Offspring

by Liam Jackson

  Yeah, probably shit his pants and fainted.

  Marty looked squarely at the deputy and said, "No. I didn't faint, sir. The man, he just raised his hand like this, and said something that I couldn't make out. And I went to sleep. That's all. I just went to sleep."

  For a long second, Marty sat there, holding his right hand aloft, palm facing outwards, the first two fingers extended and the thumb sticking out the side.

  Petey stared for a moment, trying to remember where he had seen that gesture, before. A Scout salute, maybe? A mental image of the Terminator taking the Cub Scout oath almost cracked him up.

  Instead, he snickered and said, "Okay, okay. So, he knocked you out with the old Vulcan two-finger salute. You wanna go to the hospital and get checked out?"

  Marty shook his head. "No, sir. I'm fine. I just want to go home. I'm already late."

  Lance muttered a curse underneath his breath, disgusted that the deputy had no intention of searching for the guy, or putting out an APB or ABC or whatever the hell it was that cops did when they were looking for a suspect. That meant he was about to spend the graveyard shift alone, with one scary-looking son of a bitch wandering around outside.

  Paul kicked off his boots and settled back on the bed. The television was still going, though the sound was muted, and Paul watched with disinterest as a local news report showed scenes from some airport. Dozens of FBI and uniformed police appeared to be scurrying in and out of a large jet, carrying trash bags. Probably another dope bust. Not much news in that.

  He took a deep breath then exhaled slowly. It was time. Paul picked up the manila envelope from the nightstand and sat down on the edge of the bed. A housefly appeared from nowhere and flew slow, lazy circles around his head. He swatted at the pest halfheartedly, secretly grateful for even a minor distraction. He had been dreading this from the moment the clerk had handed it to him, sure that it couldn't possibly contain any good news. Yet it was time to open the damn thing and be done with it.

  Ripping open one end of the envelope, he turned it upside down and gave it a slight shake. A single folded sheet of typing paper spilled onto his lap. Unfolding it, he quickly noticed the beautiful handwriting, an intricate, highly stylized script that he couldn't immediately identify. Definitely not written in the hand of anyone he knew.

  The date and time were written across the top of the page in heavy black ink: January 26, 2003, 10:25 p.m. Confused, he double-checked his Seiko. The dial read, 10:25 p.m., Jan. 26.

  Unfolding the sheet of paper, he began to read. Once, then twice, he read the single line leavenowleavenowleavenowleavenowleavenowleavenowleavenow.

  "What the...?"

  He hadn't been sure of what to expect, but it sure as hell wasn't this. Given his current situation, he wondered if anything could possibly be more cryptic, or ominous... or ridiculous. Bewilderment turned to slow burning anger.

  "Who could have... wait a minute! The kid at the desk!"

  Paul was sure the message had to be some kind of twisted prank perpetrated by the sarcastic Woody Allen look-alike. That would explain a lot of things. How else could the message have reached him in time to be opened on this date? Paul wasn't sure how the clerk managed to print the name on the cover without being seen, but there was no other explanation.

  Probably gets his kicks from scaring the crap out of tourists, or maybe it's a scam of sorts, running off the customers right after they pay up, so he can re-rent the room twice in one day and pocket the extra cash! Well, it won't work on this tourist!

  Disgusted, Paul violently wadded up the letter and threw it across the room at a wastepaper basket. The ball of crumpled paper rimmed off the lip of the trash can and settled on the floor, near the door.

  Paul then realized he would need the paper as evidence and started to stand up. His knees and lower back protested and he plopped back onto the bed.

  "Oh, well, it'll still be there in the morning," he muttered. "Too late to do anything about it tonight, anyway. But first thing in the morning, I'll have a little visit with the manager. Then we'll see who's laughing!"

  Paul gingerly wiggled out of his clothes and laid them across the foot of the bed. He yawned and rubbed his eyes with stiff fingers. Gotta get some sleep. Come tomorrow, it's Knoxville or bust.

  Within minutes, Paul was snoring softly.

  CHAPTER 15

  Kansas City, Missouri

  Do you have any luggage to check?" Michael placed a leather suitcase onto the scales and watched as the ticket agent fastened a paper destination tag to the handle. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had about forty minutes before his flight was scheduled for takeoff. He still had time to back out.

  The agent, a petite brunette wearing a perpetual smile, handed Michael his boarding pass.

  "Gate C-Twelve, departing at six-oh-eight a.m., arriving in Knoxville at one-fifteen p.m. Enjoy your flight, Mr. Collier."

  Michael thanked her and walked woodenly to the escalator. Not for the first time today, he thought he must be out of his mind. Of course, he reminded himself, that was the whole point of the trip, wasn't it? If he wanted any future as a cop, any future at all, he needed resolution, and making the trip seemed his only option. At least Pam supported him, and that was enough.

  He made it through the security screen with far less trouble than anticipated and was soon sitting in the terminal with nearly a half hour to spare. He stopped briefly at one of the many snack kiosks, and bought a double latte. Walking to the gate area, he took a seat and tried to relax. The past twenty-four hours had passed in a blur of emotion and activity. It was all so... so... surreal: An appointment with a recently deceased doctor, an appointment apparently made by a receptionist that didn't exist, then meeting Horace, losing Horace, finding the mysterious envelope... and now, this.

  Only two days earlier, he had sat in his living room, seriously contemplating the notion of swallowing a .40-caliber slug, and saying goodbye to the madness that had become his life. Was traveling to Tennessee any crazier?

  The idea of leaving Pam behind made him slightly nauseous. She had listened patiently while he explained his encounter with Horace, and of course, he left nothing out. Lying wasn't an option. He wasn't above telling her that he loved the broccoli casserole, when in truth, it made him want to chuck up his liver, but this was different. This was... damn, what exactly was it? he wondered.

  When he finally arrived home that afternoon, he took Pam by the hand and led her into the bedroom. There, for the next two hours, Michael described his encounter with Horace and finding the map.

  When he finished, Michael lay back on the bed, and closed his eyes. Nervously, he awaited the multitude of questions that were sure to follow; questions for which he had no answers.

  For a long while, Pam said nothing and Michael's anxiety increased exponentially. Finally, she arose from the bed and walked to the large walk-in closet. Immediately, Michael's heart rate went into triple time.

  Oh, God, she thinks I've gone off the deep end! She's looking for her suitcase!

  Michael sprang from the bed and rested a trembling hand on her shoulder.

  "Sweetheart, wait..."

  The he noticed that she was rummaging through his clothes, and not hers.

  "Pam... what are you doing?" he finally managed. Pam continued digging through his clothes.

  "I was just wondering... do you think you'll need your suit? I have time to get it pressed before you leave for Tennessee." Her response was so calm, so nonchalant, so unlike her. You'd think I had just confessed to drinking milk from the carton instead of making plans to fly halfway across the country in search of... what? What am I looking for? And she says, "Do you think you'll need your suit?" Un-fucking-believable.

  A staccato, metallic voice announced that it was time to board the Boeing 757 for Knoxville. Michael grinned wryly, and took his place in the line.

  "No turning back now," he whispered. Once on board, he squeezed his large frame into the aisle seat of row fourteen
and gave a silent prayer that the seats to the inside would remain empty. It had been a few years since he had last flown and it was obvious that the airlines still hadn't figured out commercial passenger planes simply weren't made to accommodate people his size.

  Groaning, he figured his prayers were going unheard as a young man approached dragging along a laptop roller-case and a stack of newspapers folded beneath his arm. Smiling apologetically, the man shoved the laptop underneath the seat in front of Michael. Then, with all the grace of a drunken spider monkey, the man crawled over and around Michael until he finally landed with a grunt in the seat next to the window.

  But fortune held out from that point forward, as the other seats rapidly filled up, all but not the one between Michael and his row partner. Minutes later, the plane was moving and Michael tried to settle in for the two-hour flight. In that he had only a vague idea of where he was going once he landed, settling in was no easy thing. He reclined the seat and closed his eyes. The last thing he remembered was the whining of jet engines as the plane lifted off.

  A jolt of turbulence shook the plane and stirred Michael from his nap. He glanced at his watch. Provided the plane was still on schedule, he was less than a half hour from Knoxville. He flagged down a passing flight attendant who assured him the plane would arrive on schedule.

  "Thirty minutes," he muttered. Once on the ground, he would begin the final leg of a journey. Or, he wondered, is it just another beginning?

  Michael leaned forward in his seat and glanced at the man sitting near the window. His row mate was speed-reading newspapers and laying them aside in the middle seat. He noticed Michael watching, nodded politely, and motioned for him to help himself to the papers. Michael started to decline, then decided he had little else to do at thirty-thousand feet and thanked the young man. He spotted the front page of a USA Today peeking out from beneath the stack and pulled it free.

  The top stories were business as usual.

  war in the middle east, new terrorist attempts aborted, major tax cuts forthcoming

  "Yeah, right," he muttered.

  He started to trade the paper for another from the pile when a pair of side-by-side stories near the bottom of the page caught his eye.

  child abductions reach alarming number: three-week nationwide total soars

  The adjacent story was equally disturbing.

  serial killer spawns copycats

  God, when had all of that started? Then again, Michael knew that he hadn't exactly been coherent for the past month or so. The cop in him demanded that he read the story, although he secretly hoped it would prove long on fluff and short on fact. He read the story, then numbly read it through again, as the words took on chilling shape and substance in his mind. And for the next twenty minutes Michael Collier relived two months' worth of nightmares.

  CHAPTER 16

  Near Knoxville, Tennessee

  Janet lit another Virginia Slim and cracked the driver's side window of the Honda. The drive from Lexington had been the most boring few hours of her life. Large expanses of rural scenery never held any fascination for her.

  If you've seen one cow or rickety old barn, you've seen 'em all, she lamented.

  The only saving grace was that the solitude gave her time to digest the importance of Kelly's last message. As she wound her way along the ice-covered highway through a multitude of unnamed, nearly identical farming communities, she considered the loose fragments of fact.

  First she had a shady motel on the outskirts of Lexington, the scene of a grisly murder with no apparent witnesses. No clues to the identity of the victim, the only visible evidence being a few shreds of clothing, and a nondescript shaving kit containing exactly what one might expect. According to Kelly, a copious amount of gore decorated the walls and ceiling, suggesting that the victim had been killed at the scene and not dumped there.

  Then, there was the mystery of the rosary, a partially melted lump of glass and metal, nearly as mangled as the corpse. Evidence established as fact that the victim had been wearing it during the murder. Yet, there were no signs of fire or heat damage, either to the victim's flesh or to the room.

  She chanced a quick glance to the left, at the matchbook lying in the passenger-side bucket seat. Not much of a lead, and quite possibly no lead at all. But it was all she had and if there was even a remote chance.... Seeing the faded billboard up ahead, she realized that, wild-goose chase or not, she had arrived.

  Careful of the ice, Janet drove into the gravel parking lot of the Blue Bird Motor Court. The Honda hit a pothole large enough to swallow a front tire, causing her to bite her lip. Dabbing a Kleenex to her mouth and mumbling a string of curses that would have done a sailor proud, she parked the car alongside the dilapidated buildings and exited the car. She wanted to get a feel for the place and took her time examining the ramshackle row of rooms that barely passed for a motel.

  Tiny one-room kitchenettes were strung together connected by short expanses of partially rotted privacy fencing, leaving the impression of a dirty brown inchworm. Several of the rooms sported broken windows and doors that hung tenaciously from a single rusted hinge. Everywhere, bare wood peeked out from underneath layers of flaking paint. Janet decided that to describe this motel as shabby would be an insult to shabby motels everywhere.

  At one end of the buildings, a larger apartment featured double windows and a crude hand-stenciled sign that proclaimed Office. Taking a deep breath, she made her way across the sporadic patches of snow and ice and stepped inside. Janet was immediately surprised by what she found.

  The interior was immaculate, with freshly painted walls and a simple but spotless counter. The office area opened into a large living room, containing simple but tasteful furniture. To the left side of the room was another door, standing slightly ajar, which she assumed led to a bedroom. Janet twice tapped the bell that sat atop the counter. It was immediately answered by a voice coming from the bedroom.

  "Be right with you."

  A few seconds later, an older woman, not quite elderly, but nearing the end of middle-aged, walked through the door.

  Dressed in jeans and wearing a loose-fitting blouse over a T-shirt, she looked more like a maid than a desk clerk. She carried a stack of clean linen in her arms. Setting the pile of laundry on a couch, she walked up to the counter and said, "Now, miss, what can I do for you?"

  There was something in the woman's eyes, something that suggested a hard interior, and Janet figured that the straightforward approach was her best bet.

  "My name is Janet Davis and I'm a newspaper reporter from Lexington, Kentucky," she said, extending her hand.

  The woman took her hand and gave it a steady, firm shake. "I'm Doris Freeman and it's very nice to meet you. And frankly, you don't look the type to rent a room here, so what can I do for you?"

  Janet almost laughed at the directness.

  "You're right. No offense, but I'm not looking to rent one of your rooms. As I said, I'm a reporter for the Lexington Chronicle. There was a murder in Lexington yesterday and the police haven't found many clues."

  Janet laid the matchbook on the counter.

  "This was found at the scene. I don't know if it means anything, but I thought I'd drive over and have a look, maybe speak with the owner."

  Doris looked at the matchbook, then at Janet.

  "Well, I'm the owner and have been since 1972, back when this old shack was a decent place. A murder, you say? How terrible! Was it someone from Knoxville?"

  Janet shook her head. "There was no identification on the victim or in the room. Oh, did I mention he was killed in a motel? The Route Ten, over on the east side of town. Maybe you know of it."

  The older woman chuckled. "No, dear. I can't say as I know it. I've never even been to Kentucky. Tell me, what exactly do you hope to find here?"

  Janet leaned against the counter. "Honestly, I don't really know what to expect. Maybe nothing at all."

  Janet noticed a large glass ashtray sitting on the far en
d of the counter. She drew her cigarettes from her shirt pocket and asked, "Do you mind?"

  Doris grinned, "I'll only mind if you don't offer me a smoke. I haven't had time to get to the store today." Janet smiled and handed the pack to Doris and gave her a light, then lit one for herself.

  Janet took a deep draw on the cigarette and exhaled, sending a blue-gray cloud of smoke spiraling across the room. "As I was saying, there are so few leads, I figured it was worth a shot to drive over here and, you know, have a look."

  Doris nodded and motioned for Janet to come around to the end of the counter. "I see. Well, I'm not sure what you'll find around here. As you can see, people aren't lining up for rooms these days. But I can offer you some coffee. Care for a cup?"

  "You bet. Lead the way."

  A few minutes later, the two women were standing in the small but cozy living room and nursing steaming mugs of cinnamon coffee. Janet immediately noticed that cedar shelves were built right into the three walls, extending from floor to ceiling, each filled with row upon row of books.

  A quick, cursory inspection revealed that each row was neatly labeled for quick reference. Entire sections were devoted to the classics while others contained volume after volume of religious texts. Still another held what appeared to be contemporary novels, separated by genre.

  When they were finally settled on the couch, Doris sat her mug aside to cool, and said, "Why don't you start from the beginning and tell me all about your story."

  And Janet did, sparing nothing in the telling, not even the gruesome details of the murder, as recited by Ronald Kelly.

  "So you can see why I decided to make the drive. There's just nothing much to go on. Don't ask me why, because I don't know, but I have a feeling that there's a lot more to this than some guy killed by a jealous husband or some pissed-off drug dealer. And even if that's all it turns out to be, there's still a very dangerous person on the loose, perhaps more than one."

  The older woman gave a slight shudder and folded her arms tightly across her chest.