They got the son of a bitch, man. He turned himself in. They got him.
It was two days before Martin Weston was scheduled to face trial on a number of counts including kidnapping, sexual assault on a minor and attempted murder. To the surprise of the correctional officers who kept a careful eye on this particular inmate, he seemed to be taking this news with a degree of calm bordering on the catatonic. The only folks they could remember seeing who’d been so blissfully uncaring about facing the judge had been the really crazy motherfuckers.
Maybe that was it. Maybe the reason this guy was so cool about things was the fact that he was too nuts to ever get convicted of anything. That he knew he would be spending his time in a psych ward, pumped full of enough drugs to make sure he’d have difficulty being able to say his own name.
The Voice laughed to himself at this. The guards never actually told him any of this; they made it a point not to. It would ruin the carefully cultivated air of authority, to even tacitly admit that they could be disturbed by a lowly inmate. But he could tell. He could see it in their eyes, their furtive glances, the quizzical expressions on their faces. They weren’t scared of him and that he was fine; he didn’t really want that.
They didn’t, however, understand him at all. That gave The Voice an almost unhealthy amount of pride.
The Voice had been escorted into the visiting area, told to wait behind the plastic partition while the man here to see him was escorted through. After a moment’s wait, a man in an expensive, precisely cut dark suit was ushered through to the other side of the partition. He was tall, immaculately presented and handsome in a blandly anonymous sort of way. The Voice didn’t recognize the man but that didn’t matter. He imagined the man had given the guards some story about being his lawyer.
The Suit sat down, his ostentatiously expensive leather attaché case placed on the floor beside him. His voice barely carried above a whisper but the anger was obvious. “We expected at least some degree of subtlety from you.”
“Give me a break,” snapped The Voice. “I will not be lectured to, especially by some anonymous functionary. Our employers got what they wanted. If my methods don’t meet with their approval, well, that’s hardly my problem.”
“We cannot be placed at risk of exposure. You know that as well as I.”
“I have taken every precaution necessary. There is nothing to tie me back to our employers. You know that as well.”
The Suit snapped open the clasp on the attaché case, taking from it a single sheet of paper. He slid it over to The Voice who looked it over carefully and held on to it tightly, as though he could absorb its meaning through his skin. After several moments, he placed it back down on the table and slid it back to The Suit.
“This was not what I expected.”
“The end result is the same,” answered The Suit. “Or do you mean to tell me that you’ve changed your mind about our agreement?”
“Don’t be stupid,” snapped The Voice. “Our agreement will be carried out. Are you certain that everything is in place?”
“Arrangements have been made,” said The Suit. “Goodbye, sir. I trust I will not be seeing you again.”
The Suit snapped the attaché case shut, picking it up with one fluid motion and walking smartly out of the room. The nerve, thought the Voice. There were a million like him, all expensive Italian suits and gym memberships, German cars and Swedish girlfriends. And yet each of them thought that they were so special.
The Voice allowed himself a slight smile. The Suit had been right about one thing. They would not see one another again. And thank God for that.
It was one day until the bastard who had tried to kill her, who had tried to destroy her son…it was one day before he would begin the process that would see him end up burning in hell. For that, Alanna Marshall couldn’t be happier.
Which is why she couldn’t understand why it was so hard for her to get to sleep. She’d left Lance in bed and made her way to the front porch, hoping that some of the cool night air might calm her down enough so that she’d be able to fall asleep. The Ambien wasn’t working tonight for some reason and she wasn’t willing to risk taking another one. She’d tried before but it just left her feeling groggy and out of control…and when the nightmares had come that night, they had been particularly bad.
The nightmares had been coming less frequently as of late though they had still not disappeared. Her memories of that day were still somewhat fractured, though more of the holes were being filled in with each passing day. Unfortunately, that had been largely through the nightmares. At first, they had just been vague sensations. Heat, pressure, bad smells. Time, though, had brought with it the bastard’s face and voice…his voice, whispering in her ear about all the horrible things he’d done to Zach, all the horrible things he wanted to do to her…
“Hey, babe.”
Alanna smiled, glancing over her shoulder at the lumbering form of her husband who was making his way out onto the porch. “Hey, honey. I thought I was the one having trouble sleeping.”
“Not having a great night, either,” Lance replied. “I missed you.”
Alanna gave her husband a kiss on the cheek as he moved in beside her on the porch. “That’s sweet, baby, thanks. It’s just…I don’t know what. I’m feeling strange tonight.”
Lance wrapped his arm tightly around his wife’s shoulder. “You okay?”
Alanna sighed as she leaned into her husband, nestling in against his side. “No. I will be, though, I just…don’t know how long it’s gonna take.”
“How’s Zach been the past few days?’
“A little better. He’s been getting out a little more, playing with some of his friends. He’s even managed to start sleeping through the night again. The therapist also says he’s doing well.”
Lance nodded. He’d been surprised when Alex Pierce had slipped him a note recommending Doctor Mandelson but, so far, he seemed to be doing the job. “That’s good.”
The couple sat in silence for a few moments before Alanna gently detached herself from her husband’s embrace, gently ruffling her hand through her husband’s hair. “I still can’t get over this, you know,” she said. A few days earlier, Lance had come home from a haircut with a patch of hair on the top of his head bleached significantly blonder than the rest of his natural hair color. Lance hadn’t really had much of an explanation beyond “I wanted to try something different.”
“Seriously, babe,” Alanna giggled, “put some product in and this is some Jersey Shore level hair.”
“I dunno,” Lance smiled, “I don’t think I could get away with calling myself Lancey M. I do know I’ve got more reason to call myself “The Situation” than that schmuck Mike, though.”
“For sure,” replied Alanna. “And I will knock Snooki out myself it she tries anything.”
“No worries.”
Alanna sighed. “Is it wrong of me that I want that son of a bitch to suffer? I know we’re supposed to try and be better people but…I just want to be locked inside a room for an hour with a knife and that bastard tied to a chair.”
“It makes you human,” Lance replied, “Hell, I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about wrapping my hands around that bastard’s throat and squeezing until his eyes pop out. That’s why I’m going tomorrow and every day after that, to make sure that bastard pays for what he did to you and Zach.”
Alanna yawned slightly, covering her mouth with her hand. “I think the meds are finally starting to kick in. Wanna take me back to bed?”
Lance answered by sweeping his wife up into his arms, carrying her back into the house as Alanna giggled. Lance responded by jokingly threatening his wife that any struggling would be met him slinging her over his shoulder, earning him a thump on said shoulder in response. By the time the two had made their way back to bed, Alanna was nearly unconscious. Lance carefully placed her back into bed before sliding into bed beside her.
“I love you,” Alanna murmured, her voice thick with sleep.
Lance smiled, kissing his wife on the cheek before settling in beside her. “I love you too, baby.”
It was the day of the trial and Lance Marshall found himself wondering just what sort of color palette government buildings had to work from. From his limited experience, they tended to work on one of two levels. Either they stayed cold and industrial, with varying shades of grey. Or it was an overwhelming display of just how many shades of brown actually existed in nature.
Today was apparently going to be a brown kind of day, he thought, as he rose to his feet as per the bailiff’s instructions. With the judge now in place, things progressed along very quickly. It was a little over half an hour before the man accused of violating his child, of trying to murder his wife…before he was escorted into the courtroom, the shackles on his legs and arms jingling as he walked. He smiled brightly as he walked, continuing to do so as me was led to the witness stand. When he was finally seated, he looked Lance right in the eyes and waved.
It took all Lance had not to strangle him then and there.
“Raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“Oh yes,” answered The Voice, “most definitely.”
“You may begin, counselor.”
“Thank you, your honor,” answered the district attorney, a trim, well-dressed, slightly graying gentleman. Turning his gaze to The Voice, he asked “For the record, sir, can you please state your name?”
“No.”
There was a murmur of confusion in the gallery. “Allow me to rephrase that, sir. Is your name Martin Weston?”
“No.”
The murmur grew louder. The judge banged his gavel, the district attorney asking for permission to treat the man he believed to be Martin Weston as a hostile witness. All the while, The Voice just smiled and kept talking.
“That’s what’s really going to tear you apart. The fact that you’ll never know. That fact that someone could get so close to the people you love, do such terrible things to them…and you’ll never know who or why.”
The Voice paused briefly, grinding his teeth slightly. “And honestly? I find that the funniest thing in the world.” And he started laughing.
He continued to laugh despite the judge’s orders and the DA’s protestations. He continued to laugh as his lungs struggled to draw air and as blood began to fill his mouth. As he crumbled to the floor and his lips turned blue, it was if his laugh could still be heard.