He lay on the couch in the living room and clutched the pillows. His muscles, his mind, everything ached from the voices. They battered him now, waves thrashing a tiny rowboat in the middle of a storm. He held himself against the couch as his body trembled. His vision faded, not into darkness, but into puddles of gold. Feverish, Malcolm shut his eyes and watched the liquid churn. It bubbled up and ran together, spilling outward in every direction until his entire world became a golden ocean.
He ached to touch it, reached for it with all of his heart and will, but it retreated from his advances. Push and pull. Tease. The effort left him crumpled on the couch in a pool of sweat. Finally the visions faded. The voices still whispered, though they softened enough for him to rest.
Then, just a moment later, the sunrise woke him.
* * * *
It was time to act.
Malcolm's plan was simple enough, as long as he could keep away from the study and stay somewhat sane.
Step one? Don't leave the couch. He hovered on it like a mother hen while the day crawled by. Nora laughed, Charlotte and Paul cooked, and Carol spent most of the afternoon staring at the wall from her easy chair. Malcolm slipped in and out of naps, smiling whenever he woke and found the hands on the clock had moved forward.
The voices tempted him, but he refused to pull himself off the couch and heed their call. Not yet. The girls brought Malcolm soup and tea. A pang of jealousy went through him as he marveled at Carol's ability to forget. She carried on in her typical vacant way, following the younger girl's lead without the slightest sign of worry about what had happened the night before. Malcolm thanked them, picked at the refreshments, and set them aside. They were flavorless—the perfect reflection of life away from the pond.
He said his secret goodbyes too. He said them silently and wrapped them up with smiles.
They all gathered in the living room after dinner. “Stick around,” Malcolm said. “Hearing your voices helps me not think about the others.” That was a lie, of course. No matter how loud they talked and carried on, the tormentors inside his head whispered their endless seduction. Then Malcolm moved on to step two of his plan: he convinced Charlotte and Paul to raid the liquor cabinet. Out came the whiskey and gin and scotch. Malcolm sipped on the hot toddy they made him, watching, waiting for the alcohol to work its magic.
The sun went down, and the girls lay on the floor watching a movie on television. Charlotte and Paul sat next to Malcolm on the couch. Paul drank like he always did—fast. But Charlotte wasn't one to be outdone. She matched him drink for drink. She drank like she were still alive—when every drop of alcohol was forbidden. They laughed and caroused around him, and Malcolm noticed the special way they looked at each other. Cheeks flushed, pupils dilated, drunk off the cocktail of fresh affection. They couldn't have hid it if they tried.
“Thanks for sticking around,” Malcolm told them between sips. “I feel better.” They smiled at that. Paul pointed at the floor. The girls slept with their faces almost pressed together, like sisters worn out from sharing too many secrets. And in a way they were sisters—just like Charlotte and Paul were the closest things to siblings he'd ever had. Theirs was a family born from struggle. Thrust into existence by strange circumstances and forced to fit together with all their rough edges. Yet somehow, miraculously, they seemed to get along just as well as any other family Malcolm had seen—and far better than his own.
He got up from the couch, woke the girls, and sent them off to bed.
It was time to tear this young family apart.
Paul and Charlotte hardly even noticed when he sat down again. They tried to get him to join in on their liquor bottle passing, but after he turned them down they settled on making silly toasts and getting lost in each other's eyes. Malcolm sat on the end of the couch, an outsider. That wasn't the strange part. The strange part was the emotion rippling up to the surface, clamoring to escape like the bubbles in the champagne bottle in front of him. He didn't belong there. He didn't belong with anyone... did he?
Malcolm let them finish one more drink. Then he sent them to bed too. They staggered across the living room arm in arm, catching themselves on the walls as they made their way to the staircase, laughing the whole while. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden stairs as they went up. The laughter faded, then died off completely when Paul's bedroom door slammed shut.
Malcolm sat on the couch and waited. He poured himself a scotch and studied it in its fancy glass, listening to the clock on the wall tick away the seconds. If he strained his eyes hard enough—if the scotch caught the light at just the right angle—it almost looked like that golden liquid. His muse. His madness. His salvation.
It was time to go find it.
Throat warmed from the alcohol, Malcolm left the living room and went into the hallway leading to the girls' bedrooms. He stopped at Carol's door and cracked it open, just as he had done the night before. Tonight she was right where she was supposed to be. Nora was curled up next to her in the darkness. The queen bed swallowed them up with all of its pillows and blankets. Malcolm entered the room and crept closer. Their breathing was heavy and rhythmic, unchanged even when he almost tripped over a pair of shoes lying on the floor. Slowly, quietly he approached. At the bedside now. They looked almost whole while they slept, vacant eyes hidden by heavy eyelids. They were just two girls having a sleepover—worlds away from kidnappings and demons and hideouts.
Malcolm pulled down the covers on Nora's side of the bed. It would be so easy to pluck her out of here. Reach under her armpits, pull her out of bed, and take her to the sheriff hunting them like a dog. He wouldn't stop until the girl was back in Tattersall. Maybe they'd take her and send her to therapy and foster care…
And maybe Malcolm would have his shot at a normal life.
He held his breath, watched his arms reach for her like a movie scene guided by a strange director. This director was greedy, desperate for his next fix of golden liquid and everything else be damned. Closer and closer those fingers crept. Closer and closer…
Until they found her back.
CHAPTER THREE
Nora was smiling at him.
“Malcolm?” She spoke without opening her eyes. Dreaming? Half awake? “We're okay. Carol sleeps better when I stay with her.” The smile on her face faded, and her body went slack. Then she was breathing heavily again. Completely helpless. Completely trusting. And there he was, about to feed her to a wolf in a police officer's uniform.
Malcolm let go of her and ran a hand through Nora's hair. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. She smiled again, just enough so he could see it. Then she flopped over onto her stomach and covered her face with a pillow. He backed away from the bed, unable to take his eyes off her. Hands in his pockets now—before they could betray him. He shuffled around to the other side of the bed and kissed Carol on the forehead too, but she didn't stir.
Malcolm backed out of the bedroom, chest tight and heart pounding. The voices had woken up. They whispered to him. They dared him to rush forward and take her—to do what was necessary so he might live a normal life. Malcolm opened his mouth in a silent scream. Two words slipped out before he shut it again: “Bye, girls.”
Then it was off to the garage. They'd agreed the cars were only for emergencies, but Malcolm didn't try to argue his case. He just took the keys from the ring and started up one of the luxury sedans waiting there. The rumble of the engine pumped new courage into his veins. He opened the garage door next, watching it crawl up its tracks just beneath Paul's bedroom.
Hopefully they'd had enough to drink.
Malcolm backed out of the garage and into the circle drive. He swerved around the bend, aimed the sedan toward the road beyond, and hit the gas.
The roar of the engine drowned out the voices in his head as he tore through the empty streets. Dogs barked and leaves trembled as he flew by, flooding the engine with gas and his body with adrenaline. The noose he felt around his neck—the heaviness of that abandoned hom
e—loosened with every turn. Past mansions and family estates he went. Down, down from the Cloisters and their peaceful streets into the chaos of Lemhaven below.
Malcolm left the hedgerows and garden ivy behind for more familiar surroundings: Windmill Hill. His neighborhood. At least it used to be his neighborhood… before the sheriff. Before the girl. It was crowds and chaos down here, but it was the closest thing to home. Windmill Hill was rough around the edges, and only getting rougher as the madness of the inner city spread. Malcolm passed hobos and loud bars and people shouting at each other on the street. He guided the car into an alley behind an old auto shop. At the other end of that alley, tucked between apartment complexes, his duplex waited.
Malcolm left the car in the alley and approached from the rear. He went around the side of the duplex and pulled out his key. Once he reached the front, he stood in the overgrown weed patch of a yard and looked both ways down the street. No police cars. No Sheriff Robbie with his evil grin. Just a middle-aged woman walking her dog. She jerked the leash and crossed over to the other side of the street, walking fast. Malcolm waved to her, but she tucked her head and scurried away.
Something stirred when Malcolm ascended the duplex porch steps. Some one. Huddled against the wooden railing that wrapped around the porch. It flopped to and fro as Malcolm approached, a tangle of clothes and human muscle. “Hey!” said Malcolm. When he got closer he could only smell pinto beans and cat piss.
That thing moaned at him, regarded him with all the awareness of a sedated zoo animal.
“What the hell are you doing?” Malcolm said.
That thing stirred and sloughed off a garbage bag and a few beer cans onto the porch. A man appeared underneath the pile. His eyes circled Malcolm's face, unable to focus. Arms quivering, he pushed himself to his feet with a tremendous effort. He pulled himself along the railing with a goofy grin on his face. Half falling, half stumbling down the porch steps he went, only stopping for a moment to give Malcolm the middle finger and puke in the yard before staggering away down the street.
Malcolm shook his head, pinched his nose to ward off the smell, and opened his side of the duplex. The air was musty inside. Everything, from his fuzzy house slippers to the half-eaten turkey and mustard sandwich on the kitchen counter, was right where he'd left it. Malcolm ran his finger along the dust-streaked furniture. This place wasn't home anymore. It belonged to someone else—a different man with a different life. He wandered through it as if lost in a museum exhibit, only remembering his purpose when he reached the bedroom.
Malcolm went into the bedroom closet and pushed aside the shoe boxes stacked on the ground there. He didn't stop his rearranging until he found a little safe. It opened with a click, revealing his pistol and a pile of cash. He pocketed the money and set the pistol down to look beneath the bed. The bullets were down there. At least that's where he used to keep them—in his past life.
The voices were speaking again. Teases. Empty promises.
Something silenced them as quickly as they had started.
A sound.
The creak of a door—the front door where he'd just came in.
Malcolm dove for the gun.
The bedroom light was on, spilling into the hallway. Whoever came in would see it. Pistol in hand, Malcolm reached for the ammo beneath his bed. His fingers closed on a heavy box. It popped open and sent bullets clinking across the floor. Malcolm swore beneath his breath. Sweating now. Watching the crack in the bedroom door while his fingers scrambled to get the bullets into the clip.
The intruder at the front door scrambled too. The door slammed shut behind them, any attempt at subtlety abandoned. Air whooshed into the hallway, shutting the bedroom door in its current. Malcolm sat with his back against the bed, pointing the pistol at the door with a half-loaded clip. He tried to steady his breathing, but the gun kept jumping up and down in his hands.
Footsteps filled the hallway. Boots, judging by the crisp way they struck the floor. Louder and louder they came, each step an ice pick stabbing Malcolm in the chest. Their owner slowed outside the bedroom door and then stopped.
Malcolm felt the heaviness in the air just on the other side. Heard the stranger breathing slow and steady.
The doorknob clicked in its frame, twisted...
Then the door creaked open and another pistol slipped through the opening to greet his own.
Malcolm sat perfectly still, watching it sniff in the tiny crack like a hunting dog trying to pick up his scent. He clutched the pistol with both hands and aimed it with trembling fingers. Not moving. Not breathing.
“I know you're in there,” said a voice from the hallway. “I saw you come in.”
Malcolm squeezed the gun and bit his lip. The sound of that voice—the familiarity of it—struck him. The gun danced in the doorway a moment longer before its owner opened the door wide.
Sheriff Robert Broyles stood behind that gun. He aimed at Malcolm and Malcolm aimed right back at him, their guns exchanging a mechanical greeting. “Put the gun down, Morris. I just want to talk.”
Malcolm held the gun still, considering it. This situation with Nora was a pesky shadow that followed him wherever he went. Putting a slug in the officer's chest would turn it into a burial shroud. He'd wear it until he died—and even after that. He'd never escape it. The gun dropped to the carpet slowly and joined the ammo strewn there.
The sheriff stepped forward. “Relax. I just need a quick word.” He kept his gun trained on him while he advanced, paused to scoop up Malcolm's pistol for a moment and empty the clip onto the floor. Only then did he holster his weapon. “What are you up to, Morris? Starting a war?”
Malcolm shook his head. Here was a man standing above him, totally in control of the situation. Here was a wolf smiling at its prey's stupidity. He opened his mouth to curse him—to scream—but no words came. The voices in his head drowned them out.
“Come on,” said Broyles. “Let's go have a chat in my car. It's stuffy in here.” He cocked his head toward the hallway, and when Malcolm didn't move, lowered his hand to the pistol on his hip. He stayed there until his captive stood up and scooted out of the bedroom, stopping to turn off the light before following him into the hallway. The sheriff hovered behind Malcolm's shoulder when they stepped outside, hooking a hand into his shirt collar. “Don't even think about running. I'll empty this clip into your back, and you know damn well in this city I'll get away with it too.”
“I wasn't… thinking.”
The sheriff clapped him on the back, sending him stumbling down the stairs and into the yard inches away from where the homeless man had thrown up. “That's the most honest thing you've said to me so far, Morris. Of course you weren't thinking. Not when you took that girl, not when you broke out of my jail, and certainly not when you thought you'd give me the slip.”
“I already told you we didn't take her,” said Malcolm, getting to his knees. “Fielder did.”
Sheriff Robbie snorted. “Fielder. Don't get me started on Fielder. Now get up.” He jerked Malcolm to his feet before he had the chance to try, pulling him across the yard and into the street. “That red car down the block. Move.”
Malcolm stumbled along the sidewalk without a reply. The sheriff held his arm. He walked in short angry steps, dragging Malcolm along like an unwanted pet. Across the street, the woman from earlier was walking her dog in the other direction. She broke into a run when she saw them. Towed her yapping dog with her just as Robbie towed his dog toward the car. “What's her deal?” he said.
Malcolm shrugged. She was smart enough to recognize danger when she saw it. She was smart enough not to get caught. They passed mailboxes and abandoned trash cans and junk piles in front of the neighbors' houses, but Malcolm wasn't any closer to an escape plan when Broyles unlocked his car and pulled him in.
“Good,” the sheriff said, locking the doors once they were both inside. “If you're smart you just might make it out of this alive.”
“Wait,” Malcolm said. �
��Where's your cop car?”
Sheriff Robbie snorted at that. Only then did Malcolm realize he wasn't wearing his uniform either. A polo shirt and a pair of shorts had replaced the khaki—just as his friendly, small-town demeanor had given way to something far more sinister.
This man wasn't enforcing the law.
He was on a vendetta.
He'd stop at nothing until he saw it through.
CHAPTER FOUR
The air inside the sheriff's car was stifling. He kept the windows up and the air conditioner off, letting all the humidity gather on the windshield.
“You know,” Broyles said, “you're not too smart for someone who avoided me this long. A lot's changed since you and your buddies took off.”
“They fired you.” Malcolm kept his eyes straight ahead. Pairing the accusation with direct eye contact would send Sheriff Robbie over the edge… if he wasn't there already.
“Nope. Administrative leave without pay. That's what they called it. Six weeks without my gun or my badge.” He squeezed Malcolm's shoulder and sneered. “Good thing I have lots of other guns, huh? But it's still a career death sentence. We elect sheriffs in Tattersall. With only a few months left in my term, I'm pretty much a goner. Those people would rather vote for my head on a pole if they could. But if I can bring the little girl back—”
“We didn't take her,” Malcolm said. “And we didn't kill her parents either.”
Sheriff Robbie squeezed his shoulder so hard it went numb. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm going to get to the bottom of it. You and your friends screwed me, Morris. You really screwed me. But mama always said to make lemonade when life gives you lemons. So that's exactly what I'm going to do. When I get that girl back—and I will—everything's forgiven. It's a clean slate.”
“Yeah. Then you can be sheriff again. Maybe even get on the city council or become mayor. That's just what you need. More power to terrorize innocent—”
Heretic (Demon Marked Book 2) (Demon Marked Saga) Page 2
