Midnight Solitaire (7 page)

“Salt.” He moves to the couch, drops the nylon bag there and unzips it. “It’s a purification ritual.”

Greer and Luke exchange troubled glances.

“A purification ritual,” Greer says. “What are you purifying?”

“Evil.” The man reaches into the bag, comes back with a pump shotgun and a box of shells. “Do either of you know how to handle firearms?”

By the time the man looks back at them, Luke is already holding his gun, a .38 snub-nose revolver. Though down by his leg, it’s obvious he’s comfortable with it and schooled in its use. “You saved our asses back there, dog, and I appreciate it. But who the hell walks around with the kind of firepower you got in that bag? I don’t know you. Don’t know anything about you. So I’m gonna need some answers on what’s going on here, or we got a problem.”

Unimpressed, the man loads the shotgun. “What are your names?”

He hesitates a moment then says, “I’m Luke. This is Greer, what’s—”

“Doc Banta. OK? Now we’re all formerly introduced.” He motions to Luke. “For the sake of brevity I’ll assume you’re not just a poser and can actually handle a piece. Good.” He glances at Greer. “What about you?”

“Me? I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”

Doc nods though he’s clearly disappointed. “More than likely going to be a skill you’ll need to acquire as soon as possible.”

“Look, man,” Luke says, “who the hell are you? And why did that maniac out there try to kill us?”

“He hunts humans. I hunt him.”

“OK, so he’s some sort of deranged serial killer? And you’re what? A cop or a bounty hunter or some shit?”

“I wish that’s all he was. He’s been killing for longer than you can even imagine. Unless we stop him he’ll keep coming until we’re all dead.” Doc racks the shotgun. “And no, I’m not a cop. He murdered my family. I’ve been tracking him for years.”

“Years?”

“It’s all come down to this. One way or another this ends tonight.”

Greer brings her hands to her head. “This cannot be happening.”

“He’s already been here,” Doc tells them, “which means everyone else that was here is now dead. I found the register on the floor there behind the desk. According to the sign-ins there are two parties staying here, a single and a couple. We need to find them. I’m warning you both right now, they won’t be alive, but I need to know what he’s done. I’ll explain more when we have time. But for now you’re just going to have to trust me. We need to do a quick check of the premises, and we need to keep watch too. How’s your leg, Luke?”

“I’ll live.”

Doc points to a fuse box on the wall behind the front desk. “The road sign is sure to be on one of those toggles. Find it. Then watch the road. Anything or anybody comes anywhere near this place, throw the switch, kill the sign and then turn it back on. That’ll be the signal. Got it?”

Wearily, Luke nods.

“Greer is it?”

“Yes, Greer Fields.”

“You come with me.”

She glances at Luke then looks back at Doc and smiles nervously, involuntarily. “Listen, I’m in sales, OK?”

“I know you’re scared,” he tells her. “But please do as I say. We don’t have a lot of time, and it’s our only chance.”

Greer looks deep into Doc’s icy blue eyes. She sees many things. Honor is among them. “All right,” she says softly.

“Here it comes.” Luke points at the parking lot.

Outside, the rain has turned to snow.

NINE

He closes his eyes, sees the bodies fall. One after the next, in sprays of blood, they topple and collapse. Mountains of nude mutilated corpses surround him amidst fires burning in rusted trashcans, in the windows of gutted, long abandoned buildings, in the derelict, rotted carcasses of cars. A city of death and disease, a beautiful memory of what once was and will be again. The world is on fire when he dreams, when he is quiet. When he contemplates.

And then the road. Always the road. Waiting. It’s never far, stretched out before him for miles. It is his altar. Those he finds there, his sacrifices. Dark or light, it makes no difference. There is death there, unimaginable violence. It beckons him, seduces him, hiding on those lonely roads and endless highways.

Cursed to wander, he can neither look away nor refuse. It is his destiny. His life. His death. His prison. His escape. But he will not fade away. When it’s his time he will cross in a brilliant bloodbath of horror and tears, the screams of those he’s slaughtered his chorus as he passes to nirvana, bringing with him the tortured souls he has worked so hard to horde.

Home, he thinks. It’s been so long…so very long…but soon now. Soon.

He remembers jeweled elephants passing through clouds of incense, and the sparkling robes of Rajas of India…the beautifully deadly songs of great Zulu warriors beating their shields in Africa…the echoes of sacrificial prayers in stone temples of South America…the ethereal chants in monasteries of Nepal…the rumbling music of Aborigines playing didgeridoos in the wilds of Australia…the tribal dances and percussive sounds of Native Americans…the ring-forts of the ancient Celts in Europe, their women in embroidered dresses, hair in intricate braids, the men boldly clad in animal skins and cloaks…the sands of ancient Arabia, the nomads, the holy cities of Mecca and Medina…the power, violence and decadence of the Roman Empire…the pyramids, the Great Sphinx of Giza and all the pageantry, mysticism and mysteries of Egypt…he remembers it all.

And he weeps with his memories, weeps until the darkness returns and reminds him who he is, what he is, bringing with it the power, the evil, the rage. Death. It is incomprehensibly freeing to kill others when one cannot die oneself, because everything that lives needs death as much as it needs life. It is the way of things, the natural course. But then, he is not natural. He is a deviant, an aberration. He is only normal in the flames, in the blood, the horror. There, he is home, and there, with his collected souls, he will find peace and perhaps even joy, if he can ever know such a thing. Can Evil ever truly know joy, real joy? He cannot be sure. Even with centuries to ponder such questions, some answers continue to elude him.

“The things I’ve seen,” he whispers to the night. “The roads I’ve traveled.”

But he is tired.

Over the years he has attempted to explain such things to his sacrifices, but they never understand. They accuse him of being insane—which of course he is—but that’s hardly the point.

Perhaps this will be his swansong, his masterpiece. Perhaps he will finally be set free and his work here will be done, the curse lifted. Tonight. This night.

The one hunting him is close. He can smell him.

The others, he can smell them too.

None of them realize how much they need him; how the darkness in each of them brought him to them, and how he will eventually do what is necessary to set them all free.

He looks up at the falling snow. It’s almost as beautiful as flame, he thinks, and just as deadly.

Watching the snowfall, he leans against the side of the van, takes the deck of cards from his pocket and absently shuffles them with one hand. Later, he will play the game. Once all this is over. Then, and not a moment before, it will be time.

There are rules, rituals that must be followed.

He returns the deck to his pocket, wipes some snow from his face, and gazes at the highway. He glances down at his hand. It’s covered in blood. He raises it to his face a second time and wipes more away. The last one bled like a pig. It sprayed his face and until then he’d forgotten.

Smiling at his carelessness, he takes a bandana from his duster pocket, thoroughly wipes his face clean then opens the rear doors of the van.

Just inside the otherwise cluttered interior is his knapsack. Next to it in a pool of blood and a tangle of tendons and gore is Carlin’s head, the eyes still open and staring into eternity, the mouth frozen in the twisted grimace it wore at the moment of death. He reaches out and tenderly, lovingly strokes one cheek and then the other.

After a moment he opens the knapsack and rummages around until he finds what he needs, a small scalpel, surgical scissors and a thick needle roughly the size of a standard pencil. He puts the items on the floor of the van, quickly looks through his personal things then turns to the other weapons in the knapsack, a crossbow, a shotgun and two handguns. The black crossbow is outfitted with a scope, is whisper-quiet and launches arrows at three hundred and seventy-five feet per second. The arrows are razor-tipped and designed for maximum penetration of large game. Next to it is a Mossberg six-shot pump shotgun with a pistol grip, a ten-round 9mm Glock, and a six-shot Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum, along with numerous boxes of ammunition. Although he cares for each weapon meticulously, he carefully and thoroughly inspects each one then returns them to the knapsack.

Next, he retrieves the scalpel, and while holding Carlin’s head tight to the van bed with his free hand, carves the eyes out with a horrible wet sound he has grown used to. Once the eyeballs have been removed from the sockets he snips the cords with the scissors to completely free them from the head then returns the tools to the knapsack. He zips it shut, places it on the ground next to the van then takes the eyeballs and wipes them clean with the bandana.

Now they are ready.

He removes his hat, places it on Carlin’s head then opens wide his duster. He removes a leather cord from around his neck and looks at it fondly. Hanging from it are what at first glance appear to be pieces of dried and darkened fruit of some kind, but closer inspection reveal human eyeballs strung together to form a necklace. He threads the large needle with one end of the necklace and then punctures his newest additions, pulls the needle through and adds them to the collection. Once finished he slides the needle into his coat pocket then proudly slips the necklace over his head.

After a quiet prayer to the dark, he takes his hat back, puts it on then palms Carlin’s head and tosses it away over his shoulder. God is good.

As the head bounces along the breakdown lane, he decides he’ll walk. Nice night for a slow walk in the snow, and it will give him time to prepare, to think, to manage the fires in his mind.

The van is on the side of the road and his knapsack easily within reach. He unscrews and tosses away the plastic gas cap then stuffs the bandana in the tank, leaving a small portion hanging out and flopping in the wind. He removes a box of stick matches from his coat, strikes one, cups it and lights up the bandana.

Several feet in front of the van a roadblock has been setup. Little yellow lights blink through the snow and darkness. He’d like to smash them to pieces, but there seems little point, so instead he hoists his knapsack onto his shoulder and heads off on foot in the direction of the motel.

Burn.

A moment later, the van explodes in a burst of flames that light up the night with a magnificent flash. He does not look back, but he can feel the rush of heat and smell the gasoline and smoke.

In time, there is only the road.

And like all the others in every corner of his world, those weary lambs that wait for him along the way.

TEN

Just as Doc predicted, the phone at the front desk has been torn from the wall and the extension in the office has been ripped free as well. Luke holds one of the useless phones in his hand a moment then throws it aside with disgust.

Greer quickly rummages through her Gucci handbag until she finds a colored rubber hairband. Tossing the purse on the front desk, she pulls her tawny hair back into a short ponytail and secures it with the band. She has seen the way Luke looks at her, like she’s some spoiled bitch, with her expensive car, designer jeans, Ferragamo flats, wool cardigan jacket and Christian Bernard watch. Funny how if a man looks successful he’s respected and seen as a go-getter, but let a woman have the same look and most men immediately assume she’s some sugar daddy’s toy or got it through sordid means. What never occurs to those types is that she probably earned it just like anyone else. Doc, on the other hand, is clearly laser-focused and barely seems to notice her with any sort of depth whatsoever. She’s spent her professional life assessing clients, reading people and making her moves based on those assessments. And her skills in that area have served her well. The younger guy is easier to read—as younger people usually are—but she hasn’t been around him long enough to be sure if his act is genuine or not. Is he a wannabe tough guy or the real deal? Looks hardened, like a criminal type, but that may be presumptuous at this point. The older one, Doc, he’s more of an enigma. There’s a lot going on there, and a lot of it’s frightening. He’s a slow boil type, the kind who’s been raging inside for a very long time and could blow at any moment. Greer doesn’t trust either of them, but what choice does she have? She looks to Doc, gives him a quick nod.

Behind the front desk, Luke finds the breaker for the sign. “How much time do we have?”

“Probably not enough,” Doc answers. “Let’s move.”

Greer joins him, and together, they head out into the storm.

Luke limps over to the front of the office and stands before the glass front wall so he can have a clear view of the lot, the units to his left and the highway in both directions. Snow is already beginning to accumulate, blowing across the road and spattering the motel walls. He watches Doc and Greer hurry along to the dirt lot and the awaiting units then looks back over his shoulder at the Gucci handbag on the counter. Normally he’d have already gone through it. Probably some cash, plenty of credit cards, a decent little score. But now, all he can think about is Rachel. God, get me through this, he prays, and I’ll go home, I’ll change. I’ll get her back and be a better man. You’ll see. Just give me one more chance. He fingers the gun in his coat pocket. He’s never shot anyone, but if it comes down to it he will. At least he assures himself of this.