by AJ Powers
Clay forced a smile. “Good to see you, Vlad.”
There was a painful silence in the room as Vlad fought to keep his eyes open. Despite his heavy eyelids, the man managed to give a look that pleaded with Clay to tell him some good news. The piercing gaze forced Clay’s vision down, and he stared at his feet while he struggled to find the right words.
“Clay,” Vlad spoke, his hoarse voice fading with exhaustion, “just tell me.”
Clay’s vision remained fixed on his boots. The dreaded moment had arrived and there was no fleeing from it now. He finally looked up, his glossy eyes gave Vlad the answer before his voice could. “I’m sorry, Vlad, but…I…we,” Clay cleared his throat, “we haven’t found her yet.”
Vlad pressed into his pillow and began to weep as much as his shattered body would allow. The pain he was in—both physical and emotional—was a dreadful sight for Clay. Before long, the weeping turned to howling sobs loud enough that everyone in the infirmary grieved with the poor soul.
Clay knelt next to the bed and grabbed Vlad’s hand. His eyes seemed to scream for deliverance from his hell on earth—as if he preferred Megan left him to die in the field she found him in.
After a few minutes, the cries waned, and Vlad lay lifelessly in bed. His eyes glazed over as he looked up at the ceiling. He began to speak in his native tongue, repeating the same couple of sentences over and over. Clay didn’t need translation to know he was begging God for just one more day with his beloved daughter, one more minute to relish in her presence.
The curtain behind him swung open, causing Clay to jump. Jackie walked in with a pill and a glass of water. “Here you go,” the middle-aged nurse said as she handed the cup to Vlad. “Take this.”
Vlad remained motionless.
“Doctor Sowell asked me to give you this,” she said. Seeing no reaction from the man, she lowered her voice, “Please…it’s going to help.”
Vlad slowly turned his head to look at what she offered. Reluctantly, he took the pill and tossed it in his mouth; he didn’t bother with the water. He returned to his staring contest with the ceiling and a short time later, as both the physical and emotional pain started to numb, Vlad drifted to sleep.
Clay stood to his feet and looked down at his friend peacefully resting—or so he hoped. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he walked into the room, but it felt like days. Though he had a heavy heart for Vlad’s loss, Clay also felt a weight lifted from his shoulders since the dreadful task of telling his friend Olesya was still missing. “Hang in there, Boris,” Clay said as he turned to leave.
On his way out, Jackie glanced over at Clay. “He’s out.”
“Good,” she said with a compassionate voice.
“What was that?” Clay asked.
“Vicodin.”
“Really?” Clay asked, stunned with the response.
“Yes. We only have seven of them left—well, six now—for the whole town. It’s not something we give out lightly, but Doctor Sowell was, in this case, quite insistent.”
“Thank you…”
Jackie smiled before returning to her patient.
Feeling utterly exhausted, Clay stepped outside to see darkness had fallen over the town of Liberty. It was oddly comforting to the weary young man.
Chapter 19
The day of interrogation culminated with Shelton’s fist through his living room wall. For the last six hours, he and two others from the security team questioned Brendan—the man in the mask. After an hour of silence, Barnes wanted to move on from questioning to more persuasive means of interrogation. Shelton was quick to shoot the idea down. “That is not how we do things,” Shelton said before kicking Barnes out of the room, leaving him and Kohler to get the man to talk. But as Shelton stared at the damaged drywall next to a picture of his wife Sarah, he found himself a little more open to Barnes’s line of thinking.
The throbbing in his knuckles was intense. It was not often that Barry Shelton let emotions get the best of him—especially anger—but after what happened to his beloved town, he noticed his fuse was not nearly as long as it used to be.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinet above his refrigerator, retrieving a half-full bottle of scotch. Shelton rarely drank alcohol—and when he did it was always in private. The bottle of Chivas Regal only came out under extreme duress. The last time he reached for it was five years ago, immediately following Sarah’s burial. The time before that was when he and Sarah had laid Anna, their only child, to rest. The liquor, as far as he could remember, had always been used for somber occasions. But as Shelton tipped the bottle and filled the small glass on his counter, he hoped that the drink would quell his rage.
It did not.
Slouching in his brown Chesterfield chair, the wheels continued to turn in Shelton’s head. Why did Brendan say he had a message to deliver, then suddenly become a mute after capture? That perplexing turn of events didn’t sit well with Shelton. Something wasn’t adding up—and that thought paralyzed him with fear.
An exasperated sigh passed through Shelton’s lips as he remained slumped in his chair, his hand cradling the nearly empty glass. Despite being ineffective against his indignation, the alcohol had helped with the tension. His neck and shoulder muscles had felt as if they were ratchet straps tying down an oversized load on a flatbed. Thanks to the alcohol, Shelton felt somewhat physically relaxed for the first time since the attack two nights ago.
With nineteen dead, thirteen missing, uncooperative prisoners, and no idea what was coming next, Shelton was at a loss as to what he should do next.
A loud thumping on the front door ejected the jumpy mayor from his thoughts. Setting the glass of scotch down on a coaster as Sarah had taught him in their first year of marriage, Shelton stood from his chair despite his popping knees and walked to the door. Kohler was on the other side of the door, the chill in the air evident from his visible breath.
“What is it, Daniel? Did you get the little brat to talk?” he asked.
“No,” Kohler replied immediately, “but…his father is here to post bail.”
Shelton felt as if he’d just been kicked in the stomach by an angry mule.
Arlo.
It was time to get some answers.
****
“Have a seat,” Barnes said as he pushed Arlo into the chair sitting across Shelton’s desk.
Arlo let out a derisive laugh. “Now, now, Timothy, there’s no need for such aggressive behavior. After all, I am unarmed and of no threat to you.”
“No threat to me, huh?” Barnes scoffed.
Arlo had a wry smile plastered across his face as he fixed his disheveled hair. “I am merely here to negotiate the release of my men.”
Barnes rested his hands on his hips and stroked his holster as he stared down the man in the chair. He looked around the room before looking back at Arlo. “Well, in case you were wonderin’, this ain’t America no more. That whole ‘innocent until proven guilty’ malarkey don’t fly—even for a big shot has-been like you.”
“I see,” Arlo responded softly as he sat back in the chair. “Timothy, I do apologize, it seems we have gotten off on the wrong foot after all these years…” he said with a malicious grin before adding, “So, tell me, what’s new with you? How is Chloe these days?”
Arlo had gotten the reaction he wanted when Barnes furrowed his brows and clenched his jaw. Barnes pushed Arlo, causing him—along with the chair—to tip backwards and crash to the ground. He jumped on top of the former prosecutor and wrapped his hand around Arlo’s neck. Barnes panted with rage while Arlo seemed almost apathetic to the assault.
Barnes tightened his grip, cutting off Arlo’s air. “If you so much as speak her name again, I swear to God I will put a bullet right through that big head of yours, drag your corpse over to the jail so that daddy’s lifeless body is the last thing your son sees before I slit his throat,” Barnes said through a menacing whisper before finally releasing his grip on Arlo’s throat.
After a few small gasps, Arlo responded, “Oh, Timothy, it would seem I’ve struck a nerve with you. I apologize again. Did something happen to your dear wife?”
Barnes’s eyes flashed hot white with rage. “See you in hell, Arlo,” he said as he stood up and reached for his gun. Just as he removed the pistol from his holster and pointed it down at Arlo’s head, Shelton and two others stormed through the door.
“Tim, put that gun down right now!” Shelton ordered.
Barnes kept his sights between Arlo’s eyes and put his finger on the trigger.
“Why?” Barnes asked with a frail voice, an about-face from seconds earlier. “Why?” The gun was heavy in his hands, as if he held a dumbbell.
“Tim…please,” Shelton pleaded. “You are a better man than him.”
After several tense seconds passed, Barnes slid the gun back into his holster and walked out of the room. The other two men followed and closed the door behind them.
Arlo nonchalantly got up off the floor, corrected his chair and returned to his seat. He removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed at the spit Barnes had sprayed during the attack. He looked up at Shelton, who leaned on the edge of his desk. “Thank you, Barry, for putting the hound on the leash. I much prefer dealing with sophistication inste—”
Shelton interrupted Arlo with a vicious right hook to the jaw, catching the man completely off guard. The audacity of the violent gesture, not the pain, was what surprised him the most. Arlo shifted his jaw side to side as he said, “Well, I do believe that was quite unnecessary, Mr. Mayor.”
“Oh, I beg to differ,” Shelton shot back, his fist still tightened. “In fact, it was real necessary.” He tried to relax his knuckles, but the pain was excruciating. If he didn’t already break a knuckle or two on the wall earlier, Arlo’s face certainly had.
Shelton walked around to his desk and sat down. Hundreds of questions plagued him and he wanted answers. “Why did you attack us?” Shelton asked, getting straight to the point.
“Barry, it’s been, what, eight… nine years since we last saw each other? Nine years since you threw me and my boy to the wolves…exiling us from this little ‘utopia’ of yours,” Arlo said with disdain.
In all the years Shelton had known Arlo, he never once remembered the man being offended or hurt by anyone. In fact, he had been dubbed ‘The Thing’ by many of his professional acquaintances—both attorney and criminal alike—for his ice-cold demeanor and ferocity in the courtroom. Nothing seemed to get under his skin. But Shelton knew, as Arlo sat there in front of him nearly a decade later, he had gotten to him. He had shaken the unshakeable and despite everything they had been through over the past few days, the realization filled Shelton with remorse.
“I’ll admit,” Arlo continued, “it was touch and go there for a little while. Being out there was far worse than either of us ever imagined.” He paused for a moment as he dabbed at the cut on his lip with the handkerchief. His eyes narrowed on Shelton as the memories snapped to the front of his mind. “It was so, so much worse.”
Shelton’s mind was suddenly plagued with images of the victims of Arlo’s attack, causing him to shrug off the guilt trip Arlo had been attempting to generate. Under different circumstances, he might have offered a heart-felt apology for the tough choice that he and the rest of the council made ten years ago, but the chance of an apology had washed away with the blood of the town. “We did what we had to do, Arlo.”
“Ah, yes. The mighty and noble Barry Shelton…Mayor of Liberty Township. The last bastion of hope for humanity,” Arlo said mockingly. “Do tell me, Barry, is it noble to sentence a nine-year-old to death for the sins of his father?”
“I did no such thing, Arlo. I gave you every opportunity to leave the boy here; we would’ve cared for him.”
Arlo let out a scathing laugh. “So, I was supposed to just abandon my only son, then? Let some other man raise him while his father wandered off to die in the frozen hell out there?”
“Yes,” Shelton responded immediately. “If you loved him, that’s exactly what you should have done. Instead, you dragged him into hell right alongside you.”
Arlo shot him a glare. His jaw tightened and he took a deep breath through his nose. Shelton got under his skin again. “You have no idea what it’s like to have to make that choice, Barry,” he said through gritted teeth. His pursed lips softened, briefly flashing a menacing grin before he continued, “But, I must say, it wasn’t all bad. Being out there, I mean.” He gestured out the window toward the fence. “I always thought of myself as a strong man—a leader—but being cast out into that world with just a hunting rifle and a week’s worth of food will quickly humble a man.”
Shelton suppressed a laugh at the thought of Arlo being humbled by anything.
“And over the years,” Arlo continued, “I was refined by fire and became every bit of the leader I always thought myself to be. And it’s why I, my son, and countless others are alive to tell that tale today. I realized that a good leader must act, not speak.”
“And a good leader must think before he acts,” Shelton interjected.
“Oh, I always think before I act,” Arlo responded immediately, his eyes piercing like two daggers into Shelton’s soul. “You and I are two very different people, Barry. You follow a sort of ‘code’ that dictates every decision you make, but I…well, I am far less rigid. Every day is different and some days our choices are easy. Other days, however, they are life and death.” Arlo leaned back into the chair and relaxed his body. “I already know that you are willing to die for the people of this town, Barry, but the real question is, are you willing to kill—or even murder—for them?”
“You’re right, Arlo,” Barry said, nodding along. “We are two very different people.”
Arlo laughed. “Yes, that’s right, old friend, we are. You know, Barry, you and I complement each other quite well. It’s a shame we couldn’t have given things more time to balance out. This town could have been great.”
“It is great,” Shelton shot back.
“We’ll see,” Arlo replied with a twisted grin.
Arlo’s response sent chills down Shelton’s spine. One thing he knew well about Arlo Paxton was how to read between the lines. Shelton attempted to mask his concern by shifting in his seat and placing his hands down on the desk, interlocking his fingers. He sat up straight and asked, “So, give me a reason why I shouldn’t throw you into a cell next to your boy and put you both on trial for terrorism?”
“Oh, come on, Barry, you ought to know me better than that. Did you really think I would just walk into the lion’s den without some leverage?”
Shelton immediately knew he was talking about the missing children. “A prisoner exchange?”
Arlo smiled. “I do believe that would be the wise move on both of our parts, yes.”
Shelton slowly slouched back into the chair. He couldn’t risk playing hardball with Arlo, using innocent children as pawns. The man was a sociopath—a Screamer with a more sophisticated wardrobe—and couldn’t be reasoned with. Shelton had no other choice.
After a long, deflating sigh, Shelton looked at Arlo. “When and where?”
“St. Clair Park, tomorrow at noon. You may bring no more than six men and we will do the same. You have my word.”
After a moment of silence between the two, Shelton replied, “Noon it is.”
Chapter 20
Shelton led the pack on his horse. About twenty yards behind him Stevens and Horton guided the wagon full of prisoners. Clay, along with Adams and Blair, brought up the rear.
They were a few miles from St. Clair Park, an area Clay knew fairly well. In fact, with a halfway decent pair of binoculars, he could see it from his old room in the tower. There was never much reason to visit when Clay and Megan resided in the office building, but on occasion, he found himself stopping there to take a rest during his trips to Liberty. There were several smaller buildings with few points of entry that Clay would shelter in
when such a need would arise. It had been years since he last visited, but he imagined it looked the same as it did back then. As with most places in the world, it quickly reached a deep level of decay and then became frozen in time.
Clay clicked his tongue and squeezed his legs around the horse, causing her to quicken her trot. When he caught up with the wagon, Clay saw Brendan out of the corner of his eye, a smirk on his face that Clay was more than eager to wipe off. It was as if he knew what was coming next. He probably did, Clay surmised, which added to the angst.
Clay’s horse overtook the wagon and crept up on Shelton. Shelton turned around to see Clay approaching.
“How you holding up?” Clay asked.
After a lengthy sigh, Shelton spoke. “I’ve been better, but I’m hanging in there the best I can,” Shelton said with a weak voice as he kept his eyes forward. “Thanks again for coming along.”
“No problem.”
“Folks are still pretty shaken up from the attack. Some people are afraid to leave their homes, but others are out for blood,” he said, Barnes coming to mind. “We’re already so shorthanded on security detail back home and the last thing we need is someone flying off their hinges during this exchange. So, you being here is very appreciated.”
Clay nodded. “Like I said, not a problem, Barry.”
