Revenant (23 page)

Brett’s heart sank. His situation was hopeless. The lunatic had not only survived what seemed like an unsurvivable car wreck, he appeared spry and none the worse for wear, although in his present wretched physical state that wasn’t saying much. Brett sank back to his knees and spit blood onto the road. He hadn’t even noticed he was bleeding from the mouth until just now. Again, what did it matter?

“Where are we going now?” he asked dully.

“What are you talking about?” his captor answered. “Nothing’s changed. We’re going to find a way out of this piece of shit little town, and you’re going to use your money and connections to reverse the damage that was done to me.”

Anger flashed through Brett. He had tried to explain to this moron once already that he had no idea
what
had been done to him, and the notion that Brett Parker, of all people, could find a way to reverse it was nothing more than the craziest kind of pointless wishful thinking. He spit on the ground again. More blood. “How the hell are we going to get out of town? You just destroyed our vehicle, you idiot!”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” the freak said. His foot flashed out and he kicked the kneeling Brett squarely in the chest. Brett dropped like a sack of potatoes, unable to brace himself with his right hand, falling onto his left and feeling his wrist crack. He had either just broken it or at the very least sprained it. He lay on the pavement, defeated, wondering what would happen next.

Freaky Dude loomed over him, the stink rolling off him in waves. “Well?” he said.

“Well, what?” Brett mumbled. The initial blast of pain in his wrist seemed to be receding. Maybe it wasn’t broken, after all, or maybe it was, and the damage to his right arm by comparison was even worse than he had thought. It occurred to him that he didn’t really care; what were the odds he would survive this insanity, anyway?

Well, let’s go,” the lunatic said. “We’ll start walking until a car comes by, then when one does, we’ll commandeer it and continue on. Like I already told you, nothing’s changed.”

Brett wanted to cry; he thought he might do exactly that. This horrifying, putrid backwoods idiot was completely delusional. Something awful had clearly happened to him, and whatever it was had apparently pushed him over the edge, because he certainly wasn’t listening to reason.

Brett thought about Jenna and their little girl back in Seattle, waiting for him to return home, with no idea anything was wrong. She had probably tried to call him at least once since the beginning of this nightmare, but she wouldn’t be concerned or upset that she hadn’t been able to contact him. It wasn’t at all unusual for him to ignore his cell when he was working on something important; he had gone as long as eight hours in the past before returning his wife’s calls.

All of that is going to change,
he thought.
I promise. Get me out of this and from now on, family comes first.
He wondered who this plea was directed toward. Brett had long ago stopped believing in God; he wasn’t sure he had ever believed. But he had always maintained a firm grip on his own destiny before. Now that events were occurring which were completely out of his control, Brett realized the notion of some sort of Divine Being who could take charge of the situation and make everything normal again seemed not just desirable but necessary.

“I told you, let’s go,” Freaky Dude demanded and took one step in Brett’s direction. He was now standing directly above Brett. Brett scrambled to his feet, which was easier said than done without using either hand to help himself up, but he managed it because he didn’t want to get kicked in the chest again; the freak might look like he weighed a hundred ten pounds soaking wet, but he packed a punch that Brett had no desire to re-experience.

He stood unsteadily, swaying as a blossom of black and purple ballooned in his vision. He felt light-headed and knew he was going into shock; hell, he was probably already there. He hung his head and wished he could just sink back down to the pavement and rest. Then his vision cleared slightly and he felt a bit more normal and he began walking, moving past Freaky Dude without another word.

He trudged forward as fast as he could, not caring which direction he was going, intent only on escaping the smell. Apparently the freak didn’t care which direction they went, either, because he simply chuckled once, low and gravelly and frightening, then fell in behind Brett, staggering along like an extra in
Night of the Living Dead.

After the first few steps Brett began to find a rhythm and increased his pace. Shock waves of pain raced between his wrist and his elbow and his aching head throbbed steadily in time with his steps and his back wasn’t all that happy at the moment, either, but he didn’t care about any of that. Maybe if he moved quickly enough, the skeletal freak behind him would simply outpace the drugs or whatever the hell he was on—Brett had heard angel dust could give a person incredible strength, perhaps that was what Freaky Dude had taken—and just drop dead and fall to the ground. The prospect didn’t seem likely, but it was all Brett Parker had going for him, and he clung to that fantasy for all he was worth.

36

Sharon punched the speed dial for Mike’s cell phone and pondered a depressing realization: now that they had broken up, she didn’t have a single non-work number programmed into the damned thing. She had no close friends, no brothers or sisters, no parents—mother long dead, father gone over a year now, not that he was worth much, anyway—and now, no Mike. She had never felt so completely alone in her life.

She forced her thoughts back to the matter at hand. She could worry about her pathetic personal situation later; right now, she had critical information to pass along. The information seemed ridiculous, and she had no idea what it might mean, but she wasn’t about to dismiss it out of hand.

Static buzzed and the line whirred and then clicked as Mike picked up. “McMahon.”

“Mike, I’m at the hospital in Orono.” There was no need for introduction—he would have seen on his caller ID who was on the line, anyway—and no time for preliminaries. “I had a bizarre but fascinating conversation with Ms Raven Tahoma on the drive over.”

“Really. Didn’t she ask for a lawyer? What were you doing interrogating her, Shari?”

“Interrogation? There was no interrogation, just a little girl talk, that’s all. Besides, she never actually got around to requesting representation.”

“Girl talk.”

“Right. And what she told me sounds impossible to believe, but I thought I should get it to you right away and let you decide how much weight to give it.”

“Okay, hit me.”

“This chick’s a Native American—a Navajo, specifically—and she left the reservation to join the murder victim, Max Acton, in a little commune scam he was running down in Arizona. Acton had a habit of getting close—intimately close—to the youngest and prettiest of his followers, and she fell for him like a stone, with the emphasis on ‘stone’.”

“Keep going.”

“Well, apparently while she was unburdening herself to her new love in a particularly heartfelt pillow-talk session, she let slip information about a sacred Navajo stone her father’s best friend had been charged with protecting.”

“A sacred stone. Obviously, this stone has a bearing on our murder case, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Oh, yeah. And not just the murder case; the Earl Manning missing-persons case, too, as well as the break-in at Brett Parker’s home and his disappearance as well. It’s the key to everything.”

“I figured all three events were tied together, they had to be. I just couldn’t quite put my finger on how. You’re about to tell me, aren’t you?”

“Yep. And the tie-in’s a doozy, at least if you believe Ms Tahoma.”

Sharon heard a long sigh on the other end of the connection and pictured Mike lifting his cap and running his hand through his thick hair. “Let me have it.”

“Well, this sacred stone—again, if you believe Raven Tahoma—contains a powerful mystical property allowing its possessor not only to reanimate the recently dead, but to control the actions of the reanimated corpse, to force the corpse to do the possessor’s bidding, basically.” Sharon rushed through the last part, feeling ridiculous, knowing how silly her words sounded.

“And she’s saying she and Max Acton murdered Earl Manning, then used the stone to bring him back to life?”

“Well, she’s claiming it was all Acton’s doing, but yes, that’s about the size of it.”

“To what end?”

“She’s a little fuzzy on that part, but apparently it has something to do with a super-secret software project Parker’s company been developing. This girl thought she was in love and was only too happy to team up with Acton, but now that he’s cooling on a basement floor she’s singing like a bird. She knows she’s in line to take the fall for everything and she seems to be finding that prospect less than desirable.”

Sharon waited for Mike to digest the information, knowing exactly what his next question would be. She didn’t have to wait long. “But if Acton’s dead and Raven Tahoma is in custody, who’s controlling Manning now?”

“Raven said somehow Manning got the drop on Acton and killed him before he knew what was going on. She says the stone is far more powerful than Acton understood and it cost him his life. Anyway, Manning grabbed the thing and, as far as she knows,
he
is in possession of it now.”

“So, what does that mean?”

“She doesn’t know, but she seems pretty sure of one thing. It’s not good.”

Sharon waited for Mike to dismiss the information, to tell her she had just wasted ten minutes of his time in the middle of a murder investigation on a silly ghost story, a centuries-old legend that had nothing to do with anything.

He didn’t do that. He didn’t do anything. He simply stayed quiet on the line. She knew he was considering her bombshell logically, trying to deconstruct the information, looking for the most sensible next move.

“Is that it?” he finally asked.

“There is one more thing. Her father’s friend, the one Acton stole the stone from? He was badly injured in the robbery, but she thinks he survived. She has his telephone number. She says he knows as much about the mystical stone as anyone alive. She’s afraid to talk to him after what she did, but she thinks he will answer any question you have to the best of his ability and she’s certain he’ll do anything possible to get that stone back safely.”

She heard him sigh again. He seemed to be doing a lot of sighing. “Give me the number,” he said.

37

Mike paced impatiently in front of the crumbling home which had recently become a murder scene, his cell phone glued to his ear. The digitized series of beeps and hums indicated a phone was ringing at the other end, but no one was picking up. He cursed and decided to terminate the call—it was probably a waste of time, anyway—when a tinny voice floated out of his ear piece.

“Hello?” someone said, and Mike returned the phone to his head.

“Yes, hello,” he answered. “My name is Chief Mike McMahon of the Paskagankee, Maine Police Department. May I please speak with Don Running Bear?”

“No, you may not.”

Mike pulled the phone away from his head and stared at it for a moment in confusion. “Excuse me?” he said. “This is police business. I’m calling regarding a murder and kidnapping which has occurred in my town, and I understand Mr. Running Bear may have information which could aid in the investigation. It’s imperative I speak with him.”

“Well, you’re going to need one hell of a strong phone connection, Chief McMahon, because Don died more than three months ago, after being attacked in his own home and murdered in cold blood.”

Mike froze. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was told Mr. Running Bear had survived that attack. Who am I speaking with?”

“I’m Don’s wife, Kai. You’re calling about the stone, aren’t you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it was the only thing taken in the home invasion, and it’s no ordinary rock. I’ve been waiting for a call like this ever since Don died. Honestly, I’m surprised it’s taken this long.”

“What can you tell me about the stone, Mrs. Running Bear?”

“I can tell you Don never wanted it, nor the responsibility that came with it, but he was not the kind of man who would have shirked that responsibility by forcing it onto someone else. He was deathly afraid of that stone, Chief McMahon, and rightfully so, as it turned out. It cost him his life.”

“I don’t understand. Why would someone kill to gain possession of a stone?”

“Don’t pretend you know nothing of the stone’s power, Chief. If you hadn’t either heard or seen evidence of its terrifying mystical capabilities we would not be having this conversation. Please respect me enough to be honest with me, and if you will do me that courtesy I will help in any way I can.”

“Fair enough,” Mike answered, nodding thoughtfully despite the fact the woman was twenty-five hundred miles away. “You’re right; I’ve experienced enough to at least believe there is something strange and unusual about the stone. But first, I have to ask—why was the stone your husband’s responsibility and no one else’s?”

“Don’s grandfather was the last great tribal mystic, a man commonly referred to in your culture as a ‘medicine man.’ When he died, the stone—as well as all of the relevant teachings regarding it—passed to Don’s care.”

“What about Don’s father? Shouldn’t he have taken possession of the stone?”

“Don’s father was already dead by then, killed in an automobile accident on the reservation.”

“I see,” Mike said, not sure how to continue. “Mrs. Running Bear, how much of the legend regarding the stone were you privy to?”

“My husband and I were very close,” she said cryptically.

“So you could probably address a few of my concerns?”

“With Don’s passing, I am probably the foremost living expert on the stone, I’m sorry to have to admit,” the woman answered bitterly. “I wish I could say otherwise. Now, let’s get on with this. I’ll help you as much as I can, and then I intend to forget we ever had this conversation. I wish Don had never touched that stone.”