Mr. 8 Page 18

  He took one step, and a voice in the back of his head said: take the knife—just in case.

  He allowed himself a glance at it before he put it behind him and walked away from it with determination.

  He was going out there to save Cole Radnor, not to finish the job.

  At the back of the buildings, the ground was trampled by hundreds of tiny feet. There must be children living in the complex who used the back lot as a playground.

  His gaze searched the empty land between him and the river. The black train tracks cut through the blue-gray snow like a gash. A small figure was on the track about a hundred yards away. Could that be Radnor? A length of chain-link cordoned it off for safety, but perhaps he had gotten past it.

  He was heading south. It would lead him back through town. And if he kept going…

  The unwelcome image of the giant red eight under the train bridge popped into his head.

  Denton scanned the ground for several minutes, searching for some indication of Radnor’s trail. Finally, he came across two drops of fresh blood in a frozen heel print. Each drop melted a perfect circle into the snow.

  He struggled along the soft, uneven ground. The hiking boots he had put on that morning kept him from slipping but not from sinking. He reached the fence. A few of the wires were snapped or had been cut and about three feet of chain-link was pushed to the side. Blood was streaked over the snow where Radnor had crawled through. Beyond it a well-worn trail led off. Most of the boot prints were small. Perhaps it was a shortcut to the water or perhaps it was simply the lure of mischief and forbidden places that had brought the neighborhood children through here.

  Grimacing, Denton dropped to his knees and followed.

  When he reached the tracks, he started a light jog, trying to time each footfall to land squarely on the railway ties, since the gravel in between the wooden planks was too rough to run on. Out in the open, the cuts on his face stung and the tips of his ears burned from the cold. He tried to ignore it and to focus on the task. The figure was almost lost to sight, fading in with the murk.

  No matter how fast he pushed himself, the other person on the tracks seemed to only retreat from him and never got any closer.

  “Cole!” he screamed into the night, as he staggered to a stop, the energy in his body spent. He yelled out the name two more times as loud as he could, praying that his voice would carry over the wind.

  Radnor stopped. Had he heard him? Or were his wounds finally slowing him down?

  Denton started walking to him, dragging his exhausted legs forward one step at a time. His feet stumbled, hitting gravel more often than the wooden ties. His breath sent ragged plumes of vapor into the air. The figure in the distance started getting bigger—getting closer.

  Denton stopped. Radnor had turned back and was heading toward him. A splash of terror hit his brain and he contemplated fleeing. The madman from the apartment loomed in his mind. I really don’t want to kill you, he had said pressing the razor to his throat. But I will was left implied.

  Denton forced the fear down and tried to clear his head. Keep to the plan. Get to him. Calm him down. Stop the bleeding. Get him to the hospital. Simple.

  So why couldn’t he get his legs to move forward? Why was his mouth so dry? How was Cole Radnor moving so damn fast?

  Denton couldn’t take his eyes off of him as he charged down the tracks. The ground seemed to be rumbling beneath him. He was close enough that Denton could make out the pumping of arms and legs. Hair flew around his head, but specific details were lost in the darkness. His face was black and there was no definition between skin and clothes.

  Denton’s mind refused to think. It just seemed to be filled with a deafening screeching noise that blocked out everything else. He found himself stepping backward, slowly retreating. Too slowly. His foot landed on the uneven stones and sent him off balance. He fell back and landed on his butt. All the air escaped from his lungs.

  He turned onto his stomach to try and get up and realized that the noise wasn’t in his head; a train was hurdling toward them. He had to get moving—get off of the tracks.

  He got to his knees and was pushed back to the ground. His face jammed up against an icy tie.

  “Hello, Dent,” Radnor snarled in his ear. The weight of his body held him down.

  “Cole, I came to help. You need to go to a hospital. Let me up. I’ll drive you. Hurry, the train’s coming.”

  All he could see was the light of the engine getting ever closer. No one had seen them there. It wasn’t braking. It wasn’t even slowing down.

  “Afraid of the train? How sad. When you embrace eternity, you won’t be afraid of anything anymore. The truth will set you free.”

  “You’re hurt. You need help.”

  “Are you going to help me? Like you helped me before?” Radnor’s arm snaked away from Denton’s left shoulder and his hand stroked the back of his head.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I—” He broke off as Radnor’s fingers coiled around his hair and pulled his head back.

  The train seemed impossibly close. Denton could smell death in the air all around him. His heart was pounding as if it were about to burst in his chest.

  Radnor started to shove his head down. Denton anticipated his face being smashed into the ground. He felt Radnor’s body shift. With an adrenaline fired burst, he flung his elbow into Radnor’s stomach, right below the rib cage. By chance it hit squarely on the knife wound and Radnor’s strength ebbed. Denton sprang up on one knee and pushed, dislodging Radnor from his back and sending himself rolling away from the tracks.

  Denton fell free and slid down the slope of the railway embankment. He looked up to see Radnor climbing to his feet. The moment he recovered himself, he dove at Denton.

  Instinctively, Denton brought his knees up to his chest, curling into a ball to protect himself. Cole Radnor landed with his chest against his boots. Denton thrust out his legs with all of his strength and Cole Radnor was pushed into the air.

  The speeding train turned the night into a rushing horror of noise, tremors, and gales of wind. A glossy black locomotive crushed Radnor under silver wheels. Jets of flame spewed out of its smoke stack. Seconds passed before Denton realized he had his eyes clenched shut and the image of the demonic engine was all in his imagination. He opened his eyes to see a long line of cargo cars zipping past him. Radnor was nowhere in sight.

  When the train finally passed, he slowly got up out of the snow. There was no sign of the madman. There was no one running away. No mutilated body thrown clear of the tracks. No blood except a few small splatters where they had fought. Denton watched the train as it headed through town. What had happened to him?

  After what felt like a very long time, Denton went back to Radnor’s building. When he reached the alleyway, yellow police tape blocked it off, but there was nobody watching it. He circled around the other side and when he came out into the parking lot, he saw the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles outside the building. Two squad cars and an ambulance were parked by the main door.

  Denton squared his shoulders and prepared himself for what was to come. Would he make the front page of the newspaper twice in one week? Once as a hero and once as the guy who threw a co-worker out a window and then pushed him under a train?

  A patrolman was standing guard on the front steps. From several feet away, he recognized the man.

  “Officer Lee,” he said, as way of greeting, a nervous bile building in the back of his throat.

  “Reed. Damn, you got here fast.” There was astonishment in his voice.

  “I…” Denton stammered, hesitating to give his confession.

  “Stahl isn’t here yet. I’m sorry, I can’t let you up there without him.”

  “No, you see—” he paused, finally understanding what Officer Lee was saying. “Bill is coming here?”

  “On his way. Har
d to believe isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “We just arrest the killers and already there’s a copycat.” Denton stared at him blankly. “Looks like there’s been another abduction. Mr. 8 lives on.”

  Okay, time to come clean. Just tell him what happened.

  “I’ll wait for Bill then,” Denton said. He started walking away and added, “In my car.”

  He sat down in the Buick’s cold driver’s seat. He’d wait and tell Bill. It would be easier explaining it to a friend.

  He turned the key in the ignition to get the heat going. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, his body felt like hell. The beating it took in the apartment and then at the tracks could be traced in each joint and bone. Not to mention, he still had lingering pain in his face and a throbbing headache from the wrong lenses in his glasses.

  Denton withdrew the pill bottle from his pants pocket. It was a transparent orange-brown—a sickly amber color. The prescription was for two pills every four hours. Desperate for some relief, he cautiously took one and downed it dry. Despite its small size, it coated his mouth with a bitter, chalky taste.

  He adjusted his coat. Dirt and dried grass clung to the wool. He took a few futile swipes to try and brush it clean and noticed the paper towels were no longer in his sleeve. They must have fallen out in the fight. Which one? He hadn’t seen them in the snow. They must have been left in the condo.

  At least the welts had stopped bleeding, but just looking at them made them begin to itch and the thought of germs returned to the forefront of his mind.

  It was ludicrous. It was only the power of suggestion. If the three killers had never put the idea in his head, he wouldn’t have considered the possibility of an infection.

  Yet, something about it made sense. There was a string linking one person to the next like a virus spreading. He could trace the victims back to Ray, the man the police had called The Troll. Was he Patient Zero? He was the first one to exhibit the symptoms. But were they symptoms? Or was this just trying to put everything into a nice, simple package? That had been the mistake those boys had made.

  A pathetic rendition of Jingle Bells with horns and an electric keyboard ended, and the radio switched to a news brief. It was six o’clock and the top story was the winter storm heading into the region.

  He was supposed to be meeting Linda at that very moment. Linda was probably already at the restaurant waiting. He had no phone to call. He pictured her sitting there impatiently, her hand dragging a strand of brown hair behind her ear, as she looked at the door with an overly casual glance.

  He sat there for several minutes with his eyes closed. When he opened them, the faint moisture of early tears gave a soft glow to the lights. He put the car into reverse.

  As two more patrol cars pulled into the parking lot, he turned off onto Chilton Street.

  Chapter 26

  Insanity

  THE SNOW LANDED ON THE WINDSHIELD in a mystifying pattern. It mapped out a chart of transient stars. Each isolated puff of white plotted a position, before slowly melting crystal by crystal and trickling down the glass.

  At the end of the street, framed by two buildings, Market Square stood in the soft night. Hundreds of fairy lights glittered through the lazy flurries. Christmas shoppers returned to their cars with bags overloaded with presents; office workers crossed the park heading to a restaurant and dinner; young lovers walked arm in arm, their bodies held close together; parents clutched tiny hands in mittens; and the wide eyes of their children eagerly tried to capture all the magic around them. Everyone in the Square walked unhurried, basking in the beauty of this perfect winter evening.

  The storefront on the left-hand corner was outlined in old-fashion red and green Christmas lights. They reflected off a mercury glass bowl on display atop an antique sideboard. The plate glass windows opposite were lit with a warm amber hue reminiscent of fire light. A couple sat down at one of the small tables looking out on 7th Avenue. They shrugged out of their winter coats, before easing into their chairs. The woman’s smile flashed so wide, it was evident from twenty feet away.

  Denton sat in the car with the engine running. He wanted to throw up. Anxiety was playing skip rope with his guts, but that wasn’t the reason he wanted to vomit. He just wanted to purge all the bad thoughts in his head. Logically, he knew that emptying his stomach wouldn’t change anything, but the faint hope that it could lingered on the edge of his mind.

  When he was young, around nine or ten, Denton spent a weekend sick on the couch watching TV with his father. It was a rare thing for his father to sit still and spend time in front of the TV, but the man had a weakness for old movies. That weekend the local PBS station ran a Hitchcock marathon as part of a fundraising drive. It was in the thick of a cold February, and under an old wool blanket, Denton flitted in and out of fever and sleep as the movies rolled past. Days later, when the flu had broken, the two movies that stuck in his mind were Psycho and Spellbound. And along with them was a morbid fascination with insanity.

  To his young mind, the question of madness seemed so beguiling: how could a person see a reality that was so different from everybody else? How could Norman Bates be two people? How could John Brown not know who he really was? There was something both mystical and horrible about it. Like black magic, it could accomplish amazing feats, but was also capable of robbing the victim of his own self.

  It haunted him for several weeks, until something else came along that piqued his interest, and it faded from thought as things do when one is young. The wonder and dread of insanity drifted to that same dark corner of his brain that housed a fear of ghosts and creatures under the bed.

  Years later, when it came time to pick his major, he chose Psychology. Not because of that long ago curiosity of the slippery darkness of madness, but simply because of a dynamic professor who taught an introductory course his freshman year, and a lack of interest in chemistry and biology.

  When he informed his father of his decision, he reminded Denton of the childhood obsession. By that point Denton couldn’t recall it at all and had to take his father’s word for it. And as the young man rebuilt the memory from his parent’s brief story, the fear and the foreboding disappeared. It was no longer a juvenile fixation, but instead a serious scientific interest that had consumed him as a boy. He took it as a sign he was on the correct career path.

  “I have always been interested in insanity,” he’d tell people on the rare occasions they asked why he was majoring in Psychology. And if they pushed him further, he’d cite that weekend on the couch as the start of his lifelong passion. Over time, his mind drew upon scraps of other memories and cobbled together a hazy recollection of those two days, which he took for reality.

  But even so, it was a lie. Insanity didn’t interest him in the least. Analytics and diagnostic theory were at the forefront of his mind. He had no interest in dealing with troubled people. And the thought of extreme versions of psychosis seemed more a fantasy than reality. On his few onsite visits to psychiatric clinics, he never encountered any patients with multiple personalities or complete amnesia. There wasn’t anyone who thought they were Henry the Eighth or who believed they were in a different world. The patients he observed merely suffered from crippling neurosis and chemical imbalances.

  But staring at the restaurant, as the snow drifted down, those old childhood questions and fears came back to him. How could anyone perceive reality so differently? What would it feel like? If you were lost in a delusion, how would you know? How could you know if you lost your reason?

  He knew that an entirely rational person would get out of the car and go and meet his wife for dinner. But he sat there, frozen—petrified.

  If there were a chance—even a one in a trillion chance—he was infected with some strange mind corrupting virus, and if there were a chance he might pass it to Linda, he couldn’t go in there.

  If he were going
crazy, he was still sane enough to dismiss the thought that the disease could be alien in nature. But there were countless articles theorizing that schizophrenia could be caused by an infection. Scientists had been studying that possibility since the ’70s. Although, the virus they hypothesized was something a person contracted at a young age and developed years later in adulthood, not some disease that could spread like a pandemic.

  It could be possible there was a new pathogen loose on the populace. A new mutation perhaps. It could be something carried by animals or birds. Completely harmless to them, but once in humans… It might even be manmade. Would it really be so hard to believe someone had come up with something like that as a biological weapon? Could this obsession with eights have escaped from a military lab or some terrorist cell?

  Again, he traced the thread from the homeless man all the way through to the literature student.

  Of course, there were flaws in the theory—gaps in the victims. How was Garry Meyers linked to Maggie? Meyers visited bars and clubs; could that be the connection? Or was the link one of the people found in Aikman Field? He knew so little about them.

  Denton shook his head and turned off the engine. He couldn’t entertain these ideas any longer. He couldn’t just leave Linda sitting at the table waiting for him to show up. Waiting and wondering. Especially after what happened in the lodge, he wouldn’t put her through that again.

  He opened the car door.

  He pictured himself walking into the restaurant, apologizing for being late, and kissing her. Then the image of Linda’s studio filled with paintings of stars and planets flashed into his head.

  Cold air infiltrated the car through a six inch gap. He stared down at the slush on the street. He could hear the blood pulsing in his ears. Seconds turned into minutes, as he watched white flakes turn gray and wet on the pavement.

  Very calmly, he shut the door and started up the car. When there was a pause in the traffic, he pulled out and made a U-turn.