by Mic Palmer
“You know what this would do to our credibility?” said the newswoman.
“How’s it going to look if she dies and you could have done something?”
“This is crazy,” said Butler, somewhat intrigued.
“What if he kills a few other people? How would you feel about that?”
“No offense,” said Betsy, “but aside from a pretty good story, we still don’t have much reason to believe you.”
“After I leave, you’ll see that I’m not dangerous. Then you’ll make some calls and find out about the Russian, the one I shot. His truck’s still there. Between that and his apartment, the police are sure to find something. You’ve got sources. Check it out. Think of the story you’ll have.”
The two reporters looked at each other.
“And what’s the worst that could happen,” Jack went on. “Let’s say everything I just told you is a lie. The beauty of it all is that no one ever has to know I was here. Blame the report of my death on a confidential source.”
Tanner pulled her robe over her knee. “But even if we do go along and he returns, hopefully with Bartlet, then what?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be there.”
Butler exhaled deeply. “We’re going to have to see.”
Jack felt he was losing them. “Give me your cell phone,” he told Butler.
“What, why?”
“Just hand it over.”
“What are you doing?”
Fiddling with the phone for a minute, Jack pointed it at them.
Betsy Tanner turned away.
“Smile,” said Jack, snapping their picture.
“What’s this?” asked Butler.
“Just a little insurance,” said Jack.
“You wouldn’t,” said the woman.
“What kind of credibility do you think you’ll have when the world learns about your undercover work over here?”
“We’re colleagues,” said Butler. “There’s nothing unusual about us meeting like this.”
“Is that what you’re going to tell your wife?”
“She trusts me.”
“That’s good,” said Jack, “because if I don’t see something in an hour or so, I’m going to send the photo to the police.”
“See what?” said Butler.
“You’ve done special reports before, why not one in the middle of the Eleven O’clock news?”
“That’s impossible,” said Butler.
“Alright,” said Jack, scrutinizing the photo.
Tanner appeared conflicted. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking for?”
“A person’s life is at stake,” declared Jack, “now give me your hands.”
Jack pulled a roll of duct tape from his pocket. He then had Betsy tape up Butler’s wrists, ankles and knees, before doing the same to her. After that he severed the telecommunication lines and patted them down for additional phones.
“Why are you doing this?” asked Butler, somewhat panicked.
“By the time you hop your way to the kitchen and cut yourself free I’ll be long gone.”
Chapter Eighty-One
Whether the journalists were more motivated by the indelicate photo, the chance for even greater fame, or Susan’s life was a matter of conjecture. The fact remained, however, that they followed Jack’s instructions, meaning that Pelletier would soon be home.
“I’ve got to get moving,” Jack thought to himself, so he grabbed Phil’s gun, hopped out of his car, and raced to the back yard.
His plan was to surprise the merchant as he stepped out of the garage, so he camped out behind a bush and waited.
Between the full moon and misty fog, the atmosphere was soft and hazy, like an empty canvas.
“What if he left the state,” Jack ruminated. “What if he left the country? That’s what I would have done. Then again I don’t have this beautiful house and a thriving business. No, he’ll be back, most likely before morning. Why wouldn’t he? As far as he knows I’m dead.”
Jack’s only concern was that the truth would come out before Pelletier made it back. Fortunately, Butler and Tanner were careful. In reporting their scoop they never referred to a specific police department, road, or even town. At some point the various law enforcement groups would begin checking in with one another, but for now, in the middle of the night, they’d probably accept the fact that he’d been killed.
It was about forty eight degrees, but Jack continued to perspire. The wounds in his shoulder had begun to fester and he was running a fever. Seated on a fresh layer of brown wood chips, he turned every now and then to peak through the foliage. It could be a long night, but even if he dozed off, he was certain that he’d hear them. The garage after all was only about thirty feet away.
“I’m really going to pull this off,” he thought to himself. Then he considered Susan – the flowing blond hair, the light brown eyes, the silky white skin; how grateful she’d be, how impressed.
Suddenly there was the sound of a car door slamming shut, and he found himself jumping; he had been asleep, maybe for hours, but within seconds he was brimming with energy.
Quickly placing the batteries back into Phil’s phone, he contacted his precinct. “We’ll get someone right over,” they eventually told him.
It was about 6:30 am and the sun was coming up. Nevertheless, it was still difficult to see. If Jack was going to pull the trigger, he had better be careful.
Pelletier had removed Susan from the trunk and was now walking her to the back door. Her hands were tied and she wore a gag. Nevertheless, she appeared unharmed.
“It’s over,” Jack shouted, from about twenty feet away. Aiming the gun with two shaking hands, he worried about his aim. “The police will be here any second.”
Pelletier, however, surprised him. Instead of negotiating, he pulled Susan in front of him and began firing, all the while moving closer. If he could dispose of them both, he could claim that Jack was the killer all along, but for now he needed her as a shield.
Having been struck in the thigh, Jack fell to the ground, as his adversary continued to move toward him.
“Give up now and I promise to make it painless,” shouted Pelletier, while continuing to fire.
Jack’s only option was to roll down the concrete steps to the pool. “Let her go,” he yelled, with his back pressed against the retaining wall. “Then you can take off. I won’t try to stop you.”
“Let me think for a moment,” replied Pelletier.
“He’s reloading,” yelled Susan, having spit out her gag.
Despite the slug in his leg, Jack raced to the top of the stairs.
Pelletier had a fresh cartridge in his hand, but just as he was about to insert it into the gun, he felt a pointy elbow come down on his hand.
“Hurry,” cried Susan.
Jack was close. He could taste it.
“Die!” shouted Pelletier, as he threw Susan at him.
Jack caught her, but stumbled toward the edge of the embankment.
Had his leg not been weakened by the bullet he might have been able to catch himself, but as it was he was lucky to be standing.
Teetering for a moment, both he and Susan soon found themselves falling backwards over the edge.
Pelletier snickered. It all seemed so natural. Had he really ever doubted himself?
Coming down hard on his back with Susan on top of him, Jack released the gun, which ever so slowly slid into the water. The fall had knocked the wind out of him.
Pelletier casually made his way down the steps. Holding the fresh magazine in his hand, he almost appeared cheery. “Did you ever think for a minute I’d turn out to be the hero in all of this?”
Having rolled off her former boyfriend, Susan’s breath was heavy. “Go to hell.”
Jack was still on his back. His body felt lifeless, almost paralyzed. Staring up at the bourgeoning sky, he searched for an answer.
Bathing in the surreal glow of the blue deck lights, Pelletier was exultant. “
The only thing I regret is that I wasn’t able to stop you before you killed her. Oh well.”
Jack felt as he did after being hit with the stun gun. Still, he wouldn’t give up. With wide darting eyes, he scoured his surroundings for a way out.
The rug merchant, however, wasn’t particularly concerned. Sauntering down the last few steps, he casually inserted the new cartridge into the gun. The stock, however, wouldn’t accept it. “Come on,” he grumbled, before finally locking it into place.
Just then there was a thump followed by an explosion of colors. Having been struck by a brick, just above his left eye, Pelletier stumbled onto the deck. Nevertheless, he managed to stay on his feet.
Still on his back, all Jack could do was look up at him. In hurling the brick he had used up his last drop of energy.
“Do something!” yelled Susan, as she managed to stand up.
Using his uninjured leg, Jack swiped the back of Pelletier’s knees, causing him to collapse on top of him.
The merchant, however, was still holding the gun.
“Ahhh,” screamed Susan, as she kicked Pelletier’s hand.
Jack watched as the weapon flew into a thick patch of ivy.
Still on the ground, the killer rammed his fist into Susan’s belly, causing her to stagger backwards into the deep end of the pool. With her hands still tied behind her back, she was struggled to stay afloat.
Jack knew what his adversary was thinking: if she drowned, he’d probably get away with it, blame the whole thing on Jack. All he had to do was keep him away from the pool.
“In another minute it’ll all be over,” whispered the killer.
“I don’t think so,” grunted Jack.
Having reached into his pocket, Pelletier pulled out a stiletto, but grabbing his wrist, Jack kept him at bay.
Suddenly the yard was flooded with light. Turning his head, Jack espied Butler and Tanner complete with camera crews.
“She’s in the water,” he shouted, causing the reporters to scramble.
Pelletier, however, wouldn’t quit. Taking a savage bite out of Jack’s shoulder, he was able to free up the hand holding the stiletto, now shimmering in the glow of a thousand watts of artificial illumination.
Jack tried to put his arms up, but having nothing left, they dangled in the air like the limbs of a puppet.
“Was this really it?” Jack thought to himself. After all he had been through?
Suddenly, there was an explosion of tissue and bone, leaving Pelletier’s brain splattered across Jack’s grimacing face.
It was Phil – he and what seemed like half the police force.
Stepping over Jack, he raced toward Susan, who had just been pulled from the pool. Longing for one another, they were soon locked in a passionate embrace.
“Are you alright?” asked Betsy Tanner, as the paramedics applied pressure to Jack’s shoulder.
Phil pushed through the growing crowd, carrying his wife in his arms. “No questions,” he told them. “She’s been through a lot.”
While being placed onto a stretcher, Jack was bombarded with questions from newly arriving reporters.
“What was your connection with the killers?” “When did Butler and Tanner become involved?” “Were you actually in a car accident?”
Jack didn’t answer. In fact he could barely hear them. The clicking and buzzing of the cameras, the shuffling of feet, the incessant chattering – it had all fused together into a kind of pressurized din, as if he were underwater.
Through the spaces in the crowd he could see Susan, all lanky and disheveled, her flaxen hair wet and knotted. Standing now, she was being ushered away by Phil, but ever so briefly she turned toward him. “Thank you,” she mouthed, while waving her hand.
Phil gestured for them to keep moving, but before they were gone, he turned around and gave Jack a quick salute.
Walking away, entangled in one another, they appeared inseparable. Did Jack really believe that she’d return to him? Just moments before it actually seemed possible. The idea had meat to it, substance, reality, and then, just like that, it was gone.
“You owe me an interview,” whispered Betsy Tanner.
“You got it,” smiled Jack, as Butler patted him on the shoulder.
“The world is watching,” commented the white-haired reporter. “Do you have anything you want to say?”
Most likely his biological mother was watching, not to mention Bundy, Gomez, Cassandra and about a billion other people, all of whom now knew the truth. How sweet it felt, how different, how new.
“I’m good,” he finally responded.
Slowly, the paramedics inserted him into the back of the ambulance. They seemed appreciative, even respectful, as if he were some sort of hero, and perhaps he was.
Whether it was the post adrenaline crash, the loss of blood, or the shot of morphine, Jack felt different, wiser, more nuanced.
With the closing of the door, things suddenly became quiet, and all at once he understood. Whereas the professor thought he could choose what he was, much in the same way as one might pick out a tattoo, the world had something else to say. Whether it’s our understanding of love or our taste in art, our thoughts are the product of a thousand generations of ideas, each of which does battle with the one before it, until finally something new is born, but like Orozco said, the process continues, burning, swirling, consuming, purifying, like an endless fire.
About the Author
MIC PALMER
The author is a New York trial lawyer.
