by Tom Savage
But Mark Stevenson was also hurrying through the rain across the street, presumably toward his car and the next destination. Smiling to himself, the man in black glided off through the downpour toward his own car. He would arrive at the next place before Mark Stevenson, and everything would be ready.
And he would see that look on Mark’s face, the expression of horror he had been dreaming about all these long years.
32
Rain. Pounding into the windshield and hissing under the tires on the freeway. Obliterating everything but the car in front of him and the car behind. Falling from dark gunmetal clouds to drench the city and the sere deserts nearby. Obscuring the sun: twilight at three o’clock in the afternoon. Rain, everywhere.
The interior of the Mustang seemed to him to be a cocoon. He was aware of feeling alone, isolated, cut off from the rest of humanity. From his life. The quiet, polite, successful novelist who was about to marry the beautiful literary agent in New York was still there, in a way, three thousand miles away from him across the vast expanse of America. That is some other person, he thought as he drove up into the hills for the second time that day. Some other man. I am now the object of a demented creature who controls me, and until this game is over I must do his bidding. Then I can be Mark Stevenson again.
At last he came to the turnoff, and a few minutes later the gray stone wall arrived on his right, just as the librarian had told him. He followed the long stretch of wall to the inevitable big black wrought-iron gates. He turned in through these and continued up the drive to the main building of the compound. There was a parking lot off to the right of the building, so he parked the car there, picked up the little wreath from the passenger seat, and ran through the rain to the arched entrance doors.
The huge, ornately columned structure was apparently a combination of greeting center and business office, but it looked like a mausoleum, which he supposed was intentional. The lobby he entered was large and austere, all cool blue-veined white marble and plush red velvet. The scent from the many vases of lilies about the place hung in the air, as did the soft classical music piped in from concealed speakers. He was briefly reminded of the Pontchartrain Clinic two days—a hundred years—ago. Forcing the thought from his mind, he went quickly, purposefully over to the desk in the center of the room.
The attractive, fiftyish woman behind the desk had looked up and smiled at him as soon as he had come in, so he produced a smile of his own as he came up to her. She was wearing a Chanel-style suit of pearl gray, he noticed; not mourning, exactly, but a concession to the mourners with whom she dealt. A discreet gold badge above her left breast informed him that her name was Arlene Wolcott. Still smiling, she stood up and came around the desk, extending her hand.
“Good afternoon,” she murmured in a low, clear voice. “Are you with the Fitzgerald party? Everyone’s assembling in the Blue Room just down that hall over there—”
“Uh, no, Ms. Wolcott,” Mark said. “I’m not with them. I’m—I’m here to pay my respects to Ian Webster and his family.” He held up the dripping wreath. “Mr. Webster worked with my father in the theater years ago. When Dad heard I was coming to L.A., he asked me to …” He trailed off, letting Ms. Wolcott fill in the rest for herself.
She did. “Of course. Have you been here before?”
“Uh, no, I haven’t.”
“Well, then,” she said, smiling sympathetically, “you’ll need directions.”
She bustled back around the desk and opened a drawer, and it was as simple as that. In moments he was holding a detailed map of the cemetery with the Webster graves clearly marked for him. Ms. Wolcott even handed him a black umbrella from a stand beside the desk, which she told him to keep with the cemetery’s compliments. He thanked her profusely and went back out into the rain.
It seemed to have intensified, and he was grateful for the gift of the umbrella. He moved as swiftly as possible across the parking lot and through a small border garden to the first rows of markers. He now saw that the cemetery stretched out in all directions over hilly green land, with sidewalks crisscrossing the terrain. Glancing again at the map, he moved off down the appropriate walkway. In just under ten minutes, he came to the correct section, and he counted off the rows of headstones until he arrived at the one he sought.
The five headstones stood in a somber line in the center of the row, under a big, leafy tree. The name WEBSTER seemed to jump out at him from all of them, and the final date, identical on each one. The largest pink marble monument in the center of the cluster belonged to Ian Webster, with a quote from Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, a play in which Webster had scored one of his biggest stage hits, the queen’s lament for her dead lover:
“THE ODDS IS GONE,
AND THERE IS NOTHING LEFT REMARKABLE
BENEATH THE VISITING MOON.”
Mark knelt before the center grave, grateful for the limbs and leaves above his head that somewhat protected him from the downpour. There was another black umbrella, opened, stuck in the ground before Ian’s headstone, and under this, leaning against the pink stone, was a small plastic bag. He laid down his wreath, picked up the bag and opened it, and pulled out a little black envelope. He tore it open and removed the black-bordered white card with the red Magic Marker message.
Study these graves carefully. There are more victims here. Can you feel their pain? The WORD is in your hotel room … Matthew.
He knelt there in the rain, staring down at the final word of the note. Matthew. It was his original name, of course, and Scavenger certainly knew that. But it kept arresting his attention, and he tried to figure what it was about the use of his name that was somehow significant. Matthew.
WORD. Capitalized in both notes, this one and the one at the hotel this morning. WORD. Matthew …
Then he got it. He slipped the note back in the envelope and put it in his coat pocket, then rose slowly to his feet. WORD was the Word of God: the Gideon Bible. The Book of Matthew. He had to get back to the hotel.
On a hill in the distance, off to his left, he saw a slow procession of perhaps fifty black-clad people with black umbrellas, following a hearse. The group came to a stop and began to assemble in a circle around a tall minister or priest—he couldn’t tell with the rain and the distance—as the hearse was opened. The Fitzgerald party, he presumed, burying their dead on this awful, wet day, this gray afternoon. He stared at the tableau on the hill, remembering the gray, rainy morning his family died, and the brilliant, snowy day he buried them: the sunlight glinting on the ice in the cemetery, hurting his eyes, as some zealous minion of the Church of the True Believers ranted on and on about God and Jesus and Judgment Day. He wondered what the weather would be like when he died. Not that it would matter to him, of course. But he wondered if it would rain.…
A tall man was standing on the brow of the hill, a little apart from the others. Even through the rain, even at this distance, Mark knew immediately who it was. The long black coat was unmistakable, and, as on the street in New Orleans two nights before, he was looking directly at Mark, this time through binoculars.
Then, as on the street in New Orleans two nights before, Mark began to run. Uttering a small cry of anger, he dropped the courtesy umbrella and charged out across the sodden field, through row after row of headstones, toward the figure in the distance. The tall man melted away into the rain, circling around the crowd of mourners and disappearing over the rim of the hill. Mark ran up the hill to the crest and stopped short, unaware of the astonished faces of the Fitzgerald party as they turned to stare. He could just make out the tall black figure among the stones a hundred yards or so ahead of him, gliding swiftly toward the main building and the parking lot.
He was already breathless, but he propelled himself forward as fast as he could, half running, half staggering down the hill. The rain pelted his face, blinding him, and suddenly his knee smashed into a gravestone and he went down, landing in the muddy grass. A sharp pain ran up his side to his brain, and he g
asped as he pulled himself up and started to run again. By the time he reached the parking lot, he could just make out the red taillights of a car as it moved quickly away down the drive toward the front gates.
He ran to his car and took off after the taillights. It occurred to him that history was repeating itself: as in New Orleans, he had no plan. He didn’t have any idea exactly what he would do to the big man in the unlikely event that he actually caught up with him. He only knew that he must try. The Mustang fishtailed as he swung out through the wrought-iron gates onto the road that would eventually lead back to the highway, but then it righted itself and plunged forward. The red taillights were far ahead of him, nearly invisible in the downpour. Mark pressed his foot more firmly down on the accelerator, determined to close the gap.
He had managed to get within fifty yards of the other car, and they were very close to the entrance ramp to the freeway, when Mark heard the shrill siren right behind him. In the rearview mirror he saw an approaching motorcycle. The man on the bike, obviously a police officer, was gesturing for Mark to pull over to the side of the road.
Oh, great! he thought as he slowed and reluctantly moved the car over to the shoulder. Just as I was about to …
The thought vanished as he came to a full stop, glancing ruefully forward at what he presumed would be the vanishing car. He stared in wonder as he saw the car he’d been pursuing slow and pull over to the shoulder, as well. What on earth was Scavenger doing?
The rain beat on the cloth roof and poured down the windshield in rivulets as the officer dismounted and came up to stand beside the driver’s door. He was a young man, about twenty-five, with a mustache. That was about all Mark could determine: he wore a helmet and a blue poncho, and he was soaked. He didn’t look remotely friendly. Mark rolled down the window.
“License, please,” the officer said.
Mark nodded nervously and produced his wallet, pulling the card from its plastic sheath at the center. Without a word, he handed it over. He wondered vaguely what the fine was for a speeding ticket in L.A. as he watched the young officer read the information on his driver’s license.
Then the officer did a strange thing. With a small but audible exhalation, he looked up at Mark’s face, then back down at the card. Slowly, his right hand was lowered to his side, hovering above a suspicious bulge beneath the poncho.
“Mr. Mark Stevenson?”
“Yes.”
“Step out of the car, please.”
Mark didn’t get it. “Look, Officer, I know I was speeding, but I don’t see—”
“Step out of the car, please,” the man repeated, this time more firmly. He took a step backward, never for a moment removing his gaze from Mark’s startled face.
Mark got out of the car. Leaving the door open, he stood before the policeman. “What is this all about?”
The man was still peering at his face. “You’re the writer?”
“Yes.”
“From New York.”
“Yes.”
The officer nodded, more to himself than to Mark. Then he reached under the poncho. Mark lowered his own gaze, fascinated. What on earth …?
From under the poncho came a clip-on transmitter. Mark stared, confused, as the man slowly raised the instrument toward his lips.
The explosion seemed to come from all directions at once. One moment there was only the steady sound of falling rain, but in the next the world was full of a sharp, earsplitting noise. The reverberation from it continued in the following seconds as everything shifted into slow motion. Mark stood riveted, uncomprehending, watching the black walkie-talkie sail out into the empty road. Then he saw the officer moving toward him. Before his brain could process the information, the man’s wet poncho and heavy bulk slammed into his chest. He heard the officer utter a soft, burbling sound, and saw his blue eyes, widened in surprise, staring into his own. Instinctively, he grabbed at the man, but it was too late. The two of them went down hard, Mark onto his back on the wet asphalt and the officer on top of him. The breath left his body as the man crashed into him. He blinked, dazed, pinned down by the heavy weight. And still the echo of the explosion continued to rage in his ears.
Then everything was once more silent. He was lying on his back on a wet road, and there was a man lying on top of him.
A police officer.
When he could breathe again, when he could move again, Mark reached slowly up and pushed the heavy weight aside. The young man rolled off of him to land on his back, blue eyes staring up into the rain, on the asphalt beside him. Mark tried to sit up, but the first wave of shock overcame him and he fell, gasping, onto his back. Then his vision cleared, and he pushed down with his arms and managed to rise to a sitting position. He stared at the still figure beside him for a long moment, then lifted his gaze to the scene beyond his open car door.
The big man, Scavenger, was standing beside his own car, arm still extended. As Mark stared at him, he actually smiled; Mark would later convince himself of that. The mustache rose up a little, and the white scar on the ruddy right cheek seemed to twitch. Through the downpour, Mark was certain he even saw a twinkle in the man’s pale eyes as he slowly raised the extended arm above him. He was holding it up for Mark to see clearly. And Mark saw: in his big hand he was clutching what was unmistakably Mark’s Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.
There was a moment, then, of perfect clarity, perfect understanding. Mark lay in the muddy road, the rain lashing down at him, the dead or dying policeman mere inches away from him, looking into the eyes of his tormentor. Scavenger: one who preys upon the dead. Eater of carrion. This man, this creature before him would not stop until Mark had completed his game. And he would do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, to achieve that purpose. Mark was his pawn, a mere playing piece on a huge, elaborate game board. And Mark was something else as well: he was the chosen one, the appointed scribe. The recorder of the exploits of Scavenger, and of The Family Man. One and the same, or so this man would have Mark believe. So he would have the world believe. The man was insane; Mark knew it, and he knew Mark knew it. And they both knew that Mark was his captive, in his thrall.
As if Mark had spoken his thoughts aloud, as if to underscore Mark’s epiphany, the big man nodded once. Then he turned around, got in his car, and glided away through the rain in the direction of the freeway.
33
The second round of drinks was served, and Tracy was already apprehensive. She was sipping white wine, as usual, but Jared McKinley was knocking back huge tankards of stout. Jared’s soft gaze and slurred speech informed her that he’d had a few before he’d arrived at the restaurant. Any minute now, she thought, he’s going to be loaded.
But he wasn’t loaded yet. Taking a hefty swallow of his new drink, he said, “So, what’s on your mind?”
Tracy blinked. She briefly wondered if he had noticed her involuntary reaction to his drinking. Then she remembered his similar question on the phone the night before.
She had already decided to tell this man, Mark’s friend, the whole story of Mark’s past, his childhood as Matthew Farmer, so now she did. By the time she was finished, Jared had consumed another beer and their entrées had finally arrived.
“Wow!”
Jared’s one-word summation said it all, and they ate for a while in silence. She studied him across the table as she ate, realizing how much they had in common. She was Mark’s girlfriend, lover, fiancée, and he was his closest friend, perhaps his only friend. Yet Mark had shared nothing of his shocking past with either of them. It had taken his former wife the better part of three years to find it out, and even Carol hadn’t known everything.
Well, they knew now, and she still wondered what to do with the knowledge. As if reading her mind, Jared chose that moment to put down his fork, lean forward, and speak.
“You know, maybe you shouldn’t mention any of this to him. I think he might be peeved if he finds out you went and talked to Carol behind his back. I know I would be. Maybe you shoul
d just wait and see if he wants to tell you about it on his own.”
Tracy had already decided otherwise, but she wasn’t going to tell Jared that. Still, she did want his advice, so she pressed on.
“I’m actually grateful to Carol,” she said, “but you’re right. Mark might see the whole thing differently. I mean, it probably isn’t the best way to start out a permanent relationship, going behind someone’s back for information about them.”
“Yeah,” Jared said. “My ex did that, and I hated it. Of course, she had every reason to be suspicious. I was a louse with her. I deserved what I got.”
Tracy hadn’t known this. “What did you get?”
He laughed and downed more beer. “I got to pay alimony. Lots of alimony.”
She nodded, wondering what, exactly, had disappointed the former Mrs. McKinley, whether it was the drinking or other women. Both, probably. Well, then, he did deserve it. But Mark’s problem was nothing of that nature. She’d told Jared about Mark’s past, but not about his present: New Orleans and Los Angeles, and the gun. She wondered how to do that.
She was still wondering when the waitress brought the dessert and coffee. She dug into her fruit salad, wincing as Jared ordered yet another beer. She would not tell him any more—not tonight, at any rate. Maybe later. Now she would just have dessert and go home.
She was beginning to truly dread the day Mark would come home.
34
When Mark staggered from his car in the hotel’s parking lot, he had only vague impressions of how he had arrived there. It had been perhaps twenty-five minutes since the incident on the road near the cemetery, but he was barely aware of the passage of time.
He remembered moving the officer as gently as possible to the side of the road beside his motorcycle. Then he was in his car again, driving furiously onto the freeway toward downtown L.A. He remembered wondering that nobody else seemed to be around, that the winding hillside road from the cemetery had been so deserted. He was trying to take it all in, trying to formulate some sort of plan as he drove, instinctively putting as much distance as possible between himself and the fallen policeman.
