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Something Dangerous I Like	By : Nightspore Category: 1 through F > Charlie's Angels (All) > Charlie's Angels (All) Views: 1718 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Charlies Angels, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Something Dangerous I Like
- 1
SOMETHING
DANGEROUS I LIKE
pan>
JOHN McCADDEN'S RESIDENCE.
NIGHT.
This is my private life /
Come and get me out of here
This is my private life /
There's something dangerous I like . . .

The Loner perched on the roof of
McCadden's cliff house, staring out over the horizon. It was a hot, humid
night, and he found his own small house unbearably oppressive. McCadden had
shown him how to work the air conditioning controls, but the clammy, artificial
chill felt as unpleasant as the heat. In frustration he'd ripped off the
expensive tailored clothing McCadden insisted in dressing him in and took to
high ground seeking a cool breeze.
This far up, he could see far
over the valley to where anvil-shaped thunderheads were building up over the
low hills in the distance. An occasional lance of lightning illuminated them
from within, revealing the complex structure of the otherwise featureless
masses. He could sense the air growing still as the barometric pressure
dropped. The storm would be here before dawn.
The Loner looked up, looked
down. Below, bright lights shining strongly in more or less orderly fashion.
Above, smaller, fainter points of light, further spaced and seemingly chaotic
in layout. He knew the lights below were the city. He snarled, pulling his lips
back as if he'd bitten into something rotten as he thought of all the people
those lights represented. He held up a hand, the long fingers splayed,
nebulously amused as he blocked out a whole neighborhood with a single gesture.
He preferred the lights above.
In the daylight he could see the buildings, roads and cars of the city in the
valley and imagine the people in them, but the daytime sky was empty and blue.
He didn't know where the lights went, or if there were people among them who
disappeared, too. He didn't like the way his thoughts were going. It wasn't
often he was called on to do any deep thinking. Learning commands, yes.
Following orders. But if no one cared to explain something to him, he had no
way of asking questions. Too many things in his world were mysteries he simply
had to accept.
He shifted and stretched out flat, enjoying the way the tar paper
grated under his skin. He let his mind go blank, concentrating on the
freshening breeze playing across his skin, lifting the damp strands of hair from
his forehead. There was something wild in the night air that suited him. The
Loner had been feeling restless lately. It wasn't that he was bored. Far from
it. As McCadden's plans intensified, he'd been kept busy almost every day with
one job or another. But his kills came too easy, unsatisfying. And the Loner
was curious . . . instead of making the kill cleanly and walking away, he now
often gave in to the temptation to mess the corpses over a bit. It intrigued
him how similar they were inside. Oh, there was more or less adipose tissue or
muscle mass, some had corroded livers or blackened lungs, but through their
hearts beat at different paces, it was always to the same rhythm. He pressed
his wrist to his lips, feeling his own slow heartbeat.
It was running a bit faster than
usual. He knew he wasn't supposed to go up to the cliff house except on very
special occasions, and even then he was never unaccompanied. It tore at him
that McCadden was so close but so untouchable. He sometimes seemed to forget
about the Loner for days on end. Yet the Loner couldn't comprehend this, as his
own waking hours were completely saturated in McCadden. He knew it wasn't
allowed, but he could rarely resist peering in at least once a night at
McCadden. Left to his own devices, the Loner was crepuscular, most active at
dawn and dusk, sleeping through both the deepest night and the hottest part of
the day. The last thing he did before settling down for his second sleep was
this little check.
Thinking about the man made him
decide the only thing this fine night lacked was a cigarette. He could scent
one burning to ash, the acrid stench wafting up from a opened window. He made
up his mind to risk going down and swiping it.
The Loner flipped backwards off
the roof, landing on the narrow sill as lightly as if he were buoyed up by
spread wings.
His eyes filtered out the
reflections, polarizing the light. Human-shaped shadows moved within. He went
still, instantly alert.
McCadden was home, and there was
someone in there with him.
The cigarette smell drowned out
the personal scents, but he knew the one shadow was John McCadden. The other
was feminine in outline, and as she passed near a lamp he recognized her. Thin
but muscular, mannish walk, hair in a casual shag. Vivian Wood.
The Loner regarded them with
clinical detachment as McCadden ther her into his arms, pulling her so close
their foreheads touched, one hand stroking her neck, slipping down under the
low neckline of her dress to cup her breast. He tilted his head as their lips
locked in a kiThe The Loner leaned forward until the tip of his nose hit the
glass. He watched them touch each other, waiting for the caresses to turn to
blows, the kisses turn to bites.
But they did not. McCadden and
Wood disappeared into the bedroom. Waiting a moment to be sure they wouldn't
come back out, the Loner pried open the window and slipped inside. He dug his
bare toes into the thick carpeting, looking around at the darkened room. The
cigarette was resting in a marble ashtray on the coffee table. He picked it up
and put it to his mouth, sucking the last few drags from it. It tasted of
champagne and McCadden. The other cigarette was slightly smeared with red
lipstick; it must be Vivian's. That one he left alone.
Disturbing sounds came from the
bedroom, loud cries, the moist slapping of flesh on flesh. The Loner crept over
to the door. It was just slightly ajar. He pushed it open, slipping soundlessly
into the room, and stood at the end of the bed.

He vaulted over her and she
swung the gun up after him a millisecond too late, firing three times into the
ceiling. Dropping his trophy, the Loner executed a forward roll in midair,
reaching down and snatching the gun from her hand as he hurtled past. He
finished with a perfect three-point landing on the far edge of the bed, beside
John. McCadden and Wood froze as he balanced there, turning the Luger
meditatively over and over in his hands.
"Give me the gun,"
McCadden said quietly. He held out his hand.
The Loner grasped it by the
still-smoking barrel, seeming not to mind the heat, and politely handed it to
McCadden grip first.
He took it and broke it, letting
the two remaining bullets fall to the floor, then glanced up at the holes
blasted into his ceiling. The air stank of cordite and scorched metal. He
looked from the red-faced, sneering Wood to the blankly threatening Loner. He
was not in the goddamn mood for this.
These people were supposed to be making his life easier, not more stressful.
"Jesus," Viv said with
a shaky laugh. "Do naked lunatics come jumping through your windows often,
Eric? If that's the case I might have to rethink this fucking
relationship."
The Loner brought his blistered
palm up to his mouth and licked it.
"You," he warned Wood.
"Calm down."
Her eyes widened in outrage.
"My Luger," she said coldly.
He handed it back to her.
"No more taking potshots at fellow employees, babe. It's not good for
morale. Or my ceiling."
Vivian smiled slyly, fully in
possession of herself again. She could sense the situation slipping out of her
control, and that was a very dangerous thing indeed. Despite the shocks of the
past few minutes, she could see McCadden's erection bulging under the sheets.
There was still a way to get her advantage back. She trailed a long-nailed hand
over his chest. "Get rid of him," she whispered.
McCadden hesitated.
The Loner suddenly jerked as if
about to pounce, his hoarse falsetto shriek tearing the air. Vivian reflexively
brought her gun to bear but flinched so hard she tumbled backwards off the bed
in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets.
The Loner settled down again,
throwing back his head and convulsing with his unnatural laughter.
Vivian stood, grabbing up her
clothes and yanking them on in a fury. "Fuck this shit, Eric! I've had
enough!"
McCadden shifted facilely into
his awshucks Eric Knox mode, grinning at her and holding out his hands in a
placating hug-me gesture. "C'mon, can't you take a little joke? Look, I'll
send him home and we can get back to business, sweetheart."
Viv is sweet, all right, he thought, the kind of sweet that rots you from the inside out. Still, she was
vital to his plans. She knew too much - about his plans, about himself - to let
her go off half-cocked. He turned to the Loner, who was still laughing, the
wide grin carved into his face making him look very human, almost goofy.
"Buddy, that was not a
smart move."
John raised his hand to strike
the Loner, but the man caught his wrist in a firm grip and held it. If McCadden
had shown pure, unadulterated fear, the Loner would perhaps have been surprised
enough to let go. But his fear was diluted by anger and alarm and the Loner
simply hung on, feeling the man's pulse revving like the motor of his beloved
Viper V-10. John jerked his hand free, then hauled off and dealt the Loner a
ringing blow on his right ear. His head snapped around with the force of the
punch.
He looked back at McCadden, eyes
watering. The Loner's expression was dazed, even hurt, but did not a raise a
hand again to protect himself.
"Bad. Very bad. Go
home," he commanded, knowing anything more complexly worded would pass
right over the Loner's head when he was in this state. He appeared to be paying
attention - at least, his eyes were pointed in the correct direction - but
there was no other sign of comprehension.
"Go home!"
color:black'>
"There's nothing you can
do about it. It's Chinatown . . . "

The door to the small room swung
open and the two men entered.
"Perfect," John
McCadden enthused. He had gone to pains to make sure Eric Knox's kidnapping
looked authentic. He hadn't bathed, shaved or changed out of his rumpled
clothes for three days.
He sat down on the battered
wooden chair he'd been carrying. The Loner knelt beside him on the concrete
floor, opening his large black leather valise. The man removed a cardboard box
from it and shook out a brof fof fat, black rats. In other circumstances, John
might have had a great career as a production designer for movies. When it came
to atmosphere he left little to chance, and nothing said "squalid"
quite like a pack of rats scampering around in the background. Every nuance of
the set-up was precision tuned for maximum effect.
Take the Loner, for instance.
Even on his own, the man had a creepy intensity that seemed to set off the big
red flashing alarms in most people. McCadden had selected the Loner's outfit to
emphasize his lean angularity, his achromatic coloring, his aura of oddity and
displacement. He would stand out like a hawk among chickens in the crowd of
vapid partygoers tonight, and that was just as it was supposed to be. It was
vital the Angels believe they were fighting for their lives against the
dangerous assassin responsible for kidnapping 'Knox'.
"I don't care if you bruise
them a little, but don't break anything. I need them in working condition,
understand? Leave that damn sword-thing wherever you hid it last,"
McCadden instructed as the Loner unpacked the duct tape, bandannas, and
belts.
"Shoot at them so they
think you mean business. But for god's sake, don't actually hit them,"
McCadden said, then laughed. "What am I worried about? You couldn't hit
the side of a barn in broad daylight. Well, don't hit them accidentally. Aim at them."
The Loner nodded with a touch of
impatience, and gestured for him to place his arms behind his back. John
obliged, and he taped his wrists together, then knelt again before him to do
the same to his ankles.
"And don't do anything stupid. A lot is riding on this."
The Loner jerked the belt he was
strapping to McCadden's thigh much harder than was absolutely necessary, and
glanced up at him. A stray lock had somehow worked loose of the pomade slicking
his hair flat and hung in a fringe over his eyes, giving him a slightly
demented look.
John saw immediately he'd gone
too far. Even at the best of times, the Loner's temper could most charitably be
riberibed as hair trigger. And for some reason lately he had been acting
unusually sullen and resentful. If John didn't know better, he'd say it was
adolescent angst.
A cold chill gripped his bowels
as the Loner stood and leaned close to him, draping one long arm over John's
shoulder. His other hand flicked the hair over John's ears, running his
manicured fingernails lightly over the sensitive rim, then skipping down to
brush up his neck, bending the little hairs there the wrong way, making John
shudder uncontrollably. He leaned forward til his forehead touched McCadden's,
fingertips tracing the curve of the other man's throat.
"Hey," John exclaimed,
startled. "What's up? Cut it out."
His grip around John's shoulders
tightened as he toyed with his shirt front, undoing the topmost button. His
hand slid under the cloth, smoothing over the swell of his pectorals.
John struggled to understand what the Loner meant by mimicking
him. He was dead certain it was a deliberate mocking, not mindless imitation.
Mayhew had told him again and again the thing was highly intelligent despite
its muteness and constellation of atavisms, and that it could communicate quite
effectively when it chose to.
John decided his only chance was
to do something he did very rarely. As soon as the man released him, pulling
back and favoring him with a darkly sardonic grin, John spoke his name. More of
a pet name, really, but the only one he had.
"Loner," he said with
quiet authority. "Listen to me - "
The man pressed his smooth, cool
palm firmly over John's mouth.
Silence, he seemed to say. You
be me and I'll be you. Won't that be fun?
John tried to assure himself he
was imagining things. That couldn't be what it meant. The Loner was merely
following orders, tying him up, and had gotten a bit carried away. He knew that
dte ate appearances, in many ways the Loner was still physically and
psychologically a child. He was emotionally dependant on McCadden.
So what the hell was fueling the
Loner's unexpected insubordination? It hadn't been the hit. He'd beaten the man
to submission many times before. That was merely a warning blow. He recalled
the last time Mayhew had pleaded with him to be gentler to the Loner. He had
been annoying Vivian, not for the first or last time, and McCadden had snapped.
He'd hit the creature with his belt that time, the buckle leaving a gash across
the bridge of his nose and laying open his lower lip.
He called Mayhew to the house to
sew in some stitches. Normally the Loner healed quickly enough not to need
them, but for some reason he kept pawing at his mouth, reopening the wound
every time it scabbed over. Mayhew finished him up in minutes, then began
harping on John as usual.
"What is he going to do,
turn on me," McCadden asked contemptuously.
"Of course not. It can't
turn on you." Mayhew was making those small, twisting movements of his
head, an uncontrollable nervous tic that drove McCadden nuts to watch.
"That's why I'm asking you not to do this. It's completely
unnecessary."
"So? If I'm so cruel, why
doesn't he go home with you? There's no lock on his house."
Mayhew had left then, knowing
full well where the lock was.
Did the Loner's rebellious
behavior have something to do with his relationship with Vivian? They had
disliked each other from the word go, but to John they were such distinct
elements in his games he didn't consider their rivalry as more than amusing, or
occasionally irritating.
Now McCadden wondered if perhaps
the childlike Loner was finally entering whatever passed for adolescence in
him. Mayhew never mentioned such a possibility, but then, the Loner was the
only success he'd ever had. His eventual development was only a matter of
educated speculation on the doctor's part. Mayhew claimed his creation could
not be anything but loyal. But perhaps his loyalty was the unthinking devotion
of a child to a parent, something that a rush of hormones could shatter. And
god alone knew what sort of chemicals were swirling around in the Loner's
mongrel brain. Not only had the man had been tense and moody lately, his
clean-up crew had reported the usually surgically clean kills had begun to get
. . . messy.
It had never occurred to him
before during the creation and training of his pet monster that such
fanatically devoted loyalty could so easily slip into insane jealousy. He
realized he'd done the one thing he should never do - let circumstances render
him completely helpless.
"Stop fucking around and
get going," John urged. "You've got work to do. Now, hustle, dammit.
I don't have time for this shit."
The Loner's grin went lopsided,
pulling down into a half-snarl. His lower lip hslacslack, exposing his bottom
row of teeth. This was not a good sign. He only got that look of vapidity when
he was concentrating very hard on something. It was his own version of the
cartoon lightbulb appearing overhead.
John's mind raced furiously in
several directions at once, trying to retain his outward composure as terror
threatened to drive him over the edge. He was bound and wholly helpless now,
and whatever the Loner wanted to do to him, he could. John remembered the
casual pain he'd inflicted on the creature, the harsh blows that shaped his
training. His own paranoia kicked in, assuring him the Loner had held it in his
soulless heart all this time, waiting for a chance to get him back. Revenge was
something McCadden understood very well.
The Loner cuddled himself
closer, almost sitting in his lap. He pressed his hands hard on either side of
John's face, popping his jaws open. He smashed his mouth on John's, his tongue
whipping out, lashing, a vibrating growl forming deep in his throat.
John bit down as hard as he
could as the Loner forced his rough tongue past his teeth. The man let out a
small cry of pain, but responded by pinching John's nose shut. He held out as
long as he could, but panic sent his heart rate into overdrive, and it was only
seconds before he needed to take a breath.
The Loner's raspy tongue filled
his mouth, his jaws working as it writhed, snaking so far back in John's throat
he was afraid he would gag. As cool as the Loner's skin felt to the touch, his
metabolism was stoked higher than normal, and his tongue burned, his saliva
filling John's mouth like molten lava. Below the foulness of nicotine from the
everpresent cigarettes he could taste something bittersweet, pungently
metallic. He recalled the Loner was a pure carnivore, and, sickened, realized
he must be sharing the raw blood of the man's last meal.
The Loner broke the kiss and
combed his fingers through John's hair again.
He grew very still. He'd never
been the victim of the Loner's odd fetish, and he feared it now. But the Loner
merely gripped a handful of hair and held his head fast as he tied the last
bandanna firmly over McCadden's mouth, pulling it so tight it forced his mouth
agape, saliva leaking out the corners of his lips and soaking the cloth. John
let out a miserable whine. Whatever the Loner planned to do, he was prepared to
start doing it now. He was making sure John could not cry out and bring help.
The man pressed his mouth to
John's neck where it met the shoulder, his teeth sinking into the soft,
unprotected flesh. A fiery tingle shot down his arm and into his chest. John
thed ied in the chair, fighting to get free. The Loner watched him struggle
uselessly for a moment, then licked John's cheek in a placating way. His tongue
was sandpapery in texture, hurting as he lapped the brine of John's nervous
perspiration. Another swipe over his cheek left a raw, tingling patch of skin
behind.
The Loner threw back his head,
polishing his lips with the tip of his tongue. He slid backwards off John's
lap, his head dipping lower so John could no longer see what the man was doing.
He could smell the incongruously floral scent of the pomade damping his dark
hair flat, hear his excited gasps echoing off the bare, concrete walls of the
room.
A sudden draft in his trousers
informed him exactly what the Loner's intentions were. He'd trained the man too
well, it seemed.
John tried again to pull away,
but suddenly the impact of his own arousal hit him like a pickaxe in the head.
It might have been unwanted, but that didn't make it any less good. The dizzy
sensation flowed from his head to his loins, and it was mixed with a fear and
tight longing he hadn't known in years. The room seemed to tilt crazily and
spin, his body flung helpless up a sort of ascending spiral of ecstasy as the
Loner's abrasive tongue scoured the length of him, curling prehensily around
the head of his cock, teasing, bringing as much pain as it did pleasure. It had
never been like this between them - John defenseless, the Loner in control.
A steady warmth massaged him,
deliciously, slowly, as if he were some creature of the ocean feeling the pull
of the tide for the first time, rolling over him in waves of sugar and spice
and everything nice . . . or whatever the hell the Loner was made of.
John was seized by a memory he'd
successfully repressed for almost two decades.
Things had been bad since Daddy left and never came
back. The military refused to hand over bereavement pay, and Mom never told him
why. She was a wreck, her occasional social drink degenerating into grieving
alcoholism that left her unable to hold down more than the most menial of
minimum wage jobs cleaning rooms at a seedy motel. She couldn't even spare the
money to ride the bus to work, instead walking forty minutes every day to and
from. That left John with plenty of alone-time on his hands.
And his hands were busily occupied, his fingers
dancing over the woodgrained black keyboard with a deft delight he showed in no
other activity, intent on the blocky orange letters popping up like magic on
the screen.
He'd kludged the computer together from various parts
he bought from Radio Shack, others he traded for fixing his rich classmate's
computers, many of which he'd scavenged from trash cans or outright stole. His
almost instinctual expertise with computers was his one ticket out of the slum.
He only stayed in school to have access to the primitive computer lab there. As
soon as he graduated, he was going to apply to IBM. College was out of the
question, of course. His mom kept badgering him to take a job at McDonald's and
contribute to the family, but he sullenly ignored her pleading. He needed to
reserve his nights for working on his homemade computer.
There was a loud pop from the back of the machine,
and the screen rolled, went blank. John sighed. The computer was as good as he
could make it, but the hodgepodge of Wang, IBM, and lesser-known parts often
refused to work together. He dug into his pocket, wondering if he had enough
spare change to warrant a quick trip down to Radio Shack. Probably not, but he
was known as a steady customer there. He could buy something cheap and take the
opportunity to slip the part he needed into his pocket. He'd long ago stopped
feeling guilty about that. No one had ever given him anything. In fact, all the
world had done was take, take, take, so why should he care if he did a little
taking right back?
He walked down the abandoned, filthy streets, stewing
in hatred. He hated the city, the sodden heat of the summer, the poverty and
filth and despair. He longed to be anywhere but here.
tyletyle='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'> He took a drag on his cigarette, tilting his head
back and blowing the smoke out between pursed lips. What would his mother say
if she saw him smoking? Sure, her own clothes reeked like an ashtray, but she
would spout off at him at the drop of a hat. He tossed the butt into the
darkness, watching the glowing unfiltered tip wink out with regret. That was
the last of those for a while. He'd bummed so many from his friends that he was
beginning to get a bad reputation.
"Hey, litterbug."
They stepped out of the shadows on cue, five of them:
three Latino, one white, one black. How sweet, a fucking rainbow of
brotherhood, John thought despairingly
as he slowly backed up. "I don't have any money," he said, wincing as
he heard his still-changing voice slide up in pitch.
"Now don't go all runnin' off so fast. Did I say
I wan' your money? No," the tallest punk grinned, displaying crooked,
broken teeth. "Me an' my frens, we jus' wanna teach you a lesson 'bout
civic pride."
John pictured himself left broken and bleeding on the
pavement. Maybe stuck in a wheelchair all his life in his mother's tiny, dingy
apartment and never, ever getting out.
A silver Lincoln Continental pulled up beside him and
the passenger side door swung open.
"Get in, kid. Hurry the fuck up!"
John was in no hurry to question this deliverance. He
flung himself in and slammed the door shut. The automatic locks clicked home
and the car lurched and squealed away, leaving the catcalling punks in its
wake.
At first it was all John could do to control his
breath, keep it from breaking into embarrassing, hysterical sobs. He leaned
back, savoring the cool blast of the car's AC, the new-leather smell of the
padded seats.
"Boy your age shouldn't be out on a night like
this," his rescuer said.
"Thanks," he mumbled.
Something warm and soft slid into John's lap,
caressing. His eyes popped open and he sat up straight.
"I can think of a better way you can thank
me," the driver said quietly.
John glanced over at him. He was in his forties, not
very tall and rather heavyset, but there was something compelling about his
features, the pale blue eyes that glanced towards him with fevered intensity.
He stared at the man in amazement, blushing.
Even at fifteen, he had not been what would be
considered good looking except in the new-minted way of most adolescents. But
his waifish lack of height and smooth, rounded face made him look years younger
than his actual age, and there was a certain appeal in his awkwardness, his
guileless cocker spaniel puppy eyes. For some, like Gavin Knox, it was
temptation enough.
The man removed his hand, slid it into his jacket
pocket and drew out a sheaf of bills.
John thought about the computer. The fan was
underpowered, and it had been heating up badly every time he turned it on,
little wisps of plcy-scy-smelling smoke wafting up from the back. No doubt it
was only days away from frying the motherboard completely. If it died, he was
screwed. The CPU was the most expensive thing in it. He could never afford a
new one, and it was too large to shoplift.
He nodded.
That was the first of many encounters with Knox. John
hated every second of it, but he quickly learned to swallow his disgust and
revel in the power he had over the man. Despite his greater age and wealth,
Knox was completely dependant on him. All it would take was a few words to the
right authorities and John could have brought his life tumbling down around his
ears. But he had no desire to do so. After his mother died, beaten to death by
some random maniac as she trudged home from work one night, Knox used his
influence to legally adopt John. He changed his name to Eric, desiring to leave
his old life completely behind him. It was soon after the adoption became legal
that he began gradually slipping arsenic into the older man's coffee.
It was six months 'til the bastard finally gave up
the ghost and expired of what the authorities assumed to be a heart attack.
There was no investigation, and even if there had been, the primitive forensics
of the day would have been unable to pick up the minute but cumulative traces
John had used. By then he had written himself into Knox's will, and after the
funeral found himself at the tender age of eighteen holding the reins of a
successful computer company. It was the beginning of Knox Technologies . . .
John was jerked abruptly back to
the present as the Loner clamped his hands down hard on his shoulders, throwing
back his head and letting out a frightening shrill howl. It reverberated
piercingly off the walls of the long, narrow room. He screwed his eyes shut,
certain the next thing he would feel was the Loner's teeth tearing out his
throat.
But instead, the man laid his
head again in McCadden's lap. He squirmed furiously, outraged all over again.
He was not some animal's chew toy. He was not a poor, desperate kid anymore.
The Loner glanced up, his watercolor blue eyes expectant.
Somehow, John managed to catch
the bandanna between his teeth and shouted, "LONER! NO!"
The Loner's ground-glass tongue
finally withdrew, his grasp relaxing.
The deed was done.
John sagged, his face drawn and
ashen. He felt numb. His mind barely registered the feel of the Loner's cool
fingers buttoning him up again, brushing the cloth of his trousers and plucking
at his dinner jacket to rumple it back into place. He readjusted the bandanna
so it covered John's mouth again. Then he turned, grabbed a pipe and yanked it
from the wall. Filthy sewage water spewed from the pipe, slowly flooding the
room. The rats, squeaking indignantly, clambered up on McCadden's shoes to
escape the rising tide. It was a nice final touch. Even through his haze of
anger, John couldn't help but admire it. Then he walked around behind McCadden,
who stiffened, wondering what came next.
But all the Loner did was drop
the plank into the brackets, barring the door. He strolled back, daintily
skirting the rapidly filling pool of water. The mad, giddy excitement
evaporated from his expression, leaving behind the haughty look that was the inevitable
byproduct of his strange, severe features. He surveyed McCadden with a long,
considering glance, his blue eyes faintly luminous in the dim light. The man's
true emotion was perfectly unreadable as always.
The Loner picked up the last
bandanna and tied it around McCadden's eyes, somewhat looser than the one
around his mouth. At last he stepped back, then solicitously reached out and
brushed a few stray strands of hair from John's forehead. His gentleness was
almost as grotesque as his ravaging.
With an impossible, muscle-stretching
leap, the Loner disappeared into the tiny ventilation shaft set high in the
wall, near the ceiling. John was sure that when he arrived outside to join the
party undercover as Roger Corwin's star driver Del Layne, his hair and suit
would be as impeccable as when he entered.
For a wild moment, John imagined
what would happen if the assassin went rogue. He was at the strange man's
mercy, and he knew damn well the concept of mercy was completely alien to the
Loner. No one but he and McCadden himself knew where he had set up the phony
rescue, not even Vivian. He tormented himself with a mental picture of the
Loner holding him prisoner here, returning every once in a while to feed and
play with him, keeping him locked up safe as his own private toy . . . much the
way McCadden had been keeping the Loner, in fact.
But that was patently
ridiculous. Tonight had been a momentary lapse, that was all. He was still in
control. For all his intelligence and ferocity, at heart the Loner was still
nothing more than a very sophisticated trained animal. And McCadden was the one
with the whip. Every lion tamer carried a few scars, but that didn't change who
jumped through the flaming hoops and who held the keys to the cage.
McCadden did not truly
understand the Loner, though. Revenge was his own lifesblood, the one thing
that had fueled him all these years. But the Loner was as innocent of that sort
of machination as he was of so many things. It was simply that McCadden's loss
of control that night had frightened him as much as it did John. In his
abnormal mind, things had gone back to the status quo, with McCadden in charge.
Exactly the way it had always been, exactly the way he liked it.
John McCadden settled back to
await the arrival of his delivering Angels.

*end*
- 1
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