Authors: Paul Adan
With his right thumb he pressed a button above the sink, and watched as a little spout of water shot up a few inches before arching back into the sink. The water, slightly brown, compelled him to wait a few seconds for it to change color. When it was finally clear, Edward gulped down a few
mouthfuls of the warm liquid. In the sink, meanwhile, a distorted image of himself stared up at him.
When he was done at the sink, Edward next sat down on the cold toilet. Here he remained seated, even after he had already completed his “business.” His mind was on fire and blazing with familiar thoughts:
You’re guilty, Edward. You’re still guilty. If it wasn’t for you, none of this would have happened! GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY! Demand respect, Edward. What’s that? Did you say something? Mom, is that you? Help me! What’s wrong with me? Turnbuckle High. Huh?
With his hands he grasped the sides of his head, squeezing until it hurt, but the thoughts continued to run rampant in his tormented, starving mind.
In an effort to break free from the madness, Edward abruptly stood up from the toilet. For ten to fifteen seconds he looked around the cell, slowly shifting his eyes from one object to another. His mind remained in a thick fog, his thoughts chugging along as he struggled to find meaning in his present circumstances. Eventually, his empty gaze settled on the contents of the toilet bowl.
And then, for whatever reason, a strange thing happened...
In a blur, Edward reached down with his right hand in
to the toilet. He felt like a grizzly bear, standing in the middle of a stream, grabbing salmon as they passed-by on their journey upriver. It was a feeling of empowerment, of meaning and purpose, and the ability to determine one’s own destiny. He held his prey in his claw-like hand, triumphantly raising it in the air as he considered his next move. Briefly, he thought about eating it. But then, at the very last second, he slammed the fish against the jagged rocks, bashing its brains out and creating a trail of blood along the bank of the river.
Edward – the grizzly – heard a voice, perhaps belonging to a hunter or a fisherman: “Gr
eat! That’s just great! Hey, sergeant, we’ve got a Poopy-Picasso over here in cell eight. Our friend, Edward, has finally gone nuts and is smearing crap all over the wall. What do you want me to do with him?”
County/City Building, Stuart Co.
30 September, 8:06 AM
ROBERT MATSON arrived at his office earlier than usual. He was dead-tired from being out so late the previous night, but he had a number of items on his agenda for the day. He had been hoping to get a good head start on things before someone interrupted him, but as he unlocked the door and proceeded to enter, his eyes were drawn to the answering-machine on his desk. The message-light was blinking non-stop, and begging to be noticed.
“
What the f***” he said to himself. He suspected that it was Ben Tyler who had called, either to say he’d located his girlfriend, or to plead with him to look into her supposed disappearance. He let out an audible sigh before sitting down at his desk. When he was finally comfortable in the chair, he pressed the “Play” button on the machine.
Surprisingly, the message was from the Colorado State Forensics Lab located in Denver, about 130 miles due west from Turnbuckle. Robert listened closely as Dwight Wayne, a Latent Evidence Investigator, described the progress he was making on the “Lucky Boys” case. When the message was done playing, Robert hit the “Repeat” button and listened again...
“Hello, Robert. This is Dwight Wayne, with the State Forensics Lab. I’ve got some things I need to go over with you regarding the “Lucky Boys” case. I think we might have something for you. We’ve been going through the video tapes you sent – the surveillance video from Turnbuckle Lanes bowling alley, and also the Savings and Loan – and we’ve come across something you’ll definitely want to see. I know Turnbuckle is quite a ways away, and you might not be able to make it out here today. In any event, give me a call at 555-6213 as soon as you can. Again, this is Dwight Wayne at the State Forensics Lab. 555-6213. Thanks. Talk to you later.”
Robert jotted the number down on a piece of scrap paper. “Finally, some progress,” he said to himself. He leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and immersed himself in thought. After several minutes of staring blankly at
the ceiling, he picked up the phone and called Fred. On the third ring, Fred answered the call.
“Fred, speaking.
Who’s this?”
“Hey, Fred.
It’s me, Robert. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure, yeah.
What have you got?”
“Listen, Fred, I just got a call from the forensics lab in Denver. Apparently, they’ve found something significant on the surveillance videos pertaining to the “Lucky Boys” case. I’m really swamped with meetings, today. Do you mind driving over there and seeing what they’ve got for us? I know it’s a bit of a drive...but, hey, you could look at the foliage. I hear the leaves are beginning to turn colors.” Robert was joking; he knew that Fred wasn’t the type of person who would drive around looking at leaves.
“Ha, Ha. Good one. And maybe you could put on a dress and come along with me.”
“Ha! Yeah, right! That would be the day,” Robert replied. He always enjoyed joking around with Fred and goading him
with witty sarcasm. It was therapeutic, and helped relieve some of the stress associated with the serious nature of his job. He suspected that Fred had similar feelings. The two men bantered a little longer, until the conversation eventually died. Before hanging up, Robert asked Fred to give him a call as soon as he got back from Denver.
Robert gathered a few things from his desk, tossed them
into his briefcase, and headed out the door.
This should be an interesting day,
he thought. Absent mindedly, he locked the door behind him, and slowly trudged-off down the hallway. A minute or two later, after he was already out of earshot, his office phone again rang. This time, the message that was left was from Megan’s mother – and she was clearly distraught.
Jason’s Property, Stuart Co.
30 September, 8:42 AM
ALREADY, BEN had been hiding under the mobile-home for more than an hour. His arms and legs ached, and he was becoming increasingly hungry and thirsty. Worse still, he felt like he must somehow urinate in the very near future, or risk an exploding bladder. He was also discouraged because he hadn’t heard anything of consequence which would justify his current misery.
I can’t take this much
longer, he thought.
I should’ve brought a bottle of water, and some food. How much longer should I stay here?
And when are these jokers going to get out of bed?
He decided to stay where he was for at least another thirty minutes before abandoning the hideout. In the meantime, he planned to do something about his ever-expanding bladder.
Suddenly, before he
could unzip his pants, there was activity above Ben’s head. From the end of the mobile home, presumably from one of the bedrooms, someone could be heard walking towards the kitchen or dining room. The squeaky sound of the floorboards grew louder and louder with each step – and then abruptly stopped. Someone began talking; rather muffled, but definitely angry. Ben placed his left ear up against the underside of the flooring, and listened:
“Do you plan on sleeping all day, you damn filthy rapist?”
“I’m sorry, Oscar. I couldn’t help myself last night. It won’t happen again. I promise. Really! Please don’t tell Jason. Ok?”
The hairs on Ben’s neck stood up, and a knot quickly formed in the pit of his stomach. In an instant, he became extremely worried for Megan’s safety. He smashed his ear up against the floorboard, straining to hear every last word of the conversation...
“I haven’t decided yet what I’m gonna do. I might tell him, or I might not,” Oscar said. “You know, I get sick and tired of people like you – amateurs, really – who can’t keep their f***’n pants zipped up. F***’n idiots.”
“I know, Oscar, I know. I am an idiot sometimes. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, yes, I promise. Cross my heart.”
“And hope to die?”
There was a pause in the conversation, and Ben could hear the sound of plates or glasses clinking together in the sink. A few seconds later, Oscar repeated his question.
“And hope to die?”
“Uhhh, yeah...I guess.”
“Good! And one mor
e thing: Take a shower. You stink!”
The sound of more walking was soon followed by the fai
nt sound of the television. A weatherman could be heard giving the weekly forecast. Ben was grateful for this distraction because of the opportunity it presented to relief himself; by now, his bladder was literally bursting. With a little effort, he adjusted his body to facilitate the process. But as he did this, his head bumped-up against a nearby pipe, creating a loud “clunk.” Ben was horrified at the resulting noise.
“What was that?” the
filthy rapist could be heard asking.
“What?” Oscar replied.
“I heard a noise – from down there. It sounded like it came from under the house.”
“What did it sound like?”
“I dunno – kind of like a ‘bump’ or something.”
The TV noise disappeared, and there was silence. After a while, Oscar
offered an explanation: “Ehh, don’t worry about it. It was probably the dog; he likes to sleep under the house.” A few seconds later, the volume on the TV increased to its previous level.
Ben breathed a huge sigh of relief, emptied his bladder, and then breathed another huge sigh of relief. When he’d zipped-up his pants, he carefully repositioned his body until he was reasonably comfortable. He looked around to make sure the dog wasn’t anywhere in sight, scratched his back in several places, and then continued
to eavesdrop. Meanwhile, the weatherman droned on about winds and humidity.
Ten to fifteen minutes later,
more footsteps could be heard; this time approaching from the other end of the mobile home. Once again, Ben pressed his ear up against the underside of the floor and listened. “This has gotta be Jason,” he whispered to himself. And then there were voices...
“What’s going on out here? Anybody make some coffee?”
“Uhhh – not yet, mommy. I thought we would have some beer for breakfast,” Oscar jokingly replied.
“Great. That’s just great. Thanks for
noth’n, Oscar. My head is f***’n kill’n me right now, and all you’ve got is beer? Damn! By the way, have any of you clowns checked on the girl? Or do you plan on sitt’n around all day watching TV?”
“Again,
not yet. I was fix’n to go out there in a few minutes, though. Do you want me to give her some food? Or some water? Perhaps she might like some beer.”
Ben was jolted by the revelation that Megan was not only alive, she was somewhere nearby
.
He was happy and relieved, scared and angry, all at the same time. At last he knew for certain that the kidnapping had actually occurred, and it wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. Although he was flooded with a sense of relief, he still worried:
Is she ok? Has she already been hurt? Has she been...raped? How will I rescue her when there are three of them, and one of me? Am I in over my head?
Suddenly, the sound of a closing door interrupted his thoughts.
“Hey, Oscar,” Jason asked, “why didn’t you guys let Rocky go outside when you got up this morning?”
“Sorry, we thought he was already outside. He didn’t whine or anything...”
BEN LOOKED over towards the porch and could see
Rocky’s four legs slowly descending the stairs. Alarm bells rang in his mind, as he recalled what Oscar had said earlier about Rocky’s habit of sleeping under the house.
This is just great
, he thought.
If Rocky comes under the house, or simply catches a whiff of me, I’m stink’n toast!
Darn it!
Not knowing what else he should do, Ben remained completely motionless; even his breathing was slow, and measured. With wary eyes, he watched as Rocky sniffed his way to the opposite side of the parking lot before lifting his leg on an unfortunate bush.
Confident that the threat had finally passed, Ben adjusted his body and placed his ear up against the floorboard. The sound of the TV was still prominent, making it difficult to hear
conversations. After listening for more than five minutes, and still not hearing anything significant, he slumped onto the ground in order to rest. As he got comfortable, thoughts of Megan displaced all other thoughts. And that’s when it happened.
As if from nowhere, loud barking erupted a few feet away from where he was resting. Startled, Ben jerked his body upward, causing his right leg to hit a pipe and the top of his head to smack hard against the floorboard. He instinctively reached for his head with one hand. For a few seconds the pain was all-consuming, and he could do nothing more than grasp the injury until the pain subsided. When he finally withdrew his hand and examined it, he was relieved to see only a trace amount of blood in the center of his palm. Meanwhile, the barking continued unabated.