Constant Fear

by Daniel Palmer

  Solomon’s whimpers turned to sobs. “Please let me go,” he begged. “Please let me go.” Each word blended into the next, in one long and desperate plea.

  Fausto stood to the side, not wanting to block the view of those in the audience. He turned his attention back to Solomon and set the machete blade between the boy’s trembling legs.

  “Don’t kick too much, young one,” Fausto warned in a soft voice, which grew louder as he again addressed his audience. “Next you cut the ass—how do you say, el ano—ah, yes, the anus. You make a big hole here to rip out the insides. And this you tie off with string.”

  During the grisly demonstration, Andy appeared dazed and had almost no reaction to anything taking place. He rolled his head forward and yanked it back like he was trying to stay awake. Forward. Back. Repeat.

  With growing alarm, Hilary put her fingers under Andy’s chin and turned his head to face her. His clammy skin felt slick and unpleasantly cool to the touch. His eyes held a vacant and empty stare.

  “I’ll get my homework done,” Andy muttered to himself. “Just stop bugging me, Dad.”

  “Andy, you’re not at home. You’re here at school,” Hilary whispered. “You’ve got to tell me where your backpack is. What room did they bring you to?”

  He needed the glucagon injection, not food. Hilary was certain of it.

  “Darkness,” Andy mumbled. “Darkness.”

  Hilary let go and Andy’s head flopped down until his chin rested on his chest. This time, when Andy tried to lift his head, he lacked strength. So he closed his eyes and rested.

  “Don’t go to sleep, Andy,” Hilary pleaded. “Stay awake. Tell me which room.”

  Hilary thought maybe she could talk Fausto into giving her Andy’s backpack. Perhaps use the same tactic Andy had used before. If Andy had the key, he could not die. It was that simple. But it was increasingly clear to Hilary that nobody had the key. If that was true, the one bit of leverage they had would be gone, and soon they all would be dead.

  Hilary looked right and saw tears streaming down David’s face. While Rafa hid his face in his hands, his body convulsed, and it was obvious his tears were falling as well. But Hilary had other concerns that trumped poor Solomon’s torture, a need far more pressing.

  “You’ve got to help him,” Hilary cried out. “He needs his medicine or he’ll die.”

  Fausto stopped his demonstration and redirected his smoldering gaze onto Hilary. He pointed his machete at Andy as if it were an extension of his hand. “That one, I believe, does not have the key,” he said. “He is your leader. I know all about leaders. They are not selfish. They sacrifice for the good. If he had the key, he would have given it to us. So now he’s expendable. And if you interrupt me again, hija, you become expendable, too.

  “Listen to me, all. Your time here is running very, very short. Is it clear? Because what I’m doing to this pig now, I do for real on each of you. You will feel it all. Every bit of pain I can make happen. And I will take my time. Now, where were we?” Fausto put the tip of the blade against Solomon’s belly. “Yes,” he said. “You have to cut the belly and chest.” Fausto traveled the tip of the blade from Solomon’s navel up to his throat. He kept his eyes on David and Rafa the entire time. “You must be careful not to puncture the intestines, but once the little piggy is opened up, you pull all the muck out into a bucket.”

  Fausto raised the machete over his head like an executioner. Solomon saw this and squirmed to get away, but Efren and Armando held him in place. Generating incredible force, Fausto brought the blade down toward Solomon’s head.

  David rose to his feet and screamed, “Nooooo!” The timbre of his voice shook the room. But instead of flesh and bone, the tip of Fausto’s blade sank harmlessly into the floor inches from Solomon’s ear. David bowed his head and again sobbed.

  Rafa stood and pointed at David. “He’s got it! He has the key!”

  Hilary let her attention drift from Andy to David; if this were true, it changed everything.

  “No, I don’t,” David said. David’s shirt was untucked, tie dangling, but he pushed back his long hair as if trying to look more dignified.

  “You do! You do!” Rafa insisted. “Give it to them now. I don’t want to die. Just do it, David.”

  At last, a smile crested on Fausto’s face. “Bring them both to me,” he said, pointing to the teen boys.

  El Mata Padres and Tornado rose from their seats and came around to escort Rafa and David onto the stage. The boys went willingly, heads bowed, like death row inmates en route to the gas chamber, each resigned to his fate. One guard remained at the door—the thin one Andy called Whippet—while the rest of them came onstage.

  Hilary took notice. The odds of sneaking out of the auditorium to go on a hunting expedition had greatly improved. Still, she did not know where to go looking.

  Andy muttered the word “darkness” over and over to himself. The word came out slurred. Hilary thought maybe he’d said “parkness” or “markness.” Neither word meant anything. And yet it was important because Andy kept repeating it.

  Hilary tried to decipher what Andy might be saying by trying to form words that sounded like “darkness.” She started with A— “arkness,” B—“barkness,” C—“carkness,” and so on. She did this effortlessly and quickly until she got to H, when she stopped the mental exercise altogether.

  H—“Harkness.”

  And Hilary knew exactly where to look.

  CHAPTER 32

  Pepperell Academy’s extensive tunnel system connected most campus buildings. Some of the tunnels were extremely narrow and hot, while others offered enough space to walk side by side.

  Jake made his way through one of the narrow sections beneath the library, not his favorite by any stretch. His boots scuffed noisily against the rough concrete, the tap of his heels amplified by damp stone. Creatures scurried in the darkness. Rats, probably, but mice and moles lived down here, too. Jake was in charge of extermination and he kept the pests mostly under control, but not entirely. The clicks and scrapes of their clawed feet came at him from all directions. It was impossible to pinpoint a location in the dark.

  Cables running above Jake’s head served as conduits for electrical and communication systems. Pipes of various thicknesses affixed to the walls with rusted metal brackets carried water and heat throughout the campus, and emitted a steady hum that became background noise. Some of the pipes leaked water that rhythmically punctured the eerie stillness in this otherworldly darkness.

  At the spot where Jake could turn right or backtrack, he went right. The low ceiling forced him to stoop, but he kept a steady pace. Here the mildew smell was most intense, but it couldn’t make him forget the stench of fresh blood from the bathroom homicide. That smell overpowered all present odors, and those vacant eyes seemed to watch his every step.

  To see in the dark, Jake used a headlamp secured to the front of his tactical helmet by an adjustable piece of stretchable nylon. He had left the PVS-14 with the J-arm attachment back in the larder. Night vision worked by magnifying existing light, and down here there was none. Jake could have turned on the overheads, but the fuse boxes were decentralized and mostly aboveground. He didn’t want to risk exposure by going to the surface. The headlamp worked fine. He could shut it off easily, and it freed his hands to let him traverse obstacles while wielding a weapon.

  He kept his AK-47 slung over his right shoulder. In the cramped confines of the tunnels, it was far easier to maneuver his Glock than a long rifle.

  The jouncing white light of the headlamp formed a portal in the gloom through which Jake could make his way. The way could be confusing. Enthusiasts circulated maps around campus to try and illustrate the various entrances to tunnels, but Jake found most renderings woefully incomplete. The real tunnels looked more like the schematic for a complicated piece of circuitry than a bunch of straight lines between buildings. Tunnels went in straight, curved, and diagonal lines. Some terminated in dead ends; others looped
back like snakes consuming their own tails. This was a maze belowground, and it was easy to become disoriented and lost.

  Jake crawled over a series of corroded pipes that looked like a pile of giant pickup sticks blocking the archway ahead. His guns and gear restricted his movement, and Jake needed to compensate for the extra weight. As he climbed down, Jake’s footing slipped and he staggered forward a few steps. His face bristled with stickiness: cobwebs. With his left hand, Jake cleared the webbing from his mouth and eyes, and brushed off a large spider, which had crawled across the nape of his neck.

  He was accustomed to the tactile sensations down here. There was always something new to discover, to observe. This section of tunnel looked to him like the innards of a dying machine. Everything here was sagging, corroded, or rusty. Wires barely clung to decaying fasteners and dangled perilously close to pools of brown water. Jake kept his eye out for markers—spray-painted letter and number codes on the walls that served as trail guides. His predecessors had put them there and it helped with navigation if you knew what they meant.

  School officials downplayed the extent of the tunnel system to keep interest in them to a minimum. Nobody wanted kids underground getting wasted or having sex around dangerous electrical equipment, hot pipes, or chemicals.

  Students caught lurking in the bowels of The Pep faced immediate expulsion. That was generally deterrent enough to keep them out. But from time to time, Jake would come across wrappers and beer cans, even fresh graffiti scrawled on the cement walls. Denying access invited plenty of brazen daredevils. Over the years, various communities of underground explorers had sprung up with the expressed goal of getting in and roaming about just for kicks. It was Jake’s responsibility to keep them out.

  The truth was, nobody came down here much anymore. A lot of effort went into making the maintenance work accessible aboveground—at fuse boxes, AVC controllers, boilers, and various circuits. Sections of the tunnel system had once served as pedestrian thoroughfares, but those had been shut down ages ago. The important thing now was that Jake could travel from building to building without ever seeing daylight. Without ever being seen.

  At the end of a particularly claustrophobic stretch, Jake came to a stop at another arched passageway. His headlamp lit up a wider and higher section of tunnel beyond. Good thing.

  The tunnels reminded Jake of the ball fields. The transition from corridor to dugout always put a smile on his face. It was the feeling a butterfly must have after crawling through its hard shell to take flight at last. Emerging from the darkness to catch that first glimpse of an emerald-green field was a joy like no other. Tunnels were a means to that end; and for this reason, Jake took to them just fine. But these narrower passageways, with the low ceilings and compressed walls, were as pleasant as giving up five runs in the second inning.

  Jake had a sudden recollection about baseball that involved Andy. His son was eleven at the time, maybe twelve, and Jake was teaching him how to throw left-handed.

  The ball had sailed in every direction but the one Andy had intended, with little velocity, either.

  “This is a stupid waste of time,” Andy said.

  “Throwing with your nondominant arm is good for building a balanced body,” Jake said. “Besides, you’ve got a better chance of going pro if you’re a southpaw.”

  Jake was naturally bilateral, but he threw right and rarely worked his other arm.

  “I’m never going to make the pros,” Andy said.

  “You can do anything you set your mind to, son,” Jake said, almost reflexively.

  Andy had guffawed. “That’s a load of horse crap, Dad, and you know it,” he said. “But I should clarify. I don’t want to be a pro baseball player.”

  Andy had gone into his windup and threw the baseball left-handed, hard, using all the proper mechanics this time. The ball had sailed straight and had gone fast enough to make a pleasing slap, once it hit the leather of Jake’s glove.

  Even then, his kid had attitude.

  “So, what are you going to be when you grow up?” Jake asked, tossing the ball back to Andy.

  “I dunno. Guess we’ll just have to wait and find out.”

  “Wait and find out.”

  Andy’s diabetes made that statement a lot less certain. It was especially true given the wild swings Andy’s blood sugar could take. But Jake never believed the disease would claim his son. And that belief carried over into today.

  After passing through the archway, Jake stood, giving some relief to his cramped leg muscles. Fifteen feet farther, the tunnel branched to his right. That way would bring him to a staircase. From there, Jake could gain entry to the basement boiler room in the Terry Science Center.

  He wanted to call Ellie, and probably could get a signal there, but decided to wait. He was close to the Academy Building, close to Andy, his purpose for being here. He pressed on ahead. Somewhere behind him, the rats began to scurry.

  At one point, Jake had to crawl again. To get from one section of tunnel to another, he had to pass through a square opening at the bottom of a concrete wall. The fit was very narrow, and Jake squeezed through on his belly. He emerged into a new section of tunnel, with high ceilings and updated electrical and data cables. And then, the stairs. A lot of the yellow paint had chipped away, but the railings were sturdy and the steps safe to climb.

  At the top landing, using his master key, Jake unlocked a steel door painted gunmetal gray. He pushed the door open and stepped into a janitor’s closet in the basement of the Academy Building. He had his AK-47 ready to do the talking for him, just in case.

  No need. The closet was empty. He pushed a bucket and mop out of the way, clearing a path to the closet’s front door. He stopped and listened. Not a sound. Fine. Just to be sure, Jake put an ear against the bottom of the door to give another listen. Each cup on his Peltor earmuffs had a built-in microphone, receiver, and amplifier that provided an adjustable 19dBA sound gain. All was silent. The tunnels were louder than this. Jake opened the door and exited the closet.

  He worked his way out of the basement and up to the first floor of the Academy Building. The school was weekend quiet. No people. No lights. No sound. The tunnel ran directly below the stage in the Feldman Auditorium and went the length of the building. If he had to, Jake would go outside and scope the building’s perimeter to try and pinpoint the enemy’s location.

  He returned to the closet. Without several feet of stone in the way, Jake could get a signal there. He didn’t want to risk being overheard in the hallways. Ellie’s number was stored in Jake’s list of favorites, where she belonged.

  His mind clicked over and Jake thought for a moment of something other than Andy. He thought of Ellie. It happened in a flash, but the message his brain was sending had come in, loud and clear. Once this was over, things between him and Ellie would be different.

  It was an odd time for these thoughts, but Jake didn’t fight it. He had messed up with Ellie, kept too many secrets, but he could make amends. He’d tell her everything about his life, about his fears. He’d open up to her in ways he never could with Laura. He’d grieve for Laura openly; and in Ellie’s presence, he’d find comfort.

  On the mound, Jake believed that most everything was within his control. Throw strikes. Keep the ball away from a hitter’s sweet spot. Do your job and get the out. It was away from baseball that things became more complex. But Jake was going to tell Ellie who he was and how he felt, regardless of the consequences. All he could do was throw the best pitch possible.

  He slipped the ear protectors to one side. Ellie answered on the first ring. He heard panic in her voice. “Jake, where are you?”

  “Trying to find my son.”

  “But where?”

  “I need to make sure Andy is all right. And after I do, I’m going to need your help.”

  “Jake, it’s not that simple.”

  “I’m going to tell you where these guys are, and you’re going to send in the troops.”

  “Jake,
what is going on? Where are you?”

  “I’ll call you back,” he said. “I’m not going to have a signal where I’m headed.”

  “Jake, please,” Ellie said. “If you’re where I think you are, you need to get out of there right away. Jake, are you hearing me? Jake? Are you there?”

  Jake headed down the stairs with the phone pressed to his ear. He would let the rock walls disconnect the call, as he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  As he descended back into the darkness, Jake’s mind conjured up the smell of Ellie’s hair and Kibo’s fur. They brought feelings of home and belonging, and finally something took away the scent of blood.

  CHAPTER 33

  Ellie put away her phone and set her gaze once again on Jake’s trailer home. A sizable contingent from the Winston Police Department was there, along with vehicles from the FBI, and the state police, too. From the number of strobes flashing, anyone would think Jake was a fugitive killer and the target of an unprecedented manhunt.

  Leo Haggar came over to Ellie with a hostile look she knew was not directed toward her. It was just Haggar’s natural mystique.

  “That was him,” Ellie said.

  Haggar’s eyes narrowed. “Did he give his location?”

  “No,” Ellie said. “But I think he’s in the school.”

  Haggar whistled and one of his agents, a fit woman in a blue uniform and body armor, came running over.

  “Everyone is in position to enter the premises. Are we still waiting for a warrant?”

  “Forget the warrant,” Haggar barked. “Get in there ASAP. It’s my call, and I’m saying this guy will further endanger the hostages. I want to know everything there is to know about him. What he reads when he’s taking a dump. Where he shops. Who he’s screwing. Everything. And have forensics in there with you to secure all of the electronics. I don’t want a single byte of data lost. Got it?”