01. For Whom the Bell Tolls
[Dreams = Italics]
- Midland, Michigan – Mid-afternoon
The news shook the small neighborhood of Blackriver Lane. A killer was wondering the streets, after attacking that woman and her son. Women of the neighborhood gossiped, firmly believing it was an ex-lover of the woman's. He was angry at her for leaving with their baby and lashed out rather violently.
It was ridiculous, really—no one knew much about them, that woman and her son. They kept to themselves and the boy was a sweet, gentle soul. The gossip the women spoke of seemed cruel; mean-spirited.
But the question still remained: who would attack them so ruthlessly?
* * *
At the nearby hospital of Mid-Michigan Medical, two men dressed in well-pressed black suits stepped up to the front desk.
"Excuse me, ma'am?"
The red-haired woman looked up from her computer. One of the men—a foot or so shorter than the taller man beside him—took something out of his coat and flashed the shiny badge to her. Her green eyes widened.
"We're with the FBI," he said quickly flashing his white teeth as the man beside him showed her his badge. "I'm Agent Striker and this is my partner, Agent Summers." The two men placed their badges away. "We're here to see someone named Bridgestone?"
The woman, obviously a nurse, looked at them solemnly before shaking her head. "I see you heard about the attack. Katherine Bridgestone," she said, "didn't make it. Her wounds were so severe." Striker frowned lightly while Summers let out a deep sigh. "But her son survived the attack."
"Son?" Agent Summers echoed. "She has a son?"
Looking though the archives on the computer, the red-haired nurse nodded. "Yes. He just got out of surgery two hours ago." The taller man looked at his partner who looked back at him with the same dose of confusion written on his face.
"I see," Agent Striker murmured. "Could give us his room number?"
The nurse looked at them as she sighed gently. "The boy's been through a lot..."
The taller man nodded. "We understand. We'll be brief." He watched her take out a notepad from her coat pocket and quickly scribbled down the room number.
"Room 606," she said once she was done. "It's on the second floor."
The men nod as Agent Striker took the paper with a smile. "Thank you, miss." Agent Summers smiled as well before following after his departing partner. Once they were out of sight, the shorter man ran a hand through his short dark brown hair irritably.
"He didn't say nothing about her havin' a kid," Striker groaned. He loosed his blue tie a bit, feeling it become tighter.
Summers sighed as well, loosening his red tie. "Or dying. We'll just ask him some questions and figure out what to do next." Striker looked at the neat yet messy handwriting on the paper. He grinned rather amorously.
"That nurse was cute, wasn't she?"
The taller man rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Just can't help yourself, huh?"
Elsewhere in the hospital, he laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling of his room. The white tile seemed to mock him of his predicament...although, he wasn't sure how or why the tile mocked him. Maybe it was the painkillers the doctor added to the IV drip in his arm. Cloudy blue eyes closed tiredly as a soft sigh escaped his dry, pale lips. He reached up to finger the bandage on his chest, a choked sob breaking the endless silence of the dimly lit room.
* * *
A knock came from his door.
Then another.
He sat up slowly before coughing. "Come in," he managed to croak out. He watched as two men stepped into the room. Their suits were clean-pressed; the taller of the two showing him his badge and immediately put it away.
"Are you Katherine Bridgestone's son?" he asked.
Moving pale blond bangs from his face, he nodded slowly. "Yeah." He watched the second man pull up a chair by the bed, taking out a notepad. "I'm Agent Striker, and the tall guy is my partner, Agent Summers. We're going to ask you a few questions—"
"Look," the young man stated firmly. "I already talked with the police. Why would the Feds want to talk with me about my mother's death?"
The man sitting beside him stared at him with a startled look before composing himself. "We have reason to believe that you and your mother were attacked by a dangerous individual that we're looking for."
The young man scoffed, folding his arms across his chest only to wince in pain. He hissed lightly as he held his chest. He managed to scowl at them before leaning back against the pillows. "That...whoever it was killed my mother in cold blood." He felt burning tears well up in his eyes. "And..."
The taller man looked at him, closing his green eyes. "If you don't want to talk about you mother, we understand." Striker turned to look at him as if he said something alarming. The blond boy glanced at the men before sighing lightly.
"Alright. What is it you want to know?" he asked.
"For starters," Summers said, "we want to know about your mom's history."
He looked off to the side, rubbing the bandage on his chest slowly. "She was...well, she kept to herself mostly. Although, she did give me a..." The blond boy bit his cracked bottom lip in thought.
"A what?" the other man beside him questioned.
He looked up at the agents with a blank, if not confused stare. "She gave me a knife when I was seven." The two men looked at each other as the blond blinked. "What? Yeah, I know it's not normal...but she did it anyway."
Summers shook his shaggy head lightly then stepped up to the bed by his partner. "Is there anything else? Do you think your mother knew the killer?"
Rubbing at his tired eyes, the blond shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. The door was locked so...I guess." He looked up at the tall man. "But to the subject of you guys again...why would the FBI-of all people-is interested in my mom's death?"
Striker looked up from writing in his notepad. He chuckled nervously as the blond boy stared at him. "Well, you see—"
"As we said before, it's possible that your mother's attacker is a dangerous individual," Summers said. "But from what we can see, the local police can handle the suspect."
Pale blue eyes watched the taller man's deep green before nodding. "I suppose." He laid back against the pillows, rubbing at his head. Striker stood up and placed his notepad away in his coat. He held out his hand to the blond boy. "Thank you for speaking with us...um..."
He reached up, grabbing the agent's hand and shook it gently. "It's Aiden, sir," he said with a brief smile. Striker nodded lightly before stepping away to the door. Summers had taken out his own notepad and wrote down something quickly on the paper.
"Here," he said handing it to Aiden. "Just in case you need anything, call me."
The blond looked over the paper then smiled tiredly. "I usually don't take numbers, Agent Summers...but thank you."
He blinked at the young man before him as he briefly heard Striker snort at the door. He murmured "thank you" and turned to the door. Aiden watched his back then turned his head to the wall, grinning madly.
Walking out of the young man's room, the taller man closed the door. He looked up at his partner who smirked at him; his white teeth taking up half his face.
"What?" he asked annoyed. "Why the hell are you smiling like that?"
"Giving numbers out to total strangers, man? And a guy, no less!"
Summers stepped away from the door, scowling as he walked down the hallway. "I'm sure he was just messing with me and nothing more." Striker scoffed only to look away once the taller man looked over his shoulder darkly.
Jerk.
* * *
Downstairs of the hospital, the two agents walked into the morgue as they flashed their badges and introduced themselves. The doctor looked at them curiously. "Oh, hello, agents," he said with a gentle voice. "How may I help you?"
"We're here to see the body of Katherine Bridgestone," Striker said.
With a brief nod, the doctor showed them to the examining table where a body underneath the soft white sheet laid. He moved the sheet down to show the calm features of Katherine's face. She had long brown hair that sat along her shoulders. Gray streaks moved along her hairline and sides of her head.
"How'd she die?"
The doctor sighed gently as he took the chart from the woman's feet and handed it to Summers. "She died from a total of 42 stab wounds to the chest and midsection," he said. "From what I've examined of her body, it looks to me that she was beaten and then stabbed, but not before fighting back. Her arms and hands show defensive marks."
Striker grimaced as he looked over the chart once his partner was done. "Did she take any drugs or anything prior to her death?"
"The toxicology report hasn't come back yet. But I was told by her psychiatrist—"
The taller man looked to the doctor. "Wait, she visited a shrink?"
He nodded at him briefly before looking to Katherine's motionless face, eyes closed. "Yes. She had prescriptions for anxiety, depression, and even post-traumatic stress medication." He glanced at Striker who whistled randomly. "Yes, it's strange. But with this woman, everything's a mystery. Even to her closest friends."
"I don't get it," Summers said once they left the morgue. "She's stabbed over thirty times and, in the moment of death, she stabs her only son in the chest."
Striker shrugged lightly. "You heard the doc. She was messed up just as bad as the rest of us. And she wasn't even huntin'. Then again, she could've been hallucinating, thinking that she stabbed her attacker."
With a sigh, the taller man stopped to rub the back of his head. "This is ridiculous...why would Dad call us to come out here?"
* * *
He stood in a surrounding darkness, feeling for anything he could touch. He took a cautionary step forward then another. Taking a few more steps, he stopped as his bare feet landed in something wet. It felt sticky and warm, the mere thought of what it could be made his stomach turn with disgust. He was then blinded by a bright light that shone down on him from above.
"Will you inherit the blood?" a voice asked.
He had brought up his arms to shield his eyes as he lowered them slowly. He turned his gaze back to the floor, blue eyes widening at the sight. There, in a pool of blood, laid his mother Katherine. Her green eyes gazed upwards...empty.
The voice spoke once more. "Will you inherit the blood?" Aiden backed away, slipping on the bloodied floor and falling onto his backside. "I...I..."
He felt a strong hand suddenly grip his right shoulder tightly as he spun around to look behind him. Standing in front of him was a man with burning yellow eyes, his face hidden in shadow. A sense of dread filled him to the core, his blue eyes going wide.
Why did this man scare him so?
Moreover, could people have yellow eyes?
"There you are," the man spoke grinning maliciously. "Your dear mommy wasn't nice." The man had short blond hair and deathly pale skin. His hands—and the large kitchen knife—were covered in blood. He continued to grin.
"But now, I've found you..." The man let out a harsh laugh which echoed around them. Aiden brought up his now bloody hands to cover his ears. Stinging pain shot through his chest as he gasped suddenly, clutching at his chest. Blue eyes glanced down to see blood staining the front of his hospital gown; more red pouring onto his hands.
"Aiden..."
"...Mom?"
He turned to look over his shoulder, pale blue eyes widening in fear. She twitched; coughing up blood. "I'm so sorry, baby.." She reached out to him slowly as he let out a horrific scream...
* * *
Aiden sat up in the hospital bed, breathing heavily. He clutched at his chest as sweat trickled down his forehead and throat; messy bangs clinging to his damp skin. He shivered visibly, relieved that he didn't seem to alert anyone with his scream. He looked down at his hospital gown and—seeing no blood; his stitches still in place—Aiden let out a breath of relief.
He licked his dry lips as he climbed out of the bed, steadying himself once his bare feet hit the cold tile floor. The room itself was mildly cold but enough so to cause a chill to run down his spine. He wandered to the bathroom and turned on the light. When his eyes looked into the mirror, he saw that his once bright, gentle eyes were dim; unfocused. His skin was paler than it usually was. A frown crept onto his face.
Aiden opened up his gown from the back, letting it slip down his shoulders. He grimaced at the bandaged area on his chest. His fingertips ghosted over the tape slowly.
How could she do such a thing?
Stabbing your own child?
He gripped his open gown tightly as a disturbed yet saddened look came over his face. The bathroom, and the hospital room also, became just a little bit colder.
Notes from the Author: I can give you a guess on who the two agents were and the references. Anyway, if you have any criticism, I would love to hear it. And reviews are much loved. Chapter Two is on its way.