Echoes (7 page)

A large drop of rain plopped onto my hair. Several more landed around me as the pungent smell of earthworms began to seep through the ground.

Several seconds passed without a response. His anger abated as confusion took its place. He didn't seem to know what I was talking about.

Smith must have manipulated you like he does everyone. I have no idea who you are, but working for that monster has signed your death warrant.

I didn't expect this kind of reaction at all. Was Nami right about him? Was he so crazy that he didn't remember sending men to murder me only a few hours ago?

At the funeral ahead of me, a blonde woman wearing a black dress and veiled mourning hat looked around the cemetery with a sweeping gaze. Her eyes fixed on me. Was she Murdock? I knew he was good at disguising himself, but being able to pass for a woman was remarkable.

I had focused so much attention on her that I didn't see the suited man running toward me until he was less than five feet away. I tried to pivot to the side as he ran into me but his momentum was too great and we crashed into a large headstone. The block of granite didn't give an inch, though my shoulder wanted to.

I covered my head with my forearms as he began to rain down heavy blows at my face. His frantic punches were clumsy and unskilled, with little regard to his body positioning. This allowed me to put my feet on his hips and push him away. Jumping to my feet, I took a traditional boxing stance and closed the distance between us.

The mental bridge between Murdock and me kept me from focusing on the man's thoughts. What I did manage to discern seemed simple enough: he wanted to kill me. He was nothing more than an innocent bystander that Murdock used to do his dirty work. That made this fight even more difficult as I didn't want to cause him serious harm.

He bull rushed me with his head down, trying to tackle me like a linebacker. As he grabbed me I snuck my arm around his neck, clasped hands, and squeezed. This move cut off the blood supply to his brain. He thrashed around trying to get free, but his body fell limp a few seconds later. I placed him on the ground as gently as I could, his face resting on the muddy grass. He would wake up in a few minutes with a headache but he'd be fine otherwise.

I see you aren't unskilled. Unfortunately, I don't have time to deal with you personally.

Everyone at the funeral spun around and looked directly at me. Men, women, and children, most dressed in black, began to sprint forward. Even the priest had dropped his bible and ran as fast as his aged body would allow.

The rain turned into a torrential downpour.

If this was an action movie from the eighties, I would have stood my ground and beat down everyone that Murdock sent. Instead I turned around and ran my ass off. Smith could take care of this mess. I had done my part. Most of the people attending the funeral were your average out of shape citizens. Outrunning them wouldn't be an issue.

At least, it wouldn't have been had I seen the caretaker hiding behind the mausoleum before he hit me in the chest with a shovel.

Air erupted from my lungs as I stumbled backward, trying to stay on my feet. My mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. Panic set in while my lungs tried to remember how to function.

Pain exploded across the right side of my face. I fell sideways, arms pin-wheeling as I tripped over a low marble grave stone. A mourner had caught up faster than I expected. He punched hard, too.

The caretaker ran at me, the shovel raised above his head, as I staggered back to my feet. Instead of moving back, I stepped toward him, grabbing the front of his brown overcoat and swinging him at the funeral-goer. My toss and his momentum sent the two of them toppling over in a jumble of limbs.

Leaning against a huge headstone with a statue of Christ atop it, I tried to focus on breathing. Touching my tender sternum, I checked for broken ribs. 

"Ash, are you okay?" Nami said.

"I've been better," I wheezed.

"You have some more people coming at you. Try not to get hit by anymore gardening tools."

I'm down here getting my ass kicked and she's making fun of me. Computer geeks have always annoyed the hell out of me.

"Thanks for the tip, Naomi."

"Nami!"

The rest of the funeral party closed in, two middle-aged men leading the pack. How many people could Murdock control at once? His mental powers were astonishing. Pushing myself up, I started circling left in an attempt to keep them both from reaching me at the same time.

The man in front slipped in mud as he tried to jump over the caretaker and landed on his side, his arm at an awkward angle when he attempted to lessen the impact of his fall with it. The lack of a reaction on his face disturbed the hell out of me.

When Murdock had control of you, did you not feel anything? This man had a completely different reaction than the senator, who seemed to have an internal struggle before shooting himself. Did Murdock decide if he wanted you to be aware of what you were doing?

Behind him came a family of six, with the second man ahead of them. His large beer belly swayed, straining the buttons of his suit as he tried to grab me by the shoulders. I dropped to a knee and punched him in it. As he doubled over beside me, I pushed him on top of the man with the broken arm and turned to face the rest of his family.

There was no way I could live with myself if I beat up a soccer mom, boys who were weren't even teenagers, and two pretty little blonde girls. There's a special place in hell for people capable of such a thing. Deciding to run again, I just started to turn around when rosary beads wrapped around my neck, pulling me off balance.

Clawing at them with my hands, I tried to wedge a finger under them to allow a mouthful of air in. They say a man's strength is the last thing to go and the elderly priest strangling me proved it. The pressure from the rosary bit into my throat with such intensity that I could feel the warmth of blood beading around it. Gargles escaped me as I struggled against it, shocked that it wasn't breaking.

The mother, who looked incredible considering she had four children, bent down to pick up the shovel. The rain caused her black dress to cling to her toned body. She held the handle like a baseball player stepping up to the plate and marched toward me.

So this was how it would end: strangled by a man of the cloth and bludgeoned by Carol Brady.

Over her shoulder I could see at least two dozen men in black battle dress uniforms running across the cemetery, assault rifles aimed at the blonde woman standing by the funeral site. The blanketing sound of the rain blotted out what they yelled at Murdock. Their guns managed to convey the message.

The rosary around my neck released.  Gasping for air I fell to my knees, holding my bleeding throat. Soccer Mom gave the shovel in her hand a perplexed look.

"What's going on?" she asked.

The armed men behind her continued advancing at Murdock. Their tactics didn't make any sense. Why approach a man who is able to manipulate your very actions?

The roar of a large diesel engine pierced through the pounding rain. I could see a massive eighteen wheeler accelerating on Route 1, behind the agents. It veered across both of lanes of traffic, causing cars to swerve in every direction. The big rig collided with the front end of a Toyota Prius, crumpling it like tin foil. Instead of braking, the truck driver shifted gears and accelerated, sending plumes of black smoke from its chrome exhaust stacks. The agents, hearing the collision, turned in time to see it barreling forward.

The truck hopped the curb and began plowing through headstones. The thicker, sturdier grave markers smashed the grill and bumper of the tractor trailer. It continued forward despite the damage. Boring down on the agents, the driver jerked the wheel, forcing the trailer into a jackknife and tipping the entire rig over.

The armed men, only a few dozen yards from the road, didn't have much time to react. A few of them managed to dive out of the way at the last second. The rest were mowed down like crops harvested by a combine. Those who evaded the front end of the truck were crushed under the toppling trailer. Muddy water and blood squirted out from the impact. At least two members of that unnamed force were still alive. I could hear their bloodcurdling screams.

Murdock wiped out almost thirty armed men without ever firing a shot. Defeating him seemed impossible.

Smith and Nami yelled in my ear at the same time, but I couldn't understand them. The earpiece must have been damaged, because their voices came through in high pitched, painful screeches. I couldn't concentrate through those awful sounds, so I dug the radio out of my ear and dropped it to the ground.

Dragging my eyes off the overturned truck, I looked back at Murdock. He stood by the open gravesite, staring back at me. Kicking off his pumps, he turned and fled from the cemetery.

Interfering with my revenge is the last mistake you'll ever make.

Splashing footsteps made me look back at Soccer Mom just in time to see the shovel as it smashed into my face.

Waking up in a strange place with a splitting headache was getting really old.

Once again I was on a bed, staring at the ceiling. At least it wasn't disgusting this time. This room was about as vanilla as you can get. Sterile white or light blue covered almost every surface. No television, no second bed. A bunch of monitoring equipment and an I.V. sat beside me. The only door to the room was shut.

My head felt like it had been squeezed in a vise. I tried to reach up and touch it, but my arm only moved about six inches. Lifting my head, which didn't help with the pain, I looked down at my arms. Both were handcuffed to the bed. Sometime between being hit in the face with a shovel and waking up here, I had been arrested.

All I could remember was seeing the shovel coming at me, then nothing. Until now, anyway. How did I survive?

Still looking down, I saw one of those awful hospital gowns that feel like they're made out of cardboard. My clothes were nowhere to be found. I didn't see any casts or sutures on any of my visible skin. Lots of bruises and scrapes, but nothing that looked permanent. Swallowing hurt like hell where the rosary beads had done their work.

The smell of food wafting in through the door made me realize how long it had been since I had anything to eat. My stomach grumbled at the enticement. I may have been the only person in the history of the world to actually crave hospital food.

The call button for a nurse sat over the side of the bed above my shoulder. No way I could reach it. I decided to try the old fashioned way.

"Uh, hello? Can anyone hear me?"

Speaking gave me a jarring reminder of the punch I took at the cemetery.

No one responded.

Laying my head back on the pillow, I let my mind wander out. A guard, Officer Robertson, sat outside the door, reading People magazine with the torn off cover of Newsweek wrapped around it. He heard me call out, but had been instructed not to speak to me. Several nurses scurried by the door in a hurry to get to a flat lining patient down the hall.

Pulling my mental reach back, I tried to figure out what my next move would be. The confrontation with Murdock in the cemetery changed everything. His capabilities were off the charts. Wiping out that entire team of armed agents hadn't even been a challenge to him. The only hiccup that occurred seemed to be when he released the civilians who were attacking me. If I had to guess, I'd say he wasn't able to control that many people at the same time. In order to kill the agents, he had to focus on them. He didn't stick Carol Brady on me again until after he finished with them.

Why didn't he have her finish me off after she beat me unconscious? Smith guessed he could control people at a range of three hundred feet. Did he run too far away and take himself past his limit?