. . . . .
Only a short time following lunch hour, a myriad of personal struggle swept over Chris. Chilling memories resonated within his mind as he reflected on the capture of Dale Creensteen and three others.
They’re all in there suffering — what a mess. I’m in deep kimchi.
The horrific images of each altercation flashed in front of him more and more often as his stress increased. Each one lent itself to a peculiar interest in blood and gore, leaving his mind wandering to unhealthy places.
It’s the contrast I love. Blemished and unblemished skin and the associated scrapes and nicks running amuck from their point of origin. Change the subject now. What am I going to do with the tunnel?
He threw a stress relief ball in the air in a repetitive motion. A slew of troubling thoughts left his conscience conflicted and shackled by Creeper Joe’s unrelenting grip. His mind raced.
I want eyes on it. If I get implicated in someone trying to escape while Joe is out and about doing whatever he does when he’s wandering, there’s no telling what trouble I’ll end up in. I’ve got a reputation to protect.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LIVEWIRE’s employer, Riverton A/V, did him no favors while comatose. Instead, they enabled him. He remained employed, even after his drunken incident. His gracious manager covered it up to keep the RGH contract afloat.
I’m not sure about this assignment. I have no idea what to expect.
Despite being months since he kicked his addiction to alcohol, the scar on Livewire’s forehead reminded him of his dangerous habit. Numbing the pain of his past through booze was no longer an option. Outleting his feelings and emotions via other channels would now be a requirement. Confusion and disorder remained a struggle for him, though — always finding some kind of solace in the hair of the dog. His issues further compounded themselves upon his awakening from the blackout on October 29th, 1982. Ignoring them to the best of his abilities, he ran from his unruly feelings. The booze had wrecked him. Still, he acknowledged his commitment to sobriety was essential to the next chapter. He pulled on the handle to Creepy Nights and took a deep breath.
I’m not ready to be back yet. It gives me the willies.
He entered the building and approached Nancy.
“Can I help you, Bob? I’m sorry. I mean… Livewire.”
He looked up at her and gulped before speaking, “Uh… Yeah… uh… Mr. Wilkerson… he… um… asked me if I would come to speak to him about another job he had for me.”
“Another job? Really? I don’t know anything about that.”
Get on with it. I don’t have time to waste.
“Okay,” Livewire said. “Well, can you please check with…” he gulped, “him?”
I can’t get the words out. Just a stomach bug. It’ll pass.
“Can I sit? I’m not feeling well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Sure, go ahead. I’ll call Mr. Wilkerson and let him know you’re here. Let me know if you need anything.”
He experienced the strange and queasy moments about once a week.
It’s just phantom withdrawal symptoms again. A medical professional would say as much, too.
Until this incident, he was at home and in bed during the overnight hours when the events occurred. This time was different, like a waking nightmare in his mind.
The subway tunnel collapsed in front of him as smoke overtook the space and surrounded him in a heaping pile of burnt ash. He smelled his skin as it burned.
Let me out of here. Let me out!
His mind ran wild.
I shouldn’t have lit the dynamite. Shouldn’t have done that.
He sat there convulsing as Nancy looked away, snapping out of it when she beckoned, “Mr. Wilkerson will see you now. Go ahead… around the corner, and to your left, you’ll find his private executive elevator.”
He entered the elevator as Duran Duran piped through the garbled speakers.
“Ugh. Euro-trash. I’m All American. Yep. Baby, I was born to run.”
He muttered to himself, “I know where the elevator is, genius. I wired the friggin’ thing up myself. Don’t you remember? I set it up so Chris could play whatever he wanted throughout the whole building. Speakers already sound like crap.”
Talk aloud to yourself like you’re mental. That makes sense.
Still feeling uneasy, he waited for a moment of clarity on the ride up.
His mind balanced.
There we go. Just in time.
Nothing had been the same since he sobered up. The elevator doors opened to Level Eight. Livewire had never seen much of the floor other than the select areas he installed the speakers and sound system before. Chris had not permitted it, remaining elusive and secretive.
Entering the vast area, he observed Chris’s empty desk in the building’s southwestern corner. Clutter overwhelmed the area as items and hotel furniture from years past remained scattered. The music from the elevator followed him into the room at an intolerable volume. He looked around to see if he could locate Wilkerson.
“Hello. Mr. Wilkerson? Are you here?”
The fool’s gonna blow the speakers out.
He raised his voice, “Hello! Mr. Wilkerson?”
Livewire walked toward Chris’s desk and sat down at the chair in front of it, assuming he would make his way over soon.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LIVEWIRE continued to study the disordered room full of old hotel furniture, movie novelties, and other miscellaneous objects, and his mind wandered.
I’m not gonna waste my entire day waitin’ on this guy. I got stuff to get done. Two minutes and if he doesn’t show. I’m out of here.
A short time later, Chris Wilkerson emerged, straightening his collar out and walking out with a superficial confidence. The pair shook hands, and Chris spoke, “Oh, I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Bob. I’m glad you found a seat. Let’s get down to business, okay?”
“Yeah. Sure. Sounds good. I prefer it if you call me Livewire.”
“That’s right. Apologies. Beneath my building is a large tunnel. I don’t know if you remember hearing much about the abandoned Riverton subway project before the
