What Hides Within (39 page)

"Go into your bedroom. Lock the door. Don't come out until I say so. Understood? I'll take care of this."

Morgan uttered her words as quietly as she could. The distance between her and Clive required something more than a whisper, and she hoped she hadn't alerted the officers outside to their presence.

Clive nodded. Morgan took control of his life for him. It was a complete reversal from the last time they stood in his apartment, where Clive had control, Morgan fled and Kevin fell apart. So much had changed in such a short time. How fragile Clive's mind seemed. He plodded along, disappearing behind a closed door.

Morgan assessed the apartment. She scrutinized every inch of the living room, then the kitchen, with fretful haste. She had made a promise. She would be strong for Clive. It was time to follow through on it.

If the officers insisted on coming into the apartment, Morgan needed something to protect them. Pickings were slim. Most of the tools owned by Kevin or Clive had been confiscated as potential evidence by the FBI during its last inspection.

Morgan ran to the knife block. The scissors were missing, but she hadn't the time to find out why. Instead, she grabbed the butcher's knife.
Too small
, she thought.
Plus, it would stick into the first one. There's no way I'd get both of them with this
.

In a half-open drawer, she found a rolling pin. She smacked its thick, wooden cylindrical shaft against her palm. Both handles jiggled.
Not the sturdiest of equipment
, she surmised.
Too much give. It'll have to do.

Morgan stood pensive. She huffed and left the kitchen. Then, she thought of Kevin or, more accurately, his bedroom and what she knew was inside it. Her knowledge excited her, in spite of the fact that two officers were camping right outside the apartment door. Maybe guns weren't the only weapons around that blasted. Maybe she could obtain the upper hand after all. How could she have forgotten about them?

Hannah Montana!
She laughed.
Kevin's collection! The entire first season on videocassette!

She rushed into the room and grabbed the box full of VHS tapes, all neatly organized in chronological order by episode. She paused only for a moment, marveling in the irony of the glitter glam box and its sappy goodness appearance.

No one buys VHS anymore. That alone should have tipped them off. Oh well. It seems fitting. Clive never liked Hannah Montana anyway. It's too bad he never got the chance to use these himself.

Morgan removed one of the tapes from its Disney-fied casing. Flipping it over, she examined the two white, circular reels, whereon the videotape would normally roll. They looked like insets for gears and worked much like them. With her fingernail, Morgan rotated the right reel clockwise. It turned slowly, clicking at each half-centimeter interval. Then it began to tick.

Forty-five seconds. That should be long enough.
She delicately slid the cassette back into its box, then not-so-delicately threw it onto the carpet near the front door.

What else?
Morgan asked herself. She surveyed Kevin's room. Her gaze fixated on one notable possession, a baseball bat encased in glass.
Thank you, Kevin!

Hurriedly, Morgan reached for its glass shell. Looking it over, Morgan was overwhelmed by disgust.

Alex Rodriguez? Jorge Posada? Andy Pettitte? Kevin was a Yankees fan? For that alone, he deserved to die. Still, this thing has got to be worth something. Seems a shame to damage it. Oh well.

She heaved the collectible keepsake, packaging and all, against the corner of the bureau on which it had rested. The glass shattered, sending diamond-sized sprinkles onto Morgan's loose sweatshirt and dagger-sized shards to the floor. Morgan snatched the bat from the remnants of its glass cocoon and hid with it behind the safety of Kevin's wall. She knew she didn't have much longer to wait.

Standing behind the wall, she mentally prepared herself for what was to come. Her expression soured. Still, Morgan stayed true to her intentions. After all, nothing would come between her and Clive. Nothing. The angels were on her side.

"You're not taking him," she cautioned, inaudible to anyone but herself. Her grip tightened around the bat.

***

"Last chance to come out all nicey-nicey," Reilly shouted. "If you don't come out with your hands up, we'll drag you out by your feet!"

"You don't feel like following any rules today, do you Samantha?"

Sanchez didn't seem to like his predicament. There was a system in place for these kind of things. It was intended to make sure the bad guys stayed locked up.

"Rules only apply to those who know about them."

"His lawyer will know about them."

"We'll call it exigent circumstances then."

"How is this exigent?"

"I have to take a wicked piss. That's pretty exigent to me."

"I hardly think that warrants a Fourth Amendment violation."

"Unlike you men, we can't just whip it out and go anywhere."

"There are laws against that, too. Anyway, there's a Dunkin Donuts around the corner if you have to--"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Horatio!" Reilly sighed. She thought of a way to appease her subordinate.

"Menard fled Donnelly's house. We followed him here. Fugitive on the run. Exigent circumstances. Does that work for you?"

"It's not entirely accurate."

"Who's to know?"

"Well--"

"Well," Reilly interrupted, losing her patience. "We could stand here all day talking about this, or we could do our jobs and catch ourselves a killer. What'll it be, Horatio? Personally, I'm for taking this guy down."

"Okay. I'm with you."

"Good. Okay, then. On my mark. One . . ."

"Can you count backward from three? It's just easier for me that way."

"Fine. Can we just do this already?"

"Do we go on 'go' or on 'one'?"

"You know what? Fuck the counting."

Reilly hopped down a few steps. She needed to gain some momentum before she slammed her shoulder into the door. She doubted it was going to work on the first try and was certain she'd be horribly bruised in the morning.

"When this door gives way, follow me in."

"Ladies first," Sanchez said, stepping out of Reilly's way. He raised his gun to eye level.

Reilly's expression changed from irritated to determined. With a growl, she charged at the door.

Clive dragged himself into his bedroom. Each step was heavier than the one before. Morgan's command didn't make sense to him. Go to his room. Lock the door. Let her handle everything. He could think of nothing better to do, except perhaps sleep. That wasn't going to happen. Chester would never let him sleep.

He entered his bedroom, feebly closing the door behind him. His weight became too much for his frame to bear. His strength gave out, and he crashed like a dead man into his cushy mattress. The scissors hidden beneath his shirt sleeve slipped out as he fell. Their sharp tip scraped along the width of his palm, scratching it. Clive's introspective retreat prevented him from caring about the outward. A few drops of blood trickled onto his bedspread.

Why did you grab those scissors, Clive?

Chester sounded amused. Clive's life had been her movie. He wondered if she was its director. She had watched it play out for some time now, behind his lens. Had it finally gotten to the good parts?

They're coming for you, Clive. They're knocking on your door, quite literally speaking. What do you plan to do?

Clive fondled the scissors beside him. He had no idea what made him grab them from the rack. Survivalist instinct? Suicidal tendencies? Desperation? Chester? He caressed their handle delicately with his fingertips. It was smooth, almost pleasant, to the touch. As if he were invoking the strength of some inner warlord, Clive animated himself long enough to grasp the scissors and propel himself backward into the headboard. There, he sat with his back against the inflexible wood frame, awkwardly seated atop his pillow. He twirled the scissor point into the tip of his index finger.

Do you plan on stabbing the detective with those?
Chester criticized.
That probably won't do you much good, unless your goal is to get yourself shot.

Chester's chiding had no effect on Clive. He slouched, lost, spent, lifeless. He could have plunged head-first into oblivion, if only an opening into its depths would appear. No one would have cared. He wasn't even sure if he cared any longer. But that didn't stop Chester's provocation.

Poor Clive. Poor, poor Clive. Life didn't turn out the way you expected, did it? Officers are on their way to take you away. I bet you wish you had listened to me now.

"Huh?" Chester finally got under Clive's skin. She struck a nerve. He was once again ready for battle.

"Listened to you? Listening to you is what put me in this position in the first place."

It's unfortunate. You really do believe that, don't you? Didn't you ever wonder, "why me?" Didn't you ever wonder why I'm in your head and not in someone else's?

"Because I knocked down your disgusting cobweb home. I'd take it all back if I could, believe me. Not because I give a shit about your precious little spider webs, but because I'd do anything to be rid of you."

It's true that when you destroyed my home, I came into yours. You destroyed a safe haven that took many years to create. Under that bridge, I hid away. No frog could reach me. No bird could pierce my intricate veil. I languished in exile and complete solitude, undisturbed. You ruined that. But revenge would always have been simple. Too simple. One bite, and you'd end up like Derek. I could have done it right then and there, in the water that day, right in front of your obnoxious girlfriend.

Yet, you convinced me not to kill you or, at least, your memories did. You reintroduced me to humankind and the filthy, revolting excrement it calls "civilization." I had retreated from your world, taken a vacation from my earthly punishment. I should have known my vacation, though decades by your standards, would be short-lived by mine. When I saw the world through your eyes and memories, how it had changed into something even fouler than the world I had left, I had to return. There was work to be done. You rekindled my hatred for your kind, a hatred that you yourself shared! Our meeting was too remarkable to dismiss as sheer dumb luck. So I took a vested interest in you, Clive. I could have left you at any time. I could have found myself a stronger host. Instead, I stuck around, always figuring that the two of us together could cause far more chaos than either of us alone. We were a match made in Heav--well, a portentous pairing, indeed. I believe your kind would call it destiny.

"I always thought it more like I won Shirley Jackson's lottery."

Is that all you think of me? The culmination of your misfortune? I gave you a tremendous gift, Clive. I gave you an opportunity to do more, to become something more than you were ever capable of realizing without me. I gave you the chance to become the stuff legends are made out of. The credit would have been yours alone for the taking, with me being nothing more than a footnote in your story. I should have known you'd be too weak to carry out our plans.

"We have no plans. It's just you and your sick-fuck delusions. I don't hate anybody. I was perfectly happy until you came along."

Ha! You were happy? Were you? Do you even know who you are, Clive? Do you know where you go when this feeble side of you sleeps? Do you know the evil that resides within your heart?

"The only evil within me is an eight-legged turd inside my head."

Oh, but you're so much more. We are all light and dark, Clive. Do you know what your darkness has done?

"I know what you're trying to do. Push my buttons. Play up on my insecurities. It won't work. You know that I've been feeling a lot of guilt about Kevin's death and my part in it, but I had no part in his deviant tendencies."

I'm not debating that. Kevin was his own demon. He got what he deserved. Still, you're wondering whether or not you had something to do with the ingenious bombing spree providing some excitement to this otherwise dull county. You can't remember any of it, can you? Why do you repress it? Even living here, inside your mind, I can't unravel all of its many intricacies. Your other self knows everything you do. He even seems to enjoy my company. He certainly enjoys our work. You did, too, not long ago. Sure enough, Clive, just as you had no part in Kevin's crimes, he had no part in yours.

"What crimes would those be? Huh, Chester? What crimes?"

Clive was livid. He had to defend himself to this fiend. His other option, to accept Chester's accusations as truth, would mean the guilt he'd been feeling was justified and would vastly amplify. He scrambled for a defense.

Don't be so naive.

"Morgan," he concluded. "She was with me. She told the police that I was with her on the nights things around town blew up. So, you see? I couldn't have done it."

Yes, Morgan. The ever-helpful pawn. She does her best to protect you. I wonder--how far would she go to keep you, her lover and lifetime friend, safe? Maybe she would even lie for you? Kill for you?

"Don't be ridiculous," Clive scoffed. The idea seemed preposterous. Sure, she loved him. But Morgan wouldn't sacrifice everything for him, would she?

"Morgan's always had her shit together. She's practical, sensible, logical and sane. I'm the loose cannon, not her."

Certainly, she's the stronger of the two of you. But she never had the one thing she always wanted most. Not until now, anyway. Now that she has you, do you think she'll give you up so easily?

"Morgan wouldn't do . . . Morgan!"

Clive filled with energy. He jolted upright, fully intending to charge out to Morgan's side, to be the knight he knew she always envisioned he could be. A sharp, piercing pain paralyzed him back into bed.

Our conversation isn't over, Clive.

"What have you done to me?" Clive filled with panic. "I have to help Morgan! I have to stop Morgan!"

I apologize for the crude methods. I assure you, I only gave you the smallest dose. The toxin should wear off in approximately five minutes, judging by your height and weight. I did recently kill a cat with the same dose, but you should pull through alright as long as you keep your heart rate down. So, do try to stay calm.