Port of Sorrow (25 page)

He laughed softly to himself as he dropped the match onto the fuel-soaked tobacco. A line of fire danced along Gilles’ body, causing his eyes to snap wide. His chin quivered as his mouth tried unsuccessfully to open.

The light of the burning cross cast a hypnotic cavalcade of shadow around the room. Big Brother watched it intently for a while before his inner voice told him the sky was turning to dusk outside and the flame would be noticed. He crossed to the large picture window and closed the blinds.

Gilles’ eyes had closed again when the flaming cross began to die, but his gown had barely discolored, leaving him very much alive.

End it said the voice.

Big Brother flicked a match into the pail beneath the bed, jumping backwards in surprise as flames shot out and began to lick at the underside of the mattress. It burned better than he had expected.

He emptied the remaining bottles of alcohol over Gilles before stepping back to the door.

“Give my regards to Welly,” he said, flicking a final match onto the bed.

The mattress — with its stiff, unmoving patient — erupted in flame like a Viking’s funeral pyre.

Big Brother gathered up his shotgun and sealed the door tight behind him as he left.

CHAPTER
55

Sheriff William K. Marshall stared blankly up at the ceiling. Bored, he was counting the holes in the insulating tiles. The drugs in his system told his mind to shut down and sleep, but he resisted with all his remaining strength. For in the darkness of sleep, the nightmares waited.

The door opened and footsteps approached. Whoever had entered paused to stare down at the wrapped meat of his legs before continuing.

“He looks awake,” Julia said, her fingers brushing the side of the bed. She crouched down, her back to the large picture window which offered a magnificent view of Freshwater Bay and the Strait beyond.

Marshall turned his head to look at her. She was quite beautiful, especially through the veil of drugs. She was not at all the type of woman one would expect to fight off a vicious bastard like Wells, and then track down his own sadistic brother.

He smiled at the irony, wondering if part of him hadn’t sensed how good a cop she was going to be and deliberately put her on the trail of Big Brother. Had he truly wanted him caught? The answer that rested on his tongue was difficult to swallow.

A second face came into focus on the other side of the bed. Marshall turned to see the familiar shape of Finn. His mind, though hazy, quickly brought up all the information on the man who dressed as a woman, threw Gilles out a window, and led the charge to Big Brother’s door.

He didn’t look the type to cause so much trouble, either. When did my judgment become so impaired, he wondered.

“Sheriff,” Julia began. “Finn needs to ask you a few questions, is that okay?”

Marshall blinked and asked hoarsely, “My brother? Is he dead?”

Julia shook her head. “He got away. The FBI are conducting a search for him now. He’s injured, so won’t get far.”

“He’s clever, you know.” Marshall’s voice was distant, hollow. “He enjoys both sides of the hunt; hunting and being hunted. As children we would play in the woods. Sometimes he would tell us all to hide and then he would search for us. I could hear the others screaming whenever he found one of them. It terrified me.”

“What did he do to them?” Finn asked softly.

“Whatever he wanted.” Marshall’s voice drifted into a whisper before slowly rebounding. “Other times, he would go off and hide. We were supposed to hunt him, but he kept changing the rules. We would start with a team of five, but one by one he would pick us off until I was the only one left. I was always the last one.”

“Was Harold Abery ever in your group?” Finn asked.

Marshall nodded. “Harold always wet himself when Big Brother caught him. I don’t think he ever owned a pair of pants that wasn’t stained down the front.”

“What happened to him?” Finn asked.

“Why do you ask?”

Finn held up the gold wedding band. “I found this in your brother’s garden.”

Marshall closed his eyes for a full minute. When he opened them again, the pupils were dilated and red streaks crisscrossed the surface. He looked defeated.

“We didn’t know what Big Brother had planned,” he began. “He told us to grab Harold after his wedding ceremony and bring him to the cabin. Harold had stopped hanging around though I never knew how he managed to escape Big Brother’s grasp for so long. Not that it helped him in the end.”

“What happened?” Finn prodded in a nervous whisper.

Marshall swallowed. “Big Brother doesn’t like anyone to be happy. He made Harold undress and get down on all fours. Harold didn’t make a sound. He just took it with his eyes open and his mouth clamped shut. All he wanted was to go home to his bride.”

“Your brother raped him?” Finn asked in horror.

“After he was finished, Big Brother told Harold he could go. But just as Harold finished dressing, Big Brother told him his bride would be next. Harold stood at the door, rigid and silent, as Big Brother described all the things he was going to do to her. Harold found his courage in that moment, but he never stood a chance. Big Brother snapped his neck and tossed him at our feet.”

“You witnessed all this?” asked Finn.

Marshall nodded.

“And you didn’t do anything?”

“There was nothing I could do. I’m as trapped as everyone else. Why do you think Gilles and Wells acted the way they did? They weren’t allowed to love anyone but Big Brother. He twisted us all, draining every last ounce of goodness out of us. Smitty was probably the luckiest. He hid in the bottom of a bottle, never trying to peer out at the world. For him, everything was already dead.”

“Who’s Smitty?” Finn asked.

“Just another corpse in the garden.”

“Jesus.”

Marshall turned to look at Julia again. “Is Big Brother coming here?”

“The FBI think he might,” Julia answered.

Marshall nodded. “I’m always the last one.”

BIG BROTHER SHIVERED
in the empty stairwell, his clammy brow pressed tight against the window of the third-floor fire exit. He struggled to fight back waves of nausea that rumbled within him, souring the stench of his sweat.

After a few minutes, the nausea faded, allowing him to stand up straight and gulp in a lungful of cool, dry air. He was going to be fine, he told himself. Soon, he would be on his way to Vancouver and then north to the frozen tundra. He might even trek over to Russia. Not even the angels would follow him there.

Back in control, he sucked in his belly, straightened his uniform and peered through the window. Two guards stood at ease outside a room almost directly across the hall. Big Brother recognized both of them. The blond was Rick Carter; the redhead was nicknamed Beans.

There could only be one patient who warranted such protection. Big Brother studied the rest of the hallway — nothing stirred. Probably cleared, he thought, for security reasons.

Calmly, he opened the door and with his head bowed low to hide his face, walked toward the deputies.

Both men looked up, spotted the uniform and grinned.

“Finally,” Carter said. “We’ve been waiting to be relieved for over an hour.”

Big Brother stopped in front of them, raised his head, and smiled.

“Sheriff?” Beans asked, his mouth falling open.

Big Brother swung the shotgun in a wide arc from behind his back. The barrel smashed into the side of Beans’ head with a sickening crunch. Carter went for his handgun as his partner crumpled to the floor, but Big Brother was too quick. The shotgun’s heavy stock swung up to score a direct hit between the deputy’s legs.

Carter struggled to breathe as he collapsed to his knees, his face turning blue. Big Brother lifted the shotgun over his head and brought it down hard on the side of the deputy’s skull. Carter’s neck snapped under the blow and he collapsed to the floor, unmoving.

Beans jerked on the ground, his face smothered in blood, his lips babbling incoherently. Big Brother straddled him before bringing the stock down hard on the deputy’s skull. He continued pounding until long after the man stopped moving.

The hall was slick with blood.

Big Brother dropped his shotgun beside the bodies, replacing it with both of the deputies’ handguns — one in each hand.

He felt calm as he pushed open the door to Little Brother’s room and walked inside.

CHAPTER
56

Cryre Rayne held the cellphone tight against his ear while penetrating eyes darted over the crowd of reporters. Curious staff and patients filled the roped-off area twenty feet beyond the hospital’s main doors.

It was a circus and he was standing in the center ring.

A flash went off as one of the photojournalists earned his pay by taking his thirtieth consecutive mugshot of a nondescript FBI agent talking on the phone. His editors wouldn’t be pleased, Cryre thought, unless he captured the same agent picking his nose or bleeding on the floor — preferably the latter.

The voice coming over the cellular net belonged to Ted Three-Crows, the agent leading the search party. Ted was standing on the edge of the woods, staring at the hospital and delivering the news that there was no sign of their suspect.

Cryre had been sure Rodney would head for the hospital. “Keep looking,” he said. “It’s possible he’s gone to ground again.”

As soon as he switched off the phone, a half-dozen camera lights beamed on and a dozen microphones were jammed into his face. Partially blinded, Cryre jerked away from the lights.

One of the patients standing near the stairwell door laughed at him before pushing through the exit. There was something odd in the way he moved, Cryre thought. One hand was wrapped tight around a portable IV pole for balance, but the other was buried deep in the pocket of his blue bathrobe, hiding something.

“Agent Rayne, Agent Rayne . . .” the reporters screamed for his attention.

Reluctantly, Cryre let the patient disappear into the stairwell and turned his attention to the media throng. His face automatically stiffened into a confident mask. He knew Sean would be watching from home, his nails chewed down to stubs and his eyebrows plucked with worry. Cryre should call, but what news did he have that would soothe a nervous lover?

“There’s nothing new to report,” he told the cameras. “But as soon as we have anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

They gave up easily this time, Cryre thought as the lights blinked out. Usually they fired off a few irrelevant questions just to let their bosses know that at least they were trying. It must be past the cocktail hour and they’re getting cranky, Cryre told himself with an inward smile.

The phone hooked to his belt rang again. Cryre lifted it to his ear. It was Three-Crows.

“Someone just opened a door on this side of the building, sir. Did you authorize it?”

“No. What’s the location?”

“North side, real close to you.”

Cryre turned to stare at the fire exit. The patient with the IV flashed into his mind.

With a hand on his gun, Cryre signaled two of his agents and walked quickly to the stairwell door. Before the media had a chance to react, the three men went through the door and rushed down the short hallway.

Buster Knabb leaned against the cement wall, his wrinkled lips wrapped around the plastic holder of a wine-tipped Colt cigar. Exhaling the rough, Port-tinged smoke, Buster sighed with contentment. Then all hell broke loose.

Before he knew what was happening, Buster found himself face down on the ground, his cigar smashed to pieces in the dirt, and three guns jammed into various parts of his body.

He tried to yell for help, but his mouth was stuffed full of dirt and grass. Then his head was yanked up and he found himself staring into the angry face of the FBI agent who had been surrounded by media in the lobby.

“You’re not Rodney,” Cryre said.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Buster gasped. “What the hell’s going on?”

“How did you circumvent the fire alarm?”

“What fire alarm? Everyone uses this door to go for a smoke; doctors, nurses, the lot.”

Cryre stared hard at the man before signaling the two agents to lift him to his feet.

“Take him inside,” he ordered. “Then seal off this stairwell and clear everyone out of the lobby.”

Once he was alone, Cryre studied the trees that stood less than a hundred yards away. Rodney could have hid there, studying the hospital, watching as people snuck out the door for a smoke. He might already be inside, right under their noses.

Cryre turned to go back inside when the fire alarm sounded.

JULIA LOOKED UP
from Marshall’s bed just as the piercing shriek of a fire alarm filled the room. Shooting a glance over at Finn, her eyebrows knit together in a questioning frown. But before either of them could react, the door flew open.

Big Brother filled the doorway, each hand gripped tight around a department issue Glock. His twisted face was a sleet-gray mask of hate made even more gruesome by the fresh blood that stained the front of his stolen uniform.

Julia knew she didn’t have time to go for her own gun. The feeling of helplessness angered her, but the sight of the unmoving guards sprawled lifeless in the hallway, quickly brought it under control. Her training taught her she had to remain calm.

Big Brother kept one of the guns pointed directly at Julia’s chest, the other aimed at Finn. When he kicked the door closed behind him, there didn’t seem any need for words. Everyone stayed perfectly still.

BIG BROTHER STUDIED
the two people on either side of his brother, recognizing them as ones who had caused him trouble. He approached the bed, pausing briefly to glance down at what was left of his brother’s legs.

“Get over there,” he barked at Julia, waving one of the guns in Finn’s direction.

Julia obeyed without a word.

Big Brother moved closer to the bed.

Marshall looked up, expecting to be paralyzed by fear. Instead, he found calmness — as though he was already dead.

“I knew you would come,” Marshall said, his voice rising to be heard over the incessant alarm. “Nothing ever stops you does it?”

“I expected you to be dead,” Big Brother replied.

Marshall laughed without humor. “I am,” he answered. “You killed me a long time ago, Rodney. This is just meat and bone.”

“Don’t call me—”

“It’s too late, Rodney. I don’t care what you say anymore. I don’t love you, I don’t hate you, I don’t have any feelings at all anymore. I’m dead, Rodney. You killed me.”

“You’re not dead,” Big Brother said, shaking his head.

“Mother says I am.”

Big Brother’s face twitched uncontrollably. He fired a glance at Julia and Finn, repositioning the guns at their chests. He licked his lips nervously, beads of sweat trickling down his face from scalp and brow.

“Y-you don’t talk to Mother?” He tried to sound strong, but his voice cracked and his face glistened with sweat.

Marshall grinned. Something had happened to his brother. His face looked drained and the mere mention of their mother shocked him. Why hadn’t he done this before? Why hadn’t he taunted and teased, fought and lied? Why hadn’t he at least tried?

“Mother’s waiting for you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Dead men don’t lie.”

Big Brother blinked more sweat away from his eyes. “Gilles is dead,” he blurted. “That’s his scream you’re hearing.”

Marshall stared deep into his brother’s twisted face.

“I know,” he said teasingly. “Gilles was just here, too. He’s pretty pissed at you, big brother.”

Big Brother glanced across at Julia and Finn, sneering at them.

“I can make you scream,” he said.

“If Mother lets you,” Marshall said, driving the stake deeper. Mother was the only weakness he had ever found in his brother, and now he had to use it for all it was worth.

Big Brother glanced back down at the bed. Finally, he asked, “Did Mother send the angels?”

Marshall nodded.

“And the demon?”

Marshall nodded again.

“NO!” he screamed. “You’re lying, you’re not dead, you’re lying.”

Julia glanced at Finn. He read her mind and shook his head. Julia ignored the warning and slowly lowered her hand closer to her gun.

“Mother’s waiting for me,” Marshall said, his face glowing with glee. “And then she’s coming for you.”

“NO!” Big Brother screamed and swung both guns down toward his brother’s face.

Marshall’s hands twitched beneath the blankets as Julia shoved Finn to one side and unsnapped the holster of her gun. She was almost clear of the leather when Big Brother saw her and fired wildly.

The force of a sledgehammer slammed into Julia’s body, sending her reeling to the back wall. Her head smacked against it with a sickening crack and everything went black.

Finn froze as Big Brother turned both guns on him. Then, unexpectedly, he released a blood-curdling scream and rushed blindly at the killer.

AS FINN MOVED
forward, Big Brother squeezed both triggers, but in the same instant his chest exploded and he staggered backwards out of control. A misty cloud of blood floated in the air and through it he could see his brother with blankets unfurled and a regulation .38 gripped tight in his hand.

Finn sprawled on the floor unharmed as Marshall squeezed off a second shot, then a third.

Big Brother staggered backwards, his chest oozing blood, his legs weak and failing. He smashed against the picture window, feeling it crack under the impact and give way. Instinctively, Big Brother dropped both guns and grabbed for the window frame.

Below him, angry surf pounded against rocks like hungry tongues on jagged teeth. He held tight to the sides of the window, shards of glass biting into his hands.

You can still escape, whispered the voice.

It no longer sounded like his own.

Big Brother fought against the pain to regain his footing. The voice in his head began to scream, but none of the words made sense.

Finn lay in the center of the room, helpless and in shock as Big Brother pulled himself up straight in front of the shattered window. Blood oozed from three holes in his chest, but the madness in his eyes had never been more clear. He even attempted a smile, but a film of blood hid his teeth.

“No more,” Marshall said weakly.

The door to the room burst open just as Little Brother squeezed off two more rounds.

Big Brother flew backwards, his mouth hanging open in disbelief as the last shot pierced his right eye. He vanished out the window with arms splayed wide, looking as though he was attempting to fly.

Cryre Rayne stood in the doorway, his gun aimed at the empty space where Rodney had stood. His chest heaved from the strain of running up three flights of stairs.

“What happened?” he gasped as a stream of agents poured in behind him.

Finn couldn’t speak. Julia was unconscious.

Everyone stared at Marshall.

“It’s over,” Marshall said calmly. He placed the hot gun in his mouth and squeezed off its final round.