“One.”
She stopped, pen hovering above her note pad as she reviewed the damage to the room, certain she must not have heard the man correctly. “Did you say there was only one intruder?”
Parmalee snarled. “That’s right, missy, there was only one. But you wouldn’t believe this guy. I shot him right through the heart, right smack in the middle of the chest with a nine mm hollow point, and he got up like it was nothing, like he had slipped on a banana peel or something, and kept coming.”
“Wait a minute. You shot him?”
“Damn right I shot him.”
“Did you miss him?”
“I told you already, I hit him right square in the chest. It was a fucking bullseye. Jesus Christ, try and pay attention.”
Sharon took in the room. “Then where’s the blood?”
“How the hell do I know? I was a little preoccupied; didn’t get the chance to go over the room with a magnifying glass.”
“Well, if you shot the guy in the chest, there should be some blood, don’t you agree?”
“Of course I agree. He shouldn’t have gotten up, either, but he did. I’m telling you what happened. Whether you choose to believe me or not is up to you.”
Sharon looked doubtfully around the room again. The only blood was the small amount of spatter gracing the granite fireplace and hearth, blood which had obviously come from Josh Parmalee himself. She shook her head. “Okay, what happened after you shot him?”
“I told you already. He sort of clambered to his feet all pissed off like a lead slug to the chest was nothing more than a bad cup of coffee. Then he came over and tossed me across the room. That’s it. That’s all I know.”
“Are you positive Parker’s missing? Maybe he hid when the break-in occurred and he’s still in the house somewhere. This is a pretty big place, after all.”
“Of course I’m positive. He ain’t here; that’s the first thing I checked when I woke up. I do know how to do my job, you know.” He closed his eyes.
Sharon bit off her reply; none was necessary, and getting into a verbal jousting match with this clown would accomplish nothing. Brett Parker had been kidnapped. This was huge.
“Okay,” the EMT in charge muttered. “It’s been long enough. Time to go.” They began moving toward the door, rolling the injured man across the wreckage-littered floor.
“One last thing,” Sharon interrupted. “I need a description of the intruder.”
Josh Parmalee opened one eye and fixed her in its glare. “A description? He looked like death warmed over.”
21
The minivan rolled to a stop in front of the ramshackle house and before it had finished rocking back and forth on its rusted springs Earl had rolled the side door open. He dragged Brett Parker out onto the patchy grass of the front yard, his movements ungainly but his grip as strong as ever.
Parker had attempted a number of times along the way to reason with Max Acton but Earl could have told him his efforts would be wasted and they were. Now he allowed himself to be manhandled, having apparently reached the conclusion that Acton was just as dangerous as the frightening freak with the jagged hole in the back of his shirt. He had no idea.
The bizarre trio trudged up the front steps and before they had reached the front door it swung open. Standing just inside the entryway was Raven, copper-skinned and beautiful, looking like the little woman in Stephen King’s worst nightmare as she welcomed home her man, his undead slave, and their billionaire ticket to the good life.
They walked inside and moved directly through the house to the basement stairs, Max leading the way, Parker directly behind him being prodded by Earl, with Raven bringing up the rear. No one said a word as they clomped down the stairs and into the cool air of the basement.
Parker was breathing heavily, panting almost, as it seemed to occur to him that he had perhaps arrived at the end of the line. Earl watched as the software developer took in his surroundings; the unplugged floor freezer at the opposite end of the room, the small table next to it upon which rested the mystical box with the stone inside—not to mention Earl’s heart—the collection of tools which had been used to cut that heart out of Earl’s body, the gigantic tarp upon which the impromptu surgery had taken place.
The seed of an idea which had been planted inside Earl’s brain back at the Parker cabin, and which he had pushed quickly away, again demanded Earl’s attention and again he forced it from his mind, stealing a glance at Max as he did so. His “god” stared back at him, an unreadable look on his face. The look told Earl that while Max had no idea what was coming, he clearly realized something was not quite right.
There was no way Max could use his psychic connection to “read” Earl’s plan because Earl had no idea what his plan might be. He had refused even to dwell on the seed of an idea for more than a second or two, knowing that if he did, Max would be able to sniff it out, and then snuff it out. Earl was counting on the ability of his unconscious mind to take over and implement the plan at the appropriate time, and until that time, his only chance for success was to pretend the seed of an idea didn’t exist.
Max continued staring at Earl, a strange little smile on his lips, as he attempted to divine what was taking place inside Earl’s head. For the first time since he was a little boy, Earl Manning could honestly say he was glad there was nothing much happening in there.
Max finally gave up, shaking his head and waggling his finger in Earl’s direction, the meaning perfectly clear. Whatever you’re thinking about trying, don’t do it. I’m your god. I control your fate, so don’t even think about pissing me off. Earl kept his face neutral and shifted his gaze to Brett Parker, who didn’t seem to have gotten any calmer during the few seconds of silent drama between Max and Earl.
At last Max turned his attention to their unwilling guest, unleashing a high-wattage smile and extending his hand to Parker as if this were a business meeting and not a kidnapping. “Thanks for coming,” he said, continuing the charade. He fished the thumb drive out of his pocket—he had relieved Earl of the item before even turning the Caravan away from the forest—and held it in the air, inspecting it a few feet from Parker while the man looked on dully.
“I’d like to thank you for the wisdom you’ve shown in agreeing to share this technology with me,” Max said. “A lot of good can come from it, especially where I’m concerned.” Parker said nothing and Max continued. “As you might have guessed by now, I have a buyer lined up for this item for whom money is, quite literally, no object.”
“Then you’re a traitor,” Parker interrupted.
Max waved the interruption aside airily, his good humor intact. “Call it what you will,” he said, “but surely you don’t believe you are the only software genius working on such an item? Perhaps you were out in front of the development curve, but undoubtedly there are brilliant minds all over the world working on creating software exactly like The Codebreaker. You perfected it first, that’s true, but within a few years, maybe less, maybe a lot less, other Codebreakers will begin to crop up, and soon every developed country in the world will have their own version.
“That being the case,” Max continued, “I might just as well profit off this little baby before it loses all value. If you had any kind of marketing sense, you would have come to the identical conclusion yourself. It’s not my fault you’re blessed with innate brilliance in one area but not a lick of common sense in another.”
Brett Parker shook his head, his face impassive but the color rising into his cheeks an indicator of his anger. “You’re a traitor,” he muttered again.
“Anyway,” Max continued as if he had not heard, “you’re undoubtedly curious as to why you had to be a part of this gathering, since you were so kind as to share your invention with my friend Earl.” He paused and Parker stared resolutely at the floor, saying nothing.
Then he shrugged and continued. “You, my new friend, are my insurance policy.”
22
Earl Manning had
never been the sharpest knife in the drawer or the brightest bulb in the lamp. He understood that. Growing up, his father made a point of telling him how stupid he was every chance he got, and even his mother had once scolded, “Earl, if brains was butter, you couldn’t grease a pan.” His own mother!
But he had always possessed a measure of animal cunning, more than once wriggling out of tight spots with the Paskagankee Police—often involving excessive alcohol consumption followed by a high-speed joyride in his ancient F-150—with a more or less believable lie or story that didn’t stretch the credulity of the officer who had stopped him too badly. He had spent plenty of nights in a holding cell but had mostly avoided legal trouble on a larger scale.
It was that innate sense of cunning Earl was counting on now to save his ass one more time. He didn’t know exactly what The Fucking Devil Max Acton had in store for him, but he could sense his body beginning to decompose at a faster rate. It didn’t take a genius to conclude his usefulness to his “god” had pretty much ended with the kidnapping of Brett Parker and the recovery of the man’s precious Codebreaker software.
Acton was preening and posturing, two activities Earl had already discovered the man lived for. They had herded Parker into the basement, the thumb drive with Parker’s software secured in Acton’s pocket, and the guy was lording it over the terrified software designer, taunting and intentionally frightening the man.
Earl stood at the base of the stairs. Raven was positioned directly in front of him, hanging back as usual, both fascinated by and afraid of Max Acton. Standing in front of her was Parker, perhaps the most reluctant house guest ever. And at the very forefront of the group Acton stood holding court, approximately one-third of the way across the basement, like an actor commanding the stage.
The moment Max addressed Parker and began telling him he had been brought here as an insurance policy, Earl knew what was coming and began readying himself for action without thinking about it in any specific terms. It was not an easy tightrope to walk. It was also, he knew, his only chance, and he was determined to make the most of it.
Finally the moment he had been waiting for arrived. Max smiled like a game show host telling the lucky contestant what he’d won. “As my insurance policy, it’s not completely clear yet how much of your assistance I will need, if any, but rest assured, Mr. Parker, that while you’re with me your living quarters will be adequate to your situation.”
He hesitated. “Well, not living quarters, precisely, but . . . ah, it’s difficult to explain. Perhaps a visual demonstration would be more appropriate. Mr. Manning, would you kindly show our guest where he will be bunking for the foreseeable future?
Acton indicated the industrial floor freezer at the other end of the basement with a flourish of which Bob Barker would have been proud, and Earl began staggering toward it. He knew instinctively this was the chance he had been waiting for, probably his one and only opportunity to salvage what was left of his miserable existence. He crossed the concrete floor in a few seconds, reaching the freezer and opening the cover like a mortician giving the hard sell on a top-of-the-line casket to a prospective client.
Max turned his attention back to the horrified software designer, whose facial expression indicated his growing understanding of the situation. The second he did, still acting without conscious thought, Earl grabbed the box containing the mystical Navajo stone and his still-beating heart off the table next to the freezer. He tucked it away in the crook of his forearm, cradling it against his chest like a sleeping baby, and strode rapidly back toward the tiny group clustered in the basement of the crumbling home.
No one had noticed a thing; not yet. Raven and Parker were watching Acton, both riveted, and Acton himself seemed so wrapped up in his little presentation that for the moment at least he appeared to have forgotten all about Earl.
So far, so good.
As he passed the open chest containing the tools the rotten bastard had used to slice open his frozen body and remove his heart, Earl reached in and plucked out the first item he could find which might suit his needs. It was a forged steel Phillips-head screwdriver with an impact-resistant plastic handle and twelve-inch long tempered-steel shaft.
The handle of the screwdriver rattled against the metal toolbox, Earl’s grip betrayed by his steadily deteriorating physical condition, and suddenly all hell broke loose. The eyes of all three observers turned to Earl, Max Acton swinging around and adopting a defensive position. It was clear he knew something was going wrong, even if he was not entirely sure what that might be.
But by now it didn’t matter. The physical strength Earl had gained as a result of the mysterious change he had undergone, combined with the advantage of surprise, was more than adequate for his purposes. There was now no need for Earl to try to shield his thoughts from his “god.” He now possessed the box containing his heart, and thus—he hoped—he was now the one who controlled his destiny.
Earl lurched forward and slashed at his captor, wielding the screwdriver like a butcher knife, catching Max in the side of the neck. The screwdriver’s long shaft entered just under his left ear and plunged straight through the man’s throat, reappearing under his right ear in a gush of blood that looked as though it was being blown out a garden hose.
Acton issued a strangled cry, the sound moist and bubbly, like he was trying to talk underwater, and then Earl yanked the handle of the screwdriver savagely, twisting as he pulled. The blood came out in a wave, splashing onto the floor. Ripped veins and blood vessels, along with unidentifiable gristle and gore, hung from the man’s throat and Earl thought, so this is what the expression “cutting a man’s throat from ear to ear” means, and Acton’s desperate gaze locked onto Earl, his bulging eyes angry and accusing, and Earl watched as the life drained out of them with a swiftness that was astonishing, and then Max fell straight down, his dead body dropping with a thud into his own blood on the concrete floor.
23
Mike rolled to a stop on the gravel driveway outside the rental home on Depot Road. A beat-up old minivan pocked with rust sat at the end of the driveway next to a candy-apple red Porsche 911. The effect was incongruous, like looking at your eighty year old grandfather sharing a chaise lounge with Mila Kunis at the family picnic.
The big house loomed over the two parked cars, shadowy and silent, imposing. From the outside it appeared barely livable. Long strips of peeling paint hung from the window frames. Entire sections of wood siding had rotted away, leaving great sheets of exposed plywood. It was as if some invisible blight was attacking the home in sections, and the entire structure appeared slightly askew, like the foundation might be crumbling literally out from under the rest of the house.
The summer air hung heavy and still as he exited the cruiser. Mike’s unease was palpable. It was plainly evident this was not the sort of place any couple would consider renting, not unless their names were Herman and Lily Munster. The only potential advantage offered by this home was its extreme isolation. If privacy was uppermost in the mind of a renter, then this dilapidated testament to shoddy maintenance would be ideal.
Dust kicked up around Mike’s shoes as he crunched across the driveway. Even the gravel seemed tired and listless. Mike’s sense of foreboding intensified as he became aware of total silence in the air. There was quite literally no noise. No crickets chirping; no birds tweeting. There wasn’t even the rustle of a breeze in the majestic eighty foot tall pines surrounding the home. The complete stillness was unnerving. It felt to Mike as though nature could sense evil in the air just as he could.
He kept walking and reached down, feeling the radiators of the two vehicles as he passed by on his way to the front door. The Porsche’s was cold, the minivan’s warm, its engine block ticking as it cooled. He wondered what was happening at Brett Parker’s retreat, the brand-new home that was the polar opposite in terms of quality from this one. Sharon should be calling in soon with a report of exactly what had been taken in the robbery.
One thing a
t a time. Mike pushed thoughts of Sharon from his mind as he punched the doorbell button mounted next to the front entrance and was unsurprised to discover nothing happened. The bell had either been disconnected or was broken, like seemingly everything else about this place. He lifted his fist and pounded hard on the door. “Paskagankee Police. Is anyone home?”
Silence greeted the knock and Mike looked over again at the two cars in the driveway, one of which had been recently driven. Two cars, one still-warm engine. Two people supposedly renting this piece of crap house.
Nobody answering the knock.
Someone was here.
He reached up to pound on the door again, harder this time, and as he did he thought he heard a vague sound that set him on edge, raising the tiny hairs on his arm and causing him to freeze with his fist in the air. The windows were cracked slightly open and through the one to his right, covered by a ratty screen which had long ago stopped providing any protection from insects, came a weak, strangled cry for help.
Maybe.
He stood unmoving, waiting, not one hundred percent certain he had actually heard anything.
There it was. Again.
A sound that was more like a moan than the articulation of any actual words floated through the window once more, so weak and nearly inaudible Mike was surprised he had even heard it. But this time he was sure. He wasn’t hearing things. The sound was human, and whoever was making it was in trouble.
Mike reached down to his hip and unsnapped the leather strap securing his Glock, lifting it clear of the holster, holding it in his right hand with the barrel pointed at the floor of the small wooden landing. The weapon felt solid and reassuring. He grasped the doorknob with his left hand, hoping it would be unlocked. It was.
Mike turned the knob and pushed, taking cover behind the frame as the door opened noiselessly inward. He waited half a heartbeat, then peeked cautiously around the frame into an empty room. Another half-second wait and then he stepped clear of the door. Crossed the threshold.
Revenant Page 12