Point Blank

by Diane M. Campbell

  “Mrs. Wilton—” I turned back to her seat, but she was gone. Instead, the coat I had discarded before my panic attack in the bathroom lay on the spot where she had sat, as if she’d never been there at all. Had I just awakened from a vivid dream? Feeling suddenly self-conscious, I slid back down onto the seat.

  Mrs. Wilton said I had one more memory to relive. I pulled the coat onto my lap and considered her words, but nothing about my current situation seemed to have been repeated. I felt no strange sensations of déjà vu. What could I be reliving? I was sitting on a bus headed toward home. It was happening right now. I checked my watch—11:37. My ticket said we would arrive in Clearmont at 12:30. Less than an hour away.

  Maybe my overstressed mind had taken Mrs. Wilton’s off-kilter personality to the next level. The notion she was an angel was as silly as her idea about this whole trip having already happened. So far-fetched it made me uneasy. Why couldn’t I just relax, take this last hour to rest and prepare for arriving back home?

  Why? Because I’d cried in her lap while she held my hand. We had talked. I’d felt her arm around my shoulder and her warm hand resting on my head while she prayed.

  All that had been so very real, but then, without warning, she had disappeared.

  I closed my eyes. Now who’s going a little batty?

  A faint, yet harsh noise emanated from somewhere behind the bus. As the noise repeated, increasing in volume, more passengers woke. First a long blaring note followed by two or three short hostile blasts. A car horn.

  A man behind me smudged his sleeve against the window to wipe away condensation. He pressed his face to the glass while a baby began to cry in another part of the bus. Others also shifted uncomfortably with the disruption.

  The harsh tones repeated as insistent as ever, growing louder as the vehicle neared.

  “It’s that guy again,” the window-looker said.

  “Oh man,” someone else moaned.

  The woman in the seat across the aisle looked my way, her lips taut, as if I were responsible for the noisy interruption.

  I clenched my coat in a panic. Brock was back, and judging by the horn blares, he was angry. This insanity had to end, but how? I cringed at the thought of Brock’s gun.

  If only I could reason with the driver. Convince him to stay ahead of Brock and avoid another confrontation.

  I leapt up and my coat dropped, crumpling to the floor. “Keep going!” I shouted to the driver. He didn’t seem to hear me. I half-stumbled and trampled over the coat in my rush to the front of the bus.

  Brock’s horn sounded again. He was in the left lane.

  I yelled again, “Don’t stop!”

  Was the driver ignoring me? His forehead, reflected in the rear-view mirror above him, was lined with concern while he glanced repeatedly out the side window.

  Brock’s headlights slowly advanced beside the bus. In a final lurch forward, I grabbed the support pole behind the driver’s seat and pulled myself against it. “Driver, please.” I leaned in over his shoulder. “He’ll kill me if you stop.”

  “What’re you talking about?” He yelled above the sound of Brock’s angry car horn.

  “He’s got a gun.”

  “Get back from here. It’s not safe.”

  “Don’t stop. Please. I’m begging you.”

  “He’s passing us,” the driver barked. “Now move back. I’m telling ya, it’s not safe.”

  “But he’ll stop the bus again.” I grabbed at his shoulder.

  He tugged away.

  Then someone grabbed me from behind and pulled me back with his arm around my waist. I gripped the pole with one hand and pried at the stranger’s fingers with the other. “Let me go!”

  Was this New Year’s Eve all over again? It seemed I was trapped in another desperate battle against Brock’s brawn, but this time my hands were not limp. My legs didn’t collapse. This time I could claw and scream. “Let. Me. Go!”

  Clasping my hands together for added strength, I jabbed one elbow back as hard as I could. My attacker’s grip loosened, and I twisted out of his grasp. Spinning around, I lost my balance and staggered backward against the bus console. The back of my head smacked the windshield.

  The bus driver threw an angry glance my way and pointed his finger. “Lady, you gotta get back and sit down now!”

  Brock’s headlights came into view through the window beside the driver. He was coming to kill me. I could feel his fury in the horn’s incessant blast.

  The driver noted his approach and took his foot off the accelerator.

  “No!” I screamed and grabbed hold of the steering wheel. “He’ll kill me!”

  Immediate horror flooded my senses as the bus careened wildly on the icy road. We both held our grip on the wheel, jolting one direction, then another. Screams filled the cabin. My ribs smacked against the console repeatedly.

  The driver pressed the brakes and I lost my grip on the wheel. The bus fishtailed and I slid sideways, tumbling down the steps. I landed against the exit door as the entire vehicle tilted. Metal screeched and groaned. Panicked voices shrieked with mine—a horrified chorus. Glass rained down in exploded bits. I groped for something, anything to brace myself, then felt a momentary weightlessness just before a ghastly crunch and everything went black.

  Lance reached the top of the utility access ladder and climbed over the low parapet that wrapped around the first floor Emergency Department. He stood a moment to catch his breath. No need to wonder where Brock had gone. Footprints punctured the snow, leading from where he stood straight across the flat rooftop toward the main building. A moment later, he spotted a window slightly ajar. It was about ten feet above the ER roof, and a rope hung from it with a few knots tied at intervals.

  It had all the hallmarks of some covert spy operation. What on earth was Brock up to?

  No time to ponder the unfathomable. Lance raced as fast as his slick-soled shoes would allow, following Brock’s path. Upon reaching the rope, he gave it a sharp tug. It felt secure enough, and the fall risk was minimal.

  Gripping the rope, he pulled up until he could pry the fingers of one hand into the gap at the bottom of the sash. Would Brock see him trying to get in? It was possible, but Lance refused to dwell on it. He had to get inside.

  Initially, the window resisted his efforts. Numbing cold didn’t help, but once he edged the sash open a bit more, he got a solid grip and proper leverage with his arm. A few more moments and he’d lifted himself enough to look inside. Relieved to find Brock was nowhere in sight, he pulled up until he managed to get a knee onto the sill.

  Lance worked to quietly nudge the window sash higher and get himself over the ledge. No telling what might happen if that hostile nurse reappeared.

  Fortunately, the interior segment of his unplanned escapade was comparatively easy, the floor being only a short step down from the sill. He lowered the window sash and noticed Brock’s rope had been secured to the base of a tall locker cabinet nearby. The cabinet, part of a long row of lockers, made it clear this was a staff changing room.

  Lance hurried to the far end of the row and checked both directions. Another aisle of lockers and a laundry cart were on the right. Had Brock come here in hopes of impersonating a member of hospital staff?

  No time to worry about Brock’s motives. He had to catch up to the young man. Quietly, Lance slipped out the exit door and jogged back toward the elevators.

  Stopping at the nurse’s desk, he cleared his throat.

  “May I—?” The girl began, then interrupted herself when she looked up from the monitor. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “I need immediate assistance.” He grabbed a pen and began to jot a note. “My daughter’s a patient in Room 338, and I need your security personnel to meet me there. Here’s my number.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “And what should I tell him?”

  “The young man I told you about—my height, dark hair, duffle bag?”

  The girl nodded.

  “There’s a w
arrant for his arrest, and I believe he’s headed to my daughter’s room right now. Police are on the way, but I may need help to restrain him. Please send your guys to Room 338.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but dashed to the stairwell, his wet shoes skidding on the tile. Panting, he bounded up to the third floor.

  A duty nurse with an armload of linens side-stepped as he passed by. “In a hurry, Dr. Doyle?”

  Lance spun on his heel to face her. “Have you seen the young man who visited Penny early this morning?”

  “I thought he left.”

  “He’s been seen again, and the police are on their way.”

  The nurse pulled back. “Oh?”

  He moved away with a wave of his hand. “Send them to Penny’s room.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  Lance would have answered but he was already taking long strides down the corridor. If Brock discovered the police were coming, it would be difficult to prevent him from leaving. Hopefully, Clemens would arrive soon.

  Lance’s heart pounded in his chest. It would do no good to rush in or be confrontational. Better to stay calm. Don’t question him about the locker room. Keep him focused on Penny. Encourage him to stick around for her sake. Anything that might keep him off-guard to the arrival of authorities.

  Lance rounded the corner at the end of the hall, and an odd sound alerted him. It came from Penny’s room. Then a scuffle and hard thud were accompanied by a brief shriek. Did someone fall to the floor? Penny?

  He sprinted the last few yards and grabbed the doorframe, skidding into Penny’s room.

  At first glance, nothing seemed amiss—except that Penny’s bed was positioned at an odd angle. Why was it moved? Penny lay on it just as he had last seen her after the surgery, except her head now tilted to one side and it appeared her eyes might be slightly open. Had she been moving around in the bed? Getting nearer to consciousness?

  What’s this? A large syringe, filled with a pale blue liquid, stood on end, punctured into Penny’s IV port inches from her hand. Had Brock added something to her Ringer’s lactate solution?

  Could it be the antifreeze he’d seen outside Brock’s car?

  Lance rushed toward her, but came to an abrupt halt when, from the far side of the bed, a figure in a white lab coat rose up from hiding and rotated toward him. Brock, dressed in a coat he’d undoubtedly pilfered from the locker room’s laundry bin. He held Hope clutched against his chest with a hand over her mouth while she struggled in vain against his muscular grip.

  Seeing Lance, Hope stopped struggling, but her eyes remained wide with fear.

  Brock’s expression was grim, his hair in loose disarray over a determined brow. He spoke into Hope’s ear while keeping his eyes on Lance. “Don’t make a peep,” he snarled.

  Lance’s pulse raced. He took a hesitant step toward them. “What’s going on, and what have you done to Penny’s IV?”

  Brock raised his other hand, which gripped a pocket knife. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “Brock.” Lance shook his head. God, help me. What should I say? “I don’t know what brought all this on, but this … this can’t end well. You have to stop now.”

  Brock’s eyes darted back and forth. “Shut up. You don’t know anything.”

  “Think, man. What will this solve?”

  “There’s nothing to solve.”

  “Sure there is. You’re stressed out, but this—” Lance indicated the knife gripped in Brock’s hand. “This isn’t necessary. Let me remove that syringe and we’ll talk this through, figure it out.” Brock’s fiery eyes strayed toward Penny, but Lance couldn’t discern the look. “Something happened between you and Penny. Tell me. I can help you.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Brock, it’s going to be everybody’s business if you don’t relax and put a stop to this.” Slowly, he took another step toward them.

  Brock looked him in the eye, and pressed the knife edge against Hope’s neck. “I already warned you. Stay back.”

  Lance stopped and forced his arms to relax. “What do you want to do, Brock?”

  Brock seemed to consider the question. Hope’s eyes shifted, craning to see Brock’s reaction.

  Behind Lance, footsteps rounded through the doorway. He glanced over his shoulder as a man in uniform entered and stopped short.

  Hospital security.

  A warm hand pressed my neck, making me aware of the chilly air. “Over here,” an unfamiliar voice called from a distance. The hand lifted and footsteps moved toward the distant voice.

  Snowflakes landed on my cheek. I was outside.

  I’d been on a bus. What happened? I took a deep breath and eased my eyes open to the midnight darkness of a snowy wood. I was numb with cold. Attempting to lift my head, I gasped with immediate pain. Something was wrong with my head or my neck. Maybe both.

  I tried to judge my body’s position. I seemed to be mostly face down, but on uneven ground with my legs bent oddly. My right arm was pinned under me, a possible cause for the sharp pain in my ribs that accompanied each breath. With painstaking slowness, I managed to shift one of my legs, thankful at the realization I wasn’t paralyzed. That slight adjustment also eased the pain of breathing. I drew in cold air and exhaled white vapor.

  Where was the bus? I couldn’t tell, but somewhere behind me I could detect a child’s whimper. More sounds indicated people stirring or in pain. There must have been an accident. Someone walked among us, talking softly. Probably calling for an ambulance.

  I could move my left arm, the pain tolerable. I reached up to calm my pulse-aching head, but the barest touch felt like fire. I pulled my hand back, and under the shadow of the pines, it shone black with sticky blood.

  After wiping it on my thigh, I reached to push aside the snow that blocked my view.

  The bus driver’s grey face, less than a yard from my own, took my breath away. He lay in a pool of blood, staring with lifeless eyes.

  I pinched mine shut. Oh God. Please. Too late. The ghoulish image had etched itself in my mind.

  The last terrible moments of my screaming tirade rushed back to memory … the fight … clawing at the stranger’s hands … yelling at the driver and finally … grabbing the wheel.

  No, no. In some kind of crazed panic, it seemed I’d lost all self-control. My recklessness had brought all this suffering. It was my fault—mine alone—that the bus had rolled off the road.

  I had killed this man and who knows how many others.

  I drew my arm up in front of my face in a feeble attempt to shut out the horror. An agonized groan emerged from my throat.

  What was it Mrs. Wilton had said? She’d warned me, but this was far worse than anything I might have imagined. She had reminded me that God’s second word for me was “repent,” but no apology could make up for this.

  Instead of receiving forgiveness, my admission of guilt would only put me in line for harsh justice from a God who, by now, had certainly given up on me.

  My vision blurred, and I closed my eyes. I blinked when unknown hands laid a covering around my shoulders. “Help is coming,” a female voice spoke softly. “Just hold on.” She pressed a cloth to my head. I anticipated a sting, but my senses had dulled.

  My eyelids drooped.

  The woman stood and called out, “This one’s lost a lot of blood.”

  No one answered her. Perhaps they were dying too. Or dead already.

  She crouched back down and pressed the cloth to my head. Her voice was muffled, indistinct. It seemed as though her touch reached me from a great distance. I wasn’t cold anymore. My life was fading. It grew thinner with each breath.

  “Let me die.” I mouthed the words and drifted into warm darkness.

  Brock’s eyes grew wide with the appearance of the security guard.

  Lance raised his hand to halt the guard’s entry but kept his eyes on Brock. Given the current situation, it was difficult to say whether a uniformed presence would be beneficial
or a hindrance. He didn’t want to take a chance at further escalating the situation. Fortunately, it didn’t appear that any of the blue liquid had been injected into Penny’s IV, though some might seep into the line if it stayed in the port.

  “What’s going on?” the guard called from the doorway.

  Lance nodded toward Brock. “My friend is under a lot of stress. We were discussing ways to alleviate it.”

  Taking a breath, Lance raised his hands with palms out. “Listen to me, Brock. I’m going to pull that syringe out of the IV. I want you to think long and hard before you do anything more. Things will only get worse, if you continue.”

  Brock’s gaze shifted to the guard and back. “Neither of you know anything,” he snarled.

  “I know about Abbi Maxwell.”

  Brock’s eyes registered momentary surprise, but he didn’t reply.

  “I know about your friend too. What was his name again?”

  Brock shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. His dreams and mine are both going down the toilet.”

  “If anyone else gets hurt, it’ll only become worse. There’s no need to destroy your whole life.” Lance edged up to Penny’s bed, and reached toward the IV line.

  “You know how many scouts have been out there watching us?” Brock’s knuckles were white from gripping the knife. “We’re the Dynamic Duo. Tyler’s been the top college quarterback in the division for two years now. He could even be a first round draft pick.”

  “I know it’s hard, but listen to me, Brock. Your life is not over. You need to make a wise choice right now.” Lance grasped the IV line and pulled it toward him, sliding his hand toward the injection port.