Ellie said, "They won't have heard the gunfire. Not if no one above-ground ever heard the screams from this place. We still have a chance."
The wife-killer shook his head. "Not unless you take me and the amazing Mr. Miro here."
"He's dead," Ellie said.
"Doesn't matter. He's more useful dead. Never know what a man like him might do, so I'd be edgy if we had to carry him out of here while he was alive. We take him between us, baby boy, you and me. They'll see he's hurt, but they won't know how badly. Maybe they value him highly enough to hold back."
"I don't want your help," Spencer said.
"Of course you don't, but you need it," his father said. "They won't have moved your truck. Their instructions were to stay back, at a distance, just maintain surveillance, until they heard from Roy. So we can move him to the truck, between us, and they won't be sure what's going on." He rose painfully to his feet.
Spencer backed away from him, as he would have backed away from something that had appeared in a chalk pentagram in response to the summons of a sorcerer. Rocky retreated as well, growling.
Ellie was in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. She was out of the way, reasonably safe.
Spencer had the dog—what a dog!—and he had the gun. His father had no weapon, and he was hampered by his bitten hands. Yet Spencer was as afraid of him as he had ever been on that July night or since.
"Do we need him?" he asked Ellie.
"Hell, no."
"You're sure whatever you were doing with the computer, it's going to work?"
"More sure of that than we could ever be sure of him."
To his father, Spencer' said, "What happens to you if I leave you to them?"
The artist examined his bitten hands with interest, studying the punctures not as though concerned about the damage but as though inspecting a flower or another beautiful object that he had never seen before. "What happens to me, Mikey? You mean when I go back to prison? I do a little reading to pass the time. I still paint some—did you know? I think I'll paint a portrait of your little bitch there in the doorway, as I imagine she'd look with no clothes, and as I know she'd look if I'd ever had the chance to put her on a table here and make her realize her true potential. I see that disgusts you, baby boy. But really, it's such a small pleasure to allow me, considering she'll never have been more beautiful than on my canvas. My way of sharing in her with you." He sighed and looked up from his hands, as if unperturbed by the pain. "What happens if you leave me to them, Mikey? You'll be condemning me to a life that's a waste of my talent and joie de vivre, a barren and tiny existence behind gray walls. That's what happens to me, you ungrateful little snot."
"You said they were worse than you."
"Well, I know what I am."
"What's that mean?"
"Self-awareness is a virtue in which they're lacking."
"They let you out."
'Temporarily. A consultation."
"They'll let you out again, won't they?"
"Let's hope it doesn't take another sixteen years." He smiled, as if his bleeding hands had suffered only paper cuts. "But, yes, we're in an age that's giving birth to a new breed of fascists, and I would hope that from time to time they might find my expertise useful to them."
"You're figuring you won't even go back," Spencer said. "You think you'll get away from them tonight, don't you?"
"Too many of them, Mikey. Big men with big guns in shoulder holsters. Big black Chrysler limousines. Helicopters whenever they want them. No, no, I'll probably have to bide my time until another consultation."
"Lying, mother-killing sonofabitch," Spencer said.
"Oh, don't try to frighten me," his father said. "I remember sixteen years ago, this room. You were a little pussy then, Mikey, and you're a little pussy now. That's some scar you've got there, baby boy. How long did you have to recuperate before you could eat solid foods?"
"I saw you beat her to the ground by the swimming pool."
"If confession makes you feel good, go right ahead."
"I was in the kitchen for cookies, heard her scream."
"Did you get your cookies?"
"When she was down, you kicked her in the head."
"Don't be tedious, Mikey. You were never the son I might have wished to have, but you were never tedious before."
The man was unshakably calm, self-possessed. He had an aura of power that was daunting—but no look of madness whatsoever in his eyes. He could preach a sermon and be thought a priest. He claimed that he wasn't mad, but evil.
Spencer wondered if that could be true.
"Mikey, you really owe me, you know. Without me, you wouldn't exist. No matter what you think of me, I am your father."
"Without you, I wouldn't exist. Yeah. And that would be okay. That would be fine. But without my mother—I might have been exactly like you. It's her I owe. Only her. She's the one who gave me whatever salvation I can ever have."
"Mikey, Mikey, you simply can't make me feel guilty. You want me to put on a big sad face? Okay, I'll put on a big sad face. But your mother was nothing to me. Nothing but useful cover for a while, a helpful deceit with nice knockers. But she was too curious. And when I had to bring her down here, she was just like all the others—although less exciting than most."
"Well, just the same," Spencer said, "this is for her." He fired a short burst from the Uzi, blowing his father to Hell.
There were no ricochets to worry about. Every bullet found its mark, and the dead man carried them down to the floor with him, in a pool of the darkest blood that Spencer had ever seen.
Rocky leaped in surprise at the gunfire, then cocked his head and studied Steven Ackblom. He sniffed him as if the scent was far different from any he had encountered before. As Spencer stared down at his dead father, he was aware of Rocky gazing up curiously at him. Then the dog joined Ellie at the door.
When at last he went to the door too, Spencer was afraid to look at Ellie.
"I wondered if you would actually be able to do it," she said. "If you hadn't, I'd have had to, and the recoil would have hurt like hell with this arm."
He met her eyes. She wasn't trying to make him feel better about what he had done. She had meant what she'd said.
"I didn't enjoy it," he said.
"I would have."
"I don't think so."
"Immensely."
"I didn't hate doing it, either."
"Why should you? You have to stomp a cockroach when you get a chance."
"How's your shoulder?"
"Hurts like hell, but it's not bleeding all that much." She flexed her right hand, wincing. "I'll still be able to work the computer keyboard with both hands. I just hope to God I can work it fast enough."
The three of them hurried through the depopulated catacombs, toward the blue room, the yellow vestibule, and the strange world above.
* * *
Roy had no pain. In fact, he could feel nothing at all. Which made it easier for him to play dead. He feared that they would finish him off if they realized he was alive. Spencer Grant, aka Michael Ackblom, was indisputably as insane as his father and capable of any atrocity. Therefore, Roy closed his eyes and used his paralysis to his advantage.
After the singular opportunity that he had given the artist, Roy was disappointed in the man. Such blithe treachery.
More to the point, Roy was disappointed in himself. He had badly misjudged Steven Ackblom. The brilliance and sensitivity that he had perceived in the artist had been no illusion; however, he had allowed himself to be deceived into believing that what he saw was the whole story. He had never glimpsed the dark side.
Of course he was always so quick to like people, just as the artist had said. And he was acutely aware of everyone's suffering, within moments of having met them. That was one of his virtues, and he would not have wanted to be a less tenderhearted person. He had been deeply moved by Ackblom's plight: such a witty and talented man, locked in a cell for the rest of his life. C
ompassion had blinded Roy to the full truth.
He still had hope of coming out of this alive and seeing Eve again. He didn't feel as though he were dying. Of course, he was unable to feel much of anything at all, below the neck.
He took comfort from the knowledge that if he were to die, he would go to the great cosmic party and be welcomed by so many friends whom he'd sent ahead of him with great tenderness. For Eve's sake, he wanted to live, but to some extent he longed for that higher plane where there was a single sex, where everyone had the same radiant-blue skin color, where every person was perfectly beautiful in an androgynous blue way, where no one was dumb, no one too smart, where everyone had identical living quarters and wardrobes and footwear, where there was high-quality mineral water and fresh fruit for the asking. He would have to be introduced to everyone he had known in this world, because he wouldn't recognize them in their new perfect, identical blue bodies. That seemed sad: not to see people as they had been. On the other hand, he wouldn't want to spend eternity with his dear mother if he had to look at her face all bashed in as it had been just after he had sent her on to that better place.
He tried speaking and found that his voice had returned. "Are you dead, Steven, or are you faking?"
Across the black room, slumped against a black wall, the artist didn't answer.
"I think they're gone and won't be coming back. So if you're faking, it's all clear now."
No reply.
"Well, then you've gone over, and all the bad in you was left here. I'm sure you're full of remorse now and wish you'd been more compassionate toward me. So if you could exert a little of your cosmic power, reach through the veil, and work a little miracle so I can walk again, I believe that would be appropriate."
The room remained silent.
He still couldn't feel anything below his neck.
"I hope I don't need the services of a spirit channeler to get your attention," Roy said. "That would be inconvenient."
Silence. Stillness. Cold white light in a tight cone, blazing down through the center of that encapsulating blackness.
"I'll just wait. I'm sure that reaching through the veil takes a lot of effort."
Any moment now, a miracle.
* * *
Opening the driver's door of the pickup, Spencer was suddenly afraid that he had lost the keys. They were in his jacket pocket.
By the time Spencer got behind the wheel and started the engine, Rocky was in the backseat, and Ellie was already in the other front seat. The motel pillow was across her thighs, the laptop was on the pillow, and she was waiting to power up the computer.
When the engine turned over and Ellie switched on the laptop, she said, "Don't go anywhere yet."
"We're sitting ducks here."
"I've got to get back into Godzilla."
"Godzilla."
"The system I was in before we got out of the truck."
"What's Godzilla?"
"As long as we're just sitting here, they probably won't do anything except watch us and wait. But as soon as we start to move, they'll have to act, and I don't want them coming at us until we're ready for them."
"What's Godzilla?"
"Ssshhh. I have to concentrate."
Spencer looked out his side window at the fields and hills. The snow didn't glow as brightly as it had earlier, because the moon was waning. He had been trained to spot clandestine surveillance in both urban and rural settings, but he could see no signs of the agency observers, though he knew they were out there.
Ellie's fingers were busy. Keys clicked. Data and diagrams played across the screen.
Focusing on the winterscape once more, Spencer remembered snow forts, castles, tunnels, carefully tamped sled runs. More important: In addition to the physical details of old playgrounds in the snow, he faintly recalled the joy of laboring on those projects and of setting out on those boyhood adventures. Recollections of innocent times. Childhood fantasies. Happiness. They were faint memories. Faint but perhaps recoverable with practice. For a long time, he hadn't been able to remember even a single moment of his childhood with fondness. The events in that July not only had changed his life forever thereafter but had changed his perception of what his life had been like before the owl, the rats, the scalpel, and the knife.
Sometimes his mother had helped him build castles of snow. He remembered times when she'd gone sledding with him. They especially enjoyed going out after dusk. The night was so crisp, the world so mysterious in black and white. With billions of stars above, you could pretend that the sled was a rocket and you were off to other worlds.
He thought of his mother's grave in Denver, and he suddenly wanted to go there for the first time since his grandparents had moved him to San Francisco. He wanted to sit on the ground beside her and reminisce about nights when they had gone sledding under a billion stars, when her laughter had carried like music across the white fields.
Rocky stood on the floor in back, paws planted on the front seat, and craned his head forward to lick affectionately at the side of Spencer's face.
He turned and stroked the dog's head and neck. "Mr. Rocky Dog, more powerful than a locomotive, faster than a speeding bullet, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, terror of all cats and Dobermans. Where did that come from, hmmm?" He scratched behind the dog's ears. Then with his fingertips, he gently explored the crushed cartilage that ensured the left ear would always droop. "Way back in the bad old days, did the person who did this to you look anything like the man back there in the black room? Or did you recognize a scent? Do the evil ones smell alike, pal?" Rocky luxuriated in the attention. "Mr. Rocky Dog, furry hero, ought to have his own comic book. Show us some teeth, give us a thrill." Rocky just panted. "Come on, show us some teeth," Spencer said, growling and skinning his lips back from his own teeth. Rocky liked the game, bared his own teeth, and they went grrrrrrr at each other, muzzle to muzzle.
"Ready," Ellie said.
"Thank God," he said, "I just ran out of things to do to keep from going nuts."
"You've got to help me spot them," she said. "I'll be looking too, but I might not see one of them."
Indicating the screen, he said, "That's Godzilla?"
"No. This is the gameboard that Godzilla and I are both going to play with. It's a grid of the five acres immediately around the house and barn. Each of these tiny grid blocks is six meters on a side. I just hope to God my entry data, those property maps and county records, were accurate enough. I know they're not dead-on, not by a long shot, but let's pray they're close. See this green shape? That's the house. See this? The barn. Here are the stables down toward the end of the driveway. This blinking dot—that's us. See this line— that's the county road, where we want to be."
"Is this based on one of the video games you invented?"
"No, this is nasty reality," she said. "And whatever happens, Spencer . . . I love you. I can't imagine anything better than spending the rest of my life with you. I just hope it's going to be more than five minutes."
He had started to put the truck in gear. Her frank expression of her feelings made him hesitate, because he wanted to kiss her now, here, for the first time, in case it was the last time too.
Then he froze and stared at her in amazement as comprehension came. "Godzilla's looking straight down at us right now, isn't he?"
"Yeah."
"It's a satellite? And you've hijacked it?"
"Been saving these codes for a day when I was in a really tight corner, no other way out, because I'll never get a chance to use them again. When we're out of here, when I let go of Godzilla, they'll shut it down and reprogram."
"What does it do besides look down?"
"Remember the movies?"
"Godzilla movies?"
"His white-hot, glowing breath?"
"You're making this up."
"He had halitosis that melted tanks."
"Oh, my God."
"Now or never," she said.
"Now," he said, putting
the truck into reverse, wanting to get it over with before he had any more time to think about it.
He switched on the headlights, backed away from the barn, and headed around the building, retracing the route that they had taken from the county road.
"Not too fast," she said. "It'll pay to tiptoe out of here, believe me."
Spencer let up on the accelerator.
Drifting along now. Easing past the front of the barn. The other branch of the driveway over there. The backyard to the right. The swimming pool.
A brilliant white searchlight fixed them from an open second-floor window of the house, sixty yards to their right and forty yards ahead. Spencer was blinded when he looked in that direction, and he could not see whether there were sharpshooters with rifles at any of the other windows.
Ellie's fingers rattled the keys.
He glanced over and saw a yellow indicator line on the display screen. It represented a swath about two meters wide and twenty-four meters long, between them and the house.
Ellie pressed ENTER.
"Squint!" she said, and in the same moment Spencer shouted, "Rocky, down!"
Out of the stars came a blue-white incandescence. It was not as fierce as he had expected, marginally brighter than the spotlight from the house, but it was infinitely stranger than anything he had ever seen—above-ground. The beam was crisply defined along the edges, and it seemed not to be radiating light as much as containing it, holding an atomic fire within a skin as thin as the surface tension on a pond. A bone-vibrating hum accompanied it, like electronic feedback from huge stadium speakers, and a sudden turbulence of air. As the light moved on a course that Ellie had laid out for it (two meters wide, twenty-four meters long, between them and the house but approaching neither), a roar arose similar to the subterranean grumble of the few grinding-type earthquakes that Spencer had ridden out over the years, although this was far louder. The earth shook hard enough to rock the truck. In that two-meter-wide swath, the snow and the ground beneath it leaped into flames, turned molten in an instant, to what depth he didn't know. The beam moved along, and the center of a big sycamore vanished in a flash; it didn't merely burst into flame but disappeared as if it had never existed. The tree was instantly converted into light and into heat that was detectable even inside the truck with the windows closed, almost thirty yards from the beam itself. Numerous splintered branches, which had hung beyond the sharply defined edge of the beam, fell to the ground on both sides of the light, and they were on fire at the points of severance. The blue-white blade burned past the pickup, across the backyard, diagonally between them and the house, across one edge of the patio, vaporizing concrete, all the way to the end of the path that Ellie had set it upon—and then it winked out.
Koontz, Dean - Dark Rivers of the Heart Page 60
