The Meridians(66)

Scott could see instantly that the alleyway was too narrow to admit the car. He would have to go on foot.

He reached over into the glove compartment of his car, flipped it open, and withdrew the gun he kept in there. Obtaining a concealed weapon permit in Idaho was much easier than it was in many states, especially if the applicant was an ex-cop whose family had been butchered by an unknown fugitive still-at-large. So Scott had made sure that he kept the gun in his car at all times. Not that he had ever planned on meeting up with Mr. Gray while driving, but he also didn't intend to be stripped of his protections just because he no longer had his badge.

So he withdrew the gun, opened the door, and ran after Mr. Gray.

And entered Hell.

The alley wasn't what he had expected. Most alleys in Meridian were pristine as the rest of the town, but this one was filthy and clogged with detritus. It was more the kind of alley he would have expected to see in....

"Oh, no," he whispered. "Please, God, no."

Somehow, he was back in the alley. The alley. He knew it instantly; it had featured in most of his nightmares for the last eight years. He could see every aspect of it in his mind at any time, and here it was, reproduced to perfection. Only this time the alley was not located in the safe though disquieting recesses of his mind, it was somehow, impossibly, real.

Scott felt the gun drop from his nerveless fingers as he tried to quell the scream that even now wanted to rise up within him; wanted to rip itself free from his throat and never, ever stop.

"Neat trick, eh?" said a voice at his elbow.

And Scott did scream then, a small shout that came out of him without meaning to, as he spun around.

And saw Mr. Gray.

Scott stooped for his gun immediately, but the weapon was gone.

Mr. Gray held it up.

"I've learned a few things over the years, Cowley," he said. His tone was light and airy, but his face was twisted in rage and madness. The coexistence of such radically different expressions in voice and face were almost as disquieting as anything else that was going on. To see such warring feelings was to see madness incarnate, something that Scott had hoped never to witness again.

But there it was. Right in front of him and dressed in a gray suit, with eyes that glimmered with insanity once hidden but now brought out into the open by whatever forces had so aged the killer in the eight years since the death of Scott's family.

And even that was wrong. The killer even looked wrong. The last time that Scott had seen him was in the ride from Los Angeles to Meridian, the night that Mr. Gray had appeared as a black dog and chased him through the night before then turning into the form of an old man. Six years had passed since that night, six years that had added lines to the corners of Scott's eyes and pulled his hairline back bit by bit.

But Mr. Gray had not aged any further. That was not to say that he looked the same as he had on the night that he had warned Scott to stay away from Meridian. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had changed, and changed radically. But where Scott had changed by aging, the gray man seemed to have reverted in age to a younger, more vibrant appearance. He looked like he had shed the very years that Scott had gained. Still an old man, but no longer as old as he had been on the night of the move.

And his nose, earlier a mass of gnarled and broken bone, was straight and unblemished. The wounds on his face were also gone, disappeared as though they had never been. He was old, but unmarked by the scars that had earlier appeared on his face.

Mr. Gray spun Scott's gun in his grasp like an old-fashioned gunfighter, flicking it in a tight series of circles that ended with the gun pointing at Scott's forehead.

Scott prepared himself for the end. This was not like any of the other meetings he had had with the assassin. There was only one way that this could end. But Scott was damned if he was going to go out screaming or pleading or crying. If he was to die here, he was going to die on his feet, dignified and tall.

Mr. Gray laughed contemptuously as Scott drew himself up to his full height.

"Don't be an idiot, Cowley," he said, and laughed again, a strangely mirthless laugh that brought no warmth, but only left frost behind on Scott's soul. He brought the gun up, but did not pull the trigger.

At least, not yet.

"I just wanted to show you what I can do," said the killer. "Last time I don't think I got to show you my power, I don't think you appreciated me properly." Another laugh.

Scott's eyebrows arched upward in surprise. This man, this monster, had killed his family and was now probably going to kill him, too, and he wanted to make sure that Scott appreciated him? What the hell kind of person was this?

He's insane, Scott thought. Don't try to make sense of the things he says, or you'll just end up as crazy as he is.

"You didn't show me your power?" asked Scott, letting his incredulity show in his voice. "You turned into a dog for God's sake."

Mr. Gray's mad grin faltered for a moment. "A dog?" he said, and Scott saw something unexpected on the man's face. Anger he expected. Even the man's sense of narcissism was not completely unusual in people who chose killing as a life's work. But Scott did not expect to see confusion. And more than that, the gray man looked stunned for a moment, as though it was Scott who had suddenly taken leave of his senses.

His next words even confirmed that idea. "You're not going crazy on me, are you?" asked Mr. Gray. "Finally killing you won't be nearly as fun if you don't know what's going on."