The Meridians (29 page)

As quick as that, all thoughts of the wonders of Kevin's mind, the joys of Lynette's smile, and the terrifying magnificence of once upon a time all flew from his mind, replaced by a single thing.

Mr. Gray. Standing in an alley on the side of the street.

Smiling at him.

Beckoning to him.

***

31.

***

There was no mistaking it this time. This was not John Doe, or any other old man. This was actually Mr. Gray, and he was - unbelievably - waving in a chipper manner to Scott. As though the two were best friends and Mr. Gray wanted nothing more serious than to say hi to a passing pal.

Scott kept spinning the wheel, feeling his car fishtail beneath him, but even after eight-going-on-nine years, he still retained enough of his driving skills that he was able to maintain control of the car as it turned.

He brought it around so that it was directed at the alleyway, and gunned the engine.

Mr. Gray turned, and ran into the alley.

Scott could see instantly that the alleyway was too narrow to admit the car. He would have to go on foot.

He reached over into the glove compartment of his car, flipped it open, and withdrew the gun he kept in there. Obtaining a concealed weapon permit in Idaho was much easier than it was in many states, especially if the applicant was an ex-cop whose family had been butchered by an unknown fugitive still-at-large. So Scott had made sure that he kept the gun in his car at all times. Not that he had ever planned on meeting up with Mr. Gray while driving, but he also didn't intend to be stripped of his protections just because he no longer had his badge.

So he withdrew the gun, opened the door, and ran after Mr. Gray.

And entered Hell.

The alley wasn't what he had expected. Most alleys in Meridian were pristine as the rest of the town, but this one was filthy and clogged with detritus. It was more the kind of alley he would have expected to see in....

"Oh, no," he whispered. "Please, God, no."

Somehow, he was back in the alley.
The
alley. He knew it instantly; it had featured in most of his nightmares for the last eight years. He could see every aspect of it in his mind at any time, and here it was, reproduced to perfection. Only this time the alley was not located in the safe though disquieting recesses of his mind, it was somehow, impossibly, real.

Scott felt the gun drop from his nerveless fingers as he tried to quell the scream that even now wanted to rise up within him; wanted to rip itself free from his throat and never, ever stop.

"Neat trick, eh?" said a voice at his elbow.

And Scott
did
scream then, a small shout that came out of him without meaning to, as he spun around.

And saw Mr. Gray.

Scott stooped for his gun immediately, but the weapon was gone.

Mr. Gray held it up.

"I've learned a few things over the years, Cowley," he said. His tone was light and airy, but his face was twisted in rage and madness. The coexistence of such radically different expressions in voice and face were almost as disquieting as anything else that was going on. To see such warring feelings was to see madness incarnate, something that Scott had hoped never to witness again.

But there it was. Right in front of him and dressed in a gray suit, with eyes that glimmered with insanity once hidden but now brought out into the open by whatever forces had so aged the killer in the eight years since the death of Scott's family.

And even that was wrong. The killer even
looked
wrong. The last time that Scott had seen him was in the ride from Los Angeles to Meridian, the night that Mr. Gray had appeared as a black dog and chased him through the night before then turning into the form of an old man. Six years had passed since that night, six years that had added lines to the corners of Scott's eyes and pulled his hairline back bit by bit.

But Mr. Gray had not aged any further. That was not to say that he looked the same as he had on the night that he had warned Scott to stay away from Meridian. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had changed, and changed radically. But where Scott had changed by aging, the gray man seemed to have reverted in age to a younger, more vibrant appearance. He looked like he had shed the very years that Scott had gained. Still an old man, but no longer as old as he had been on the night of the move.

And his nose, earlier a mass of gnarled and broken bone, was straight and unblemished. The wounds on his face were also gone, disappeared as though they had never been. He was old, but unmarked by the scars that had earlier appeared on his face.

Mr. Gray spun Scott's gun in his grasp like an old-fashioned gunfighter, flicking it in a tight series of circles that ended with the gun pointing at Scott's forehead.

Scott prepared himself for the end. This was not like any of the other meetings he had had with the assassin. There was only one way that this could end. But Scott was damned if he was going to go out screaming or pleading or crying. If he was to die here, he was going to die on his feet, dignified and tall.

Mr. Gray laughed contemptuously as Scott drew himself up to his full height.

"Don't be an idiot, Cowley," he said, and laughed again, a strangely mirthless laugh that brought no warmth, but only left frost behind on Scott's soul. He brought the gun up, but did not pull the trigger.

At least, not yet.

"I just wanted to show you what I can do," said the killer. "Last time I don't think I got to show you my power, I don't think you
appreciated
me properly." Another laugh.

Scott's eyebrows arched upward in surprise. This man, this monster, had killed his family and was now probably going to kill him, too, and he wanted to make sure that Scott appreciated him? What the hell kind of person was this?

He's insane, Scott thought. Don't try to make sense of the things he says, or you'll just end up as crazy as he is.

"You didn't show me your power?" asked Scott, letting his incredulity show in his voice. "You turned into a
dog
for God's sake."

Mr. Gray's mad grin faltered for a moment. "A dog?" he said, and Scott saw something unexpected on the man's face. Anger he expected. Even the man's sense of narcissism was not completely unusual in people who chose killing as a life's work. But Scott did not expect to see confusion. And more than that, the gray man looked stunned for a moment, as though it was Scott who had suddenly taken leave of his senses.

His next words even confirmed that idea. "You're not going crazy on me, are you?" asked Mr. Gray. "Finally killing you won't be nearly as fun if you don't know what's going on."

"You're the only crazy one, you piece of shit," spat Scott from between clenched teeth.

"There we go," said Mr. Gray, seemingly appeased out of his confusion by Scott's anger. "That's more like it." He cocked the gun. "Let's not have any more nonsense talk about dogs. You and the bitch and her retard son got away from me last time, but it's not going to happen again."

He pointed the gun at Scott's face, and Scott saw the man's finger whiten on the trigger. And this time he knew, knew without the least shadow of doubt, that no John Doe would appear to save him. Apparently the universe would allow for only one substitution of John Doe's death for Scott's. Although why shouldn't it? he thought. John Doe wasn't dead anymore, was he? So why couldn't he appear again?

As if Scott had spoken the words aloud, Mr. Gray smirked and said, "No blue eyed old bastard going to show up this time and save you, either. He used up all his juice on the last one."

Last one? thought Scott. Mr. Gray knows that John Doe visited me in my office? How much does this guy know?

He was tempted to actually ask that question, but before he could, Mr. Gray spoke again. "Wait," he said, and lowered the gun ever-so-slightly. "This isn't quite right, is it?"

And with that, the killer racked off a shot. The sound was hollow-sounding and distant, as though in this universe, this replica of the alley where Scott's family had died, things were not quite right, were not quite following the laws of physics.

I've been shot in the head, Scott thought instantly. Then, on the heels of that thought came another: So why am I still standing?

He could not help but look askance at Mr. Gray, who appeared to be distilling perfect pleasure from Scott's obvious confusion and discomfiture.

"You don't remember? It's been only eight years for you, and you don't remember?" said Mr. Gray in exaggerated shock. "I was going to shoot you in the head. But before I did, I got off three other shots. One that just missed you. One in the stomach. One in the chest." He laughed, and like the sound of the bullet, the laugh was thin and unreal. "So now we've got one down, two more to go." And with that he lowered the gun, aiming it at Scott's stomach. "I've still got enough juice for that, you know," he whispered, as though sharing a great confidence with his enemy.

Scott thought at that moment that he was on the verge of passing out. Not because of fear; any fear for his own life had long since been burnt away by the all-consuming grief he had endured in the days following his family's death. But darkness was seeping in at the edges of his vision, just as it had on that day so long ago.

"You shot me out of order, you dumbshit," he said, as though to defy the unconscious state that had to inevitably follow the darkness at the edges of his sight. "You shot me in the stomach first,
then
you missed, and then you got me in the chest." Scott turned his head and spat. "You are not only a piss poor hitman, you have a memory that's for crap."

The gunman stopped laughing then, the amusement dying instantly in the face of Scott's derision. "Get on your knees," said Mr. Gray.

But Scott didn't get on his knees. Indeed, he barely registered that Mr. Gray had said anything at all. Because when he turned his head to spit on the pavement, he had realized something: the darkness he had thought was a byproduct of impending unconsciousness was something else. Something else entirely.

The edges of his vision, he realized, were not growing darker. Rather, they were
shimmering
. And it wasn't really the edges of his vision, either. If that had been the case, then when he had turned his head, the shimmering would have moved as well. But it hadn't. It was not pinned to him, but to a specific location in the alley.

Location
s
, he realized. Plural. Because as he glanced around, he saw that shimmering lights were appearing throughout the alleyway. He looked at one of them, and saw something even stranger perhaps than the appearance of a Los Angeles alley in downtown Meridian: he saw
both
an alley in L.A.
and
a corresponding one in Meridian. As though he was looking through a window painted to look like the Los Angeles alley, and on the other side of the window a slim passage between buildings in Meridian - cleaner and nicer in every way, and without the stench of old urine and rotting trash - could be dimly viewed.

Mr. Gray apparently noticed that Scott was not paying attention to him, for he, too, looked around.

"Dammit," muttered the old man. Then he hit Scott in the stomach with the gun. "Get on your knees," he said.

Scott didn't move, just looking at the old man with unveiled contempt. Mr. Gray hit him again, on the head this time, the pistol whipping out with frightening force and almost knocking Scott senseless.

He fell to his knees in spite of himself, and saw through a thin veil of red as blood poured from the gash that Mr. Gray had opened on his forehead.

Mr. Gray moved the gun so that it was pointing directly at Scott's forehead.

"You just can't do anything right, can you?" said Scott, laughing and then coughing as he inhaled some of the blood that was pouring steadily down his face. "First you take the shots out of order, and now you're going to skip the gut and chest shots completely?"

He laughed again. The small sane part of him was crying out for him to stop baiting Mr. Gray, but a larger part, the part that had curdled and gone quietly mad within him following the death of Amy and Chad, knew that this was his last chance to inflict a little pain of his own. Sociopathic killers tended to be narcissists, he knew, and Mr. Gray fit the bill perfectly. So even if he died - as it looked like he was going to; as it looked like he
must
- at least he would die with the satisfaction of knowing that his last words had chipped away at the brittle shell of ego that Mr. Gray had surrounded himself in. "You're a champion screwup, Mr. Gray," he said.

"Mr. Gray?" said the man in a pleased tone. "I rather like that." Then he said it again, as though trying it on for size. "Mr. Gray."

"I started out with Mr. Shitforbrains, but it took too long to say," said Scott. He glanced around and saw that the version of the Los Angeles alleyway was growing more translucent, even as the Meridian alley - the
real
alley - grew darker, heavier, more tangible. Scott wondered what would happen if the Los Angeles alley disappeared entirely. Would the gray man disappear as well? Was there still a hope that he would survive this exchange?