Dragged into Darkness (8 page)

He hoped she wouldn’t keep her eyes closed.  He hated when they did that.  But it’s hard to blink when you don’t have eyelids.

A roadside message board flashed by.
  He really had allowed his imagination to wander.  Time had flown.  Carson City was only forty miles away.  He eased the
Camaro
onto the dirt shoulder.

“Why we stopping?”
Rose demanded.

“I’m getting a cold one out of the trunk.  I’ve got an ice chest.  You want one?”

She eyed him for a second then nodded.

He left the engine running while he retrieved cans from the cooler.  Ice scrunched as his hand dived in to grab a six-pack.  The shock of cold ran from his hand to his groin, chilling him but not the tingle.

Slipping back into his seat, he handed Rose a can.  Ice water dripped onto her dress, staining the pink, red.  She cracked the pop-top.  He proposed a toast.

 “To traveling strangers, may we be strangers for only a short time.” 

They clanged cans.
  To be accurate, he
clanged
his can against hers.  He took an untidy but grateful chug from the brew.

“Why aren’t you driving?”

“I might drink and drive, but I don’t drink while I drive.”  He patted her thigh, making sure he touched flesh and not dress.

She stiffened at his boundary crossing.

“I would like to keep going.”

“What’s the hurry?  You said you don’t have anybody waiting for you and I don’t have a clock to punch.  We can take it easy.”

He patted her thigh again, but this time he let his hand rest there.  He looked away at the setting sun to make it look innocent.

She shifted awkwardly in her seat and the dress brushed the back of his fingers.  The material was odd.  He had expected it to be rough and probably synthetic from the way it moved but it wasn’t.  The fabric was smooth; it felt
everyday
, but not as a dress material.

“Can you move your hand?”

“Can I?  Yes, I can.  But the question is
,
do I want to?  And more importantly, do you want me to?”

“All I know is
,
I want your damn paw off me.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.  We could be friends.  I did buy you a beer.”

He slid his hand a little further up her thigh, the bizarre dress fabric rubbing against his hand and forearm.

“Remove
you
hand. 
Now!”

“Hey, I’m being a nice guy.  I gave you a ride and it would be nice if you gave me a little something in return.  A ride for a ride, maybe.”

His hand had ridden as far as it was going to go.  Her thighs came to end and his fingers brushed soft curls.  She wasn’t wearing panties.  He started to massage her sex.

He didn’t detect the sound at first.  The
Camaro’s
sweet engine note masked it.  Even if the engine was off, the sound was so high pitched that he would have had to wait for the frequency to fall within the realms of human hearing.  And when he did hear the sound, it took a couple of seconds to realize what it was—a scream.

Rose was screaming.  They locked eyes and her mouth opened, releasing the ferocity of her fear.  His hand withered on her sex and his beer fell from his grasp. 

But it wasn’t enough of a retraction.  A hand leapt out and locked onto his throat.  Manicured fingernails sank into flesh and cartilage.  Hard and unforgiving, Rose’s sharpened nails punctured him like he was dough.  Unlike the wailing banshee, his screams were killed before they had a chance to live.  

In another second, she was upon him.  Her agility scared him.  The
Camaro’s
cabin was spacious but not enough for a person to move the way she did. 

He sank in his chair and groped for his knife.  She followed him down.  Her other hand shot out, grabbing his arm and ending his last source of help.  Razorblade fingernails bit into his flesh and blood poured freely.

His other arm was clamped, vice-like, between her shin and his knee.  The unforgiving vice jaws drained the strength from his hand.

Her scream continued, relentless.

Rose bore down on him and the pink polka dot dress was in his face.  He realized what her dress was made from; it was paper.  The polka dots weren’t polka dots but blood spots and he had just made his contribution.  Blood jetted from his throat and added to the polka dot pattern. 

And the dress wasn’t a dress.  The reflected image in the skewed rearview mirror confirmed it—a row of paper bows covered her naked back.  It was a hospital Johnny and not from an ordinary hospital.  Blythe Mental Facility fitted their patients with pink Johnnies. 

He heard his windpipe crack and his breath die in his chest.  He’d never heard a death rattle but he was hearing one now.  It was
his own
. 

Terry Mack groaned when he bent to pick up the parcel tucked away under his porch.  Retirement didn’t look good on him.  It was making him old.  He still hadn’t gotten used to it after ten years.  What did they say about old dogs and new tricks?  He only proved the point.  He closed the door with the back of his heel.

Mack took the package into the kitchen, shaking it along the way.  The eighteen-inch cube was well wrapped with tape and bulged on all sides with padding.  He wasn’t expecting anything special.  He
plonked
the parcel onto the kitchen table and retrieved a carving knife from a drawer.

He slit the tape and the box popped open, spewing shredded paper.  Pulling out the wadding, he found his present—a foot, severed an inch above the ankle, sealed in a plastic bag.   Holding the bag by the corner, he examined his gift.  Condensation clung to the inside of the clear plastic.  The foot was cold to the touch.  It hadn’t been long out of the deep freeze. 

The average pensioner would have burst a lung in shock—not Terry Mack though.  He was used to atypical situations.  He was a spy and damned good at it.  He was once a thorn buried deep in the Kremlin’s side.

Oh yes, he was a spy—heavy on
the
was
.  After the Soviet Union collapsed in the early nineties, so did his career.  He was retired off early, a relic of his time.  Military intelligence needed a different kind of operative.

And yes, he was used to the atypical, just not this atypical.  He wasn’t shocked or disgusted—none of the conventional reactions.  He was irritated.  “Who” leapt to the forefront of his
thoughts.
  Obviously, it was someone from the old days.  But there were so many to choose from.

He did know one thing about the foot.  It belonged to a man.  It wasn’t dainty enough to be a woman’s and the coarse hair on top and on the toes confirmed his suspicion.

He checked the postmark.  It was sent yesterday from his local sorting office.  No surprises there.  Professionals didn’t give away clues like that.  He’d find them though.  It was just a matter of when.  It would probably take him longer than usual.  He’d been out of the game too long.  All his contacts were like him, propping up retirement communities around the country.  But he’d get there—old dogs could learn new tricks as long as they liked the reward. 

Mack placed the bagged foot inside a larger plastic bag to protect any forensic evidence.  It was unlikely there was anything for forensics to find, but luck might be on the side of the angels for a change.   He popped the bag in the freezer compartment above the fridge.

He needed information.  He needed to know who else knew about this and how far it stretched.

To the Bat Phone, he thought.  Just like Batman, Mack had a direct line to Gotham City.  Except,
commissioner
Gordon wouldn’t be answering the call.  His line was the dinosaur line.  A crisis number for the nearly-
deads
to call in times of trouble, like when their marbles went missing or their colostomy bag needed changing.  Today, MI6 would have something to do.  Mack dialed.

“Yes,” a young man’s voice answered.

“It’s the Headmaster.”

“Oh, yes, Headmaster and what is today’s lesson?”

“History.”

“One moment, Headmaster.”

Mack listened to the rattle of a keyboard being worked.

“What can I do for you, Headmaster?”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Headmaster.”

Mack huffed.  “Don’t play silly buggers.  How far does it go?  Who else has received a package?”

“We all receive packages, Headmaster.  I’m sure it’s a lovely present.  Is it your birthday, Headmaster? 
Many happy returns, sir.”

“Shut up, you idiot!”   Mack took a moment.  “I don’t need the bromide treatment.  I’m not a dribbling imbecile.  I have received a severed foot in the post.  I want to know who and why.   I want a sit down, before next post.  I’ll be expecting your call.” 

Mack slammed the phone down, not waiting for a reply.  He hoped it was enough to light a fire under their backsides. 

But he wasn’t about to sit on his arse until military intelligence came calling.  He’d been sent a calling card.  He doubted it was the last or that a personal visit was out of the question.  If anyone arrived unexpectedly, he wasn’t about to be caught off guard.  He couldn’t make his home a fortress, but he was going to have bloody good go.

He hid eggshells under the welcome mats at the front and back doors.  Paper tabs were placed on the top of doorways, set to fall if a visitor
came
calling.  He stuck a strip of tape across every window, set to break if opened.  Thimbles filled with ink were tied to every interior door handle.  Someone might second-guess some of his countermeasures but not all of them.

Mack was in the middle of checking a wall socket for a listening device when second post flopped through the letterbox.  No packages.  It was the usual jumble of junk mail and bills, except for one.  It was a love letter in a fancy pink envelope.  He knew without opening the envelope that there would be no note.  The scent told him where his sit down was to occur. 
Chanel No. 5—Harrods’ food hall.
  The time was in the misspelling of his address.  The seventh letter of the word Middlesex had been capitalized.  His meeting was to take place at seven.

***

Mack wandered the food hall for twenty minutes not seeing anyone he recognized—friend or foe—until he spotted Ben
Harker
at the Sushi Bar. 
Harker
was one of Mack’s protégés and a damned good operative.  Mack was glad to have him as a case officer.  He tapped his apprentice on the shoulder.

“Mack, good to see you,” he warbled through a mouthful of food.   “Can I get you something?”

The sushi chef looked attentive.

Mack smiled politely.  “No, I don’t think so.  I like my food cooked.”

The chef frowned.

“Can we go?” Mack asked.

“Sure thing.”
 
Harker
pushed his food to one side and thanked the chef.  He guided Mack onto the Knightsbridge streets.  “I’ve got a car.  Do you want to go anywhere in particular?”