Read The Intern's Handbook: A Thriller Online
Authors: Shane Kuhn
Tags: #Fiction, #Retail, #Suspense, #Thriller
The Intern's Handbook: A Thriller (25 page)
“Why did you let them in?” I ask.
My voice is thin and childlike.
“I thought it was you,” I answer for her in a condemned whisper.
“I was going to ask you to go away with me,” I say.
The words drip down into the carpet and soak into the blood. I stand there for a long time, staring at the ring on her finger, thinking that Alice was the closest I ever came to being real. The pain of seeing her like this has nowhere to go. It is so foreign to me that it feels like a ghost passing through my heart, stopping it momentarily. I react violently at first, a wave of blinding rage surging into my hands and face. I feel the edge of madness, a black hole pulling me into its center with a force of emotional gravity that I know will crush me. Then, like a safety switch, the numbness sets in and I am immersed in its dark water. I pull the engagement ring from her stiff, swollen finger. My body goes cold and I allow my feelings for Alice to bleed out onto the floor. Our emptiness is now the only thing we share.
I leave her room, my reptilian gaze zeroing in on getting what I came for and erasing all evidence of my presence.
United States Department of Justice
Federal Bureau of Investigation
Washington, D.C. 20535
SURVEILLANCE TRANSCRIPT: AUDIO RECORDING
Location: Wireless phone call intercept—IMSI catcher/Roving bug
Subjects: John Lago and Marcus (censored).
Marcus: | John. |
Lago: | Did I wake you? |
Marcus: | It’s okay. What’s up? |
Lago: | I’m in a . . . something terrible. I feel sick. |
Marcus: | John, have you been drinking. |
Lago: | Sorry. |
Marcus: | It’s okay. I just want to know where your head is at— |
Lago: | She’s dead. |
Marcus: | Oh my God. What happened? |
Lago: | So sweet. They . . . |
LAGO IS CRYING. | |
Lago: | Her face. I’ll never . . . What they did. |
Marcus: | Tell me. |
Lago: | Beat her. Her hands . . . |
Marcus: | What about her hands? |
Lago: | She fought them. They were like animals. No mercy. |
Marcus: | Who are they? |
Lago: | I don’t know. Could be anyone. The phone book. |
Marcus: | You have no idea who they are? |
Lago: | No. I want to find them. I have something . . . for them. |
SCREAMING, UNINTELLIGIBLE RANTING. | |
Marcus: | John. Wait. John? Try to calm down. |
SOUND OF BREAKING GLASS AND WOOD. | |
Marcus: | John. Stop! Someone will call the police! Stop! |
Lago: | The police? |
Marcus: | People. They’ll hear you and call them. You don’t want that. |
Lago: | I’ll kill them. |
Marcus: | John. You’re not going to kill anyone. Do you understand? |
LONG PAUSE. | |
Lago: | Yes. |
Marcus: | Tell me about her. |
Lago: | We were . . . going to get married . . . I see her when I close my eyes. I see what they did. It wasn’t her anymore. Wasn’t her. |
Marcus: | I’m so sorry. |
Lago: | I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. |
SOUND OF LAGO RETCHING. | |
Marcus: | John? Are you okay? |
Lago: | Y . . . yes. I’m sick. So fucking sick. |
Marcus: | I know. I’ve been there. It’s good to get it out of you. Do you feel a little better? |
Lago: | Better. Need to sleep. |
Marcus: | No. Don’t sleep yet. Stay on the phone. Get some water. Do you have any coffee? |
Lago: | Make the best coffee. |
Marcus: | Actually. Forget the coffee. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. |
Lago: | Best coffee. |
Marcus: | Water, John. Drink some. Okay? |
Lago: | Yes. |
WATER RUNNING. LAGO IS DRINKING AND SPUTTERING. | |
Lago: | Oh God. |
Marcus: | Good. Now sit and focus on my voice. |
Lago: | Marcus. Thank you. |
Marcus: | It’s all right. Just listen. I have some important questions. |
Lago: | I’ll try to answer. |
Marcus: | The people that did this, do they know about you? |
Lago: | I don’t know. |
Marcus: | Would they know where to find you? Where you live? |
Lago: | Impossible. |
Marcus: | Are you sure? |
Lago: | Off the grid. It’s . . . impossible. |
Marcus: | What do you mean “off the grid”? |
Lago: | Can’t talk about that. |
Marcus: | What about work? Do they know where you work? |
Lago: | That is . . . possible. That . . . is yes. |
Marcus: | Don’t go back. Just don’t go back. |
Lago: | No. |
Marcus: | That’s right. You can’t. They’ll wait for you there. |
Lago: | They’ll wait. That’s where I’ll find them. I’ll wait. |
Marcus: | No, John. That is a bad idea. Do |
Lago: | I want to . . . I want to show them something. |
Marcus: | You can’t risk that. I understand what you want to do. |
Lago: | I want to . . . Lots of guns. |
Marcus: | John. Don’t say things like that. You have to focus for me. Please. |
Lago: | Focus . . . on . . . you. |
Marcus: | John, have you taken anything other than alcohol tonight? |
Lago: | Oxys. |
Marcus: | When? |
Lago: | Don’t know. Hour or so. |
Marcus: | You probably threw it up. Don’t take anything else, okay? |
Lago: | Marcus? |
Marcus: | Yes, John. |
Lago: | Help me. |
Marcus: | I’m trying. I’m sorry I’m not there. |
Lago: | You left. |
Marcus: | I’m sorry. |
Lago: | It’s okay. I am . . . a predator. I survive. |
Marcus: | I know. And we’re going to keep it that way, right? |
Lago: | Yes. |
Marcus: | I want you to come here, John. Where I live. |
Lago: | Your house? |
Marcus: | Yes. Will you come? |
Lago: | I will. |
Marcus: | Good. |
Lago: | How will I get there? |
Marcus: | I’ll tell you. Will you remember? |
Lago: | I don’t know. |
Marcus: | Can I call you tomorrow? When you’re feeling better? |
Lago: | Yes. |
Marcus: | How? I need a number. |
Lago: | I’ll call you. |
Marcus: | Is it a landline? |
Lago: | Yes. Need to sleep. |
Marcus: | We’ll talk tomorrow and I’ll tell you how to get to me. |
Lago: | Okay. Marcus? |
Marcus: | Yes? |
Lago: | Thank you. |
Marcus: | No problem. I’ll talk to you . . . |
THE LINE GOES DEAD. | |
—END TRANSCRIPT— |
ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?
R
emember when I was telling you about Intermittent Explosive Disorder—the blinding, uncontrollable rage that turns you into a violent, sometimes homicidal, maniac? It’s important to mention, because if you don’t learn to control it, you will find that it’s quite capable of controlling you. Right now, it’s controlling me. I may sound lucid but I can assure you I’m not. It’s 5:00
A.M.
and I’m walking down the street barefoot. I have blood and broken glass in my hair. The throbbing in my skull is the result of either my raging hangover or head trauma from whatever train wreck I just crawled out of. I am downtown and heading somewhere with a purpose. As I round the corner and see the familiar buildings, I know exactly where I am: two blocks from HR, Inc. I have my Glock 18 in one jacket pocket and a fistful of mags in the other.
I try to think why I’m going to the office, especially in this state. Then I remember. Silly me, I’m going to kill Bob.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
That’s the question you’re asking me right now. The answer is yes. I am out of my fucking mind. And yes, it’s because of Alice. I’ve seen some extremely fucked-up shit in my time, but none of it holds a candle to what happened to her. I’m sure that Bob was well aware of my feelings for her, the very same feelings that are now compelling me to kill him. Since he was aware of how I felt about her, he wasted
no time wasting her as soon as she stopped being of use to us. And now I’m pretty goddamned sure he knows she was FBI. Of course, in typical Bob fashion, he attempted to create an execution scenario for Alice that could be assigned to the mob and their love of baseball bats (only equaled by their hatred of the feds). This smacks of his method, and now I’m going to show him my method.
“Put the gun down.” He attempts to emotionally disarm me with a tone that’s supposed to force me to see the futility of my actions.
“Fuck you.”
We’re standing in his office. It’s too early for any of you to be there. Too bad, because you’re going to miss a good show. I point the gun at his face. This makes him very angry.
“Why?”
“Why what, John?” His teeth are set with fury.
“You know what the fuck I’m talking about.”
“No, I don’t. Put down the gun.”
“Or what?”
I smile at him.
“Or I won’t ask again.”
“You won’t have to.”
“You’re smarter than this, John.”
“Am I?”
“Look at yourself.”
“Unfortunately, I
am
looking at myself, Bob. I’m a forty-something psychopath who thinks he has the right to delete anyone he sees fit. I’m a master manipulator with a rabid jackal for a soul. I’m you if I don’t delete
you
right now.”
“Are you finished?”
“No.”
“Yes you are.”
I am too bleary eyed and emotional (a kiss of death on both cheeks) to see the flash grenade he has placed on top of his files like
a paperweight. He artfully hits the floor as it detonates. The concussion blows me off my feet and into the back wall. The flash knocks me out long enough for two of Bob’s goons to scoop me up and drag me out of his office. When I come to, I’m in the HR medical unit. Goons are holding me down while Dr. Hatchet and his merry band of ex-stripper nurses prepare needles.