Infected Page 76

were killing him from the inside. Soldiers wanted to gun him down and stop the Triangles from becoming whatever it was they became. He had no idea who the Soldiers were, where they were, what they looked like. They could be anybody. Anybody. And he’d sent an invitation through the Internet, painted a f.u.c.king bull’s-eye on his own forehead.

His father’s voice filtered into his head, a once-faint memory now strong and vital. It’s you against the world, boy, you just remember that. The world is a harsh place, where only the strong survive. If you ain’t strong, people will use you up and throw you away. You’ve gotta show the world who’s boss, boy, show them with strength. That’s why I’m so tough on you—that and because you’re one stupid cornholing b.a.s.t.a.r.d and you p.i.s.s me off every chance you get. Someday boy, you’ll thank me. Someday you’ll understand.

For the first time in his life, Perry did understand. He’d spent a decade trying to escape his father’s legacy of violence and abuse and anger, but now he knew that was a mistake.

“You were right, Daddy,” Perry whispered. “You was always right.” f.u.c.k them all. He was a Dawsey, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, and he’d sure as h.e.l.l start acting like one.

Columbo is here.

As the last of his sanity slipped away, Perry heard a knock at his door. His eyes narrowed to predatory slits.

His father’s voice: You gonna let ’em push you around like that, boy? “No sir, Daddy,” Perry whispered. “I sure as h.e.l.l ain’t.”

56.

COMPANY

Bill Miller knocked on Perry’s door again.

Enough was enough. Perry was home. Period. He’d logged on to his instant messenger not more than thirty minutes earlier, and signed off as soon as Bill sent him a message. Bill had immediately hopped into his car, and now he was here, outside Perry’s door.

Perry could have signed on from anywhere in the world, of course, but his Ford was still under the carport awning, a foot of clean snow behind it — it hadn’t moved for at least a couple of days.

Bill knocked again. Nothing.

Was Perry sick? Had he lost his temper, done something really bad, something he couldn’t face? The guy was so sensitive about his violent streak, even a loud argument might fill him so full of guilt he couldn’t face the day. Sick, guilty, whatever, Bill had to get to the bottom of this — his friend needed help, and that was that.

He gave it one more triple-knock.

“Perry, buddy, it’s Bill.”

No answer.

“Perry, everyone’s worried sick. You don’t have to answer, but if you’re there let me know you’re okay.”

No answer. He fished in the pocket of his leather coat for a piece of paper to leave a note. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end, caused by the peculiarly strong feeling that he was being watched. He looked up at the peephole, hand frozen in his pocket.

He heard the door’s chain lock slowly sc.r.a.pe aside, followed by the click of a deadbolt sliding back into its housing.

The door opened slowly. Perry’s hulking form came into view. Bill heard himself breathe in sharply, a comical sound of surprise. Perry looked like a Bruce Willis stand-in from one of the Die Hard movies. His long-sleeved white T-s.h.i.+rt was spotted with blood, blood that looked black where it had dried in patches spreading down from the left shoulder. He stood on one leg, holding the door for balance; the other leg hung loosely beneath him, not touching the floor, like a hunting dog on

point. The hanging leg had another T-s.h.i.+rt wrapped around its calf. Bill had no idea of that one’s original color — it was now a deep, crusty burgundy, like clothes that had been dropped in the mud, taken off at the back door, and left to dry in the sun. Perry had a bruised b.u.mp on his head the size of a golf ball. An old scruff of bright red beard glowed electrically against his pale white skin.

No, not like Bruce Willis . . . like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Perry’s muscles rippled with every movement, especially on his neck, which looked like steel cables wrapped tightly with veins, then with skin. Perry hadn’t looked this defined, this big — this threatening— in years, not since they’d been soph.o.m.ores in college. Bill realized, suddenly, that by hanging out with him every day, he’d lost touch with the fact that Perry Dawsey was a giant of a man.

Despite the haggard appearance, Perry’s eyes were his most attentiondemanding feature. Not because of the fact that the skin around them was black-and-blue, either from a shot to the face or some serious lack of sleep, but from the look in the eyes. The s.p.a.ced-out psycho look, like when Jack Nicholson axed his way through the door in The s.h.i.+ning.

Bill had always been the type to trust his instincts. At this moment his instincts yanked at him to leave, to get the f.u.c.k out of there right now, fight-or-flight response kicking in with a 100 percent majority vote for flight. But Perry was obviously in trouble — something was very, very wrong.

Postal was the word that flashed through Bill’s brain. Perry has gone postal.

They both stood for a few seconds without speaking.

Bill broke the interlude. “Perry, are you okay?”

There was no f.u.c.king question. As soon as Perry opened the door and saw Bill standing there in his black leather jacket with his neatly trimmed hair and immaculate appearance, Perry knew for certain that he was one of the Soldiers. Bill had been watching him all along. He might even be the one who put the Triangle seeds on him — who can tell with these crazy government f.u.c.ks? When had they recruited Bill? After college? During college? How far back did this conspiracy go? Maybe that’s why Bill had volunteered as a roommate so long ago. That made sense. That was logical.