Gord Rollo

by The Jigsaw Man v2. 0

  looked like they were there strictly as a backup to the

  plumbed-in system, a fail-safe j u s t in case the regular

  system wasn't working. There was also a portable ethylene cylinder hooked to the metal safety rail on the

  side of Andrew's bed. I cranked them all wide open,

  and then sat down on the bed to wait for the gases to

  saturate the room. W h e n this place went up, it was go¬

  ing to be one mother of a boom.

  Too bad I won't be around to see it.

  W i t h the work done, I couldn't ignore Andrew any¬

  more. I didn't want t o , anyway. I wanted to talk to him

  while we still had the chance. He was sitting in his

  chair with a funny look on his face, silently watching

  me with an accusing glare that made it hard for me to

  know where to start. Sure I was sorry he'd been forced

  to watch me kill his father, but I wasn't the least bit

  sorry about what I'd done. It would have been nice to

  do it cleaner, but it didn't change the fact that N a t h a n

  Marshall had to die—that he deserved to die—arid I'd

  do it again without hesitation. Hopefully I could ex¬

  plain my reasons to Andrew, but I wouldn't blame him

  if he hated me.

  "Listen, Andrew, my name is Michael Fox and I just

  wanted you to know—"

  "Are you going to blow this place up?" he asked.

  His first question didn't have anything to do with his

  dad and that caught me off guard. "Ah, yeah. That's the

  plan, anyway. Look, I'm real sorry about—"

  "Will it work?" he cut me off again. "I mean, you're

  using more than just the gas in this room, I hope. This

  is a big building."

  I didn't know how to respond to the way Andrew was

  acting. Didn't he want to discuss his father's death?

  Maybe not. I decided j u s t to play along. "I know it is.

  I've opened every gas valve I can find in the building,

  and not j u s t the oxygen. I found a shitload of portable

  ethylene and ether tanks down on the second and third

  floors. Even better, before I started sneaking around, I

  caused a massive oxygen and natural gas leak hi the base

  ment. Gas has been free-flowing and mixing throughout

  the building for quite a while now. I can't guarantee it,

  but my guess it there won't be much left of this place

  once I'm done."

  "Good," Andrew said, and shocked me by smiling.

  For a moment I wondered if he might be as crazy as

  his old man, but I soon realized it was a genuine smile.

  He was honestly happy and relieved to hear what I'd

  been up to.

  "You're okay with that?" I asked.

  "Absolutely. Listen, Michael, if I could step out of

  this chair, I'd do the same thing."

  That was good to hear. N o w , for the hard question.

  "And y o u r father? I hope you understand—"

  "He was an evil bastard that got what he deserved,"

  Andrew said, his quiet tone layered with years of bitter¬

  ness and deep-seated, hatred for the man lying between

  us on the blood-soaked floor. "I understand perfectly.

  Don't get me wrong, there was a day I loved my father

  dearly, thought he could do no wrong and was a saint

  for trying so hard to help me. That was before I found

  out how many people he was hurting on my behalf. I

  begged him to stop, but he j u s t wouldn't listen."

  "It's a shame," I said, trying to find some words that

  might allay his guilty feelings. "Your father was a bril¬

  liant m a n — "

  "He was brilliant, sure, but his brilliance took a

  detour into madness and crazy obsession somewhere

  along the line, a downward spiral that eventually led

  to this. I mean, look at us! That man lying on the floor

  isn't my father anymore; hasn't been for a long time.

  N o t the father I loved and respected, anyway. It might

  sound cold, but I'm glad he's dead. Somebody had to

  stop him."

  I dug into my pocket and showed Andrew the Bic

  lighter I had, getting it ready for the big show.

  "The job's only half done. We have to blow this place

  off the face of the earth so no one else can walk in and

  take over where y o u r dad left off. I have no problem dy¬

  ing, but what about you, Andrew? I overheard you tell

  your father you'd rather die than live like this. Did you

  mean that?"

  "Of course. I've wanted that for years now but I've

  never been able to pull it off. I was either too sick or j u s t

  didn't have the body parts to hold a gun or pop a bottle

  of pills."

  Yeah, I know that feeling. Poor bugger.

  "Good, 'cause I don't think there's any way I can get

  you out of here. Drake's security team is going to start

  looking around soon. We're relatively safe up here, I

  think, but I couldn't get you out the door. Besides, I'm

  too busted up to carry you, so I guess we'll j u s t wait

  here together and take it easy. Sound okay?"

  "Sounds fine, but why do you need to die? I agree you

  can't take me, I wouldn't go even if you could, but

  there's no need for you to stick around."

  "Sure there is. W h o ' s going to set off the explosion if

  I'm not here?"

  "Well, me, obviously."

  "You? But you're paralyzed."

  "I'm paralyzed for the most part, but not everything.

  I can still wiggle my fingers, especially on my right

  hand. H e r e , look—"

  Sure enough, he could move a few of his fingers on

  his left hand, and all of the ones on his right. I watched

  him wiggle his right t h u m b rapidly up and down and I

  couldn't believe it. It was almost as if fate, or some other

  higher power, had preordained that Andrew would need

  to use that digit for something important.

  Like flicking the Bic.

  I shouldn't have thought that. Shouldn't have even

  considered it. I'd never for a moment envisioned the

  possibility I might live through this day, but now that I

  had, my mind started racing, my heart pounding, and

  the short hair stood up on the back of my neck. A big

  shit-kicker grin was slowly creeping onto my face and I

  tried to kid myself it was only the oxygen-saturated air

  making me feel so giddy.

  Maybe Andrew's, right. If he can operate this lighter, I

  could slip down to the fourth-floor hallway, use the back

  stairs to get outside, and go hide in the woods. Get a front

  row seat to watch the fireworks!

  Those were bad thoughts-A-silly thoughts—and I had

  to stop right now before they started making sense. There

  was no way I could leave Andrew up here to finish this. It

  was my j o b to do. My responsibility. Wasn't it?

  Seeing the confusion on my face, Andrew pressed

  the issue. "I can do it. I know I can. H e r e , let me show

  you I can hold it."

  Curious, but all the time cursing myself for starting

  to get my hopes u p , I handed Andrew the lighter, help¬

  ing him get it into the correct position and seeing if he

  could hold on. He did. Easily.

  "Wha
t did I tell ya?" Andrew said, probably more

  excited and happy than he'd been in twenty years.

  I could tell he really wanted to do this— needed t o ,

  maybe.

  "Are you sure you want to do this alone?" I asked. I

  already knew the answer, but needed to hear Andrew

  say it one more time before my conscience would allow

  me to leave.

  "More than you'll ever know, Michael. I'm the rea¬

  son my father became obsessed with transplantation

  and if it wasn't for me, none of this would exist. All

  those people died because of me."

  "That's not true," I said. "Your father's to blame.

  Maybe Drake, too, but none of this was your fault."

  Andrew sat quietly for a moment, a single tear slid¬

  ing down his cheek. "I know that, I really do, but it still

  doesn't make me feel any better. There's no denying a

  lot of people would be alive today if I'd j u s t died at

  birth. I can't do anything about that, but I can at least

  do this. My fault or not, I started this madness; it's only

  right I be the one that ends it. My life has to have had

  some purpose. Maybe this is it."

  How could I possibly argue with that? Life had been

  cruel to Andrew. He'd been getting the short end of the

  stick his entire life. If being the one who triggered the

  explosion would give h i m a sense of satisfaction, closure,

  or perhaps atonement for all the suffering and death in¬

  flicted on his behalf, who was I to stand in his way?

  I wheeled his chair over beside the cluster of emer¬

  gency oxygen tanks. "Let the gas build up for as long as

  you can, okay? The longer, the better. Soon as you see

  a security guard's head pop out of this stairwell, let that

  t h u m b of yours work its magic. Don't worry about me.

  If I'm not out of here by then it's my own bloody fault.

  Understand?"

  "Get moving, then," Andrew said, a contented smile

  on his face. "My trigger finger's getting mighty itchy."

  I nodded, and headed for the stairs.

  C H A P T E R F O R T Y - O N E

  I picked up the gun off the top stair and made my way

  down onto the fourth floor as quickly and quietly as I

  could. I was in big-time pain, hurting all over, but there

  was n o t h i n g I could do except clench my teeth and keep

  moving. Turning the bend in the hall I made my way

  toward the back stairs and was nearly at the exit when I

  heard the sound of heavy boots stamping on the other

  side of the door, getting closer.

  Guards!

  Had to be, which meant the search was on. Sound

  echoed in the stairwell, so I wasn't exactly sure if they

  were coming to this floor or were still down on level

  two or three. Didn't matter; if they were on the way up

  it meant I couldn't risk charging down the stairs to get

  outside. That would be suicide, and now that I'd been

  given the opportunity, I desperately wanted to live to

  see this hellhole crumble. As much as I wanted out of

  here, I needed to slow down and think. The front stairs

  would be j u s t as bad of a choice, maybe worse, because

  Drake would have his men trained well and I was sure

  they'd post someone to man each stairwell, covering

  the exits. There had to be another way—a safer, un¬

  guarded way—out of here.

  My mind drew a blank. I couldn't think of a single

  t h i n g to try and I was seriously considering r e t u r n i n g

  to the tower room to see this through to the end along¬

  side Andrew. Either that or take the mad dash down

  the back stairs and hope for the best. I had Drake's

  gun if need b e , but I couldn't really picture myself do¬

  ing a Lone Ranger sprint into a crowd of security guards,

  gun blazing, and consequences be damned. Just wasn't

  my style.

  Limping back along the corridor, my heart nearly

  stopped when I heard shouting coming from j u s t around

  the corner. I tensed up, brought my gun into what I

  thought was a respectable policeman's shooting stance,

  and waited. Ten grueling seconds went by but n o t h i n g

  happened. I lowered my weapon and peeked'around the

  corner only to find the hallway empty. I was starting to

  relax when I heard the voice again, this time coming

  from inside the room on my right.

  The Bleeders' room.

  I approached the door, noticing that it was half open.

  I tried to recall if I'd left it that way when I exited the

  room but I couldn't remember. With my heart doing a

  drumroll within my chest, I shoved the door wide open

  and prepared to shoot anything that moved.

  The room was empty. Well, empty of living, breath¬

  ing, ready-to-kill-me people, at least. Dr. Marshall's

  blood bank looked j u s t the way I'd left it—a sticky red

  mess and stinking of death. The phantom voice sounded

  again, but this time I realized where it was coming

  from and what was happening.

  Drake's walkie-talkie.

  The voices I kept hearing were the other security

  guards shouting for Drake and communicating amongst

  themselves via radio. I felt like a goof, wasting precious

  minutes and nearly giving myself a heart attack over

  nothing, but it wasn't a total loss. If I grabbed Drake's

  radio and carried it with m e , I'd have a better idea where

  the guards were and where they might be searching next.

  That kind of information might get me out of here alive

  so I walked in and slipped the walkie-talkie out of the

  leather case on Drake's belt.

  Maybe I can say something on the radio and send the

  guards all running on a wild-goose chase toward the front of

  the building. Then I can slip out -

  Something caught my attention and shut me u p , midthought. The curtains in the room were pulled open to¬

  day and outside of the window I could see the woods off

  in the distance across the grass-covered field. I wasn't

  looking that far away, though. W h a t caught my eye was

  the mass of green ivy leaves visible on the left side of the

  window.

  The metal trellis!

  The same ivy-covered trellis I'd used to climb out of

  my guarded room and up here to the fourth floor so

  long ago, back when I was j u s t starting to figure out the

  truth about Dr. Marshall and his little castle of horrors.

  It ran all the way up the side of the building to this

  window, and, more importantly, all the way down to the

  ground. I could crank open the window, climb down

  the trellis and make a dash for the woods. From the

  chitchat still going back and forth on Drake's radio, the

  guards were busy doing a sweep of the third floor and it

  was doubtful anyone would be watching the outside

  grounds. Sure, someone might look out a window and

  spot m e , but at least I'd be outside and have a chance.

  Definitely the best option I was likely to get, so I stuffed

  Drake's radio in the front of my pants and decided to

  go for it.

  W h e n I cranked open the left
-hand window, a freez¬

  ing blast of air hit me in the face, stealing ray breath.

  Man, it was cold out today. I wouldn't make it very far

  outside in this weather, not the way I was dressed.

  I needed a coat.

  Turning around, I glanced at my own old coat I'd

  discarded on the floor earlier, but it was ripped and

  torn and so covered in Drake's blood I dismissed it im¬

  mediately. That left only Drake's big security bomber

  jacket. It was bloody, too, but not nearly as bad as my

  own. Better yet, it was practically brand-new, and was

  made for this kind of frigid weather. I hated the thought

  of touching Drake again, but it had to be done. Thirty

  seconds later, I'd manhandled Drake's considerable

  deadweight and managed to wiggle the coat off his arms.

  Wrapped up in my nice warm coat that had a large

  gold patch proclaiming me the new chief of security

  around here, I headed back to the window and started

  to climb out.

  Getting onto the trellis was tricky, only having one

  good hand, but once I'd swung onto the metal ladder,

  climbing down wasn't a problem. I had no way of know¬

  ing if anyone would be watching the windows, so I just

  started hobbling as fast as I could toward the entrance

  to the wooded trail, hoping my luck would hold up for

  a few more minutes.

  It was a strange feeling, moving toward the relative

  safety of the woods, seeing it get closer but with every

  painful step fully expecting to get a bullet in my back. I

  didn't dare turn around and look, but in my imagina¬

  tion I could clearly see the members of Drake's security

  team all lined up in the windows taking aim at the cenA

  ter of my back, waiting for the signal to let the bullets

  fly. I'd hear someone shout, "FIRE!" on the radio tucked

  in my pants and half a second later feel the sting of a

  dozen bullets rip through my body, the sharpshooters

  peppering me with lead even after I went down and

  sprawled face-first in the frozen grass.

  I reached the wooded trail without incident.

  As I'd done earlier to stay out of sight, I lay down on

  the ground off to the side of the path and spent a few

  seconds camouflaging myself with a blanket of leaves

  before finally looking back in the direction of the cas

  tle. Everything looked quiet. No one was rushing out

  into the cold after m e , and n o t h i n g that was being said

  on the radio indicated that I'd been spotted. Somewhat