by Sean Platt
Mike peeled out of the parking lot.
Mike arrived at the motel in less than 40 minutes.
As he pulled into the parking lot, he spotted a man outside a room kicking a Pepsi machine, cursing.
Mike stared, waiting for the man to turn around enough for Mike to see his face. The man reached into his pockets and shoved more money into the machine, finally getting a can of Coke.
He turned and headed back to his room, and as he did, Mike got a good look at the man who killed his daughter.
Mike stared, snarling. “I got you, motherfucker.”
TO BE CONTINUED …
::Episode 23::
(FIFTH EPISODE OF SEASON FOUR)
“Eye for an Eye”
Thirty-Four
Edward Keenan
Ed Keenan approached the front desk receptionist at Harrison Psychiatric Hospital, then flashed his badge and said, “Ed Keenan, Homeland Security. I need to speak to a patient, Roman Rosetti.”
The receptionist, a tired looking mountain of a man, stared at Ed’s badge, then turned to the computer screen, and slowly back to Ed, as if trying to decide how helpful he would be. The man picked up the phone, dialed a few digits, and said, “Yeah, we’ve got someone from Homeland Security asking to see Rosetti.”
“Someone will be with you in a moment,” the man said casually before returning his eyes to the newspaper unfolded on his desk. He was reading a story about the recent strings of violence. The news media was searching for connections, but at the moment, they were looking in all the wrong places — looking to blame the violence on things like the media, video games, and various political ideologies. None was close to the truth: that aliens had invaded the world and were living amongst us.
“Thank you,” Ed said, turning to scan the lobby: large and sterile, with “artsy” benches rather than couches or anything resembling comfortable furniture.
After a few moments, a thin 40-something, red-headed man in slacks and a button-down blue shirt appeared. He wore no badge, nor offered a name, but was clearly in charge.
“You’re here to see Roman Rosetti?”
“Yes,” Ed said, producing his badge before the man asked. “Ed Keenan, Homeland Security.”
“Martin Gross,” the man said. “May I ask what this is regarding?”
“Sorry,” Ed said, “official Homeland Security business.”
“Come with me.” The man led Ed to an elevator, up to the seventh floor, where they stepped off onto polished linoleum. Gross waved a plastic white card over a reader and parted a pair of glass doors leading to the seventh floor reception desk, where a male and female nurse sat. The nurses nodded at them as Gross led Ed down a long hallway of closed doors. Each of the doors had a small square window giving a glimpse into each room.
“This is where we keep the dangerous patients,” Gross said.
“Has Mr. Rosetti been violent during his time here?” Ed asked.
“No, he’s been a model patient, aside from a few eccentricities. We’d have him on one of the other floors if not for the nature of his crimes.”
They stopped outside a door at the end of the hallway. The lights were off inside the room, which Ed assumed was Rosetti’s.
“What sort of eccentricities?”
“Well, the doctor can tell you in more detail, but in short, he’s obsessed about a date.”
“What date?”
“Tomorrow. He’s been writing the date over and over on whatever paper we give him ever since he arrived. But whenever we ask him about it, he seems confused, not sure what it means. But clearly, it is important to him.”
“And is this any more odd than your typical obsessive behavior here?”
“No, and it wouldn’t mean anything except … well, I’m not sure how familiar you are with his case … but after he shot those people, police went to Rosetti’s house and found that he’d written that date, too. So the fear is, he’s planning something else … which is why he’s locked on the seventh floor. Is that why you’re here? The date? Is he part of some homegrown terrorist cell or something?”
“I can’t elaborate on that,” Ed said. “It’s a matter of national security. May I talk to him now?”
“Yeah, sure.” Gross reached into his pocket, then waved a card over the reader beside the door.
The door unlocked and Gross turned the knob, then stepped into the room and clicked on the light.
“Holy shit!” Gross said, backing away before stepping outside the room and slamming his palm on a red emergency button right beneath the card reader, sending a loud alarm screaming through the hallway.
Ed stepped inside, hand on a gun that wouldn’t be needed for anything inside an empty room.
The walls were covered in black ink, the same thing scrawled over and over in both tiny print and giant, crazy-looking large text: “It’s Here.”
Two armed security guards ran from the elevator and through the doors at the end of the hall, approaching Rosetti’s room.
Gross snapped, “Rosetti is out. Lock the place down, search every inch until we find him!”
The guards got on their radios, issuing orders. Ed asked, “Who’s responsible for overseeing this wing?”
“The nurses we passed when we got off the elevator. Nobody comes or goes through those doors without the nurses letting them through.”
Gross stomped to the reception desk and grilled the nurses, asking them where the hell Rosetti was. Both looked as surprised as Gross to find the patient missing.
“When was the last check-in?” Gross asked.
The man, a thin scarecrow in blue scrubs, punched a few keys on the keyboard, then looked up. “Eight twelve this morning. And he was fine.”
Gross barked: “And nobody said shit about the crazy writing all over the walls?”
The scarecrow looked confused. “Writing?”
“Never mind,” Gross said. “Who checked on him this morning?”
“Esther signed it.”
“Is she here now?”
The scarecrow consulted the computer, and looked up, “She’s on break.”
Gross grabbed a phone from his pocket, called someone, then yelled at them to bring Esther Greene to the seventh floor immediately.
Gross looked like someone who had shit the bed, and had it smeared all over his body in a drunken stupor. He was probably wondering exactly why Homeland Security was asking about Rosetti, and how much hell he was going to catch for allowing the man to flee his room, and possibly the hospital.
Ed asked the nurses, “Is there any other exit Rosetti could’ve taken?”
“Not without passing our desk and going through the door,” the woman said.
“And were you both here the entire time?” Ed asked.
“Well, aside from bathroom breaks, but even then, we take turns, so one of us is always here.”
Ed looked up and down the hall, then focused his eyes on the camera in the upper corner above the door, one of three in his view.
“Where can I see the security footage?” Ed asked.
Gross said, “Down in the server room, I can have someone pull it up for you.”
“Do that,” Ed said. “I’ll search his room for any sign of where he might’ve gone.”
“OK,” Gross said, getting back on the phone and barking orders to his staff, telling people they were going to lose their jobs if Rosetti wasn’t found.
Ed stepped back into the room full of lunatic writing. The sheer amount of ink seemed like something that had to take days or weeks, maybe months of obsessive work, not something done in the span of a few hours.
Ed’s eyes followed from one “It’s Here” to another, noticing that not only were the letters done in different sizes and styles, they seemed almost as if written by many different hands. And though he couldn’t determine a pattern, there seemed to be one somewhere within the chaos. He circled the room studying the letters until he found one message different from the others, just above the doorway.
It read, “Turn back, Keenan. Go home now.”
Ed stopped, heart racing, cold chills through his body. He looked outside in the hall where Gross was talking on a radio to his security team, making sure nobody was paying attention to what he was looking at.
How the hell does he know my name?
What does this message mean?
Ed thought immediately of the only true home he had, and the girls — Jade, Teagan, and Becca. After Sullivan discovered Ed’s safe house in Florida, Ed knew he had to hide his new family better. He found a place in upstate New York, a bit closer to him, that neither Sullivan nor people at the Black Island Research Facility could possibly know of. The girls changed their appearances, stayed off the phones, except for the one he gave them for emergencies, and ensured they had enough supplies to last them a long time.
He wondered if somehow they were in danger.
Sullivan had found him the first time, and said he’d done so thanks to some “power” from the vials. Had Sullivan tracked the girls down? And if so, why? While Ed didn’t trust the government, who’d turned him into their hired killer until they no longer needed him, he thought he could trust Sullivan.
Ed needed to get in touch with the girls, but couldn’t do so yet. First he had to find a secure location to make his call.
Gross interrupted Ed’s thoughts: “Esther is on her way up here.”
“Good,” Ed said.
“Find anything?”
“No,” Ed lied. “Just a bunch of crazy chicken scratch. Let’s talk to Esther.”
Ed returned to his van with nothing of value. Roman was gone, and Esther knew nothing. All Ed had was a cryptic message that was working to slowly unnerve him.
He called Sullivan and reported Roman’s disappearance. Sullivan seemed more upset than usual, asking how the hell Ed could lose a locked up man.
“I don’t know what happened,” Ed explained.
“Well, you’d better find him, Ed. I don’t have to warn you what Bolton will do to you … will do to the girls … if you lose Rosetti.”
Ed was surprised. Sullivan had never been so abrupt with him, nor had he ever pulled rank or delivered such a threat.
Ed wanted to blast back, but figured Sullivan must’ve been in a room with Bolton and was being overly aggressive to save face, and perhaps even help Ed in some way.
“I’ll find him,” Ed said, biting his tongue.
Ed made no mention of the personalized nature of the wall’s message, though he imagined someone would find it eventually.
“You’d better,” Sullivan said, pressing his luck.
“Where do you want me to go from here?” Ed asked.
“Follow the trail,” Sullivan said. “See if Rosetti went back to the 215ers.”
“OK.” Ed hung up, turned to Brent, still handcuffed and pissed in the back of the van. “Looks like we’re going to go visit some of your friends.”
“Who?”
“The 215ers. We need to find Rosetti immediately, he’s our only lead.”
“And how do I know you won’t kill them like you killed Lara?”
Ed sighed. He’d played hardball with Brent when he woke in the van, telling him that his family was in danger if he didn’t cooperate. That had kept Brent in the van for a while, but if he wanted the man’s long-term cooperation, he needed to convince him that he wouldn’t pull the trigger on him, or the others. In other words, Ed had to make promises he didn’t know he could keep.
“As far as the government’s concerned, your friends are conspiracy theorists. They’ve been spouting nonsense for years, and people have learned to tune them out. They’re not a threat. The reporter was. Killing her sealed the leak … the leak you created, just in case you forgot.”
Brent glared at Ed, not hiding his disgust or fear, only his tongue.
Ed kept selling. “You were a reporter, right? Ask yourself: If you had uncovered a story the government didn’t want uncovered, and started naming names, what do you think they would do in order to protect their secrets? How far do you think they’d go to silence you? Think about everyone we came back with. Would you rather I kill a reporter now, or wait until someone has to come clean up and is after us all?”
“You say ‘us’ like you wouldn’t be the one pulling the trigger,” Brent said. His tone split between query and accusal.
“You think I’m the only person who does what I do? Why the hell do you think I’m even here? They found me. They found Jade, Teagan, and her daughter. If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else knocking on doors.”
“This is insane. The government shouldn’t be killing citizens to keep some fucking secret.”
“This isn’t just a secret, Brent. This is war. You saw what the aliens did to the other world. We need to find the vials and keep this thing in check before it gets out of hand. If word about any of this got out, the country would lose their minds. You’d have riots, people rushing for safe places, but not knowing where to go, and … well, hell, we can hardly handle hurricanes. You really want to see how we handle an alien outbreak or mass panic? I know you think the government is this big, giant all-encompassing powerful thing, but fact is, there’s not a lot standing between us and absolute chaos. Killing a few people to prevent widespread anarchy, it’s an easy choice for them, and me.”
Brent stared at Ed, seeming to process his words, anger softening.
“So, if I bring you to them, are you going to kill them?”
“I already said they’re not a threat. But I think what you really meant to ask was do I plan to kill you, right?”
Brent nodded.
“No,” Ed lied.
Order had to be maintained, at all costs, though that was only part of the equation. The other 75 percent were the three lives counting on Ed to do his job, no matter how hard it might be.
Thirty-Five
Brent Foster
Ed finally removed Brent’s cuffs when they arrived at Stan’s apartment building shortly before dark. He didn’t apologize for the cuffing, instead giving Brent a look that suggested apology and a, “Hey, you understand why I did this.”
Brent rubbed at his red wrists, venting a deep sigh as he worked up the courage to make a stand, just as Ed was preparing their next move.
Brent hated Ed for what he’d done to Lara. Any thoughts he had of trusting Ed had dissipated in a flash. If he thought he could kill Ed in retaliation, he would have. But, at the moment, he was at the assassin’s mercy. Ed decided if Brent lived or died.
Ed decided if Brent’s family lived.
Still, Brent couldn’t just roll over. He had to make some sort of stand.
He reached for the door to climb from the van.
Brent said, “Wait.”
Ed froze halfway out, turning to Brent, “Yes?”
“I’m not going up.”
“What?” Ed said, getting back into the van and turning to Brent, not hiding his anger.
“I’m not going up until I have assurances,” Brent said, hoping like hell he had a hand to play.
“I already told you I’m not going to kill you.”
“I want more,” Brent said.
“More? What the hell are you talking about?”
“My wife and child live in the apartments across the street. When we’re finished here, I want you to go there with me. I want you to tell my wife I’m not crazy.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Then I’m not going up, and you can figure out how to get Stan talking by yourself.”
“You think I won’t?” Ed said, right eyebrow arching. “You don’t think I can convince Stan to talk?”
“I’m sure you can,” Brent said. “But Luis already greased the wheels for me, not you. You walk in there, and he’s not saying shit.”
On the way to Stan’s, Brent had called Luis and told him that he needed to speak with Stan immediately; it was a matter of life and death. Luis was hesitant, but finally said he’d call Stan and fill him in
. Luis warned Brent that Stan had grown recently paranoid, and might not be eager to talk. Brent figured he could win Stan over, if needed, but didn’t think Ed with his brusque manner would have the same chances. As Brent saw it, Ed needed him if he wanted info on Rosetti — assuming Stan even knew anything.
Ed shook his head, “We already discussed this. Black Island sent me to shut you up. Why the hell do you think I’d let you tell your wife? More importantly, why do you insist on endangering her, and your son?”
“Because I can’t go on like this, having my wife hate me, and my son not know me. They think I’m fucking crazy. There’s gotta be some way to let them know I’m sane without putting them in danger.”
“There isn’t,” Ed said. “End of discussion.”
“It’s not fair,” Brent said, on the verge of tears, months of raw emotions starting to surface at once. It wasn’t just that he lost his family, or that his wife thought he’d lost his mind. It was that Brent was alone, with no one to talk to, or help him through this. No one to soothe his pain.
As weird — and pathetic — as it was, Ed was the closest thing Brent had to a friend in the world. Ed had fought the aliens with him. They’d survived a shared hell. And right now, he needed a friend to understand. Even if that “friend” was responsible for Lara’s death.
“My family thinks I’m a monster. The last time I saw my son, he was scared of me!”
“We all have to make sacrifices,” Ed said, no sympathy in his voice, amplifying Brent’s feelings of isolation, alone against the world.
Ed wasn’t a friend, and couldn’t be counted on. For all Brent knew, Ed was still planning to kill him. He’d taken care of Lara. He’d probably “take care of” the 215ers. As far as anyone was concerned, Brent was just one more bit of unfinished business for a trained killer.