Shadow of the Past (33 page)

“You,” Mark said.

“Yeah, me,” Steve said, walking towards
them.

Christine opened her mouth to say
something, but then shut it when she heard something else from
upstairs.

Another set of footsteps.

“Steve,” she said, but he and Mark were
too focused on each other.

“What do you want?” Mark
said.

“You should know that, man,” Steve
said.

“Maybe you should enlighten me,” Mark
said. He had backed almost right up against the furnace like a
trapped animal.

There was more movement upstairs and
then she saw another set of sneakers begin to come down the
steps.

“I see you brought company,” Mark said,
his voice trembling with anger.

“I couldn’t exactly do this alone,
could I?” Steve said.

The sneakers, and then jeans, made
their decent down the steps, slow and deliberate. Christine’s
breath caught in her throat when the man’s hands came into view and
she saw one of them held a gun.

“Mark, we have to stop this,” the voice
from the stairs called down.

“Oh god,” Christine said, recognizing
it.

“This is your help?” Mark's voice was
filled with scorn.

“I’ve always wanted to help you, Mark,”
Detective Prescott said as he reached this bottom step. He kept his
arms spread and held his pistol loosely in his hand, trying to be
as non-confrontational as he could.

“What makes you think you can help? You
don’t even have the faintest clue as to what’s going
on.”

“Maybe if you told us,” Steve said
taking a step forward. “I know you don’t believe me but I’m your
friend and I called him because I didn’t want to see you do
something stupid. Just talk to us and tell us what’s going
on.”

Christine turned to look at Mark but he
sprang into action, bending down for something on the floor in
front of the furnace. Before she could see what it was he was back
to his feet and grabbed her wrist, pulling her in front of him. She
tried to scream, but was stopped by sharp steel pressing at her
throat.

“Mark!” Steve shouted, and Detective
Prescott raised his pistol.

“You idiots couldn’t help him before,
what in the world makes you think you can help him now?” Mark’s
voice hissed in her ear.

Chapter Thirty

Steve realized he must have missed the
memo that said “When Detective Prescott shows up, everybody lose
their fucking minds.”

With speed Steve had never seen from
him before Mark picked something up from the ground and grabbed
Christine. He had an arm around her waist, pinning her arms at her
sides, and a blade to her throat. Detective Prescott raised his gun
aiming at Mark, who peered at them with one mad eye, hunched down
behind Christine’s shoulder.

“Drop the sword, Mark,” Detective
Prescott said.

“Oh, by all means Detective,” Mark
sneered at them. “After I slit this girl’s throat and make you
watch.”

“Mark!” Christine struggled, but she
held still when Mark pulled the blade tight enough against her
throat to draw a thin line of blood.

“I would stop that if I were you. This
blade, while very old, is still razor sharp. I’d hate to see you
slit your own throat on it before I was through with
you.”

“Why are you doing this?” Prescott
said, taking a cautious step forward.

“You’re the detective, figure it out,”
Mark said. “While you do, try to figure out how many more steps
I’ll let you take before I kill her.”

“Mark,” Steve said, trying to find his
voice. “Just . . . just take it easy, man! You don’t need to do
this. We can stop whatever is happening, just--”

“Are you really that stupid?” Mark
yelled, turning his gaze to Steve. “He knew you weren’t that
bright, but seriously!”

“Steve,” Prescott said, not taking his
eyes off Mark. “Go up stairs, get out of here.”

“He moves and she dies!”

“Mark--” Steve started.

“Mark’s not home right now, you little
idiot. I’ll be dealing with him in a little while, but first I want
the Detective to drop his weapon and kick it over here.”

“That’s not going to happen. Are you
Corwin, is that it?” Prescott said.

The thing in Mark’s body laughed, a
long, drawn out cackle that echoed all around them. “Oh God, you
are so brilliant, Detective. Honestly, you’ve really got me figured
out. Now that you’ve cracked the case, be a good boy and kick your
weapon over here.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I believe he said drop the gun, cop,”
a voice from behind them said, followed by a metallic click just
behind Steve’s head. “Drop it, or this little shit
dies.”

Steve turned slowly, and found himself
staring past the barrel of a revolver and into Jack’s grinning
face.

“Oh you’ve got to be shitting me.”
Steve whispered.

“No joke you little fucker. Move and
die.” Steve realized there were tiny spatters of red on Jack’s
cheek, and looking down he could see that Jack’s t-shirt was
splotched with even more. He was just at the foot of the steps,
angled to keep Steve between him and Detective Prescott.

“About time,” Mark snapped.

“Hey,” Jack chuckled. “I had some
family business to attend to.” Jack stopped, realizing who he was
talking to. “Are you serious? Are you . . . are you really
him?”

“What do you think?” Mark said. And
Jack just nodded, his smile growing wider.

“Detective, I’m going to count to
three, and then . . . Jack, is it? Then Jack is going to put a
bullet in that little fool’s brain. You can avoid that by dropping
your gun and kicking it over to me. Are we clear?”

“Super clear,” Jack said, and Steve
could see the anticipation glittering in his eyes.

“One.

“Two.

“Thre--”

“Okay! Okay!” Prescott said, lowering
the hammer on his pistol and lowering it to the floor with one
hand.

“Kick it over. And no
games.”

Keeping his hands up in the air,
Prescott kicked the gun towards Mark. It skidded to a stop about a
foot away from Mark’s feet.

“Now,” the wolf in Mark’s clothing said
to Christine. “I’m going to pick up that pistol, but you are going
to remain perfectly still, because this blade will still be at your
throat. I assure you I can slice you open with just a flick of my
wrist. Ask your brother. Understand? And that goes for you as well
Detective.”

Christine nodded as much as the blade
would allow her too.

“Good,” Mark said, releasing his grip
on her waist, and stepping away from her. He kept the blade steady
as he bent down to retrieve the pistol, his eyes never leaving
Detective Prescott. He picked the gun up on the first grasp and
stood, moving himself away from Christine but keeping the point of
the blade at her throat. She was up on her tiptoes, chin pointed to
the ceiling to keep the blade from piercing her skin. Mark circled
around, using it to position her directly in front of the small
chamber at the front of the furnace. He drew back the hammer of the
pistol and pointed it at Prescott.

“Open the door,” Mark told
Christine.

Christine reached out for the door, and
then yelped with pain when she touched the handle.

“Be careful,” he said, “It’s
hot.”

It took a few tries, but after
tentatively grasping at it she finally got it open. The roar of the
flames, heat and a musky smell Steve didn’t want to identify filled
the room.

“That’s more like it,” Mark said with a
smile. He motioned towards the furnace with the pistol. “If
everyone would be so kind as to take a place in front that would be
lovely.”

“Just tell me what you want,” Prescott
said, slowly moving towards the furnace.

“What I want,” he said, finally
stepping away from Christine and taking the sword point from her
throat, “is for the three of you to die, and by doing so give new
life to something far greater and more powerful than you could
possibly imagine.”

When Steve didn’t move, Jack gave him a
shove to get him started. He took his place between Christine and
Detective Prescott. “Are you okay?” Steve whispered to her, and she
just shook her head.

“I’m glad I’m not the only
one.”

Jack and Mark stood side by side, both
of their pistols trained on the group. “You’re not going to be able
to come back from this, you know.” Prescott said. “You can fight
this thing Mark, you can. This isn’t you.”

“Be quiet,” Mark said. “I’m going to
deal with that little traitor in my own time. But right now, I’m
going to enjoy killing all three of you.”

“Can I kill one?” Jack said, fingers
twitching on the gun.

“Maybe the detective. These two,” he
said, pointing the pistol at Steve and the Christine. “These two
are mine. That little bastard doesn’t have enough blood on his
hands yet.”

“You killed my brother, and the others,
didn’t you?” Christine said.

“Yes, and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the
act of killing as much as I did knowing I was using his body to do
it in.”

“You’re insane,” Prescott said. “Just
the shadow of a sick and evil man who should have stayed
dead.”

“No, I couldn’t stay dead. There’s
still work to be done, and I’m going to finish what was
started.”

“Mark,” Steve said, bringing the barrel
of the gun, and the thing’s attention, back to him. “You can fight
this.”

“He’s as much a part of this as I am,”
he said. “Even more so. He can’t--”

“Shut up, I’m talking to my friend,”
Steve said. “I know you can hear me in there and I want to say I’m
sorry. I’ve been a lousy friend, but I have faith in you. You
can--”

“Shut up!”

“You can fight this. You’ve been a
fighter your whole life and you can’t give up now. We need you. She
needs you and this thing--”

“Stop it! Stop it or she dies!” he
said, pointing the pistol at Christine.

“Whatever it said to you, it lies. It
can’t possibly know you as well as I do, and I know that you aren’t
going to let anything happen to her. He’s going to kill her Mark,
and you have to be strong, you have to be stronger than
it--”

“Be quiet,” he hissed, eyes narrowing
and jaw clenching. The once steady hand that aimed the pistol began
to shake. From the corner of Mark’s eyes, small tendrils of black
smoke began to seep out like tears.

“Mark, please. You’re better than this
asshole. This stupid, punk-ass undead piece of serial killing shit,
you are so much better than--“

“Shut up!” he roared, swinging the gun
back at Steve. He was sweating, and the smoke began to flow from
between Mark’s clenched teeth.

“Mark,” Steve said. “Kick this thing’s
ass, okay?”

Mark grimaced and then squeezed his
eyes shut, the gun trembling in his hand. Steve stepped forward.
Mark was winning. He could see it all over his face and any second
now--

Mark’s eyes flew open, and the sudden
clap of thunder was deafening.

Chapter
Thirty-One

Mark watched the whole thing unfold,
right from when Joe knocked him out and Corwin had taken the
driver’s seat. He was standing outside himself just as he had when
he saw Clara and Ms. Kennedy killed and watched Corwin call
Christine and then Jack. Talking to Christine, Corwin stared at
Mark’s disembodied form as he whimpered and did what was a
painfully accurate imitation of Mark’s emotional
idiosyncrasies.

Corwin slipped out the small window in
Mark’s attic room, tugging Mark’s consciousness along for the ride.
He walked to the house on Briarcliff, and Mark wondered how many
times he’d done this when Mark was asleep. He’d been toying with
Mark the whole time, showing him bits and pieces of his nocturnal
activities.

It’s no wonder I’ve been so tired these
past few months, he thought. I’ve been getting more exercise than I
thought.

All he could do was watch helplessly as
Corwin lured Christine to the basement and proceeded to hold her,
Steve and David hostage. He swirled formlessly around his own body
and Jack as they held the three of them at gunpoint.

When Steve began his impassioned pleas
for Mark to do something, there was a part of him that wanted
Corwin to just shoot the asshole and get it done with.

Sure, and then he can shoot
Christine, the Detective, and then you’ll probably spend the rest
of your existence watching Corwin and Jack do god knows what in
pursuit of their own brand of bat-shit crazy. Or, for kicks, you
can listen to what he’s saying and do more than just roll over and
say there’s nothing you can do.

Mark moved closer to his body, and he
could see Corwin dart his eyes in Mark’s direction. For the first
time since the spirit taken up residence, he looked unsure of
himself. Mark moved forward again, and he could feel the tug of his
own body trying to drawn him back in.