Peter looked at the man on the floor in front of him. The hole in his chest had stopped spouting blood. He was dead. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling as if he were expecting something miraculous to happen at any moment.
“What have I done?” A sorrowful wave of guilt rushed upon him, but though the sorrow remained, the guilt was just as quickly washed away in a sense of relief. These men had been prepared to use lethal force. And their presence proved that something was amiss.
A memory came then, just bits and pieces of images and sounds, like the scattered wreckage of a downed plane surfacing in the middle of a churning ocean.
A man’s thick, deep voice hollers at him. It’s muffled but clear enough that Peter can make out what he’s saying. “Ryan, get up. Get up!”
Then there is water and something pressing down on him, holding him in place. He’s underwater and can’t breathe. His lungs burn like they’ve been set on fire; his mind clouds. He tries to free himself, but something holds him in place, and the more he struggles, the firmer the pressure grows.
Then the water is gone and there is gasping, air filling his lungs, a rush of pain to his head. Someone squeezing his brain like a soaked dishrag. He’s sure his skull will explode.
The image changes to a room and a bright light above, brighter than the sun, scorching him, sapping every ounce of energy from him, sucking him dry, so dry, as dry as sand. He needs water, craves it, thinks of nothing else.
The memories faded, and Peter was left sitting on the hallway floor, still holding the handgun.
“God, what’s happening to me?” The words breathed out like a reflex. Once more, that niggling was there. A lost relationship. Feeling stranded. A notion that he no longer needed someone on his side. Convinced he could go it alone. But before and after were a jumble in his mind, and he couldn’t figure out where any of these feelings had originated.
He was going nuts, he was sure of it. He’d wind up in the psych ward of a state prison being pumped full of all kinds of medication and poked and prodded like some lab animal, condemned to spend the rest of his days standing in a corner mumbling about the little men who came and took his brain away. Or he’d wind up on death row with a simpler fate, strapped to a gurney waiting for a cocktail of poisons to flood his bloodstream. Maybe he could plead insanity and at least get a stay of execution. He was, after all, surely insane.
Again he studied the note in Lilly’s handwriting. Daddy, we went to Centralia.
Was he supposed to recognize the name? Somehow it seemed to fit those images of water and drowning and dying of thirst. Was that where Lilly and Karen had gone?
He ran his fingertips over the letters. It made no sense.
Another memory came in short bursts.
Karen is with him, as is Lilly, seated at a table, a man in a suit across from them. The man sits erect, posture that would make any chiropractor beam with pride, shoulders back, chin up. His hair is perfectly groomed, combed to the side and carefully sprayed in place.
“It’s a remarkable school, I assure you,” he says. There’s an air of confidence about him that is reassuring. This is a man who knows what he’s talking about.
He smiles and dips his chin. “Children like Lilly—gifted children—need someplace special to hone their skills. She deserves that, don’t you think?”
The setting changes to their bedroom at home. They’re lying in bed, he in his boxers, Karen in nothing but a long nightshirt. She looks worried, concerned. Her brow is tense, and she’s doing that biting on her lower lip she does when she has something to say about being worried and concerned.
“Are we doing the right thing?” she asks. She looks at him, and in her eyes he sees the shadows of uncertainty that whisper doubt in her ears. “Can we trust them?”
The memories vanished just as quickly as they had surfaced, and Peter once again ran his fingers over the words on the piece of paper, tracing each slanted line, each curl and curve. As far as he knew and remembered, Lilly went to Middleton Elementary School. Other than this fragmented glimpse, he didn’t remember anything about a school for gifted children. But apparently such a conversation had taken place. His thoughts were disconnected, unfamiliar, like some stranger had taken residence in his mind and was now inserting pages haphazardly torn from unrelated books.
One thing Peter did know was that he couldn’t stay in this house. Whoever was after him or the note would soon realize their hit men were missing, and reinforcements would no doubt be sent to finish the job.
He thought about going to the police—that would be the logical thing to do—but if this guy on the floor was a cop, that could not end well for Peter. Cop killers, no matter the reason, were not treated kindly.
His mind began to spin like an auger, digging up questions without answers. If the cops were involved, then who else was? Maybe this was a case of mistaken identity, of confusing him with some drug kingpin or mob godfather. But what if it wasn’t? What if he had unknowingly become some national security threat? Or what if, buried somewhere deep in his past—a past he no longer remembered—he had done something worthy of drawing the attention of law enforcement? Something so heinous they felt it needful to break into his home with silencers in place and murder him without an arrest or trial?
Unlikely.
He couldn’t risk going to the police right now. First he had to locate Karen and Lilly. And to do that, he had to find out what Centralia was and then determine what he needed to know about it.
He’d leave the house exactly as it was. If someone did come looking for their pet thugs, he wanted to send a message to them that he would not be an easy target. Plus, he had no time to dispose of the bodies of three grown men even if he did know what to do with them.
In the bedroom, he retrieved his duffel bag from under the bed and threw some clothes and toiletries into it.
Downstairs in the kitchen, he filled a cooler with bottled water, a few apples, an orange, and a handful of cheese sticks. He went into the studyand opened the safe hidden in the closet and retrieved the thousand dollars—his and Karen’s emergency fund, cash on hand if they ever needed it in a pinch.
Before leaving the house, he dialed a number he had thought he’d never dial again. But it was necessary. And she was the only one besides Karen and Lilly who might not think he had officially swan dived into the deep end of life’s pool and surfaced clinically bonkers.
She picked up on the second ring. “Peter?”
“Amy. I need your help.”
There was a brief pause, then: “My help? The last time we talked, you said I’d never hear your voice again.”
“Forget all that. Now I need your help.”
“How can I forget? You were—”
“Amy, please.”
Amy huffed. “What’s going on, Peter?”
“Can I stop by your place?”
“Are you in trouble?”
This time he hesitated. He didn’t want to lie to her. Lying would do no good. “Maybe. I don’t know. Probably. It seems that way.”
“Have you gone crazy?”
“What?”
“You sound like you’ve gone crazy. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. Probably.’ It’s like telling someone you think maybe, probably they have cancer. It’s not real reassuring, you know.”
“I just need to crash somewhere for a few hours. Figure this out. Can I come?”
She sighed. “You’re not much of a sales guy, are you? Figure what out?”
“I’ll explain when I get there.”
“Does this have to do with Karen and Lilly?”
Peter checked his watch. The three dead men in his house weren’t rogue hit men out for a stroll in the neighborhood when they randomly chose his home to terrorize. They worked for someone, and that someone would be checking in soon to see if they had completed their mission. And when that person received no answer . . . He needed to get on the move. “Amy, I really don’t want to talk about this over the phone.”
/> “Just answer that one question. Does it have to do with Karen and Lilly?”
“Yes. Everything has to do with them.”
“Okay. Come. But why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?”
“Because you probably will.”
Lawrence Habit had his orders. The trio of stooges had failed—it was that simple. He wasn’t given any details, didn’t even know their names; he knew only that they’d not succeeded at their mission. Like most, they had underestimated the target, who had knocked them off one by one.
Peter Ryan, a research assistant. How some poindexter had gotten the best of his attackers was beyond him, but Lawrence wasn’t going to be taken by surprise. He made it a habit to stay a step ahead. No pun intended.
Lawrence had gotten the call just a few minutes ago. It had taken him mere seconds to respond. This was his specialty now, cleaning up messes. He was a glorified janitor of sorts, only he made a bit of a mess in the process.
As with every job, they liked to keep him in the dark, and he was just fine with that. He had a name and a location. The less he knew, the less involved he had to get. And he was a man who didn’t like getting involved. Distance was good.
When the call came, he didn’t recognize the voice of the speaker. It was a woman this time, and she told him only that he was needed. Lawrence didn’t probe for details. He asked a single question of the woman. “Where’s he headed?”
The voice gave him an address and one instruction: Bring Ryan alive if at all possible. The woman with him was expendable. Lawrence sighed silently. He hated collateral damage, but it sometimes came with the territory.
In his brand-new Lincoln MKZ, he adjusted his mirrors and seat, tuned the radio to the oldies station, and backed out of the parking space. He could have afforded something a little more image-enhancing, like a Mercedes or BMW, but Lawrence wasn’t the pretentious type. He liked to think of himself as simple, useful, functional. Besides, the Lincoln gave a nice ride, offered plenty of room for his largish frame, and was chock-full of bells and whistles he would never have use for.
The destination was a good thirty miles away, so he had to make time. But first he needed gas.
Two blocks over, Lawrence steered the Lincoln into the parking lot of an A-Plus Mini Mart, pulled up to a gas pump, and killed the engine. On the other side of the pump island, some punk kid filled his customized Honda Civic, equipped with ground effects, window guards, aftermarket headlamps, and alloy wheels. The kid’s pants were down around his thighs, his smiley face boxers in full view. He wore a bulky black hooded sweatshirt and a red Miami Heat cap pulled low, hiding his eyes. Loud rap music thumped from the car’s speakers and vibrated Lawrence’s chest. The kid nodded to the beat.
Before exiting the car, Lawrence glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. The smooth, silvery scar that stretched from his right temple to the corner of his mouth had turned an odd shade of blue. It did that sometimes. From pink to blue to bright red. The injury had partially paralyzed the right side of Lawrence’s face, affecting the way he spoke. For that reason, Lawrence spoke only when he had to.
While pumping his own gas, Lawrence avoided the kid, who was posturing like he had some turf to protect here at the mini-mart. He was the type who put on like he was king of the world, a tough guy, but really he was just as scared as the rest of them. Just as defenseless and vulnerable as a cornered rat staring down a shotgun.
When he finished, the kid returned the nozzle to the pump and glared at Lawrence.
This time Lawrence didn’t avert his eyes.
The kid squared up and stuck out his chest. “What you lookin’ at, man? You got a problem?”
Lawrence said nothing but smiled at the kid. He could have jumped across the island and snapped the punk’s neck like a twig. This kid had it coming, for sure, but Lawrence made a point of only getting his hands dirty on the job. Besides, there were cameras monitoring the area. He needed to remain just another joe at the pump, minding his own business.
The kid stared at him for another long second, eyeing up the freak with the scar. He thought he had the upper hand, that he was intimidating Lawrence, but if he only knew what Lawrence was capable of, what pain he could inflict upon the kid while keeping him alive and aware, he would get in his beater and leave.
But he didn’t. He no doubt saw Lawrence’s unwillingness to look away as a challenge.
The punk stepped up onto the concrete island and thumped his chest with an open hand. “What’s yo problem, old man? Huh? You got that crazy scarface and you think yo sumpthin’? You want to go?”
Lawrence finished pumping and held the nozzle at his waist in one hand, aimed at the kid. With his other hand he discreetly reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a lighter. He eyed the punk carefully, no longer smiling. “Beat it, kid. You don’t want this.”
The kid stepped back off the island and smirked. “You crazy, man, you know that? That freaky scarface don’t intimidate me. Yo, this ain’t over. You hear? It ain’t over.”
But it was over. Lawrence got into his car and drove away. If the kid bothered to follow him, he’d be happy to pull off along some scarcely traveled stretch of road and give the piece of filth what he deserved. But that wouldn’t happen. Punks like that were all bark and growl but had no guts when it came to backing it up.
Back on the road, Lawrence donned his shades and cranked the radio. Little Richard sang “Good Golly, Miss Molly.” Lawrence enjoyed his job. He didn’t enjoy the killing; he wasn’t sure anyone really enjoyed killing. Well, certainly there were some who did, those crazies who saw themselves as some kind of hero for cutting people up or some whacked-out thing like that. But that wasn’t Lawrence; he was a professional. He didn’t kill for pleasure; the killing was simply part of his job. A man had to make a living doing something. It was never personal, and he tried to keep it that way. He tried to keep emotions out of it because emotions only complicated things, and in his line of work simplicity was best. Get in, get out. No regrets, no apologies, no second-guessing.
As he drove, he stuck mostly to county roads and remote areas. Less traffic, less people, less congestion. And besides, Lawrence enjoyed the scenery and wide-open spaces. The farmland reminded him of his childhood home, where fond memories resided. For most of his childhood he had been raised by foster parents who loved him and gave him every privilege and right a real son would enjoy. Except one. They refused to legally adopt him. They had a biological son who was ten years older than Lawrence and upon their death wanted their entire estate and substantial wealth to be bequeathed to him. Though they showed young Lawrence every kindness and outward display of love, their true son was always their favorite. And upon their most untimely and unfortunate deaths when Lawrence was just fourteen, his older brother had rejected him and cast him back into the foster system. Lawrence had spent the next three and a half years moving from one horrid home to the next, suffering neglect, anger, jealousy, and a myriad of abuses he’d never even thought possible. The day he turned eighteen, he packed his sole bag with everything he owned and walked out of a nightmarish situation to do the one thing he’d dreamed of doing since he was fourteen and abandoned. He joined the Army.
And like it or not, the Army had made him what he was today. Turned him into a killing machine, then cut him loose. Naturally he’d brought his training into the private sector. What other skills did he have to work with?
Lawrence glanced at the clock on the dash. This time of day he’d cover ground quickly. Nothing personal, Peter Ryan. Just business.
Footsteps sounded outside the door. The familiar steps that came every day at the same time. Three men. Always three men. But never the same group of three. Always, though, they were large, broad-shouldered, thick-chested, and stern. Rarely did they speak more than two or three words, usually just commands.
The woman clutched her daughter and put her face in the girl’s hair. She drew in a long breath. “Be strong. Be strong.”
The
girl hugged her mother. “Mommy, I can feel your heart beating.”
Of course she could. Each time the men came, the woman thought her heart would bound right out of her chest. “I know, baby. It means I love you so much.”
The girl lifted her face and kissed her mother on the cheek. The touch was so gentle, so tender, so sweet and innocent and everything a little girl’s touch should be. When she spoke, her voice was hushed but not hurried. Never hurried. “Don’t worry, Mommy. God’s with me. I know that. Do you know that?”
“Yes. Yes, baby, he is. I know it. Always remember that. Hold it close to your heart.”
The men were just outside the door now, talking in quiet but harsh tones.
“I’ll be here when you get back. Like always. Okay?”
“Okay, Mommy. Don’t worry about me. God will protect me.”
The woman wiped tears from her eyes, smearing them across her cheeks. She sniffed and forced a smile to hide the fear that gripped her heart like an iron claw. “I’ll pray for you. The whole time.”
The lock disengaged and the door swung open. Light from the hallway slanted across the concrete floor. Two of the men entered, both wearing khakis and black long-sleeved polo shirts. One was taller than the other and bulkier. The smaller one wore glasses and had his head nearly shaved. High and tight, military style. The woman’s father had been in the Army, a career soldier; she was raised a military brat. Her husband had been in the Army too. She knew the type when she saw it.
The men said nothing because they didn’t need to. The woman and her daughter knew the routine. Her daughter pulled away from her and approached the men like a willing sacrifice resolved to place herself on the altar. They looked at her as if she were some lab freak and handled her indifferently, clinically: no emotion, no tenderness, one hand on the upper back, keeping an arm’s distance between them.
Centralia Page 4