Дин Кунц - Ricochet Joe

The dog smiled up at him.

Wound through Joe’s fingers was the length of blue ribbon.

The dog lay in the corner on her bed, by all appearances a dog and nothing more, except that her head remained raised and her ears slightly lifted throughout Joe and Portia’s conversation.

Joe paced, excited and restless and ecstatic and afraid, while Portia, who had never touched her mug of spiked coffee, sipped brandy straight from a snifter as she counseled him.

“Seeker doesn’t control us like Parasite controls its puppets. She gives us the confidence to be as brave, quick, and competent as we have the potential to be. But in the end, she does not force us to join in the chase… or to pull the trigger.”

“How long have you been… caught up in this?”

“The parasite moves often. We think it came here seven years ago. Seeker homed in on Little City four years ago. Parasite has been damn hard to find, and it’s changed bodies several times.”

“How was I chosen?” Joe wondered.

“I don’t know—other than your innocent heart. Because of your special role, you have to have an innocent heart.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“That’s up to Seeker. As for the rest of us, no one knows why she chose us to help her. Anyway, she gave you that tracking skill, and you ricocheted through town. Neither fear nor disbelief stopped you from using it. And you had better control on the second chase. She was right to choose you for a paladin.”

The dog made a low pleasant sound more purr than grumble.

“Why doesn’t she enter a more ferocious dog than a golden retriever,” Joe wondered, “something with big jaws and bigger teeth, and then go after the parasite herself?”

“By senses we don’t possess, it’ll detect her when she’s still blocks away. Before she can get there, it’s gone. She always needs a knight like you, someone Parasite isn’t likely to suspect.”

He thrilled at hearing Portia call him a knight. Nevertheless, the ordinary Joe whom he had been still lived in him; he remained prudent. “So I’m like the hound of the hound.” He wasn’t sure he was ready for the answer, but he had to ask, “What are the chances that I come out of this alive?”

“If you find the thing—and you will—when you’re alone with it, don’t turn your back. Never turn your back alone with it. Never, Joey. When you’ve identified it, kill it at once.”

“Yeah. But how do I identify it?”

“You’ve been given the vision to see the hidden form of it. Just for God’s sake, don’t get within arm’s reach of it. And, Joey, I can’t stress enough… don’t hesitate to kill it. Act at once.”

“It can die? It lives thousands of years, but it can die?”

“The host will die. Parasite has to come out of the host to find another—which might be you. It can’t stay in a dead thing more than a few minutes. When it exits, you’ll know it. And yes, you can kill it. Though it’s… hardy.”

She put down the brandy and came to him and put her arms around him and held him tight, her head against his chest, as if she were listening to his heart.

Being hugged by Portia felt good, felt wonderful. Somewhat awkwardly, he put his arms around her, and that felt even better.

Best of all, she kissed him. The kiss was long and warm and deep. By the end of it, Joe felt a little drunk, though not because of the residue of brandy in her mouth.

Another question occurred to him. “Uh… how do I kill it?”

She took her smartphone from the table and speed-dialed the chief. “Daddy, he’s ready.”

Chief Harold Montclair appeared to be too hard a man to have fathered a daughter as lovely as Portia. In fact, if you were to encounter him out of uniform at night, you’d cross the street to avoid him. Scabs crusted his knuckles, as though he had been punching a brick wall for sport. For his stone-gray stare to have been any harder, his eyes would have had to fossilize.

He took Joe into his home office, to a locked gun safe. Before selecting a firearm, he said, “So you donate time to Volunteers for a Better Future.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why do you volunteer, Joseph?”

“I don’t know. I guess I like to feel good about myself.”

The chief’s eyes were as direct as two drill bits. “Many of our worst criminals have very high self-esteem. Do you have very high self-esteem, Joseph?”

“Not as high as I think you mean.”

“Daddy,” Portia said, “this isn’t necessary. Seeker chose him. Seeker knows his character.”

The chief grunted noncommittally and said to Joe, “So you asked my daughter to the malt shop.”

“We sort of went for a walk and ended up there.”

“So you have an interest in my daughter.”

“Daddy.”

“Yes, sir. She’s like the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s what drew you to her—how interesting she was?”

“Well, I also noticed how pretty she was.”

“You really noticed that, did you?”

Portia growled, and Seeker barked.

The chief said, “Okay, okay. I’m the father here, let’s not forget.” He unlocked the gun safe and opened the door and pondered the selection of weapons.

“I’ve never fired a gun,” Joe said.

“Doesn’t matter,” the chief said. “When Seeker gave you the tracking talent, she gave you expertise with guns, too.”

This was something Joe had been wondering about. “When exactly did Seeker give me all this?”

“One of the times she came in your house at night while you were sleeping.”

“One of the times? How did she get in even once?”

Touching one gun and then another with fondness, the chief said, “Whether she came from a million years in the future, from another universe, or wherever the hell, it should be obvious she can go anywhere she damn well pleases.” He took a pistol from the gun safe. “This here is a Heckler and Koch .45ACP with a ten-round magazine. We’ll load it with hollow points, screw a sound suppressor on it.”

“A silencer?” Joe frowned. “Is that legal?”

“In some states, it’s entirely legal. Besides, I’m a cop, and you’re a…” He turned to his daughter. “Pumpkin, what do you call it—what he is now?”

“A paladin.”

“For what’s got to be done,” the chief declared, “it’s legal enough. I’ve got a special shoulder rig that holds it with the sound suppressor attached and breaks away when you draw.”

When the pistol was loaded, Chief Montclair gave Joe minimal instructions in its operation. “Thanks to Seeker, you’ll feel like a lifelong shooter once you draw it.”

Evidently, on her nightly visits, Seeker hadn’t granted Joe a familiarity with shoulder holsters, because he tangled himself in the rig as if it were as complex as a straitjacket.

“Damn it all, son, let me do that for you.”

The chief had Joe rigged neatly in half a minute.

“I need a sport coat to hide it. I’ll go home and get one.”

“Pumpkin, go to the spare closet and get Joe a sport coat from when I was a bit less beefy.”

“It’ll probably still be too big,” Joe said.

“Won’t know till we try, son.”

While they waited for Portia to return, Joe said, “Seems like you would be better for this job than me.”

The chief gave him a look that said, Are you as smart as my daughter keeps saying you are?

“Oh,” Joe said. “Yeah, I guess Parasite would suspect the jig was up if an armed cop came to the door.”

“It’s important the thing suspects nothing. Otherwise, you’ll never get a chance. But there is another reason Seeker chose you.”