Maurice - B R Stateham Page 5

  Drifting through an office building she encountered an individual sitting behind a large office desk piled thick with papers and folders. His tie was pulled down and the top button of his shirt was undone. He was resting his head dejectedly in the palm of one hand braced on the desk top. He looked miserable. Filled in pain.

  And surrounded by a dozen Apache Indians on horseback. Each Apache warrior’s face was streaked with various fantastic designs of war paint. Each warrior carried by their hips either a spear or a Winchester repeating rifle as they slowly rode across some remote Arizona rocky plateau. From the warriors came the flooding emotions of hate, fear, betrayal, and an unyielding desire for revenge. They kept riding their horses. The rocky terrain they moved across seemed to change ever so slightly. But the image as a whole did not move. The warriors kept riding toward the living human. Each warrior’s dark eyes glued onto the back of the sitting man’s head.

  Somehow, somewhere far in the past, an atrocity of some sort involving his ancestor and the Apache had taken place. An atrocity of unspeakable proportions. So horrible the ancestor’s descendants still paid for the horror committed. It was obvious on the man’s face and glowing from the man’s soul that he knew of his ancestor’s horrific deed. He knew he was going to be another figure in his family line to pay the consequences. And there was nothing he could do about it. It was Fate. Karma. The only thing he could do was endure the suffering.

  Tammy fled from the scene. Left as fast as she could. The raw emotions, the power of the discordant flood of feelings, overpowered her. Fear gripped her the moment she first slipped into the man’s office. Fear magnified tenfold when the leading Apache felt her presence and, frowning, turned his dark eyes to stare at her.

  She ran. Splicing through buildings and through brick walls as fast as she could move. She wanted to get as far away from the man and those who tormented him as fast as she could. She had never felt such hatred, such cold intensity, before in her life. So blindly she ran as fast as she could, but in her running, not paying attention to her immediate surroundings.

  That’s when this wall of pain and revenge slammed into her immortal soul like an immense and unyielding immovable object. A sledge hammer–like blow which almost dropped her to her knees. The sudden sensation of slamming to a halt threw her backward and onto her back at the same time. Her face and chest felt like they had compressed down to nothingness before rebounding, like a rubber ball, back to their natural shape. Pain flooded through her soul and consciousness like a biblical deluge before receding back into the infinite darkness. Half unconscious, she somehow opened her eyes and looked up.

  And there he was. Her killer. Standing over her with a sneering grin and bright, flaming eyes of fire burning his skull glaring down at her. As she watched, she heard the entity emit a soft chuckle, and then lowering his head further down off his shoulders to speak.

  “Welcome back, princess. It is sooooooo good to see you again!”

  Chapter Eight

  He grinned as his left foot depressed the clutch pedal and downshifted into second gear. His right foot came up and tapped gently on the brake pedal. The rattling old box of nuts and bolts for a ‘56 Chevy pick–up truck came to a halt, two cars behind a Dodge Charger.

  His grin widened into a smear of pure pleasure.

  Here he was. Sitting in late afternoon traffic surrounded by newer models of steel, glass, and plastic. New wheels costing thousands more than his old truck. New wheels with efficient air conditioning. Power steering. Power brakes. And stereo system that actually worked. But not him. Sitting behind the wide plastic steering wheel of the old truck, the windows down as far as they could go, on each door, the old six cylinder engine in front of him hummed along quietly. Around him the other drivers in their new cars couldn’t help but stare at him and the old hulk he sat in. Which, frankly, tickled the hell out of him. His grin continued to split his face in half as he threw an elbow out the window beside him and rested his arm on the hot metal as he waited for the traffic light to change.

  He and the truck seemed to be made of the same metal. Old, discarded, dented and abused from hard use and little maintenance. Yet still ticking over like the first time it started up almost sixty years ago. Still serviceable. Still reliable. Still willing to work.

  Sometime back in ‘56 the old truck, when it came off the assembly line, had been painted a dark leafy green. Over the years it obviously had caught hell surviving in city traffic. Now it had large patches of gray primer paint dotting across the fenders, hood and truck bed, giving it an almost kind of surreal urban camouflage to it. There was still a lot of green paint left on it. Somewhat faded, but still there.

  The old set of wheels had been his for years. His only method of transportation. But he sold it a few months. Sold it so that his newly discovered daughter and her baby could have a decent place to live. He sold it to someone he knew was going to sell it off to some collector. Someone who would pay big money for an old rattletrap like this and put thousands into it to restore it back to original condition. It had broken his heart to see it drive away. But he never complained. Never uttered a word to his daughter about losing the truck. They needed the money. Still . . .

  And then, earlier this morning, the boss told him they had to use the Caddy and drive across town. He drove the big piece of steel, top down, pink paint glistening in the morning sun, the boss riding in the back seat like some kind of royalty dressed in his immaculate three–piece suit and smiling to the peasants regally. All the way across town to a junk yard over by the big railroad yard.

  The boss told him to turn into the junk yard and stop. He did. And saw it immediately. His truck. Green and gray splotches and all. Just sitting there beside the tin building which was the junkyard’s office. New tires. Washed clean and topped with a full tank of gas. Amazed, no, stunned, he twisted around in the front seat to stare at the boss.

  The smiling little lawyer extended a hand forward and dropped a set of truck keys onto the white vinyl front seat beside him.

  “I was fortunate in acquiring your vehicle at a modest price, my friend. It required a few needed mechanical repairs. But nothing too expensive fortunately, although I will deduct the full amount out of your pay, a little at a time, until such expenses have been repatriated. Since you are now working for me it is necessary for you to have a reliable mode of transportation to get you back and forth. What better way to disguise yourself in city traffic than to drive an old truck no one would think twice to glance at? Now go. Go find whatever, or whoever, it is who will give us the information we need to rescue our Tammy. But Randall, be careful. I want no one to die today. No one.”

  No one was going to die today. He promised. A few hours on the phone talking to some contacts up at the prison had been partially rewarding. No one knew where Vince Harrows was. After Wilbur and Vince got out of prison, Vince just simply up and disappeared. Slipped off the radar like a ghost never to be heard from again.

  But there was another possible contact who might help the boss out. His eyes narrowed as he stared in front of him, looking through the heavy traffic smoldering underneath the hot sun waiting for the traffic light to turn green. As he sat behind the wheel of his old pickup truck a cruel little curl of pleasure played across his thin lips.

  Up ahead the traffic light turned green and the traffic started slowly inching forward. In the Dodge Charger two cars up in front of him sat a guy by the name of Crank Nathan. Ex–con. Mean. Had a taste in hurting others like some people had a taste for plain black coffee. He, Crank, and the Harrows brothers all served time together in the state pen. The three of them, Wilbur and Vince and Crank, were inseparable. A threesome pack of snarling little rats if there ever was one. None of them had a liking for him. Especially Crank. Crank was always trying to get on his bad side. Always trying to pick a fight.

  But Wilbur, Vince, and Crank were tight while in prison. If anyone would know anything about the cousins and who else they ran around with in prison Cran
k would know. The problem was approaching the mean sonofabitch and getting any kind of answer out of him. Which, oddly, made the grin on his face widen a bit. The prospect of conversing with Crank in the only way Crank could understand was giving him a warm, fuzzy feeling in his gut.

  Since getting out of prison Crank went back to his old ways. His thick head and high tolerance for pain made him the perfect enforcer for a local small time bunch of gamblers and loan sharks. Crank had a talent for inflicting pain. And he used his talents for his personal gain. A new car, a nice apartment on the south side of town, some fancy clothes almost made the tough guy look respectable. But Randall knew the truth. Knew what Crank was down to his very core. Nothing but a piece of shit who liked to hurt people. Innocent people. People maybe like his Tammy and baby grandson.

  Crank was heading home. Keeping himself hidden in traffic, his old green Chevy followed the powerful Dodge past five traffic lights in a sea of heavy traffic. When Crank signaled he was getting out of the river of traffic to turn into the underground parking garage of his apartment building, Randall drove past the garage entrance and slipped over the cross street before finding an empty parking space in front of a cafe. Sliding the old truck into the place, he cut the engine and sat back in the old seat. Glancing to his left, he watched for a moment or two at the people in the eatery minding their own business as they sipped their coffee and read their newspapers. He waited for exactly ten minutes before climbing out of the truck and closing the door firmly.

  No one noticed him. No one looked up. No one cared. Just a guy in a dark denim shirt. blue jeans, heavy work boots and driving an old pick–up truck. The smile still on his lips, Randall twisted to one side and started walking. Walked with hands stuck in his blue jeans and his lips puckered together as he whistled some ad hoc tune no one had ever heard of.

  When he stepped out of the elevator on the ninth floor of the apartment building he reached behind him and pulled out a small leather billfold from his right hip pocket. As if he didn’t care about the security camera at the end of the hall behind him. He stopped in front of door and leaned an ear toward the door for a quick listen. But he leaned with his face turned away from the security camera. The only thing the camera recorded was the image of a tall man dressed in a blue denim shirt and blue jeans. A tall man wearing tight black leather gloves.

  A tall, lean man who apparently knew what he was doing. It took him all of four seconds with the lock picks to open the apartment door and slip in soundlessly. Closing the door softly shut behind him Randall eyed the apartment hallway to his left and then looked straight ahead into the apartment’s small living room. In the middle of the room was an ironing board. On the ironing board was a big iron, its black cord spiraling down to the carpeted floor and snaking across the carpet to a wall socket. On the floor beside the ironing board was laundry basket filled with shirts.

  To the left of the ironing board was a big flat screen TV blaring away. Apparently Crank was domesticated enough to know how to iron his shirts and watch TV at the same time. Randall grinned, amused, at the thought. Stepping into the living room and up to the hot iron resting atop the ironing board just as the soft hiss of a bare foot moving over the carpet came to his ears.

  “What tha . . . !?”

  Crank walked out of the kitchen and into the living room and jerked violently to a halt when he saw Randall standing by the ironing board.

  “Hello, Crank. Thought I’d drop by so we could talk about old times. You know, about how you and Wilbur and Vince liked to give me hell back in the joint. Good times, eh pal? Good times.”

  “I’m gonna give you a good time, alright. I’m going to knock every damn tooth outta your head, Cooke. And enjoy doing it!”

  A mask of pure hate distorted Crank’s face into an ugly contortion as he took one step toward Randall and swung a sweeping right cross around with all his might toward Randall’s left jaw. It never landed. Swiftly, with concise precision, Randall threw a forearm up to block the right cross while his other hand came up with the heavy looking iron that had been setting on the ironing board and smacked the heavier, slower man full in the face with every ounce of strength he had. There was a loud hissing sound as hot iron deeply burned flesh for a half second or two before the bigger man’s knees buckled. Stepping back and to one side Randall watched the apartment owner go head first into the deep carpet of the living room with the same velocity and aplomb of someone throwing a bag of cement onto a loading ramp.

  “We need to iron out some old issues, my friend. Need some information about Wilbur and Vince,” he said, glancing at the hot iron still in his hand and smiling fondly. “I think you’re gonna sing like a little birdie for me, my friend. Like a little birdie.”

  He promised the boss no one would die today. But nothing was said about manually giving someone an unusual facial tan while they talked about the good old days.

  Chapter Nine

  Tammy knew she was in trouble. Even more trouble than the night she was murdered. The creature standing in front of her, leering down over her with eyes of red flames, even smelled evil to her. A thin envelope of white sulfurous gas seemed to be oozing out of the creature’s every pore. Giving it a kind of sickish white visual aura of foul smells. She knew she was dead. She knew the usual physical reactions of the normal living shouldn’t affect her anymore. But the creature’s smell, the overriding aroma of foul eggs, made her gag and choke as she scrambled backwards like a rat on her hands and feet to get away.

  “Run, my little princess. Run!” the grinning madman laughed as he slowly followed her, leaving behind him a thin trail of curling white smoke in the process. “There is no where you can run, no place you can hide, here in the afterlife where I can’t find you.”

  Tammy came to her feet, still pedaling backwards in the process, yet turned defiantly to face the creature. Glancing to her left and right hurriedly, she tried to find an escape route, any route, which would put distance between her and this thing. But it was as if the creature was reading her mind. A thin cloud of curling white smoke seemed to veil over every nook and cranny which offered a way out. Turning back to face her nemesis, she looked directly into the burning red eyes and lifted her petite nose defiantly.

  “Who the hell are you, and why did you murder me and my baby?”

  “Ah, the wench can speak. Excellent. Excellent! My name is Lonnie, princess. Lonnie Perkins. Yes, I found you and your bawling little brat and I strangled you both with my bare hands. I did the physical act, but in truth, I’m not truly the one who killed you. For that you must lay the blame onto your father. He’s the one who ultimately sighed your death warrants. He is the one I’ve hung around for so long waiting for an opportunity fulfill a promise I have him so many years ago.”

  “Promise!? What promise?” Tammy shouted, looking around for a weapon, an escape route, anything which might rescue her from this demon.

  “Your father murdered me, princess. Found me in the middle of the night while I was trying to break into a bank and shot me six times with my own gun. I told him, I promised him, just before I died that somehow, someway, I would find a way to get back at him. To first take something away from him he truly loved and then, in the end, to kill him as he had killed me. It took time. I searched and searched to find that someone out there whom he cherished more than life itself. Eventually I found you and that kid of yours.”

  “You deserved to die, you rat bastard!” she shouted, anger and hate suddenly swelling up in a growing tidal wave of pure emotion in her as she instinctively lifted a fist up and shook it at the creature.

  A most curious thing happened. A ball of blue–white electricity, crackling and pulsating in power, materialized in a big orb about the size of a beach ball and flew directly toward the red eyed demon standing in front of her, accelerating with blinding speed in the process. The blue–white ball of energy hissed and threw off thousands of white hot sparks as it hurled toward the creature. So unexpected, so unprepared, for such an
onslaught, the demon barely had time to lift a clinched fist up and block the blow with his forearm, forcing him in the process to leap to one side, half stumbling and half falling through the interior wall of the apartment bedroom in the process.

  Tammy, stunned, stared in open mouth amazement at her fist, and then lifted eyes up to stare at the demon. That’s when she noticed it. A gaping hole in the white sulfurous cloud which trapped her in close proximity with the demon. A way out! If she could again generate this energy and aim it behind her, perhaps, perhaps, she could blow a hole through the vaporous wall and make her escape. Half turning, closing her eyes, she tried to find the anger, the hate, which had filled her soul only moments ago. But even as she concentrated she heard the creature in front of her move back into the room she was standing in, the soft chuckle of someone genuinely amused coming to her ears.

  “So, Randall’s little girl has some power in her after all. I should have anticipated that. I felt the inner strength in you when I pulled the life out of your body the first time. Strong then, little one. Even stronger now. But unfortunately for you, not strong enough.”

  His right hand came up, with one long, arthritic finger pointing directly toward her. From the tip of the finger’s blunt fingernail a much stronger, twisting rope of white vapor flew out and raced directly toward her. The air filled with the eye–watering aroma of spoiled eggs. Tammy felt the surge of anger boiling over in her again. Lifting her fist up in a short rapid jerk blue fireball shot out into the room’s semi–darkness and hurtled toward the approaching vaporous cloud.