The Reckoning (21 page)

At his command, the Invisibility Rays strobed from his brain, snapped, crackled and popped down his brainstem, fizzed along his spine to his butt and zapped on down his legs to his feet and toes.

The rays invaded every cell, were absorbed through membranes into his vitals.

Then nothing. He looked at his left hand.
Fuck.

The past couple nights, he’d given up on sleep and stopped taking the Valerian. Now, as a result, there was a constant, dull ache at the base of his skull, a tremor in his voice, and every physical activity, from sitting down on the pot to climbing a single flight of stairs, exhausted him.

He grinned wryly. Soon he’d be getting plenty of rest.

You’re dead a long time.

He thought about his father. What had he told Tony?
All I can remember about my father is that he was good with numbers
. What nonsense. What asinine nonsense. There was more, but Royce had conveniently blocked it. Oh, nothing dark or nasty. No sexual or physical abuse. Nothing like that.

He drew his father back into his mind, gathering as much data—no matter how random—as he could to create a picture. Quiet. Meek. Vague. Tired all the time. Ass-kisser to his clients. Probably even cooked the books for them on occasion, but only under horrible duress along the lines of your wife and child will starve or we’ll throw acid in your little boy’s face.

Sheldon had always been polite to his wife Eloise, and she, in return, polite to him. No domestic battles there. No heavy drinking or fooling around. His mother? Probably in heaven, washing out mayonnaise jars for reuse…for eternity.

How those two struggled through life, mostly to make it as cushy as possible for their only child. Unfortunately for them, they put all their eggs in one pretty rotten basket. Royce. Prodigal-son Royce. New-car-when-you-turn-sixteen Royce. Go-to-Stanford Royce. Join-the-best-fraternity Royce. Get-lots-of-pussy Royce. Make-lots-of-money Royce. Destroy-a-woman-for-your-pleasure Royce.

No, not a single, juicy transgression on the part of Sheldon McCulloch. No history of lying, of rampant masturbation or rape, no infidelities. No. Maybe it was just that Sheldon had never lived.

No fair. No fucking fair.

Royce rolled over on his stomach, felt under the bed for Code Blue.

Still there, on-line, ready to go, powder dry, fire in the hole.

“That’s that,” his wife had said.

No fucking way it was over. Shit. His nose ran all over his pillow, snot mixing with the tears. He had to pee again.

Now it was only a matter of time before their first strike. He just prayed he’d have the chance to retaliate. He’d told her, told his wife they had to be careful now. Attacks could come at any time—at their places of work, at Craig’s school. Yet when Royce had recommended they all stay home for a few days, even pull Craig out of school and sleep in the same room with the doors and windows barricaded, Les laughed in his face.

Maybe it was time to go to the police? Maybe they couldn’t stop Cliff and Carly, but at least the cops could give Craig and Les protection. And that’s the most he could hope for now. Deep down, he knew he’d have to make his midnight appointment with Cliff.

And no matter which way it turned out, he knew he was already dead. No more taxes. No more mail.

Bad karma kickback of the terminal kind.

He could still run, couldn’t he? He’d run once before.

No. Not this time. He swore it.

Poor Les. Poor, ignorant Les. She thought it was all over. The woman just didn’t have a clue. He wondered how she’d get along without him. Probably much better, thank you. She was still attractive. A good catch. Having the boy as part of the package might pose a problem. But there were a lot of guys out there who’d jump at the chance, steady-state guys getting antsy about being alone for the rest of their lives.

That’s that.

He rolled back to his left, sniffled, felt his wife’s warmth for the first time in days. Was it just his imagination or had she moved closer to him?

He felt her fingers ridge his hip, then sneak down into the fly of his pajama bottoms.

Oh, Lord, not now, Les. Please.

He felt the covers slide off him.

His wife’s hands encouraged.

Royce went on his back as she helped him slip down his pajamas and underpants. She had this sleepwalking look on her face, like she wasn’t there.

She straddled him as his hands when up under her gown, tweaking her pencil eraser nipples.

Gasping, he slipped through her tight ring of muscle, his hips thrusting. Familiar pleasure crawled warm up his spine. He still cried.

“I still haven’t forgiven you,” she hissed, savagely biting his upper lip.

20

Going Offshore

In the morning, he huddled with Leslie and Craig at the breakfast table, told them he considered the McCulloch family in a state of siege.

He again brought up the idea that she and Craig stay home for the day, which Les quickly nixed.

“I refuse to allow those two deviants to mess up our lives,” she said.

Royce gave his wife an impotent stare, then, “Well, at least let me drive you two to work and school and pick you up. It’s best we stay together, then I’ll go do my thing with Cliff tonight. Get that over with.” He exhaled. Just talking was draining his meager energy reserve.

“You certainly won’t,” she snapped. “You’re going to the police. Right now. This morning.”

“Tony won’t be out of court until this afternoon.”

“You don’t need Tony. This is an emergency.”

“Okay, okay,” he agreed.

“Just tell the police those two yahoos have threatened you. Get a restraining order or whatever. Have them thrown in jail or chased out of town.”

“Yes, Les,” he wheezed. Jesus, she was sounding like an Old West school marm.

So it was decided. Leslie would drop Craig off at school on her way downtown. And Royce, well, he would just get along by himself.

“Besides, it’s you they want,” she said, and made a look that said she wanted her words back.

“But I didn’t mean…”

“I know, I know,” he said, fatigued. “All I’m saying is for both of you to take special care today. Cliff is crazy. Car—Monica is crazy, too. Craig, they might show up at your school, or your bank, Les.”

They both nodded their heads.

“Okay,” Craig said.

Royce nodded. “Good.”

An inch of snow had fallen in the night, so Royce did a quick scoop of the walk, wearing just his suit coat against the cold, the gym bag always within arm’s reach.

“Maybe Santa will bring you a new coat,” Leslie called to him, she and Craig on the way to the garage.

“I think I’ve been too bad,” he huffed and puffed, smiling sheepishly.

He threw the snow scoop down, retrieved the bag and intercepted them at the garage. Royce told them both to stand back while he opened the door and scoped out the interior.

“Honestly,” she chided her husband. “These two are cowards, yellow. They won’t show themselves.”

Only if they come to rip your head off, darling.

He checked out the Civic before his wife got in. She started it, began backing. Royce took this opportunity to pull Craig to one side.

“Still have your emergency stash?”

“Sure. Well, most of it.”

He squeezed the boy’s arm, tight.

“If something weird happens, tell your teacher or go to Chalmers right away. Better yet, call the police. Don’t let anyone stop you. Remember, you can always rely on Tony, too, if you can’t get hold of me for any reason. Tony will know what to do.”

Leslie beeped the horn.

The boy tugged; Royce let him go.

“And Craig?”

The child looked back. “Yeah?”

“Cliff and Monica, they’re killers.”

Craig’s face went the color of snow as he turned and got into the idling Honda.

Leslie waved. Royce waved back.

Royce’s fax machine had already been cranking that a.m.

“Looking forward to our little DO tonight. Come alone or come to die. Love, Cliff.”

Royce wadded the message, pitched it away, yanked the fax machine plug and checked in with his voice message service. Tony had called, confirming he’d meet Royce at his law office at one. Brenda called to say George was doing better and that she and the kids were doing some Christmas shopping downtown today and would he be available for lunch?

Lunch. The word sounded so sane, so benign.

The phone rang.

“Mr. R., so glad I caught you in. It’s me, your favorite client, Monica.”

“Don’t give me that Monica shit,” he blurted. “Look, I know why you’re doing this. I’m sorry. How I can make amends I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s not you I am expecting an apology from,” she huffed. “Your wife—what’s her name?—was very rude to me on the phone last night.”

“I’ll ask you people again. What do you want?” he said angrily. “What is it going to take?”

“Just you, Royce,” she simpered. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“I have to meet Cliff first.”

“Oh, that’s all part of the plan. You pick Cliff up, then you buzz by and pick me up. I’ll be ready.”

“Splendid,” he snarled.

“Ciao.”

Leslie started across the bank plaza, the garment bag over her shoulder. She felt like a holocaust survivor, numb to the marrow.

She’d gone to Hecht’s over her lunch hour and bought the London Fog overcoat for Royce. He didn’t deserve it, that she knew. But in some inexplicable way she still loved him. All she knew for sure was that her sister was dying, that all life—Craig’s, Royce’s—was precious.

The sixteenth floor was quiet, with most of the bank’s executive and marketing staff still out to lunch, no doubt doing their last-minute Christmas shopping. Her secretary, Donna, wouldn’t be back until one-thirty.

Leslie entered her office and hung the overcoat on the hook behind the door.

Whew. That smell.

Then she knew. A charge ran up her backbone. Leslie spun.

“Monica. Your roots are showing, girl.”

The bitch was sitting on the edge of her desk, legs crossed, skirt immodestly hitched up. She stood and sashayed over to Leslie, a malevolent gleam in her eyes.

“Good afternoon, Leslie. How is Mr. R. these days?”

Leslie steeled herself. “You get out of my office. Or I’ll call a guard up from the lobby.”

“My my my, aren’t we testy today. What’s wrong? Haven’t gotten any lately?”

Leslie’s eyes drifted to her desk and the chrome letter opener. Unfortunately, Monica was directly in her path.

Monica unbuttoned her silk blouse and bared her oversized bust, hissing, “Your hubby made me get these, then he left me for dead!”

“I said get the fuck out of my office!” Leslie snarled back. “And leave my family alone!”

The hussy forced herself against Leslie, pressing against Leslie’s chest with those awful tits. Leslie was shoved with her back to a floor-to-ceiling panel of window glass.

“Royce will never be happy with you,” Monica spat. “Never! He only married you because he felt sorry for you—and you and your little bastard provided a good cover.” Lewdly, she cupped her silicone-fortified boobs in her hands and said, “You just don’t have what it takes!”

The glass vibrated. Leslie shuddered. Monica was smothering her, forcing her to crash through the window and fall sixteen stories. Ridiculously, a watermelon stunt she’d seen on
David Letterman
flashed in her mind.
Now we’ll see what happens when a flat-chested, female banker is dropped from sixteen stories
.

“Let me alone, you slut!” Leslie snapped, and jammed her right knee into the she-creature’s groin. The witch showed no sign of pain but was startled enough to let Leslie twist away from her.

Leslie made it to her desk, grasped the letter opener as Monica slammed down on top of her. Monica rolled her over, pinned her to the desk.

The woman’s strong perfume invaded Leslie’s nose. She choked.

“I’ll stab you, you smelly bitch!”

Monica tossed the threat away with a laugh, ripped open Leslie’s blouse and bra.

“Such puny fodder,” she said.

Monica clamped her teeth to Leslie’s left nipple.

White-hot pain seared at Leslie’s breast. She screamed, stabbed at Monica’s face.

The nipple tore off in Monica’s bloody mouth. The maw gulped and swallowed down the pink tidbit.

Leslie convulsed…

“Leslie, are you all right?”

It was Donna, staring wide-eyed at the letter opener in Leslie’s trembling hand. Leslie rolled off the desk, dropped the chrome knife on the floor. Her blouse was slashed open, her left finger severed.

Donna saw the blood, the ravaged aureole, and screamed.

Leslie’s watch read 12:20. Could she have blacked out for nearly fifteen minutes?

She had to get to Royce…Craig…

Leslie bolted past her secretary, yanked her coat from the hook behind the door and shot for the elevators. She willed her nervous system to block the pain. Royce…just down the street.

Shortly before twelve-thirty, Royce was composing a letter to his wife at the computer when his nose twitched. That perfume. His eyes immediately shot to the unlocked front door. What an idiot he’d been! Of course they might try to get at him here.

Suddenly he heard a sharp
crack!
from his office. His body vibrated. Royce rushed into the office, felt a presence behind him, spun to see a woman rushing out—escaping.

He turned back. The window, one of those wood-framed, old-style ones, had been opened, and on his desk was a rifle with a brass shell casing beside it. He lifted the weapon, gazed out the window down at Charles Street.

Ants were screaming, scrambling for cover.

He dropped the rifle on the desk, bolted from his office. Bypassing the ancient elevator, he scrambled down the five flights of stairs, his thighs and calves on fire.

Royce loped into the street—doomsday empty. With the national incidence of civilian massacres and snipings, the downtown populace was in hiding and furtively looking up at the Bromo Seltzer Tower. He spotted a prostrate figure on the sidewalk before the First National Bank and ran to it.

No…fuck no. Kneeling, he gently rolled her over. She’d fallen face down in a slick of blood.

“Les…”

One shot, neat, just above his wife’s left ear—the right side of her skull ruptured. Eyes open. He squeezed her body to him. Already the flesh was going hard. And her left breast…Jesus.

“Les, please no.”

He gathered her slender fingers together, held them tightly in a bunch. His wife’s wedding finger was missing, snapped off barbecue-rib-style. Sirens wailed. He clamped his mouth to hers, blew.

A low gurgle came from his wife’s throat as her cheeks inflated. Then his own throat back-filled with cooling blood. Her blood. Royce swallowed it down, shuddered.

He wanted to tell her something.

Maybe he could tell her later, if they let him.

“Don’t worry,” he said softly, and kissed her bluish lips. He stood, pivoted on the balls of his feet and broke into a jog, brandishing Code Blue.

Predator in the street.