Revenant
Page 14
He had just enough time to begin dropping into a defensive crouch when Manning plowed into him, the wasted body of the undernourished, alcoholic dead guy packing a punch Mike could not believe. His Glock flew out of his hand and they tumbled to the concrete, Mike underneath Manning. The back of his head bounced off the floor with an audible Crack and his vision blurred and a black curtain dropped over his eyes like someone had flipped a switch.
Mike shook his head, desperately trying to regain his senses. An intense, white-hot bolt of jagged lightning fired through his brain and Mike thought, so this is what it feels like to suffer a concussion. Then the black curtain lifted and his brain started accepting images from his eyes again and he knew he was in big trouble. He sucked in a breath, gagging from the ungodly stench, wondering how he could have not noticed the smell the moment he had descended the stairs.
He unloaded a right cross to Manning’s jaw, smacking his elbow on the floor on the backswing, connecting solidly. Manning’s head snapped back absurdly, nearly bouncing off his shoulder before returning to a more or less upright position. Mike took another breath and gagged again.
Then the man who should have been dead but was not wrapped one bony hand around each side of Mike’s head and lifted it, smashing it down on the floor a second time. The box Manning had managed to hold on to during the entire fight was finally jarred loose and fell with a clatter, but Mike didn’t hear it. A loud buzzing noise filled his ears and the curtain dropped over his eyes again, and this time it stayed there.
Mike’s last thought was, this is all impossible, and then the buzzing noise disappeared, and so did everything else.
26
Sharon wrestled the cruiser around the idling ambulance and started down the access road. The moment the EMT’s had begun loading the injured Josh Parmalee into the back of their vehicle, she had sprinted to her patrol car, anxious to get out in front of the bulky truck. The access road was narrow, and if she didn’t depart first, there was a good chance she would be stuck behind it until reaching Route 24, and time was of the essence. One of the richest men in the country had gone missing in this tiny town, and every second would count in the search.
Once out of the driveway, she accelerated as much as she dared on the dirt trail which was barely wider than Parker’s driveway. She drove with her left hand, plucking the handset for the car’s radio off its stand with her right. “Unit Two to Base,” she said.
“Go ahead,” came the reply, weak and staticky.
“Yeah, Gordie, how come you didn’t tell me you had dispatched an ambulance to Parker’s place?”
“I tried, Sharon, but I guess you had already gotten out of your vehicle by the time I could get to it. Sorry about that.”
“No problem,” she said, shaking her head, wondering whether dispatcher Gordie Rheaume could sense the frustration in her voice. She didn’t feel like she was doing much to hide it. “Has Unit One checked in yet?”
“Nope. Haven’t heard from Mike since he arrived at the Depot Road address.”
Sharon paused, wheeling the cruiser around a fallen branch taking up two-thirds of the trail. The left side of the vehicle dropped off the shoulder and she applied power, fearing sliding into the ditch. The wheels spun and then caught, and the cruiser climbed back up onto the narrow dirt road. Sharon breathed a sigh of relief that was short-lived. Mike should have checked in by now. Even if he had located and interviewed the couple they were looking for, he had been out of touch for far too long.
Something was wrong, she was sure of it. She wondered how to proceed. It was imperative they get every available member of the force onto the search for Brett Parker, and as soon as possible. Undoubtedly they were going to have to call in outside help; to Sharon that seemed like a given. But all of that was for the chief to decide. Where was he?
“Uh, Unit Two, you there, Sharon?”
She glanced at the mike as if hoping it would give her some kind of clue how to proceed. It didn’t, so she picked it up and said, “I’m here, Gordie. Have you tried calling his cell?”
“Of course,” he answered, his exasperation apparent.
“Okay, I’m going to give it a try, too. Let me know the second he checks in, will you?”
“Roger that,” the dispatcher answered, and the radio went dead. Sharon hung the mike back on its stand. The things they needed to talk about were best left off the radio, anyway. The disappearance of Brett Parker in an assault at his home was not the sort of thing Mike would want the public learning about until he was ready for them to know, and anyone could listen in to the radio traffic on the police frequency.
But still. He wasn’t on the radio and he wasn’t answering his cell phone. Mike took his responsibilities as chief very seriously—maybe too seriously, sometimes—and Sharon knew he would answer if he could. Her concern morphed into outright worry as she fished her cell phone out of a small leather holster on her belt, not slowing the cruiser as she punched his number on her speed-dial.
She had nearly reached Route 24 by now, where she would need to make a right turn if she planned on returning to town. The phone buzzed electronically in her ear and there was no answer. Cell coverage in this remote village had been nearly nonexistent until the killing spree last fall. News media had swarmed the town in the aftermath of the tragedies, and almost overnight, a cell tower had been constructed. Service was still spotty, though, for reasons no one could quite explain.
The cruiser reached the end of the trail, pulling up to the intersection of Route 24. Sharon stopped, wondering how far behind her the ambulance was. The cell phone transferred her to voice mail. A robotic-sounding voice informed Sharon she should “leave a message at the tone.”
She disconnected the call and tossed her phone onto the seat next to her. Leaving a message was pointless. Mike would get in touch as soon as he could; Sharon was certain of that. Despite the pain she knew their breakup had caused him, Mike would not hesitate to talk to her on any job-related matter.
The cruiser idled patiently at the intersection. Right turn to head back to town and the police station. Left to go out to the home on Depot Road, where Mike’s last radio transmission had originated. It was no contest. Sharon wheeled the vehicle to the left and goosed it. She could be there in ten minutes.
27
Earl sat astride the unconscious cop’s body and pondered his next move. Bitter experience had taught him there was never just one pig, they tended to move in pairs or groups, like junior high girls at a dance. So, either a second police officer was already in the house somewhere—a possibility which seemed unlikely, given that a shot had been fired and gunshots never seemed to fail to get the attention of the law—or reinforcements would be along any minute now.
That being the case, he knew he had a limited amount of time in which to make his escape. Even if he got away cleanly, though, Earl suspected his time was running out. His strength was still superhuman, and he didn’t feel any different than he had since being awakened from death by The Fucking Devil Max Acton, but the process of decomposition was continuing, and sooner or later he knew his body would simply fall apart and drop to the ground, magic stone or no magic stone.
The billionaire software geek and the beautiful but treacherous Raven were both beginning to stir on the floor over by the stairs. They moaned softly and their arms and legs had begun twitching in what was still a more or less random fashion. Their eyes remained closed, but Earl figured before long that would change.
It was kind of ironic, Earl thought. Brett Parker was a billionaire, but none of that money was doing him a lick of good at the moment. He was just another unfortunate dude. He had gotten his head smashed and he dropped to the floor just like anyone else would have, regardless of his money.
All that money.
Billionaire.
Earl gazed at Parker, eyes narrowed. He was a billionaire. Billionaires were special. They had access to all kinds of resources; things unimaginable to small-town Maine alcoholic loser co
rpses. Another plan began to take shape in Earl’s brain. It was a long shot, of course it was, probably doomed to failure like everything else in his miserable existence, but it was better than wandering aimlessly, waiting to die. Again.
He struggled to his feet, clutching the box containing the stone and his heart—his lifeline—with an enthusiasm born of desperation. He wished the hole in his ruined chest was a little bigger, so he could simply stuff the box inside and carry it that way. He smiled ruefully at the thought and then got down to work, placing the box reluctantly on the floor at his feet. The thought of letting it out of his grasp for even a second was panic-inducing, but he needed both arms for what was to come next.
He bent over the cop and slid a hand under each of the pig’s armpits. “Nothing personal,” he whispered. This particular cop wasn’t so bad, as cops went. McMahon had arrested him a couple of times for DUI and was living with the chick, Sharon, who had, against all odds, fucked him silly one glorious night back when she was still a drug-and-alcohol-crazy high school slut.
It had been perhaps the best night of his life, and while he had known even then it was too much to expect lightning to strike twice, he had spent hundreds of hours daydreaming about someday getting his shit together and hooking up with the now-cleaned-up cop, maybe sharing an apartment or something. Becoming a couple.
But he had known all along that was a patently ridiculous notion, and in any event didn’t hold anything against this cop for shacking up with Sharon Dupont. She was every dude’s dream, a chick with a body that wouldn’t quit, but with a sweet personality that suggested she wasn’t even aware of her effect on men. It was a magical combination, one no guy could be expected to pass up. He certainly hadn’t.
So there was no malice in what Earl was about to do, although he wouldn’t lose any sleep over it, either. Not that he actually needed sleep any more. He snickered. There would be plenty of time to sleep when he was dead. Again.
Earl half-carried, half-dragged the cop across the floor. The cop groaned once and his eyelids fluttered and Earl thought he might be about to wake up, then he quieted again. His eyes remained closed.
They reached the freezer and Earl struggled to toss the unconscious man inside. The cop’s upper body flopped down and he hung up on the side of the metal box, suspended at the waist, half in and half out of the big freezer. Earl reached down and lifted his knees, then pushed them over the side, depositing his lower body into the freezer where he lay crumpled and unmoving. Then he slammed the lid and turned toward Parker and Raven.
He was running out of time, he could sense it. He had to move. Now. He picked up the wooden box, relief flooding through him to once again have it in his grasp, and trudged across the basement floor, stepping around the bloody mess that used to be Max The Fucking Devil Acton. Earl wished his mouth still produced saliva so he could spit on the dead body.
He reached Raven and the software guy and paused, thinking hard, trying his damnedest to concentrate. He badly wanted to teach the little bitch Raven a lesson. She was directly responsible for the mess he was in right now. If not for her treachery, Earl would be lounging on his couch with a beer in his hand, watching The Price is Right and waiting for the Ridge Runner to open for Happy Hour.
But he knew he could only take one of the pair with him. There was no way he would be able to control two hostages, especially with his body deteriorating so quickly. And as much as he wanted to take revenge against Raven, the billionaire software guy was a gift which had fallen right into his lap. A gift he could not afford to pass up.
Maybe there was no way out of this cursed half-life he had awoken to. Probably there was no way out of it. But if anyone could get to the bottom of the mystery of how he was moving and talking and thinking—if you could call it that—while his heart pumped away inside a plastic bag, it had to be a guy with the resources of Brett Parker. And if Parker could get to the bottom of that mystery, maybe he could even figure out a way to reverse it.
Earl knew the chances of that happening were one in a million. Hell, probably one in a billion. But a microscopic chance was better than no chance at all, and he wasn’t going to pass it up. He kicked the unconscious chick in the ribs just for fun, then bent down and picked up Parker the same way he had picked up the cop now trapped inside the freezer. Instead of dragging him across the floor, though, Earl tossed the software geek’s body over his shoulder and staggered to the stairs, climbing them as quickly as he could.
He crossed the grungy kitchen and moved through the empty living room, weaving like the drunk he had been for most of his life. Parker’s weight didn’t bother him, he still had plenty of strength thanks to the magical stone in the box, but coordinating his movements was becoming more and more difficult as the decomposition process continued. His body was giving out.
Earl cursed and plucked two sets of keys from a hook which had been pounded into the wall next to the front door. Then he stumbled out of the house and across the weed-strewn lawn to the driveway. He eyed the ancient minivan. He didn’t know how long it would take for his body to give out and die again, but he wasn’t about to spend what little time he had left in that beat-up piece of shit. Porsche, here we come.
He eyed the two car keys in his hand, one attached to a plain metal ring, the other to a fancy fob with buttons and the distinctive Porsche horse-head logo. He dropped the minivan’s key at his feet and moved to the sports car, muscling Parker into the passenger seat and crossing to the driver’s side. He turned the key and the 911 growled to life.
Earl jammed the car into reverse, almost stalling it in the process, and scattered gravel across the front lawn as he backed down the weed-strewn driveway, moving fast, the big engine barely straining. He hadn’t given any thought to how difficult the manual transmission might be to operate in his present condition, with his coordination shot all to hell. He considered changing vehicles for just a moment, then decided, Fuck it. For once in my life—or death—I’m going to drive the best.
The Porsche careened wildly into the road, tires screeching as Earl hit the brakes and shifted into first. Then he hit the gas. And stalled the engine.
He twisted the key and tried again. Again the car stalled.
He screamed in frustration and Parker stirred next to him. This time, he focused his limited powers of concentration on shifting the gears and easing out the clutch, and the car began rolling slowly along the deserted roadway. Once he was moving, shifting gears became a little easier, and Earl gunned it, rocketing away from the scene of his gruesome death and subsequent horrifying rebirth.
Where he was headed was a mystery, but he had his hostage, and that was a good start. Now it was time to get the fuck out of Dodge while the getting was good.
28
Sharon rolled slowly up the driveway that at one time had been gravel but was now comprised mostly of sickly-looking greenish-brown weeds that had forced their way between small rocks scattered along a wide pathway. She parked behind Mike’s cruiser and studied the dilapidated house from the front seat. It looked empty. Felt empty, too, but that didn’t mean much, especially given the fact Mike had parked next to a rusting minivan. A gap of several feet stood between the two vehicles, meaning there may have been another car parked there when Mike had arrived.
Sharon punched redial on her cell, knowing what the result would be but unable to stop herself from trying anyway. Mike would have called her if he was able. She waited impatiently through the electronic buzzing, hanging up when the same robotic voice she had ignored earlier began telling her to leave a message. She thought about radioing Gordie to see if Mike had checked in and didn’t bother. Gordie would have alerted her if he had.
She opened her door and stepped out of the cruiser, uneasy, her right hand resting lightly on her weapon. She stepped forward and ran a hand over Mike’s radiator. Warm, but not too warm, a temperature she felt might be consistent with his arrival almost an hour ago. She guessed the car had not been driven since then.
It was standing half open.
The door appeared to have been pulled or pushed closed, but without sufficient force to cause it to latch securely. She peeked through the opening into an empty room. It was a living room or some sort of sitting room. She figured she had probable cause to enter, but the question was how did she want to do it? Announce her arrival, as she probably should? Or proceed quietly?
The decision was an easy one. The chief of police had come here on a law enforcement matter and had been out of touch for far too long. There was no reason to alert whoever might be inside the home that a second officer was here, especially since it was only one officer, with no backup.
The issue of backup was a problem, too. She could hear Mike’s voice in her head insisting she return to her cruiser and call for another unit. Harley was patrolling somewhere in town. She knew she should call Harley and wait for his arrival before entering the house.
But geographically, Paskagankee was massive. The odds were slim that Harley was close enough to get here within the next few minutes; the home’s location was remote even by Paskagankee standards. He might take twenty minutes or more to arrive, and Sharon’s uneasiness was increasing with each passing second. Twenty or thirty minutes was too long to wait with Mike out of touch.
She would enter the house and worry about the repercussions later.
She eased through the door sideways, her slim body almost but not quite able to squeeze through the opening without disturbing the door. It creaked open a few more inches, making more noise than she would have liked but less than she had expected. She drew her weapon and held it by her side.