Ashes to Ashes (46 page)

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.