Читать книгу Before Cain Strikes - Joshua Corin - Страница 12

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Finally—finally!—Timothy had found the perfect pet. Like all true heroes of myth (the Norse legends of the Viking civilization being his favorite), he just needed to recognize his own hubris before achieving success. He had been so quick to blame his previous pet, Lynette, for everything that went wrong when, in fact, some of the finger pointing belonged in his own direction. Had it really been wise to capture an adult? Don’t most pet owners start with puppies and kittens rather than dogs and cats? How foolish he had been to think he could improve on centuries of domestication.

In short, Timothy needed to think younger, and he found his ideal in, of all places, his mother’s veterinary clinic. As the first snow fell Friday morning, he walked the familiar two miles from their house to her clinic, which was in the same strip mall as his father’s travel agency. He enjoyed the taste of the snowflakes, and made sure to catch as many as he could with his tongue.

On his way to the clinic he passed the middle school, where the rest of his peers (and that was the right word—as loath as the old Timothy had been to admit it, these were his peers; he was not a young god) were crowded inside. Timothy hadn’t stepped foot in that building in more than a year, ever since that incident in the cafeteria with Mr. Monroe’s earlobe. His parents had filed the appropriate papers for him to be homeschooled and that was that. Still, as Timothy passed by it, his heart filled with a sense of longing. He was, after all, the new Timothy, person of the world, no different from anyone else. Well, hardly different.

The purpose for his snowbound stroll to Mother’s clinic was to get his wrist reexamined. It had been three days since Lynette had bit him, and although his wound had been properly mended and treated, a bite mark was a bite mark. Perhaps Mother was going to give him a rabies shot.

The other businesses in the strip mall, besides the vet clinic and the travel agency, were a take-out Chinese restaurant, a discount shoe store and a nail salon. The nail salon always had its front door open and emitted such an overpowering reek of ethyl acetate that one whiff of it made Timothy gag. He had tried in the past to circle around and approach the strip mall from the back, but somehow that stench waited for him there. Lynette’s fingernails hadn’t smelled like that. He’d made sure to check each one before removing her hands.

As it happened, he still had the Taser C2 in the left pocket of his coat. He carried it around with him now wherever he went. It was soothing to hold and squeeze. He’d bought it with his father’s credit card from a website in Hong Kong that Cain42 had recommended. The soldering iron, which he’d used to cauterize Lynette’s stumps, had just been a purchase at the local Home Depot. He’d left it in the Weiner house. The soldering iron hadn’t been nearly as soothing to hold and squeeze as the Taser C2, which actually resembled the electric razor he used to trim his peach fuzz. Timothy had once used Father’s manual razor to shave, and had ended up slicing open his chin. He still remembered the blood droplets plunking into the sink—drip…drip…drip—like from a runny faucet. He had a tiny scar there now, a pale white hash mark, and late at night he sometimes ran his fingertips across it. That was soothing, too. He wondered what restful archaeology would be left by the teeth marks on his wrist.

These were Timothy’s aimless thoughts as he crossed First Street at the light and ambled into the parking lot. He held his breath but it did no good. The nail salon’s pungency attacked him, anyway, nauseated his stomach, sent acid up into his throat. He would be safe once he entered the vet clinic. The animals had a safe smell. He would be safe once he—

And then he saw her. Lying there alone in the backseat of a brown station wagon. The station wagon’s engine was still running. Its owner undoubtedly had some kind of pet emergency; otherwise, why leave the engine running? Why leave such perfection alone in the backseat? She was sleeping there, so peaceful, her oversize head listing a bit to the left. A few tufts of blond hair covered what was otherwise a bare scalp. A soft scalp. Because the human skull took a while to completely harden, and this beauty, this wonder, this perfect pet of his, couldn’t have been older than three weeks.

Timothy swooned. Love at first sight.

He had to be swift and very, very careful. He had two options: try to steal her out of her car seat or simply slip behind the wheel himself and drive off to a more secluded location. Given the complexity of buckles and belts and snaps he beheld crisscrossing his new pet’s little body (most of which was swathed in a blue onesie that depicted a name—Marcy—outlined in red sailboats), he decided to pursue the latter course of action. His gaze danced to the clinic door, and then he moved, swiftly, carefully, to the driver’s door. This he knew would be unlocked; the keys, after all, were still in the ignition. He slid into the front seat. It didn’t need much adjusting. The infant’s mother must have been around his own five foot five. The old Timothy may have scoffed at such pedestrian concepts as coincidence, but this new Timothy offered up a thanks to the Powers That Be for his height and for giving him this perfect pet and for his uncle teaching him how to drive when he was twelve. He shifted the brown station wagon into Reverse.

He drove off to his secret place, his special place. His new pet, Marcy, slept through the entire trip. Every ten seconds Timothy would peek at her face in the rearview. The eyes were closed, but Timothy knew what color they would be. Blue.

He parked near his secret place. By now an inch had accumulated on the ground, and his sneakers crunched powder with every step. That was fine. The time for stealth was almost over. He went around to the side of the car, studied those buckles and belts and straps for a good five minutes and then went to work unfastening them, which took another fifteen.

Behind him, traffic passed. No one paid much attention to what they saw. They were too eager to return home before the snowstorm really hit.

Then Marcy awoke. Her eyes were more green than blue, and they searched Timothy’s face for the semifamiliar features of her mother or father. Her eyesight could discern shapes and colors, but details would be a mystery for another few weeks. This wasn’t her mother, she concluded. So it must be her father.

She wanted her mother.

She cried.

Timothy picked her up out of the car seat. Marcy’s face scrunched up and she cried some more. “Shh,” he told her. She ignored him. He held her at arm’s length. Snowflakes dissolved on her round reddening face. “Please stop,” he said. But she didn’t. They were not far from downtown, and although everyone was hurrying home, a crying baby would still draw attention. Had he chosen poorly? Was she maybe not his perfect pet?

“Please,” he begged her.

Silencing Marcy would actually have been relatively easy. All he had to do was cradle her head with one hand and then smash that head, forehead first, into the roof of the station wagon. Her soft skull probably would explode like a piece of citrus, all pulp and juice and ripped ripe peel.

But that was the old Timothy. He was fourteen now. He was a man. He was more patient. The new Timothy held Marcy against his shoulder and bounced at the knee. He’d seen people do this in the mall. It seemed to work.

It had to work.

It worked. Marcy’s face and body relaxed. Her cries stopped. Her eyes recommenced their exploration of the world around her. The sky seemed to be falling. How pretty.

Timothy didn’t waste any time. He hurried her, still on his shoulder, to his secret place. Nobody would find her here. Nobody would hear her. She would be safe and warm and his. He settled her into her new home, made sure she was secure and then rushed back to the brown station wagon. Its engine was still running. He thought about Marcy’s mother. By now she must have returned to the parking lot. By now she must have realized her child was no longer hers. He drove up to the university campus and parked in one of the more populated lots. He unrolled all of the car’s windows, tossed the keys into a sewer drain and caught the next bus back to town.

He bought his new pet some supplies: formula, a pink blanket, diapers, a plush smiling antelope. The stores were beginning to shutter their doors for the day. People in line were talking accumulation. They were talking one to two feet. They paid no mind to a fourteen-year-old boy running an errand for his baby sister.

Once he had returned to his secret place, once he fed his new pet and played with her little hands and watched her close her green eyes—how big they were!—he knew he’d best get on his way. Blizzards inconvenienced the best of intentions, even for the new Timothy.

That night, Mother made lamb. The three of them ate quietly. No mention was made of the baby-napping that had occurred right outside her clinic. Their household was as soundless as the falling snow. Once he was finished, Timothy excused himself and went to his room. It was time to share his great good news with Cain42.

Later that night, around 3:00 a.m., he borrowed his parents’ car, drove out through the snow to his secret place and spent some more time with Marcy. He wasn’t surprised to find her crying, so he fed her some formula and changed her diaper and rocked her in his arms. He was genuinely surprised how much that seemed to quiet her down and deeply regretted having to leave, but he needed to return home before sunup, if only because of the borrowed car.

Timothy awoke late the next morning with rare verve. His thoughts immediately went to Marcy. He couldn’t wait to see her again and play with her. Both of his parents had already gone to work. Mother had left him a note, reminding him to stop by the clinic, since he hadn’t done so yesterday. That would have to be his first destination.

The outside air was crisp. Timothy tucked his hands into his heavy coat. His left hand closed around his Taser C2. He walked slower than usual along the road, cognizant of slippery patches. Such was the price he paid for always wearing sneakers. It was almost noon by the time he first spotted the strip mall and—

There was a squad car parked in front of the travel agency.

Timothy’s mind whirred. Along the side of the squad car were the words Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department. This wasn’t about Marcy. This was about Lynette. Somehow they had made the connection between the house and the free trip. What had he done wrong? He had been meticulous! He had followed all of Cain42’s rules to the letter, hadn’t he? What would Father tell them? What was Father already telling them? If they had come this far, surely they would be able to piece together the missing child. After all, he had taken her from right in front of his mother’s own clinic. Stupid! The old Timothy had been right all along.

He needed to contact Cain42. Cain42 would know how to proceed. Timothy headed back to the house, quickly, his breath sending smoke signals into the sky.

On the walls of Hammond Travel Agency were posters, dozens and dozens of posters, all depicting a Wonder of the World or a Work of Art or Great Sight to See Before You Die. They weren’t arranged by country or even continent. Here was the Parthenon next to the Sydney Opera House next to an ad for a safari in Zaire.

It reminded Esme of a bedroom and a jewelry box and her heart sank a bit. How Lynette Robinson would have loved this place.

The proprietor of the travel agency was a pleasant-faced fellow named Patrick Hammond. “Call me P.J.,” he told them. “Everyone does.”

Esme and Sheriff Fallon sat down by P.J. at his geography lesson of a desk. Two globes occupied opposite corners of the desk. Esme spun one. She couldn’t resist. Her finger landed on the Canary Islands.

“We actually have a package,” said P.J., “that includes the Canary Islands and Casablanca, all expenses paid, for well under three thousand.”

She smiled at him. This man wasn’t one for the soft sell. He exuded confidence and calmness. It was only when she sat back in her seat that she wondered how much of it was an act. If Tom were here, Esme was certain that he would have been able to figure out Patrick “Call Me P.J.” Hammond in half a second…if there were anything to figure out. But that’s why she and Sheriff Fallon were here.

“So tell us about this contest,” the sheriff said.

“Well, that’s our pride and joy!” P.J. flashed them a grin that spanned from wall to wall. “It’s a sales promotion, really, but you’d never know it. Once a year we offer a raffle. All you’ve got to do to enter is fill out a form on our website. That adds you to our emailing list, but it also makes you eligible for the annual contest. In the past, we’ve sent families on cruises to, oh, Bermuda, Cancún, Nova Scotia, the western Mediterranean. We have over a thousand subscribers to our weekly newsletter from all across the state and even a few in Massachusetts and Vermont. Sheriff Fallon, have you ever been to Tahiti?”

“Sir, as I said on the phone, this is a murder investigation.”

“Yes. You’re absolutely right, and trust me, Sheriff, when I read about what happened in the newspaper, I was horrified. What is this world coming to, right? I can’t imagine some of the truly terrible things you must encounter on a daily basis. Our jobs couldn’t be more different. I have tremendous respect for law enforcement. I couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t that be funny, though, if instead of offering vacations to exotic places, we could take trips into other people’s lives? Now that would be some travel agency.”

Sheriff Fallon shifted in his seat. He was not charmed.

Esme, on the other hand, was enjoying P. J. Hammond very much. He was either a genuinely nice, optimistic human being or he was a fantastic performer putting out all the stops to conceal a bottomless darkness. Either way, it made for a great show.

However, Rafe was still stuck at the house, undoubtedly going stir crazy. “P.J.,” she said. “Could you walk us through exactly how you came to choose the Weiners to win the contest?”

“You bet, although it really wasn’t me who chose them.”

“Then who did?” asked Sheriff Fallon.

Because whoever had selected them was their prime suspect.

P.J. pointed a finger at his laptop computer, which was plugged into a cable modem. “It did.”

Sheriff Fallon blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It would take me too much time to sift through everyone who’s a subscriber. Like I said, we’re talking over a thousand people. They don’t make a hat that big, do they? Can you imagine a hat that big? Can you imagine a head big enough to wear a hat that big?”

“So you use a computer program,” said Esme.

“Computers run the world these days,” P.J. replied. “We just turn them on and off.”

“Can you demonstrate this program for us?”

P.J. shrugged and double-clicked an icon. A small window appeared. It listed a number—1,024—and next to that number was a radio button that read Select.

“All I do is press this button,” he said. “Except the name and contact information it’s going to select now won’t be the Weiners. It chooses at random from the 1,024 names in the system. I mean, the odds of it choosing the Weiners again—ever—would be…”

“One in 1,024?”

P.J. nodded. “Not astronomical, but high.”

“Click the button,” said Esme.

He did.

Another window popped up with a name and contact information.

Todd Weiner, 18 Value Street.

“Huh,” murmured P.J. “Well, like I said, the odds weren’t astronomical. That’s kind of cool, actually. Todd Weiner must be one lucky guy. Except for, you know, that whole house-burning-down thing.”

“Click it again, P.J.,” Esme said, so P.J. did.

Todd Weiner, 18 Value Street.

This time, P.J.’s sunny composure dimmed a bit. He stared in confusion at his laptop screen. Then he clicked the radio button again, and again, and again.

“Where did you get this software from, sir?”

“I downloaded it from this business website. Lots of people use it.” His confidence was mushing into a stammer. “I’ve been using it for years and have never had a problem!”

Which left, as Esme saw it, two options: someone had tampered with his software or P. J. Hammond was a lying sack of shit.

Sheriff Fallon rose to his feet. “Sir, I think you’re going to need to come with us.”

The shop door jangled open. All heads turned and saw two men and one woman, all in police browns, saunter in. The woman had a sheriff’s badge and a name tag that read Shuster.

“Afternoon, Mike,” she said.

“Hey, there, Betsy. I know I had one of my guys call your office to give you the heads-up that we were going to be in your neck of the woods. I hope they didn’t tell you we needed an escort.”

“Mike, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.”

He stepped away from the desk and followed Betsy Shuster outside. Her two deputies remained inside, appearing uncomfortable. Something was very wrong. Esme glanced over at P.J., who had become even grayer.

Sheriff Fallon returned.

“Let’s go,” he said to Esme.

“What’s going on?”

He looked past her at P.J. “Thank you for your time.”

By the looks of it, P.J. was as befuddled as Esme. She wanted to shout out, Wait, wait, but Fallon was reaching for her. He was eager to leave right now. And since she was only here at all as a courtesy, she really didn’t have a choice.

That said, once they returned to his car…

“What the fuck was that!”

He exhaled a weighty sigh and stared out the windshield at Betsy Shuster and her deputies, who were making their way to the vet clinic several doors down.

“Yesterday a child was abducted here. About ten minutes ago, the police received an anonymous email from the abductor. He said that if the Lynette Robinson investigation didn’t stop immediately, he was going to kill the child. To prove his veracity, he attached a very, very recent photograph of the baby’s face. So get comfortable. We’re heading home.”

Before Cain Strikes

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