Grant Mckenzie Page 11
Yet to see Davey laughing now sent a bolt of confusion through his brain. Perhaps Davey needed a gentle reminder of what his old pal really was.
45
When the cellphone rang, Sam jumped, his insides fluttering with dread.
‘All caught up, Sam?’ asked the distorted voice.
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Do you want your family back?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s all you need to concentrate on.’
‘I’ve done what you asked.’
The voice laughed, an electronic cackle and hiss.
‘You haven’t even begun.’
Sam stared at Davey who was so lost in another era, a time before cellphones even existed, that he didn’t seem to notice that Sam had been yanked away to the present.
‘What do you need me to do?’ Sam asked coldly.
‘I want him to burn,’ said the voice.
‘Christ!’
‘You have shared the first bottle, now spill the second. Make him burn.’
‘Jesus, I don’t—’
‘It’s either him or your daughter. You choose.’
‘You sick fuck.’
‘I want to hear,’ said the voice. ‘Keep this line open. Let me hear him scream.’
Keeping the phone pressed to his ear, Sam searched the surrounding area for any sign of his tormentor. The only clear line of sight would be from the roof of the warehouse, and that would require some form of night-vision. Although Sam couldn’t see any movement, or telltale shimmers of reflected glass, he could sense the voice’s presence.
Sam crouched to place the phone at his feet and became acutely aware that the garbage containers blocked his view of the roof as he dropped.
With the phone on the ground, Sam tensed his muscles and concentrated on MaryAnn and Hannah. He dug deep within himself, blanking his mind, channelling anger and rage, and clearing all thoughts of Davey as a friend . . . or even a human being.
With a snarl, Sam sprang to his feet and moved quickly in a blind, unforgiving fury. Davey yelped as he was yanked to his feet by the scruff of his coat, his prized yearbook tumbling from his grasp.
‘Wha—’
The protest abruptly became a whoosh of expelled air as Sam’s fist slammed into Davey’s mid-section.
Sam threw the wounded body to the ground between two of the large metal containers. Davey weighed so little that he skidded on the ground and rolled until he hit the side of a container with a hollow bang. As Davey floundered, Sam grabbed the open bottle of rum and sent it crashing at his feet.
Davey held up his hands against the shards of flying glass, eyes bulging, his mouth opening and closing silently like a dying fish.
In a red frenzy of rage, Sam reached into the dumpsters and began throwing chunks of broken pallets and hunks of flattened cardboard down upon the helpless, quivering man.
Davey began to babble, saliva bubbling on trembling lips.
‘IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?’ Sam grabbed the second bottle from his knapsack and smashed it on top of the piled rubble.
‘Please,’ Davey croaked, gaining his voice. ‘Don’t do this, Sam.’
Sam ignored his friend’s pleas and reached down to pick up the yearbook.
He held it over the lighter –
‘NOooo!’
– until the pages caught fire, and then tossed it on top of the alcohol-soaked pyre.
Davey’s ear-shattering screams echoed around the yard as the alcohol burst into white-hot flame with a whoosh that ignited everything. Thick black smoke billowed into the night sky as the dry wood crackled and snapped and cardboard began to dance in the rising currents of furnace-hot air.
Sam turned his back on the raging fire and strangled screams. He snatched the cellphone off the ground. His blackened cheeks were streaked with tears.
‘Did you hear all that?’ Anger seethed into every word.
‘Who’s the sick fuck now, Mr White?’
46
The watcher removed his night goggles and observed the flames, listening as Davey’s screams died into silence.
The screams never lasted long enough.
Never.
The watcher gently placed his hand over his heart, feeling the tight, hairless skin underneath soft, black cotton. He knew well the dangers of fire in the hands of someone who thought they controlled it. From the age of three, he had tasted its vengeful tongue against his skin. There was no part of him that hadn’t been tested.
The devil don’t burn, boy.
His father’s voice whispered in his ear, the speaker so close he could feel warm spittle upon his neck. He closed his eyes, remembering the lessons that shaped his life.
Why does he live in hell, boy?
‘Cause the devil don’t burn.’
That’s, right. We test ourselves; test our flesh. If we burn, we’re pure. And if we scream?
‘We’re pure?’
That’s right. You’ve got to scream to the Lord, boy. Scream to your Maker. Scream for Him to take away your sin and scorch the demon’s caress from your flesh.
‘I don’t feel the pain, Pa. I try to. I really do.’
Satan’s trying to trick you, boy. The pain is in there. Maybe buried deep, but fire brings it out.
The watcher concentrated, wishing the long-dead ghost away.
When he opened his eyes again, he was alone on the roof, the fire still burning below. As he watched, Sam began to walk away, then stopped. His whole body shook and he sank to the ground.
The sound of torment carried on the breeze. The watcher smiled.
‘A lesson learned,’ he said. ‘A lesson to open your eyes, to see who you really are.’
The watcher packed away his night goggles and stood. Dressed completely in black, he remained invisible to prying eyes.
He hummed softly to himself as he walked away, words joining the tune of their own volition, but the voice that escaped his lips was not his own.
‘The devil don’t burn, boy. The devil don’t burn.’
47
Sam sat on the cold, lumpy ground with his back to the smoldering embers of the fire. His entire body shuddered as the rush of adrenalin slowly retreated from his veins.
Thirty minutes earlier, he thought he’d heard the sound of a vehicle crunching over gravel as it retreated from the other side of the warehouse, but he couldn’t be sure.
A low groan drifted from the darkest corner where the two oversized garbage containers met. Sam hugged himself to control the shaking.
The groan grew louder, and then erupted in a series of hacking, wheezing coughs before abruptly stopping. The night was perfectly silent for the briefest of moments.
‘Why did you do that, Sam?’ asked a small, trembling voice.
‘Somebody wanted you dead?’ Sam kept his voice barely above a whisper. ‘And they wanted me to do it.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘You burned my book.’
‘It was either that or you.’
‘You did burn me. My legs are blistered. My shoes are melted.’
‘I needed you to scream.’
Davey snorted. ‘Mission accomplished . . . fuck, it hurts. My skin is raw.’
‘Don’t move.’ Sam’s voice was tight.
‘Why?’ Davey snapped. ‘You not done yet?’
‘He might still be watching.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re fuckin’ useless.’
‘I saved your life.’
‘You set me on fire,’ Davey squawked.
‘Stay where you are until morning, then get it treated. I assume there are places you can go that don’t ask for I.D.’
‘Yeah, so?’
‘You need to keep a low profile.’
‘You don’t get much fuckin’ lower than livin’ under a bridge, Sam.’
‘He found you this time.’
‘You found me.’
‘No. He told me where to find you.’
‘Great. So I need to crawl under a rock, but not the same rock I usually do, and I need to watch out for someone I don’t know.’
‘But you’re alive.’
Davey snorted again. ‘You call this livin’?’
Sam stood and brushed dirt off his pants. The shaking had subsided. He kept his back to the warehouse, his face, mouth, hidden from view.
‘Davey,’ he said, his voice barely carrying, ‘back in high school, did you know a black kid named Parker? He would have been one of the nerds.’
‘Don’t ring a bell,’ Davey said huffily. ‘If you hadn’t burned my book, we could’ve looked him up.’
‘I’ll get you another book, Davey.’
‘Yeah?’ Davey’s voice brightened. ‘For sure?’
‘Yeah,’ Sam promised. ‘For sure.’
48
At the Jeep, Sam tossed his dying flashlight into the hidden storage area as he retrieved his gun and make-up kit. With heavy footsteps, he walked to the driver’s side and slipped the key into the ignition.
After grabbing the bag that contained his soiled uniform, he turned away. In this neighbourhood, the Jeep would be stripped, stolen or burned to the ground before morning.
Walking through the night, he thought of Davey, wondering why he had been chosen as a victim. They hadn’t seen each other since high school. That was nearly a quarter century ago. Sam didn’t know anyone – apart from the old friend he had just set alight – from that long ago. So how could they possibly share an enemy?
A disturbing thought caught him by surprise. The owner of the liquor store had said he recognized him. What if it wasn’t from TV? Could he have attended the same high school, too?
Sam rubbed at his eyes, his skin oily with soot. He thought of Davey’s screams and his own unmasked brutality. Davey could just as easily have died as not. He thought of Zack and how he had not only destroyed his career, but also the way others would always remember him.
If Sam was going to continue down this path, a path so completely out of his control, he needed to know for certain the end could be justified. And that was the monster’s best trick of all, leaving Sam to wonder if his family was even alive.
Sam pulled out the cellphone and dug his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. He returned with a white business card that had a private number pencilled on its back.
He hesitated, his finger tracing a line under the numbers. He took a deep breath and keyed them in.
The phone was answered on the third ring.
‘If this is you, Preston,’ grumbled a groggy voice, ‘I’m going to goddamn-well shit in your hat.’
‘Detective Hogan?’
The voice became instantly alert. ‘Who’s this?’
‘It’s Sam White.’
‘Liquor-store-robbin’ Sam White?’
Sam was caught off guard. ‘Yeah,’ he said finally.
‘Interesting,’ Hogan mused.
‘Is he all right? The owner.’
‘He’s alive, but mighty pissed. I would shop elsewhere from now on.’
‘Good,’ Sam said quietly. ‘I mean, it’s good he’s alive.’
‘Well, he certainly thinks so.’
Sam hesitated again. ‘I need to ask you something.’
‘Go on.’
‘What did the coroner say about the bodies?’
Hogan inhaled sharply. ‘I’m told it takes a while for this work to be done, but we know the younger victim, the child, isn’t your daughter.’
Tears leaked from Sam’s eyes. The official word made it more real that what he was doing was right. His family was still alive.
‘Are you going to tell me who she is?’ Hogan asked.
Sam’s voice trembled. ‘I don’t think that’s my place.’
‘Well, that’s an odd way to put it. She was found in the remains of your house.’
‘Is she a black child?’
‘Yes.’
Sam felt a sharp pain deep in his chest that radiated out to the tips of his toes and the strands of his hair. He thought of Zack and what he had said about wanting to die, but not having the courage to pull the trigger. Was there still hope there? Did Zack believe that like Sam’s family, a resurrection was possible? Sam needed Zack to remain strong, but this news, this confirmation, could shatter him into a billion pieces.
After a moment of hesitation, Sam said, ‘Her father will call when he’s ready.’
‘Oh, so her dad is alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the mom?’
‘She’s the other body.’
Hogan sighed. ‘Did you kill these people, Mr White?’
‘No! Christ, no! How could you—’
‘What? You think that’s a tough assumption to make?’
‘It’s not what it seems. My family has been kidnapped. He’s making me do things . . .’
‘He’s making me do things? Do you know how that sounds, Mr White?’
‘Yes,’ Sam conceded.
‘You should turn yourself in, Sam. I can come get you right now. We can work it out. Get you a good lawyer.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I need to find out who’s behind this,’ Sam said. ‘And stop them.’
‘We can help, Sam. Just turn yourself in.’
Sam snorted. ‘You think I’m psycho.’
‘Hey, prove me wrong.’
‘I’m trying.’
‘Yeah?’ Hogan sighed again. ‘Well, the liquor robbery was a good first step.’
49
‘Shit!’
Hogan had played it too tough. He was supposed to be acting as good cop, being a friend, gaining his trust.
He replaced the handset in its cradle and checked the caller ID. The call was listed as Private and the number blocked.
Hogan dialled the station and asked to be patched through to the tech desk. Once connected with the lone, late-shift techie, he requested a trace on the call he had just received.
‘I don’t need any triangulation hocus-pocus,’ he told the techie to circumvent any grumbling about cops who watched too much TV and thought everybody had C.S.I. and C.T.U. resources. ‘I just need owner ID on the phone and a billing address.’
After being assured the information would be on his desk by morning, Hogan rolled over and spooned the sleeping form of his wife. Her body was warm and her nightgown soft. She stirred slightly as he cupped one breast in his hand and gently kissed the nape of her neck. She murmured something unintelligible and a hand rose to squeeze his fingers before she resumed a gentle snore.
Hogan smiled and closed his eyes. As he tried to get back to sleep, a quote from Alice in Wonderland played in his head: ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’
50
Sam exited a yellow cab two blocks from the motel and walked the rest of the way. The door to the room was locked, but Zack had given him the extra key.
Inside, Sam was surprised to find the room empty and Zack’s bed unused. The clock on the nightstand said it was 2 a.m. Sam turned to the window and looked out. The Mercedes wasn’t parked in its usual spot.
The absence of the vehicle, and the contents of its trunk, made his heart unexpectedly race faster.
Sam didn’t have a clue how he could possibly get his hands on the quarter million he still needed, so what did the absence of the rest really matter? If Zack’s idea couldn’t raise the full amount . . . He didn’t want to finish the thought.
Sam paced the room like a caged animal, stopping to stare out of the window at every turn. He felt himself growing angry . . . desperate.
He sat on the edge of the bed and switched on the TV, but none of the talking heads made sense. He couldn’t concentrate on the words.
He hit the shower, scrubbing the smell of stale smoke, rum and sweat from his pores. After towelling off, he returned to the window. Neon flames licked the pane, flickering reflections
of the motel sign outside.
He waited.
51
Detective Hogan snatched a sheet of blue paper off his desk and grinned at its contents.
‘You know why the paper’s blue, right?’ said Preston.
Hogan glanced up at his partner, waiting.
‘Our late-night techie’s gay.’ Preston touched the side of his nose with one extended finger. ‘But he’s still in denial. He thinks blue paper makes him look more hetero.’
Hogan grinned a little wider. ‘That’s what makes you such a good detective. You’re so full of horseshit, you can grow a tale taller than anyone.’
Preston pretended shock. ‘You wait and see. Once our boy comes out, all your tech sheets will be pink and proud.’
Hogan laughed as he reached for the desk phone and dialled the cell number on the paper.
The phone rang once, and then a recorded message said: ‘We’re sorry, but this phone cannot receive unauthorized calls.’
Hogan hung up and waved the blue paper in front of his partner’s nose.
‘Feel like busting down a door and picking up our elusive Mr White? It’s about time you made yourself useful.’
Preston grinned, showing two rows of healthy teeth. ‘You’re just jealous cause I cracked the blue paper case.’
52
Sam woke with a start, his hand reaching to his hip and feeling nothing but denim. He opened his eyes, the nightmare fading as the weight of reality suffocated all other thought.
He looked to his left and saw Zack sitting on the edge of his bed, still dressed in his soiled suit. His skeletal face looked impossibly thinner, his dark eyes sunk even deeper into their sockets than the night before.
‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ Sam rasped.
‘It was late.’
‘You don’t look too hot.’
‘I’m fine.’ Zack attempted a small, reassuring smile. ‘Nights are the hardest.’
These last words were spoken so quietly, Sam wasn’t sure if Zack meant to say them aloud.