The Screaming Room jd-2

by Thomas O`Callaghan

  “Could get a little tight back there, no?”

  “Don’t even go there. These were kids. With their dad right there with them.”

  “Tell me you never saw them share a blanket.”

  “That’d be a lie. It gets plenty cold. It’s an open-air carriage.”

  “What’d these kids look like?”

  “Indians.”

  “No. Not how they were dressed. What did their faces look like?”

  “Indians. That was part of the show. They were coated in war paint.”

  “You never saw their faces?”

  “Not without the paint.”

  “How is it you knew Sanderson went to Pennsylvania?”

  “His son told me?”

  “Angus?”

  “That’s not the name I knew him as. His father called him Titus.”

  “When did he tell you?”

  “Back a month and a half. Maybe more.”

  “Here?”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen the kids for over four years. They must be in their late teens by now. As they got older, Sanderson stopped using them. It was no longer cute.”

  “You must have seen his face when he told you two months ago his father was heading out of town, no?”

  “’Fraid not.”

  “He was still wearing makeup?”

  “Doubt it. He called me at the stable.”

  Chapter 89

  “The resemblance is uncanny,” said Angus, studying the woman’s face. “You’d think they were twins.”

  Terror filled his captive. And it was heightened by the rag’s metallic taste and the bite of the wire that bound her wrists and ankles to a hard wooden chair.

  “You still haven’t told me how you found her,” said Cassie, taking her turn scoping their prize, indifferent to the plea her eyes conveyed.

  “It wasn’t easy,” Angus said, shooting the hostage a glare. “I’m probably gonna hafta see a freakin’ eye doctor because of you. I spent over a week scouring the Internet to track you down!”

  “Next time I wanna see how it’s done,” said Cassie.

  “There’ll be no next time.”

  “Then clue me in, damn it!”

  With his eyes still fixed on the woman, Angus caved. “The Web, Lovee, is a veritable feast for need-to-know people like me. There’s birth records, public deed listings, frequent flyer accounts, and motor vehicle records.” Angus was beginning to sound like a broken record. The monotony was making him dizzy. He leaned his face into that of his captive. “Guess where I found you,” he said.

  “She’s not gonna answer you, Angus. You’re better off just telling me.”

  “Death records.”

  “She don’t look dead to me,” said Cassie. “Not yet.”

  The woman’s heart thumped, as tears welled, perspiration collected, and nausea set in.

  “You ever read a memorial?” Angus asked Cassie.

  “Nope.”

  “They’re like the freakin’ medal of honor of obituaries. They’re filled with all sorts of stuff. You learn all about the dead person’s hard work, loyalty, and dedication. They also throw in the date the person died. Maybe a membership in a lodge. And in the end, it tells you about the relatives. Emma Stiff, survived by…” He turned his attention to the woman. “That’s where I found you.”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t become a schoolteacher,” Cassie said. “You’re not very good at explaining things. I’m freakin’ lost.”

  “The memorial was on a Web site for some art student’s league. It was for a Colette Driscoll, wife of Lieutenant John W. Driscoll, NYPD. Said she was survived by a sister-in-law and it featured her name. A unique name. Hyphenated. Discovering where she lived was a breeze after that.” Angus positioned himself behind his captive.

  Cassie grinned. The woman fainted. Angus propped her head back up.

  “Lovee, meet Mary Driscoll-Humphreys. Lieutenant Bloodhound’s sister.”

  Chapter 90

  Cassie was the first to hear it. She rushed to the window, spotting the helicopter. And not just any helicopter, a police helicopter. Correction. There were two.

  “Well, Angus, you were right to call him a bloodhound.”

  Angus was astonished. “He’s outside?”

  “I don’t know if he is, but a shitload of his friends are.” Cassie did the Wicked Witch melting bit, descending out of sight.

  Angus huddled beside her.

  “You said not to worry. Nobody saw you graze his sister with the car.”

  “Like I said. Nobody saw me.” Angus chanced a glance outside. What he saw didn’t make him happy. He slid back down. “Okay, his sister. I got outta the car. Did the ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry’ routine, and finessed her into letting me drive her to the hospital to make certain she was okay. The gun pointed at her head made for a quiet ride.”

  “You came directly here. Nonstop.”

  “Just to mail the camera’s memory card. Pulled to the curb. Hopped out. Mailed it, and climbed back in. Not once was she out of the crosshairs.”

  “And the car. Nobody saw you hot-wire the car?”

  “C’mon. Do I look like an idiot?”

  Cassie thought about the question. She was tempted, but she chose not to offer her opinion. “Outside of strip searching the bitch to see if she’s packing a LoJack, what’re we gonna do? We got an army of cops out there!” She shook her head. Considered the possibilities. “I’m tired of running. And tired of hiding. Sure, we got his sister, but that might really piss him off. We could end up dead! Maybe it’s time to turn ourselves in.”

  “We’re not giving up. They don’t get to win!”

  “The cops?’

  “No! The ones who liked to come on your face ’cause it’s disfigured. The one who wanted his balls licked while he peed. The one who tied a belt around your neck. Made you howl like an alien while he screwed you up the ass. You forgettin’ when that bastard carved you up, raped you, and left you screaming? Strapped to a table, screaming. You forgettin’?”

  As Cassie collapsed on the floor, Angus thought about what she’d said. Her warning that they may end up dead, kept repeating inside his head. He considered their options. We might have Driscoll’s sister, but there is a freaking horde of cops outside and they all have guns. Could there be a trigger-happy shooter among them? A police shooting in the Bronx a few years back popped into his head. He couldn’t remember the victim’s name, but while reaching for what turned out to be his wallet, over forty police bullets were fired. Half of them struck and killed the man. Bits and pieces of a more recent shootings came to mind. Something about a man being shot and killed by police, hours before he was to be married. If he wasn’t mistaken, that incident also included a hail of police fire.

  He retrieved his cell phone, hesitated…but ultimately placed the call.

  Chapter 91

  “Who is this?”

  “No time for games, Shewster. You know who this is. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have let them forward the call.”

  “You pissant. You kill my daughter then have the balls to call me?”

  “And those balls are about to get bigger.”

  “Do you realize who you’re talking to?”

  “Your daughter was a moaner, dickhead. Insisted I holler ‘Gwennypoo! Gwennypoo!’ while I did her doggy style. Got myself two handfuls of hefty hooters while I was at it. Between you and me, I think Daddy’s little girl had a boob job. I should tell you, our rendezvousin’ don’t involve actually doin’ it anymore. But she had such doelike eyes. And she brought a camera! That was a first. We had our first threesome! Cassie is quite the photographer. Hustler might wanna buy these babies. I can send you some shots, if you’d like. You can tell me if you agree. There’s thirty-six in all. My personal favorite is the one your daughter insisted Cassie take while she-wait! Hold on! Hold on! What am I doin’? That’d ruin the surprise. I got a question. Your Gwennypoo go to some sorta contortionist school? That girl wiggled like a wor
m.”

  Shewster said nothing.

  “I’m figuring you wouldn’t want the newspaper buzzards to get their mitts on this stack of photos. So, here’s what your afternoon will look like. You’re gonna have the police pick us up in one of those choppers they launched. Then we’ll need a plane.”

  “You’re out of your mind!”

  “Have your pilot top off the tank. We’ll be going to Quebec. Half the people there speak nothin’ but French. They keep their noses in a wine list, not the freakin’ Daily News! Even if he found us, Driscoll would have a tough time convincing the Royal Mounties to give us up seein’ as we’re gonna get jabbed with a needle back in the states. News flash! Canuck law prohibits our forced return if we’re likely to be executed. Why do New Yorkers get their rocks off on capital punishment? I’m bettin’ Driscoll’s a big fan. He’ll be packin’ a pair of syringes monogrammed especially for us.”

  Silence from Shewster.

  “Gwennypoo! Gwennypoo!” Angus howled. “Me, I’m not much into any more than three positions. Wait! Make that four. Your daughter taught me a new one. She was a real hottie under all those conservative clothes she were. Did you know she had both nipples pierced with little silver charms? One was a baby’s shoe. The other one, I couldn’t figure out. Tasted like maple syrup. Yessir, a real hottie. I’d bet she’d give Peter Pan a woody.”

  Not a sound. But Angus knew he was still on the line. He’d wait him out. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five…

  “Where are you?”

  Chapter 92

  Thomlinson hadn’t quite gotten over the stiffness in his lower back from the cemetery run. Driscoll’s Chevy was roomy-as long as you were seated up front. That’s why he was now in a super-sized GMC Yukon. Fleet Services had wired this baby up with XM satellite radio. Thomlinson was known to the crew as “a frequent flyer” of this particular vehicle. That being the case, Pokee, one of the technicians, had the receiver set to XM101 when he handed Thomlinson the keys.

  His eyes were on the entrance to Shewster’s hotel. His thoughts were on what he imagined was going on at the loft. But his ears were lost to the sound of Bob Marley’s “Jammin’.” The prolific songwriter may have left this planet in 1981, but thankfully, he hadn’t taken his music with him.

  His cell phone dispelled his rapture.

  “Two of your key players just hooked up by phone,” said an excited Danny O’Brien from inside TARU. “We put Angus on East Sixtieth near the FDR when he got through to Shewster. Their conversation was not what I’d call G-rated. You want me to play it back?”

  “I’ll have to settle for the gist,” said Thomlinson starting up the Yukon. “Shewster just flew out of his hotel.”

  By the time Shewster’s limo crossed Park Avenue, heading east on Fifty-ninth, Thomlinson had been brought up to speed on Angus’s demand for an airlift out of the country and Shewster’s assurance that he’d arrange it with Driscoll. But both he and O’Brien had a question. Thomlinson wanted to know what Shewster meant when he told Angus not to do anything rash. He’d personally see to it that Angus and his sister were long gone before day’s end. Not to worry. They’d never see Driscoll again. O’Brien’s inquiry involved whether Thomlinson and the Lieutenant were aware of what Abigail Shewster had hidden up her sleeve. Her pink sleeve. He also asked who Gwennypoo was.

  Thomlinson’s response was succinct. “Don’t lose the tape.”

  Chapter 93

  Angus had rummaged through Mary Humphrey’s bag, securing what he’d hope to find: a ladies’ compact. He’d snapped it apart and had the mirrored portion affixed to the end of a wooden stick that measured approximately eighteen inches. It was grooved at one end. Cassie had supplied it.

  “Where’d this come from?” he asked her.

  “You don’t wanna know.”

  Although the mirror was small, when Angus planted himself below the window and held it over his head, he could survey the area outside, which was littered with an assortment of police vehicles and a bevy of police officers apparently in position. For what? he wasn’t sure. He adjusted the view. “Will ya look at that? They’ve got shooters on the rooftops across the street and I doubt they’re hunting geese, unless there’s a flock perched above us. Their rifles are all pointed this way.”

  Angus watched as a dark blue automobile came to a stop several yards from the loft. A smile lit his face when a man in a dark suit got out. He summoned Cassie.

  “Driscoll?”

  “That’s him. He’s even bigger in person.”

  Cassie watched through the mirror as a woman joined him and pointed to the loft. “That lady cop is with him now. They’re making some hand gestures to the other policemen. Another glance up here. Now they’re talking.”

  What Cassie didn’t know was that Margaret was filling Driscoll in on Liz Butler’s conversation with Timothy Alfreds. Margaret reported that Butler couldn’t swear to know if Sanderson was dead or not. Though she wished he was. But she was certain Sanderson had been serving up some real treats for his riders since the twins were ten. Margaret closed by telling Driscoll that the Carbondale sheriff’s office didn’t know there was anyone living in the house but the twins.

  Cassie thought the conversation between Driscoll and the Sergeant looked innocuous. She turned and faced Angus. “You think Shewster had a chance to speak with Lieutenant Bulldog about our travel plans?”

  “We’ll soon find out. She awake?”

  “Oh, yeah! You don’t hear that whimpering?”

  “I hit the off switch an hour ago. Pull the rag out and hold the phone to her mouth.”

  “What’s the number?”

  “She’ll know it.”

  “She’d better,” said Cassie, dislodging the gag, Beretta firmly in hand. “No funny stuff, lady, or the next time your brother gets to see you you’ll be in a box. Start punchin’ numbers!”

  “Driscoll has a bullhorn in his hand,” reported Angus. “Whaddya think’ll happen next? Horn to mouth?”

  “Nope. Phone to ear.”

  Chapter 94

  Thomlinson had a pretty good idea where Shewster was headed. What he wished he knew was whether he had called anyone on the way. And if he had, what’d they talk about?

  The laptop had him turning right at the FDR. He had apparently come to a stop a half block south. That’d put him between East Sixty-first and East Sixty-second. Why two blocks from the loft?

  Thomlinson turned at the FDR, spotting the limo behind one of those trucks similar to the ones the city sends out to repair faulty streetlights. They were parked on the right side of the street approximately one hundred feet from the corner, in front of a single-story commercial structure, its security gate down, as was the case for the row of similar structures on either side of the street. The limo’s engine was idling. It didn’t appear anyone had gotten out. Thomlinson pulled in on the left, put the vehicle in park, and watched. Could Shewster be on the phone? He wasn’t driving. If he needed to place a call, that wouldn’t require him to pull over. Why had he? And why two blocks away?

  Shewster’s car continued to idle. Thomlinson continued to watch. He unpocketed his phone, intent on calling Driscoll, but the cherry picker atop the utility truck made him look up. Standing on the roof of the single-story structure was a man in dark clothing. Sharpshooter? From this distance? Thomlinson doubted it. He wasn’t holding a rifle. In fact, he wasn’t holding anything. That’s when he spotted the tripod to the man’s right. What appeared to be mounted on it caused Thomlinson to draw his weapon, bolt from the Yukon, and charge down the street hollering like a madman. This action prompted three reactions: the driver of the utility vehicle bolted away from the curb, Shewster’s chauffeur did the same, and the man on the roof disappeared.

  When Thomlinson rounded the corner on East Sixty-first, the only person he happened upon was a locksmith who was closing his shop, toolbox in hand. Despite the fact that Thomlinson was breathing heavily, wearing a disheveled suit, and had appeared out of nowhere
brandishing a gun, the locksmith was quite accommodating-after he’d recovered from a rapid pulse, a surge of adrenaline, and a thunderous heartbeat. When color finally returned to the locksmith’s face, the detective gained access to the shopkeeper’s roof. A bit of high-stepping from roof to roof brought him to within inches of what had caused the ruckus.

  Thomlinson had come across a variety of weapons during the course of his crime-fighting career. But there were always surprises. And not having served in the military, today was the first time he’d ever seen an Mk19 automatic grenade launcher.

  Chapter 95

  Margaret and Driscoll had helped each other shoulder a fair amount of stress over the years. Both on the job and off. Here was a man who had only now buried his wife after losing her six years ago. Margaret was heartbroken when he confided to her that sitting beside his comatose wife was tantamount to kneeling before her open casket. My God, a six-year wake! How he managed to get out of bed in the morning was beyond her. She realized she wasn’t helping matters by dragging her own demons into their on-again, off-again relationship. Through it all, they had discovered their connection was similar to that reportedly experienced by twins, where unexplainable and extraordinary bonds exist. Ironic, considering their current case.

  That’s why the second he said hello to whomever had just called, she knew he’d been invited into a nightmare.

  “You okay?” she asked as he ended the call. “You look like you’re about to be hanged. Who was on the phone?”

  “My sister.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “She’s been abducted.”

  “Abducted? By whom?”

  Driscoll pointed to the loft.

  “The twins?”

  “They’re holding her hostage.”

  “Jesus Christ! What’d she say to you on the phone?”

  “That he’s holding a gun to her head.” His eyes targeted the second-story window, then sought Margaret’s. “She asked me the oddest question, even for her. She wanted to know if I would be the one getting them to the airport.”