by Tom Savage
They both knew who was in control of this game.
42
The bartender was getting suspicious, and Mark decided it was time to leave. He’d slipped into the dimly lit restaurant after his sprint down the stairs to the mall level just below the movie theater. He’d ordered a beer, which he had barely touched, glancing constantly out the window for any sign of Scavenger. The barman, a big, burly, middle-aged type straight out of central casting for bartenders, had noted his uneasiness. Now he was openly watching Mark, sensing potential trouble of some kind. The last thing Mark wanted was to draw attention to himself.
Mark paid for the beer and left the man a dollar. He got up from his stool and went over to the door, checking once more out the window before opening it. He looked both ways, scanning the crowded mall, but there was no sign of Scavenger anywhere. Then he walked out onto the concourse and proceeded in the direction of the escalators.
There was no way he could get a new gun, or if there was, he didn’t know how, so he had dismissed the idea in favor of another. The store he was headed for would have what he wanted. He had been told to be at his house at midnight tonight, and he was going to be prepared.
He was also going to be early. This was the real reason for the ruse in the movie theater: he didn’t want Scavenger to know what he was doing. Let him worry, for a change. It was about time the shoe was on the other foot, even if it was only temporary.
Mark was remembering the house outside New Orleans and the cemetery in Los Angeles. If Scavenger was running true to form, he would be at the Farmer house hours before the appointment, setting up some sort of surprise. He could even be on his way there now, for all Mark knew, so time was of the essence. He had to hurry.
He scanned the crowds and shop doorways surreptitiously, carefully keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact with anyone. He had no idea when he might run into Scavenger, and no way of knowing whether or not his picture had yet made the newspapers and local telecasts in Chicago. He doubted it, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He couldn’t risk the sunglasses in the mall, though. It was night now, and dark shades would attract more attention than the lack of them. He’d noticed the odd looks in the L.A. airport last night while he waited for his flight, and he’d soon figured it out and taken them off. Sunglasses at night meant you had a black eye or you were a drug addict.
Or someone wanted by the police.
The store he wanted was on the top floor, according to the mall directory. He afforded the crowd waiting at the bank of elevators a mere glance before stepping onto the first of several escalators. People packed together in an elevator fall into two categories: those who carefully ignore everyone and those who carefully study everyone. Even with his short blond hair, he wouldn’t take a chance that some perceptive type might recognize him.
He finally arrived on the appropriate floor. He walked down the corridor and entered the store he wanted. He began looking around, politely shrugging off the friendly, avid salesman who almost immediately materialized beside him. It took him mere moments to find exactly what he had in mind. He took it over to the register and paid cash, marveling at the high prices for such things. Then he made his way quickly back to the escalators.
As he descended, he found himself thinking about Judy Barlow, the girl he’d lived with for most of the time he was estranged from his family. They’d spent their first two years together partying, then the next two in Narcotics Anonymous. They’d gotten jobs, and he’d gone to college, which he’d ultimately finished in New York, after the move. After the murders. Judy had, to all appearances, been on her way out of her self-inflicted hell, as he had been. But then had come the murders, and his decision to leave Chicago. Judy had died just before he left for New York, of an overdose.
Poor Judy, he thought now. But I am different: I am a survivor. And what I have just done here, in this mall, proves it. I am going to survive this.
I am ready for Scavenger.
He arrived at the parking level, pausing to glance at his watch. Eight-twenty. He would leave the car at the Red Rose Inn and walk the four blocks to his former home. He got in the blue Cavalier and drove away from Water Tower Place with somewhat more confidence than he had felt before.
He was now in possession of a good, solid, heavy Louisville Slugger baseball bat.
43
This man is insane, she thought.
Tracy sat back in the chair, trying not to look at him. She was in the same chair as this morning, but at least they had untaped her. Not that it mattered: there was no escaping them. The other one, the big one from this morning, had left during the afternoon, gone off somewhere and not yet returned, but he had been replaced. Another man now stood by the doorway, a tall young blond man she vaguely recognized but couldn’t quite place. He was armed, she knew. She’d seen the holster under his jacket. But the blond man wasn’t her greatest fear. He wasn’t the crazy one.
The crazy one sat across from her now, in an armchair, sipping red wine. There was a glass of it on the table at her elbow as well, but she was afraid to touch it. More drugs, no doubt. He sat there, smiling politely and speaking in a low, clear voice, but nothing he was saying to her made any sense. It was some sort of sick fantasy of his, as far as she could tell, but it involved Mark. His name had been mentioned several times. Something about a game, a scavenger hunt, if she’d heard him properly. But Mark was in Los Angeles. She didn’t understand anything anymore.
And she couldn’t bear to look at this man.
They had offered to feed her, but she had refused, as she refused to touch the wine. She just wanted to go home. But she couldn’t; they’d made that, if nothing else, very clear to her. She was a prize, the crazy one had told her. The grand prize in the treasure hunt. They were all going to wait here tonight—wherever here was—and Mark would arrive tomorrow. That was what he’d said, anyway.
Tracy could only pray it wasn’t true. Why would Mark come here? How could he possibly know these awful people?
And what would they do to him if he did arrive?
What were they going to do to her?
Well, they apparently weren’t going to rape her. That had been her first thought, as it is every woman’s first thought when violence from strangers is suddenly, inexplicably visited upon her. The crazy one had been polite, even solicitous, and the other two men she had seen so far did not seem to be interested in her in that way, either. She had been kidnapped, but now, as it was turning out, the reason for it was apparently Mark. They were playing this game with him. But why? Why Mark, of all people? Just because he’d written that book about those old murders? Was this some sort of bizarre fan club?
The murders …
She thought about that, about everything she’d learned from Carol Grant and the Chicago Tribune. The Farmer family had been killed, slaughtered by—
Now she shrank back in the chair, gripping its arms tightly in her hands. Was that it? she asked herself. Could this demented creature possibly be …
No. No, she assured herself. He’s dead, has been dead for years. Everybody knows that. The Family Man is dead.
So, a fan club. A pack of crazy true-crime groupies with way too much time on their hands. Now, she decided, I should concentrate on getting away from them, finding my way back to Planet Earth.
They were in a big house somewhere in the country, but they were apparently near a town; she’d heard one of them mention that. The big man from this morning had departed, and she’d heard the sound of a car pulling away. Perhaps there were other cars. There had to be; the black van must be around. If she could somehow get to it, or, barring that, simply get out of the house. Then she could run, find the town, get help. Get someone to do something about these people. But how was she to do that? There were at least two of them here, perhaps more. And she was alone. She had no weapon, no recourse. No hope, unless …
Mark. He had told her he was going to Washington to do research. But the research was unnecessary, as far as she
could tell; he was supposed to be finishing another novel entirely. Besides, he had also gone to New Orleans and Los Angeles.
And he was armed.
The odd facts had already occurred to her before this. Before these people had drugged her and bundled her into the van. What if he really was doing what this creature said he was doing? What if he really was on his way here? But why? The whole thing was …
Insane. Like this man before her.
As she continued to stare at the carpet at her feet in an attempt to avert her gaze from him, the insane man smiled, took another sip of the blood-red wine, and started his bizarre story again from the beginning. She tried to block out his voice, feeling the horrible combination of terror and frustration once more welling up within her. A single tear made its way slowly down her cheek.
Oh, Mark, she thought. Mark.…
44
The black clouds hung in the sky over the Great Lakes region, obscuring the moon. There was a chill, a dampness in the air that made Mark think the rain would come very soon. Only the street lamps and an occasional porch light illuminated his way as he walked.
And here was the street at last, where he had once lived with his family. A dead end: there were only five houses, two on each side and the Farmer house on the lot where the street actually ended. Big trees lined the walks, and there were more around the handsome, well-appointed homes, each set well back from the street on a two-acre lot. Lights shone from the porches and curtained front windows of three of the other houses. The last house on the right and the Farmer house at the end were the only two that were completely dark. Behind the Farmers’ big backyard was a wooden fence, and on the other side of it was public property, the edge of the grounds of an elementary school. The entrance to the school was on another street, and a virtual forest of oak and elm hid the distant buildings from view. Now, at nine o’clock, the cul-de-sac was silent.
He didn’t want to be here. Here, he was Matthew Farmer, not Mark Stevenson. And Matthew Farmer was dead. Buried with the rest of his family in the cemetery he’d visited this afternoon. He felt like a ghost, a dead man standing on this sidewalk, looking down the road at that dead house.
Scavenger was not here yet.
Mark made his way down the sidewalk to the empty lot of the house on the right and walked up onto its front lawn. There were two huge oak trees, one on each side of the walk leading up to the now-deserted house. There was a FOR SALE sign near the porch. The family that had lived here when he was growing up were the Friedmans. They’d had two sons about his age, but he and his brother and sister were not allowed to play with them because they were Jewish. Reverend and Mrs. Farmer had grudgingly allowed them to play with the Methodist children down the street—at least they were Christians, however misguided—but Jews were to be avoided. Reverend Farmer had even looked into possible ways to get the Friedmans to sell their property to his church, but they had refused. Mark—Matthew—had secretly admired them for that.
The Farmer children had not been allowed to play much, in any case, as their church duties were fairly constant. When they reached their teens, they were rarely allowed out of the house at all.
Now, all these years later, the forbidden property of the forbidden people would serve him well. The oak tree on the right nearly abutted the Farmer lot, and he could conceal himself behind it and wait.
And wait he did, for nearly an hour in the cold, damp, pitch-black night, peering through the darkness at the house next door, his house. He set the baseball bat down on the grass at his feet and leaned against the rough bark of the oak, watching. The wind rustled the leaves above his head, filling the air with a constant, low sound. This place was not dead, after all: it was whispering to him.
It certainly gave the appearance, the illusion of death. The windows of all three stories of the elaborate wooden Victorian mansion had been boarded up by expensive professionals, and the front and back doors were locked, padlocked, and rigged with a delicate, costly alarm system.
He knew about the cost: he’d had the boarding-up done and the electronic alarms installed himself. But even the realtor who had occasionally rented the place, like the surveillance company, didn’t know his new identity. She had merely been given a box number in New York City, and she addressed all correspondence to “Owner #43,” as per his instructions. Forty-three was the street number of the house. He had a messenger service check the box once a week and forward any correspondence from the realtor to a second box number, which he checked from time to time. It—this house—was his only remaining connection to Matthew Farmer. But no one had sought to rent it in years. The last tenants, some five years ago, had stayed a mere six months before fleeing, claiming the house was haunted.
Well, perhaps it was. If anyone could convince the Almighty to let him stay and guard his own house on earth, it was Reverend Jacob Farmer. But Mark did not believe in God—and even if there was a God, Mark doubted He had much use for the Church of the True Believers. A truly perfect God would let that charlatan and all his followers rot in hell.
When he felt he couldn’t stare at it anymore, he turned his attention from his former home to the corner down the street. He watched the intersection for some time, waiting for the green rental car to appear. After a while, he slid down to sit at the base of the tree, and he nearly dozed off. He was suddenly tired, numbed by the memories of that house next door, the house he’d grown up in, run away from, returned to on that rainy Christmas morning.…
He checked his watch again: it was a few minutes before ten. Where was Scavenger?
This question brought with it an idea, and he acted on it instantly. He’d been intrigued, wondering exactly how the man with the scar was going to get into the house, now a veritable fortress of boarded windows and alarm systems. But now he had a better idea. He would go inside and wait for Scavenger. It didn’t matter how Scavenger got into the house: he’d already proved to Mark’s satisfaction that he could do anything he wanted, go anywhere he wanted. Locks and alarms were nothing to him. Scavenger would get in somehow.
And Mark would be waiting for him.
Then he was up from the base of the tree and running, sprinting across the Friedman lawn to his own, the bat clutched firmly in his hands. He circled the house to the back, heading for the one entry he knew would be easiest.
There was a cellar entrance to the left of the kitchen door at the back of the house, and Mark remembered the combination to the padlock. It was the only access to the building that was not rigged for an alarm. He could enter here, go down the stairs to the cellar, and up the inside stairs to the kitchen.
He did so, locking the slanting door behind him: no sense making things easier for his opponent. Let him find his own way in. He descended the stone steps into the pitch-black cellar, wishing he had a flashlight, or even a book of matches. No matter; he knew his way by heart. Across the empty, dank room, through a door, and up the narrow wooden staircase to the kitchen door. It creaked as he swung it open and stepped into the kitchen. He paused in the middle of the empty room, getting his bearings in the dark.
There was no need to bother with the light switches, although the electricity in the house was still active because of the alarms; he knew every square inch of this house by heart. Now, in the dark, he imagined this room as it had been years ago, brightly lit and filled with the aromas of cooking. It had always been the domain of Mrs. Tornquist, their widowed, live-in housekeeper, who was a devout member of his father’s congregation. Despite her strict piety, she had been a cheerful woman, even warm, and she had always treated him and his brother and sister kindly. His mother rarely entered the kitchen, leaving all the household chores and decisions to the other woman, and his father was far too busy to ever come here. It had been, he thought now, the most cheerful room in the house. The only cheerful room, he amended.
He was here again, in the house, and the rest of it was around and above him, cloaked in darkness and silence. The living room and dining room where
the children were rarely allowed, his father’s home office where the children were never allowed, the six bedrooms, the attic. It had always been a quiet place, this house of strict rules and strict religious devotion where the sound of laughter so infrequently rang out. But now, all these years later, with all the other occupants so long gone, it was quiet as the grave. And yet…
It was then that he heard it. He held his breath, straining his ears to listen. It was very faint, almost a whisper, and at first he thought he was imagining it, remembering it. But after a moment he knew that what he was hearing was real, and that it emanated from somewhere in front of him, at the front of the house. It was coming from …
The living room, he realized. Of course.
“Jingle Bells.”
He froze: everything inside him seemed to turn to ice. It was the same music, the same recording, that had been playing in this house on that cold, rainy Christmas morning. He’d used it in Dark Desire, the only scene-of-the-crime music he hadn’t been able to bring himself to fictionalize. He stood in the dark kitchen, unable to move, to think, to breathe. He almost dropped the baseball bat on the linoleum, grasping it firmly at the last possible moment before it fell.
It was this action that galvanized him. Raising the bat up before him with both hands, he moved slowly forward through the swinging door into the dining room. He was aware that the hands clutching the bat were trembling, and there was a roar, a rush of blood throughout him, pounding in his temples and his chest. He crossed the empty room to the opposite door, the entrance to the living room. Unwrapping the shaking fingers of one hand from the bat, he turned the knob and pulled the door open.
After the darkness of the rest of the house, the sudden, brilliant light assaulted him. He sagged against the doorframe, trying to blink the red spots away from in front of his eyes. When they dispersed, he opened his eyes and stared around the room.