Incubi

Chapter 34

Logic was not a thing one generally considered during times of anguish — too easily usurped by emotion and, of course, poor judgment. In other words, Jack Cordesman began to act before he began to think. Foot to the floor, he smoked and fumbled with maps as he drove, drifting in and out of his lane. Ginny’s directions were not difficult, yet he found difficulty in applying them to the county map grid. He felt something fighting against him.

Upon Fay’s revelation at the bar, Jack was up and out. Impossible, he thought. Completely impossible. But he was not daunted by such formalities as common sense. She’d dragged at his shirt in the parking lot, yelled at him, tried to reason with him, but for naught. “You can’t go there by yourself!” she’d shouted.

“Why not?”

“Those people are killers!”

“If they are, I’ll deal with them,” he’d stated very flatly.

“Let the police handle it!”

“I am the police. Besides, they wouldn’t believe any of it, anyway. Noyle? Olsher? No way.”

“Take some people with you, then! Someone to back you up!”

“No.”

“At least let me go with you!”

“No,” he’d said, and gotten into the car, closed the door, and driven away. He saw her shrink in the rearview as he pulled off. She watched after him, standing in the middle of the street. She looked very sad just then. She looked crushed.

I’m a prick, he thought now. I’m a cold, inconsiderate fucker. Now that he had a fair idea where he was headed, wisps of logic did indeed resurface. First, this could very well be a mistake and a tremendous overreaction. The odds were astronomical. Perhaps he’d written the name down wrong. Perhaps Ginny had. Second, even if it wasn’t a mistake, Faye was right. Jack should have backup, or he should’ve at least tried to get some, not that his credibility these days was particularly convincing among his superiors. He was going off half cocked and then some.

The unmarked’s tires hummed over the blacktop. The car devoured as much road as he could give it. He passed trucks and semi-rigs heading for the interstate; the long open fields to left and right blurred by. It was a pretty night, starry and warm. The moon followed him like a watcher.

What am I going to do when I get there? This was a sound inquiry. What did he think he was going to do? Bust down Khoronos’ door? Infiltrate his estate like some black-bag commando? Was he the knight in shining armor traveling through hell and high water to rescue the damsel in distress? Or am I about to make a prime ass of myself?

And suppose these guys were killers? Killers generally had weapons. All Jack had was his Smith Model 49, a five-shot J-frame peashooter, and he had no extra rounds. In the trunk was a parkerized Remington 870 with a folding stock which he hated (because it kicked worse than a pissed-off mule) and an old Webley revolver (which kicked worse) that he only kept around because it was fun to take to the range. The shotgun would be difficult to maneuver in close quarters, and the Webley, though it chambered a big.455 load, was an antique. Big, clunky, and about thirty years overdue for a major breakdown.

He could only vaguely adjudicate the directions. At this pace, sixty-five, seventy miles per hour, he’d probably be there in ninety minutes. Khoronos was rich, eccentric, and obviously protective of his privacy. Jack envisioned a fortress rather than an estate. High fences, security windows, steel-frame doors. Jack could pick your average lock, but he couldn’t touch tubulars (as were found on most alarm systems) and he couldn’t do a pin-wired keyway. What if Khoronos had dogs, or guards? What if he had video? They’d be waiting for him, and they’d be ready.

But then the darkness crept back, a thousand years’ worth. Khoronos, he decrypted. Aorista.

What if Faye was right?

They could be killing Veronica right now.

The ritual that never ends. At least if he died, he would do so at the hands of history, not some crack dealer or street scum.

He thought of Shanna Barrington, the black-stitched Y of her autopsy-section. He saw Rebecca Black lying crucified upon the blood-sodden bed, and the clean white walls blaring red satanic art. He thought of the sad poem Susan Lynn had written, the poem which had turned out to be her own epitaph.

He thought of the last time he’d made love to Veronica. He thought of the scent of her hair, the taste of her sex. He thought of the way she felt, so lovely and intense, so wet for him. He remembered what she’d said to him as he came in her, her voice a tiny plea, impoverished out of the desperation to communicate that which reduced all the words in language to utter inferiority.

Her plea was this: I love you.

Her love for him was gone now, he knew that, but he could never forget how beautiful things had been in the past, how important he’d once been to her.

And now these aorists, these madmen, might be killing her.

They won’t kill her, he thought. His long hair blew in the window drag. Not if I kill them first.

His eyes trained on the endless ribbon of road, his hands firmly gripped the wheel. He lit a Camel.

He grinned maniacally.

He may even have laughed aloud when he whispered:

“If they so much as touch her, I’m gonna kill everything that moves.”