Authors: Rick Simnitt
“Although they did leave me with a little memento,” he added as an afterthought, rubbing his now scarred left check. “‘M’ for ‘Marcuse,’ I would imagine. A token one of his hired thugs gave me just before the plane helped him use the knife on himself.”
“So Nancy was right, the amnesia was because of the trauma of being taken, and thrown off the plane, all by your only brother,” Lissa surmised. “Of course the trauma of the hypoxia and probable concussion sealed it.
“But what was so important about this document that he couldn’t risk you exposing? And what has all this got to do with me?” she asked.
“I know this will hurt, but he needed your father’s connections, which is where you came in. His manuscript, as cliché as it might sound, is his plans on taking over the world. Meet the new and improved Adolf Hitler.” Drake answered snidely.
“Hitler was a simpleton!” Stanton roared defiantly. “I simply wanted to provide the world with a better answer to its healthcare crisis. Everyone else simply complains about how bad things are getting—I have answers. With my plans no one would have to suffer and die because of greedy insurance corporations and unscrupulous HMO’s.
“Simply put, people would no longer need to worry over their medical choices. We would provide them with what is best, removing the possibility of failure. That way we would lose no one, everyone would win. Is it really so wrong to get a little credit if I save the world from themselves and their ignorance?”
“I’ve heard that argument before,” Drake said dryly. “That guy was banished forever, and became the most miserable being of all time.”
“Don’t mock me, Drake,” he threatened menacingly. “You may be my biological brother, but you will never be like me. You will never be a Stanton!” Marcuse, the pseudonym of Darrion Stanton, reached into his backpack and pulled out a small package of explosives and a several strips of duct tape with which he attached it to his baby brother.
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Tires screeched as the unremarkable brown sedan leapt into motion in front of the Stanton mansion. Giving barely a sideways glance as he entered the street, Bill gunned the car ahead, the engine screaming in protest. Sweat freely ran down the arms and back of the driver as worry and heat pounded at his tense muscles. Instinctively he knew this was their final chance to save their friends and stop Marcuse/Stanton from unleashing his evil upon the world. If only they were quick enough.
Out to the freeway they drove, neither man speaking, completely absorbed in their own thoughts. The engine roared, carrying the would-be rescuers to the distressed victims purportedly floating down the Boise River. They had already exited Interstate 84 and were headed down Vista Ave. when Jack got the second call.
“Looks like some kids got kicked off their raft by some gun-toting madman,” he explained. “Sounds like Marcuse is right behind them.” He scowled angrily at the news, fearing he may be too late to save the couple from the man who was the center of so much evil. He thought again of his wonderful wife lying forever changed on a hospital gurney, an innocent victim of Marcuse’s wickedness.
Bill struggled to coax more speed out of the abused engine, fighting with the Saturday afternoon traffic. Cars were everywhere, everyone absorbed in their own world, oblivious to the drama happening in their midst. Anger at their selfishness hovered above his head, barely controlled by the understanding of their viewpoint, and even somewhat eager to preserve it. Just not right now!
Finally they found their way through the jumble of vehicles to the bottom of the hill and turned into Ann Morrison Park. Heading down the lane toward the center gathering place, they jammed the car in park, and jumped out the doors. They raced to the slope just above the bridge, through the assembled mass of floaters and revelers, getting to the water only to see a lone rubber raft floating toward them.
Walking out into the water Bill grabbed the raft and pulled it onto the shore, checking it over for clues to its history. He examined it, next to Jack, but found nothing unusual except a rash of red dots along one side.
“Blood spatter,” Jack announced, pointing the red field. “The report said that Marcuse pistol-whipped one of the boys before they got out of the raft. It appears they are on foot. Dall said that Drake and Lissa were in a metal canoe, so keep an eye out for it. I bet he forced them out of the water somewhere upstream.”
He looked down the river, then on both sides, seeing dozens of places someone could have pulled off. They could easily pick the canoe up and carry it wherever they wanted. Making a quick decision he looked over to Bill, pointing to the opposite shore.
“You take that side, and I’ll take this. Stay as close to the water as you can, and stay with me, that way we can stay in communication since we don’t have radios.”
“I have my cell phone, we can just keep in touch with those,” Bill offered.
“No, I’d rather keep it free, just in case. I don’t know if they have any way to contact us, but we may as well leave our options open. Now hop over the bridge there and let’s get started.”
Painstakingly the two trudged down the shore searching for clues to the whereabouts of the three, picking their way through clumps of trees, climbing over fences, and even occasionally walking through the water itself. The sun beat down on the two, drying their throats and burning their exposed skin, producing buckets of perspiration.
Finally the anxiety and stress, coupled with the weariness of the search, forced Jack to sit and rest. He sat down on the sloping shore of the river, feet mere inches from the water, trying to think of how to find the trio more quickly. The water rippled and gurgled before him, its quiet roar mocking him with its silence, hiding what it knew from him. The musty, slightly fishy smell of the traveling water goaded him with the lure of promised peace and tranquility, the antithesis of their current situation. He shook his head and looked across the teasing water noticing Bill had also stopped and sat down directly across from him, the narrowness of the river close enough to call to each other.
“We’re running out of time,” he called across. “I can just feel it.”
“I agree, but what else can we do?” Bill concurred.
“I don’t know,” Jack responded glumly. He pulled a handkerchief out of his rear pocket and mopped up the accumulated moisture on his brow. “Maybe we could call in the Search and Rescue chopper. At least….”
His voice dropped in anticipation at the jangle of his cell phone. He disconnected the piece from the belt clip and pushed send to accept the call. After a rushed greeting, he just listened intently, without speaking, a deep frown creasing his forehead. A moment later he pressed the key combination to mute his end of the conversation and excitedly jumped to his feet calling over to Bill.
“It’s them,” he announced excitedly. “I can hear their voices, but they aren’t talking to me directly. Sounds like a big struggle, lots of grunting and cursing. Wait, I can hear Marcuse talking, saying something about goodbye and San Diego…”
His commentary was cut short by the sound of two gun shots, followed a moment later by several others.
*
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Marcuse stepped up to Drake and with his free hand dispassionately ripped open the younger man’s shirt, still holding the Beretta on his victims. He then took a length of precut duct tape and strapped a cube about two inches along each side to his chest. He then produced a small rectangular black box with a single gray button in the center of the front, depressed the button, and grinned widely at the two.
“One of the greatest wonders of the Internet,” he explained, “is the ubiquitous information on how to find and build an amazing assortment of items. Things such as where you can get your hands on untraceable cell phones and handguns, or even plastic explosives. It also tells you how to create detonators and triggers, like this small wonder here.” He walked over to Lissa and thrust the black box into her right hand, forcing her thumb onto the button, then stepped back, grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“You see,” he gloated, “the box you are now holding, Lissa, is a very simple triggering device. Once it is depressed it is armed, and when you pull your thumb off it will trigger. You might say you’re holding your fiancés life in your hand!” He laughed maniacally at his joke, walking over to his backpack and producing an identical box, strip of duct tape and triggering device.
He returned to Lissa, spun her around, pulled up the back of her shirt, and strapped the twin box to her back. He then depressed the button on the box, which looked much like a garage door opener, and took it over to Drake, thrusting it into his right hand.
Fixing Drake’s eyes with a malevolent, icy stare, Marcuse leaned closer until their faces nearly touched. Through clenched teeth muttered, “Now you will see what becomes of those who dare mock me. You may have slowed me down, but you will never win!”
He backed up slightly and added, almost cheerfully, “Besides, trying to get what you want from Lissa will only cause you pain. I should know, I worked on her for months and this is how she repaid me. If I were you I’d let her go quickly, put her out….”
He didn’t have a chance to finish the thought before Lissa cracked him with a branch that had been sitting next to the fireplace. He hadn’t seen her slink over to the stack and return, so intent was he on gloating over his supposed victory. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make again.
He whirled away to his left, receiving only a glancing blow down the right side of his head and shoulder. He raised his right hand intent on bringing the gun down against Lissa’s exposed cheek, inflicting blinding pain without killing her. Fleetingly he hoped it would even cause her to lose her grip on the trigger and rid the world of his little brother.
He swung his arm down, heading straight for the side of her neck, but didn’t make it, the hurled body of his brother crashing into his back, sending the three of them crashing to the ground.
Frantically Lissa clutched the remote trigger to her breast, afraid of losing her grip on it, leaving her completely vulnerable on her right side. She landed painfully on her tucked arm, and slid harshly across the sunbaked ground, shredding her exposed skin. She felt something hard slip out from under her side, but took no notice, too caught up in the horror surrounding her.
She was terrified of Darrion. His predilection toward self-aggrandizement pushed him to use violence as a means of fulfilling his goals. If only she could have hit him squarely with that branch she found stacked near the fire ring! She turned over onto her back, cradling her torn arm, searing pain throbbing through her with every heartbeat as she watched the nightmare before her.
Drake rolled over quickly and hopped back to his feet. He searched frantically for the gun. Desperately he searched, praying he would be quick enough. He still held the hated trigger in his right hand. He was determined to give his life before loosening his hold on the abhorrent box. Still he couldn’t find the firearm. Out of the corner of his eyes he noticed that Marcuse was starting to rise, raging like a dangerous bull absorbed on destroying those who dared defy him. Despair hit him like a punch in the gut as he saw his older brother still held the accursed weapon.
Knowing he had to do something before Marcuse got his bearings, Drake lowered his shoulders and rammed the still rising form in the midsection, sending both men flying. Together they landed, rolling across each other, one right hand gripping a small black box, the other a steel instrument of destruction.
Back and forth the two rolled, each grappling for the gun. Drake was handicapped by his constant pressure on the trigger in his dominant hand. Marcuse also had the advantage of his greater strength. Curses could be heard coming from the upheaval, as well as moans and cries of pain as one or the other landed a hit or kick. In the end the advantages won out, with Marcuse on top, straddling his nemesis.
Wiping the blood trickling from his injured mouth with the back of his right hand, Marcuse spat, spewing more blood into the air off to his left. Turning back to his brother he swore loudly, cursing at the other’s interference and affliction. Depraved wrath sparked in his eyes as he spoke. Pure evil radiated in his countenance.
“I told you I will always win Drake! Did you think your puny little mind and impotent morals could ever compete with my genius! Never! I am greater than you or your precious woman over there could ever be. Someday the world will come to understand that. The will kneel before me in awe and adoration. My plans will continue, just somewhere else. I’ve had my eye on Phoenix.
“Now it’s time to say goodbye, little brother. It would have been so much more enjoyable to watch the two of you blow each other up, but I guess I’ll just have to speed things up. When you’re dead, you will release your trigger killing her, then you too will be destroyed beyond recognition, while I walk away unhurt. Oh, and by the way, when I finish with you two, I will have to kill all of your friends as well. All victims of your foolish bumbling. You should never have gotten involved. As I said before, you should have just stayed in San Diego with Mother.”