Allan Leverone - Mr. Midnight

“My name is Lieutenant Sanders,” the voice continued. “I’d like it if you would call me Bob. To whom am I speaking?”

“My name is not important,” Milo answered.

“Okay, then, let me ask you this: are you the man in charge in there?”

Milo laughed and looked around the room. The dead cop lay in the doorway, the hero boyfriend lolled unconscious on his chair, the dried-up old hag sat next to him pleading with her eyes for her life, and the stupid little bitch who had started all of this lay in her underwear on the couch, clasping her wounded arm and moaning softly into her gag. “You could say that.”

“Okay, how about if you just give me a first name, nothing that could be used to identify you, just something I can call you so we can get to know each other a bit, how does that sound?”

Milo thought about it for a second. What the hell; it wasn’t like he was going to get out alive, anyway, his only goal was to delay the inevitable long enough to finish skinning the little bitch and maybe her mother, too. “Fair enough,” he said. “My name is Milo.”

“Excellent. Well, Milo, first things first. I need to know what the situation is in there. Is everyone alive? Does anybody need medical attention?”

Milo didn’t even hesitate. He knew if the negotiator realized his pig brother was cooling on the floor, it would only be a matter of minutes before he was either on his way out of the house in handcuffs or lying dead next to him. There was no way he would have the time to finish the little bitch on the couch unless the cops thought there was at least a chance everyone was going to exit the building alive. “Or course everyone’s alive,” he said.

“That’s wonderful. Next question, Milo: One of the neighbors saw an Everett police officer enter the house a little while ago and he has not come back out. May I speak with him, please?”

“Gee, Bob, I don’t see any reason for that, at least not at this point. You’ll have to take my word that he’s doing just fine. He’s decided to take a little break in here and join the party.”

“You never answered my question regarding injuries. Does anyone in the house require medical attention?”

Milo glanced at the hero boyfriend, wondering whether he was even still alive. His face was pale and his lips were purple and he appeared either dead or knocking at the door. “You know,” he said casually, “everyone in here has been pretty cooperative. Aside from a minor bruise or two, we’re all doing just peachy.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Since that’s the case, let me tell you a little bit about myself. I’ve been a law-enforcement professional for almost seventeen years and a member of the Everett Hostage Negotiation Team for the last ten years. I’ve seen these things end well and I’ve seen them end badly, and I very much want this particular situation to end well.

“My question to you, Milo, is this: What do we need to do to ensure a happy ending to this scenario?”

“A happy ending,” Milo repeated into the phone. “Well, let’s see. You need to understand that I am in control here. The first time I see someone sneaking along the side of the house, everyone dies. The first time you people try to storm the house, everyone dies. The first time a flash-bang comes through a window, anywhere in the house, everyone dies. Do you see where this conversation is going?”

“You’ve made yourself very clear. Thank you for that. It’s important everyone know where they stand. And that includes you, Milo. I’m sure you realize that as long as all the people in that house stay alive and unharmed, things are much more likely to end well. Now, let’s get down to the heart of the matter—”

Milo almost laughed out loud. The heart of the matter. That was a good one, considering he had come so close to stabbing the hero boyfriend right in the heart. The pig cop negotiator continued droning on and Milo had to force himself to concentrate. All he wanted was to get back to the couch and resume his work with the little bitch lying there so invitingly.

“So, really,” the pig cop negotiator was saying, “what it all boils down to is this: what do you want? If you tell us why you’re doing this, maybe we can take some action to resolve whatever is bothering you and we can all go home.”

Except me , Milo thought. Me, you would just as soon shoot in the head as not. That little nugget you’re keeping to yourself, though, aren’t you? He forced himself to calm down and focus. All he needed was to buy enough time to finish what he had started.

“What’s bothering me?” he answered. “Tell you what, let’s get into that later. First things first, as you so aptly stated a moment ago. We’ve been having so much fucking fun in here that everyone is famished. How about you send out for a couple of pizzas for us?”

He partially covered the telephone’s mouthpiece with his hand, making sure he could be heard through the line. “What kind of pizza do you guys like?” he said, getting dull stares in return, at least from the two other conscious people in the room. They didn’t seem to care about pizza. Neither did the dead guy or the unconscious one. “Pepperoni? Sounds good,” he pretended to answer.

“Did you hear that?” he said into the line. “We’ve reached a consensus that pepperoni is the way to go. I’m more of a veggie man myself, but in the interest of demonstrating that I can play well with others, I’ve decided to toe the company line. So you go ahead and work on getting that food for us, and when you’ve done that, you call back and we’ll discuss the next step. How does that sound?”

There was a short pause on the other end of the line. Finally Lieutenant Sanders—Bob—said, “Of course we can get some pizza for you. But I’m sure you realize we will need something in return, some gesture of good faith on your part. Perhaps you could release one of the people inside the house in exchange for the food?”

“We’ll talk about that when the pizza actually arrives. It’s been a pleasure working with you, Bob. Remember, no stupid moves. Let’s all try to row in the same direction. Talk to you soon, Bob.” He placed the handset gently down on the receiver and turned toward the little bitch on the couch, happy he had gained some time and excited he could now get back to work.

The pain in Cait’s arm was excruciating. It felt as though she had jammed the entire limb into a roaring fire in Victoria’s fireplace. She had anchored the long flap of skin in place with her left hand before the crazy bastard Milo duct-taped her arms to her belly, and as soon as he walked away to answer the telephone, she lifted her body into a sitting position.

She was able to protect the injury a bit, at least for the time being, huddling as much of her body around it as possible. She knew it wasn’t going to matter, that the moment he returned he would force her back into a horizontal position and resume his ghoulish work, but it was a reflexive reaction to the trauma inflicted on her body and one she could not have prevented even if she wanted to.

In the kitchen, Milo replaced the phone on its cradle and hurried back, looking a bit preoccupied but smiling down at her like a doctor who had been called away on an emergency. “I’m sorry for the interruption,” he said sweetly. “Those people can be real pests. Now, where were we? Do you remember?”

The terror returned with a vengeance and Cait babbled into her gag, trying to beg for her life, trying to tell him she would do whatever he wanted if only he would stop peeling the skin from her body, but of course it was no use. She could not make herself understood and knew it wouldn’t matter even if she could. She began hyperventilating, panting into her gag, feeling faint and light-headed, almost wishing she would pass out so the pain and fear would just go away.