3 a.m. (Henry Bins 1) (12 page)

“
I didn't plan on killing
her, I was just going to take the money. I deserved it, damn right
I did, after all the shit she put me through. But when I broke in
and saw her holding the President's fucking cell phone, I decided
it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. I dragged her to the
garage, wrapped my hands around her larynx, the same one that told
a judge that I'd raped her and squeezed the life out of her. Left
the President's cell phone under the car, sprinkled some of his
hair on the bed, grabbed everything of Jessie’s I could find, then
tossed the cellphone and wallet in the dumpster two blocks
away.”

“
You're the one,” Ray
says, shaking her head at Cal. “You're the one that gave the FBI
the anonymous tip.”

“
Well, our captain turned
out to be too big of a pussy.”

“
But you said yourself,
Cal, that you didn't think it was Sullivan.”

“
Well, no shit Ingrid,
what the fuck was I gonna say, I know that's his fucking
hair because I put it there.”

“
She's yours,” Kim
says.

Cal looks at his ex-wife, who continues
talking.

“
Jessie was lying. She was
always lying. Connor wasn't her dad. You were. I had her tested
when she was a baby.”

The color drains from his face.

He staggers.

I lean over to brace him.

“
No . . . no. . .NO!”
he yells. 

He is behind me before I can react. I can
feel the gun sticking to my ribs. 

“
Move over there,” he
shouts, directing the others to the front of the living room, their
backs to the window. 

“
Settle down,” says Ray.
Her fingers inch towards her gun.

“
Don't even think about
it,” Cal shouts into my ear.

She drops her hand.

“
You don't have to do
this,” I find myself saying.

It is 3:58 a.m. 

In two minutes I am going to fall over and
he's going to think I'm trying to get away and he's going to shoot
me.

“
You,” he screams in my
ear. “If you would have just minded your own fucking business, then
everything would have gone just fine.”

“
My bad,” I say, though I
don’t think he hears. He is too busy thinking. Formulating an
escape plan. He breathes heavily in my ear for twenty seconds.
Thirty.

It is 3:59 a.m.

I have to do something.

Now.

I lift up my hand.

I do the peace sign.

At least that's what I'm hoping Cal thinks
it is.

“
Don't fucking
move.”

I flash the peace sign again.

Two.

I drop a finger.

Ray glares at me curiously.

One.

I drop the second finger.

Now.

I whip my head to the side.

The sound of bursting glass fills the
room.

When I look down, I see Cal on the floor, a
bullet hole just over the bridge of his nose.

The last thing I remember is Red crashing
through the door, the sniper rifle held at his side.

…

POLICE OFFICER FRAMED PRESIDENT!

PRESIDENT INNOCENT!

SULLIVAN DIDN'T DO IT!

INNOCENT-GATE!

Those are the headlines.

The FBI interviewed each of us — mine was
done over the phone — but the main evidence was the tape of Cal's
admission that Red had been recording through the microphone in the
President's sweatshirt. Lucky for us, he'd been listening and knew
that Cal had taken me hostage. I'd noticed a glimmer off Red's
scope through the window, something Cal had evidently missed.

I'd woken up the next night in my bed and
had later found out that the President himself had carried me up
the three flights, though I'm sure Red helped. There had been a
card next to me. An orange Monopoly card. A Get Out of
Jail Free Card. I think it was the President's way of saying
that he owed me one.

That had been four days ago.

Lassie and I were still trying to decide
what we should use the card for.

“
What do you think buddy,
should we cash this baby in for a ride on Air Force
One?”

Meow.

“
The Taj Mahal?
Is that even a thing?”

Meow.

“
What it is with you and
Justin Timberlake?”

Meow.

“
A bag of mice? Now that's
a little too practical.”

Meow.

“
That's what I'm talking
about. Jet packs.”

Meow.

“
I think Jessica Alba's
husband might have something to say about that.”

Meow.

“
Pretty sure you can only
do that in Mexico.”

Meow.

“
I'm gonna act
like you didn't say that.”

Meow.

“
Thanks, now I'm thinking
about midgets.”

Meow.

“
He's the President, not
the Wizard of Oz.”

Meow.

“
Twenty Murdock clones?
Seriously?”

I'm pretty sure this would have gone on
forever, or at least for the forty-seven more minutes left in my
day, had a stunning, and very naked woman not walked in with two
bowls of cereal.

“
Breakfast in
bed.”

Ingrid plops down next to me.

She feeds me a big spoonful of Cinnamon
Toast Crunch and says, “I think the Justin Timberlake
thing sounds pretty good.”

“
I bet,” I say, sending us
both into a fit of laughter.

At 3:55, she looks up at me, panting and
says, “You got time for one more.”

“
I guess we'll see,” I
say, grinning.

http://www.nickthriller.com/#!unforeseen-bonus/crhd

~Author’s note~

Thanks for
reading. Seriously. Thank you.

This little story was so much fun to
write.  

Please, please, write a review on Amazon if
you enjoyed the book. Even if there are 5000 reviews, yours
still matters!!!

If you want to see some
ridiculous pictures of me and my dogs, go to
www.nickthriller.com
.

God is love.

Nick.

P.S. I’ve attached a
teaser for
3:10 a.m.
as well as a teaser for my #1 Amazon Bestselling
thriller
Gray Matter
and one from my sci-fi thriller series, the
Maddy Young Saga
. If you
like Henry, you will love Thomas and Maddy! Happy
reading!

3:10 a.m.

www.nickthriller.com

CH:01

“
Rise and
shine.”

Lassie opens one eye. He has some gunk in
the corner near his nose and I wipe it away with my thumb. He
shakes his head, then rests it down on my chest.

“
Come on buddy, we have
stuff to do.”

Meow.

“
Ten more minutes? We’ve
been asleep for twenty-three hours.” Well, I had. I couldn’t speak
for Lassie; though, I was nearly certain he was curled up on my
chest the entire time.

I brush the cat off and stand up. The clock
on the dresser screams that one minute of my day has already
elapsed.

I pick up my phone off the bedside table and
read Ingrid’s text. She won’t be able to stop by. She just wrapped
up a homicide-suicide investigation and needs to catch up on some
sleep. But she will see me tomorrow for sure. Smiley face.

Tomorrow is October
7
^th
; Ingrid and my
sixth-month anniversary.

Though I saw her two days earlier, it feels
like I haven’t seen her in weeks. I am toying with the idea of
asking her to move in with me. I made her a key a couple months
back — which is one of the few things accomplishable at three in
the morning — and she used it when she stopped over once or twice a
week.

But two hours a week wasn’t enough. I wanted
her for all seven.

I pad to the kitchen and pull out the bowl
of cereal Isabel prepared for me. I peel off the Saran Wrap and
pour in the measured glass of milk. Not only does Isabel cook and
clean, she also finds small ways to save me time. My toothbrush
laid out with toothpaste on it, the microwave preset for three
minutes and thirty seconds (the exact time needed to heat her
famous enchiladas), Lassie’s food bowl filled and covered in the
refrigerator, headphones and running shoes laid out next to the
door, the NASDAQ and DOW closing numbers written on a sticky note
next to the computer. The seconds she buys me would mean nothing to
the average person, but to me, each second is the Mona Lisa.

I eat the cereal, a banana,
and a peanut butter protein shake and watch four minutes of
Game of Thrones
. My dad
turned me onto the series eight months earlier and I was up to
episode four of Season Two.

At 3:07 a.m., I check my stocks on E-Trade.
I dump a couple thousand shares of a floundering pharmaceutical
company and pick up an equal amount of corn futures — which is a
huge gamble, but has big upside potential.

There is a soft chime and I answer my
father’s call on Skype.

My father is as frumpy as ever. Big glasses
sliding down his nose. Receding gray hair running as fast as
possible away from a big shiny forehead. A white mock turtleneck,
possibly the last in existence, holding up a sagging Adam’s
apple.

“
Hey, Sonny boy,” he
mutters.

“
Hey, Pops. How’s your
back?”

“
Sore as shit. In fact, I
think I’m gonna have to sit out of our game tonight.”

My dad’s back had been acting up for the
past couple weeks and we’d been forced to play our weekly poker
game online. He cleaned me out the previous Wednesday and I was
looking forward to some payback.

“
Just pop a couple Advil,
old man.”

“
That’s just it. The
over-the-counter stuff doesn’t help and if I take the pills the
doctor prescribed, I’m out in five minutes.”

I can tell from my father’s grimace that he
is truly in pain. I can’t help but feel partly responsible. My
dad’s back was fine until a few years ago, when he tried to carry
me from his car to my third story condo. Long story short, he
slipped two disks and my neighbor called the cops thinking my dad
was lugging around a dead body.

“
Go pop those pills, then
we’ll chat for another minute or two.”

He nods and disappears from the screen.

A large brown head takes my father’s place.
The head belongs to my dad’s one-hundred and sixty-pound English
Mastiff.

“
Hey Murdo—”

Lassie is on my lap before I finish the
second syllable. It’s been three weeks since the two have seen each
other and big, stupid Murdock doesn’t understand that Lassie isn’t
actually on the table in my dad’s house. Murdock smashes the
computer with his giant paw and the feed disappears. My dad calls
my phone a moment later and tells me that Murdock shattered his
laptop and that he’s going to bed.

It is 3:09 a.m.

I’d allocated the rest of my day to playing
cards and contemplate what I want to do with my remaining fifty-one
minutes. Wednesdays are the only day I don’t exercise and I ponder
going for a quick run. I lift the curtain and stare out on the
glistening asphalt. It’d been a wet October thus far in Alexandria
and the asphalt shimmers under the streetlight. I gaze at the house
across the street. It’d been over six months since I heard Jessie
Kallomatix’s scream, the impetus that set in motion one man being
framed for murder and another taking a bullet between the eyes.

The latter, Jessie’s father, like most
people who get shot in the face, died. The former, well, he
returned to his day job, aka, the leader of the free world.

Nearly two months after
Conner Sullivan was exonerated from Jessie’s murder, my phone rang.
It was 3:33 a.m. It was President Sullivan. He couldn’t sleep and
needed someone to talk to. I was the only person he knew
for certain
was awake.
For ten minutes we made small talk about the weather, his beloved
Redskins, and how long I let myself sit on the pot. A month later,
he called again. And two weeks after that, he showed up on my
doorstep with a six-pack of beer. He knew I played poker with my
dad each Wednesday and wanted to know if he could crash our
game.