Mr. 8 Page 17

  He was being irrational. No, I’m being crazy. Now was not the time to let his hypochondria get the better of him, especially not with thoughts as foolish as alien viruses.

  He shut off the taps and threw out the wad of paper towels before grabbing more from the dispenser. As he patted his arm dry, the blood soaked into the brown paper and turned it the color of rust. Very carefully, he wrapped his wrist in several layers of the towels and positioned his sweater’s sleeve to hold them in place.

  Maybe Foley had been right. Maybe he needed to see a therapist. Perhaps the events at the lodge were affecting him more than he thought. His judgment was clouded. His reaction was overblown. He would never be thinking such things if he wasn’t still suffering some lingering trauma.

  Simon Foley had been unexpectedly understanding. He was usually so stern and officious. Could he have changed too?

  No, Foley had just felt common ground with him, perhaps for the first time in all their years of knowing each other. It was Radnor that had drawn eights.

  His office had looked like something out of a nightmare. The man had clearly gone insane. The walls had been covered. He had used ballpoint pens, markers, and highlighters to make the eights. He had used a knife on the desk. Hundreds of the numbers scarred the top and the sides. They were deeply gouged into the wood. In his fervor, Radnor had dug straight through the veneer and chewed up the soft pressboard underneath.

  On the way back to his office, Denton’s wrist tingled and itched, irritated from the harsh soap and the scouring. Blood was already beginning to clot, making the paper stick to the wound. It wasn’t hard to imagine germs were crawling over his skin.

  Denton let the hand hang away from his body as though he were afraid to come into contact with it—as though millions of microscopic alien microbes were swarming around it.

  He put on his overcoat. Any lasting phantoms of Eddie or the cabin were now forgotten. His only thoughts were on Radnor and where he could be found. Denton couldn’t allow himself to dwell on what Radnor might have been thinking when he had grabbed his hand. The important thing was that Cole Radnor was the first living person with the obsession he had come across. He was the first tangible link to what was going on with the eights. If anyone had answers, it was him.

  Absently, he reached for the light switch but stopped just short. After a second of inner debate, he switched to his left hand to shut it off, feeling foolish that he was worried about contaminating it. When the door closed, he put on his winter gloves and headed for the stairs.

  As he rushed down the two flights, he tried to think where Radnor may have gone. The man was misanthropic and had no hobbies or friends that Denton had ever heard of. At least, that was how he used to be. There was no telling what he was like now. The list of possibilities was endless. But there was only one place that wasn’t just a stab in the dark: Radnor’s home.

  Fortunately, he knew where it was. A few years ago, he had given Radnor a lift out to Chilton Street near the railway tracks. He lived in one of four buildings sitting on a lonely piece of land. All were identically clad in beige vinyl siding. The only attempt at making them distinct was a difference in the color on the trim and the decorative crisscrossing beams between the third and fourth floors. Two of the buildings used white, the other two were red.

  They were supposedly luxury condos, although Denton guessed that the only reason they were considered high-end were the water views that one side looked out on. The river was as much an attraction as the rail line was a drawback. The design was plain and modern and the roofs had several peaks, making each building look like a row of extra tall houses. Denton had once seen similar building during a vacation at a ski resort, and mentally he always referred to them as the chalets whenever he passed them.

  He drove to the second building and pulled into a lot with a sign that read: “Residents only.” Denton parked the Buick Lucerne the body shop had loaned him, hoping he would be long gone before the owner of the spot returned home.

  He shut the engine off, and silence filled the car, replacing the anemic version of Little Drummer Boy playing on the radio. Denton missed his precious car and all the music he had stored on its computer. He had only managed to find one jazz station and they seemed to play strictly light renditions of Christmas songs that sounded like elevator music. How many weeks would it be before they banged all the dents out of his Mercedes? The trip down the embankment of the ravine had left it in even worse shape than Denton.

  Out in the frigid parking lot, it was easy to forget it was still only late afternoon. The sky was completely dark. He couldn’t see the river in the gloom, but he could feel the wind howling off the water.

  With his head down, he rushed to the building and made his way up to Radnor’s third floor unit.

  Denton pounded on the door. “Open up, Cole. It’s Denton. We need to talk.”

  For a heartbeat there was no noise and he was sure that Radnor wasn’t there. Then he heard footsteps heading toward him.

  “Dent, I wasn’t expecting you… so soon. Come on in,” he said, holding the door open.

  “Cut the shit. I want answers.” The second he was in Radnor’s presence again, he felt agitated, as though there was an unsettling energy in the air. He could feel his blood beating faster and there was a nervous tremor in his voice.

  Denton stepped into the room and Radnor backed up to accommodate him. The door swung shut, slamming closed. He tried to keep his focus on Radnor to keep his head from swimming. Just like in the office, the eights were everywhere. He seemed to have a thing for gouging them into wood. The furniture and the hardwood floors were a ruined mess of madness. There were so many loops covering the walls, it was hard to be certain all of them formed eights. It might have just been a psychedelic pattern.

  “What’s with eights?” he asked bluntly.

  “Eights?” Radnor started giggling. “He thinks they’re eights.” He turned his back to Denton and headed across the living room.

  “Okay, the star and the moon then?”

  Radnor gave a little twirl in the middle of the room with his hands outstretched, showing off his handy work. “It’s the Arrow of Infinity pointing to the eternal. Isn’t it marvelous?”

  “Are you high?” The FBI’s theory no longer seemed so farfetched. Radnor’s speech and movements all hinted at intoxication.

  Radnor continued his turn and then practically skipped off into the small galley kitchen.

  Denton pursued him. “Is it drugs, Cole? Are you on drugs?”

  “It’s freedom. You’ll see. I have looked into the eyes and I have seen the truth.”

  “What are you talking about?” The timber of his voice had risen on its own and he was nearly screaming.

  Radnor laughed as he scanned the kitchen counter, looking for something among the clutter. It was covered with knives, markers, and pens. He pulled out a razorblade from an opened box and held it up with titter, just like a child finding a key piece to a jigsaw puzzle.

  Next to the kitchen was a dinette area with a small table and chairs and a narrow, floor to ceiling window, which looked out on the third building in the complex. Radnor went and kneeled in front of it. He had already scratched countless eights into the glass and he got back to work making circle after circle after circle.

  Stunned, Denton watched him. Scattered on the floor all around him were broken and worn out blades, discarded without a second thought the moment they were no longer of use.

  Denton wanted to grab Radnor and shake him, but even with his gloves on there was something poisonous about the man’s entire being that kept him from moving any closer.

  He needed Radnor to answer his questions. The best way to deal with the man, in the state he was in, was to talk to him in a calm, pacifying manner.

  “Listen to me,” he said, evening out his tone. “I need you to tell me what happened.”

&
nbsp; The only answer was the squeak from the blade, as it scrapped against the glass.

  “When did you first start wanting to draw this Arrow of Infinity? Why is it important to you? Why were you putting your saliva on the door knobs? Answer me.”

  Radnor continued with his face inches from the window, etching away. His lips were stretched tight in a serene grin.

  With each passing moment, Denton’s nerves wound up tighter until his patience reached its end. “Stop it with the fucking eights already, you bat-shit psycho. Tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “You’ll find out,” Radnor said in a singsong voice, never taking his eyes off of the blade. “When the ray of light shines upon you and the eyes look into your soul, you’ll find out.”

  “That’s it, I’m calling the cops. You can explain it from the inside of a padded room.” Denton reached into his pocket, only to remember he had no cell phone. The boys had destroyed his and the replacement hadn’t come yet.

  In that brief instant, Radnor was on him. Denton had been looking away and hadn’t even seen the man move. Radnor grabbed him by the lapels and spun him around, before slamming him against the window. Denton heard it creak from the force.

  Radnor held the razorblade to his throat and pinned him in place with an arm against his chest. Denton tried to push him back, but he didn’t budge. Radnor wasn’t a big man. He was a good six inches shorter than Denton. To all appearances, he was puny, but with just his left arm, he kept Denton immobilized.

  “Why do you want to make trouble? I really don’t want to kill you, Dent.”

  “I don’t want to make trouble.” Denton threw an awkward punch aimed at Radnor’s left kidney. With little room to maneuver, it landed weakly, and Radnor didn’t flinch. He let out a shrill laugh and rancid breath blew in Denton’s face.

  “All you had to do was wait a couple of days. Why couldn’t you wait?” The question was asked with a pouting lilt. The blade pressed closer against his throat. Had it not been dulled by the glass, it would have broken the skin.

  “What happens then?” Denton reached his hand out to the kitchen counter and started groping around for something he could use to defend himself.

  “The change will be complete. You’ll see.” Radnor licked his lips like an animal. “Oh yes, you’ll see.”

  Denton’s fingers clawed onto something, and he dragged it closer to him until it fit into his grip. Desperately, he hit Radnor in the stomach with it, and the man recoiled. As Radnor stepped back, Denton could see a black knife handle sticking out of his white shirt. A blossom of red formed around it.

  The sight was like cold water being splashed on his face. Denton felt as if he had suddenly been woken up out of a horrible dream, only to find an even greater horror in front of him.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry Cole, I didn’t mean—”

  He was cut short when Radnor grabbed him with both hands, and flung him over the table and into the living room.

  His disorientation at finding himself in the middle of the room made it feel like his surroundings were swirling around him. The pattern that faced him on the ceiling was as unmistakable as it was familiar. From his angle on the floor, it was clearly an infinity symbol. Its elongated loops were made from a thick, gray goop that looked like oatmeal. It had dried, leaving stalactites hanging down in long frozen drips.

  Denton crawled to his knees and tried to get to his feet. The shock and the pain made his limbs clumsy and sluggish.

  Hands grabbed him from behind and hauled him up. Radnor took two hurried steps and Denton found himself being hurled through the air again. He hit the small kitchen island and rolled over it. The sink’s tap caught him in the small of his back, and dirty dishes went crashing to the floor, where he landed in a heap.

  His entire universe collapsed to one simple thought: get out.

  He had to get to the door. It didn’t matter that Radnor was blocking it. That was too complex an idea to hold in his head. He moved almost autonomously—almost blindly. His rubbery legs stood, and his hands fumbled along the edge of the island for support, until he had enough balance to stumble over to the dining area. All his concentration was on his feet, as he walked hunched over through the debris of broken glasses and plates, the pain in his spine too intense to pull himself up straight.

  The moment he was clear of the island, Radnor leapt, and landed on his back. Denton stood bolt upright in terror, and the sudden shift altered Radnor’s momentum. He went sailing over Denton and smashed against the window.

  The impact shattered it along each and every one of the eights and Cole Radnor didn’t stop falling until he reached the ground.

  Trembling, Denton looked out. On the pavement below was his former colleague’s broken body, one leg sticking out at an unnatural angle.

  He turned back inside and gasped for air. Even with the window now wide open, there didn’t seem to be any oxygen in the room. Adrenalin was ebbing away, leaving nothing but nausea, fatigue, and agony. He straightened his glasses.

  His eyes locked onto a cordless phone on the kitchen wall. He walked over to it and dialed. His hands were shaking and the gloves made hitting the buttons a challenge, but he only had to press three of them.

  After the first ring, a voice said, “This is nine-one-one. Please state the nature of your emergency.”

  “There’s been an accident. A man has fallen out of a window.” Denton was alarmed by how hollow his voice sounded.

  “Alright, sir. I am dispatching emergency services to your location. Do you know if he is still breathing?”

  “I don’t know.” Denton went back to the window, following the operator’s implied command without thinking. He had to check and see if Radnor was still breathing. He never considered that there would be no way to tell from such a distance.

  The wind tussled his hair. The hand holding the phone began to droop. The other hand reached out to the wall for support.

  “Sir, are you still there?” the operator asked after too much silence had passed.

  Denton was still there, but Cole Radnor was gone.

  Chapter 25

  Copycat

  A BLAST OF COLD HIT DENTON when he pushed through the fire door. Already breathless from running down the stairs, the frigid air made him gasp.

  The emergency exit led out to the side alleyway near the back of the building. A mirror image of the door was directly across from him; gray metal, four concrete steps off the ground, with a single spotlight directly above. Off to his right, the wind whipped over the river, pushing a damp air front in from the northeast. To his left, two dumpsters blocked the view of the parking lot.

  Where was Radnor?

  The security light reflected off half frozen puddles pooled on the deteriorating asphalt. Some of them seemed tinged with a deep crimson. Denton staggered down the few steps to the pavement and noticed a blood trail leading toward the front of the building, past the dumpsters.

  It wasn’t long until the shattered glass came into view. Near the front corner of the building, it was sprayed across the ground as if someone had emptied a treasure chest full of diamonds and rubies. At the center, a large splatter of blood marked Radnor’s point of impact. Spurts of the red gore extended out of it like a sunburst.

  Denton stopped at the outer perimeter of the glass. At his feet lay the knife. He had only seen the handle before. Now he saw that it was a thin bladed boning knife.

  He stood there staring at it—the murder weapon. The thought crossed his mind: I wore my gloves the whole time; there are no fingerprints. He could walk away. Just leave and let the police sort things out. Who would know he’d been there?

  But it wasn’t murder, it was self-defense. And Radnor wasn’t even dead—just wounded and out there somewhere.

  It would have been easy for the narrow blade to miss any vital organs. He looked up to the open window. Thirt
y—thirty-five feet at most. That’s survivable. Right? He had no idea, but it must be. And Radnor’s leg must have only looked broken. After all, Denton had only glanced down. The dark and the distance could have tricked his eyes.

  There was nothing supernatural about it.

  So where was he?

  Denton circled around the radius of broken glass. The only trail of blood extending from it was the one that had led him there. Radnor had headed to the back of the building.

  He should have gone toward the street. He would have been more likely to find help in that direction. Someone coming into the parking lot would have seen him. Or he could have flagged down a motorist from the road. What help would he find by the train tracks and the river?

  He was running away. Why?

  The man had experienced a psychotic break and wasn’t being rational. He was suffering severe delusions. Who knew why he would have chosen that way. But he was losing more blood with every step and he was moving farther away from help.

  How long would it take the ambulance to show up? Were the police on their way? He couldn’t hear any sirens. He wasn’t sure whether they had even dispatched anyone. He hadn’t stayed on the line. When he saw that Radnor had gone, he left the apartment. He couldn’t even remember what he had done with the phone. Everything was still jumbled in his mind.

  He should go back and call again to make sure they were coming. Warn them that Radnor was injured and violent. Then he could wait in the apartment—no, that was a crime scene. He should wait in his car until they got there and he could give his statement.

  Would Cole Radnor survive that long? Would they be able to find him when they got there? Or would they only find his cold, dead body hours or days from now? They would come across a frozen corpse collapsed in red snow in some forlorn spot on the bank of the Gilead River.

  He couldn’t take that chance. If Cole Radnor died, it would be on his conscience. He wouldn’t be responsible for the man’s death. Denton made up his mind to go after him and to make sure he didn’t bleed out. There was fear in the thought. Radnor could try and attack him again. But how big a threat could he be in such a weakened state? He had to help him.