GRAVEWORM (23 page)

Clarity came in Spears’ final moments and he knew exactly what kind of man he was, what he had done, what was beneath him and what was not. And begging for his life was
not
beneath him, because he had things to live for, he had money and position and a sexy young wife and a brilliant future and—

The first bullet went into his chest, just left of his heart. It punctured his lung, collapsing it, and was deflected off one of his ribs, lodging itself neatly in his stomach.

He was aware of little but the impact.

At least until he stumbled over backwards and felt the fire in his belly, his chest, heard the moist whistling of his lung. Pure animal panic came next as endorphins flooded his system and he vaulted to his feet, his eyes wide and glassy, a pathetic wheezing sound coming from his blood-slicked mouth. His right hand was pressed tightly against the entry wound and blood, hot and pumping, blossomed over his fingers and dyed his hand red. He pressed harder and blood squirted between his fingers.

The look on his face was mainly surprise.

Then the woman fired again.

The second slug went into his throat, punched a hole through his esophagus and shattered his carotid artery as it exited. The impact was there again, but he stayed standing for almost five seconds as an arc of blood fountained from his throat and splashed against the wall. Then, in shock, he fell straight over, striking his face against the edge of the desk and knocking out two teeth in the process.

The woman walked around the desk, the stench of blood hot and nauseating in the air. There was pain in her eyes, revulsion, as if she had now seen something that should never have been seen. It dislodged something in the brain behind those eyes and her lips pulled away from her teeth, which were locked tight and grinding.

Spears was nearly dead.

He looked to be sinking in a sea of red.

His mouth continued to work, a wet gurgling sound coming out in lieu of a voice. He shuddered, legs and arms gyrating spasmodically and then he went still, his eyes wide.

A strange whimpering sound in her throat, the woman turned and left the office.

She shut the door behind her, leaving the dead to do whatever they did in privacy.

The game was afoot.

40

The third day of hell—though it was technically just over twenty-four hours since it had all began—started like this for Tara Coombes:

She pulled into the driveway, feeling both cold and hot, a rushing sound in her head like wind blown through a tunnel. She shut off the car, breathing so fast and so hard now she could barely catch her breath. Sweat ran down her back and her skin felt hot. Within seconds, she was shivering. Hot then cold, cold then hot.

She sat there a while, shivering so violently the car nearly shook with her.

Finally, pressing her gloved fist into her mouth, she screamed silently.

Then she went inside, locking the door behind her.

She was not sure how she was feeling. Not calm, not reassured that she had made a move that would bring her closer to Lisa. Mostly sick to her stomach and offended by what she had just done. And also revolted… because something inside her, that same purely animal sense that was guiding her through this nightmare, was actually fat and happy, satisfied. She could almost feel it purring like a cat with a full belly of bird.

Without turning on the lights, she went upstairs and into the bathroom, stripped and stepped into the shower. She lingered under the hot spray for almost ten minutes before she took up a sponge and body wash and began to scrub. She went after her own body like she had gone after the kitchen lately, washing herself abrasively until her flesh was red and tender.

Then she stepped out of the shower, still in darkness, and squatted before the toilet and threw up. Not much came out, because in those dark and dire hours since she’d found Margaret Stapleton slaughtered in her kitchen she had not eaten. She had smoked a great deal. Drank pot after pot of black coffee, but took no solid food whatsoever. What came out was mostly sharp-tasting bile that squirted into the bowl. When the little that was in her was voided, she was wracked with dry-heaves for nearly fifteen minutes until her abdomen ached and there were tears in her eyes.

Her throat was raw.

Her mind filled with the ever-rotating and mutating imagery of corpses and blood and limbs stuffed into plastic bags.

Finally, she collapsed with her back against the wall, edged tightly in-between the toilet and the sink. She still did not turn on the lights because if she did she might look at herself and the idea of that frightened her in ways she could not even understand. She figured something like her belonged in darkness.

And in her head, a voice:
You just committed cold-blooded murder.

You.

Just.

Committed.

Cold.

Blooded.

Murder.

And it was only the beginning of what that monster had planned for her. Inside, that awful presence in her thought it was much smarter than the boogeyman, but she now knew it was not. The boogeyman was experienced in these things and, using her sister as bait and ransom and influence, he had quite carefully and meticulously manipulated her.

Just a puppet.

Here she thought she was brave and sure and doing only what had to be done to ensure Lisa’s survival, but in actuality she had been used viciously.

Some submerged, still human part of her knew now that she should have gone to the police right away. But now it was too late.

If she went to them now, they’d lock her away.

The boogeyman had known how deep her love was and he had exploited this and achieved his ends and now Tara was trapped, she belonged to him as surely as Lisa did. She would have to do as he said now, regardless of how heinous and vile his demands were. Freewill no longer existed, and choice had been removed from her by her own hand, no less.

The sorrow she felt then was not just mental but physical. It was hands strangling her and knives slitting open her belly and fingers thumbing out her eyes and dirty, evil digits stroking her brain. This is what it was like to be owned. To be a slave, to be molested, to be a dog that was kicked and abused and poisoned by its own inability to do anything but obey. Blind, unreasoning obedience. She could wash and scrub and sanitize, but never would the stain of what she had done and what she would yet do come clean.

Tara’s life was a tragedy.

An atrocity.

And inside her own mind there was an ominous truth: If Lisa dies, then I killed her. Her blood will be all over my hands. I will be responsible as surely as if I killed her myself.

And you’re giving up?

I don’t have a choice.

You do. You can play the game.

Commit more crimes?

If that’s what it takes.

I can’t.

Think of Lisa. Think of your love for her. What she means to you and how, right now, as terrified and hopeless as she must be, how she must know that there is only one person in this fucking world that would give their own life to help her and that person is you. Do not let her down.

I already have.

No, you haven’t. But if you fold up now, girl, then that sick twisted motherfucker wins and you live with the knowledge that you let him.

I’m afraid… afraid of what I am now.

No fear. No remorse. Think of Lisa. Think of your love for her.

And she knew then that there really was no choice. Yes, she would have to do what he asked, but she could do it knowing that it would bring her closer to him and to Lisa.

Think, then! Think! If your strength is your love for your sister, what is his weakness?

On the phone tonight, he had almost shriveled up when he heard that overwhelming dominance in her voice. Like all men, he was a little boy inside and once you controlled that little boy within, you controlled the man without.

I love you, Lisa,
she thought then.
I’ve always loved you ever since I saw you in that crib when you came home from the hospital. God knows I was jealous of you, jealous of how mom and dad always fawned over you and ignored me. How you were the baby and you could fuck up, and that was okay. But I was the older sister, I was supposed to be mature and make informed choices. I could not make a mistake and you could. But when I came back from Denver I realized how none of that mattered. Tangled in my envy and jealousy were the beads of my love. Remember how we held each other the night after the funeral? In the living room, just me and you? I wanted to comfort you and you ended up comforting me because I broke down in tears and I loved you then, I respected you, and I’ve loved you a thousand times more since that day.

I will not let you suffer.

I will have blood for blood.

For every twitch of pain that cocksucking pervert has caused you, he will know an agony that he cannot comprehend of and I promise you this by my love.

Then Tara broke down into tears and hated the world for allowing this to happen, hating God and fate and the angels above and the devils below. But mostly she hated herself for thinking like an animal with a mindless lust for vengeance.

She needed to punish herself for making mistakes.

Maybe it was grief and guilt and mania and maybe it was her Catholic school upbringing, but there was a real need within her for punishment, for atonement and penance, and maybe for something much darker and much more unthinkable: expiation. She needed to make an offering of her pain, a sacrifice of her own blood.

In the medicine cabinet there was a razor.

She slashed herself across the belly and breasts, laid open her thighs and arms and the palms of her hands until the blood flowed, draining something from her and making her feel cleansed, renewed. She thought about opening her wrists, but that was destruction and not purification.

For some time she sat there, bleeding, the pain almost hygienic.

It sharpened her mind and heightened her senses. The guilt and self-torment was drained from her like poisoned pus from an infected wound. The feel of her own blood trickling down her belly and coursing down her thighs was invigorating and she wondered if this is why ancient warriors laid themselves open with blades before going into battle.

Her fingers wet with her own blood, she licked them clean and was startled by the hunger that ached in her belly. Right then she wanted to stuff herself with raw meat, red meat, meat well-marbled and seamed with fat.

Still naked and glistening with her own blood, she went to the window, threw it open and swallowed in great gulps of night air. She could smell the moist leaves in the grass, the dewy humus, things living and things dying and the cold eternal spice of the night itself. She grinned and her heart hammered.

The beast inside her was pleased.

But more so,
she
was pleased. Because she felt renewed and remade by the love of her sister, a love that was timeless and deep and enriching. Nothing could stand in its way and the world was about to find out all about that.

41

The phone rang.

Tara answered: “I’m here.”

“Did you do it? Did you play the game?”

His voice. More than just degenerate or cruel, but somehow childlike with barely suppressed glee and anticipation like a little boy wondering if his father had indeed gotten tickets to the circus. He was nearly panting with expectancy.

Tara almost answered right away, but she bit her tongue, relishing the suspense she was creating. She knew she had him pegged right: a little boy, a sick and fucked-up little boy at heart. Finally she said, “Yes. It’s done. I’m sure you’ll read about it in tomorrow’s paper.”

Maybe he didn’t like her calm delivery, maybe it made him not believe her. There was definitely doubt underlying his words. “Spears… at the Hillside office… that’s where you went? That’s who… it was him, wasn’t it?”

She cleared her throat. “Fifty-ish. Slight paunch. An arrogant face. Sandy hair.”

“
Yes… yes, that’s Spears!” He kept swallowing as if his mouth were overflowing with saliva. “You played the game, Tara. Tell me, how was it?”

“
It was easy. He was all alone.”

The boogeyman laughed. “Good, good, Tara. Did you get rid of the gun?”

“
I threw it in the lake like you said,” she lied.

“
Good,” he said. He swallowed a couple times. “Were you scared?”