Jack turned to Brandon. "He has a point."
Shane turned to Brandon with pleading eyes. "You said they're out front right now? Where?"
"In the car."
"So wait, they're in the car, but in the driveway here?"
"Yeah."
Shane scratched his head. "If I killed them, and they were in the car, why would I leave them here?"
Brandon turned to Jack, who looked just as confused as he felt.
Shane continued. "Why wouldn't I have driven them somewhere else? And how did they even get in the car?"
Brandon sighed. "I don't know."
Shane's eyes bulged. "It seems like someone doesn't want me here, or wants you guys to turn against me. It seems like someone, or something, is trying to set me up!"
Brandon glared at the professor for a moment, and then lowered his gun. "Shit. I'm an idiot."
Shane shook his head. "When did you find them? Just now?"
"Yeah."
"You're not an idiot, Holt. Your gut told you to run in here, to blame me immediately," Shane said. "I'm just glad you didn't just shoot me outright. That's probably what they intended, the aliens, or whoever set me up." He shrugged. "From my point of view, your intelligence saved my life."
Brandon stroked his chin. "I guess it did."
He felt better. He hadn't acted as irrationally as he could have.
"Can I take a look?" Shane asked. "You can keep your guns on me if you feel uncomfortable."
"No it's fine. Go ahead," Brandon said. He glanced at Jack, who still wore a concerned expression. Brandon didn't blame him–somewhere in their neighborhood hid a cold-blooded killer.
Brandon and Jack led Shane to the front door. "Did you call the police?" Shane asked as they walked.
"Not yet."
"Good. Don't," Shane said, then stopped walking. Brandon and Jack turned, and he continued. "Actually, that gives me an idea. We now have a golden opportunity. The aliens probably think you killed me. This is perfect. This puts us a step ahead of them."
"What do you mean?" Jack asked. Brandon retracted his hand from the front door.
"They think I'm dead. If you both act like I'm dead, like you killed me, we can remain a step ahead of them, figure out who the culprit is, who the real murderer–the real alien is."
Brandon and Jack exchanged glances.
"Sounds pretty good to me," Brandon said.
Jack still looked apprehensive.
"Me too," Shane said. "Just describe to me, is anyone in the driver's seat? And if not, is there blood there?"
Brandon went outside, and a moment later he reentered. "Cameron is in the back seat, but there's blood on the driver's seat. There's blood everywhere."
Shane nodded and stroked his chin. "I wonder what that could mean…"
"It obviously means that whoever killed them killed Cameron in the front seat and moved him to the back, then drove the car here," Jack said.
"Exactly! Clever, Jack," Shane said, grinning. Brandon smiled and slapped Jack on the back. "So whoever killed them must be big enough to move Cameron to the backseat, plus they would likely have blood on the back of their outfit, from sitting in the bloody driver's seat."
"So who killed them?" Jack asked.
Brandon closed his eyes. Big enough to move Cameron. Cam wasn't a big guy, weighing about one-fifty, but even so that surely eliminated a majority of the neighborhood. He eliminated all the woman, not as a sexist, just the women in the neighborhood were somewhat frail in his opinion.
He thought of the houses one by one. There was Nick Robins, but he didn't seem the type–too passive and although he was fit, he seemed to slim to do such heavy lifting.
Then there was Jordan Wood, but he couldn't be the murderer. The stay-home author hated exercise, and rarely left his house. Besides–in what situation would Cameron ever agree to go anywhere with him–Cameron was practically afraid of the author due to his dark nature.
Next was Mark Herman, the elitist. No, there was no way Mark would've done it. Not only did the crabby religious fanatic seem too old, but it was just too out of character. Plus, Cameron would never join forces with the man he hated.
Brandon considered Stanley Lang. Cameron and family liked the Langs well enough, but again, they just lacked the strength to have moved Cameron like that. And they were practically at the bottom of Brandon's personal list of those untrustworthy.
Andy Perkins? Possibly. But then Brandon thought next door to Andy and realized the obvious culprit.
Mitch Anderson. He was easily strong enough to carry Cameron to the back seat. Cameron and Mitch got on well enough due to their shared sports career backgrounds, so Cameron agreeing to drive Mitch somewhere seemed likely enough. It had to be Mitch–the more Brandon thought about it, the more obvious it seemed.
"It's obvious," he said to the other men. "Mitch Anderson."
Jack snapped his fingers and Shane nodded.
"That's a good start," Shane said. "Let's check him out."
The three men left Cameron's house and walked across the grassy field to Anderson's. The back door was locked, so they walked around front, but the front door was locked as well.
"Brandon, guard the back," Shane said. "If he tries to run, shoot him."
◊ ◊ ◊
Mitch paced inside his home nervously. He'd woken up minutes prior to find his outfit from the day before covered in what looked exactly like blood. It smelled rancid, and felt wet and warm. The moment was so surreal that Mitch expected to wake up at any moment, but as time passed and he realized he was already awake, his original anxiety heightened to panic, and from that to dread.
Gathering the clothing as quickly as possible, he ran downstairs, taking two steps at a time. If he could just throw the clothing in the sink he could wash off the blood–but then he'd stain the metal. He could throw the clothing in the fire place, but the weather was anything but cold, and the neighbors would know–they would just somehow know what he was hiding.
He didn't even know who was dead–it made no sense. How were his clothes covered in blood? He had an unstable mind–a fact he was well-aware of–but he'd never in his stupor had he done anything close to murder.
He closed his eyes and focused as best he could to remember anything that could've happened the night prior, but he couldn't recall a thing–not even a violent dream.
He glanced into the kitchen sink and immediately gagged, for there lay a bloody knife. It was just a kitchen knife–it could've been his, but it was so generic it could just as easily been anyone else's. But it was in his house–in his sink. What happened last night? Why couldn't he remember?
He ran the faucet as seconds ticked by. There was no time to wonder–whoever died would be discovered in moments. The water steamed and he tossed the clothing into the sink.
Suddenly, loud knocking resonated from his front door, and his heart stopped as his stomach flipped.
The professor's voice rang out. "Mitch? You home? Open up!"
The professor kept knocking as Mitch's eyes reddened and watered, and he turned off the faucet that he knew they could hear.
How could he explain it to them? It didn't make sense.
"Mitch, open up or we're kicking the door down!"
He knew what he had to do. He might not be in his prime, but he was still way more athletic than anyone else in town.
Leaping over his kitchen counter, he ran through his living room, yanked open his back patio door and darted outside.
Suddenly, a rifle cocked behind him. "Don't move you son-of-a-bitch! He's back here! I got him!" Brandon shouted.
Mitch froze and raised his hands. "Brandon, you have to understand!" he said, panting. "I didn't do it! I've been set up!"
The professor, along with Jack Evans, approached with vindictive, dark eyes. Mitch was boiling with frustration and panic as he eyed the roll of duct tape the professor carried.
"I didn't do anything," he yelled. "I swear!"
The professor gl
ared at him. "Let's take this inside."
The three men led Mitch indoors, guns at his back. He tried not to look at the sink, but knew they'd discover the evidence quickly regardless. They sat him on the couch and bound his arms behind his back with the tape.
"Please, you guys," he said, tears in his eyes. "I just woke up, I've been framed!" But they ignored him, and pulled over three chairs, surrounding him. The professor told Jack to go investigate, and Mitch felt boiling tears roll down his cheeks.
Jack walked into his kitchen and Mitch heard him mutter, "that was easy," before walking back to the group with the bloody knife and clothing in his arms.
"Trying to hide the evidence?" Brandon said. "Bet you thought we'd pin this all on the professor." He narrowed his eyes at Mitch, eyeing him as if he was a bug he couldn't wait to squash.
"Holt–Jack–guys, p-please. I-I can't explain it," Mitch said, sputtering each word from quivering lips. "I d-don't know how that got here, but whatever happened w-wasn't me. I don't understand what's going on."
"The whole Thomas family is dead, even Charlie, you son-of-a-bitch!" Brandon yelled, then lunged and choked Mitch with both hands.
Mitch's red face engorged and tears streamed down his cheeks as Jack and the professor leapt and pulled Brandon off him.
"Cool off, Brandon!" Jack yelled, pulling him further from Mitch. "Take a walk!"
Brandon lurched away angrily, fury over-boiling–Mitch just wanted to make him understand that he didn't understand.
The professor turned to Jack. "Go keep an eye on him, I'll interrogate Anderson."
Mitch sighed with relief. Okay, the professor–the one who wasn't crazy. The one who could understand that he'd been set up–that he'd obviously been set up. It had to be the aliens, this was probably something the aliens did all the time, the professor would understand and would explain it to the others.
"I'm fine here, Shane," Jack said.
Mitch held his breath.
"I know, but Holt's emotionally compromised, as you must be as well, and we need to get to the bottom of this. You cared about the Thomas family, didn't you?"
Jack shook his head, defeated. "Yeah yeah, alright I get it."
He stood up and followed Brandon. Mitch watched them go and exhaled.
After Jack left and shut the door, the professor stood and turned on the television, turning the volume up all the way. Mitch watched him curiously, waiting for the professor to sit back down so he could explain. But the professor didn't sit down–instead, he grabbed Mitch by the arms and silently forced him to stand, then led him upstairs, not saying a word. Mitch felt his angst rising, a bubble inflating in the pit of his stomach.
The professor led him to the bathroom and told him to sit down on the toilet.
Something was off, Mitch thought. He couldn't reason out the professor's strange behavior. Why the bathroom?
"Professor, listen, I can't explain it," Mitch said. "But I didn't kill them, you have to believe me–I was set up."
Mitch blinked, and in that moment the professor slammed the back of Mitch's head over the tank of the toilet against the wall with a loud crack. Mitch cried out as his vision blackened.
"I didn't do it!" he sputtered. "I was set up! You have to believe me!"
But the professor ignored him, instead taping his forehead against the wall, securing it with a second strip of tape and then a third. Mitch's back arched painfully over the tank of the toilet, and he automatically whimpered. The professor turned on the faucet and the shower.
Mitch blinked his eyes and as his vision focused he lost sight of the professor. He could only look up at the opposite upper wall of the bathroom–he tried shifting his head forward but it wouldn't budge.
He heard the click of a blade swinging open, and just about screamed.
"What are you doing? Please! I didn't kill them–I swear! Give me a chance!"
But the professor ignored him, and Mitch felt the cold steel of his knife pressed against his left lower ribcage, a small pinch, and Mitch knew the professor had drawn blood.
"Don't–please."
But at that moment the professor stabbed him, deep, and Mitch cried out as the whole left side of his body seemed to engulf in fire and freeze simultaneously. He screamed, but the air seemed to leave his lungs with more volume than that used to carry his voice, and his scream was cut short.
Suddenly, he couldn't breathe in. It felt like he was painfully drowning–suffocating even, as if he'd breathed in all the air he could, although his lungs felt completely empty. He tried desperately to lock eyes with the professor, but he was out of sight. If only he could explain, why wouldn't the professor let him explain? His face burned, and it felt as if he was crying lava as opposed to tears.
The professor then spoke, barely above a whisper. "I know you didn't kill them. I did."
The words took a moment to register, but as soon as they did, Mitch knew he was a dead man. That's why the professor had turned on the television, the faucet, and the shower. And that's why the professor had cut him in a manner that stopped him from breathing. So Mitch couldn't call out to the men downstairs–couldn't warn them.
The professor taped an occlusive wad of tissue paper over Mitch's wound, letting air only escape, and Mitch slowly regained a breath. He wanted to yell, he wanted to beg, but knew that if he did anything besides breathe the professor would simply remove the paper and Mitch would suffocate once more.
"If you try screaming," the professor said. "That used breath is your last. Understand?"
Mitch already knew that, and nodded, continuing to breath.
"I have to assume that you're an alien," the professor continued. "The problem is, regardless of whether or not you are an alien, your only chance of survival is not only admitting to it, but proving it to me. Because I have no problem killing you if you're human, or an alien who thinks we humans are soft, and not willing to do whatever it takes to save ourselves. You must have some idea of what I'm willing to do, you've seen the Thomas's blood on your clothes. They too might've been aliens. Admit it, prove it, and call off the rest of your species, or die painfully. It's your choice."
He waited for Mitch to respond, but Mitch only kept breathing, searching his brain for those few words that could save him, having no idea what they could be. How could he reason with the professor? How could he prove he wasn't an alien? He had to try–it was the only way.
"I'm not an alien," he said.
The professor lifted the tissue and Mitch wanted to scream as he once again felt his chest vacuum air.
"I don't know if you are under orders not to tell me, you're convinced that we humans are soft, or you just don't fear death," the professor growled. "But understand that I will kill you and everyone in this town unless you come clean now."
Tears streaked down Mitch's cheeks as his skin shifted from red to purple.
The professor covered the hole again, and a minute later Mitch's breathing stabilized from labored to shallow and steady.
"Professor–please."
Shane interrupted him. "The next words out of your mouth better be an admission or you will die."
Mitch panted as Shane held the hole by his ribs and glared. It hurt so badly, and he had nothing. Regardless of what he said, Shane was going to kill him. He was convinced that someone in this town was an alien, and the only way to be sure the alien was killed was to kill everyone. It didn't matter–he was a dead man no matter what he said. So be it.
"Please," Mitch said.
The professor didn't hesitate. He slashed twice in quick succession, and blood poured from Mitch's neck as he stared at the ceiling unblinking. His vision grew dim, and he closed his eyes, thinking for his last moments that he was back on the ice, fallen and drifting as his teammates skated over to congratulate him.
Chapter 10
Within a couple minutes, Penelope had unlocked the front door to Daniel Berry's home. Summers’ digital watch read just past three in the morning, and he felt eer
ily conspicuous with his and Penelope's matching black on black getup with black masks that covered their noses, chins, and hair.
"We're one with the night," Penelope had argued, which Summers couldn't deny–he just felt daft.
The door creaked open and the duo crept inside. Flashlights with tight, focused beams illuminated the dark rooms and hallways of Berry's home.
They needed to find incriminating evidence that could bring down Daniel Berry and GenDec. Documentation would likely be kept in Berry's office, which meant their primary objective was obtaining his keys, but anything condemning they could find would make their task that much easier. Penelope also brought with them a fingerprint scanner, which could print out a plastic replica of whomever's finger it scanned. Summers was thrilled that Penelope owned such a device, but when questioned, Penelope's only response was a laughing, "why not?"
Berry's fingerprint was critical in obtaining entry to GenDec, so Summers didn't press the matter.
Once situated in Berry's home, the pair split up. Summers was to find the keys, and Penelope was to sneak into Berry's bedroom and scan the sleeping man's finger.
Summers looked over as Penelope self-illuminated his face and mouthed silently that he was heading towards the bedroom, and Summers focused his light on his own face and nodded–all part of the plan.
His friend disappeared into Berry's bedroom. Summers entered the kitchen, snooping around Berry's countertops and cabinets.
Fortunately, the man lived alone, but his house could've easily held a family of five–considering not only the space, but the mess. There were old newspapers, finished soda cans, plates, pizza boxes, tissues, and napkins scattered on tables, counters, and floors. The room smelled of subtle sulfur and cheese, there was a heavy air to the room, and the flashlight's beam constantly illuminated particles of dust no matter where Summers pointed. For the money he was making, Summers wondered why the man didn't hire a maid.
He knew why as soon as the last word of the question scrolled across his mind. He obviously had something hidden that he didn't want found.
The Harbinger Break Page 16
