Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

Angus huddled beside her.

“You said not to worry. Nobody saw you graze his sister with the car.”

“Like I said. Nobody saw me.” Angus chanced a glance outside. What he saw didn’t make him happy. He slid back down. “Okay, his sister. I got outta the car. Did the ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry’ routine, and finessed her into letting me drive her to the hospital to make certain she was okay. The gun pointed at her head made for a quiet ride.”

“You came directly here. Nonstop.”

“Just to mail the camera’s memory card. Pulled to the curb. Hopped out. Mailed it, and climbed back in. Not once was she out of the crosshairs.”

“And the car. Nobody saw you hot-wire the car?”

“C’mon. Do I look like an idiot?”

Cassie thought about the question. She was tempted, but she chose not to offer her opinion. “Outside of strip searching the bitch to see if she’s packing a LoJack, what’re we gonna do? We got an army of cops out there!” She shook her head. Considered the possibilities. “I’m tired of running. And tired of hiding. Sure, we got his sister, but that might really piss him off. We could end up dead! Maybe it’s time to turn ourselves in.”

“We’re not giving up. They don’t get to win!”

“The cops?’

“No! The ones who liked to come on your face ’cause it’s disfigured. The one who wanted his balls licked while he peed. The one who tied a belt around your neck. Made you howl like an alien while he screwed you up the ass. You forgettin’ when that bastard carved you up, raped you, and left you screaming? Strapped to a table, screaming. You forgettin’?”

As Cassie collapsed on the floor, Angus thought about what she’d said. Her warning that they may end up dead, kept repeating inside his head. He considered their options. We might have Driscoll’s sister, but there is a freaking horde of cops outside and they all have guns. Could there be a trigger-happy shooter among them? A police shooting in the Bronx a few years back popped into his head. He couldn’t remember the victim’s name, but while reaching for what turned out to be his wallet, over forty police bullets were fired. Half of them struck and killed the man. Bits and pieces of a more recent shootings came to mind. Something about a man being shot and killed by police, hours before he was to be married. If he wasn’t mistaken, that incident also included a hail of police fire.

He retrieved his cell phone, hesitated…but ultimately placed the call.

“Who is this?”

“No time for games, Shewster. You know who this is. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have let them forward the call.”

“You pissant. You kill my daughter then have the balls to call me?”

“And those balls are about to get bigger.”

“Do you realize who you’re talking to?”

“Your daughter was a moaner, dickhead. Insisted I holler ‘Gwennypoo! Gwennypoo!’ while I did her doggy style. Got myself two handfuls of hefty hooters while I was at it. Between you and me, I think Daddy’s little girl had a boob job. I should tell you, our rendezvousin’ don’t involve actually doin’ it anymore. But she had such doelike eyes. And she brought a camera! That was a first. We had our first threesome! Cassie is quite the photographer. Hustler might wanna buy these babies. I can send you some shots, if you’d like. You can tell me if you agree. There’s thirty-six in all. My personal favorite is the one your daughter insisted Cassie take while she-wait! Hold on! Hold on! What am I doin’? That’d ruin the surprise. I got a question. Your Gwennypoo go to some sorta contortionist school? That girl wiggled like a worm.”

Shewster said nothing.

“I’m figuring you wouldn’t want the newspaper buzzards to get their mitts on this stack of photos. So, here’s what your afternoon will look like. You’re gonna have the police pick us up in one of those choppers they launched. Then we’ll need a plane.”

“You’re out of your mind!”

“Have your pilot top off the tank. We’ll be going to Quebec. Half the people there speak nothin’ but French. They keep their noses in a wine list, not the freakin’ Daily News! Even if he found us, Driscoll would have a tough time convincing the Royal Mounties to give us up seein’ as we’re gonna get jabbed with a needle back in the states. News flash! Canuck law prohibits our forced return if we’re likely to be executed. Why do New Yorkers get their rocks off on capital punishment? I’m bettin’ Driscoll’s a big fan. He’ll be packin’ a pair of syringes monogrammed especially for us.”

Silence from Shewster.

“Gwennypoo! Gwennypoo!” Angus howled. “Me, I’m not much into any more than three positions. Wait! Make that four. Your daughter taught me a new one. She was a real hottie under all those conservative clothes she were. Did you know she had both nipples pierced with little silver charms? One was a baby’s shoe. The other one, I couldn’t figure out. Tasted like maple syrup. Yessir, a real hottie. I’d bet she’d give Peter Pan a woody.”

Not a sound. But Angus knew he was still on the line. He’d wait him out. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five…

“Where are you?”

Thomlinson hadn’t quite gotten over the stiffness in his lower back from the cemetery run. Driscoll’s Chevy was roomy-as long as you were seated up front. That’s why he was now in a super-sized GMC Yukon. Fleet Services had wired this baby up with XM satellite radio. Thomlinson was known to the crew as “a frequent flyer” of this particular vehicle. That being the case, Pokee, one of the technicians, had the receiver set to XM101 when he handed Thomlinson the keys.

His eyes were on the entrance to Shewster’s hotel. His thoughts were on what he imagined was going on at the loft. But his ears were lost to the sound of Bob Marley’s “Jammin’.” The prolific songwriter may have left this planet in 1981, but thankfully, he hadn’t taken his music with him.

His cell phone dispelled his rapture.

“Two of your key players just hooked up by phone,” said an excited Danny O’Brien from inside TARU. “We put Angus on East Sixtieth near the FDR when he got through to Shewster. Their conversation was not what I’d call G-rated. You want me to play it back?”

“I’ll have to settle for the gist,” said Thomlinson starting up the Yukon. “Shewster just flew out of his hotel.”

By the time Shewster’s limo crossed Park Avenue, heading east on Fifty-ninth, Thomlinson had been brought up to speed on Angus’s demand for an airlift out of the country and Shewster’s assurance that he’d arrange it with Driscoll. But both he and O’Brien had a question. Thomlinson wanted to know what Shewster meant when he told Angus not to do anything rash. He’d personally see to it that Angus and his sister were long gone before day’s end. Not to worry. They’d never see Driscoll again. O’Brien’s inquiry involved whether Thomlinson and the Lieutenant were aware of what Abigail Shewster had hidden up her sleeve. Her pink sleeve. He also asked who Gwennypoo was.

Thomlinson’s response was succinct. “Don’t lose the tape.”

Angus had rummaged through Mary Humphrey’s bag, securing what he’d hope to find: a ladies’ compact. He’d snapped it apart and had the mirrored portion affixed to the end of a wooden stick that measured approximately eighteen inches. It was grooved at one end. Cassie had supplied it.

“Where’d this come from?” he asked her.

“You don’t wanna know.”

Although the mirror was small, when Angus planted himself below the window and held it over his head, he could survey the area outside, which was littered with an assortment of police vehicles and a bevy of police officers apparently in position. For what? he wasn’t sure. He adjusted the view. “Will ya look at that? They’ve got shooters on the rooftops across the street and I doubt they’re hunting geese, unless there’s a flock perched above us. Their rifles are all pointed this way.”