Vincent pulled up outside the Hollow Green Mental Health Facility and found himself in the middle of a riot.
A few fires had been started, a few inmates had been secured, and as Vincent argued and eventually persuaded the guard at the front gate to let him inside, he came to discover that Dr. Davidson was unaccounted for.
Vincent turned his car inside the gate and parked it at an angle as the gates were shut and locked behind him.
“Where’s Davidson?” Vincent grabbed his shotgun and hustled toward the entrance.
“He was with another one of our guards,” the guard said. “He fell out of contact about ten minutes ago. We think he’s on the third floor.”
“What’s the status of the situation inside the building?”
“Floors one and two are locked down. We’re still working on the third.”
“You have a weapon?”
The guard patted the holstered pistol at his side.
“Take it out,” Vincent said as they slipped inside, his shotgun raised and at the ready. “You may need to use it.”
Alarms were blaring. Red lights were flashing. It was like something out of clichéd horror film as Vincent and the guard cleared the hallway and moved toward the stairwell.
“Are the elevators locked down?” Vincent asked.
“Yes, sir.”
A crackle over the guard’s radio. “This is Thompson! We still have three inmates unaccounted for.”
“Any word from Davidson?” the guard asked.
A pause.
“Negative,” the other guard said. “Davidson and Johnson are still missing. The last check-in was from the third floor.”
Vincent and the guard arrived at the door outside the stairwell, Vincent stood to the side, raised his rifle, aimed at the door, and said, “After you, my friend.”
The guard nodded, placed a sweaty palm on the door handle, and turned.
Vincent and the guard rushed inside the stairwell, the alarms echoing off the metal staircase as they ascended it, slowly. They moved off the first floor, past the doorway leading into the second, and finally arrived at door number three. They stopped and took a breather, and the guard stood with his hand resting on the door handle.
“On three?” Vincent said.
The guard gave a thumbs-up.
“One… two… three.”
The door flew open.
Vincent and the guard slipped inside.
The entire hallway was dark, save for the flashing lights coating the green corridors a sickly shade of ruby. There was refuse and overturned chairs in the hall as they moved side by side and cleared room after room. Finally, they arrived outside the guards’ break room and saw a blur of limbs past the rectangular window with mesh wire inside.
“Detective!” the guard yelled.
Vincent slowly came up to the window and peeked inside: on the floor was a guard, face down in a pool of his own blood. Next to him was a patient, on his back, his gown peppered with bullet holes seeping blood like syrup from a jug—dead. In the corner—Dr. Davidson, bloodied and beaten with an inmate standing in front of him with a steak knife coated in crimson gripped in his hand.
“Your moment on this earth has come to a close,” the inmate said. “The flat circle of time has reached a full crescendo…”
Shit.
He threw open the door, his shotgun leveled at the inmate’s head coming up behind him. “Hands!” Vincent barked. “Let me see them! Now!”
The inmate slowly turned around, his face covered in lacerations that should have had him in agonizing pain, but the craziness coursing through his veins acted as a sedative to keep him alive and mobile and lethal.
He curled his fingers around the steak knife and moved into a charging position. “I can see the light,” he said. “Clear as day, I see it…”
He was getting ready to charge.
The guard was getting ready to shoot.
“Don’t do it,” Vincent said. “Just get him on the ground.”
But the crazed inmate heard none of it.
“I’m ready,” he sang. “Ready for that ride in the sky…”
The inmate charged.
The guard dropped him via the Taser from his rear holster, a wave of volts pumping into the inmate’s body and dumping him to the floor.
Vincent breathed easy.
As the guard tended to the inmate and began binding his limbs with zip ties, Vincent got down on one knee in front of Davidson. “You okay?” he asked.
Davidson nodded. “I…” he looked to be disoriented. “I don’t know… It all happened so fast.”
He went to stand.
“No, no, no!” Vincent said, easing him back down. “Let me look you over.”
“It’s… just a cut…”
Vincent saw lacerations on Davidson’s forehead and his right forearm, and a few lumps and welts on the left side of his face.
“Think you’ll be okay,” Vincent said, helping to pull the tattered and bloodied man to his feet.
“Thank you, detective,” Davidson said. “I owe you my life…”
The guard in the rear pulled his radio. “Third floor is clear. I repeat: the third floor is clear.”
16
The National Guard had arrived and informed Stone that all the residents in town were corralled, controlled, and, most importantly of all, compliant. It had been a little under three hours of madness in the streets of Hollow Green, but the worst had passed, and order was slowly being restored.
After Stone and the chief did about an hour of control work in the streets, they were back at the station in the chief’s office with two other officers to deal with the media situation.
Most of the major news outlets were not allowed into the area once the rioting started. The one thing that the FBI and the HGPD had working in their favor was the tight roadblocks that had been set up earlier.
By the time traffic had created a chokehold on all the major exits, it was impossible for anyone to get in or out of town. The only things that the cameras were able to capture were shots of trees and glimpses of distant fires from the riots.
No one could really see anything. Every piece of new information the reporters had was secondhand.
For once, the police were able to keep the media from showing they had lost control of their own town.
In the chief’s office, Stone and Sandoval were dipping into the whiskey flask Mason had taken from his drawer and passed around, all of them taking five to gather their bearings before they went about cleaning up, the chief behind his desk, Stone in the chair across from him, and Sandoval in the corner.
“Any word from Vincent?” the chief asked.
Stone nodded. “Just got off the phone with him. There was a brief riot at the prison, but they have it under control.”
“I can’t believe a riot started there too,” Sandoval said, shaking his head. “What are the chances?”
“Vincent talked to Davidson. I guess one of the inmates inside got a call and he started freaking out.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah,” Stone said, then swigged from the flask and handed it to Sandoval. “What a night.”
Silence took center stage.
Stone drifted off for a moment.
Sandoval swigged.
And the chief was gripping the arms of his chair.
An hour and a half after the uproars in Hollow Green and the mental health facility were finally settled, Vincent sat in the infirmary with Davidson as one of the nurses went about treating his wound, Davidson still shaking as the adrenaline began to wear off.
“Hollow Green is under control,” Vincent said. “We can rest easy now.”
Davidson shook his head as the nurse bandaged his arm. “You know,” he said, “at first, I thought I was somehow a suspect in all of… this.”
Vincent cracked a smile. “I did too. To be quite frank with you, we’re pretty sure all of this was a ruse to distract from something.”
“I just
feel like I should have told you earlier.”
“Told me what?”
“About John Doe. I should have told you when you and Stone first came here. About the state’s case with him.”
Vincent was—literally—on the edge of his seat. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“When John Doe was here,” Davidson said, “there was a man who was trying to get involved. He claimed he was Jon Doe’s brother.”
Vincent shot out of his chair. “Who? Who was he?”
Davidson took a moment to remember.
Then he recalled the name.
The chief’s eyes went wide as Sandoval looked at him guiltily.
“Sandoval,” the chief said, reaching for his pistol, “are you all right…?”
Sandoval huffed. Closed his eyes. Shook his head, his demeanor going from loose and studious to slack and careless. “I should have been more careful,” he said.
A moment.
Dead air.
“Don’t do it,” the chief said.
Another moment.
And then Sandoval winked.
The chief moved to take out his pistol, but Sandoval was the quicker draw, producing his Glock in a half-blink and sending three rounds into his boss’s chest like it was no big thing.
Behind him, the two Hollow Green Police officers responded and took out their weapons.
Again, Sandoval was the quicker draw, popping off two shots dropping the officers to the floor before turning the gun on Stone.
She reached for her weapon.
Sandoval shot her.
17
Vincent had never thought it possible for his jaw to drop as far as it did when Davidson told him that Angel Sandoval had attempted to file a motion with the state several times to take custody of his supposed brother, John Doe.
“How?” Vincent asked. “Why?”
“Detective Sandoval,” Davidson said, “came here when John Doe was six months into his stay. Said he was his brother. He claimed that John Doe was a runaway. Said he suffered from a severe case of memory loss, which we did diagnose, and that he had battled it his entire life. Unfortunately, because of Doe’s lack of material history, Sandoval couldn’t provide us or the state with anything solid to prove that he was, indeed, his brother. A blood test was going to be conducted, but by the time everything was being arranged, Doe committed suicide. We attempted to resolve the issue with Detective Sandoval after he was informed of Doe’s passing to continue with the blood test, but he just fell silent. We never heard from him after that.”
Vincent braced himself against the desk, a headache starting to build in the front of his skull as his world turned upside down in an instant.
How could I not have known?
How? How is this possible?
“You’re sure that the detective you spoke to, the one that claimed that this John Doe was his brother, was Detective Sandoval?”
Davidson nodded. “Yes. Detective Angel Sandoval of the Hollow Green Police Department.”
Vincent shot out of his chair and ran out of the office. He didn’t have time to ask questions. He needed to get in touch with the chief. With Stone. He needed to notify everyone and put Sandoval on some kind of lockdown while they figured the whole thing out. The problem was that no one was answering the phone.
Stone was on the floor—still alive.
Sandoval had clipped her in the side, enough to incapacitate her, but far enough away from any major organ that it would turn out to be nothing more than a minor flesh wound—if she survived.
“Can you move?” Sandoval asked her.
Stone moaned and rolled on the floor as she tried to balance herself, her grunts and groans and limited mobility answering Sandoval’s question.
“Good,” he grabbed her by the collar and hoisted her up. “Now, sit.”
He threw her in the chair, Stone trying to keep her composure as she cradled the wound at her side. “You,” she said. “You did this? You’re responsible for what’s happened?”
“Blame the state of Illinois,” Sandoval shucked his jacket and keep his gun steady.
“What are you talking about?”
“Just shut your mouth. Don’t say anything to me.”
“You have no idea the trouble that is coming your way,” Stone said. “Do you?”
Sandoval raised his weapon and fired a round over Stone’s head into the wall behind her.
“The next one won’t miss,” he said as the dust settled.
Stone didn’t dare speak a word, worried and overwhelmed by the notion that the next few moments could be the last.
Vincent drove faster than he ever had in his life, weaving through the roadblocks and other vehicles on the road like a bat out of hell, sirens blaring and lights flashing.
Shit, shit, shit! Sandoval’s smart. If he doesn’t know we’re onto him, it’s only a matter of time.
He kept the phone ringing the entire drive back to the station, hitting up Stone, the chief’s, and Sandoval’s numbers in rapid succession, to no avail.
No, no, no! He knows.
He knows…
The miles kept ticking on the odometer and sirens continued to scream as Vincent prayed to God that the worst hadn’t happened yet.
Sandoval, desperate and at the end of his rope, chastised himself, paced the station and kept a watchful eye on Stone, the sands of time running against him now down to their last few grains.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” he said. “What was I thinking? What the hell was I thinking?”
His eyes fell to the bodies of the officers he had shot, sprawled out on the floor in pools of blood.
“Why, Sandoval?” Stone called out. “Just tell me why.”
Sandoval stormed over, his frustrations and anger a laser beam focused at Stone. “I didn’t do this! The state did! Those hack doctors at the hospital did this! They took my brother from me. I tried. I tried everything, and they wouldn’t listen!”
“John Doe?” Stone asked. “Who was he?”
Sandoval shot her a look of contempt. “What did you say?”
Stone took a breath. “John Doe,” she said. “Who was he? Did you know him?”
He got within two inches of her face and pressed the gun under her chin, sweat pouring in thick beads off his brow as he screamed, “His name was Thomas! He was my brother! I told them that! But they didn’t listen to me until it was too late!”
Stone was trying to piece together the scattered pieces of the puzzle. But nothing made sense. Sandoval, whatever his problem was, was quickly becoming untethered, and it was only a matter of time until he started killing other people out of desperation.
And then, he started to weep. “It was their fault,” he said. “All of them. Every person I killed. It was all their fault. Not mine! They kept him buried in that place! They wouldn’t let me take care of him!”
Stone took a moment and recalled all the hostage negotiation training she had received.
In a calm and collected tone, much like one she would adopt when speaking to her child, she said, “Sandoval? Listen to me, okay? I can see you’re upset. I can see you’re struggling. But I want to help you. Really. Just talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. You can hold on to the gun if you want to. That’s okay with me. You’re frustrated, and you have every right to be.”
“You’re damn right I do!”
“That’s right. You do. But if we’re going to get out of this, if we’re going to figure out a way to make this all right, you need to tell me what’s going on. Okay?”
She looked at Sandoval, the man still on edge but breathing a little more comfortably as the gun shook in his head.
“Talk to me,” Stone said calmly. “Tell me the story. Who was this man, Thomas? Was he a family member?”
Some time passed.
Sandoval nodded.
“My brother,” he said solemnly. “He was my only brother. Our parents died a long time ago. I tried to take care of him… But I failed.”
He shook his head, weeping quietly, his chin falling to his chest.
“Why did you kill those people?” Stone asked. “All the victims. You did that, right?”
Another long pause.
Sandoval nodded again. A little sterner and more self-assured. “They deserved it,” he said. “Each and every one of them.”
“What did they do to him?” Stone asked. “What did they do to your brother?”
With a lethal glint in his eye, Sandoval stormed over to Stone, aimed the gun at her head, and said, “It’s over now. All of this. There’s not a damn thing anyone can do now. I can turn back. They’re going to kill me.”
Stone was practically crawling out of her skin and trying to control her bladder. “Don’t do this, Sandoval,” she pleaded. “You don’t have to do this. Just put the gun down, please. You don’t want to kill a mother. You don’t want to rob another child of someone they love, do you?”
The psychological twisting was doing its work—Stone spotted the tension on Sandoval’s face second-guessing himself. Twenty seconds passed, feeling like a lifetime’s worth of stress. And then Sandoval, still angered and still sure of a dire fate, raised the gun again and pressed it against Stone’s temple.
“To hell with you people,” he said. “All of you.”
Stone closed her eyes.
Vincent rushed inside the station and shot a round in Sandoval’s direction. Sandoval recoiled, spun around, and tried to escape, crouched and headed toward the front entrance.
“Sandoval!” Vincent shouted. “Stop!”
He let off three more shots.
Sandoval fired over his shoulder, causing Vincent to fall into cover behind a desk as Sandoval retreated out of the station.
After checking the coast was clear, Vincent rushed to Stone, spotting the wound on her side. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live,” she said. “You have to go. Now. You need to go after Sandoval.”
Vincent eye’s fell to the bodies scattered around the room, his heart sinking into his chest when he saw the chief slumped against his chair with bloodstains on his shirt.
Hollow Green Page 8
