Infected (33 page)

“Nope, just relax, man, just chill.” Perry felt the Triangles’ oddly black emotions flowing through him. He tried to nail down the vibe; anxiety, perhaps. His own emotions—excitement, hope, fear, rage—stirred them up like a bunch of hyperactive kids dropped in the midst of the Hershey’s chocolate factory.

is something wrong

who is there who

Perry took a very deep breath and let it out slowly, telling himself over and over again to relax. He repeated the process ten times, feeling calm spread over his body.
Discipline,
as Dear Old Dad would say.
Without discipline you’re no better than some two-bit cooze, crying over this and crying over that
.

Perry knew he had to calm down, to chill out the Three Stooges.

“It’s okay, fellas.” Perry’s voice exuded control. “There’s no one here. Just relax. We’re all going to go to sleep now, just chill.”

Perry closed his eyes. Relaxation swept over him like a warm wind. This was not the time for weakness—if he’d ever had a moment of self-control in his life, now was the time to exercise it.
You gotta have discipline, boy. Without discipline, people are going to walk all over you, and nobody but nobody walks all over a Dawsey.

He laid his head on the back of the couch. This was a game, that’s all, just like football, although this time the stakes were a bit higher than a Big Ten title. It was a game, and he was
winning.
A smile touched his face, only for a second, as sleep came and he drifted away.

MARGARET TALKS TO DEW

Agent Otto handed Margaret his cell phone. The weight surprised her—the cell phone was larger than any she’d seen in years.

“Hello, Dew,” she said.

“I assume you’re calling because you have information for me, Doc,” he said. “I’m trying to run an op here.” Even through the cell phone, she could hear his annoyance. She didn’t have time for his attitude.

“We need satellite coverage,” Margaret said. “Can you get that?”

“Why do we need it?”

“You know what, Phillips? Answer the fucking question, okay? Can you or can you not get satellite coverage?”

There was a pause. “You might want to talk to me with a little more respect there, Doc.”

“Screw your respect. Answer the damn question or I hang up and go right to Murray. Can you, or can you not, get dedicated satellite coverage for the Ann Arbor area?”

“This isn’t the movies, Doc,” Dew said. “We can’t just dial in an address and see a full-color picture of Mister and Misses Jones doing it doggy-style. It will take some time, but we can get the coverage. Now, if you’re done with the potty mouth, you want to tell me why?”

Margaret held the phone with her right hand. With her left she rubbed her knuckles against her hair, so hard it hurt. None of this made any sense, none of this was
science,
but she knew what had to be done—she couldn’t explain why, yet it had to be done anyway.

“The paintings of Nguyen,” she said. “They had all the known victims, then eleven other people.”

“So?”

“So there are victims we haven’t found yet.”

“You know we’re working on that,” Dew said. “We have scans of the faces, all-points out on them, over the whole state and into Ohio and Indiana. We’re trying to track them down. Why is a satellite going to help with that?”

Margaret winced as her knuckles dug too deep. She forced herself to put her hand at her side.

“They’re building something,” Margaret said. “I think the victims are supposed to build something, something big.”

“What? What are they supposed to build?”

“Something in the woods, maybe. I think there are trees involved. Deep woods, even.”

“So then what shall I tell the satellite to look for?”

Margaret sighed. “I don’t know. Something with arches. Maybe twenty feet high.”

“And how long is this thing?”

“Dew, I just don’t know.”

“Margaret,” Dew said. He spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “Changing a satellite’s tracking is a big deal. We have to drop scheduled coverage from an area to redirect. Plus, we have to get squints assigned to look at the pictures, try and find what you’re looking for—and since you don’t really
know
what it is you’re looking for, and we’re covering a huge area, it’s a practically impossible job. Now, with all that in mind, is this just a hunch of yours, or do you have something
real
for me?”

Margaret thought about it. She had nothing solid, nothing to go on other than the painting of an insane, murdering artist.

“It’s a hunch,” she said. “But I
feel
it, Dew.”

Even through the rough connection, she heard Dew’s heavy sigh. “Fine, fuck it. What have we got to lose? So this will take four or five hours. I’m telling them to look for something unusual, with arches, twenty feet high, length unknown. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Margaret said. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“It will be done. And if you change your mind and want the satellite to look for unicorns or Santa’s sleigh, just let me know.” With that, Dew hung up.

SPAM?

Murray Longworth’s desk intercom buzzed softly. He pressed the “talk” button.

“What is it, Victor?”

“Sir, I thought you’d want to know that something came in over the web.”

Murray felt his pulse quicken. “When?”

“Less than an hour ago, sir.”

“Where is the client?”

“Ann Arbor, Michigan, sir.”

“Bring me the info immediately.”

Victor entered the office with a sealed folder. The computer boys were under strict orders to print any web info that came through, then delete all traces of the data from the system. Murray didn’t like using the Internet, but he agreed with Montoya that it was one way to possibly reach victims without raising the press’s attention. Apparently the hunch had paid off.

Victor left the room, and Murray broke the seal.

Ann Arbor, Michigan. Perry Dawsey. Dew was already there, had already had a run-in with one of the infected freaks, as had Otto and Margaret. It was a slam-dunk home run. Margaret’s work had put Dew close. Dawsey listed no contacts—that was good. That made things easier. Apartment complex—that wasn’t good. No description of Dawsey’s condition.

Dew was
already there.
So was Margaret, and she had an analysis facility ready and waiting. Finally, it was the break that Murray needed.

THE TRUTH

The voice tickled his thoughts, teased his muddled mind.

Where are they?

It was the voice of the Triangles: mechanical, and yet still alive.

Are you there?

Another is missing.

The voice of the Triangles, and yet it was different. Somehow almost…feminine. Not a woman’s voice, but a woman’s concern, a woman’s depth of feeling.

Why don’t they answer?

Where are they?.

His eyes fluttered sleepily. The voice was something important, something he knew he needed to think about. The pain hung on his body like a weighted suit. Every inch seemed to throb and pulse in a muted symphony of complaint.

They won’t make it,

they won’t make it,

he is too strong.

Perry blinked again, clawing his way to consciousness. Triangles, but not his. Were these the ones his own infectors had mentioned when they said that strange phrase:
we do that without telephones talk to Triangles.

He felt the Three Stooges stirring. The female voice faded away.

Perry wasn’t ready to get up. He lay on the couch, weight on his left side, wondering if he should just spend the rest of his life there, on his good side, not bothering to get up and suffer any more pain or wonder what fabulous secret the Stooges might deal out next.

His ass still burned; it felt as if he were still sitting on the stove. A truly nasty smell filled the air. So this is what burning human flesh smells like? Wonderful. There was another smell, something more pungent, more…
dead
-smelling. But it wafted in and out and couldn’t compete with the all-encompassing smell of Perry’s Home-Cooked Rump Roast.

Why do you fight us?

And there they were. No mistaking that voice. Male, arrogant, bossy. His own beloved Triangles.

“Who was that other voice?” Perry asked, ignoring their question. “There’s someone else infected, isn’t there? Who is it? Does he live in the apartments?”

We won’t tell you.

Why do you keep killing us?

We’re the only ones who can save you now.

“What the hell are you talking about? Save me? I know I’m as good as dead.”

No,

it’s the others who want to kill you, not us. Not us , Perry. We would never hurt you.

The Triangles weren’t trying to kill him? Bullshit. They were going to burrow out his insides and wear him like a coat, or take over his mind and dance him around the street like a fucking human Muppet.

Someone is coming.

Is it Columbo?

Perry heard nothing. Was their hearing better than his? How strong were they now?

“You hear someone out in the hall? Is it the neighbor who was here before?”

No. Footsteps are

lighter, it’s Columbo

kill Columbo.

“It’s not Columbo!”

Perry painfully picked himself up off the couch, using the table to help him stand. Every movement brought fresh waves of pain.

“Why the hell do the police scare you so bad?”

Because they are coming to get us.

Men are looking for us, to kill us.

Why don’t you understand?

“Take it easy. Don’t get excited and start screaming in my head again, okay?” Perry breathed slowly. He tried to project his calmness, hoping that if the Triangles could overflow emotion into him, he could do the same in reverse. “Why do you think they’re coming to get you now?”

Don’t you get it?

If they kill you,

they kill us.

It hit him like a bullet between the eyes.

Perry’s analytical process stopped dead-still as the truth suddenly rocked home. The truth that had been there from the start, and all he’d had to do was ask.

The Soldiers weren’t coming to save him.

They were coming to kill him.

To keep the Triangle larvae from hatching. It made perfect sense, although part of his mind still fought against it. If the Soldiers wanted to kill him, then there was truly no way out, no escape, no chance.

He talked in barely a whisper. “Do you mean…do you mean that the Soldiers are coming to kill
me
?”

Yes yes stupid!

Yes coming to kill YOU!

He was fucked. He was completely and utterly fucked. The Triangles were killing him from the inside. Soldiers wanted to gun him down and stop the Triangles from becoming whatever it was they became. He had no idea who the Soldiers were, where they were, what they looked like. They could be anybody. Anybody. And he’d sent an invitation through the Internet, painted a fucking bull’s-eye on his own forehead.

His father’s voice filtered into his head, a once-faint memory now strong and vital.
It’s you against the world, boy, you just remember that. The world is a harsh place, where only the strong survive. If you ain’t strong, people will use you up and throw you away. You’ve gotta show the world who’s boss, boy, show them with strength. That’s why I’m so tough on you—that and because you’re one stupid cornholing bastard and you piss me off every chance you get. Someday boy, you’ll thank me. Someday you’ll understand.

For the first time in his life, Perry
did
understand. He’d spent a decade trying to escape his father’s legacy of violence and abuse and anger, but now he knew that was a mistake.

“You were right, Daddy,” Perry whispered. “You was always right.”

Fuck them all. He was a Dawsey, goddamn it, and he’d sure as hell start acting like one.

Columbo is here.

As the last of his sanity slipped away, Perry heard a knock at his door.

His eyes narrowed to predatory slits.

His father’s voice:
You gonna let ’em push you around like that, boy?

“No sir, Daddy,” Perry whispered. “I sure as hell ain’t.”

COMPANY

Bill Miller knocked on Perry’s door again.

Enough was enough. Perry was home. Period. He’d logged on to his instant messenger not more than thirty minutes earlier, and signed off as soon as Bill sent him a message. Bill had immediately hopped into his car, and now he was here, outside Perry’s door.