Marilyn (14 page)

FORTY-THREE

The fear was alight on her beautiful face, scarring the innocence that once beamed so proudly. Lizzy's tears were warm and delicate. They looked ever so small falling down the face of a twelve-year-old girl. They trickled over her bottom lip, spreading their way in to the small crevice of her mouth and spilled over her quivering chin. Her heart was pounding in her head and ears, thump after detestable thump. Her toes were curled up, tensing and rubbing on the carpet. mommy and Daddy's brave little princess. She couldn't feel the barrel of the gun anymore, but she knew it was there.

Julie Dunn was kneeling next to where her daughter stood, her eyes blazing with hatred so pure, and complete it could light the night sky. Her neck hurt from where she was seized and thrown to the ground. She could feel the imprint of the monster's grip still burning her flesh, the devil's branding. Her hands weren't tied, but she held them behind her back just as she was instructed. The dining room felt crowded, tiny, like the walls were closing in around her with each breath she took.

Jack's forehead was bleeding, earning himself a scar that he could wear with honour. He lay in a heap next to the table, blood still clotting around his wound. He was conscious and able to see, but it was a clash of swords between blinding pain and the necessity to sleep.

      Andrew Dunn was standing with one foot in the dining room and one foot in the hall, frozen, trapped in an odious stalemate. What was on display in front of him was paralysing. He stared into the devil's theatre, where the hellish first act was just about to commence. His eyes found his wife, then his daughter, followed by Jack, and finally O'Sullivan, where they stayed. He kept himself composed, cold on the outside, a raging fire inside. What do you do when a man has a gun pressed against your daughter's head? Nothing. You do as he says.

      Andrew's finger was not on the trigger, but his gun was drawn with a stable hand at arm’s length.

FORTY-FOUR

Marilyn, Elwood and Sheriff Russell had taken the sheriff's Jeep. It was designed and built to survive almost any type of weather, and they needed a war machine to get where they were going.

Marilyn and the sheriff shared the front. It was notably rubbish-free and sanitary, even the seats were covered in a protective decorative fabric. R.J. hadn't bothered to put the sirens on, he didn't want to warn O'Sullivan that he was coming for him. He drove with great control and precision, and they were making good time.

    Elwood Bailey sat quietly in the back, buckled up with Molly resting on the seat next to him, biding her time. His glasses were steaming up from the hot air keeping the three of them warm, he took them off, cleaned them with the sleeve of his coat and popped them back on.

    Marilyn cast a dead and empty gaze out of the passenger side window, taking in everything and nothing all at once, unable to focus, her eyes the lenses of a broken camera.

'Jack would love this,' she sniffled. 'Riding in the police car. He loves cars, especially racing cars and police cars, any cars that go fast, really.'

R.J. smiled as he nervously picked at the dry skin around his lips.

'Yeah?' he stated, sounding more like a question. 'He sounds like a great kid, Marilyn. Maybe when we get him back, I could take him for a ride, if that would be OK with you?’

'That would be lovely, Sheriff. Thank you,' she beamed tenderly, before returning her head to the window. 'I remember when Jack was five and his father bought him a fire engine. He played with that thing for hours, rescuing all of his action figures and putting them on the back.' She laughed. 'He even made a little hose out of a straw and a balloon and squirted water everywhere. It was pretty clever, actually,' she recalled, grandly, but with a twist of painful hurt. 'The floor was soaking, but I couldn't shout at him, he was having too much fun.'

The three of them chuckled.

'What's his favourite car?' the sheriff asked.

Marilyn thought about it.

'A Mustang,' she answered. 'He has six different ones, all different colours. I'm terrible with cars, with makes and models, but he knows them all. He's a real little brainbox.'

'Ahh, a man after my own heart,' R.J. complimented. 'He sounds like a smart kid, I'm looking forward to meeting him,' he disclosed with courtesy and kindness.

Marilyn rubbed her hands together, not really warming them, but keeping them busy, all the same.

     'Do you have any children, Sheriff?' she enquired.

'No, I don't,' he replied, willingly. 'Me and the wife, I mean ex-wife talked about it, but it wouldn't have worked between us. We were going through a rough patch and we thought that it might have helped to bring us closer, or something like that, but it was a stupid idea, and we knew it.' He laughed at the memory. 'But I'd like to someday, I suppose. When I meet the right person.'

Sheriff Russell forced the cruiser up the hill and around the bend, pushing against the brunt of the wind, rain and the wet terrain, finally hitting a smooth enough road where he could belt it. 'But I have a little brother. He's sixteen years younger than me. That's like having a child, I suppose.' He laughed, observing Elwood in the mirror. 'Just what do you intend on doing with that shotgun you've got there, Elwood?' R.J. asked, half-jokingly, half serious. 'I hope you've got a licence for that.'

Elwood held his gaze upon the reflection of the sheriff and then looked across at Molly. He slicked his hair back and pushed his glasses up his nose.

'I don't intend to do anything with Molly, Sheriff. She's just here for protection. For self-defence, you know?' he remarked with a chestnut smirk.

The sheriff grinned, dubiously. 'Right you are, just keep that thing on a leash, I don't want any accidents, got it?'

'Yeah, got it, Sheriff.'

'Now, guys, I just want to clear a few things, so listen up. OK?' the sheriff ordered. 'Marilyn, I want you to stay in the car with Elwood, until myself and Officer Bennett have cleared the scene, OK?'

Marilyn agreed quietly.

'Now, I'm not saying it will, but if anything were to happen to the two of us, I want you two to drive back to town, back to the station. Notify Davies, Brewer and Langston, and get them to get in touch with nearby police stations, any way they can, even walk there if they have to. I don't want you taking matters into your own hands. Got it?' he finished. 'Marilyn, Jack needs you alive, not dead.'

FORTY-FIVE

Andrew's gun was aimed at O'Sullivan's head, right between the eyes. The bullet only had to travel fifteen feet to hit its target, but it was still risky. He kept his gun in place, his finger hovering over the trigger.

'Baby, are you OK, has he hurt you?' pleaded Andrew, keeping the stern tone to match his eyes.

Lizzy brought her stare from the floor, tracing the sounds of her father's voice until she found his face, the tears still running down her cheeks and into the crinkles of worry that lined her complexion. Her voice was firm, almost aged in the turbulent terror, in which she was an unwilling participant.

'He hasn't hurt me, Daddy. But he hurt mom. I'm scared, Dad. I'm scared.'

The sobbing returned, her salty tears dribbling into her open mouth as she winced in fright, feeling the gun once again pushing against her temple.

Andrew's finger slid in anger across the trigger.

'Honey, it's OK. Everything's going to be fine,' he promised. 'OK? Don't cry, baby, please don't cry. Can you be strong for Daddy, can you do that for me, huh?'

O'Sullivan wrapped his filthy arm around her chest and pressed the barrel harder against her temple, making her flinch. Sweet, yellow innocence trickled down the inside of her thigh, warming her shivering body. She closed her eyes, shamefully.

'How wonderful is this? Me, you, and your family. What a lovely fucking get-together,' O'Sullivan snarled, his sarcastic words sounding like a rabid dog, relishing in his own putrid evil. 'Where are the fucking keys to your car, Andrew?' he barked.

     'Don't you fucking talk to me, I haven't finished,' Andrew demanded, stone-faced, giving as good as he got, but feeling the irregular twinges pulling in his chest, just like last time.

'Julie, darling, are you hurt, what did he do to you?' he quizzed lightly.

Mrs Dunn let her arms swing loose at her sides, relinquishing her own grip. Giving in, she arched forward, rocking, losing it.

'Andrew, shoot him, just fucking shoot him. What are you waiting for?' she yelled.

     'Honey, calm down, everything's going to fine, OK, just don't do anything stupid. Please,' he begged.

Andrew's eyes searched the room, finding Jack next.

     'Jack, how are you doing, little buddy?' he investigated, tenderly. 'You hanging in there, little man?'

The blood had dried, marking him, leaving a streaky trail of pain down his face, a young man's war paint. He was cold, on the edge of going into shock, his hand covered the wound from his savage attack. His eyesight flickered, like the flame of a dying candle. Jack pushed his back up hard against the leg of the table, balancing himself with his spare hand. His weary voice crackled and spluttered its way through the clogging blood that he had swallowed at the back of his throat.

'Mr Dunn. I'm sorry,' he uttered, almost gargling. 'I'm so sorry.'

     'Don't be silly, Jack. You've got nothing to be sorry about. This isn't your fault,' he proclaimed, flicking his eyes back to O'Sullivan and then across to Julie. 'Julie, Lizzy. I love you both, very much. More than anything in the world. Whatever happens I just want you to know that, OK?' he vowed. Andrew turned to look at their captor, back to bargaining with the beast.

     'Let them go, O'Sullivan. You've got me. You don't need them. I'll lower my gun, just let them go,' he promised.

Julie sat up, flinging her falling torso rigid, her eyes wide with disapproval.

'Andrew, just shoot him. Just fucking shoot him,' she screamed.

'Julie,' snapped Andrew. 'Calm down, baby, I'm dealing with this. OK? Don't give him a reason to pull that trigger.'

'I'd listen to your husband, Julie, and keep that fucking mouth of yours shut,' laughed O'Sullivan, silencing them with his expletive interruption. 'The thing is, Andrew, you see, I don't need any of you, that's the fucking point here. All I want are the keys to your car,' he haggled. 'Now. Give me the fucking keys, or I'll pull this trigger.'

FORTY-SIX

The drive was not as bad as expected, it was a calm and almost soothing journey, down back country dirt roads barely wide enough for the Jeep to travel through. Together, all three rode in a mist of thoughtful secrecy, choosing not share anything aloud.

A lot of the rainfall was unable to infiltrate the dense overhanging branches and the clusters of leaves that coated them. They could barely hear the drops hitting the roof. The cruiser tore through the sodden road, churning up stones and grit, spitting them out like disregarded toys, its bulky wheels managing to travel with little resistance from nature.

     'How much further, Sheriff?' asked Elwood, startling the other passengers, stealing them from their unuttered thoughts.

'Well, we're making great time, better than I could have imagined, actually,' explained R.J. 'I thought the road would have been much worse than this. I can't be sure, but ten, maybe fifteen minutes.' He paused. 'Speaking of fifteen minutes, I should check in on Glenn, he should be there by now.'

He flicked the windscreen wipers on.

'Marilyn, can you get the radio out of the glove box, please?' he requested with an open hand.

Marilyn unlocked the glove box and picked out the radio that was resting on top of several books of parking tickets. She held it out.

Static.

'Sheriff, you there? It's Davies.'

The voice was deadpan, urgent, crackling through the static.

'Jesus Christ, talk about timing,' laughed R.J. 'Do you mind holding it, Marilyn, my hands are tied?'

'Yeah, of course,' she complied.

Elwood leaned in through the gap of the seats, wanting to hear what was being said.

'Yeah, Davies, it's me. Talk to me, what's going on?'

Davies spoke proficiently, with consideration.

'Boss, I've got the power up and running, the computers are back online.'

'Good work, Davies. I'm damn proud of you!' R.J. clapped, taking both hands off the wheel. 'Maybe we'll talk about that raise, huh?'

'Thanks, boss. Anyway, I looked up David O'Sullivan, turns out that he's someone else completely.'

'Well, spit it out, Davies,' R.J. bawled, his eyes fixed on the radio.

'David O'Sullivan is dead,' the voice trailed through the static.

'Dead?'

The three exchanged worried, breath-held glances. 

'Then who in the hell are we chasing, Davies? Tell me you've got something.'

'Yeah, I've got something, boss.' Davies cleared his throat, his finger still on the radio for everyone to hear. 'David O'Sullivan was eight when he died. It was a hit and run. Nothing fishy about the case as far as I can see. Standard protocol was followed by the looks of things. They never found who did it. I don't think the case is even active anymore.'

'Where are you going with this, Davies?' snapped R.J., his patience wearing thin.

'I'm getting there.'

Static.

'I dug a little deeper. David O'Sullivan's father is a guy named Walter O'Sullivan. I looked into his life. Boss, he fits the physical description.'

'What did you find, Davies?'

Elwood leaned in closer.

Marilyn shuffled in her seat.

'He was a family man, married, a lawyer, quite successful as well. He had his little own firm once upon a time, but it's in liquidation now. So I checked out the financials, it was going broke, unpaid bills, and rent. He turned up to one AA meeting, but I can't find anything else on that. All of this was before his son was killed. After David died, he had a couple of hospital visits with two separate psychiatrists, and a psychologist, but stopped turning up. He's got prescriptions for everything, boss, and I mean everything. Sleep disorders, mental disorders, anti-psychotics, mood swings, depression, the works. Looks like he took the death of his son pretty hard, boss.'

The three sat in a doleful hush, until R.J. Russell spoke.

'Yeah, I'd say so.'

Static

'That's not all, Sheriff.'

Static.

'Says here that he applied for a gun licence and got rejected. After that he went off the grid. I can't find anything. Credit cards, bank cards, cheques, property. Nothing. Not a fucking thing. He's a ghost.'

     'Jesus. Thanks, Davies. Does it say anything about his wife?'

     'I got a few things, nothing much. Her name is Katie O'Sullivan, although she's now using her maiden name, Harris. She lives at the house they bought together, bills paid on time, no debts, works part time as a school teacher.'

     'Good work, Davies. I want you to try and contact her, any way you can. Let’s see if we can find out some more about O'Sullivan.'

R.J. gestured for the radio from Marilyn and took it, holding it close to his face. 'Check up on the guys at the roadblock, Davies. See how they're doing, and try and get hold of the stations the other side of town, we may need them. Get his description out, this fucker isn't getting away,' he rushed, with uneasiness and fear clouding his voice.

'Gotcha, boss. Will do. And, boss?'

Static.

'Guys, good luck.'

'Thanks, Davies. Out.'

Static.