Sixteen
Dimitri Carvelli took note of
the driveway up which his prey vanished, then groaned with mounting pain
and turned down the first road to the river and lay his head against the
steering wheel. He had been shot a number of times. His body
harbored a bullet or two. But he would need only a moment's rest
before taking the pleasure of ridding himself of the girl.
He awoke to the warmth of a morning sun
with his chest a mass of breath-catching pain. Unable to suck enough air
with which to cry out in agony, he reached out with trembling hands and
pushed against the dash of the car. Slowly, he lifted his bruised chest
from the steering wheel and fell back against his seat.
He barked laughter and choked on the effort. How
incredible that he should still be alive. A vision of nubile loveliness
had put a bullet in his gut. He had ignored the injury during the chase
as he had ignored being winged twice upon his first attempt at the girl’s
life. Now, he was suffering loss of blood, probable infection, maybe a touch of
pneumonia. It sure as hell hurt to breath, and he felt hot and weak. He
still felt reasonably alert, if a bit woozy, but he doubted he could go
another day without seeking medical help. Once he did that, of course,
the mob would find him for sure and turn his lights out. Without a doubt,
they were keeping an eye on the local clinics and hospitals. Private
doctors would report a bullet wound and roll out a red carpet to his
father’s henchmen.
Where the hell was he at? He blinked away the sleep
in his eyes and determined that the car was nosed against a tree on a
slope. Railroad tracks ran past a few yards ahead. A few hundreds yard
beyond stretched the mist-enshrouded expanse of the Mississippi River.
Memory snapped back into place. He had been driving
in the rain, looking for a place to park and watch for the
girl. Too much time had passed. He had been
unconscious most of the cold and rainy night.
He shivered in the morning chill seeping through a
broken side window. He clothes were still damp. He had probably cracked
a rib against the steering wheel, making it difficult to take a deep
breath of air.
What a fool he had become, a killer clown whose
membership in the human race had been revoked, but it hardly mattered how
badly he had been hurt, or when he had last eaten. He was working by
other rules now. He had become another kind of being entirely, an agent
of Satan on a one-track mission of destruction. That which did not kill
him would only made him stronger, if only for that one mission. With the
pretty little witness gone, the world would never know about the death in
the basement of his father’s house. The mob would overlook his
indiscretion rather than risk a killing associated with a top public
official. He would be redeemed in every way that counted for
anything.
He opened his buckled door and used the door and the
roof to support the weight of his injured and aching body. He lifted his
face to the warm morning sun and closed his eyes. When the dizziness
passed, he salvaged the discarded half of a submarine sandwich from the
back seat and discovered a couple inches of soda and melted ice in a
covered paper cup he had tossed on the back floor the day before. Thus
nourished and with his thirst partially quenched, he climbed the hill to
the highway and determined that his car couldn’t be seen by passing
traffic. He’d use it as a base of operations for the rest of the day.
His fate was in the hands of his new god. Now would
be the time to put his demonic allegiance to the test. Either he would
die within hobbling distance of this isolated spot along an unknown
highway, or he would rise like the Phoenix from its own ashes stronger
than before. For now, he backed into the shade of a nearby tree before
anyone took notice. His first foray for food and fresh clothing would
begin at nightfall. Like in the legend of the blood-feeding vampires,
daylight was a time of rest and recuperation.
