by Scott Sigler
How had this happened? He’d come to check on his best friend and now he was crucified to the wall, staring up at the bloody, giant, wild-eyed, snarling, psychotic nightmare that was Perry Dawsey in name only.
“Okay,” Perry said in a whisper. “Now I’m going to take the sock out of your mouth. And when I do, I’m going to ask you some questions. Whether you live or die is up to you—the second you scream, I’m going to pull that knife out of your hand and shove it through your eye and stir your brain like Skippy peanut butter. It’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt a lot. And I don’t give a fuck, but I think you already know that. Do you know I don’t give a fuck, Billy Boy?”
Bill nodded in agreement. Perry’s voice had grown calm, cold and relaxed, but his eyes hadn’t changed. Bill’s chest felt packed with coppery terror. Fear filled his mind, leaving no room for thoughts of escape. Perry was in charge. Bill would do whatever he said. Whatever it took to stay alive.
Oh Jesus, don’t let me die here. Please don’t let this happen, oh dear God, please!
“Good,” Perry said. “That’s good, Bill. I’m sure you’ve been trained well and warned about the consequences of this mission, so I won’t feel a bit of remorse. If your voice rises above conversational levels, you’re not going to be having a whole lot of fun. Do you understand what will happen if your voice rises above conversational levels, Bill?”
Bill nodded again.
Perry dropped to the couch, resting a knee on either side of Bill’s thighs. Bill saw him grimace a bit, but then that fleeting expression vanished, the psychotic stare back in place. Suddenly Perry looked away, his eyes losing focus. He seemed to be staring at the wall, or perhaps some point beyond the wall. His head cocked to the right ever so slightly.
He looks like a dog listening to one of those ultrasonic whistles.
“Look, I’m telling you he’ll talk,” Perry said. “We don’t need to kill him!”
Oh Christ oh Jesus oh my Lord he’s completely insane and I’m going to die here, I’m going to die just like that.
Perry spoke angrily to his unseen companion. “Fuck off! This is my show now. You just shut up and let me think.”
Bill felt his spirit sag down, weighted with doom. There was no hope.
Apparently the voice stopped. Perry’s stare returned, a piercing fixation that drilled into Bill’s eyes, which were wide, white and wet. Bill felt weakness slip over him, slowly pulling him into unconsciousness.
This time he didn’t fight it.
57.
DEW ON THE MOVE
Dew pinched the uncomfortable, thick cellular between his shoulder and ear, steered with one hand, and with the other punched an address into the Buick’s dashboard GPS computer.
“How long since the client sent the form, Murray?”
“About twenty minutes.”
“Have we contacted him yet?”
“There’s no answer at the number he gave us,” Murray said. “We’ve sent a return email, but no response there yet, either.”
“Send Margaret and her rapid-response teams for me. I have to find this apartment complex. Tell the squads to get to Dawsey’s apartment complex, but do not enter. Tell them to wait for my call. Leave my three teams at Nguyen’s place to make sure the media doesn’t get in until they finish scrubbing the place of any triangle references.”
Dew broke the connection and put the cellular away. He almost rear-ended an old woman driving a Civic. He leaned on the horn, trying to get her out of the way. It was Sunday, college on semester break, but there were still college kids crossing the street, slow and calm like they owned the world, like they were immortal. Right about now Dew would be more than happy to put that immortality up against the front bumper of the Buick.
He swung into the wrong lane and passed the Civic. The GPS said he was fifteen minutes away, but with traffic it would probably take just over twenty to reach Dawsey’s.
58.
BEST FRIENDS FOREVER (BFF)
Perry knew he didn’t have much time—either the Soldiers were on their way, or Bill the Betrayer would soon bleed to death. The wet puddle on the couch grew steadily, as if Bill were pissing blood. Perry knew that if he timed it right, he could get the information and the Soldiers could save his friend. Correction. His so-called friend.
Bill’s eyes glazed over again, and his head sagged forward.
“Oh no you don’t, you little informant,” Perry said. He slapped hard with his left hand. Bill’s head shot back so fast his temple bounced off the wall. The slap sounded red, warm and satisfying.
You don’t know what suffering is, Billy Boy. But I’m going to do my best to give you a little taste of what I’ve gone through.
Bill’s scared-rabbit look returned to his blood-smeared face. How could the Soldiers use some weak-ass like this? It was probably a trick—yes, a trick. Bill was trying to lure him into overconfidence.
“That shit isn’t going to trick me, Billy Boy, no bout-a-doubt-it.” He was smarter than these fuckers. They didn’t know what they’d started by fucking with a Dawsey, because a Dawsey doesn’t take shit, no sir, no how.
Perry reached out and pulled the sock from Bill’s mouth. Bill breathed deeply, but other than that didn’t make a sound.
Perry licked his lips. He tasted blood. He didn’t know if it was his or Bill’s. Eager for the final answer, he leaned in close and asked his vital question.
“Who the fuck do you work for, and what are the Triangles going to turn into?”
Perry’s face was only inches from Bill’s. The dark circles around Perry’s eyes made it look as if he hadn’t slept in days. The whites were so bloodshot that they took on a pinkish hue. Bright red stubble stuck out offensively. There were open sores on his lips; it looked like he’d bitten through them not very long ago.
But that question—triangle?
“Perry, wha…what are you talking about?” Bill knew it was the wrong thing to say, but he couldn’t think of another answer. Perry’s eyes swelled with anger, adding to the already psychotic stare.
“Don’t screw with me, Bill.” His quiet voice carried the threat of death. “You and your little Jedi mind tricks can just fuck off. I’m not buying what you’re selling, junior. Now, I’ll ask you again, what are the Triangles becoming?”
Bill’s breath came in short, ragged gasps. What was this madness? What did Perry want to hear?
Bill tried to fight back tears of frustration and panic. Pain ripped through his body in a nonstop cacophony of raw nerves and cutting metal edges. It was so hard to think!
He struggled for words, struggled to make sense of it all. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Perry. It’s me! It’s Bill, for God’s sake! Why do you want to do this to me?”
A smile crept across Perry’s face. He reached out for one of the knives that had Bill’s hands impaled on the wall. Bill’s body went rigid with white-hot tension.
“Getting a little loud in here, don’t you think, Billy Boy?”
“I’m sorry,” Bill said quickly, his hushed whisper filled with fear and pleading. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”
“Goddamned right it won’t, Billy old sport. If it does happen again, you’ll be dead before you can apologize. Your warnings are gone. You’re in Double Jeopardy now, where the points can really add up, so I’ll ask you just one more time: what are the Triangles becoming?”
Bill’s mind spun wildly for an answer, anything that would keep him alive even a little bit longer. He had to come up with some bullshit and fast, but it was so hard to think, impossible to concentrate. Perry was going to kill him.
“I…I don’t know, they didn’t tell me that.”
“Like hell they didn’t,” Perry said, never losing his predatory stare. “You’ve got one more chance, Billy, and then I’m going to carve you up.”
Bill scrambled for an answer, but he couldn’t make his mind focus past the pain, past the psychotic situation, past death that stared him in th
e face. What had Perry called him? The “informant?” Informant for what? For whom? What raving paranoid vision did Perry see through those bloodshot eyes?
“Perry, I swear, they didn’t tell me!” He watched the rage flare up in Perry’s eyes. Bill kept talking, his voice a nasal, pleading, pitiful cry. “It’s not my fault they don’t tell me anything! They just told me to keep an eye on you, let them know what you were doing.”
That reply seemed to strike a chord. Perry’s look changed, as if Bill’s words answered some important question, but he still looked far from placated.
Bill continued, clutching to one faint glimmer of hope. “It’s not my job to know what the hell they turn into.”
Perry nodded as if he accepted the story. “Okay, maybe you know and maybe you don’t,” he said. “Just tell me who you’re working for.”
“I think you know that already,” Bill said quickly. He held his breath, waiting for a violent reaction. The salty tang of blood mingled in his mouth with the tangible taste of fear. The flicker of hope glowed a bit brighter as Perry nodded and smiled.
Dizziness swept over Bill. The room seemed to spin. He couldn’t keep this up. “Perry, you’re out of control. You’re paranoid…you’re hallucinating…”
A shiver rippled through Bill’s body. The apartment suddenly felt so cold, so icy cold. Black spots formed in front of his eyes, and another dizzy spell threw the room into crazy, unpredictable motion.
The ratfucker was passing out again. Perry bitch-slapped him three times, three vicious lefts, each harder than the last. It felt so good to lash out like that. You can’t let people faint on you, not when you need information. All this pussy-ass narc needed was a little Dawsey-style discipline. You’ve got to have discipline.
Bill blinked a few times, but his eyes were once again clear and lucid. Perry had hit so hard that his hand stung from the slaps. The right side of Bill’s face started to swell almost immediately, growing red and plump like a Ball Park frank.
kill him kill him kill him
“Shut the fuck up!” Perry screamed at the top of his lungs. He’d had just about enough of the Triangles, oh yes sir he had. They were in his house, after all, his house, and a Dawsey was always the master of his castle. He knew if he didn’t take control, if he didn’t take charge, he’d go crazy. He just couldn’t stand it anymore, couldn’t stand that voice in his head every fucking minute of every fucking day. “You shut your little mouths or I swear as soon as I’m done with the informant here I’ll turn the Three Stooges into the Dynamic Duo, no matter what it does to me!”
There was an ultrabrief burst of high-pitch as the Triangles accessed Dynamic Duo, then nothing.
He felt something inside him change, as suddenly and definitely as the switch thrown on an electric chair. The power structure had just traded hands—he knew it, and the Triangles knew it. He wasn’t afraid of them anymore.
It’s my house, Perry thought. A confident smile parted his bleeding, cracked lips. It’s my house, and you’re all going to live by my rules.
Bill’s arms grew heavy, weak, yet he couldn’t relax, couldn’t let them drop and pull against the blades stuck through his palms. Only by keeping his hands very, very still could he maintain the pain at just below a screaming level. The tension of facing that agony and the fear he felt anticipating Perry’s next move had his muscles taut with stress, tiring them quickly.
Perry started blinking rapidly. He shook his head, violently, like a dog shaking off after a swim. Then he looked right at Bill, his bloodshot eyes suddenly wide with terror.
“Bill, help me,” Perry said. The affected accent was gone. It was his friend again, not the creature that was torturing him to death.
“Perry…” Bill fought for the words. He had to act now. “Perry, you have to…call…”
He wasn’t sure how long he had before his strength gave out and his hands fell, the weight pulling down against the knives in grinding torture. For some odd reason, that thought rang worse than the concept of a knife through the eye—how much longer till his arms would give out? He already felt the burn, his deltoids and biceps simmering with fatigue. He didn’t have much time, not much time…hard to believe he was going to die like this.
“Call…the police.”
The word seemed to rebound inside Perry’s head. He’d been free, free of their control, for just a few seconds. He could have kept them at bay, too, would have, but Bill had to go and prove them right.
Call the police, Bill had said. The mothafuckin’ po-lice.
We told you.
Could they sound smug? They sounded smug. Without conscious thought, Perry let go of his friendship for Bill Miller.
Enough fucking around. He had to get the info and get it now.
“When are they coming for me, Billy?”
Bill said nothing. Perry grabbed a handful of shirt and roughly shook Bill to emphasize his words. “When are they coming to get me?”
Bill’s eyes showed clear and fearful for only a moment, then went glassy again for the last time. His head nodded down limply. He didn’t move.
Perry hit him until his own palms bled. It didn’t make any difference—Bill wasn’t coming out of it this time. Perry felt at Bill’s neck, not knowing how to check for a pulse. Perry checked his own neck, found the jugular, which beat strong and true. He probed the same spot on Bill’s neck and felt nothing.
Kill him,
you have got to kill him,
please do it now.
“You got your wish. He’s dead.”
The informant’s eyes remained open, fixed in a perpetual, empty, half-lidded stare. Perry stood on his good leg and looked at the corpse.
Bill was dead. A traitor’s death, and well deserved—he’d been one of them.
No bout-a-doubt it.
59.
THE CALL
Al Turner fumed. Not only was that damn freak-of-nature kid raising holy hell again, but Al’s hemorrhoids were worse than ever. He’d used what seemed like a gallon of Preparation H, but he might as well have been smearing mayonnaise on his asshole for all the good it did.
“My name is Al Turner,” he said into the phone. “I already called once. I’m in apartment B-303. He lives right downstairs, and he’s been screaming his head off for days. I’ve had it.”
“Sir, a car is on the way. You’re willing to file a formal complaint?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been down there and asked him to shut up and I’m not dealing with it. He’s nuts. I think you better tell your people to be careful, though—he’s a huge guy. I mean pro-wrestling huge.”
“Thank you, sir. The officers will be there as soon as possible. Please stay away from the apartment. The officers will handle it.”
“No problem. I’m not going down there. That guy is a freaking fruitcake.”
60.
STEPPIN’ OUT
We want to see.
Bill Miller
A pond would be good for you (these are good movie lines, dammit, Stop ignoring me)
Perry stood quietly.
“So whose eyes are working now?”
All of us can see.
He’d be damned if he’d let his balls see anything. That was just too fucking much. He slid his T-shirt sleeve up past his elbow, giving the Triangle on his forearm a full view of Bill Miller’s corpse.
Yes, he’s dead,
you are right.
Perry pulled down the shirt and turned to stare vacantly at his former friend. The situation hit home, coming to rest in his mind with a heavy, cold-iron weight. Bill’s blank eyes stared at the floor. The trickle of blood easing out of his nose had slowed to a stop. Blood covered the couch and carpet as if Bill had just come out of the shower, fully dressed with his clothes soaking wet, and sat down to watch CSI. Except he hadn’t just sat down. Perry had put him there. Bill’s hands had steak knives jammed through the palms, nailing them to the wall. Blood streaked the wallpaper, sticky, gooey and red.
O
h Jesus, what the hell is happening to me?
He’d killed Bill. Tricked him, stabbed him, dragged him into the apartment like a trapdoor spider snatching a hapless insect back into a lightless, hopeless den, nailed him to the wall and tortured him before letting him bleed to death. Bleed to death while Perry shouted questions in his face. It was a shitty way to go.
He’d just murdered his best friend. He should have been swamped with guilt, overwhelmed with it, yet surprisingly he felt nothing but a cold, icy satisfaction. Only the strong survive, and that little informant hadn’t been strong enough to cut the mustard.
“We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
The high-pitch searching sound echoed in his head.
We need to go to Wahjamega.
It was a strange comment, but nothing the Triangles did seemed to surprise him anymore.
“What the hell is a Wahjamega?” Perry asked quietly.
Not a what, a where.
Wahjamega.
In a place called Michigan.
Do you know where it is?
“Michigan? Sure. You’re in it. I’ll have to look up Wahjamega. Let me MapQuest it.”
Perry turned toward where his Mac used to sit before he remembered he’d smashed it to bits.
“Uh, I think I have a regular map.”
We need to go there.
There are people who can help us.
He felt their excitement, pure and unbridled. Images flashed in his head: a dirt road he’d never seen before, black movement in a dense forest, a pair of sprawling oaks, tree limbs vibrating in tune to the throbbing forest floor—and a brief flash of the green door from his dreams. Another image: a pattern, a set of lines that looked like a Japanese kanji character. The symbol was nothing from his memory, it was theirs, and it held power.
