  “Jesus! What now?”

  “I’m Detective Butler. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Detective First Grade Liz Butler was part of Driscoll’s task force. She was a no-nonsense, top-notch police officer who was good at retrieving information. From anybody.

  Although Alfreds was suspicious of all investigators, he was relieved she wasn’t from the Department of Consumer Affairs, or worse, the Department of Citywide Administrative Services, who had the annoying habit of sending out an inspector to examine the carriage, its license, the laminated card that displayed the maximum charges, along with the horse. They did this, without notice, once every four months.

  “It’s always a pleasure to help the authorities,” said Alfreds. “What is it you’d like to know?”

  “Gus Sanderson. You know him?”

  Butler caught his answer before he spoke it. The twitch of his left eye said he knew Sanderson. It also said Alfreds would weigh his words. There was a simple remedy for that. All men loved a flirt and she’d know when to turn it on.

  “You’re looking at the only friend he had in New York,” said Alfreds. “He and I worked this circle for the past seven years.”

  Her knack at gravitating to just the right person boggled her fellow officers. She claimed she was gifted. “The only friend he had in New York? As in past tense?”

  “I guess we’re still friends, but I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

  No twitch. “Why’s that?”

  “He headed south.”

  “South Carolina? South America?”

  Alfreds grinned. “You never met Gus. Am I right?”

  “What gives me away?”

  “Gus wasn’t much of a traveler. He knew a hundred ways of making money. But a thousand ways to keep it.”

  “No crime in that. How far south did his buck take him?”

  “Pennsylvania.”

  Alfreds was becoming less reticent. Butler was pleased. “Why Pennsylvania?”

  “We,” he said, motioning in the direction of a handful of drivers, “have a friend there.”

  “You and the other drivers?”

  “Me and the other horses.”

  Cute. “What kind of friend? Two footed or four?”

  The man smiled. “You’re quick-witted. And it suits you.”

  “Thanks,” said Butler, extending an open palm to the man’s horse.

  “It might take Molly a minute or two to warm up to ya. The time would be cut in half if you had an apple in that hand.”

  “Passed a few fruit vendors on the way up. None of them looked like they could make it through the alphabet. I hate it when I have to use my hands to illustrate what a pound of grapes looks like.”

  “You’ve got a way with words, too. I’m guessin’ all your denim is made in America.”

  “They fit better.” Molly was nuzzling against the tips of the detective’s fingers. “Who’s your friend in Pennsylvania?” Her question was directed at the horse.

  “If you had an apple…”

  “No apple, Molly. Sorry.”

  “There’s a farm just west of Philly. Miller’s Farm,” said Alfreds. “Molly, I see you’ve made a friend. Any room for Molly in your Mounted Unit, detective?”

  “Not without a sex change. The department only uses gelded males.”

  “The Mayor know that?”

  “You didn’t hear it from me, but the commissioner held back that nugget until Sully Reirdon assured him he’d stay on as top cop. What’s at the farm?”

  “The farm?”

  “Miller’s Farm. You said it was outside of Philly.”

  “Right. Sanderson in Pennsylvania. Most of the carriage horses in New York work a nine-hour day. On the streets, there’s just asphalt. Hot to the touch in July, cold in December. The city says if the temperature is over ninety degrees or below eighteen, the horses are not to be worked. Otherwise, we’re out here, rain or shine. Sanderson brought his horse to Miller’s to have her roam on grass, trot, lie down if he wants to. Anything but pound asphalt. Believe me. It’s like being sent to a fine spa. Without that kind of break, the horse’s life span is cut in half. His horse’s name is Teener. A dappled gray Appaloosa. A beautiful animal.”

  “These temperature regulations. When you’re not permitted to work, where do you bring the horses?”

  “Same place where they spend their nights. In their stables. New York’s got five major ones. A couple of them house up to seventy horses. They’re up in the Hell’s Kitchen area, between Eleventh and Twelfth avenues, from West Thirty-seventh to West Fifty-second.”

  Butler was stroking the side of Molly’s neck.

  “Where does Molly bed down?”

  “Shamrock. On West Forty-fifth.”

  “And Sanderson’s horse?”

  “No four-by-six for Teener. Sanderson had his own stable. A single. On the Eastside somewhere.”

  “Not a fan of overcrowding?”

  “Like I said, I’m probably the only friend he’s got in the city.”

  “He piss someone off?”

  “I don’t think so. He was a hard man. Kept to himself. Stayed out of everyone’s business. And didn’t invite many into his. That rubbed a lot of the guys the wrong way. Most of them are regulars. So we see each other every day. Like family,” said Alfreds.

  “I take it Sanderson wasn’t much of a family man.”

  “He had his own. Two kids. A boy and a girl. They used to work the carriage with him. Probably brought in most of the cash. Sanderson dressed them up as Indians. He told the strollers Central Park was originally built as an Indian reservation. The kids were the only ones still around. Might seem a little corny. But we see people from all over the world. Many of them think the old Westerns on Nick-at-Nite are reality shows. His Two-Little-Indians package was a draw. A gimmick to attract customers. One of his hundred ways to make a buck. It worked pretty well. Sanderson had many repeat customers.”

  “You said the kids worked the carriage. What’s that involve?”

  “Part of the attraction was to give his customers a chance to ride with a pair of real Indians.”

  “Where’d they sit?” Butler could live without knowing and would have preferred it that way. But this was an investigation, not a casual conversation.

  “Nobody sits up front with the driver. The city is big on that rule.”

  “So they sat in back?”

  “Alongside the customers.”

  “Could get a little tight back there, no?”

  “Don’t even go th
ere. These were kids. With their dad right there with them.”

  “Tell me you never saw them share a blanket.”

  “That’d be a lie. It gets plenty cold. It’s an open-air carriage.”

  “What’d these kids look like?”

  “Indians.”

  “No. Not how they were dressed. What did their faces look like?”

  “Indians. That was part of the show. They were coated in war paint.”

  “You never saw their faces?”

  “Not without the paint.”

  “How is it you knew Sanderson went to Pennsylvania?”

  “His son told me?”

  “Angus?”

  “That’s not the name I knew him as. His father called him Titus.”

  “When did he tell you?”

  “Back a month and a half. Maybe more.”

  “Here?”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen the kids for over four years. They must be in their late teens by now. As they got older, Sanderson stopped using them. It was no longer cute.”

  “You must have seen his face when he told you two months ago his father was heading out of town, no?”

  “’Fraid not.”

  “He was still wearing makeup?”

  “Doubt it. He called me at the stable.”

  Chapter 89

  “The resemblance is uncanny,” said Angus, studying the woman’s face. “You’d think they were twins.”

  Terror filled his captive. And it was heightened by the rag’s metallic taste and the bite of the wire that bound her wrists and ankles to a hard wooden chair.

  “You still haven’t told me how you found her,” said Cassie, taking her turn scoping their prize, indifferent to the plea her eyes conveyed.

  “It wasn’t easy,” Angus said, shooting the hostage a glare. “I’m probably gonna hafta see a freakin’ eye doctor because of you. I spent over a week scouring the Internet to track you down!”

  “Next time I wanna see how it’s done,” said Cassie.

  “There’ll be no next time.”

  “Then clue me in, damn it!”

  With his eyes still fixed on the woman, Angus caved. “The Web, Lovee, is a veritable feast for need-to-know people like me. There’s birth records, public deed listings, frequent flyer accounts, and motor vehicle records.” Angus was beginning to sound like a broken record. The monotony was making him dizzy. He leaned his face into that of his captive. “Guess where I found you,” he said.

  “She’s not gonna answer you, Angus. You’re better off just telling me.”

  “Death records.”

  “She don’t look dead to me,” said Cassie. “Not yet.”

  The woman’s heart thumped, as tears welled, perspiration collected, and nausea set in.

  “You ever read a memorial?” Angus asked Cassie.

  “Nope.”

  “They’re like the freakin’ medal of honor of obituaries. They’re filled with all sorts of stuff. You learn all about the dead person’s hard work, loyalty, and dedication. They also throw in the date the person died. Maybe a membership in a lodge. And in the end, it tells you about the relatives. Emma Stiff, survived by…” He turned his attention to the woman. “That’s where I found you.”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t become a schoolteacher,” Cassie said. “You’re not very good at explaining things. I’m freakin’ lost.”

  “The memorial was on a Web site for some art student’s league. It was for a Colette Driscoll, wife of Lieutenant John W. Driscoll, NYPD. Said she was survived by a sister-in-law and it featured her name. A unique name. Hyphenated. Discovering where she lived was a breeze after that.” Angus positioned himself behind his captive.

  Cassie grinned. The woman fainted. Angus propped her head back up.

  “Lovee, meet Mary Driscoll-Humphreys. Lieutenant Bloodhound’s sister.”

  Chapter 90

  Cassie was the first to hear it. She rushed to the window, spotting the helicopter. And not just any helicopter, a police helicopter. Correction. There were two.

  “Well, Angus, you were right to call him a bloodhound.”

  Angus was astonished. “He’s outside?”

  “I don’t know if he is, but a shitload of his friends are.” Cassie did the Wicked Witch melting bit, descending out of sight.

  Angus huddled beside her.

  “You said not to worry. Nobody saw you graze his sister with the car.”

  “Like I said. Nobody saw me.” Angus chanced a glance outside. What he saw didn’t make him happy. He slid back down. “Okay, his sister. I got outta the car. Did the ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry’ routine, and finessed her into letting me drive her to the hospital to make certain she was okay. The gun pointed at her head made for a quiet ride.”

  “You came directly here. Nonstop.”

  “Just to mail the camera’s memory card. Pulled to the curb. Hopped out. Mailed it, and climbed back in. Not once was she out of the crosshairs.”

  “And the car. Nobody saw you hot-wire the car?”

  “C’mon. Do I look like an idiot?”

  Cassie thought about the question. She was tempted, but she chose not to offer her opinion. “Outside of strip searching the bitch to see if she’s packing a LoJack, what’re we gonna do? We got an army of cops out there!” She shook her head. Considered the possibilities. “I’m tired of running. And tired of hiding. Sure, we got his sister, but that might really piss him off. We could end up dead! Maybe it’s time to turn ourselves in.”

  “We’re not giving up. They don’t get to win!”

  “The cops?’

  “No! The ones who liked to come on your face ’cause it’s disfigured. The one who wanted his balls licked while he peed. The one who tied a belt around your neck. Made you howl like an alien while he screwed you up the ass. You forgettin’ when that bastard carved you up, raped you, and left you screaming? Strapped to a table, screaming. You forgettin’?”

  As Cassie collapsed on the floor, Angus thought about what she’d said. Her warning that they may end up dead, kept repeating inside his head. He considered their options. We might have Driscoll’s sister, but there is a freaking horde of cops outside and they all have guns. Could there be a trigger-happy shooter among them? A police shooting in the Bronx a few years back popped into his head. He couldn’t remember the victim’s name, but while reaching for what turned out to be his wallet, over forty police bullets were fired. Half of them struck and killed the man. Bits and pieces of a more recent shootings came to mind. Something about a man being shot and killed by police, hours before he was to be married. If he wasn’t mistaken, that incident also included a hail of police fire.

  He retrieved his cell phone, hesitated…but ultimately placed the call.

  Chapter 91

  “Who is this?”

  “No time for games, Shewster. You know who this is. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have let them forward the call.”

  “You pissant. You kill my daughter then have the balls to call me?”

  “And those balls are about to get bigger.”

  “Do you realize who you’re talking to?”

  “Your daughter was a moaner, dickhead. Insisted I holler ‘Gwennypoo! Gwennypoo!’ while I did her doggy style. Got myself two handfuls of hefty hooters while I was at it. Between you and me, I think Daddy’s little girl had a boob job. I should tell you, our rendezvousin’ don’t involve actually doin’ it anymore. But she had such doelike eyes. And she brought a camera! That was a first. We had our first threesome! Cassie is quite the photographer. Hustler might wanna buy these babies. I can send you some shots, if you’d like. You can tell me if you agree. There’s thirty-six in all. My personal favorite is the one your daughter insisted Cassie take while she—wait! Hold on! Hold on! What am I doin’? That’d ruin the surprise. I got a question. Your Gwennypoo go to some sorta contortionist school? That girl wiggled like a worm.”

  Shewster said nothing.

  “I’m figuring you wouldn’t want
the newspaper buzzards to get their mitts on this stack of photos. So, here’s what your afternoon will look like. You’re gonna have the police pick us up in one of those choppers they launched. Then we’ll need a plane.”

  “You’re out of your mind!”

  “Have your pilot top off the tank. We’ll be going to Quebec. Half the people there speak nothin’ but French. They keep their noses in a wine list, not the freakin’ Daily News! Even if he found us, Driscoll would have a tough time convincing the Royal Mounties to give us up seein’ as we’re gonna get jabbed with a needle back in the states. News flash! Canuck law prohibits our forced return if we’re likely to be executed. Why do New Yorkers get their rocks off on capital punishment? I’m bettin’ Driscoll’s a big fan. He’ll be packin’ a pair of syringes monogrammed especially for us.”

  Silence from Shewster.

  “Gwennypoo! Gwennypoo!” Angus howled. “Me, I’m not much into any more than three positions. Wait! Make that four. Your daughter taught me a new one. She was a real hottie under all those conservative clothes she were. Did you know she had both nipples pierced with little silver charms? One was a baby’s shoe. The other one, I couldn’t figure out. Tasted like maple syrup. Yessir, a real hottie. I’d bet she’d give Peter Pan a woody.”

  Not a sound. But Angus knew he was still on the line. He’d wait him out. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five…

  “Where are you?”

  Chapter 92

  Thomlinson hadn’t quite gotten over the stiffness in his lower back from the cemetery run. Driscoll’s Chevy was roomy—as long as you were seated up front. That’s why he was now in a super-sized GMC Yukon. Fleet Services had wired this baby up with XM satellite radio. Thomlinson was known to the crew as “a frequent flyer” of this particular vehicle. That being the case, Pokee, one of the technicians, had the receiver set to XM101 when he handed Thomlinson the keys.

  His eyes were on the entrance to Shewster’s hotel. His thoughts were on what he imagined was going on at the loft. But his ears were lost to the sound of Bob Marley’s “Jammin’.” The prolific songwriter may have left this planet in 1981, but thankfully, he hadn’t taken his music with him.