Hollow World by Nick Pobursky Page A

from Antarctica,” he stated. “Expensive, but it is the single purest, most naturally sweet water on the planet. Perhaps I’ll email you a link to the vendor. Unfortunately, I haven’t come all this way to converse about beverage preferences. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
    “First, tell me where my family is,” Charlie demanded, still feeling the effects of the drugs.
    “I can’t tell you that , detective. What I can tell you is that they are perfectly safe, unharmed and—quite frankly—currently in better lodgings than yourself,” he stated, gazing around the small room with a look of disgust on his features.
    “How can I be sure—”
    The man held up a hand for silence. He reached into his jacket, withdrew a small photograph from his pocket and tossed it to Charlie. The photograph was a grainy surveillance shot of Meghan and the girls sleeping. It was zoomed in too far for Charlie to deduce anything other than that they were on a vaguely familiar-looking couch, and were indeed unharmed so far. It was better quality than the shot of Katie he’d received on the Blackberry earlier in the night, but only fractionally.
    “Keep it,” offered the man. “It’ll be a good motivator for you. It was taken an hour ago.”
    The man sat in silence for several minutes while Charlie’s eyes remained glued to the photograph. Finally, the young detective looked up.
    “Who are you?” he asked.
    “Now that is the right question, detective. My name,” he spoke, pausing for decidedly cheesy dramatic effect, “is Spencer Holloway.”
    The sounded achingly familiar but Charlie couldn’t place it.
    “Haven’t heard of me?” Holloway continued. “No matter. In fact, I should be proud, for it shows that I’ve done my work well. I suppose I can also say the same for you. You are also a man who does his job well—correct?”
    “What does my job have to do with any of this?” Charlie asked, defensively. “Did I put your brother in prison or something? Is this your way of getting petty revenge?”
    “Not my brother, detective…my son. And you didn’t put him in prison: you put him in the cemetery.”
    In an instant, Charlie knew exactly who this man was. Spencer Holloway could only be the father of James Holloway, the only man the detective had ever fired his weapon upon. Instinctively, his hand felt for the scar on his throat. James Holloway had been the one to put the bullet in his neck, though the madman had met a far worse fate.
    “James Holloway,” Charlie stated, incredulously. “He was your son.”
    “Yes, but only in blood,” Holloway confirmed, dismissing the detective’s concern with a casual wave of a hand. “The boy was nearly useless, his crimes unacceptable for one who had such great potential. Don’t delude yourself with the romance of the situation, Walker; I haven’t come here to avenge my son’s death. What you did to James was a blessing. The world doesn’t need people like him. What the world needs are people like you and I.”
    “I’m pretty sure you and I are nothing alike,” Charlie stated.
    “I beg to differ, detective. Great minds are often inexplicably drawn to one another, and ultimately these minds seek to prove their dominance. They seek to destroy one another—to challenge themselves by hunting down and crushing others. We might not share the same views, and our goals may differ, but the way in which we approach a problem and devise its solution is one and the same.”
    “You’re insane,” stated Charlie.
    Holloway seemed to ponder this accusation.
    “Oftentimes, true genius is mistaken for insanity; an entertaining notion, considering the accusation is thrown around only by the ignorant. I expected more from you.”
    “I guess you set the bar too high,” Charlie countered. “Sorry to disappoint.”
    “If the past is any indicator, I should say I haven’t set the bar high enough. You come from a rare breed, detective,” said Holloway, calmly. “Your