“I don’t think you’ll be needing this,” Jason pulled the officer's hand away from his gun, which he’d failed to fully withdraw from its holster.
“Who the—?”
Without hesitation, Jason pulled the gun from Michael’s belt, turned and dropped the new arrival to the scene, all while continuing to hold the hunting knife firmly in his other hand.
The lights began to flicker and then dim as unconsciousness approached and the unknown man, staring at the shot officer, yanked the knife from his stomach. Dropping to his knees, Michael finally managed to fight through the shock, and get a signal to his hand, but as he reached toward his attacker, the room went dark and he fell forward at the man’s feet.
Kicking the fallen officer’s hand off of his shoe, Jason stepped out into the hall and without hesitation raised the gun to his left firing three shots at the two officers charging toward him just as a third, much older man in uniform rounded the corner to his right.
Having heard the gunfire, the white haired chief of police already had his gun drawn and spotting his officers being fired upon, did not hesitate in raising his own weapon to fire off two shots of his own. However, as the bullets erupted from the gun, Jason vanished from the hall, allowing the two stray shots to find their new targets. The first bullet struck a window at the other end of the hall, sending glass erupting into the interrogation room while the other bullet finished the job that Jason had started by striking the second charging officer in the head, dropping him onto his already fallen friend.
“Nice shot old man,” Jason whispered in the man’s ear, startling the elderly chief who stood in shock at what he’d just done, before pulling the trigger and splattering the wall with blood, skull and strands of red stained, white hair.
*****
“Shit!” Derek exclaimed as gunshots erupted overhead.
Reaching between the bars he jammed the tip of Jason’s knife into the lock on the cell door, wiggling and twisting it back and forth in hope of somehow getting free and stopping what was taking place upstairs. With each shot however, his panic increased as did his aggression with the lock until finally, the tip of the blade snapped off, causing him to drop the knife to the floor, his only hope for freedom sliding out of reach.
“Ahhmm,” the sleeping man on the bench suddenly moaned and shifted, the sound of the gunfire apparently more startling to his inebriated brain than the tip of Jason’s knife, delicately balanced upon his throat.
As the man turned onto his side, a tiny, metallic noise joined in the commotion as something fell from beneath the man, striking the concrete floor and bouncing under the bench. Moving toward him, Derek scanned for the source of the odd sound, but didn’t see anything until he was kneeling beside the unconscious drunk. In the shadows, against the wall, was a single key.
“Son of a bitch,” Derek huffed as he grabbed the key.
Somehow he knew that it didn’t belong to the unconscious man sleeping off his day of indulgence. The key didn’t go to the man’s car. It didn’t open his house, nor did it open a locker at a fitness club, by the looks of the overweight bench warmer. Jason had placed the key beneath the man during his little visit. As much as he’d enjoyed setting him up for the murder of those people, he apparently didn’t want his best friend to miss out on the action that remained, especially now that he was furious about the attempt on the much younger version of himself. He wanted Derek there when he went after Sarah’s sister and more importantly, when he went after Sarah herself.
Returning to the lock, Derek again reached through the bars and rubbing the key against the lock managed to extract the remainder of the broken blade before inserting the key, disengaging the lock and pushing the door open to freedom.
FORTY-EIGHT
She didn’t know what she was going to say to her father. She knew he was home. A cruiser was parked in the driveway. Typically, he and Michael rode in together, since Michael lived only a few blocks over, but as she’d learned from her visit earlier to the station, he’d apparently left early in hopes of having a few words about the unusual and alarming situation in which she was currently involved.
Turning the doorknob, Sarah took a breath and entered the house.
“Where the hell have you been?”
The anticipated question struck her ears even before her other foot could cross the threshold.
“Daddy, we need to talk,” Sarah ignored the question.
“You're goddamn right we need to talk,” Phil respond in the same angry tone. “What the hell are you involved in? Do you know that your boyfriend is suspected of not one but three murders now.”
“Daddy, I can explain everything, but right now we need to get Katie and get out of here.”
“Get out of here? What are you talking about?”
“We don’t have time. I can explain in the car but we have to go now. Get some things together. I’ll grab Katie.”
“Wait!” Phil barked, stopping Sarah mid stride on the stairs.
“I know it sounds crazy and you have no idea what’s going on, but you need to trust me,” Sarah pleaded.
Something in her voice and panicked eyes told him that he should listen. As confused as he was, his daughter had never been one to exaggerate or stir up drama. If she was this worked up over whatever she was talking about, he should probably put aside his current anger and listen.
“I need to get Katie, Dad,” Sarah repeated as she started to take another step.
“Your sister’s not up there.”
“Where is she then, the kitchen?” she reversed her direction and rejoined him in the living room.
“I sent her to the dance,” Phil answered, confused by the sudden look of panic on his daughter’s face.
“You what?”
“That Mark kid showed up and I realized that I shouldn’t be so protective. After all, the doctor did say she was fine,” he finally acknowledged his stubborn disregard for the doctor’s actual opinion. “So she got ready and went to the dance. They left about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Shit!” Sarah exclaimed.
“What the hell is going on?” Phil asked.
“We need to get to the dance,” Sarah declared, turning toward the front door.
“Mr. Bishop. Officer Bishop,” a staticky voice called from the kitchen.
“Who was…?” Phil turned and headed for the source of the voice.
“Mr. Bishop, this is Derek. Please answer.”
“Derek?” Sarah rushed to join her father who grabbed his radio from the counter.
“What the hell are you doing on the radio?” Phil snapped. “Where’s Officer Lucern?”
“He’s right here. He’s hurt badly though.”
“What the hell did you do?”
“Phil,” a faint, whisper came over the radio.
“Mike,” Phil responded, hearing the weakness in his partner’s voice. “Mike what happened?”
“The kid was right, Phil. He was right.”
“Mike! Mike!” Phil panicked, yelled into the radio.
“He’s dead sir,” Derek returned to the radio.
“I’m going to hunt you down and I’m going to—“
“—Daddy. It wasn’t him. Didn’t you hear Mike,” Sarah fought through her own tears. “It was Jason. Katie’s next.”
Phil turned to his daughter in shock. “What has that boy told you?”
“You have to get to the dance. I’m on my way there now,” Derek squawked across the radio again.
“Derek didn’t do anything Daddy, but right now we need to get to Katie before Jason does,” she pleaded.
Having never been more confused than he was at that moment, Phil stared into his daughter’s tear filled eyes and realized that what she was telling him was probably true. His youngest was in danger and he needed to be there to protect her.
FORTY-NINE
“Alright, slide in a bit closer. There. Hold that pose and say cheese.”
The flash of the photographer�
�s camera bounced off of the ornate, glass chandelier hanging over the function hall lobby behind the young, well dressed couple.
“Next,” the man behind the camera summoned his next subjects as the current couple bounced away smiling and kissing their way into the ballroom.
Serving as Cannon Town Hall, as well as the local community center, function hall and even playhouse to the local theatre group, the oldest and largest building in town was usually the focal point of any and all activities. As soon as Katie had set foot on the polished marble floors of the lobby, she had fallen in love with the place.
Squeezing Mark’s arm, the two exchanged a smile as they stepped in front of the camera and positioned themselves on the two white "X’s" taped to the floor.
“Alright, slide in a bit closer,” the photographer repeated the directions he’d likely say a few hundred times more before the night’s end.
Pushing in closer, Mark placed his arm behind his date, placing his hand on the small of her back.
Feeling his hand ever so gently pressed against her, she became overwhelmed by a feeling that she hadn’t felt since her mother had touched her in the very same way. It was a comforting touch; a touch that sent a warm tingle throughout her body and told her that the owner of that touch would do everything in their power to lookout for her and care for her no matter what the situation.
Looking up at Mark, the smile on her face changed ever so slightly from that of excitement to that of happiness as Mark, apparently feeling the same way, offered the same expression.
“The camera’s over here guys,” the photographer interrupted the moment, drawing their momentarily distracted glances just as the flash erupted. “Next!”
“Ready,” Mark turned to Katie once again.
Nodding, she took his hand as they entered the ballroom.
*****
Siren blaring, Phil skidded the Crown Vic. to a stop behind a photography truck parked in front of the function hall.
“Stay here while I find your sister,” Phil ordered as he reached for the door.
“No,” Sarah barked defiantly, opening her door and stepping out onto the curb.
Leaping from the vehicle, “Get back in the car and let me handle this. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Ignoring her father’s demands, Sarah turned and ran toward the front door.
“Sarah!” Phil rounded the car, passing behind the photo truck and stopping in his tracks as something caught the corner of his eye.
Backing up a few steps, he glanced inside the back windows of the van, spotting the body of what he assumed was the photographer, sprawled across the floor, covered in blood.
*****
The ballroom was amazing. The Junior Prom Committee had voted on a 1930’s swing theme. The entire room was decorated in black and white and a live swing band and professional dancers filled the stage. Hundreds of students filled the dance floor, some attempting to mimic the acrobatic moves of the dancers on stage while others just did their best not to embarrass themselves.
He’d never been one for dancing, but seeing the look of excitement on Katie’s face, Mark knew he’d have to put aside his fears for at least one night. His only hope was his date's current medical state and her father’s last words before granting them freedom.
“Take care of my daughter and no swing dancing,” Mr. Bishop had said.
At the time he’d been too terrified of the uniformed father to give it much thought, but now he wondered if he’d known the dance’s theme or if it had simply been his attempt at humor. Either way he’d probably get his wish. He doubted that he’d even have the strength to twirl his date around like the professionals on stage, even if she wasn’t pregnant, and something told him that she wouldn’t want that anyway. Either way, before any type of dancing could occur, he needed to use the little boy's room.
“I’ll be right back!” Mark shouted over the loud music.
Katie turned.
“I need to use the bathroom! You going to be alright for a moment?!”
With a squeeze of his hand, Katie nodded in the affirmative and released her grip as Mark disappeared into the crowd.
*****
For such an elegant building, the architect had left much to be desired with the bathrooms. As he stood at the middle urinal, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander up the dully painted wall, to the simple plaster ceiling overhead. One would think that a bathroom in a building of such ornate decor would have at least had some type of decorative features. Even though it was just a bathroom, there should have at least been some sort of crown molding. The counters had not been cut from the finest marble but instead appeared to be some sort of marble colored laminate and the plain, countertop sinks were topped by dull, unpolished, stainless steel faucets.
“Maybe I’m being too critical,” Mark thought as the bathroom door opened and his new bathroom companion took up a position in front of the urinal beside him. After all, he acknowledged, he could be a bit critical sometimes. Since the age of eight he’d been telling his parents that he wanted to be an architect. Eager to encourage his dreams, they must have bought every set of Legos, Constructs and Lincoln Logs in the state. His room had been filled with dozens of Rubbermaid containers, filled to the top with the blocks of creativity.
Smiling at the memory of building tiny plastic and wooden cities, he couldn’t help but smile as the man beside him caught his attention.
“Hey,” Mark addressed the stoic man on the other side of the narrow divider. “Taking a break from the old camera, huh?”
The photographer didn’t acknowledge him in any way.
"Okay," Mark thought as he zipped his pants and reached for the handle just as a sharp pain drew his attention back to his neighbor.
The photographer, who had previously pretended to be oblivious to the man beside him, was now staring right at him, a cold blank look upon his face as his gaze slowly shifted downward.
Following the man’s wandering stare, Mark too shifted his vision down along the man’s shoulder, then to his outstretched arm to his hand and eventually to the knife buried in his side. Looking back up in shock, he was met by a simple smile on the young man’s face as he yanked the knife from his flesh.
Stumbling backwards, Mark struck the corner of the nearby row of stalls before bouncing off of them and crashing into the counter. As he held his side and stared in shock at his wound in the mirror the photographer stepped away from the urinals.
Without anymore hesitation, Mark turned and staggered toward the door, the now excruciating pain in his side begging him to stop as every little movement pulled and twisted the open wound and drew more and more blood as his pant leg joined his shirt in adopting their new color.
“This dance is wicked,” the bathroom door flung open to reveal Peter Broward, a member of the varsity football team.
“Watch out geek,” Peter instantly addressed Mark as the two almost collided in the doorway before spotting the pool of blood on the floor beside the sink and the trail leading to Mark. “Man, are you alright?”
Looking over his shoulder for the photographer, “Run,” Mark addressed his new company only to find his attacker was gone.
“What do you mean, run? What happened?” Peter asked.
“This,” a third voice answered.
Turning, Mark spotted the photographer now behind Peter just as the man plunged the same knife into the football star’s right ear.
*****
Though she was thrilled that her father had let her go; with Mark in the bathroom, the realization that she was completely alone was starting to sink in. Other than Latisha, who was apparently planning a fashionably late entrance, she’d managed to burn the bridges to more than a few friendships over the last few years and becoming pregnant hadn’t helped much with her social standings either. She’d gone from moderately popular to sideshow freak with each passing month.
She’d gotten used to the looks, well, maybe not used to them, but it certainly w
asn’t as uncomfortable as it had been the first few weeks after her condition had started to be noticed, and word began to spread around the school. She’d cried herself to sleep many a night during that time. Now she was excited to meet the little girl growing inside of her and everyone else’s opinions just didn’t matter.
“Who brought the whale?” Katie overheard one of the girls ask a nearby friend as she pointed and smiled.
“Whatever,” Katie thought as she turned to watch the band on stage. They were pretty decent. They also looked surprisingly young given the style of music being played. Big band swing wasn’t exactly the hip or expected form of music for a bunch of guys in their early twenties.
Suddenly a blood curdling scream brought all music to a halt as each of the band members, as well as everyone on the dance floor, and even the obnoxious girls at the table, all turned to the back of the ballroom. Turning, Katie spotted some commotion near the bathrooms as numerous students fled from that direction while the remainder of the crowd remained fixed on the sight of Peter Broward, staggering from the bathroom and collapsing to the floor in his blood soaked tuxedo with a large knife, protruding from the side of his head.
“Oh my god,” Katie gasped, placing her hands to her mouth before realizing where Peter had come from. “Mark.”
As teachers rushed to Peter’s side, Katie too started toward the bathroom, pushing her way through the sea of traumatized onlookers before coming to an abrupt halt at the edge of the crowd as another man exited the bathroom. Unlike Peter, this second man was not a student, however she did recognize him. He’d taken their photo just minutes ago. However now, instead of a camera in his hand, he was holding what appeared to be a gun.
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