Pierce: Shipment Received

I have the package. Thank you for doing the right thing. I never believed that you had any intention of actually creating the virus using the formula, but it was simply far too dangerous to go another moment with it out in the open as it could have fallen into the wrong hands.

I realize that we didn't have the most pleasant of introductions, so let's begin again. For the purposes of this archive you can call me Agent Pierce. Three years ago I became aware of Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida's "studies" in Atlanta, where he had insinuated himself into the workings of the Centers For Disease Control. I suspected that together with his assistant Mr. Tanaka, Yoshida was merely using the Centers' data for his own purposes, that of creating a new virus for use as a weapon. The information I possessed had been gained through means that were unsuitable for use in court, and my superiors were uninterested in pursuing the case as strongly as I was, mainly because they couldn't comprehend the science and because frankly if the alleged perpetrator isn't of Middle Eastern decent they tend to be indifferent these days.

Nevertheless I continued steadily attempting to build a case, and just when I thought I had him locked in he was killed in the hit and run crash. I did what I could to find whatever work he may have left behind, and after reading these archives I see that his son Kisho knew there was a hidden repository, though he obviously was in no hurry to recover them, not knowing what they were and having little interest in what he believed was his father's work. I believe it was simply Kisho's natural contrariness that led him to keep this information to himself, not a desire to do harm to others.

Since then the case remained dormant as there were no further leads. Still, I made sure that I kept my ears out should I have misjudged Kisho's involvement. Though he had only just turned eighteen, I made arrangements to be made aware should he say key words over the phone. That's when I was alerted to the call from Miss Stroud and from there your activities have been quite pronounced.

Mr. Howland, based on everything I've seen and read, I tend to believe in your innocence. That in mind, I'm not sure a judge and jury would see it the same way, especially down in Georgia. I'm officially recommending that you turn yourself in. Officially and for the record, I believe you should do that, and when I finish sending this post I will be notifying the authorities down in Texas as to your whereabouts (you did mention these time-stamps aren't working, didn't you?). With the new, falsified I.D.'s in your possession and your significant resources you might be able to escape. My only hope is that the two of you don't charter a small plane from an independent airfield and fly to another state as that would make the manhunt far more difficult. From there you could press on to one of the coasts and rent a Learjet, making your way to the Pacific where you could, with luck, locate the murder weapon. Officially, this would be tragic. Worst of luck to you.

As to all the absolute insanity that I've read in these pages, I can't imagine what's true and what isn't. It's abundantly clear that you believe it, and it ties together loosely with the facts I've gathered on my own, but I'm reserving judgment.

That being said, for the sake of finding this "Magician" and the man calling himself Hollis, I believe we should proceed as if it were true. While Josh and Mary focus on recovering the knife, I think we should be proactive. Leonard/Leopold mentioned a number of names (which I've run through databases and come up with nothing) but he also mentioned a place. He spoke of a man named "Taras" in Kiev. Kiev isn't that large a city, so I believe we should send someone in to see if we can find him. I have a man in mind, though he should only be given a code that will allow him to post, not read what has already been written here. This "Taras" was mentioned in the same breath as Hollis, so I'm going to assume that he is staggeringly dangerous. Regardless, this Magician and Hollis have always picked the time and place of our encounters, so I believe it's about time we turned the tables.

Opinions? Ideas?

Josh: You Can't Tell The Players Without A Scorecard, So I'm Making A Scorecard

Okay, time out. I feel like events are absolutely spinning out of control here and I need to get a handle on them. To recap and provide a time line (and correct me if any of this is out of whack, I may not be entirely accurate as I was just blown up last night):

-Over a decade ago, Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida and his assistant Tanaka begin experimenting with the Rabbit Calicivirus on Wardang Island, Australia, secretly releasing the infected test-subjects onto the continent and wiping out ninety-five percent of the rabbit population. He does this as a dry run to see how the virus would work if adapted for humans.

-Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida moves to Atlanta, Georgia and gains access to the Centers For Disease Control, or CDC (at right. Put up a boring, official government seal, eh, Mary? Well, two can play at that game!) This allows him to work to perfect the human Calicivirus strain with financial aid from (and I still find this just about impossible to believe) my father, Scott Howland.

-As Shigekazu and Tanaka are about to fly back to Japan with the formula that will essentially kill all human life on Earth, their car is hit by a semi truck. Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida is killed instantly while Tanaka is dragged off into the backwoods of a small town called Hollis Crossroads by The Old Man (I'm just going to go ahead and capitalize it. I thought of calling him "The Southern Gentleman" or "Colonel Sanders" or something, but frankly having dealt with him first-hand I'm way too terrified of him to get cute with a nickname). The Old Man rams a chisel into Tanaka's spine to paralyze him from the neck down, then spends the next year (!) teaching him to speak English.

-Meanwhile, six months or so later in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a semi truck broadsides my parent's car, killing my father Scott and paralyzing my mother Cynthia from the neck down. This is the one that I cannot wrap my head around. The deliberate act six months before was to paralyze Tanaka... the random act six months later paralyzes my mother in precisely the same way.

-The aftermath of the attack is witnessed by Mrs. Justina Walentowicz, who just happens to be one of, if not the luckiest Bingo player in the state (B.I.N.G.O., B.I.N.G.O., B.I.N.G.O. and B.I.N.G.O. was his name-O. Good, hopefully now it's stuck in your head, too).

-My mom and I start investigating the crash, hiring Mary Stroud, a P.I. from Madison, Wisconsin. Mrs. Walentowicz gets interviewed a couple of times, then she's horrifically murdered, her head pulled down into her abdomen and up through a hole cut in her stomach. In her smiling mouth is a photograph of the semi truck she thought she saw drive away from the crash. Pushed up and into her brain is a freshly amputated rabbit's foot infected with the Calicivirus.

-In researching the rabbit's foot and trying to narrow down where it came from, we contact Wardang island and acquire the number for Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida's son, Kisho. In addition to having a charming, bubbly personality, Kisho is set to identify the virus of that particular rabbit's foot and determine which continent it came from (and by the way, I'm ready to just call that one over and say it came from Wardang Island. Test away, but I have no doubt). In conversation with Kisho, we find out about his father and the semi truck attack.

-I fly down to Atlanta to get Shigekazu's notes on what we think are the rabbit Calicivirus and also to poke around a bit and get more information on his murder. Mary stays in Milwaukee to keep in touch with Detective Ward, the officer in charge of the Walentowicz case, and also secretly to investigate my family, her own employers (sneaky monkey).

-While recovering Shigekazu's research, a man with an Australian accent leaves me a note giving an address in a small town called Hollis Crossroads and a reference to Tanaka. Meanwhile, Mary discovers that my father wrote Shigekazu a check for three million dollars.

-Sh*t gets weird in Hollis Crossroads to say the very least. What up until this point I considered to be a murder investigation turned into an absolute horror show. So much happened out at that damn house I think I'm going to spend years unraveling it and undoubtedly trying to suppress it. The Old Man killed my bodyguard and essentially framed me for it, Tanaka was unknowingly covered with centipedes (and was there special meaning behind that? I mean, it was beyond creepy and gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it, but did they have some significance beyond that?) and The Old Man's assistants killed Tanaka and themselves all while wearing the same smile Mrs. Walentowicz had (I believe I called it one part amused, one part amazed and one part batsh*t crazy. I'm standing by that description). Finally, we learned beyond a shadow of a doubt that I way-overuse parentheses (true).

-Finally, The Old Man was humming the bingo song (was his name-O) which, along with the matching smiles reminded us of poor Mrs. Walentowicz. Mary called her daughter, found out just how awesome a bingo player she really was and learned that she had been given a special offer to join a retirement community for great bingo players only: a rest home that just happened to be located in Hollis Crossroads. Mary and I are going to go and check it out tonight under the pretense of a married couple considering putting her mother in the home.


The thing I can't stop thinking about is the fact that the murderer driving the semi (Let's just call him The Driver from now on, k?) who killed both my and Kisho's father probably saved the world by doing so. Whoever he is, he and The Old Man are cold-blooded murderers and utter monsters... but are they really the good guys here? I'm going to do my best to bring them to justice, but is that even really the right thing to do?

Also, things happened at that house that I cannot begin to explain. Was most of it a trick somehow? A carefully crafted illusion? Or was it something more? If it was... if it was really what I think it was, then what chance do we have?

Okay, I feel more up to speed. Not better, particularly, but more up to speed. Time in.

Josh: The Old Man

This post has my name in the title, but Mary is playing secretary and taking dictation for me as my injuries tend to make typing difficult. We made it to Atlanta and have checked in to a different hotel (The Ritz-Carlton) under Mary's name, as mine might draw the wrong kind of attention. It's almost midnight and I'm beyond exhausted, but I have to get this down before the details escape me.

It's been the longest twenty-four hours of my life, so strap in, this is going to take a while to tell. If you don't believe it, I absolutely understand, because I was there, I saw it happen and even I'm skeptical.

A note on format: there's quite a bit of "dialog" in here, and both Mary and I have been struggling with how to write that out in these posts. We've sort of been putting it in "book form", where we just write down what people said as if you were reading it in a story. It's certainly weird to do when it's your own life, but I think both of us feel that it puts you (the reader) more in our position, and lets you know what events were actually like. Obviously, these are our impressions and recollections of what was said- it's not like we're remembering conversations verbatim, so don't take every word as Gospel. It's a work in progress, so if anyone has a suggestion for a better way to do it, let me know. I might mess around with a screenplay format and see if that works, I don't know-

(How long will you be stalling before you get to what happened, Josh?- Mary)

Mary wrote that. Cruel woman, taking advantage of the non-typing infirm. Fine, here we go.

Last night after I finished posting I drove my rental car over to the offices of Executive V.I.P. Security in downtown Atlanta, filled out seemingly a dozen forms and underwent a credit check. They were (rightfully) concerned about the fact that I needed a bodyguard on such short notice, and that my description of my situation was both menacing and vague. Finally, upon receiving a sizable "hazard pay" bonus but still with obvious reservations they assigned me a bodyguard and sent us on our way.

My bodyguard was black, bald, squat and without anything resembling a neck. He was only about six feet in height, but seemed equally wide, and I was thankful I'd decided to rent a luxury sedan instead of a compact. His name was Adalius, and any thoughts I had about him being all brawn and no brain were dispelled on the walk to the car.


ADALIUS: So, what... you a rich white boy like to dress down in flannel and jeans and all that sh*t so you don't look rich and seem like just another dude, huh? Probably got all that liberal white guilt about black folk, am I right? Sh*t, I know I'm right, baby.

ME: That's not bad.

ADALIUS: You need me to drive?

ME: I guess not.

ADALIUS: Fire it up, then. See, I knew if I said, "You need me to drive", you'd be all like, "Uh... I better say I don't because otherwise it'll seem like a racial thing", even though you really did want me to drive, probably 'cause I know Atlanta and you don't.

Me: Actually, why don't you drive-

ADALIUS: It's too late for that sh*t, motherf*cker, you driving. (Laughs) I'll work the radio, you don't know these stations, know what I mean? You probably want to smoke some reefer, too, all that flannel. You got any weed?

Me: (Starting the car) Uh, no... not on me-

ADALIUS: I know where we can hook you up. Drive, baby, I got your back. You with Adalius now, you ain't got sh*it to worry about.


We drove for a good hour and a half in the darkness, rolling out of Atlanta and southwest toward Alabama. The expressway gave way to a two-lane highway, which then became a simple asphalt road, the streetlights becoming more and more sparse. Adalius spent his time punching buttons on the radio, trying to find the R&B stations that had the furthest range and regaling me with stories of the time he did security for rapper Jay-Z and witnessed first hand the greatest sight he had ever been blessed to see.


ADALIUS: Beyonce's booty is more than just a physical manifestation of perfection, baby- that sh*t is supernatural! That ass got its own aura, know what I mean? Goddamn, did this road just turn into dirt? It's a good thing I'm packing, know what I mean? These rednecks ain't particularly fond of black folks, especially not one as pretty as me. Tell me again how this ain't a drug deal.

ME: This is not a drug deal.

ADALIUS: F*ck you, it ain't. If this is a drug deal, I'm joining their side, you know what I mean? Don't f*ck me on this, Josh.

ME: I swear to God this is not a drug deal. Honestly, I don't really know what it is. I'm just here to get some answers, that's all.

ADALIUS: This shit is dangerous, I can feel it.

ME: Maybe. If I didn't think it could get weird, I wouldn't have hired you, right?


He nodded uneasily, leaning forward in his seat to squint out into the darkness. One bend in the road later, we drove up to the address, a once-majestic three-story home with peeling paint and moss creeping up past the first floor windows. All the shades were drawn, though we could see faint light from inside around the edges. We got out of the car silently, keeping the headlights on and pointed toward the front door. The only sound was the muffled chittering of bugs and our own, nervous breathing. I started walking slowly toward the house, Adalius falling in behind me.

The porch was slanted and half-rotted, a rusty hatchet inexplicably stuck into the hand-rail. I put a hesitant foot down on the first step, listened as it creaked ominously and stepped back quickly. Then I cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted, "Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?"

There was a pause, then from inside the house came a frantic, terrified yell. "Help! Help me, I beg you! Help! Help!" The words came with a thick Japanese accent and just kept coming, the cries for help continuing on and becoming more frightened.

I looked back at Adalius to see him shaking his head. "F*ck that. Cop time." he said, and pulled out his cellphone. He grit his teeth, muttering, "No signal. You?" I checked the Blackberry and couldn't dredge up a hint of a connection.


ADALIUS: I ain't no S.W.A.T. team. This ain't my thing.

ME: You can hear him. That guy's not faking. Come on, we'll go in together. I don't like it either, but... (motions toward the direction of the voice)

ADALIUS: (Pauses as we listen to the cries for help) F*ck it, then. Alright. Take that hatchet.

ME: What?

ADALIUS: Take the blade. I can't watch your back and do this at the same time. Back me up or I'm sitting my ass in the car.


He pulled his gun, a small, black automatic pistol while I wrenched the hatchet out of the porch's soft wood. The hatchet may have been rusty and old, but a quick, painful run of my thumb across its edge told me it was razor sharp. Out of the corner of my eye I saw either a small rodent or a large insect scurry off the edge of the porch as Adalius gingerly walked up the steps. I yelled, "We're coming! Hold on!"

Immediately we heard, "Thank you! Thank you! I am here! Be careful, he's-" the voice stopped, muffled, and Adalius and I exchanged looks. He grit his teeth, took the safety off his pistol and warily proceeded over the threshold, pushing the front door aside with his free hand. The foyer was dark and smelled of mold, funneling down into a long, straight hallway lined with darkened doorways. The layout of the house was unusual, the three-story quasi-mansion at some point long ago seemingly having been converted into a now mostly-vacant boardinghouse. At the end of the corridor we saw light coming from under doors on the left and right. All was quiet except for the groaning of the floorboards underneath our feet. We glanced on either side of us through the open doorways into the first rooms, but both were pitch dark.

As Adalius passed the first set of darkened doors, I saw a figure dart out of the room on the right, and before I could react he grabbed me from behind, one arm crossed over my chest, the other locked down onto my right hand, clenching over my fingers and keeping my grip tight on the hatchet. I let out a stunned gasp and Adalius turned around, his look annoyed. "What-" I was tossed around like a doll-like one of those stuffed dance partners used to teach the tango. Whoever was behind me pulled back my hand and with sudden, startling ferocity swung the hatchet into Adalius' skull, the blade smashing down and burying itself up to the hilt in his brain.

He fell with heavy thud and clatter, and whoever held me released me suddenly, pushing me into the doorway on the left with surprising gentleness. I stood in the darkness, stunned, reeling and cradling my right wrist. It was either sprained or broken, but before I could determine which I saw my attacker bend down and drag Adalius' body effortlessly out of the front door and down the porch steps. Staggering back into the hallway shell shocked and petrified with fear, I felt my foot kick something heavy and small, and knew immediately what it was. I reached down with my left hand, picked up Adalius' pistol and weaved my way back outside.

Adalius' killer had pulled his body down to the ground, where it lay in an awkward heap, illuminated by the rental car's headlights. The killer stood over him, silhouetted by the beams, but even by his shadow I could tell that his hand was darting into his jacket. "Don't!" I yelled, the gun firing mostly by accident. I shot wide-right, a puff of dirt jetting up from the ground behind him. Gunsmoke hung in the air between us, and I could see him slowly pull out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. When I shot at him he hadn't flinched at all.

His voice came out in a thick Southern drawl, all deep honey and molasses. "I see you found the hatchet." He lit a match and took a long drag off the cigarette, the flame illuminating his face in the darkness. I was astonished to see that he was old, at least sixty, his face deeply lined and his hair pure white. He wore a rumpled suit and tie, the fresh blood spattering his cuff seeming to glow in the glare of the headlights. "I thought you might. I do want you to know that it was never my intention to injure your wrist. My apologies, son. We are not perfect, much as we wish we were." His smile was somehow mocking and sincere at the same time, and as I tend to relate every real-life experience back to movies and TV, it felt for all intents and purposes like I was being f*cked with by Matlock.

"Why..." I stammered, my voice thick. "Who are you, and why-"

"Mr. Tanaka is waiting for you, Mr. Howland. He has waited quite a while. Would you care to adjourn inside?" He waved toward the house with his cigarette, the gesture both languid and theatrical.

I thought a moment, then nodded, motioning for him to go first. He did, sauntering across the dirt in front of the porch and up the stairs past me. I kept the gun pointed at his back the entire time, careful to keep my finger off the trigger to avoid a repeat of my accidental firing earlier. We walked down the hallway and he turned to the last door on the left, opening it. The light from the room hit him, and I was astounded to see that he was only about five and a half feet tall with a slight build. He strode inside with me right behind him, and I openly gaped when what I saw reminded me of home.

A Japanese man I assumed was Tanaka laid in a bed covered by a brown, stained, thick, paisley-patterned comforter. The walls were covered in ancient, striped wallpaper and there was a cheap, country-craft fair-quality painting of whales spewing water through blow holes opposite the bed. Sitting next to the bed in a wooden chair was a young black woman with wild, frizzy hair wearing a worn, frayed, dark blue dress. On a chair at the foot of the bed sat a young black man wearing a dark blue shirt and jeans. Even at a glance it was obvious they were siblings. Both wore the same smile: equal parts amused, amazed and batsh*t crazy. The Japanese man was as terrified as anyone I had ever seen, the black woman's hand clamped over his mouth. As I entered the room, she removed it and he began sobbing and babbling, so terrified he forgot himself and spoke nothing but Japanese. I kept the gun on the old man who stepped next to the black woman, but my eyes were drawn to the beeping machines that surrounded the bed and were attached by various tubes and wires to Mr. Tanaka: they were the same medical equipment required to keep my mother alive.

The old man spoke, raising his voice to be heard. "English, Mr. Tanaka. Remember, sir? English, if you please. That's a good man." Tanaka's eyes locked on to the old man, his crazed yells dying in his throat. The old man motioned for the black woman to rise from her chair, which she did. "Do be a lamb and sit in the corner with your brother, away from Mr. Howland and Mr. Tanaka so they may be allowed to concentrate on their conversation, if you would." The woman and her brother both did as they were told, walking to the far, dusty corner of the bedroom and sitting patiently on the floor, their smiles never wavering. Their eyes stayed on the old man. He sat in the chair at the foot of the bed and leaned back, puffing on his cigarette and inviting me with a cheery wave to sit down next to Tanaka.

Warily, I made my way across the room and sat down at Tanaka's bedside, keeping my gun on the old man. "Make a move and I shoot. Understand?"

He nodded, grinning slyly. "Having experienced your marksmanship once tonight, I live in fear for the plaster on the wall behind me." Giving a wink, he added, "But your meaning is heard and understood. You have nothing to fear from me, I assure you. I have not spent all this time providing instruction to Mr. Tanaka in the English language merely to deny him the opportunity to speak it."

I turned to Tanaka, dumbfounded. "He taught you English? Here?" Tanaka nodded.


TANAKA: I have been held prisoner here for... I do not know how long. A year? Two? Please to keep pointing gun at him.

ME: Last I heard you quit working for Doctor Yoshida. What happened?

TANAKA: Crash. Yoshida-san and I drove, and big truck hit car. Doctor died right away, I have some cuts, blemishes?

OLD MAN: Bruises.

TANAKA: I am pulled from car by... them. They were not the truck driver, he drive away. They bring me back to this place, feed me, bandages. He says, "Need surgery". They bring me to kitchen, put me on table, face down. I tell them no, I am fine, but they take off clothes, hold me down. He... he takes knife, knife but flat on end...

OLD MAN: Chisel.

TANAKA: He puts it on my back, I feel how sharp. I beg him, whatever he is going to do, please no, please do not. Those two in corner and a third hold me down, I struggle, but cannot get loose. He does not use hammer. He pushes only with hand, I scream and scream and he pushes it into my flesh, into my back, deeper and deeper. I feel blood pouring down my sides, blood flowing over my neck and up my chin and he pushes. Then I feel nothing. Nothing ever again below neck. Oh, God, nothing, nothing.

ME: It's alright, I'm going to get you out of here. I'm going to get you to a hospital.

OLD MAN: Tell him about your work.

ME: Shut the f*ck up.

OLD MAN: Tell him, Mr. Tanaka.

TANAKA: I... I work for Doctor Yoshida, help on Wardang Island with rabbits. Infected. Doctor Yoshida knows, I only assistant.

OLD MAN: You are too modest, sir. Tell him about your work.

TANAKA: It is... is work with rabbits. With the virus.

ME: What was it? You can tell me.

TANAKA: The rabbits were... they were test, dry run. He let rabbits loose on mainland.

ME: Yoshida let the rabbits loose on purpose? He did it? Infected all of Australia with the Calicivirus?

TANAKA: Hai. Yes. He and I. Then to America, to Atlanta for further research at CDC, the headquarters. Mutation of virus, strengthening and... what is word, clothes...

OLD MAN: Tailoring. Heh, clothes, tailoring. Pray, continue.

ME: CDC, that's, what-the Center for Disease Control? That's in Atlanta?

TANAKA: Yes. We worked... we were almost finished. We were to leave back for Japan when there was the crash.

ME: Finished with what? Tailoring what?

TANAKA: You said you would take me. To hospital. To help.

ME: I will. What were you doing?

TANAKA: Adapting Calicivirus for humans. Please do not leave me here. Please, I beg of you-

ME: People? On people? Do you know what that virus does? Are you f*cking crazy? That damn thing has a ninety-five percent death rate in rabbits!

OLD MAN: Ninety-nine plus in people, with the modifications the gentlemen made. A remarkable improvement. Pardon the interruption.

ME: What the hell? What in the hell? You and Yoshida were going to kill almost everyone on the planet? Why in God's name... what were you thinking?


Just then, an absolutely enormous, glistening centipede skittered over the other side of Tanaka's pillow and right over his face. It was as long as a flashlight. He and I screamed at the same time. Before I could even react, it ran down Tanaka's neck and under the covers. Tanaka screeched for me to kill it, his head shaking and gyrating in a useless, panicked attempt to somehow move his paralysed body. Still trying to keep the gun on the old man, I reached down with my sprained right hand and slowly lifted up the blanket in the middle of the bed. He was naked, his flesh pale where he still had skin. The bed underneath the thick comforter was writhing with centipedes, at least fifty of them scuttling over each other. Seeing my face, he asked me if I saw the centipede-begged me to please find it and kill it as he couldn't bear to think of such a thing crawling over him in the night.

At this point the old man rose and moved so swiftly that he was out of the room almost before I knew he was gone. I yelled and ran after him, charging down the hallway a few footsteps behind as Tanaka's bellows echoed off the walls. In moments I was leaping off the front porch, aiming my gun at the old man and screaming for him to stop before noticing that he already had. He stood where he had before, casting his shadow over Adalius's corpse.

I was almost out of breath from sprinting from the house, but his voice was as smooth and easy as ever. "Once I had a dream. There were these old slave women down by an old, mammoth, dead tree. As I approached, one of the women held up a little baby, not more than three months old. It slept as she lifted it gently up, and I noticed that hanging down from the branch above was a noose. She placed the baby's head into the noose, tightened it and let it go. The baby's face grew red, then purple-"

"Shut up! Shut up, I am going to shoot you!"

He continued, ignoring me, "-And when I asked her what she was doing, she turned to me and said as matter-of-factly as you please, 'We're hanging the babies'. I looked around and hanging from every branch was a tiny dead body." He lit another cigarette as my pistol shook in his face. "Mr. Tanaka's kind will come around, Mr. Howland. Have no fear. Their kind will be far easier to tolerate in the next world."

I laughed. "An Evangalist and a racist. The old magical combination. Get back inside the house-I'm taking Tanaka to a hospital and I'm not letting you out of my sight, you sick bastard." The old man looked at me and shook his head slowly, smiling. He started humming a tune-some children's song-and from his right sleeve a smaller centipede about two inches in length poked its head out, waved its antennae around testing the air and darted back in. I stared for a long moment, then refocused. "I said march." Again, he shook his head. I pointed the gun at his kneecap and gave him a questioning look. He kept smiling. I fired.

Saying that I shot out his kneecap and he went down would be wrong-it was more that I shot out his kneecap and he just decided to sit down, with all due grace. I started to turn to go back inside, but stopped and asked, "Why tell me that story about the babies and the tree?"

Shrugging, he said, "Only to delay you." From inside, Tanaka's yells had turned to full-on shrieks. I cursed and sprinted up the stairs back inside, tearing down the long hallway and left into Tanaka's room. The room stunk of something, and the black woman was now laying next to a red-faced Tanaka in the bed. Her brother was gone. It took a moment to realize that Tanaka and the girl were soaking wet, and the second she struck the match I recognized the smell: gasoline.

In a split second the bed was engulfed in flames, the whoosh of the fire drowning out Tanaka's agonized wails. Driven from the room by the heat and smoke, I blundered back down the hall and fell down the front steps. Jumping up as fast as I could to keep from being overpowered by the old man in case he had crawled back toward the direction of the house, I was disappointed to find no sign of him at all.

Coughing, my wrist hurting and my mind reeling, I shuffled over to the car, sparing only a quick glance at Adelius, his eyes frozen open in the headlights. Fumbling for the car keys, I had my hand on the door handle before I realized there was someone sitting in the driver's seat with the window rolled up. It was the black girl's brother, his hands on the wheel at ten and two, staring up at me with the same smile as before; the same smile-I realize now-that was on Mrs. Walentowicz's cold, dead face when we found her. As I stared at him, dumbstruck, I jumped when the car's cigarette lighter popped from it's holder in the ashtray next to him. I remember thinking, they still make cars with those? when he pulled it out and held the glowing, red, concentric circles up to his face. "No..." I mumbled. "No, I can't take any more. Don't..." Slowly, deliberately, he pushed the car's molten-hot cigarette lighter into his open left eye, the cornea sizzling with a sound I could hear even through the glass. I felt the bile rise in my throat and began to gag when I noticed that he also was soaking wet, a large, round, red, metal can set on the passenger seat beside him.

Turning to run, my ears were deafened by a thunderous sound and I was blasted away from the car and into the woods, careening off a tree and coming to a charred, smoky rest in the brush. I crawled mindlessly, tearing my clothes and shredding my hands on the thorny undergrowth in my desperate, relentless drive to get away, anywhere, as far as possible and as fast as I could. Finally, after I don't know how long, I finally passed out, curled up into the fetal position and shivering, my teeth chattering. I was almost positive I had suffered a concussion in the explosion, and I remember reading that the one thing you couldn't do with a concussion is fall unconscious, but at that point I really could not have cared less.

I must have been out of it for almost the entire day, because when I woke up I thought it was dawn but when I checked my watch I saw it was already dusk. I scrambled through the undergrowth of the forest until I finally saw an old house with a pickup truck parked in the dirt driveway. I got in, found the keys were in the ignition and took off, heading back to Hollis Crossroads.


I can't expect any of you to believe what I've told you. Now, sitting here in this plush hotel room it all seems nightmarish, hazy and unreal, but I know what happened. I know what I saw. You might believe me, but the police never will. The security company was already suspicious of me when they assigned Adalius to the job, and my fingerprints are all over that hatchet-the old man never touched it. That's why I stole the pickup truck and ran. When they figure out that I wasn't the corpse in the rental car I'm going to be hunted down by every cop in the state.

I wish I had some conclusions or insight... some final thought to tie it all up. I don't. The only things I know is that Mary has way more of a temper and potty mouth than I thought, Yoshida won't be asked to give my eulogy when I actually do croak someday, and the second I finish this sentence I'm going to lay back on the bed, close my eyes and sleep for a month.