Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

Angus watched as a dark blue automobile came to a stop several yards from the loft. A smile lit his face when a man in a dark suit got out. He summoned Cassie.

“Driscoll?”

“That’s him. He’s even bigger in person.”

Cassie watched through the mirror as a woman joined him and pointed to the loft. “That lady cop is with him now. They’re making some hand gestures to the other policemen. Another glance up here. Now they’re talking.”

What Cassie didn’t know was that Margaret was filling Driscoll in on Liz Butler’s conversation with Timothy Alfreds. Margaret reported that Butler couldn’t swear to know if Sanderson was dead or not. Though she wished he was. But she was certain Sanderson had been serving up some real treats for his riders since the twins were ten. Margaret closed by telling Driscoll that the Carbondale sheriff’s office didn’t know there was anyone living in the house but the twins.

Cassie thought the conversation between Driscoll and the Sergeant looked innocuous. She turned and faced Angus. “You think Shewster had a chance to speak with Lieutenant Bulldog about our travel plans?”

“We’ll soon find out. She awake?”

“Oh, yeah! You don’t hear that whimpering?”

“I hit the off switch an hour ago. Pull the rag out and hold the phone to her mouth.”

“What’s the number?”

“She’ll know it.”

“She’d better,” said Cassie, dislodging the gag, Beretta firmly in hand. “No funny stuff, lady, or the next time your brother gets to see you you’ll be in a box. Start punchin’ numbers!”

“Driscoll has a bullhorn in his hand,” reported Angus. “Whaddya think’ll happen next? Horn to mouth?”

“Nope. Phone to ear.”

Thomlinson had a pretty good idea where Shewster was headed. What he wished he knew was whether he had called anyone on the way. And if he had, what’d they talk about?

The laptop had him turning right at the FDR. He had apparently come to a stop a half block south. That’d put him between East Sixty-first and East Sixty-second. Why two blocks from the loft?

Thomlinson turned at the FDR, spotting the limo behind one of those trucks similar to the ones the city sends out to repair faulty streetlights. They were parked on the right side of the street approximately one hundred feet from the corner, in front of a single-story commercial structure, its security gate down, as was the case for the row of similar structures on either side of the street. The limo’s engine was idling. It didn’t appear anyone had gotten out. Thomlinson pulled in on the left, put the vehicle in park, and watched. Could Shewster be on the phone? He wasn’t driving. If he needed to place a call, that wouldn’t require him to pull over. Why had he? And why two blocks away?

Shewster’s car continued to idle. Thomlinson continued to watch. He unpocketed his phone, intent on calling Driscoll, but the cherry picker atop the utility truck made him look up. Standing on the roof of the single-story structure was a man in dark clothing. Sharpshooter? From this distance? Thomlinson doubted it. He wasn’t holding a rifle. In fact, he wasn’t holding anything. That’s when he spotted the tripod to the man’s right. What appeared to be mounted on it caused Thomlinson to draw his weapon, bolt from the Yukon, and charge down the street hollering like a madman. This action prompted three reactions: the driver of the utility vehicle bolted away from the curb, Shewster’s chauffeur did the same, and the man on the roof disappeared.

When Thomlinson rounded the corner on East Sixty-first, the only person he happened upon was a locksmith who was closing his shop, toolbox in hand. Despite the fact that Thomlinson was breathing heavily, wearing a disheveled suit, and had appeared out of nowhere brandishing a gun, the locksmith was quite accommodating-after he’d recovered from a rapid pulse, a surge of adrenaline, and a thunderous heartbeat. When color finally returned to the locksmith’s face, the detective gained access to the shopkeeper’s roof. A bit of high-stepping from roof to roof brought him to within inches of what had caused the ruckus.

Thomlinson had come across a variety of weapons during the course of his crime-fighting career. But there were always surprises. And not having served in the military, today was the first time he’d ever seen an Mk19 automatic grenade launcher.

Margaret and Driscoll had helped each other shoulder a fair amount of stress over the years. Both on the job and off. Here was a man who had only now buried his wife after losing her six years ago. Margaret was heartbroken when he confided to her that sitting beside his comatose wife was tantamount to kneeling before her open casket. My God, a six-year wake! How he managed to get out of bed in the morning was beyond her. She realized she wasn’t helping matters by dragging her own demons into their on-again, off-again relationship. Through it all, they had discovered their connection was similar to that reportedly experienced by twins, where unexplainable and extraordinary bonds exist. Ironic, considering their current case.

That’s why the second he said hello to whomever had just called, she knew he’d been invited into a nightmare.

“You okay?” she asked as he ended the call. “You look like you’re about to be hanged. Who was on the phone?”

“My sister.”

“What’s happened?”

“She’s been abducted.”

“Abducted? By whom?”

Driscoll pointed to the loft.

“The twins?”

“They’re holding her hostage.”

“Jesus Christ! What’d she say to you on the phone?”

“That he’s holding a gun to her head.” His eyes targeted the second-story window, then sought Margaret’s. “She asked me the oddest question, even for her. She wanted to know if I would be the one getting them to the airport.”

The Lieutenant’s phone sounded again.

“Yes?” he blurted, his heart pounding.

“Lieutenant? That you?”

Driscoll’s caller was Thomlinson. The sight of color returning to the Lieutenant’s face had Margaret somewhat relieved.

In his conversation with the detective, the perplexity involving the helicopter was quickly resolved as Driscoll was apprised of Angus’s demands to set it in motion this afternoon and of Shewster’s promise to comply. With that being said, Thomlinson offered a more precise version of what Shewster’s afternoon looked like. So far. “What I wanna know,” said Thomlinson, “is how Shewster, within fifteen…twenty minutes tops, had an automatic grenade-launcher set up within two blocks of the loft. Granted, the crowd of power players this guy’s got in his pocket would fill the Super Bowl, but a freakin’ military assault weapon and a cherry picker? C’mon! Merlin the Magician couldn’t pull that off.”

“Merlin didn’t have speed dial on his Rolodex. Where are you now?”

“Outside Shewster’s hotel.”

“He’s probably contemplating Plan B. Any further word from Danny?”

“Zip.”

“You don’t know it yet, Cedric, but I owe you a very personal debt of gratitude.” Before Driscoll could explain, their conversation was interrupted by the sound of gunfire.

It came from the loft.

In kaleidoscope fashion, a slide show of images flooded Driscoll’s brain. Catapulted haphazardly through time, he witnessed blood washing over Colette’s hand, obscuring all but a glint of gold that was the curve of her wedding band; he watched his mother leap into the path of the oncoming commuter train; he listened to his daughter crying out to him while her mangled body was encased in the metal of their family van. Hearses materialized, only to vanish like the edges of a dream. As his family plot beckoned, he heard the sound of a woman’s voice.