Текст книги "I Am Death"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 47 страниц)

Three

They were staring at him again.

The dark-haired girl and her friends.

They’d stare, giggle, and then stare again. Not that he minded. Eleven-year-old Ricky Temple was used to it by now. His hand-me-down clothes, bushy black hair, ultra-skinny body, pointed nose and umbrella ears never failed to get him noticed. Noticed and laughed at. The fact that he wasn’t very tall for his age didn’t help much either.

Five different schools in the past three years due to his father’s string of unsteady jobs, and the story had been the same everywhere. Girls would make fun of him. Boys would push him around and beat him up. Teachers would praise him for his high grades.

Ricky kept his eyes on the exam paper on his desk. He’d finished it at least twenty minutes ahead of anyone else. Even though his eyes were on his paper, he could feel their gaze burning the back of his neck. He could hear their ridiculing giggles.

‘Something funny with the exam, Miss Stewart?’ Mr. Driscall, the eight grade mathematics teacher, asked in a sarcastic voice.

Lucy Stewart was a stunning girl, with vivid hazel eyes, fringed, straight jet-black hair that looked just as beautiful in a ponytail as it did when loose, and a captivating smile. Her skin was incredibly smooth for a fourteen-year-old. While most girls her age were already beginning to struggle with acne, Lucy seemed to be immune to it. Every boy in Morningside Junior High would do anything for her, but she belonged to Brad Nichols, or so he said. Ricky always thought that if he looked up the definition of asshole in a dictionary, Brad Nichols’ picture would be right there.

‘Not at all, sir,’ Lucy replied, shifting on her chair.

‘Have you finished, Miss Stewart?’

‘Almost there, sir.’

‘So stop giggling and get to it. You only have another five minutes.’

An uneasy bustle swept through the classroom.

Lucy’s exam paper was half unanswered. She hated math. In fact, she hated most school subjects. They were of no use to her. Especially when she knew she was destined to be a Hollywood superstar.

Ricky chewed on his pencil and scratched the tip of his nose. He wanted to turn around and defy her stare by looking straight back at her. But Ricky Temple rarely did what he wanted to do. He was too timid . . . too scared of the consequences.

‘Time’s up everybody! Drop your exam papers on my desk on your way out.’

The school bell rang and Ricky thanked God for it. Another week gone. He had the entire weekend to look forward to. He just wanted to be alone doing what he loved doing – writing stories.

Ricky changed into shorts before stuffing his books inside his faded green rucksack and grabbing his rusty bicycle from the rack by the school entrance. He couldn’t wait to get away from that place.

Taking West 104th Street, he cut through South 7th Avenue. Ricky loved the houses in this part of town. They were big and colorful with beautiful front lawns and flower gardens. Several of them had swimming pools in their backyards, a far cry from the squalid apartment he shared with his aggressive father in Inglewood, South Los Angeles. His mother had left them without ever saying goodbye when Ricky was only six. He never saw her again, but he missed her every day.

Ricky had promised himself that one day he would live in a big house with a large backyard and a swimming pool. He was going to be a writer. A successful writer.

Ricky was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the sound of the other bicycles approaching from behind. By the time he noticed them it was too late.

One of the five bicycles leveled up to the left of Ricky’s front wheel, squeezing him against the high-curbed sidewalk. Out of panic, instead of braking, Ricky increased his speed.

‘Where the fuck you think you’re going, freak?’ the hooded rider shouted from under the blue and white bandanna that was covering the bottom half of his face. ‘You don’t belong in this neighborhood, you ugly and skinny fuck. Go back to your dirty slum.’

Two of the other riders were also screaming abuse at Ricky, but he was too scared to properly hear them.

Ricky ran out of room as his front wheel started to scrape against the curbstones. His whole body was shaking with fear. He knew he was about to fall. Suddenly, a second hooded rider leveled up to him and kicked out, hitting Ricky’s left leg and sending him and his bike flying over to the sidewalk. He hit the ground hard and at speed, skidding a full yard, enough to scrape the skin on his hands and knees almost clean off. His bicycle tumbled over him, landing heavily on his legs.

‘Woo hoo! Ugly boy fell off his bike,’ Ricky heard one of the kids say as they headed off, laughing out loud.

Ricky lay still for a moment, his eyes shut tight as he fought back tears. He thought he heard the sound of hurried footsteps.

‘Hey, are you OK?’ a male’s voice asked.

Ricky opened his eyes to blurred images.

‘Are you all right?’ the voice asked again.

Ricky felt someone lifting his bike off his legs. His hands and knees hurt as if they’d been scalded with boiling water. He looked up and saw a man kneeling next to him. He was dressed in a dark suit with a crisp white shirt and a red tie. His brown hair was wavy and pleasantly tousled above a prominent brow, high cheekbones, and a strong chin that was covered by a neatly trimmed goatee. His pale-blue eyes showed concern.

‘Who were those kids?’ the man asked, jabbing his chin in the direction that the gang had ridden off in. He had a somewhat angry look on his face.

‘What?’ Ricky said, still a little disoriented.

‘I was just on my way to pick up my son from school when I saw a bunch of kids bump you over.’ He indicated his car, which was hastily parked with two wheels up on the sidewalk on the other side of the road. The driver’s door was still open.

Ricky followed the man’s gaze. He knew that the kids on the bicycles were Brad Nichols and his gang of asshole friends, but he said nothing. It would make no difference anyway.

‘Hey, you’re bleeding,’ the man said with serious concern, as his eyes moved first to the boy’s hands, then to his knees. ‘You’ve got to clean that up before it gets infected. Here.’ He reached inside his breast pocket and handed Ricky a couple of paper tissues. ‘Use this for now, but we need to wash it with disinfectant soap and warm water pretty sharpish.’

Ricky took the tissues and dabbed them against the palms of his hands.

With the fall, his rucksack had opened, scattering his books on to the sidewalk.

‘Oh!’ the man said, first helping Ricky to his feet, then helping him collect his books. ‘You go to Morningside? So does my son.’ He paused as he handed one last book back to the boy, looking rather surprised. ‘You’re an eighth grader?’

Still in silence, Ricky nodded carelessly.

‘Really? You look like you’re about ten.’

‘I’m eleven,’ Ricky replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

‘Sorry,’ the man said, acknowledging his mistake and backpedaling as quickly as he could. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you in any way, but still. You’re quite young for eighth grade? My son is ten, and he’s just finishing fourth grade.’

Ricky placed the last book back into his rucksack. ‘I entered school one year earlier than most kids, and because of my grades they made me skip sixth grade.’ This time there was pride in his words.

‘Wow! That’s amazing. So I’m in the presence of a real child prodigy here.’

Ricky finished clearing the blood from his hands before looking down at his bike and its twisted front wheel. ‘Shit!’

‘That’s pretty damaged,’ the man agreed. ‘I don’t think you’re going to be riding anywhere else on that bike today.’

Ricky looked like he didn’t know what to do. The man read the boy’s uneasiness.

‘Listen,’ he said, consulting his watch. ‘I’m a little late to pick my son up from school so I have to go, but if you like, you can wait here and on our way back John and I can give you a ride back to your house. I’ll be five minutes. How does that sound?’

‘Thanks, but I’ll be OK. I can’t go home like this anyway.’ Ricky began dabbing the paper tissues against the scratches on his knees.

The man’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Why not?’

‘If I turn up at home bleeding, with a broken bike, that gang of kids will look like heavenly angels compared to what my father will do to me.’

‘What, really? But it wasn’t your fault. They ganged up on you.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ Ricky looked away. ‘Nothing ever matters.’ The hurt in the boy’s voice was palpable.

The man observed Ricky for an instant as he picked his bike up from the ground.

‘OK, how about if John and I drive you home? I’ll then speak with your father myself and tell him what happened. I’ll tell him that I saw everything and that none of it was your fault. He will listen to an adult.’

‘I told you, it won’t make any difference, OK? Nothing ever makes any difference. Thank you for your help, but I’ll be fine.’ Ricky started limping away, dragging his bike.

‘Hey, wait up, kid. If you’re not going home, where are you going, limping and dragging that heavy thing behind you? You really need to clean those wounds up properly.’

Ricky carried on walking. He didn’t look back.

‘OK, I’ve got a better idea. Hear me out,’ the man said, taking a couple of steps toward Ricky. ‘My boy, John, is a nice kid. A little quiet, but a nice kid, and he could seriously use a friend – and it looks like, right now, so could you. I can load your bike into the back of my car, we pick up John from Morningside, and I’ll drop you guys at his mother’s place. It’s not that far from here. She’s got a swimming pool and all. And she can also attend to your hands and knees.’

The words ‘swimming pool’ made Ricky finally pause and look back at the man.

‘I can then quickly run your bike to a shop. The same shop where I got John’s bike. I’m sure they can fix that wheel in no time.’

Ricky looked like he was measuring his options.

The man checked his watch again. ‘C’mon!’ He pressed his lips together for a moment. ‘Look, I’ll be honest with you, all John does when he’s not in school is read comic books and play games . . . alone. Here . . .’ the man reached for his wallet, took out a photograph, and showed it to Ricky. ‘You might’ve seen him around school?’

Ricky squinted as he looked at the photograph of a skinny kid with short, light-brown hair.

‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’

The man didn’t look surprised. Junior high students would never mingle with elementary ones. Not even outcasts like Ricky Temple.

‘Anyway,’ the man continued. ‘He really, really could use a friend. I know that he’s only in fourth grade, but he’s a smart kid, he really is, and he’s got loads of games that I’m sure you’ll be into as well. You guys could play together.’ He gave Ricky a moment. ‘C’mon, you’ve got nothing to lose, and I’ll get your bike fixed for you, what do you say?’

Ricky scratched his chin.

One more quick look at his watch. ‘OK, so just wait right here for five minutes. I’ll go pick up John and come back. You can meet him first, then you decide.’

‘He likes comic books?’ Ricky asked.

The man chuckled. ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

Ricky shrugged. ‘He sounds like he could be a cool guy.’

‘He is. He really is.’

‘OK then,’ Ricky conceded.

The man smiled and carried Ricky’s bike across the road. After placing it in the back of his car, he got into the driver’s seat.

‘We still have to get those hands and knees properly cleaned up,’ the man said as he geared up and got the car in motion. He turned right, then at the end of the block he swung left.

Ricky frowned as the man drove past the entrance to Morningside school.

‘You just missed the school.’ Ricky turned to look at the driver.

The man was looking at him with an evil smile on his lips.

‘Relax, kid.’ His voice had changed. Gone were the warmth and the soft tones, substituted by a firm, cold and throaty voice.

‘There’s nothing anyone can do for you now.’

Four

The crammed, open-plan space that formed the LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division was located just down the hall from Hunter’s office. There were no flimsy partitions or silly booths separating the messy labyrinth of desks. Identification was made either by desk nameplates, when they could be seen, or by shouting a detective’s name and waiting to see who would raise their hand and shout back ‘right here’.

Even at that time in the morning, the RHD sounded and looked like a beehive, alive with movement and buzzing with incomprehensible noise that seemed to come from every corner.

Captain Barbara Blake’s office was at the far end of the floor. It wasn’t a large room by any means, but it was spacious enough. The south wall was taken by bookshelves overflowing with hardcovers, the north one by a few framed photographs, commendations and achievement awards. The east wall was a floor-to-ceiling panoramic window, looking out over South Main Street. Directly in front of her mahogany twin desk were two bourbon-colored, Chesterfield leather armchairs. A rectangular black and white rug centered the room.

Hunter gave the door three firm knocks. A second later, he heard a voice from inside say, ‘Come in.’

Captain Blake was sitting behind her desk, with the phone receiver held firmly to her left ear.

‘I couldn’t care less how you do it,’ she said into the mouthpiece, lifting a hand at Hunter, ushering him inside and indicating that she’d be two seconds. ‘Just get it done . . . today.’ She slammed down the phone.

At least in here, nothing has changed, Hunter thought.

Barbara Blake had been captain of LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division for the past five years. Upon taking over from the previous captain, it hadn’t taken her long to establish a reputation as a no-nonsense, iron-fist leader. She certainly was an intriguing woman – tall, elegant and very attractive, with long black hair and piercing dark eyes that could either calm you or make you shiver with a simple stare. Nothing and no one intimidated her.

‘Robert,’ she said, getting up. She wore a tailor-made, light-gray suit with a white viscose blouse, black shoes and a thin black belt. Her hair was styled into a bun, and her small pearl earrings matched her necklace. ‘Welcome back.’ She paused for a short instant. ‘I’m sorry that your vacation didn’t turn out to be a vacation at all.’

Despite not knowing the true extent of the revelations brought on by the investigation Hunter had been involved in during his short time with the FBI, there was real sentiment in Captain Blake’s tone of voice.

Hunter’s reply was a simple nod.

The captain walked around to the front of her desk and paused, her forehead creasing slightly.

‘Where the hell is Carlos?’ she asked, instinctively tilting her body to one side to look past Hunter.

Hunter mirrored her questioning look.

‘He’s down the corridor, in the office, packing.’ He used a thumb to point over his shoulder.

‘Packing?’ The forehead creasing turned into an even more bewildered look. ‘Packing what?’

Hunter looked just as confused – Garcia had to have spoken to the captain about his transfer.

‘His stuff.’

The captain’s stare turned blank.

‘San Francisco? Their Fraud Division?’ Hunter said with a subtle headshake. ‘Just like our WCCU?’

Blank morphed into total perplexity.

‘What the hell are you talking about, Robert?’

Right at that moment, the door to Captain Blake’s office was pushed open and Garcia stepped inside.

‘Sorry I’m late, Captain. I had to sort out a few things on my desk.’

Looking completely lost, Hunter turned to face him.

‘Wow,’ Garcia said with a prankster’s smile on his face. ‘You ate up all that crap like a hungry baby, didn’t you? Frisco? Their Fraud Division? Really, Robert? C’mon!’

Captain Blake stiffened a smile. She didn’t have to ask. She had already figured out what had happened.

‘Son of a—’ Hunter said before a huge smile appeared on his lips.

‘Maybe you’re getting old, buddy,’ Garcia joked, tapping Hunter on the shoulder as he moved inside. ‘Losing your touch and all. I thought you’d be able to call my bluff straight away.’

Hunter bowed his head, accepting it. ‘Maybe I am getting too old for this.’ The smile was still on his lips. ‘I really never saw this coming. Even after you mentioned the fraud division. That should’ve been my clue.’

‘Or maybe I’m just that good,’ Garcia said, renewing his smile. ‘That hug at the end was a great touch, wasn’t it? A few more seconds and I would probably have managed a few tears too.’

‘You didn’t have to,’ Hunter said. ‘I had already bought the whole thing by then.’

‘OK,’ Captain Blake said, breaking up the joke, her tone quickly moving from playful to serious. She reached for two files that were on her desk. ‘Playtime is well and truly over, boys. Welcome back to the UV Unit.’

‘So what have we got, Captain?’ Garcia asked.

Captain Blake handed a file to each detective. The hesitation in her voice wasn’t for effect.

‘A fucking nightmare, that’s what.’

Five

After the man had taken him captive, Ricky was undressed and beaten to unconsciousness. When he finally came to, he was hosed down with a powerful jet of freezing water and then beaten again, this time with a thick belt that broke his skin and left him bleeding. A few lashes were all it took before he passed out once more.

Ricky’s eyelids flickered in rapid succession for a long moment before he finally managed to force them open, but it made no difference. The darkness inside the small, windowless cell was absolute. In spite of that, his drowsy eyes first moved left, then right, as if searching for something before almost closing again. The blur of confusion that had enveloped his brain was so intense, he was unsure if any of this was true, if he was really awake or not.

But then came the pain – powerful, unmistakable and immediate like a nuclear blast, spreading through every atom of his body with unimaginable speed and doing away with the doubt.

This was no nightmare. This was something much, much worse.

That realization brought with it fear on a scale Ricky had never experienced before.

He coughed, and that seemed to enrage the pain further. Colored sparkles of light exploded just behind his eyelids, and with each explosion he felt as if a nail was being hammered deep into his skull. He was about to succumb to the pain and allow it to drag him back into oblivion again when he heard a noise coming from somewhere to his right.

Ricky froze.

Clunk.

It sounded like the door to his cell was being unlocked.

The boy’s terrified eyes darted in that direction and he waited.

Clunk, clunk.

Two more rotations of the lock, a pause, and then the door began to open.

Sheer fear made Ricky reflexively recoil on the cold cement floor, burying his face into his arms and bringing his knees up to his chest, in a defensive, human-ball position. With his movement came more agonizing pain and the bone-chilling sound of metal scraping against metal, as the thick chain firmly shackled to his right ankle rattled against the metal loop fixed into the crude brick wall.

Tears automatically welled up in his eyes, his throat constricted and his breathing became erratic. His heart hammered inside his chest as if trying to beat its way out of his body.

The light bulb encased in the metal wire box at the center of the ceiling blinked a couple of times before engaging. As it did, it brought with it an electric buzz that made it sound as though the room had suddenly been swarmed by angry wasps. Ricky had been lying in darkness for such a long time that, even though he closed his eyes, the light burned at his eyeballs.

The sound of his captor’s boots clicking against the floor as he entered the room fired a new stream of white-hot panic through Ricky’s small and fragile body. He began shivering uncontrollably. He didn’t have to look. He knew the man was there because he could smell him – a bitter, sour, and sickly sweet fear-inducing mixture of scents that scared the little boy down to his soul. If evil had a smell, Ricky was sure that that was it.

The man’s nauseating odor ripped through Ricky’s nostrils and scraped at the back of his throat like cat claws.

Ricky wanted to be strong, just like he always was when he was bullied in school by Brad Nichols and his gang, but he was so terrified he had practically lost control of his actions.

‘Please . . . don’t . . . don’t beat me again.’ The words escaped his lips without his consent.

There was no reply. All Ricky could hear was the man’s heavy breathing as he stood by the door, and to him the man sounded like an angry, fire-breathing dragon.

‘Plea– Please.’ His voice came out weak and in spurts.

The footsteps got closer.

Ricky curled into an even tighter ball and squeezed his eyes, bracing himself. He knew what was coming and the anticipation hurt almost as much as the blows.

‘What’s your name, kid?’ The man’s voice filled the room with undeniable authority, but it sounded very different from when they had spoken near Ricky’s school. It was now throaty, firm, and cold.

Ricky froze. Was this a different person again?

The boy’s breathing became even more labored.

‘Look at me.’ The words sounded like they’d been delivered through angry, clenched teeth.

Ricky was too scared to move.

‘Look. At. Me.’

The human ball that Ricky had turned into slowly began to come undone.

‘Open your eyes, and look at me.’

Ricky finally lifted his head from his arms. His eyelids flickered again, this time for a little longer while his eyes adapted to the light. At last, he opened his eyes and stared at the stranger standing in front of him.

Who was this man?

‘You don’t recognize me, do you?’

Ricky breathed out, unable to answer.

‘Maybe you would if I spoke like this and told you a little more about my son, John. The shy kid.’ Effortlessly, the man’s voice transformed into the same voice he had used when he’d helped Ricky up from his bike fall. ‘Well, John doesn’t really exist.’ The man chuckled.

Ricky’s eyes widened in surprise. The man standing in front of him also looked completely different. His goatee was gone. So was his wavy brown hair. In its place was a perfectly shaved head. The pale-blue eyes that had once showed concern were now of the deepest shade of brown, bordering on black.

‘Don’t look so surprised, kid. Changing your appearance isn’t really that hard.’

Ricky was still shivering.

‘So,’ the man said. ‘Let me ask again – what’s your name?’

Ricky’s lips moved, but his voice failed him.

‘What was that? I didn’t hear you.’

The man took a step forward. Ricky’s arms jerked toward his face to protect it. The man paused and waited, observing the boy.

‘Richard. My name is Richard Temple.’ The boy’s voice was barely louder than a whisper.

‘Umm.’ The man nodded as he scratched his chin, apparently missing his goatee. ‘But everyone calls you Ricky, right?’ His voice was back to being throaty and cold.

The boy nodded.

‘Well, not anymore.’ The man sucked in a breath through his nose as if getting ready to spit. ‘I’ll tell you a secret. You were supposed to die here. I was supposed to do whatever I wanted with you and then kill you.’

Tears began to roll down Ricky’s cheeks.

‘But I’ve decided that that’s not what I’m going to do. At least, not yet.’

Ricky couldn’t tear his eyes from the man’s face.

‘Let me tell you this – life, as you knew it, is over, do you understand? You’ll never leave here. You’ll never have a friend again. Not that I think you had any. You’ll never go to school again, or play outside again, or see your family again, or do anything again other than obey me. Is that clear?’

Fear kept Ricky from replying.

‘Is. That. Clear?’

Ricky saw the man’s fingers close into a fist, and fear made him nod.

‘You’ll do everything I tell you to do. You’ll not open your mouth unless I give you permission to speak. You’ll only eat whatever is left over from my plate. If there’s nothing left over, you don’t eat. If you try to escape, I will know, and I will punish you. If you disobey any of my rules, I will know, and I will punish you. Do you understand?’

The boy nodded again.

‘This is a new beginning for you,’ the man continued. ‘And since it’s a new beginning, you need a new name, because I don’t like yours.’ He wiped the back of his right hand across his lips, and for an instant the man looked like he was pondering something. ‘You know what you look like, all awkward and skinny?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘A squirm. You look like a squirm.’ A short pause. ‘I really like that.’ He smiled. ‘So that’s your new name – Squirm. Every time I call your name, you will answer “Yes, sir”. Do you understand, Squirm?’

The boy didn’t know what to do other than look totally and utterly petrified.

‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND, SQUIRM?’ The man’s yell reverberated against the brick walls like a death call.

‘Yes, sir.’ His voice was drowning in tears.

The man smiled as he walked back to the cell door.

‘Welcome to your new life, Squirm. Welcome to hell.’

The door closed behind him with a muffled thud like a coffin lid.