John Burley - The Absence of Mercy

As she ran, her breath slid in and out of her chest in terrified, ragged waves. Her legs shot out into the night, feet scrambling for purchase on the wet leaves and uneven terrain.

(… a place to hide… low and quiet in the darkness… run right by me…)

And she could make it! She could!! Just a little more distance was all she needed. But where was he ?!

She might have made it if she hadn’t looked back—if she’d concentrated only on what was ahead of her. But she simply couldn’t help it. Not knowing whether he was gaining on her or whether she had lost him already was more than her panicked mind could cope with. And so she turned her head quickly to look, saw that he was still behind her— much closer than she’d hoped! —and the vision of him barreling through the woods after her sent a jolt of extra adrenaline into her bloodstream like a white-hot bullet. She spun her head around and shot forward, propelling herself over a fallen log, her sneakered feet barely touching the ground. But the act of glancing behind her had momentarily taken her eyes off what was in front of her, and as her left foot touched the earth, she ran directly into a stiff, leafless branch that jutted out at her at neck level.

She took the limb in the throat—its broken, slightly blunted end catching her directly in the windpipe. She heard the sound of her own teeth clicking neatly shut, as if she’d just chomped into a crisp stick of celery, and for a full second the world became completely hushed around her. The muffled slug of her heart beat twice in her ears, and she had time to wonder— even then —whether he was still there, tearing through the brush directly behind her. Then the pain in her throat rose up to meet her like magma erupting from the earth. She tried to draw in a breath but found that she was incapable even of that, and she fell gracelessly to her knees as if her lower legs had disintegrated in mid-stride. Her outstretched hands met the soft earth as she pitched forward, and a moment later she was crawling along a floor of muck and leaves and thorny brush that clawed at her face, arms, and legs. All at once, her breath returned. She greedily sucked in air through her bruised windpipe, emitting a high-pitched whooping noise that sounded to her like a scream in reverse. She drew in another breath and another, each accompanied by that same eerie shriek. She was no longer able to control the ragged, terrified sobs that poured forth from her body like heavily bleeding wounds. She refused to look back this time, and when the pressure of his foot pressed down on her left ankle, she kicked out blindly with her right leg, striking him high in the thigh—but not quite high enough. She tried to scream, but the sound that escaped her was small and without hope.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “It’ll be over soon.”

And then he was upon her.

Sam Garston was polishing off a second helping of Carla’s blueberry pancakes when the phone rang, disturbing them from their usual Sunday breakfast. He looked up at the clock, which read 8:14 A.M. His wife, who was seated closer to the phone, rose from her chair to answer it.

“Hello?” she said. Sam watched her closely from where he sat. Sunday morning phone calls were typically either one of Carla’s friends or the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department dispatcher contacting him regarding some matter that required his immediate attention. He always hoped for the former, but frequently ended up with the latter.

“Oh. Hi, Carl,” she greeted the caller. “How are you?… Yes, we’re just finishing up breakfast. You’re welcome to stop over if you’d like… Oh, I see… No, that’s quite all right. He’s right here. Hold on just a moment.” She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to him. “It’s Carl Schroeder.”

Sam had already gotten up from his chair and was making his way across the kitchen. He planted a kiss on Carla’s cheek, took the receiver, and walked around the corner into the living room. He drew back the curtain to improve the light in the room, but the day outside was overcast and rainy, and the change was modest at best. “Yeah, Carl. What’s up?”

“There’s been another attack, Sam,” Schroeder’s voice advised him over the slight static of a cell phone. “Sixteen-year-old female this time.”

Sam’s body stiffened and he placed his large left hand on the window ledge. “ Damn it, ” he said. “Where?”

“North of town, along Ross Ridge Road.”

“You have the area cordoned off?”

“Of course.”

“Fine. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Go ahead and contact the medical examiner.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Carl replied. “We may not need him just yet.”

Sam had already moved to the bedroom, and was pulling his uniform shirt off a hanger. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“The victim,” Carl said, and this time there was no static over the line to garble the connection. “Sam, she’s alive.”

Martin Vance shifted in his chair, turning his head briefly to eye some of the other patients in Trinity Medical Center’s psychiatric unit. He glanced again at the metal sprinkler head projecting from a small hole in the ceiling directly above him. He didn’t like the looks of it. No, sir, Scooby-Doo-in-a-half-shoe—he didn’t like the looks of it at all. This was a real amateur job, of course. He could tell that right from the start. Could see the actual flip-floppin’ microphone up there—see it plain as day. He knew what they were doing, too. He’d been through it all before. When you knew the sort of things that he knew, when you had connections right out of Liberia and the Far East on a mainline receiver into your geranium cranium at 538 bits per second—well then, everyone had their ear to the grand ol’ wall, Paul. Not that it mattered. Not in the least. If they thought he was just gonna spill his guts for a little Geodon, a little Haldol truth serum in the form of one big hummer of a syringe… well, they had no idea who they were actually dealing with, did they? He’d seen this type of action before—in a thousand other disease-infested rat pits far worse than this mojo dime-bag. And he hadn’t talked then. Hadn’t told them a damn thing.

“Mr. Vance?”

Tight as a clam, he was— never get the pearl!

“Martin?”

He glanced over at the woman sitting across from him. Ms. Queen Mojo Dime-Bag, herself. Little Miss Harley-Davidson on the Seroquel Express.

“Martin, I see that you’ve been looking at the overhead sprinkler quite a bit during our session today. Does it bother you?”

He said nothing. It was best to just keep your mouth shut during the interrogations. He’d learned that much. Learned it the hard way. Let ’em play out their own string until they hung themselves with it, for all he cared.

He checked the corners of the room for traps, but didn’t see any. That was the worst kind, anyway—the ones you couldn’t see until it was too late. You step into one of those zombies and you’ll be cleanin’ up your own body shrapnel till next Easter.

“Would you prefer to sit somewhere else, Martin?”

Stupid sling-blade witch doctor talkin’ at him again. Which doctor? Witch doctor. Ha! That was a good one. Funny but it ain’t, as people like to say. Chief Interrogator Numero Uno. She’d been on his case since they’d dragged him in here yesterday afternoon. Black as night in the heart of darkness, that one. She’d cut him down to pieces in a second if she had any idea the sort of technical intel he was carryin’ around in his long-term memory. Enough to topple the balance of power, that was for sure.