What Hides Within (40 page)

"You paralyzed me?"

Only temporarily. While I've got you here, we might as well conclude our talk. We were getting somewhere, I think.

"It burns!"

Oh, toughen up! You'll be okay, you big sissy. "Oh-no, a spider bit me and now I'm paralyzed!" Humph, I've known cowards who were tougher than you. Besides, I can't have you running off all willy-nilly-like. You might get yourself shot. Don't get me wrong. That in-and-of-itself is no tragedy, but there's always that slim chance the bullet could hit me, too. I haven't gotten this far in life by taking unnecessary risks. Although, that Detective Reilly would have to be a real bitch to aim for the head.

"Please, Chester," Clive begged, tears streaming from his eyes. "Please, let me go."

As dismal as this looks, I still haven't given up on you. Sure, you've been a real pain-in-the-ass lately, but I have to admit, there's a part of you that's truly special. If you didn't get too cocky and go off on that solo rampage just to appease your egocentric desire for infamy, none of this crap would be happening. With your hands and willingness to use them and my knowledge and strategy, we were unstoppable. You provided the raw material, and I refined it into something beautiful.

Apparently, though, without me around, you're uncontrollable. And the Mayor, Clive? Yes, people took notice of your "grandeur," but you only killed one guy! One! I thought we agreed on quantity over quality? After all our other explosions, that one was so anticlimactic. Cheap, even.

"
That
night? The Fall River Mayor? I was with Morgan . . ."

Clive's voice trailed off. Part of him believed Chester. Most of him didn't want to believe her.

Still resisting? Or have we finally put a crack in your wall? I thought that, in time, you'd come to grips with who you are. Maybe even embrace the real you. I didn't want to have to do it this way because I'm not sure what this will do to you. However, we're running short on time. I'm going to let the other Clive out, the one you refuse to believe in, the one this Clive represses. I'll let him out, and you can take up your qualms with him. We'll see which of you wins. Frankly, I'm rooting for the other guy.

Clive could feel Chester moving rapidly inside his head, vibrating. Spinning? Weaving? Whatever she stepped on she plucked like the strings of a guitar. He couldn't tell if Chester was manipulating his brain or her own webs. Were they now one and the same?

Clive felt no pain, thanks to the venom coursing through his system. After the initial burning and swelling, his body numbed and twitched. He laid still, his senses inoperable.

His mind, on the other hand, seemed to awaken. Hidden memories flowed from one hemisphere to another. In them, he saw himself doing things he couldn't recall doing. Things that horrified him--violent, evil things. Were they real or artificial? It was like someone else had played out part of his life for him. And that someone else wasn't someone decent.

Clive saw himself build. He saw himself plant. He saw himself detonate. He saw himself kill. But worst of all, he saw the faces of his victims. He heard the sounds of their agony. He was instantly haunted by their screams, echoing endlessly through his head.

A scream, all too real, ripped Clive from his thoughts. It didn't belong to Clive or his victims. Instead, it came from outside his apartment. It resembled a war cry, that of a gladiator charging into battle. It was accompanied by a loud blast, the force of which caused his soul and the walls around him to tremble. Clive's mind envisioned the worst. Then he heard the single gunshot.

"Morgan," Clive pleaded, but she didn't come for him. Unable to move, he was forced to wait idly on the sidelines, wondering who would be first to come through his bedroom door.

"Wait," Sanchez warned. He threw his arm out, halting Reilly's charge. "I heard something. It sounded like glass breaking. We'd better be careful."

Sanchez stepped between Reilly and the door. Reilly thought she might charge anyway, whether or not he got out of her way. But his look of compassion and patience, an almost fatherly kind of warmth, kept her at bay.

"Let me listen."

Reilly huffed. She was ready and willing and, in fact, wanting, to move in on her prey, yet she appeased her part-time partner and took a few steps back.

Sanchez crept up to the door. Gently, he leaned against it, pressing his ear flat against its wooden surface.

"It's quiet in there," he whispered. "Maybe they took off down the fire esca--"

Sanchez had no time to react when a blast from inside the apartment unhinged the door and propelled it airborne and him along with it. His body smashed into Reilly's Gran Torino far below. The impact concaved the car's metal frame and spider-webbed the windshield. It killed Sanchez instantly.

Fortunately for Reilly, the door and her partner took the brunt of the explosion. A strong gust from the blast sent her tumbling down the flight of stairs. But other than a few bumps and bruises, she was as fine as she could possibly have hoped considering her late partner's fate.

She dusted herself off and ran to Sanchez. When she reached him, Reilly exploded fiercer than the bomb itself, her anger immediately elevating beyond control. She didn't need to check for signs of life. Sanchez's open, unseeing eyes and his horribly contorted pose told Reilly what she needed to know. She silently vowed revenge. She called for backup and an ambulance, but she wouldn't wait for them.

Temporarily ignoring her pain, Reilly darted back up the stairwell. Her entry was no longer blocked. There was no door left to ram through. Everything had been blown wide open. Most of the top half of the staircase was in ruin. Parts of it were missing altogether. A gaping hole exposed the four bedroom, two bath apartment below, much bigger and nicer than Clive's, now missing some ceiling and contaminated by dust and debris.

From beneath her, an Italian greyhound with its tail between its legs pissed all over itself and the floor. It whimpered up at Reilly, terrified and desiring her comfort. Reilly had neither time nor sympathy for the animal. She had herself to think of. There was so much destruction where she and Sanchez had been standing. Obviously, someone wanted her dead.

The attempt on her life left collateral damage. Reilly would mourn Sanchez later, but for now, she only sought vengeance, an Old West kind of justice.

The structural integrity of the upper staircase and a large section of Clive's living room was questionable, but enough structure remained to allow a circus acrobat or a pissed-off detective hell-bent on revenge to crawl, climb and jump into the more intact portions of the room. Reilly made her way as cautiously as she could without sacrificing speed. She had an appointment with a certain Clive Menard, and he would be extremely lucky if she chose not to kill him. She held her gun ready.

Smoke filled the air. It blanketed the room like fog over water. Black powder and splintered wood covered everything. Reilly felt the toxic air work its way into her lungs. She coughed it out and covered her mouth with her sleeve.

"Help," a scratchy voice called from within the grey blizzard.

"Who's there? Show yourself," Reilly demanded. All the while, her hand held steady, aiming the pistol in the direction of the voice.

"It's Clive . . . He's not well. He did this."

"Ms. Donnelly?"

The smoke-blind conditions began to lift. The shadowy outline of a woman's figure emerged only a few feet in front of Reilly. Reilly didn't flinch. She'd shoot Morgan if she felt even the slightest threat.

"Where is he?"

"In the bedroom." Morgan's outstretched finger pointed somewhere behind Reilly. "Please, don't kill him."

Reilly glanced over her shoulder but only for a second. "Stay here. I'll--" she began. Her words were cut short by the sudden proximity of another and the swinging of a blunt object toward her.

The black shadow, immersed by smoke, turned the tan color of polished wood as the bat closed in on her. Reilly's instincts recognized her peril before her thoughts could fully process it. Gun held high, she pulled its trigger, aiming and firing all within a split second.

A woman screamed, and Reilly couldn't tell if it came from another or herself. She felt excruciating pain around her shoulder, then nothing. Her world darkened as she fell to the floor.

As her consciousness waned, Reilly saw Morgan standing over her, a wild expression canvassing her face. Morgan raised the bat over her head in preparation for what Reilly knew would be a deadly strike. She was powerless to save herself.

But the bat fell from Morgan's hands. Soon after, Morgan, too, fell. She coughed; blood ran from the corner of her mouth. The bat fell discarded from her trembling hands. In the black and white haze of the apartment, the red ruby sparkle of Morgan's blood vocalized life's imperfections.

***

Even after everything outside went quiet and no one had come for him, Clive lay pervaded by incapacitating chemicals, imprisoned without walls. He could do nothing but subject himself to unwanted but recurring thoughts, victimized by an onslaught of his own memories, let free by a malevolent bitch of a spider. It was all true. He saw everything he'd done. He saw each and every explosion, all meticulously planned and executed save for one. They played and replayed like mini action movies in his head. He didn't understand them and couldn't accept them.

A new voice emerged in his head, a voice for which Chester could not be held responsible. It was entirely his own. In swelled the volatility and motives of another Clive, a sicker, more demented version of the real thing. Or was it the real thing? Clive wondered if he was the imposter. This invisible and unlocked part of himself couldn't be reconciled with the passive, moral Clive Menard whom he knew. Clive's darker self reveled in death, destruction, chaos. It craved more. It ordered Clive to carry on its deadly ways.

Worst of all, it laughed at Clive, mocking his weakness. Who was this stranger inside him? Who was this dark reflection, fighting for control, screaming to be heard? Soon, Clive would succumb to it. Soon, Clive's sanity would cease to exist, and his darkness would reign free.

He pined for an escape, not only from his bed, but from Chester and himself. Yet, the venom kept him immobilized. Or was it his fear? Clive couldn't be certain. Sweat dripped into his eyes. Its sting made him alert. He struggled to move. Not so much as a toe would wiggle.

Through his suffering, Chester's berating continued. She incessantly criticized his botched villainy, the imperfect bombing of Mayor Robert Sousa. Chester seemed convinced that it was this explosion that led to Reilly's suspicions and Clive's now likely downfall.

I was smart
, she shouted.
I was precise, and I was infallible. My crimes left no evidence. Without me, you would have landed yourself in prison for life or worse, an early grave.

Clive tried to drown out Chester's criticisms. Chester only pushed harder.

I had a small matter to address, a lowly man to kill. I was only gone for a night. How could you have been so impulsive?
She demanded to know why Clive went it alone. She demanded to know why he would risk their obvious success on some narcissistic bid for notoriety.

Clive had no answers. He couldn't concentrate. Chester's voice penetrated his every thought. He used it to fuel his anger. Surely, he wasn't as bad as the things he did. He wasn't a monster. Chester screwed up his wiring. This had to be
her
fault.

"You turned me into this! You made me kill all those people!"

Still passing the buck? You would try to convince yourself of that, wouldn't you? No, Clive. I didn't do anything to you. I simply gave you the sophistication to carry out your own desires more competently.

Clive shook his head, but denial wouldn't stick. He was conscious of everything he'd done. The reason behind his actions remained a mystery to him. The watersheds in his tear ducts broke loose. His heart hurt so badly that he thought it might rip itself from his ribcage and the ligaments and arteries holding it in place. He needed Morgan. Morgan would make it all right again. That is, if Morgan were alright herself.

"Morgan!" Clive howled.

Again, Clive tried to go to her, but barely managed to blink, much less move. He strained for several moments, but eventually gave up. Finally, Clive was defeated. Chester had won. Madness crept over his mind, the little left that hadn't yet been corrupted. He sulked in a pool of his own drool and snot.

"How dare you do this to me!" a voice threatened. Clive spoke the words, but they came from the stranger inside him. "I don't need you to kill!"

Ah, welcome back, friend. It's been a while.

"Oh God--"

Still fighting it, Clive? You can't win. He's here. Let him in.

Clive's rational mind tried to wall out the stranger. It kept hammering away at the wall with a sledgehammer. Clive focused on something real to him, something he assumed his other self wouldn't appreciate. He focused on Morgan.

"What's going to happen to her?"

Morgan? How should I know? By the sound of things, everyone out there is probably dead, and Morgan would have fulfilled her role nicely. So, let's focus on the living, those in the here and now, shall we Clive?

"Then, what's going to happen to me?"

I suggest we go on like we were.

"What? Blowing up buildings? Killing people?"

Why not? Sounds good to me. As long as you follow my instructions, we'll never get caught. What's the expression? We'll "get away with murder?" Except in our case, it won't be just an expression.

"I don't care about getting caught! You never . . . we never should have killed anyone in the first place! Why me, Chester? Why did you make me do such horrible things?"

I didn't make you do anything. The explosions were all your idea. You even picked the locations. I just helped you make them a little bigger, a little better and a bit more discreet. Kept your ass out of prison is what I did. I helped you. I believed in you. I kept you safe so that we could continue our mission, dismantling society through fear and, well, explosives.