Multiples of Six (6 page)

“Great plan you have here,” James said.

“It’s worked so far. You’re alive aren’t you?”

“This was meant to keep me alive?” James asked.

“Give the guy a break, James,” Kevin said.

“So, where in Ohio is this?” said Nicole.

“That I don’t know. What I do know is that this map is useless. We’ll need a more detailed Ohio map.”

“Think the store has one?” James said.

“I gave a quick look before, knowing that we’d need a map eventually, but I didn’t see any. We might just have to wait until the border.”

“Great plan,” James said, tossing the torn envelope on the floor.

“The idea was to keep people away from you,” Paynter said.

“Including yourself,” James said.

“Yes,” Paynter said, quite seriously.

“Why?” James said.

“So they couldn’t use me against you,” he said, and started up the car.

Chapter 12

Samuel Isaacson stood at the end of his driveway, wearing nothing but his pajamas and thin summer robe. Despite the month, and despite the weather, he just couldn’t be bothered to get his winter robe down from the attic. Besides, he only ever wore it to get the paper in the morning. It usually took him all of a minute to complete the task. The driveway just wasn’t that long. Today, however, he had stopped at the end of the driveway long enough to feel the chill. Something had caught his eye.

The light on in the neighbor’s kitchen should not have bothered him as much as it did now. The neighborhood had been a quiet place to live for the past forty some odd years. You couldn’t change your cologne without someone knowing about it, but at the same time, they were all good people. They had all stopped by to give their condolences when his wife had passed three years earlier. Some of them even left food. One of the young couples had even added him to their Christmas card list, and he’d never had the heart to tell them their mistake. They were good people, and you just couldn’t take that for granted. The Masterson’s were good people too and living next to them had never been cause for excitement. That is, it hadn’t been, until the other night.

The previous morning, there had been a knock on Samuel’s door as soon as it was light. The officers were polite, if not a little brusque. Yes, he had heard the sirens, but only briefly. No, he hadn’t looked out the window, despite the flashing lights. He takes medicine to sleep at night and anything less than eight hours and he’s a zombie. Yes, he knew the boy lived alone. His mother was a wonderful woman and his father had always been there when Samuel needed something fixed around the house. He missed their presence, but he was sure they were with God. No, he didn’t know the boy well. He was a polite, respectful boy who had offered to shovel his driveway every time it snowed, but they hadn’t actually spoken much. Samuel felt bad for him, having lost both parents at such a young age. No, he didn’t know where the boy might be. As far as Samuel knew, the boy had a job. He had an uncle who lived somewhere in the Midwest. He had been down for the funeral a few weeks before, but that was all he really knew of that. No, he really didn’t know where James might be, or why he would have left his car, or why he might have dialed 911 in the middle of the morning and then disappeared. Yes, if he saw James, he would be sure to contact the police.

“Is the boy in trouble?” Samuel had asked.

“No, we’d just like to ask him some questions,” was the response they gave him.

Of course, Samuel thought.

So, now, as he stood looking at the light coming from James’ kitchen, that had not been on first thing this morning, it occurred to him what the officer had said. Samuel should call the police. Not because he had said he would, but because of the chill that had run through him upon seeing the light on. It hadn’t been from the cold after all. It was something else.

He gripped the paper and found himself moving through the snow, across the space between his driveway and James’ back porch. He paused when a figure moved quickly past the window. He cursed his forgetfulness, remembering his glasses were on his kitchen table. But, who the hell needs glasses to fetch the paper? He moved forward again, squinting in a vain attempt to gain some focus. His eyes remained on the window. He was almost to the back of the house when the kitchen light went off. The leather of his slippers seemed to be frozen to the snow, as he found it difficult to move. The thumping of his heart was deafening in his own ear and for a moment he imagined that the person in the house had heard this and run.

Samuel stepped up onto the back porch. With the light no longer on, the kitchen was obscured in the darkness. He looked at the back door. The handle looked damaged, though maybe he was just imagining it to be worse than it really was. Over-reactive fool, Samuel thought. But, when he reached for the handle, it gave a little too much and the door pushed open with little effort. He called out weakly and then cleared his throat to try again.

“James?” he said, though still not very loudly. He stood just inside the door and listened. He thought he could hear someone talking and called again. The talking stopped. Samuel walked further into the dark kitchen. He glanced around nervously. There were a few dirty dishes in the sink, but as far as he could tell, there was nothing out of the ordinary. No sign of struggle, no pool of blood. He glanced at the dinette and stopped once again. The teacup was placed at the edge of the table. The spoon was still in it, steam rising steadily from the lip. He heard the voice again, coming from the living room. It sounded a lot like James’, which emboldened him.

“James?” he called louder and strode to the living room.

When he rounded the corner, he saw a man with his back to him, sitting hunched on an ottoman in the middle of the room. It was James; at least, it looked like James. It was hard for Samuel to tell, without his glasses. But, this man had the same hunch in his shoulders that made James appear to be about an inch shorter than he probably was. But, he was dressed like Samuel had never seen him dress before. And, there was something about his hair. Something not quite right. He realized the man must be on the phone, and he spoke again, with somewhat less conviction.

“I’m sorry to bother you, James--” but the man, James, cut him off by standing up and suddenly speaking very loud. It confused Samuel.

“I said, there’s an intruder in my house!”

The man spun around on his heels with his arms spread out to both sides so suddenly that Samuel staggered and dropped his newspaper. This was not James. At least, this was no James he knew. His eyes didn’t need to be in focus, nor did they need the full light of day to know this was not James. But, it could have been his grandfather. Then, the spell was broken by what he knew to be a gun in the man’s left hand.

“James…you’re not…”

“Thank you,” the man whispered, and he quickly raised the barrel of the gun. Samuel barely had time to register the pain of the first two rounds when the third brought darkness.

Chapter 13

When he awoke, Dr. Fred Taylor reached for his neck, half expecting to find a large hole oozing what remained of his blood onto his neck. Much to his temporary relief, though still painful, his hand came back sans blood. Then he remembered why he was prone, what he had just been doing. He sat up quickly, a flash of white light tearing at his eyes and head. He wavered a moment, trying to blink away the pain. He couldn’t see for the stars, but he heard a voice behind him.

“The good doctor rises,” the man said.

The sarcasm was evident to Dr. Taylor, but when he responded, he was in no way fit to question its reasoning. He kept his eyes closed, focusing on his words.

“Who are you?” Taylor asked.

“I am your goddamn guardian angel, Doc.”

Dr. Taylor tried to think through the pain in his head. It was letting up, or perhaps he was just growing used to it. He opened his eyes again, just a crack. He was no longer in the Masterson house; that much was certain. He still could not see the man who was speaking to him. He decided that, for now, it didn’t matter anyway.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“At the rattiest little motel I could find in the area. They don’t even ask you if you want them super-sized, they just come that way,” said the man, who followed the remark with a hoarse laugh.

“Why am I here, and not still on the floor in that house,” said Dr. Taylor.

“Because I wasn’t hired to kill you. But, you got in my way, and now you’re going to help me finish the job,” the man said.

“You weren’t following me?” Taylor asked.

“No, but I guess I should have. I was right there…and you went and fucked it all up.”

“It’s not over,” Taylor said.

“You better believe it’s not over. That’s why I saved your ass,” the man said. Taylor could see smoke and smell the cigarette.

Dr. Taylor touched his hand to his neck again, still expecting a Monty-Pythonesque stream of blood to start shooting from it. It still hurt. His whole neck and back hurt.

“You should’ve just left me on the floor,” Taylor said.

“The police were already on the way,” the man said.

“They called the police?”

“In a sense. You must’ve scared ‘em pretty good to get ‘em to leave in such a hurry. But, the boy was smart enough to drop your cell phone on your lap and boogie on out the door before anyone showed up. Luckily, I was right around the corner, waiting for said departure.”

“The boy? My cell phone? Jesus Christ…it probably wasn’t him…it was Paynter,” Taylor said.

“Paynter? Dr. Robert Paynter?” the man asked, a new enthusiasm in his voice.

“The same…who do you think shot me?” Taylor asked.

Dr. Taylor looked to his left. The large mirror next to the TV reflected the figure of a man reclining on the other bed in the room. He was light haired and medium height by the looks of it. The man was wearing blue jeans, but everything else looked black. Black boots, black shirt, black jacket, and a black newsboy cap. He was smoking the last of a cigarette, and by the look of the ashtray besides him, it might have been the end of a pack. There was something disconcerting about his face, but Taylor couldn’t make it out.

“Who do you work for?” Taylor asked. The man almost spit.

“So many questions, Doc, so little time. Now that you’re alert, or at least conscious, you can tell me where we’re headed,” the man in black said.

“We? You think I’m that stupid?” Taylor asked.

“Do you really want me to answer that question truthfully, or would you like me to smile and lie to you?”

“Listen asshole…” but Dr. Taylor did not finish.

The man closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, cigarette still at the corner of his mouth, and grabbed the collar of Taylor’s trench coat, shaking him, his face contorted on one side.

“Excuse me? I think you were about to say something stupid. Am I right? I suggest you think about your situation here, Doc, and understand that you are in no position to be calling anyone, especially me, an asshole. Dragged your sorry ass out of that place when I could’ve gotten busted myself. And for what? To have some over-educated pussy call me names? I don’t think so.”

He released the collar from his grip brusquely, pulling the cigarette from the side of his mouth that seemed to function. Dr. Taylor winced as a fresh cloud of pain and smoke marred his vision. He raised a hand up to his face. He wasn’t sure if it was just his head, or whether his hand was actually shaking.

“Wh…what time is it?” Taylor asked quietly.

“It’s almost one…in the afternoon,” the man said.

“Dammit,” Taylor whispered.

“You know where they’re headed,” the man said.

“Yes…roughly, and at this rate, they’ll be there way before us.”

“Roughly? Which way, roughly?”

“West,” Taylor said. The man laughed.

“You’re gonna be a hard nut to bust, aren’t you, doc? I have other sources, y’know. Don’t
really
need you.”

“Take interstate 80 to Ohio.”

“Well, that poses a problem, now doesn’t it? Are you sure that’s the way their headed?”

“I’d bet my life on it. Without a doubt. Why do you say it’s a problem?” Taylor asked.

“Big ol’ storm headed in from that way. Can’t really avoid it now. They’re calling for snow out the wazoo.”

“Then maybe we have some luck on our side,” Taylor said.

“Or we’re up a shit’s creek,” the man said.

“What do you plan on doing once we find them?” Taylor asked. The smile, if you could call the crooked line on the man’s face that, told Taylor everything he needed to know.

“You leave that up to me, Doc. Like I said, I represent a concerned party. I’ll deal with their concerns. You deal with yours. Now, we’d better get our boogie-shoes on, hadn’t we?”

“Right,” Taylor said, staggering to a standing position. He reached for the dresser to prevent a fall.

“Don’t worry, Doc, you’ll be able to recover in the car.”

The man pulled his cap off, ran a hand through fading auburn hair, then placed the cap back on his head. He pulled up the collar of the black pea coat and opened the door of the motel room. The light, though not truly bright for a cloudy winter afternoon, made Dr. Taylor cringe. Then he saw the car. The man in black had a black car. An old black sports car.

“I’m going to recover in that?” said the doctor.

“C’mon, Doc, you must’ve seen a few of these when you were a young man.”

Admittedly, the doctor had, but they had all belonged to people he didn’t really socialize with or, more specifically, didn’t want to socialize with him. It was a jock’s car, which was fitting, because the man in black seemed like a jock. A jock who still thought that cars like that got him women and respect.

“Sixty-nine Barracuda, Doc. A goddamn pussy-wagon. Original Formula S package with the 383 in it. It’s a goddamn dream, you’ll see.”

“I can’t wait,” Taylor said.

“You’ll see, doc…you’ll see. By the end of this little trip of ours, you’re gonna
love
this fucking car.”