by Nina Post
Vincent held the carrier with his left hand and the gun at Sarah with his right. He walked her across the ballroom floor.
The sheriff’s S.W.A.T. rushed up the staircase in their Kevlar and their flexible black combat boots.
Vincent came out the door, saw them, then pressed the gun to Sarah’s head. Shawn watched from the billiard room, biding his time.
Shawn stepped outside and the news crews descended upon him like fire ants. They had multiplied since he’d been away, like the cats.
“Is it true that Haviland Sylvain is alive and being held hostage in the mansion?”
“Detective, what’s your plan here?”
“Detective Danger, are you calling in a hostage negotiator?”
“Who is inside the house?”
“Is it the ghost of Haviland Sylvain?”
“When is the bomb squad coming?”
Shawn held out a hand. “All I can tell you right now is that, as far as I know, we are not calling in a hostage negotiator or the bomb squad. I’ll keep you apprised if plans change.”
He waded through them and broke free, heading for the main doors and spotting the sniper on the roof of the carriage house when he heard open fire coming from his right. He crouched and turned. Vincent had appeared in front of the carriage house – not the door near the kitchen – armed with a rifle, and not the handgun he had before. Shawn thought it the rifle was one of Kendall Peterson’s.
There was commotion in the driveway, with shouts and a scream.
“Danger!” Vincent shouted. Not for the first time, Shawn wondered if there was someone out there with the last name ‘Fire,’ and if that was better or worse. He would be amenable to a partner if their last name were Fire, he decided.
“You have thirty minutes to get me a car!” Vincent said. “A fast one — something Italian!”
“Seriously?” Shawn said, which was probably not something a hostage negotiator would say.
“Yes, seriously!” And Vincent retreated inside. Apparently, he knew how to navigate the connecting basements.
Shawn got a look at what was going on with the news crew. One of the anchors had been shot in the shoulder. He called for another ambulance as another call came in on his phone. The captain. He’d have to wait. Shawn reported the incident then called back the captain.
“You have a real shitstorm over there, Detective.”
The sky was unsettlingly dark for the time of the day, but there was no thunder. It wasn’t hot enough for heat lightning, but the sky still lit up with angry filaments.
“I know, Captain.”
“What’s the situation there? I’m getting more goddamn calls than the time my wife planned her sister’s wedding. I think the radio station gave out my direct line.”
“My suspect in the Sylvain murder has three hostages.”
“Three? Wasn’t it two?”
“Well, sir, one is my cat, Comet. I count him as a hostage.”
The captain grumbled, indicating that he didn’t agree but wasn’t going to waste time splitting hairs over it.
“He’s holding them in the basement under the mansion, now. A few minutes ago, he opened fire and got one of the news anchors in the shoulder.”
“He shot one of the news crew?”
“Our sniper tried to immobilize him, but the suspect knew the angles of the house too well, and was out of firing range at that point.”
His captain sounded as tired as he felt. “What do you need?” Shawn could picture the captain rubbing his hand over his bald head, wondering why in hell he wasn’t a ski instructor.
What did he need? Sarah. To get Comet back. Sleep. Homes for more than fifty cats. To live far, far away from his family. To not feel like the world is going to disintegrate if he didn’t work. New suits. A new mattress. New food, new bathroom stuff.
Instead he said, “I wouldn’t turn down more backup, sir.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Detective. What’s your strategy here?”
“Try to bring him in alive so he can spend the rest of his life in prison.”
An ambulance pulled in to the driveway, and the paramedics administered immediate care to the anchor. Several minutes later, the EMTs loaded her onto a stretcher and into the back of the van, then drove off, siren blaring. Right after they left, a glossy black Range Rover pulled into the driveway.
“Oh, balls,” Shawn muttered, as the remaining Sylvain family stepped out.
Shawn approached them. “You can’t be here. We have a situation.”
His phone again. Vincent.
“Who the hell is that?” Vincent yelled.
“The Sylvain family.”
“The Sylvain family?” Vincent repeated, stunned. “Why are they here?”
Shawn covered the receiver. “Why are you here?”
Haviland’s husband’s aunt touched her chest, as she liked to do when she felt offended, which was often. “This is our house!”
“No, it’s Haviland Sylvain’s house. Actually, it would have been Lyle’s house, if he hadn’t been killed. I don’t know who or what is next in line, but I’m almost positive it isn’t you.”
“What!” The aunt reared her head back.
Shawn squinted and scratched the back of his neck. “She would rather turn this place into a prison halfway house than give it to any of you.”
The aunt threw back her shoulders. “Give it to us? This house has been in our family for generations, Detective! We are going inside.”
“And I doubt that you can stop us,” the uncle said. The twins had gotten out of the vehicle, but they were texting the entire time. They hadn’t even bothered to glance up, and were disregarding the chaos unfolding around them.
Shawn held out his arm in front of the aunt and uncle. “I can’t let you do that.”
The ground trembled. Not again.
“Charles, do something,” the aunt said.
“Now, look here,” the uncle said to Shawn. “I don’t know who you think you are – “
“I’m Shawn Danger, a homicide detective with the Jamesville County Police Department’s Detective Division, and if you don’t get back in your vehicle and leave the property, I will have a car take you to the station. Where would you rather be, in a Range Rover or the police station?”
One of the twins finally looked up. “Dad! The Rover!”
“I agree — you’d be a moron to pick the station,” the other twin said, both of them immediately going back to texting.
Charles turned red and pushed past Shawn’s arm barrier. More shots rang out. Shawn tackled the uncle to the ground and readied his service weapon. Still on top of Charles, like one of those coon cats was on him before the trampoline gave out, Shawn speed-dialed Sarah with his left hand and put his phone to his left ear.
“Stop shooting at people, Vincent. You’re making this much worse for yourself.”
“Like it can get any worse!”
“Oh, it can, believe me. Which one of us would know? You or me?”
Vincent was quiet. Charles let out a muffled groan.
“Shut up,” Shawn said to the husband’s uncle, his face down in the gravel. “I’m talking to my suspect.” Actually, he just enjoyed how much Charles undoubtedly disliked this undignified position.
“Vincent, just come out here and give yourself up,” Shawn said on his phone.
“No.”
“We already have you for murder, and for whatever they”ll give you for killing Lyle, which I’m sure is significant. Not to mention burglary, and I will personally see to it that you get the maximum possible penalty for that. And kidnapping. Also, I don’t think your fellow maximum-security residents will look kindly upon the fact that you killed a tortoise.”
“Whatever. That’s bullshit. You don’t have me for anything.”
“Oh? How about that shoe print you left in my house? We matched it to your boots, which we took from your apartment —”
“You can’t do that!”
“T
he warrant said otherwise. And we got a sample of your blood from one of the cat’s paws.”
“That doesn’t prove anything about murder, just that I tossed your house.”
“And your alibi fell through. But I already told you that.” Shawn clicked off.
Charles grunted again and Shawn decided to let him up, but he didn’t help him. The aunt held out an ineffectual hand, really just for show. It looked like if Charles tugged on it even a little, she would topple right over, and it was clear that she hoped he wouldn’t actually take it, and if he did, there would be words later. The twins glanced up but didn’t stop texting. Shawn wondered if they were texting each other, or maybe the media.
Part of the sheriff’s SWAT took position just outside the side door that led to the basement. A sudden trembler shook the ground and the cops stumbled a little, held out their arms to rebalance, but only ended up tipping over in their kneeling position.
Shawn went back in the house and ran up to the Lyle’s room to check on Tom, who was still messing around with the inside of the TV.
The screen showed the other Shawn in the area behind the mansion, from a low vantage point again, and not behind carrier bars. Shawn could tell that the other Shawn was trying to find the greenhouse, based on both the confused looks on the patrol officers’ faces and how the other Shawn was pulling at the ivy, but too far to the left, as though he knew it were there somewhere.
Tom poked his head over the TV. “What are you lookin’ at?”
“The screen.”
“There’s nothing on the screen.”
“Yes, there is, I’m watching it right now.”
“I yanked the power before I started messing around back here.” Tom held up the plug.
“Hmm.”
Tom came around to the front to look at the screen. “Hmm.”
As Tom went back to the TV’s innards, Shawn hurried down the stairs to the kitchen. He stopped to look out the window, stunned. The dark purple sky was sizzling with ball lightning and the driveway was sticking up in great jagged chunks in the middle of the cops, the media, and EMTs. He motioned over one of the cops and asked them to block the door to the hidden staircase to the kitchen.
Shawn ran down the basement stairs and listened at the door. Vincent was ranting on the phone about him, about the cops outside, about the news crew, about how unappreciated he was.
He tried the knob. Locked. He called Sarah’s phone.
“Vincent, open the door.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Do you want that car? Then open the door.”
“Leave your gun, or I’ll kill you.”
“Fine. I’m putting my gun on the counter.”
Three minutes passed. The door was unlocked.
Shawn stepped in, slowly. Vincent pointed a rifle at him and raised it to indicate that Shawn should raise his arms. He did, and held out his jacket. “No holster.”
“Pants,” Vincent gestured with the rifle.
Shawn raised one leg at a time and pulled up his pants to his knee to show he wasn’t wearing an ankle holster. Sarah was tied to one of the anvils and bound over the mouth. Kendall Peterson was tied and gagged next to her, eyes wide. Comet was in his carrier, over by the refrigerator.
“You have ten minutes to get me that car and let me go,” Vincent said.
“Let Sarah, Comet, and Kendall go.”
Vincent snorted. “I don’t think so.”
“You have me. Let them go.”
“I did everything for her.”
“Including killing her. Very considerate, Vincent.”
“I worked for her for years. I read to her tortoise, and kept telling her how I was doing things for her, for Lyle. But she kept pulling away. It’s like she grew to hate me. She hated the sight of me, and all I wanted was to be closer to her. I wanted to be a part of her life. I knew her secrets, too. I was the only one who knew, and she treated me like – like I had the plague. Does that sound fair to you?”
Shawn started to speak, but Vincent went on, shaking his head and laughing.
“Like you know. You’re a part of something. You have your job and – and her – and I guess your cat. That may not sound like a lot to other people, but to me? To me, it’s a lot. You don’t know what it’s like, to feel completely disconnected from everyone.”
Shawn looked at Sarah, then to Comet, pawing at the steel bars of his carrier, then back at Sarah.
“Excuse me a moment,” Shawn took out his phone, holding his left hand up as he did. Vincent raised the rifle and kept his finger on the trigger. Shawn logged in to the webcam address.
“What are you doing?”
Shawn ignored him and waited for the image to appear.
He showed Vincent the screen. “This is another Shawn Danger. Maybe that’s not his name, but he’s also a homicide detective.”
“You’re nuts.”
“You’re a murderer. Anyway, this other version of me is leading a team of police that found Haviland Sylvain’s body buried in the greenhouse.” Shawn pointed his left thumb behind him to indicate the greenhouse.
On the phone screen, the other Shawn Danger was leading several patrol officers in a dig down the center path of the greenhouse, with orchids above them and on all sides.
Vincent sounded obstinate, but seemed discombobulated. “What are you talking about?”
They watched the screen as one of the police’s tools in the other world hit something in the ground. The other Shawn’s cat looked down from one of the shelves as a woman in a baseball cap dug into the soil with her hands, then brushed soil off what looked like Haviland Sylvain’s red hair.
“You killed her,” Shawn showed Vincent the screen. “You killed her in that world, too.” Vincent’s eyes widened. Shawn pulled the phone away. “But let’s focus on our world. When Sarah delivered the document to Ms. Sylvain, and Robert Westrom signed for it, he put it away and then you looked in the drawer. You saw she left everything to Lyle, and that was insult to injury. What are we going to find in this greenhouse, Vincent?”
Two SWAT cops burst into the basement and Vincent shot one of them in the leg. The officer fell against the other cop as he fired and the bullet whizzed past Vincent.
Shawn’s heart stopped as he stared at Sarah. The bullet seemed to take a long time. But finally it hit something with a ping and Vincent whirled around and put his hand up to his chest. The bullet had ricocheted off one of the anvils next to Kendall Peterson and hit Vincent. The patrol guys rushed in and cuffed him.
Shawn shook with adrenaline. For a moment, he was petrified the bullet would hit Sarah. He kneeled in front of her and undid her gag and the rope tying her to the large anvil.
“One of the anvils got him,” Sarah said. “Like in a Road Runner cartoon.”
“Appropriate. Kinda wish it had fallen on him, though.”
He took out the gag from Kendall Peterson’s mouth while Vincent breathed raggedly from his prone position on the cement floor. He called the number for the sheriff outside and had them get a couple of EMTs down to the basement to pick up Vincent. Shawn reminded the EMT’s that Vincent was under police custody.
“I gotta say, I’m kind of proud of those anvils,” Kendall said, then moved his jaw around. As he untied the cord, Shawn noticed a piece of paper stuck under one of the smaller anvils. He lifted the corner and took out the paper.
It was the missing page from Haviland’s journal, the last page, the one she ripped out. He folded it up and put it in his pocket. Comet made an aggrieved meow and Shawn unfastened the latch on the carrier. The cat wound around him, throwing his weight against Shawn’s leg. Then he lost interest in Shawn and went over to Sarah, tail high.
“You’re welcome.”
Vincent was pushed on a gurney into the back of the ambulance, and EMTs were checking out Kendall and Sarah. Holding Comet with one arm, Shawn took out the folded piece of paper from the journal.
Under one of the sketches of the cat, Haviland had
written a detailed entry for Tuesday’s date, one day before her murder:
I thought I knew fear — that person who is still in the house, who is trying to contaminate me — but I have never felt so unsettled, so disturbed. I put in the tortoise cartridge for Lyle this afternoon. Tortoises are loners, and though Lyle is affectionate toward me, he does not want the company of other tortoises. He does, however, seem interested in watching them on the screen.
But when the set warmed up and came into focus, it didn’t show tortoises crawling outside. It showed this house. This exact house, my exact bedroom, destroyed. The sitting room was full of police and people with equipment looking closely at everything, at my things. This sounds insane, but I am almost certain that my view is through the eyes of a cat, because it jumped up on the étagèr, nearly toppling it over. It wound in front of a photo of me, like my favorite of me and Lyle. Though in this photo, it was me and a very large cat with one blue eye and one green eye.
I nearly screamed. My heart pounded so fast I was afraid for my health, feared tachycardia.
The police chased me out of my own room and off the floor. I ran the rest of the way down and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the entry way mirror. It was a very large cat — the same one in the photograph, with one blue eye and one green eye. I ran into the kitchen and down the basement stairs. The door was open, which was highly unusual, and there were more police as well as someone in a white coat bending over Kendall, who was very still and had a terrible wound on his neck. In his hand was his anvil notebook, open to his last few entries. I wished for the cat to be still for just a moment so I could read it, and by some small miracle, he was.
On the most recent two entries, the weight of the anvils had changed.
Sitting in what would normally be Lyle’s room, I was horrified and nauseous. But I kept running, around and over the anvils to the lab door, which was also open.
It was my lab, or the same lab; I recognized the equipment. There was another piece of equipment there, one I had considered installing in my own lab. It had a bright green light on the side, indicating it was powered on. Perhaps the police had accidentally turned it on. If they did, they made a terrible mistake.