Earthbound : A gripping crime thriller full of twists and supernatural suspense

by Fynn Perry

  Still no response.

  Chapman paused to stare at Quinn as if to check whether a crack was starting to appear in his carefully constructed dam of restraint. Now John could see the orange fire in the man’s eyes, burning with higher intensity.

  “We have also succeeded in identifying the name of the kidnapped scientist in charge of the pill-production process, who has gone missing. As you can imagine, finding a man with such unique knowledge has been our top priority. It’s Ekrem Yilmaz, Mr. Quinn. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  There was no change in Quinn’s stoic demeanor.

  “It should do, Mr. Quinn. You see, as soon as we captured you, a photograph of your face and your car plates went straight into our database. At that point, you became a person of interest in our system. We could track your movements over the last few days before your arrest, through police networks of facial and license plate recognition systems in twenty-one states. As soon as we identified you, we obtained a warrant to search all the locations you visited. Ten minutes ago, the Philadelphia branch of the FBI raided a house in the northeast district, which you had visited several times. And there they discovered Dr. Yilmaz being held prisoner.”

  John could see the spirit inside Quinn was raging. Quinn’s skin was glowing, and orange light was penetrating the fabric of his clothes. With every second, the glow became brighter.

  “It’s over, Quinn! Your operation is finished. El Gordito is going to be indicted, thanks to his lawyer and his accountant turning state’s evidence and cutting themselves a deal. We have you on attempted capital murder, kidnapping, drug manufacturing, drug distribution and money laundering….”

  Chapman didn’t finish because he noticed that Quinn had started mumbling to himself.

  “Shut up! Shut Up!” Quinn started to say, his voice becoming louder and louder.

  John felt his heartbeat pounding like a jackhammer as he could now see the spirit’s head slowly emerging. And there he was, just as John remembered him from the photo Jennifer had shown him online—the long hair, the cruel eyes, and thin nose. The sound of a muffled voice grew louder and louder. As the mouth appeared, so did the voice—clear and booming. It had a thick Mexican accent and overpowered the shouts of Quinn, which suddenly stopped as the spirit’s head fully emerged. Quinn’s eyes glazed over and rolled upward.

  There was the sensation of blood drumming in John’s head and a feeling of intense anxiety gripped him as he had no doubt that the spirit of Juan Santiago was right there before his eyes.

  The strong, Jesus-like facial features started to slowly distort. The spirit’s glow changed from the orange that John had become accustomed to seeing, into an intense white. “You can’t do this! You can’t do this! You can’t fucking do this!” the spirit screamed.

  John looked around, panicked. He had no idea who Santiago was shouting at. All he knew was that the Mexican’s evil spirit would rip him to shreds as soon as it saw him. Only a mirror and a wall separated them. In a second, Santiago could be through it, and John would have to confront his greatest fear—being totally and utterly destroyed––non-existence in any form. His hope of one day returning to the living and to Jennifer would be gone forever. That fear, along with all the other negative mortal emotions he had fought so hard to keep under control, now held him paralyzed.

  As he stood there, John noticed a dark-black dot in the corner of the interview room. It was smaller than a golf ball, and he would have missed it if it weren’t for the fact that it was gradually growing in size. Light seemed to bend into it and disappear within it. At its center was the deepest and darkest nothingness he had ever seen.

  “It’s not over! It’s not over!” Santiago screamed at it.

  The dark sphere grew in size. It was the size of a football now. Santiago’s spirit had fully emerged, blazing with white light, his face and prison jumpsuit now barely distinguishable from the intensity of the light.

  Completely unaware of what was happening in the spirit world, Chapman had rushed to Quinn’s slumped body and was checking for signs of breathing. The captain rushed out of the room to get help.

  Another deep-black sphere appeared––this time at the center of Santiago’s glowing form. It, too, began smaller than a golf ball but increased in size rapidly, consuming the white glow within itself and gradually dissolving away Santiago’s features.

  “No! Fucking no!” Santiago screamed.

  The sound of screaming faded to a quieter level, as though someone had turned down the volume on the speakers transmitting sounds from the interview room.

  “Well done, John!” said a familiar female voice right next to him.

  It startled John. He turned to his right and saw Nikki.

  “You’re an interesting character, John. You’ve caused Santiago’s spirit to fail at executing the narrative he was given in The Game.”

  “What? What does that mean exactly?” John stuttered, his face showing a desperate need to have his hopes turned into reality.

  “He failed to create an unprecedented epidemic of drug addiction and violence. It was going to be our best work yet. But once the Feds found Yilmaz, the only man who could make the pills, it was all over.”

  “And what does that mean for me, my girlfriend, and her father?” John asked fearfully as he switched back to the view of Santiago’s diminishing spirit and then back again toward her.

  “It means Santiago’s spirit has lost his right to be here. He will never be able to possess another mortal, never be able to influence their thoughts, convince them to attack or kill someone. He’s no longer a menace to you or your girlfriend and her father. And you defeated him.”

  She said it so flatly, so casually, that her words took a moment to sink in. When it did, he felt a profound relief, as though vast waves of stress were washing out of him. John realized he was now seeing Santiago being transformed from an earthbound spirit into pure consciousness: a dark, spherical abyss called a Void, just like the ones Nikki had shown him when she had taught him about The Game. Another Void had come for Santiago, presumably to ensure his joining with humanity in the afterlife.

  “So, we’re––” John didn’t finish. He couldn’t. No words came out. Something was preventing him from speaking.

  “Don’t talk, look!” Nikki commanded.

  John looked back into the interview room. The last of Santiago’s spirit had been all but consumed. As the last parts of his glowing form disappeared into the black sphere, his shouting suddenly stopped. The two Voids stayed in the room for a second, hovering perfectly still at the same height, about five feet off the floor, before disappearing.

  Chapman was sitting across from Quinn, who was still slumped over with his chest and face flat on the table. A paramedic was taking the detainee’s pulse, checking his breathing, then took out some smelling salts and placed them under Quinn’s nose.

  “What am I supposed to see?” John asked Nikki, still confused.

  “Wait,” she replied, her tone impatient.

  John was about to look back at Nikki when the captain burst into the interview room. “Lazlo’s been shot by a sniper! He’s dead! Cromwell just called it in. It happened an hour and a half ago, but he was out of cell range.”

  “How the hell did that happen?” exclaimed Chapman.

  John could hardly register what he had just heard. Lazlo, the person who had done so much to help him and Jen, was now dead. The assassin had still gotten to him, despite all the money and seemingly clever FBI tactics. As John’s gaze wandered around him in disbelief, he noticed that Nikki had sidled up to him and he suddenly became aware of her energy buzzing against his own as she tilted her head to whisper something in his ear.

  “A new star is born,” she breathed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bye, John, and good luck!” she responded, ignoring his question.

  “Wait! What’s going to happen to me?”

  She didn’t reply. A black void grew from her center. When it
had completely consumed her, it too was the size of a football. It hovered next to him before disappearing in a flash.

  The activity in the interview room now recaptured John’s attention. Quinn had come round and was sitting up.

  Chapman greeted him. “Welcome back, Mr. Quinn. You’re off to Rikers to await arraignment.”

  “Call Senator Sanders. He will get me released,” said Quinn wearily.

  “Sure, right after we call the President,” responded Chapman with a good dose of sarcasm.

  John watched as two FBI SWAT officers in combat gear uncuffed Quinn from the bar set into the table and dragged him to his feet before taking him out of the room.

  John followed behind Chapman and the captain.

  “Call Sanders!” Quinn continued to repeat, still dazed and staggering.

  Quinn was taken outside, into a narrow courtyard that ran along the side of the precinct building. The dark, angular shape of an armored FBI SWAT truck dominated the view. It took up nearly the full width of the yard as it stood waiting, engine idling.

  It would have been supremely challenging for any sniper to get a kill shot in the small area between the truck and the precinct building, and that was before taking into account the group of officers that would accompany the detainee. The only available line of sight was from directly across the street, above traffic and pedestrians but below the tree canopies in the yard. Achieving a prone position at that height, unseen, would be very difficult. Very difficult did not mean impossible.

  An alley ran perpendicular to the street on the other side, its mouth facing the courtyard of the 73rd precinct. The cab and jutting sleeping compartment of a Winnebago motorhome had just nudged its way into view and came to a stop at the other end of the alley. A small, circular section of the wall of the sleeper compartment disappeared, leaving a hole through which the barrel of a Remington 700 PSS rifle appeared. On the other side of the opening, Shadow Dragon was lying motionless in a modified berth, waiting. She had a tablet next to her, showing real-time feeds from two cameras—cameras that she had rigged along the street, running past the police precinct in opposing directions. She couldn’t afford to have a passing eighteen-wheeler truck or bus spoil the shot.

  John followed as Quinn was escorted down the corridor toward the side exit leading into the secluded courtyard. They stopped at the door and waited for the ‘all clear’ from two officers outside. Chapman and John followed the men out.

  John heard the sound of a truck pass by along the street outside and then watched in horror as the side of Quinn’s head took a bullet like a watermelon. The sound of the shell hitting the Kevlar helmet of an officer behind him rang out in synch with the report of a rifle. Quinn’s legs buckled. He spiraled downward, slamming his face into the pavement.

  John, forgetting that he was a spirit, had ducked back into the building for cover, along with Chapman, as the SWAT team frantically trained their assault rifles at the windows and roofs of the neighboring buildings to secure the area. But it was all too late. There was no need for a sniper to take a second shot. There was no way that Quinn would survive.

  Chapman was met by a young guy in a suit and blue windbreaker running toward him, holding a phone out. “It’s Cromwell, sir, he says it’s urgent, he couldn’t get through.”

  John could hear Cromwell shouting in panic over the phone. He was obviously driving. “As soon as I got a strong-enough signal, I logged back on the website where the hit on Lazlo was ordered to see if I missed a clue as to how the assassin found him. On the assassin’s account, I found three new hits, already paid for two hours ago. A guy named––”

  “Gabriel Quinn?” Chapman interrupted.

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s too late, George. Quinn’s dead, sniper bullet to the head.”

  “Shit! If I hadn’t gone to see Lazlo!”

  “George, calm down. Who are the other two?”

  “That’s just it— they’re just civilians, as far as I can tell. A lawyer named David Miller and his daughter, Jennifer.”

  Still dumbstruck by the image of Quinn’s head exploding, John felt his senses dull, then fear and panic started to somersault through him. His mind conjured up horrific scenes of Jennifer and her father with their own devastating head wounds.

  Twenty-Eight

  John rushed to Kingston Residences, the address of the rental where Jennifer and her father were staying. Santiago’s spirit may have gone, but a far deadlier threat had been set in motion. Images of Jennifer’s and her father’s executed bodies continued to taunt him as he tried to convince himself they were still alive––they hadn’t been the assassin’s highest priority, and only he knew their location.

  Passing through the door of the apartment, and through the foyer, he felt a wave of relief wash over him when he saw David sitting, relaxed, on a couch in the living area, watching a game on the huge TV. Thankfully, the blinds were lowered to prevent reflections on the screen—they would also prevent a sniper from getting a sightline into the apartment.

  When she came out of the kitchen, he felt his heart leap. She looked as svelte as ever, with lips as he remembered them, always verging on breaking into a smile or ready to bestow a kiss.

  She dropped the bag of pretzels she was holding, when she saw him. “Thank God!” she exclaimed.

  David just sat there, confused: the Yankees had just hit a home run.

  “John!” She ran toward him, eyes moistening, an air of hope and relief surrounding her.

  Forgetting their separate worlds for a moment, they both raised their arms and attempted a futile gesture of embrace.

  Jennifer was reminded once again of the cold aura of John’s presence and backed away from it. “Is it over? Are we safe?”

  He told her the news, watching her emotions rollercoaster from elation at Santiago’s departure from Earth, to horror at Lazlo and Quinn’s executions.

  “Poor Daniel! He died because of us, John. First Paul Hamilton, now him. If we hadn’t told him about the drug manufacturing....” The words died in her throat as her eyes spilt tears.

  “Jen, listen to me. Daniel Lazlo was battling with El Gordito for years. He put himself in danger, willingly.”

  “Was he shot by the same sniper who killed Quinn?” she asked, composing herself and noticing her father by her side, confused by hearing only part of the conversation.

  John’s expression turned grave. “It was…and the FBI said a hit was ordered on you and your father at the same time as the hit on Quinn. It’s the same assassin.”

  Seeing her knees weaken, David helped Jennifer to sit on one of the couches. She repeated to him what John had said, and they both watched his face drain of color.

  “I left a note with your names and this address on Chapman’s desk at the station. He’s heading the FBI team and knows about the hits that are out on you both. The FBI guys should be here soon,” John offered, attempting to soothe them both.

  “If Chapman finds it! What if the assassin finds it instead?” Jennifer said, panicking.

  There was a knock on the door of the apartment, and it suddenly became the focus of all their attention.

  John stared at Jennifer. She shrugged as if to say she had no idea who it could be. He pressed a finger to his lips and she immediately did the same for the benefit of David.

  John silently went to the door.

  “Anyone home?” The accent of whoever was behind the door was Irish.

  As the caller pulled his head away from the peephole, he revealed himself to be Jim Donovan, John’s father’s so-called best friend, whom he had left, high on crack, in his apartment over the Irish Pub. The pub that his father had invested in, and that Donovan had secretly sold on to El Gordito to pay off his drug debts.

  What the hell did this parasite want? Had the assassin gotten to him? John thought.

  The knocking was replaced by a spell of thumping, and then silence. John saw Jim pressing his ear to the door. He turned around and saw Jenn
ifer looking quizzical and mouthing, Who? John placed his finger to his lips again and moved back to Jennifer’s side. He whispered that it was Donovan, and she repeated this to her father.

  “I’m going to follow him. If you hear anyone come in, use the safe room!” He looked through the spyhole again. But now there was just empty space. As he passed through the door, he could see Donovan at the end of the corridor, about to take the left turn to the bank of elevators. He chased him and turned the corner. Donovan had already called an elevator and was about to disappear inside. The illuminated arrow above the doors showed he was going down. John raced up to the elevator and leaped into it just as the direction indicator went out and the doors were closing. As he passed into the elevator cab, he narrowly missed Donovan before crashing against the floor and wall of the cab.

  Picking himself up, he regarded Donovan closely. What was he up to? He noted that the button for Floor 1, the parking garage level, was illuminated. Did he drive in? John thought it highly unlikely that the Irishman had an electronic pass as they were issued to residents only.

  The doors opened onto the underground parking area, which was nearly empty. Those cars that were present needed a fatter wallet than Donovan had. John counted five of them. A couple of Porsche 911s, both in bright ‘look-at-me’ colors, one turquoise, the other yellow. The rest were big, statement cars: a Maybach, a Rolls Royce, and a tricked-out Range Rover. As he expected, Donovan wasn’t walking toward any of them. Instead, the Irishman followed the wall of the elevator enclosure and turned left at the corner. John started after him, holding back at the next corner to look around it.

  He saw a sleek, black, top-of-the-range BMW limousine parked in one of the bays opposite him, two figures standing in front of the trunk. Donovan was facing John with his back to the trunk. In front of him, with her back to John, was a short, firm, but not overly-muscular-looking woman. A long, shiny black ponytail hung over a messenger bag she had slung diagonally across her back. She wore a jacket, stretch pants and combat-style boots. Everything was black, looked designer, and fit impeccably. Even from behind, her appearance was extraordinary, and John could feel there was something remarkable about her, something unmistakably purposeful, something dangerous.