Then, he answered himself, the cops would have dragged him out into the night to face a million questions, never caring what the open space would do to him.
“The house is fine,” said Fats in his carefully constructed monotone. “Sorry to bother you.”
“No problem,” said the guard. “I’m here to make sure you’re safe regardless of the situation. My partner and I will cruise the neighborhood, and if we see any kids running around on their own, we’ll escort them home and have a talk with their parents.”
Fats hated the guard even more now for making him feel like the old, cranky neighbor. He wondered when that had happened. When had he become some middle-aged fool who’s afraid of the dark?
“Your alarm has been reset,” said the guard, his friendly tone never faltering. “If there are any more problems, we’re just seconds away. You sleep tight now.”
The guard left and Fats made sure the deadbolt was locked securely behind him.
With a sigh, Fats slid the magazine from the gun and ejected the bullet from its chamber.
He knew that going back to sleep would be impossible, and as he headed upstairs he wondered if any of his online companions would be lurking around the chats.
Chapter 84
By the time Carol made it home, she felt a hundred years old.
There had been no sign of her son since the hospital, her husband hadn’t bothered to show up, and her nephew was claiming that Frankie was some kind of monster who had killed his own uncle.
Carol didn’t buy it. If her son was a killer, she would know. She was his mother, goddamnit.
Carol unlocked the front door and flipped on the porch light. Then she turned and waved to the patrol car that had escorted her home. The car drove off as soon as she closed the door.
“Frank,” she called out. “Are you home, Frank?”
The absence of an answer didn’t surprise her, but she dearly wanted to hear her husband’s voice.
Or her son’s.
Carol moved into the den and flicked on the light. The blanket she had thrown over her drunken husband was crumpled on the floor. The whiskey bottle stood on the table without its top. But there was no Frank.
After switching off the light, Carol dragged herself upstairs. On impulse, she went into her son’s room.
It was a mess.
His computer was missing, his closet had been ransacked, and all his posters were torn from the walls. The police, she guessed, looking for evidence that her son was a monster.
With a heavy sigh, she moved to her own bedroom. It looked identical to the way she had left it that morning, and there was still no sign of her husband.
“Come home, Frank,” she whispered. She lay on the bed and pushed her face into the pillows. “Please come home.”
Chapter 85
Fats sat in his favorite chair and scanned the chats, looking for a familiar name. There was a lot of activity despite the lateness of the hour, but none of the conversations looked interesting enough to make him want to jump in.
With a sigh, he spun around in his chair with the intent of heading to the kitchen and fixing a sandwich. Instead, his heart skipped a beat as he stared into the face of a teenage boy.
In one hand, the boy held a small, metallic canister.
“Don’t try anything,” said the boy. “I know you can read lips. This is the same stuff that sent you off to dreamland before. I’m sure you remember it.”
Fats wished he hadn’t left his gun on a table in the hall.
“You have two options,” said the boy. “One. I can tie you to that chair so you don’t try anything funny. Or two. I can spray you with this and drag your sorry ass up to the roof like my friends and I did before. What do you prefer?”
Fats bit into his tongue in an effort to defuse the anger that fizzed through his body.
He saw the boy’s clever trick as clearly as if it had happened in front of him. A simple distraction at the front door to set off the alarms, and then enter through the kitchen while everyone was too busy to notice. When the alarm was reset, he was already inside.
The boy moved the spray closer, forcing Fats’ to hold up one finger.
“Smart choice,” said the boy. “Now put your hands behind the chair and face the monitor.”
Fats did as he was told. His wrists and ankles were bound to the metal chair with thin, plastic strands. The strands, Fats noticed, were identical to those used as disposable handcuffs by the police.
“Who are you?” asked Fats.
After he finished tightening the last strand, the boy spun Fats around to face him. He was grinning from ear to ear.
“Hackett hasn’t told you?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Some friend you have there. I know all about you, Fats. And yet you know nothing about me.” He laughed. “I thought you were better than that.”
“You’re Cypher,” Fats said.
“That’s too easy. What you need to be asking is ‘who is Cypher?’”
“Not important,” said Fats.
“Au Contraire, Howard.” Cypher offered a sly smile. “Names are everything.”
The boy moved off to sit at another computer.
“What are you doing here?” Fats asked.
Cypher held up a thumb-sized flash drive.
“Creating a new army,” he said.
Chapter 86
Hackett heard his cellphone ring from deep within a troubling dream.
He lurched awake and glanced at the clock. It was barely 5 a.m. and he was alone in Chandra’s bed.
He didn’t remember Chandra leaving, but judging by the time, he was sure she was already at the station and preparing her story for the airwaves.
Hackett climbed out of bed and dug his phone from the pocket of his jacket. He hit the receive button and was stunned to hear the caller hang up without saying a word.
“Bastard!”
Hackett clicked though to the Calls Received menu. It identified the call as Fats’ home number.
Hackett scratched himself, realizing he was still fully dressed, and wondered why Fats would call his cell rather than text. It’s not like they could talk on it. Did the mad bastard’s heroic trip into the great outdoors make him forget he was deaf, too?
With a final glance at the warm and comfortable bed, Hackett pulled on his jacket and shoes, and ventured out into the cold morning.
With the Jeep running and the heater groaning, Hackett dug out Fats’ crazy headset and switched it on.
Hackett spoke into the mouthpiece: “So what’s so bloody important that it couldn’t wait until a decent hour?”
The robotic reply came within seconds.
“I’ve found Cypher’s location.”
“He’s still in the city?” Hackett asked.
“Yes. He’s back online. He’s rebuilding his army.”
“The kid’s not too bright, is he? Where’s he at and I’ll let the cops know? This will be good for Chandra’s story if they catch him before she goes on the air.”
“Come to the house.”
“Why? The chase is over. Let’s just give it to the cops and go back to bed.”
There was a pause.
“He’s smarter than we thought. He may be monitoring our communication.”
Hackett yawned and the thought crossed his mind that it didn’t really matter if Cypher was monitoring what they said. Once it was in the hands of the cops, it was no longer their problem. But, then again, his friend had always put up with his own idiosyncrasies and he was already awake.
“See you in twenty,” Hackett said. “Put a pot of tea on will you? And make it strong. I need the caffeine.”
AT FATS’ COMPUTER, Cypher was grinning.
“You make it too easy, Howie,” he taunted his captive. “Anyone can type on this thing and Hackett thinks it’s you.”
Fats glared at him, his chest and biceps bulging as he strained against the plastic bonds.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Cypher mocked. “Those straps are practically
unbreakable. Do you think cops would use them if every would-be Houdini could slip through?”
Fats stopped straining.
“That’s better,” said Cypher. “Hate to see you have an aneurysm and miss the best part of our first day together.”
Cypher laughed, enjoying his own joke.
“Now,” he continued, “I believe you’ve got a gun I can borrow.”
Chapter 87
Hackett parked in the driveway and walked up the path with Fats’ helmet and backpack slung over his shoulder.
He had been thinking of wrapping his hands around a warm mug of tea the whole way, and desperately hoped Fats had brewed up like he had asked.
He rang the doorbell, which made the lights in the house flicker. When Fats didn’t appear, he tried the knob. The door was unlocked.
Hackett stepped inside and carefully lowered the backpack to the ground.
He listened for movement, but heard nothing.
His friend, he knew, had become too paranoid of late to leave his front door unlocked and the security system switched off.
Deciding to be cautious, Hackett snatched up the pack and backed away from the front step. He returned to the Jeep, locked the doors, and pulled on the headset.
“Fats. What’s up?” he asked into the microphone.
He waited for a full minute, but there was no answer.
Hackett reached under the passenger seat and removed the expandable baton.
“Fats,” he tried again. “Are you okay? Talk to me.”
Hackett was about to pull off the headset and call the cops when Fats’ computer replied.
“Sorry, I was in the can. Come on up. I unlocked the door for you.”
Hackett released a sigh of relief.
“You had me worried there, pal. Is your paranoia subsiding or are you just feeling all snug and secure now that your ground-to-air missiles have arrived?”
There was a pause, and then, “Come on up. We’ll discuss it here.”
Hackett frowned at his friend’s unwillingness to play along. What was the point of razzing someone if they didn’t fight back?
“Did you put the kettle on at least?” he asked huffily.
“Yes.”
“OK. I’ll be right in.”
Hackett leaned over to replace the baton in its spot under the passenger seat, but stopped in mid-reach. Maybe he was catching Fats’ paranoia, but whatever it was, it made him slip the metal baton through his belt in the small of his back.
After removing the headset and stuffing it back in the pack, Hackett returned to the house. Inside, he dropped the pack in the hallway and made his way to the kitchen. He was disappointed to see the kettle hadn’t even been removed from the cupboard.
“Thanks!” Hackett yelled, knowing his jeer was falling on deaf ears.
That was one of the inherent problems with having a deaf friend, you could only give him shit face to face.
Hackett dug out the kettle, filled it with water and plugged it in. While he waited for the water to boil, he located the tea bags and two solid earthen clay mugs adorned with Pagan symbols.
The mugs had been a present to Fats after Hackett’s last sojourn to Burning Man in the Black Rock Desert. Before the gift, Hackett had been forced to sip tea from a common ceramic cup with the name of an insurance company on one side. It always made the tea bitter.
Fats was damn lucky to have such a thoughtful friend, Hackett told himself as he poured the tea, added splashes of milk and carried both mugs up the stairs.
“I had to make my own tea you selfish bastard,” Hackett said as he walked into the attic. “I even made you—”
He stopped cold.
Fats was sitting rigid at his computer terminal, his hands bound behind his back and a gag over his mouth. His eyes were flashing a warning, but it was too late.
Cypher stepped out of the shadows with the Beretta in his hand.
“HOWARD’S A LITTLE busy to be drinking tea,” Cypher said. “And I’ve never liked the stuff myself.”
Hackett’s grip hardened on the hot mugs. To cover his surprise, he winked at Fats as though it was all a joke.
“Sorry, Fats. If I’d known you had the kid over I would have brought cookies and milk.”
“Look at me when you’re talking.” Cypher stabbed the air with the gun. “I’m in control here.”
“You know what, Frankie?” Hackett’s voice filled with venom. “Fuck you!”
Cypher stepped back, his eyes opening wide.
“You’re nothing but a punk kid who likes to hurt people,” Hackett continued. “But why hurt everyone around me? I thought we were friends for Christ sake.”
“Friends!” Cypher gasped. “You’re the one who allowed that fucker to rape me.”
“I didn’t allow—”
“Are you stupid?” Cypher snapped. “Who did you think he’d turn to when he couldn’t get his hands on you anymore?”
“Frankie, I swear—”
“Too late, Tom! You looked after yourself, fine! But don’t tell me you didn’t know. You’re smarter than that. Smarter than my own family ... my own father.”
Hackett paled. “Frank didn’t know. If he did—”
“No?” Cypher’s grin was as sharp and lethal as a knife. “You think he drowns himself in that bottle because your father played the hero while he cowered in some fucking corner, pissing himself? He knew exactly what Bob was. He just didn’t care.”
Tears filled Cypher’s eyes, but he refused to let them fall. “All he does is sit in that den and relive that night when your dad saved his ass, wishing he was the one who died, wishing he could be a different kind of man ... a man who stands up for his son.”
Cypher tried to smile again, but it broke apart on his lips. “You think my dad gives you a hard time? Try being the son of a coward rather than the almighty hero.”
“Frankie, I’m sorry,” said Hackett. “But don’t you see that should have brought us together. We’re both victims.”
“You’re wrong!” Cypher stepped closer, the gun never wavering. “I was the victim. Bob’s and yours.”
Hackett nearly pissed himself at the sound of a bullet being chambered. Of course, he realized with mounting dread, the son of a cop knew all about handguns.
“You share his blame, Tom,” Cypher continued. “And now you’ll join him in hell.”
“Hold on, Frankie,” Hackett protested. “We can fix this. I know we can.”
“How? I killed Bob in cold blood. Slashed his throat while he sat on the crapper. And you know what? I’m not sorry. He deserved it. They all deserve it. These fucking monsters are everywhere and K.A.R.M.A. is the only solution that makes a difference.”
“It’s not that simple, Frankie. You can’t really believe—”
“Believe what? That they can change? Be reformed? Bullshit! Monsters don’t change, they evolve. The cops can’t keep up. The predators are smarter and faster and they don’t give a fuck about rules or laws or judges or jails.” He paused to lick his lips. “And they have protectors. Enablers like Gloria to hide behind. She may as well have held me down while her husband raped me.”
“Jesus, Frankie, if I had known—”
“What? You would have fixed it? You’ve never fixed anything in your life, Tom. All you do is run. Run and let others take the fall.”
Hackett flinched at the rage and cruelty in Cypher’s voice. He struggled to make his own voice calm.
“You never reached out, Frankie. You never asked for my help. Instead, you decided that I hadn’t suffered enough.” Thoughts of Fats tied to the roof and Chandra in hospital made Hackett’s voice grow angry. “You made the choice to take over Bob’s role and fuck with my life. I should be the one pointing a gun at you.”
Cypher flinched. “You’re twisting my words. I’m the victim.”
“Then what am I?” asked Hackett. “Just someone Bob practiced on so he could fuck you better?”
Cypher moved forward in a rush and
pressed the gun to Hackett’s chest. His finger tightened on the trigger.
“I’ll kiss Chandra for you,” he said.
With a flick of his wrists, Hackett threw the contents of both cups of boiling tea at Cypher’s face. In the same instant, he dropped to his knees to get below the barrel of the gun and yanked the baton from his belt.
The gun fired and Hackett felt a hot needle shave the corner of his eyebrow and burn a path across his cheek.
Roaring from the pain, he pressed a button on the baton to transform it into a steel whip and lashed out with all his strength. The crunch of breaking bone as the baton connected with Cypher’s wrist was immediately followed by the metallic clank of the gun hitting the floor.
Without mercy, Hackett kicked out his feet and felt a solid connection with more bone.
Cypher screamed as he tumbled to the floor.
Hackett jumped to his feet and moved in close. He saw Cypher’s broken hand dangling uselessly by his side, while the other hovered protectively above his burning face.
Through the gaps between trembling fingers, Hackett could see Cypher’s cold mask dissolve into the weeping face of his tormented young cousin.
But it wasn’t enough to stop him.
Hackett was too blinded by rage.
He raised the baton.
“Don’t do it, Tommy,” said a familiar voice.
Hackett twisted his neck to see Uncle Frank standing at the top of the stairs, an ancient snub-nosed .38 in his hand. His eyes were bloodshot, but the gun didn’t tremble.
“He’s still my son,” said Frank sternly. “And I think there’s been enough killing in this family.”
Hackett’s anger beat within him like a second heart. The baton’s steel was warm and comforting in his hand.
“Frankie says you knew about Bob,” he challenged.
Frank flinched.
“Is it true?” Hackett asked.
Frank lowered his gaze. “I’m guilty of a lot of sins, Tommy, but that’s not one of them.”
“Look at your son,” Hackett continued, his voice raw. “Look at his pain. All he wants is for you to notice it ... to heal it. But you’re so wrapped up in a lost moment of time you can’t even see what’s right in front of your own eyes.”
Karma Page 21
