A Catch in Time Page 9
She knows Mack’s out there, Conrad thought, as terror overwhelmed him. Fear weakened his legs. From outside came the wheezing of an engine, with the slow rhythm of a low battery. Conrad saw the woman’s eyes lose focus as she tilted her head toward the sound.
Conrad couldn’t keep his eyes from the ghastly, mutilated forms at the Formica table. Insanity. The woman had shot her own parents, then propped them at the dinner table.
Outside, the engine made another slow turn, then caught, coughing and popping. Please come inside, please, Mack. The engine sound changed. Conrad refused to accept what he heard. The car was moving around the house, to the driveway, to the road. NO!
He heard a chuckle as the rumble of the car diminished.
His vision narrowed with fear. For a moment, the crazed woman appeared two-dimensional, a cutout under the harsh overhead light. He watched the glinting barrels of her shotgun.
“Well, well,” the woman said, loudly. No more raspy whisper, now. The anger in her voice threatened as much as the twin-barrels. “In this house we don’t have to be asked twice to sit down to a meal. SIT!” She gestured with the gun. “Your friend out there didn’t have no manners. In this house, that would have earned him a missed meal.” She snorted laughter. She backed to the sink, her expression sly as she waved them to the table.
A hand clutched Conrad’s arm, and he yelped in terror at the unexpected touch. That sent the woman into gales of demented laughter. He looked down at Mohammed’s horrified face.
The woman’s laughter stopped, and she indicated with the gun for him to be seated.
He moved on shaky legs, but Mohammed again grabbed him, trying to stop him from approaching the atrocities at the bloodied table and was pulled forward with him.
Mohammed cried out and let go.
Abruptly released, Conrad stumbled against the table, the mutilated faces of the dead suddenly on level with his own. Bile seared his throat.
Straightening up, he stared at the woman, who stood at the counter. She was looking past him at Mohammed. “You too,” she said to the boy.
Conrad opened his mouth. “He doesn’t speak English.” His voice cracked.
“He’s a foreigner?” she shrieked. “You brought a damn foreigner to my table?” Her white-ringed eyes glared at Conrad, then shifted to Mohammed. “Course he is just a boy,” she remarked, almost to herself, in a voice gone freakishly gentle. “A pretty boy, too, ain’t he? Why’s he got that rag on his head? Is he hurt?” Her voice shifted again, crooning to Mohammed. “Come on, sugar-sweets, come to Auntie Dilly, come along now, sugar-doodle.”
Cradling the gun, she moved slowly around the table. Three feet separated her from Conrad, and he held his breath. Her lips pouted, crooning endearments of insane tenderness to Mohammed.
Horrified, Mohammed stumbled backward and was now closer to the darkened interior of the house than he was to the back door.
She took two more steps toward him, wheedling, “Here sugar, sugar,” in a kitten-calling voice.
Mohammed lurched toward the dark doorway. Her shot was deafening percussion as she blasted the doorway. Certain the next shot would rip through him, Mohammed stopped, anchored in terror.
Conrad’s ears rang so loudly that he hardly heard the second crack. The woman’s face transformed to a red smear. Her cranial contents were flung against the wall and over the counter. Her body fell onto Conrad as he frantically backpedaled. She slid to the floor, smearing blood and bits of flesh down his shirt and jeans.
Mohammed wailed but Conrad couldn’t take his eyes off the newest corpse, backing away until he was against the wall. Movement at the doorway speared his attention: Mack, a black pistol in his hand, lowering it to his side.
Ears roaring, he moved toward Mack on wobbly legs. Mohammed’s lips moved, but the sound was muffled, distant.
Mack’s head jerked to the side.
Dazed, Conrad followed Mack’s line of sight toward the inner doorway, aware of Mack’s gun swinging upward. A small blond child barely registered in his mind when he heard Mack’s gun go off again. The child flew back, chest exploding, as it landed somewhere in the dark room beyond.
Conrad turned away, lurched past Mack, ran through the mudroom and down the worn wooden steps. He reached an old fence, and held onto the splintered wood. Further thoughts simply would not come.
They raced down the dark, empty highway in a twenty-year-old Buick with worn suspension. An occasional snuffling came from the backseat where Mohammed sat curled. Mack drove casually, wrist over the wheel as he explained how he’d rigged the steering and accelerator of the other car and sent it off down the road while he’d crept back around the house. Conrad listened and stared into the night, unutterably grateful to be alive.
Mack was ebullient. Conrad didn’t interrupt. He was safe, hurtling through the night, miles away from horror. He pushed aside an image of the child in the doorway, chest exploding when Mack fired. Mack hadn’t said anything about that killing, and Conrad didn’t bring it up. Was it the crazy lady’s child? They’d never know. Mack heard a noise and shot, Conrad reasoned. He couldn’t have known it was a child.
Mohammed huddled in the backseat, wiping his runny nose on one sleeve. They’d gone back to the plane to change clothes before going to town. His clothes hadn’t been soiled like Conrad’s, but they’d reeked of that awful room. Mack had put his suitcases in the trunk of the car while he and Conrad were changing. Mohammed wished now he hadn’t left his turban behind to air out. He’d never felt so alone in his life and longed for its comforting familiarity. He glared with aching eyes at the two men in the front seat. Conrad had betrayed him and Mack was evil.
Conrad had forsaken him in that butcher’s lair and would have done nothing, nothing to stop that she-devil from attacking him. He remembered the fear he’d felt when the woman had come at him and Conrad had let her. He could have jumped on her when she had her back to him. Conrad’s betrayal was so complete that Mohammed could not imagine what had led him to expect more.
Mack was even worse. Mohammed envisioned Mack’s face when he’d shot the second time. The delight, the satisfaction in his eyes! Mohammed hadn’t known at first whom the second bullet had pierced. He’d watched Mack raise his gun and pull the trigger. Turning, he’d seen the destroyed child. And when he’d looked back at Mack, he’d seen no remorse, only joy. Mack had known he’d killed a child, and it had made no difference. The joy of killing was all that mattered. Revulsion shuddered through Mohammed.
He thought about the last two weeks of travel, first just with Mack and then with the addition of Conrad. He’d gladly left Tunisia with Mack. His mother and sister were dead, his uncle vanished, the country in chaos. His new understanding of interconnectedness had buoyed him. All earth was his home, and whomever he met was his brother or sister. He had let himself feel, for the first time in his arduous life, like a child; carefree, dependent. But no more. His two-week childhood was over. And of what use was the knowledge that had freed him if people still turned their faces from Allah, she-devils lurked in darkness, and men like Mack and Conrad ignored the teachings of the prophet?
Except for the words of the prophet, Mohammed was alone.
They ate in a bar on the edge of town. It was crowded, noisy with laughter, a contrived pre-blackout oasis.
They took a booth, and Mack insisted on drinks before they ordered dinner. The waitress brought a pitcher of beer, two frosted glasses, and an Irish coffee, which Mack indicated she should set before Mohammed. The waitress hesitated, then shrugged and placed the coffee drink before the boy.
Conrad’s sip of beer turned into gulps, and he emptied his glass before setting it down. Quickly, his legs grew heavy, and he found himself feeling light and happier. A jukebox blared country music. This is how things should be. Enveloped in familiarity, he thrust away recent terrors. He refilled his glass and topped Mack’s.
Mack’s eyes glittered as he drank, and he enjoyed the memory of the woman’s face explodi
ng. His fingers twitched around his glass. He saw again the child’s blasted body flying backward into darkness.
Mohammed sat next to Conrad, his thin hands wrapped around the hot mug of whiskey-blended coffee.
A smear of cream lined his upper lip.
“Isn’t liquor against his religion?” Conrad asked.
Mack shrugged. “So what?”
“So maybe he doesn’t know it’s in there.”
“So what?” Mack refilled both their glasses. “You think we’re corrupting him?” He smirked. “What is corruption, really?”
Conrad thought. “Making something good turn bad, I guess.”
“And how is a little whiskey going to turn that boy bad?” Mack’s light eyes shimmered. “There are too many rules. Maybe rules are okay for certain people, or for certain times. Don’t swear, don’t fuck, don’t kill—but there’s a time for all those things.”
Conrad jerked at a memory of the madwoman, her shotgun, her pulped head falling toward him. He gulped his beer.
“Sometimes, killing’s good, Conrad.”
Aware of noise and music and color around him, Conrad knew he wouldn’t be here if Mack hadn’t shot the woman. He raised his glass. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.
As Mack gave the waitress an order for three steak dinners, Conrad turned to Mohammed. His head was bent over the coffee mug. “Hey, Ali,” he said, nudging the boy, “how you doing?”
Mohammed shifted away, his eyes flat and unsmiling. He didn’t care to understand whatever Conrad had said to him.
Conrad had grown fond of the boy shadowing him. Now, not only was Ali ignoring him, he was almost falling off the edge of the booth to avoid even touching him. Conrad put his hand on Mohammed’s shoulder. “Hey, Ali, are you okay?”
Mohammed dipped his shoulder from beneath the hand. “Way cool,” he said, flatly.
Conrad looked into Mohammed’s face and realized, Of course. The kid went through the same hell I did, no wonder he’s acting goofy. He was just a kid, what a nightmare that must have been for him.
Wanting to show his concern, Conrad tapped Mohammed’s mug. “You want more coffee, Ali?”
Mohammed nodded, not looking up, so Conrad added it to the order.
Mack squinted speculatively at Mohammed. He didn’t like this new, sullen attitude. Maybe he ought to just smack the look off his face.
Mohammed’s face reminded him of their difficulty leaving his hot, chaotic country. Everywhere, frantic people had impeded their path. Mohammed’s uncle, whose broken English had been sufficient to act as translator, had vanished, and Mack had found himself stranded, surrounded by tides of people who hadn’t the slightest interest in him. During those first hours, Mohammed had attached himself to Mack, and as the gravity of being trapped in a foreign culture whose ranks had closed against him became clear, he’d found himself relying heavily on the boy. He remembered feeling—grateful?
Mack drained the last of his beer, looking over the rim of his glass at Mohammed’s bent head. Grateful? He couldn’t remember what gratitude felt like, only that it had caused him to keep Mohammed with him. He was realizing that he couldn’t remember any of the feelings he’d had, though memories of the passing days remained intact.
Truth? He’d needed to get the hell out of there, and that dirty little Arab had only made it a little easier. I didn’t need the little shit then and I don’t need him now. I don’t need anybody.
Except to kill.
The thought electrified him, surged icy heat through his veins. This was what he was all about. His fingertips tingled with power.
His eyes darted between Conrad and Mohammed. What a game he could play in the coming days. And they’d never know it. Maybe he should drop hints, see which one of them caught on first. He grinned when ‘he saw Mohammed’s eyes, flat and emotionless, turn to him.
Mack winked, not caring that Mohammed remained impassive. No matter. Only he mattered, he and this delicious new thing that coursed through him.
One old thought came to mind. When did this happen?
He let it go.
CHAPTER 17
MONTH 2
ALONE IN THE PRODUCTION BOOTH, PHIL WINSLOW spliced the tape. The discarded segments held a great deal of excellent footage, he thought, regretfully. The whole damn thing was great. Before the blackout, it would have been pure gold. But the bosses had new guidelines for gold, and Phil wasn’t about to blow his recent promotion. Hell, he’d just skyrocketed to the fucking top.
He squelched an impulse to add ten seconds of a major shoot-out at the docks. “People need reassurance, stability,” the bosses instructed. “They see enough death right outside their doors. We’ve got to offer them a place to escape.”
Bernie Campbell nicked his attention with a wave from the studio floor.
Phil held up five fingers, then a thumbs-up. Campbell nodded, turned away, and Phil watched him join Carol. Together, they bent their heads over her clipboard. Campbell put his hand on her shoulder.
Phil’s lip curled. Campbell was such an ass, throwing his weight around. Before the blackout, he’d been weekend sports anchor. And he now controlled more airtime than Anderson Cooper once had.
Phil knew exactly what he wanted to isolate in the next few minutes. Almost time to go on the air, and it’d be his responsibility if they didn’t make it. By some freak of luck, he’d been in the right place at the right time. The ground floor, going up.
Just follow orders, minimize graphic violence and death. But still broadcast news. Piece of cake … or tape.
The studio was busy, nothing like those first days after the blackout when it was only him, and Carol, and James Walsh. People had trickled back in, some to find their old jobs waiting, others unsure of what lay in store. On the sixth day, James Walsh had wandered out and never returned. Phil missed him a little. Sure, he hadn’t been the same as before, but he’d still been Walsh. Not stupid-ass Bernie Campbell.
Finding the bit he wanted, he cued it, checked the clock. One last time to review the bite: a middle-aged woman wearing a gaudy dress and beaded shawl, gold hoops dangling from her ears. The bite caught her mid-sentence.
“… they are Shaitan. Shaitan. First the blackout filled our world, now the Darkness is upon us, and the Darkness has spawned the Shaitan.” Her piercing, mad eyes glared directly into the camera. “Fools who call themselves ‘experts’ say the Shaitan are just people who were driven mad by the second blackout. They’re wrong. The Shaitan are evil. Evil, evil, evil.”
It was pure poetry, possibly the signature sound bite of the decade, destined to be rebroadcast on every major station for weeks to come. And it was his.
“How long will it take us to get there?” Kate asked from the backseat. Donner Pass was covered in snow and Laura was driving carefully. A lone snowplow had recently cleared one of the eastbound lanes, but snow was already reclaiming the road.
“I’m not sure how far it is,” Laura said.
They’d left San Francisco two weeks ago and had spent the past three days in an abandoned cabin, where they’d taken refuge from a blizzard. This morning they’d resumed their journey across the Sierras. The plan was to reach Reno before nightfall, but it was dusk and they still weren’t through the pass.
Laura’s hands tightened on the wheel, trying to avoid being mesmerized by oncoming snowflakes in the tunneling headlights. She focused grimly on the taillights of the Cherokee as it disappeared around a curve. Eli’s and Josiah’s truck was even farther ahead.
“What if Reno’s deserted?” said Kate.
“It is not deserted,” Catherine said firmly. She sat in the front passenger seat, hands folded in her lap. “The snowplows are evidence of that. Many people fleeing California will have found this to be the best route out of the state and Reno will be a place everyone will gather.”
“You think that the one preaching station we got at the cabin is all there is? I hope Reno has some stations that are playing music and news.”
Catherine sniffed. “Things couldn’t possibly be back to normal.”
“Look!” John Thomas cried, his face pressed to the window. They’d rounded a curve, the truck and Cherokee already headed downhill. In the distance, the glow of Reno reflected off low clouds.
“They have electricity,” exclaimed Kate. “Hot water. Showers!” She grabbed John Thomas’s hand. “You ready for some fun, honey? What say you and me paint the town?”
“Yellow.” John Thomas laughed, delighted. He’d never even painted a house, much less a whole town. He could imagine himself and Kate dashing down streets with buckets of paint and dripping brushes. He leaned past Kate toward his brother. “You wanna, Lucas, huh? That’d be fun, huh?”
Lucas looked back solemnly. It sounded like a lot of work. “No. You paint, John Thomas. I wanna do video games.”
Laura glanced in the rearview mirror. Kate was looking out the side window, acting as if she hadn’t even heard Lucas.
“I bet there’s lots of video games, Lucas,” Laura said. Kate’s coldness toward Lucas puzzled her and she tried to pinpoint its origin. Lately, Kate barely acknowledged Lucas, lavishing all her attention on John Thomas. Laura felt sorry for Lucas and annoyed at Kate for her obvious favoritism.
Lucas, however, was not bothered at all.
He was as oblivious to Laura’s thoughtfulness as he was to Kate’s indifference. In Lucas’s world, there was only himself and John Thomas, and between them stretched a dark, bonding conduit. John Thomas needed it for familial security; Lucas used it as a conduit for control. He was learning to bend John Thomas to his will, though John Thomas made that easy. Lucas didn’t know how to manipulate the grown-ups yet, so he tried to avoid them. He modeled his behavior toward them by mimicking John Thomas.