Disclaimer: As much as I would like to own 'Red Eye', I don't. If I did, there'd have been a hell of a better ad campaign.
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Chapter 1, Take 2! Repost version!
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Quos deus vult perdere prius dementat: Those whom the gods would destroy, they first drive mad.
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Lisa was waiting patiently for the investigator to begin questioning when she remembered the dream she'd had while she'd been passed out.
She remembered it vividly. Hot breathing on her face, and a knife at her throat. A hoarse voice telling her to shut up and stop crying. Large hands shoving her into the backseat of her own car. Screaming and screaming, but no one coming to help her. Looking up, expecting to see her rapist's face, but instead seeing Jackson Ripner, an evil grin spreading across his face.
"What made you such a loner, Leese? Was it your parents' divorce? Aw, did someone break your heart?"
She shivered, and tried to push the memory from her mind. It was bad enough having dreams of that day in the parking lot…now, she'd have dreams of Jackson, too. She'd probably never get a good night's sleep for a long time. The only time she'd slept well in a while was the result of a head butt onboard the plane.
"Ma'am?"
Lisa practically jumped at the investigator's query. She'd been so lost in her own thoughts that she was almost shocked to see him standing in front of her.
"…y-yes?"
"Are you ready to be questioned?"
She nodded, trying to recover her composure. "Mm-hmm."
"Good." The investigator switched on the tape recorder, and Lisa watched as the tape in the cassette spun slowly, recording every sound that was made.
"Now, just go over everything that happened in regards to what happened on the plane, what happened to the Keefes, and anything else you think we might need to know."
Lisa nodded, and tried to think: where had it all started? Grandma Henrietta. The funeral. Meeting Jackson in the airport. She started from there, stumbling over her words and having some trouble keeping her focus. The alcohol really had gotten to her, and she had one hell of a headache. Still, she tried as best she could to tell the investigator what had happened, but she had the feeling she was forgetting things and getting them out of the order. She wished she could have done this sober.
Still, the investigator didn't seem to notice anything wrong, until she got to the part where she stabbed Jackson with the pen. "…and when the seatbelt sign switched off, he looked up at it, and I jabbed the pen at his throat, and…"
The investigator held up his hand to stop her. "Wait…so you're saying that this Jackson person is the one you stabbed with the pen?"
"Yeah…"
He frowned. "And this is the same man that you and your father shot back at your home?"
Lisa felt a little bewildered. "Yeah…why?"
"…you said his name was Jackson, correct?"
"…yeah…"
The investigator flipped through the pages in a rather large file that he was holding, and Lisa wondered what the problem was. "Ms. Reisert, we don't have anyone by the name of Jackson on file for anything involved in this case. When the paramedics picked up the man at your house, we found his Driver's License, his Social Security card, his passport, everything…"
Lisa looked confused, "Wait…so Jackson isn't his name?"
"Ma'am, by all indications, we're dealing with a man by the names of James Crane. When the paramedics got him, we found his Driver's License and his passport, and they both seem to be legit."
Lisa blinked. James Crane? Jackson must have been an alias…or maybe James Crane was his alias. Or maybe they both were. All she knew was that this was making her think too hard for someone dealing with a hangover.
The investigator continued speaking. "Ma'am, you wouldn't happen to know what his full name was, would you?"
She nodded, still trying to process this new information. "Yeah, he said it was Jackson Ripner."
The investigator stared at her incredulously. "Jackson…Ripner."
"Yeah."
"Jack Ripner. As in…Jack the Ripner."
Lisa blinked, then felt her cheeks begin to burn red. Of course the investigator was looking so skeptical. It sounded like an alias as soon as it rolled off her tongue. And, of course, she'd fallen for it. When Jackson…er, James…had told her his 'name', she hadn't suspected anything because she had no reason to. She'd just been sitting at a bar with a guy. Still, she felt mortified for not figuring it out sooner.
The investigator interrupted her thought process as he shuffled more of his papers and asked her to continue her story of the events. She continued as best she could, feeling all the more embarrassed, until she reached the part where she returned to the hotel.
"…and Cynthia told me that everything was OK, and we went to the bar for some drinks, and later the officer came to bring me here."
The investigator scribbled some notes onto a notepad. Lisa merely watched him, her head still pounding. She needed to go home and sleep. She was exhausted, she was in a daze, and she'd just gone through hell only a few hours ago. She really, really just wanted to go home.
The investigator finally looked up from his notes, frowning. Lisa stared at him blankly, inwardly pleading with him to let her go home. Or to at least let them break for coffee.
"Alright, Ms. Reisert, let me ask you a few questions…" Damn.
"Yes?"
"…how much, exactly, did you have to drink before getting on the plane?"
Lisa blinked. She hadn't expected to be asked that. "I had some of the wine at the funeral, and I had a Baybreeze at the bar before the flight."
"How much wine?"
Lisa thought for a moment. "I don't remember."
"Give me an estimate."
"…I honestly don't remember. I remember getting up to refill my glass a bunch of times, but I wasn't really counting…"
"Did you order any drinks on the plane?"
"No."
The investigator scribbled this down. Lisa frowned slightly. What did the wine have to do with anything?
When he finished writing, he turned over his page of looseleaf and began talking again. "Alright, then. Have you ever met Mr. Crane before in your life?"
Lisa shook her head. "No, never."
"And he told you his name was Jackson Ripner?"
"Yeah."
"When exactly did he tell you that was his name?"
"At the bar, while we were having our drinks." The investigator began to scribble even more furiously, and Lisa felt bewildered. Why was he asking these questions? She'd expected more questions about the Keefes and the missile, but he seemed to be obsessed with what she drank. She watched as he continued scribbling.
"Um, sir?" The investigator looked up at her, eyebrow raised. "I just wanted to know…what's the purpose for all those questions? I mean, about the wine and everything."
The investigator looked at her very seriously and seemed to be thinking something over. Lisa wondered if she'd said something wrong. After a few seconds, he spoke. "Ma'am…"
"It's just that…I mean, I really don't understand what that has to do with anything…"
"Ma'am, do you remember how that officer last night made you take a Breathalyzer?"
"Yeah, vaguely…"
"Well, after you passed out, we decided to get the results from it, even though you weren't a DWI. From the readings we got, you were more than fairly drunk."
Lisa's cheeks burned. "I really don't see what that has to do…"
"Ma'am, do how often do you drink alcohol?"
Lisa stammered. "Um…a-about once a week I get a drink at the bar around the corner, but it's only a Seabreeze or two, so I mean…I mean, I don't try and get drunk or anything, but I'm such a lightweight…"
The officer held up his hand to silence her, and Lisa stopped talking. "Ma'am, we talked to the two flight attendants on board your flight when they reported your little incident with the pen. One of them says your breath smelled like alcohol when you called her over to your seat."
"I told you, I had a Baybreeze before the flight…"
"And how intoxicated were you?"
"I..I hit my head on the luggage rack when I sat down, but that was it…"
"But the flight attendant could still smell your breath, even with Mr. Crane sitting in between you two."
Lisa finally lost her patience. "Look, I don't understand what any of this has to do with the Keefe's room exploding. Isn't that what we're supposed to be talking about?"
"Ma'am…"
"I mean, a man tries to kill the head of Homeland Security, he breaks into my house, he tries to kill me and my father, and here you are making me recite every drink I've ever had in my life?"
The investigator spoke to her calmly, not wanting to provoke her further. "Ma'am, just settle down. If what you say is true, then you have nothing to worry about if you just answer the questions."
Lisa swallowed and nodded, feeling a little embarrassed about her outburst. The investigator continued speaking. "We have to explore everything that went on last night, and that means everything. Don't think that Mr. Crane will get off easy when it's his turn to get questioned."
Lisa blinked. "You haven't talked to him yet?"
The investigator looked like he was starting to get annoyed, but Lisa didn't care. Why on earth wouldn't they immediately question him, the man behind all of this? Why was she such a priority when he was the one who had tried to kill the Keefes?
"Ms. Reisert, Mr. Crane had to go through emergency surgery for the two bullets lodged in his chest, along with the hole in his throat. From what I've heard, he's not going to be conscious for quite some time, not to mention unfit for questioning."
Lisa blinked again. "Oh."
The investigator shuffled his papers a little before continuing to speak. "In regards to your drinking, we just need to know about your level of judgment during all of these events…"
"But I wasn't drunk, I was just…"
"Ms. Reisert." The investigator's icy tone silenced her. She realized he'd finally lost her patience with her, but at this point, she really didn't care. This was too much…he was treating her as though she was the criminal. But she'd saved five lives, the Keefes' and her father's. Hell, if you thought about it, she probably saved a lot more, if you considered the fact that Jackson would have otherwise gone on to live a long life of killing other people…
Lisa sat there for a few seconds before beginning to talk again. "You think I'm a drunk, don't you?"
The investigator sighed. "Ma'am, I'm just asking you about what happened last night. Now, if you're willing to cooperate, then we can get things done much more easily."
Lisa nodded, but she still felt anxious. As the investigator continued talking, she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. "Alright then…when you were on the plane, did Mr. Crane mention what organization he worked for, or who it was that wanted the Keefes killed?"
Lisa shook her head. "He didn't say. He just said that he was doing what his clients wanted. He never said who they were."
More scribbling in the notepad. Lisa felt her headache worsen. Did this man do anything other than ask questions and scribble in notepads? The noise of the pen on the paper made her head hurt worse, and she probably wasn't going to be able to leave for quite some time.
Lisa listened to him write for what seemed like an eternity. What did she say that was so fascinating? What the hell was there to interpret? Was he trying to write down every detail of her life?
Jackson had probably made notes like these the eight weeks he had watched her.
Startling herself with the thought of Jackson following her, Lisa suddenly felt a bit more sober. She tried to calm herself mentally by reminding herself that he was in some hospital, unconscious, with two bullets delivered to his chest via the Reisert family.
The investigator finished, looked up, and began asking questions again. "Before your flight, had you ever met Mr. Crane?"
"No. I don't remember ever seeing him before."
More scribbling. "And you met him at the airport when one of the passengers began to complain to the airline worker."
"Mm-hmm."
"And you didn't know until you got on the plane that you two were going to be sitting next to each other?"
"No."
Again, the scratching of the pen against the paper. "I see…" Lisa's headache pounded inside her head. She was tired. She was hungry. She just wanted to go home.
Well, at least she wasn't thirsty. The tequilas apparently were good for something.
"Alright, Ms. Reisert. Next question: did you know the couple whose car you took when you left the airport?"
Lisa blinked. She'd forgotten about stealing that SUV. "No."
"Alright. When you spotted the man at your father's door, did you attempt to speak to him at all, or try and figure out who he was?"
"No."
"…so, essentially, your first instinct was to run him over with a car?"
Lisa was taken aback a bit, and stammered for words. "Well, I mean…when we were on the plane, Jackson-er, Mr. Crane had told me that his associate would be sitting out in a silver beamer in front of the house, and when I saw no one in the car, I just sort of…panicked, I guess." As the investigator jotted down more notes, Lisa realized how bad that must make her look to the police: before even trying to figure out who that man was, she'd rammed him head-on with an SUV.
"When you stabbed Mr. Crane with the pen, he was very angry, correct?"
"That's an understatement. He was furious."
"How furious?"
"Well, he chased me through the airport and followed me back to my house. I think that counts as pretty damn pissed."
"Alright, then…what about your little tryst in the bathroom?"
Lisa blinked. "Our what?"
"One of the stewardesses onboard the flight says that a young girl saw both of you enter the airplane's bathroom together, then heard loud thudding noises. Two of the stewardesses saw you leave the bathroom, and heard Mr. Crane say, and I quote, 'Thanks for the quickie.'"
Lisa's eyes widened. Oh shit. She hadn't realized…but of course that's what they'd think. A man and a woman going into a stall together would seem suspicious, wouldn't it?
This made things even worse.
Lisa tried to swallow her disgust at the thought of her and Jackson doing…that before she replied to the investigator, who seemed almost amused by her reaction. "You…y'see, I told him that I needed to go to the bathroom, and when I went in, I tried to write a warning on the mirror with soap, but he followed me in, and…and…"
"And?"
"And he got angry, and he started throwing me against the wall, and…"
"Are you saying he raped you?"
"No, no, but he threw me against the wall and told me to stop trying to warn people and to stop risking my dad's life, and then…then…" She didn't want to mention the scar. She couldn't. Things were too confusing already…and she didn't want them to know. Besides, it had nothing to do with Jackson or the plane.
"And? What did he do next?" The investigator watched her calmly, and Lisa felt frustrated for not being able to see any hint of an emotion on his face.
"And then he washed off the soap, and he pushed me out, and we went back to our seats." Lisa stared at the table, not wanting to look at the investigator's face anymore.
"I see…"
Lisa sat there, staring at the table for a while as the investigator wrote more notes. When he finished, he began putting everything he'd written into a folder, and as he opened his mouth to speak, Lisa spoke again. "You don't believe a word I've told you, do you?"
The investigator sighed, then looked at her straight in the eye. "Ma'am, you have to understand the position the police are in right now. A missile hits the Lux Atlantic Hotel, right where the Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security is staying with his family. Meanwhile, we're getting frantic calls from the airport about some guy getting stabbed in the neck and a couple whose car got stolen. At the same time, the 911 operators are telling us that a man got run over in front of your house, and that someone's in there trying to kill you."
Lisa's temper flared again. "But I explained everything! I told you exactly what happened!"
"Yes, you gave us your version of the events. However, right now, we have very little evidence that would indicate that Mr. Crane is, or has ever been, involved with any kinds of terrorist organization. From what we know, he's some sort of loner from near Tallahassee. Used to work for some dot com company, but he bailed a few months before they went belly-up. Retired at age 25, thanks to said dot com company. No record of criminal activity, except for an incident in high school when he trashed the car of some kids who'd been giving him a hard time. Had to take anger management courses for awhile. Parents are dead, has a brother that he never talks to that works as the head of an asylum. All in all, nothing overly suspicious."
Lisa continued to protest. "But that doesn't mean anything, he could do all sorts of shit behind the police's back..."
"…On the other hand, there's you. You, who got drunk that day at a funeral and got drunk later before the flight, who stabs a man in the throat, steals a car, and then kills a man by running him over with the stolen car. You, who, when the man you stabbed came back in a rage, shot him with the gun of the man you ran over with the car. And when the police come to get you for questioning, they find you drunk to the point where you pass out in the police station. And when I ask you questions, you tell me a very unlikely, very hard to believe story about how the man you stabbed and shot is really the one we should be arresting. And when I continue, you seem to get overly upset about questions regarding what happened." The investigator looked at her, and Lisa felt her heart sink. "So, tell me, Ms. Reisert, what am I supposed to believe? What story am I supposed to go with?"
Lisa said nothing for a few seconds, and she tried her best to not cry or scream at him. "I saved the Keefes…anyone will tell you that I was the one who called the hotel to change the Keefes' room…"
"Yes, but you were also the one that switched them into that room in the first place."
"But I saved their lives."
The investigator sighed. "Yes, and that means that we don't have enough evidence to build a case against you. But we also don't have enough evidence to build a case against anyone else."
Lisa just sat there, not knowing what to say at all. The investigator glanced at her before continuing to speak. "We still have a lot to do. We have to find out who exactly it was that was standing in front of your house, we need to talk to Mr. Crane, and we still haven't questioned the hotel staff." He sighed again, then put a rubber band around all of the notes in his file. "You can go. But we'll probably need to bring you in for more questioning later."
Lisa nodded, and as she stood up, she felt sick to her stomach. This was insane. Looking back on it now, of course it looked bad for her. She'd stabbed a guy in the throat, stolen a car, driven over another guy…
But she'd saved Keefe. Didn't that help her case at least a little?
And Jackson…oh, wait, Jim. Jim Crane. Lisa mentally yelled at herself. Jackson Ripner. Of course it was a fake name. No wonder the investigator had looked at her like that. It made sense that he wouldn't tell her his real name if all he was going to do was hold her hostage. In fact, it was the obvious thing to do, and she'd fallen for it. Hook, line, and sinker.
She sat down on a bench outside the police station and let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. This was insane…everything that had been happening seemed almost surreal. And the investigator seemed to think the same thing. But it was real; it had happened. Did they think that a missile had hit the hotel by a coincidence?
She suddenly remembered that she hadn't checked her cell phone's voice mail for hours. She instinctively reached for her purse, but was startled to realize it wasn't there. Then she remembered. Jackson had put it with the luggage so she wouldn't use anything in it against him. She'd left without it, so it must still be on the plane…actually, come to think of it, the police probably had it after that incident with the pen. They might use it as evidence.
Her dad must be worried sick. He'd probably called a million times since she'd left the house. And since she hadn't picked up any of them, he was probably losing his mind with worry. Especially after what happened the other night.
Lisa groaned when she realized she didn't have her car with her. She could ask one of the officers for a ride…or she could call a taxi. Instead, she decided to kill two birds with one stone and call her dad for a ride. At this point, she didn't really feel two comfortable getting into a car…a closed, claustrophobic area…with a stranger.
After Lisa had found a payphone, she dialed in her father's number. The phone rang several times, and Lisa found herself feeling anxious. Why wasn't he picking up? She reassured herself by reminding herself that not picking up on the third ring didn't mean anything.
It was funny, in a way. Their roles had reversed. Normally, it was her dad who panicked if she didn't pick up right away. Lisa couldn't think of a time when she'd been so worried about her dad picking up the phone.
Oh, wait. Yes, she could. On the plane, when Jackson had told her about his associate outside his house. When he'd showed her the wallet with 'JR' stitched onto it. When he'd told her about his associate sharpening his knife.
"Does he sound healthy to you?"
Lisa shuddered. She didn't want to think about Jackson right now. She would see his face enough in her nightmares.
Suddenly, her father's voice sounded into the headphone. "Hello?"
"Dad!"
"Leese! Where are you? I've been trying to reach you for hours now, but your cell phone never picked up…"
"I'm really sorry. I left my cell phone in my purse on the plane…"
"That's okay, as long as you're alright. Is everything okay?"
When he asked her that familiar question, Lisa could feel herself starting to tear up suddenly. She surprised even herself. She'd held back all of her emotion from the flight and the questioning, but now it just seemed to burst out of her. No, everything was not okay. She'd been held hostage on a plane, she'd been attacked, a man had tried to kill her and her father, and now the police thought she was a crazy alcoholic. Nothing was okay. It felt like nothing would ever be okay.
Her dad must have heard her crying over the phone, because the next thing he asked her was, "Lisa, what happened? What's wrong?"
"The police…the police brought me in for questioning, and they think I'm crazy, Dad…"
"Leese, no one thinks you're crazy…"
"Dad, they came to get me while I was drinking with Cynthia, and I was plastered. I passed out in the police station, and now…"
Her dad tried to hush her as Lisa sobbed into the phone. "Leese, where are you right now?"
"Outside the police station."
"I'm gonna come get you, alright? I'll drive you home."
"Thanks."
He hung up, and for the next few minutes, Lisa just stood there, holding the phone in her hand and sobbing.
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"Check into the Hotel Bella Muerte
It gives the weak flight
It gives the blind sight
Until the cops come…
Aw, sugar
Slip into the tragedy you've spun this chamber dry"
- 'The Jetset Life is Gonna Kill You'