Brethren

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Brethren Page 16

by Shawn Ryan


  "Shit, man, we've got mikes that could hear a fly fart at half a mile," one store owner told him.

  "Sold any lately?" Badger asked.

  "Oh yeah," the man said. "We've got a ton of video outfits and recording studios around town these days and those kinds of mikes are in big demand. The TV news stations like to use 'em. So do private investigators. Hell, I've even sold some to police departments."

  "Do you have a list of who has bought one in the last month or so?" Badger asked.

  "Yeah, we keep those kinds of records. I guess you want me to look."

  "It sure would help," Badger said.

  The man promised to get back to Badger the next day. Badger went through the same routine with a dozen other sound equipment stores.

  On his own, Jason spent hours trying to make a connection between the killer and himself. Nothing. Katzopoulos from Boston sent copies of Jason's caseload in that city, but nothing clicked. Murder is a state crime, not federal, but the FBI still was called in for assistance, placing over twenty officers—local and FBI—under Jason's and Badger's command.

  As part of his daily pattern, along with playing with the disappearing ball trick, Jason called Boston General Hospital to check on his father. Each day he heard the same thing from his sisters: Dad was getting better but still was too weak to talk very much or to leave the hospital. The doctors couldn't figure it out, but his father seemed in no danger of dying.

  One Monday morning, twenty-one days after his father had entered the hospital, Jason arrived at his desk and, as usual, immediately called his father. Dialing directly to his father's room, he expected one of his sisters to answer on the first or second ring.

  "By God this is getting to be too much," he told Alex as he climbed from bed that morning. "If Dad isn't better, then investigation or not, I'm flying up to Boston."

  His sisters had, until now, convinced him it was not necessary, and in those brief moments when he could speak to his father, Stephen had told him the same thing.

  "Stay there," Stephen had said once. "You're needed more in Atlanta than here. All you could do here is watch me sleep and watch them poke needles in me to try and figure out what's wrong. Not much run for me or you."

  This time, the phone rang and rang with no answer. Uneasiness rose in Jason's throat. Where was his father? Why wasn't he in his room? Where were his sisters? Could Dad be well enough to be walking in the hallway?

  Jason started to hang up and try again when a blast of icy static erupted in his ear. The noise was painfully loud and he wrenched the phone away. Even from several inches, he could hear the loud crackling. But it wasn't normal static. As he listened, it took on a strange, high pitch. It sounded like… laughter. He was about to slam the phone down when the static abruptly ceased and a female voice answered.

  "Third floor. May I help you?" the voice said.

  Jason sat silently for a moment, gathering his wits.

  "Third floor nurse's station," the voice said again. "Is anybody there?"

  "Uh, yes. Uh, I'm trying to reach a patient," Jason stammered.

  "What is his name?"

  "Uh, Stephen Medlocke," Jason said, regaining control. "I'm his son. He's supposed to be in Room 376, but I dialed the room number and no one answers. How did I get you?"

  "After a certain number of rings, the call is automatically routed to the nurses' station," the female voice said. "This is Nurse Chomol. Your father is down in the lab. They're running some tests on him. He's perfectly all right, Jason."

  Waitasecond, Jason thought. I didn't give her my name.

  "How did you know who I was?" he asked suspiciously.

  There was a split second's hesitation before the voice answered.

  "Well, you said you were Stephen's son and he has spoken about you quite a bit," she said. "I feel as if I already know you."

  "I see," Jason said. Inside he thought: How can he talk so much when he's asleep most of the time?

  "Do you know when my father will be back?" he said.

  "I really have no idea. But I'll be happy to take a message and make sure he gets it."

  Jason hesitated. Something about this was wrong, badly wrong. He decided to play it safe. "Okay, tell him I'll call back later. I was just calling to see how he was."

  "All right. I'll be sure he gets the message," the nurse said.

  Jason thanked her and was placing the receiver in its cradle when the static roared over the line again. This time, there was no doubting: It sounded like laughter. Hateful, spiteful laughter. Jason yanked the phone back to his ear, but the sound vanished. Just a low rumble, like a cold wind blowing across a barren plain. He hung up slowly.

  He sat quietly for a few minutes, staring into space, then picked up the phone and dialed Alex at work. She answered quickly.

  "Hi," he said. "How are you this morning?"

  "Feeling wonderful, but tired," she said. "I don't know how you do it. You go on for so long I feel as if my lungs are about to collapse."

  "That's why we need to do it more," he said. "You've got to get into better shape."

  "Mmmm," she said. "Fine by me. Are you coming over tonight?"

  "I don't know," he said. "I'm not sure how long I'll be here today. I'm feeling kind of guilty about these cases, as if I'm not doing enough. I may need to stay late to try to uncover something new."

  "Baby, you've been living and breathing those cases every day," she said. "There's no need for you to feel guilty."

  His heart jumped at the word "baby." She'd never called him that before. He liked it. An idea entered his mind, but he hesitated to say it. What the hell, he decided.

  "Listen, why don't you stay at my place?" he said. "I'll call the resident manager and tell her to give you a key. That way I can see you when I get home."

  "You're sure you don't mind?" she asked.

  "Yeah, I'm sure."

  "Okay, I will. See you when you get home. Do you know how late you'll be? I'll wait up."

  "Nah, that's not necessary. I'll wake you up if you want."

  "I want."

  He hung up and smiled as a warm glow spread through his groin. Sex. What a wonderful creation.

  The last few nights had been voyages of discovery. Not only did he learn more about Alex, he learned more about himself. He knew he was lonely, but until Alex came along, he never realized the depths to which he'd sunk. Sarah and Claire filled his life so completely when they were alive, he tried to turn off his emotional needs when they were gone, convinced no one else could fill them.

  It almost made him sick to see what a waste he'd made of the last year of his life. The first months after the accident he could write off as mourning and alcoholic stupor, but the past eight were nothing but laziness. He hadn't made any effort to change. Alex opened the gateway. He felt close to someone again; there was someone to share his thoughts with.

  And, of course, there was sex, a vibrant and wonderful thing after so many months of abstention. He and Alex made love two or three times a night, their bodies wringing wet afterward.

  Yet in spite of all his happiness, there was something else, something standing in the way of total contentment.

  Himself.

  When his thoughts wandered to Alex, they often were trampled by rampaging hordes of guilt There was guilt that perhaps he didn't deserve such happiness. There was guilt that perhaps he wasn't doing his job well enough. And most of all, there was guilt about having so much fun with a woman other than Sarah.

  Badger tried to smooth the rough roads.

  "Are you happy?" he asked. Jason nodded.

  "Then you know Sarah's happy," Badger answered. "And why shouldn't you deserve happiness? Your life's been pretty shitty for almost two years. Quit trying to fuck up a perfectly healthy, happy relationship."

  Now Jason sat at his desk worrying about the upcoming night. Letting Alex come to his home was a momentous decision. He was allowing a woman into his inner sanctum. His photos of Sarah and Claire still dotted th
e landscape of his home. Their memory still was a major part of his life. How would Alex react? More important, how would he react?

  For the rest of the day, he tried to steel himself, tried to envision all the possible scenarios. But he wasn't prepared for what he encountered when he arrived home about eleven. Alex was sitting on the couch. Crying.

  "Hey, what's the matter?" he said, rushing to her and cradling her in his arms. "What happened?"

  She couldn't answer, tears got in the way. She pointed at the photo of Sarah and Claire on the end table, then at the others located around the room.

  "Dammit," he said. "I should've taken these pictures out. I should've known they'd upset you. It's my fault. I'm sorry."

  She shook her head vigorously.

  "No, no, it's not that," she squeezed between sobs. "They don't upset me for the reasons you think."

  She sobbed again, then took a deep breath.

  "Seeing them makes me realize how much pain you must have gone through," she said. "It must have been awful, just awful. I don't know if I could've lived through it. I'm sorry, so sorry. It must've hurt so much."

  Tears filled Jason's eyes and he looked toward the ceiling, trying to keep the drops from rolling down his cheeks. It was no use, there were too many and they poured down his face in a salty flood.

  Alex reached out and touched one of his tears, wiping it across his face, then kissed him with all the feeling she could muster. Jason held her tightly. He knew he had fallen in love.

  Their lovemaking that night was slow and tender. Just before she fell asleep, Alex whispered to Jason.

  "Huh?" he said. "Did you say something?"

  "Only that I love you."

  Jason was stunned. A brick crashed through the plate-glass window of his soul. His tongue seemed to grow in his mouth until it filled it completely—a big, dry, lumpy chunk of useless meat. As his mind tried to decide what to say, his heart overran his mouth.

  "I love you, too," he said. As he spoke the words, his body felt as if it was floating out of the bed and through the ceiling. His mind whirled like a leaf in a windstorm. All he could do was smile and keep playing those three words over and over in his head. "I love you."

  It seemed so farfetched. He never swallowed those movies where two people meet, spend a few days together, then fall madly in love, soul mates forever. But here he was, smack dab in the middle of that exact situation. It made him happy, deliriously so. He couldn't think of a time when he'd been happier.

  Then the first wave of guilt hit him. Sarah and Claire. His wedding to Sarah, the birth of Claire. He'd been happy then, too.

  Oh God, he thought, am I forgetting them too fast? Am I leaving them behind in a cloud of dust? Thinking of no one but myself? How could I do that?

  Tears threatened and he felt like a bastard. Would Sarah and Claire understand? Would they hate him?

  He lay awake for almost an hour, his feelings cresting as he thought of his newfound love for Alex and hitting bottom when his relentless guilt returned in full force.

  That night, while Alex slept deep and dreamless, Jason tossed and turned, mumbling incoherently, swatting vaguely at things above his head. Sometimes he cried out softly.

  At six-thirty the alarm went off, and he climbed out of bed sleepily, feeling as if he'd just put his head on the pillow. Alex lay next to him, sound asleep. He kissed her on the cheek, then went to the kitchen to get some coffee. He could smell the freshly brewed odor in the hall and was halfway into a yawn when he froze, his mouth clamping shut.

  The refrigerator door had opened. Someone was in the kitchen.

  Holding his breath, he tiptoed back to his bedroom and eased his pistol from the holster on the dresser. Pressing his back to the wall, he moved slowly down the hallway, his feet silent on the carpet, gun ready. Sweat beaded along his hairline.

  The sound of someone humming flowed through the kitchen doorway. The tune was familiar to Jason, but he couldn't quite place it. Reaching the doorway, he peeked around. As he did, he remembered the song—Rosanne Cash's "Seven Year Ache." Sarah used to sing it all the time.

  "Hello, darling," she said.

  Sarah stood in front of the refrigerator, taking out eggs and bacon.

  Chapter 20

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  Jason fell back against the doorway, banging his shoulder hard. The pain made him grimace, but it barely registered to his brain. His knees felt disjointed and he knew he had better grab something before he collapsed. He lunged for the counter and toppled against it.

  "Honey, are you okay?" Sarah said, putting down the eggs and bacon and hurrying toward him. "What's the matter?"

  "Stay away from me," Jason stammered, the gun hanging in his limp hand. "Stay away."

  A look of pain crossed Sarah's face. "Why? What did I do? Jason, why are you looking at me like that?"

  He stared at her, his lips numb, his mouth a desert. The room seemed abstract, rushing at him from a thousand different angles, only to pull away at the last second and zoom into the distance.

  "You're… you're dead," he finally said. "You can't be here. You and Claire are dead."

  "Dead?" Sarah said. "Honey, you must be dreaming. Is that what this is? Are you sleepwalking?"

  She reached out and gently patted him on the cheek. "Wake up, honey," she said. "You're dreaming."

  He pushed her hand away roughly. "I am not dreaming," he said. "You're dead. You died eighteen months ago in a car wreck. Both you and Claire. You're not here."

  He rubbed his eyes. When he opened them and Sarah still was there, he dug the fingers of his left hand into his forearm until blood welled up underneath the nails.

  "Jason, stop. You're scaring me," Sarah said. "I'm not dead and neither is Claire. She's asleep back in our bedroom. She slept with us last night because she had a bad dream. Don't you remember?"

  Jason shook his head. He couldn't accept this. This wasn't true. But here was Sarah, talking to him the way she always had. He'd felt her hand on his cheek. She was alive. But she couldn't be.

  "Sweetheart, come with me," Sarah said. "I'll show you. Claire's fine. She's asleep back here. C'mon."

  She walked down the hall, motioning for Jason to follow her. He stumbled out of the kitchen as Sarah quietly opened the bedroom door and pointed. Making sure he didn't touch her, Jason peered over her shoulder. He almost burst into tears.

  His little girl was sound asleep, her head on his pillow. As he watched, her right hand came up and gently rubbed her nose. Her face scrunched up at the tickle, then relaxed into the face of an angel. His heart seemed ready to burst from his chest.

  "See?" Sarah whispered. "She's just fine."

  She closed the door and took Jason by one hand, gently removing the gun from the other and putting the weapon in the pocket of her robe. This time he didn't resist. Was this somehow true? he thought. Could it all have been a bad dream on my part? Is my family still alive?

  But what about Alex?

  Alex? Alex who?

  Alex… Alex… I don't remember.

  All he knew was the touch of his wife's hand in his, her scent once again in his nose. Sarah turned and pressed herself against him.

  "Honey, as long as Claire's asleep, let's take advantage of it."

  She pulled him into the middle of the living room, then stepped back and opened her robe, dropping it to the floor. She was naked. Taking Jason's hand, she guided it to her breast, then took the other and placed it on the dark triangle between her legs. Jason could feel the warm wetness of her arousal. She ground herself into his palm. He felt himself stiffen and his hands began to gently knead and probe. Sarah took a rapid breath and moaned. Her hand reached down and grabbed him, stroking him to hardness. They crumbled to the floor, their mouths pressed together.

  Jason's passion rose and he slid his hands up and down her body, over her buttocks and along her sides. She moaned and pushed her hips into his as their tongues wrestled. Her cool fingers on his boiling flesh made him jump, but t
he sensation made his blood pump even harder. Sarah slid herself up and on him.

  He groaned with the slick warmth and closed his eyes. The feeling was exquisite and he pictured himself and Sarah as one person, forever joined in body and mind. If the ground opened up and swallowed them whole, he could die happy.

  A searing blast of cold exploded in his groin, daggers of liquid nitrogen stabbed into his balls, rupturing them. His pelvic bone shattered like a cube of ice and his eyes flew open, wide with pain.

  Sarah was no longer there. A huge, horrible beast sat on top of him, a dusky gold creature with a misshapen head and a wicked, tooth-filled grin.

  "Hello, darling," the beast said. "Enjoying yourself?"

  Rearing back, the creature brought its hands up and spread its fingers, double-bladed nails extending from their tips. Jason tried to roll from under the beast, but found he was paralyzed.

  "Forget love, Medlocke, it won't work," the beast said. "There'll be no more Medlocke sons. You're the last and you're mine."

  The claws plunged into Jason's neck.

  From deep within sleep, Alex heard a low moan, like a wind picking up speed across the desert. As sleep slowly slipped off her, the moan became a howl and finally a scream.

  She sprang upright in bed, wide awake, and instantly saw Jason wasn't next to her. Another scream came from the living room and Alex sprang from bed and ran down the hall. As she rounded the hallway, she saw Jason lying naked on the floor, twisting and turning, holding his neck with both hands. Lying next to him was a framed photograph of Sarah. The glass was shattered, bits of it on the carpet.

  With a cry Jason jumped up, but his feet became tangled and he fell, scraping his chin on the carpet. Without getting up, he crab-scurried on his hands and knees to the nearest corner, flinging his back into it, throwing his arms out to the sides and spreading his legs wide. He was ready for siege. His eyes glazed and an expression of hatred and fear sat granite-like on his face.

  "Jason, Jason," Alex yelled. "Wake up! You're having a bad dream. Wake up!"

  He didn't answer as his eyes combed the room with a desperate look. His left hand came up to his throat, feeling, checking. Sweat trickled off his chin in several places and his limbs quivered. Finally he spoke.

 

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