Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

That’s what Officer Stephen Turley thought he had received from a very excited female. She claimed to work at PC Haven, on West Fifty-seventh near Tenth, and said he’d been to the store. When asked who she meant by “he,” she clammed up and said she didn’t want to discuss it by phone, thought maybe she should talk to a lawyer. Mucho dinero was on the line, she told him, and she didn’t want to foul up her chances of collecting the reward. When Turley asked what she meant by that, she said, “You’re kiddin’, right? Where’re ya from? Mars?” That remark angered him. Rather than making it personal or go on listening to her gibberish, he told the loon he’d have someone look into it. After hanging up, he had a chance to think more clearly, without her punctuating everything she told him with “Oh! My God!” According to his monitor, the call had come in from PC Haven. That much was legit. Roll call for the past couple of months had included a directive to be cognizant of the murderous spree of a set of homicidal twins with a huge bounty on their heads. Not that he needed to be reminded every morning-he was a native New Yorker and was well aware of the twin psychos and the reward offered for their capture. Nah. Couldn’t be, he thought. But after replaying the conversation in his head, he decided better safe than sorry. She had called the right precinct for Fifty-seventh and Tenth. He called it in to Dispatch.

He stared at the phone, lost to thought. He’d been to that PC Haven. He tried to fit a face to the caller. Nothing. No big deal, he thought, when the responding officer returned to the house, he’d find out who it was that suggested he came from Mars. He picked up the newspaper, and being a sports enthusiast, went directly to the back.

The patrol car, empty of its two police officers, sat at the curb outside the office supply retailer.

Inside, a crowd of employees had encircled a chubby redhead whom the two officers were questioning. Her name tag read “Rita.” Her beefy hands were clutched to a newspaper.

“He was here! I checked him out! Oh, My God! Three million dollars! Oh, My God!”

“Can you describe him for us?” one of the officers asked.

She placed the newspaper on the checkout counter and smoothed it out with her palm. “Him!” she said, pointing to the hooded Angus. “Only he was wearing glasses when he came in. He’s not in the picture. But, I’m tellin’ ya, it was him! Oh, My God! Oh, my God!”

“What’d he buy?”

“A computer. An HP Compaq nc4200 WiFi Notebook. The PM 760 model. On sale!”

One of the other employees ran to get the weekly flyer.

“Was anyone with him?”

“Nope.”

“How’d he pay for the notebook?”

“Cash. Funny thing, though. The bills smelled like horses.”

“Horses?”

“Yup. I was gonna ask him if he hit it big at the track or somethin’, but the look he gave me said NFW.”

The officers exchanged glances.

“No f’in’ way,” a store clerk explained.

“We got that. What kind of look?”

“One I’ll never forget. Like he wanted to kill me.”

Driscoll was in the elevator going down for a late lunch when his cell phone rang. He didn’t bother answering it because the reception was zero inside the mechanical lift. He checked the screen. The caller was Thomlinson. He’d return his call when he reached the first floor.

His beeper sounded. That was rare. He checked it. Again, Thomlinson.

Depressing and holding the illuminated button for the first floor, he continued his descent. He knew his action made no difference. But in his adrenaline-fueled state, he did it anyway.

Stepping off the elevator, he retrieved his phone. It rang before he flipped it open.

“Driscoll.”

Thomlinson got right to the point.

“The Twentieth took a call from a very excited cashier IDing Angus buying a notebook computer in a local PC Haven store. According to the cashier, he was alone. Paid cash. And get this. The cashier says the money smelled like horses.”

“Horses, giraffes, or zebras-I got a good feeling on this.

Grab your jacket and meet me in the lobby. Tell everyone to get ready to move. Is Margaret there?”

“Right next to me.”

“Good. Bring her with you.”

“What’s in the bag?” Cassie asked, as Angus climbed the stairs to the loft.

“A computer.”

“A computer? I thought we weren’t goin’ with a Web site.”

“We ain’t.”

“Then why do we need a new computer? What’s wrong with the one we got?”

“You see any freakin’ online access cable coming through the wall?” Opening the box, he gave the user’s manual a perfunctory scan and placed the notebook atop a chest-high barrel near the window to the street. He plugged in its AC adapter cord and turned it on. Not once did he look at his sister.

“You said we didn’t need a Web site. Didn’t even need a phone. Then you promised you’d clue me in when you figured out what the hell you were doin’! What’s with the freakin’ computer?” Annoyed, she rummaged through the PC Haven bag, finding the receipt. “You went across town? Angus, this is New York freakin’ City! Ya think nobody here reads the papers? This is the television capital of the world, for Chrissake! What’s this?” She had discovered what else was in the bag. A smile lit her face as she retrieved it.

“That, lovee, is a Beretta Tomcat. Be careful. It’s loaded.”

“Wow! Now, this is cool.” Her eyes ogled the pistol. She passed it from hand to hand. “Why do we need it?”

Turning his attention from the notebook, he looked at her. “You wanna get Driscoll off our backs, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good! We’re not gonna use a Web site. Not gonna need a phone.”

“I’m lost, Angus. You wanna bring me all the way into the loop?”

He shushed her, staring at the active matrix screen, its icons coming to life. “We just need to find the right target,” he said with a grin.

Racing along West Fifty-seventh, Street, Driscoll spotted the department helicopter hovering above the northern tip of Clinton Cove Park, a few blocks ahead. Three miles south sat the Intrepid Sea, Air, and Space Museum, where victim number four, Tatsuya Inagaki, had been discovered.

After crossing Tenth Avenue, he pulled alongside a blue and white patrol car in front of PC Haven. Three others, their emergency lights ablaze, were double-parked across the street, along with a pair of unmarked cruisers from the Twentieth. He, Margaret, and Thomlinson got out and disappeared inside the electronic retailer, anxious to meet with Rita Crenshaw, the young lady who had reported spotting Angus.

Inside were a bevy of police officers, a cluster of excited employees, and a handful of curious customers. But no Rita Crenshaw.

Malcolm Shewster was seated directly behind his chauffeur when the limo swerved seemingly out of control, hit something, then continued on. He depressed a switch, bringing down the privacy glass separating him from his driver. “What happened back there, Eddie? I thought for a minute we were about to buy the farm.”

“Sorry, sir. It was either swerve hard or take a crater in the road full-on. We hit a smaller one in the process, though. I am sorry, sir.”

“No need to apologize. It sounded like we lost something. A wheel cover, perhaps?”

“That would be unlikely, sir. The tires are mounted on aluminum-alloy wheels. I’ll take it in to the service center, though. Let the mechanics take a look. If you’d like, I could pull over and give the undercarriage a-”