Slaves to Evil - 11 Page 2

  Could it be the decayed cops? Had he given himself away somehow?

  He ducked between the buildings, hugging the wall. He sprinted for a Dumpster down the alley and dove behind it, ignoring the howl of pain from his shoulder. Carefully he peered back toward the street.

  It was a girl. Not the female cop, not any cop. Just a girl with curly dark hair, wearing jeans, a gray hoodie, and a long black coat who might or might not be legally able to drink. She showed no signs of decay. She stepped forward cautiously, clutching a revolver too big for her hand, looking for him. She made no effort to take cover herself. This girl obviously wasn’t a pro. She didn’t appear to be on Mr. Dark’s team. So why the hell was she shooting at him?

  Matt stayed still. She would look behind the Dumpster pretty soon. She’d probably lead with the gun, the way people in the movies always did. He silently tensed, ready to spring. Slow footsteps approached. Blood oozed from his shoulder. Please, he thought, let her be a movie fan.

  The barrel appeared first. Matt lunged forward, twisting the gun out of her grip. She stumbled back in surprise but didn’t fall. He showed her the revolver, now in his hand, but kept it pointed away. “Don’t move,” he said. “Let’s stay calm.”

  The girl didn’t look calm, but she wasn’t scared either. She was pissed.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Elena Donatti. Peter was my brother.” She announced it defiantly. Clearly the name was supposed to mean something to him. He searched his memory. The searing pain in his shoulder made it hard to think.

  She saw him drawing a blank. “What? You kill so many people you lose track?”

  That hurt. In the nightmare of his postresurrection life, Matt had been forced to kill people who were under the Dark Man’s influence. Only with no other option. Only to save a life.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said.

  “You impaled him with a fucking tire iron, that’s what happened,” she spat.

  The image brought back a painful flood of memories from the parking garage in North Carolina. He remembered whom Elena was talking about, a tattooed young guy who had taken significant damage and just wouldn’t go down. He’d lost an eye but still came at Matt with a broken bottle. Matt had only a tire iron for defense. He doubted whether yet another strike to the head would accomplish much. He raised it, then drove the sharp end into the man’s chest. It pierced his rib cage with a sickening wet crack. The guy…Peter, his name was Peter…looked down at himself with genuine surprise. He had looked so young.

  Matt closed his eyes for a second, trying to block it out. He faced Elena. “I’m sorry.”

  She blew out a snort of air. “Well, that makes it OK.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Right.” Her dark eyes were full of hate.

  What else could he tell her? The truth? Your brother was touched by the embodiment of evil, and his soul, for lack of a better term, started rotting. Which only I can see, by the way. He’d seem even crazier. Matt was very conscious of how he looked right now, like he was robbing this woman, or worse. The sound of her shot had probably attracted attention. Not to mention that he had a fresh gunshot wound to attend to. He had to get moving.

  The real problem was Elena herself. If he left her here, he doubted she’d give up and go home. She might get another gun and come after him again. Or worse, enlist the help of the local police. Matt needed to stash her somewhere she’d be safe but unable to do any harm, and before the decaying cops showed up responding to the gunshot.

  A hotel room? No, too many people around.

  He remembered the boarded-up building he’d seen from the bus. That might work. Of course, it was all the way across town.

  He pointed the gun at Elena. “We’re going to start walking. If you try anything, or say anything to anybody, I’ll shoot.”

  This was a total bluff, but she didn’t know that. He hoped. Matt took her arm with his left hand. His right still held the revolver. He couldn’t carry it out in the open like that. Sticking it in his pants seemed like an accident waiting to happen. He painfully maneuvered his hand with the gun into his jacket pocket. He still wasn’t comfortable with guns, despite being forced into a better acquaintance with them.

  He nudged Elena and they walked. He led her out of the alley, stopping to pick up his duffel. Matt moved them along the street. He felt extremely conspicuous, as if everyone would know instantly that he was kidnapping this woman. How the hell had it come to this?

  Good question, he thought. He turned to Elena. “How did you know?”

  “Know what?” she asked, cautious.

  “Who killed your brother.” Everyone who could have seen him there that day was dead.

  “You made a mistake. You didn’t finish him off right away. He lived long enough to tell the paramedics who you were.” She seemed proud of it. So there was probably an arrest warrant out for Matt in North Carolina. He wondered how many he’d accumulated by now.

  A male pedestrian approached from the other direction. Matt tensed up, tightening his grip on Elena’s arm. He felt sure that she’d signal to the man somehow. But the man only gave them a pleasant smile as he passed. Matt could exhale. Until the next pedestrian.

  He focused back on the conversation. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “We did. They’re ‘looking into it.’” Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  “So you checked me out on the web,” he guessed.

  “You were a big story for about a minute and a half. A miracle.” She shot him a glare. “People have been posting these sightings, like you were Bigfoot or something. I kept missing you by days, just a few hours once. But this time, I got you.”

  He glanced down at his hand on her arm, silently questioning that statement. Of course, the searing pain of the gunshot wound in his shoulder supported her point.

  After a nerve-jangling walk through town, they reached the building he remembered. It was set decently apart from the nearest occupied business. He led Elena to the back of the building and released her arm. “Stay there.”

  He dropped his duffel and unzipped it. He pulled out his ax. Elena drew in a sharp, involuntary breath. Matt saw her staring at the weapon with horror.

  “No, it’s not… Never mind.” Great, he thought. Now he was an ax murderer. With his good arm, he swung the blade toward the thin plywood covering a window. It splintered easily. A couple more blows and there was an opening big enough for a person. He put down the ax and took the gun from his pocket. He gestured toward the window with it.

  “Climb in.”

  She did. Matt followed more awkwardly, since he had to keep her in sight and hold the gun while not straining his wounded shoulder too much.

  They were in a bare room, maybe twenty by twenty feet, with sickly green carpet and off-white walls. Matt nodded to the corner. “Sit down.”

  Elena sat. Matt sank down against the wall opposite her, setting down the revolver beside him. He took off his jacket painfully. The right side of his shirt was one big bloodstain. He peeled the shirt away from the front and back wounds. His shoulder hurt like hell, but he didn’t think any major blood vessels were damaged. If he was going to bleed to death, he would have done it already.

  “Sorry,” he said to Elena. “I think I’m going to live.”

  He needed antiseptic and bandages, not to mention a lot of painkillers. Of course, he didn’t have much cash or any way to earn more. Between his original mission to stop an evil police chief, the added complication of more rotting cops, and his new hobby of kidnapping, his schedule was pretty full.

  He turned back to his captive. “I don’t suppose it would make a difference if I told you I was here to keep some bad people from hurting anyone?”

  She looked back at him, impassive. “Say whatever you want.”

  Matt nodded. “Yeah. If somebody killed a person I loved, I’d feel the same way. But I need you to know that I didn’t kill your brother out of anger or greed. He w
as involved with some people who were planning to blow up a mosque…”

  Elena was already shaking her head. “Bullshit. Pete would never do something like that.”

  “He wasn’t thinking straight. Somebody got to him,” said Matt.

  “No,” she snapped. Was he hitting too close to something?

  “The guy I’m thinking of is pretty persuasive. Especially with people who have problems of their own.”

  “Shut up!” Elena shouted. She stood and took a step toward him.

  Matt stood as well, holding the gun at his side. “Don’t.”

  She stopped, seething with anger. He kept his voice calm. “I had to stop them. It was the only way.”

  Maple Grove, North Carolina

  It had seemed too obvious when Matt discovered MrDark.com, a blog about one man’s struggle to suppress his violent impulses, a side of his personality he called “Mr. Dark.” Still, it was the only potential lead on the Dark Man he’d come across for weeks. The blogger had referred to his hometown of Maple Grove, so Matt decided to track him down. He’d caught a ride with an obliging long-haul trucker who had confided his family’s homemade sausage recipe in far too much detail. The secret ingredient, Matt discovered, was cumin.

  The MrDark.com blogger turned out to be an overweight fifteen-year-old boy who fantasized about beating up the bullies who regularly tormented him. He was rot-free and more pitiful than dangerous. But while in town, Matt had discovered a real threat.

  Maple Grove was a divided community. The minority population of Muslim Middle Eastern immigrants was kept at a cool distance by the conservative Christian majority. The recent opening of a new mosque had generated plenty of controversy. Worse, a Turkish store owner had been viciously beaten to death, with no apparent motive beyond sheer hatred.

  Matt encountered the men of the Patriot League at their softball game against the Shriners. The Patriots wore red, white, and blue uniforms. The catcher and three other players showed visible rot. One of these was Elena’s brother, Peter, with two full sleeves of tattoos plus several patches of gangrenous, decaying flesh.

  Matt attended the next league meeting, expecting a fiery, anti-immigrant mob rally. It was surprisingly civilized, even dull, with the angriest speeches reserved for the greedy restaurant owner who had overcharged them for the awards banquet. The decomposing men sat together quietly near the back. He approached the group after the meeting, asking if any of them could point him toward a job.

  Brady, a squat, muscular man in his forties, whom Matt would later identify as their de facto leader, shook his head ruefully. He looked at Matt from two empty sockets where his eyes should have been.

  “Sorry, friend. You can try the textile mill, but they’re not hiring these days.”

  Another Patriot muttered sourly, “They hired plenty of ragheads.”

  Matt felt the others watching him. He gave a derisive snort. “Same story everywhere,” he said. “No jobs left for Americans.”

  The men nodded in agreement. He’d passed the first test.

  Elena’s sharp voice intruded. “Whatever you’re going to do to me, get on with it already.”

  “I’m not going to do anything to you,” said Matt.

  “Great,” she answered. “Then let me go.”

  “I can’t. You’ll try to kill me again.”

  She didn’t deny it.

  Matt went on. “I have something I need to do here. Then I’ll leave. I’ll tell someone where to find you. You’ll be fine.”

  But he’d already spotted the problem with this plan. Once free, Elena would probably keep coming after him. He’d just have to deal with that when they got there. “For now,” he told her, “I need for you to stay put. I have to get some things.”

  Matt had no rope in his duffel. The best he could do was tear a T-shirt into strips and knot those together. He used that to bind Elena’s hands and secure them to a doorknob. There was nothing else in the empty room to tie her to. When he finished, he double-checked the knots, wondering how long they’d hold.

  Elena saw his uncertainty. “Wow,” she said. “You suck at this kidnapping thing.”

  He faced her. “Thank you. That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Matt headed to the local big-box store with sixty-two dollars and fifteen cents to spend. He picked up antiseptic, bandages, and extra-strength ibuprofen. He was getting hungry. Elena was probably hungry too. Of course, she might not accept any food he gave her. That would be up to her, he thought, as he picked up a jumbo pack of granola bars and several apples.

  He was more concerned that the makeshift rope wouldn’t hold. For all he knew, she’d already worked herself free. He needed something sturdier. He moved on to the hardware section.

  Matt surveyed the selection of rope. He tugged on some nylon cord. Too stretchy. Would chain be better? He wondered whether this was what serial killers did on the weekend, went comparison shopping for the best restraints.

  “I favor handcuffs myself.” The voice was right beside him. Matt jumped, startled. It was Mr. Dark, dressed in khakis and a plaid shirt, with a baseball cap perched jauntily on his skull. “You can get them at the local S and M shop. They even have some lined with fur. For her pleasure.”

  “What do you want?” Matt muttered.

  “Just offering some advice on the care and feeding of captives.” He leaned in close and Matt smelled his vile breath. “Take it from me—they’re more trouble than they’re worth. I say kill her now.”

  Matt recoiled. “I’m not going to kill her.”

  “Yet.”

  “Ever,” he insisted.

  Mr. Dark nodded thoughtfully. “So you’re going to let her kill you. Interesting strategy.”

  “No,” said Matt. “I’ll find another way.”

  “Such as?” Mr. Dark faced him with bright curiosity.

  Matt was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know yet.”

  “I do.” He put his arm around Matt’s wounded shoulder, hugging him close. Matt tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron. “I’ve gotten to know you since your unfortunate death. And I know that when it comes right down to it, you’ll save your own skin. Even if it means wasting your pretty little prisoner.”

  He grinned. Then suddenly he was gone. Matt didn’t move. The Dark Man was wrong. Yes, he’d killed in self-defense, but the deliberate murder of a young woman with no decay and an understandable grudge was something else entirely. He wouldn’t cross that line. He wouldn’t.

  Matt grabbed the nylon rope. He also picked up a camping lantern and a couple of fleece blankets on the way to the checkout. He stopped at a water fountain to refill his bottle. That, at least, was still free.

  He returned to the building. Elena was still tied to the doorknob. The T-shirt rope had held up surprisingly well. She’d obviously spent the time he was gone struggling to free herself. Her wrists were raw and bleeding.

  Matt pulled the hydrogen peroxide from his shopping bag and approached her. “Let me look at your wrists.”

  She kicked out at him viciously, barely missing his ankle. Matt backed off, raising his hands in surrender. “Fine.”

  He sat down across the room and tended to his own injuries by lantern light. He cleaned and bandaged the entry and exit wounds. One benefit of his resurrection—he’d become a quick healer. Didn’t make it hurt any less, though. He took several pills with a gulp of water.

  He turned to Elena. “You should drink some too. And have something to eat. Can I get close enough to untie you?”

  She considered this and decided some cooperation was worth it. “OK.”

  Matt picked up the revolver, which was still resting on the floor. He shouldn’t have left it in the room with her. He really did suck at kidnapping. Now he tucked the gun into the back of his pants. Elena still needed to think he might use it.

  He untied her hands, watching to make sure she didn’t grab for the gun. He put a granola bar, two apples, and t
he water bottle on the floor beside her and stepped back. They both ate quietly. Matt knew he should say something, use this opportunity to…do what? Try to talk her out of avenging her brother? He didn’t know if that was even possible. He suddenly wanted Janey ferociously. She was always better at this kind of thing, soothing hurt feelings, sweet-talking the salesman into a lower price. She’d know exactly what to say.

  “You probably have to pee, don’t you?” Matt winced as he heard himself. Smooth, Cahill, he thought.

  But Elena nodded. “Yeah.”

  “OK.” He stood, holding the gun at his side as before. “Let’s see if there’s a bathroom.”

  She walked ahead of him out of the room and into a hallway lined with doors. She looked behind a couple and found the bathroom. There was no running water, but it would have to do. He nodded for her to go in. As she tried to close the door, he held it open.

  “I’ll be right here,” he reminded her, then turned to face the other way. He heard her pull down her jeans and sit on the toilet. A pause, then a stream of liquid hit the bowl. Matt thought this might be the most uncomfortable moment of his life. Elena finished. No tearing of toilet paper. No flush. Just cloth sliding back over hips.

  “Done?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Matt turned back toward her. He motioned for her to walk first back to the room. He took another stab at conversation.

  “Does your family know where you are, what you’re doing?”

  “No,” she said. “They think I went back to college.”

  “You know they wouldn’t want you looking for revenge.”

  They stepped back into the room. Elena turned to him. “Actually, Dad’s more concerned about whether Mom will try to OD on pills again when she comes home from the hospital.”

  Her words were like a physical blow. She kept going, wanting it to hurt more. “She always denied it, but Peter was her favorite. I don’t think she’ll ever get over losing him.”

  At that moment, Matt hated himself. As horrible as he’d always felt about ending human lives, no matter how corrupted by darkness, this was a new dimension of guilt. How much grief had he caused, for how many families? They’d never know the circumstances, just that their loved ones were gone forever. Matt knew that Mr. Dark played a big part in those deaths, but he couldn’t dismiss his own role. He did kill those people. Maybe if he’d been a little smarter, thought a little harder, he could have come up with an alternative to at least one death.