Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (105 page)

CHAPTER 56

T
he achy stiffness was returning to Parker’s traumatized body. He felt it in his shoulders and elbows as he guided the Jimmy recklessly down the quiet, early morning streets. His joints felt like cold, rusted steel, and his neck was rigid and painful to move. A fire raged inside his skull, and a dull throbbing hurt his temples with every beat of his racing heart. He felt a tremendous thirst, but with even the thought of water, his throat jerked and twisted in painful convulsions. He did his best to think of other things. He thought about the Bumfields and little Tricia. He wondered what he might find when he arrived in Sand Creek.

“AC base to AC One, you copy, Mr. Parker?” Tommy Chin’s voice pierced Parker’s eardrums like needles. He flinched, acknowledging the pain.

“Yeah,” he panted, his voice now hoarse and low.

“I just thought you’d like to know. When I came back from the emergency room at two thirty I checked in on Jezebel.”

Parker waited for Chin to continue. He felt there was going to be bad news. Jezebel wasn’t just a dog to Parker. She was more human to him than most people he knew. She had been wronged. It was human greed and vengeance that had turned her world upside down.

“I was watching her sleeping, and all of a sudden she gave a deep sigh and just stopped breathing. I checked her for a pulse and couldn’t feel anything. Her pupils were dilated. I put her in a body bag and dragged her out by the incinerator to be cremated tomorrow.”

Parker hung up the microphone and turned off the radio without comment. He didn’t care to hear any more. A shiver worked its way up his stiff backbone. Jezebel had died at about the same time he’d dreamed of her climbing onto the bed and laying at his feet.

C
HAPTER 57

K
eening sirens and flashing lights suddenly shocked the still night as every available law-enforcement vehicle in Sedgwick County raced toward Sand Creek, the tiny town seven miles northwest of Wichita.

Pulsing lights could be seen for miles across the flat Kansas plains. Officers were setting up roadblocks in a perimeter around the town as Tony Parker had requested. He drove down the gravel road to within sight of Sand Creek’s grain elevator, illuminated by several mercury vapor lights that surrounded it.

Two highway patrol cars blocked the road ahead with one officer standing in front, resting a shotgun butt on his side. A vacant sheriff’s patrol car was parked on the roadside nearby. Parker pulled up to the officer and stopped as a highway patrol helicopter droned loudly overhead.

“Are there any . . . ?” Parker paused, finding it difficult to finish.

“Looks like we’re too late,” the young patrolman answered, tipping his Smoky-the-Bear hat back and shaking his head. “No sign of the dogs. The dispatchers have been trying to get through to the residents by phone. There hasn’t been even one to answer. Looks like they even got their mailman and a lady from the postal service who went out looking for him. Found both their cars.” He glanced back toward the town. “Nothing’s moving down there.”

Parker felt nauseous as the officer spoke—a burning on his neck. His body ached, every joint hurting. His head and every thought inside it had been shaken up, mixed to where nothing was clear. He saw himself in the side mirror of the Jimmy as he leaned out, listening to the cop. Mucous came from his nose. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot. Now his entire body and senses numbed. His thoughts tumbled.
Rabies…. Bumfields…. Tricia…. Dawg…. Death…. Blood…. Death…. Rabies….

He screamed, beating the steering wheel and the dash hard in a tantrum, “Damn, damn, damn!”

The officer looked shocked, holding out his hand as if trying to stop a speeding car.

“Hey, hey, easy now! You okay?” the officer asked.

Parker answered with a sort of growl.

“Jeez, man, control yourself. Now, if you’ll back your truck up and park over there to the side.” The officer pointed to the side of the road, still giving an amazed look.

Parker slammed the truck into reverse, then floored the accelerator. The tires roared and threw gravel on the officer. Parker backed up into the shallow ditch, then jammed the shifter into first gear and the Jimmy bolted out, and he pulled it to the side. He sat in the truck, squeezing the steering wheel, trying to understand the hurt in his head as several more law-enforcement vehicles drove past.

Parker popped the glove compartment open and pulled out Jack’s gun. The pain intensified. Dull throbbing all over his body. A feverish burning. Joints grating and aching. His neck was stiffening, and he held his head cocked to one side. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror and yanked the bandage from his neck, exposing a large, dark red, pus-filled sore.

Parker raked in a deep breath and stepped out of the truck, then wiped the snot from his top lip with the shoulder of his short-sleeved shirt. He held his forearm up to block the numerous vehicles’ blinding lights that irritated and burned deep into his eyes. Moving in unstable, stiff steps, he approached the crowd of a dozen or more law-enforcement officers and stopped beside the sheriff.

A tall, lanky man in his fifties with a belt that hung low on his hips turned to him. He wore a brown cowboy hat and a sheriff’s badge.

“You Parker?” Sheriff Warren asked around his cigar.

Parker gave a slow nod.

“The chopper pilot says there’s a pack of dogs, gathering on the other end of town and heading this way.”

Parker looked at him through half-open eyes. His nose was beginning to run again, eyes watering, saliva rolling down his chin, lips parted showing the tip of his tongue.

The sheriff looked him over carefully, his gaze pausing at the pistol in his right hand.

“You okay, son?” he asked, looking back up into Parker’s eyes. He squinted and leaned forward, seeing the large infected sore on his neck. “Damn, what happened to you?”

“Rabid skunk,” Parker said in a gruff whisper.

The tall lawman continued eyeing him carefully.

“Sheriff, here they come!” one of the officers called out. Sheriff Warren looked over the cars toward the tiny town, glancing back once to Parker.

“All right, everybody, get behind the vehicles. And no noise! We don’t want to scare ‘em,” Sheriff Warren commanded, throwing his cigar to the dirt.

Parker snickered. “Scare ‘em,” he mocked with a crooked sort of intoxicated smile.

The sheriff leaned against the front fender of the car in front of him. “Do not, I repeat, do not fire until I tell you to.”

Parker moved to a clear gap between vehicles. He could see the pack of angry dogs coming up the road with Dawg in the lead. Parker stood, stooped at the shoulders, and checked the revolver’s cylinder for bullets. There were two left.

A tingling heat consumed him suddenly. He looked down the road and then at the numerous officers, their guns pointed at the large group of shadows moving in their direction. He couldn’t remember why he was there. It didn’t make sense. The pain overwhelmed him, and convulsions erupted throughout his body, nearly sending him to his knees. He looked down the road again and saw the dogs. They were trusting, innocent creatures, betrayed and corrupted by human greed and self-pity. Over a dozen guns were trained at them.

Parker flicked the cylinder shut and spun it, then pointed it at the back of the head of an officer standing behind him. He pulled the trigger and the hammer snapped an empty chamber. One cop, who had just trotted up, heard it and looked to him. Parker pulled the trigger again. Another snap.

“Damn, what the hell are you doing?” the newcomer exclaimed.

“Screw you!” Parker barked out, now pointing the gun at the new officer. Again, he fingered the trigger. Another vacant chamber.

By now the Sheriff and several other officers turned to him and watched as he squeezed the trigger for the fourth time. Yet another snap.

“Shit!” Sheriff Warren yelled. “Grab the son-of-a-bitch!”

Parker raised the gun to his own temple. No more empty chambers. This would stop the pain. This would stop the killing.

CHAPTER 58

T
ony Parker jerked the trigger of Jack’s .357 with the muzzle pointed to his own temple. The gun blasted as Sheriff Warren grabbed his hand. Everyone’s attention turned to Parker. It felt as though a machete had split his skull and nails had been driven into his eardrums. He felt blood roll down his nose. Four of the officers wrestled him down to the ground, and Jack’s .357 bounced on the gravel and landed in the nearby ditch.

“The dogs!” another cop yelled.

Suddenly, the vicious dogs leaped onto and over the car hoods, their flesh-ripping fangs revealed.

Several officers screamed, as the dogs’ teeth punctured their skin.

The dogs answered with furious growls.

Pistols and shotguns discharged with loud explosions.

The dogs attacked savagely but were no match for the many guns. Fangs tore into flesh, and blood spurted from arteries and flowed from terrible red gashes. Guns fired from close range—many at point blank.

Several dogs attacked the officers holding Parker down, and he struggled free. He shook his head, smeared the blood across his face with his hand as he stood just out of the melee.

In and out, back and forth, the pain and his thoughts teetered.

He saw Dawg on top of the sheriff, ripping into his forearm. He remembered now what these terrible beasts had done.

Parker gave a guttural roar and grabbed the dog by the throat, lifting him off of the sheriff. Several other dogs saw the struggle and came to Dawg’s rescue. Parker threw Dawg to the gravel and fell on top of him, again grabbing his throat and squeezing. Dawg’s rescuers leaped onto Parker’s back, rolling him off.

The officers slowly gained control of the situation. They finally silenced all of the dogs except for the five Parker battled. The cops gathered around with guns pointed.

“Hold your fire,” Sheriff Warren yelled. “We don’t want to hit Parker.”

“The hell with that, Sheriff!” the officer Parker had pulled the trigger on shouted back. Didn’t you see him? He was trying to kill me.”

“I said, hold your fire! The boy’s got rabies. He can’t help it.”

All the officers stared at the battle. The dogs ripped and tore at every part of Parker’s body, but he still stood, knocking them left and right as they attacked.

Parker gave another roar.

“Don’t just stand there, boys, get in there and help him out,” the sheriff commanded.

There was no response as they watched.

“Well, shit, then!” Sheriff Warren said and stepped into the battle, pulling the dogs back and flinging them away.

The officers opened fire as their targets were slung off and away from the sheriff and Parker.

Parker still struggled with Dawg as the last of the attackers were killed. He finally got a good grip on the dog’s head and twisted hard.

Dawg’s vertebrae answered with a definite crack, and the large dog’s body went limp.

Parker dropped the dead carcass to the road.

“You okay, Parker?” Warren asked as he shuffled to him, arms reaching.

Parker returned the gesture by leaping at the sheriff, knocking him to the ground, hard. He bit, tearing into the side of his neck.

“Ah, help!” the sheriff screamed.

Parker pulled back, taking a chunk of flesh from the sheriff’s throat. He scampered to his feet and dashed between the cars blocking the road, leaving the sheriff with his hand pressed to his life-leaking throat.

“Shoot the son-of-a-bitch!” Sheriff Warren ordered, “What in God’s name are you waiting for?”

Parker ran down the road, then ducked into a hedgerow on the side and out into the rain-soaked field toward Sand Creek.

The officers seemed too stunned to react immediately but soon ran after him.

After the first few steps, Parker lost his shoes as the rich black mud sucked them from his feet. He stayed close to the hedgerow, hoping it would provide at least some cover. Then, after fifty yards, the guns reported.

Bullets snapped by his head, some snipping off limbs. The officers were bogged down with their own mud-balled shoes. He had a good head start, but he knew they’d be on him soon.

After two hundred yards, the hedgerow ended, and Parker ran out and into the yard of the first house. He recognized the Bumfield’s place ahead and ran to the front door.

It was unlocked, and he swung it wildly, then rushed into the front hall. A body caught his foot, and he stumbled to one knee and hand. There was no way of knowing for sure that it was Mrs. Bumfield’s, but the shredded, bloody white blouse and ripped blue jeans clued him. The dogs had been savage. He stood and stepped over her body, then staggered into the living room.

Light from the streetlight outside left shadows in the room. In the dull glow, there was another body. Mr. Bumfield lay on his back near the kitchen doorway, his arm stretched out toward a gun rack on the wall.

Parker felt painful convulsions as he looked over the horror. His throat, his chest. It felt like a monster raved inside, trying to get out, like one of Nick’s “ill-a-jitmut aliens” about to rip through his body. He couldn’t control his saliva, and it drooled from his mouth.

He looked around the room with his hand clenched tightly on the front of his shirt, reacting to the pain in his chest. Behind him was the large tapestry. The dogs playing poker. Having a party. Having a good time.

Parker growled out, grabbing it by one side, and tore it from the tacks holding it to the wall. He threw it, picture first, over Mr. Bumfield’s body and stared down at it.

What about the Bumfield’s granddaughter, the cute little girl staying with them? Where was she? Could she have survived?

“Tricia!” Parker called, his voice now very hoarse as he ran frantically through the house, “Tricia!”

She wasn’t downstairs. He looked at the stairway, then bounded up the steps. A doll lay at the top, and he picked it up slowly. It was familiar. It was the same doll Tricia had carried with her wh
en he had been there before. Its head hung by a small piece of cloth. White cotton stuffing pushed out, and it felt wet and sticky from slobber and blood. Parker looked down at the doll as if it were the ravaged little girl. He moved its little arms gently and tried to put its head back into place.

“Tricia. Tricia,” he said softly in a gravelly low tone as clear mucus flowed from his nostrils, tears streamed down his face and saliva frothed from his lips and dripped onto the doll.

He screamed out a deep guttural yell and yanked the doll’s head from its body. His arms stretched out with its body in one hand and head in the other as he stood, reaching, looking to the ceiling. To heaven. To God.

The twisting convulsions inside his torso grew stronger. His lungs and heart were tying in knots inside his chest, and he cringed down into a ball. He coughed painfully.

A noise.

Parker stilled himself, no longer paying attention to the hurt. A whimpering came from down the hall. He stood slowly, but his neck and shoulders were too painful to straighten, and he moved in a stooped position toward the sound. It came from a bedroom at the end of the hall. He stumbled. His feet were lead weights as he stomped each clumsy step, the pieces of doll still gripped tightly in his hands.

The demon, rabies, was in him, now, trying to gain control. But he would not submit, not until he had done all he could.

He stopped at the door and saw that the bottom panel had been ripped apart as if attacked by a lunatic with a chainsaw. He opened the door and flipped the light switch. His bloodshot eyes shifted about the room, his lips parted, tongue protruding slightly, and saliva still dripping down the front of his shirt. He saw nothing that could be making the noise.

The whimpering started again. It came from the closet. The door was torn open, just as the first, with countless, deep groves in the wood. The dogs had gotten in there also. Parker stomped slowly to the door, wondering what he would find inside. Was it Tricia making the noise or an injured dog? If it was Tricia, would she look like Jack had in his last moments, life flowing from her in crimson streams? He turned the doorknob with the doll body hanging in the same hand.