The Midnight Road (32 page)

“That’s no secret. Even the fucking dog knows that.”

“You want a child.”

“Sure.”

“You want to kill me.”

“No.”

“You want to kill us both.”

“No.”

“Me and Emma.”

Nuddin’s smile faltered and he cocked the oblong head. Perhaps it truly was Flynn’s secret, the need to die and take Emma Waltz along with him. Perhaps his secret disgrace was knowing they’d both lived such miserable lives. It was a second-rate regret at best, no different than his father’s.

Nuddin sensed there was no fear in Flynn at hearing his hidden heart spoken aloud. The knife drooped.

Kelly showed absolutely no fear at all. Flynn felt a great surge of love for her. He thought if only he’d found her five years earlier he might’ve saved his marriage. The love he couldn’t provide his wife he might’ve been able to give to the kid.

“You want to take Emma with you into the water.”

Flynn reached into his pocket and drew out the mirror he’d taken from Sierra’s bathroom. It was covered with fine layers of powder and scuffed with mascara and lipstick. He held it up to Nuddin’s face and watched his reaction.

Nuddin froze, seeing himself. No longer lost to himself. Meeting himself in the glass just a few inches away.

He reached out with his free hand to grab the mirror but Flynn wouldn’t let it go. Nuddin tugged harder.

Soon he drew the knife away and used both hands to grip the mirror. Flynn gave it to him. Entranced, Nuddin peered deeper and began humming.

Nuddin went, La la la.

Flynn gestured for Kelly to come to him. She snaked around Nuddin without touching him, easing against the bars.

“Go upstairs and out into my car. You can turn the key all the way to start the engine and get the heat going.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go, Kelly.”

“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“You’re going to because he killed Sierra.”

He watched her rush up the stairs and another wash of affection went through him.

Flynn turned back and Nuddin was staring into his eyes.

They both went for the knife in the same instant. Flynn lunged into the cage and the two men grappled, slamming against the half-inch steel bars.

Nuddin’s strength astonished Flynn. He had no idea where it was coming from, the power in this guy who was as light as balsa wood. The thing inside him was made of iron.

In a moment Nuddin had the knife. Flynn managed to grab his wrist but couldn’t press him back at all. His other hand was trying to find purchase on Nuddin’s sweaty chest. He came to the only slightly horrifying realization that he wasn’t going to be able to win.

It made him cut loose with a sick giggle. You could die a lot of dopey ways but being stabbed in a cage while wrestling a naked autistic idiot-savant split personality was way the hell up there.

Flynn said, “No,” between his teeth and Nuddin forced him back another inch, and another, until the back of his head was being wedged among the bars and the knife was still moving toward his throat.

There was no room to lash out with a kick. Nuddin’s weight pressed against Flynn. The stink of blood made Flynn gag. He had time for maybe one final frenzied move but he had no idea what it should be.

His eyes spun and Nuddin smiled, still without an ounce of anger in him, his love no different now than when he was hugging Flynn in Sierra’s home.

The thought enraged him. The mirror was on the cage floor and Flynn knew that somehow everything was wrapped up in that.

He brought the heel of his shoe down on it and the mirror cracked.

Flynn said, “Now look at yourself.” Nuddin cocked his head, grinning, and angled his chin down to see.

Flynn swept the busted pieces forward with his toe. He was hoping to dig the shards into Nuddin’s groin. Maybe that would be enough pain for the guy, but he didn’t have enough leverage. The glass dug into Nuddin’s thigh and he weakened his hold the slightest bit. Flynn ground his toe into the glass, shoving it farther into Nuddin’s flesh.

It made Nuddin smile wider but he loosened his grip even more, enough for Flynn to make a final concerted effort. Instead of fighting, he flung himself out of the cage.

His shoulder caught against the lock and banged the door wide open against the bars. On his knees, Flynn reached, grabbed the steel door and tried to shut it.

It slammed on Nuddin’s head. He hardly felt it. Flynn knew now that on the phone Nuddin hadn’t been talking about an affliction of spirit. He hadn’t been talking about the murders. When he’d said
I am afflicted
he meant with the malady of not being able to understand pain.

Flynn slammed the door again. The metal tore a gouge in Nuddin’s forehead, smashed his nose and mashed his lips. He giggled and continued to come forward, the knife in front of him, slashing now. The blade caught Flynn across the arm of his coat, tearing through the fabric and digging into muscle. It hurt like hell and he held on to his hurt, knowing it was the thing that most differentiated him from Nuddin.

He threw himself against the door and got his hand on the key, hoping to simply lock Nuddin inside. But it wasn’t going to go down that easy. It couldn’t. The knife stabbed out and narrowly missed Flynn’s eyes. Nuddin went, Oh oh oh. He shoved back and the cage door eased open farther and farther. Flynn shrugged himself against the bars and slammed the door once more.

A geyser of blood shot out in an arc that lashed Flynn’s chest. Nuddin’s face was smashed but he was still smiling.

“Stop it!” Flynn said and Nuddin came forward again, the knife slicing down. Bragg had taught him how to use edged weapons too. The blade slashed across Flynn’s chest. It went deep enough that he felt the knife nick a rib. He screamed and fell hard on his back. No cool anymore, man, no way. Frantically he kicked out and shut the door on Nuddin’s arm.

The cracking bone sounded like a gunshot as Nuddin tittered. He was enjoying being beaten to death, covered in hot blood.

Perhaps it meant he was showing some kind of love for Sierra when he’d killed her the way he had. It was his ultimate expression of devotion.

Nuddin stabbed again and Flynn slammed the cage door.

It took five more times before Nuddin’s eyes were gone and he’d stopped moving.

A brilliant smear of blood snaked across the back of his hand.

But the hand was steady.

The car chase, Petersen blasting himself, the murder of Sierra, and now having crossed the last line, having taken a life, and Flynn wasn’t trembling. What did it say about him? About his death wish, about his inability to find another way besides becoming a killer. What about his secret? What about taking Emma into the water with him?

The pool of blood on the back of his hand didn’t drop over the side of his wrist until he stood.

He picked up a shard of the mirror and stared at himself in it the way Nuddin had. Nuddin hadn’t only been stronger than Flynn, he’d been smarter. He’d been right in his last note too.

They were brothers.

It took him ten minutes to maneuver up the stairs. He carefully took his coat off but couldn’t keep from crying out, tore some dish towels into rags and staunched his wounds. It took a while to do even a half-assed job, but at least he wouldn’t bleed to death. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink and a wave of nausea rolled over him. The stink of rotting food wafted from the refrigerator, and his stomach tumbled. He splashed water on his face and tried to pull it together.

He phoned Sierra’s place and Raidin answered. Flynn had difficulty speaking. His voice sounded faraway from himself, the words unfamiliar.

Raidin said, “You’re in shock. Where are you?”

“The Shepard house.”

“The boy Trevor’s been telling us everything that’s been going on. It’s fascinating and more than a little hard to believe.”

“But you do believe it.”

Raidin said nothing. That was good. It meant he did, but still wanted to investigate and reserve judgment. He was a solid cop through and through. Flynn found himself respecting Raidin even more, although he still had to even the score about that bullshit throat chop. And he wanted to say something about that fucking fedora.

“We’ve found some corroborating evidence. You shouldn’t have left the children.”

“How are they?”

“We’ve got a doctor looking them over, but they should be fine. We’ll get somebody out there to you as soon as we can. Did you finish it?”

“Yes,” Flynn said and that seemed to be enough for Raidin. But Flynn found himself explaining it, in detail, all that had happened. Trying to get it straight in his own head.

“We’re pulled very thin,” Raidin said. “It’ll take us a while to get to you. The Port Jack department should be there soon though. Go with them. Don’t give anybody any trouble.”

“I’ve got Kelly. I’m not waiting. I’ll be at my apartment. We can clear it all tomorrow.”

“You’ll never make it. You’ll smash up on the streets.”

“I’ll make it.”

He hung up and got out to the Dodge. Kelly sat there staring at him. He climbed in beside her, waiting for her to weep, but she wouldn’t.

It was still snowing.

It wasn’t over yet.

TWENTY-NINE

The slow rhythmic heartbeat of the wiper blades and the warm rush of air from the vents put Kelly to sleep on the way back. The resilience of kids astounded him. The resilience of some kids, anyway. Kelly had been through more than Flynn had been through as a child and seemed to handle it with dignity. She understood the realities of death and grief better than he had as a kid, perhaps even better than he did now. It made him shake his head in admiration.

He took her back to his apartment and Emma Waltz was still there.

He carried Kelly inside, asleep against his chest, and didn’t want to let her go. Emma stared at the girl and then up at him, and Flynn asked, “Are you all right?”

“No,” she told him. “I don’t think so.”

They were the first words he’d heard her say. He’d expected her voice to mean more to him, to carry the song of both their lives. Perhaps it did. The strained voice carried fortitude and intensity. It was husky and determined. He imagined it saying, Save me. He thought of it telling him, Make love to me.

The twin holes in the floor had been worked over by the cops, the bullets removed.

“Do you remember me?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Now, I do. I didn’t when you showed up at the house. Afterward, I realized how much you looked like your brother.”

“Except older.”

“Yes. It’s odd. Your being so much older than him now.”

“When I was pulling out I saw you leave.”

“I drove down to the end of the parking lot and waited there. I barely made it here with the storm, and I didn’t want to try going all the way home again until it cleared. I didn’t know what to do. I’m not a very comfortable driver and my car doesn’t work that well in bad weather. The police came. I sat in my car and watched. I didn’t know whether I should talk to them or not. When they left I came back inside. They left the door open.”

“Why didn’t you speak with them?”

“I don’t know.”

Nearly being shot but choosing to sit in the snow instead of running to the police.

He put Kelly on the couch and covered her with the only extra blanket he had. Emma Waltz sat at the far end, Kelly’s feet brushing against her. They spoke quietly, the girl’s presence somehow connecting them even more deeply.

Emma said, “You’re bleeding. My God, what happened to you?”

His wounds had reopened. He shrugged out of his coat and shirt grunting in pain. He went to the bathroom and took a handful of painkillers. He got gauze, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a spool of tape but felt too tired to do anything with them. He sat in a kitchen chair stripped to the waist, covered with dried blood and scabbing cuts and gashes, his flesh looking so much like Nuddin’s flesh now.

With the thought exhausting him further, Flynn uncapped the hydrogen peroxide and started to drift. Emma sat beside him and took the bottle from his hand. She swabbed his wounds and the abrupt burning pain brought him back with a strangled yelp.

She said, “I’m sorry.”

He sucked air through his teeth. “It’s okay. Thanks for helping.”

“This one slash needs stitches to be closed properly.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Did the man who shot at us do this?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“I killed him.”

You’d think that might elicit a gasp or a shudder from her, but she continued tending to him, complacent and empty. She wasn’t even curious, or if she was, it was tamped so far down that it didn’t register.

There was no righteous follow-up. He’d just admitted to murder. Anything he said was going to be a nonsequitur, so he just followed his instinct.