by Gord Rollo
Wilson quickly went to work.
Fuck…Fuck…FUCK! Lucius repeated over and over, still amazed he’d been unable to shoot Kemp with the two wide-open attempts he’d had. Bloody guns! I should have used my knife…or better yet, my bare hands. He’d dreamed for years about getting this chance to kill Wilson and he wasn’t about to blow it. No way.
“I’m coming, coward!” Lucius screamed. “Run all you want, but I’ll find you. You could have saved Doug and you damn well know it. He was the son I never had, you rotten whore, and you were never half the man or magician he was. You hear me, Wilson?”
Lucius crept slowly across the living room floor, ready for and half expecting another foolhardy charge by Wilson, like he’d tried upstairs. Only a madman would attack someone who was holding a loaded gun, but he stayed alert, prepared for anything.
“They locked me up after Doug’s funeral. Locked me up for twenty years. Partly ’cause I lost it, couldn’t handle you taking him away from me, but partly ’cause I learned to kill in the hospital. Took one of the interns and gutted him with a kitchen knife. Killed the fat fuck of a security guard that tried to drag me off him too. More crimes I lay at your feet, asshole. Your fault…all of it. And now you’re finally going to pay.”
Lucius moved on to the dining room, and immediately saw Wilson hunkered down in front of him, ready to lunge with his dagger, but fortunately out of striking distance. He’d never cross the floor in time. Lucius smiled in triumph and fired two point-blank shots into his enemy’s chest.
Amanda Kemp heard the second gunshot, but then everything went silent again. Her heart sank, thinking the worst, and she was about to shout for her dad but then the bad man started yelling, blaming her father for things she didn’t understand. His angry voice frightened her but at least it meant her dad was alive and might still rescue her. Another two gunshots rang out beneath her and Amanda screamed, clapping her hands over her ears to shut out the noise. Make him stop…Make him go away!
Behind her, the trunk of secrets slowly began to open.
Lucius Barber charged into the room, sure he’d finally killed his one-time student. He was wrong. When he pulled away the colorful quilt he thought Wilson had been foolishly hiding under, he uncovered a dining room chair with his long-bladed dagger fixed to the arm with a man’s leather belt. He’d seen the knife sticking through the blanket and had just…Oh my God!
Wilson attacked from behind, jumping on Lucius’s exposed back and wrapping his arms around his head and throat and his legs around his foe’s arms and waist. Like a giant boa constrictor, Wilson squeezed with all his strength, not allowing Lucius to breathe, much less try to do anything with the gun.
“Drop the gun, Lucius. Do it now or I’ll rip your fucking head off!”
Lucius tried to speak but Wilson had him in a guillotine choke and had it cinched in tight. The gun clattered to the floor a few seconds later and Wilson let up on his hold just a little, hoping to talk some sense into this obviously disturbed man. As stupid of a thought as Wilson knew it was, maybe he could convince Lucius he was wrong about all this. Wrong about whose fault Doug’s death was too. It was a mistake though, and as soon as Lucius felt him relax, he started bucking and thrashing around, trying to shake Wilson off his back. Wilson sunk his hooks in deeper and hung on for the ride. There would be no talking to this madman. No negotiating. Lucius was years past any type of calm, rational thinking. Death was all he understood now and it was clear to Wilson that it would either be Lucius’s or his. There was no middle ground here.
Wilson let his anger build, let it pour into his arms and legs to strengthen them. This lunatic had blamed him for things he’d never done, killed his friends, threatened the lives of his family, and cut off the finger of his sweet little girl. For that alone he deserved to die and Wilson had no cold feet about being his judge, jury, and ultimately, his executioner. Fuck you, he thought and drove Lucius forward, pushing him down onto the dining room chair and the cruel blade of the knife that waited there.
The dagger sank into Lucius’s belly, sank deep, and must have torn through some vital organs because blood sprayed like an angry river, splashing onto the seat cushion and running down the legs to pool on the floor. Through it all, Lucius remained silent. There was an initial grunt of pain as the blade entered, but after that, he’d gritted his teeth and cried out no more. Perhaps he couldn’t believe Wilson had actually bested him, or maybe closer to the truth, perhaps he was actually happy the way this ended and silently looked forward to the peace he might find behind death’s door.
“I’m sorry, Lucius,” Wilson whispered in his ear, still holding him tightly and forcing the knife deeper still. “I loved Doug too. Honest I did. He was my best friend but I can’t change the past and I couldn’t let you kill my little girl.”
Wilson thought Lucius was already dead, but he turned his head a little and opened his eyes. “You’re a dead man, Wilson…and it’s not me your family has to worry about.”
A thick stream of blood poured out of Lucius’s nose and mouth, and he died choking on his blood, his body collapsing into the chair, eyes still wide-open. Wilson released his body, thinking Lucius might sag down to the floor, but his body remained in place, pinned to the chair ironically by his own knife.
Wilson staggered over to another chair on the far side of the table, his strength draining from his legs, now that the danger was over. Part of him was appalled and nauseated thinking about what he’d just done. He’d only done what he’d needed to do—it was kill or be killed—and he’d taken the only option presented to him, but the level of violence he’d been capable of was still shocking and surprising. His other half rejoiced in victory, elated he’d somehow succeeded in defending his family against all odds.
Speaking of family, Wilson knew he should try the phones here and see if they were working. Susan would be worried sick and he should try calling to tell her things were going to be okay. He should get moving, but for the moment he was just too damn bone-weary to do anything, and Lucius’s final words were still haunting him, replaying again and again in his mind. What had his ex-mentor meant that he wasn’t the one they needed to worry about? Prophetic words or dying gibberish?
Does he know something I don’t? What am I missing?
Upstairs, Amanda began to scream…
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE BOUNDARY BETWEENLIFE AND DEATH
Amanda’s scream went on and on, nearly stopping Wilson’s heart and causing him to teeter and fall backward off the chair he sat on. He crashed painfully onto his back and rolled to his feet as quickly as he could. Not having a clue what was wrong, but not wanting to find out without a weapon in his hand, Wilson quickly searched the room. There was the knife, of course, but there was no way he was going to drag Lucius’s dead body off and untie his blood-drenched belt to free it. Just the thought of doing that repulsed him. He spotted the gun on the floor, grabbed it, and ran for the staircase.
He took the stairs two at a time, his exhaustion forgotten again, another surge of adrenaline-fueled dread carrying him upward toward the unknown. He was praying Amanda was only screaming out of fear or panic and everything would be all right, but when he threw open the bedroom door it took Wilson less than a second to realize things weren’t okay and might never be again.
Wilson began to scream too.
A monstrous thing (the only word that came to Wilson’s wildly spinning mind) stood inside a huge wooden steamer trunk on the far side of the room, holding a meat cleaver to Amanda’s throat, a scrawny, disease-ridden nightmare that was half man and half rotted corpse. It was tall and bony shouldered, and despite its frail appearance and obvious gruesome afflictions, seemed quite powerful—perhaps even supernaturally strong. On its upper body, it wore a gaudy red and black tuxedo jacket, which was ripped and filthy around the frayed edges, but was completely naked from the waist down. It looked like some sort of carnival freak, or failed lab experiment, a beast that was all cancerous growth
s, varicose veins, and pus-filled weeping sores, but was trying hard to stand upright and pass for a human being. Its penis was gone, rotted away, leaving a huge flabby testicle sack the color of bruised meat hanging below a still-bleeding hole.
It was Elephant Man meets Night of the Living Dead.
It was pink healthy tissue meets black putrid flesh.
It was life meets death.
It was…
The face…the eyes! Sweet mother of God…the EYES!
Wilson screamed again, this time not because he was shocked to see something so hideous on the waking side of a dream, but simply because he finally recognized this fiend for who it was.
It’s him! The Heatseeker!
Doug Williams was in the room, or something that had once been him more than two decades ago, back before he’d died in that horrific accident onstage. Even though he’d believed the Heatseeker was behind the trouble all along, Wilson was so in shock at the sight of his deformed and decaying old partner, all he could do was stand there with his mouth hanging open, his feet seemingly glued to the floorboards. It was Amanda who broke the trance.
“Daddy! Help! Get this…this monster off me!”
Wilson snapped out of it and raised his gun to chest level, aiming up at the spongy head of his ex-friend. He took two steps forward into the room, trying to show he wasn’t afraid but also to improve the odds of hitting his target easier without putting Amanda at risk.
For the second time in the last twenty minutes, Wilson found himself saying, “Let Amanda go, Doug. I don’t know what the fuck has happened to you, but it has nothing to do with her.”
The Heatseeker smiled, or half his rubbery mouth did, pleased Wilson had recognized him. A thick, syrupy line of drool ran down the left side of his cheek as he said in a deep, terribly raw voice, “What’s the matter, Wilson? Don’t you like the way I look? Aren’t I good enough to meet your precious little girl?”
“Let her go now or I’ll deflate that fucking balloon head of yours.” Wilson meant it too. He’d already crossed the line once tonight in the name of his family. The killing would get easier from here on in, not harder. And besides, killing this monstrosity would be doing the world a favor.
“I don’t think so, little man. I’m not done with her yet and it’s been way too long since we had a chance to kick back and chat. Don’t you think?”
In answer, Wilson took careful aim and pulled the trigger. He’d heard and seen enough to know killing the Heatseeker was his and Amanda’s only way out of this madness. He’d never allow either of them to leave this house alive.
CLICK…
Nothing happened.
CLICK…CLICK…
The Heatseeker began to laugh. It sounded like the rumble of approaching thunder and sent a chill down Wilson’s spine.
The gun was empty. Impossible. Or was it? Wilson could clearly recall the four shots Lucius had recently fired, and now that he thought about it, Officer Daniels and Big Mack had said something about bullets fired at the Henderson house when they’d had him in the back of the cruiser. Wilson had never actually checked to see how many bullets were left in the gun. Never even knew how many rounds a .38 caliber like this could hold. Obviously the answer was six. Fuck! Of course it holds six, idiot! Wilson tossed the useless weapon away into the corner of the room. Now what was he going to do? What could he do?
His eyes found the canvas bag he’d dropped on the bedroom floor earlier, before his fight with Lucius. He’d packed a knife inside of it. Other useful things too, if only he could get his hands on them. The bag was less than six feet away, but right now that seemed like an awfully far distance to travel. It wasn’t like the Heatseeker would just stand there and simply allow Wilson to rummage around in the bag to find another weapon. He’d carve a red smile in Amanda’s throat with his stainless-steel cleaver before Wilson could even get the bag in his hands. No, it was too much of a risk. There had to be a better way.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this moment?” the Heatseeker said. “Decades filled with loneliness and pain, endless suffering beyond your wildest imagination. All worth it though; every excruciating moment just to see that hopeless look on your face.”
There were a million questions running around Wilson’s head but he asked the most obvious one first. “How did you get here? You died in front of my eyes. How did you ever escape…?” Wilson couldn’t find the words to properly express his bewilderment.
“Escape what? My coffin? Death? Hell?”
Wilson could only nod his head, but took a casual step sideways, moving closer to the canvas bag near his feet.
“It wasn’t easy, but not as hard as the endless horde of people who die think. The borders between life and death are thin, Wilson, paper-thin in places, depending on time and circumstances. People on both sides of the threshold are constantly testing the walls, probing for weaknesses every single day. Psychics, fortune-tellers, mentalists, magicians, and even madmen knock on doorways from here on earth, but just as frequently spirits, demons, angels, ghosts, and other entities knock back from the other side. If you’ve ever experienced a vision or out-of-body experience, a lucid dream, or even déjà vu, then you’ve stepped across the line. Temporarily, of course, but you’ve been there. I searched the darkest pits of hell for years to find a more permanent crack, a way to visit this realm but not get sucked back down into the dark.”
“And Lucius? Why drag him into this?” Wilson inched closer to the bag, trying not to be obvious but unsure if the Heatseeker was onto him or not.
“Lucius was a means to an end. Nothing more. A link I had to this world I needed to complete the transfer. He was in an asylum when I contacted him through dreams. I helped him plan an escape and he eventually met me at the cemetery in Jamestown and freed me from my place of rest. There wasn’t much to me then, only powder, bones, and a few tufts of hair sticking to my crumbling skull—I’d left the rest in hell. But Lucius gathered all that remained and took me home to the house he’d trained us at all those years ago.
“It wasn’t his anymore, naturally, but he killed the man who lived there and moved in. The house was a wreck, a junkyard of things new and old, even an entire storeroom filled with Lucius’s and our old props. This travel trunk was in there and it became my home, my sanctuary here on earth while Lucius fed me and let me grow stronger.”
“Fed you?”
“Blood, Wilson. To start with, anyway. Blood gives you life, old friend, and it did me as well. Lucius cut himself to feed me and soon flesh began to grow around the bones and my body began the slow process of knitting itself back together. The more Lucius fed me, the faster I recuperated, but it was still an excruciatingly slow process.
“Blood was soon replaced with flesh and I was fed the bodies of hundreds of dogs, cats, and, yes, men and women too. Lucius would bring them to me so I could feast…and grow. And all that time, we searched for you, searched half the country carried inside a rotted wooden box. I have no idea why I couldn’t locate you as easily as I had Lucius, but maybe my hatred blinded me. It wasn’t until I was in fairly close proximity that I felt your presence and brought Lucius to this decrepit town. He was a necessary evil for me, but ultimately an expendable one. I’m strong enough now to deal with you myself. You and the rest of your family, starting with this little animal here.”
Amanda struggled against the man-monster but she was no match for his strength. She squealed in pain when he yanked hard on her hair, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks as she silently pleaded with her eyes for her father to help her.
“But why, Doug? Why do you hate me so much?” Wilson said, curious but mostly to keep the Heatseeker talking. He was standing right beside the canvas bag now, only a knee bend away from his knife. “I was your friend…your best friend. I never asked for any of this to happen to you. I didn’t want you to die.”
“You didn’t do much to prevent it though, did you? When that drill bit was spinning toward me that night, and
I finally realized I wasn’t going to be able to get out in time, I looked over and there you were with this big stupid look on your face. For a fraction of a second I was filled with hope. You’d shaken off the drug I’d given you and were going to run out onstage and save me. Yeah, right! You just stood there licking your lips and looking forward to seeing the blood fly.”
“That’s not true, Doug. In fact, you couldn’t be more wrong. I was in shock, horrified at what was happening. My head was still cloudy from the knockout drug and I was ready to pass out again. When I saw you onstage, I froze up. Couldn’t move a muscle. I’ve thought of and dreamed of that night a million times since then and wished I could go back and change things but I couldn’t. I’m not proud of the way I acted but it still wasn’t my fault. You were the one who drugged me and took my place. You were the one who wore my mask and tricked the stagehands into thinking you were me. You chose to take the risk performing an escape you weren’t qualified to do. How the hell is any of that MY bloody fault?
“I’ve suffered too, you know? Everyone blamed me for your death. Lucius…the fans…the media…hell, even myself. I spiraled down into a life of alcohol and bitter failure. There were days I wished it had been me who died that night. Years I thought I’d be better off dead, but I made it through all that. My wife and daughter helped me and damned if you have the right to blame me for living. You have one person to blame for your suffering, Doug, and that’s yourself. Your greed, ego, and jealousy are what caused your death, not me!”
Everything went quiet in the room after Wilson’s passionate outburst. Too quiet. The Heatseeker’s fleshy lips trembled, his thin, deformed body literally shaking with rage and Wilson knew he’d gone too far; said things he shouldn’t have, even if they were the truth. A cold fear spread through his body then, an icy certainty he’d just issued Amanda’s death warrant. At any second, he expected the Heatseeker to chop or rip the cleaver across her tender skin and helplessly watch as her blood sprayed in twin geysers against the faded walls. If he was going to make a move for the canvas bag, it had to be done now.