So that’s where Justin would go. To destroy what proof was left. And R.D. would fucking well stop him or die trying.
He ran back to his desk, opened the drawer and rummaged around until he found his handgun, hidden in a cigar box. He’d never actually fired it but he’d practiced pointing the weapon at office plants often enough. Tucking it into his pocket he headed for the door.
Then he stopped. A look of astonishment crossed his face.
He ran back to the desk and pulled open the drawer again.
Nestled in a maelstrom of stationary debris was the Mini-AID,
R.D. opened the drawer next to it.
His MP3 player was gone.
A slow, malevolent grin tugged at his lips.
“You stupid bastard, you took my iPod by mistake!” He danced a manic little jig on the spot. “You finally made a mistake Justin Moore! And shit… what a cracker it is too!”
He picked up the Mini-AID and stuffed it into his other pocket.
“Got my entire Pixies collection in that MP3 Player, Justin,” he laughed maniacally. “I better come after you and get it back.”
Still giggling uncontrollably, he headed for his car.
R.D. had nothing to do but think as he drove towards his fate. His anger turned to grief, as he remembered every facet of Maggie’s face. Tears spilled freely down his cheeks and he let the wind through the open window dry them. Finally, he felt sorry for himself. At least that was a familiar sensation and it allowed him to focus.
He had been used. Used because he was weak willed and lonely. Used because he could get to Maggie Wood and persuade her to help. He had dutifully done just that and gotten her killed. Used because he was a rotten analyst.
Used by his own pal.
R.D. needed coffee and a quiet place to plan his revenge. Spotting a sign for Buck’s Fried Chicken and Jumbo Shrimp he pulled in under a mass of criss-crossing telephone wires. He waited at the counter for his drink then moved to a booth in the corner, as far from the rest of the occupants as he could manage.
The place was nearly empty. A glum white trash family and a couple of truckers in baseball caps were the only other diners but R.D. wanted to be sure he wasn’t disturbed. On impulse he took out the Mini-AID, clipped it to his belt and stuck the buds in his ears. That looked nice and anti-social.
He played idly with the headphone wire, running it through his fingers, trying to formulate a plan. What the hell was he going to do when he caught up with Justin? He had a gun, but he didn’t really know if he could use it. Even more frightening, he didn’t know if he would get the chance.
The psychologist closed his eyes in disgust. His nerve was failing already. What if Justin killed him? He didn’t think he could take that chance. He was a coward but, hell, life was all he had. He didn’t believe in God. He believed in an eternity of nothingness and that had to be staved off for as long as humanly possible.
R.D. looked down at his knuckles, white beads clutching the mini-AID’s wire in fear.
Of course!
The Mini-AID created a field that prevented Inductance. So if he was carrying the device, it should stop Justin’s pheromone emissions reaching him. He’d be immune to any mental antics his old friend might try.
Justin couldn’t do the bull trick. He couldn’t control R.D. with the power of his mind. Couldn’t even become invisible. Those were much better odds. Providing the Mini-AID worked.
The psychologist thought long and hard about that.
- Don’t be silly, R.D. In his head Maggie’s laughing eyes danced with confidence. Of course it will work.
And she’d been right about everything else.
He had failed Maggie Wood, but he still had a chance to save Clancy.
Draining the cup, he pulled in his stomach and headed purposefully back to his car.
-58-
R.D.’s courage waned again as the last town slipped by and the backwoods began to thicken. Half an hour later the nearest houses were twenty miles behind and the trees crowding up to the road were dense and tangled. In front of him a faint pall was crawling across the treetops. The road was single track and he was now miles from civilization. He suspected nobody else could see the ominous haze beginning to slither over the parched canopy.
Heart hammering, he kept his foot on the gas. The car finally spun into the overgrown dirt track that led to the Moores’ property and roared up the hill.
At first the rapidly approaching house didn’t seem damaged. The fire was obviously deep inside somewhere, but that oily shroud hanging over the roof signalled the building was already doomed. R.D. slammed on the brakes and leaped out. Pulling the .38 from his pocket he headed for the front door. It was locked. Scooping Brighton Rock from the stoop he snatched it up, tipped out the key and quickly let himself in.
The interior was dark and the smell of hidden fire dense and acrid, wisps of smoke curling out of the darkness and along the ceiling. It looked like he was too late to tackle the blaze and save any evidence the building might hold.
He halted and took stock.
There were an awful lot of rooms to search and he wasn’t sure where the fire was. He didn’t want to open a door and get a face full of flames. Plus, Justin knew the house and R.D. didn’t. He might be hiding in any dark corner.
That left the boathouse. He could get Clancy out, at least.
If she was still alive.
With Brighton Rock in one hand, R.D. ran to his car, jumped inside and drove at breakneck speed towards the lake. He gave an involuntary cry as his BMW broke into the brightness of the clearing and came to a thundering halt in front of the fence.
The gate was wide open.
Giving himself no time to think, R.D. leaped out of the car. He touched the Mini-AID for reassurance as he crept towards the wooden structure. His guts were churning and he was quaking all over. He wanted desperately to go to the bathroom, but now wasn’t really the time. Keeping low he zigzagged, like a prodded spider, towards the boathouse. If Justin were here, rather than in the house, he must have heard the engine. Might even be watching from a darkened window.
R.D. inched along the wall until he came to the door. There he halted, .38 raised in a shaking hand. Sweat ran down his face in rivulets. He was biting his lip so hard he was certain it was blood not perspiration pooling on his chin. God he was scared!
He pressed his back against the worn facade, breathing in short sharp jerks.
He couldn’t do this. He didn’t want to die out in these fucking backwoods. He could still make it back to his vehicle.
And leave another woman to die.
“Oh no,” he grunted. “Not this time.”
And he hurled himself at the door.
R.D. was broad shouldered and the wood aged and rotten with damp. The door flew open in a spray of jagged chips and the he pitched forward onto the oily floor. Rolling sideways, he leaped to his feet, attempting to point the gun in several directions at once.
The sudden darkness disoriented him and he scuttled behind a huge bait barrel, squeezing into the gap between its smelly bulk and the damp wall, determined to present as small a target as possible. The broken door creaked back and forth on torn hinges and a slot of daylight swept the floor like a search beam.
R.D. peered into the murk of his potential grave. The building was crammed with ropes and rusting engine parts. A pair of upturned rowboats in the centre lurked like decaying turtles. Perfect. There were a million places for a psychopath to hide.
The door swung open again and the swathe of light grew momentarily wider. An untidy bundle of arms, legs and rags were illuminated, propped against the opposite wall. Wide eyes filling a gaunt face stared numbly in R.D.’s direction.
Clancy!
“Clancy!” he hissed. “It’s me, R.D. Come over here. Quick!”
The figure didn’t move.
“Is Justin here? Are you alone?”
Clancy’s grimy thumbs flicked rapidly but the figure stayed where she was. S
he didn’t understand. Fuck, fuck, fuck! If he left his crevasse and went across to get her he’d be a sitting duck. The door swung wide again and caught the woman’s look of terrified misery.
It was more than he could bear. Tucking the gun into his waistband R.D. rose and hurried over.
“C’mon, girl. We’re going out to my car and drive into the sunset. And we’re going to be fucking nifty about it.”
He crouched and gathered the thin body into his arms. Clancy burrowed her head into his shoulder and, with a volley of cracking knee joints, R.D. rose and headed for the safety of that slit of light. He shifted the slight weight to one side and reached to pull open the door.
Justin Moore emerged from the shadows, running towards him.
Held close to his chest was a hefty iron Marlinspike.
-59-
Half the distance between them had already closed. R.D. heard Clancy gasp and felt her arms clamp tighter round his neck.
“Get down!” he rasped, trying to pull her clasped fingers apart. But the frail woman squeezed her eyes shut and hugged even tighter. With a desperate wrench, R.D. broke her grasp and swung the girl viciously away, shaking loose one hand from the childlike attempts to hold on, yanking out his weapon with the other. Clancy landed on her knees and thudded into a metal mooring, clutching that instead and holding on just as fiercely.
Justin swung the iron bar and it connected with the psychologist’s pointed gun.
A jolt of stinging pain leapt from his wrist to shoulder and the .38 shot down and skidded across the floor. The bar sliced through the air again, aiming at R.D.’s head. He blocked the blow with an upstretched arm. Justin hadn’t the space or time to take a proper swing, but the pain was still unbelievable. R.D. screamed, staggering wildly backwards.
“You crazy bastard!” he shrieked. “Stop, for Christ sakes! STOP!”
Justin’s face betrayed nothing. He took another vicious swipe.
R.D. ducked, more out of instinct than any honed sense of self preservation. The sudden dip took him under the arc of the iron bar and it whistled past inches above his head. Had it connected, his skull would have burst like a soft boiled egg.
Already bent double, R.D. dropped onto his haunches, tightened his muscles and threw himself forward. He sailed past Justin, palms outward, waist level to his assailant, landing face down on the slimy floor. Both hands shot out from under him and his chest thudded against the wood, emptying his body of breath.
Justin, caught off guard, swung the bar backhanded and missed again. Momentum had carried R.D. several feet as he slid, a polluted tabogganist, along the slimy floor. Paddling furiously with hands and knees, he thrashed his way towards his gun, gasps wrenched from his throat by the exertion and the pain in his arm. Justin spun and came after him, raising the bar above his head again.
R.D.’s hand closed on the gun as the metal rod came down. He heard his shin break, then felt white fire swirling up from the broken limb to engulf him. He rolled onto his back, shrieking, the motion jolting his leg and triggering another wave of anguish. The bar came down again.
The crack of the pistol and the crack of his knee shattering happened simultaneously. R.D. watched the lower half of his leg leap upward at a horrendous angle and Justin staggered away spouting a flower of red from his shoulder. He fired again. His assailant snapped backwards and toppled over.
Adrenaline pulsed through the psychologist’s body. He hauled himself into a sitting position, an overwhelming desire to survive overriding the searing pain coursing through his limb. Clancy hugged the mooring, keening blankly to herself. Justin lay on his back gasping like a fish out of water. R.D. sucked in lungfuls of fetid air, fighting to stay conscious.
Suddenly Justin sat up, fast and fluid. The psychologist fired again. His attacker slammed back down. This time, he lay still.
Thick bile rose in R.D.’s throat. He had bitten right through his lip and blood dribbled over his chin, no doubt about it this time. He dropped the gun and gripped his leg above the knee in a vain attempt overcome the unstoppable agony.
“Oh... please God. Oh no, no, no.” Aware that he was hyperventilating, he closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side, trying to break the rhythm.
When he opened them again Justin was on his feet.
R.D. screamed, scrambling wildly for his gun as the blood spattered enemy lurched forward. The bar came down and his good leg bounced, a huge dent appearing just above his ankle. The jolt of poisonous pain jerked his trigger finger and Justin’s stomach bloomed red. He fired again and the mangled assailant collapsed, falling forwards onto the psychologist’s mangled legs. R.D. let out another eye-popping screech.
Justin raised his head, eyes hidden by a film of mud and grit. He stretched out a bloody hand towards his old friend’s face in a gesture that seemed more pleading than threatening. The iron bar rolled across the floor.
R.D. put the gun against Justin’s forehead and used his last bullet. The mass of that once great mind erupted from the back of the scientist’s head and his torn countenance sank onto the psychologist’s lap.
Wailing in agony, R.D. eased the lifeless bulk off his shattered limbs. He fumbled in his pocket with gore slicked fingers and reloaded, unable to believe the threat was finally over.
There was a scrabbling sound to his left. Half crazed with pain, R.D. swung the gun and fired again. A bullet thudded into the wall next to Clancy’s head.
With a keening wail, she staggered away, weaving towards the half open door.
“Clancy! I didn’t mean to shoot at you! Help me!”
But she was gone.
R.D. knew he had to get help before he went into shock. His mind was reeling and blue flashes burst before his eyes. But neither his torture nor the nausea folding over his senses could shut out the overpowering smell of smoke.
His stomach lurched and he coughed up a rank wad of vomit.
R.D. pulled himself through the door. There was a dull red glow in the sky and a terrifying crackling sound filled his ears. The fire was spreading rapidly from Justin’s house into the forest and it would reach the boathouse before long.
If Clancy had any sense left, she would be able to outrun it, but R.D. had the horrible feeling she was heading back towards the house, motivated by some atavistic longing for the security it once offered.
There was no way R.D. could catch up. He couldn’t walk. And the blaze would engulf him long before he could crawl to safety.
He dragged himself to his car and pulled open the door. Turned his key in the ignition and hauled himself into the driver’s seat. His shattered legs had become mercifully numb but he couldn’t put enough pressure on the pedals to move the vehicle.
Instead, he slumped onto the floor, using his weight to depress the accelerator. The car lurched along the dirt track, door flapping. R.D. wasn’t able to see over the dashboard, so he steered by watching the verge. Waves of blackness floated across his vision and his legs screamed in protest. But he kept the car on the path. Whenever it veered right or left, he slammed the heel of his palm on the brake to stop. Then the BMW lurched forward again.
He came to a bend. Too fast! Too fast!
His hand slipped from the brake and the car drifted onto the verge and sank into a small ditch.
R.D. began to cry.
He was going to die out here and nobody would ever know why. He’d be nothing but a charred corpse. A life wasted and a death viewed with pity and incomprehension.
No. He had to leave something. A clue at least, of what really went on here.
He grabbed the Mini-AID and wrapped it in the cellophane wrappers lining his pockets.
Clancy’s crumpled note was still there too. He had forgotten all about it.
Sorry to be secretive but please don't tell anyone you're in touch with us. Not a soul. Justin will explain everything when you visit. We can't wait to see you again. I know the three of us parted badly, but all that's in the past, I hope.
Please don't
be angry about what happened. I long for us to be together again, like in the old days.
I need you R.D. I'm not in control of my own mind but you, of all people, will understand.
You'll help me. I know you will.
Clancy
It wasn’t proof of anything concrete, but better than nothing.
He stuffed the Mini-AID and note into Brighton Rock, then spilled out of the car like a salted slug. Spotting a crooked oak, roots pockmarked with rabbit warrens, he pushed the rock into one of the holes and lay back, teeth fastened in a rictus grin.
The tops of trees were bursting into flames a few hundred yards away. The fire was catching up fast. He pushed the gun into his waistband again. If the inferno reached him, he’d rather put a bullet in his head than burn alive. But he wasn’t dead yet.
He rolled over and began to crawl.
At first he screamed with every bump his legs encountered. After a time he simply moaned and wept. Eventually his limbs went completely insensitive and he pulled himself along in silence. Ash drifted over his straining shoulders and stuck to the wet patches of his suit. A hungry crackling whisper rose in volume behind him but he no longer had the strength to look round.
Time lost meaning. Everything lost meaning. For the first time in his life no thoughts pushed, unwanted, into his mind. He hauled himself along blankly, nails tearing, fingers bleeding, arms aching.
He reached the main road at the same time as the conflagration. A truck slewed to a halt as he slid onto the asphalt, smouldering like a grilled mermaid. The driver ran over. R.D.’s legs were corkscrewed as tree roots and his torn suit was crusted with blood, soot and bile.
“Holy shit, man!” the driver breathed. “I better get you to a hospital.”
R.D. lifted his grimy head from the hot tar. Pulling a battered cigarette from his shredded pocket he touched it to the torn flap of his lip.
“Hey pal,” he coughed, tears scything his blackened cheeks.
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