It is said that the definition of insanity is to repeat something over and over again, each time expecting different results. If that was true, then Skeeter was in the very grips of insanity. He struggled for the umpteenth time against his bonds, the rope digging into his wrists and ankles. A swatch of duck tape was pasted over his mouth; he thought that if it ever did come off it was taking half of his goatee with it. Skeeter lifted himself two inches off the chair he was tied to and braced his feet against the floor. Grunting with the effort, he struggled to slip his right hand through any opening in the ropes and once again, failed. The chair itself was chained to the leg of a metal, standard issue desk in the corner of the room. Skeeter sat still, contemplating his environment, his predicament and the zero options both afforded him. His chest heaved up and down, and his labored, panicked breathing was the only sound in the room.

That ****’ bitch is gonna pay.

The room was empty, save for the chair and desk Skeeter was tied to, and a wall safe that hung wide open on the back wall, dark and empty.

There goes my ****’ pay day. Wright must’ve made more than a few enemies. The prize that had resided in the room on the 22^nd floor of the Broderick Tower was gone with the bitch who had snuck up on him and the **** goon that had tied him to the chair. They had been silent, taking the contents of the safe; black folder, black key, and the blubbering bum that Skeeter had sent to his doom.

They’d only been out of the door a few minutes when Skeeter heard the shot. Poor ****.

Skeeter cursed his luck, twisted against the ropes one more time and slumped back in the chair. It was then that he realized he smelled gasoline.

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Shirley landed in Detroit just as the sun was setting. Her only bag was the one she had slung over her shoulder and she was in a cab within twenty minutes.

Son of a bitch. I can’t let this happen. I just can’t let this happen. And where in the **** is she? She can’t do this to me! Goddamn the little nut-bag. I should’ve taken care of her first. She’d had this conversation with herself a dozen times since she’d gotten the call.

Shirley replayed the early morning telephone conversation to herself again.

‘Well Thank Heaven someone answered. Ma’am, this is Nurse Kelly at Glen Palms. I have been trying to reach Mr. McClain all morning. It’s Angelique. She’s gone.’

Shirley had dropped her latte on the terrazzo floor of the patio she’d been lounging on. Maybe she’d misunderstood.

‘No, ma’am. It’s like I said. Miss Angelique is gone. We’ve searched the grounds and she isn’t anywhere. One of the gardeners said he saw a young woman who fits Angelique’s description getting into a Blazer with a dark haired, heavy set man. He didn’t have time to run for help. She’s gone ma’am. My superiors are in the office and they’d like to speak with you in person about this situation. Mrs. McClain? Ma’am? She hasn’t had her meds today. She isn’t on her meds!

Shirley urged the cab-driver to speed up. “Broderick Tower! Step on it!”

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The dark haired, heavy set man was Brett Kilroy and he was currently dousing Broderick Tower’s 22^nd floor with gasoline. He looked over at Angelique, who stood with the black folder and key clasped tightly in her right hand, her left clenching and unclenching to the beat of some unknown rhythm.

“Angel? You sure ‘bout this? I mean we don’t have to light it up. We can just get outta here. A fire’s gonna bring a lot of attention.”

“Yes! I’m **** sure! Hurry it up, Brett. We don’t have much time.” Angelique’s voice wavered a bit, and then with eerie calm, she whispered, “She’s coming.”

“All right. Okay, I got it. Get down the stairs before I light this ****, cause when I do…baby it’s gonna go fast!”

Brett held the door to the stairs open with one leg and tossed the lighted bouquet of old newspaper in a brilliant arc, into the dim wetness of the tower’s 22^nd floor and inches away from the old man’s lifeless body. The bum’s body was illuminated in the glow of instant, raging fire. Brett let the door swing shut behind him and raced to catch up with his Angel.

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Skeeter could hear the crackling flames outside the heavy door to the office. The smell of wood and old carpet burning permeated the air and he thrashed in the binds of the rope until his wrists bled.

Oh, Hell no! Oh God no! Please, let me outta this mutha ****’ place! Oh God! Please!

Skeeter rubbed his wrists of their skin, the pain too far removed from his own panic. The rope was tight, but there was a small bit of give. Enough to give him hope. Even if it was in vain. There were no windows in this interior office. The only way out was the door that led to the hallway, and likely that was engulfed in flames already. Skeeter had the sick realization that he would die whether he freed himself from the chair or not. He looked over at the wall safe, now empty of it’s prize, and gaping at him. It seemed to mock him. It’s treasure was gone and Skeeter would lose his life anyway. He sank in the chair and began to pray.

The cab pulled up to the Tower just as fire blew the windows out of the 22^nd floor. Shirley had no doubt it was that particular floor. Of course it was. Of course. Just her **** luck. There was nothing she could do but watch. Her only consolation was that the folder and the key were not in there any longer. Now, she knew, that crazy bitch niece of hers, Angelique had them. Oh, and one more note of consolation…she knew exactly where Angelique was going with them.

“Driver? The airport again, please. Oh, and this time, getting your finger out of your **** and DRIVE THIS ****, WILL YA!”

The cab lit out onto the street, and a dented sedan pulled up in it's place in front of the burning Broderick Tower.  Inside, three passengers.  The driver stared blankly at the tower, then into the crazy eyes of the hitchhiker in his passenger seat.  From the back seat of the car, a voice murmured, "Well, lookey, lookey.  Someone got here before us, I guess."

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