I would, actually; get the blood sugar fired up. I pulled into the rest stop and parked. I watched for a few minutes, and no black SUV followed me in.
Well, if they could assassinate a president, or someone important, they could probably afford a second car.
On impulse, I opened the back door and took the rifle out of its box. I propped it up diagonally across the passenger’s seat, then left the car unlocked and went to get my coffee.
I took my time in the bathroom, then got a coffee and a pastry. I stood and enjoyed the block of crumb cake with apricot filling, watching the car from the rest-stop foyer, in air-conditioned comfort. Just as I finished the crumb cake, a fish took my bait.
A stern-looking state trooper watched me saunter out with my half-finished coffee.
“Is this your car, sir?”
“Yes, it is.”
“You left it unlocked with a weapon in the front seat.”
“Really?” I took out the keychain and pushed the button twice. The car honked. “Good grief. Careless of me.”
“Well, be more careful, sir.” He walked away, without asking for my license and registration. What kind of a police state is this? How do you know I’m not headed to Washington to shoot the god-damned president?
I hoped he at least had written down the license plate number or taken a picture. Maybe he had one of those microcameras in his hat.
But I put the ignition key in and turned it, and nothing happened. Took it out and tried it again. Then a big dark shape pulled up behind me and stopped.
A state police tow truck.
The cop came back with a friend, a very stern-looking woman with a Smokey-the-Bear hat and her left hand on the butt of the automatic pistol that rode too high on her hip. The other hand hovered over a spray can on the right side.
Her voice was a staccato chirp: “Sir, we have to ask you to come out of the car and keep your hands visible please.”
“Sure.” I opened the door slowly and eased my tired bones out. “What else can I help you with?”
“Are there any other weapons in the car?” he asked.
“No—yes! I mean, not in the car. In a suitcase in the trunk, there’s a gun.”
“Would you please open the suitcase and show us? We won’t confiscate it without reason.”
Even with reason, I wondered whether they were on shaky legal ground. Could they make you open a suitcase without a warrant? The rent-a-cops at airport security did it routinely, so maybe they were covered.
I opened up the suitcase and stepped away before she could order me to. “Take a look.”
The snub-nosed revolver was in sight on top of the clothes. She searched through them anyhow, and didn’t find anything else interesting.
“Have I broken a law here?” My half-formed plan was to get the police suspicious enough to follow me. Hopefully without throwing me in the slammer.
The male officer took off his sunglasses, revealing soft features in a big round face. “There is a law against creating an ‘attractive nuisance,’ sir. A nice rifle begging to be stolen qualifies, I think.”
“So I could be arrested for somebody else’s theoretical lack of moral fiber.”
“You’re not being arrested, sir,” the woman said. “Though I will issue a warning to you.” She reached for a notebook very slowly, I guess so as not to spook me in case I had yet another gun squirreled away. She asked the other officer what the code was for “attractive nuisance,” and he didn’t know either, so they settled on 999. They gave me the warning and abjured me to have a good day, and please put the weapons where they weren’t in plain sight.
The warning wasn’t a citation. It was somebody’s brilliant PR idea—a smiley face with “Friendly Warning” printed across the top. No name or license number involved, how friendly. I probably wasn’t in any state police computer for it.
The tow-truck door slammed and then there was a solenoid click down by my starter switch. So they could turn off this car’s engine by remote control, which I’d known was true in a couple of states. Another reason to stick to bicycles.
I did put the rifle in the trunk but also, perhaps unwisely, took the .38 from the suitcase and slipped it into the front door pocket, tucking a map over it for camouflage. Not that I was going to quick-draw it from the driver’s seat, with my left arm incapacitated.
It was right next to the plastic wallet with Grant Harrison’s identification. Maybe I should have used it. Remember this name, officers. It will be in the papers soon.
My fingers tingled and so did my toes, a not-completely-unpleasant feeling I remembered from combat. Like feeling a change in the weather: a shitstorm may be gathering, but at least it won’t take me by surprise.
I studied the parking lot, feeling a little sheepish, and didn’t spot any tanks or snipers. I touched the EST. TIME button on the map, and numbers appeared under route lines. I was five hours from Huntsville. Figure on stopping there for dinner and a rest.
As I pulled out of the parking area, I told the phone to recharge itself from the car’s system while I drove. It had one message, which had come in while I was being interrogated by the Smokies.
We will call you with instructions this evening at eight o’clock your time. You have to be checked into a motel or hotel by then. You might want to get some rest.
That was thoughtful of them. It would put me on the other side of Huntsville, but 8:00 was late to be looking for a room. I’d start looking well south of the city.
The phone buzzed, and I picked it up wearily. So soon. “Yeah?”
“Hey, babe. What’s up?”
The voice was only vaguely familiar. “I don’t know. What is up? Who are you?”
“Break my heart, babe—this is Ron! Ron Duquest, the only guy between you and a million bucks.”
“Jesus! How on Earth did you get this number? I just got this phone.”
“What do you mean?” he said. “You e-mailed me the number this morning from . . . Missi-fucking-sippi? What the hell are you doin’ down south?”
What should I or could I tell him? Of course we were being overheard, at least my side of the conversation. I chose my words carefully. “Unlikely as it sounds,” I said, “I’m doing a little thing for the army. Secret.”
“The army? I thought you hated them.”
“What can I say, Ron? Their money spends.”
“That’s great, babe. But what about me? And my money? The army takes precedence over my monster?”
Jesus. “Didn’t I just send you a chapter?”
“Jack, yeah, you sent me a chapter, like a week ago.”
“Couple of days,” I said.
“The monster’s got the bikin’ guy,” he said. “He’s about to fuckin’ eat him, and the cops are closing in while he sharpens the fuckin’ knife, and you have to do a job for the fuckin’ army? One of us is crazy, man, and I’m sure as hell it’s not fuckin’ me!”
I had to smile in spite of everything. “It’s me, Ron. I am totally fuckin’ bug-fuck.” I checked my watch. “Look, I’m about to knock off driving for the night. I’ll stop at a place with Wi-Fi and do you a couple of pages.”
“You got to, man! I gotta know, does he eat the guy—no, don’t tell me! I wanna agonize!”
“Okay, Ron. I’ll do as much as I can.”
“Do more! I wanna know what happens to this fuckin’ freak!”
“Do what I can,” I repeated. “Talk to you tomorrow.” I clicked it off and tossed it on the seat. A big sigh surprised me, and then I had to laugh.
If you only knew, Ronald. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Using the term loosely.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hunter removed the tape from his victim’s mouth slowly but gently. This one was also athletic, but not as skinny as the girl last month,
good.
Hunter had duct-taped his wrists and ankles. He pushed the bandana that had been covering his eyes up onto his forehead. “If you make any noise, I will blind and gag you again. But I will hurt you first.”
“Okay,” he said hoarsely. “I understand.”
“I do want you to understand,” Hunter said. “I want you to know that what’s happening to you is special.”
“Thank you.” His eyes tracked all around the trailer. A library of science fiction and popular science paperbacks in floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Large old medical books, anatomy and physiology. A too-large billiard table took up half the floor space.
Hunter crouched and lifted the table’s false top of green felt, not straining. Underneath, a metal surface with blood gutters. Its white enamel had been scrubbed, but stains persisted.
“This will not be an autopsy, despite appearances.” He opened a drawer and took out a plastic case of glittering scalpels and a pair of surgical saws. “Autopsies are for dead people. This will be more like a very thorough physical examination.”
“At the end of which I’ll be dead?” His voice quavered.
“We shall see.” He took large shears out of the drawer and advanced on his prisoner.
“What are you doing?”
“Preparation.” He started with the left arm of Steve’s T-shirt, scissoring it open to the neck. Then he did the other side, slowly, shearing it all the way to the waist. The ruined garment fell to the floor. Then he snipped open his biking shorts, leaving him clad only in a jock strap and incongruous running shoes.
He looked up defiantly. “Does that do it for you? A helpless victim gives you a hard-on?”
With a thumb Hunter pulled down the front of his own shorts, exposing nothing. “Not really.”
He stared. “You’re not . . . aren’t you . . .”
“There’s something there. Not what you might expect, and small.”
“What . . . are you?”
“Not human. You will have to die for knowing that. But you would die anyhow.”
Steve’s body was pale as wax under black hair. “What . . . what will you do?”
“Eat you, ultimately,” he said in a playful tone. “You are prey, after all, and I caught you, fair and square.”
“No.”
“It’s not a movie, though, so you won’t have to watch as I consume the minor pieces. I will kill you more or less quickly, and feed on you for several days. As you would a cow or a pig.”
“No,” he said, lying inanely. “I’m a vegetarian.”
“Another one. Do you think carrots feel no pain? You tear their skin off and chop them up into—”
Someone pounded on the door. “Open up in there!”
Hunter picked up the shotgun in the corner, smiling calmly. “A friend of yours?”
The rapping resumed and he stepped toward the door. As Steve shouted, “He has a gun!” he pointed the shotgun at about chest level and fired one deafening blast, and then two more, blowing the flimsy trailer door to pieces.
The gunstock had an elastic band that held ten or a dozen shells. He reloaded three and then kicked out what was left of the door, and stepped through blasting.
Steve could hear rifle shots and then a burst from a submachine gun. He saw Hunter jump from the top step.
For a couple of minutes there were more shots, and the sound of men shouting. Then it was quiet, and a short man wearing SWAT armor lumbered through the door with an assault rifle. “You all right, sir?”
“I’ve been better.” His voice was somehow flat and calm. “Thank you for coming.” He looked out the door. “You killed it?”
“Oh, yeah. I hit him twice myself, and he walked straight into a shotgun blast right after.”
“So it’s dead?”
“Gotta be.”
From farther away, a short spat of automatic-weapon fire. Then a shotgun barked twice, and a third time.
“Hope so.”
EPILOGUE
The coroner of Ilsworth County, Georgia, has done hundreds of autopsies, but never one of such a huge person, and he’s not looking forward to it. Mountains of messy fat to slice through before you get to the organs. But he prepares the body and makes his first incision. Then he staggers back, dropping the scalpel.
Inside, there’s no fat, and not a single organ he can identify. Some of them are shiny metal.
Its eyes snap open.
10.
Never thought I’d be homesick for a Holiday Inn. This rustic-looking place was Mom’s Home Away from Home, which brought to mind Nelson Algren’s three rules of life: “Never play cards with a man called Doc. Never eat at a place called Mom’s. Never sleep with a woman whose troubles are worse than your own.”
Never sleep at a place called Mom’s. And, I guess, never play cards with a man whose troubles are worse than your own, and for god’s sake, never eat with a woman called Doc. Unless you’re going to be sick, I suppose.
I couldn’t sleep anywhere, anyhow. Worrying about Kit.
At least you could write at a place called Mom’s, if you’re writing a cheesy monster novel. I finished lucky chapter thirteen. Hunter joins the ranks of the Undead.
I’d started out writing with the .38 sitting on the desk in front of me, but it was too distracting. I’d just look at it and worry. I started to put it under the pillow, but didn’t want to smell the gun oil all night, and try to sleep with the lump. Finally, I put it on the floor, slightly hidden behind the bedspread. I could still snatch it in a second.
Eight o’clock came and went with no call. I supposed they actually gained more by not calling; keep me in suspense. And for all they knew, I might be sitting in a police station or FBI office somewhere, waiting for the phone to buzz so the authorities could trace the call and rain cowboys all over their ass.
I hoped that the night’s distracted writing would satisfy Duquest. Would it be gory enough? I was more into disgust than horror.
I tried to ignore the feelings left over from trying to sleep while worrying about murderers and listening to bugs scuttle in the night. I did finally get a few hours’ sleep, but woke up feeling crawly. Crawled upon.
Quick shower and hit the road. When I turned on the shower and a thin stream of brown water came out, I was almost able to laugh. Instead I called the office, and a yawning old man came down with a key to another room, with a shower that worked. Beige water, tepid.
He acted miffed. Who would want a shower with clean water?
Turned out the place didn’t have Wi-Fi, though the sign said it did—the same sign that promised clean, comfortable rooms. I’d get back on 85 and use the first rest stop. Maybe it would even have a shower, dream on.
The main reason for stopping at a little place was to be able to check the parking lot at a glance. No big black SUV with a bullet hole.
If it had been there, though, what would I have done? Call the cops? Take out the rifle and wait for a target of opportunity?
That’s what we called it in the desert. Though that sounded inappropriately cheerful. It was rather the opposite of “opportunity” for the guy on the other end. No more opportunities.
I remembered a poem, “Dealing in Futures,” written by a soldier friend, about all the futures he had destroyed. Maybe somebody he killed would have found a cure for cancer, a car that runs without gasoline, an end to war. I read that before I was drafted, but even then, my reaction was “but maybe the soldier you decided not to kill has the bullet with your name on it.”
That was always on the top of my mind in the desert. I didn’t hate the enemy; in fact, I sort of admired them. But they can’t know that, and any one you spare might be the instrument of your own doom. “Kill ’em all,” said a slogan on my grandfather’s helmet cover in his war; “and let God sort ’em out.” He didn’t believe in God any more than I do, but h
e did believe in the power of statistics. The Law of Large Numbers was a phrase I remembered him using. If there’s a large number of soldiers out there absorbing bullets, maybe you’ll be the one who gets missed. Or something.
This enemy now, perhaps I should hate. They’re probably after me just for profit, hired by someone who has political motivations. Of course they’re not killing me, to be precise; just putting me in a position where somebody else can. As Uncle Sam did as my graduation present, all those ten years ago. Perfectly legal.
Maybe I should just walk out to the highway and stick my thumb out. Take me anywhere, as long as it’s out of this bizarre life. But for Kit.
Went back to my own room and turned on the television, but the only channel that worked was Random Colors & Static. Turned it off and jerked open the end table drawer. It had an old King James Bible. I opened it and flipped through to Matthew, which had pretty good poetry. But I came to a verse that stopped me in my tracks—
“And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.” Good grief. I was glad it didn’t say left hand.
There was a polite knock on the door. I went to open it, and as I pulled on the knob, thought of the .38 sitting on the floor ten feet away.
An older man in a coat and tie and an attractive woman, maybe thirty, wearing a tailored white outfit. A nurse’s uniform?
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Out,” the man said. “You’re going out.” He stepped aside, and as I leaned to close the door, the woman kicked it open and shot me in the chest.
I staggered back and looked at my chest. There was a dart there with bright red feathers.
“Damn it,” the man said. “I said not the chest!”
I took one very shallow breath and collapsed.
11.
It was not unpleasant as long as I didn’t wake up. People moved me here and there, I knew, and I seemed to always wind up in the same places. A quiet hospital bed in a dark room. A huge warehouse where invisible people walked around me. Sometimes a railroad car that I think came from some movie. It rocked along uneven rails and I knew that there were Indians riding alongside, but I would be okay as long as I didn’t open the curtains. For the longest time I was up in some future, lying forever in a bed, I think waiting for immortality.