999

by Al Sarrantonio

  One … two … three times, the heavy blows pounded against the door.

  And then they stopped.

  The sudden silence hummed in Martin’s ears as he stood in the foyer, too frightened to say or do anything.

  His anticipation spiked as he waited for the sound to come again. He looked furtively from side to side as though expecting to see something creeping up behind him in the darkness even though he told himself that there was nothing there. His gaze returned to the door when the unseen person on the other side began knocking again, even harder.

  Was it a friend? Martin wondered. Someone who’d stopped by to check if he was all right?

  That didn’t seem likely.

  Martin didn’t have any real friends. He pretty much kept to himself, having gotten used to being alone after so many years tending to his invalid mother before she died.

  Thinking of his mother sent a tickling electric current racing up his back.

  What if that’s her out there? he wondered, unable to repress the deep shudder that shook his insides. He couldn’t help but remember how during those last horrible years, when she was ill and bedridden, she would bang on the wall to get his attention, pulling him away from his time alone with his trains.

  He tried not to think it, but the sounds were practically identical.

  “No!” he told himself. “Mother is dead!”

  He tried not to imagine what she would look like, her wizened form hunched on the crumbling cement stairs, wrapped against the cold in her yellowing burial shroud as she banged on the door to be let in. Her skin, gray with the rot of the grave, would be falling off in large, ragged chunks as each knock rang out like a hammer on an ancient Chinese gong.

  But no!

  That couldn’t be her.

  He had seen her coffin lowered into the ground.

  She was dead!

  Even if he hadn’t smothered her with her pillow, like the detective who had come by several times had suggested, she was dead and buried! And even if he had done something like that, he would have done it only out of mercy, to end her long suffering following the paralyzing stroke.

  He told himself that he shouldn’t let his imagination get fired up like this. It wasn’t healthy. There was definitely someone out there, make no mistake, but it wasn’t—it couldn’t be his mother!

  But it was someone, and when whoever it was began hammering on the door again, Martin told himself that, if they didn’t stop it and go away real soon, he was going to unload both barrels of his shotgun on them without warning.

  He didn’t care who it was.

  Even if it was some little kid who’d lost a kitten and was going from door to door looking for it. Or some crazed drunk or drug addict, lost and, thinking he was home, pounding on the wrong door to be let in.

  It didn’t matter.

  Hell, even if it did matter, Martin didn’t care.

  Anyone with any common sense was safe inside his own home as soon as it got dark. The only people out and about at this hour were dangerous people who deserved to die if they were going to bother decent people, like Martin, who wanted nothing but to be left alone.

  He’d shoot if he had to.

  He hadn’t heard the news lately, but he was sure there must have been numerous deaths—murders and accidental deaths—since the celebrations began. One more death in a city this size wasn’t even going to be noticed. Not when the police had so many other things to take care of.

  Still, Martin didn’t dare to call out, much less go to the door.

  Instead, he walked to the wall opposite the front door and, leaning back against the closed closet door—one of the few remaining inside the house—slid slowly down into a sitting position on the floor with his shotgun poised and aimed at the front door.

  The knocking continued unabated, the blows coming more rapidly now, the heavy thumping booming louder and louder. Martin was convinced that, before long, the door would be smashed to splinters. In spite of the cold night, thin trickles of sweat ran down his face. His eyes felt like they were bugging from their sockets as he watched … and waited … wishing that the knocking would stop and the person would go away and leave him alone.

  But that didn’t happen, and Martin couldn’t stop wondering who it might be. He kept tossing possible scenarios over in his mind until he thought of something that made his pulse skip a beat. He felt suddenly light-headed with anxiety.

  What if it was his father, come home after all these years?

  Could that be possible?

  Martin had lived his whole life in this house with his mother, so if, by some extraordinary circumstance, his father was still alive, he would naturally come back here first, if only to see if his family still lived here.

  Martin’s forefinger brushed lightly against the trigger of the shotgun. He grit his teeth so hard he could hear low grinding noises deep inside his head. His vision pulsed and swirled in front of him, creating a vortex of darkness spinning within deeper darkness.

  The pounding on the door was so loud now that it seemed to be as much inside his head as outside. Blow after blow rained down against the wood, and each blow resonated inside Martin’s skull until he was trembling like a man wracked with fever.

  Go away! he thought but didn’t dare say out loud.

  Go away!

  Leave me alone!

  And still the knocking continued, keeping time with the painful beating of his heart, which thundered in his ears so hard it made his neck ache.

  Please … For the love of God … Just go away!

  But the knocking didn’t let up. It grew louder and louder until—finally—Martin realized that he was going to have to go to the door and confront whomever it was.

  His body was rigid and throbbing with pain as he rose slowly to his feet. He maintained such a tight grip on his shotgun that, for a moment or two, his fingers were paralyzed, unable to move.

  Martin told himself to stay in control, that he had to deal with this now or it would only get worse. He would be in serious trouble if he opened the door and the person—whoever was out there—saw even a hint of fear or hesitation on his part.

  His feet dragged heavily on the wooden floor, making loud rasping sounds, but not loud enough to drown out the incessant hammering on the door.

  Martin licked his lips and took a shuddering breath that made his chest feel like it was constricted by thick iron bands. The sour pressure in his stomach grew painfully intense, and he had to concentrate to make his arms move as he raised the shotgun and pointed it at the door.

  Go away! Now! Before you regret it, Martin wanted to call out, but horrible images of his dead mother and the father he had never known filled his mind.

  Could it be both of them out there on the stoop?

  He felt curiously weighed down as he moved toward the door. It was like being trapped in a dream. No matter how many steps he took, the front door seemed to withdraw from him, getting farther away rather than closer.

  Martin shook his head and slapped himself on the cheek, trying to convince himself that he was awake. This was real. It was really happening.

  And all the while, the heavy pounding on the door continued without letting up.

  Watching like a dissociated observer, Martin raised his hand and reached out for the door lock. The other hand held the shotgun at chest level, his forefinger on the trigger and already starting to squeeze.

  A prickling wave of pain rolled up his arm to his shoulder as he slowly withdrew the metal clasp of the chain lock and let it drop. It made a rough, grating noise as it swung back and forth like a pendulum against the door, bouncing every time the knocking from the other side vibrated the door.

  Holding his breath so long it hurt, Martin grasped the dead bolt and turned it slowly to the right. Every nerve in his body was sizzling like overloaded wires as he waited for the lock to click open.

  He was swept up in a flood of vertigo and was afraid that he would pass out before he could get the door open a
nd confront whomever was out there on his doorstep. They must have heard him undo the lock, he thought, so they would have plenty of time to run away before he got the door open.

  Martin jumped when the lock clicked, sounding as sharp as the snap of a whip. He reached quickly for the doorknob, gave it a savage twist, and pulled back to throw the door open.

  But the doorknob slipped from his hand as if it were greased.

  Momentarily confused, Martin stood back. He was breathing so heavily his throat made a dull roaring sound. Sweat tickled his ribs as it ran down the inside of his shirt. The sound of the knocking continued, so loud now it made his vision jump in time with it.

  The gun felt suddenly heavy in his hand, and he placed it on the floor, leaning it against the wall within easy reach. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants legs before taking hold of the doorknob again and giving it another violent turn.

  He heard the cylinder mechanism click. This time when he pulled back, he kept his grip, but—still—the door wouldn’t open.

  Martin muttered a curse under his breath, but he could barely hear his own voice above the constant pounding on the door. He could feel the deep vibration in the palm of his hand, like a wasp sting, but he ignored it as he twisted the doorknob back and forth several times, all the while pulling back with all his strength.

  Still, the door wouldn’t open.

  It wouldn’t even budge.

  This isn’t possible, Martin thought, sure that whoever was out there still knocking was holding the door shut with the other hand so he couldn’t open it.

  Panting heavily, Martin moved to the left. Bending low, he peered out the side window. The night was dense and black except for the distant glow of fire on the horizon. As far as he could see, there was no one out there.

  The doorstep was empty.

  A sudden gust of wind blew a flurry of snow from the edge of the porch roof. The ice crystals glittered like diamond dust in the flickering orange glow before drifting down into the darkness. For just an instant, Martin imagined that the shower of snow had assumed a vague human form. He cleared his throat, preparing to call out, but his voice was locked up inside his chest.

  The knocking continued without stopping.

  Martin jumped and let out a startled yelp when he saw an alley cat leap from the trash cans to the top of the fence that bordered his property. But even if the sound had stopped, he knew that the cat couldn’t have been the one doing it.

  Shivering wildly, he moved back to the door. After making sure the dead bolt and chain lock were unlocked, he grasped the doorknob again with both hands. The muscles in his wrists and forearms knotted like twisted wire as shivering vibrations ran up his arms to his shoulders and neck.

  A pathetic whimper escaped Martin as he ratcheted the doorknob quickly back and forth. The door couldn’t have been shut tighter if it had been nailed shut. Bracing one foot against the doorjamb, he leaned back and pulled with all his strength, but the door still wouldn’t budge.

  Who’s out there? Martin wanted to call out. Why are you doing this? But his throat felt flayed and raw.

  His heart was thumping heavily in his ears as the knocking grew steadily louder, thundering through the dark house, keeping time with his hammering pulse.

  Every muscle in Martin’s body tensed as he leaned back as far as he could, struggling to open the door. He sucked in shallow gulps of air that felt like he was sipping fire. Finally, in a high, broken voice, he forced out a whisper.

  “Mother?”

  The instant those words left his mouth, the knocking ceased. Leaden silence merged with the darkness and filled the air.

  The silence stretched.

  Then, from every door still in the house, from the hall closet, the basement, the kitchen pantry, came knocking.

  Martin screamed. Waves of rising panic swept through him. He raised his arm above his head and brought it down hard against the front door.

  “Let me out!”

  Tears stung his eyes as he brought his fist down repeatedly against the door, knocking so hard that it wasn’t long before his hands were bruised and bloodied.

  “Let … me … out!” he said between wrenching sobs. “Let me … out!”

  He collapsed forward, pressing his forehead against the cold, unyielding wood as he continued to pound with both fists. His body was wrung out, burning with exhaustion. Tears gushed from his eyes.

  The only sound that filled the house now was the weakening blows he made against the door.

  He didn’t even hear himself ask as he continued to knock, “Who’s … there … ?”

  David Morrell

  RIO GRANDE GOTHIC

  Yes, David Morrell wrote First Blood and created the famous character John Rambo. Yes, he’s the best-selling author of such novels as Brotherhood of the Rose and Double Image. He’s also a heck of a nice fellow, a gentleman in person, and probably pats dogs on the head when he passes them in the street. He also writes stories as good as his novels, such as the one you’re about to read.

  The protagonist of “Rio Grande Gothic” is a classic Morrell hero, a man forced by circumstances to change roles from the hunter to the hunted. Like much of Morrell’s best work, the pace is fast and the action nearly continuous.

  And this time, it’s also creepy as hell.

  When Romero finally noticed the shoes on the road, he realized that he had actually been seeing them for several days. Driving into town along Old Pecos Trail, passing the adobe-walled Santa Fe Woman’s Club on the left, approaching the pueblo-style Baptist church on the right, he reached the crest of the hill, saw the jogging shoes on the yellow median line, and steered his police car onto the dirt shoulder of the road.

  Frowning, he got out and hitched his thumbs onto his heavy gun belt, oblivious to the roar of passing traffic, focusing on the jogging shoes. They were laced together, a Nike label on the back. One was on its side, showing how worn its tread was. But they hadn’t been in the middle of the road yesterday, Romero thought. No, yesterday, it had been a pair of leather sandals. He remembered having been vaguely aware of them. And the day before yesterday? Had it been a pair of women’s high heels? His recollection wasn’t clear, but there had been some kind of shoes—of that he was certain. What the … ?

  After waiting for a break in traffic, Romero crossed to the median and stared down at the jogging shoes as if straining to decipher a riddle. A pickup truck crested the hill too fast to see him and slow down, the wind it created ruffling his blue uniform. He barely paid attention, preoccupied by the shoes. But when a second truck sped over the hill, he realized that he had better get off the road. He withdrew his nightstick from his gun belt, thrust it under the tied laces, and lifted. Feeling the weight of the shoes dangling from the nightstick, he waited for a minivan to speed past, then returned to his police car, unlocked its trunk, and dropped the shoes into it. Probably that was what had happened to the other shoes, he decided. A sanitation truck or someone working for the city must have stopped and cleared what looked like garbage. This was the middle of May. The tourist season would soon be in full swing. It wasn’t good to have visitors seeing junk on the road. I’ll toss these shoes in the trash when I get back to the station, he decided.

  The next pickup that rocketed over the hill was doing at least fifty. Romero scrambled into his cruiser, flicked on his siren, and stopped the truck just after it ran a red light at Cordova.

  He was forty-two. He had been a Santa Fe policeman for fifteen years, but the thirty thousand dollars he earned each year wasn’t enough for him to afford a house in Santa Fe’s high-priced real estate market, so he lived in the neighboring town of Pecos, twenty miles northeast, where his parents and grandparents had lived before him. Indeed, he lived in the same house that his parents had owned before a drunk driver, speeding the wrong way on the Interstate, had hit their car head-on and killed them. The modest structure had once been in a quiet neighborhood, but six months earlier a supermarket had been built a block away, th
e resultant traffic noise and congestion blighting the area. Romero had married when he was twenty. His wife worked for an Allstate Insurance agent in Pecos. Their twenty-two-year-old son lived at home and wasn’t employed. Each morning, Romero argued with him about looking for work. That was followed by a different argument in which Romero’s wife complained that he was being too hard on the boy. Typically, he and his wife left the house not speaking to each other. Once trim and athletic, the star of his high school football team, Romero was puffy in his face and stomach from too much takeout food and too much time spent behind a steering wheel. This morning, he had noticed that his sideburns were turning gray.

  * * *

  By the time he finished with the speeding pickup truck, a house burglary he was sent to investigate, and a purse snatcher he managed to catch, Romero had forgotten about the shoes. A fight between two feuding neighbors who happened to cross paths with each other in a restaurant parking lot further distracted him. He completed his paperwork at the police station, attended an after-shift debriefing, and didn’t need much convincing to go out for a beer with a fellow officer rather than muster the resolve to make the twenty-mile drive to the tensions of his home. He got in at ten, long after his wife and son had eaten. His son was out with friends. His wife was in bed. He ate leftover fajitas while watching a rerun of a situation comedy that hadn’t been funny the first time.

  The next morning, as he crested the hill by the Baptist church, he came to attention at the sight of a pair of loafers scattered along the median. After steering sharply onto the shoulder, he opened the door and held up his hands for traffic to stop while he went over, picked up the loafers, returned to the cruiser, and set them in the trunk beside the jogging shoes.

  “Shoes?” his sergeant asked back at the station. “What are you talking about?”

  “Over on Old Pecos Trail. Every morning, there’s a pair of shoes,” Romero said.