A short story from 2002 featuring some of the original Lineone Happy Hour users as characters.
by 'Wind Dancer', Dyan Scott.
This manuscript in no way means to harm nor insult the individuals of HappyHour or any other forum. any similarity to persons or events is purely coincidental. The writer is not responsible for actions taken based on the story.
© "Murder at Happy Hour 2" is copywrited by Dyan Scott, 2002. Any illegal use of said story will be severely prosecuted. Be advised.
Episode 1
The club's vinal booths curved into perfect C's around their patrons as laughter put light into the air. Over the hum of waitresses taking orders and other chat, Elizabeth Panerai watched Tee Hee, comic, take the stage for his third show in a five-show run. He was tall, with an expressive face and boyish eyes, but she knew he was a little less than innocent, especially when he got on a roll. Liz slowly scanned the audience for that reporter woman of his, that Sandra Peterson. She found her, two tables from the left wing, grinning with Tee Hee's sister.
Tee Hee set out his water, a tall, blue glass, to sit on a stool behind him and stepped up to the microphone, "Good evening." His voice came out whiny, like the class geek's. Sandra grinned knowingly and watched her long-time friend. He continued in this impression, "I'm going to tell a few jokes tonight, I-I-I hope you like them. It took me a very long time with very many calculations to get them to the optimum humor factor of 10.01." He grinned when the audience broke into laughter and cleared his throat to get his normal voice back, rich and dark, "Ladies and gents, tonight we have a presentation for you that I'm sure you'll enjoy. Some call me funny, some call me gorgeous, and some just call me Tee Hee." He paused for the quick roll of laughter, as he had practiced, "Let's get this show on a roll!"
Liz stood and watched from her place at the bar, laughed with the audience when he hit the high note of his show. She was nearly knocked off her stool when all at once the lights went and a shot rang out. She heard a choked cough and what sounded like a small creek burbling over rocks, and the lights flickered back on. Sandra's face drained white and she jumped the stage, not bothering to look for stairs. She ripped off her suit jacket and pressed it tightly to the wound. "Call for an ambulance, Liz, don't just stand there!" Liz was suddenly pulled out of her shocked stupor and dove for the phone. Meanwhile, blood dripped off the edge of the stage.
Episode 2
Sandra's eyes now red and blurry, she felt as though she floated through the hospital's doorway instead of walked. Tee Hee was dead. Memories flashed through her head as she drove back to her office on autopilot. She'd met him on a beach. Someone had hired him for a party she was attending. He still told the same jokes, she laughed, or did, anyway. They'd become friends over drinks, never becomming romantically involved. Sandra smiled faintly in the red gleam of a traffic light; they'd been the sort of friends who shared long phonecalls after midnight, dropped by with a pizza or some donuts just to say hi. But now? Now he was a corpse and she had the scoop of her life. Not only had she been witness to the crime, but she had the resources to figure it all out. The detectives, after a little flattery and wrangling, had been more than happy to give her the make of the weapon used. She'd start there. As a reporter, she knew the price of good media. Tee Hee had been her friend, yes, but he could also be her savior. Not that she wasn't already a good reporter, of course; this story could make or break her. And it was all hers. The police refused all the other media's questions, but hadn't known Sandra well enough to realize she was part of that group.
The car slid easily into the parking spot and she ran up the stairs two by two. In tennis shoes that squeaked on the linoleum, she grabbed a jutting corner and flung herself around into her Editor's office. He was there of course, as was usual for the Chronical's editor after midnight. Both palms slapped down on the desk, "This story is mine, Milton." Milton Wimpenny's magnified eyes shot up worriedly through his thick wire-rimmed glasses, "Oh, just you." He went back to his computer where here began typing again. He waved a hand, "What story?" "What story?!" Sandra scrubbed her hands over her face and then lifted on to swipe across in front of her, as though to imagine the headlines, "'Lights Go Out On Tee Hee.'" Milton glanced over at her again and then back to his screen. Frustrated, Sandra made a little sound, halfway between a scream and a groan, "Haven't you had the news on at all? Tee Hee was shot at The Last Laugh tonight. I was there. I want the story." Milton moved his shoulders in what could only be construed as a shrug of dismissal. "Whatever; it's yours. Leave me be, I'm trying to finish this for tomorrow." Sandra nearly jumped for joy, but, knowing her editor, she remained still, "You still have that computer geek's number? The one from Bowland's story?" He ignored her for a minute, then blinked curiously at her, "What?" She sighed, "Bowland's computer geek's number? Do you have it?" He half-gestured to the sorter and shrugged, "Take it, but go. I'm busy." Sandra snatched it from his desk and sprinted toward her office. Tee Hee's death had been a curse and a blessing, in more ways than one, she thought.
Episode 3
Linda Alexis opened up her morning paper, scanned over the headlines on the front page, and read the funnies. Finished with that, she tossed the page aside for her cat, Nijinski, to play with. She started to put the news down when her eyes caught the name of her brother on the second page. She frowned, looked closer. The headline read: Does Bowland Have the Last Laugh? Her eyes scanned hotly down the page, fists clenching the paper until it ripped in her hands.
Sandra heard footsteps, fast and hard, in the hallway seconds before the one and only Linda Alexis barged into her office, without so much as a knock. The newspaper knocked over a pile of notes as it slid across the wood toward Sandra. The news reporter's eyebrow went up, her eyes following slowly, "Did you need something, Miz Alexis?"
"This. Is. Garbage." Linda spaced the words carefully, holding them and her need to pull Sandra's jugular from her throat back from the edge.
Sandra's smile came, sharp as a knife, "I'm actually quite proud of it."
"Of this slander? My brother is in jail, Peterson. There is no way he could have done this--this shooting."
One hand reached luxuriously for the paper. She tilted it toward herself and scanned over the writing, "Where does it say that Mark did it? I don't seem to remember writing, 'Mark Bowland Commits Murder From Behind Bars.'" Sandra handed the paper to the seething woman. "The only thing that remotely pertains to your brother, Miz Alexis, is that the murder weapon was the same. Speculation," -Sandra was swathed in happiness- "is for the reader. My job is to point them in the right direction."
"You won't have a job when I get through with you, Peterson. You'll be out on the streets eating garbage worse than this filth," she slapped the paper onto the desk again.
Sandra smirked, "I could only be so lucky, as this looks prime to me. Enjoy your day, Miz Alexis, and look for the next segment on Monday. I'm sure you'll appreciate that one even more than this." And don't let the door hit you on the way out, she thought as Linda turned nearly purple and stormed out. Even after the door slammed shut in Linda's wake, she could hear the woman's shrill voice yelling at her editor. Sandra leaned back in her beaten chain and smiled. Yes, it was going to be a good day.
Episode 4
Peter Michael Jay took his seat next to the bar's staff and crew, knowing full well that it was after hours, and knowing full well they'd let him in on the gossip anyway. He sat next to Jill, who's leather jacket hung by one sleeve off the back of the wooden spindle chair. Also at the table were Tweetiepie, who'd slipped her shoes off after working the bar, Liz, who was doodling boredly on a paper napkin, and Weatherman, who'd had one too many nightcaps and would ride home with Tweetie.
Sandra Peterson, he mused. Ace reporter. Past articles flipped through his mind, things he remembered seeing or reading. She'd called him out of the blue to do a make on a gun. When he found the match with Bowland's first murder weapon, he knew instantly he wanted in, again. Of course, he'd offered his services as though he didn't want to help at all, and she'd near-begged him for his help. Women, he though with a smirk. He slid his concentration back to the task at hand. It was likely Tweetie knew all the village gossip, and there was bound to be something about the murder in the mix.
She bubbled excitedly, "And he's coming HERE! Imagine, the one and only Webrex doing a show from our hopeless little establishment. Oh it'll be grand! Reporters of all sorts, publicity more than when Tee Hee was shot. A living star's better than a dead one, or so they say."
Bingo, PMJ thought. "Did you catch the scoop in the paper on the murder, Tweets?" "Oh did I!" Her eyes widened as she continued, "That writer really ripped Bowland apart. And to think he's still behind bars. Jenny said that Lana said that Georgia said that Donna said that Linda had a fit over the whole thing. Stomped down and nearly took the writer out with her forked tongue!"
"Really?" PMJ leaned in closer. That was something Sandra hadn't cared to pass on.
"From what I hear," The Weatherman spoke up, "Linda is involved in that cult her brother started."
"Cult?" gasped Liz. "What cult?"
Weatherman waved a wobbly hand, "Something about nine writings, or was it writings of nine? Odd fellows are they. Sunshine tomorrow I'd think."
PMJ filed a mental note and smiled to Liz, "How about a brandy?"
Tweetie waved to the Weatherman as she dropped him off, "I'll be back in the morning and we can go get your car."
"Don't forget a raincoat, my dear," he twittered as he stumbled toward the door. Tweetie rolled her eyes and put her car into reverse to back down the drive. At the place where the road intersectioned with the driveway, she looked both ways for approaching headlights, then backed out. Like a shark to bait, something slammed into the side of her clunker, spinning it around in a 180. Tweetie's head knocked on the steering wheel, but her seatbelt kept her in place. She could smell gas, and wondering if it was hers, bent to unbuckle her seatbelt. The button on the lock went down, but she couldn't pull the harness free. Tweetie furrowed her brow and tugged, but to no avail. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a tiny white bottle. It looked like a bottle of eyedrops or... "Oh sh*t," she cursed and tugged harder. Superglue. Someone had filled the lock with superglue. Frantically, she looked around for something to cut the strap with, searching under the seats and beneath whatever she could reach with her feet on the floor. The smell grew worse. Panic welled in her eyes like tears when she saw the match. The man held it to his cigarette, smiled, and tossed it onto the liquid smothering the ground. The gas tank exploded on contact, giving Tweetie no time to scream.
Episode 5
"YES!" PMJ scanned over the literature on Bowland's cult. The internet had everything, he grinned, you just had to know how to find it. His eyes stopped on the embellished lettering, "Writings of Nine." Hmm, he thought. The keyboard clicked musically beneath his fingertips as he set three search engines on the subject. Dargolith set his golden head in PMJ's lap, his master automatically patting the retriever's head. Eyes scoured over the result. His eyebrows furrowed, he murmered, "Wordsmith, eh?" Darg sighed and sent one last longing glance toward his leash before laying down at PMJ's feet.
Meanwhile, Sandra smiled to Detective Druss from across his desk, "I wanted to interview you concerning the Bowland case and the newest string of murders, Detective, as Bowland was your case."
The Detective's shoulders snapped straight and he stood fast enough to tip over the orb paperweight on his desk, "Thank you for coming, Miss Peterson, but I can't help you. The case was closed a long time ago, and the new one isn't mine. You can go now."
Sandra stayed seated, "Detective, I don't mean to be rude, but Detective Knight had absolutely no objections to discussing the case. He even gave me copies of his files. I don't see why your back's up on this."
"It's not my case, Miss Peterson." His eyes darted to the intercom on his desk, "You can leave or you can be escorted out. Your choice, but my decision's final."
"Be that as it may," Sandra stood now, "decisions can always be changed, Detective. You just have to know the right people." She smiled evilly, "Who was your supervisor again? Oh," she waved a hand, "I'm sure I can find it for myself." She wrapped herself in her blue coat and nodded, "Have a good day, Detective."
Episode 6
"The first an enemy, cunning and aware, the second, a woman, heartless and fair. Number Three is a spotlight, shining blood. Four burns in innocence, lit against mud and Five twitters of white but is black inside. Never closing, Six's mouth is open wide. Seven runs, listening for lost love, Eight pushes himself up and above, and Nine watches, wonders, is a crafty spy. All in blood, The Master's Call, all must die." "Interesting," PMJ murmured aloud. The first had been Paul U.K. Atesiks, and enemy to Bowland. The second, Gina Panerai, who had been sleeping with Webrex behind his wife's back. Number three must have been Tee Hee, a spotlight, and Four, the waitress from The Last Laugh, Tweetiepie, who'd died when her car's fuel tank exploded. He snapped his fingers, he knew Tweetie was connected.
PMJ glanced at the phone. Should he call Sandra? A smirk lit his lips as he reached for the reciever, "Hello Sandra? I've got some info for you."
"Oh? Wait, let me get a pencil."He heard shuffling and a clunk when the phone base fell off the desk. A short curse came after that, then Sandra's slightly strained voice against in his ear telling him to go ahead. His smirk widened,
"Not so fast, Miss Peterson. If I give you my information, we're going to set a few ground rules in this relationship."
"Rules?" she repeated dumbly.
He tsked, "Of course, I couldn't let you take the rap for everything, could I, when I'm doing half the work?" He doodled a design on a pad of paper he had nearby, "Firstly, you will share all information you get with me. Secondly, I want a mention in the articles you write when we catch the killer. Thirdly, I want you to understand that if you cut me out, I'll find a way to ruin you. Got it?"
"Why the sudden change in heart, PMJ?"
He shrugged, even though he knew she couldn't see him, "I'm tired of being that geek or that person or that period. I want respect, Sandra, if we're working together." On the other end of the line, Sandra's eyes narrowed as she thought, He sounds as dangerous as this killer does.
"You got it. It goes both ways though, dude, because we can't be partners unless we work together. You give me your info, I'll give you mine. Any holding back and the deal's off, right then and there."
A pause stole the breath from her lungs. She felt as though she'd made a pact with the devil when he said, "Deal. Now here's what I've got..."
The shadows slid like oil around the open stage door of The Last Laugh. One shadow broke free and slid through the crack of light, darkening the doorway. It slid away and crept behind the soundboard crates. Webrex could be heard to the left of the stage, "I detest the way people hang on me. I always have some lowly makeup or bodyguard near me. Get away! Shoo!" A pair of bodyguards were shoved out the door, followed by a tiny girl weilding a blush brush and another with a can of hairspray. One body guard murmered something anatomically impossible and told his partner, "Let's get a drink. He wants to be alone, he can be alone." The second nodded and took a look at the girls, a low whistle escaping his lips. "Want to come?" The bodyguards and stylists disposed of, the door to the dressing room was eased open. Webrex lounged in a director's chair, one arm dramatically over his eyes. His white jumpsuit echoed Elvis's, minus the rhinestones, and his orange thigh-high boots matched the color of his pampered hair. A small sigh escaped him just before he felt the cord around his neck. Webrex gasped, "What the hell is this?" His hands flew to his throat and in the mirror he could see only a sillhouette of the offender against the dim lighting he loved so much. The pulse in his neck pushed against the cord frantically, as if it were trying to rid him of it too. He fingers pulled like they where trying to pluck a guitar, each time the pull weaker, the air less. He started feeling dopey, his eyes rolling back in his head, and a rough laugh escaped the shadow's lips. When Webrex's body finally went limp and the pulse puttered out, blackness walked out the front door, past the kitchen, where a quartet sat drinking.
Episode 7
Well, I'll be...Linda thought the next morning, after reading the newspaper, and, of course, Sandra's latest article. Webrex had finally gone down. After all of his lying, cheating stealing and ridiculous shows, he went down. But the Cult? What could possibly be his connection to the Cult? She shrugged it off and reached for the funnies. Her mind, however, drifted back to the poem published. Who was Six? A chatterbug... The only one she could think of there was Parsnip, but she was long gone in the beautiful sunny weather of some far-off island. Again, Linda shrugged and scanned through the Peanuts.
Sandra's socked feet slid into Milton's office, "I got it, I know what's going on."
Milton blinked at her, "You're not wearing shoes again. Even I can see that."
She rolled her eyes, "But you don't understand. If this is a Cult thing, that means there's likely more than one killer, which is consistant with the coroner's reports. His examinations point to two murders, not just one. Or several murders in two categories of height and strength, but that would take forever to figure out, so there's just got to be two. If Bowland had this list of people to kill--"
"That's speculation, Sandra. You don't know if Bowland has any part of this," Milton sighed and filled out the business address portion of an Insurance Form. "He's dead."
"And so are five others that point directly to him." Sandra's finger flipped rapidly through her notebook, "Look. Paul U.K. Atesiks was up against Bowland for gambling or something stupid. Two was Gina Panerai, whom slept with Webrex, who hurt his main bar attendee and friend. Three was Tee Hee, whom, I've found out, had a nasty run with Bowland for drug trafficking. Four, Tweetie Pie, aka Cindy Piestand, killed likely for her connection to Tee Hee and her knowledge of their Bowland and Tee Hee's workings together. Five, Webrex, already pointed out that Gina slept with him."
Milton sighed, exasperated, "And, so, if you can figure out who six through nine is, you'll be better than the police department, who's got about 20 guys on this same case."
"Exactly, Milton. This could be it for me!" She snapped her notebook closed, accidently bending a page.
"Sandra," Milton took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, "did you ever think that this *could* be *it* for you? It as in death? I mean, if this is dealing with a manic Cult, they'll stop at nothing to, one, protect themselves, and, two, finish the job that their 'master,' or whatever it is nowadays, started." He snagged a paper out of her book and recited, "'Nine watches, wonders, is a crafty spy. All in blood, The Master's Call, all must die.'"
Sandra scrunched up her face, "This was written before anyone knew me, Milton, while Bowland was still alive. I can't be Nine or eight, seven, etc... It's just not feasible."
"All right," Milton handed the paper back. "Just keep a look out, okay? Can't have my star reporter accidentally falling off the roof of some abandoned warehouse or finding a pointy fence piece to stick through her middle."
She nodded, grinning, "You got it," grabbed her papers, and shuffled out of his office.
Episode 8
Sandra was smiling as she entered the office building of the Chronical. Her feet had a slight skip to their paces and her new red heels clickity-clicked on the tiles, creating music. Her suit screamed confidence. She was sure she'd figured who the killers were. How ironic was it that her suit was the same color as blood? She smiled again, turning into her office. She pulled from her portfolio clippings of past articles, hers and others, the files from Knight's desk, and the ones from Druss's, her purple notepad which had a spider-chart on it, and three pens of various colors.
She sat, stretched, and got to it. Victims: Paul U.K. Atesiks, Gina Panerai, Tee Hee, Tweetie, Webrex, Linda. They were in two groups, as she figured there were two killers that Bowland's list called for. Both strong, but one was shorter. Mentally, she began pairing people that were close to the victims. She came right back to the same conclusion: PMJ and Druss. That would explain PMJ's want of control over their working together, and his exuberance when she asked for his help. Also, it would explain Druss's standoffishness when she asked about the case. Any other detective would be happy to help her, now that the case was wrapped. Sandra shook her head. Druss was about fifteen centimeters taller than PMJ. Both had connections to Bowland's murders as well as the recent ones. Both likely were connected to the Tales of Nine. Afterall, hadn't PMJ been the first to bring it up? Sandra shook her head, sighing. Should she confront him or take it to the police directly? She nodded when she had decided, and headed out the door.
PMJ glanced up when the front door opened. Expecting to see Sandra, he growled, "Don't you ever knock?" He had the lights down again, as he normally did at this time of the day, and his curtains drawn so he could work on his computer in peace. One lamp over the desk shown, but even its light seemed dank today. PMJ bah'd at Sandra, who politely shut the door behind her. An eyebrow quirked at her wardrobe, "Black's not your usual style, Sandra. Going artisan on me?" When she didn't answer, he looked up, directly into the barrel of a colt. His eyes widened as he looked up into the face.
A gravelly voice croaked, "Beg."
PMJ's eyes narrowed and he spit back, "You're a b*stard."
Brains hit the wall behind him not more than a second later and his head fell, blood running out the back.
Episode 9
Sandra knocked on the door again. Where was that man? She sighed and banged her fist against the door, BAM BAM BAM. "PMJ?" Hmming, she went around back, her heels sinking into the marshy soil. Maybe his door's unlocked back here, she thought. When someone opened the door and began to exit via the balcony, she called up, "There you are! Trying to sneak out on me?" A rock jumped meters from her foot and it dawned on her that the person was not the one she'd hoped for. Cursing, she ditched her new heels and ran stocking-footed across the clay, hearing pops spit behind her. She practically dove headfirst into her car, gunning the engine and driving as fast as she could to the police station.
"You don't understand," Sandra said as the cuffs clicked over her wrists. "I didn't do it. It wasn't me. Some jerk came out the sliding doors in back--"
"And what were you doing in the backyard, miss?" The detective asked, eyebrow raised.
"I was trying to get into PMJ's house. He wasn't answering the door."
A sigh escaped the cop's lips, "Did it occur to you that he might have--" "Been dead?" Sandra finished, angry. "Of course it didn't, you imbecile. I thought he was one of the murderers!" She stamped a muddy foot, "Meanwhile, the real one's getting away while you stand here and argue with me."
The detective clicked her cuffs tighter and pushed her to another uniform, "Keep an eye on her, I'm going down to the scene." No sooner did the detective leave than the phone rang. The uniform held it to her ear, a male's voice coming through, laughing, "Another one bites the dust, eh, Miss Peterson? Better watch those close to you, or they'll come next."
Her eyes went wide, the uniform regarded her curiously. Sandra mouthed "It's him" and the cop held it to his ear.
He shook his head, "Dead line. Hey Harry?" he called over his shoulder, "Can you trace the last..." He trailed off when the phone rang again and answered himself, "Police department, Officer Delrose on the line." His brow creased, "Yes sir, right away sir." Moments later, her cuffs were released, the cop looking dazzled, "That, was Detective Knight. THE Detective Knight! Can you imagine?"
"Yeah, sure, whatever," Sandra flew out the doors of the PD and drove back to her office to cross PMJ off her list of suspects.
"Milton! It's not PMJ at all, it's..." she slid around the corner of his office to find it empty. Odd, she thought, shrugging. "Probably went for lunch." Slower, she went to her office, which she'd skipped on her way in. Why did Knight have her released? How did he know she was there in the first place? Maybe Knight and Druss were in it together, she thought, but then shook off that thought. Too close in height. The coroner's reports had specifically stated that there were two killers of dramatically different heights, weights and body types. Druss was tallish, lean, a bit of a donut belly. Big feet, wide hands. She was looking for the exact opposite of that, she supposed.
Sandra shook her head at herself again, turning the corner of her office. BAM, she ran right into the closed door. "What the heck..?" She rubbed her sore nose and stepped back, heart beating. She never left her door closed, ever. From her purse, she pulled a handkerchief and placed it over the doorknob before turning the brass and entering the office. His throat had been slit. She could tell by the waterfall of blood over the other side of her desk. His shirt had been cut open and gouged into his back was the message: WATCH YOUR BACK SPY. Sandra stumbled backwards and to Milton's office, noticing now the disarray of his papers. Hers were likely ruined, she thought, which had likely been the killer's intention other than to fulfill the Tales. A shaky hand picked up the phone as she called it in, not caring if the killer was still in the building. Milton Wimpenny was dead.
Episode 10
Sandra was allowed back into her office two days and two thousand questions later. It had been scoured by the scene team, aka clean team, and smelled of formaldahide. She put her head on her beloved desk, not even glancing to where her computer had once sat. It was now an evidence locker somewhere. She was right that her papers had been ruined, but that didn't stop her thought process. She'd told the cops of Druss's involvement, and the evidence she had on him. He was brought in kicking and screaming the day before. It was later found that he had indeed had a hand in Bowland's cult. One killer down, one to go. Was it worth her life?
Sandra remembered the poem, which she'd played with so many times in her head. Eight dead. One left before they'd quit. She murmered aloud, "and Nine watches, wonders, is a crafty spy." She was dead anyway. "WATCH YOUR BACK SPY." Unless she caught him first. Sandra changed into jeans and running shoes when she got home, now determined to keep her life. It was no longer about the glory of catching the killer, but of stopping him from killing. She'd likely be famous if she caught him or if she died as the last victim. Wasn't that what she wanted?
She drove to various people's houses that evening, offering condolences and comforting words, interviewing without letting them know she was doing it. She stretched her neck and glanced at the clock on her dash. It blinked 9:30 pm. "One more," she yawned and stumbled up the path. Rubbing her eyes with one hand, she rang the bell with the other. A smile greeted her when the door opened, "Sandra Peterson! What brings you my way, young lady." He gestured her inside to a seat on the sofa. "Milton was murdered a few days ago," she sighed to the Weatherman. He reminded her of her grandfather. He looked aged, but strong enough to chop wood by himself. Smile lines around his eyes formed when he laughed.
The Weatherman nodded, "It was sunny that day, I believe. Good weather lately." Sandra nearly nodded as she accepted the tea he offered, but then thought twice. The ground was soft, her heels had sunk into the mud. The Weatherman was never wrong when it came to weather reports, but if it was mushy, it must have rained. Her eyes shot up. The Weatherman still smiled, but he removed a handkerchief from his pocket to polish the antique revolver. "Found me out finally, did you? Drink your tea, it'll be less sloppy if you do. I value my furniture too much to get blood on it."
She frowned, not exactly the happiest person on earth. Picking up the tea, she didn't drink from it, saying, "I don't have to ask you why you did it. I already know."
"You were always smart, Sandra. I enjoyed your articles very much." His smile was genuine, as though he enjoyed what he'd done, "Too bad they need to come to an end."
Sandra shook her head, "They don't have to. I'm the only one who knows about your involvement. You could let me walk out of here no problems, and I could keep writing."
He smirked, cocking the revolver, "So you can go to the police and turn me in like you did Druss?" One eyebrow winged up, "I don't think so, young lady. Drink."
She noticed that he leaned forward to watch her as she brought the tea up toward her lips. It was boiling still, making little bubbles on the surface. Sandra glanced up, then went for it. Tea seared his eyes. The Weatherman's hands came up to wipe at it. Sandra snatched the gun as it fell to the floor, holding it on him as his burned eyes blinked out poisoned tea.
He smiled innocently, "You wouldn't shoot an old man, would you, Miss Peterson?" He lunged. Sandra went to the ground, the gun skittering first across the carpet and then over the tile. He was much stronger than she was and pinned her in an instant, but in order to get the gun, he had to let her up and in order to strangle her, he had to let go of her arms. His fingers were too stiff to do it one-handed. Silently, he cursed arthritis.
She grinned, "What to do, what to do? I have a date at ten, Weatherman, and if I'm not there, he'll report it to the cops. There's a list on my desk of the people I'm making rounds too." Knowing she had won at least the verbal battle, she watched beads of sweat roll down from his neck and plop on her white blouse. "They'll pick you right up and you'll be giving weather reports to the inmates." He shifted then, crossing her wrists and holding them down with one hand while the other pulled the handkerchief from his pocket to mop at his face. To do this and not crush her, he had to widen his knee stance.
Sandra closed her eyes and brought her knee up as hard as she could. She heard the breath woosh out and twisted to make him fall to one side. Within centimeters of the gun, her ankle was caught and she went down again, hard, on the tile. Her feet kicked at the hand. He pulled her beneath him again, reaching easily for the gun himself, which was still cocked. Sweat ran more freely down the sides of his face, making pink puddles on her white shirt.
Pink? she thought suddenly. Blood. He had the gun pointed at her heart now. "Goodbye, Sandra." His finger moved the trigger back just slightly, his hands still stiff. Her heart beat in her chest. Come on, she thought, come on. Her eyes squeezed shut. The weight was suddenly completely on her as he toppled over, dead. The gun was between them, chest to corpse, still cocked, so she was careful as she pushed the body aside. Sandra reached down, picked up the gun and put the hammer down easy. Then, she picked up the phone.
Knight smiled, wrapping the blanket tighter around Sandra's shoulders. "The coroner says that whatever he put into the tea must have been soaked through his skin. You were damn lucky, Peterson." Sandra nodded.
Knight continued as the EMS worked on her cuts and bruises, "We found a list inside of cult members. They'll be picked up for questioning, but can't be held unless they had a direct tie to the murders. Chances are the cult will disband for fear of safety."
She shrugged, "That's good at least."
Flashbulbs began going off as the first of the reporters began to trickle in. Questions were shot as fast as bullets. Knight glanced to the EMTs, who nodded, and scooped up Sandra, running to his squad car, asking as he dumped her beside him, "Where to?"
Sandra took a breath, reminding herself to breathe, "Anywhere but here, Knight."