The Messenger (2011 reformat) (23 page)

Martin didn't
put his shirttail in. He was excited already, sexually. Oh, yeah. This is gonna
be sweet.

He picked up
the boxes and took them down into the basement. There was no one else down
there. It was nice and cool and quiet. He took a hit off the flask and relaxed.
No one to bother him here. Martin could think.

He could think
about what he was going to do for the Messenger.

"How come
your shirttail's out?"

Martin jumped.
Who the hell is down here?

She'd been
standing right there all along. Sarah Something-Woolery, Willoughby, something
like that. Martin had seen her around, didn't like her. Of course, he didn't
like anybody he worked with, or anybody at all for that matter, but this bitch
he disliked more than most. She was young, mid-twenties, blond, a looker.
Another snooty Florida beach ditz who thought she was better than everyone else
just because she'd been born attractive. Always turning her nose up at me, Martin
reminded himself. He'd like to strangle her. He'd like to whip out his K-Bar
right now and start cutting chunks off.

"Then why
don't you?" she said.

Martin stared.

"I know
about you," she said. "The Messenger told me about you."

"He...did?"

"The
Messenger told me that you're taking his blessing for granted. You're selfish
and afraid. You're not strong enough to make the sacrifice."

Martin was
suddenly sweating. "That's not true! I've got everything planned!"

"You're
weak. You must prove your strength."

"I will!
I'm going to kill her during the lunch break."

Her eyes
fluttered. "You're going to kill her now. Don't be weak anymore. Don't put
things off. You know that it's a very special time and that some very important
messages must be delivered." She stood feet apart, hip cocked. Her work
blouse was unbuttoned a few notches, showing cleavage. She licked her lips. Her
hands briefly caressed her breasts.

"Do it
and you can have me."

Martin didn't
want her. He was jealous now. Who was she to the Messenger? Martin wanted to be
the priority but here she was telling him what to do. He didn't like it. He
knew that he had to get back into the good graces of his guide.

"Now's
your chance, Martin," she cooed.

"What?"

"She's
coming."

"What,
down here?"

She nodded
slyly, ran her tongue over her lower lip. "Um-hmm."

"Right
now?"

"Um-hmm."

This is
bullshit. How can she predict something like that? but then the upstairs door
clicked open and footsteps were heard coming down.

Sarah quickly
picked up some boxes, to appear busy. Jane Ryan stepped in.

"I think
that's it for those boxes of replacement parts, Jane," Sarah said. She set
the boxes back down. "Martin and I brought them all down."

"Thanks."
Jane seemed distracted. "Where is Martin, by the way?"

"Right
here," Martin said.

Jane
immediately frowned. "Martin, I thought I told you to tuck your shirttail
in, and-" She leaned forward, squinting in disbelief. "Is that a
flask in your hand?"

Fuck! Martin
was caught cold. He was still holding the flask full of whiskey. He wilted. He
didn't even bother responding.

"Jesus,
Martin!" Sarah exclaimed. "Is that what you've been doing down here?"
She turned to Jane. "Jane, I swear, I didn't know he was down here
drinking."

"I understand,"
Jane replied. "It's been an ongoing problem." To Martin, she said,
"I've given you every chance in the book but it's just not working out.
I've got no choice but to suspend you, pending a termination hearing. Do you
understand?"

All Martin understood
was that he was being screwed over by another

woman. It was
always a woman. Treacherous. Back-stabbing. Self-serving. He was seething now.
He was shaking. He wanted to reach under his shirt and grab the knife.

But he
couldn't.

"Go home,
Martin," Jane ordered. "I'll let you know when your hearing will be.
But you'd make things a lot easier for yourself if you just quit and move
on."

Martin
couldn't speak. He just kept shaking.

"And I
sincerely hope it wasn't you who was peeping in my window last night."

Martin's mouth
opened, then closed.

Jane went back
upstairs.

"You're a
failure, Martin," Sarah said in the silence. "That was your last
chance. Why didn't you do it?"

"You
should've grabbed her, you shouldn't have let her leave!" Martin babbled.

"Always
an excuse, like your entire life."

Martin was
getting damn tired of hearing women talk to him like he was a loser. Damn
tired.

He pulled out
the knife.

"You
don't have the nerve."

"Don't
I?" he challenged.

"The
Messenger has abandoned you. You're not worthy of his grace. You're  waste of
his time."

Martin lunged
with the blade. Sarah swatted it out of his hand and slapped him in the face.

"You're a
disgrace."

Next, Martin
was grabbed by the hair and dragged across the basement floor. He was crying
like a baby. Eventually she dropped him by the wall, in front of what appeared
to be an old service crawlway or storage area.

"Look in
there, Martin..." Sarah's voice scarcely sounded human anymore. Something
was tainting her features, something atrocious. Her slender fingers looked
twice as long as they should be, with long nail-like talons. Her eyes were huge
and black.

She pointed to
the opening of the crawlway.

When Martin
looked in, he screamed so hard his heart stopped. Something in the
crawlway-something with long, pale arms-grabbed him by the head and pulled him
in.

I

What a day,
Jane thought, frustrated at her desk. And what a night.

The latter
proved much more pleasurable a thought than the former. All of a sudden it
seemed that she had a boyfriend, or a lover-or something. Maybe to him it was
just a one-night stand. That was the way of the world these days, especially in
Florida. Everything was a fling. Everything was just about having a good time
for the moment. Jane hoped that wasn't the case here, but she knew she was very
vulnerable right now. Last night, their lovemaking had been so good, she felt
guilty. She felt like she'd somehow cheated on Matt even in death. It had been
the best sex of her life.

Don't get your
hopes up, she told herself. Don't be naive. It would be easy to be naive in
this situation.

She hadn't
been with another man since the night of Matt's murder. She'd thought about it
sometimes, and she thought about what it might be like to date somebody-but the
idea always wilted. She wasn't interested. It just seemed too strange and
stressful.

But she
couldn't turn off last night's memory. Steve had made love to her three times.
It was different each time, which made the experience even more exciting. It
was almost as if he knew her: He knew exactly how to tend her desires, he knew
exactly how she liked to be touched, he knew exactly how she wanted to be
taken.

It had been
frenetic but gentle, passionate but aggressive. She knew that she shouldn't
feel guilty, and she knew that Matt wouldn't want her to. If anything, the sex
had been too good.

After the
second time, Steve had rolled over, exhausted, his arm around her. The memory
was so vivid.

"I feel
like lighting a cigarette, but I don't smoke anymore," he said, laughing
at the cliché.

"Neither
do I. We're both better off for it."

"I know.
I don't want to have cigarette breath. Then you wouldn't want to kiss me."

"I'll
always want to kiss you," she whispered, but then bit her lip. It was too
soon to come on strong, or to take this for granted.

"That was
great," he said, still breathing rather hard.

"Tell me
about it. That was my first time in...well, I won't tell you how long."

"Same
here."

Jane cuddled
up right next to him. She felt too good now, better than she had in so long.
Contentment and joy and the sweetest exhaustion all wrapped up around her. She
could feel his heart beating through her chest as they lay there, pressed to
one another, arms draped and legs entangled. Then she tightened her embrace as
if to retain something... and she knew what it was.

The feeling.

The feeling in
her heart and soul. It was as if she were hanging on to it, a desperate clasp
to prevent that sensation from slipping out of her arms, escaping her. She'd do
anything to keep from losing that, but then, a moment later, she knew that she
would. Other things began to surface in her mind. No, no, just drop it. Don't
even mention it. You might ruin it all.

But it
wouldn't stop hounding her.

Her eyes were
wide in the dark when she said, "There's still a whole lot you're not
telling me, isn't there? You keep too much to yourself."

"I
know."

Just drop it!
But she couldn't. Her curiosity was a curse. "Like this business with the
bell-shaped symbol, and the stuff you were saying earlier about cults."

"I
know."

"And now
that guy on the TV show, the bearded man. You should've seen the look on your
face when that came on. Steve, you acted like he meant something to you, some
bad memory or something. Your reaction was like you knew him."

"It is a
bad memory, a really bad memory. I don't really know him. But I sure as hell
know who he is."

"Who?
What is he to you?"

Steve didn't
answer. Suddenly the darkness seemed smothering, the silence in the bedroom
clawing at them.

"Whatever
this is all about," Jane said, "it's easy to see how much it's bothering
you. I can tell. It's eating you up. Why?"

"It's a
really bad subject, Jane."

"The
recent murders? I know that's a bad subject. The whole town's still in shock.
Everything seems different; it doesn't even feel like Danelleton anymore."

"It's not
just that," he said, his voice so low it was nearly inaudible. "Are
you sure you want to know?"

"Yes."

"All
right. I'll tell you."

He told the
strangest story, strange in that it seemed very familiar but it was a different
time. "It was just about twenty years ago. There was a disturbance call at
a house in the neighborhood, just a few blocks away as a matter of fact. A nice
house, new paint, nice yard, a house like most of the houses around here-a
house just like yours. It was a ten-twenty-two that came over the radio-it
means unknown trouble. You always have to be careful on those because you have
no idea what to expect. Could be a cat in a tree or it could be some guy gone
nuts holding his wife and kids hostage with a shotgun. You just never know, so
you're really on your toes. You've got the snap off your holster so you can
draw faster, just in case. The weirdest part was feeling like that in a town
like this. A peaceful, quiet little town. Well, it wasn't peaceful and quiet
that day. A bunch of us pulled up at the same time, we were all getting out at
once, rushing up to the house.

Danelleton was
a lot smaller back then. It was the kind of place where your biggest crimes
were kids toilet papering the school on Halloween, an occasional drunk driver,
nickel-dime stuff like that. But when the ten-twenty-two came through, we all
just got a really bad feeling in our guts. Anyway, we surrounded the house, and
it was me and my partner who got the order to take the front door. We kicked it
open and..."

Jane knew that
what was about to be described would be traumatic. She even thought of telling
him to stop, to forget it, because it was obviously tearing him up, but she
couldn't. She couldn't let go of it. She just squeezed him tighter and said,
"Tell me."

"For some
reason, everything turned silent. I don't know why that is, but ask any cop.
When you walk into a crime scene like that, it's like you're wearing earmuffs.
You're so focused on what's suddenly in your face that you don't have any
outside attention."

"What...
was in the house?" Jane asked.

"Are you
sure you want to know?" he repeated.

"Yes."

Now his voice
shifted down even more, to a grating monotone. "Blood," he said.
"There was blood all over the place. It was the first thing we saw when we
kicked open the door. In the foyer at the bottom of the stairs. It looked like
a half-inch of blood on the floor. And then the body, a woman. She was lying on
her back, on the stairs, her feet pointing upstairs so all the blood would
drain out of her neck into the foyer."