Koontz, Dean R. - Strangers

by Strangers(Lit)

peacoat. This one had been hit by a shotgun blast that also demolished

  the glass door; he was crumpled in a thousand bright fragments.

  Stepping over the body, Brendan entered the sandwich shop. He did not

  have his Roman collar, which might have been something of a shield if he

  had been wearing it. On the other hand, degenerates like these would

  probably kill a priest as reflexively and as happily as they blew away

  police officers. In his suit and tie and topcoat, he was as ordinary and

  vulnerable as any man, but he did not care. He was that furious.

  Furious that God did not exist or, existing, did not care.

  At the back of the small shop was a service counter. Behind the counter

  was a grill, other equipment. On this side were five very small tables

  and ten chairs, most of which had been toppled. On the floor were a

  couple of napkin dispensers, ketchup and mustard bottles, scattered one-

  and five-dollar bills, a lot of blood, and Winton Tolk.

  Not bothering to study the overturned tables to see if a gunman was

  sheltering behind them, Brendan went to the officer, knelt beside him.

  Winton had been hit twice in the chest. Not with the shotgun. Probably

  the other thug's revolver. The wounds were sickening, far too traumatic

  to respond dramatically to a mere tourniquet or first-aid procedures.

  His breast was mantled with blood, and blood trickled from his mouth.

  The pool of blood in which he lay was so deep that he appeared to be

  floating on it. He was still, eyes closed, either unconscious or dead.

  "Winton?" Brendan said.

  The cop did not respond. His eyelids did not even flutter.

  Filled with a rage akin to that which had caused him to heave the holy

  chalice against the wall during Mass, Brendan Cronin gently put both

  hands on Winton Tolk's neck, one on each side, feeling for the throbbing

  carotid arteries. He detected no life, and in his mind he saw the

  photographs of Raynella and the Tolk children again, and now he was

  seething with resentment at the indifference of the universe. "He can't

  die," Brendan said angrily. "He can't." Suddenly he thought he felt a

  thready pulse, so faint it was virtually nonexistent. He moved his

  hands, seeking confirmation that Tolk lived. He found it: a less feeble

  beat than that first phantom drumming, though no less irregular.

  "Is he dead?"

  Brendan looked up and saw a man coming around the side of the service

  counter, a Hispanic in a white apron, the owner or an employee. A

  woman, also in a white apron, had risen from behind the counter.

  Outside, distant sirens were growing nearer.

  Under Brendan's hands, the throbbing in Winton Tolk's neck seemed to be

  getting stronger and more regular, which was surely not the case. Winton

  had lost too much blood to stage even a limited spontaneous recovery.

  Until the paramedics arrived with life-support machines, his vital signs

  would deteriorate unavoidably, and even expert medical care might not

  stabilize his condition.

  The sirens were no more than two blocks away.

  Puffs of snow blew in through the shattered windows.

  The sandwich-shop employees edged closer.

  Numb with shock, in a haze of anger at fate's capricious brutality,

  Brendan trailed his hands from Winton's neck to the wounds in his chest.

  When he saw the blood oozing up between his fingers, his rage gave way

  to overwhelming helplessness and uselessness, and he began to cry.

  Winton Tolk choked. Coughed. Opened his eyes. Breath rattled thinly

  and wetly in his throat, and a soft groan escaped him.

  Amazed, Brendan felt for a pulse in the man's throat again. It was weak

  but definitely not as weak as before, and hardly irregular at all.

  Raising his voice over the shrieking sirens, which were now so near that

  the air trembled, Brendan said, "Winton? Winton, do you hear me?"

  The cop did not seem to recognize Brendan-or even to know where he was.

  He coughed again and choked more

  violently than before.

  Brendan quickly lifted Tolk's head a few inches and turned it to one

  side, to let the blood and mucus drain more freely from his mouth.

  Immedifitely the wounded man's respiration improved, though it remained

  noisy, each inhalation hardwon. He was still in critical condition, in

  desperate need of medical attention, but he was alive.

  Alive.

  Incredible. All this blood, and he was still alive, hanging on.

  Outside, three sirens died one after the other. Brendan shouted for

  Paul Armes. Excited by the hope that Winton could be saved, but also

  panicked by the possibility that medical attention would arrive seconds

  too late, he glanced at the sandwich-shop employees and shouted, "Go!

  Get them in here. Let them know it's safe. Paramedics, damn it!"

  the man in the apron hesitated, then moved toward the door.

  Winton Tolk expelled bloody mucus and finally drew an unobstructed

  breath. Brendan carefully lowered Winton's head to the floor again. The

  cop continued to breathe shallowly, with difficulty, but steadily.

  Outside there were shouts and doors slamming and running feet coming

  toward the sandwich shop Brendan's hands were wet with Winton Tolk's

  blood. Unthinking, he blotted them on his coat-and it was then that he

  realized the rings had reappeared on his hands for the first time in

  nearly two weeks. One on each palm. Twin bands of raised and inflamed

  tissue.

  Cops and paramedics burst through the front door, stepping over the dead

  man in the navy peacoat, and Brendan quickly moved out of their way. He

  backed up until he bumped against the service counter, where he leaned

  in sudden exhaustion, staring at his hands.

  For a few days following the first appearance of the rings, he had used

  the cortisone prescribed by Dr. Heeton at St. Joseph's, but when the

  rings had not reappeared, he had soon stopped applying the lotion. He

  had almost forgotten about the marks. They had been a

  curiosity-baffling, but of little concern. Now, as he looked at the

  strange marks, he heard the voices of those around him, fuzzy and

  strange: "Jesus, the blood!"

  "Can't be alive . . . twice in the chest."

  "Get the fuck out of my way!"

  "Plasma!"

  "Type his blood. No! Wait . . . do it in the ambulance."

  Brendan finally looked at the crowd around Winton Tolk. He watched the

  paramedics as they worked to keep the wounded man alive, get him on a

  stretcher, and move him out of the sandwich shop.

  He saw a cursing policeman dragging the dead man out of the doorway to

  make it easier for the paramedics to exit with Tolk.

  He saw Paul Armes moving along beside the stretcher.

  He saw that the blood in which Tolk had been lying was not merely a pool

  but a lake.

  He looked at his hands again. The rings were gone.

  4.

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  The Texan in the yellow Day-Glo polyester pants would not have tried to

  get Jorja Monatella into bed if he had known she was in the mood to

  castrate someone.

  Although it was the afternoon of December 24, Jorja was not yet in the

  Christmas spiri
t. Usually even-tempered and easygoing, she was in an

  exceedingly sour state of mind as she strode back and forth through the

  casino, from the bar to the blackjack tables and back to the bar again,

  delivering drinks to the gamblers.

  For one thing, she hated her job. Being a cocktail waitress was bad

  enough in a regular bar or lounge, but in a hotel casino bigger than a

  football field, it was a killer. At the end of a shift, her feet ached,

  and often her ankles were swollen. The hours were irregular, too. How

  were you supposed to provide a stable home for a seven-year-old daughter

  when you did not have a job with normal hours?

  She also hated the costume: a little red nothing, cut high in the crotch

  and hips, very low at the bustline, smaller than a bathing suit. An

  elastic corset was built in to minimize the waistline and emphasize the

  breasts. If you were already smallwaisted, with generous breasts-as

  Jorja was-the getup made you look almost freakishly erotic.

  And she hated the way the pit bosses and casino floormen were always

  hitting on her. Maybe they figured any girl who would strut her stuff

  in an outfit like that was an easy lay.

  She was sure that her name had something to do with their attitude as

  well: Jorja. It was cute. Too cute. Her mother must have been drunk

  when she got creative with the spelling of Georgia. It was all right

  when people heard it, because they had no way of knowing she spelled it

  cute, but she had to wear a name tag on her costume-joRJA-and at least a

  dozen people a day commented on it. It was a frivolous name, misspelled

  like that, so it gave them the idea she was a frivolous person. She had

  considered going to court to have the proper spelling made legal, but

  that would hurt her mother. However, if guys at work kept hitting on

  her, she might even have it changed to Mother Teresa, which ought to

  cool off some of the horny bastards.

  And fending off the bosses was not the worst of it. Every week, some

  high-roller-a bigshot from Detroit or L A. or Dallas, dropping a bundle

  at the tables-would take a shine to Jorja and ask the pit boss to fix

  him up with her. A few cocktail waitresses were available-not many, but

  a few. But when the pit bosses approached Jorja, her answer was always

  the same: "To hell with him. I'm a waitress, not a hooker."

  Her routine, cold refusal did not stop them from pressuring her to

  relent, which they had done an hour ago. A wartfaced, bug-eyed oilman

  from Houston-in phosphorescent yellow pants, a blue shirt, and a red

  string tie-one of the hotel's favored clients, had gotten the hots for

  her and had made inquiries. His breath stank of the burritos he had

  eaten forlunch.

  Now the bosses were angry with her for refusing a highly valued

  customer, for being "too stuffy." Rainy Tarnell, the blackjack pit boss

  on the day shift, had the gall to put it just like that-"Honey, don't be

  so stuffy!"-as if falling on her back and spreading her legs for a

  stranger from Houston was merely the equivalent of a fashion gaucherie

  like wearing white shoes either before Memorial Day or after Labor Day.

  Though she hated being a casino cocktail waitress, she could not afford

  to quit. No other job would pay her as well. She was a divorced mother

  raising a daughter without benefit of child-support payments, and in

  order to protect her credit rating, she was still paying off bills that

  Alan had run up in her name before walking out on her, so she was

  acutely aware of the value of a dollar. Her wages were low, -but the

  tips were exceedingly good, especially on those occasions when one of

  her customers started winning big at cards or dice.

  On this day before Christmas, the casino was two-thirds empty, and tips

  were bad. Vegas was always slow Thanksgiving and Christmas, and the

  crowds did not return until December 26. The whizzing-rattling-ringing

  of slot machines was muted. Many of the blackjack dealers stood idle

  and bored in front of empty tables.

  No wonder I'm in a sour mood, Jorja thought. Sore feet, back pain, a

  horny creep who figures I ought to be as available as the drinks I

  serve, an argument with Rainy Tarnell, and no tips to show for it.

  When her shift ended at four o'clock, she hurried to the changing room

  downstairs, punched the time clock, slipped out of her costume and into

  street clothes, and was out the door into the employee parking lot with

  a speed that would have drawn praise from an Olympic runner.

  The unpredictable desert weather did nothing to instill the Christmas

  spirit in her. A Las Vegas winter day could be cold, with bone-numbing

  wind, or it could be warm enough for shorts and halters. This year, the

  holiday was warm.

  Her dusty, battered Chevette started on only the third try, which should

  have improved her mood. But listening to the starter grind and the

  engine cough, she was reminded of the shiny new Buick that Alan had

  taken with him fifteen months ago, when he had abandoned her and Marcie.

  Alan Rykoff. More than her job, more than any of the other things that

  irritated her, Alan was the cause of Jorja's foul mood. She had shed

  his name when the marriage had been dissolved, reverting to her maiden

  name, Monatella, but she could not as easily shed the memories of the

  pain he had inflicted on her and Marcie.

  As she drove out of the parking lot into the street behind the hotel,

  Jorja tried to banish Alan from her thoughts, but he remained at center

  stage. The bastard. With his current bedmate, an airhead blond bearing

  the unlikely name "Pepper," he had flown off to Acapulco for a week, not

  even bothering to leave a Christmas gift for Marcie. What did you tell

  a seven-year-old girl when she asked why her daddy didn't buy her

  anything for Christmas-or even come to see her?

  Although Alan left Jorja saddled with bills, she had willingly forgone

  alimony because, by then, she loathed him so much that she had not

  wanted to be dependent on him. However, she had gone after child

  support and had been shocked when he countered by insisting Marcie was

  not his child and, therefore, not his responsibility. Damn him. Jorja

  had married him when she was nineteen and he was twenty-four, and she'd

  never been unfaithful. Alan knew she hadn't cheated, but protecting his

  jazzy lifestyle-he needed every dollar for clothes, fast cars, and

  women-was more important to him than his wife's reputation or his

  daughter's happiness. To spare little Marcie humiliation and pain,

  Jorja had released Alan from responsibility before he could voice his

  sleazy accusations in the courtroom.

  So she was finished withhim. She could put him out of her mind.

  But as she drove past the mall at the intersection of Maryland Parkway

  and Desert Inn Road, Jorja thought about how young she had been when she

  tied herself to Alan, too young for marriage and too naive to see

  through his facade. When she was nineteen, she thought he was

  sophisticated, charming. For more than a year, their union had seemed

  blissful, but gradually she began to see him for what he was: shallow,
/>
  vain, lazy, a shockingly promiscuous womanizer.

  The summer before last, when their relationship had been rocky, she had

  tried to salvage the marriage by coercing Alan into a carefully planned

  three-week vacation. She believed that part of their problem was that

  they spent too little time together. He was a baccarat dealer in one

  hotel, and she was employed in another, and they frequently worked

  different shifts, slept on different schedules. Just the two of them

  and Marcie-embarking upon an adventurous three-week car trip seemed a

  good way to repair their damaged relationship.

  Unfortunately but predictably, her scheme had not worked. After the

  vacation, upon their return to Vegas, Alan had been more promiscuous

  than before. He seemed determined-driven-to take a poke at anything in

  skirts. In fact, it was almost as if the car trip had somehow pushed

  him over the edge, for the number and intensity of his one-night stands

  developed a manic quality, a frightening desperation. Three months

  later, in October of that year, he walked out on her and Marcie.

  The only good thing about the car trip had been the brief encounter with

  that young woman doctor who had been driving cross-country from Stanford

  to Boston on, she'd said, her first vacation ever. Jorja still

  remembered the woman's name: Ginger Weiss. Although they had met only

  once, and then for little more than an hour, Ginger Weiss had quite

  unwittingly changed Jorja's life. The doctor had been so very youngso

  slender, pretty, feminine-it had been difficult to accept that she was