Port of Sorrow (24 page)

CHAPTER
53

Big Brother peered through the window of the stairwell door on the second floor. His leg throbbed from the short climb and his focus had become blurred from the constant pain.

The hallway was empty, but a nurse’s station sat six doors down on his right. Two women stood there, their mouths yapping incessantly while busy hands flickered between computer keyboards and reams of paper.

The stark white of their uniforms reflected the overhead fluorescent lights in such a way as to make them appear ghoulish: fuzzy around the edges, glowing, surreal. The effect was especially true of the fatter of the two. Her eyes were hidden beneath a veil of tarpaper brown hair, leaving thick shadows to descend from a bulbous nose, slash across a gaping mouth, and wrap themselves cozily underneath layers of rippling chins.

The skinny one was a carnival freak: sharp bones jutting from bloodless skin; a living corpse.

Fallen angels, Big Brother told himself. They were the demons his mother always warned would be waiting to steal him away when he didn’t behave. But not yet, he told himself. They couldn’t have him yet.

A buzzer sounded from the station and the nurses vanished, soft-soled pumps silent on the polished floor as though they floated above it.

Big Brother pulled the door open and looked to his left. A man turned the far corner and walked towards him. A white lab coat fluttered behind him like a cape, while his face was obscured inside a three-ring binder. Big Brother squeezed through the door, his weight heavy on the stock of the shotgun. He moved into the hallway, his ears alert for opening doors behind him.

The man looked up from his book just in time to avoid a collision. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was stubbled with the promise of an unwanted beard.

“Sorry,” the man said with a weak smile. “Do you need help?”

“Are you a doctor?” Big Brother asked.

“I’m an intern actually, but—” A barrel of steel jammed into the soft underbelly of his jaw, the force of the blow snapping his mouth closed and cracking his teeth together.

“Where’s the supply room?” Big Brother hissed.

The young intern stared into Big Brother’s eyes; it was clear from the shock on his face that he could see the madness glowing on a background of curdled white.

“Th-that’s it on your right,” he stammered.

Big Brother glanced at the door. It was unmarked.

“Open it.”

“I don’t have the keys. They’re kept at the station.” The intern nodded down the hall to where the two fallen angels had stood.

Big Brother glanced down the hallway. The nurses hadn’t returned. He swung the intern around, jabbing the shotgun underneath his right ear. “Get them.”

They moved quickly to the station, sweat trickling from the intern’s neck and onto the barrels of the gun. The keys rested on a hook inside an unlocked glass cabinet. The intern removed them, closed the cabinet door, and headed back to the supply room.

“Open it.” Big Brother could feel the pain in his leg growing with every passing second, and he knew he was too exposed in the brightness of the hall.

The intern fumbled with the keys, but soon they were inside with the door closed behind.

“I need something for pain,” Big Brother said.

“We don’t keep narcotics in here. They’re kept at the nurse’s station where they can be monitored.”

Big Brother snorted and jabbed the barrel into the intern’s chest. The man stumbled backwards, caught the heel of his shoe on a box and tumbled to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, holding his hands over his face as if muscle and flesh could stop a 12 gauge blast. “I didn’t know—”

“Shut up,” Big Brother growled. “Do you have anything in here that will help?”

“W-what’s wrong with you?”

Big Brother grabbed at his trouser leg and tore the cloth to reveal a bloodied mess of leaves, mud and moss.

“Jesus, what is that?” the intern asked.

“Bullet wound.”

“But what’s on it?”

“A compress.”

“It-it’s a mess. You have to keep wounds clean. You’ve probably infected the whole leg.”

“Fix it.”

“I’ll need to clean it up to get a closer look. We should really move to an operating room, and I can—”

“NO! Do what you can from in here.”

“But I don’t have the equipment or—”

Big Brother pressed the shotgun against the young man’s forehead and waited.

“Okay, okay. I’ll do what I can, but there’ll be pain, and—”

“Just do it.” Big Brother removed the gun from the man’s flesh, noticing the barrel had left a round welt like a third eye.

The intern moved Big Brother closer to a stainless steel sink in the corner and began ripping open packages from the shelves. After pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, he soaked strands of gauze in lukewarm water before removing the earthy compress from the oozing wound.

Big Brother groaned as his leg involuntarily jerked. The intern’s hands shook nervously, his eyes flickering up to the shotgun and back to the wound.

Soon, the mud was wiped away to reveal the bloody flesh. Pain moved through it to the rhythm of a heartbeat, growing in intensity at a constant rate.

“Don’t you have anything for the pain?” Big Brother asked. His voice was weaker now, crumbling.

The intern’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat as he glanced around the tiny room. His gaze came to rest on a cylindrical tank resting in the corner. He moved over to it, the shotgun following his every step. The tank was still half full and a clear, plastic mask dangled from its side.

Dragging the tank toward the sink, the intern explained, “This is nitrous oxide ... err, laughing gas. We give it to women during labor, it should help.”

“Will it make me sleepy?”

Paris shook his head. “The mask is controlled by your own suction. Take as much or as little as you want. It won’t eliminate the pain, but it might take some of the edge off.”

Big Brother nodded and grabbed the mask. The intern opened the valve before returning to the wound.

“This will hurt,” he said as his finger kneaded the puffy flesh around the bloody opening.

Big Brother inhaled the gas, his teeth gritting together, his eyes stinging.

“The bullet is still in there. We need to operate.”

“Do it.”

“I can’t do it here. You need a surgeon, an anesthesiologist, an—”

“Do it!”

“I don’t have the tools,” the intern protested again. “This is not some John Wayne movie where you simply bite a bullet while I carve up your leg.”

Big Brother laughed, but there was no warmth in its timbre. “I don’t think you understand,” he panted, trying to stay in control. “Three men are dead today because of me. One more means nothing.”

“How do I know you won’t kill me anyway?”

“You don’t.”

The intern wet his lips with his tongue. “It’s going to hurt like hell,” he said after a brief pause.

“I’ve lived in hell all my life; pain is nothing new.” The calmness of his own voice surprised him. It must be the gas, he thought. His head felt lighter, his mind more focused. The pain was still there, but he could isolate it now, narrow its reach.

Big Brother looked down at the young man as if seeing him for the first time. His hair was black as coal and slick with nervous sweat. His forehead seemed to jut forward in a hard ridge, and now that he looked closely, he could see twin bumps of horn rising from the top of his skull. The boy was a demon with a heart as black as his own. He had obviously been sent along with the fallen angels to make him suffer for his sins.

Fine. Give me my punishment now. Cleanse my soul and release me on my way. I still have work to do.

“Are you ready?” asked the young demon. A crude metal instrument glistened in his hand.

Big Brother nodded, grinning. You can’t fool me, demon. I see you as you are. I know what—

Pain shot up his leg, blinding him and locking his spine. He inhaled the gas ... again ... again ... deep inhalations of gas ....

“Nearly there,” the demon said. Blood and pus flowed down the creature’s arms to its elbows and dripped onto the floor. Each drop seemed to bubble there, eating through the tile, opening passages in the floor. Beacons of darkness shot up through the openings, filling the room, stealing the light. Transparent ghosts danced on the wall, their empty eyes lost within emptier faces.

Big Brother didn’t scream. His eyes were locked open, unblinking, and the shotgun was steady in his hand. He was almost completely blind. All light in the room had been eaten by the darkness. The only thing visible was the demon’s glowing face, a tiny ember in the heart of a dead fire.

“I’ve got it.” The demon was laughing, his lips curling back to reveal bloodied fangs. Clenched between his teeth was the bullet: a pulsating, living organism. It was screaming, but at a pitch so high only Big Brother could hear it.

The wound was cleansed in hydrogen peroxide, its stubby brown container throbbing in the demon’s hand. Then needle and thread, stitching the bloody mouth closed. White bandages, like oily serpents, wound tight around his thigh, their tiny teeth biting deep into his flesh.

The demon looked up at him and grinned.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need bed rest to regain your strength and antibiotics to ward off infection.”

Big Brother grinned back before smashing the gun barrel into the demon’s face. The creature fell to the ground, squirming like an eel. The bridge of his nose was broken and splinters of bone jabbed into his eye sockets. Big Brother grabbed the empty tank of gas and brought it down heavily on top of the demon’s skull. He heard bone crack beneath the blow. The tank was lifted up again and brought down with more force. The demon’s skull collapsed and a thousand-strong army of maggots spurted from the cracks.

Soon the demon faded away until all that remained was a lifeless body.

CRYRE RAYNE SQUATTED
inside the killer’s burrow. His pupils were wide to the unnerving darkness, his nose crinkled against a rancid stench. Above him, a square of deputies peered into the grave, their faces lost in the flickering light of the late afternoon sun. From their hands a half-dozen flashlights shone into the hole, but the muddy walls seemed to absorb all light.

Cryre studied the dead dog. Its neck was broken, swiftly and efficiently. Beside its corpse lay a heap of tiny animals, all strangled. Some of the rotten meat appeared to have been bitten and chewed. Carefully, Cryre removed the top layer of carcasses to reveal a tiny mound of white bones.

He looked up at the deputies for an answer.

One of them cleared his throat.

“The animals are meant to disguise the human scent. I guess he figured our dogs would be trained to ignore all scents except human.”

“Are they?” Cryre asked.

“Sort of,” the deputy answered. “We’re not supposed to take them hunting even on our days off, but you know . . . there’s good hunting around here. Primarily though, they’re used for search and rescue.”

Cryre glanced back down at the dead dog.

“The animals weren’t ripe enough to fool ol’ Gus, I guess,” the deputy added, his voice revealing genuine sorrow.

Cryre searched the other corners, finding only a small pile of moss and leaves. He dug his fingers into the pile and lifted it up to the light. Six dogs began to bark at once, their leashes strained.

“There must be human blood on that stuff,” the deputy said. “The dogs can smell it.”

“He’s still bleeding,” Cryre said quietly, hardened eyes hidden in the darkness of the den. “Which way is the hospital from here?”

The deputy who had been answering his questions pointed northeast.

“Is it far?” Cryre asked as he pulled himself out of the hole.

The deputy shook his head. “You just go down that glen, across a small creek, and up onto the bluff. It can’t be more than a mile.”

Cryre nodded. His instincts told him he was on the right track. “Fan out and continue your search in that direction.”

The deputies nodded and headed into the woods, their dogs straining with excitement at being back in the hunt.

CHAPTER
54

Julia wrapped her arms tight around Finn’s waist as his Harley Sportster roared up the highway. Its sidecar was stuffed with two large duffel bags full of clothing.

It was impossible not to lean her cheek against the worn brown leather of his back, but Julia didn’t want Finn thinking she was ready to forgive his earlier words. However, the more they played in her mind, the more truth she found contained within them, and the angrier she became.

How could she not have seen it? How could she not have questioned the sheriff’s judgment about sending her to the strip club that night?

The answer was simple: she genuinely believed she could do the job. Fresh from the academy or not, she was a good cop. But Finn was also right: no one else should have expected her to be.

The hospital loomed before them like a misplaced Alcatraz, its walls glistening as though constructed from sun-bleached bone. Julia shivered even though the salty breeze on her face was pleasantly warm. There was something about the building that radiated death, but she couldn’t pinpoint it in her mind.

As they rode closer, she began to see rows of brightly colored flowers laced around smooth patches of fresh-mowed lawn. It reminded her of the makeup her grandmother wore when the family visited her in the nursing home on weekends. No matter how thick or how bright it was, it never hid the pallor of death.

Finn parked the bike in an empty stall and they walked to the main entrance.

Julia wanted to speak to him; to ask him what he thought when he saw the hospital; to know if he also had a grandmother who smiled through pain and false teeth, desperately trying to hide her decay from her grandchildren. But she didn’t. It would make her sound too childish and weak, and those were things you never showed.

TWO FEDERAL AGENTS
stopped them inside the main doors and asked for ID. Finn pulled out his driver’s license while Julia showed them her badge. The agents ignored Julia, turning their attention fully on Finn.

“What’s your business here?” the taller one asked.

“I’m accompanying Deputy Rusk to see Sheriff Marshall,” replied Finn.

“The sheriff isn’t accepting visitors,” the shorter agent said.

“It’s important that I see him?”

“Why?” The taller one again.

“Personal business.”

“It’ll have to wait.” The shorter one moved a step closer, his body tense.

Finn felt the unspoken threat bristling from the agent, but instead of backing off, a puss-filled boil of repressed anger and frustration broke inside him. His words became tight. “It’s important that I see him before you guys fuck up and his brother kills him.”

The shorter agent sprang forward and locked his hand over Finn’s mouth. The coffee klatch of reporters huddled around the vending machines suddenly came to life and began to swarm. Piranha awakened.

“Keep your mouth shut,” the agent hissed.

Finn latched onto the man’s index finger with his teeth and bit down. The agent screamed and automatically reached inside his jacket to the bulge protruding beneath his left armpit. He froze in that position when the doors behind Finn hissed open.

“What’s going on here?” Cryre Rayne asked.

“Yeah, fill us in?” added one of the reporters. A television camera light blinked on, followed instantly by three more.

Cryre scanned the lobby. “Follow me, both of you.”

Soon, the three men stood in the empty stairwell with the door shut behind them. Two faces — one of which Finn recognized from television news — were flattened against the thick fireproof glass in the tiny window.

“Explain,” Cryre said.

“He was making a scene,” the agent said.

Cryre stared at him with eyes that were neither warm nor cold.

Finn grinned, showing a lot of teeth. “I guess we’re all on edge,” he said calmly. “Your agent didn’t like the idea of my visiting the sheriff, and I didn’t feel obliged to keep my mouth shut anymore.”

“And now?” Cryre asked.

“I’m still on edge,” Finn replied. “I need some answers and the only one who can give them to me is lying upstairs under your protection. You already know I’m not a threat and my talking to him doesn’t hurt you in the least. But opening my mouth to the press could screw you royally.”

“That’s your price?” Cryre asked.

“Everything has one.”

Cryre’s face was blank. “I want Deputy Rusk in there with you, and I want it recorded.”

Finn held out his hand to seal the deal. Cryre ignored it. Instead, he pulled open the door and walked into the media throng, ignoring the volley of questions as though it was nothing more than a wisp of fog.

BIG BROTHER CRACKED
open the supply room door and peered into the hallway. It was still deserted. He turned to the nurse’s station and saw the fallen angels had returned. Their heads were close together and they were laughing with hands clamped over their mouths to keep it inside.

They know about the demon, Big Brother thought.

It was strange, but for the first time in his life he actually felt fear. It was as if the Bible warnings his mother read to him were coming true. The ancient tales bubbled in his mind; omens of vengeance, mother called them, in battle against his wicked ways.

Big Brother always liked the punishment. It amused him to see such anger in Mother’s eyes as she preached of God’s love and righteous fury. He never believed that Mother actually understood the meaning in the words. She never saw the hatred or the lust contained within each tale, nor did she understand the jealousy that culminated in ultimate betrayal by Jesus’ closest companions.

Big Brother had understood though. He learned that no one should be allowed to get that close. Fear, not love, was the only way to be a leader of men. His disciples — Welly, Gilles, Harold, Smitty and Little Brother — had all cowered before him.

Yet, he realized, it was also their jealousy that had led to betrayal.

Big Brother glanced back down the hallway at the cackling angels and attempted to replace his fear of them with anger. For a flickering instant the light faded to reveal two giggling nurses — one overweight, the other practically anorexic. But the light was too powerful and the angels quickly returned.

He had to find his brother and get out.

Big Brother slid out of the supply room and limped along the hallway away from the station. The shotgun was heavy in his hand, his tattered shirt was spattered with bits of brain, and the white bandage on his leg was beginning to leak as blood oozed between the dead demon’s stitches.

He was stopped short of the corner by the sound of voices: two people, maybe more. The sound was approaching from up ahead, but he couldn’t tell how close they were to turning the bend and discovering him. Big Brother glanced back at the angels. They hadn’t noticed him, but they would if he stayed trapped in the open.

He had to move quickly. He glanced at the closed doors lining the hallway. He felt disoriented and confused.

Pick one, screamed a voice deep in his head. It was his own voice, but it had been dulled by loss of blood and the birth of a rising fever.

He reached out his hand to the nearest door as the voices drew closer. The knob turned effortlessly and he vanished inside the room just as two orderlies pushing an empty wheelchair turned the corner.

Holding the door closed, Big Brother listened for their footsteps. It was difficult; the door was thick and their soles were soft. Also, lying somewhere in the darkness behind him, a patient snored loudly.

He decided to give them time to pass.

The inside of the room was dim except for a bank of blinking, multicolored lights on a monitor that stood beside an oddly constructed bed. Big Brother moved closer to it, carefully examining the contraption of weights and pulleys that held the snoring patient immobile on his back.

He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light before focusing on the patient’s pale, twitching face.

The voice in his head recognized the man first. A thin, bloodless smile came to his lips as he hissed, “Hello, Gilles.”

Deputy Gilles stirred, but his eyes remained closed.

Big Brother chuckled to himself as he carefully examined the straps that held his boyhood pal tight. It took him a minute to figure out how the straps worked before he grabbed the one fastened under Gilles’ chin and cinched it as tight as it would go.

Gilles’ eyes popped open and if he could have jumped, he would have.

Big Brother stared down at him for a moment, making sure the strap prevented him from opening his mouth. Once he was satisfied, he opened the blinds and allowed the fading sunlight to drift in.

“It’s a beautiful afternoon,” he said. “You really shouldn’t sit all alone in the dark.”

Big Brother turned to sit on the edge of the bed. Gilles’ eyes, focused on the mirror above, followed him intently, his muscles straining uselessly at the binding straps.

“I’ve been busy since we last talked,” Big Brother said. “I think Welly may be dead. Bested by a girl; that’s a first. Little Brother is somewhere in this hospital, moaning about his missing legs. And the angels are thirsty for my blood.”

Big Brother chuckled. “Did I ever tell you about the fallen angels? Probably not. It was a prophecy Mother told to frighten me with when the neighbors called about another butchered pet. She said the angels were losing patience and would come to steal me away. I never believed her. After all, the Bible didn’t bring her anything but sorrow. One time, I actually leafed through its pages, and do you know what I found? At the back there’s a chapter called Revelation, which states: ‘Whoever is evil must go on doing evil’.”

Big Brother laughed again. “I merely followed the Bible, and now the angels are pissed. Ain’t that a bitch?”

He stared down into Gilles’ eyes, relishing the fear he saw reflected within.

“Do the angels talk to you, Gilles?” he asked softly. “Do they whisper in your ear, telling you things no man should hear?” He licked dry lips and glanced at the door before returning to the deputy’s terrified face. “Do they dance for you now, perform fellatio, all to reward your betrayal of me?”

Gilles attempted to move his head and tears formed in his eyes as fear made his sweat turn acidic.

“I taught you to be everything you are,” Big Brother continued. “I taught you how to screw, how to hunt, how to stand up and take whatever you wanted. I made you a man and this is my reward. You conspire with the angels to turn all my disciples against me. Did they give you silver coins, Judas?”

Gilles looked as if he wanted to scream, but the strap held his jaw locked shut.

Struck by an idea, Big Brother walked to the closet and peered inside. Gilles’ uniform hung from the lone plastic hanger. Inspired, Big Brother dug inside the uniform’s pockets to pull out a half-pack of cigarettes and a green plastic Bic. From his own pants pocket he produced a small box of waterproof matches.

“They won’t let you in,” Big Brother said calmly as he pulled out the cigarettes and crushed them in his hand. “I know they promised you the key to the kingdom, but they were lying. Angels are seductive liars.”

Gilles began to whimper — a low, keening noise deep within his throat. Big Brother sprinkled the tobacco over him in a straight line from crotch to throat. A second line intersected the first along his chest to form the crude shape of a cross. Pleased, Big Brother cracked the lighter and dripped its reservoir of fuel across the dry tobacco.

Gilles’ bowels released.

“There’s not much fuel,” Big Brother said. “It won’t burn very well and I much prefer big fires, don’t you?”

Gilles closed his eyes as though he had suddenly discovered prayer.

Feeling lightheaded and giddy, Big Brother hummed to himself as he stripped off his tattered clothing and pulled Gilles’ uniform from the closet. The fit was tight and uncomfortable, but he knew he wouldn’t be the first deputy on the force to display a popped button or two. The shoes, unfortunately, were far too small. He would have to continue wearing his muddy runners.

After he finished dressing, Big Brother went to the door and checked the hallway. It was all clear. Even the angels had scampered.

They fear you now said the voice.

Moving quickly, Big Brother made his way back to the supply room and slipped inside. The intern lay stiff in the corner, his crushed skull stuck to the floor in a pool of coagulating blood. Being careful not to step in any of the sticky splatters, Big Brother gathered up an armful of paper towels and four white plastic bottles of rubbing alcohol.

The hallway was still empty when he returned to Gilles’ room. Inside, Big Brother filled a small metal garbage pail with paper towel, poured in a full bottle of rubbing alcohol, and kicked it under the bed. He held up the box of matches to show Gilles.

“We’ll play outside Heaven together, you and I,” Big Brother said as he lit the first match. “We’ll torment the angels and throw stones at the gates.”