Authors: Chandler McGrew
THE LITTLE MAN WAS BARELY FIVE
and a half feet tall, with a broad chest and narrow hips, and his limp was more than just pronounced. It was a swinging gait with a wild leg that barreled around beside him, causing him to half turn with each step, his shoulders moving stiffly, his gray eyes fierce. His face beneath the snarl had the rough, weathered skin of a seaman, or a ditchdigger. He looked to be forty, maybe even fifty, but the limp made him seem older. His knee-length coat was a new camel hair, the belt swung loose at his waist, and his hands were jammed deeply into the pockets. The temperature hung well below freezing and snow had started to fall.
He saw only three people from the time he turned the corner off Elm until he reached the next crossing at Willow. Everyone in Manchester, New Hampshire, was either at work at three o’clock or else safely ensconced in their warm living rooms, behind high brick or stone facades, and mullioned windows with heavy drapes.
As he neared the house with a bright blue door and tightly drawn shades, he slowed, glancing into the empty garage. He nodded to himself as he hobbled up the drive, slipping through the gate into the backyard. The homeowner always used the front entrance, but the rear walk was kept shoveled.
He cursed, gripping the iron railing on the back stoop tightly, throwing himself up each granite step. Fumbling in his coat pocket, he withdrew what appeared to be a brass cigarette case. When he opened it, a number of sharp, wiry-looking tools bristled from it, and he inserted one into the lock. As he jiggled the pick, he began to hum “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” under his breath. Finally he twisted the knob, and leaned against the door, coaxing it open silently.
Closing the door behind him, he stalked into the kitchen, shaking some of the cold out of his bones with a stiff, shivering motion. He found the downstairs bath and the living room before locating the small bedroom that had been converted into an office. Two tall bookshelves framed a narrow window that was half blocked by a computer monitor, keyboard, and stacks of computer manuals. He dropped into the chair, and reaching down to the tower case, booted up the computer. Tapping his fingers absently on the table, he watched intently as the machine went through its setup routine. He flipped idly from program to program, file to file.
“Mmm,” he muttered between the last two verses of the song. His eyes raced back and forth across the screen, and he frowned, nodding to himself. He clicked the mouse several times, switching programs again, his frown darkening as graphic images suddenly popped up on the color monitor. One in particular caught his attention, and he stared at it for some time, shaking his head.
He removed a mini CD from his pocket and placed it in the drive drawer. Then he keyed the machine to run E:in-stall. The computer chirped contentedly as it loaded the program, and he felt a pang of sympathy for the machine, watching it performing a lobotomy on itself. But the machine had one more service to perform.
When the installation was complete, the computer gave a satisfied little peep, and he removed the disk from the drive. He slid down to the floor, groaning as he set his neck into a more comfortable position before pulling the computer out from under the table. Then he used a small battery-powered screwdriver to expertly remove the cover.
He placed his hand on the case to dispel any static, and then found one of the auxiliary power supply lines. Reaching into yet another pocket, he removed a box the size of a deck of cards and screwed it into an open bay beside the hard disk. He plugged the power feed into a matching slot in the black box and replaced the cover on the case. Then he very carefully slid the machine back into its original location and turned it off.
Wiping any surface he might have touched, he passed back through the house the way he had come. Then—with one last quick glance around the kitchen—he exited the house, stopping at the gate to make certain no one was on the street or peering out of neighboring windows. Then he hobbled quickly back to Elm, where he climbed into his old Ford van and waited.
At twenty-five minutes after three Gregor Oskand passed the van without giving it a second glance, turning onto his home street in a mindless rage. His office manager—a woman he loathed even more than he loathed every other woman—had reprimanded him for being lazy and late, and she had done it in front of the entire staff. He couldn’t storm out of the office because his current chances for other employment were nil, so he had seethed all day, until he was finally able to slip out at a quarter to five.
By the time he pulled into his driveway his anger was slowly rechanneling itself. Instead of imagining his office manager bent over a table with her pants down, he now envisioned a very young boy, and the heat in his belly had started to drift lower. He tossed his overcoat onto a chair as he headed for his office. Across the living room he noticed a wet spot on the floor, staining the salmon-colored carpet. He waddled straight to the dark area, feeling his erection wither. His knees shook as he listened for movement inside the house.
“Is someone here?” he croaked, hating the sound of his squeaky voice.
It might be snow he’d tracked in yesterday, but because he was fastidious about the house, that wasn’t likely. He
squatted down on his enormous haunches and touched the spot. It felt cool but not cold, and he wondered what temperature it would be if it were, in fact, from the day before.
He hurried to the kitchen and chose a large razor-sharp butcher knife from his chef’s rack. He was certain he could never stab anyone, not even in self-defense, but hopefully, it would scare the hell out of an intruder.
There was no one in the bath. Ditto for the office, the upstairs closets, and bedrooms. When he lowered himself ponderously to the floor, inspected beneath his bed, and found no one there, he breathed a sigh of relief. He fought his jellylike three-hundred-pound frame back to an erect position and caught his breath. It must have been old snow after all.
The tension washed out of him, and suddenly he remembered what he had been doing before he saw the spot. He stroked himself as he descended the stairs slowly, imagining his collection of photos. He sat down at the console, one hand on the power button, the other still on his crotch, and clicked on the machine. As the computer hummed, Gregor closed his eyes, counting the seconds. When he reopened his eyes, he was surprised to find not his familiar screen saver, but text in a very large font, running the width of the screen. He read it slowly, goose bumps crawling up his arms.
REAP THE WHIRLWIND, ASSHOLE
,read the monitor. The message was signed
Satan.
Gregor didn’t feel the blast that separated his torso from his lower body or the compression that shoved his skull so far into the plasterboard wall, the coroner had to pry it out with a loose board. He didn’t see the left bookshelf disintegrate into toothpicks and paper snow, or his monitor launch itself across the neighbor’s yard and into their bedroom window.
And he certainly didn’t hear an old Ford van crank up two blocks away.
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or re used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
David W. Richards
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Dell Publishing, New York, New York.
Dell® is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the
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eISBN: 978-0-307-48882-4
March 2003
v3.0