And the Devil Makes Three (part 3)
Here's the final part of my story. Hope you liked the ride, cats and kittens!
“I met the old woman and the boy I saw,” he said. “The kid had that damn devil you just had to torch, and granny was facing the corner.”
Cooper led the way back into the room. Albert knew before he looked that there was no sign of them, and that his footprints were the only ones there. Cooper looked at him, and Albert despised being stared at like the village freak.
“Do I look like the sort of man who would make this up, Cooper?” he growled. “I am far too intelligent to subject myself to humiliation just to get a rise out of you.”
“Tell me everything you saw,” Cooper said, and Albert knew he would take it seriously.
He kept to the facts: smells, sights, exact wording if he could manage it. He didn’t stray into interpretation or explanation. He was there to provide raw data, wasn’t he? The kid’s last words rattled around his head: how does a pacifist fight? Words, maybe, or proficiency. Or maybe the kid was some sort of hallucination brought on by the same gas in the air that had killed all the other animals. It wasn’t exactly the most comforting of thoughts.
When he was done, Cooper had a serious expression and a hard look in his eyes. “Albert,” he whispered, “I don’t know why these beings appeared to you, but it is clear they came with a message. A message specifically aimed at you.”
“Well, whoop-de-doo for that.”
It didn’t mean he’d be leaving Cooper’s side again to see if he’d get any more visitations. One impossible encounter met his quota for the year. They made their way to the next set of doors, and took the right-hand door first. The room was still and close, but it looked more recently dusted. There were a few end tables and a chest of drawers. A much more complete sort of bedroom than the half-assed attempt in which the old lady and the kid had showed up. Cooper began to go through the chest of drawers, so Albert tackled the end tables. The dust was greasy under his hands and he smelled it carefully. “Cooper,” he said, “this table has some sort of oil on it.”
“Orange oil is a common cleaner for wooden furniture.”
Albert shot Cooper a look that lost a lot of its power getting directed to the back of Cooper’s head. “I know what orange oil smells like, Cooper. If there had been orange oil on this table, I would have said there was orange oil on the table. I’m not sloppy when I work and I’m not sloppy when I talk about work.”
And, damn him, Albert could hear the smile Cooper wore. “If it isn’t orange oil, what is it?”
At least he didn’t say anything dippy. “I’m not certain, but it smells industrial. More machine than maple.”
Cooper came over to join him and ran his own fingers through the greasy dust. He smelled it and nodded. “I see what you mean. There’s a certain metallic tang to it.” He looked at Albert. “Motor oil, do you think?”
Albert shrugged. He pulled out a q-tip and a baggie from the inside pocket of his coat and took a sample. “Questions like that are why we have science.”
They didn’t find anything else in the room, so they moved on to the room across the hall. This one looked even better looked-after, with barely any dust and a candle at the bedside that looked recently used.
Albert nodded toward it and said, “I think we’ve found the light source.”
Cooper nodded and pressed his finger into the wax at the top of the candle. It was still soft, and apparently still hot under the surface. Cooper pulled back quickly and sucked on his finger. He shuddered for a second, and Albert had to wonder at the low pain tolerance. Before he could ask, Cooper’s hand dropped to his side and he acted as though nothing had happened.
His voice was steady when he said, “Very recently burned.”
Albert rolled his eyes. It wasn’t the time to get macho. Cooper didn’t seem that dumb, but that was the nature of human beings throughout Albert’s life. They were always stupider than he thought they would be.
“Let me see your finger,” he said.
Cooper looked at him like he’d grown another head.
“You’re right-handed, one assumes you fire your weapon with your dominant hand, and you’ve burned your index finger-colloquially known in the Bureau and elsewhere as your trigger finger. Now, if you can’t fire your weapon we’re both in trouble. Let me see your hand, Agent Cooper.” When Cooper hesitated a bit more, Albert barked, “It’s not an idle suggestion.”
Cooper offered his hand, and Albert took it up, examining the index finger with as much care as he afforded his corpses, though he did try to handle the living with a bit more gentleness. He took the Hippocratic oath very seriously, even if it rarely applied to his line of work.
The pad of Cooper’s index finger was red, but didn’t look more damaged than that. The inner side of the finger, where it had likely pressed up against the wick, sported an angry looking burn in the straight line of the wick, but there was also an odd branching pattern off it. It wasn’t normal for burns to spread like that, certainly. No more normal than the absence of commensal activity in the house.
He brushed a finger against the injury to get a rough estimate of the damage done. Cooper’s hand flinched against his. Albert sighed. “You have a first degree burn across the pad of your finger, which is going to be painful but shouldn’t cause nerve damage. The burn on the side of your finger is a little strange. Given what you burned yourself on I’d expect a little blistering at the site, but this looks more serious. If I hadn’t seen you acquire it, I’d say this was a chemical burn.”
Cooper nodded. “How serious do you estimate it to be, Dr. Rosenfield?”
Albert shrugged. “Nothing a little alcohol, burn ointment, and a band-aid shouldn’t fix, but then who knows in this place? Someone could have steeped that wick in hydrochloric acid for just such an occasion. Either way you look at it, this needs to be treated sooner rather than later. I left my bag downstairs, so I’ll have to run down to get any supplies. Don’t leave this room. I don’t want to have to go looking for you.”
“Don’t worry, Dr. Rosenfield. I’ve got more than enough to investigate here while you get the first aid kit.” Cooper was already busy going through drawers with his left hand when Albert made his exit.
The trip downstairs would have been uneventful if Albert was calmer, but with his nerves strung so taut every creak of the house and whistle of the wind became some psycho out to kill him. The descent down the stairs and past that weird inscription was particularly nerve-wracking, and Albert could have sworn that the creaking and the wind changed into a low, excited whispering.
Albert hurried to his bag and glanced at the fireplace. The ashes and scraps of half-burned red paper were still there, though the grate was cool by now. Albert shook his head and heard the boy’s words again: how does a pacifist fight?
Albert hated weird philosophical questions. He opened his bag and opted for only bringing up the necessary supplies. He put the tin of band-aids in his pocket, along with burn salve, alcohol pads, and a syringe of antibiotics just in case. If Cooper’s injury was a chemical burn he’d need to flush it with alcohol quickly, as he was lacking water he would trust.
He headed back up the stairs two at a time and refused to look at the inscription. He just needed to get treatment for Cooper, investigate the last room in the hall, and then they could leave. It wasn’t that he was opposed to solving the case, but he didn’t like being there with so little backup.
The hallway was as dark as he remembered and he hurried into the room where he’d left Cooper, fumbling an alcohol pad out of his pocket. He looked up and fell very still. Cooper wasn’t there.
Hoping Cooper was checking behind the bed or was otherwise unseen but there, Albert hissed, “Cooper?”
There was no response. Albert could hear his heartbeat in his ears and could feel it under his tongue. His arms and legs felt weak from the rush of fear that took him. He knew about physiological reactions to terror, and had even felt them when Agent Earle decided to show off his manly prowess on an unarmed forensic pathologist, but there was something heightened about this sensation.
“Cooper?!” he tried again, and checked every corner he could think of. What if there had been some sort of chemical contaminant on the candle? He could think of several compounds that would mix well enough with wax and could be absorbed through the skin that would incapacitate a man of Cooper’s size in minutes. None of them had good prognoses.
And where the hell was the candle? It wasn’t on the table, or the floor, or anywhere Albert could see. Had Cooper’s flashlight gone out and he’d turned to the candle for light? Not a good idea if the wick was coated in something acidic.
Cooper and his candle were nowhere to be found. While it was a relief to know he wasn’t unconscious on the floor, the fact that he’d gone off on his own riled Albert more than a little. Maybe his dream girl had showed up again and led him off on some sort of vision quest, but he had dragged an unarmed man along with him. Running off to follow some sort of crackpot lead meant that Albert was alone and little more than helpless.
How does a pacifist fight? Not very well.
He eased back into the hall and saw that the door at the end was cracked open, with light spilling through. Since he’d seen nothing of the sort minutes before, it meant that either Cooper was inside or Albert was about to have a very short, unpleasant confrontation. He made for the door with every instinct demanding he run, but for that crazy voice that said he had to help Cooper. Where the hell had that voice come from?
Cooper must have heard some movement in the next room and had gone to face off with whatever bastard was in the house. Not a bad plan, since Albert wasn’t the useful guy to have in an armed standoff. He was much more the man you wanted after the guns had been fired, whatever the outcome.
The door let out an alarming creak as he pushed it open, and Albert’s teeth were set on edge by the danger a sound like that presented. When he wasn’t shot he continued.
The door swung open without sound after the initial creak. Albert shone his flashlight into the corners and then focused the beam in the center of the room. Cooper’s flashlight lay on the floor and was shining at him, creating the illumination he’d seen. Cooper himself was kneeling on the floor, his coat pooled around him and his body hunched over the guttering light of the candle. There was no one else in the room.
“Cooper?” he asked, because for some reason that terror wasn’t going away. “Cooper, are you all right? If that damned candle had something on it that burned your hand I’m going to need to know symptoms and I’m going to need to know them now.” Nothing. Cooper didn’t so much as twitch. “Come on, Cooper,” he said. “I don’t know what sort of timeline we’re working to here, but some compounds work very quickly, and I really don’t think that sitting there inhaling the fumes is going to help.” Still nothing. “But hey, don’t mind me. I’m just offering my professional medical opinion.”
There was movement in the corner of Albert’s eye, and he swung around to face it only to find nothing there when his flashlight landed on the area. It was the candlelight. All the shadows were moving in the candlelight. And the furniture in this room looked like it had been warped by many years of water damage. The chairs and the tables were twisted and barely standing.
Albert stepped forward, intent on getting to Cooper and getting him to a hospital. He hadn’t seen or heard any sign of the psycho who was supposed to be up here. For all Albert knew he’d jumped out a window. And Albert couldn’t do anything about armed lunatics anyway. What he could do was get Cooper some immediate medical attention and try to stem the spread of whatever poison had leeched into his bloodstream.
“Cooper, come on,” he muttered, stooping down to reach, “let me see your hand. I need to see how bad it’s gotten.”
“Dr. Rosenfield?” Cooper asked. “Albert?”
“I hope you weren’t expecting anyone else to ride to the rescue.” He managed to snag Cooper’s wrist where it drooped on the floor and pull it to him, kneeling as he did so. He saw Cooper in profile, pale in the candlelight. His eyes were squeezed closed and his breathing was erratic. As Albert looked for the burn he checked Cooper’s pulse. It was rapid.
The burn itself was an angry red and had spread from wisps to something that looked like a raging fire emanating from the wound itself. Albert had left the tourniquets downstairs, not thinking it could spread so quickly.
“I’m going to have to swab this out with alcohol, Cooper, and then we’ll need to go back to the car and get you to a hospital.”
Cooper was muttering to himself now. God knew if he’d heard a word Albert had said. While he was distracted Albert held his hand still, tore open the alcohol swab with his teeth, and then moved to apply it. Alcohol wouldn’t help a lot, but treating the initial site of infection couldn’t hurt, and it might buy them time to get Cooper to a proper emergency room where they could run proper tests in a sterile environment.
Cooper’s head suddenly jerked up and his eyes opened wide. “Albert?” he asked in a tiny, strained voice.
“Right here,” Albert said, his own voice hushed. “Where else do you expect me to be?”
Cooper shook his head. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’ve only been telling you that all night.”
“Albert, the candle-”
“Had an infectious agent on it. Yeah, I know. I’ve got alcohol swabs to treat the site of the infection, but after that you’re going to need hospital care to determine what the agent might be and how fast it’s spreading through your bloodstream. Trust me on this one, Cooper, I’m a-”
“Will you shut up and listen to me?”
The harsh tone was so unlike Cooper that it killed all the sound in Albert’s throat except a quiet, “Okay.”
“Albert, they will not find the infection because it is not for them to find. There are no tests and no methods known to science for finding this particular malady.”
“Cooper, that’s just-”
“I know what killed all those people over the years.”
Albert’s eyes moved about the room, but they were very much alone. However Cooper had got his knowledge, it was as esoteric as his dream girl. That or granny and the kid decided to pay him a visit too so he didn’t feel left out. “Who?” Albert asked.
For a second it looked like Cooper wouldn’t or couldn’t answer. He drew in on himself, shuddering and struggling against some horrible pain. It was bad enough that Albert took him by the arms to keep him from falling over. When it passed Cooper was panting and shivering and leaning up against Albert in an awkward embrace.
Albert felt Cooper’s head move against his throat. “Cooper?”
And in a flash Albert was flat on his back and Cooper sitting on his stomach pinning him. A smile that didn’t look a thing like his usual dippy, wholesome grin planted itself on Cooper’s face. “It was me,” he said.
When Albert realized what he was saying there was a second of terror followed by disbelief. “Yeah, Coop, sure it was you. Killings spaced over a decade? You were one mean twelve-year-old.”
He heard the metallic rasp and clack of the safety being taken off a gun, and then the sensation of cold metal tracing his cheekbone. The realization that Cooper had a gun to his head was possibly the biggest shock of the night, and he’d had a few.
“Cooper?” he asked, his voice shaking.
Cooper sat up a little straighter and shook his head, his smile growing. “Not Cooper,” he said. His voice was strange, the intonation alternately droning and whispering, as though he couldn’t quite remember how to work his own vocal cords. And there was some strange sound under the words, like metal grating on metal. “Not Cooper at all.”
The gun pressed between Albert’s eyes. There was no flash of his life, no great white light, only the pure thrill of fear and a stuttering halt to his thoughts as they focused on the gun. There weren’t even famous last words, because his throat had closed up. It was a shame, really. Albert would have hoped he’d die saying something very clever.
And then Cooper wrenched away from him. Albert pushed himself up on his elbows to see him huddled over the candle again, shaking like a man with a seizure. “Albert,” he said, “you have to run. I don’t think I can control my actions much longer, and you must go while I can give you a head start.”
“What the hell is happening here, Cooper?”
“I’m not exactly in a position to answer questions right now, Albert. Run!”
Albert jerked himself to his feet. His medical instincts told him he couldn’t leave a man who might be having a psychotic break, but his other instincts-the ones that were busy keeping him from swimming in shark-infested waters or jumping off cliffs-were screaming at him to do what Cooper said. That it didn’t matter if this was demonic possession or a psychotic episode brought on by whatever had been on that candle; the result was the same. It wasn’t often that set of instincts felt the need to chime in, and Albert wasn’t stupid enough not to listen.
He ran. He was halfway down the hall when he heard a wheezing, creaking giggle behind him. Sounded like Cooper was losing the battle.
Albert skidded down the stairs and over to his bag. He wasn’t exactly well prepared for the event of fleeing for his life, but he had a scalpel. It was better than nothing. How did a pacifist fight? As best he could manage under the circumstances. That answer still didn’t feel quite right, but he was willing to run with it until he thought of something better.
He hesitated a minute to consider his options. They could be boiled down to hiding in one of the rooms in the house and waiting to get cornered, or running out into the woods where Cooper couldn’t see him, but he sure as hell couldn’t see Cooper. He heard the first footfall on the landing above and went for option B.
The front door creaked when he left, so Cooper would know he was outdoors. There went the element of surprise. Albert clattered across the porch and almost fell when his foot went through a plank. He pulled it free as quickly as he could, but as soon as he put weight on it he knew he’d strained something.
But, since the situation seemed to be of the run-or-die variation, he didn’t have much time to stand around contemplating his navel and working through his pain. Albert gritted his teeth and got moving again, a little bit slower but as quickly as he could push himself to go.
He headed into the woods. It was late autumn, and the scrub and other ground flora were twisted sticks and tangled knots that caught at him as he tried to run through. He was leaving a path a blind fool could follow, but it wasn’t as though he knew about covering these things up. He’d just have to hope that the mist delayed Cooper long enough that he could get clear.
He could try to find a place to hide and wait, but that seemed equivalent to hiding in a room and waiting for Cooper to find him. The car wasn’t an option because Cooper had the keys and Albert’s education hadn’t involved hotwiring. He’d have to rectify that omission if he survived the night.
He settled on the road. It was a good distance, but it was the most likely place to encounter a helpful passerby who could get him to the nearest town and their very helpful police force. At this point, Albert would even try to hold his tongue with whatever would-be rescuer he encountered.
He turned when he heard a quiet crunch nearby. Albert froze, the scalpel gripped tightly in a hand that started to sweat. Trying to move silently, he headed away from the noise. Somehow creeping was far worse than the blind dash had been. He felt like some dumb underground animal, not certain at which turn it would find a snake.
The soft crunching noises seemed to come from all around him at random: sometimes in front, sometimes behind, sometimes to one side. A strange smell hung in the air, and he realized it was the same oil he’d smelled on the furniture in the upstairs bedroom. It was stronger now: harsh and industrial with a hint of something scorched. He could hear rustling above him like birds were flying close by, but he couldn’t see anything.
Then, quite suddenly, the woods gave way to a mowed lawn and the house standing before him. Albert couldn’t believe his eyes. He couldn’t have got so turned around. There was no way. He turned back to the tree line and saw three owls perched in the trees. Was that what he had heard whirling overhead?
Mustering courage through anger, he growled, “Find someone else to follow, you stupid birds. You don’t even eat prey my size.”
Three birds blinked as one, as if to tell him that they did indeed eat prey his size, and often. He squared his shoulders and moved to try again. Anything was better than standing there in front of the house.
The woods before him erupted in a flurry of movement and Albert shouted as he was knocked flat. The scalpel was sent skidding off into the mist, well out of his straining reach. Cooper was leaning over him, his eyes white and the same cruel smile playing over his lips. He slapped Albert hard enough that his ears rang.
Over the tone, which acquired that same sound he’d heard in the stairwell and in the room upstairs, Cooper’s voice whispered in his ear, “Fight me.”
Well, that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? It was what the kid had tried to tell him; the one puzzle Albert seemed incapable of solving. How does a pacifist fight? How did he fight whatever influence was infecting Cooper? Snide remarks? They’d been his de facto answer to any other problem he’d encountered through the years, but he was pretty sure that wit would only get him killed at this point.
In the end, Albert did what he always did in the face of the unknown. He stuck to the facts. “How did you lead me back here?” he asked.
“The owls led you back, Dr. Rosenfield.”
“Friends of yours?”
Cooper didn’t answer, but he smiled up at the owls posted like sentinels above them.
“So what do you do now?” Albert asked.
“I kill you.”
“Oh.” He should have seen that coming, shouldn’t he? His thoughts chased themselves in circles. If Cooper was telling the truth-if this was some sort of possession by the thing that had killed all those people-then why were there no survivors? Was the murderer driven to suicide after he or she was done offing the rest of the party? Damn backwater coroners. The guy probably wasn’t even a real doctor, but rather some funeral director drafted for the job by idiot bureaucrats who wouldn’t know autopsy procedure from their left ass cheeks.
But what was the point of the possession and the murders? Was there a point? Albert swallowed. He was spending too much time thinking about the same ridiculous metaphysics for which he mocked others. There was no reason to assume that this was a spiritual problem; it could be psychological. He’d seen the burn mark. This was some hallucinogenic, mind-altering substance put on that candle for God only knew what reason. Maybe to drive people to this. To see what they would do. Cooper had been right about one thing: Albert did believe in evil, and believed whoever had laid this trap qualified.
Cooper stroked his hair back from his face. “If you want to survive, you need to fight me for it.”
“Yeah, sure. You’ve got a gun, I’ve got a witty riposte. Words beat bullets all the time.” He fell silent. Wasn’t that what he believed? Was that what the kid meant? A pacifist didn’t fight with his hands. It defeated the purpose. A pacifist fought with words, with his example. Albert had to be good, because he had to show the pathetic schlubs around him how it was done. Cooper had said he’d learned to fight with a gun, and now it was being turned on Albert. Wasn’t that the inherent problem with weapons? They inevitably got used against people who didn’t deserve the pain and the suffering and the death. He’d seen enough children on his slab to know that.
Cooper seemed to take his silence as hesitation, because he slapped Albert again. The ringing increased, and he felt the press of the gun under his chin, guiding his face back up to look at Cooper.
In the face of all the world’s evil, how does a pacifist fight? In the face of this specific evil, how did Dr. Albert Rosenfield fight? The answer had to be the same.
“I’ll let you say something before I kill you,” Cooper said. “Maybe if you beg, I won’t do it.”
Why did he keep goading? Everything Cooper had done since he’d been taken over by this infection was to goad Albert into one of two reactions: fear or violence. Was that what this was all about? They were two emotions that would always live together, but the violence here and the need to frighten . . . they were different. This was pure: devoid of all the other trappings that made human violence so human. Cooper had said that a thousand men strike at the branches of evil for every one who strikes at its root. Was this thing before him a root? Had someone created a compound that, when applied to a human being, brought out only violent and frightening impulses? The sort of understanding of neurochemistry that implied was impossible, but for the living proof in front of him.
And how did a pacifist fight that evil? It wanted fear and violence in return, but Albert was certain he couldn’t give it what it wanted. How did a pacifist fight?
And then it came to him suddenly. It lacked the wash of epiphany because somewhere in him, Albert had always known the answer to this question: a pacifist fought with love.
It was somehow much harder to reach up without violent intent when every instinct Albert had screamed at him to do anything but surrender. His rational mind and his contrary nature silenced instinct, because this thing, be it natural or un-, wanted his fear. Denying it fear or violence was the only right thing to do.
He laid his hand on the junction between Cooper’s neck and shoulder. The words came easily enough. “I love you, Agent Cooper.” At first they were just words, but they were enough to elicit a response, swift and angry.
He knew the slap had split his lip, but he wasn’t dead yet. Was that Cooper fighting the infection, or was that the desire to get the proper reaction? Didn’t matter. He focused his thoughts on the face. He focused his thoughts on the things Cooper had said on the trip: those words that had struck a little close to home for his tastes. Were they in the same fight on the same side? Yes. And would there come a time where his tactics would fail and he’d need Cooper as much as Cooper needed him now? Yes.
The realization was horrible. Albert Rosenfield was beholden to and dependent on no one. He’d worked his ass off to be as alone as he was, but now that he’d met Cooper he couldn’t imagine not coming when Cooper called. Cooper seemed like he had a knack for finding evil where it lived, and Albert didn’t want to read further into that. But he would need to help, now and in the future.
The years stretched out before him in an instant, different than he could have ever imagined if indeed he imagined such things. Because a partnership, no matter how occasional and irregular, was not what he wanted. But he would do it. It was the right thing to do. And he wouldn’t trust the job to some slack-jawed imbecile.
“I love you, Agent Cooper.”
The words were painful this time. His realization tore the syllables out of him. A goddamn pledge was what it was, and he was far too intelligent not to know it.
The gun forced his chin up. The ground under his head was softened by the fog that swirled around him, and the back of his head dug into it.
“Fight me,” it was an inhuman voice, metal on metal underlain by the roar of an inferno. It was the most terrible thing Albert had ever heard.
He narrowed his eyes and looked down his nose. “I love you, Agent Cooper.” Accepting now, and defiant. He had always mocked his father when he said that something was in God’s hands, viewing it as the worst of defeatist, escapist attitudes. Was this what it felt like? Passing through the rage and the fear and the tumult to find that the only thing you could control in your helplessness was your own reaction?
“Fear me.”
That ship had already sailed, hadn’t it? The owls knew. They looked down at the tableau, shuffled on their branches, and then flew away. Cooper’s head jerked up to follow them and then he turned back to Rosenfield. The slap this time came from the butt of his pistol, and Rosenfield’s vision slewed to white for a second before his head cleared. The pain in his cheek made him feel nauseous, and he was certain he had fractured the zygomatic bone. And, given the warmth and wetness spreading across his cheek, had also broken the skin. Which was great. Just great, really. No risk of infection when covered in mud, now was there?
It wasn’t like he could do anything but follow his plan through to the end.
He reached up with his other hand and grasped the back of Cooper’s neck. “I love you, Agent Cooper,” he said.
Cooper let out a scream like stripped brakes and machines tearing themselves apart, and boiling kettles, and forest fires out of control. The body that collapsed against Albert heaved in convulsions. Albert repeated the mantra over and over again, wrapped his arm around Cooper and prayed to the God his father so believed in that he’d come up with the right answer to the boy’s riddle.
Over the veil of the mist, Albert watched in shock as the whole house erupted in flames. The candle must have fallen over. The old wood, along with the oil on the furniture, would have created a very flammable environment. The timing was more than likely coincidence. Albert almost believed that too.
The convulsions weakened after a time, and then ceased. Albert felt for Cooper’s pulse, and was relieved to feel it under his fingers. It seemed slow, like he was sleeping, but no amount of shaking woke him.
Albert checked Cooper’s hand. The burn on his finger was gone, and the lines of infection that had stretched from the injury were also gone. Albert didn’t question his luck. He’d had enough for one day, and it was time for him to be the responsible doctor and get Cooper to proper care.
He rolled Cooper off him, and Cooper didn’t so much as stir from his sleep. Albert worried about the possibility of coma. He would definitely need a hospital, and soon.
Albert fished in Cooper’s pockets until he found the keys, then dragged Cooper to the car and, with a heave born of slinging the dead around when necessary, shoved him into the passenger seat. With the belt on, he didn’t slump so badly.
Albert turned the key in the ignition, and after a sputter and a cough the engine turned over. He turned on the lights and jumped for the second he thought that a pair of trees was granny and the kid looking on as the house burned. But they were just trees. And that damned house was just a house, soon to be just a heap of charred wood and ash.
And as for the rest of it, well, Albert was a man of science. What he couldn’t explain with science he wasn’t interested in explaining. He’d go back to the labs, and when Cooper asked him on another case he’d go. Because he was also a good man. And striking at the root of evil was strangely addictive. If also terrifying.
He pulled out and headed back toward civilization. The sun was starting to creep up over the trees when Cooper raised his head. There was no stirring and no grumbling. He was asleep one minute and awake the next.
“Albert?” he asked. He didn’t even have the decency to sound groggy.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Cooper,” Albert said. He stared at the road. “I think you cracked my cheekbone when you pistol whipped me. You will be paying that hospital bill.”
“I’m sorry,” Cooper said. “I didn’t realize what was happening until it had already won. I never considered the possibility that the entity we were pursuing might have been a disembodied spirit.”
“Well, if the autopsies hadn’t been conducted by apes with magnifying glasses I think they might well have found that several of the deaths were suicides. But your apology is accepted. And appreciated.” Cooper smiled. It was a little ragged around the edges, but it was definitely Cooper’s sunny grin. “You’re still paying my hospital bill.”
“I will, Albert,” Cooper said. “How did you . . .”
“I answered the kid’s question. And then the house burned down, which wasn’t my fault.”
Cooper fell silent for a while. He looked troubled, and Albert figured he deserved a good wallow in guilt after everything that had happened. Albert, on the other hand, deserved a cigarette. He pulled out his pack and lit up.
Then Cooper stole a look at Albert, a sly little smile on his face. “You love me?”
Of course he remembered that. “I’ll buy you flowers.”
Cooper’s grin grew. “Susan was right about you.”
“I wouldn’t have been any use to you if the kid hadn’t pointed me in the right direction, Cooper, so don’t get sappy on me.”
“And if I asked you on another case?”
“I would do the professional thing and help you as a professional colleague.”
“So you would come with me again?”
“What? You think that I’d let you go out with someone like Carson? Or Klein? You’re relatively intelligent, and you’re a good man. I’m not wasting you on idiots.”
Cooper’s hand gripped his shoulder. Albert rolled his eyes. “I’m glad you’re with me, Albert. I’m going to need the very best.”
And that, Albert decided, was how inevitability worked: a sunny smile and the certainty that Albert had a friend for life. Whether he wanted one or not. Cooper didn’t remove his hand from Albert’s shoulder, and, God help him, Albert didn’t shrug it off. That was inevitability. It felt vaguely like a broken cheekbone.
“I met the old woman and the boy I saw,” he said. “The kid had that damn devil you just had to torch, and granny was facing the corner.”
Cooper led the way back into the room. Albert knew before he looked that there was no sign of them, and that his footprints were the only ones there. Cooper looked at him, and Albert despised being stared at like the village freak.
“Do I look like the sort of man who would make this up, Cooper?” he growled. “I am far too intelligent to subject myself to humiliation just to get a rise out of you.”
“Tell me everything you saw,” Cooper said, and Albert knew he would take it seriously.
He kept to the facts: smells, sights, exact wording if he could manage it. He didn’t stray into interpretation or explanation. He was there to provide raw data, wasn’t he? The kid’s last words rattled around his head: how does a pacifist fight? Words, maybe, or proficiency. Or maybe the kid was some sort of hallucination brought on by the same gas in the air that had killed all the other animals. It wasn’t exactly the most comforting of thoughts.
When he was done, Cooper had a serious expression and a hard look in his eyes. “Albert,” he whispered, “I don’t know why these beings appeared to you, but it is clear they came with a message. A message specifically aimed at you.”
“Well, whoop-de-doo for that.”
It didn’t mean he’d be leaving Cooper’s side again to see if he’d get any more visitations. One impossible encounter met his quota for the year. They made their way to the next set of doors, and took the right-hand door first. The room was still and close, but it looked more recently dusted. There were a few end tables and a chest of drawers. A much more complete sort of bedroom than the half-assed attempt in which the old lady and the kid had showed up. Cooper began to go through the chest of drawers, so Albert tackled the end tables. The dust was greasy under his hands and he smelled it carefully. “Cooper,” he said, “this table has some sort of oil on it.”
“Orange oil is a common cleaner for wooden furniture.”
Albert shot Cooper a look that lost a lot of its power getting directed to the back of Cooper’s head. “I know what orange oil smells like, Cooper. If there had been orange oil on this table, I would have said there was orange oil on the table. I’m not sloppy when I work and I’m not sloppy when I talk about work.”
And, damn him, Albert could hear the smile Cooper wore. “If it isn’t orange oil, what is it?”
At least he didn’t say anything dippy. “I’m not certain, but it smells industrial. More machine than maple.”
Cooper came over to join him and ran his own fingers through the greasy dust. He smelled it and nodded. “I see what you mean. There’s a certain metallic tang to it.” He looked at Albert. “Motor oil, do you think?”
Albert shrugged. He pulled out a q-tip and a baggie from the inside pocket of his coat and took a sample. “Questions like that are why we have science.”
They didn’t find anything else in the room, so they moved on to the room across the hall. This one looked even better looked-after, with barely any dust and a candle at the bedside that looked recently used.
Albert nodded toward it and said, “I think we’ve found the light source.”
Cooper nodded and pressed his finger into the wax at the top of the candle. It was still soft, and apparently still hot under the surface. Cooper pulled back quickly and sucked on his finger. He shuddered for a second, and Albert had to wonder at the low pain tolerance. Before he could ask, Cooper’s hand dropped to his side and he acted as though nothing had happened.
His voice was steady when he said, “Very recently burned.”
Albert rolled his eyes. It wasn’t the time to get macho. Cooper didn’t seem that dumb, but that was the nature of human beings throughout Albert’s life. They were always stupider than he thought they would be.
“Let me see your finger,” he said.
Cooper looked at him like he’d grown another head.
“You’re right-handed, one assumes you fire your weapon with your dominant hand, and you’ve burned your index finger-colloquially known in the Bureau and elsewhere as your trigger finger. Now, if you can’t fire your weapon we’re both in trouble. Let me see your hand, Agent Cooper.” When Cooper hesitated a bit more, Albert barked, “It’s not an idle suggestion.”
Cooper offered his hand, and Albert took it up, examining the index finger with as much care as he afforded his corpses, though he did try to handle the living with a bit more gentleness. He took the Hippocratic oath very seriously, even if it rarely applied to his line of work.
The pad of Cooper’s index finger was red, but didn’t look more damaged than that. The inner side of the finger, where it had likely pressed up against the wick, sported an angry looking burn in the straight line of the wick, but there was also an odd branching pattern off it. It wasn’t normal for burns to spread like that, certainly. No more normal than the absence of commensal activity in the house.
He brushed a finger against the injury to get a rough estimate of the damage done. Cooper’s hand flinched against his. Albert sighed. “You have a first degree burn across the pad of your finger, which is going to be painful but shouldn’t cause nerve damage. The burn on the side of your finger is a little strange. Given what you burned yourself on I’d expect a little blistering at the site, but this looks more serious. If I hadn’t seen you acquire it, I’d say this was a chemical burn.”
Cooper nodded. “How serious do you estimate it to be, Dr. Rosenfield?”
Albert shrugged. “Nothing a little alcohol, burn ointment, and a band-aid shouldn’t fix, but then who knows in this place? Someone could have steeped that wick in hydrochloric acid for just such an occasion. Either way you look at it, this needs to be treated sooner rather than later. I left my bag downstairs, so I’ll have to run down to get any supplies. Don’t leave this room. I don’t want to have to go looking for you.”
“Don’t worry, Dr. Rosenfield. I’ve got more than enough to investigate here while you get the first aid kit.” Cooper was already busy going through drawers with his left hand when Albert made his exit.
The trip downstairs would have been uneventful if Albert was calmer, but with his nerves strung so taut every creak of the house and whistle of the wind became some psycho out to kill him. The descent down the stairs and past that weird inscription was particularly nerve-wracking, and Albert could have sworn that the creaking and the wind changed into a low, excited whispering.
Albert hurried to his bag and glanced at the fireplace. The ashes and scraps of half-burned red paper were still there, though the grate was cool by now. Albert shook his head and heard the boy’s words again: how does a pacifist fight?
Albert hated weird philosophical questions. He opened his bag and opted for only bringing up the necessary supplies. He put the tin of band-aids in his pocket, along with burn salve, alcohol pads, and a syringe of antibiotics just in case. If Cooper’s injury was a chemical burn he’d need to flush it with alcohol quickly, as he was lacking water he would trust.
He headed back up the stairs two at a time and refused to look at the inscription. He just needed to get treatment for Cooper, investigate the last room in the hall, and then they could leave. It wasn’t that he was opposed to solving the case, but he didn’t like being there with so little backup.
The hallway was as dark as he remembered and he hurried into the room where he’d left Cooper, fumbling an alcohol pad out of his pocket. He looked up and fell very still. Cooper wasn’t there.
Hoping Cooper was checking behind the bed or was otherwise unseen but there, Albert hissed, “Cooper?”
There was no response. Albert could hear his heartbeat in his ears and could feel it under his tongue. His arms and legs felt weak from the rush of fear that took him. He knew about physiological reactions to terror, and had even felt them when Agent Earle decided to show off his manly prowess on an unarmed forensic pathologist, but there was something heightened about this sensation.
“Cooper?!” he tried again, and checked every corner he could think of. What if there had been some sort of chemical contaminant on the candle? He could think of several compounds that would mix well enough with wax and could be absorbed through the skin that would incapacitate a man of Cooper’s size in minutes. None of them had good prognoses.
And where the hell was the candle? It wasn’t on the table, or the floor, or anywhere Albert could see. Had Cooper’s flashlight gone out and he’d turned to the candle for light? Not a good idea if the wick was coated in something acidic.
Cooper and his candle were nowhere to be found. While it was a relief to know he wasn’t unconscious on the floor, the fact that he’d gone off on his own riled Albert more than a little. Maybe his dream girl had showed up again and led him off on some sort of vision quest, but he had dragged an unarmed man along with him. Running off to follow some sort of crackpot lead meant that Albert was alone and little more than helpless.
How does a pacifist fight? Not very well.
He eased back into the hall and saw that the door at the end was cracked open, with light spilling through. Since he’d seen nothing of the sort minutes before, it meant that either Cooper was inside or Albert was about to have a very short, unpleasant confrontation. He made for the door with every instinct demanding he run, but for that crazy voice that said he had to help Cooper. Where the hell had that voice come from?
Cooper must have heard some movement in the next room and had gone to face off with whatever bastard was in the house. Not a bad plan, since Albert wasn’t the useful guy to have in an armed standoff. He was much more the man you wanted after the guns had been fired, whatever the outcome.
The door let out an alarming creak as he pushed it open, and Albert’s teeth were set on edge by the danger a sound like that presented. When he wasn’t shot he continued.
The door swung open without sound after the initial creak. Albert shone his flashlight into the corners and then focused the beam in the center of the room. Cooper’s flashlight lay on the floor and was shining at him, creating the illumination he’d seen. Cooper himself was kneeling on the floor, his coat pooled around him and his body hunched over the guttering light of the candle. There was no one else in the room.
“Cooper?” he asked, because for some reason that terror wasn’t going away. “Cooper, are you all right? If that damned candle had something on it that burned your hand I’m going to need to know symptoms and I’m going to need to know them now.” Nothing. Cooper didn’t so much as twitch. “Come on, Cooper,” he said. “I don’t know what sort of timeline we’re working to here, but some compounds work very quickly, and I really don’t think that sitting there inhaling the fumes is going to help.” Still nothing. “But hey, don’t mind me. I’m just offering my professional medical opinion.”
There was movement in the corner of Albert’s eye, and he swung around to face it only to find nothing there when his flashlight landed on the area. It was the candlelight. All the shadows were moving in the candlelight. And the furniture in this room looked like it had been warped by many years of water damage. The chairs and the tables were twisted and barely standing.
Albert stepped forward, intent on getting to Cooper and getting him to a hospital. He hadn’t seen or heard any sign of the psycho who was supposed to be up here. For all Albert knew he’d jumped out a window. And Albert couldn’t do anything about armed lunatics anyway. What he could do was get Cooper some immediate medical attention and try to stem the spread of whatever poison had leeched into his bloodstream.
“Cooper, come on,” he muttered, stooping down to reach, “let me see your hand. I need to see how bad it’s gotten.”
“Dr. Rosenfield?” Cooper asked. “Albert?”
“I hope you weren’t expecting anyone else to ride to the rescue.” He managed to snag Cooper’s wrist where it drooped on the floor and pull it to him, kneeling as he did so. He saw Cooper in profile, pale in the candlelight. His eyes were squeezed closed and his breathing was erratic. As Albert looked for the burn he checked Cooper’s pulse. It was rapid.
The burn itself was an angry red and had spread from wisps to something that looked like a raging fire emanating from the wound itself. Albert had left the tourniquets downstairs, not thinking it could spread so quickly.
“I’m going to have to swab this out with alcohol, Cooper, and then we’ll need to go back to the car and get you to a hospital.”
Cooper was muttering to himself now. God knew if he’d heard a word Albert had said. While he was distracted Albert held his hand still, tore open the alcohol swab with his teeth, and then moved to apply it. Alcohol wouldn’t help a lot, but treating the initial site of infection couldn’t hurt, and it might buy them time to get Cooper to a proper emergency room where they could run proper tests in a sterile environment.
Cooper’s head suddenly jerked up and his eyes opened wide. “Albert?” he asked in a tiny, strained voice.
“Right here,” Albert said, his own voice hushed. “Where else do you expect me to be?”
Cooper shook his head. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’ve only been telling you that all night.”
“Albert, the candle-”
“Had an infectious agent on it. Yeah, I know. I’ve got alcohol swabs to treat the site of the infection, but after that you’re going to need hospital care to determine what the agent might be and how fast it’s spreading through your bloodstream. Trust me on this one, Cooper, I’m a-”
“Will you shut up and listen to me?”
The harsh tone was so unlike Cooper that it killed all the sound in Albert’s throat except a quiet, “Okay.”
“Albert, they will not find the infection because it is not for them to find. There are no tests and no methods known to science for finding this particular malady.”
“Cooper, that’s just-”
“I know what killed all those people over the years.”
Albert’s eyes moved about the room, but they were very much alone. However Cooper had got his knowledge, it was as esoteric as his dream girl. That or granny and the kid decided to pay him a visit too so he didn’t feel left out. “Who?” Albert asked.
For a second it looked like Cooper wouldn’t or couldn’t answer. He drew in on himself, shuddering and struggling against some horrible pain. It was bad enough that Albert took him by the arms to keep him from falling over. When it passed Cooper was panting and shivering and leaning up against Albert in an awkward embrace.
Albert felt Cooper’s head move against his throat. “Cooper?”
And in a flash Albert was flat on his back and Cooper sitting on his stomach pinning him. A smile that didn’t look a thing like his usual dippy, wholesome grin planted itself on Cooper’s face. “It was me,” he said.
When Albert realized what he was saying there was a second of terror followed by disbelief. “Yeah, Coop, sure it was you. Killings spaced over a decade? You were one mean twelve-year-old.”
He heard the metallic rasp and clack of the safety being taken off a gun, and then the sensation of cold metal tracing his cheekbone. The realization that Cooper had a gun to his head was possibly the biggest shock of the night, and he’d had a few.
“Cooper?” he asked, his voice shaking.
Cooper sat up a little straighter and shook his head, his smile growing. “Not Cooper,” he said. His voice was strange, the intonation alternately droning and whispering, as though he couldn’t quite remember how to work his own vocal cords. And there was some strange sound under the words, like metal grating on metal. “Not Cooper at all.”
The gun pressed between Albert’s eyes. There was no flash of his life, no great white light, only the pure thrill of fear and a stuttering halt to his thoughts as they focused on the gun. There weren’t even famous last words, because his throat had closed up. It was a shame, really. Albert would have hoped he’d die saying something very clever.
And then Cooper wrenched away from him. Albert pushed himself up on his elbows to see him huddled over the candle again, shaking like a man with a seizure. “Albert,” he said, “you have to run. I don’t think I can control my actions much longer, and you must go while I can give you a head start.”
“What the hell is happening here, Cooper?”
“I’m not exactly in a position to answer questions right now, Albert. Run!”
Albert jerked himself to his feet. His medical instincts told him he couldn’t leave a man who might be having a psychotic break, but his other instincts-the ones that were busy keeping him from swimming in shark-infested waters or jumping off cliffs-were screaming at him to do what Cooper said. That it didn’t matter if this was demonic possession or a psychotic episode brought on by whatever had been on that candle; the result was the same. It wasn’t often that set of instincts felt the need to chime in, and Albert wasn’t stupid enough not to listen.
He ran. He was halfway down the hall when he heard a wheezing, creaking giggle behind him. Sounded like Cooper was losing the battle.
Albert skidded down the stairs and over to his bag. He wasn’t exactly well prepared for the event of fleeing for his life, but he had a scalpel. It was better than nothing. How did a pacifist fight? As best he could manage under the circumstances. That answer still didn’t feel quite right, but he was willing to run with it until he thought of something better.
He hesitated a minute to consider his options. They could be boiled down to hiding in one of the rooms in the house and waiting to get cornered, or running out into the woods where Cooper couldn’t see him, but he sure as hell couldn’t see Cooper. He heard the first footfall on the landing above and went for option B.
The front door creaked when he left, so Cooper would know he was outdoors. There went the element of surprise. Albert clattered across the porch and almost fell when his foot went through a plank. He pulled it free as quickly as he could, but as soon as he put weight on it he knew he’d strained something.
But, since the situation seemed to be of the run-or-die variation, he didn’t have much time to stand around contemplating his navel and working through his pain. Albert gritted his teeth and got moving again, a little bit slower but as quickly as he could push himself to go.
He headed into the woods. It was late autumn, and the scrub and other ground flora were twisted sticks and tangled knots that caught at him as he tried to run through. He was leaving a path a blind fool could follow, but it wasn’t as though he knew about covering these things up. He’d just have to hope that the mist delayed Cooper long enough that he could get clear.
He could try to find a place to hide and wait, but that seemed equivalent to hiding in a room and waiting for Cooper to find him. The car wasn’t an option because Cooper had the keys and Albert’s education hadn’t involved hotwiring. He’d have to rectify that omission if he survived the night.
He settled on the road. It was a good distance, but it was the most likely place to encounter a helpful passerby who could get him to the nearest town and their very helpful police force. At this point, Albert would even try to hold his tongue with whatever would-be rescuer he encountered.
He turned when he heard a quiet crunch nearby. Albert froze, the scalpel gripped tightly in a hand that started to sweat. Trying to move silently, he headed away from the noise. Somehow creeping was far worse than the blind dash had been. He felt like some dumb underground animal, not certain at which turn it would find a snake.
The soft crunching noises seemed to come from all around him at random: sometimes in front, sometimes behind, sometimes to one side. A strange smell hung in the air, and he realized it was the same oil he’d smelled on the furniture in the upstairs bedroom. It was stronger now: harsh and industrial with a hint of something scorched. He could hear rustling above him like birds were flying close by, but he couldn’t see anything.
Then, quite suddenly, the woods gave way to a mowed lawn and the house standing before him. Albert couldn’t believe his eyes. He couldn’t have got so turned around. There was no way. He turned back to the tree line and saw three owls perched in the trees. Was that what he had heard whirling overhead?
Mustering courage through anger, he growled, “Find someone else to follow, you stupid birds. You don’t even eat prey my size.”
Three birds blinked as one, as if to tell him that they did indeed eat prey his size, and often. He squared his shoulders and moved to try again. Anything was better than standing there in front of the house.
The woods before him erupted in a flurry of movement and Albert shouted as he was knocked flat. The scalpel was sent skidding off into the mist, well out of his straining reach. Cooper was leaning over him, his eyes white and the same cruel smile playing over his lips. He slapped Albert hard enough that his ears rang.
Over the tone, which acquired that same sound he’d heard in the stairwell and in the room upstairs, Cooper’s voice whispered in his ear, “Fight me.”
Well, that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? It was what the kid had tried to tell him; the one puzzle Albert seemed incapable of solving. How does a pacifist fight? How did he fight whatever influence was infecting Cooper? Snide remarks? They’d been his de facto answer to any other problem he’d encountered through the years, but he was pretty sure that wit would only get him killed at this point.
In the end, Albert did what he always did in the face of the unknown. He stuck to the facts. “How did you lead me back here?” he asked.
“The owls led you back, Dr. Rosenfield.”
“Friends of yours?”
Cooper didn’t answer, but he smiled up at the owls posted like sentinels above them.
“So what do you do now?” Albert asked.
“I kill you.”
“Oh.” He should have seen that coming, shouldn’t he? His thoughts chased themselves in circles. If Cooper was telling the truth-if this was some sort of possession by the thing that had killed all those people-then why were there no survivors? Was the murderer driven to suicide after he or she was done offing the rest of the party? Damn backwater coroners. The guy probably wasn’t even a real doctor, but rather some funeral director drafted for the job by idiot bureaucrats who wouldn’t know autopsy procedure from their left ass cheeks.
But what was the point of the possession and the murders? Was there a point? Albert swallowed. He was spending too much time thinking about the same ridiculous metaphysics for which he mocked others. There was no reason to assume that this was a spiritual problem; it could be psychological. He’d seen the burn mark. This was some hallucinogenic, mind-altering substance put on that candle for God only knew what reason. Maybe to drive people to this. To see what they would do. Cooper had been right about one thing: Albert did believe in evil, and believed whoever had laid this trap qualified.
Cooper stroked his hair back from his face. “If you want to survive, you need to fight me for it.”
“Yeah, sure. You’ve got a gun, I’ve got a witty riposte. Words beat bullets all the time.” He fell silent. Wasn’t that what he believed? Was that what the kid meant? A pacifist didn’t fight with his hands. It defeated the purpose. A pacifist fought with words, with his example. Albert had to be good, because he had to show the pathetic schlubs around him how it was done. Cooper had said he’d learned to fight with a gun, and now it was being turned on Albert. Wasn’t that the inherent problem with weapons? They inevitably got used against people who didn’t deserve the pain and the suffering and the death. He’d seen enough children on his slab to know that.
Cooper seemed to take his silence as hesitation, because he slapped Albert again. The ringing increased, and he felt the press of the gun under his chin, guiding his face back up to look at Cooper.
In the face of all the world’s evil, how does a pacifist fight? In the face of this specific evil, how did Dr. Albert Rosenfield fight? The answer had to be the same.
“I’ll let you say something before I kill you,” Cooper said. “Maybe if you beg, I won’t do it.”
Why did he keep goading? Everything Cooper had done since he’d been taken over by this infection was to goad Albert into one of two reactions: fear or violence. Was that what this was all about? They were two emotions that would always live together, but the violence here and the need to frighten . . . they were different. This was pure: devoid of all the other trappings that made human violence so human. Cooper had said that a thousand men strike at the branches of evil for every one who strikes at its root. Was this thing before him a root? Had someone created a compound that, when applied to a human being, brought out only violent and frightening impulses? The sort of understanding of neurochemistry that implied was impossible, but for the living proof in front of him.
And how did a pacifist fight that evil? It wanted fear and violence in return, but Albert was certain he couldn’t give it what it wanted. How did a pacifist fight?
And then it came to him suddenly. It lacked the wash of epiphany because somewhere in him, Albert had always known the answer to this question: a pacifist fought with love.
It was somehow much harder to reach up without violent intent when every instinct Albert had screamed at him to do anything but surrender. His rational mind and his contrary nature silenced instinct, because this thing, be it natural or un-, wanted his fear. Denying it fear or violence was the only right thing to do.
He laid his hand on the junction between Cooper’s neck and shoulder. The words came easily enough. “I love you, Agent Cooper.” At first they were just words, but they were enough to elicit a response, swift and angry.
He knew the slap had split his lip, but he wasn’t dead yet. Was that Cooper fighting the infection, or was that the desire to get the proper reaction? Didn’t matter. He focused his thoughts on the face. He focused his thoughts on the things Cooper had said on the trip: those words that had struck a little close to home for his tastes. Were they in the same fight on the same side? Yes. And would there come a time where his tactics would fail and he’d need Cooper as much as Cooper needed him now? Yes.
The realization was horrible. Albert Rosenfield was beholden to and dependent on no one. He’d worked his ass off to be as alone as he was, but now that he’d met Cooper he couldn’t imagine not coming when Cooper called. Cooper seemed like he had a knack for finding evil where it lived, and Albert didn’t want to read further into that. But he would need to help, now and in the future.
The years stretched out before him in an instant, different than he could have ever imagined if indeed he imagined such things. Because a partnership, no matter how occasional and irregular, was not what he wanted. But he would do it. It was the right thing to do. And he wouldn’t trust the job to some slack-jawed imbecile.
“I love you, Agent Cooper.”
The words were painful this time. His realization tore the syllables out of him. A goddamn pledge was what it was, and he was far too intelligent not to know it.
The gun forced his chin up. The ground under his head was softened by the fog that swirled around him, and the back of his head dug into it.
“Fight me,” it was an inhuman voice, metal on metal underlain by the roar of an inferno. It was the most terrible thing Albert had ever heard.
He narrowed his eyes and looked down his nose. “I love you, Agent Cooper.” Accepting now, and defiant. He had always mocked his father when he said that something was in God’s hands, viewing it as the worst of defeatist, escapist attitudes. Was this what it felt like? Passing through the rage and the fear and the tumult to find that the only thing you could control in your helplessness was your own reaction?
“Fear me.”
That ship had already sailed, hadn’t it? The owls knew. They looked down at the tableau, shuffled on their branches, and then flew away. Cooper’s head jerked up to follow them and then he turned back to Rosenfield. The slap this time came from the butt of his pistol, and Rosenfield’s vision slewed to white for a second before his head cleared. The pain in his cheek made him feel nauseous, and he was certain he had fractured the zygomatic bone. And, given the warmth and wetness spreading across his cheek, had also broken the skin. Which was great. Just great, really. No risk of infection when covered in mud, now was there?
It wasn’t like he could do anything but follow his plan through to the end.
He reached up with his other hand and grasped the back of Cooper’s neck. “I love you, Agent Cooper,” he said.
Cooper let out a scream like stripped brakes and machines tearing themselves apart, and boiling kettles, and forest fires out of control. The body that collapsed against Albert heaved in convulsions. Albert repeated the mantra over and over again, wrapped his arm around Cooper and prayed to the God his father so believed in that he’d come up with the right answer to the boy’s riddle.
Over the veil of the mist, Albert watched in shock as the whole house erupted in flames. The candle must have fallen over. The old wood, along with the oil on the furniture, would have created a very flammable environment. The timing was more than likely coincidence. Albert almost believed that too.
The convulsions weakened after a time, and then ceased. Albert felt for Cooper’s pulse, and was relieved to feel it under his fingers. It seemed slow, like he was sleeping, but no amount of shaking woke him.
Albert checked Cooper’s hand. The burn on his finger was gone, and the lines of infection that had stretched from the injury were also gone. Albert didn’t question his luck. He’d had enough for one day, and it was time for him to be the responsible doctor and get Cooper to proper care.
He rolled Cooper off him, and Cooper didn’t so much as stir from his sleep. Albert worried about the possibility of coma. He would definitely need a hospital, and soon.
Albert fished in Cooper’s pockets until he found the keys, then dragged Cooper to the car and, with a heave born of slinging the dead around when necessary, shoved him into the passenger seat. With the belt on, he didn’t slump so badly.
Albert turned the key in the ignition, and after a sputter and a cough the engine turned over. He turned on the lights and jumped for the second he thought that a pair of trees was granny and the kid looking on as the house burned. But they were just trees. And that damned house was just a house, soon to be just a heap of charred wood and ash.
And as for the rest of it, well, Albert was a man of science. What he couldn’t explain with science he wasn’t interested in explaining. He’d go back to the labs, and when Cooper asked him on another case he’d go. Because he was also a good man. And striking at the root of evil was strangely addictive. If also terrifying.
He pulled out and headed back toward civilization. The sun was starting to creep up over the trees when Cooper raised his head. There was no stirring and no grumbling. He was asleep one minute and awake the next.
“Albert?” he asked. He didn’t even have the decency to sound groggy.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Cooper,” Albert said. He stared at the road. “I think you cracked my cheekbone when you pistol whipped me. You will be paying that hospital bill.”
“I’m sorry,” Cooper said. “I didn’t realize what was happening until it had already won. I never considered the possibility that the entity we were pursuing might have been a disembodied spirit.”
“Well, if the autopsies hadn’t been conducted by apes with magnifying glasses I think they might well have found that several of the deaths were suicides. But your apology is accepted. And appreciated.” Cooper smiled. It was a little ragged around the edges, but it was definitely Cooper’s sunny grin. “You’re still paying my hospital bill.”
“I will, Albert,” Cooper said. “How did you . . .”
“I answered the kid’s question. And then the house burned down, which wasn’t my fault.”
Cooper fell silent for a while. He looked troubled, and Albert figured he deserved a good wallow in guilt after everything that had happened. Albert, on the other hand, deserved a cigarette. He pulled out his pack and lit up.
Then Cooper stole a look at Albert, a sly little smile on his face. “You love me?”
Of course he remembered that. “I’ll buy you flowers.”
Cooper’s grin grew. “Susan was right about you.”
“I wouldn’t have been any use to you if the kid hadn’t pointed me in the right direction, Cooper, so don’t get sappy on me.”
“And if I asked you on another case?”
“I would do the professional thing and help you as a professional colleague.”
“So you would come with me again?”
“What? You think that I’d let you go out with someone like Carson? Or Klein? You’re relatively intelligent, and you’re a good man. I’m not wasting you on idiots.”
Cooper’s hand gripped his shoulder. Albert rolled his eyes. “I’m glad you’re with me, Albert. I’m going to need the very best.”
And that, Albert decided, was how inevitability worked: a sunny smile and the certainty that Albert had a friend for life. Whether he wanted one or not. Cooper didn’t remove his hand from Albert’s shoulder, and, God help him, Albert didn’t shrug it off. That was inevitability. It felt vaguely like a broken cheekbone.