Hostage (34 page)

Clariton said nothing, his face blank and hard.

Rawlins volunteered, “I heard someone go out about an hour ago.”

“Damn it!”

Matthew slammed and locked the door. Elliot had taken off? Jesus Christ, it was unbelievable! Matthew tromped across the room, pulled his foot back, and kicked the box of Twinkies as hard as he could, his foot ripping through the cardboard and plunging deep into the treats. He kicked it again and again, until there was sticky cream filling coating his shoe. Had Elliot simply freaked out and left Matthew down here to deal with all this shit? Or had the moron simply lost his mind? Probably the latter, thought Matthew, turning away. Right, more than likely the already borderline Elliot had simply flipped off the charts.

Shit. How was he even supposed to know if they’d shown the videotape on Channel 10? Call them and say, Ahem, excuse me, but could you tell me if you followed our orders?

And then he heard it. A slow shuffle from somewhere beyond their little hideaway. Matthew’s first thought was to rip open the door and start screaming, demanding to know what the hell Elliot was doing. But what if it wasn’t him? What if it were a wayward janitor, searching these subterranean rooms for some piece of filth?

An arrow of pain shot through Matthew’s head, so painful that he caught his breath and clutched his forehead. Oh, dear God. It felt like a handful of knives, little tiny ones, piercing his forehead right above his left eye. Determined not to make a sound, he clenched his mouth shut and slumped against the wall. No, there wasn’t time for this. Not now. Despite all the medication he’d taken last night it just hurt so horribly, those ribbons of pain that were cutting through his scalp, into his sinuses, into his brain! He took a deep breath, tried to push beyond it. Yes. Just take some more pills and ignore it. Focus on those steps, the ones out there somewhere. But where were they? Wait. Yes, they were right out there. Someone was nearing the door.

Opening his eyes, Matthew saw zips of white migrainelike light flashing in his vision. A whole thunderstorm of light. He shook his head, tried to battle them away, and turned and took three quick, furtive steps. Reaching a small canvas bag, he slid a hand into the open top and grabbed one of the guns. He fumbled with it, tried to focus on the barrel. There, right there, that was the butt, the handle. He positioned the weapon in his sweaty palm, then slipped back to the door. A mere second or two later he heard something and looked down. Struggling to see, he was able to make out the door handle as it slipped downward.

Matthew exploded, and he grabbed the door, swung the gun around, and jammed it right into the other guy’s gut.

“It’s me, it’s me, it’s just me!” hollered Elliot, throwing his twiglike arms up in the air.

“Fuck—”

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

“Goddammit!” he shouted as he seized Elliot by the arm and dragged him in, then slammed the door. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Up-upstairs.”

“I missed it! I missed the broadcast, and it’s all your fault! Jesus Christ, have you gone nuts?” yelled Matthew as he threw Elliot against the wall. “What are you trying to do, ruin everything?”

“N-no,” whimpered Elliot.

“Well, then what?”

“I… I…” Elliot raised one hand, in which he clasped a gooey mess. “Want a cookie? They’re… they’re yummy.”

“You’re an idiot!” screamed Matthew, beating on the other man’s chest. “A big fucking idiot!”

“No, no, I’m not!” snapped Elliot, tears spilling from his eyes.

“Did you see anyone?”

His head bobbed up and down.

“You shithead!” shouted Matthew as he slapped Elliot with the back of his left hand.

“Ah!” cried Elliot, dropping the cookie, clutching his face, and sinking to the floor.

“Who? Who saw you?” demanded Matthew, kicking him.

“Ow, stop it!”

“Who saw you?”

“I don’t know. The… the security guards, I guess.” Elliot collapsed into a ball, his head pressed into his knees, his arms wrapped around his legs, and he sobbed, “I don’t want to do this anymore! I… I just want to go home! I just want to be in my bed, my own bed! All I ever wanted to do was paint, and now look at—”

“Shut up!”

Suddenly it was like an ice pick was jammed into Matthew’s brain, and clutching his head, he gasped and turned away. He dropped the gun, stumbled a couple of feet, then turned and leaned against the wall as the pain sliced deeper and deeper. He opened his eyes, saw only black. He clutched them shut, then opened them again, and a flurry of squiggly ribbons of light filled his vision. Oh, shit. He breathed in, out. In, out. And then tried again. Okay, just get a fucking grip. Okay, just hang on.

But Elliot was right. Slumped against the wall, Matthew knew it. They couldn’t do this anymore. Yesterday had not only killed poor Tina, it had pushed the two of them over the edge. They didn’t have the strength for this kind of crap. Even if the security people or the police or whoever didn’t find them down here, they’d never physically make it through another day of rage and demands, of keeping Clariton and Rawlins locked up.

“Get me my pills, the one in the yellow container,” ordered Matthew.

“Yes, Mr. Boss Man.”

Elliot did as ordered, getting the pills and a bottle of water, both of which he handed to Matthew. Like an addict desperate for a fix, Matthew grabbed them, gobbled the pills, and slammed down the water.

His voice now calm and low, Matthew glanced over, thankful that he could see again, and said, “I’m sorry.”

Elliot sniffled, but didn’t look up, and in the smallest of voices said, “That’s okay.”

“You can go home if you want.”

“What?”

“I’m fucking sorry I got you fucking into this. I’ll finish things up. Really, you can go home.”

Elliot mopped his eyes. “Thanks, but I don’t think… I don’t think I can. I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” He shrugged and looked up at Matthew with a childish grin. “I kind of think I really screwed up things out there.”

“I see,” said Matthew, understanding what that meant. “So is now the time?”

“I guess.”

“So what do you think, El? Ready for the grand finale?”

“I always did want to go out in style.” He nodded. “And actually I think sooner is better than later.”

So this was it. This, Matthew realized, was how it was going to end. Certainly not quite as he’d envisioned—who’d have guessed that Tina would have gone so abruptly, who’d have foreseen they’d be saddled with Rawlins. But this wasn’t bad either. At least they’d made their point, gotten all the media attention, and the effects of what they had done would live on. Yes, in a way they’d been wildly successful.

“I mean it,” added Elliot. “I made a mess of things up there. If we’re going to do it, we gotta do it now.”

“Okay, I’m ready.”

Matthew turned and bent down to his canvas bag. This time he pulled out a cellular phone and a pad of legal paper. There were three numbers on the pad, all for the main television stations in town. He hesitated only for an instant, then punched in the number for the first station.

“Good morning, WTCN TV,” said the receptionist.

“I’m only going to say this once: If you want to film Congressman Clariton, go immediately to the middle of the amusement park at the Megamall.”

“What? Who—”

Matthew hung up, then dialed the second and the third numbers and repeated the terse message. That done, he folded up the cellular phone and dropped it back in the bag. He then picked up his gun and handed it to Elliot.

“Here, hold this.”

Elliot’s sunken eyes grew wide as he turned the weapon over in his hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever held one of these things before.” He smiled. “I’m a butch kind of Marlboro guy now, aren’t I, Mr. Dude?”

“Careful, the bullet comes out of that end there,” he said, pointing to the barrel. “And that’s the trigger.”

“Way cool.”

“Now all we have to do is load our secret weapon,” said Matthew, reaching into the box of meds and withdrawing an empty Heparin-treated syringe, “then head all the way up.”

“Up and up and up,” chimed in Elliot with a stupid grin as he fondled the pistol.

Yes, thought Matthew. Up and out of the basement. Up to the second and then the third floor. Right. He could see it now, all the cameras lined up. It was going to make for great drama and great news. Great American news, for it would all be captured, ? la O. J. Simpson, on TV. It was going to be shocking and dis gusting, and it’d probably run live too. In fact, maybe he’d insist on that, the live part. The networks would eat it up. After all, wouldn’t the entire world be captivated by the image of an American congressman held hostage by a couple of sissies with a tiny syringe of blood?

Yes, the Grand Balcony overlooking the amusement park was going to be the perfect place for a dramatic conclusion to this stupid mess.

Matthew pulled back the left sleeve of his shirt and searched his scrawny arm. “God, my veins are shot. What are yours like?”

“The ones in my arms are pretty pathetic, man. I’d suggest my legs, but,” said Elliot, pulling up his pants and exposing limbs that were not only painfully skinny, but covered with bruises, “they’re not so good either, ya know.” He shrugged. “Now what?”

Matthew thought for a moment, then in a low voice pronounced, “I’ve got an idea…”

The phenomenon of the
Hostage Rescue Team kicked into full gear.

Ferried by a convoy of blue vans, Wayne Morrish, Dr. John Ogden, and the fifty members of the HRT arrived five minutes after Maurice Cochran. The first thing Morrish did was to establish a command post at an information desk by one of the mall entrances. The second was to summon the head of the mall security force.

“Hello, I’m Dick Russell, head of security out here, and—”

Morrish looked up at the gray-haired man and said, “I want the building evacuated immediately. Don’t set off any of the alarms—just get everyone out of here at once!”

“Yes, sir.”

“That includes your staff as well. We’ll take care of the interior, you and the local police will assume responsibility for the outer perimeter. I don’t want anyone coming in, and for God’s sake, once the place has been evacuated, I don’t want anyone coming out.”

“Absolutely,” said Russell, turning away.

“Wait. I want the head of your maintenance department here right away. And I want a complete set of blueprints for the entire building, including specifications for doors, walls, and a complete layout of the air-conditioning ducts.”

“Of course.”

Russell vanished, and Morrish looked over as Dr. Ogden distributed a small color photograph of Congressman Clariton to all the members of the HRT. Gathered in the lobby, the men were fully operational and dressed in their black utilities, from Kevlar helmets to goggles to the MP5 submachine guns each of them clutched.

“Okay, listen up,” called Morrish. “I want sniper teams posted at each of the four corners of the building and on each of the four floors. You—Smith, Wharton, Reynolds, Krepinski—organize the teams.”

“Study the photo,” said Dr. Ogden, raising his voice. “Study the man. This is him, this is Clariton. And as soon as you come in contact with the kidnappers, call it in. I want to know everything: how they move, how they talk, anything indicative of their stress levels.”

“Demolition Team—over there, and Assault Teams—over there,” said Morrish, pointing to opposite corners. “We don’t know whether this is going to be a dynamic entry or a stealth entry, but we need you ready. Be prepared for anything, and don’t forget the danger involved here. Each of you has been issued a pair of latex gloves, and I want you to put them on now. Our targets have AIDS and should be considered extremely contagious. You must exercise extreme caution and avoid contact with their blood! We have an emergency medical team just outside, and they have full protective gear. Leave any and all medical emergencies to them. Lastly, remember we have just one priority today, and his name is Congressman Johnny Clariton. Nothing and no one else matters until he is safe!”

Suddenly a blond woman with a bandage around her head burst through the doors. Half-jogging behind her was a man carrying a video camera and a variety of other equipment. Oh, Christ, thought Morrish, the last thing they needed was television coverage.

“Out!” shouted Morrish, pushing toward them. “Get that camera out of here!”

“I’m Cindy Wilson from WTCN TV,” countered the woman, “and we got a call from the kidnappers telling us to come here. I really don’t think you—”

Morrish looked over, saw another reporter and yet another photographer pushing through the doors. Emblazoned on their camera was CHANNEL 8! And pushing behind them came yet a third reporter.

“Oh, Jesus,” muttered Morrish, shaking his head and knowing they’d all have the same story.

As soon as they
turned the corner and started down the narrow hallway, Todd saw the door and was sure. Yes, there was no doubt, this was the way he’d been led into the basement. Through the white door at the end. The tour guide had taken him and his photographer through it and then down three levels to the massive empty space where the Journey to the Center of the Earth exhibit and ride was to be built.