Game Of Cages (2010) (26 page)

In the far end of the parking lot, half hidden among the trees, was the Neon I'd rented. I hoped Catherine was there and that she was okay. I'd check later, if I had the chance.

I saw a shape move behind a van. "Stop. Stop!" I said, unclicking my seat belt and opening my door.

"Heaven's sake, stay in the car." Steve's voice was tense.

I didn't. He chirped the brakes as I climbed out, nearly dumping me on the ground. I ran around the edge of the parked cars, then dropped low.

Christ, the asphalt was cold. Why hadn't I used my plastic to buy gloves? I peered under the cars, looking for moving feet and, maybe, a glimpse of a blue leg. No luck. I scrambled to my feet and peered through the car windows. Still no luck.

Steve had circled around the cluster of vehicles. He was too close, only ten feet from the pastor's pickup. He should have known better. It occurred to me that I could use him as a distraction, as a wooden man, but I rejected that idea. I wasn't here to sacrifice innocent people. I wanted to save them, not destroy them.

Several of the builders had noticed me creeping around their cars and stopped working. "Hey! Fella!" someone shouted. Six or seven of the workers began walking this way. Crap.

I was about to ask about a dog when Steve's reedy voice cut through. "Have any of you boys seen Pastor Dolan?"

That question stopped them cold. The man in the front, wearing a wool-lined jacket and hunter's cap, waved an arm vaguely behind him. "His truck broke down. Esteban is giving him a ride somewhere."

I looked across the field in the direction Hunting Cap had waved. Midway down the tree line, there was a break in the woods. It was another feeder road.

"You saw that?" Steve asked him. "You saw the pastor get into his truck?"

"Yeah," Hunting Cap said. "He was carrying something in his arms, like a load of laundry or something."

I was already running toward the car when Steve called my name. Justy threw open the back door for me and yelled: "If you see either of them again, keep away! Let everyone know!" I climbed in and slammed the door shut. Steve raced down the slope across the grass toward the second feeder road.

The seat belt was difficult to click with the bumps and jolts of the uneven ground, but I managed it. "What kind of truck does Esteban have?"

"Cube truck," Justy answered. "He's a plumber." Her tone was clipped. Steve hissed as he jounced around behind the wheel.

We reached the feeder road without breaking an axle, and Steve slowed. This road was made of mud and ruts. We had to be careful, or we were going to be stranded.

I wondered whether we'd find Aaron or Esteban in the truck when we caught up with it. So far, none of the people who'd been marked by the sapphire dog had wanted to share.

We hit a deep pothole, and the whole frame jolted. Steve slowed even more, which frustrated me even though I knew it was the smart thing to do. I hoped that whoever was driving the truck was less sensible and had stranded himself.

It didn't happen. We eventually reached a two-lane asphalt road. There were no taillights visible in either direction.

"Town is to the left," Steve said. He turned that way, really giving it gas.

I knew the road to the right also led to town, although it was a longer drive, but fair enough. I sat in my seat, staring ahead. The road twisted and curved, but there were no turnoffs. Eventually, we came to the top of a rise and I could see the lights of Washaway below.

"There he is," Justy said. I saw a pair of taillights speeding toward town. Steve stomped on the gas, and for once I wished we were in a genuine cop car with lights, sirens, and everything. We zoomed down the hill, taking a long, slow curve at twice the speed the top-heavy truck could manage.

Justy turned around and stared at me blankly. "I'm sorry," she said. "At Big Penny's, I wasn't ready. I ran--"

"Don't worry about it. You didn't do anything wrong." I meant it. She looked grateful, then nodded and turned around.

Within two minutes, we were right behind him, honking our horn. Of course, the truck didn't pull over.

"Dad-blastit," Steve said. We angled across the double yellow line to pull alongside him, but the cube truck swerved, nearly smashing us off the road into the trees. Justy screamed, and Steve slammed on the brakes. I wished I could drag him out of his seat and jump behind the wheel.

"Esteban's not answering his phone," Justy said, snapping her cell shut. "I'm going to try Aaron now."

We hung back from the truck for a few seconds. The gun in my pocket was out of bullets, and I didn't think Steve would loan me his so I could shoot at the truck's tires. Hell, I couldn't hit the pastor's tires when he was pulling out of a parking spot. There was no reason to think I'd do better now.

Of course, I also had my ghost knife. It would hit whatever I wanted it to hit, but it was just a piece of paper. Cutting into the edge of a moving tire would probably tear it apart, and I'd lose the last chance I had for killing the sapphire dog.

Steve gritted his teeth and stepped on the gas again. "Hold on!" he shouted. He rammed the back corner of the truck as we came to a sharp turn.

God, it was loud. We were jolted harder than the truck was, but we were expecting it. The truck driver overcorrected toward the left, swerved into the other lane, then swung back too hard to the right.

Steve slammed on the brakes. The truck struck a fence, then, skidding, hit a tree.

Steve's car fishtailed to a stop. I opened my door and stepped out, ghost knife in hand. No one told me to stop this time.

I crept along the passenger side of the truck, half expecting the sapphire dog to jump on me. Instead, I heard the driver's door open and close. I moved back to the rear of the truck.

Steve opened his door and stood behind it, his little revolver trained on someone I couldn't see on the other side of the truck. "Drop that!" he shouted. "Esteban, you drop that or I will have to fire!" He sounded desperately afraid.

Steve didn't change position. I moved toward the corner of the truck as quietly as possible. Not quietly enough, though. A Hispanic man with a sizable paunch and the biggest monkey wrench I'd ever seen turned toward me. He was smiling.

He had a white circle just below his left eye.

Esteban was a lefty, and when he swung that wrench, it came at me in a high, slow arc like a Frisbee. It was so slow that I actually caught it and tugged him off balance. When he stumbled, I hit him once, quickly, where his jaw met his ear. He dropped to the asphalt.

Steve holstered his weapon. He looked relieved.

I knelt on the plumber's back while Steve handcuffed him. At least it wouldn't have to be a citizen's arrest this time. I jumped up and walked around the truck. There were no signs of activity in the cab and no dark circles on the sides. I hopped up to peek into the window.

Empty. I went around to the back. The latch was padlocked, but Steve had fished a fat, jangly key ring off Esteban's belt and was fumbling with the keys. I could have cut the padlock off in a second, but I didn't want to use the ghost knife in front of them. Instead, I stood and waited, holding my breath to hide my impatience.

He found a likely key and slid it into the lock. It sprang open. He drew his revolver and waved me back. I reached into my pocket and held on to my ghost knife.

Steve opened the door and shined a flashlight inside. The walls were lined with tools and shelves, and there was no place for the predator to hide.

"Esteban," Steve said. "Where is it?"

The man on the ground had come around enough to laugh at him. He tried to get his knees under him, but he was still unsteady. He fell onto his side and kicked at me, still laughing.

Steve and Justy tried to pressure him into sharing more information, but it wasn't going to happen. He laughed and jeered at everything they said, pleased that he had tricked us into following him.

I knelt beside him and held his face still. The mark was just a spot rather than a streak. The texture of his skin was unchanged--the pores and tiny hairs inside the mark were the same as outside--but the skin itself had become as white as a sheet of paper. I poked at it; it felt normal.

"Why has the sapphire dog decided to stay in Washaway?" I asked. "Why isn't it trying to leave anymore?" He didn't answer.

"He's not going to help us, is he?" Justy said. She didn't want to get close to him, and I didn't blame her. Esteban cursed at us and laughed again.

Steve sighed. "Help me put him into the back of the car."

I did, slamming the door shut. Esteban didn't fight me and didn't try to break out. He just sat and smiled.

"What do you think?" Steve said.

"Let me check something." I went to the truck and climbed into the cab. Hunting Cap had seen the pastor get into the truck with something in his arms. If Esteban had attacked him, it would have happened in here.

There was no blood. There was no evidence of a fight at all. And I didn't believe for a minute that Esteban could have taken that quick little pastor in a fight. I climbed out of the cab.

"Something's changed," I said. "The sapphire dog's previous victims fought one another over it, but this guy left it with someone else to lead us on a wild-goose chase, and he's happy about it."

"And the mark is different," Steve said.

"Either it's learning how to control us better, or it's eating more carefully. Probably the latter. I bet it's still with the pastor."

"But where is he?"

A car whooshed by us. There were two people inside, but they were gone before I could catch a glimpse of them. "Pretty much anyone in town would offer a ride to the pastor, right?"

Steve sighed and rested his hand on the roof of his car. He looked tired. "Yes."

"We should see if he doubled back."

"What if he didn't?" Justy asked.

"Then we'll drive around town, looking for him or anyone else with marks on their faces."

Steve's car rattled and clicked as we drove back to the fairgrounds. He kept looking into the rearview mirror and talking to Esteban, trying to pry cooperation from him with reason and social connection. I watched Esteban's ironclad serenity and knew it was wasted effort. The sapphire dog had taken away the parts of him that Steve could appeal to.

The men and women working at the fairgrounds swore up and down that Pastor Dolan hadn't returned and that none of their cars were missing. They had to shout at us while we talked; a snow-making machine on top of the field house was running, and it was loud. We found the church and the house dark. We broke down the doors and searched together. Steve clucked his tongue over the mess in the house, but we didn't find any signs of life. Even the cats were gone.

We walked out into the yard. Steve offered me a ride back into town, but I declined. He drove away.

The Neon was parked in the same spot. Catherine opened the door for me.

"How are you?" I asked.

"I'm fine," she said, to my tremendous relief. "Thank you. I'm sorry I tried to shoot you."

She still had that look. I didn't like it and I had no idea how long it was going to last. She gave me the keys and slid into the passenger seat. She clicked her seat belt in place and folded her hands in her lap.

I started the engine. "Keep an eye out for hitchhikers. And for the predator."

"All right." Her voice sounded dull and thin. All the fire and sharp intelligence were missing. The ghost knife had done just what the sapphire dog did--it took away every part of a person's personality but one. In that way, we were alike.

But who gave a damn about that? The predator was feeding on people, and it was my job to stop it.

I drove toward the campgrounds, the school, and the possibly mythical highway feeder road. My high beams lit the greenery around me, but I didn't see any movement. I saw blackberry vines, ferns, and moss-covered trees, but no people hiding in the greenery. Certainly no pastor.

I rolled down the window. The air was bracing but Catherine didn't complain. I drove quietly, radio off, listening and watching.

Nothing.

After a couple of miles we came to the campground entrance, a wide dirt path leading off the main road. I decided to pull in.

"What's that?" Catherine asked.

The headlights had flashed on something bright red in the bushes. I put the car in park and stepped out. Immediately, I could see that it was a dead man.

I leaned close to him. It was Stork Neck. He'd been shot once through the chest and then fallen into the hedge. Had the sapphire dog gotten loose among the Fellows, turning them against one another? Or was something else going on?

I touched his hand. It was cold, but so was mine. I lifted the bottom of his ski jacket to feel his belly. It was still warm.

That was a bad sign. I glanced around quickly but didn't see any other bodies. I had no idea how close the shooter was or whether he was coming back. I should probably have gotten out of there, but I didn't. Instead, I got back into the car.

My headlights shone down the dirt path into the campground. Down the slope, I could see the tops of three motor homes, each with a dark SUV beside it. I'd found the Fellows' camp.

"Stay low," I said. Catherine ducked below the dash. I pulled all the way into the grounds, which seemed like a better option than parking on the shoulder of the road.

There was a second body beside the entrance to the nearest trailer. It was Fat Guy. He was sitting against the trailer wheel, his head slumped down over a bloody red hole in his breastbone. He didn't look so dangerous anymore, but no one did once a bullet or two had run through him. There was a third body, one I didn't recognize, beside the next trailer. Blood spatters from the exit wound had sprayed onto the white siding.

The shooter had fired from somewhere behind me, on the hill across the road. Someone was using a long gun and using it well.

I parked as far from the trailers as I could. Maybe the shooter, if he was still around, would assume I was alone in the car. Of course, the sniper had had plenty of time to take a shot while I'd stood over Stork Neck's body. Maybe he wasn't in position anymore. Maybe he was creeping closer in to inspect his handiwork.