Ash Wednesday (51 page)

Not specifically, anyway, he thought.

Escape? Impossible. He couldn't escape from himself, let alone a statewide search. Turn himself in? Give himself up? Why? They would only put him in a prison or a hospital, and the prison would not rehabilitate him, the hospital would not cure him.

Some cripples can't be helped. It makes no sense for them to live.

Death, then?

He paused. Unlike most men, he had seen enough death so that in a general sense it held no terror for him. But when he regarded the specifics of his own death, he hesitated. It was not the painful drifting away of life that he found unsettling, but rather the crossing over into another state of being. Had it not been for where he lived, he should have supposed that death was only the entryway to oblivion, but while the rest of the world had shown him death's face, Merridale had shown him that death also had a soul.

He shook his head, searching for an answer, finding it by remembering that it was not his choice, that he could only play out the remainder of the act, not write it.

So the options were closed. He could only toss the dice, spin the wheel, see what had been decided. The only thing he could not bear to do was wait. The
most
he could hope to do was to force fate's hand.

Then he thought of the car outside, the car sitting and purring and waiting in the cold, wet March darkness, waiting for him. The people inside were waiting for him too. All their lives they had been focused to this point, this spot, this hour. Their world was a giant funnel in which, no matter where they crawled on its surface, time pulled them inexorably down until they arrived here, on Sundale Road at 12:45 A.M. the precise moment at which Brad Meyers also reached the funnel's mouth.

He went upstairs to get his pistol and do what he would do.

~*~

The rain had stopped.

The boy and girl had moved once more to the front seat, tired and satisfied, so that their defenses were down when the man with the gun yanked open the door. Dave Boyer would have tumbled out had the man not caught him by the shoulder. "Just hold it steady," the man said, brandishing the pistol so they both could see it, "and don't be heroes."

Dave's breath caught in his throat, and his stomach twisted. The barrel of the gun was a black eye staring out of blackness, blackness that could suddenly explode into light and end light forever.

"I don't want to hurt either of you."

"What
do
you want?" asked Kim, her words bolder than she felt.

"Some help. You''—he pointed at Kim—"get out of the car and come inside with me." The girl hesitated. "I'm not going to hurt you. And I'm not going to rape you either. But I need"—the man paused, then grinned as though what he said was absurd—"a hostage."

"Okay, look," Dave said, unable to stop his voice from shaking, "what you need is help, okay? Now, why don't you put the gun down and—"

"Kid, don't be an asshole. You have no idea what you're doing. Now you just get your car in gear and drive down to the police station and tell them to hurry over. Think you can handle that? It's that house right there, and my name is Brad Meyers."

Dave shook his head. "Why? What's all this about?”

“It's about endings. Confrontations. Peace and freedom. Life and death."

The boy turned to Kim and whispered, "He's crazy . . . I can't leave you here."

"You've got to."

"Enough!" Brad said, rapping the barrel of the pistol against Dave's ann. "No discussions. Now
move!
”

“I'll be all right," whispered Kim.

She opened the door and got out slowly. Brad came around the car and took her by the arm. He spoke to Dave through the open door. "You can tell them that I killed the woman I'm living with . . . and her son. They'll like to hear that."

Both Kim and Dave turned pale, and the girl stumbled, her legs suddenly weak. "I'm not going to kill
you
," said Brad.

"What do you want?" Brad looked quizzically at the boy. "Demands?"

"Demands?" asked Brad.

"You said 'hostage.' What'll I tell them? What are your demands?"

Brad licked his lips. "I told you. Peace and freedom. Life and death. Confrontation. Ending."

"But—"

"
I
know what I want. You bring them. I'll get it. Now go." Brad slammed the car door and gave the side a sharp kick. With a harsh, urgent grinding, the boy engaged the gears and drove off. Brad watched the taillights until they disappeared around a bend, and started to lead the girl back into the house. "What's your name?"

"Kim. Kim Bailey." Alone with the man, Kim felt helpless, insignificant. "Why are you doing this?" she cried in pinched tones.

Brad heard the fear and hated it. He didn't want her to be scared, only to obey. "I'm doing it because I have to. Now don't be frightened. I told you
you
wouldn't be hurt. I'm not after
your
death, don't you see that? Just do what I tell you and you'll be all right."

They entered the house, and Brad told the girl to follow him while he locked all the doors and windows and drew the curtains. Over the large living room window that fronted Sundale Road, be drew only the sheers, then turned on the outside lights. "Help me," he said, grabbing an arm of the sofa. Together, he and Kim swiveled it so that it faced the window. Then he turned off the living room lights.

The room was dimly lit from the outer radiance spilling in through the sheers, but to observers on the lawn outside, the contents of the room would be in darkness. The lawn was well illuminated, and anyone approaching the house from the front would be hazily visible to Brad and Kim. They sat in silence, Brad watching the window casually, the gun held loosely in his lap. Kim was far more nervous, glancing into the many shadows the half-darkened room held.

Finally she had to ask. "Where . . . are they?"

He turned toward her. "Not here. The boy is in his room; my . . . the woman's downstairs in the basement.”

“Is that where—"

"They both died downstairs.
Those
are downstairs." He sighed. "I guess I should be down there too. Finish it down there with them. One big happy family." His voice broke, and he cleared his throat angrily. "No more questions, all right? I've got a few things to think about right now."

He had nothing to think about. He was beyond thinking.

The morning was going well for Clyde Thornton. He had left the Lansford Holiday Inn East bar with June Sibley, an out-of-town vocalist who had recognized him and accepted his offer of a drink. When he invited her on a tour of Merridale, she agreed with a mixture of excitement and fear he had seen before in a dozen other bars, on a dozen other pretty faces. I want to see, it said. Show me. Take me to the funhouse, into the dark where the
boogeymen
jump out and go boo and scare me. And then you can hold me tight. Hold me very tight.

Show me the dead men so I can feel alive.

The drive through Merridale worked as Thornton had wished, a classic aphrodisiac, and it was not long before he was licking drops of
Drambuie
off her pale nipples as she giggled and moaned on the floor of Ted
Bashore's
den. They moved their activities to the king-sized
Beautyrest
in Thornton's bedroom, and afterward he lay exhausted, his head on the smooth flatness of her stomach. A short time later he was demonstrating Ted
Bashore's
in-bed sound system to the girl, turning on, among other things, the Bearcat Scanner. Then, at 1:05 in the morning, Clyde Thornton heard the bulletin on the police band.

"What's all that mean?" June Sibley asked, letting her hand trail down over Clyde Thornton's bare back.

"
Shh
. Wait a minute."

She gave a small, pouting frown at the rebuff, then lay back listening to the static-filled voice that she did not understand.

Thornton's face brightened as she watched. "Holy shit," he whispered.

"What?"

"Seems one of our townsfolk just kidnapped a girl and maybe killed his family to boot."

"You're joking."

"Nope. Feel like a little excitement? A little more excitement, that is?"

"Like what?"

"You'll see." He leaned over and kissed her right nipple. "Get dressed."

June and Thornton arrived at Sundale Road twenty minutes after they got out of bed. The girl had protested on the way. "I don't think I want to do this. I mean, what's the point?"

"Maybe I can help. Hell, everybody knows me. And everybody trusts me too." Thornton smiled smugly. It was silly, he knew. He couldn't hope to impress her any more than he already had. But what the hell, it would be something different, something on which to try out his newfound powers. He'd felt so damn confident lately, so sure of himself and his fate. If he couldn't talk this screwball into giving himself up, at least he could put on a
helluva
show.

Frank
Kaylor
and three of his officers were already there, their two police cars idling, flashers turning in offbeat red rhythms. "Hello, Frank," called Thornton. "What's the story?"

Kaylor
glowered at the words. "What are you doing here, Dr. Thornton?"

"Heard the bulletin on my scanner. Thought I'd come see if I could help."

"Thanks, but I think not. State Police are on their way."

"Well, we'll see." Thornton gestured toward the house. "Who is it?"

"Guy named Brad Meyers."

"And?" There was no answer. "Don't tell me I'm going to have to read about this in the papers, Frank."

"Look,
Thornton
, we've got a real problem here, okay?"

"And that's why I'm here," he said firmly. "Now, what the hell's happened?"
Kaylor
looked away. "Don't make me remind you, Frank, that I've got jurisdiction from the government, state and federal. In other words, I outrank you."

"Not in criminal matters."

"Let's not fuck around with details, huh? Merridale is still an official disaster area, and I'm in charge. Now, what happened?"

Kaylor's
shoulders slumped, and he told Thornton, not because he outranked him, but because it was easier than arguing further. "Meyers grabbed a girl. He's got her in there with a gun. Told the kid the girl was with that he killed the woman he's living with and her son, but we don't know if that's true."

"Talk to him at all?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And nothing. He doesn't talk back."

"Are you sure he's in there?"

"Would you like to go in and check?"

"Funny." Thornton smirked. "Where's your bullhorn?”

“Uh-unh."

"Let me have the bullhorn, Frank. You're voted into office, you know."

Kaylor
shook his head, then reached in through his car window. "Here," he said, handing the bullhorn to Thornton. "Maybe Meyers can aim at the sound. One thing understood, though"—and he glanced around to take in his officers and June Sibley—"you're not my responsibility. You want to play, play at your own risk."

"If I play, I'll win. Don't worry about me, son." Thornton put an arm around June's shoulders. "Maybe you'd better get behind a car in case this clown starts shooting."