Dark Application: TWO Read online

  Dark Application: TWO

  The Dark Application Series: Book Two

  by Brian Krogstad and Lindsey Waterman

  "Dark Application will blow your mind!" - Celebrity Magician Criss Angel

  Copyright ©2013 Brian Krogstad

  All Rights Reserved

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  This author has provided this e-book to you without (DRM) Digital Rights Management so you may enjoy it on any device. This e-book may not be reproduced or transmitted or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Please send an email to [email protected] for specific reproduction requests, copyright concerns or distribution inquiries.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all materials in this book.

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  CHAPTER ONE : The Booking

  There was a full minute of confusion during which Sabrina, squinting and throwing up her arms, could not see through the pummeling jet of steam. A moment ago, she had been holding a cup of milk under the steaming wand, and the gentle sounds of commerce, change clinking over the cash register, the tinkling of the door bell, and light conversation could be heard. She knew she should’ve stayed home today - she was too tired and stressed to be at work. Now the steaming wand was in her hand, broken off from the espresso machine. The steam spraying out of the machine was blinding, scorching, deafening. The hot jet whistled just inches from her face, and when the steam was exhausted, nothing more than a vapor hanging on the air, the sound faded, leaving just a bong inside her head, a numb echo.

  Somewhere there were screams. They filtered through her ringing ears slowly at first, somewhere behind her, around her, at her feet. Sean was screaming. When the steam cleared she saw him, writhing on the floor before her, gripping his face, a long spray of blood squirting from him somewhere, the red liquid arching over his body, wetting her shoes.

  She automatically felt her right apron pocket, and fingered the hard rectangle of the phone there. Customers were clanking chairs and then she heard the traffic outside the front of the café because the door was being held open as customers filed out onto the sidewalk, wide-eyed and confused, and stood outside peeking through the large windows.

  Sean was whimpering help me, help me. Oh god, he cried. Sabrina, help me.

  Shock finally struck her when she put a hand to her cheek, as she did when she was frightened, but there was no cheek there. Her flesh had melted off, and red hot bloody goo slipped off her face; she held it in her hand, looking at it for a moment, perplexed at the consistency of it, slimy and pliable, like a soft boiled egg. She reeled back on her heels, dizziness pulling her downward. That was all she remembered.

  Two Months Earlier

  Luke was thrust roughly through the double metal doors into the cool concrete breezeway and escorted, still naked, through a chain link gated doorway and into a dusty office space with a metal desk.

  “You have the right to have an attorney present, and if you cannot afford an attorney at this time, one can be appointed to you free o’ charge.”

  The gravelly apathetic voice with the southern drawl came from the woman in the military uniform. She spoke automatically and without emotion. He briefly saw her nametag, “Drake”, as her sharp fingers gripped the back of his neck, twisting him 90 degrees. She then shoved him through a separate dim hallway that had a shower head and a dirty drain in the floor, and then to his relief, however brief, past and into a square room where two armed officers stood sentry, batons at their sides. Luke opened his mouth to shout something, but he forgot, or maybe he couldn’t think of anything, and no words came out.

  “Lucas Jeffers, you are under arrest for the kidnapping and murder of Tiffany El Sa’id, conspiracy to murder, seventeen additional counts of murder in the first degree, an act of terrorism, and conspiracy to commit an act of terrorism.”

  Luke’s legs were kicked out from under him and he hit the concrete floor with a thud. Drake’s teeth were at his temples and she was screaming at him. For a moment he forgot where he was, his surroundings confusing him, the pain of the burns making it hard for him to focus.

  A hard crack on the back of the skull with a baton made his ears pop, and he suddenly came back to himself on the floor, sharp pain exploding down his back, being screamed at to cough. The blistering burns on his back cracked and oozed a thick cloudy liquid, and the blood trickled down his head where the baton had busted open the raw skin. He took a deep breath and gave a gurgling choke as the two guard officers stood at his sides, holding him down by each shoulder in a squatting position.

  “Cough harder!” Drake screamed in his face, and he took another deep breath, faking another awkward cough, and really gave some muscle on this one, squeezing his gut.

  When he was sufficiently humiliated he was then ripped from the floor and thrust into a pair of stiff, orange coveralls that smelled like flea powder, and was ushered back into the little office. The odd numb sensation had returned, and he watched himself as though from above the room as they pointed a fluorescent light on him, took his picture, asked him a list of questions; after this he was led through several long hallways and through two locked metal doors into an empty cell. When the barred door slid shut, he collapsed on the bed, his eyes wide, his heart pounding in his temples, and the gash on the back of his head throbbing.

  Several hours passed, or so it seemed, before Luke moved his head at all. Any movement of his neck pulled his broken skin and stung. His fingers trembled from shock and pain. Mostly he just lay there, listening to his own breathing, trying not to inhale through his nose the dirt and disinfectant smell of the room. There was something else, too, like mold or wet dog, or dirty feet. He lay there, stunned, until he heard the creak of the metal doors opening and an armed guard led two people into the room.

  When he finally turned to look, he saw the guy in the suit who had cuffed him. Behind him was that psycho lady Drake who had thrown him around the building like a wet bath towel. He groaned when he moved his head, the goose egg rolling over the hard mattress.

  Without words, the officer opened the cell and Luke was led yet again down another hall and into another dusty room with fluorescent overhanging lamps, a table, and three chairs. This time he was allowed to seat himself. The suited man pulled out a leather wallet with an FBI ID card inside. “I’m Agent Kennedy,” he said calmly. He scooted out the chair across from Luke and sat down, moving the tail of his coat out of the way. “This is Sergeant First Class Drake,” he added, and Drake sneered at him with vibrant green eyes.

  Drake had wispy brown hair cut in a bob and appeared short and stocky in her stiffly starched fatigues. She kicked the chair back with her highly shined black boot to show that she did not intend to sit down. She pulled a plastic evidence bag out of the agent’s brief case and held it up in front of Luke’s face. “This yours?” she asked. Inside was a wallet.

  Luke sat there dumbly, staring at the wallet.

  Her expression was fierce and her movements were tense. He could see the veins popping out on her temples, and her anger made her hand twitch. She looked
as if she was about to backhand him in the jaw.

  Then Luke’s face turned cold, as he realized what was happening, as all the pieces of the last events over the months had been laid out this way, like a trail of crumbs, and he could see clearly that of course the trail led to him. Of course it had come to this. He still didn’t speak, but sat staring, idle, thinking hard about how to explain this delicate predicament.

  Drake, unable to read his expression, turned toward the door. “They gonna have fun with you, boy,” she said, and slammed the door behind her.

  Agent Kennedy still sat calmly, almost nonchalantly, studying Luke. Then he took out a small recorder, set it on the table, and conspicuously pressed the record button. Luke’s breath wisped in and out of his throat as he looked suspiciously around the room. There was no mirror, like in the movies, but there was a camera high in the corner, and the room was small and stuffy, nothing on the walls, the bright florescent lights humming and flickering almost imperceptibly. Agent Kennedy took a deep, loud breath, and let his shoulders visibly drop as he exhaled. He was trying to test Luke’s level of anxiety, trying to read his thoughts through his body language. He placed his hands, palms-down, on the surface of the table. He waited patiently, quietly, as Luke’s heart rate began to descend, and he was visibly recovering from his shock and anxiety. The heavy breathing slowed, the jerking, angry eyes dropped to the floor. Luke began to sag forward in his chair.

  “Is it yours, Mr. Jeffers?” he asked mildly. He placed the wallet on the table and slid it closer to Luke. The edge of the stitched leather was scorched, the paper inside curling and black. With a shudder, he became aware of his burned flesh again, and his skin pricked.

  Luke nodded. Dried blood ran a course down the back of his neck, the orange coveralls soaking it like a wick, and his face and hands were still covered in black soot and dust.

  “Okay,” said Kennedy in his deep whiskey voice. His manner was mild and he nodded, the bags under his eyes stretching a bit as he lifted his forehead and gave a strained grin. “Look, I know you are under a lot of stress. You have some burns there that need to be treated, and I’m sure you have a headache by now,” he said, “but the longer we take here, the longer it’s going to take to get you a lawyer and get yourself represented.”

  Luke frowned, the ice-cold grimace returning. “Yeah man, I don’t have to tell you shit. I need to go home! Where is Amy? I need to use the phone. Don’t I get a phone call?” he screeched, turning his face up to the camera, lifting his shoulders in desperate confusion.

  “Calm down. You will get your answers after I get mine. You need to know a few things, Luke. Right now you are the only suspect. I don’t know who the hell you are and I don’t give a shit about the sister that beat you up or the suffering your horrible suburban parents put you through,” he said sarcastically. “I need to know who else is involved in this crime.”

  “I want my phone call NOW!” screamed Luke. “I don’t have to say shit until I have a lawyer! That’s what you said right before you knocked me in the fucking head with your… cop stick!”

  Kennedy stood, the mass of his body towering over Luke like a black oak, shaking his head, and turned as though to leave. “Well, I guess I’m going to have to get Drake in here then,” he said. “She’ll get you to talk.”

  Luke shook his head. “Okay, okay, I’ll talk. See? I’m talking,” he said.

  “Alright. This is how this is going to work,” said Kennedy. “I’m going to ask, and you are going to answer. You are going to stay calm and stay on the topic, and if you decide to get wild in here, I have the authority to take necessary measures to calm you down,” he said, and as he reached back again to lift the tail of his coat to take his seat, he pulled the coat back just far enough to reveal the gleam of a pistol holstered over his shoulder and around his side.

  He cleared his throat and sat, his fingers interlocking, and stared down the bridge of his nose at Luke. “Where are you from?”

  “Virginia Beach,” said Luke.

  “Why are you in Fort Christanna for Junior College? Don’t they have a Junior College there?”

  “Well, yeah, but I just wanted to get out of there, I had to get away from there,” said Luke.

  “Away from what?” asked Kennedy.

  “Away from my brothers… what does that have to do with all this?” Luke asked, the fear rising in his voice finally.

  Kennedy only stared at him thoughtfully. “I’m just getting to know you, Luke. I just need to you to relax so we can get to the place where we are able to make a decision about what your involvement with this crime was.”

  Luke shook his head, almost furiously. “I’m not a criminal! I didn’t kill that girl, I swear!”

  Kennedy took a deep, exaggerated breath. “What are you studying in school? What do you plan to do when you get out?” he asked, ignoring Luke’s digression.

  “I… I like computers, you know. Like software, and designing programs and video games and stuff. My uncle has like a big business out in California, you know, like working on computers and stuff. I’m pretty good at it, I get good grades, I swear, I’m not the type you’re looking for. This whole thing was an accident, a fucking fluke,” Luke said. “You can beat me all day, but I’m not confessing to something I didn’t do.”

  The last statement was curt, to the point.

  “I’m not an interrogator, Luke,” said Kennedy. “Nor am I a psychologist, or a cop, or a lawyer. My job is only to investigate the incident to find out what happened. I take down facts, I go to court, I tell the judge. Now Sergeant Drake in there, she’s the one you should be worried about. She can’t wait to ream your ass. Want to know why you got CID up in here? Once you walked out of that room with that software on your phone, you know you involved the Department of Defense in your case.”

  Your case. Luke felt dizzy and the room spun slightly, disorienting him for a moment. “How the hell…” but his words were cut short in his throat.

  “Where is your phone, Luke?”

  Luke straightened up and sat forward, and his eyes got large. “The app! That’s right, it was that app that did it! Everything weird started happening when I got that app on my phone. Find my phone! I’ll show you.”

  “None of the investigators have come across your phone.”

  “So like, you know about the app? So hey, why am I under arrest? I don’t get it, man! If you know about the app then why am I even here? I’m innocent!”

  “Mr. Jeffers,” Kennedy said, his voice a low, exhausted mutter, “we have security camera footage from 64521 Gold Commerce Way that shows your truck parked in front of the building where Tiffany was murdered at the very time the murder took place. We also have eye witness testimony that you received an unaccounted-for sum of money that no one has any idea how you came upon, considering you have no job. Now, how the hell did you end up with the money her parents had left for the ransom?”

  Luke could do nothing but open and shut his mouth, and the vision of that day flashed through his mind: The snow absorbing the sound of his foot falls as he strode across the rooftop, looking for something he didn’t even know was there…

  “Not only that, but a kid named Travis died at your house last winter in your front yard and no one was ever able to explain how the hell that happened. And finally, Mr. Jeffers,” Kennedy said slowly, “you are the sole survivor of an explosion today that killed seventeen people, including Marcus Jones, your instructor, and sixteen students.”

  Luke went cold. His face drained, the skin growing gray and rubbery. “Sole survivor?” he gasped.

  Kennedy nodded solemnly.

  Luke tried to speak, and faltered. His neck became stiff, the muscles taught and strained. His eyes became red, his lips squeezed together, and his eyelids started to flicker uncontrollably, sending flecks of tears flying down his cheeks. For a moment, Kennedy looked as though he might say something. In fact, Kennedy was studying Luke closely, noting the tremors in his cheek muscles, the cords stan
ding out on his neck, the horror in his eyes as a realization occurred to Luke.

  Finally a great sob came out, and Luke erupted with a harsh cry. Kennedy’s expression turned to concern as he watched Luke begin to sob, his hands cuffed behind his back, the tears and snot with nowhere to go but down his dirty face. “Amy,” he whispered.

  Kennedy tapped his pencil on the desk and then wrote something down on a yellow pad of paper he had in his front pocket.

  CHAPTER TWO: The Phone

  A line had formed at the register and extended almost to the front door. For a tiny downtown coffee shop, The Drip was constantly crowded. Sabrina secretly wished she had applied for a job at one of the large chain coffee places. They had systemized methods for training, she imagined, and tall counters that hid the employees from view so the customers weren’t gazing over curiously at her while she brewed and mixed their drinks. It made her nervous.

  What gave her the most anxiety was the ancient, copper-colored espresso machine. It was an antique, probably from the 50’s or something, and when the pressure valves were released, it hissed and shrieked so loud it made her ears ring. She hated it. She was sure that in the large chain cafes, they had newer, modernized equipment. Because no business owner in their right mind would keep this ticking time bomb of pressurized steam around and actually use it. It should just be for looks.

  “Hurry up, Sabrina!” Leah complained as Sabrina reached across the coffee counter for an empty metal measuring cup.

  Leah sighed and rolled her eyes, a hand on one wiry hip, as Sabrina ducked around her and headed for the milk.

  “That’s skim milk, the lady wants two percent,” she said, sneering.

  Sabrina quickly dropped the jug and reached toward the refrigerator, but as she turned she elbowed everything on the counter, sending both the metal cup and the jug of skim milk flying onto the floor with a clatter.