Allison Brennan - Original Sin

Why did Travis have all the talent? Because he was black, that’s why. God gave black guys all the moves. It had nothing to do with working harder, practicing, it was because they were born black and sports just came easier to them. Chris had to work his ass off for every point, every ounce of sweat. That should matter, dammit, it should mean something, but it fucking meant nothing , and Travis just walked into being the MVP and scholarships because of randomness.

Forty minutes later, the bus pulled into the school parking lot and everyone got out, unusually quiet after a win. As they were gathering their gear from the undercarriage storage, Chris overheard Coach tell Travis, “You’re Kidd’s buddy, see what you can do with him.”

Can do with him? Right.

Travis came over to Chris, his duffel tossed over his shoulder. He handed Chris his bag. “My place?”

Chris stared at the bag. What the fuck was wrong with him? Travis was his best friend; they’d been buddies since Travis moved up from L.A. six years ago after his dad died. His dad had been a beat cop, killed by gangbangers as part of a ritual stunt. Travis wanted to be a cop; his basketball scholarship was his ticket to college because his mom couldn’t afford to send him.

And Chris wanted to kill him. His hands itched to punch Travis’s face, to beat him to death. His anger and jealously surged, and Chris shook his head, trying to rid his mind of the violent image.

No!

Excruciating, blinding pain hit Chris all at once. It was as if a knife were slowing carving his scalp from his skull, and he fell to his knees, his hands holding his head.

“Chris? Coach! Coach! Chris is bleeding!”

Chris didn’t hear anything but the drumbeat in his brain. His hands were sticky and he was choking on something. But the foul, metallic taste was nothing compared to the numbing pain.

He mumbled something, over and over, but didn’t know if his brain translated it to his mouth.

Sorry, Travis, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …

Coach ran over, knelt beside him. “What happened?”

“I don’t know! He just fell over. Why are his ears bleeding? What’s happening?”

“Chris, can you hear me?” Coach shouted.

Make the pain stop. I’m sorry, Travis, I’m so sorry, I would never hurt you, buddy, oh God, oh God, the pain, make it stop!

Travis knelt beside him, took his hand. “Hold on, Chris.”

“Sorry sorry sorry.”

“Call 911,” Coach said as he took off his jacket and stuffed it under Chris’s head. He pulled off his T-shirt and wrapped it around Chris’s ears and skull, tightening it, and applied pressure as Travis dialed 911.

The last thing Chris heard before he lost consciousness was Travis on the phone. “I need an ambulance at Santa Louisa High School. My buddy is bleeding a lot. Coach-”

Coach took the phone, but Chris didn’t hear what he said.

He died in the ambulance.

At 1830 hours, a 911 call of shots fired came in from Rittenhouse Furniture Emporium. Now, thirty-three minutes later, Skye commanded the crime scene from a makeshift staging area, the beams from several squad cars lighting up the parking lot. Inside the store, an employee held several hostages at gunpoint.

Skye listened in as Deputy David Collins talked on his phone to a victim, the manager Grace Chin, who was hiding in a bathroom stall and had had the wherewithal to call out using her cell phone.

The situation was grim. Grace was trapped in the bathroom with no way out except the door that led to the shooter, whom she identified as Ned Nichols, a longtime salesman for Rittenhouse. He’d shot three people and was holding hostage a customer, Ashley Beecher McCracken.

Skye knew Nichols. Though he was two years older, she remembered him from school. In a town like Santa Louisa, you knew pretty much everyone who grew up here. She’d already sent another cop in search of everything they could get on Nichols, starting with his cell phone number, because he wasn’t answering the Rittenhouse telephone line.

A deputy came up and handed Skye the blueprints of the building. “The owner, Rittenhouse, just arrived with these. He wants to know what’s happening.”

Skye put her hand over her phone. “I’ll talk to him when I can.”

“What do you want me to say? His sister-in-law was shot.”

His sister-in-law was Betsy Rittenhouse, who’d been shot in the leg as she fled the building. She was on her way to the hospital.

“Tell him there’s one confirmed gunman inside, with hostages. That’s it.”

“Got it,” he said, and left.

She spread out the blueprints, and she and David studied them under a bright portable light. There were three offices on the east side of the building, the break room in the rear, what looked like a large janitor’s closet that had access to the electrical room, and a large L-shaped showroom that took up more than 80 percent of the square footage. She tapped her finger on the women’s bathroom next to the break room.

“You’re in the women’s room?” David clarified over the phone.

“Y-Yes,” Grace said.

“Where do you think Nichols is now?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know!”

“Can you hear anything?”

She didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“He’s talking,” she said. “Ranting about something; I can’t hear the words. Ashley’s crying. I think they’re just outside the offices.”

Nichols had shut down the overhead lighting, but dim lights from the back of the building, near the offices, illuminated the interior well enough.

As David continued to extract information from the victim, Skye finally received the information she needed: Nichols’s cell phone number.

She showed David and put a finger to her lips. David told Grace that he was still there, but they had to be silent for a minute.

“You ready?” David asked her.

“Yeah.” No, but she had no choice. She called Nichols.

Four rings later, his voicemail picked up. His recorded voice sounded normal and calm, not the voice of a killer.

She said, “Hi, Ned, this is Skye McPherson. Remember me from high school? I’m now Sheriff McPherson, and we need to talk.” She left her number and hung up. Then she called again. Again it went to voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message. Waited a moment. Called a third time.

It took sixteen calls before Nichols picked up.

“No!” he shouted into the phone. “I’m not talking to you, stop calling me!”

“Ned, it’s Skye McPherson.”

“I don’t care, I’m through with everyone. It’s not fair!”

“What’s not fair, Ned?”

“Everything. Deric doesn’t deserve the sales; he did nothing that I couldn’t have done! It’s random, all random, all a game; it’s not fair, I’m good enough.”

“Of course you’re good enough, Ned. Let’s talk about this. If you come out now, you and I can talk. Just the two of us. You can tell me everything.”

David was nodding at her, making the hand motion to keep talking.

“Ned, I know you don’t want to hurt anyone. Let’s talk this out, and-”

Nichols cut her off. “You know why she got the promotion? Do you know why?”

She? He wasn’t talking about Deric anymore. Skye needed to keep him talking, so asked, “Why?”

“Because she fucked him. I should have gotten the promotion, but she’s a little whore; it’s the only way she could have gotten the job that was mine!”