The jarring crash reverberated up my stiffly locked arms and rattled my entire body. I fought hard to hit the brakes, missing twice before finally connecting with the pedal and raking my shin on the underside of the dash as I flopped around in the seat.
The vehicle bucked hard and plowed directly into the front counter, splintering the base and laminated top as it pushed it from its mounting place on the floor. I pitched forward on the second impact, and my face bounced against my hands at the top of the steering wheel. My breath was forced from my lungs, and I grunted hard as I was then lashed backward into the seat.
Intense quiet suddenly filled the passenger cabin of the vehicle. All motion had come to an end, and I was staring through the windshield at the dark interior of the front office area. I regained my breath and reached for my pocket where I’d stuffed the revolver before starting my run at the building. My fingers contacted the smooth surface of the weapon, and I tightly clutched my fist around it. Shouldering the door open, I climbed out of the van and landed unsteadily on a pile of glass and former countertop.
The engine was idling roughly-sputtering and choking as it fought to remain alive. The sharp odor of photographic chemistries mixed with the stale water funk of engine coolant. A cloud of steam was rising steadily from the front of the Chevy, and I could hear water splattering on the floor. In the distance to my back, I could hear Ben screaming my name. In front of me, through an open doorway, I could hear the muted strains of Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”
My body was already starting to ache, and I could taste blood in my mouth. I ignored it and pressed forward. Just over thirty seconds had passed since the van had first struck the windows. I was immediately worried by the fact that Harold hadn’t come running to investigate the horrendous noise. I was certain that he was here, and so was Felicity. Fear gripped me as I wondered about what he might have already done to her.
I heard my name called again, closer now. Ben was sure to be coming to stop me. There was no longer any time to think, there was only time to act. Picking my way around the debris I stepped quickly through the doorway and into the dark corridor.
I could hear the muffled sound of someone frantically rushing about intermixing with the low tones of the music, so I followed it. I heard the dying sputter of the van behind me as it gave one final cough before shutting down. My footfalls were echoing through the darkness at their own frenetic pace, and Ben’s voice was growing even louder. He would be upon me soon.
I met the door at the end of the hall at almost a dead run. I simply assumed that it would be locked. Whether it was or not, I don’t suppose I’ll ever be sure. At any rate, the discount-store-special pre-hung barrier gave way on the second strike. The luan-encased frame shattered at the handle, splintering loudly as the door swung inward on its hinges.
The pistol was stiff-armed in front of me in my right hand as I pushed through the opening and into the large, dimly lit room. My bad shoulder had been the battering ram for the door, and it now burned with absolute agony. My ears were filled with a rush of noise, and I realized that it was my own tortured scream as the pain blossomed outward.
The room was laid out as a studio. Light stands strategically placed with gel filters resting in holders. Reflective umbrellas perched at angles, pointing diagonally toward the ceiling in order to shower their bounced luminance back down onto the scene. Rolls of backdrop fabrics were suspended from a wheeled rack in a cascade, ready to be spooled out behind the subject.
In the center of it all was a chair, and in that chair sat my wife, clad in an ornate wedding gown and staring vacantly into space. A garish mask of makeup was painted onto her face, lending an almost plastic quality to her features.
“NO!” a distinct and vile male voice screamed from the shadows. “She’s MINE!”
I’d heard the voice before. I’d even felt the ragged insanity of it inside my own head. I twisted toward the words, and my eyes came to rest on Harold. He was standing twenty feet away from Felicity and twenty yards away from me, a camera in one hand and a cigarette protruding between the middle two fingers of the other. He stepped closer to the chair as if to protect a prized possession.
“Stay away from her!” I screamed at him, tracking his movement with the pistol in my outstretched hand.
I wanted him dead. I wanted him dead right now. But I had a huge problem and I knew it. He was far too close to her and I was a lousy shot.
“She’s MINE and you can’t have her!” he screamed back at me with crazed defiance in his eyes. “She doesn’t want you! She wants ME!”
If I was in a movie, I knew I would have a suitably dramatic line to deliver. Somehow, reality just isn’t quite like the movies. All I could muster was a hoarse scream of, “Get away from her, you bastard!”
I heard heavy breathing and the shuffle of feet behind me but didn’t turn. I knew full well who it was.
“POLICE! Step away from her now!” my friend’s stern voice ordered.
“SHE’S MINE! CAN’T YOU SEE THAT?! SHE’S MINE!” Harold screamed once again.
Ben was moving slowly forward. On the periphery of my vision I saw the muzzle of his nine-millimeter move into view. The tip of the sidearm was followed by his arms, which were locked into a rock steady firing position. Finally, the rest of his body filled the corner of my eye as he came alongside me.
As I directed my attention forward, I could see my hand shaking-the polished surface of the revolver flickering in the dim light.
“I’m ordering you to step away now, sir!” Ben returned, keeping his attention fully focused on Harold. In a quieter but no less demanding tone he issued a command to me. “Put the gun down before you get yourself killed, Rowan!”
“GO AWAY!” Harold demanded wildly. “GO AWAY, SHE’S MINE! SHE’S PERFECT AND SHE’S MINE!”
“Put the fucking gun down, Rowan,” Ben snarled at me again.
I knew he was right. I needed to heed the order and be done with this. In my mind, I knew it was over for me. Ben had control of the situation and he was the professional. The emotions that were driving me had no choice but to give wide berth to the reality of the situation. It was a given that I couldn’t pull the trigger and risk hitting Felicity. As much as I wanted this man dead, there was literally nothing I could do, so I started to lower the gun.
Or at least that is what I tried to do. My arm wouldn’t move.
“Rowan, Rowan, you’re the guy! You found our killer, now don’t be shy! We wanna make him suffer, don’t you know. We wanna make him die, don’t let him go!”
The angry ditty rang inside my skull, audible only to me and the cheering section that was chanting it. My hand continued to shake but never wavered from its target.
“Dammit, Rowan, we’ve got a problem here,” Ben hissed. “I can’t take this guy down if I’ve gotta worry about you shootin’ me in the back!”
I could feel my finger tightening on the trigger, and as I watched, the cylinder of the revolver started to perceptibly rotate.
“STEP AWAY FROM HER!” Ben ordered Harold again and then said to me, “Help me out here, white man. I don’t think this asshole is real stable.”
“I…can’t…” I managed to stammer before gritting my teeth.
It was taking every ounce of will I had to keep my finger from squeezing the trigger any tighter. The colors in the room were blooming in a kaleidoscope of contrasts, and my head felt like an echo chamber. An urgent voice bounced from every corner, riddling my brain.
“Come on, Rowan! Do it! Make him die!”
My entire body was shaking now. Harold was staring at me as if he was completely unaware of the guns that were trained on him. I looked past him at my wife’s slackened face and in the dim light saw a dark line running down her cheek. Even at this distance I knew it was a tear.