What Hides Within (31 page)

Dumbass
, he derided himself. The lie was no better than the truth. He could see on Morgan's face that his comment went over about as well as ass-less chaps at a convent.

"You really are a classy one."

"I didn't mean it like--"

"And a bong, Clive? Your roommate has been trying to kill you, and all you care about is a stupid--"

A familiar creak cut Morgan off. Someone was at the stairs.

Clive smiled. "Great. Detective Reilly, I'm glad you could--"

Clive, too, was cut off by the stairway stranger. As he faced the doorway, the person who emerged wasn't Detective Reilly. Instead, Clive saw another's face. He saw the face of Kevin Ventura.

"You," Clive said, the smirk vanishing from his lips. Morgan screamed again, this time with good reason.

Kevin stopped at the threshold. His jaw was clenched, his lip curled like a snarling dog's. He and Clive stared at each other, speaking volumes without saying words. The two stood poised, just as they had stood at the Swansea Mall. This time, however, little space separated one from the other's throat. This time, Kevin wasn't running away.

Clive awaited Kevin's move as the rage welled up inside him. Like a contestant in a game of skill, he tried to anticipate not only Kevin's first move, but the motions that would follow. The two seemed without fear, though they were not the same. Clive felt pure hostility, while Kevin appeared crazed, desperate and unpredictable. In his hand, Kevin held his advantage, that familiar ivory-handled blade. His grip upon it was unwavering. The point projected slightly forward as though it were willing itself toward Clive. It shimmered as if excited, having already once tasted blood.

In the shine of the blade, Clive could see Morgan's mirrored horror. Wielding that blade, Kevin would come for him soon. Clive knew he'd need to be cautious. He'd need to be precise. If not, he'd be dead.

Go ahead
, Clive thought.
Draw.

There were more doughnuts around the precinct than there were brain cells. Detective Reilly barked orders like a four-star general commanding a legion of special ed. dropouts. She did the best she could with who she had to work with.

"How long have we been tailing this guy?"

A frazzled officer searched desperately through his computer's database. It was never wise to keep Reilly waiting. She had too many cases in need of conclusion and not enough time nor energy to conclude them. Her best efforts were put toward the more serious offenses. Every second spent in silence was a second wasted.

"Since the beginning of October. It's never been twenty-four/seven though."

"And all we know for sure is that he's a loner and a college dropout. Think people! Where did he go that seemed unusual? Where could he be hiding?"

"We never followed him across state lines. He spent a lot of time in Rhode Island before we lost track of him. We couldn't put too many guys on him. There's only so much manpower we could put into your hunch."

"Did I detect some criticism in your tone, Sergeant Mello? Mind your rank."

Reilly meant it, too. She was fed up with the lack of results. Mello was testing her patience. If the need arose, she would take out her frustrations on him, disciplining him as harshly as her authority would allow.

"Besides," she continued more calmly, "the kid identified him as the perp."

"With all due respect, Detective, Timothy Samartino was traumatized for weeks after finding the body. Who knows whose characteristics he was identifying for you? A neighbor? A celebrity? His gym teacher?"

"Timothy picked Ventura out of a photo gallery."

"Yeah, Ventura and three other possibles, two of which have priors. Ventura doesn't."

"Ventura's our guy. I know it. Hunches are what separate the detectives from the officers. Who knows? Maybe if you start having them once in a while, you might actually move up the food chain."

Reilly shook her head. She wasn't usually so snippy with her subordinates. Mello was a good cop, but her dissatisfaction was beginning to wear her down. Reilly couldn't do it all herself. She needed all the help she could get.

"Have the guys over at his apartment checked in with anything?"

"Nothing unusual. They heard some sounds in the back yard the other night, but when they checked it out, they found nothing. Also, we have surveillance on Morgan Donnelly's residence. That's where you said the guy Ventura is after is staying, right? Maybe he'll pop up there."

"Damn it!"

Reilly yanked up her sleeve, revealing her watch. "I was supposed to meet Clive ten minutes ago! Never mind, Mello. I'll get the answers I need myself. Have someone call Menard. Tell him I'm running late, but I'm on my way."

***

After a whirlwind four-minutes, she still hadn't shaken off the frenzy. Reason had yet to return to her hectic mind. Her thoughts rambled on like a politician avoiding the issues. A question repeated incessantly in her head like some unrelenting carnival tune.
What do I do? What do I do?
An answer formed.

Call 9-1-1!

Morgan stopped her panicked flight. She glanced behind to see if she was pursued. Then she replayed the events of the last four minutes in her head. The details had firmly entrenched themselves in her psyche, the visions they formed unforgettable.

She told Clive not to go there, to stay away from Kevin, Detective Reilly and the investigation. Kevin was Reilly's suspect. Reilly would only naturally peg Kevin for the mall blast, an explosion for which Clive was present and accounted. Reilly's suspicions would bring her closer to Clive. Morgan prayed Reilly wouldn't get too close.

Still, Clive had looked so strong, vibrant, ready. Seeing him like that ignited her passions. Had he finally become the man she always dreamed he could be, the man she wanted, the man she loved? Clive's body tensed like an overfilled balloon. Morgan wondered if he, too, could explode. His expression told her yes.

He appeared grim but vigorous, in control. Yet it was Kevin who should have been in control, clinging to his knife as though it were his child hanging from a cliff. In his silence, in his stillness, Clive somehow obtained the upper hand. Clive somehow assumed the role of aggressor without displaying any aggression. Even so, Kevin was first to charge.

"Get help!" Clive had commanded. As he mouthed the words, his eyes remained dead-set on Kevin and the incoming blade. His order came out firm and persuasive. Morgan felt compelled to obey. Her anxiety had clouded her thinking, made her helpless, but Clive's two words sent her running with determination and purpose, running by Kevin, down the apartment stairs and out to the street.

The combination of excitement and physical exertion shortened her breath. Morgan reached for her purse, grasping into space where her purse was normally slung over her shoulder. Nothing about that day was normal, and she prayed she hadn't left it in the apartment. Her purse contained all her essentials, including the most crucial of all her items at that moment, her cellphone.

In the car!
Morgan remembered.
I left my purse in the car! My keys must be . . . Yes!
As she expected, they were in her front pocket. She hit the unlock button and rushed to her year-old BMW. With clumsy haste, she foraged through her handbag.

"Finally!" she shouted with proud accomplishment. She grabbed her Pink Razor cellphone and flipped it open.
Clive always calls my phone girlie
, she smirked nervously.
Now, this girlie phone may save his life. Hold on, Clive!

Morgan pressed the three-digit emergency number followed by the "send" button. A soothing voice answered before she could even hear the phone ring.

"9-1-1. What is your emergency?"

"There's been a stabbing at . . . oh no! I don't know the address. It's on Gilmore Lane in Somerset. Please come quickly."

"Can you provide a house number for me?"

"There's like three houses on the whole street! It'll be the one with the dead guy in it if you don't hurry!"

"Ma'am, please calm down."

"Calm down? There's a knife-wielding maniac trying to kill my boyfriend! You want me to calm down?"

"What color is the house?"

"White, second one on the left. Please, hurry!"

"Emergency vehicles are being dispatched. Stay where you are, and they will come to you."

"Alright. Thank you."

Morgan hung up the phone. Her shortness of breath never had the chance to cure itself, her harried phone conversation exalting her further. Her legs felt wobbly as though she had just finished the Boston Marathon. Cold sweat formed oily droplets on her forehead despite the subfreezing temperature outside. Nausea set in, and the world spun like a carousel around her.

Clive
, she thought, concerned only for him when she should have been thinking of herself.
Be okay
. As her sight blurred and she collapsed to the ground, she prayed that he was still breathing.

***

Detective Reilly wasn't above exploiting her portable flashing blue light atop her rickety Ford Gran Torino to avoid stopping for red lights. It looked like a cheap prop from some disco-era porno, particularly on Reilly's rust-colored
Starsky & Hutch
mobile, but it served her well. It even helped her force a route through traffic. But when she made it to the Brightman Street Bridge, the closest connection Fall River had to its tiny suburb neighbor, the police light couldn't assist her in crossing the open drawbridge.

What kind of moron would be out on the Taunton River in this cold?

Peering out her window and over the bridge's railing, Reilly was capable of answering her own question. A dirty, cumbersome barge pulled by two tugboats at a painfully slow pace made its way across the polluted river. The barge carried supplies to the contractors building the new bridge on the other side. The new bridge would be high enough to allow vessels safe passage beneath it without having to open up and stop traffic. She looked forward to the new bridge, but for now, she was stuck on the old one.

The delivery truck behind her was nearly on top of her bumper. Reilly left little room to maneuver between herself and the Rabbit in front of her. Even if she had, she couldn't go anywhere. The lane to her left was a parking lot, blocking her escape. She had no choice but to sit and wait.

As she counted away the minutes, she heard sirens blaring in the distance. Eventually, the sirens grew louder as their sources drew closer. Two police cars and an ambulance struggled to get through the mirroring parking lot on the opposite side of the bridge. She wondered where they were headed at a rate barely faster than the barge's. A sick feeling in her gut told her that she might see them again.

Crazy
, she thought, convincing herself everything was okay.
It's probably just a cat stuck in a tree.
She ignored her gut, dismissing her uneasiness as an aftereffect of the steak burrito she had for lunch.

Somerset's too quiet for anything serious to happen. Yuppies arguing over property lines, that's all it is. Anyway, it's got nothing to do with me. One thing's for sure, though. At the rate those officers are moving, they aren't getting anywhere in time to protect and serve.

"Get help!"

Clive's two words sent Morgan stampeding by Kevin. Out of the corner of his eye, Clive could see her escape. He was thankful for it.

The bulk of his concentration, however, remained on Kevin. Time seemed to slow to a crawl like some slow-motion, Olympic moment in a bad movie. Kevin hurled everything he had at him, by no means at a snail's pace. Yet, Clive's senses were amplified. Every detail, from the mischievous glimmer on the blade to the mucus draining onto Kevin's upper lip to the gray streaks of cobwebs and dust running like dolphins through the waves of his hair, it all came in crystal clear through sharpened vision.

The rank odor of Kevin's unwashed body wafted around him, permeating like a dirt cloud. It was mixed with a scent Clive recognized. Heightened hormone levels released the odor of some wild, untamable beast, the aromatic manifestation of bloodlust. Kevin's rush ignited one of Clive's own. He, too, lusted for blood.

Only air and adversity separated Clive and Kevin. As the latter rhino-charged toward Clive, he quickly closed the distance of their separation.

Clive gnashed his teeth and stood his ground. He analyzed his surroundings with split-second accuracy. A sofa laid tousled to his left. He could duck behind it. A broken picture frame sprinkled the carpet to his right with potential weapons. Yet, Clive selected a less obvious defense, zeroing in on a torn-open sofa cushion randomly tossed and forgotten on the floor between them, a present left by the FBI.

Despite limited time to plan, Clive's scheme was somewhat adept. Although his actions were thought-provoked, they seemed more instinctive than prepared. A brief outline of what could be flashed through his brain. He couldn't be sure if he was acting upon some unknown, inner strength or if someone else were pulling the strings. Whatever it was, Clive had no time to second guess it.

With Kevin's deadly strike nearly upon him, Clive crouched low. Rolling backward onto his buttocks with knees bent, he kicked both feet into the cushion and beyond. His thrust sent the cushion smashing into Kevin's left shin as he careened airborne in mid-step. The force knocked Kevin's leg out from under him. He stumbled, causing all his weight to plummet downward. His knife hand flailed wildly as he fell.

Kevin's free hand reached for the floor, attempting to catch his fall. His right hand carried the knife erratically toward Clive's head. Clive gasped, his eyes exploding open. Then, he closed them. He didn't want to see his oncoming torment. Without thought, he brought his knees up to his chest into the false security offered by the fetal position.

The position served him well. Kevin's fall was broken by his stomach, driven into Clive's bony knees by gravity's inevitable progression. The gut shot curled him up in pain. The ricochet off Clive's knees sent the blade from his grip. Its point stuck itself into the upright portion of the cushion-less sofa. Kevin lay sore and hurting between it and Clive.