CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Day two at the FBI office upgraded to miserable, but now Alex sat at home, and though potential still existed, the chances of him being criminally, or financially culpable for Charles' death appeared minimal.
He had showered and eaten in preparation of watching Rebecca Trevino's, Inside Today. Recently, he'd been tuning in every weekday at eight. Hers seemed to be the only news program that argued multiple sides. She often inserted hard facts, showcasing data that proved the Lobby's safety. That didn't mean she avoided speculation or debating ideas. However, she might be the only reporter withholding rants about Lobby horrors.
Melted into a leather couch in the main floor library, Alex relaxed in a pair of Broumgard sweat pants, a stretched-out T-shirt, and devoured Oreo's two at a time. A square foot, in the bottom right of his television, swiped through photos of Rosa. She could smile a hundred different ways; all of them gorgeous. He longed for the approaching day when things cooled, and he could be the man she deserved.
Today's episode brought the potential of Charles's autopsy report. He wondered if its revelations could sway Rebecca Trevino from her current faith in everything Lobby.
Channel surfing displayed a replay of Peter's earlier news conference. Even though Alex had listened to it a dozen times that day, he increased the volume.
"Allow me to dispel a series of rumors," Peter squared his shoulders to the podium, his skin looked youthful as if coated in make-up, his voice boomed. "Charles Arnold was not a depressed man. He, like thousands of others, was an over medicated patient; a victim of big pharmaceuticals' exploitation of our elderly citizens.
"The baseless smear against my client, Alex Cutler, is the media scourge at its best: sensationalizing fiction to gather ratings. Since media is about profits, my hat's off to them. But I'll address the sensible people of this world: Alex Cutler is as kind a man as you will ever find. The Lobby, as it has been for seven public years and many others prior to that, is conclusively safe."
The crowd cheered at that, spiking Peter's excitement. "And here's a little inside information to sensationalize: the forthcoming evidence will supports my words." Even louder, "this fraudulent charade is almost at an end, the Lobby will be reopened within days."
Big applause. An uproar as he screamed: “YOU HAVE MY WORD.” A nearby reporter, apparently caught in the excitement, withdrew her microphone, and clapped.
Alex grinned half-heartedly as he flipped back to Inside Today's hosting channel.
He craved her show, yes, but he didn't neglect other news programs. He couldn't get enough of the lunacy. Panic crept in as he suffered through commercials. Some of the theories hypothesized by the media were so diabolical and ridiculous, he pitied the reporters, knowing they had missed their true calling as authors of paranormal fiction.
The most common conspiracy stated Alex had been silencing men before they went public about an unspecified danger posed by the Lobby.
With fluctuating lines of conjecture, every few hours some tech blogger nailed the truth. When that happened, Alex switched the channel or cut off the television and snacked. Hence, his bloated abdomen.
Tingling with anticipation at tonight's episode, and as its ensuing drama approached, he leaned forward, grabbed the glass of whole milk and downed a two milligram Ativan that Roy's doctor prescribed him on the fly.
His choices seemed to be medicate or hit the booze and, regardless of the doctor's advice, he'd been considering a regimen of both.
Inside Today's soundtrack blared. A montage of Rebecca reporting in various dramatic scenes started each program: a barrier village in Nairobi, an overcrowded prison in the U.S., the war-torn streets of Gaza.
Even though he judged through the lens of a camera, Alex put her at an average height. Her strawberry blonde hair, angled jaw line, and firm body were as much a trademark as her strong diction.
During the program, he often believed she spoke directly to him. After nearly every episode, he considered calling her to schedule an interview. As if also detecting Rebecca's subliminal missives, Tara had texted her support for him giving an interview that previous night. This morning, his attorney vehemently condemned the idea, reminded Alex to relax, guard his house, Peter had everything under control.
Per the norm, Rebecca reviewed the night's topics and, as expected, they were all Lobby related.
"Pardon me," Victor said, his voice overtaking the program.
"A commotion upstairs has drawn the attention of your security staff."
Commotion? Alex popped the cube of cheese he held into his mouth. He chomped down, dismissed his nagging worry. Luke's team treated every oddity like an invasion. No intruder could access his second floor.
The two Sheriffs' deputies who had stayed outside his property, now patrolled his house every hour. They had finished their latest round minutes ago. Rosa remained at the beach house. Glen worked until ten. Arnel should be clocking out any moment. Since none of those people ventured onto the second floor without permission, and with a commercial coming on, Alex prodded further, "What sort of commotion?"
A tickle of worry caused him to sit up, wedge his feet into slippers, snag an Oreo. He hoped whatever constituted "commotion" didn't cause him to miss a minute of Inside Today.
"Glen Daniels is attempting to access the Lobby."
Without taking a bite, he dropped the cookie and jumped up, knocking his knee on the edge of the coffee table. Limping out of the library, he rubbed at the pain. There had to be some mistake. Glen had specific instructions to avoid his room.
"What's he doing up there? I thought I told you to block all access.”
“You instructed me to monitor activity. Wielding a bucket and cleaning supplies, Glen stated he had been tasked with disinfecting the access room. I granted him the authorization on that pretense. He proceeded to interact with the control panel. I alerted security, and you.”
What was that kid thinking? Alex increased his pace. He had given Glen the control panel password: Eridu873Simon, months ago, instructing him to visit the Lobby at his leisure. Obviously, that amenity disappeared with the Lobby ban. Unless some grand excuse presented itself, Glen risked his employment.
Feeling too sluggish for an all-out sprint, Alex clipped into the back hall near the kitchen at a jogger’s pace. One thing about a home encased in thick glass, acoustics traveled great distances. He heard a man running along the intersecting hall, reaching the stairs, and climbing as he relayed he’d “be on site in four seconds.”
Despite the narcotic coagulant Ativan provided, Alex’s heart thumped. His throat burned as if he breathed air from an Arctic winter.
Rounding the stairs, he saw a security officer charge into his room. With the thick glass door left open, Alex abandoned hopes of a simple misunderstanding.
Urgent shouts from multiple men rooted him in indecision at the base of the stairs. Sweat beaded his chest and lower back. A train delivering a mental break chugged closer. Hating himself for having thoughts of closing his eyes, covering his ears, and returning to the library, he steeled himself. If the issue orbited around Glen, his rapport with the teenager might help disarm the situation. He attacked the steps two at a time.
Entering the master suite hitched his breath, increased the beating of his heart. The room’s generous length elongated as if viewed through a fun-house mirror.
A security officer in the black and gray polo shirt all of his men wore stood half in the access room doorway, another tense member poised at his six. Both had weapons pointed inside. Alex noticed the second man held a stun gun, but the first man’s grip disappeared into the access room. Hopefully, he held a taser as well.
“Put it down!” The first man yelled into the access room.
Put what down? Alex felt pulled forward as if drawn by the gravity of an unseen mass. What could Glen lift in the access room?
“It’s going to be all right,” the first officer said. “Just put it down, let me see your hands.”
“Go to Hell, moron.”
Stopping, Alex tried to reconcile the angry bark’s source. It sounded like Glen, but he’d always been so quiet, so passive. As confirmation settled, a frost pebbled Alex’s skin. Had Rosa’s suspicions been warranted? Did Glen represent a danger?
Pushing past the officer blocking the door, Alex stepped into a dense atmosphere. Sound ceased, smells spiked: body-heat, sweat, the room’s lavender air-freshener.
Glen half-sat in the middle chair. One foot rested across the leather, the other touched the floor. Rage evident on his face. The danger of the situation heightened by the Kyocera carving knife held against his far wrist. Its presence was the alien in the room. Those ceramic blades offered the sharpest edge in the industry. Cutting metal, no problem. Slicing through flesh and arteries offered resistance equivalent to a cold breath.
Blood trickled from a nick in his wrist. Not the spewing torrent of a severed artery, but Alex knew, to blast a geyser of red, Glen only needed to apply pressure.
"You stay back!" Glen yelled to the security officer.
"Glen, it's Alex." A glance, brief eye contact. "Calm down, man." Alex inspected the control panel. The counter ticked down. Fifty-two seconds remained. "Tell me what's going on."
Finding Alex, the kid’s eyes narrowed to dark slits. “I know. So cut the bullshit, Mr.Cutler. I know. If you die while connected to the Lobby, you live there forever. I know that’s what happened to Roy and it’s why Charles followed.”
One of the security members behind Alex mumbled something to the other. Alex wiped his brow.
“You think I’m going to stay in this bullshit world, with assholes like you, when I have options?”
Alex pushed aside the inaccurate claim of asshole, and considered refuting the Lobby claim. Accepting it takes a sociopath to hold onto a lie in the face of undeniable truth, he stayed quiet, checked the clock. Thirty-five seconds to move Glen the necessary fifteen feet away from the chair.
“What’s going on in here?” A new voice barked.
Alex almost identified it. If only he paid more attention to his staff—like Rosa, who sent them birthday cards each year; mailed their children presents—he would know the personalities of the men around him, how to utilize each. Concentrating, he felt the connection nearing, and then it registered.
The doctor! Yes, that had been the voice of a bona-fide doctor. He had even heard the wheels of the cart as it arrived.
With a doctor on board, if Glen splayed his wrist open with a foot-long razor, his life could be saved. Meaning, they could either drag him away before he entered the Lobby, or keep him alive and welcome him back to the real world when his vacation ended.
That had to work. Alex wouldn’t survive the scrutiny of a teenager committing suicide in his home; not death number three. It would be the domino that toppled his existence.
“I gotta do it, Mr. Cutler. You know I do.” Glen said. “Once people know the truth, they will close the Lobby forever.”
“Just relax, for one second.” Alex stepped to the side to allow a clean line of sight for the first officer. He checked the timer: eighteen seconds. He locked eyes with the nearest officer. “Stun him. Do it now. Shoot him.”
“What?” The guard stepped forward, pushed the weapon closer.
Glen looked at the clock. “Don’t do it.” He pressed the blade’s edge into his arm. The trickle of blood became a stream. Fear danced in his eyes, boosting Alex’s confidence.
“Someone taze him.” Alex shouted, furious they hadn’t listened the first time. “There is a doctor here. Even if he gets in the Lobby, we can keep him alive.
No sooner than he said it, Alex realized the folly in disclosing the logic. He should have let the kid cut himself; allowed him to drop into the lobby, relied on the top-notch medical professional to keep him alive. Since no one had fired, and with Alex giving away his strategy, the script flipped.
In a blur of hand movements, Glen adjusted his grip so he held the handle with two hands, pivoting the blade’s tip until it touched his sternum, dead center.
“Don’t do it.” Alex launched forward.
The Kyocera pointed upwards at a forty-five degree angle, primed to slip under the chest plate, sink directly into the heart.
From the corner of his eye, Alex saw the timer: eight seconds. He hoped an officer realized no medic could save an impaled heart.
Alex’s first foot planted.
One Mississippi.
He prayed the kid lacked the conviction, just enter the Lobby healthy, give him a break.
Two Mississippi.
Alex heard the pop of the stun gun. Victory coursed in him. When the prongs connected, the current would follow; they’d both survive the ordeal.
Glen must have heard the shot as well, for his eyes hardened.
The muscles in his forearm bulged as he pulled the blade inward. The sharp point glided through shirt and flesh as if the two layers were its natural sheath. Ceramic grew wider as it plunged.
A dark glob oozed around the blade.
Alex saw Glen twitch as the prongs of the stun gun connected, heard the current kick in.
Blood belched from Glen’s mouth as he convulsed.
Alex checked the timer.
Two Mississippi.
Glen’s trembling hands slipped from the handle as his eyelids drooped.
One Mississippi.
The image of an impaled young man seared into Alex’s mind, to linger forever.
Alex’s hands connected with the kid’s ankles, yet before he yanked, Glen’s eyes bulged to grotesque proportions, his body went limp—the signs of a successful transfer to the Lobby.
The officer grabbed the blade handle and the doctor yelled, “Don’t touch it!”
The pooling pattern of blood widened.
Alex heard a slow exhale escape Glen’s bloodied lips. The copper heat of it wafted over his senses. He released the ankle.
Allowing himself to be pushed to the side, Alex fought a growing fatigue.
The doctor rushed past.
Alex glanced around for a place to sit.
They were too late.
Glen had entered the Lobby alive, was now dead.
All the money in the world couldn’t stop this from going viral.