by Alan Orloff
Then Dragunov bent over and picked up the spray mister with his other hand.
“Watch out,” King cried, but in all the chaos, he couldn’t even be sure he’d vocalized his warning. In a few seconds, Dragunov was going to spray Emily with whatever was in the mister. Then he’d kill King. Then he’d unleash his nerve agent on thousands of innocents on the Mall.
Unless . . .
Emily’s screams spurred him on.
After the longest three seconds of his life, King finally found Slattery’s gun. He brought it up and aimed it at Dragunov, who was now staring at King with a single eye, the ballpoint pen still embedded through his other eye socket.
King hesitated. Where was Amanda?
Something shone from within Dragunov’s eye. Hate? Fear? Regret? Pain? He struggled with Emily for a moment, then pointed the spray mister at her face.
King aimed for center mass and squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times.
The gunshots were deafening.
Dragunov toppled backward and landed on Slattery’s body. King could have sworn he saw a small smile cross the terrorist’s face just as he fired his first shot.
“Emily, are you okay?”
“Fine.”
King scrambled to his feet and rushed to where Dragunov lay. Felt for a pulse. Nothing. King’s entire world blacked out for a moment, then slowly swam back into focus. He’d killed Dragunov, and in that same instant, he’d killed any hope he had for finding Amanda. King kneeled next to Dragunov’s body, shaking.
A brief moment passed, and then Emily’s hand was on his back. “Professor King?”
“I just killed Amanda.” His words had taken on an eerie monotone.
“Professor King?”
“Where could he have taken her? We’ll never find out. We’ll never find her in time . . .”
Emily moved to face King, took his hands in hers. “Professor King. You’re always saying how fiction is autobiographical, right?”
King stared at her. “So?”
“So you created Dragunov. You gave him his personality, his desires, his needs, his motivations. He’s bound to go somewhere that you’ve imprinted on him. At your core, you know where Dragunov took her. You just have to dig deep and think like him. You can do it.” Her hands squeezed his, to the point of pain.
King eyed her. She was right, he was always saying how fiction was autobiographical on some level. Was he really part Russian terrorist? Was it completely ludicrous to believe he could know where Dragunov had taken Amanda?
“Think, Professor King. Think. If you were Dragunov, where would you take a kidnapping hostage?” Emily’s grip loosened, but she didn’t let go, as if she believed King’s thoughts might be transmitted through his fingertips.
He swallowed. Closed his eyes. Thought aloud. “It would need to be someplace where he would feel safe, a place where nobody would think to look.” King remembered a scene from Attack on America, when the fictional Dragunov had hidden on the same street where his foe, a CIA agent, lived. Hiding right under their noses.
It was a device King had admired when other writers used it, so when he’d written Attack, he’d made sure to find a way to include it.
King’s eyes flew open, and a wild optimism sent his heart racing. If he’d done his job right, if he’d imbued the fictional Dragunov with King’s same need to be clever, then maybe the real Dragunov would feel that same compulsion.
If so, then King knew exactly where Dragunov had taken Amanda.
Chapter Forty-Six
“These brussels sprouts are delicious.” King didn’t cook many vegetables on his own, certainly none as complicated as brussels sprouts, so he always enjoyed them during his dinner visits to Amanda’s. In the three weeks since they’d found her chained to a steel beam inside Gosberg’s abandoned warehouse, King had made it a point to dine more frequently with his daughter. Until now, they’d been eating out, but tonight Amanda wanted him—and Emily—to come over for a home-cooked meal.
King had happily obliged, recognizing the invitation for what it was—a first, and welcome, attempt for Amanda to regain some normalcy after her harrowing ordeal.
“They sure are tasty,” Emily added, prodding her sprouts with her fork, although King figured she was probably just being polite. He’d never actually seen Emily eat anything that McDonald’s or Burger King or KFC didn’t serve.
“Thanks,” Amanda said with a disappearing smile. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions? About what happened?”
On one level, King hoped never to talk about it again. But he knew Amanda had a strong need for some kind of closure—even if she’d asked the same questions repeatedly every time they’d been together. “Fire away, dear.”
Amanda pushed away her plate and squirmed in her chair. “I understand why I was kidnapped—so he could get to you. And I know why he killed all those innocent people—because he wanted to create terror in the city. But I don’t know why he killed Feinbaum or Connelly. What did they have to do with anything?”
“This guy who thought he was Dragunov was unbalanced. He took the acknowledgments for Attack and twisted them around in his mind, becoming convinced that the people I thanked were part of some conspiracy—of which I was the leader, I guess because my name was in a bigger font than everyone else’s.” King shook his head. “Like I said, this guy’s brain was seriously damaged.”
“That’s how he knew I existed, too, right? From the acknowledgments?”
“From the dedication, yes.” Initially, King thought about withholding the truth from Amanda to protect her. But it had taken him thirty-five years to realize she didn’t need his woefully lame protection. And really, she deserved the truth.
“When the public finds out the details about what happened, I’m afraid they’re going to come after you. Even though it wasn’t your fault, they’ll think it was. You’ve got to—”
“Relax. They’re not going to find out.” He exchanged glances with Emily, who gave him a somber nod.
“What do you mean?” Amanda picked the fork off her plate and tapped it against the knuckles of her left hand, tines down, like she used to when she was ten years old.
“The official report will read something like this: All the civilian deaths will be blamed on a psycho terrorist. The deaths of the lab techs, Gosberg, and Slattery will most likely be blamed on some terrible accident in the lab. And I’m sure they’ll concoct some equally crazy story to explain the demise of Colonel Locraft and the other members of our little ‘team.’ Bottom line: no one will know the real circumstances of their deaths.”
“That’s impossible. How can something like that be kept secret?” Amanda continued to play with her fork, and King quelled the urge to tell her to stop it like he used to do when she was little.
“According to Emily’s friend at the Pentagon—who was able to gather some information before it all went black—the entire operation has been classified and turned over to an internal investigator. I’m sure that when the dust settles, there will be no record whatsoever of Gosberg’s experiment—whatever it was.”
Amanda set her fork down and stared into space for a moment. “Sometimes I hate living in this country.” A second later, she smiled. “It’ll come out sometime, I suppose. Cover-ups seldom work out for very long, do they?”
“No, I guess they don’t.” King smiled at Amanda, then glanced at Emily, hoping that if the truth ever came out, they’d both be spared mention of any involvement. He could cope with his life getting messed up, but they still had their whole lives ahead of them.
Amanda sat up straight, and her spirits seemed to have lifted, right along with the wineglass she raised. “I’ve been remiss. I’d like to make a toast. To both of you, for saving me.” She clinked her glass against King’s, then against Emily’s, and they all took a sip.
King kept his glass aloft and turned toward Emily. “And a special toast to you. Without your help, without you coaxing me to believe I could think like Draguno
v, without your belief in me, I’m afraid we all wouldn’t be sitting here, enjoying this meal together. To Emily.”
Glasses clinked all around.
“Absolutely,” Amanda said. “I’m grateful you kept my father on task. Someone needed to.”
“My, uh, my pleasure,” Emily said, a slight blush now creeping onto her face. She glanced away, suddenly enamored with the picture of sunflowers hanging on the wall.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I’ll be right back.” Amanda rose and left the dining room.
“We make a pretty good team, don’t we?” King said to Emily.
She shrugged, face slowly returning to its normal hue. “I guess. We beat Dragunov and found Amanda, and that’s what counted.”
“You got that right.” King realized, in one sense, that by killing Dragunov, he had slain the imaginary demons haunting him since Rina’s death. He could now finally accept Attack on America as part of his body of work. Without shame. People change, evolve. And while he wasn’t especially proud of his legacy of violence, he shouldn’t let it define him, not if he didn’t want it to. And he sure as hell didn’t.
Amanda returned to the dining room table holding a gift wrapped in silver foil paper. She handed it to Emily. “A token of my thanks.”
Emily took it, glancing at King for approval. He winked at her, and she unwrapped the gift, the foil peeling off in thin strips. As she examined the gift, her smile grew. After a moment, she turned it around to show King a beautiful pencil sketch of an orchid in a simple silver frame. “It’s . . . it’s great. Thanks so much.” Emily’s eyes glistened. “Would you excuse me?” Without waiting for an answer, she pushed her chair back and rushed from the room.
“Seems like she’s a tad emotional,” King said, holding back his own tears. “Ah, youth.”
“You be nice to her. Take care of her. She’s the best assistant you’ve ever had. And by that, I mean she’s the only one who didn’t quit in a huff after three weeks.”
“Don’t worry. I will.” The last few weeks, he’d been spending a lot of time and energy supporting Amanda, but had he done his part for Emily? She’d been through a lot, too. Tomorrow, he’d take her to lunch to make sure she was doing okay. KFC, too, if that’s what she picked.
Amanda lowered her voice and leaned across the table. “Dad. I want you to know something.”
“What’s that?”
“Since the . . .” Amanda’s voice caught. She cleared her throat, began again. “I’ve finally been able to work through some things—ironic my kidnapping led to this breakthrough, isn’t it? I’m not exactly at peace now, but I’m moving in that direction, of forgiveness. I’m not all the way there yet, but I’m making progress. For so long, I hated you for writing those books because of what they led to. And despite how I’ve seemed over the past five years or so, I never really got over it. My anger has always been there, right under the surface.”
King reached out for Amanda’s hand, but she pulled it away. “I hope—”
“Please let me finish. I realize there are bad people in the world who do bad things. That hasn’t changed, and it won’t change, regardless of what we do. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that you really shouldn’t blame yourself entirely for what happened.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” King said, unable to say more without choking up. He sat back, absorbing Amanda’s words. He still blamed himself, at least to a large extent, and he always would, no matter who absolved him. But he felt better knowing that in the eyes of his daughter, he was no longer a complete monster. A million times better. “You know how you’ve been after me to go on a vacation?”
Amanda’s eyes sparked. “Yes?”
“I’ve decided to take your advice.”
“That’s great. I know you’ll have a wonderful—”
“And you’re coming with me. We can continue repairing old wounds. I’ve already made the reservations and bought the plane tickets, so you really have no choice.”
A smile slowly grew on her face. “Vacation? Together? You and me? You sure that’s a good idea?”
“I think it’s a fantastic idea,” King said, and he meant it.
THE END
If you enjoyed Pray for the Innocent, you might also like First Time Killer. An excerpt:
FIRST TIME KILLER
Chapter 1
WHACKJOB. LINE TWO.
Radio talk show host Rick Jennings stared back at the instant message on his monitor.
WHACKJOB. The catch-all term his producer used for someone who sounded unhinged, someone with a bug up his butt. Someone unpredictable.
Twenty seconds to air. Over the span of his twenty-six-year career, Rick had received plenty of calls from fruitcakes. A few went well. Most ended poorly.
In the master control room, J.T. O’Connor, the show’s producer, held up both hands, fingers splayed. Ten seconds to air. Rick glanced at the monitor, and the studio walls seemed to close in around him as he read the words again. Why had he agreed to move to the Afternoon Circus from his quiet midday show? Were calls from whackjobs going to be the norm?
J.T. pointed at him through the glass partition. Go time.
“Good afternoon everybody, Rick Jennings here. Welcome to the Afternoon Circus, originating from Fairfax, Virginia, home of WTLK, the Talk of D.C. Syndicated in forty-two cities across this great country of ours. You know where you are.”
He leaned forward until his mouth was an inch from the Sennheiser microphone hanging in front of him. “Today, we’re going to open the show with a call. From a man with something important on his mind.” He paused, double-checked the phone queue, half-hoping the caller had hung up. “You are live! Speak to me, Jeffrey.”
No answer, unless you counted heavy breathing. He adjusted his headphones. “You there?” Rick paused, waiting for Jeffrey to muster enough courage to speak. It wasn’t always easy to get the words out knowing you were on a national radio show, where your hems and haws and stammers were broadcast to more than two million listeners expecting to be entertained.
“Yes, I’m here.” Jeffrey’s monotone voice sounded distant. Five more seconds of dead air crept by. “Rick?”
“Yes, Jeffrey. What’s bothering you? I’m all ears.” The deep timbre of Rick’s voice calmed his callers, and he knew it, counted on it, like LeBron counted on his crossover.
“People treat me badly. And…” Jeffrey’s robotic voice stopped abruptly.
“And?”
“And they say mean things to me. They…they...”
“Look, why don’t you take a deep breath. Relax. Then tell me what the problem is, okay?” Rick massaged the back of his neck while he waited a beat for the caller to collect himself. It was going to be a long afternoon. Another in a series of long afternoons slowly stretching into a daisy-chain of interminable weeks.
“Rick?”
“Listen, Jeffrey. We’re on live radio, man. If you want to talk, I’d love to hear you. Otherwise…” Rick let it hang, consulting the monitor and reviewing the queue of other callers. A half dozen waited, all with more compelling stories. Maybe something upbeat to get the show rolling.
“They call me names.”
“What names?” Rick’s eyes wandered to master control. Behind the thick pane of glass in the adjacent room, J.T. ran the board, while Celia Perez, the Program Director, circled her hand in the air, telling him to move things along. No matter what happened, she wanted more action, more drama, more listeners. More more.
“Nasty names. They call me nasty names.”
Rick moved his hand closer to the dump button, which some intern had painted neon pink. Management sent out weekly memos warning them about fines for indecency. Rick didn’t much care for the FCC’s politics, but he had a job to keep, a family to support. “Come on, Jeffrey. Sticks and stones, and all that. Ignore them. Take the high road. You’re a good person, right?”
“No, Rick. I’m not.”
“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. Everyone feels down som
etime.”
“I’ve done a bad thing. A very bad thing.”
“What did you do?” Rick smoothed his voice out. “You can tell me. I’m a good listener.”
“Okay. Here it is,” Jeffrey said, then paused. Rick resisted the temptation to hit the drum roll sound effect. “No. Never mind. Never should have called.”
“Hang on, hang on. Calm down. Let’s talk it over,” Rick said.
No response.
Rick brought his lips closer to the mic’s black windscreen. “This is a call-in show, Jeffrey. You tell me your problems and I try to help you. That’s how it works. But you’ve got to trust me. Haven’t you ever listened before?”
“Actually, Rick, I have,” Jeffrey said. “I’m a long time listener, first time killer.”
TO READ MORE OF FIRST TIME KILLER, CLICK HERE.
Acknowledgments
It takes many people, with many skills, to get a story out of a writer’s head, onto the pages, and up on the shelves and e-readers. rmal>Without you all, this book wouldn’t exist!
My sincere thanks go to:
The fine folks at Amazon Publishing and Kindle Press. Their innovative publishing models open up new and exciting opportunities for writers everywhere!
The amazing cover design team at Damonza.com. Is that a great cover, or what?
Dan Phythyon and Ayesha Court. Dorothy Patton. Mark Skehan and Doug Bell. John Stevenson, Jill Balboni, Kim Stevenson, and Samantha Stevenson. Andy Heyman, Todd Hall. Ed Aymar, Tara Laskowski. John Betancourt, Carla Coupe, Karen Diegmueller, Bonner Menking, Adam Meyer, Megan Plyler. Great readers, great feedback.
Barb Goffman, for giving the manuscript an early read and passing along some excellent comments.
Duffy Ward, MD, for the invaluable medical expertise. If any errors crept into the story in this area, it was due to a brain glitch on my part!
