Riley Thorn and the Corpse in the Closet by Lucy Score

39

11:47 a.m., Tuesday, August 18

This was not how she was going to die, Riley decided. Not sitting on a concrete floor surrounded by idiots. Chelsea was on her right, muttering under her breath about lawyers. On her left, Riley’s ex-husband Griffin was rocking in place and whimpering about dry-cleaning fees.

Neither of them was smart enough to know just how much trouble they were all in.

Hudson had strolled right on into the studio as they were preparing for the noon news. Before anyone knew what was happening, he’d put a gun to Griffin’s head and told everyone to get on the floor.

They’d gone to an emergency commercial break.

“How long are we going to stay like this?” Chelsea demanded. “I have a headache, and I need to make four dozen cupcakes for the marching band bake sale tomorrow.”

“That’s my chair,” Griffin complained when Hudson sat down behind the anchor desk.

“Let the man with the gun sit in your chair,” Riley advised.

“Just great,” he whined when Hudson lowered the seat. “It’s going to take me forever to get it back to the right height.”

“Oh, please,” Valerie hissed from her position between Cameras 1 and 2. “You put it as high as it goes, and we all pretend you’re a normal-sized human.”

“Let’s focus on the real problem here,” Riley advised. “That guy has killed three people so far, and he has more on his list.”

“No one wants to kill me! Everyone loves me,” Griffin insisted.

“Not everyone,” Riley said pointedly. “Your new contract meant everyone else either lost their jobs or had to take a pay cut.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “No one really minded. They were happy to make the sacrifice. Besides, I’m the one who brings the ratings, so I deserve to make more money.”

“Have you continued to devolve, or was I really that stupid when I married you?” Riley wondered.

“Personally, I think it was a combination of both,” the Camera 1 operator at her feet chimed in.

“Hey, Don,” Riley whispered. “Long time, no see.”

“How’s it going?” the hefty, mustachioed man asked.

“So what’s he going to do after he’s done messing up my chair?” Griffin hissed, tugging at his collar. “You don’t think he’ll do something like—”

“Kill you? Anything could happen at this point,” Riley said.

“Kill me?” Griffin croaked. “I was going to say make me look silly on the air.”

He’d gone from indignantly inconvenienced to anxious. Beads of sweat appeared on his spackled forehead.

Griffin was a nervous sweater. And he was very, very nervous. He looked as if he’d been hosed down in Chelsea’s front yard.

“Look. He’s one guy with a gun. There’s sixteen of us in here. If we attack him in order of least important person to most important person, most of us will survive,” Chelsea said.

“Obviously, I’m the most important,” Griffin said, latching on to her idea.

“You read things from a teleprompter and wear makeup,” Chelsea scoffed. “I’m a mother. I’m raising the future of our country.”

“Your kids are in college,” Riley pointed out.

“And they still need their mother! I’m last. Griffin can be next to last,” Chelsea conceded.

“Bella should be next to next to last,” Griffin decided.

On cue, his fiancée popped up next to him and held out a hand to Riley. “Hi! I’m Bella!”

“I know who you are!” Riley yelled.

Hudson spun around to glare at her.

“Sorry,” Riley said. “But she keeps introducing herself to me!”

“Didn’t she steal your husband?” Chelsea asked.

“She sure did,” Griffin said cheerfully. He was still sweating.

“This must be really awkward for you,” Chelsea observed.

“It’s not great.”

“Don’t mind Bella,” Griffin said, reaching for Riley’s hand. She snatched it away. “She has female face blindness.”

“Female face blindness?” Riley repeated.

He nodded. “She only recognizes men. It’s a medical condition.”

Riley blinked slowly, then shook her head. “I’m not dying here with you people.”

“So who should be first in line to attack this guy?” he asked. “I never cared for Armand. I don’t like his urinal cake placement.”

“Fine. He’ll go first,” Chelsea decided. “Then maybe that guy over there by the bagels. I don’t like his shirt.”

“That’s Rose. She didn’t sign my birthday card this year. Maybe she should go first?”

“You people can’t just decide who lives and who dies,” Riley hissed. This is what was wrong with the world. People like Griffin and Chelsea who had overinflated senses of importance wielding power over others.

As the clock ticked closer and closer to noon, Riley saw Chris Yang get more fidgety.

“What a ratings gold mine. I hope he shoots Griffin on camera.”

She flinched, instinctively wanting to tune out his thoughts, then realized it might be the only way she could get them all out of this.

“Will you both shut up? I need to concentrate,” she whispered.

Griffin frowned. “Concentrate on what?”

“Just shut up and let me think,” Riley snapped.

“No need to get so crabby. If you’re wondering why our marriage didn’t work out, that right there is a big reason. You yelled at me a lot.”

“You deserved it,” she growled. “Now, shut up and let me think.”

She could hear sirens outside. Sirens meant cops. Cops didn’t like to let entire TV studios full of people die. This was good news.

There was a happy humming coming from somewhere. Like someone in the room didn’t have a care in the world…or a clue. Riley stole a glance at Bella, who wasn’t moving or blinking. She was just sitting there looking like a dazed Disney princess. Either she was some kind of Zen master, or the woman had nothing going on upstairs.

Deciding it really didn’t matter at this point, Riley closed her eyes and dropped into the clouds. “Okay, spirit guides. I need some help here. Give me something that will help stop Hudson.”

Voices crowded into her head immediately. It was an overwhelming cacophony of anxiety and worries.

“We better be getting overtime for this.”

“I can’t believe I’m going to die with all these assholes.”

“I really wish I wouldn’t have had that second helping of Thai food last night. I don’t know if this hostage-taker will let me go to the bathroom.”

“Thorn, if you can read me. I’m here, and I’m gonna get you out. And then I’m going to yell at you for at least a week.”

Relief coursed through her. Nick was there, and he wasn’t going to let her die next to her stupid ex-husband.

She sent him a silent thank you that he probably wouldn’t hear and went back to reading the thoughts around her.

Kellen was outside, his cop brain grimly scrambling through procedures and logistics.

She pulled back and focused on the thoughts coming from inside the building.

“I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

“This goddamn air vent is too tight.”

“This is for you, Jackson.”

That last thought stood out from the rest. It wasn’t colored with anxiety or annoyance. It felt proud, purposeful. She zeroed in on it. “Help me out, guys,” she whispered to her spirit guides.

The clouds pulsed then shifted. Riley found herself peering through the mists into a bedroom. A teenage boy in ripped black jeans lay on the twin bed, staring up at the ceiling as silent tears slipped down his cheeks.

A visceral pain echoed in Riley’s chest.

“Jackson?”A younger teen ventured cautiously into the room. “Are you okay?”

“Go away, Hud,”Jackson said quietly.

It was a young, non-murdery Hudson Neudorfer.

“Mom says kids won’t be mean forever. Eventually everyone grows up,”Hudson said, his voice full of hope.

“Mom’s wrong,”Jackson whispered.

The clouds closed, like curtains on a stage. And when they parted again, it was to rapid-fire images. Jackson’s bedroom. An overturned chair. A rope fashioned around a pull-up bar. Feet dangling. Hudson’s cry. “Jackson! No!”

She felt it. The snap. The pain that transformed Hudson Neudorfer from hopeful teen to broken human.

Tears pricked at her eyes as the clouds muddled together again before offering her a peek at something new. The faces of three young, lively teens laughing. No. Not laughing. Taunting. One by one, they were all snuffed out like someone extinguishing a candle.

Her blood ran cold as the realization set in. She opened her eyes and stared at Hudson Neudorfer as he calmly unzipped the backpack he’d been carrying and unpacked a few items.

He’d begun his murderous rampage years before, starting with his brother’s bullies.

The phone in the sound booth rang. Everyone froze. It continued to ring.

“It’s probably the cops,” Chris called to Hudson. “Do you want us to answer it?”

Hudson gave Griffin’s chair a slow spin, then nodded once. “Put them through on the speaker,” he said imperiously.

“This is Detective Kellen Weber with the Harrisburg Police.”

Riley blew out a sigh of relief. With Kellen and Nick on the scene, they all had a good chance of walking out of here alive.

“Detective Weber. How nice to hear your voice again,” Hudson said.

“How are the hostages? Is everyone okay?” Kellen asked, his voice calm.

“Everyone is fine. For now,” Hudson said ominously.

“Let’s talk about it. I’m happy to listen to your demands. We can work with you to make sure no one gets hurt.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to work for me,” Hudson returned. “You see, I want some of them to get hurt.”

There was an instantaneous whispering amongst the hostages as they debated which hostages Hudson wanted to hurt.

“It doesn’t have to go down like that,” Kellen told him. “We can work this out. Your brother wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Ha! Goes to show what you know. You know nothing about my brother. He’s been waiting a long time for justice.”

“Tell me what you want, Hudson, and we’ll start working on it,” Kellen coaxed.

“I want justice!”

“Justice for your brother?”

“Justice for him and everyone else who’s ever been the target of someone like Larry Rupley, Titus Strubinger, and Bianca Hornberger.”

“What kind of justice are we talking about? All of the folks you just named are dead. They can’t go to trial or jail.”

“I streamlined the process. And I’ll do it again today.”

“Uh, excuse me.” A production assistant off-camera raised her hand. “If we’re making demands, I could go for some lunch.”

There were rumblings of agreement.

“I could go for pizza.”

“We had pizza last night. I want sushi.”

“What about some Italian ice?” someone else offered.

“I’m doing Whole 30 right now. I need a salad.”

Hudson looked around the room. “Fine. Justice and lunch. You got that, detective?”

“No problem. Send one of the hostages out with your order, and we’ll get it delivered.”

“Nice try, detective. I’m not letting anyone go. We’re too busy having a blast.”

Riley felt a nudge at the back of her mind, and her nose twitched.

She glanced at the backpack on the anchor desk, and a sick feeling of dread settled in her gut. The glitter bombs had been homemade. How hard would it be for a motivated Hudson to build an actual bomb?

“It sounds like you have a lot of important things to say,” Kellen observed.

“And I’ll be doing it live during the noon broadcast,” Hudson announced. “You can get our lunch order by watching.” He made a slashing motion over his throat. It took Chris a good beat to figure out Hudson wanted him to hang up.

“Uh, goodbye,” Chris said, disconnecting the call.

“Chris, get out here. I’ve got some breaking news for the teleprompter,” Hudson said, waving a flash drive in his hand.

“Does anyone else want to split a meatball sub?” someone called.

* * *

Riley had never seena live broadcast quite like this one. On one end of the news desk, Griffin Gentry was duct-taped to a chair wearing a sign on his chest that said “Greedy Doucheweasel.” Chris Yang sat at the opposite end of the desk. His sign said “Asshole Enabler.” Between them sat Hudson. The sports desk was occupied by Chelsea Strump, who had refused to hold up her sign until Hudson had forced Riley at gun point to duct tape it to the woman’s head. The duct tape had been overkill, seeing as how the “Judgmental Troll” sign wedged neatly into her helmet of hair. But Riley didn’t want to argue with a guy with a gun.

The producer counted, holding his fingers overhead like it was any other live broadcast. The red light turned on.

Nobody moved or spoke. Griffin looked like he was sitting in a sweat lodge.

Hudson cleared his throat. Still no one spoke.

He gave Griffin a swift kick, making him squawk like a disgruntled chicken.

Hudson pointed at the teleprompter.

“Ah! Um. Good afternoon, Harrisburg. I’m Griffin Gentry coming to you with breaking news. I am—” He paused and squinted at the screen. “Hey! That’s not nice. I’m not saying that!”

“Oh, but you are,” Hudson said, plucking the gun off his lap and holding it to the news anchor’s neck. “Read it, Gentry. Read it with feeling.”

“I’m Griffin Gentry, and I’m a huge jerk who only cares about looking taller than I really am—I’m five-foot-nine.”

Hudson jammed the gun harder into his flesh. “You’re five-foot-four, you lying little leprechaun. Read. It.”

“Erm. Okay. Um. Because of my greed, Channel 50 fired nearly a dozen people and gave pay cuts to everyone left. Also, I use my expense account to pay sex workers to call me Big Boy.”

There were a few titters from the captive audience. Riley noticed that no one looked overly surprised.

She shot a glance at Bella, who was standing on her usual mark in front of the weather green screen. She didn’t look too bothered by the forced confession. She didn’t look…well, anything. She was probably still humming in her head.

“I’m a greedy pig man incapable of caring for anyone other than himself. I’m a mean, selfish man-child, and I don’t deserve to live. Over to you, Hudson.”

Hudson preened for the camera. “This just in—Griffin Gentry admits to being a selfish asshole.”

“We’re gonna get so many fucking FCC fines,” Chris moaned into his hands.

“And this, Harrisburg, is Chris Yang, news director and professional ass kisser. Thanks to him, people like Griffin and his father, Malcolm Gentry, whose hobbies include rampant sexual harassment, are rewarded for their behavior with higher salaries and fatter expense accounts. While everyone else pays the price. Say hello, Chris.”

“Hi,” Chris said through his hands still covering his face.

“Over at sports, we have Chelsea Strump, neighborhood nuisance, tattletale, and internet troll. Say hello, Chelsea,” Hudson ordered.

Chelsea crossed her arms in front of her skinny chest. “This is ridiculous. I don’t belong here with the rest of these losers.”

“On the contrary,” Hudson insisted. “You are one of the nastiest commenters on Channel 50’s social media accounts. And if you don’t admit it right now, I’m going to shoot Griffin.”

“What do I care if you shoot him?” she snorted. “I don’t care if you shoot everyone in this building. None of them are as good a person as I am.”

Hudson flashed the camera a smug “I told you so” look.

Camera 1 closed in on him. “You see, Harrisburg, I’m the hero you need. The man willing to not just stand up to the school yard bullies but eradicate them. People like these don’t learn lessons. They don’t change their ways or turn over new leaves. They get more bitter and more dangerous until they need to be cut out of your life like a cancer.”

“Oh, please,” Chelsea scoffed.

“Unfortunately, my work was interrupted by local psychic Riley Thorn.”

Camera 2 whipped around to zero in on her.

Riley waved weakly.

“If you’ll watch the bottom of your screens. These are the rest of the individuals on my murder list, including their infractions. I may not be able to finish the work I started, but that doesn’t mean one of you can’t step into the role of hero and continue eradicating evil.”

Great. Just what the world needed, an unhinged lunatic on TV encouraging other unhinged lunatics to start killing people.

Riley peered at the monitor closest to her and saw a ticker tape running across the bottom of the screen listing names and infractions.

“I encourage you to stay tuned, Harrisburg, for my grand finale,” Hudson said, unzipping his backpack. “When I send Channel 50 and its employees to hell where they all belong.”

“Oh, shit,” Riley breathed.

“That’s not good,” Valerie agreed as Hudson revealed an improvised explosive device with a countdown clock and important-looking wires.

“Is that some kind of robot kid toy?” Chelsea asked, wrinkling her nose at the sports desk. “My children were never allowed to play with robotics because circuits are the devil’s work.”

“It’s a bomb, lady,” Hudson snarled. “Now, over to Bella Goodshine with the hostage lunch order.”