Could he be in the attic? Parker hadn’t found the stairs going up there yet.
The first room he came to on the third side was occupied. He leaned in and listened, and out of the normal rustle of silence he gradually culled the sound of breathing, faint and regular and quite far away.
There were two vague rectangles of window in this room, and the one on the left seemed more indistinct at the bottom, it didn’t have the clarity of line that the one beside it had. As though a piece of furniture were in the way. Or a man.
Jessup was sitting at the window, looking out at the road. Waiting for Parker? Watching one side of the house?
There was the faint odor of cigarette in the air. Jessup had been smoking, too.
Parker straightened, and stepped to one side of the doorway, outside the room. The automatic was in his right hand, but he didn’t want to use it unless he had to. The broken door in the kitchen of this house would be vandalism, and cause no unusual concern. Blood in any of the rooms would attract the wrong kind of attention.
Parker inhaled and exhaled. Holding the breath altered the responses of the muscles, just slightly. He leaned against the wall for a minute, breathing normally, and then turned and stepped silently in through the doorway.
The indistinctness at the bottom of the left window was still there. Parker moved toward it, taking small steps on carpeting, feeling in front of himself with one hand at every step.
“Manny? That you?”
The voice seemed very sudden. Parker froze where he was, one arm extended downward and out in front of himself, back bent slightly, right heel lifted.
Some people are very sensitive to the presence of another person in the same room. Jessup’s attention hadn’t been entirely on the nothing happening down below on the road; he had sensed Parker’s presence.
Parker stayed where he was, waiting for Jessup to decide he’d made a mistake. He continued to breathe, but slowly, with long silent intakes and exhalations.
The darkness shifted, at the bottom of the left window. It now matched the right window, squared off bottom and top.
“Manny! He’s up here!” A loud shout, for the benefit of the one downstairs, lying on that bed. And Jessup didn’t sound worried, it was simply a shouted bit of information.
Parker moved during the sound of Jessup’s shout; he backed toward the doorway, holding his left hand out behind him. He stopped when Jessup’s voice stopped.
Silence. And then, belatedly, a sleepy shout back, a query from below, with no intelligible words.
“He’s up here with me!” Parker moved backward. He would not let himself be between Jessup and the windows, he would not be outlined. Jessup wouldn’t have the same reluctance to use a gun.
This time Jessup kept shouting, giving Parker time to get all the way back to the door, and take one step to the left of it, within the room, and stand there with his back to the wall, the doorway just past his right elbow.
Jessup shouted, “Put out the light! Get to the bottom of the stairs and wait for him, in case he gets away from me!”
Would Manny do it? Or would Manny just prop himself on his elbow on the bed and gaze blearily at the doorway in the candlelight, and gradually just sink down again and forget all about it?
There were no more answers from downstairs, only the first muffled question. Jessup didn’t shout any more instructions; either he was sure Manny would do what he was told, or he wanted Parker to think he was. In either case, Manny’s one return shout had told Jessup that Manny was still alive and all right, that Parker had not already taken him out of the play.
Everybody was silent for a while now. Parker had kept his eyes on the smudgy rectangles of the windows. Jessup had been in front of the one on the left, and had disappeared from that one without having gone past the one on the right. Which meant that Jessup was somewhere in the left side of the room. Coming this way? Staying in one spot?
If he were going to get out of the room, he had two choices. He could either work his way around the wall, in which case he would run into Parker just before he reached the door, or he could get down on hands and knees and crawl to the door, in which case there was the slight possibility that he would get by Parker; but it was very slight. And in any case, Parker was getting to know Jessup better now, and he had the feeling Jessup wouldn’t crawl to the door. Just as he wouldn’t have gone up the stairs on all fours, though that was the best way to do it.
Jessup was half-good, which is the other side of being half-assed. He knew how to do some things right, but he wasn’t careful enough, he didn’t follow through on the reasons for doing this or that or the other. He would be one of those people who live their lives as a movie, in which they star and direct and write the story. That kind goes for drama, like traveling with a Manny. Or the way they handled Keegan. Or what they did to Claire with Morris’ body. And a man like that won’t crawl across a floor to a doorway, not if his life depends on it.
That was the edge Parker had; he knew that survival was more important than heroics. It isn’t how you play the game, it’s whether you win or lose.
5
A wristwatch with a radium dial. Parker looked at it, a faint green circle swimming in the darkness over there, and waited for the time it counted to make Jessup do something stupid.
Stupid like the watch.
They had been stalemated for about ten minutes now. Jessup had spoken once, seven or eight minutes ago, saying, “Don’t try to convince me you aren’t here. I know you are.” But at that time he hadn’t shifted so that the radium dial was showing yet, so Parker hadn’t moved while he’d talked, simply looked at the place the voice was coming from, to know where Jessup was.
It was in the same area that the green circle, two or three minutes after that, swam to the surface. Whatever position Jessup was standing in, it pointed that circle directly at Parker. Occasionally the thing dove back into the darkness, as Jessup moved—silently—one way or another, shifting position, but it always came back again, and Parker watched it, and waited for Jessup to do something stupid.
It would have a sweep second hand, that watch. By now Jessup would be feeling every second.
There had been no further sound or movement from downstairs. Had Manny heard Jessup? Had he done what Jessup wanted, or had he smiled and nodded and stayed lying there on the bed? Or was he coming upstairs, slowly so as not to make any noise, to find out what was going on? Parker’s right elbow extended into the doorway area, to warn him if anyone tried to move in or out.
From the location of the green circle swimming there, Jessup wasn’t against a wall. Unless he had a piece of furniture to lean on, he would be feeling tired by now.
“You still there, Parker? It is Parker, isn’t it?”
Parker took a sliding step forward while Jessup talked. He stopped when Jessup was silent.
The silence this time lasted no more than thirty seconds. “You’re the last one, you know that?” Jessup was trying to sound cocky and humorous, but he was nerved up and the sound of it was in his voice. “Did you see what we did to your friend Keegan? And Morris? Briley’s dead in the woods someplace, did you know that?”
Parker had covered half the distance to the watch; simultaneously, Jessup stopped talking and the watch disappeared. Parker stayed where he was.
The watch came back, disappeared again, came back again. Jessup was gesturing while he talked, making gestures in the dark. “You don’t fool me, I know you’re in this room. I can feel you. What do you think I am, a punk like Manny? A punk like you people?”
Parker was almost close enough to touch him. Another pace. Jessup was silent, and Parker stood there, looking forward into the darkness, knowing Jessup’s head was just there, a few inches beyond arm’s reach. He waited.
Was Jessup finished talking? Parker breathed shallowly through his nose; the automatic was away in its holster under his left arm, but his right hand hovered near it, in case things turned that way.
“You want
to wait till daylight. That’s okay with—”
Parker’s left hand touched shirt, snaked upward, the fingers closed around throat. His right hand came around, closed, and when he hit he felt Jessup’s teeth against his knuckles.
Jessup was making a high gargling sound, and thrashing like a spider stuck through with a pin. Parker hit him again, holding him in place with the left hand around Jessup’s neck, hitting at the face in the darkness.
Fingers crawled along Parker’s left arm, hurrying toward his head. Parker stepped in close and brought his knee up and felt it hit. But Jessup wrapped his arms around Parker’s waist and lunged forward, and his weight forced Parker to take a backward step. His shin hit something, a chair or table or part of a bed, and his balance was gone, and the two of them toppled over through darkness and hit the floor.
Parker’s first grip was lost. He couldn’t let Jessup get free, he had to know where he was. He slapped outward, and touched cloth, and clung to it. Hands punched at him, they both shifted and rolled on the floor, their feet kicking at anonymous pieces of furniture, and suddenly they rolled directly into one another and both grabbed for leverage and control.
It was weight that made the difference. Parker was a little heavier, a little stronger, a little more sure of himself. He had Jessup’s throat again with one hand, and one of Jessup’s wrists with the other, and he was slowly forcing Jessup onto his back, pushing him backward and over and down. Jessup’s free hand punched out, the punches growing both wilder and frailer, and Parker tucked his head down to protect his face and bore Jessup steadily backward, and down, and flattened him on the floor. Then knelt on the wrist he’d been holding, freeing his other hand. But this time didn’t waste effort with fists; he put the second hand with the first, on Jessup’s throat, and clamped them there, and wouldn’t move.
Jessup kicked, and clawed with his free hand at the fingers around his throat, and scratched at Parker’s face and neck and arms. Parker knelt over him, one knee on Jessup’s wrist, the other leg stretched out behind himself for balance, and leaned his weight on his arms, outstretched, a straight line from his shoulders to Jessup’s throat, the weight of his body and the tightness of his grip pinning Jessup in place and holding the breath from his lungs.
Light. Orange-gray, faint, flickering. Parker saw it reflected in Jessup’s bulging eyes, and looked up to see the doorway framed with orange-yellow light, and then Manny padded forward into the doorway, barefoot, wearing only his slacks, carrying in his unwounded left hand the Chianti bottle with the candle in it, and in his right hand—despite the wound in that shoulder—a small pistol; it looked like a .22, a ladies’ purse gun.
Manny was smiling. His face seemed to flicker like the candlelight, his eyes grew larger and smaller, and moisture on his chin reflected the light like chrome.
If he’d been feeling anything at all, he wouldn’t have been able to hold the gun like that, or bend his arm like that.
His voice was very gentle, lamblike, the sweet child: “Let him go.”
6
At first, Parker didn’t move. Jessup was weakening beneath him, it would be a help to have at least one of them out of the play. He looked back at Manny, standing there in the doorway, and from the corners of his eyes he tried to find something to throw. To get rid of the light. In the darkness, they’d be more equal.
But there was nothing. This was a teenager’s bedroom—from the walls, rock posters gyrated in the candlelight—and the center of the floor was empty. A chair and small table that had been nearby were now kicked away into the corner by the bed, leaving nothing close enough to reach in a single lunge.
“Bang bang,” said Manny gently. He made a small lifting motion with the gun barrel. Get up, he was saying, or be shot where you are.
Parker moved, very slowly, shifting his weight back to his knees from his hands, but keeping the fingers clamped tight around Jessup’s throat till the last second. Jessup’s eyes were rounding out from his head, filming over. His hands had fallen to the floor on either side of his head. His legs were moving, but without purpose, like a dog when he dreams in his sleep.
Parker released him at last, and leaned back on his haunches. He kept watching Manny, because Manny was the danger now, but he remained aware of Jessup, who at first didn’t change his position, just continued to lie there on his back with his legs twitching. Then Jessup made a loud harsh grinding noise in his throat, and his whole body flopped like a fish: air, finding its way back into his body again.
Manny smiled sweetly at Jessup, as though Jessup had just done something cute and clever for his benefit. “There we are,” he said. “You’re all right now.”
But Jessup wasn’t all right. His own hands were at his throat now, and his mouth was open wide. His eyes still bulged, and his face was still mottled dark, and his tongue was still too thick in his mouth. Parker’s weight leaning on him like that had done him some damage; the regular channel for air was at least partially blocked.
Parker slowly moved the leg on the side opposite Manny, lifting the knee and getting his foot under himself, so he’d have more impetus if he had to make a sudden movement anywhere. Manny was concentrating most of his attention on Jessup now, and Parker kept the rest of his body still, his face turned toward Manny, his arms hanging down at his sides.
Manny’s expression, dulled and stupid-looking and childish, was gradually shifting from the smile of happiness to a puzzled frown. He said, “Jessup? You are okay, aren’t you?
Jessup went on making the sounds. They were like dry heaves, only worse.
“We’d better get you a doctor,” Manny said. He was the follower, and the idea of losing his leader terrified him. “We’d better get you a doctor right away.”
Parker’s left foot was on the floor now, and he lifted his left hand and rested it on his knee.
Manny frowned at Parker. “I ought to shoot you,” he said poutingly. “I ought to shoot you in the balls.”
“You couldn’t carry him,” Parker said. “And he can’t walk. And you want to get him to a doctor.”
Manny’s frown deepened; he was working his way through the brambles of what Parker had said. “You carry him,” he said. “That’s better, you can help fix things again. You pick him up and carry him.”
Parker reached down and slid one arm under Jessup’s shoulders and one under his knees.
Manny said, “And you be careful with him. If you hurt him, I’ll hurt you.”
Parker lifted Jessup into his arms, and then got to his feet. Jessup was still making the noises, but with long dry spaces of silence between them; then another grinding rasping intake of breath, and silence, and another tearing abrasive exhalation.
Manny backed out of the doorway as Parker approached him. Parker turned sideways to get Jessup through the doorway, and Manny moved back and to his left and gestured for Parker to go first down the stairs.
Jessup’s breathing started to get easier on the way down. With Manny three or four steps behind him, with no light but the candle, it was possible for Parker to reach his left hand around and close it over Jessup’s windpipe again. But this time he didn’t want Jessup dead, not yet. Jessup’s life was protecting his own right now. He simply didn’t want Jessup improving.
Manny was cautious and alert, within his limitations, but his limitations were severe. Parker had three chances at him before they left the house, going out the same back door they’d all entered by, but he didn’t want to take over from Manny yet. Manny didn’t know it, but he was helping Parker solve his problems.
The next step Manny came to on his own, without suggestions: “We’ll take your car,” he said when they’d gone outside. He blew out the candle and threw the Chianti bottle away; it hit grass, and didn’t break. “You’re the son of a bitch, this is all your fault, we can take your car.”
Parker led the way, carrying Jessup, and Manny followed. It was less dark out here, and only sporadically could Parker close off Jessup’s air supply. But
it was enough; whatever damage had been done, Parker could do enough now to keep it from correcting itself.
There was a driveway beside the house. They walked down it to the road and turned right. There were no houses showing light along this stretch, and looking between houses and out across the lake, Parker saw only two or three lights from over there. It was around eleven now; most of the weekenders had already gone, and the locals were starting to bed down for the night.
The only lights they saw on this side of the lake were those at Claire’s house, when they’d walked around the curve. Manny was keeping ten or fifteen feet back, and his feet scuffed when he walked. Parker didn’t know exactly what he’d taken, but it seemed to serve mostly as a sort of super-tranquilizer. It wasn’t LSD, which was simply a sledgehammer that took you away and brought you back again, but it was a chemical of a similar kind. In any case, it was taken in a similar way, injected into a sugar cube and then the sugar cube sucked and swallowed. Some kind of speed, maybe, STP, the stuff that does permanent brain damage; Speed Kills, the warnings had said in the underground press. In any case, it was a stuff that didn’t take him away completely, and didn’t bring him back complete. It put an erratic cog in the engine of his brain; it would soon burn the engine out, but in the meantime its running would be wild and unpredictable.
At Claire’s house, a light showed in the kitchen window. If Manny wanted to go in there again, Parker would have to take care of him here; he would prefer to take it all away from this neighborhood first.
The kitchen light glinted on the Plymouth, Morris’ car. Parker headed for it, and behind him Manny said, “That’s yours?”
“I have the keys to it.”
Parker opened the rear door and laid Jessup across the back seat. He got out again and closed the door and turned to look at Manny.
Deadly Edge: A Parker Novel Page 16
