“No, he’s not. He’s on the move. You have to stop him, stop him somehow. You have to …”
She jerked a hand to her throat and ripped the golden heart and chain from her neck. She thrust it at him, a thing that had been buried for a year and should be crawling with mold and putrefaction from her decomposing body. But no, it was real, she was real, the blood was real. It smelled like hot salt water, this ocean of blood.
“Remember our love, Jonathan. Use this to fight him.”
Jonathan scooted sideways, keeping distance between her and himself. He came to the open door and stumbled back into the bedroom. She advanced on him, looking like a skeleton wrapped in baggy flesh. Her face contorted and for a moment she looked like a lost child. Then she lunged at him.
He staggered backward, falling on the bed with her cold wet mouth clamped over his, he screaming, making her floppy cheeks bellow in and out, spilling blood over him, dribbling it into his mouth, smothering him with decay …
… and he lurched up out of sleep with a scream that rattled the windows of his dinky apartment and would surely bring the wrath of his neighbors down on him, lousy landlord or not.
He sat up, his body sticking to the sheets with sweat. There was a dark drool of saliva on the pillow. The television produced the electric snow of a station off the air. It looked to be around five in the morning, the sun outside not yet ready to climb the sky, content instead with backlighting orange and purple clouds against the framework of the horizon. Jonathan wiped a shaking hand across his forehead. God, but these dreams were getting weird.
Something cold nudged his left hand, and he looked down.
Alison’s gold heart and chain lay on the sweat-soaked sheet, bloodless, looking as new as the day he had bought it. He drew back with a yelp, as if the heart had burned him. Then he regained control and picked it up.
“Jesus,” he whispered, and clamped his fist tight around it. It did not burn and there was no blood on it. Perhaps only the lingering aroma of Alison’s perfume from the day at the practice field when she had fished him out of the GatorAde. The day they fell in love.
Remember our love, Jonathan. Use this to fight him.
He disentangled himself from the sheets, confused, barely able to think. Alison had been here. The heart was proof positive. It was also proof impossible, because Alison was no more now than a gape-mouthed skull working on her second year in the grave. She had not been here.
He opened his hand and looked at the golden heart on its slim chain. He hesitated, then cautiously lifted it to his nose, expecting all manner of rot and stench.
Her perfume. Nothing more.
He got out of bed, ready to make the best of a day that would probably turn out bad anyway.
Chapter •
Nine
The day was indeed rather horrible, as were the next two. When Friday came Jonathan called Coach Cooper and told him he was quitting the team. The coach said he was crazy and ought not to make prank calls. Jonathan told him he had to see this Pinker thing through to the end, and hung up while the coach was still pleading and begging him to either change his mind or see a psychiatrist or both.
Saturday rolled around. Jonathan stalked around his apartment, occasionally scratching his head while a whirlwind of thoughts churned through his brain. He sometimes dropped into a chair only to get right back up again to resume pacing. Where was Pinker? No way of knowing. Did he die in the wreck with the others? Anybody’s guess. Did he even exist anymore at all? Again, no way of knowing.
He passed the bathroom, lingering a moment to relive the crazy nightmare with the bleeding apparition that had been Alison. The tub was clean, the porcelain glistening. Blood did not drip from the walls anymore, possibly never had. The crazy nightmare was a nightmare, and nothing else. But what about the golden heart and chain?
Explanations currently unavailable. Some things are best left alone and unexplained, because thinking about such impossibilities could lead to brain damage, manic obsession, lunacy. The heart and chain were in the pocket of his Levi’s, where they would stay. Perhaps in a year or two he would begin seriously to ponder this miracle, but for now it seemed wiser to keep the old head screwed on tight and the thoughts under control.
He went back to pacing, waiting. Waiting for what? No idea.
Someone knocked on the door, making him jump. He walked over and reached for the knob. Probably some pesky kid selling magazine subscriptions or the like. Or even an insurance salesman, God help us.
He looked through the peep hole first. Someone vaguely familiar was outside, a white face that looked somehow sick. The pasty skin was sheened with sweat.
“What’s your business?” Jonathan asked.
“Police, Jonathan. Your father, Lieutenant Parker, wants to see you down at the station. I have a car out here.”
“What’s he want me for?”
“Don’t know. He just said to get you.”
Jonathan shrugged to himself. Tooling around town in a cop car had to be better than this endless pacing. He began to unlock the door. The phone rang. The cop outside banged on the door again. Jonathan rolled his eyes. For three days, nothing. Now the place was Grand Central Station.
“Don’t you here me in there, Jonathan? Open up?”
Bang bang bang. Ring ring ring. Jonathan discovered he had lost the ability to make simple decisions. He wavered between the door and the phone, wondering stupidly which one he ought to answer.
His answering machine ended his dilemma. He heard his own voice tell the caller he was out right now, and please leave a message after the beep.
It beeped. Don Parker’s voice blared through the machine. “This is your dad, Jon. I thought I’d call you and tell you about that prison guard you wanted to see so badly, that Chadwick guy. It seems he’s disappeared from the hospital. Nobody can figure out how, because he was pretty well banged up. I just wandered if you, uh, knew anything about this. Ah, the hell with it. Sorry I called.”
Click.
Bang bang bang.
Jonathan looked through the peephole again. Chadwick, or not Chadwick? Who really gave a shit?
He discovered he was looking down the barrel of a gun. The rifling inside was visible as faint spirals that led to a bullet. He jumped sideways just as Chadwick fired. The peephole blew apart in a noisy explosion of glass and wood, showering Jonathan with sawdust. More holes sprouted, hammering the door like machine-gun fire. The smell of sawdust and bitter gun smoke grew heavy in the air.
The doorknob fell off.
Jonathan found he could make decisions again. He turned and sprinted for the back door, threw it open, and ran through his backyard, around the house. Perhaps the old Chevy would start today. Either that, or this would turn into that old Alfred Hitchcock trick: hero frantically dives into car, sticks the key in the ignition, car goes chugga chugga chugga while the bad guy gets closer. Please start. Oh please please please start.
Chugga chugga chugga.
Jonathan rounded the house, no longer considering the Chevy and its dubious battery. Chadwick was still busy blasting the door to splinters. His brown prison uniform was tattered and frayed. He was minus a shoe. His tangled hair stood out from his head like wires.
He spotted Jonathan and turned. Jonathan did a quick about-face as he fired. A chunk of the house blew apart. Then Chadwick was coming, coming. Jonathan sprinted across the front yard, hurdling the fence like a pro while bullets bored smoking holes in the grass behind his feet. He was across the street as the fence jangled; Chadwick was laboriously climbing over it. Jonathan looked back, realizing that this Chadwick chap was not in the best of shape. He appeared to be moving by sheer force of will alone. Either that, or someone else was moving him. Chadwick got over the fence and staggered forward again, dragging his left foot, the bare one. He pointed the pistol at Jonathan, pulled the trigger, but all that came out was a very satisfying click. He howled with outrage and dug bullets out of his pistol belt. He jammed them inside with
hands that were obviously shaking.
Jonathan used the time to put distance between him and the shambling thing that had been Chadwick. Murdock Street was on the left, leading toward the Maryville city park. He poured on the speed, sweating a little himself. This was no fun at all.
The gun began firing again. Jonathan ducked and dodged. Bullets sparked off the sidewalk, leaving tiny craters in the cement and ricocheting away with high, discordant whines. It was clear to Jonathan that Chadwick had not visited the target range for a long time. His pistol probably hadn’t been fired in ages. This was all very fortunate, because even though Jonathan was running as fast as humanly possible, the inhuman thing behind him was staying close. Between shots Jonathan could hear him panting, hear his good foot slap the sidewalk, the bad one scrape along, doubtless raw and bleeding by now.
He came to the edge of the park, where a few people were leisurely strolling, a few were on blankets having a picnic, and a pair of heavy petters were sitting on a bench to the right, deeply engaged in mutual exploration. Jonathan swept past them while bullets chewed holes in the grass around him. The lovers looked up, startled. In fact the entire population of the park was gaping at Jonathan and his strange new shadow, Super-Chadwick.
Jonathan shouted over his shoulder as he ran, knowing it was useless but giving it a try anyway. “Chadwick! Why are you after me?”
To his surprise, Chadwick was kind enough to answer him. “You shut your goddam face, shithead! Get down on the ground now!”
What a grouch, Jonathan thought. “Pinker? Is that you?”
“No, it’s the Avon lady, Jon-boy. Who do you think it is?”
Jonathan didn’t need to answer. It was all quite clear now. He ducked behind a tree while Chadwick decorated the trunk with holes, then took off again while he reloaded. Soon enough the pistol started popping again. Jonathan wondered just how long this mad chase would go on. Chadwick was obviously running low on energy. His breath rasped in his throat like sandpaper against steel. Sweat was running off him in a steady flow of drops. Jonathan laid on the speed, sensing victory at last.
Something stung him then, stung him on the shoulder like the world’s largest wasp. He gasped with pain. Now blood was running down his arm in scarlet streamers, dripping from his fingertips. It looked brilliantly red under the glare of the midday sun. Jonathan felt himself getting woozy.
The shooting stopped. Jonathan glanced back.
Chadwick was slapping his belt, looking for bullets that were no longer there. He howled with animalistic rage and threw the gun at Jonathan. It thunked against his back and fell into the grass, no longer deadly, mission accomplished. Chadwick took a few more steps, then pitched face-first into the grass, as spent as his pistol. He raised his head.
“Hey, kid! Help me! Please help me!”
Jonathan stopped, turned, and appraised this new Chadwick doubtfully.
“Kid! Please help!”
Jonathan frowned. “Chadwick? Is that really you?”
“Yeah. How did I get out of the hospital? Where am I?”
Jonathan walked cautiously back to where he was lying, keeping a good bit of distance between them. His breath pumped up and down in his throat, seeming as hot as the sun. He wiped sweat from his face. “Chadwick? Do you feel like yourself again?”
Chadwick merely moaned. His face was almost as red as the blood running down Jonathan’s arm. Jonathan felt a wave of pity for him. None of this had been his fault.
Someone shouted behind him. Jonathan whirled, expecting all manner of bad news, but it was only a balding fellow in a blue jogging suit. He trotted up, staring down at Chadwick. “What happened to that guy?”
Jonathan thought about it. What could he possibly say? “He … uh …”
He glanced back.
Chadwick was scrabbling at his own ankle. Jonathan saw the gleam of gunmetal.
Ankle holster. Old Chadwick was just full of surprises today.
Jonathan went wearily back to the duck-and-dodge routine. Bullets hissed past him, hitting trees with small explosions of wood, hitting grass and blue sky. He heard the jogger squawk behind him, and looked back.
Chadwick had shot the man in the chest. He hit the ground with a thump. Chadwick began crawling toward him.
Jonathan found that he didn’t care all that much. All he wanted was never to see Chadwick again.
He got his wish.
Fifteen minutes later he sagged against a bench at the other side of the park, breathing hard, trying to recuperate from the marathon run with Chadwick. His bullet wound throbbed with each beat of his heart, shafting pain down to his fingertips. He looked at his shoulder and felt the world go gray momentarily. Blood was still pulsing out of the jagged bullet hole and his tee shirt was in tatters there. He sat down, feeling light-headed and faint.
Something crashed against his ankle. He jerked upright, imagining Chadwick ready to strike again, but it was only a little girl on a tricycle. “Sorry, mister,” she said, while Jonathan hopped around. He managed to smile at her.
“That’s okay, sweetie. No harm done. I think you just hit my funny bone. You should take it easy on that thing, though.”
She nodded. “I will.”
He watched her go, thinking that at this rate he would be jumping at shadows for the rest of his life, expecting Pinker around every corner. He shook his head, swearing to himself that it would never happen. Paranoia was for other people, not Jonathan Parker.
Jonathan Pinker?
No. Parker. Period.
He turned and went down the sidewalk, heading home to wash out his bullet wound and see how serious it was. It came to him that he should call Don and tell him about the jogger getting shot, but it might be a safe bet that someone else had already done it. Chadwick had made enough noise during the chase, and a few minutes ago there had been a siren blasting away somewhere nearby.
He came to a bend in the sidewalk and stopped. The little girl’s tricycle was heeled over on its side, one wheel still spinning. The bushes to the right were jostling. Jonathan frowned. What could she be doing in there?
“Hey, kid,” Jonathan called, trying to spot her in the thick hedgerow. “Are you okay?”
Nothing. Then the jogger in the blue outfit staggered out. There was a circle of blood on his chest about the size of a dinner plate. He took another step. His eyes rolled up to show nothing but the whites. He pitched forward, smashing face-first against the sidewalk. Jonathan jumped back with the glassy taste of fear filling his mouth. Nobody could possibly run the length of the park with a bullet in his chest. Unless he were superhuman. Or … not human at all.
Her name was Amanda and she was a sweet and innocent girl: blond hair, big blue eyes, and a Cupid’s bow for a mouth. At this time none of that even mattered, because she wasn’t feeling like herself right now. She hadn’t felt like herself since the jogger in the blue outfit with the circle of blood on his chest had grabbed her and dragged her into the bushes. She had tried to scream, but then something strange happened, something electrical and smoky, and now all she could do was grin, her eyes narrowed down to black slits, her little hands clenched into fists.
She saw a huge yellow bulldozer about half a block away, where the hedges ended and the road began. Workers had been tearing up the street lately for no discernible reason. The road crew looked to be out to lunch. Amanda grinned her evil grin as she ran toward it. Her left foot dragged, as if perhaps someone had shot her through the knee a long time ago. She came to the bulldozer and clambered up to the driver’s seat, moving nimbly, like a small blond monkey. She started the huge diesel engine, worked two levers while black smoke roared out of the exhaust. The dozer jumped forward, chewing up big chunks of asphalt under its massive treads, but this was not enough for Amanda. She opened her Cupid’s bow mouth and screamed.
“Come on, you sucker—MOVE!”
It moved. It clawed over the curb. It bounced onto the grass and Amanda poured on the steam, her hair flapping in the wi
nd, her teeth bared in a grimace of insane delight. She came to a small sapling and crushed it, howling with laughter.
She turned and headed straight for the bushes where the jogger had grabbed her.
Jonathan stumbled backward, unable to take his eyes off the dead man in blue. He barely noticed when a woman drew up beside him. She gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. She turned to Jonathan. “Is he dead?” she asked through her fingers. “Heart attack?”
Jonathan shook his head. “He took a bullet to the chest.”
She regarded Jonathan, openly frightened. “You mean you shot him?”
“No.”
“But look at all the blood on you. Was it a duel or something?”
“Of course not. We both got shot by the same guy.”
Her face went ghost white. “My little girl was riding that tricycle.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted. “Amanda! Where are you?”
Jonathan heard the belch of some huge engine nearby but disregarded it. The lady was going bonkers, wandering away and screaming for Amanda. The engine noise noise grew louder. Too loud to bear.
The bulldozer smashed through the bushes, howling and blatting, and headed straight for Jonathan, a screaming yellow demon guided by a seven-year-old lunatic. He dived out of the way, performing a double somersault on the sidewalk. The dozer’s right tread crunched over the dead jogger, spraying blood and gray clots of brain across the sidewalk.
It turned, the tread lubricated by the fat the jogger had intended to lose. Jonathan jumped up with hot exhaust blasting at his face. He decided this was the time to do some real running. He sprang into the hedgerow with the bulldozer a few spare feet behind him; after wildly clawing his way to the other side, Jonathan took off for the center of the park as fast as his legs had ever carried him. The bulldozer howled behind him, gaining speed.
Jonathan looked over his shoulder. His adrenaline surged, but he knew it was hopeless: the world’s fastest runner pumped full of steroids could never outdistance the bulldozer, which charged forward doing a good thirty miles an hour. It drew inexorably closer, close enough that Jonathan’s heels were kicking against the lower lip of its sharp metal blade.
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