Rage: The Reckoning

by Christopher C. Page

  “Personally,” Darcy said, crunching away on a leaf from her salad, “I think we should take another run at the parents. From what you said, the father sounds like he’s gone way off the grid.”

  Sarah nodded in acknowledgement of the idea and gave her credit for being the first to say it. Unfortunately, Darcy hadn’t seen the man. “The old man couldn’t open a jar of pickles with a hammer. He barely made it up the basement steps and as for the mother, I think she’d go along with just about anything her husband told her, but not this.”

  “Well, we still have about eight hundred people at the bindery to talk to,” Tristan pointed out, partly out of sarcasm given their numbers. “There might still be something there.”

  “Maybe,” Sarah nodded, “I’m still waiting to hear back from the guy who owns the place. Dushku made a six-second call to his residence right around the time he was taken. How about the high school? I struck out with that massive C word of a principal, how’d we make out with the teachers and class mates?”

  Lewinski let her finish the question before taking a massive bite of a hamburger that looked greasy enough to start a small fire, he looked at her passively while his jaw pumped up and down, his cheeks bulged out like a rodent’s. He finally swallowed, smacking his lips and sucking grease from his fingers before finally answering, “I talked to a few of them, most of them said the same thing, nice kid, everybody liked him, yaddi, yaddi, yadda. But one kid I talked to, he says that some guy was pounding on the Dushku kid every chance he got.”

  Sarah was beyond pissed. She’d made herself clear as a bell before they set out that morning; any useful information was to be shared immediately. The son of a bitch had been sitting on his ass for hours and never said a word to anyone.

  “He have a name?”

  “Who?”

  “The kid who told you this.”

  “Oh, it’s in my notes, I don’t remember off the top of my head.”

  “Alright, what did the kid say specifically?”

  Lewinski took another bite of the burger, pretending to think, “Not much, just that one kid in particular had it out for Dushku and was on him like stink on shit.”

  “And did this kid in particular have a name or is that in your notes too?”

  “No, his name I remember, it’s the same one the mother said was bullying him at school. Boyd, Randy Boyd.”

  Twenty-one

  The Decider stood at the window, looking out at hundreds of big coffins, all lined up waiting for people to commit to indentured servitude for the next thirty years to pay for them. Same little lawns, same little cars, same little lies. He was half-tempted to burn it all. A few dollars of strategically placed gasoline and he could return the area back to what it was before the machines rolled in. But then they’d just rebuild it, they always did.

  A steady stream of Asians and Indians made rich in their places of origin by their possession driven western counterparts were pouring into the country. Mere weeks after arriving, they bought brand new homes like these as fast as the contractors could build them, parked a few brand new cars in the driveway and moved their entire families overseas to join them, enjoying spoils that remained unrealized by generations of people that were born here. The way things were going, they’d own this country in another thirty years or so, the same way they already owned most of the United States.

  None of the homes were finished yet. Many hadn’t even been bricked and were nothing more than wooden boxes resting on concrete slabs. They were going up fast. The first occupants were still several months away from taking actual possession but the bulldozers were already leveling the adjoining fields, making room for hundreds more.

  It was pathetic.

  The Decider put it out of his mind, his target was nearby and it was almost time for the kill. He’d been watching him for two nights now, waiting for the right moment. At one point, he’d gotten close when his target came into the house he’d been watching from and had come within five feet of him in the dark. The idiot was looking to steal electrical wire and copper pipe, anything portable that could be sold, as was his only purpose for being there. The target moved onto another house, oblivious as to how close he’d come to death. The time hadn’t been right, but tonight, here he was again at the same time, at the same place . . . it was a sign.

  Tonight was the night.

  Through the windowless walls between them, the Decider could hear him clomping around on the plywood floors in his work boots. His shape appeared in the front door, barely a silhouette, his head panned back and forth as he checked the street. Confident that he was alone, he stepped out of the house onto the porch. He had an armful of copper pipe he’d hacked out and a roll of conduit perched on his shoulder as he cautiously maneuvered his way over the rough terrain and back out to the street.

  The Decider moved silently down the steps, passing through the laundry room and out into the garage. He stood frozen in the corner, invisible in the pitch black, and waited for his target to pass by. A few seconds later, the target lumbered by headed for his car, parked at the end of the block under a cluster of trees.

  The Decider moved out of the garage and stood at the corner of the house, sixty feet from him. The target continued slowly, struggling with the pipes, oblivious to what was coming. The Decider moved away from the house, exposing himself for the first time since he began the hunt. He moved steadily, but slowly.

  Fifty feet.

  He crossed the hard clay that would one day be the driveway and began to follow him.

  Forty feet.

  The Decider closed his eyes, using his senses to get into the same rhythm as the target, taking three steps for every two of his prey.

  Thirty feet.

  He could hear him breathing now, wheezing along with his little pathetic armful of nothing, which he’d surely sell for drugs or alcohol.

  Twenty feet.

  His death would be a hard one. Hard and painful.

  It was time.

  The Decider intentionally scuffed his foot out of step with his target. Instantly, the target tensed up but kept walking as he craned his neck, trying to get a look at who was behind him. By the time their eyes made contact, he was within his reach. It was only then that the Decider blessed his target with the privilege of addressing him as a human being. Nothing else that was about to happen would be mistaken as human.

  “Hello, Robert.”

  Twenty-two

  For the first time since he arrived in Ratcliff, Mark actually felt good about himself. He’d barely slept a wink yet he felt strangely energized by his experience at Harrington Manor. He quickly dressed and darted through the kitchen, snatching the small brown paper sack his dad had left for him on the counter. The house was quiet, his dad having gone into work before Mark’s alarm clock went off. He made his way into the basement and tripped the main breaker, pulling the lever down and counting to ten before turning it back on. After, he ran back upstairs to ensure that the clock on the microwave was flashing 12:00. Now he had an excuse for not going to school. This stupid old house with it’s ancient wiring . . . must have been a surge or something, my alarm didn’t go off and I missed my bus.

  After what had happened to him yesterday, he had no intentions of going back to that place, not ever. Last night while he was hanging out in the garage with Taylor, he’d said it’d be all right for him to come over for an Aikido lesson, maybe even help him rebuild the carburetor on the old Mustang, if he wanted. Tripping the breaker had been his idea.

  Taylor was by far the coolest, most interesting person he’d ever met in his life. Mark thought if he had been born in Hollywood rather than Canada, he could have been a movie star, in fact, he’d put all the spoiled wimps currently calling themselves stars or leading men to shame. Taylor was the real deal. He was tough but he didn’t feel obligated to show it, and even though his father was rich as hell, he still worked full time and somehow dispelled any envy Mark might have felt otherwise considering their financial status.
What made him all the more interesting was the fact that he had lost his mother, just like Mark had. While technically his own mother was still alive, she might as well be dead as far as he was concerned.

  He’d given up calling her, their last conversation having taken place months ago while she was preparing to go on a little trip with her new boyfriend and his little girl. Mark remembered hearing the little girl running around in the background, squealing happily like only spoiled, over indulged, rich little girls can. His mother had sounded distracted and not particularly thrilled to be having the conversation with him, almost like it was an inconvenience, like he was an inconvenience. She told him that they’d be gone for two weeks and that she’d call him when she got back. Mark checked off the days on his bedroom calendar and five weeks passed without any word from her. He’d left voice messages on her cell phone, even sent emails to both her personal address as well as the gallery downtown where she worked. It was no longer possible for Mark to fool himself into thinking she didn’t know he’d been trying to reach her, she knew, she just didn’t give a shit about him anymore. In hindsight, Mark wasn’t all that surprised, there’d been something in her voice during that last conversation, right about the time Mark had dropped the big question, asking if he could come and live with her.

  Mark tried to shake the bad thought out of his head. He had just stepped out into the driveway, pulling the door shut behind him when a voice said, “Stop whining you little bitch. No wonder why your mother left you. You’re nothing.”

  Mark bit down hard on his lip. He could feel the Boy sneaking up on him again, like he was waking up. He tried to change his thoughts to something else before the Boy really got going because once he started, it was impossible to shut him up. Not today. Something about his brief meeting with Taylor had given him power, like an invisible shield that none of them could penetrate, not his mother, his father, this place, not even Randy. Nobody was going to take this feeling away from him. Nobody.

  No sooner had Mark stepped out onto the street, he saw Kyle lumbering up the block, huffing and puffing along with sweat soaking through his armpits and under his tits.

  “Hey!” he said, gasping for breath. “You’re going to miss the bus again.”

  “I’m not going,” Mark informed him.

  “Sounds good to me,” he panted. “Where are we going?”

  Mark frowned, slightly annoyed by his presence, almost repulsed, “Listen,” he said gently, “I’m supposed to go up to Harrington Manor, Taylor needs me to help him with something.”

  Several seconds of silence passed before Kyle replied, “Bullshit.”

  “Swear to god,” Mark said, trying not to smile at his friend’s envy. “Last night, Taylor’s dad wanted to see my old man for something so, of course, he went running up there like the bitch that he is. I figured, why not tag along? Taylor is going to help train me so I can kick the shit out of Randy and those other two goons.”

  Kyle’s face fell, the disappointment was written all over it and he began to pout like a child (a big fucking baby really) who’d just been told he’d had enough cookies for one day. “Hey man,” Mark said, more than a little annoyed by Kyle’s lack of enthusiasm. “This is a good thing for both of us!”

  “How’d you figure that?”

  “With Taylor Harrington on our side, nobody can touch us! Everybody knows he’s a bad ass, half the school saw him put Randy on his ass that day he came after me, and the other half saw Taylor beat the shit out of him back in grade school.”

  “And who told you that?” Kyle huffed, finally looking at Mark.

  “Taylor did,” Mark said defensively.

  “That’s news to me.”

  Mark wasn’t sure what Kyle’s problem was but he was starting to piss him off. Calling Taylor Harrington a liar made Mark want to pound the shit out of him. If not for the fact that up until the night before, Kyle had been his only friend in Ratcliff and had actually taken a couple of beatings on his behalf, Mark might have hit him. He was just jealous, that was obvious. Jealous and scared that Mark had met someone else to hang out with, scared that he’d go back to having no friends at all.

  “Just wait,” Mark said coolly. “Things are about to change.”

  Kyle’s lower lip jutted out like a big kid who didn’t get what he asked for from Santa Clause, he turned away from Mark, probably to huff and puff his way out to the old high-school where he’d sit on his fat ass, alone. “See you around, I guess.”

  “Hey Kyle” Mark said, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Do you mind calling Mrs. Dodd for me? I don’t want her calling my dad at work, I’ll owe you one.”

  Mark didn’t wait for his answer, Kyle would either do it, or he wouldn’t. He headed up the block away from the house, headed for the beaten path that would lead him deep into the woods and toward Harrington Manor.

  - - -

  Randy Boyd climbed out of the driver’s seat of Mike’s piece of shit truck, followed by Lisa. Her brother always begrudgingly rode shotgun despite the fact it was his piece of shit they were riding in. Randy always drove. The final bell had just rung and they were standing in the school-parking lot as usual, but today their clan was one member shy.

  “So, where the fuck is he?” Randy snarled.

  “Beats me!” Mike said, holding his hands up defensively. “He didn’t tell me nuthin, I swear!”

  Randy paced back and forth, getting angrier and angrier by the second. It was one thing for Bob not to have shown up at the bike shop last night like they had agreed on, it was one thing that his black Cutlass wasn’t parked in the driveway of that dump of a foster home, not last night, not this morning. But it was another thing entirely for Bob not to be there at the school waiting for him with a good fucking explanation AND the two grand he was supposed to have collected last night. It was the first time Randy had trusted him to handle a transaction of that size and a chance to prove himself. His instructions couldn’t have been clearer, drop off the stuff, pick up the cash, bring it to me.

  Then, in case there was any misunderstanding, he’d added; You screw this up and I’ll cut your fucking throat.

  Nobody ever accused Bob White of being a rocket scientist, but even he understood the severity of the situation. So . . . where the hell was he?

  “Mike?” Randy said, his anger swelling. “Go find Porkchop, bring him here. Could be maybe Bob got busted stripping copper somewhere last night. If he got clipped, those foster fucks would have said something.”

  “He ain’t here,” Mike said tentatively. “On the drive up I saw the big tub headed downtown.”

  Randy turned on him angrily, veins bulging from his reddened forehead. “Did I ask you where he was?”

  “Well . . . no, you just said . . .”

  “Unfucking-believable,” he snarled. “Did I ask you what I said?”

  “No?”

  “Go fucking find him and bring him here . . . now.”

  As Mike climbed into his truck and peeled off, Lisa walked over to Randy and wrapping her arms around his waist, she ground her crotch into his. “You okay baby?” she asked soothingly.

  “I swear,” he said, barely able to control himself. “If Bob ripped me off . . . ”

  “I know, baby.”

  “If I go back to my dad empty handed . . . ”

  “I know, baby.”

  Randy shook his head, something wasn’t right. Bob was too scared of him to rip him off. And, if he’d been arrested last night, his first phone call wouldn’t have been to Legal Aid or his foster parent’s, he’d have called Randy. Something wasn’t right.

  “He’d better be locked up or dead, I swear to Christ.”

  Twenty-three

  John piloted the marked cruiser slowly up Main Street, headed north. He observed that people seemed to be going about their business, the horror of what had been discovered in the woods already fading from their minds, their sense of security having been restored by the increase in police presence. Doug Green let out a
sigh from the back seat, today Cannon had insisted on riding up front. John was surprised she hadn’t insisted on driving their patrol car and this was clearly a woman who didn’t like to hear the word NO. For the past two days, he had watched her conducting her interviews with a tough edge that probably served her well over the years. Having done her exact job for over a decade, John had no doubt in his mind that Sarah Cannon was the real deal. If there were to be any progress in this investigation, it would likely come as a result of her work. For all John knew, there may have already been progress.

  They were on their way back out to the high school in Parry Sound with the purpose of speaking to one student in particular, though for some reason, she remained tight lipped about who that person was, saying only that there was someone she had to see.

  John made the turn onto Highway #40 and turned left. He couldn’t help but cast a quick glance up at Harrington Manor as they passed by and even the Cannon woman noticed him looking. “That’s quite the house for a town this size,” she commented.

  “Sure is,” John agreed, saying nothing more.

  “I hope that’s not your Mayor’s house,” she added innocently.

  He didn’t take the bait, but his partner did.

  “Not a chance,” Doug chuckled from the back seat. “That’s Foster Harrington’s place. He owns the bindery where Paul Dushku worked.”

  “I know,” she said smugly, confirming John’s suspicions. “I just wanted to see if you’d tell me.”

  John suppressed a smile at Green’s facial expression, he was a smart guy but she’d just made him feel stupid. John had no such feelings, he’d learned long ago to leave his ego at home. Their profession demanded that of them.

  “You want to tell us who we’re going to see?” John said, changing the subject.

  “You’ll see when we get there,” she replied easily. “We still have lots of people to talk to at the high school and the bindery, including Mr. Harrington who, up until this point, hasn’t returned any of my calls.”