by J. S. Carol
King’s hand clenched into a fist and he started pummelling his thigh, punching out his anger and frustration. He punched past the point of pain, kept punching until his leg was numb and he couldn’t feel anything at all.
20
‘And cut to Caroline,’ Seth said. ‘Three, two, one.’
Rob’s face disappeared from the main monitor and was replaced with Caroline’s. She looked directly at the camera and fired off one of her most intense looks. ‘Incredible developments over at Alfie’s. And we’ll be returning to Rob Taylor in a couple of minutes for an exclusive interview with one of the hostages.’
Seth stared down at his assistants and flashed them a rare smile.
‘Good work, people. I’m almost impressed.’ The smile disappeared and was replaced with a frown. All three assistants were staring expectantly. ‘Okay, we’ve kept ahead of the game so far, and that’s where I’d like to stay. Right now, you can guarantee the boys and girls over at Fox and CNN are pretty pissed. And rightly so. They’re bruised and bleeding and we’ve got them on the ropes, but this is only round one. We cannot afford to get complacent, people. We will not get complacent. Nod if you agree.’
Uncertain nods all around.
‘And that is the correct answer. In this game you’re only as good as your next exclusive. Whatever happened in the past does not matter. Remember that. And remember who makes the news.’
He paused and looked at each of his assistants in turn. ‘So, which of you little bunnies is going to hop to it and get Rob on the phone?’
There was a sudden burst of frenzied activity as all three jumped into action. Seth smiled to himself. When you were riding the wave, this really was the best job in the world.
21
The knife was made from the finest steel and had a wicked eight-inch blade. King was clutching it so tightly his knuckles were shining. He turned it slowly from side to side, hypnotised by the way the metal caught the light from the overhead halogens. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the door. The wood had been warmed by the harsh LA sun, and was just one more reminder of how close he was to freedom.
JJ was probably dead by now. The thought was enough to make his stomach churn and his head spin. He felt as though he might float away at any second. It was like he was a kid again, like he was back in Cincinnati. This was how it had felt when he’d been cowering in his bed, dreading the door opening, his flimsy blankets wrapped around him like they might somehow shield him from what was about to happen.
It was the sense of utter helplessness that got to him most. Then and now. The feeling that there was absolutely nothing he could do. Once that runaway train got going, nothing could stop it. Then there was the loneliness to contend with. At times like this it didn’t matter that there were seven billion people on the planet, nobody could save you from the bad thing. Not the FBI, not the police. No one.
King shut his eyes and a picture of the body he’d seen lying sprawled over the chair flashed into his head. Blood drained from the bullet wound and dripped down the chair leg and pooled on the floor. More blood than a body could hold.
His eyes snapped open. He was breathing too fast, pushing towards a panic attack. He forced himself to calm down and take a couple of deep breaths. He was feeling lighter than ever. If he’d looked down and seen a couple of inches of nothing between his ass and the floor, he wouldn’t have been surprised. It was a horrible sensation, like he was turning into a ghost.
Until today the closest he’d come to seeing a dead body was on set. He’d seen plenty of corpses there, but that was make-believe. The real thing had been worse than he could have ever imagined. Whatever it was that had made that dead guy into a person was gone. It was like a switch had been thrown, turning him off forever. King shut his eyes again, and this time a picture of his mom lying passed out on the sofa flashed into his head. She wasn’t dead, but she might as well have been. Heroin had stripped away whatever it was that made her who she was. The switch had been flicked to ‘off’.
The deep breaths weren’t working anymore. Nothing was. His thoughts were getting darker and more threatening by the second. More terrifying, too. There was no way out of here. He was going to die in this place. It might happen in the next couple of seconds, or the next minute, or the next hour, but it was definitely going to happen.
Life was pointless.
Everything was pointless.
King felt angrier than he’d ever felt. It was like there was a red hot ball of fury inside him. He wanted to get it out, but couldn’t. It was choking off his breathing and strangling his thoughts. The darkness got denser, and then his anger imploded. Where once there had been rage, there was now a black hole that was sucking everything in and crushing it until it ceased to exist. King opened his eyes and looked down at the knife. He knew exactly how to turn the switch to ‘off’.
22
The bomber was watching the news again. Everything else had ceased to exist, even the hostages. In some ways this was a relief for JJ, in others it was a real worry. Considering how volatile this situation was, being able to detach yourself like this couldn’t be normal. He looked so relaxed, like he was just hanging out, surfing the net. Give him a latte and he could have been in Starbucks. She watched him rub his head again. She’d seen him do that a couple of times. It was probably a stress headache. It didn’t matter how cool he acted, this situation must be taking its toll on him, too.
She took a quick look around at the other hostages. Some were sitting cross-legged, some were holding their knees tight into their chests, and a couple of the older ones were leaning with their backs against chairs and table legs for support. If she counted herself, the total number of hostages now stood at fifteen. Those left included Natasha Lovett, Ed Richards, Kevin Donahue, DeAndre Alexander, Gary Thompson and Simone.
JJ still couldn’t get used to seeing them like this. It wasn’t just their clothing that had been stripped away, it was everything that made them who they were. Self-respect, status, power. What the bomber had done was totally dehumanising. He’d reduced them to nonentities. Power really was all an illusion. If she wanted proof of that, all she had to do was look around this room.
She wanted to believe that Alex King had escaped, but on the basis of the press conference, she was pretty sure he hadn’t. Her guess was that he was hiding out in the restrooms or the kitchen. Tony’s office was down there too, so that was another possibility. If he was still here, she hoped to God that he kept his head down and didn’t do anything stupid. He might be invincible on the big screen, but in here he was as mortal as everyone else.
The bomber was still staring at his laptop. From here, JJ could see the mustard-coloured parcels of explosives attached to his vest. She could see the flashing heart on his watch. And she could see those cold grey eyes sucking up the light from the screen.
The urge to run overwhelmed her again. The sensation was so strong it was like she was reliving an actual memory. She could feel her legs pumping, feel the smooth coldness of the parquet flooring beneath her feet. She could feel herself flying through the air as she jumped down to the lower level. She was aware of every single ragged breath, every pitter-patter of her heart.
And then what?
There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. She might make it as far as the restrooms before the bomber caught up with her. She might even get as far as the kitchen. But in the end he would catch her, and he would execute her.
She closed her eyes and took a couple of deep, steadying breaths. The madness passed almost as quickly as it had come upon her. The only thing she could do now was wait, and hope that the cops knew what they were doing.
23
‘I’m joined now by Chester Dugan, the head chef at Alfie’s,’ Rob said.
Tara panned the camera to the right, bringing Chester into the shot. His face was still ghost-white, but at least he was dressed. The LAPD sweatshirt was too small and strained to keep a hold of his gut. The sweatpants
seemed to be coping okay. The interview was taking place near the Mobile Command Unit. Rob had pushed to do it in Alfie’s parking lot, but Aaron Walters had nixed that suggestion on the grounds of health and safety, which was part of the story, but not all of it. Walters was looking for excuses to say no to him, anything to reclaim a shred of self-respect. The truth was that Walters couldn’t care less if he got blown to pieces.
Rob had positioned himself with his best side to the camera. A couple of cops were looking busy in the background, which added a splash of colour. He conjured up his most serious expression and turned to Chester.
‘What was it like in there?’
‘Real bad,’ the chef replied. ‘I thought I knew what it was to be scared, but I didn’t have a clue. You’ve no idea how glad I am to be out here talking to you. I thought I was a dead man. I really did. That guy is a psycho. When he shot that old woman like that in cold blood, it was the sickest thing I’ve ever seen.’
‘Can you tell me exactly what happened?’
‘Yeah, sure. He’d gone around us one at a time with this bag, collecting our valuables. You know, jewellery, cell phones, stuff like that. Anyway, he gets to the old lady. I reckon she was about eighty, no threat to anyone.’
‘Who was she?’
Chester shook his head. ‘Sorry, I don’t know, although I did wonder if she was one of those movie stars from way back when. We get a few of those at Alfie’s. She looked like one.’
‘What happened next?’
The chef let go of a long sigh and shook his head.
‘Well, it gets to the old lady’s turn and she starts going on about how her watch was a present from her dead husband. I’m sitting there thinking, just give him the goddamn watch, lady, it’s not worth it. Next thing I know, he shot her in the head. Bam! Just like that. He didn’t give her any warning, didn’t even stop to think about what he was doing, he just aimed and fired. It was so cold. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Rob nodded and kept his face suitably grim. Timing was everything with this sort of interview. You wanted to catch the subject while they were still in a state of shock, because that was when they were least guarded. All the same, you still had to tread carefully. One wrong move and they’d clam up.
‘I need you to go back to when you first saw the bomber,’ Rob said. ‘In your own words, talk me through what happened.’
Chester nodded again. ‘I was working in the kitchen when I heard this noise from over by the door. I turned around, and there was this guy standing there dressed entirely in black. He held up his gun and told everyone to keep real still. He said that if we did exactly what he said then no one would get hurt. Well, we all just froze like statues. I mean, who wouldn’t? Then I saw the explosive vest and I thought this is it, we’re all going to die. Next thing I know, he’s telling us to turn off the gas and then he’s herding us from the kitchen into the main part of the restaurant.’
‘Earlier on you described the bomber as a psycho. Is there anything else you can add that would help us build up a better picture of him? Did he have an accent?’
Chester nodded. ‘Yeah, it was a southern one. Louisiana, perhaps. Or maybe Alabama.’
‘What else did you notice?’
‘Only that he’s one twisted bastard.’
The expletive wasn’t a problem. The interview was going out live, but there was a seven-second delay for situations like this. The chef glanced guiltily at the camera, then looked back with apologies in his eyes.
‘Twisted, how?’ Rob asked quickly.
‘Well, after he took our valuables, he made us strip down to our underwear. Then he got us to come forward one at a time and used a marker pen to write our names on our foreheads.’
This was the cue for Tara to zoom in on Chester’s face. His name had been scrubbed from his forehead, but a faint shadow of the letters remained.
‘I mean, that’s pretty messed up, right?’ Chester added. ‘You don’t need to be a shrink to see there’s something seriously wrong with this guy.’
And now to wind it up. This was the only part of the interview that was staged. Rob wanted a good quote to end on, and that was something you didn’t dare leave to chance.
‘Is there anything else you want to add?’ he asked.
Chester looked into the camera and Tara zoomed in for another close-up.
‘Yeah, I just want to say one thing to the cops. Those people in there are scared half to death. You’ve got to get them out. Please don’t let them die in there.’
24
‘Louise, it is so good to hear your soft, warm voice again.’
JJ watched the bomber pacing from the corner of her eye. After what had happened during the hostage handover, she didn’t dare make eye contact. Stay invisible, she reminded herself. The bomber paused and listened, and JJ glanced around the room. Since the release there had been a distinct change in the atmosphere. Despair had turned to something akin to hope. There had been a definite lifting of spirits, an overall lightening of the load.
‘I hear what you’re saying, and I want to assure you that we’re on the same page here. Nothing would make me happier than to find a peaceful resolution to this sorry state of affairs.’
The bomber stopped pacing and stared at one of the paintings. He studied it while he listened to Louise’s response, then started pacing again.
‘I’m considering releasing five more hostages, Louise. What do you think about that? And it gets better, because I don’t want anything in return. Not a single thing.’
The way he said this sent alarm bells ringing in JJ’s head. He sounded like a game show host, or one of those dodgy salesmen who sold useless junk on the higher numbered cable channels. She’d been involved in thousands of negotiations, and if there was one thing she’d learned, it was that there was always a catch.
‘Okay, Louise, I’m going to go now, but I want you to stay close to that telephone. I’ll call you when I’m ready to do the handover.’
The bomber hung up and gazed across at each hostage in turn. JJ dipped her head when he reached her. She only looked up again when she was absolutely sure he’d moved on.
‘That’s right, folks, your ears are not playing tricks. Some of you lucky people are going home. But who stays and who goes? Now that’s the million-dollar question.’
25
King stared at the knife. Dark thoughts were still swirling around his head, but the focus of those thoughts had changed. He was wondering what it would be like to plunge the knife into the bomber’s chest. How hard would you have to thrust? How deep would you have to go for the wound to be fatal?
The thoughts of suicide had disappeared as quickly as they’d appeared. Just like they always did. There had been plenty of times where things had got so bad that he’d considered killing himself, times when all he’d wanted was to climb into a warm bath and drag a blade up his arm. But he’d never gone through with it, and the reason was simple. No matter how shitty things were, they would get better. Call it naivety, or blind faith, hell, call it whatever you wanted, the fact was that this simple philosophy had got him through some pretty rough times.
He took out the Ziploc bag and ran his thumb over the roughened plastic. It would be so easy. Just tip out the coke, chop it into a neat line and sniff it up. Unfortunately, it would only be a temporary solution. There was enough coke for one line. Once it was gone, it was gone. And it would just make things worse, because you could never stop at one line. That was the trouble with drugs. They were sneaky and they lied. In the end, all they ever brought was misery.
King put the Ziploc bag away, then stood up and started pacing around the kitchen. Moving around made him feel better. It made it easier to think. Maybe the blood was pumping into his brain more efficiently. Maybe that was it. On a whim, he picked up a pen he found lying on one of the work surfaces and used it to scratch a smiley face into the knife handle. The ink was blue and the handle was made from dark wood, so he needed to keep going over t
he markings until he’d made an impression in the wood. He had no idea why he was doing this, and didn’t really care. For a few moments he was so absorbed in the task he was almost able to forget where he was. Once he’d finished drawing his smiley face, he flipped the knife over and engraved a sad face into the other side of the handle.
King sat down with his back against the sun-warmed door and smiled at the smiley face. Then he flipped the knife over and frowned at the sad face. He turned the knife over again and smiled.
Sad face, smiley face.
Sad face, smiley face.
26
‘Everyone on your feet.’
JJ gave it a few moments then stood up. She didn’t want to be first because that would mark her out. Kevin Donahue was the last one up, which was just as bad as being first. The film producer was fading fast. The bomber must have noticed how ill he was. How could he not have? JJ couldn’t understand why he didn’t just let him go. In the end Donahue had to use a table for support. She wanted to help, but couldn’t, not with the bomber watching.
‘Okay, we’re going to play ourselves a little game here. You all like games, don’t you? Now, the good news is that five of you lucky people are going home. However, deciding which five is going to be tough. When I said this was the million-dollar question, I wasn’t joking. Like my mama used to tell me, you don’t get nothing for nothing in this world.’
The bomber grinned behind the balaclava. ‘I’m going to let five of you good people go free, but it’s going to cost you a million bucks each. I know it’s impossible to put a price on a life, but we’ve got to start somewhere, and a million is a nice, round number. So, here’s what’s going to happen. Everybody who can afford to play, stay standing. The rest of you, sit down.’
