The Buick made the first turn it came to and started weaving its way through the side streets heading back to the center of town.
That had not gone as planned. That had been a disaster. Denton drummed the steering-wheel with his fingertips, tapping out a staccato rhythm that formed a soundtrack to his shock.
From a cold, rational corner of his brain a voice whispered: only four left.
The thought hit him with such repellent force Denton came close to slamming on the break. How can I think that? Two people are dead back there.
Shouldn’t that have more of an effect on him? But at the same time, he couldn’t just curl up in a ball and weep. He needed to hold it together. He needed to hold on for just a little longer. Besides they had been infected. Even if they hadn’t attacked him, and the house hadn’t caught fire, their end was never going to be pretty. He needed to find a hard emotionless place deep inside of himself and move on.
The plan was to visit Jessica Knowles next. Hers was the last name on Kaling’s list, but she lived the closest to the Moores. She had an apartment not far from Grimshaw Street.
Time was draining away. If he wanted to put his plan into action, he had to act quickly. But he had to be more careful with the others.
It was clear the Moores had been expecting him, from the way they behaved. They knew who I was from the moment I walked in there. Kaling must have warned them about me. Had he already gotten the message? Or had he put his troops on alert last night after Denton escaped from the hospital?
He pulled up in front of Knowles’ building. Unlike the converted homes the Milton students lived in, this was a featureless brick tenement built shortly after the war. Except for a few minor details, it was identical to the one that Meyers had lived in.
Her address placed her on the second floor. He scanned across the building, hoping to detect some clue—some sign of her presence. But he had no idea if her unit faced the front or not.
Only two windows had lights on. The others were either dark or had the blinds drawn making it impossible to tell. At least they had electricity. Denton wouldn’t have to face another candlelit room.
The stairs leading up to her unit were a cheap, gray marble, and the air smelt like boiled cabbage and kitty litter.
Denton steadied himself at her door. His strategy was simple: when she answered, he’d tell her to check on the Moores, and then get out of there as fast as possible. There was something evil about using the tragedy of the old couple to strike fear into her. But it should push her towards Kaling and that’s what he needed.
Before his knuckles could finish rapping against the door, it started to creak open.
“Hello,” he called. “Is anyone there?”
The only noise coming from the apartment was the distant hum of a refrigerator. Was she out? How would he find her if she wasn’t at home? He could wait, but what if she wasn’t back for days? What if Jessica Knowles had set off to another town like a modern day Typhoid Mary spreading madness in her wake?
Then the humming changed. There was a shift in notes: a pause, a breath, and then a higher octave before launching back into the drone. It was a person, not an appliance, making the sound.
Denton pushed the door all the way open. In front of him was a dark kitchen. He walked passed it and followed a short hall into the dim light of the living room. A woman sat on a sofa staring at the wall. As she hummed, she rocked from side to side. Only her head stuck up above the back of the couch. It looked like a cobra from an old cartoon about a snake charmer.
On the wall, directly in front of her, was an eight. A desk lamp had been placed to illuminate the floor to ceiling monstrosity. After everything he’d seen, Denton would have been more surprised if there hadn’t been one on the wall, but he was taken aback by the thousands of photos and snippets of colors that composed the numeral. Unlike a simple spray painted eight, this vast collage must have taken hours, if not days, to put together. The amount of care and effort made it even eerier than Radnor’s crazed scribbles and etchings. This wasn’t simply done in a fever of compulsion; this was the product of passion and precision.
Denton stood behind Jessica Knowles, examining the multitude of fragmented pictures taken from magazines, newspapers, and books. As he studied the woman’s master work, the sky outside darkened, until the only light was from the small lamp on the floor.
Cautiously, he walked around the sofa and had a look at her.
Jessica Knowles was in her late forties. She had short, black hair, and her face was deeply lined from age and a hard life. It was easy to imagine her in a waitress uniform at one of the old, shabby diners around town.
She didn’t seem to notice Denton. She just kept watching the eight.
Off to the side, a small stand with a TV on top had been moved out of the way. One of the legs had caught the area rug and dragged it along with it. The small flat screen was tipped over and leaning against the wall. It sat tilted, facing up toward one of the dark corners of the room.
But was she really even looking at the number? Knowles seemed completely oblivious to her surroundings. Could she be catatonic? Denton stepped in front of her and leaned in to get a better look at her eyes. The humming stopped. Her whole body drooped to one side, like a puppet with the strings cut. Her head rose up an inch to keep her eyes facing forward. She was looking around Denton to keep the eight in sight.
He grabbed her by her shoulders and lifted her back up. Knowles began slapping at him, trying to swat him away, growing more frantic every second the eight was out of her view. A sound came out of her, more animal than human—a desperate mewing of distress. He released her and stepped away, letting her fall back into her macabre trance.
Denton drifted over to the window, rubbing his forehead. The stitches pricked at his palm like thorns. The plan wasn’t going to work. Jessica Knowles was completely mesmerized by that eight.
Was that what the boys in the lodge were doing with the painting? Their test? Were they checking to see if he would become enthralled by it? Did it have this effect on all of the infected?
He couldn’t imagine Kaling sitting around fixated on a number on the wall. But there were none in his apartment. Did he purposely get rid of them to avoid that problem? Or perhaps there were stages to the obsession? Kaling and the Moores seemed to have it much more together than Radnor or this woman on the sofa. Her name was the last one on the list. Was she in an early pupate stage of the disease. Would she soon become manic and violent like Radnor, before settling into the calculating behavior of someone like Kaling?
On the table by the window, a hodgepodge of scrapbooking material was scattered: markers, scissors, tape, glue. On the floor next to it were the woman’s creations. The scrapbooks were thrown aside with their covers bent and pages creased. Discarded just like her former life.
Denton couldn’t just leave her there. He needed her to put a stop to this. If he didn’t get them altogether—if there was even one loose end—then the whole thing would be pointless.
What if he used her? In her current state she wouldn’t be hard to manipulate. If he took her, perhaps Kaling and the others would attempt to rescue her. She could be bait. She could draw the others directly to him.
Knowles had gone back to swaying her head and making that same monotone sound.
Was he really thinking of kidnapping some mentally ill woman?
A vision of the Moores’ house engulfed in flames flashed into his head.
I’ve come this far. In for a penny, he said to himself. A bitter taste cloyed at his tongue.
He just needed to figure out a way to get her out of this apartment. An idea began to form and he hunted through the jumble on the craft table. He picked up a Sharpie and drew an eight on the palm of his left hand.
Denton went back to the spot in front of the couch, and held it out to Jessica Knowles, like a cop stopping traffic.
She didn’t move her head away. She just stared at it. Denton positioned his body to block the collage and Knowles didn’t react. He moved his hand slowly, first left then right. Her eyes followed, drawn to it like a magnet.
This might just work.
Rushing to the open bedroom door, he started formulating a list of the things he was going to need. Rummaging through her closet, he grabbed two leather belts and a silk scarf. A flashlight proved harder to find, but after a hasty search, he came across one in the cupboard under the kitchen sink.
Back at the desk, Denton quickly drew a large eight on a blank sheet of scrapbook paper and another on his right palm. He looked down at his chest and frowned. The marker wasn’t going to work on wool.
He stripped off his coat and sweater and began to carefully make two circles on the front of his shirt. The black ink soaked into the fabric, bleeding beyond the boundary of its path. It obliterated the white and the burgundy pinstripes. When he reached the thicker placket running down the center, the marker snagged on the seam, and he had to run it over the section again to smooth out the line.
With some regret, Denton left his V-neck on the table and put his coat back on, stuffing his scarf into one of the pockets.
So long as he stayed out of her field of vision, Knowles didn’t seem to mind as he tied up her hands with one of the belts. She fussed a little when he gagged her with the scarf, but she was too docile to fight it. Denton probably didn’t need to restrain her, but he thought it best to take precautions in case something went wrong. Who knew how long this stupor would last? How much time did he have before she became violent?
Once she was secured, he got her to focus on the eight on his chest and got her to her feet. He then led her out using a combination of the eight on his shirt and the ones on his hands. With a little effort Denton got her down to the landing. He found that if he kept an eight about fourteen inches from her face, she would be drawn to it and move toward it. His biggest concern through the whole enterprise was making sure she didn’t trip and fall down the stairs.
Out on the street, Denton kept Knowles moving. She lurched like something out of an old zombie movie, as he walked backwards to the car.
He opened the trunk with the fob on the keychain, and as soon as it was in reach, Denton switched on the flashlight and threw it in.
The next part was the challenge. Gingerly, he kept his left hand in her face, while he lifted her with his other arm and used his body to support her. Putting her in the trunk, Denton pressed against her getting her into place. He realized he hadn’t been that close to another woman since meeting Linda. He smelt her skin and her breath. His face was so near to hers, he could have kissed her if he wanted to. Looking into her pitiful eyes, Denton couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
Very delicately, he let her go and settled her into a spot with her head next to the flashlight. He put the paper with the eight on it in front of her, so it was easy for her to see. The last thing he did before shutting her in was to lash her ankles together with the second belt.
The lock clicked shut and Denton hesitate. Would she really be okay knocking about in there? Wouldn’t it have been better to put her in the back seat?
He was just about to get his keys out and open it up again when there was a squeal of brakes behind him. A big, gray sedan stopped in front the Buick, parking diagonally to block it off from the street.
It was just beginning to dawn on him why the car looked familiar when Bill leapt out.
“Dent,” he said, drawing his service weapon from his shoulder holster. “Don’t move.”
Denton raised his hands as the gun was aimed toward him, and said, “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Did you just put someone in your trunk?”
“Yes, but there’s a good reason.”
“What possible reason could you have?” Bill looked weary. Each word knotted the wrinkles in his forehead a little more, until he wore an expression that could be read as skepticism or exasperation.
“I’m trying to stop this madness, Bill.” Denton tried to keep his voice even—to not let the words spill out in a torrent of excuses and justifications. “I have a plan to stop it from spreading.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Are you still going on about that idiotic virus thing? Christ, I’d hoped you were just drunk.”
“It’s true, Bill.”
“Look, I know being tortured and held prisoner messed with your head, but you’re wrong on this. Believe me.” He spoke with both his words and his free hand. It made calming motions, keeping the beat of the syllables.
“Let me show you this. It will convince you.” Denton reached for his pocket.
Bill put both his hands on the gun’s grip, as though preparing to fire.
Does he really thing I’ll try and hurt him, or is it just his training?
“I’m not armed,” Denton said slowly. “I just want to show you the list.”
“What list?”
“The list of the infected, but they’re not just infected, they’re involved in some sort of conspiracy. Can I get it?”
Bill gave a curt nod. “Just move slowly.”
Denton reached into his pocket and handed it over to Bill, stretching his arm out to him. Bill snatched it when it was at his fingertips. He glanced down trying to read and keep an eye on Denton at the same time.
“The names that are crossed off are already dead,” Denton explained. “But they’ve been coordinating. I think one of my students, Stephen Kaling, is the ring leader. I don’t know what they’re planning exactly, but I’m sure it has something to do with infecting more people.”
“This is gibberish,” Bill said, as he let the paper fall. It floated down onto the street, where it rapidly soaked up a puddle and turned dark and transparent.
“Trouble seems to be following you, Dent. I have four officers in the hospital—the same hospital that you are supposed to be in right now, if you recall. And I just received a report that you fled the scene of a fire. Now, I hope to hell these are just coincidences, and you’re not involved. But until we can straighten this out, you’re under arrest.”
“Bill, the eights, it’s a virus.”
“No, Dent. There’s no virus. No infection. No alien conspiracy.” Bill clicked tongue, as if trying to moisten his dry mouth. “We have the answer. We know why there’s been a rise in the town’s crazy meter. Some brainiacs at the EPA’s regional office informed us yesterday.”
It had to be another tenuous explanation—some pathetic attempt to rationalize the cause, just like the FBI’s drug theory. Still, Denton could help asking, “What is it?”
“They found an unusually high mercury level coming from the water treatment plant.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Denton spit the words with indignation. “It would make people sick, not draw eights.”
“You mean like the eights all over you?”
Embarrassment filled him as he realized what he must look like, especially with his hands in the air.
“It all makes perfect sense. Remember that bum that lived under the bridge? He got his water from a tap just outside the plant. It was the most direct source. That’s why he was the first to go all nutty. The others became affected depending on tolerances and consumption.”
“The drinking water?” Denton still wasn’t buying it.
“The problem is already fixed. So you see, Radcliff and his friends were wrong, there is no infection. There are no secret plots. You and the others are suffering from heavy metal poisoning.” Bill paused. Then in a friendlier tone said, “I have to arrest you. I have no choice. But I’m not going to take you to the station. We’ll go to the hospital. We’ll get you help. Do you understand?”
This was ridiculous. If he had mercury poisoning, he’d have a rash. Denton was about to point this out, when Bill
added, “Linda has been absolutely beside herself. You should be ashamed to have put her through this.”
It felt as if all the air were sucked out of him. “She’s here? She’s in town?”
“Where else would she be. Now, am I going to have to cuff you or will you cooperate?”
Denton shook his head. Linda was still here, she never left. She didn’t trust him or believe his warning. The weight of despondency threatened to pull him to the ground. While he was running around breaking into houses and fighting monsters, she was pacing the floors and wondering what had become of him—thinking he had gone completely insane.
“I’ll do what you ask.” He would go quietly. All of his fight had deserted him.
“Good,” Bill said. “Stay right there and keep your hands up. Who’s in the trunk?”
“Jessica Knowles. She was on the list,” Denton said staring at his feet.
“Is she hurt?”
“No. She’s just out of it. It’s like she’s in a trance or something. I found her that way.”
“I’m going to need your keys.”
Denton handed them over. He didn’t do it slow or carefully, but Bill didn’t seem to mind. The worry had ebbed from his eyes. Perhaps he was a little more certain that he wouldn’t have to put a bullet in his old friend.
Completely defeated, Denton put his hands back up and waited.
Bill got his cell phone out and speed dialed. “This is Stahl, I’m on Waverly near the corner of Oxford. I need backup and an ambulance here, pronto.”
Two young men in their early twenties walked down the street fascinated by the scene in front of them.
One of them pointed at Denton. “Hey, it’s Mister Eight.”
The other pulled his phone from the pocket of his leather jacket and started snapping pictures.
Being careful to keep his gun pointed at the street, Bill Stahl waved his cell phone at the young men, and yelled, “Get the hell out of here, or I’ll haul you in for obstructing justice.”
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