One Week To Live

by Joan Beth Erickson

  A writer friend, on the road much of the year, had given him a key to his place and told him he could use it anytime. Unlocking the door, he entered, switched on the light, and emitted a low whistle. He knew his former reporter buddy turned novelist had done well for himself, but he’d never realized how well. He dropped his duffle bag and surveyed the room.

  The spacious corner unit boasted two walls of floor-to-ceiling glass in the living room/dining room area. Beyond these windows, the city’s nighttime skyline glowed in a multi-colored panorama. Crossing to the French doors, he opened them and strolled onto the large corner balcony to see a better view of the Strip’s neon-inspired magic.

  At the far end of Las Vegas Boulevard stood the sky-piercing Stratosphere Tower whose concrete base glowed white against the night sky. The tower pod, lit up in blue, sat atop the 120-story base. He remembered it housing a restaurant, cocktail lounge, and several thrill rides. Red lights illuminated the roller coaster track snaking around the top of the pod.

  Studying the Las Vegas scene further, he spotted the Eiffel Tower replica trimmed in small golden lights. He could also see the top floors of New York, New York’s famed Empire State Building. Emerald green light bathed the outer walls of the nearby MGM Grand.

  Vegas’s drama stood before him. Jaded by his years spent in this town, he still couldn’t help but be impressed. Tonight, however, he didn’t want to savor the view. With it came too many memories, too much pain. Pain he’d attempted to put behind him, but obviously hadn’t.

  Leaving the balcony, he spent the next few minutes flipping on lights and closing the curtains. As he finished, the doorbell rang. Looking through the peephole, he smiled.

  “Joe. How the hell are you?” he asked, motioning the man in. Time hadn’t changed his Metro cop friend. Short and balding, he was still built like a bulldog.

  “I’m doing fine,” Joe replied, surveying the posh surroundings. “Fancy pad! You sell a movie script or something? Journalists don’t make this kind of dough.”

  Brian laughed. “No, it belongs to a friend. A former investigative journalist turned best-selling author.”

  Joe strolled across the room, the thick chocolate-brown carpet muffling his footsteps. Pushing the drapes aside, he whistled. “That’s a hell of a view. Why are you hiding it?”

  “It doesn’t hold the fascination it once did.”

  Joe nodded, his expression indicating he understood.

  Brian went to the living room’s built-in mahogany bar. “Do you want something to drink?”

  “I’ve sworn off alcohol, but you go ahead.”

  “Things finally get to you?”

  “Yeah. I had a choice, either the bottle or my job. I decided on the latter.”

  He reached for the scotch bottle sitting on a glass shelf behind the bar and poured himself a shot. He peered into the small refrigerator located below the counter. “How about a soda?”

  “Okay.” He took the soft drink and settled on a leather barstool. Brian remained on the other side of the bar’s beige granite counter.

  “Your phone call surprised me. I thought you’d never come back here,” Joe said.

  “I’m following a story.”

  “The new nursery rhyme kidnapping case?”

  He nodded.

  Eying him, Joe took a long sip from his soda can. Concern edged his weathered face. “You left Las Vegas for a damn good reason. Why return and relive old memories? Someone else could do the story.”

  “No. I want to write this one myself. I already saw my former editor this afternoon and my new boss wants stories, too.”

  Joe shook his head. “Haven’t you dealt with enough abductions? Stop beating yourself up for what happened to your son.”

  Brian took another healthy sip of his scotch, but said nothing.

  “You were a damn good investigative reporter once. You’re wasting that talent chasing after human interest stories. What’s happened to you?”

  “Three years ago happened.”

  “Dammit,” Joe muttered, slamming his soda can down on the counter. The metallic sound of aluminum hitting granite echoed through the quiet room. “It’s all about your son’s abduction and murder, isn’t it? No matter how many stories you write, you can’t bring Jason back.”

  “We’re good friends, Joe. But what I do now is none of your business.”

  “But it is.” Joe studied him for a minute. “What about that journalistic objectivity you pride yourself in? You’re too close to the subject matter to be a fair, impartial reporter.”

  “I’d walk away from a story if I felt I was getting too emotionally involved.” His words sounded false. He knew he couldn’t walk away. When he’d left Vegas he’d seriously thought about leaving journalism, finding another line of work, but he couldn’t. He no longer possessed the stomach for investigative reporting, but he felt compelled to keep writing other stories.

  “Would you? You continue to blame yourself for what happened. That’s why you’re waging a one-man war against all child kidnappings. Aren’t reporters supposed to report the news, not be part of making it?”

  Reaching for the scotch bottle, Brian poured himself another shot before looking at Joe. “You’ve got it wrong. I blame Dunning for Jason’s death. My source knew where my boy was. But that asshole FBI agent refused to follow the lead unless I named my source. They would have killed my source if I had. Instead, my own son was murdered.”

  Joe massaged the back of his neck for a minute. “Hey, man, you were caught between the proverbial rock and a hard spot. You did what you needed to do. But ever since you’ve been questioning whether you did the right thing.”

  “No, I’m not. If that bastard had acted when I first told him what I knew, my son would be alive. Shit, I should have followed the lead myself.”

  “Right. Unarmed, you should have marched into the enemy’s den and been shot. For what? Jason was already dead. When they found his body in that shallow desert grave, he’d been dead for some time. Probably killed right after being abducted. Snatched children are usually dead within a few hours of being taken. You know that.”

  Except in the nursery rhyme case, he thought.

  “What’s happening with Jane?” Joe asked, changing the subject.

  He shrugged. “My ex-wife blames me for our son’s death. Says I never should have dug into the story in the first place. We haven’t talked since the funeral. Last I heard she moved to Seattle, and recently remarried.”

  “She’s gone on with her life.”

  “And so have I.”

  “Have you?” Joe replied, looking skeptical. His cell phone rang. He studied the caller I.D. “I gotta answer this. It’s my boss. Can I take it in the other room?”

  “Sure.” He motioned toward the bedroom.

  It took all of Brian’s will power not to eavesdrop. When Joe reappeared, he looked grim.

  “What’s up?” he asked, trying to sound more casual than he felt.

  “Before you ask, yes, it concerns the nursery rhyme case.”

  Joe’s expression made it difficult for him to ask the next question. “Have they found the little girl?”

  Joe shook his head. “No, and the Feds now have the case. They don’t want help from the local police. In fact, my boss ordered me to stay out of it.”

  “Shit.”

  “You’re not going to like who’s in charge.”

  “Not Dunning?”

  “Yup.”

  “Shit.” He slammed his glass down. The contents slopped out and spread across the counter in a glistening pool. “The bastard’s still in Vegas?”

  “Yes, and well past due for a promotion. I suspect he’ll go all out on this one to earn his stripes.”

  The man was going to get another child killed, he thought.

  “As you know, he’s by-the-book and pretty closemouthed. He won’t share any information with the likes of us.”

  “Dammit!” Brian swore. “In San Diego, the local cops worked side b
y side with the Feds.”

  “I guarantee that won’t be happening this time.” Joe glanced at his watch. “I’ve gotta go.”

  He followed Joe across the room.

  Reaching the door, Joe hesitated and turned back. “What’s with you and the psychic who worked on the last case?”

  “How did you know about the psychic?”

  “I read the San Diego papers from time to time. Need to see what my old friend is up to.”

  “Nothing gets past you.”

  “Nope.” He grinned. “That’s why I’m such a good cop. So what gives? Reading between the lines, I sensed she’s more than someone working on a case that you covered.”

  “Was I that obvious?”

  “Well, you couldn’t say enough nice things about her. Something going on between the two of you?” Joe asked.

  “I only wish,” he replied.

  “She won’t be involved in this case. Dunning won’t allow it.”

  “Don’t be so certain of that. She lives in Vegas now. It looks like the nutcase is showing up here with the little girl to challenge Angie.”

  “Really?”

  “He likes to play games. He’s implied through his nursery rhyme clue that he wants Angie involved this time. I’m not sure what he’s up to. Last time, he threatened her.”

  “So you’re worried about her.”

  “Yes, I am,” he said.

  “Did he ever carry out any of his threats, harm her in anyway?”

  “No.”

  “If you think she’s in danger, you should let Dunning know,” Joe responded.

  “Fat chance he’ll do anything about it. Besides her safety is a local matter, isn’t it?”

  “Since he hasn’t attempted to harm her, the threats appear hollow. Scare tactics. I’m not sure I can do much.” He hesitated, studying Brian. “You care for this woman, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” A slow smile spread across his face. “I’d like to get to know her better if only she’d give me a chance.”

  “So your lack of social skills shines through once more, Murphy?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, good luck.” Grinning, Joe left.

  Brian’s cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway.

  “It’s raining, it’s pouring. You better not be snoring if you want to keep the kid alive,” a garbled voice announced before the line went dead.

  Uneasiness swept through him. The kidnapper had never contacted him directly before. In the San Diego case, he only delivered clues to the victim’s mother and the police. Now he shared his clue with Brian, too. He punched in Angie’s phone number. Did she get the clue, too?

  ****

  She yanked her arm free from Brian’s grasp. “I’m not taking one more step,” she declared coming to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk bordering Las Vegas Boulevard. Several slightly inebriated passersby nearly knocked her down and she glared at them. What the hell was she doing here with Brian after she’d told him she wanted nothing to do with the case?

  He turned around. “Come on.”

  “It’s nearly midnight. I’m exhausted.”

  “You can’t quit now.” He looked around. “The kidnapper’s not revealing himself, but I’m certain he’s watching us.”

  “Well, he can watch me go home.” She spoke the words with a bravado she didn’t feel. The idea that he could be nearby gave her the willies.

  “You can’t.”

  “Yes, I can.” She’d worked hard to regain control of her life after her divorce. She wouldn’t let a nutcase dictate what she should and shouldn’t do, nor would she let Brian order her around. She’d already been down that road once and wasn’t traveling it again.

  “Angie?”

  “I’m not playing his game. What does his clue refer to? We’ve seen water spurting from fireboats, colorful dancing fountains, and gondola-filled canals.”

  “Last time following the clues led to your visions. Anything this time?”

  She shook her head. “No visions, no premonitions, no feelings. Nothing. I’m no good at this. I wish you’d believe me. The kidnapper doesn’t need to worry about me finding him or the…child.” She’d nearly said “grandchild.” “I can’t turn visions on demand.”

  “He thinks you’ll find him or come close. That’s why he’s challenging you. He likes dancing close to the flame, risking it all and not getting burned.”

  “And you think I’m the one who’s going to set him on fire,” she scoffed. “Fat chance. There’s no way.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He sent her an encouraging smile that she tried to ignore.

  “Let’s try one more place before I take you home,” he said.

  “‘It’s raining, it’s pouring’ could refer to anything including the recent storm we had,” she said.

  “Humor me.”

  “So you think that if I don’t play the sicko’s game, I might wind up dead?”

  Brian nodded.

  “He didn’t harm me last time in spite of his threats.”

  “He didn’t harm you, but that doesn’t mean he won’t. He’s a murderer. A killer of children, why not adults too?”

  His words haunted her as they continued on. He offered her his hand, but she didn’t take it. Several men tried handing her flyers advertising Vegas strip clubs and escort services. She refused them. Feeling uneasy, she quickened her pace, sidestepping one bearded guy blocking her way before catching up with Brian.

  In spite of the late hour, the Strip teamed with traffic. Limos, buses, and taxis sporting rooftop billboards whizzed by. The noise and exhaust fumes added to her growing headache. A headache she’d been nursing since her first vision on Friday.

  They backtracked to one of the pedestrian bridges that spanned busy Las Vegas Boulevard and crossed to the other side. Eventually, they stood in front of his objective. A small, man-made volcano surrounded by a lake with streams cascading over rocks.

  The volcano started to rumble. Soon fire spewed from its top and flames shot skyward. Fire danced across the water and the mountainside glowed orange and yellow mimicking molten lava flowing from a volcano’s heart.

  “Well, if it isn’t my least favorite reporter,” a voice boomed over the rumble and roar.

  “And if it isn’t my least favorite Fed,” Brian replied, his sarcasm matching the other guy’s.

  She heard little of the verbal exchange. When the volcano erupted, it triggered a powerful psychic vision. She saw a brief glimpse of a fiery explosion far greater than the volcano’s. Shaken, she slowly opened her eyes and took a deep breath. What did the vision mean? Was it connected to her grandchild? She prayed it wasn’t. Heated words dragged her back to reality.

  “What are you doing here?” Brian barked.

  “What I’m doing here is none of your business,” the tall blonde man standing near them replied.

  “Come to botch up another kidnap case, Dunning? Get another child killed.”

  “Murphy, you know damn well I’m not the one you should be blaming.” Dunning addressed several other men standing nearby. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything here. Let’s go.”

  Brian grabbed the man by the arm and swung him around. “You received the same clue we did, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here.”

  Dunning looked down at Brian’s hand. “Let go of me or I might decide to charge you with assaulting a federal officer.”

  He dropped his hand. “Bastard,” he muttered as Dunning and the other men left.

  She’d never seen Brian so angry. It frightened her. “What gives with the two of you?”

  “I hate that he’s the Fed in charge of this case.”

  “He’s an FBI agent?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you want him on the case?”

  His lips thinned into a grim line. “I don’t want to discuss it. Let’s go.”

  What was going on between the two men? She feared that whate
ver it was could jeopardize her granddaughter’s life. She thought about sharing her latest vision with him, but changed her mind.

  ****

  Standing on Las Vegas Boulevard across the street from them, the kidnapper observed the encounter between Dunning and Brian and smiled. Because of the traffic noise and distance, he couldn’t hear them, but he could read their body language. They were at each other’s throats and his game was barely underway. This was going to be better than he had originally planned.

  He threaded his way through the flyer-distributing hustlers. He’d return to the kid now and plot the next step in his game.

  He smiled. Like puppets, they dangled on his strings, foolishly chasing clue after clue. They didn’t know the final clue spelled death for both the kid and the woman.

  When would Angela discover the flyer he’d slipped into the side pocket of her purse? It contained the next clue. Not that it mattered much. Her limited psychic abilities posed no match for his cleverness.

  Chapter Five

  Monday morning

  Angie prided herself on her office cubicle’s tidiness. It might be small, but it was hers. Everything remained as she’d left it on Friday. Orderliness spelled control. The only thing different was the flyer she’d just pulled from her purse. Staring at it sitting in the middle of her otherwise uncluttered desk, she realized her controlled world had unfortunately vanished.

  She studied the front side of the flyer. The ad for a strip club featuring a scantily clad lady with a seductive smile didn’t disturb her as much as the message pasted on the backside of the paper. It read, “Beware, I’m watching you and the time grows short.”

  He’d been on Las Vegas Boulevard last night. He’d been close enough to shove the flyer in her purse’s side pocket. Yet, she couldn’t remember what he looked like and hadn’t sensed his presence. A tremor ran through her.

  When her desk phone rang, she picked up the receiver with trembling fingers. Hearing Brian’s familiar voice, she let out the breath she’d been holding. He immediately knew something was wrong.

  “Angie, what is it? You sound upset.”

  “I just found a note from the kidnapper in my purse. He was close enough to me last night to slip it in the bag’s side pocket,” she said, unnerved by this fact.