The Messenger (2011 reformat) (31 page)

Finally her
legs unlocked, and she released him. She could feel the Messenger behind her,
reveling in every moment of this. Turning the big muscular moron on and off, on
and off.

When he pulled
away, he stalked over to the collator, a long bulky machine nearly the size of
a sedan. He flicked on the power switch-

"Come
here!" he yelled at her. At the stack tray at the end of the machine,
letters were filing out, untorn, perfectly stacked.

"There's
nothing wrong with this!" he said. "You're just trying to make up
crap about me, phony negligence charges. This machine's in perfect working
order! I know it is, because I maintain it!"

The dreamy
smile never left Sarah's face. She sauntered over and lifted the service hatch
on the collator's midsection. When she did this, the racket from the machine
trebled. Inside, gears hitched and revolved. Sharp-edged ratchets, with tines
like rakes, snapped back and forth.

"Tell me
those ratchets are aligned," she said.

Temper
cresting, Dan looked inside, then glared back at her. "There's nothing
wrong with them! What's your problem?"

"The lead
ratchet. Look. It's out of line. Anyone can see that-at least anyone who knows
their job."

Dan looked
back in.

Sarah was not
a strong woman, but the Messenger loaned her some great strength. One hand
latched to the back of Dan's head by the hair, the other clamped his neck. Then
she shoved him down.

The resistance
he offered would have been considerable in any other circumstance. In this
circumstance, however, Dan's strength against hers was akin to that of a
palsied old man. He didn't make a sound when she shoved his face into the
ratchet's teeth.

The machine
made a sound, though, the sound of the ratchets suddenly working against Dan's
face. Sarah's arms held him down as firmly as steel rods. His body shuddered.
His massive legs kicked futily, and blood flew out of the machine like
spaghetti sauce kicked out of a blender. When he fell still, Sarah pulled him
out and let him turn over on the floor.

"Poor big
muscular moron Danny Boy," she whispered down to her now-faceless
subordinate. The rest of the DPS shift was gone now. She dragged him by the
boots to the door in the corner.

The door to
the basement.

I

Get over it,
Jane told herself. You're a big girl. Stop acting like a jilted teeny-bopper.
It was easier said than done, though. Since her visit to the police station,
she tried to keep her mind blank. Tried but failed. It had been a bad day
overall-the Martin Parkins problem, Dhevic showing up, and next, Steve with
another woman. No, blanking her mind was a cop-out. Jane knew she had to face
the reality, she just didn't want to right now.

At the end of
her shift, she drove home in a gray daze. Paranoia kept forcing her eyes to the
rearview mirror, afraid that she would see Martin's Ford Escort behind her, but
then she would continuously remind herself that the police had towed the car
away to the impound lot. Kevin and Jennifer knew something was wrong; they
could tell the minute she got home, but Jane smiled it off with a fake smile
that hurt.

A quiet dinner
with the kids, then they were off to watch television. When the phone rang at
about 7 pm., Jane lurched-nearly dropping the plate she was putting in the
dishwasher. Part of her hoped it was Steve ... but why? I know what he's all
about now, she told herself. I don't want to talk to him, not ever again.
Besides, he wouldn't have the audacity to call. Had he seen her looking in
through his office door? Had the desk sergeant told him she'd been in only to
walk out a few seconds later? It didn't matter.

But the call
mystified her. It wasn't Steve, it was the maintenance supervisor from the post
office. More strangeness. He told her that Dan Winston, one of the DPS
operators, hadn't clocked out, and his car was still in the lot.

What's going
on? "He probably just forgot, and went out with a friend after work,"
she suggested. "But thanks for calling. I'll talk to him tomorrow."

Then the phone
rang again.

"Hi."

It was Steve.

Don't yell,
don't explode. There's no point in any of that. The advice made good sense, but
then Jane snapped. She yelled. She exploded.

"You've
got balls calling me! What kind of an idiot do you think I am! I've got better
things to do than be jerked around by you! Don't ever call me again!"

Steve sounded
alarmed. Obviously, he hadn't been told that she was at his office earlier.
"Jane, what are you-"

"Don't
give me that crap! I came to see you today at your office!"

"Yeah?
Why didn't you come in?"

Jane's temples
pounded. "Oh, I came in. Your door was opened a crack. I was about to knock,
but then I looked in. Can you guess what I saw?"

"What?"

"Jesus!
You kill me. I saw you making out with that woman! That blonde!"

"You saw
me...Oh, you mean Ginny? She's my-"

"Your new
girlfriend, obviously!"

"She's my
sister-"

"Oh,
yeah, your sister! Is it a common practice in your family to stick your tongue
down your sisters throat?"

"Jane,
you're really overreacting here, you're jumping to a very wrong conclusion."

Jane couldn't
think through the wall of anger. She wasn't stupid, and she wasn't going to be
lied to. I'm not going to let this guy make a sucker out of me, she thought,
and then she said, "Don't ever call me again! Ever!"

Tears were
welling in her eyes when she slammed the phone down. She hitched through a few
sobs, dried her eyes with a paper towel, and tried to compose herself. God, I
hope the kids didn't hear all that, she fretted, but when she peeked into the
living room she saw them contentedly sitting on the couch, engrossed in the
Discovery Channel. She slipped out through the other side of the kitchen and
down the hall toward her bedroom. Emotions assaulted her; she felt naive and
juvenile. She felt heartbroken. What did I expect? she scolded herself. I only
met the guy a week ago, and now I'm acting like I just got dumped out of a  ten-year
relationship. Grow up, Jane. But rationalizations didn't help. It wasn't black
or white-it was all gray. Did it matter she hadn't known him long? I was
falling in love with him, she realized, tears returning. And now it's over. One
way or another, this was going to hurt.

Numb, she
stripped off her clothes and shuffled to the shower. She hoped the cool spray
would relax her but instead it did the opposite. All the tension of the day
dumped on her, and suddenly she felt bogged down, exhausted. She turned the
water up harder, colder, until it stung like pinpricks but she just grew more
groggy. Her eyes were drooping when she got out and dried off. Did she hear a
tick? She covered up with a towel and looked out the bathroom window, Stop
being paranoid! Martin Parkins is not outside! He's out of the state by now.

She slipped
into her nightgown. Her heart was thudding; she couldn't get Steve out of her
mind, couldn't erase the image of him kissing the blonde.

Later, after
she put the kids to bed, she tried to watch some television but it was useless
trying to concentrate. It was still early but she turned in anyway. I'll feel
better tomorrow, she thought. In bed, she flicked off the light and darkness
came down on her like a wall falling.

With all her fatigue,
it should've been easy to fall asleep. Instead she tossed and turned, entwined
herself in the sheets. Her mind wouldn't let go of the day. In half-dreams, she
kept relaxing in the impression that passionate hands were on
her-Steve's-rousing her, but then she'd flinch awake when she realized they were
someone else's. Large hands, callused and clammy, enslimed. Each time she'd
bring her own hands to her skin, revolted by the certainty that she'd find
slime, there was nothing. The dream deepened later, though she couldn't be sure
how much later. She could barely move,

trapped under
squirming weight. Were two men molesting her in the dream? One hand on her
breast felt smaller than the hand on the other, and less slimy. Grainy darkness
swirled around her; she was being mauled. When the form of a face moved close
to hers, she reached to the side, to her nightstand, and grabbed the pen she
kept there to jot down phone messages, and then she jammed it into her
attacker's eye. There was no sound, no scream. The face hovered closer, and now
she could see it in the moonlight: It was Martin Parkins. He was smiling at
her, the pen sticking out of his eye. He simply got up and walked away,
disappeared into the room's murk.

Then she awoke
with a gasp, the room safe and empty, of course. A glance to the clock showed
her that only a minute had lapsed.

God...

When she
finally did fall fully asleep, her dreams were ugly and demented. The hands
were on her again, and so was a mouth. No, not Steve's mouth by any means, and
not Martin's. Jagged teeth clicked against hers. Jane squirmed, masturbating
against her will. Atrocious, soup-thick breath gusted against her face, and the
tongued slipping around inside of her mouth was very long, very thin...

...And forked.

II

Next morning,
the sun shone through wisps of snow-white clouds. Around back of the Danelleton
police station, cops were changing their shifts in the motor pool, exchanging
blotter reports and gossip. Things seemed to be getting back to the normal if
not boring pace everyone was used to.

Out front, a
mail truck pulled up. The postal worker got out and entered the building, work
boots snapping on the clean pavement. Several cops smiled and waved. One may
have whistled.

Inside, the
desk sergeant barely looked up from his paperwork. One eye spied the package
that was placed down on the desk.

"Express
Mail, great," he said. "Must be those DNA results we ordered from
McCrone Labs in Chicago. The chief's been waiting on this. Do I need to sign
for it?"

The postal worker
smiled and gave a nod, then handed him the receipt board. The slip was signed,
and a copy was torn off for the sergeant.

"Thanks,"
he said.

"You're
quite welcome. Have a great day." And the worker left the building. The
sergeant opened the package, then slowed. No return address? he noticed. The
from square on the mailing label was blank. On an Express Mail? That's weird.
Then he fully opened the package and found a sheet of white Xerox paper sitting
on top of some packing tissue.

This ain't
good, no, this ain't good at all, he thought. I better get the chief ... On the
sheet of paper someone had crudely sketched a bell with a star for a striker.
The sergeant had seen others like it before, from the murders.

He picked up
the phone to call Chief Higgins but paused. The box felt fairly heavy and was
about the size of a VCR. He pulled out the packing tissue, looked inside,
and...

III

Oh, my
generous Messenger, thank you for this blessing, Sarah thought, walking briskly
back to the mail truck. Yes, the Messenger was full of blessings to bestow.
Sarah felt electrified to be of such importance. The LLV waited for her, no
more mail in it-she'd delivered the Messenger's package, so she was done for
now. She got into the truck, restarted it, and was casually pulling away when
the entirety of the police station entrance exploded. Sarah scarcely flinched
at the howitzer-loud sound, and barely glanced at her handiwork. Shattered glass
rained down in bits; it sounded like rain on the LLV's metal roof. Flames
billowed from the blown-out windows, and shouts and screams could be heard. The
two-step ammonium-nitrate explosive device had been relatively easy to make;
she got the directions off the Internet. Even the primer and contact trigger
and incendiary material were a cinch.

Sarah smiled
as she drove off. In the background, chaos ensued. Cops from the motor pool
tried to enter the building but were staved off by flames. Several men,
blackened and smoking, crawled out only to die on the front pavement.

It's
beautiful, she heard the Messenger congratulate her.

Another cop
ran out screaming, full flames wafting off his back and head.

Yes.
Beautiful.

Sarah sighed,
and rejoiced in the Messenger's caress as she drove away.

I

The television
screen throbbed with action: the Danelleton police station almost completely
burning down. Fire trucks encircled the building's front, their hoses shooting
plumes of water into the conflagration. Ambulances screeched off, sirens
wailing, only to be replaced by more.