Total Immunity (37 page)

“C'mon, man. This game ain't over yet. Get up off that chair.”

“I can't,” Jack said. “I can't . . .”

He wanted to say exactly what it was he couldn't do or think . . . but there was nothing else.

“You got to,” Oscar said. “We're going to get Kevin back.”

Jack gritted his teeth and imagined choking Charlie Breen to death, slowly, until his eyes popped out.

Oscar reached down. Jack took his large, powerful hand, and his partner pulled him to his feet.

48

IT WAS A DARK NIGHT at Benson State Park and the giant firs and cedars were illuminated by the brilliant moonlight. High up, only a few hundred yards away from Multnomah Falls, there was a home made out of logs and cedar shake. All the lights were off inside the place except one, a porch light shaped like an acorn.

A block away sat a simple panel truck with the words Department of Parks stenciled on the side.

Inside the truck, Charlie Breen, dressed like a khaki-clad forest ranger, sat looking at the acorn-shaped porch light and spoke to his fellow traveler, Martin J. Black, the real ranger who sat in the passenger seat, minus his clothes.

“Look at the acorn light. That's the kind of thing you get at Ikea,” Charlie Breen said. “Can't you just see the happy family winding their way through Ikea on a Saturday afternoon? Happy little family with their happy kids, chatting about all the nifty furniture, and maybe thinking about the great deals on hot dogs and pizza they have as you leave the store with all your swell items. Can't you just picture that, Marty?”

Martin J. Black said nothing.

Charlie looked over at him and laughed.

“You're a quiet one, aren't you?” he said. “I read all about you forest rangers a long time ago in one of those Jack Kerouac books. The lonely sentinel high above the treetops in his manly lookout, kind of like a priest up there, communing with nature, watching out for fires, keeping all of nature safe. I admire that, Marty, I really do. But, unfortunately, you were also keeping a murderer safe. They thought they had me fooled, but, of course, I knew they'd catch my brother. And then I followed Billy Chase home.”

Charlie/Roy (which one was he now, sometimes it was so hard to remember) laughed and stuck his flashlight in Martin J. Black's gaping neck wound. Blood coagulated on the bulb and made weird patterns on the windshield.

From the back of the truck there was a kicking noise, and Charlie got out and walked around to the back doors. He unlocked them and looked inside. Kevin Harper was hog-tied but had managed to slide himself over to the truck walls. He kicked the wall one last time as Charlie stepped inside and hit him in the side of the head with the flashlight, opening a wide gash.

“I told you not to make me come back here,” he said. “Now let's keep it down back here, son, 'cause we're almost home.”

He found his little parental joke amusing and began to chuckle to himself.

Now, he thought, it was time to finish this job.

He would go into the house and kill Billy Chase and anyone else he ran across. Well, wait . . . he still hadn't decided. Would he kill Billy first? No, he thought not. Best to kill Billy's daughter and make him watch. Of course . . . how could he have not thought of that?

Then he remembered. He had thought of it, but then forgotten it.

This short-term-memory thing had him worried. After he got done killing the Chase family, he'd have to get on a new diet regimen and see his doctor. Back in Munich.

A lot of this bad-memory shit, he thought, as he relocked the panel truck's doors, was due to the stress of having to plan this revenge over and over, reworking the script with Jimmy.

“But we're almost there now, Jimmy,” he said to his son. “We are almost there.”

He waited until he heard Jimmy's voice in his head. A soft whisper, like a boy who is going to sleep.

“Good job, Dad.”

Roy felt a rush of satisfaction. It was always important to get Jimmy's approval. They'd made their film every step of the way, and now they'd finish it. He was glad Jimmy had decided to come with him on the final act of the production.

He stood there in the pleasant cover of dark for a minute and went over the story again:

First we kill the kids, then the wife. Then . . . The Big One. Billy himself.

On that one, he would have to get Jimmy's help.

He stopped and looked up at the moon.

And thought, for a second, that he saw handsome Jimmy coming down on a moonbeam, riding a trail of silver dust. His son coming, bright eyed, handsome, the genius. The filmmaker, not just some movie guy. The filmmaker.

The auteur.

That was going to be it.

The final scene in their movie.

The Big One.

Tonight was the night.

He reached into the backseat and picked up his camera.

49

IT TOOK HIM only seconds to cut the security lines, up on the side of the house. In another fifteen seconds, he'd opened the sliding door and was inside.

He walked through the living room, which he was surprised to find was very folksy. There were folksy Hummel figures — a whole shelf of them — cute little chubby kids all lovingly huddled together, just adorable; he couldn't wait to show Jimmy those.

“Look at these, Jimmy,” he said. Billy Chase had terrible taste. Yet another reason to rid the world of him.

He took out his bone knife, the one with the polished shark- cartilage handle, and walked quickly up the stairs.

Stuck in his waistband was his .45.

He didn't intend to use the gun. There was no fun in that.

When the knife went into the man who'd killed Jimmy, he'd twist it and turn it, and make him squirm and beg.

Oh, yes, squirming and begging were essential.

He went down the hallway, thankful for the carpet, which muffled the sound of his footsteps.

He saw the master bedroom, and having gotten close enough to Billy Chase, after all these years, he suddenly forgot the whole plan again, the bit about taking out the daughter first.

He'd become blood-crazed and couldn't wait to go through with the whole ritual.

He just wanted Billy-boy on the end of his knife. All the rest was gravy.

He opened the master bedroom door and slipped inside. Trained his vid cam at the bed.

There — in the bed — was a figure. Waiting, lying there sleeping.

“It's Bill, Jimmy,” he said inside his head. “It's the man who ended your life.”

And in that moment, he forgot the whole deal about killing them one by one. It was Billy he wanted, it was Billy Jimmy wanted.

He moved forward and raised his knife. Balanced the cam on his shoulder.

“Hey, hey, hey, Billy-boy,” he said, as he plunged the knife down toward his sleeping target. “How about this?”

He stuck the blade into the back of the sleeping figure.

He'd worked himself up to a fine rage, saliva flying from his mouth, and he raised the knife to plunge again, but then realized he'd been robbed.

Robbed of the essential pleasures of a scream from the victim and the even finer satisfaction of feeling the knife cut through tissue and bone, and perhaps a pink piece of lung.

He reached down and snapped back the covers.

Pillows! Pillows stacked up.

He heard himself give a meek little laugh, a whimper, and immediately felt a red blush spread over his face.

Then he turned and found Jack Harper behind him, a pistol in his hand.

“Hi, Charlie,” Jack said.

“Jack,” Charlie said, for a second unable to say anything else.

“That was good, Charlie,” Jack said. “Your brother almost had us fooled with his ‘breakdown' and his fake call to L.A., which you had forwarded to your cell phone in Portland.
Almost
worked. But after I thought about it a little, I realized you'd never let Terry kill Billy. It was too personal for that. It had to be
you.
”

Charlie felt a sense of personal shame and failure, which led him to a rage-storm. He wanted to ram Jack's face with his head, smashing his nose. He wanted to bite into Jack's neck. But he suppressed his rage, stayed calm.

“You were very smart, Charlie. You kidnapped Karl's kids and held them hostage so he had to help you. But why all the drama?”

Charlie laughed.

“That was Jimmy's idea, Jack. After all, it's his film.”

“Your son?”

Charlie nodded and gave a knowing little grin.

“Jimmy came up with it all. He tells me, and I carry it out. He loves big twisting stories where the hero is suckered in by his own confidence. We got you good, Jack. You gotta give us that.”

“You and Jimmy,” Jack repeated. And in spite of himself and all that Charlie had done, Jack began to feel a deep sorrow on his old friend's behalf.

“That's why the camera, Jackie. I've been filming it all — with Jimmy. When I finish with this, we'll have our masterpiece. By the way, you should know I decided not to kill you. You and Kevin get to live, for now, as long as you don't make any real trouble.”

“Why, thank you, Charlie,” Jack said. “That's kind of you.” “It wasn't my idea, Jack. It was Jimmy. He liked you and

Kevin. He wouldn't go on with the film unless he had certain assurances.”

“That's very nice of Jimmy, then,” Jack said.

“Don't talk to me in that patronizing tone, Jack,” Charlie said. “I know Jimmy's not here in a physical way, but his talent . . . you couldn't kill that. That's a spiritual thing. The talent stays alive because it comes from Jimmy's immortal soul.”

He nodded as though he were reassuring himself that it was true.

“I know you're laughing at me. You think I'm nuts. But
you're
the one that doesn't understand. A guy like you has no understanding of the connection between me and my son.”

“I'm sure I don't,” Jack said.

“It's amazing,” Charlie said. “For every one of you that died, Jimmy came more and more alive. Now I can see him, talk to him almost all the time. You're going to love the movie, Jack. After all, it was you and your pals who thought of the title.”

“What is it?” Jack was interested despite himself.

“
Total Immunity,
of course,” Charlie said. “You gave total immunity to Billy Chase. That's what got the whole project going.”

“You're a sick man, Charlie,” Jack said. “You gotta come with me. The premiere of
Total Immunity
is postponed indefinitely.”

“I don't think so, Jack,” Charlie said. “See, you're always one step behind me.”

Charlie opened his left hand and showed Jack a tiny detonator.

“See what I have here, Jackie? Even if you pull the trigger, I can blow up the truck outside, the one with Kevin in the back.”

Jack stared at him for ten seconds. Then:

“Okay,” Jack said. “Go ahead, Charlie. Push it.”

“You think I won't? It'll be a fair trade, Jack. Your son for mine.”

“Push it!”

“All right, Jack. You asked for it. Look out the window.”

He pushed the button. A second later, there was an explosion which rocked the house.

Jack looked down at the street, saw the flash. He felt numb inside.

“Now things can get right again,” Charlie said. “I was going to kill you, Jack, but now I think it'll be much better to let you live. To suffer like I did for the rest of your life, knowing you couldn't protect your son. Finally, you and I will be dead even.”

Jack smelled the smoke and saw the fire outside.

Then he smiled at Charlie Breen.

“I don't think so, Charlie. Take a look.”

Charlie looked outside and saw two federal agents using hand extinguishers to put out the fire.

A few feet away from them, three other agents surrounded an untied Kevin Harper, whom Oscar covered with an Indian blanket.

Three local cops were walking toward the house, their guns drawn.

“You son of a bitch!” Charlie said.

In one smooth motion, Charlie threw the shark-handled knife into Jack's left side. The pain was blinding, but Jack managed to get off a shot which hit Charlie's right shoulder.

Ordinarily such a shot would push a man backward, but Charlie Breen was so pumped up with adrenaline and hate that he lunged forward, pulled the knife out of Jack's body and tried using it again, this time to cut Jack's throat.

Jack felt weak, dizzy, and knew that within seconds he'd be lying on the floor bleeding out.

He resorted to the oldest and most effective trick he knew in combat.

He kneed Charlie Breen in the groin.

Charlie groaned and fell back, but didn't go down. Instead, he picked up a chair and threw it at Jack, then turned, ran to the side window, and plunged through the glass.

Jack followed him, watched Charlie hit the parking-garage roof, then roll down it. He fell on the other side of a chain fence, which cordoned off the house from the trailhead in the dark woods.

All of the federal men and local cops were on the house side of the fence. If Charlie got into the forest, there was no telling where he might go.

Jack took the leap, rolled down the rooftop, jumped over the fence, and took off after him.

Jack saw Charlie disappear into the forest. There was no way the older man was going to outrun him.

But in front of him Jack saw two trails, both of them chewed up by hikers. It was impossible to tell which path Charlie Breen had taken.

Both of them led up to Multnomah Falls . . . and the deep forest beyond.

Jack decided on taking the less steep path, reasoning that Charlie would want to get as deep into the forest as possible in the shortest amount of time.

He ran up the path, his side leaking blood.

He touched his side as he ran and came away with a great gob of blood.

But there was no way he was going to stop.