Mr. Sandman: A Thrilling Novel

by Lyle Howard

  Lincoln scanned the crowd. “McCoy!” he yelled to one of the uniformed patrolmen. “Over here … now!”

  A lanky young man whose hat seemed two sizes too big sauntered over to Lincoln. “I’ve got a present for you,” the detective said, smiling a Cheshire grin.

  The patrolman adjusted his brown and tan cap all too easily. “Excuse me, sir?”

  Lincoln gestured to Lance to turn over the leash. The patrolman looked down at Rex who didn’t seem too pleased with the new arrangement, either. He huffed like he had just eaten a bad piece of kibble.

  “What am I supposed to do with him?”

  “Take him home to meet your mother,” Lincoln growled sarcastically. “Keep an eye on him for Christ’s sake! What do you think you’re supposed to do with him?”

  The patrolman walked away with Rex, frowning like he had just been demoted. “Yes, sir.”

  A female reporter that Lance recognized from Channel Ten Newswatch pushed her way through the crowd of police­men, her camera crew in tow. She shoved her microphone into Lance’s face. “Mr. Cutter … could you please tell our viewers how serious this situation is?”

  Lance wondered how she knew his name. He’d kill whoever it was that told her. He pushed the microphone away from his mouth. “Someone get her out of here!” he yelled to no one in particular. Instantly, she was led away by another patrolman and asked to remain behind the yellow tape which was now cordoning off the front yard.

  “Did I ever tell you that you have a way with women, Cutter?” Lincoln joked.

  Lance turned his back to all the lights. “I hate this.” Lincoln grabbed a bullhorn from the backseat of one of the patrol cars and pressed its trigger to make sure it was opera­tional. The click was clearly audible.

  “How do you want to do this?” Lance asked.

  Lincoln surveyed the surroundings. Toward the right side of the front window, the blinds were swaying. “We’re being watched.”

  Lance kicked a stone off of the sidewalk. “I just hope Julie’s okay. If that son of a bitch so much as touches her, I’ll rip out his heart.”

  Lincoln looked surprised. “I thought you said that Julie and you were on the skids.”

  “So that gives this asshole a license to rough her up?”

  Lincoln signaled with a gesture of his arm for his men to take up positions all along the sidewalk. “Do you have a key?”

  Lance patted his pants pockets. “Got ‘em.”

  Lincoln held out his hand. “Let me have them.” Lance was a bit reluctant to turn the key ring over, but he let the keys clatter into the detective’s palm anyway. “What are you planning on doing?”

  “The house have a back door?”

  “To the kitchen.”

  Lincoln held out the keys. “Which one?” Lance showed him the correct key.

  “You’re not planning on going in there alone, are you?”

  Lincoln smiled coyly. “You volunteering?”

  Lance frowned. “I think we’ve kind of lost the element of surprise, wouldn’t you say?”

  Lincoln pointed a thumb at his own chest. “I’ll guarantee it isn’t me this joker wants, buddy-boy.”

  Lance gulped. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Just keep him busy with the bullhorn, buy me some time to sneak in through the back door, and this thing will be over before it ever starts.”

  Lance put his hand on the detective’s shoulder and squeezed it faithfully. “Are you sure about this?”

  Lincoln drew in a deep sober breath and shrugged. “No, but do you have a better idea?”

  Lance snapped the trigger on the bullhorn a couple of times. “Good luck, Abraham. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  Lincoln pulled his gun out of its holster and checked the ammunition. “You’ve got to buy me at least ten. Keep him talking.”

  Lance nodded in agreement as he watched the detective slip off under the cover of the starless night. Once Lincoln disappeared around the side of the house, he raised the bullhorn to his mouth. “Jacob … Jacob Cohen.”

  The right edge of the blinds swayed to the left and Lance glimpsed a slice of Cohen’s face. Years of watching televi­sion cop shows had prepared him for this moment. “It’s all over, Cohen … give yourself up.”

  The blinds fell back and there was no response. Lance looked down at the ground and noticed how his shadow was stretching like a long dark silhouette toward the house. All the lights seemed to be trained on his back. He could also feel the eyes of every person standing behind him, focusing on him, like he was a Las Vegas magician expected to pull a rabbit out of a hat. “We know you’re in the house, Cohen … show yourself.”

  From inside the house, a faint voice called out, “I want Lance Cutter.”

  Lance moistened his lips. He hadn’t realized that they had gone dry. “I’m right here, Cohen,” his voice boomed.

  “Inside … I want you in here.” There was a nervous murmur that spread like an oil spill from somewhere in the crowd, and Lance’s ultra-sensitive hearing could pick up one of the reporter’s whispering something about hostages into their microphone.

  Lance let the bullhorn drop to his side. He stood and stared at the house for what seemed like an eternity. “McCoy!”

  The patrolman tending to Rex ducked under the yellow tape with the German shepherd following close behind. McCoy took the bullhorn from Lance when he handed it to him. “I’m going in.”

  Rex tugged at his leash. “You can’t go in there.”

  “I said I’m going in.”

  McCoy unsnapped his revolver. “Then at least take this with you.”

  Lance held up his hand to stop him. “Forget it.”

  “You can’t go in there unarmed.”

  “And I can’t go in there armed. Not as long as he’s holding a hostage.”

  McCoy shook his head. “This isn’t the way the manual says it’s supposed to work.”

  Lance tried to hide his misgiving behind a weak smile. “Well then, I guess it’s time to write a new chapter.”

  Rex let out a low growl as though he understood, too. Lance held up his hands to show they were empty as he stepped onto the lawn. “I’m coming in, Cohen,” he yelled.

  The blinds slid open again. “Stop where you are!” Lance paused in the middle of the lawn. “Turn around slowly, so I can see you.” Lance spun slowly on his heels. “Strip down to your shorts!”

  “What?”

  “I said strip down to your underwear!”

  Lance stared at the single eye peering out of the window. “I said I was unarmed.”

  “I don’t believe you … strip!”

  “But there are television cameras out here!”

  “Strip!”

  Lance turned his back to the window and began undress­ing.

  As he began unzipping, he looked out at McCoy standing with Rex on the sidewalk. “Now aren’t you glad you didn’t give me that gun?” he whispered.

  McCoy glanced to his left at the news teams. “Hey people … have a shred of decency, will ya? Turn off the damned cameras!”

  But this was news, and the cameras continued to roll as Lance slipped out of the Coast Guard jumpsuit. Once Lance was down to his underwear, he turned back to the window. “Okay?”

  “Turn around so I can see!”

  Lance had long since stepped over the boundary of humiliation. Now he was standing smack dab in the middle of the promised land of degradation. The only saving grace to come out of all of this was that he knew it was eating away at the clock.

  “Happy?”

  “Come to the front door.”

  “Not before I know the woman is unharmed.” The blinds closed, and Lance stood his ground, his hands instinctively covering his crotch.

  The blinds opened again. Take your time, Lance thought to himself, you’ve got all of five minutes left.

  “Step to the door.”

  “Not until I hear from the woman.”

  Cohen’s face turned
away. “I’m all right, Lance,” came Julie’s familiar but strained voice.

  “Now step to the front door.”

  Behind Lance, Rex tugged at his leash, but McCoy held it firm. The last few steps up to the porch Lance took very slowly, like a convicted murderer walking his last mile.

  When he reached the top step, the patio light came on. Something from Lance’s past suddenly struck him as funny. He could only imagine walking up to a house in rural Wyoming in his jockey shorts like this …“Uh, hello, Mrs. Kellogg … is your daughter Eloise home? I’m here to take her to the prom!”

  Lance stood silently in front of the door and listened for footsteps from inside. One set … that was good. Lance looked directly at the peephole that was set into the door at eye level. He was being studied. He smiled. The door cracked open. Lance took one last look at the crowd on the sidewalk and then stepped inside.

  Cohen was holding a gun in one hand and an opened vile of clear liquid in the other. From the care Cohen was taking with the jar, Lance was quick to surmise that it definitely didn’t contain vodka. “What now?”

  “Step inside and close the door behind you.”

  Lance did as he was told, but closed the door as slowly as possible without drawing suspicion to his actions. “Okay, it’s closed. Now where do you want me?”

  Cohen backed into the living room. “Come into the living room … slowly.”

  You bet, Lance thought to himself, as slow as I can. Julie began to sob when she saw Lance. “You alright, Jules?”

  She couldn’t speak, but she managed to nod. “Everything’s okay now, Jules. Not to worry.”

  Cohen snarled. “Enough of this happy reunion … it’s time to repay an old debt.”

  Lance wasn’t listening to anything Cohen was saying. His hearing, instead, was concentrated beyond the little man on the kitchen. No one else could have possibly heard the faint sound of metal scratching against metal as a key was being slipped into a lock.

  “Do you know what is in this container, Mr. Cutter?”

  Lance turned his attention back to Cohen. “Is it fair to guess that it’s not mineral water from the Swiss Alps?”

  Cohen half-smiled. “That would be a correct assumption.”

  Footsteps in the kitchen that Cohen hadn’t heard. Keep him distracted. Not much longer. “You plan on skinning us, like the way you did the rest of your furry friends?” Boy oh boy, that got his attention in a hurry!

  Cohen was speechless. Drops of spittle foamed from the corners of his mouth. “You … you … were in my home?”

  Lance waved his finger at Cohen as though he were scolding a small child. “I’d fire your maid, if I were you.”

  Cohen raised the vile above his head just as Lincoln lunged into the room. “Hold it right there, Cohen!”

  Cohen spun around, and with an accuracy that would have made any marksmith proud, pumped two bullets into the detective’s heart. Lincoln toppled backward against the din­ing room table without ever getting off a shot. The sound of the two blasts was like thunder. Lance started to rush Cohen, but he stopped dead in his tracks when Cohen turned the gun in his direction. “Any more surprises?”

  Julie was wailing uncontrollably. “Shut up!” Cohen screamed. Julie couldn’t help herself. “Shut up … before I put a bullet into your brain.”

  With all of Lance’s uncanny abilities, he was as helpless as a one-armed man trying to change a truck tire. “Settle down, Jules, for God’s sake, settle down!”

  Julie bit on her lower tongue … anything to hold back the flood of emotion.

  There was a madness in Cohen’s eyes that Lance thought only fiction writers could think up. They glowed with a dangerous combination of conviction and resignation. Noth­ing to live for, so much to die for.

  “It’s your turn, Mr. Cutter.” Cohen held out the jar at arm’s length, and was just in the motion of tossing the chemicals at Lance when the glass window shattered into a thousand pieces.

  With a deafening howl, Rex was leaping at Cohen’s throat. The vile of liquid fell harmlessly to the carpet as Cohen fell to the side with Rex on top of him. Cohen flailed his arms wildly to fend off the attack, but Rex persisted and, with jaws like a set of locking pliers, the dog tore away a huge chunk of Cohen’s neck. Blood pulsed like a lawn sprinkler from Cohen’s carotid artery, sending streams of the sticky red liquid over everything in the room. There wasn’t one stick of furniture, one painting, one piece of bric-a-brac, or person that wasn’t spotted with crimson.

  Julie had to turn away from the ironic scene. A streak of blood crossed her face on the diagonal and dripped into the edge of her mouth. She spit at the wall to remove the bitter taste.

  Lance was frozen. He had heard stories of the intensity of police dogs, but he had never seen one take such tenacious pleasure in its work.

  Cohen’s fingers twitched savagely, like they were play­ing an invisible piano. His lifeless eyes had rolled back into his head. Rex remained atop Cohen’s chest, oblivious to the fact that his coat was slivered by broken glass, growling as though he were daring Cohen to move. But Cohen was done moving … forever.

  “Are you all right, Jules?” Lance asked, as he finally undid the ropes.

  Julie stood up and hugged him like she had never hugged anyone before. “Oh, Lance…”

  Lance ran his fingers through her hair and then wiped the line of blood off of her face. “Don’t say anything, Jules … there will be plenty of time to talk later.”

  Julie looked up into his eyes. “You can never really be sure of that, can you?”

  Lance managed a smile. “You may be right.” From behind them came another voice, a deeper voice.

  “Are you two done making kissy-kissy? ‘Cause if you are, I’d really appreciate one of you giving me a hand.”

  Lance turned to find Abe Lincoln sitting on the carpet in the dining room, dusting off his coat. “But Abe, I saw him shoot you!”

  Lincoln reached into his coat pocket and pulled out Cohen’s diary, complete with two bullets lodged inside of it.

  “Still stung.”

  Cutter smiled. “Why, you old dog!”

  Rex huffed.

  “Hey, speak with respect in front of our canine officer.”

  Lance walked over and helped Lincoln to his feet and the two men hugged. “I’m glad you’re still around, pal,” Lance confessed.

  Lincoln massaged the soreness in his chest as he walked toward the front door. “It’ll take more than a couple of shots from a rinky-dink .22 to bring me down.”

  Lance put his arm around Julie and followed Lincoln out onto the patio.

  “One more thing, Cutter,” Lincoln said as the lawn suddenly filled with cops and reporters. “When we get a free minute after all of this hoopla is over … we’ve got to have a long talk about your wardrobe!”

  TWENTY THREE

  Update from the National Weather Service:

  TROPICAL STORM ANDREW Tropical Storm Andrew at a glance:

  Latitude: 19.2 N Longitude: 59.5 W Date: 8/19/92 Time: 5 p.m. EDT Velocity: 52 mph Movement: 21 mph Direction: W-NW To Antilles: 330 miles From Miami: 1,395 miles

  A sidestep to the right sent Andrew wide of the Caribbean’s northeast islands, with the storm’s center 200-plus miles from land. Slight strengthening ex­pected Wednesday didn’t take place, but is in the forecast again for today. Central pressure increased, reducing potential danger. Long-range projections indicate Andrew’s center could be within 200 miles of the Bahamas on Saturday… if it lasts that long.

  Part 4: “If it Lasts That Long”

  TWENTY FOUR

  THE PENTAGON

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT SECTOR

  SUBLEVEL 2, SUITE SL2-37

  FRIDAY, 8/21/92, 4:38 P.M.

  The office was dark and cavernous and his heels clicked across the polished ebony tile as he walked forward into the abyss. It was so dark, in fact, that Carpenter wished he owned a pen light so he would
n’t look stupid bumping into any furniture.

  “Sit down, Captain.” The voice seemed to come out of thin air. There was no scrambler used to disguise the voice … it sounded all business … no foreplay way down here.

  Carpenter squinted into the blackness. “I would … if I could find a chair.”

  A thin white shaft of light flashed on, illuminating a single, black leather seat only a few feet in front of him. Flecks of dust floated around the harsh spike of light that shone from the ceiling. “Sit down, Captain.”

  Carpenter visualized the insistent voice belonging to someone not quite middle-aged. Perhaps late thirties to early forties, with no discernible accent. Already, Carpenter’s mind was racing to get the upper hand. Was this enigma’s voice trained in linguistics for no accent? Doubtful, there was no reason those qualifications would be necessary down here in research and development. This sector belonged to the eggheads who were never sent on assignments. Nearly eigh­teen miles of corridors in this building and they put these geniuses so far away from the light of day, that if you listened real hard, you could almost hear the molten lava rumbling against the walls. Carpenter took his seat and crossed his legs casually.

  “Nice flight?” asked the disembodied voice.

  Carpenter could tell from the inflection of the voice that the speaker didn’t really care. “I’ve had better.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Carpenter squirmed in his chair and then crossed his legs in the opposite direction, left over right. He held up his right hand and examined the cuticles as though he had somewhere better to be. “You didn’t bring me back from Saudi Arabia to make small talk, did you?”

  From out of the darkness, like a wild bird fluttering its wings, a newspaper was tossed at him. He made an effort to catch it in one piece, but the sudden shock of seeing some­thing flying toward his face caught him by surprise. One of the sections fell to the floor. It was the front page. “The Fort Lauderdale Sun Sentinel?” he asked, bending over to pick up the paper.

  “Section A, page five, bottom of the page.”

  Carpenter put the rest of the paper aside and began scanning for the article. There was a picture of a young man who looked vaguely familiar to him. He studied the black and white photograph, but the recollection was just out of his mind’s grasp. The story that he quickly read was meaningless except for the single mention of the man’s name … Lance Cutter.