by Sean Platt
“We can’t go in there alone,” Brent said. “If something happens to us, she’s screwed. We’re all screwed. We need to call it in and see how close they are. We might not have to wait long.”
Jade looked at the house again, sighing in protest. “Fine, call it in. But if they’re not here in a few minutes, I’m going in — with or without you.”
Forty-Three
Mary Olson
“We’re going to find her,” Desmond repeated as they walked the shoreline, flashlights sweeping for any sign of Paola in the stormy darkness.
Three choppers growled from above, spotlights probing the rolling ocean between island and mainland for any sign of boats that the kidnappers might be using. According to Desmond, the choppers were outfitted with thermal viewers to spot heat signatures on land or sea. Anyone attempting to leave the island would light up on the choppers’ screens.
“We’re going to find her,” Desmond repeated a bit louder over the wind.
Mary ignored him.
Discussion was pointless, and his reassurances meant nothing — empty as a wish in a well. Hope meant little, or maybe nothing in a world cruel enough to take her husband, unborn child, and now her daughter — again.
Action was all that mattered — doing what had to be done to find Paola. They had to keep looking. They had to find her.
Desmond’s phone chirped, though Mary couldn’t hear it above the pounding rain. She watched as he brought the glowing face of the phone to his ear.
Mary moved closer, hoping (wishing) for news — good news — about Paola.
“Where are you?” Desmond said. “Wait, never mind, I can track your phone.”
He pulled the phone away, swiped the screen three times, and raised a map of the island populated with hundreds of bright-blue dots. He highlighted Brent Foster from a list of names on the left, then pressed it.
A red dot lit up on the island’s west side, near the shore and what looked to be a blue block.
“OK, I’ve got you on my screen,” Desmond said after returning the phone to his face. “Stay put. I’m sending backup immediately. Don’t do anything until they get there. Understand?”
Brent offered a faraway “Yes”, then Desmond killed the call and turned to Mary.
“Did they find her?” Mary asked, daring to voice her hope.
“Hold on,” Desmond said, then barked orders to Guardsmen over the whipping wind and pelting rain.
He dropped the phone in his jacket pocket and turned to Mary. “I don’t know. They found an old house on the island. Brent said there’s a light on inside.”
Mary’s heart began to race. “What else did he say?”
“Nothing. I told him to wait. I’m sending Guardsmen over, and someone is coming to pick us up.”
A black jeep rolled up before Desmond finished his sentence. Desmond gestured toward the vehicle, then followed Mary into the back seat.
Desmond nodded at the pair of unfamiliar Guardsmen up front. The jeep skidded as it turned, then bounced along the bumpy dirt road toward coordinates already loaded into the GPS.
“What is this place?” Desmond asked.
The passenger, an older man with salt-and-pepper beard and matching short, curly hair said, “The old Wilson home, belonging to one of the original owners of the island back in the early 1900s. Black Island considered tearing it down, but I guess someone had a soft spot for history and decided to leave it.”
“Does anyone live there?” Mary asked, thinking a caretaker would explain the light.
“Oh God, no. The place should be torn down. It’s decrepit and spooky as Satan’s bachelor pad.”
“Great,” Mary said.
Desmond squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry.”
They hit a bump, jostling them hard. Mary didn’t care. All she wanted was to reach the house and find Paola safe inside.
Forty-Four
Brent Foster
Jade paced in the rain while waiting for the Guardsmen.
“What the hell is taking them so long?”
“They’ll be here.” Brent wished she’d stay in one spot. Jade was making him jumpier than he already was.
“Would you stand still? Someone might see us if you keep moving.”
She looked at him. It was too dark to tell if she had rolled her eyes, but Brent figured she probably had. Jade finally stopped pacing, then moved closer.
“Every minute we sit here—” she started to say.
“Is another minute she’s safe,” Brent interrupted. “We go in there, we’re more likely to do harm. Let’s leave it to the trained professionals.”
“Would you say that if it was Ben in there?”
The girl had a point.
“I don’t know,” Brent admitted. “But Desmond said to stand down. And he’s with Mary. I think we should respect their wishes. She’s Mary’s daughter, not mine … or yours.”
Jade pursed her lips, then resumed pacing.
A shape appeared in the window.
Brent grabbed Jade and yanked her down into the brush, hard on her knees, beside him.
“Look!” Brent pointed at the window and the black shape behind it, pulling the curtain aside and stepping closer to the glass.
“Can you see?” he asked her.
“Only that it’s a guy.”
“Stay down,” Brent whispered.
Lights flooded the first floor, and a second dark shape appeared in the downstairs window, also staring out into the night.
Brent sank lower to the ground, water and mud soaking his pants and shirt, hoping that he and Jade were invisible. They were crouched so low he could barely see through the brush and the land’s slight rising.
“Shit,” Jade ducked lower, practically lying on the ground. “Someone’s coming outside.”
Brent dared to peer above the brush, and saw the front door swing shut. His eyes found a man, already outside, approaching with a rifle raised.
A bullet whizzed past, so close, Brent could hear it zip by before slamming into the ground behind them.
Jade lifted her Glock and fired.
Brent scrambled to his knees, raising his own weapon to fire at the man.
Both shots missed.
The man, still cloaked in shadows, fired again.
Brent wasn’t sure where the bullets went, but wasn’t about to stick around for discovery. He emptied his gun into the darkness as Jade did the same.
One of them dropped their enemy to the ground.
Brent reloaded, looking over to see if Jade was OK.
She seemed to be, sprinting toward the house, about twenty yards from their spot in the brush.
Brent scanned the darkness for the first man, to make sure he was still facedown in the mud.
Brent put another bullet in the back of his skull, then turned his attention toward the house and the dark shape in the second-floor window.
The man was no longer there.
Shit!
Brent was about to call out for Jade, but the front door swung back open before he could. A tall man in blue coveralls stepped out, shoving Paola in front of him, gun to the girl’s head, holding her so close that any shot was too risky to take.
“Put your guns down, or I’ll kill her!” The man’s voice was eerily calm, revealing none of the panic a pair of guns should invite.
“Fuck you,” Jade said. “You put yours down.”
“I’ll kill her!”
Paola’s mouth was taped shut by a layer of electrical tape wrapped around her jaw and dark hair.
“No you won’t,” Jade said, sounding oddly like a seasoned hostage negotiator, “or you would’ve already.”
Don’t piss off the kidnapper!
The man pressed the pistol into the side of Paola’s head. Judging from the way she winced, the man was definitely hurting her, and likely getting more desperate. If Brent and Jade didn’t listen, they might back the man into a corner where his only way out was to kill the girl and then himself.
“Put the gun down,” Brent said to Jade, bending at the waist to lower his own.
“No,” Jade said, “he won’t do shit.”
“Please.” Brent tried to find Jade’s eyes, hoping to talk some sense into her. She was wrong on this, just as she was wrong to charge into the house. But she was too stubborn to recognize a man at the end of his rope.
“Mary said he’s infected. He won’t kill the girl. They want her for something else, but they’re not gonna kill her.”
Brent looked at the man. Yes, he might be infected and working under direction from The Darkness, but he was still desperate and scared. Maybe he had enough control of his senses to be reasoned with. Brent remembered how his friend, Luis, had retained his senses enough to try and talk Brent into leaving him behind even after his infection. This man was talking with them. Clearly, he wasn’t at the crazed stage people reached just before they lost all control.
“Can’t you see?” Brent spoke just loud enough for Jade to hear. “He’s scared. He’s going to hurt her. We have to do this his way.”
Jade finally turned and met Brent’s eyes. “Fine, we’ll—”
Then she went down.
A shot to the head.
Brent screamed, barely turning in time to see the man training his gun on Brent.
He fired. Brent dropped to the ground and rolled back toward the brush. The man continued to fire.
Bullets tore into the ground around him. Brent scrambled toward the closest cover, the bushes they’d been hiding in a few moments before, his body moving faster than his reeling mind, praying that Jade was OK.
Lights from a chopper above blinded Brent, then two pairs of headlights added to the glow.
Brent stayed on the ground, hoping the vehicles would stop before running him over.
They did, just barely.
The cavalry had come.
He hoped they’d come in time.
Forty-Five
Mary Olson
Mary bounded out of the jeep, gun in hand, raised at the man standing with Paola at his mercy.
“Let her go!” she screamed, marching forward.
Mary saw Jade on the ground with her glazed eyes to the sky, the front of her skull missing from the left side.
Mary’s stomach dropped.
She turned her gaze back on the man, hoping like hell he wouldn’t kill another tonight.
“Please,” Mary said, “don’t hurt her. She’s just a little girl.”
Paola’s mouth was taped shut, her eyes wide with panic, staring at her mom, silently pleading for help, black, soaking hair in strands over her face.
The gunman stood frozen, eyes darting back and forth among Mary, Desmond, and the other four Guardsmen now staring down at him with weapons drawn. Brent joined in the standoff, his gun drawn on the man, too.
The bounty of guns pointed at the man terrified Mary, amplifying the odds that someone would start something that would end in too many deaths.
Please, please, God, get us out of this one.
Please don’t let Paola get shot.
Please, God, I beg you, spare my daughter.
“You have one chance to get out of this alive,” Desmond said, voice confident, assertive. “Give us the girl, and we’ll help you.”
“Help me what?” the man said to Desmond, while staring oddly at Mary.
“We know this isn’t you wanting to do this,” Desmond said. “Something is making you do this. There’s a voice in your head, telling you to do this, isn’t there?”
The man’s eyes went from scary to scared. “You hear it, too?”
“Yes,” Desmond said. “It’s The Darkness. It’s got hold of you, but we can get it out of your head if you let us.”
“You can?” The man’s face cracked, as if near tears.
Mary stared at her daughter, hoping Paola could pick up on her thoughts, and hoping she believed them — even if Mary wasn’t sure she did.
It’s going to be OK.
We’re going to get you out of this.
Just be calm.
Desmond continued. “It’s not your fault, Jerry. We can get it out of your head. And you get you back to your life. Back to your wife and child.”
Mary was impressed that Desmond knew so much about the guy. She wondered if he worked directly under Desmond, or if Desmond’s memory was simply that good.
“I can have my life back?” The man’s face twisted as if he were waging a battle inside himself.
“Yes,” Desmond said. “I swear. Just give us the girl.”
The man kept staring at Mary, his face twisted and anguished.
Then it went blank. He stared at Mary, neutral, with no emotion.
Did he win back control?
Mary’s heart swelled with hope. She was about to get her little girl back. The nightmare was almost over.
Just a few more sec…
The man’s eyes stayed locked onto Mary’s as he slowly shook his head.
Why is he shaking his head?
The man fired his pistol point blank into the side of Paola’s face.
Mary screamed as the Guardsmen opened fire and brought the man down.
Mary raced to her daughter, praying that somehow Paola had survived.
But as she dropped down next to her girl, Mary realized that God wasn’t answering prayers tonight.
TO BE CONTINUED…
::Episode 29::
(FIFTH EPISODE OF SEASON FIVE)
“Rise and Shine”
Forty-Six
Marina Harmon
Marina glared at the agent, Ed Keenan, as her jaw pulsated in pain. She couldn’t believe he’d just punched her, and threatened to kill her if Acevedo didn’t translate the list of names.
She’d heard horror stories of reckless government thugs harassing church members, but had never seen someone so flagrantly stomp all over her liberties.
Marina wished she wasn’t cuffed, so she could take a shot back at the agent. She didn’t think she could take him on — he was a paid government thug, after all — but she would have liked to have some form of revenge, perhaps scratch an eye out or worse.
Acevedo buckled to the threat against her, and offered a pair of names.
Marina had never heard of the first name, Kerri Sampson. The second, however, was so surprising that even Keenan did a double take.
“Max Torrino,” Acevedo said translating the code.
“Wait, the Max Torrino? The movie star?” Keenan asked.
“Yes.” Acevedo nodded. “Surely you knew he was a Designer.”
Keenan shook his head. “I don’t follow the gossip rags. But I’ve seen his movies.”
Max Torrino wasn’t just Hollywood’s biggest and best box office bet — a young actor admired for both his serious and action-heavy roles — he was also the church’s brightest star. Some might say Torrino was even bigger than the church, and had been rather critical of it, or specifically Marina, following her father’s death. Thankfully, he’d so far kept his criticisms within the inner circle and had leaked nothing to the press.
Keenan seemed to pick up on Marina’s consternation.
“What is it? Can you get a hold of him? Is Torrino still with the church?”
“I can’t really comment on something like that; it’s privileged information.” Marina looked down, wishing the list had harbored any other name.
“I’m not asking you to tell me how much he donated, what secret level of the cult he is, or whatever other bullshit you all discuss behind closed doors. I just need to know if you can get us in a room.”
“I don’t know,” Marina admitted. “We’re not exactly on the best of terms.”
Keenan’s eyebrows arched. “Go on.”
Marina sighed, then explained that she had never cared all that much for the pampered actor. Her father had discovered Torrino as a newcomer and had helped the actor kick drugs and overcome some emotional issues — all well documented in the actor’s biography, as if the church had
written his IMDB page. But as her father’s health had deteriorated and Marina took a more active role in the church, Torrino had taken exception to some of her ideas, such as doing more work with impoverished children.
“But I thought the church was known for its altruistic efforts?” Acevedo interjected.
Marina wasn’t sure if Acevedo was truly that ignorant of the church’s reputation or whether he was secretly delighting in her admissions.
“This is nothing on my father. I don’t think he intended it this way, but the people beneath him seemed more interested in helping those they could hold some power over — celebrities, addicts connected to wealthy families, and politicians. Other than the token gestures and tax write-offs, the church rarely helped anyone without getting something in return. I fought hard to change this, to make it so the church was truly helping people in need — people who didn’t provide the church with a steady income or help them win additional influence.
“And Max Torrino didn’t like this?” Keenan asked.
“He’d never say so publicly, but I’ve heard from others that he thought I was ‘bringing down the church by introducing unclean elements.’ Seems that if you’re an addict not connected or in Hollywood, you’re weak and a threat to the fabric of the church.”
“Wow,” Acevedo said.
“Yeah, so he’s been sniping about me to anyone in the church who will listen, but has never had the guts to say anything directly to me.”
Keenan asked, “Do you think he’d agree to meet with you?”
“Why can’t you just storm into his house and put a gun to his head, maybe punch him?” Marina met Keenan’s eyes and smiled.
He ignored her bait. “We’d prefer to handle it quietly, without an army of lawyers making things difficult. If we can get a face-to-face between you and him, it might help us avoid any blowback.”
