ACT 4
Darkness surrounded him. He tried to open his eyes, but realized they already were. Chase
tried to sit up, but a pain shot through him. At the same time he felt the tugging on his
right wrist and discovered that his hand was cuffed to something. He reached around and put
a hand on his head, rubbing the sore spot. He managed to sit up, and felt that he had been
lying on a bed. More like a cheap cot, as he could hear and feel the springs under the
mattress move with creaks and squeaks. He swung his legs around and set them on the floor,
rubbing the back of his head.
He pressed the illumination key on his watch and saw that it was just before eleven.
Thinking back to what time he had come home, he estimated it had been around 6 or so. He
tried to look around the room, but it was pitch black. He couldn't see his hand less than
a couple inches from his face. Then he heard footsteps, and the rattling of a key being
inserted into a lock. A door swung open, and the room was flooded with light. He held his
hand up, shading his eyes. A dark form was poised in the doorway.
"I see our guest is awake." Chase recognized the voice. It was Mark Atherton. "How's
that bump on your head?"
Chase said nothing. Mark took his hands from behind his back, and Chase saw that he
held something small, like a bag of some kind. "I hope you don't mind, detective, but I just
have to try my new experiment on you."
"What experiment?"
Mark set the bag on a shelf hidden in the darkness, and Chase could hear from the
rustling of things that he was doing something.
"A major new creation. One that will revolutionize the world of illegal narcotics.
You were no doubt perplexed when you ran drug tests on the two teens and the results came
back a very strange inconclusive. It compaired to no other drug, yet it was a drug." He
turned from the bag. "Ah, but it was a new drug. A new and powerful drug. A drug unlike
any the world has ever known. What kind of drug you ask? Good. I'm glad you did."
He picked something up off the shelf. The light from the outside hall glinted off
the object, and Chase saw what it was: a syringe. "This drug is an incredible creation.
It doesn't just give you act slurred speech and abusive behavior and all those cliched
drug effects. No. This drug is much more inventive. It does one thing and one thing only.
It plays on your fears. It gets into system, it gets into your brain, and it gets into
those far-unreachable corners of your mind where you lock away your greatest fears, and
it unlocks them. It feeds on your fears. Makes you experience them, up close and very
personal. And these are no ordinarly hallucinations. This is just down-right virtual
reality. I call it . . . NitroPhobia. Rather clever name for a drug, don't you think?"
Chase just sat on the bed, listening intently. The lighting in the room made the
scene look like it was right out of an old Hammer horror film.
"And it works. It's what killed the two teenagers, Eric and Susan. Well, in a way.
You see, Eric took the drug. Unknowingly, of course. It was slipped into his water at the
party. Yes, I remember the three kids who came in together. You see, Eric witnessed his
fear. The drug acted quickly on him. He started shouting about bugs crawling on him:
beetles, bees, spiders; all the nasty ones. The other people at the party, they just all
thought he was on something. And he was. But they had no idea what he was on. He was going
crazy. He had ripped his shirt off and was clawing at his chest, desperately trying to
remove his fear from his body. Susan, she was trying to stop him. The drug didn't take
right away to her. The third kid, the one you found, I gave him a sedative. I wanted him
for more.
"So anyway, the girlfriend was trying to get the boyfriend to stop. She grabbed him
from behind as he trashed around, holding onto his arms. But he broke free, and her nails
tore into his arms. She grabbed him again, this time on the shoulder, and he swung back
out of fright. He backhanded her in the face, and she fell away, her nails cutting grooves
into his shoulder, and slammed her head into the corner of the coffee table. Eric went
even more crazy and started running, and he ran head-long into the concrete fireplace
mantle. He died instantly."
Chase wanted so desperately to lunge up and beat him mercilessly, but the handcuff
was the only thing that prevented him from doing so. "You sick son of a bitch," he said
instead.
Mark laughed. "I had a feeling you'd say that. The other people at the party, they
were so worried about what was happening they left the house, and I took the bodies out
back. Now give me your arm, and you can confront your fears."
He reached for his arm, but Chase pulled away and tried to fight. Mark slapped him
hard with the back of his hand, then grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head up.
"Fighting will only make things more difficult for you, detective." He grabbed his arm.
This time, Chase didn't bother to resist. He turned his head as Mark inserted the needle
into his skin and injected the drug.
He took it out and pulled the sleeve down. "There. See? All done. Unfortunately,
there's no set time for how long the drug takes affect. It all depends on how well you can
control your fears. So I'll check back in an hour or so. Good night, detective," he said,
and left the room.
Chase was plunged into darkness. He laid back on the bed, feeling sore again. It was
only a few seconds before he started feeling light-headed.
August came into the bedroom, wearing sweat pants and a tank-top, and shut the door.
Kendra was atop the bedcovers with a book, wearing the green nightgown her husband had
gotten her for Christmas. She put the book down on her chest. "So is this thing over
between you two?"
August was laying out his clothes for the next day. "I think so. I'm so releaved."
"Well, I am, too. Since Frank got here the tension in this house was so thick you
could have cut it with a knife." August laughed, draping a coat over the back of the desk
chair. "So any luck on the case yet?"
"We're getting closer. The kid we talked to gave us a description of a suspect, and
we matched it to a professor over at UCLA. The kid claims he was slipped something at a
party that made him experience his fears, and this professor just, who the kid says was at
the party, just happens to teach psychology, with a special section devoted to the study
and understanding of fear."
"Really."
"Chase and I went over there and had a nice little chat with him. He denied it, of
course, but we got some more things we'll be checking out tomorrow. The guy is definitely
involved somehow." He sat down on the edge of the bed. "But I just can't stop thinking of
what Eric might of went through that night."
Kendra set the book aside and crawled forward on the bed, putting her arms around
him. "I know. It's hard to think about something bad happening to someone in the family."
He put his hands on hers. "I just wish I had known he was coming. You know, he could
have called and said he was coming out and he needed a place to stay for awhile. He could
have slept here."
"August, do you really think a teenager vacationing with his friends wants to sleep
at his uncle's house?"
August laughed. Sort of. "Yeah, right. But I just can't help but think about if he
had. It could have been different. It could have been so different."
He was quiet for a moment longer, and she laid her head on his shoulder. "Come to
bed, August."
"Yeah. I'm beat," he said, and kissed her. He pulled himself back onto the bed and
lifted the covers, sliding underneath as Kendra set the book on the night-stand and turned
the light off.
Midnight.
As the city slept, Chase McDonald feared. His breathing was fast, his face beaded
with sweat, his eyes wide. Everywhere he looked, he saw his fear. Even when he'd shut his
eyes, he'd see his fear. He couldn't block out the images or the voices. Nothing he tried
worked. Tears traced lines down his cheeks as he was bombarded by the one thing he had
always feared, more than anything else.
"You've failed me, Chase McDonald!" his father's voice boomed. "You've let me down!
You've disappointed me in ways I never thought possible!"
"I'm sorry, dad," Chase cried into his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"You're a disgrace! I'm embarrased to have you as my son! You've grown up to become
the biggest disappointment I've ever seen!"
"Dad, please. Please don't be angry."
"I am angry! I raised you better than this, and this is how you repay me!? Hu? By
being the most disgracful, most embarrasing, most biggest disappointment you can possibly
be? That's how you repay a father who always gave you what you wanted!? Is it?"
"Dad . . . " Chase cried hard into his hands, sitting at the head of the bed with his
knees against his chest.
"You are a disgrace to the family!" The emphasis was put on every word. "You hear me,
Chester!? You are the biggest disgrace this family has ever had, and the biggest disgrace
this family will ever have!"
Chase tried to say more, but the saddness he was feeling was just too much.
"That's it! Cry! Cry you're little baby eyes out, Chase! Cry! You're a wimp! That's
all you know how to do! Face it! The only thing you know how to do is let--me--down!"
No other words had ever made Chase feel more ashamed of himself than he did that very
moment.
The station was quiet the next morning as August walked in, coat slung over one shoulder.
He loved this time of day, early morning, before the calls started getting heavy, and there
was a relaxed feeling in the station. He hung his coat over the back of his chair and fired
up the computer. "Richardson, you see Chase this morning?"
Richardson was passing through with some files. "No, not yet."
August sat down. "I tried calling him this morning but just got the machine."
The other detective shrugged. "Maybe he was in the shower or something."
"Yeah," he said as Richardson left. He picked up the phone and dialed again, but
heard the same recorded message he had gotten earlier. Maybe it was just bad timing, he
thought. Maybe the first call had been when Chase was in the shower, and now he was on his
way to the station. He hung up and decided he'd give his partner another fifteen minutes
before calling again.
"Morning, August," Captain Jensen said as he walked up. He was walking with a brisk
pace, jacket in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
"Morning, Captain."
"Any new developments with your case?"
"Well, Chase and I checked out Atherton the other day over at UCLA. He denied any
knowledge of the events, of course, but I think he was involved somehow, or at least knows
more than he's letting on."
"What makes you say that?"
August just shrugged. "A hunch."
"You know, for some reason, when you say that, the hairs on the back of my neck don't
stand up like they do when Chase says that."
August laughed. "I'm just waiting for him to get here so we can discuss our next
course of action.
Jensen looked around. "He's not in yet?"
"No. I tried calling twice but got the machine. He's probably just running late. He
should be here soon."
"He's usually pretty punctual. Well, keep me posted on the case."
"Right, Captain." August looked at the phone again as Jensen left, then said, "Come
on, Chase." He picked up the phone and dialed again. "Where the hell are you?"
A square of light bathed Chase as the door was opened. He opened his eyes weakly, and could
barely make out the dark form of a person standing in the doorway. He swallowed, his throat
dry. He had a major headache.
"And how are we this morning?" Mark asked, leaning against the door frame. "Weak and
exhausted, I would think. So what was it like, experiencing your most greatest fear for
hours on end? A rejuvinating experience, wouldn't you say?"
Chase said nothing, but he doubted that he could say anything even if he wanted to.
As weak as his body felt, he didn't even bother trying to sit up. He could tell it would be
a useless task.
Mark nodded. "Yes, of course, that is the side effect of the drug. Once the drug has
done it's thing, it leaves you terribly weak. Of course, subsequent doses will make one
dehydrate. Oh. But you probably already know about that from the young man you found
wondering about in the streets."
"You're a . . . " Chase tried to talk, but he didn't have the strength for it.
"Excuse me?" Mark said, tilting his head forward slightly as if to hear. "What was
that? I thought you said something."
Chase just looked at him. Mark smiled. "Yes, you know. You know the full power of the
drug now, don't you? I have a meeting I have to get to, but I'll have Larry come in to
check up on you occasionally. I'll see you later, detective," he said, and shut the door.
Darkness returned to the room.
August hurried into Captain Jensen's office. "Captain, I still can't get ahold of Chase."
Jensen looked up from some reports he was working with. "Really?"
"I think something might have happened."
"You better go over there."
"That's just what I was gonna ask, Captain."
"August."
He turned in the doorway. "Yeah?"
"Be careful."
He nodded. "Sure thing, Captain," he said, and left.
Moments later, August was driving fast, the red light in the dashboard flashing and
the siren wailing. He tried to think back, but this was the one time he could think of
that he had used the siren for something other than a police matter. He cut through an
intersection, against the red, causing two cars to take part in a rear-end collision. But
August didn't look back. His mind was too occupied with other thoughts to worry.
He saw the Porsche as he pulled into the driveway. He climbed out and looked around,
but didn't see anything unusual in the immediate area, and walked to the front door. He
reached for the handle, and the door opened with hardly a touch. He got a strange feeling,
like a dozen needles poking at the back of his neck. Over the years, he had learned to pay
attention to that sensation.
He reached under his coat and drew his gun, pushing the door open with his foot. He
stepped inside onto the first landing and looked down the stairs. Bags of groceries were
scattered down the steps, and a chair was strangely positioned at the bottom of the stairs.
"Mac?" he said. "Mac, you here?" He took the top floor first, searching room by room,
yelling his partner's name. He returned to the entrance foyer and made his way down the
steps, careful not to step and slip on the spilled drinks and food. "Mac, answer me." He
searched the floor: the kitchen and dining area, the bathroom and the guest room, then
quickly headed out to the garage. Nothing.
He ended up in the living room, standing near the couch, and lowered the gun.
Larry climbed the creaking stairs to the second level of the warehouse and proceeded down
the hall. He knocked on the door as he unlocked it. "Wake up, detective. Check up time." He
twisted the handle and stepped in, and immediately felt something hard hit him in the back
of the head. Chase was too weak to keep his balance, and fell on top of Larry as he crashed
to the floor, out cold.
Chase grunted with pain as he tried to get up. He had managed to drag the bed over to
the door, and had been in position to drop Larry as soon as he entered. Chase had used the
baseball bat that Larry had struck him with, which he found was left in the room. Probably
to be used in case he got out of control while they were in with him. His right hand was
still cuffed to the bed, and the fall to the floor made the pain increase as his hand was
pulled tight.
On his knees, he rolled Larry over and began searching his pockets for the key to the
cuffs. He stopped for a moment when a sudden wave of diziness overtook him, but went back
to looking once it passed. He checked his pants pockets and jacket, inside and out, but
didn't find a key. He sat back against the bed, closing his eyes. Searching seemed to take
all his energy. The drug was powerful indeed, draining one's strength and energy. Mark must
have had the only key, and kept it to himself incase something like this happened while he
was away.
Chase opened his eyes as he thought of something. Slowly, he patted Larry's jacket
again. There, inside the jacket. He took out a small cell-phone. Once he had pulled it from
the pocket, he sat back against the bed, breathing deeply, resting his eyes. Then he opened
the phone and began dialing.
August's phone was ringing as he came down the hall. He quickened his pace. "Please be you,
Mac. Please be you." He snatched it up on the third ring. "Detective Brooks." Silence. He
listened, but couldn't hear anything on the other end. "Hello? Mac?" He could hear a moment
of breathing, and then it stopped. "Mac? Mac?" Whoever it was, it sounded as if they were
now gone, but the line was still open.
"Richardson." The detective came over. "Start a trace on this, quick. It might be
Chase. I don't know how long the line will stay open."
Richardson hurried to get to work.
"Mac? Mac, listen to me. If you can hear me, keep the line open. Richardson's running
a trace and we'll be there."
The seconds seemed to tick by like a year each. Three minutes later, Richardson came
running back with a sheet of paper. "August, I got it. It's over in the warehouse district."
"Mac, we're on our way. Stay where you are. We'll be right there." He hung up. "Let's
go, Sam."
The two detectives ran down the hall, dodging around station personel.
The door swung open with a kick, and August stepped inside the warehouse, sweeping it with
his gun. He made a gesture outside and stepped away from the door as Richardson came in
behind him. The warehouse was large, with a second story that had a partial hallway open
to the bottom level, and a set of steps climbing up alongside either wall. The place was
old, with a musty smell to it. It had probably been several years since the facility was
last used.
August made a hand gesture, and they split up, each heading toward either side. Large
suppot columns rose high up above them to the ceiling. There were several stacks of wood in
one area, and there were bits and pieces of old machinery scattered everywhere. Near the
back of the main level was a semi-maze of makeshift walls that had been erected to form a
series of separate rooms with open ceilings and windows.
Richardson stopped beside a table that contained an array of science equipment, from
bunsen burners to small and large glass flasks, with test tubes contected by a series of
small rubber tubes. For a moment, Richardson had a flashback to his seventh grade science
class room, taught by "Wild Eyed" Jack, as the kids called him, for he always seemed to be
a science teacher stuck in the body of a bad 50s monster movie mad scientist.
They checked around all the walls, but found nothing. August said, "Let's check the
top floor. You go right, I'll go left."
Richardson nodded and set off. August climbed the steps slowly, gun held high, every
few steps glancing back below. Across the warehouse, he could see Richardson climbing the
second flight of stairs. They reached the open hallway at the same time and walked down it's
length, heading toward each other. In the center they met, pausing on either side of a
second hallway's entrance.
August nodded to him, and Richardson quickly looked around the corner, gun held
straight out. He indicated it was clear. They proceeded down the hall side by side, checking
each door they came to. All were unlocked, and the rooms were empty. They were almost to the
end of the hall when they came to a door that was ajar.
They took position on either side, and August held up three fingers, then counted
down. Three . . . two . . . one. Simultaneously, they burst into the room, kicking the door
wide. "Mac!" August yelled, and rushed to his partner. Chase was sitting on the floor, his
head hanging down.
Richardson checked the other man lying on the floor. "He's alive. Out cold, though."
"Same here," August said, feeling Chase's pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief. "We
got handcuffs here. He's cuffed to the bed."
"I spotted a saw down on one of the tables." He left the room.
"Chase. Chase, can you hear me? Come on, Chase, wake up."
Chase slowly lifted his head, his eyes barely open. "August . . . "
"Don't talk, Mac. Richardson's getting a saw. We'll have you out of these cuffs in no
time."
Chase closed his eyes, and his head sagged down again.
"Mac? Mac!"
Downstairs, Richardson waded through the maze of walls until he found the work area
he had searched moments before. He saw the tool lying on the table and picked it up, and
turned around right into a fist that dropped him to the floor. The gun and saw flew from
his hand. Mark Atherton stepped out from the shadow of the adjacent wall and stood over the
unconscious detective, rubbing his sore fist. He looked up through the opened ceiling toward
the second level.
August was visibly worried. "Sam should've been back by now," he was saying. "I'll be
right back, Mac." He stepped out of the room and started down the hall.
He was a few doors down when Mark stepped into the hall at the far end and raised a
gun. "Detective Brooks," he shouted. August threw himself sideways as Mark fired. August
crashed through a door and landed hard on the wood floor. The floor beneath him creaked. He
heard footsteps running, and scrambled to his feet.
Mark hurried down the hall, gun leading the way. "I suggest you don't try to resist,
detective. It'll only make things worse."
He approached the room slowly and started to step in. The door slammed shut, catching
his forearm between the door and the frame. He screamed out, the weapon falling to the
ground. The door pulled open, and August came out from behind it. "I suggest you don't try
to resist, you son of a bitch," he said, and gave him a hard punch that threw him back into
the hall. "Because it'll only make things worse."
He came forward, and Mark kicked his foot out, tripping August. He fell backward and
landed by the bottom of the door. Mark got to his feet and charged as August got up. Mark
grabbed August as he rammed into him, and August grabbed him. They slammed down onto the
floor. August heard the boards creaking, straining under their weight, but they held.
"You'll be the next one," Mark was saying fiercely. "Your partner went through it, I
put those three kids through it, and now, I'll put you through it."
"I got one thing to say first, scumbag."
"What's that?"
"One of those kids you killed? He was my nephew." August swung with an upper-cut,
knocking Mark back off of him. August scrambled to his feet and grabbed Mark by the collar,
throwing him against the wall. Dust flew from the beams. "He was my nephew, and I hadn't
seen him in years. And now, because of you, I'll never get to see him again."
He turned and swung Mark away, but he grabbed August's sleeve and pulled him. They
landed on the floor again, and the boards gave way instantly. The two men crashed through,
screaming. August shot his hands out for something to grab onto, and managed to get a grip
on a pipe that had run through the floor.
Mark fell below him, screaming as he dropped away and slammed into a table full of
machineray bits, shattering it into an explosion of wood chunks. August looked down and saw
Mark's body lying at a twisted angle, then attempted to pull himself up. The pipe gave way,
and he almost felt, but something grabbed his hand. He looked up and saw Richardson
standing above him, struggling to keep his grip. "Come on, August. I can't do this all by
myself."
August took both hands, and Richardson hauled him up. They both collapsed onto the
floor. August was fighting for his breath. "Thanks, Sam. I owe you."
"Don't mention it." He held up a pair of bolt cutters. "Let's go get Chase out of
this dive before the whole place caves in on us."
August laughed, and they stood.
Within moments, the warehouse was crawling with cops. Mark's body was zipped up in a
body bag and lifted onto a gurney. Larry was handcuffed and lead outside. August stepped
out through one of the large loading dock doors that had been opened. An amublance was
parked nearby, the rear doors open. Chase was sitting just inside the back, being tended to
by a paramedic.
August walked down the steps toward the vehicle. "Mac, Mac. You scared the hell out
of me, you know?"
Chase was still somewhat weak, but appeared to on a fast recovery track. "Glad I had
you worried. Atherton?"
"Getting a free ride in the meat wagon." Chase laughed, weakly. "Get some rest, Chase.
I'll see you in a couple days."
His partner smiled his thanks. August returned the gesture and turned toward his car
as the paramedic continued his work.
The next morning, August entered the main terminal of Los Angeles International Airport with
Frank and Kevin Hunter. Both carried travel bags.
"Thanks, Detective Brooks," Kevin said. "For everything."
"You're welcome, Kevin."
Kevin walked on ahead toward the appropriate gate for the flight back to Chicago.
Frank set his bags down. "August, I just want to apologize for everything I've put you through
all these years."
"I've already excepted your apology, Frank."
"I know, but I think I need to apologize again. You showed me. You showed me that you
did make the right choice after all. And I'm proud to have you as my brother." He clasped
August on the shoulder. August smiled, and embraced him.
"You take care, Frank. A shame we couldn't have seen each other under more pleasant
circumstances."
"Yeah. I know." He stood back.
"Listen. This summer, I want you and Amy to fly out for a week or two. We can catch
up and talk about the good old days."
"I think I'd like that."
"Good. It's a done deal, then. No backing out now."
Frank grabbed his bag. "I better get going."
"Call me when you get in. Just so I know you made it okay."
Frank nodded. "I will. See you soon, August."
"Bye, Frank."
He smiled, and then turned and walked away. August watched his brother leave until
he had disappeared among the crowd. He headed back through the terminal and outside, where
he stopped to put his glasses on. He looked up at the sky and took a deep breath, then
crossed to the large parking structure toward his car.
| INDEX |
