Immortal Implements

IMMORTAL IMPLEMENTS

A Novel by

Ryan K. Hoover

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by Ryan K. Hoover

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Prologue

He first woke to pain. His head hurt in a vague fuzzy-hangover way. His limbs felt numb but he didn’t care at the moment. He was more concerned about his head. He opened his eyes.

Pure darkness.

He tried to control his breathing. When had he lost his sight?

He wasn’t blind; it was just pitch-dark in the room. He could almost make out the walls around him, thanks to a tiny light coming in under a door thirty feet away. His breathing slowed and he looked straight down. He could barely see his own body. He craned his neck and felt the stiffness there; his head had fallen forward while he slept. He realized that he was standing up. He wondered where the hell he was, and how he got there.

He tried to move his arms and heard the clink of chains. He could only move a few inches. The chains extended to the wall behind him. Same with his legs. He lashed out, pulling, his muscles cords on his arms as he pulled on the chains. They would not budge. He yelled long and loud, a primal scream of fear and rage, trapped and helpless.

Well, the sleeping babe finally awakens. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?

His throat was dry; it hurt to speak. His anger evaporated. Who are you? Where are we?

"I have many names, all unimportant. They change to suit the occasion. But your identity does matter, Marcus. I came a long way to find you."

Why? What happened? How did I get here?

He heard a low chuckle. Fine, I can spare a few minutes. Conversation is all you have left anyway. Do you remember being at a bar this evening?

Marcus recalled his frustration earlier that night, now seeming like a child’s tantrum. He had to get out of the house; his wife was in bitch mode. So Marcus sat at a local bar, drinking alone and feeling bored until the long-haired man showed up. He sat down at the bar right next to him, despite plenty of other open seats. They talked for awhile. He seemed intelligent, unlike most people in this town, and had a good sense of humor. They had a few drinks and then –

You drugged me!

Yes. It was easy. I’m always amazed when someone in your position doesn’t consider security.

My position? You want to rob the bank, don’t you? You don’t have to kill me. Just undo these chains. I’ll give you the keys, pass codes, everything. I’ll tell you how to get in the safe.

"I have all the money I need, Marcus. As I said, I’m here for you."

But why? What the fuck did I ever do to you?

Nothing whatsoever. You’re part of the plan, that’s all. Just another step in my ascension.

What? Are you insane? I don’t know what you’re talking about, psycho.

"Think about it, fool. I know who you are."

Marcus was silent for a moment. No. That’s just a myth.

It isn’t, but I see no need to prove it to you. You’re about to die for it. You’re dying for me. I would thank you, but you aren’t giving your life willingly. I’m taking it.

Wh-wh-what are you going to do to me?

Ah, the first intelligent question you’ve asked. I’m going to conduct a ceremony where I remove your spine. Assuming you do, in fact, have one. You will still be alive throughout. Feel free to scream; no one will hear you. Besides, I love the sound of vocalized agony. I confess, I’m getting excited just thinking about it. Shall we begin?

The man lit candles all over the room and started chanting. Marcus begged for his life. He offered money, all of the millions he could access twenty-four hours a day. He offered his wife. He even offered himself, though he wasn’t gay. He offered anything and everything to his tormentor. The chanting never stopped. The man brought a large knife up to Marcus’s face and carved a star in his forehead. Marcus cried and moaned. The blood mingled with his tears and stung his eyes. He soon screamed like a man with no future and no past; only now existed, and now was pain.

Between Marcus’s screams he begged for it to stop. Later he pleaded for death. His host only granted him agony and a smile. The last thing Marcus saw was his intestines, held up like a trophy to a cheering crowd. He could even see the crowd, but they weren’t human. They were there for his soul. He had thought the pain would stop when he died. He was wrong.

Chapter 1

An Arizona summer day: hot and dry. No wind stirred the sands. Beside an old two-lane highway stood a beaten motel. All the rooms offered the same simple fare: two beds and a nightstand, a dresser with a nineteen-inch television on top, a small fridge and a bathroom.

The Desert Moon Inn’s owner was as simple and beaten as his motel. The locals knew he wouldn’t take any gaff from anyone. The old man had one employee, a maid who had worked there forever. She spoke little English but kept the rooms spotless. She was almost done for the day. Tired and hungry, she knocked on the door to room sixteen.

The knock rang through the room. The occupant, clothed only in a towel, turned from the mirror. He set his razor down and moved to the door. The middle-aged Spanish woman he saw through the peephole didn’t look like a threat. He opened the door.

She looked him up and down. Lust was not what her face portrayed. Her eyes met his confused gaze. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He didn’t know what to say.

The maid was muttering and making crosses in the air. The man was six feet tall and muscular in a wiry way, with blue eyes and long blonde hair. Black tattoos covered him from the neck down. The maid only knew that it was some kind of writing and it looked evil. The man could have told her most of it was Hebrew, Aramaic and Sanskrit. There was even some truly ancient writing in Zend, Chaldean and Punic. He was a living, breathing six-foot ancient scroll. The maid could only take this for a few seconds. She backed into her cleaning cart, eyes wide, before she screamed and ran away.

Wanting to avoid attention, he quickly donned jeans and a long-sleeved white dress shirt, more of which he had in a backpack. He was no fashion model. He put on some worn leather work boots. He was ready but had no idea where to go. He could worry about that on the road. A low screech came from behind him.

He wheeled around. His left hand protected his head while his right guarded his gut.

It was just the TV. It had turned on by itself. This did not surprise him; he smiled and felt better. The screech continued as the stations changed. It flipped down from the cable channels to a regular network station.

A newscast was starting. The female anchor was a professional. She read her story in a serious-yet-sexy voice.

This is Marla Jenko with Action 7 News, and we have interrupted our regularly scheduled programming for a breaking news story. The body of a prominent local businessman was found this morning. Marcus Snow, President of First National Bank in Scottsdale, was brutally murdered. While details are still vague, the police did state that it appeared to be a ritualistic murder, possibly cult-related. The community’s reaction has been shock and outrage. Mr. Snow was a member of the Scottsdale City Council, and has been involved with numerous community groups and civic projects, most recently the Sun Home Group, who just built a new homeless shelter downtown. Mr. Snow is survived by his wife and two sons. Police say they are following many leads and are confident that they will soon catch the killers involved. Both the mayor of Scottsdale and the Governor of Arizona are scheduled to give statements later today on this grave loss to our community. Action 7 News will keep you informed as this story progresses. Now we return you to-

He turned off the TV and left a tip. He grabbed his things and ran out the door. A new white Corvette was parked in front. Smiling at the work of art, he unlocked it and got in. Within minutes he was miles away.

The hotel owner warily opened the door to room sixteen, shotgun in hand. He swept the room left to right with the twelve-gauge. Empty, as was the bathroom. He wondered if the maid was crazy.

He saw what had to be a mirage on top of the TV. When he touched it he cried out loud. It was a stack of money, one thousand dollars in fifties. The room was neat, the bed even made. He decided the former tenant was okay. He didn’t know what had scared the maid but the guy obviously had class. More class than his usual customers. He would tell the cops it was all a mistake, and give the maid two hundred dollars to say the same. Hell, he might even go to church later and give an offering. He hadn’t been there since his wife died years ago.

It turned out to be a great day.

***

Fifty miles away, a black Cadillac drove through Falcon Run, one of Scottsdale’s affluent neighborhoods. The driver grinned like a rich hyena.

He drove the posted twenty-five mile per hour speed limit. He used his turn signals and wore his seat belt. He was humming along to Bach and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Classical music always calmed him.

He saw a street named Feather Lane and made a left. He noticed a commotion going on around a large home ahead. Six news vans cluttered the street. At least twenty people stood around the driveway and front lawn, most holding a camera or microphone. The Cadillac kept going. None of the reporters gave it a second look.

He made the next right. A big black Labrador stood in the middle of the street. It craned its neck forward, pointing its snout at the home on the corner. The man smiled at it. A strange gleam shone in its eyes.

He parked in front of the house, being careful not to block anyone’s driveway. Grabbing a notebook and pen from the glove box, he got out of the car.

He stood six feet, five inches tall and weighed three hundred pounds. Little of that was flab. He could have made millions in professional sports but he had loftier goals. He had long black hair and a short beard. He wore black jeans and boots and a red shirt. He whistled and smiled as he walked up to the house and knocked on the door.

A stooped old woman answered, wearing a green housedress.

Yes? May I help you?

Yes, ma’am, hello. My name is Greg Jones and I’m a reporter for Action 7 News. He held up his notebook and pen. I was hoping to talk to you regarding the murder of your neighbor, Mr. Snow.

I really didn’t know him well. Besides, I already told someone ‘no’ from your station, earlier today.

I know. Might you reconsider, ma’am? Mr. Snow was a highly respected man. I want to show that to our audience, who may not know everything he’s done for the community.

Well, she hesitated; he seemed like such a nice young man, much nicer than the other reporters. Even though he did have long hair like a hippie. Oh well, her own son had gone through that stage too, and now he was a CPA with a big office downtown.

Do you have any ID? she asked.

Of course, he said. He showed her a press badge with his picture on it, the name Greg Jones underneath.

Okay, come on in. She held the door open for him. Can I get you something to drink?

No thanks, I’m fine. What’s your name again, ma’am?

Georgia Porter.

Nice to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Porter, he said, motioning to a couch. She nodded and he sat, immediately writing down her name.

Is your husband home, Mrs. Porter? I’d like to get his opinion of Mr. Snow too, if possible.

I’m afraid not. My husband died three years ago.

Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that, ma’am. I’m sure he must have been a good man, to have such a dear lady as his wife.

She felt herself start to blush. What a charmer this one was! Yes, my Ernest was special. He was a good father and a great provider, and – what are y- Before she got you out the man stood behind her, his hand clamped around her mouth. He still smiled. He grabbed the back of her head and twisted it all the way around until he heard the dry snap of her upper spine. He regarded her face on the wrong side of her body and smiled wider.

I’m sorry we didn’t have more time, Georgia, he said. He looked into her eyes. He noticed her cheeks were still blushed from his compliment; now they would remain so forever. He enjoyed the artistry. With her rear-facing and permanently ruddy visage, she resembled a statue in a trendy New York loft. He thought perhaps the yuppies there would consider it a statement about dwelling in the past. He set her body down and went to look for coffee. He had a long wait ahead.

Chapter 2

Early evening in Falcon Run; only a dark haze was left to chase away the light. It was the long-haired man’s favorite time of day.

He drank many cups of coffee, passing the time by looking through Mrs. Porter’s photo albums. It looked like she had had a nice, normal, loving family. He was proud of her and the life she had apparently led. Although he did not ascribe to the normal lifestyle, (get married, have kids, retire to Florida or Arizona) he appreciated those that did. Without people like her, he wouldn’t have any victims. The natural order of things was to have many sheep and a few wolves. He planned to upset that order soon.

He looked out the window. The news vans still sat in front of the Snow house. The reporters appeared tired and bored, sitting in the vans. No doubt the vultures were waiting to torture the wife with questions. He had more humane plans for her, in his opinion anyway.

A police car had arrived earlier and parked two houses down. If they were following normal procedure, one cop would be inside with the family while the other would be outside in the car watching. The long-haired man found the phone book and made a quick call.

Forty minutes later he heard a knock at the door. The long-haired man answered it, leaving the porch light off. He got lucky: the delivery boy was big, probably a high school football player. His name tag said Billy.

Yes?

Evening, sir. Here’s your pizza.

Cool! I’m starving. Come in, man. How much is it again?

Twelve eighty-seven.

He walked to the kitchen while Billy came in and closed the door, mindful of the air conditioning. Even at nine o’clock it was eighty-eight degrees out. He set the pizza down on the coffee table.

The long-haired man returned with his wallet, peering into it and going through the bills. Billy stared at him with a dopey look on his face; he was probably thinking about smoking a joint later with his girlfriend and getting laid. The long-haired man produced a twenty-dollar bill and handed it over.

When Billy’s arm came forward, the hand with the bill moved in a blur. The twenty half-disappeared into the young man’s lower gut. It exited covered in red. A fountain of blood erupted.

The long-haired man threw down the small paring knife. He’d hidden it behind his wallet, then behind the twenty. He stepped behind Billy, covering his mouth. He punched his victim’s kidney, dropping the boy to his knees. The long-haired man put his arm around Billy’s neck and flexed, cutting off his airflow. Billy made soft gurgling noises and his eyes bulged. He went limp quickly. The man took his victim’s shirt off, letting the body fall to the floor. A thick red puddle formed under the midsection.

The long-haired man knew he was receiving supernatural help. Billy was over six feet tall and at least two hundred pounds. The shirt was too tight, but it would do. He tucked it in so the bloodstain barely showed. He cleaned it off as much as possible, knowing it was dark outside anyway. He tied his hair back and tucked the long pony tail under the shirt. He donned Billy’s baseball cap.

He checked his watch. Only two minutes had elapsed since the knock on the door. Surveying the room, he saw one bloody kid sprawled facedown in the living room and one grandma next to the wall in the connecting hallway. She was on her back, yet still watching the carpet. The man laughed out loud.

He didn’t have to worry about the crime scene. His fingerprints were surgically removed years ago. Any other form of DNA evidence found would be useless, as he had no criminal record.

He bowed his head and spoke some words softly in Latin. He opened the door and stepped outside, pizza in hand, whistling loudly.

He casually scanned the street. He didn’t see anyone around. All the action was around the corner on Feather Lane. The reporter vans drove off, a string of six vehicles leaving suburban silence in their wake.

Still whistling, he walked to Billy’s Toyota. He did a sudden about-face and walked to the police cruiser on Feather Lane. He announced his presence before he was even with the window.

Evening, officer.

The cop turned to look at him.

Yeah. Can I help you?

What’s going on over here? Why all the reporters?

Nothing to concern yourself with, sir. Now unless there’s something else I can-

Oh, I’m just seeing if you want this pizza. That jerk off a few houses down said I took too long and he didn’t want it. I was like, three minutes late!

The cop smiled. Yeah, I bet you deal with a lot of that.

Hell yeah. Well? It’s still warm. He opened up the box. Steam rose from the pizza. The smell of cheese and tomato sauce filled the car. The cop’s stomach grumbled instantly.

If you’re sure, the cop said.

Absolutely. It’s gonna get thrown out anyway. Here, he said, handing the box through the driver’s side window. The cop took it, turning away to set it on the passenger’s seat.

The man’s hands shot forward to the cop, one going to the back of his head while the other blocked his mouth. He violently spun the cop’s head, snapping his neck. Surprise started to register on the cop’s face but too late. The killer left the officer facing out the window. The struggle lasted three seconds; the reporters sat in their vans forty feet away and didn’t notice.

The man reached in and grabbed the keys, throwing them in the bushes. He stalked back toward the Porter home to change back into his shirt.

Five minutes later he was creeping through backyards toward the Snow home. Each had a tall fence surrounding the property but that was a minor problem. He listened carefully for sounds of dogs or people before scaling each fence. Although he would have simply known if anyone was there, sounds or no, he was being careful. Seven minutes after snapping the policeman’s neck, he descended into the Snows’ back yard.

The blonde man watched the approach. He’d seen him jump a fence two lots away and knew who it would be. He’d been waiting for an hour, perched on the roof, concealed in shadow thanks to a tall tree. He could see little but at least the back yard was visible.

He watched the killer enter the Snows’ yard, leaping the fence like a panther. He approached the rear door of the home and listened intently. He took something from his pocket and began to pick the lock.

The blonde man waited for his adversary to enter the house. He hated using the family as bait but had no choice. This was no ordinary killer; if he escaped tonight many more deaths would follow. He planned to go in almost immediately after the killer, and he knew there was a policeman inside. He didn’t know if he would be able to handle the killer hand-to-hand, and being inside the home made that even worse. There was less room to maneuver. At least it would be easier to stop him from escaping. He might even be blessed; if the cop could cover the front door, the black-haired man would have to come through him to escape. Besides, even if the killer made it to the front door, the cop’s partner was outside.

The killer finished picking the cheap lock. He thought Snow should’ve known better. He entered a large, modern kitchen and shut the door with perfect stealth. He chose a big knife from a rack.

He stood still, listening with both ears and spirit. He felt a person on this floor and three upstairs. He heard a soft rustle from the living room: a page turning. He crept toward the sound.

It was probably the policeman reading a magazine. The wife and kids were upstairs grieving. They didn’t know that the cause of their grief had come for a visit.

The blonde man watched the killer enter before climbing down. He again reflected on the need to stop his quarry here. If the policeman couldn’t handle him, he was prepared to. There would be no handcuffs, no Miranda rights read, and certainly no incarceration. His way was the sure way.

He would rip the killer’s heart out, bare-handed if necessary.

The black-haired man crept through the hallway toward the living room. He heard another page turn. He walked by a staircase on his right leading to the second floor. He heard music coming from upstairs.

He reviewed his options. The safe and expedient way to dispatch the cop would be to throw an object in the far corner of the room and then throw the knife at the cop when his back was turned. Not many people could effectively throw a kitchen knife, but he practiced throwing every blade imaginable.

He could have come up with quieter cop-killing options but he wasn’t in the mood. He had been careful all day, gaining an observation foothold down the street and waiting for dark before killing the cop outside. He wanted some fun. He decided to walk in the room and charge the cop. He wasn’t even going to throw the knife. He wanted to plunge the blade into the man’s gut and watch the shocked look on his face, as protector turned into victim. If he had more time he would have rearranged the public servant’s limbs, or maybe his internal organs. Regretfully he had no time. It would still be fun with the element of chance involved. He would have to cross the whole living room. The cop would have a gun at his hip. If he was quick, he could get one or two shots off before the killer sheathed the knife in his torso. The killer believed in stopping to smell the roses. He stood at the corner of the hallway wall. Another step and he would be in the living room, in full view of the cop. Smiling, he took a long stride forward.

The officer was sitting in a recliner in the far corner of the room. Some sixth sense must have warned him. He looked up immediately. The damn cop already had his gun out! It lay on an end table inches from his hand! The officer picked up the nine-millimeter Glock and pointed it at the killer before he could move. He pulled the trigger.

The killer blasted backward. His size and forward momentum made it only a few feet; a lesser man would have hit the wall. The bullet had passed through his lower abdomen. Blood flowed in measurable quantity. He felt it in his pants, running down his legs. It enraged him. He was about to charge when the officer yelled, Freeze!

The cop now had the gun aimed directly at his heart. That could definitely slow me down, the killer thought. His mind racing, he considered his options. It was almost a funny sight, he thought. The cop still sat, smoking gun in hand. The black-haired man stood there bleeding, knife in hand. Both were silent. Funniest of all, the man with the gun looked scared, while the man holding the knife looked pissed off beyond reason. The cop’s mouth finally started moving. No doubt something considered and official was about to come out.

A long-haired blonde man burst into the living room, rolling into a crouch behind a sofa. The cop’s gun tracked the movement of this new unknown, leaving the black-haired man uncovered.

His arm rolled forward. The heavy knife sailed through the air. It landed and split the policeman’s throat. A draft of blood sprayed out, partially covering the killer. The cop dropped the gun and fell to the floor. The black-haired man lunged for the gun immediately.

The blonde man leaped out, kicking the gun and knocking it into the corner. His elbow struck the killer’s temple but it had no effect. The killer grabbed him and threw him down, through a wood coffee table. The blond man took a few seconds to get up.

The killer pulled the knife from the cop’s throat. The red spray increased. The black-haired man grinned as he turned, knife in hand.

It was a nightmare picture. The big man had blood flowing and dripping off every inch of his imposing frame. It free-flowed down his face and dripped from his hair. Blood spotted his teeth. His shirt was colored red, but that didn’t matter at this point. His own blood was trickling from his stomach. It didn’t seem to slow him down.

So you’re here. Earlier than I expected. The killer spat blood as he spoke. His smile made the blood flow in a V down his beard and drip off his chin.

The blond man remained silent. He rose from the ground and dropped into a combat stance that Bruce Lee would have approved of. He simply stared at the hulk.

My name is Martino, the killer said. What’s yours, while you’re still capable of speech?

It’s Simon, devil.

Martino laughed. How fitting. Did you just get here, or were you waiting for me?

Simon remained silent.

"You were waiting, weren’t you? You used this family as bait for a trap. Not the most honorable way to do it, eh?"

What do you know of honor?

I know of the concept. I use it when it suits my purpose, as I would anything else. Now I have business to attend to, so I’ll have to kill you. I wish there was more time. Perhaps I should let you live. After all, who else could possibly stop me? What fun would that be?

You’re sick. And whether I live or die isn’t up to you or me. It’s up to Yahweh.

Martino thrust the knife downward. He was trying to sink the blade in an arm or leg but Simon’s limbs danced back.

The killer laughed and slashed high. The knife sliced the air two inches from Simon’s forearm. Martino’s leg shot out to his opponent’s midsection. The knife had been a feint. The blonde man pivoted, spinning to the left. His left hand was flat, the fingers extended and rigid. The knife hand hit the killer’s right arm in a soft spot by the elbow. He struck the nerve perfectly. Martino’s arm flexed and jerked, making him drop the knife. It was a painful nerve ending but the giant only grunted. Giving up on the knife, he retreated a step. Simon pressed forward. Martino tackled him.

By the time the blonde man regained his feet Martino had recovered the knife. Simon saw a leg from the broken table by his foot. He toe-kicked it straight up, catching it with his right hand. The fighters faced each other, weapons in hand.

Stop! A woman’s voice. They both turned. A petite brunette stood in the hallway holding a chrome .357 revolver, her hands steady as her gaze.

Who are you? she asked, scanning the war zone formerly known as her living room. What do you people want? Her gaze flicked to the cop’s body, partially hidden by the grinning gargoyle with the knife, but she didn’t scream. The policeman painting her floor red had no effect.

Martino answered, "I’m here to kill you. He’s here to kill me. Any questions?"

Mrs. Snow pointed her gun at the killer. Two tall boys appeared in the hallway. Their heads poked out first. One held a baseball bat, the other a golf club. The first said, Mom?

She didn’t turn to look at him, gun still trained on the big man.

Boys, listen to me, she answered. "Go get the keys to the Jeep. Drive straight to the police station and wait for me there. Send the cops here. Go."

No, Mom, we’re staying here with-

Hell you are. Don’t worry, Brent. I’ve got the gun. Now go.

The two teenagers backed away. They all heard an engine start and the garage door open. Tires squealed as they drove off.

The three strangers remained silent, looking at each other. Martino grinned, hands on his hips. He looked like a neighbor over to borrow the lawn mower, or perhaps a band-aid. The knife in his hand disproved this notion. The psycho spoke.

Now can we get on to business? Come with me. Your master demands it.

What are you talking about? You’re lucky I don’t shoot you dead where you stand, scumbag. A realization spread across her face. Where is the cop from outside? Did you kill him too? She looked at Simon.

Martino threw the knife. End over end, it spun toward the woman. The knife handle hit her temple and she crumpled to the floor. Martino was at her side as she fell. Simon ran to the opposite corner. Both men rose at the same time, guns in hand. Simon had the cop’s Glock, Martino had the .357. Martino fired first, two shots that made Simon duck down. Martino scooped up the unconscious woman and ran to the front door. Simon fired three shots back but he was too slow. Martino escaped out the door with his living package.

Simon followed. No one was around, the streets empty. The lights were turned off in the front yard. Clouds covered the night sky.

Martino stopped and turned. By the way, Mr. White, I’d like you to meet my friend—

A shadow flashed out of the bushes. Jaws, big and sharp, snapping. Claws slashing at his hands. He couldn’t get the gun up; there was no room. The jaws inched toward his throat.

Simon concentrated on keeping his neck intact but saw Martino carrying Mrs. Snow away.

He finally got smart and dropped the gun. His other hand had been around the dog’s throat, holding it back. The jaws snapped repeatedly, big canines centimeters from his jugular. The dog’s saliva sprayed in his face. Once he had both hands on its neck he squeezed hard. The dog went limp. He didn’t think it was dead, just unconscious. He pushed it off him, muscles protesting. He weighed two hundred pounds but the dog weighed at least one hundred fifty. He got up and grabbed the gun. Martino would be gone by now. He could hear sirens approaching as he staggered away.

He strode on, regaining his strength quickly. The Corvette was three blocks away. He said a prayer for Mrs. Snow as he ran. He had failed. He prayed for another chance.

Chapter 3

The Cadillac drove through the desert on a cloudy, moonless night. Martino would have preferred to drive without the headlights. He knew techniques for seeing far better in the dark than the average person. However, the Cadillac didn’t permit it. The car automatically turned the headlights on in the dark. There was probably a way to disable it. He had only been given the car a week ago, and it had been a busy week. He liked the Cadillac otherwise. He needed lots of leg room.

He also needed a large trunk. Mrs. Snow was in it right now, yelling and kicking. Martino smiled and turned down the Wagner he was listening to. He was trying to make out what she was screaming but couldn’t quite hear it. The Cadillac apparently also had good insulation.

He soon found the old dirt road he wanted. He turned off the highway. It was so dark he could barely see his destination, a large rock hill. It was dotted with caves and small chambers. He had found it and searched it thoroughly years ago. There wasn’t much of the US of A that he hadn’t traveled and studied. He always made a point of knowing places like this, where a person could have some privacy for a few hours. Yet it was important that they be close enough to cities not to be too inconvenient. In modern America, you couldn’t drive around with someone screaming in the trunk for long.

He parked on the far side of the hill and got out. Mrs. Snow stopped yelling when the Caddy was turned off. This amused Martino. He went to the trunk and pressed the release button on his key chain. Predictably, the woman pushed open the trunk and kicked. He caught her foot and twisted, torquing her leg painfully. She yelped before the pain took her breath away. Martino laughed out loud.

He threw her over his shoulder and started walking up the hill. She stopped struggling. There was nothing but desert in sight and no way she could hurt him badly enough to escape. He had sopped up the blood from his face and hair with a towel in the car, but his clothes were still caked with it. The blood was rubbing off onto Mrs. Snow. She didn’t seem bothered. She was more worried about keeping her own blood inside her.

When they were one quarter of the way up the hill, Martino turned right and walked for fifty feet. They came to an opening about ten feet high and six feet wide.

At first it looked like complete darkness to the woman. She didn’t know how he saw where he was going. Momentarily her eyes adjusted and she could see the barest glimmer of light. It was coming from a cavern ahead.

When they reached the light, he set her down on her feet. They were in a small chamber, about twenty feet wide and circular in shape. The ceiling was low, less than eight feet high and uneven, except for the middle of the room. There it opened and went straight up to the top of the hill, about one hundred feet. The tiny light shone into the cavern from the well-like opening. The man took hold