Gates of Power

by Peter O'Mahoney

  “Jack, come on up!” exclaimed an unsuspecting Hugh enthusiastically over the front desk phone on the ground floor.

  I handed it back to the receptionist who’d placed the call for me. She pointed me in the right direction, and minutes later, there I was, on the fifth floor, making my way across an expansive shared workspace filled with staff, towards Hugh’s secluded personal office on the other side.

  I didn’t knock.

  “Jack, good to see you,” he said, as I entered his grandiose office.

  It was all decked out to make a statement: that you had just entered the domain of a serious television player. A giant lavish hardwood desk sat center stage like an altar, where subordinates would be expected to make groveling offerings to the great anchorman of conservative news.

  The only offering today would be a sacrificial one: Hugh himself.

  Behind his altar sat a throne, a ridiculously oversized red leather office chair, that screamed inadequacies in other departments. Lining the walls were framed pictures of Hugh with the notable guests he’d interviewed over the years, no one A-list of course, he wasn’t in that league, but then that was all kind of the point; he wanted to be, wanted people to think he was, and the ‘try hard’ pretense of his office would have to do in place of true success.

  “How are things?” he asked, throwing a big cheesy self-satisfied grin my way, which had me hating him to my core.

  “Not good, Hugh,” I stated bluntly.

  He sat back in his throne, placing his arms arrogantly behind the back of his head.

  “Take a seat, Jack,” he said, nodding towards a low status chair in front of his desk.

  I wasn’t falling for that one, so he could look down on me like I was a wayward pupil in the headmaster’s office.

  “I’ll stand.”

  “Let me guess what’s up: Alfie, right? And you’ve seen the piece I did on camera this morning on the trial?”

  I hadn’t seen his piece on camera, but I said nothing to dissuade him of his assumption.

  “Look Jack, you and I go back, so I think I can speak candidly to you when the situation dictates, and it does now: truth is you’re not backing a winner this time. Your client did it. And I think, if you’re honest with yourself, you know it too.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s like the old duck cliché: if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then that’s probably what it is. And young Alfie is quacking, and quacking good, and about to be served up, Peking style—mmm, real tasty. Alfie looks like the murderer, acts like the murderer, and all the evidence says he’s the murderer. So, guess what he is...? And no prizes for this one.”

  Hugh was enjoying the sound of his own voice, as per normal, typical self-obsessed, second-rate, newsman that he was, so I let him continue digging; digging that cold shallow grave that I was going to bury him in when he was good and done.

  “The problem with these gamer nerds is they don’t know the fake world from the real world, Jack. And this world has consequences. I know what I’m talking about here, I researched it, remember my documentary?”

  “How could I forget.”

  He got up and took an award from his office shelf.

  “Elementary Question: what could have stopped the school shooting that rocked Chicago? — Winner: Best Factual Documentary,” he read from the engraving on the plaque. “This would have to be my proudest work. Really got my central thesis across: that sometimes to keep the peace you have to pack a piece.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If teachers had been armed via concealed carry, then Alexander would have been shot from the get-go. And Alexander was a computer game obsessive type too; they say he spent hours playing an ultra-violent game before going and acting out his sick fantasy. The thing is, Alfie’s not that much different. His life is computer games, living in a virtual world with no consequences. He must have killed thousands of make-believe characters, probably saw Gates as one too, and it’s only dawning on him now that this isn’t a fantasy, that this time he can’t press reboot and start again.”

  Hugh put the award back on the shelf, adjusting it slightly so it was more prominently displayed.

  “But then it would suit you for Alfie to be convicted, wouldn’t it, Hugh?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I mean, if Alfie is convicted, then the person who really killed Brian Gates gets away with it, which is what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?”

  He hid it well, but I spotted a flicker of panic in his eyes.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m only interested in the truth. That’s all any reputable broadcaster is interested in.”

  “Well, you’re certainly not that. And the truth of the matter is right in front of me.”

  “What…?”

  He floundered temporarily, looking for an angle before opting for confused innocence.

  “… Me? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Far from it. You had the motive and opportunity. I know all about Lizzie’s reignited affair with Brian Gates.”

  “That’s not motive, Lizzie and I have an arrangement…”

  “Oh, she told me about your loosely defined marriage, but even then, of all the people to go to for affection, the one man who you’ve always resented, who you’ve always wanted to be, turns out he was the one man she always wanted to be with. He had the bigger career, the bigger bank balance, and the bigger something else too; what was it that she said to me? ‘Even with his bottle of little blue pills, Hugh isn’t half the man Brian was.’

  Anger momentarily flashed across Hugh’s face.

  That one cut him deeply, but he kept it under control, suppressing the impulse to hit back and lose his composure.

  “I’m not going to take your bait, Valentine,” he said, in response. “You’re obviously under a lot of stress and are clutching at straws. It can’t be easy after everything you’ve been through. I feel sorry for you, really I do. But this is nonsense and you need to stop entertaining it.”

  “How did it go down Hugh, did you see Lizzie going off into Brian’s dressing room for a bit of intimate one on one time and decide enough was enough?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Or maybe Brian had been dropping hints to other attendees at the event, acting like it was he and Lizzie who were together, not you and her? That sure would get a man angry, a real man anyway. Is that what happened?”

  Still no answer.

  “Or was he splashing the cash about too much? Rubbing it in your face that he was the bigger player than you, the more successful anchor, letting you know that you were not in his league.”

  Silence still.

  “Or maybe it was one of those gradual things, a slow burn, the realization that Gates could get away with anything, that he could do and say what he wanted and that the network would still back him to the hilt, and that a large section of the public would always love him, regardless. He had virtual immunity. Whereas you, one false step, one errant remark and that would mean your career would be over, your carefully cultivated, although entirely contrived, wholesome conservative image destroyed. Is that what got to you in the end, is that what did it?”

  “Oh, come on, this is silly, Alfie did it. Alfie killed Brian Gates. His defense is feeble, pathetic even: that he went to see Gates to make friends with him,” Hugh said the last bit in a whiny effeminate voice, then continued in the same vain. “Does he not have any friends? Poor little Alfie. Oh, please be my friend Brian, I’ll give you one of my funny hats, let’s post a picture of us together on Instagram.”

  I took a sharp intake of breath.

  There it was in plain sight, only Hugh hadn’t noticed it.

  “Say that again Hugh.”

  “What?”

  “What you just said.”

  “Let’s post a picture on Instagram?”

  “Try the part before that.”

  “What are you talking about?”
<
br />   He was confused but he wouldn’t be for long, it was revelation time.

  “You said: ‘I’ll give you one of my funny hats.’”

  “So what? He did. What’s the matter, have you not been following the case, Jack? Alfie gave Brian a hat.”

  “Oh, I’ve been following alright, and you’re correct, he did give him a hat, only, and pay attention to this bit Hugh… the hat wasn’t in the photo, and that has never been made public.”

  Hugh’s pupils rapidly dilated, adrenaline coursing through his system.

  Fear. Stress. Panic.

  It was plain to see. I was planning to trap him, to set him up, and set him up good, but the fool that he was had trapped himself, put himself in checkmate and there was no way out for him. Not this time.

  “The only way you could have known that is if you were in Brian’s dressing room after Alfie, which means you’re the killer. You killed ‘The Gates.’”

  The game was up and Hugh knew it.

  “Very clever, Valentine. Very, very clever. But you’re too late, I’ll never admit to anything. I’ll never admit to saying a single word about a hat, funny or otherwise. It never even happened.”

  “You won’t need to Hugh,” I said, pulling out my phone.

  I slowly turned the screen to face him, so he could see that his every word was being recorded.

  “Saved automatically onto the cloud,” I said. “So, don’t even think of making for a grab of it, you subhuman, worthless, son of a gun.”

  I stared a hole through him, gazing into his soul, with unwavering commitment, rage burning inside me as I thought of what this piece of human trash in front of me had done.

  Suddenly it flashed in front of me: a scene from my recurring nightmare.

  There they were again: small, fragile bodies strewn around the classroom.

  Hideous wounds.

  Blood smeared around like paint.

  And Claire, choking, gasping, dying on the floor, clutching at the lifeless body of a little boy, begging me for help.

  I’d waited a long time for this. Finally, it was payback time.

  “You should go down for what you did, smashing a man on the head with a champagne bottle, and normally you would, but not this time…”

  A mixture of confusion and what looked like relief appeared on Hugh’s face—only the relief wouldn’t last for long.

  “Because killing Brian Gates is the least of your worries right now… have a guess what else I know, Hugh? Go on, have a guess why I’m really here?”

  Chapter 26

  His face went pale.

  The life drained from him as the penny dropped. He didn’t wait for confirmation from me.

  With a sudden lunge, he reached for his desk drawer, pulling it open with a critical urgency and grabbing a pistol from inside. He pointed it at my chest; not even an untrained monkey could miss from there.

  “I didn’t mean it to happen, Jack!”

  He was nervous, jittery, on edge, and had good reason. As nights go it was pretty bad: getting busted for murder and now, if I got my way, about to become the victim of one.

  “I never thought Alexander would shoot anyone. It was all an accident. A tragic, tragic accident. When I think about what happened, those poor kids, your wife… I feel sick, it’s just awful. I really thought I could help Alexander.”

  Hugh took a deep breath and looked at me with a false sincerity I recognized from his news reports. He got up from his desk and began pacing the room, looking around nervously as if there lurked, in places unseen, some threat other than me, waiting to jump out. The fool, no threat greater than me could possibly exist: I was his grim reaper, his death personified, and everything he should fear in its entirety.

  “Brian said he was going to expose me—like it was my fault—he would have destroyed everything I worked my whole life for. And why? For ratings, awards, Lizzie…” he spat the words out. “Pushing me down, grinding me into the dirt, so he could climb even further up the ladder. I couldn’t allow that to happen!”

  He kept pacing and looking around, while I tried to play it cool. I was prepared to die to get him, but I didn’t want to die without taking him with me. Getting shot for nothing was not in the plan.

  “I don’t believe you Hugh,” I said coldly. “You see, there’s one thing that just doesn’t add up in all this.”

  “What doesn’t add up? You got what you wanted Valentine—the truth: I killed that arrogant philanderer Gates and I gave a gun to Alexander. The former deserved everything he got, but you have to believe me, the latter was a mistake.”

  “No,” I said slowly. “It was not a mistake.”

  “Of course, it was!” he shouted, jabbing towards me with the gun.

  “You must take me for a fool, Hugh. The gun used by Alexander had all its markings ground off. It was a ghost. There was no way to track its origin, where it came from, the history of its owners, who it linked back too, which is exactly the way you wanted it. It was no accident, you didn’t even let it happen on purpose, you made it happen on purpose.”

  “No! That’s not true!”

  “Isn’t it? Then how come you arrived on the scene before the cops did, shooting when you got there, only not with a firearm to help the innocent but with a film camera so you could get the exclusive footage you needed for your documentary. I know you always carry—pack a piece to keep the peace, remember? You could have helped those people, those children, my Claire, but you hid behind your camera, staying outside at a safe distance.”

  Hugh hesitated for a moment, then gave up the charade.

  “Like I said, you’re very clever, Jack. We have to make the news now; we can’t be reactive anymore. We have to be the news.” He gestured towards the award on his shelf. “In my industry, in my business, you do what you have to do to win awards. Awards mean respect; respect means more money, and they don’t give those things out for free.”

  “It went down just the way you wanted it, and that warrants a death sentence in my book.”

  “From where I’m standing, you’re in no position to be issuing threats. Take a look, stupid! You’re the one staring down the barrel, not me.”

  His office phone rang.

  Hugh glanced towards it momentarily and I seized the moment.

  Grabbing the office chair in front of me, I swung it at Hugh’s arm with everything I had. It connected hard, sending the gun flying and Hugh spiraling from the impact.

  He let out a yelp.

  Time seemed to slow down as the gun clattered into the corner of the room, equidistant between us. It was split second decision time: go for Hugh or the gun? I chose the latter, diving in its direction while Hugh threw himself towards the door.

  As my hands gripped hard onto the cold metal surface of the gun, I spun towards Hugh, ready to shoot.

  The door slammed shut.

  He was out.

  But the chase was on.

  I burst through the door after him, but the advantage was his. Ahead sprawled the open-plan shared office space, scores of workers per communal desk, some in their own cubicles, with only the select few, the big shots, with their own office.

  All eyes were on me, faces mixed with confusion and concern as Hugh zigzagged through the hordes towards the elevators at Olympic pace, and I followed in hot pursuit, gun in hand behind him.

  There was no way to put a round in him up here without endangering bystanders, so I powered forwards, my heart racing in my chest and my mouth dry, as I tried to close the gap.

  He reached the elevators just as the doors to one were beginning to close. With an almighty leap he jumped inside, the doors enclosing around him as he disappeared from sight behind a protective wall of polished metal.

  I cursed into the air.

  By the time I reached the elevators he was already a floor below me.

  I jabbed rapidly and repeatedly at the button for the other elevator.

  Four floors away and moving at an agonizingly slow pace.
/>   I cursed again and glanced around for another way.

  There it was: the fire exit stairs.

  I ran towards them and burst through the security door with a shoulder barge, setting off a fire alarm linked to it in the process.

  The high-pitched wail of the alarm screamed out as I ran down the stairs, taking great strides to clear several steps at a time.

  Floor by floor went by as I twisted my way lower, ever lower, towards the ground level.

  Suddenly, I burst out into the main reception area and glanced around from side to side, frantically searching for Hugh.

  No sign by the main entrance. No sign by the elevators.

  Was he still on his way down? I checked the elevator display. It was still going down, heading to the lower basement, the parking lot.

  Hugh was going for his car, trying to make a proper break for it.

  Just as I was about to chase him, to run back for the stairs, a familiar voice stopped me in my tracks.

  “Jack! What’s going on?!”

  It was Casey, over by the reception desk ready, by the looks of it, to go upstairs and confront Hugh herself.

  What was she doing here? There was no time to ask, not now anyway.

  “Follow me,” I shouted as I headed back towards the stairs.

  She did as instructed, Casey following my lead, as we ran down the fire exit stairs, bursting into the dark parking lot below.

  A car tore past us, its engine revving hard into the red zone—Guthrie, behind the wheel and getting away.

  “Quick!” I yelled, as we scrambled over to Casey’s Mini Cooper.

  We jumped in.

  I fired her up.

  The wheels spun in a frenzy.

  And we were on his tail.

  Chapter 27

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on!?” yelled Casey, as I drove towards the exit barrier—or what was left of it—its broken pieces lying on the ground, having taken a direct hit from Hugh’s car on the way out.