Diabolical (6 page)

Perry didn't understand the words. They were foreign, alien. Unrecognizable gibberish. When he was finished, Darin picked up the hand from the coffee table, struck a match.

The wick above the middle finger blazed with an unnatural brightness as Darin held it forward. But instead of reflecting it, the area of the mirror inside the blood outline seemed transparent, clear glass giving view to a dark tunnel of some sort. A passage.

A figure moved behind the glass. Large, imposing, covered in shadow. Perry caught glimpses of a hide, tight and smooth, skin the color of arterial blood in milk. But as it moved the blackness seemed to envelope it, to follow it. An occasional glimpse appeared through brief gaps in the darkness, but it seemed otherwise impervious to light.

The shadow raised an arm and reached toward the glass. Rather than stopping on contact, it moved right through.

A large hand emerged, long fingers, nails like small talons. It was like someone reaching up through water, and Perry realized that it wasn't actually coming through the glass, but rather stretching it. A smooth membrane coated the arm as it extended forward. A foot stepped out next, a knee moving with it.

Then the contours of a face appeared against the surface.

Perry felt his heart smashing against his breastbone, pounding to be let out. This was wrong, he thought. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Things like this weren't real. His entire existence had been a testament to that, to the fact the material world was all there was, that reality was a tangible substance he could shape with his will. It was all a Game, nothing more. There was no such thing as the supernatural. No spirits, no ghosts, no demons. Certainly no Devil, and definitely no God.

Was there?

The head of the thing pushed out into the room, stretching the glassy film as if it were a thin sheet of elastic. It was enormous, a gargantuan skull with a pair of massive horns spiraling out from the top at opposing angles. Triangular face, huge jaws. But the details of its features remained unclear, obscured by the glassy membrane now smoothed over it.

It stepped out onto the floor and leaned forward. Perry's eyes followed it as it straightened its spine, its head almost reaching the twelve-foot ceiling. In two giant strides it was at the bed, tilted over the mattress, studying Perry with a feral grin, its heading canting back and forth slightly.

It raised its hand, floating a large palm over Perry's body, before clapping it down on his chest. Perry felt his lungs seize. The spot it touched burned, burned freezing cold, colder than he could imagine ever being. The cold spread in a wave down his left arm, into his ring finger. The entire limb tingled painfully, the stinging sensation of pins and needles. But his finger hurt the worst.

Then the figure withdrew, retreating until the surface of the mirror snapped back into place. The glass shuddered, a pool of liquid smoothing itself out, before hardening to normal.

Seconds passed. Perry was having trouble catching his breath, his pulse far ahead of his respiration. He stared at the mirror until he remembered Darin. He snapped glances around the room.

Just as his hopes started to rise that the boy may have left, Darin stepped out of the closet. He was holding several knives from Perry's collection. He had a towel draped over his shoulder.

Darin laid the towel out on the coffee table near the bed, arranged the knives on it in a neat row. The huge amputation knife, a long ridged carving knife, a butcher knife.

“You're going to kill me,” Perry said, the words coming as a surprise to his own ears.

“Not tonight.”

Perry blinked. Not tonight? Was this another twist? Had he been too quick to assume it was all over? He could feel the relief rain down like a warm shower. Premature, perhaps, but he didn't care. There was still hope. Maybe he was still the player, still at the controls. Maybe.

He twisted his neck, raised his head. The knives were arrayed like a set of surgical instruments.

“What, then?” he asked.

“You want the simple answer or the complex one?”

Perry opened his mouth but wasn't sure what to say. The Game had taken him so far into uncharted waters he was uncertain what was expected of him.

“Let's keep it simple,” Darin said. “I've got one more thing to do, then I'm going to undo your restraints.”

“You're going to let me go?”

“More or less.”

Yes, Perry thought. Yes, of course. How silly he'd been, ready to assume the worst. This was still the Game he knew. It had merely changed course. All he had to do now was learn the new rules.

“Then what?” he asked.

“Then . . .” Darin tugged the fingerless gloves off his hands one at a time. His hands were wrapped in gauze. Blood had seeped through the palm area of each.

“Then those hands of yours are going to use those knives there, and do what you might call ‘a surgical number' on this body,” Darin said, tapping himself.

Perry couldn't be certain he heard correctly, was even less certain he could believe any of it. He started to speak several times but worried he may say something wrong, something that would make the crazy boy change his mind. Things were being played out on a different level now, one he was unfamiliar with. There was still a feeling he could lose.

Darin took off his jacket, then his shirt.

Perry's attention immediately went to his left arm. The first thing he noticed was its color, or lack of it. The skin was an unnatural shade of pale, almost ghostly. Purple veins spidered the length of it. It was like the arm belonged to someone else, like someone had cut the real one off and sewed this in its place. A tattooed word ran the interior length of the forearm.
Coagula.

“Now, I want you to listen closely. In the morning, you're going to find a note over there.” Darin gestured vaguely toward the coffee table, toward the arrangement of knives. “It will tell you exactly what you're supposed to do.”

“In the morning?”

“You heard me.”

Perry stared at the coffee table for several seconds. “But, didn't you say you want me to use the knives on you?”

“That part will be done by the time you read the note.”

“I don't understand.”

“You don't need to.”

A prolonged silence, then Perry said, “You also said there was one more thing.”

Darin's face was impassive, all business, the only expression on it one of boredom. He said nothing.

“Before you let me go,” Perry added. “You said you had one more thing to do before you let me go.”

“Yes, I did, but there's really no point discussing any more of this.”

“Darin—”

“In case you hadn't guessed, my name's not Darin. I'm sick of hearing it already.”

He picked up the candle and lit the blackened tip of the middle finger. He moved toward the bed and held it out, placing it directly between them.

“And as for that ‘one more thing,' all I can say is, talk to the hand.”

A LIGHT-SKINNED BLACK GUY IN A DARK BLACK COMMANDO sweater answered the door. Black cloth pads sewn on the shoulders and elbows. Black pants tucked into black boots. Hair high and tight, shaved on the sides well above his ears. A little taller than Hatcher, with long limbs and bulky hands. He had an HK model 93 hanging from his shoulder, also black, with a collapsible stock. Finger not quite on the trigger but not far from it, either. He eyed Hatcher with a smug familiarity, as if he knew him but was getting a good look for the first time, then stepped back and cleared a path.

It was a small beach motel room with twin beds. Dorm style, intended to be cheap and efficient, designed for tourists on a budget. The wall next to the door had an AC unit with a top vent beneath a single window overlooking the breezeway. Simple watercolors of sand dunes and starfish set beneath robin's-egg blue skies and orange suns adorned the other walls that had once been a powder-puff blue but now just seemed a dingy shade of drywall white.

On the left, a man in a tan gabardine suit rose from a chair. He was short but sturdy, with hair a chalky gray color so intense it was hard to imagine another ever covering the same head. He wore a bone-colored shirt open at the collar, exposing a tuft of more gray at the bottom of the V. It reminded Hatcher of a scarecrow with stuffing about to escape.

The woman was seated across the small circular table, closer to the bed. What she was doing there, Hatcher couldn't fathom.

The man held out a hand. Hatcher hesitated before raising his. It was hard to refuse to shake hands with a major general.

“You're one hell of a warrior, son,” the man said, slapping his palm into Hatcher's and giving it a firm shake. “One
hell
of a warrior.”

The words carried a solemn tone of enthusiasm, but were spoken more like an observation than a compliment. Delivered like someone trying to make a point.

When Hatcher didn't reply, the man added, “I'm Bill Bartlett. Given your background, I'm guessing you've heard of me. I believe I was in your chain of command at one point.”

Hatcher's gaze drifted to the woman. A silver crucifix dangled from her neck, but nothing else about her suggested the nunnery. Blonde, legs crossed, hemline just at the knee. He realized he was staring, but figured no one would think it unusual. She didn't get up. It had been a while since they'd last seen each other.

Vivian Fall looked right at him, held the eye contact. Exactly what was going on behind those aqua blue eyes was hard to divine. The anxiety was easy to spot, but it was mixed with something else. Could have been suspicion, could have been concern. Maybe even a little resentment thrown in. She may have been happy to see him; he couldn't think of a reason for her not to be. But she didn't look happy to be there, that was for sure.

“I believe you know Ms. Fall. She, of course, owes you a debt of gratitude for saving her. She's left her order, in case you didn't know.”

“I need to use your bathroom,” Hatcher said.

If Bartlett was surprised by the lack of acknowledgment, he didn't show it.

“Certainly.”

The general gestured across the room, giving a directional nod. Hatcher crossed toward a recessed area off the back wall. There was a sink adjacent to a separate bathroom. He turned on the water and bent over to rinse his hands and splash his face.

The cold was bracing. He raised his head to look in the mirror, rivulets running down his face and dropping off his chin. His cheeks were still a bit flush. He had several scrapes around his jaw. A cut on his forehead, a bump on the bony corner over his left eye. A smear of blood coated one of his ears, not quite dry yet. There were red marks on his throat. He could almost make out the imprint of Sherman's hands.

He rinsed his hands again, splashed water on his face a few more times, and toweled himself dry. His skin left dark streaks on the cloth. He noticed tiny bits of gray gravel in the sink.

There was a knock at the door. Hatcher watched in the mirror as black sweater guy opened it and Mr. E walked in.

“Street's clear,” E said. “Parking lot, too.”

Bartlett nodded, his gaze shifting over to Hatcher. Hatcher tossed the towel onto the counter and stepped back into the main part of the room.

“Sorry for all that,” Bartlett said. “I trust you're no worse for the wear.”

Hatcher took another couple of steps, stopped next to the guy in the sweater. He narrowed his gaze for a passing moment, eyes on Bartlett, then shot his arm back in a tight arc.

The side of his hand knifed against sweater guy's throat, just a hair below the Adam's apple. He followed it up with a palm strike to the face, this time with the right arm, rotating his torso into it. Without pausing, he grabbed the rear end of the HK's leather strap with one hand and ripped the buckle open, yanking the weapon away as the guy in the sweater doubled over and made hacking noises. Hatcher snapped the rifle up and aimed it at Mr. E's head, freezing him in place.

Mr. E already had an arm cocked back behind his ear. Knife loaded between his fingertips, ready to be launched.

“Whoa! Whoa!
Whoa!
” Bartlett said. “Just calm down now!”

“You lured me into an ambush,” Hatcher said, eyes still locked on E's. “Served me up to a homicidal maniac lying in wait. Color me unhappy at the moment.”

“I understand,” Bartlett said, patting the air in front of him. “You have a right to be upset. But you need to hear me out. Hear
us
out.”

Hatcher raised the rifle slightly, lining the sight up directly between his eye and E's. “I'm listening.”

Bartlett shook his head sympathetically. “We can't talk like this. Put the weapon down. No one here meant you any harm, soldier. You have my word. Surely, the word of a general officer still means something to you.”

As if it ever did,
Hatcher thought.

“Tell Mini Mack the Knife to lose the blade.”

Bartlett looked over at Mr. E, who shrugged. He slowly lowered his arm. His hand disappeared behind the edge of his vest, and when it emerged the knife was gone. He wiggled his fingers for emphasis.

Hatcher was about to tell him that wasn't good enough, but realized the guy could have a dozen other weapons stashed on him for quick access. Probably did. He'd already seen one stashed up the man's sleeve. He wasn't in the mood to do that dance right now.

Or was he? Worn out as he felt, he could also tell part of him wanted the little shit to try something. Just so he'd have an excuse.

“There,” Bartlett said. “Edgar won't start anything if you don't. On my honor, one soldier to another. Now . . . do you mind?”