“It says she’s not coming back.”
“Do you think it means Susan? Or might there be someone else?”
“There’s only Susan.” John remembered they were talking about their honeymoon plans that morning before she’d vanished. He’d finally given in and told her they could go to Fiji like she wanted. “But it doesn’t matter what appears, because either you or one of your friends put this here.”
“You suppose it’s luck that you turned to that exact page?”
John motioned toward the book. “It’s probably on every page.”
“Oh, I assure you it isn’t.”
“So you admit you know what’s on the pages?”
“What I admit is that The Book of Revelation is able to draw the chosen to it. It must be calling to you. Do you feel its pull at the back of your mind?”
John wanted to tell the old kook he was out of his head, that he should be locked up in an asylum; but there was a tug, one that made him want to turn the page. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, upset that he had been so gullible as to consider Hazelwood’s suggestion. There was no pull. It was just a book.
“Why don’t you try another?” Hazelwood asked. “Afraid of what you might find?”
“This doesn’t prove a thing. You are worse than one of those TV psychics. These revelations could apply to anyone.”
“Turn to another page. I won’t take much more of your time.”
John flipped through the book, and stopped a few pages into chapter forty-two. Even though he was more than a third of the way through the thick book, the page number in the footer was only 3, the one next to it 389. If the next page he turned to was 4, then he had to at least consider the possibility of the book’s legitimacy. He could not think of any way Hazelwood might have rigged the pagination.
“What page are you on?” Hazelwood asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“What does the number say?”
“Come on, how’d you do it?”
“Do you remember what I taught you?”
John flashed through the years of information he’d gathered during their chats, many taking place right here in this room. He tried to remember anything concerning the book and pages. Something clicked. There were some who said the book would give only four revelations a day, each numbered accordingly.
He pushed this realization from his thoughts and examined the red words on the page. This one was too simple:
scared, is, use, to, he, pistol, the
John had completely forgotten about the nickel-plated derringer that Hazelwood had kept on his desk. It was a hundred years old and always under glass, but Hazelwood had claimed it still worked.
“Anything interesting, John?”
John shook his head and continued to stare at the book, trying to collect himself. As he stared at the blood-red words, an internal alarm sounded, his logic and rationality struggling to hold precedence, but it was a losing battle. The book kept calling him, warning him to beware, to stop the crazy old man before it was too late.
“John, I need to know. It looks as if you found something of interest.”
John picked up his mug and drank as he observed the professor. He hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a small bulge under Hazelwood’s jacket on the left side of his chest. It was probably just a notepad or a handkerchief, but John supposed it was large enough to be the derringer.
In an attempt to distract the old man, John asked Hazelwood if he would mind getting him some more tea. The old man answered that he would be glad to.
Hazelwood got up from the table with his eerie smile and turned his back to retrieve the teapot. John looked around for a weapon. On the remote chance that Hazelwood was carrying a concealed gun, John would need something. Hazelwood was old and slow; still, he couldn’t forget that that feeble man coming back with the tea had threatened to kill him the last time they met. Hazelwood had seemed very definite on that subject.
As Hazelwood poured John’s tea, making a point not to look at the book, John leaned forward trying to peek inside his mentor’s frayed jacket. He couldn’t tell what was inside. Then Hazelwood returned the pot to its cart.
The old man’s wife had died shortly after the release of John’s book. It wouldn’t be surprising if the professor blamed John for her death as well. A devastating loss could change a man and make him do things he wouldn’t have considered before. Now that Susan was gone, John knew this to be very true. Before today, he rarely entertained violent thoughts, but inside this study he was dreaming of strangling the demented son of a bitch sitting across from him.
“You’re not going to drink it?”
“I was just letting it cool.” John picked up his mug and brought it to his lips, wondered if the tea could be poisoned. Could that be what was causing the violent thoughts, making him consider the book to be real? “Actually, I think it needs another moment.” He set the mug in front of him.
Hazelwood shrugged and drank from his own cup, the same tea that was in John’s mug. Or was it?
“What do you say to opening up one last page? I promise it’ll be the last one.”
“But it only gives four a day, right? Are you sure we should rush to the end?” John’s eyes drifted to the cart and the small butter knife. He wondered if he could reach it before the old man drew.
“Four per person, yes,” Hazelwood said.
“So maybe we should do yours next.”
“Not necessary. I just need you to verify that it is The Book. I take it that you’re still not convinced.”
“That it’s The Book of Revelation? You told me yourself that it only gives revelations to one who has killed another. I’ve never harmed a soul in my life.”
“Physically, maybe,” Hazelwood said, the overwhelming sadness in his voice hanging over the room.
Feeling he had the man on the ropes, John said, “At least tell me how you did it?”
“Turn to a new page and I promise to explain everything.”
John agreed and flipped further into the book, stopped and stared at the 4 in the footer that should have read 932.
Hazelwood stood and said, “If the book is not real, then how do you explain this?”
“What?” John asked, distracted as he studied the letters changing color in front of him:
going, He’s, Kill, to, you
“Will you agree that the book is real if its revelations prove to be true?”
John looked up from the book in time to see Hazelwood reach for the object inside his jacket. Before the old man could pull out a gun, John shoved the table into Hazelwood’s chest. John, now on his feet, came charging and grabbed the old man.
Hazelwood caught his breath, motioned to the hand beneath his jacket. “What do you think I have in here?”
“Don’t move.”
“Well, this isn’t going to be very fun. I have something to show you.”
“Don’t move,” John repeated.
“You’re acting like I’m going to kill someone.”
“Are you?”
“I’m not going to kill anyone.” Hazelwood grinned. “Not anyone else,” he said.
Anyone else. Anyone else.
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t worry, John, I won’t hurt you.”
“Shut up and slowly bring your hand out from the jacket.”
“I had to do it, Jonathan,” Hazelwood said without making a move to withdraw his hand.
“Shut up!” John screamed, pulling Hazelwood’s hand away before reaching in himself.
“I wasn’t an evil man, I swear it. They say you have to be evil to get it to work. They say The Book calls you if you look long enough.” Hazelwood tried to reach in his jacket.
“Stop!” John shouted. “Leave your hand where it is!”
“But it’s the proof you need in order to believe. Go ahead, take it.” John felt something in his hand. Not a gun, but an envelope. It was black.
Hazelwood let out a raspy sigh and licked his lips. “You’ll want to see this.”
John simply stared at the professor. Then his eyes moved to the envelope.
The old man’s fingers pushed it toward John. “Open it. I offer your proof.”
John tore it open.
“Thank you, Jonathan. Thank you for coming tonight. For heeding the call.”
John hesitated, wondered what could be inside the black envelope. Slowly, he tipped it to the side and caught the necklace sliding out. He didn’t need to see the engraving on the locket to know whose neck it had adorned. Another small object dropped to the floor and bounced off his shoe: Susan’s two-carat engagement ring. John turned on the professor, ready to grab him by the neck and squeeze.
“In the envelope, Jonathan. Look,” Hazelwood whispered.
He let the necklace fall from his hand and peered inside. There was a folded Polaroid. It had caused the lump under Hazelwood’s jacket.
Hazelwood struggled to keep his eyes open. “Go on, Jonathan. Go ahead and look inside.”
John pulled out the photo, the envelope fluttering to the ground.
“I do thank you, Jonathan. Taking her enabled me to find this book. And soon you’ll take its burden from me.” Hazelwood took a ragged breath. “Tell me, Jonathan, when did you know where she was? Was it before or after you walked into my house.”
That smell. Susan’s perfume. He’d been paying too much attention to Hazelwood to realize that it was his fiancée’s. The blood-red words. Hazelwood had caused her death.
John turned the photo over in his fingers, unable to open it and look at the image inside.
“I did what I had to, Jonathan. Isn’t that what you once taught me?”
John unfolded the photo. Susan lay on her back, her eyes open. There was a hole a few inches above her right eye. Blood pooled beneath her beautiful blonde hair splayed on the hardwood floor, the same floor he was standing on.
Shaking, his mind numb, John reached out and wrapped his fingers around his mentor’s throat and squeezed, felt his thumbs denting his larynx, the fleshy tissue stretching under the pressure as Hazelwood’s breaths turned wet. John’s eyes stayed locked on the old man’s face as Hazelwood’s fingers clawed at his wrists. He lowered the old man to the floor and continued to squeeze until he felt his fingers tingle. The life finally left his old friend’s eyes and John turned to the book, which had fallen to the floor. Page 166 was now numbered 1. The words changed color before his eyes.
her, Goodbye, tell, run
The words made chillingly perfect sense.This truly was The Book of Revelation. John walked out of the room and saw his love’s body curled up under a table. He fell to his knees and kissed her cold hand. He said his goodbyes and stifled his sobs. He sat there for hours until his legs fell asleep. Then he lay down next to her and recalled the final word:
RUN
Shades of Death
I wake, the concrete cold against my cheek. Everything’s black. I can’t see my hand even though my palm is touching the tip of my nose.
I have no idea how I got here. I don’t even know where ‘here’ is. I’m indoors, that much I’m sure. I remember being at home, falling asleep on the couch. Someone must’ve grabbed me. Maybe the Feds, but I don’t think so. This isn’t a cell. I smell something cooking. Maybe chicken. Someone says something in Spanish. Julio must’ve found out I can’t ever pay him back.
Seems like my head would be sore from a knock on the head. Or I’d feel bruises. Or I’d be groggy from being drugged, but I can think fine. I just can’t see.
I whisper, “Hello?” My voice bounces right back. There has to be a wall pretty close. I whisper again to the right and then straight up, each time the same echo. No wind, just my voice and the one in Spanish. It’s a guy. He’s laughing now, or maybe he’s screaming.
My eyes start to adjust. It’s not completely dark. On the wall in front of me are the outlines of two large rectangles. It looks like someone carved through the wall with the thinnest laser so just the hint of sunlight could tease me.
I get to my knees. I’m not tied up. I stand and take a step to the left. The tile’s cool against my fingers and a bit damp. I stick out my arm, wave it back and forth as I inch toward the smaller rectangle. There’s no sound other than my shuffling feet now; no laugher, no Spanish, just my hurried breath. I’m close enough to see the rectangle’s a window with a drawn shade.
The fabric’s disgusting and sticky, and I imagine the web of a giant spider whose feet are silently scurrying across the ceiling. I know there aren’t giant spiders that prey on people, but my mind prefers to think of eight-legged death than whatever is on the other side of the wall.
As far as the explanation for how I got here, I’m guessing it’s pretty bad. If it really is Julio, I’m fucked.
I need to know where I am, so I tug and release the shade and the bright fluorescent light from another room blinds me. I assumed I’d see a streetlight or some trees, somewhere to escape.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the harsh light. The other room is larger. There’s no furniture, and there’s a naked Hispanic man cowering in a corner, his belly round and legs so spindly it looks like he might collapse. No sound carries through the window, so I can’t hear his panicked yells as he waves his hand at the two snarling pit bulls in the corner of the room.
The dogs bare their teeth, snap at the man. There’s a speaker above them. The second I see it, the savage barking comes blaring into my ears. It’s coming from behind me, another speaker in my room.
I turn back to the window. The blue brindle drips bloody saliva onto the tiled floor next to a stringy piece of raw meat. The man moves in my direction and I see where that morsel came from; he’s missing a large chunk of his right thigh, the white bone glistens under a layer of shredded tendons and muscle.
The man spots me, and he’s screaming in Spanish. The black pit leaps, clamps its jaws shut on the man’s left hand. It tears through the index and middle fingers, gulps them down like a tasty treat.
The man tries to run, pushes off with his injured leg, slips on the slick tiles, and hits the ground. The pit attacks, but the man kicks out with his good foot, nails the dog square on its nose.
The other pit snaps at the man’s mangled hand, but he draws it back just in time, punches the pit’s massive head. Both dogs are still stunned, and the man’s back on his feet, hobbling toward me.
He waves me away. His mouth’s open, but I can no longer hear his screams. Someone’s controlling the speakers. He’s reaching to the left of the window towards the outline of the larger rectangle. It has to be a door, but I don’t feel a handle. Still, I brace myself against the rectangle. Sorry, but I can’t let in the dogs.
His contorted, sweating face is back staring at me. I can’t look at him. On the back wall behind him are two windows, black shades drawn. In the middle of both there’s a door with a shiny silver knob. I point to it, but he doesn’t seem to comprehend. The dogs are back after him.
The black pit flies through the air, turns its enormous head to the side, chomps down on the man’s right hamstring. The other latches on his arm, thrashes back and forth. The man keeps his eyes on mine, his jaw set and brow furrowed as he drags the dogs toward the glass. The black pit loses its grip, then charges and bites down on the man’s Achilles, snapping it in half.
Somehow the guy keeps coming, bent over like an old man dragging a ball and chain. A chunk of meat tears free from his leg and he stumbles forward. His forehead slams into the middle of the window. I feel the faint vibration, but still can’t hear anything. His tortured face slides down the glass, leaving a trail of sweat and blood. He disappears below the window.
The door shakes. I move back, put everything I’ve got into blocking it. Feeling like a coward, I yank down the shade and throw myself back into darkness. I slide down the door and scream, “Stop shaking!” I’ve never been so scared. I tell myself the dogs aren’t getting through that w
indow. I tell myself the man’s suffering is over.
I wait for a minute. Two. I’m sitting on a damp spot. Is it sweat? Piss? I slide my finger along the floor. I can’t see. It doesn’t smell like urine.
I fucking hate dogs. I got bit when I was three, and I still remember it like it was yesterday. I can’t stay in here and wait for whatever this asshole is planning. Am I next? This isn’t Julio doing this. He’s fucked up, but not like this.
I’ve got to get out of here. Why didn’t I think to look around this room while it was lit? I could’ve planned something. Instead I’m sitting here like a scared kid without a nightlight, not about to open the shade above my head. I’m not daring those dogs to attack.
I get up, drag my hand along the wall and hope I’ll touch a knob, button, something. Finally, I find another shade.
I don’t believe in God, but I’m praying as I yank on the shade.
The room’s identical to the dog room; it has the same two windows at the back, each with a black shade drawn, and the same shiny doorknob. But this time there’s an athletic twenty-something lying on his stomach in the right corner. He’s naked besides a silver necklace, his face buried behind the crook of his muscular arm. There aren’t any dogs.
I knock on the glass, hoping the guy can help. He doesn’t stir. I back up and throw my weight against it. He still doesn’t move, so I do it again, and something pops in my shoulder as I bounce off the window. He twitches.
“Come on. Come on, you big fucker. Get up!”
The man moves his arm, uncovers his face, the entire left side flush against the floor. He opens his eyes and stares at me.
I wave him over. “Come on!”
With the side of his face still against the floor, the guy places both palms on the ground and pushes. It looks like he’s doing some sort of push-up where he keeps his head close to the ground. His neck strains and the skin on his cheek pulls.
Twisted Reunion Page 24