by John A. Daly
He felt around in the dark for the bucket. When he found it, he placed it near the center of the room upside-down. He turned his back to the camera, facing the door of the freezer. Before sitting down, he discreetly pulled the cord from his pocket and kept it in front of his body. Slowly, it unraveled in his hands. With his head bent forward, he hoped that he would appear distraught, like a man worried about his fate in a helpless, desperate situation.
He sat there for ten minutes, sometimes placing his hand to his head; other times he interlaced his fingers behind his neck, taking one of those opportunities to slide the cord around it. He hoped the cord was thick enough to support his weight—if it came to that. A few inches from his throat, he tied the cord in a bowline knot so it wouldn’t cinch up. It wasn’t an easy knot to tie in the dark, but he’d practiced it and many others as a child for countless hours. Uncle Zed had been a good teacher when it came to that kind of thing.
Sean hadn’t been completely sold by Jessica’s concern for his well-being, but nonetheless, he banked on the notion that whoever was watching him didn’t know that he was aware of their eyes. If they did know, the show he was about to put on would only be good for a laugh at his own expense.
He stood up. With his eyes closed, he pivoted in the general direction of the camera, holding the cord in plain view at the center of his hand while trying not to let the display appear contrived. With his other hand, he carefully performed the sign of the cross on his forehead, and then stood up on top of the bucket. He worked his fingers along the ceiling until he found one of the long pipes he had tried to pry loose before.
He carefully threaded the cord through the narrow gap between the pipe and ceiling. It took a little work, but he eventually forced it through.
He listened intently for what he hoped would be the sound of rapid footsteps from the other side of the freezer door. He heard none. The thought occurred to him that perhaps whoever was watching him had stepped away from the camera for a bit. He also considered that maybe it just didn’t matter to the person what he was doing. He hoped neither was the case.
He tied the opposite end of the cord around the pipe securely, eliminating any excess slack. He stood there for a moment, listening. He still heard nothing.
It was a grim feeling—not just from the tribulation of his current situation—but also from the sense of familiarity that jetted up and down his spine. During the darkest days of his drinking and the alienation of the people who knew him best, Sean would have been lying if he’d claimed never to have thought about taking his own life. At best, it would have lifted the burden he’d become to his family and those who once felt something for him. At worst, no one would have cared. The same torment now stewed in his gut as he awkwardly stood in the dark on a bucket in a basement freezer, feeling painfully alone while waiting for someone to stop him.
Maybe they suspected that he knew they were watching. Maybe they were calling his bluff. Many uncertainties taunted the wisdom of Sean’s scheme, but he had long ago stopped caring about doubts directed at him. It was time to make something happen.
“No reward without risk,” he muttered to himself, reciting a line he’d heard from an old episode of The Rockford Files. He suspected the quote originated elsewhere.
He bent his knees and lowered his body an inch or two, until he felt his own weight mostly supported by the cord looped under his chin. He snarled and kicked the bucket out from under himself.
His eyes immediately bulged as he dangled in the air, the cord digging into his flesh. He flexed his neck and squared his jaw, keeping his body stiff and tight, and fighting back the urge to panic. Though he had been careful not to position the cord around his throat, he was quickly finding it difficult to breathe. His body trembled from the tension.
The pipe above him cried and seemed to bend slightly from his weight, but it remained attached to the ceiling. He imagined that if he could see himself in a mirror, his face would be beet-red with every vein in his forehead protruding like ropes wrapped around a rock.
With a toothy grimace across his face, drool began to slide from his mouth and the unbearable pressure under his chin nearly forced him try to grab onto the cord or pipe above to alleviate it. He disciplined himself not to, even as he felt his loose pants slide down from his waist.
He suddenly felt his body drop an inch or two. The cord was now under his throat, and his breath was cut off. The pipe had buckled.
He gasped for air but found none. He realized immediately that the game was nearing an end. If he didn’t do something fast, he’d choke to death. He raised his hands and frantically forced his fingers between his throat and the cord, just as his pants slid down his legs.
The room was suddenly illuminated by the bright ceiling light.
It nearly blinded Sean as his flailing body twisted in the direction of the freezer door. Through the brilliance of the fluorescent bulbs and distress that punished his body, he saw an almost equally panicked face glaring back at him through the porthole window.
It was the same bespectacled man who had come in earlier. Seeing through the camera what Sean was doing, he now took a closer look to confirm that the act was genuine.
As torturous as it was, Sean understood he needed to further sell a situation that had already turned deadly serious. He let his hands fall to his side and his eyes roll up to the top of his head. Mere seconds seemed like agonizing minutes as he hung in the air.
The thought that the end might be near taunted his soul. I’m gonna check out, hanging from a pipe with my pants around my ankles.
The man disappeared from the window. The loud sound of the metal latch unsnapping echoed. Sean immediately raised his hands and wedged the tips of his fingers in between his throat and the cord again. He lifted his head as best he could toward the ceiling and pried at the cord with all of his might, frantically bucking his legs and hips.
The door swung open. The desperate-looking man sprinted inside, but only managed to take about two quick steps before his feet slid on the large puddle of water that Sean had created at the doorway from the bottles that had been left for him. The man’s momentum sent him crashing forward to his knees. Sean yanked the cord up to his chin and then out from under it.
He fell to his feet, nearly losing his balance from the wave of lightheadedness that beat against his skull. He had enough presence of mind to recognize that the gun had fallen from the man’s hand. He lunged for it, grabbed the man’s arm instead, and tackled him onto his back.
The physical savagery picked up where it had left off at Sean’s house, with him quickly overpowering the smaller man who squirmed and fought like a trapped animal. A wheezing sound poured out from Sean’s swollen throat as he fought, but he bottled up the impulse to erupt into a coughing fit to clear his windpipe.
He jerked his pants back up to his waist over his boxer shorts. He straddled the man’s body and twisted his wrist at a sick angle until the gun fell from his shaking fingers to the floor. He latched onto the man’s collar and yanked him away from the gun before sliding his hands up to his throat.
The man’s eyes turned to the size of golf balls under his glasses. He grabbed onto Sean’s wrists and pried at them unsuccessfully, his legs kicking erratically along the floor.
Sean
held up the pressure—he’d promised the man that he’d no longer be breathing if they tangled again.
Though raw anger was fueling Sean’s desire to keep his word—something that his uncle had always said built character—the agony and helplessness in the man’s eyes made him rethink his promise. He knew that even with everything that had happened, he couldn’t take the man’s life—not after the man had just tried to save him from killing himself.
He let go of the man’s neck. He ripped his glasses from his face and immediately sent a devastating right-cross to the side of his head. The man’s head snapped to the side and his body went limp. His glassy eyes peered off in a random direction. Sean could tell by his snort-like breathing that he was out cold. He tossed the glasses to one side.
He dismounted the man and reached for the fallen revolver. He quickly checked its action. A loud, delayed coughing fit left his throat as he taught himself to breathe again.
The man had to have been the only one who was watching through the camera as Sean pulled his stunt, otherwise others would have rushed into the room to assist. He searched the man’s pockets and found nothing of use. He didn’t even have a wallet, thus no identification.
Sean crawled over to the thin mattress that lay on the floor. He grabbed it and draped it over the man’s body at an angle, hoping it looked on camera like the original captive was merely tired and seeking warmth.
He left through the open freezer door and found himself in a small, unfinished room. The concrete floor had a couple of round drain-grates embedded in it. Raw sheet rock dressed the walls. An old clothes washer and dryer sat in a corner, as did some cleaning supplies and food boxes that had probably been moved out of the freezer. At the very top of the opposite wall was a small window about three feet wide and one foot in height. There was no way he could escape through it. The outside of the window was completely covered with snow.
When he turned to close the freezer door, he found a large padlock lying on the floor beside it. A key with three others attached to a small D-shaped ring was still inside of the lock. He closed the door, snapped on the padlock, and slid the keys in his pocket. He turned off the freezer light and swiveled his head toward the staircase he had eyed earlier.
Chapter 23
Lumbergh could have radioed Redick and asked that he come back. He also could have pled with the sheriff to have his deputy pull over to the side of the road and wait for him until he got there. Lumbergh knew, however, that the sheriff would not have complied.
Redick viewed the chief as a liability to the successful prosecution of Alex Martinez—a man facing two attempted murder charges, including one for a police officer. It was a good case to have on a resume, as Lumbergh understood all too well from his career in Chicago. It was one of the things he’d noted quickly rising up the hierarchical ladder. If Redick knew the chief was coming, he would have his deputy alter his route back to County to avoid a confrontation.
Large, thick flakes of snow slapped up against the windshield of the cruiser, narrowing Lumbergh’s visibility tremendously. Some snow had even managed to work its way through the bullet holes in the glass and onto the dashboard where the warmth of the automobile’s defroster turned it to slush. Loud, forceful gusts of wind pressed against the driver’s side of the car, keeping Lumbergh’s hand clamped tightly to the steering wheel.
The storm had arrived.
The wiper blades were working like mad by the time he reached Interstate 70. It was the stretch of road where he believed he could catch up to Redick. He flipped on the flashers and sirens and sped his way down the mountain.
The traffic was fairly light in the eastbound lanes. Most people who’d come up to ski that day were surely either planning on staying the night or had already made their way back toward Denver that afternoon to beat the blizzard. The sporadic clusters of cars that did occupy the road were meandering along cautiously. Whenever Lumbergh came upon them, they’d slowly pull over to the shoulder to let him whizz by.
Lumbergh knew he was driving faster than what was safe, but if he didn’t get to Martinez by the time he was processed and behind bars again, he knew he’d never get anything out of him.
Whenever a pair of taillights came into view through the net of whiteness in front of him, he’d pump the brakes and examine the car’s make. After a dozen or so hopefuls, he finally spotted the sheriff ’s car winding a sharp turn in the right-hand lane ahead. Lumbergh turned off his siren but kept his flashers on.
The back of Martinez’s head lit up in the backseat when Lumbergh moved in behind the cruiser and repeatedly flashed his high beams.
“Richard, it’s Gary Lumbergh behind you,” he spoke into his radio, hugging the steering wheel steady with his thighs. “I need you to pull over.”
Even through the falling snow, Lumbergh’s headlights revealed Redick’s angry eyes glaring back at him through the cruiser’s steel dividing grill. Martinez seemed completely uninterested in what was happening, not bothering to even turn around.
“What do you want, Gary?” Redick’s irritated voice came over the radio.
“Martinez knows more than we thought. He knows where Sean is. I’m sure of it!”
“We’ve already been through this, Gary. If he knows anything, we’ll get it from him at County with his lawyer present.”
Lumbergh cursed and angrily slammed down his radio, letting it bounce off the floorboard. He took a deep breath, tightening his jaw and pressing down on the gas pedal. When he passed the county cruiser on the left, he could imagine the panic-riddled face of the deputy, whose driving suddenly became erratic as he pumped his brakes and swerved, unsure what the sheriff aimed to do.
Lumbergh continued pulling ahead of the other lawmen until the back bumper of his car was cattycorner to their front bumper. He then edged his way steadily to the right, forcing them to slow down or risk being nudged into the guardrail on the other side of them.
Once both cars came to a stop, Lumbergh threw his in park and swung open his door. He stepped outside and was nearly toppled over by the powerful blast of bitterly cold wind. The thick flakes that whisked by him were painted multiple colors by the bright, rotating flashers, almost drowning out the roadside area as they swung through the sky like volcanic ash.
The deputy opened his door and stepped out, his chest bloated with indignation. Lumbergh sidestepped him and went straight for the rear side-window. He beat his clamped fist against the glass to get the attention of Martinez who sat under the dome light. The intern wasn’t responding, his blank gaze only directed at the windshield.
“The red fox’s den!” Lumbergh shouted. “You saw where they took Sean! You followed them, didn’t you?”
He watched for any kind of reaction in Martinez’s face. There wasn’t one at first, but then a snide grin slowly began to form. He leisurely turned his head to meet Lumbergh’s eyes, expressing an overdue hint of clarity. His lips began moving, saying something to Lumbergh.
Lumbergh couldn’t hear it through the whistling of the wind. “What?” he yelled, using his hand as a visor to try and shield out the noise.
“He said that even a man with tunnel vision has his outside curiosities!” The loud voice came from Redick who had just climbed out of the passenger’s seat.
No longer wearing his hat, the wind against Redick’s tightly curled hair made his head look like a thick bush with a small animal trapped inside it working to find its way out.
Lumbergh’s eyes narrowed as flakes of snow pelted his face.
“It doesn’t matter, Gary. He asked for a lawyer. We can’t ask him any more questions!”
Lumbergh shouted back, “Sean was looking into the Andrew Carson case! The missing man from Greeley! Presumed dead. I think he found the person responsible for it and that’s who took him!”
“Andrew Carson?” Redick answered with his face twisted in puzzlement. “How the hell would Sean know anything about that?”
“It’s a long story. Just believe me that Sean’s in danger, and Martinez knows where he is!”
The gears in Redick’s skull seemed to spin for a moment, but only a moment. He shook his head and repeated his insistence that things be done by the law.
Lumbergh could barely contain his fury. When he felt the deputy’s hand latch onto his arm to guide him away from the vehicle, he clenched his teeth and drove a sharp elbow directly into the man’s face. The deputy’s head snapped back, a bark escaping him. He lumbered backwards on unsteady footing, holding a hand to his eye. Lumbergh snatched the firearm from the deputy’s side-holster and quickly trained it on him.
“Gary!” yelled Redick.
Lumbergh took the deputy down to the frozen pavement with a leg-trip and a shoulder-block, then turned on the sheriff.
Redick found the gun suddenly pointed at him.
“Get your hands up and get over here, Richard!” Lumbergh growled, his face stern.
Redick’s complexion turned sick. With his hands slowly rising into the air, he crept out from the other side of the car. His footing was cautious due to the strong gusts of wind that intensified around them.