Chronic fear

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Mark had always wondered about that phrase “seeing red.”

Red was the color of blood and passion and fire, the strongest impulses of the human mind, the devil’s color. But this red that consumed him was beyond the mind, seeping from some hidden ancestral fountain. He felt simultaneously more and less human, a stack of stupid clay sparked to life by a lurid puppet master.

Slinking through the woods at dawn had stirred primal hunting instincts, and as he approached the gunfire, his anxiety and excitement grew. Common sense should be begging him to flee, but he knew sense had been burned out of him more than a year ago. He’d entered law-enforcement training partly out of a desire to protect Alexis from the unknown future, but the deeper truth was he craved the adrenaline high of that night in the Monkey House, the cat-and-mouse game of survival, and the simplest challenge of defeating pain, madness, and death itself.

Now the fucking monkey is locked and loaded.

The last gunshot had been a good hundred yards to the north, where lush oak trees dotted the ridge, so he felt relatively secure. But maybe the seeping, creeping redness had already clouded his judgment, because when he came around the moss-mottled stand of granite boulders to discover a man in a green jumpsuit, turned away and holding a blunt rifle, his first instinct wasn’t to question the man, or yell “Police! Drop your weapon!” like that old bastard Frady Cat had taught him.

No, the red filled him up and became him, and the Glock was up and working, pah pah pah, just like he was shooting at a cardboard cutout on the range.

The man jerked in surprise, his sunglasses dropping away to reveal eyes turned up to heaven. Then he squealed and slumped to the ground, the rifle tumbling away into last winter’s leaves.

The redness swelled until it burst from his lungs, and when he heard the triumphant roar echo off the rocks and trees, he mistook it for some rampaging wild animal. But the raw pain in his throat made him realize he’d been the one releasing that inhuman noise.

And just as suddenly, the red dimmed, and he was standing over the warm corpse, realizing he’d given away his position to the other gunmen.

And killed a man. Oh, yes, Mark, you certainly diddle-diddly-did. And don’t even pretend you have any remorse. Because you loved it. This is how you were made, and the rest was just for show.

The cabin was below, and Roland’s white Jeep was parked nearby, on the uneven, scruffy lawn. From this vantage point, the gunman could have picked off anyone running from the cabin to the Jeep. They were probably holed up inside, if they were lucky. Mark called to them while taking cover between two thick hardwoods.

There was no answer at first, and Mark knew he couldn’t stay in one place. He didn’t know how many gunmen there were, but the origins of the shots suggested at least two.

He backpedaled and checked the pockets of the dead man’s jumpsuit, finding a two-way radio, a fancy cell phone of a brand he didn’t recognize, and nothing else but a clip of bullets for the rifle. This guy had come outfitted for only one purpose.

The victim’s face was white with the shock of death. Three glistening brownish-red dots pocked his rib cage, in the section where the center circle would be on a cardboard target. Frady would be pleased.

You don’t know who this is or who he’s with.

Mark laughed, like the chattering of some exotic, displaced bird. And the same could be said of you, Officer Morgan.

Mark glanced at the fallen rifle. It was an automatic weapon of the sort restricted to military and security agencies-or anybody working the wrong side of the street with decent connections and cash.

Mark was tempted by the MP5, but decided he’d be better off with the weapon he was trained to use. He scuttled across the leafy slope, working his way toward the opposite ridge where he’d heard the most recent shot.

Mark was glad he’d left Alexis in the car. Because, once in a while, a man just got in the mood to kill.