Джеффри Дивер - The Midnight Lock

Joanna was on her knees, howling in rage and pain.

She was still gripping the knife and slashing toward Whittaker’s legs as he rose. The blade did not connect and he launched his foot into her belly, doubling her over.

He turned to face Kemp, who was ashen white. The man had picked up another kitchen knife. He was advancing slowly. But his terror vastly outweighed his aggression.

Please, God, for the next ten minutes give me whatever strength You can. Let me save my son and then You can take me...

Brandishing the cane, Averell Whittaker strode across the room to meet Kemp head-on.

Joanna was struggling to stand. She spat blood.

Martin asked, “Honey, are you okay?”

“What a stupid fucking question. Kill him.”

Stopping six feet from Kemp, Whittaker said, “Martin, you can save yourself. It’s not too late. Call nine one one.”

The man debated a moment. Whittaker thought he might actually do so. But no. He’d never disobey Mama.

Holding the knife forward, he lunged, his face an odd mix of determination, anger and utter fear.

Whittaker stepped aside and swung the cane, forcing him back a few feet. Then looked past him and with wide eyes called, “Alicia, you’re alive!”

Kemp gasped and, before he caught himself, he turned to where the body lay.

Joanna shouted, “No, you idiot!”

It was only a half-second distraction but it was all that Whittaker needed. He swung the cane like a baseball bat and connected with the hand that held the knife. Kemp screamed — an actual high-pitched wail — and the blade fell to the floor, as Martin dropped to his knees, cradling his shattered fingers. Whittaker tossed away the cane and picked up the knife.

He turned to face his niece, who was scanning the entryway. She was looking at the floor.

Whittaker spotted the gun before she did, a small black pistol.

Joanna staggered toward the weapon. There was no chance that Whittaker could beat her to it. He did the only thing he could, slipped the knife into his pocket and stepped to Kitt, then pushed the wheelchair into the closest room, a library. He slammed the door and locked it.

He heard a crash as one of the two, Martin probably, kicked the wood hard.

Would she shoot her way in? That would hardly play, according to the fiction she’d created, but she was desperate.

The kicking stopped. He heard Joanna say, “Good idea.”

Whittaker looked around and spotted the landline phone. He lifted it and heard: “At the tone the time will be...”

Martin Kemp had apparently done something right.

Whittaker hung up, jammed a chair under the knob. He moved his son out of the line of fire in case Joanna did decide to shoot.

The kicking began again. One of the panels cracked.

Averell Whittaker withdrew the knife from his pocket.

My computer beeps.

I’ve been summoned by a ViewNow algorithm, so I put on my content moderator hat. I scoot the laptop closer and maximize the screen.

It’s a VNLive post. Tammybird335 is streaming in real time. She’s a pretty woman around twenty, I’d guess. Her long brown hair is flyaway and some strands are pasted to her face from tears. She wears a bulky sweatshirt with a high school crest on it — from a better place and time in her life.

Either she or somebody in the comments have used the word “suicide,” which the algorithm spotted.

Tammy’s at her desk. Behind her is an unmade bed. Pictures of some tropical locations are on the wall. A ragged stuffed dog sits on the floor. Weeping, she says, “My mother’s out with her boyfriend all the time, like she doesn’t give a shit about me. And he tries to hug me all the time... And at school, the kids’re so mean... I’m shy. I can’t help it. It’s too fucking much! Nobody cares. I mean, nobody! I think I should just do it. I don’t know...”

The comments are rolling in.

OMG, get help now!

Do it live!

Does your mom’s boyfriend fuck you? Post pix.

Call the police!

Take ur top off.

In the chans — the underground message boards, where you can find just about everything — there are a number of lengthy forums devoted to suicide; they don’t exist to get people help. They’re how-to guides. Hundreds of thousands of pro-self-harm fans. The chans are text and still photos, a few GIFs, so they tend not to end up on ViewNow, but occasionally there’s a video post that makes its way here.

In the comments I see someone has courteously sent Tammy a hyperlink to one of the forums.

She continues, “There’s no point to anything. My boyfriend said he hates me. He called me fat.”

Tammybird begins to sob.

IM me we’ll talk, get you help!!!!

Your beautiful, you dont want to die!!

UR hot!

You have pills?

Pills r so fucking lame. Hanging. Its the only way. IM me I’ll walk you thru it.

At ViewNow we can access the IP address of everyone who posts. I can send Tammybird’s to the cops and they can get a warrant so that the poster’s internet providers will hand over her physical address — as long as she’s not using a proxy, which she isn’t. A welfare check ensues. This can happen fast, especially in a case of looming suicide. The authorities could be at her door within the hour.

But now I have a dilemma. If I push the button to save her, my name appears on the reports the police will read. And I absolutely don’t want this to happen.

On the other hand, if Tammy takes the advice of some of the helpful commentators and does the deed and it’s discovered that I reviewed the post, questions will arise as to why I didn’t get her help.

The police again.

So?

Out of self-interest, I decide I’ll send it to our law-enforcement liaison department.

But I’m in no hurry. I tap the keys to unearth her ISP slowly, thinking, if I’m lucky they won’t get to her in time.

And, if I’m particularly lucky, she might even kill herself on the livestream.

The tactical team approached the door.

Quiet. Utterly quiet.

Sachs, in the lead, knew they were pros. Any metal that could clink had been wrapped in strips of cloth or electrical tape. All phones and radios were on mute.

The entire six-person team, four men, two women, plus Sachs, were even breathing silently. That’s easy — even if it appears comical — you just open your mouth wide.

The op had all come together quickly.

“Rhyme, I’ve got the results of that carpet sample in Kitt’s apartment. You’re going to want to see this.”

He’d looked over her discovery and he, Sachs and Spencer began discussing the totality of the evidence from the scenes.

Rhyme had said, “That’s our answer. Call Lon and get an ESU tac team together. Hurry. We’re out of time.”

And now here they were.

They paused and listened at the door. She nodded to an S&S officer, Search and Surveillance. The man tried to find a gap between the door and the threshold, but there wasn’t enough space through which to fish a fiber optic camera stalk. He shook his head.

Nodding, Sachs stepped close and examined the door. She thought of the subtle touch of the Locksmith. The fine tools, the delicate manipulation of the intricate mechanism inside. Sachs put an electronic stethoscope against the door and listened.

Good enough for her.

She stepped back and whispered, “Breaching team. Ready?”

You never shoot the lock out of a door, as actors do on TV and in the movies.

Amelia Sachs knew that doing so was useless at best, disastrous at worst, given that bullets ricochet or fragment on deadbolts and lock surfaces, which are, after all, made to withstand the impact of blows, including gunshots. That shrapnel will put your eye clean out.