Mortal Fear (51 page)

Stop, Miles! I dont even want to hear that shit. Theres got to be something else on that hard drive to give you an idea who or where he might be.

He looks at me in silence for several moments. Then he says, Two things. Theres a WordPerfect file called Clarus. Its not set up like the murder letters. Its more of a memo-to-myself kind of thing, like something he typed out while talking on the phone. It looks like specs for some type of new medical instrument. Clarus is the name of the company that makes it.

What kind of instrument?

The kind Drewe thought didnt exist. And until recently, it didnt. Its called a neuroendoscope. Its a long, thin, flexible tube called a cannula that you can pass instruments through. Its made to operate on the brain. Theres a fiber-optic camera attached, and a bright light source. You can visualize the interior of the patients brain by running the scopes camera signal to a TV or a video camera with a built-in screen. Harper, the cannula is only four-point-five millimeters wide.

My God. Are there any names in the file? People from the company that Brahma might have talked to?

No.

Whats the second thing?

Ive got a serial number off a Microsoft program that might be traceable. Its a beta version. Microsoft handed them out like popcorn in ninety-two, but Ive got some friends in Redmond who might be able to track it down.

Good. Do it. And fax everything you have to Baxter at Quantico. Right now.

Harper

Do it, goddamn it!

He nods assent. Dont you think Baxter is probably on his way to you by now?

This hasnt occurred to me. I dont know. It looks like Brahmas already clear. He used a private plane. They found fresh tire tracks on the same strip you used.

Harper, I am so sorry about Erin. Hows Drewe holding up?

I sedated her.

Oh.

You just fax that stuff to Baxter.

I will. He pauses. Maybe you should split for a while, you know?

What do you mean?

Brahma, for one thing. He knows where you live. And if Erin killed Kali... do I have to draw you a picture?

Dont worry about me.

Dr. Anderson isnt exactly Mr. Understanding either, as I recall. If he thinks its your fault his daughter is dead

It
is
my fault.

Only to the extent that you trusted me.

Look at it this way, Miles. Next time Lenz asks us what the worst thing weve ever done is, we wont have to think very hard to find the answer.

Before he can respond, I click the mouse on TERMINATE VIDEO LINK and sink lower into the chair.

After a minute, Nefertiti reappears, turning slowly. The muscles in my neck are knotted from scrubbing, and my backbone feels like it could splinter through the skin. I should get up and check on Drewe, but I cant summon the energy. Miless warning about Drewes father replays endlessly in my head. Bob must be home by now. He could show up here any time.

I need caffeine. I force myself up out of the chair and walk to the minifridge, but its empty. As I head for the kitchen, my eyes follow the floorboards, checking for bloodstains I might have missed. I see none.

There are no Tabs in the kitchen refrigerator, but there is a six-pack of Diet Coke. I pop the top on one and lean back against the counter, swallowing the burning fluid and letting the cold from the open refrigerator wash over
me. When that drink is empty, I open another and let the door swing closed. The kitchen is so narrow here, it looks like a monks sleeping quarters.

Youre punch drunk,
I tell myself.
You can make it to the bedroom
.

Glancing through the laundry room to the back door, I realize that the last cop through it probably didnt think about locking up. I set down the Diet Coke and walk past the closed pantry door to the laundry room to shoot the bolt and

Freeze.

At least twenty cops have trooped through this house in the past two hours, but Im positive that not one of them knew of, much less searched, the bomb shelter. Leaving the bolt unshot and the Diet Coke on the stove, I back through the kitchen into the hallway, my heart hammering, my fear for Drewe overcoming all else.

Should I try to get her out of the house? No. Wed be totally vulnerable as I carried her to the truck. My .38 is out there too. Ive got to have a gun. I dart into an offshoot of our main hall, toward the neglected bedroom we use for storage.

The door creaks as I push it open, but I follow through and leave it ajar behind me. In the far corner of the bedroom, standing like an upended deep freeze amid the sentimental flotsam of five generations of Coles, is my fathers gun safe. Inside it is a motley collection of antique pistols and flintlock muskets, many dating back to the War between the States, some even to the Revolution. The combination lock is easy to open, the numbers those of my fathers birthday: 10-6-32.

The hard tang of gun oil and good steel hits me in a reassuring wave. Shoving apart the muskets to reach the back shelf, I set aside a can of Elephant brand black powder and grab the suede zip case containing the single modern weapon in the safe, my fathers Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum. Theres a box of shells on a thin metal shelf in back. I quickly unzip the case and load the pistol, putting the remainder of the rounds in my pocket. The cartridges are old, but with luck they will still cook off if I actually have to fire the thing. The big checked
wooden grip feels unfamiliar in my hand. Sighting once down the six-inch barrel, I move back into the hallway and hurry into the bedroom.

Drewe hasnt moved. Facing the closed door, I back around the bed to the telephone and dial Sheriff Buckners office with my left hand. I keep my right on the Magnum, taking my eyes off the door only long enough to see the numbers.

Sheriffs Department. A womans voice, more a question than a statement.

I need to talk to the sheriff.
Now
.

Who is this?

Harper Cole. Get him!

Hes not here.

Whos in charge?

Just a second.

The next voice is male, young. Deputy Jones. What can I do for you?

I answer in language calculated to scare the living hell out of Deputy Jones, telling him about the tunnel and making it plain that people might die if Buckner and some deputies dont get back to my house ASAP. Then I hang up and sit down between Drewe and the door, the .357 pointed at its upper panel. The gun has a sobering weight. My arms are soon shaking with fatigue, but Im afraid to sneak a look at my watch. Its been over a year since I opened the gun safe, the last time I felt sentimental about my father and found myself cleaning his guns to remember him.
No, squeeze the trigger, son. Be careful now, Harp, this thingll put a bullet through a car door

A bump from somewhere inside the house steels my flagging arms. No way could Buckners men be here yet. Not from Yazoo City. I listen in a way I have not since my grandfather took me on my first and last deer hunt. Shooting Bambi seemed cruel and unnecessary to me then. Now blowing off a mans head seems entirely justifiable.

There is definitely someone in the house. I dont know how I know, but I do. And that someone is moving.

Harper Cole!

My finger pulls against the Magnums trigger, stopping
at the last pound of pressure. Does Brahma know my name? Of course he does.

Where you at, man? Its Billy Jackson!

Im on my feet instantly, pulling open the door and motioning the heavyset deputy into the room. His forehead and cheeks are beaded with sweat, his eyes alight with excitement.

Whos with you, Billy?

Jimmy Hayes, on the porch, he says breathlessly, thumbing the hammer of the nine-millimeter automatic in his hand. We were watching the house, like that New Orleans cop said to.

Just you two?

Sheriffs on his way, but it could be twenty or twenty-five minutes. Your wife okay?

Shes sleeping.

He looks past me to Drewes inert body. Sheriff told me something about a basement? Someplace we didnt search?

Its a bomb shelter. From the fifties. I think the killer could be hiding down there.

State police say the guy got away in a plane.

Then why the hell is Buckner still searching, Billy? They found tracks on an airstrip, thats all. That could be hunters spotlighting deer. The FBI thinks theres a
group
of people involved in these killings.

His eyes move quickly from side to side, like mechanical thought indicators. A bomb shelter, huh? No shit. Old Pete Williams has one of those. Like a little underground trailer. Has a poker night down there sometimes.

This ones bigger, I say impatiently. There are tunnels running to it. One from the house, the other from outside.

Where in the house?

Pantry closet in the kitchen. Theres a trapdoor in the floor.

Outside?

Theres a weather-sealed door like a cellar entrance about seventy feet on a straight line from the back door of the house. In the cotton. Its covered with dirt most of the time, but

I stop too late. Billys eyes flash with animal cleverness. Turner used it to sneak past us last week, right?

I dont answer, but he sees the truth.

Goddamn. Okay, wait here a second.

I grab his meaty forearm and hold him. Where you going?

Tell Jimmy whats up.

I dont like the look in Billys eyes. What did the sheriff tell you to do?

Make sure you and your wife were safe till he got here.

Dont you think you should stay here, then?

He pulls his arm away. Harp, theyre combing the whole county for the sumbitch that killed Erin. And he could be squatting under this house right now, maybe wounded. You think Im gonna wait till he skips out that back tunnel? He coulda heard me hollering for you. Im gonna put Jimmy out there to cover the back entrance.

I hate to admit it, but Billys plan makes sense.

Youll be okay, he says, pointing at my Magnum. Thats a goddamn cannon you got there. Ill knock twice when I get back.

Again I cover the closed door with manic concentration. When the two taps finally come and the door starts to open, I have to restrain myself from pulling the trigger. Billys sweating even more than before, and hes exchanged his pistol for a pump shotgun.

You okay, Harp?

Scared shitless.

Dont worry. Jimmys covering the back entrance.

How can he find it in the dark?

Billy grins. Hes a hunter, boy. Somebody pops up in that field, hell take em down sure as shit.

This is nuts,
I say silently.

You hang tough another minute, okay? Billy backs toward the door.

Where are you going?

His eyes are hard and bright. We got this sumbitch cornered, Harp. Like a fox. And Im gonna nail his ass.

What?

His smile disappears. Dont give me no shit now. Im
gonna work my way through the tunnel with the Remington while Jimmy covers the back door.

Billy, dont do it! Wait for Buckner.

He shakes his head. You got lights down there?

Theres a switch low on the right side of the pantry wall. I cant believe Im telling him this, but I also cant let him go down into that hole in pitch darkness, which he seems fully prepared to do.

Billy slaps his open hand on the shotgun. You just sit tight and cover your old lady. I got a tear-gas round, a gas mask, and the odds on my side.

My mind searches wildly for another solution, but alternate plans arent the problem. Getting Billy Jackson to abandon this one is. And nothing short of a presidential directive would do it.

Listen, he says earnestly. You want to see this asshole go to trial? Sit there in court with your crying wife and in-laws while a dozen lawyers scream objections and get this fungus sent to a mental hospital? Maybe even get him
off
? This ways clean, Harp. Wont be nobody down there but me and him.
Boom-boom,
its over. Case closed. Youll never have to waste another thought on the guy.

The persuasive power of Billys scenario surprises me. Hes no scholar, but hes got a firm grasp of hard realities.

He squints at his watch in the shadows. If Im not back by the time Buckner gets here, tell him to give me five minutes and then gas the tunnel with CS. Got that?

CS.

Right. Then come in blasting.

Jesus, Billy.

And if you hear anybody coming out of that trapdoor that aint yelling Billy Jackson, you blow em to hell and gone.

I will.

Semper fi, buddy.

Shit
.

There is no more threatening sound than silence. It is the symphony of the snake that waits for its prey to step within striking range, of the tiger that stalks the deer. It begins as mere absence of sound, but unrelieved, it can build steadily into a roar that blurs perception to the point of sense blindness. I know that blindness now, sitting with both hands gripping the butt of the Magnum as though it could transport Drewe and me to another dimension, far from this dangerous place.

I count the seconds as rivulets of sweat across my face, as breaths entering and leaving the lungs of my sleeping wife. How long will it take Buckner and his men to get here? Even if they were at the north end of the county, it shouldnt take more than twenty-five minutes. How many have passed? Five? Ten? Or two?
Keep still,
I tell myself.
No way hes down there. Kali is dead and Brahma limped out to his plane and got the hell out of here for good. He saw his lover die and

Two explosions close together smash the silence, rattling the foundation of the house. I jump to my feet, trigger finger quivering, heartbeat loosed from its rhythm.

Harper?

I whirl, bringing the gun around with me. Drewe is up on one elbow, her eyes barely open.

Whats happening?

Were in our bedroom. Lie down. We may be in trouble. We

A third explosion shudders through the floorboards.

Drewes eyes snap open. What?

An agonized wail like a cat in heat rolls out of the kitchen.

What was that? she asks, her voice ragged.

Two deputies went down into the bomb shelter. Brahma may be down there.

Her fingers grip my wrist like channel-lock pliers.

Do you still have that pistol you used to use when I was out of town? I ask.

She nods. In my dresser drawer.

Which one? I ask, pulling open the top one.

Thats it. God, I feel sick. Am I drunk?

Drewes pistol is a tiny Charter Arms .25 automatic Bob gave her when she went to medical school in New Orleans. An oddly inefficient weapon coming from a man like Bob, but I suppose he wanted her to be able to conceal it easily.

Whiiiite birrrd!
screams a voice that could have come from the pit of hell.

White bird? What... ?

Hes calling you, says Drewe. Hes saying
Harper
. Who went down there?

Billy Jackson. Jimmy somebody.

Harrrper! Heelll meeeee!

The sheriffs on his way, I tell her, my tone strangely defensive.

She nods quickly. You cant go down there.

This time the wail drags out much longer than before.
Im bleeeedinn!

I told him not to go down there. Damn!

As Drewe stares at me, willing me to deafness, I realize Im in a position Ive seen a hundred times in movies. Seen, and then screamed silently at the hero not to go into the woods or up the attic stairs or wherever any half-intelligent person would know the monster or murderer was waiting. But sitting here now, in the awful silence following those screams, one fact is inescapable: I brought those men here. If I dont help them, I will carry their lives on my conscience forever. And Im already carrying too much.

Aaaaaaaaagghhh!

Harper, you cant do anything for them.

I know, I say softly. My right hand is clenched around the butt of the Magnum with painful force. The
sheriff will be here before long. But Billy and his partner could be dead by then, and Brahma vanished into the summer night. Another prolonged shriek of pain reaches the bedroom, fainter this time.

Ive got to go.

What? Drewe asks. No, you dont! Why do you have to go?

I just do.
Because this way its over one way or the other. If I kill Brahmaor even if he kills meIll have done the only thing that could possibly expiate my guilt.
I start to hand her the .25, then switch and give her the .357. Whatever else I do, I will not walk out of here leaving my wife no more protection than a crappy Saturday night special.

Drewe takes the huge pistol with a kind of narcotized equanimity. I drop the extra shells on the bed. I want you to get down behind the bed and aim the pistol at the door.

She rolls over without a word and kneels behind the bed.

If anyone comes through but me, you start shooting and dont stop until the gun is empty. You understand?

She nods soberly. She knows I mean to go, and though she doesnt want me to, she wont waste time trying to talk me out of it. The barrel of the .357 comes level with the bed, then rises until its line of fire intersects my chest.

Im okay, she says. Go.

Two words echo in my head as I stare through the open pantry at the black hole of the bomb shelters open trapdoor.
Tunnel rat
. Echoing down from years ago, when a one-armed tractor driver told me about his job in Vietnam. First man down every hole. Darkness, damp, stink. Crawling on your belly with a Colt .45 held in front of your face like a crucifix and a prayer on your lips.

The lights in the tunnel should be on, but theyre not. Too late I realize I should have switched off the kitchen lights before opening the trapdoor. I creep close enough to peer over the edge. A pool of light on the concrete floor six feet below tells me theres a dim column shining down from the kitchen. I want to call out to Billy, but that
would be idiocy. Instead, I snatch a flashlight from the top pantry shelf and cut the kitchen lights. Thats almost as obvious as yelling, but climbing down a ladder through a column of light would be suicide.

To get to the floor of the tunnel, I must descend six ladder steps with my left side facing the open tunnel. Thats the normal method, anyhow. Not tonight. Like a kid edging toward the lip of a high roof, I slide my legs through the dark, toward the place where I know the hole is. A tin can of something falls over the edge, caroms off the ladder, and thuds on the cement below.

I stop, waiting.

When the next howl of pain reverberates up the tunnel, I drop down the hole like a sack, my legs crumpling against the cool concrete, the flashlight buckling under my weight.

Forcing myself to breathe quietly, I lie prone on the tunnel floor and stare into the blackness. The .25 feels like a toy in my hand. It might stop a surprised mugger or rapist, but a psychotic killer could take five bullets from this thing and keep coming.

Move,
I tell myself.
Youre asking for it
.

Brahma could be sitting ten feet up the tunnel right now. I have only one advantage. Home ground. This passage runs thirty feet away from the house, with shelves lining both walls, and ends in a heavy lead door. That door opens onto the main shelter room, which is about fifteen-by-fifteen. A second tunnel runs thirty feet out into the field, to the rear exit. It too is lined with storage shelves and also contains a chemical toilet room. Thats where my gold is stored. Sliding as far as I can under the metal shelving on the left side of the tunnel, I shout: BILLY! ITS HARPER! WHERE ARE YOU?

At first I hear nothing. Then a slow creak of hinges.

Harper? A weak Southern drawl.

Yeah!

Im hit, man! Bad! I need help!

Wheres Jimmy?

A long pause. Gone for a flashlight!

Jesus.
Anybody else in here?

I dont know.

What happened to the lights?

Dont know. I heard something and shot and they went out. Another groan of pain. I need help, man!

Damn damn damn
. Billy?

What?

What year did you graduate high school?

Nineteen-fucking-seventy-eight! Come on, man!

I aim the .25 straight at the sound of the voice, where paramecia-like blobs of color swirl in a black sea. Where are you hit?

My leg! Im bleeding bad!

Are you in the main room? Square room?

I think so.

Close the door! So that its between you and me!

While Billy mulls over this instruction, I slither to the center of the tunnel floor and rise into a crouch, the .25 in my right hand. The ceiling has exactly six feet of clearancemy grandfather was five-elevenso if I stay down Ill have plenty of room. And I mean to stay
down
.

I got you! Billy yells finally. Bring it on!

The metallic screech comes and fades so fast it barely registers before the lead door slams shut. I explode forward like a nose tackle coming out of his stance, my thighs pumping, charging toward the main room and firing as I run. In the closed tunnel the little .25 booms and flashes like a howitzer, deafening me to everything but the high
zing
of ricochets. I sweep my arm across the tunnel as I fire, trying to maximize the odds of hitting anything between me and the lead door. With my eighth step, I dive forward, scraping my elbows in a second-base slide and jamming my wrist as the empty pistol impacts the lead door.

OPEN UP! I yell, hammering the butt of the .25 against the door. If Brahmas inside, Billy is dead by now, but somehow I dont think so. Billys enough of a redneck that he would die trying to save his honorand mebefore hed let himself be used to lure me to my death.

When the heavy door finally swings inward, I heave myself over the frame onto some part of Billy Jackson, who screams at the top of his lungs. I shut the door and roll off, still in darkness.

You okay, Billy?

I dont know. His groans sound like manly attempts to cover whimpering. This leg was pumping blood. I tied my belt just above the hole... tight as shit. Wheres that fuckin Jimmy?

I feel Billys thigh with my right hand, and what I feel is blood. Lots of it. Weve got to get you out.

Need a stretcher, he says, grunting against the pain. Aaaagh, that fuckin Jimmy. He shot me!

What?
You sure?

Hell no, I aint sure. Hey... that was pretty smart what you did with the gun. Think you hit anything?

No.

Haaaaay!

I jump so badly that Billy feels compelled to steady me with one hand.

Dont shoot, okay? yells the new voice. Its Jimmy!

About fuckin time, you asshole!
Billy bellows back.

Sheriffs on his way! says Jimmy, coming through the opposite door with a hooded flashlight. Saw his lights. Must be ten cruisers coming up the highway!

Great, Billy says. Shine that thing on my leg.

Judas Priest, Jimmy gasps as his light illuminates a ragged red hole in Billys blood-soaked trousers. Jeez, Im sorry, Bill.

I think hes okay, I say. If the bullet hit an artery, his thigh would be as big as a propane bottle. Just keep putting pressure on it.

Billy doesnt look relieved, but as soon as I realize hes out of danger, the real threat hits me. If Brahmas not in the tunnels, where is he?

Ive got to get back upstairs! Any more rounds in that shotgun?

Aint no plug in this baby, says Billy, handing me the Remington. Three more rounds ready to go.

I pump in a round, kick open the lead door, and fire the moment the barrel is clear. Before the echo fades I am over the lip and charging back up the tunnel, homing on a barely visible column of light that must mark the opening of the trapdoor above. With every step I feel a knife blade
whooshing out of the darkness to plunge into my groin or rip open my back. I fire again for intimidation, then dive for the ladder, saving the final round for the house.

I come up out of the hole like a coal miner from a collapsed shaft, pushing the gun in front and yelling for Drewe as I enter the hall. When she answers through the bedroom door, I pause.

Its all right! she shouts again. Come in!

I stand to the side and turn the knob slowly, then kick open the door and jump back in case shes being forced to speak. She is just where I left her, kneeling behind the bed with the big-barreled Magnum propped in front of her like a mortar.

What happened? she asks.

Billys hit. Hell make it, though. No sign of Brahma.

The Magnum drops hard onto the bedcovers. Harper, she says in an exhausted voice, does Mama know about Erin?

Your father does. I told him. He chartered a plane in Memphis. Hes home by now, and Im sure hes told your mother.

Drewe is crying again. Ive got to be there, she chokes out. They need me.

Throw some clothes in a bag. Youll be there in twenty minutes.

While she wipes away the tears and goes to her closet, I stand watch with the shotgun.

Have you packed already? she asks.

I dont meet her eyes. Do you really think Id be welcome there tonight?

When I look up, she is staring at me with her mouth open. You
know
it was Brahma that was here tonight, dont you?

I nod. It had to be.

And it wasnt an accident, was it? It wasnt random.

No. Drewe

Dont tell me, she says, shaking her head. I cant think about that now. Oh God.

She looks a moment longer, then turns back to the closet and continues packing. As she does, I realize that
Erins death may have driven something between us that can never be removed.