Chapter 55
“The cops just shot your daughter dead, boss,” Ashe heard from the living room. The kitchen was completely obscured due to lack of light. He used the darkness to conceal his presence from the men in the other room. He didn’t know how many men there were and he didn’t believe that he should announce himself until he was sure he could whatever waited for him.
“Bam is dead?” Scott cried out. Ashe heard what sounded like the legs of a chair beginning to bang and scrape against a wooden floor. His son was throwing a fit at the stated death of his girlfriend. He was bouncing on a chair which Ashe immediately assumed his son was bound to. Or else Scott would simply stand to express his anger. Instead, Scott continued to squirm and cause a violent racket. “I’m going to fucking kill you. This is your fault you fucking bastard.” What came next was a guttural wail, one that sounded more animal than man. Ashe could hear the pure agony in the bellow.
Ashe’s heart broke right along with that of his son.
Someone from the left side of the room laughed at Scott’s pain.
Lucky Barrett, Ashe ascertained.
The psychologist edged closer the entranceway, the open space dividing the living room and the kitchen, trying to get an eye or two on what was going on. He inched. He inched a little more. He inched another step, coming to the corner of the fridge, which sat to the immediate left side of the tall connecting corridor. He peeked around, the silenced gun gripped tight. He forced himself to remember keep his finger clear of the trigger under he was ready to kill. With the amount of tension in the muscles of his hand, the hair trigger would surely be brushed and the pistol would prematurely go off. The men might not hear the silenced explosion, but Ashe was positive that they would see the muzzle flash, like he had witnessed it while peering through the house’s front windows.
The lack of light in the kitchen created a heavy blackness, one that was ominous and foreboding. Ashe had little doubt that the power had been disabled, either it was cut or simply turned off somehow, either by the men outside or by whatever men had breached the house.
Upon entering the dark kitchen, he briefly registered that there had not been any digital numbers displayed on the microwave and that the fridge had not been making any mechanical sounds of cooling. The fridge was one machine that always ran…always. He had been in many homes where a major storm, like that of a lake effect blizzard coming off Lake Erie, had knocked out power. Electricity the surged through a home created low laying hum, one that was barely more than a feeling or impression that was often forgotten due to the constant and every day exposure one had to it. It was not until its absence was felt during a power outage that one remembered that it had even existed. Ashe had recognized that absence the moment that he had entered the kitchen.
But, a light was in the living room, or what Ashe ascertained to be the living room, an assumption made by his own experiences with quaint little homes.
Ashe took a second and listened to the house. He listened for any signs of movement other than that coming from the living room. There was no sense that other men lurked on the second floor. No creaking boards overhead. No vague murmuring from the floors above. He still heard the drumming of the rain, however, as it continue to fall against the roof and side of the house, which might mask any potential signs of assassins lurking on the second floor. He listened closer for any sound that might be mixed in with the tumbling drops of rain. He still heard nothing. It seemed to Ashe that everyone had gathered in the living room, and it came to his mind that a single wall divided them from him.
He thought about how thin the dividing wall might be. Thin slabs, possibly drywall, wood, and asbestos meant the difference between being hidden and being discovered, being alive and not. His shoulders stiffened, causing his neck to hurt. The house was old, he knew, so the walls might not be so thin, but thick and well insulated, as the walls of old homes had often been.
The thought didn’t make him feel any safer. It was still a single wall he stood behind. One…single…wall.
Ashe nervously glanced further into the other room, which was indeed the living room. He could see the light source. It was coming from a tiny, modern camping lantern, one made from plastic and shining by way of a light bulb. It held absolutely no spark, fuel, or flame. The thing worked entirely on a battery source. But it burned brighter than any old fashioned lantern, like the ones he remembered using whenever he went camping as a child. The old lanterns were dangerous, but back then, no one knew any better, or cared to.
The modernized equivalent of a lantern had been placed on the floor. Within the upward spray of the plastic lantern’s light, Ashe could make out a far window. A man, dressed in exactly the same shades of black as the two outside, stood at it with his back to a drawn curtain. He must have been looking out it when Bam was supposedly shot by Oak Hill’s finest.
What had happened? He wondered. Why would the police have shot Amber?
The idea of Amber Barrett being shot in front of her own house by those who were supposed to protect her gave Ashe a chill. However, the police only knew what information they were given. Whenever a lack of information existed, which it often did, police officers had to rely on their gut instincts and their trained reflexes. They only had their own interpretation of a situation that was rapidly being thrown at them. Interpretation and perception were the officer’s basic tools, but they were also the things that sometimes lead them astray, due to false information and an ignorance to what was actually taking place.
When approaching the current situation, the Oak Hill PD only knew two definitive pieces of data. A kidnapping was taking place and it was most likely turning into a hostage scenario. And the person involved, Scott Walters, had possibly killed three people and left another man seriously wounded. Their reflexes were wound tight and anything could set them off. Any sign of danger and the enforcers were going to act. And Amber had to have seemed threatening to them. Somehow she caused the officers to act.
It was a shame, Ashe thought. It was all a low and dirty shame.
At the center of the living room the psychologist could make out his son. He was bound hands and feet to a chair, as Ashe had previously inferred. Sitting beside his leg was the lantern, illuminating Scott like a prisoner of war. His face was red and there were tears noticeably falling down his cheeks, like the rain that was falling from the dense clouds. Ashe could see the streaming tears because they reflected the lantern’s light, reminded him of morning dew as it caught the first rays of the sun.
Across from Scott’s chair was another one. It was empty. Ashe wondered what the purpose of that chair might have been. Maybe it had been for Amber? How had Amber made it outside while Scott was subdued, anyway? Had Scott given her a chance to leave by sacrificing himself? That possibility gave Ashe a faint hope, hope that his son was not completely lost, completely living on the dark side of his nature. The pill might not have complete control after all.
It was only a glimmer of hope. It could end up being false, forced. But it was hope, nonetheless.
Ashe continued to think about Amber Barrett, a young girl he had never met, someone that his son obviously loved very intensely. Her own father, or who Ashe believed to be Lucky Barrett, had laughed, heartily, at the news of his daughter’s needless and brutal demise. Being gunned down by a swarm of tired and desperate police officers was not a gentle way to go. And Lucky found it amusing? How could someone be so cold? Ashe would cross oceans, mine fields, walk across glass, and even take his own life in order to save his flesh and blood son. And yet, Lucky Barrett laughed. He laughed. The sound of the laughter still echoed inside of Ashe’s ear canals.
He instantly hated the man.
He instantly loathed him.
Lucky chose to speak, further proving by the sound of his voice that he had indeed been the one who had laughed at Amber’s death. “You are blaming me, Scott? How ironic. It was you and
my daughter that had brought me here. Wasn’t it? My leg still hurt like a bitch, by the way. Thank you for that scar. I’m still glad that I didn’t bleed out in my little girl’s piece of shit Ford.”
“You created all of this,” Scott spoke back, emphasizing the direction of blame. “You know why you are here. And you know why Bam is dead. You!”
“Amber seen it coming,” Lucky replied, his voice low and ominous.
“What?” Scott blurted.
“She didn’t tell you?” Lucky asked. Ashe continued to hear but not see Lucky Barrett, because the man remained standing somewhere to the left of where Ashe was concealed, a side that Ashe couldn’t get his eyes on without exposing himself. “She told me. How funny. My daughter confided in me…the person she apparently detested most in the world…on how she was going to die. What a personal secret for someone who hates my very being. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Liar!” Scott hollered. “She didn’t tell anyone. It scared her too much.”
Lucky laughed again and Ashe’s skin crawled with the sound of it.
“Is it true,” he said, faking a sense of emotional attachment to his daughter. “She told me the details and not you? My precious, beautiful little girl? She trusted me with it and not you, my boy? Maybe she even trusted me…more than you?”
Lucky was trying to play games with Scott and Ashe knew it. He was playing on Scott’s own beliefs about the mysterious pill and he was playing on Scott’s love for Amber. Lucky must have figured out that Scott and Amber had honestly thought that the pill showed them how they were going to die. Scott held the idea deep down in his core. Lucky was exploiting their certainty, their love and their misguided faith. And he seemed to be doing it for the fun of it.
“If you are going to kill me,” Scott said, “then just get to the killing. Because no matter what happens to me…you are over with, Lucky. There is no way that you are walking out of here clean and clear. I may have taken you at gun point…but how are you going to spin all of this to your favor? Who are these guys? Good deed doers rushing to the aid of a man in danger? With handguns and silencers? Run it by me. I will give your story a yay or nay based on its believability.”
Ashe grinned. His son was playing the game, too. Good for him.
Scott continued. “You honestly think that the police outside are dumb enough to fall for whatever tale you tell them? Come on, man. And if they do, my dad will not. He will tear to shreds whatever bullshit you try to force feed. I bet that my old man is outside right now, foaming at the mouth to get in here. He will not rest. Once he has you in sights, he will come at you like a rabid Doberman. No. That is wrong. My uncle, Detective Oscar Harrison, will be the dog that gets you by throat. My dad will be the one letting him off the leash, pointing him in the direction of your soft fleshy parts.”
“Enough!” Lucky shouted.
“I am just trying to warn you,” Scott admitted. “You should listen to me. You’re fucked from all angles.”
“The kid is right,” another voice was heard, coming from the same direction as Lucky Barrett. There was at least another person in the living room standing near to Lucky, Ashe realized. By the sound of his voice, the man seemed to be growing agitated and impatient. “What is the plan? How are we going to handle this shit?”
Ashe grew frustrated at the sound of the new, previously unknown man. How many other armed men were standing out of his view? One? Ten? He needed to know. Or he no choice but to remain hidden, possibly about to witness his son’s murder.
“I’m working on it,” Lucky replied.
“Work faster,” the hidden killer demanded.
Lucky’s tone matched that of the hidden man, aggravated. “I give the orders. Or have you forgotten that? Don’t worry…you all will get your money’s worth. I always treat my men well, don’t I? Don’t I?”
“I can’t spend the money if I am behind bars,” the hidden assassin responded.
Ashe then heard shuffling. He could not immediately tell which of the men were moving around or beginning to pace. Suddenly, a figure appeared in the threshold a handful of inches from the psychologist’s nose. His heart jumped up into his neck. Thankfully, the man chose to give Ashe his back instead of his front. The figure was that of another armed killer, it was at once certain. The man was dressed entirely in black, like the rest. If the man had been facing in the right direction, he would have surely noticed Ashe’s pale, peeking face, even in the darkness of the kitchen.
Slowly and cautiously, Ashe pulled himself quietly back and away, retreating into the obscurity of the kitchen. He needed to do something. But what? He pictured Oscar outside, speaking with the Oak Hill police, bringing them up to speed, as best he could. They would soon have a plan. They would try to make contact. That would be the first step in common hostage protocol. They would act soon. Ashe needed his own plan of action. But what?
He had been in some tense positions during his years working and investigating with the YPD, some that had left him almost worshipping a God that he was almost sure didn’t actually exist, in any color or shape. He had rushed headfirst into an abandoned factory in the middle of a winter blast in order to save a little boy named Benjamin, only Oscar at his side. He had done crazy things like that and more, but no matter what was going down, he was never alone in the midst of the chaos. Even when he used himself as bait to lure out a sadistic teenage boy who enjoyed gutting and then fornicating with the homeless men of Youngstown. In that dangerous moment, he knew that that alleyway had been watched by Oscar and the rest of the homicide crew. Ashe always had had a friend and a plan, however crazy and reckless the plan might have been.
No plan currently existed.
Oscar was outside.
And Ashe was on his own inside.
He slowly tried to find his way back to the connecting corridor, but at once paused and changed route. The assassin was still there, standing broad in the wooden threshold, as if guarding the back entryway into the house. But Ashe immediately noticed that the man’s attention was still focused entirely on the living room, instead of on the back door. Ashe at once came to the concrete conclusion that the armed man was not guarding the back door. The man must have expected his two companions to have the rear entrance covered. He had no idea that they had been neutralized.
As if reading Ashe’s mind, Lucky Barrett asked the man in the doorway, “Let me see your radio.” The assassin left the threshold, again becoming hidden from Ashe’s sight. A second later, Lucky could be heard. “Are you guys good? How is it looking out there?” Silence. “Guys? Guys? Son of a bitch. I thought your guys were professionals. Are you guys still in back? Or did you run like chicken shits when law enforcement arrived? Fuck.” Desperation was creeping up and into Lucky’s vocal chords. “The police probably have already made their way into the back and took your men down. They are probably spilling their guts…right now.”
“Calm down,” the killer replied, once again outside of Ashe’s possible view. “My men don’t run. And they don’t talk to the police. That is a guarantee.”
“They better be all that you claim and more,” Lucky insisted. “I am not a man who likes loose ends.”
The assassin’s form reappeared in the entranceway. Ashe realized that it gave him a vantage point over the room, as did the position in front of the far window, the place where the other killer was still standing. Nothing would happen in the room without the two of them being able to act in an instant. The room was theirs and they were in charge, no matter how much Lucky still believed himself to be in control.
Were there others, though? Ashe had to wonder.
Ashe was beginning the get the hunch, though, that only two men were in the room with Lucky and Scott. Two men had been in the back. Two men came inside of the house. It sounded like a sound tactic, four men, a speedy job, in and out of the house swiftly and on their way they wou
ld go with their money. And it also became apparent to Ashe that the man standing at the border between the kitchen and living room, the one who seemed to do all the talking, the one who was defending his men, was the leader, meaning that he was the most dangerous of the expert killers.
A sloppy plan formed. It was far beyond foolish
“You are fucked!” Scott yelled. “Fucked!” He was tired and Ashe could hear that his son was starting to feel beaten, defeated. He was resorting to pointless curses and swears. “Fuck you! Fuck all of you!” The fight was leaving him and Ashe knew that it was time to go for broke. He had no other choice and time was running out.
Ashe had killed before. Self-defense. To save a life. And he knew that somewhere deep inside the bowels of the creature known as moral virtue, he was justified in his coming action. But he still took a punch in his gut when he sprung out from the obscured regions of the kitchen and put the tip of the silencer to the back of the man’s skull. Instead of giving the killer the chance to spin away, the chance to react in anyway, the psychologist quickly put a bullet into the man’s brain, ending his life before anyone in the room could register what was taking place. All anyone else knew was that a puff of pink erupted from the man’s forehead and he then collapsed.
Ashe stood where the killer had been, fighting to fake an aura of confidence, to project the trickery into the lantern lit room. His gun remained raised and he aimed directly at the other killer across the room. “Don’t even think about it,” he commanded. “I have enough light to shoot you by. Try me. Try me.”
“Dad?” If Scott’s hands had been freed he might have rubbed his eyes in disbelief. “Where did you come from?”
“I’ve been right behind you the whole time,” the psychologist informed his son.
Keeping the gun focused on the second killer, Ashe put his foot between the sprawled legs of the dead man. He took another step coming further into the living room. Using his peripheral vision, he found Lucky Barrett…and he at once realized another crucial mistake he had just made. The lead assassin had not been the most dangerous man in the room. He had taken care of the killers, killing the leader while forcing the other assassin into reluctant submission. But he had disregarded another killer in the room, the one who was in fact the deadliest person in the house, while also giving him a window in which to react.
Lucky Barrett.
In the instant that Ashe had taken the steps to enter the living room, Lucky had made a choice. He chose to attack. Lucky Barrett lived his life as a cat cornered, afraid, claws always out, and Ashe had been a fool not to treat him that way. The psychologist regretted it the moment that Lucky struck him in the side of the face, close to the eyes. He regretted it as his vision blurred and he took another punch to the face. Ashe was knocked into a stumble and began tripping over the torso of the dead man below him. While he tried to regain his footing and his vision, something hard shattered down across the back of Ashe’s head and neck. The psychologist went to the wooden floor in a heap, feeling two solid kicks to his ribs right before passing out.