Deadly Messengers, page 2
“Deadly Messengers by Susan May is described as a “can’t-put-it-down thriller” and most definitely lives up to its reputation.” Jan (Good Reads UK)
“Describing everything in such detail that I could imagine myself right beside the killer.” Hannah Haines (Good Reads USA)
“Recipe for Compulsive Reading: One cup each of horror, crime fiction, science fiction/science fact. Add a dollop of incredibly well written, fast paced, action packed narrative. Guaranteed to produce a satisfying outcome!” Carol Seeley (Australia) Readingwritingandriesling.wordpress.com
“This is a great book, very fast paced and full of action.” Emma J. (Good Reads UK)
“Deadly Messengers is a total mind rush and real page turner that has mystery, suspense, and lots and lots of murder.” Vanessa Vallejos (Good Reads USA)
“I was literally feeling very anxious, heart racing, pulled in, and wanted to get to the end of this.” Suzanne Robinson (Good Reads Australia)
“A good thrilling book that definitely many would enjoy.” Amanda Weidensjö (USA) www.AmandaWeidensjo.ca
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
William Shakespeare
(As You Like It Act 2, scene 1, 12–17)
Table of Contents
ABOUT DEADLY MESSENGERS
Dedication
A Special Thank You To My Early Readers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
From the Imagination Vault
Thank You
A Favor
Contact Susan May
Other Works by Susan May
COPYRIGHT
Chapter 1
TOBY BENSON PAUSED AT THE alley’s entrance to hoist the ungainly blue sports bag higher on his shoulder. Traveling here, the awkward, precious cargo had caused the bag to slip down his arm, forcing him to stop several times to rebalance the weight.
He stared up the dark corridor of gray shadows and fractured shapes, the towering buildings only allowing the barest slip of light to enter from the full moon overhead. Wall lights hung above the back entrances to the establishments illuminating a collection of trash containers, sentinels to the doors. A perfect location to film a horror movie; just add haunting music and the audience would be clued something terrifying was about to happen.
Toby didn’t notice these things. Somewhere deep inside, perhaps, he registered them on a subconscious level, understood he should be afraid or this wasn’t the place for him. If he did, though, the thought didn’t make it through to that part of his brain controlled by self-preservation.
He saw nothing except a strange mist settled over his vision like a swirling film on the surface of a pond. He heard nothing except the voice in his head, which he imagined came from God, spoken with such authority he couldn’t resist. The voice knew him, wanted to help him and guide him toward his destiny.
At the end of the brick corridor a doorway lay, guarded on either side by two tall commercial waste containers. Pieces of trash dotted about their bases as though rejected competitors that hadn’t made the cut—scattered bottles, empty cardboard fast-food containers, plastic bags, paper, and even what looked like a woman’s shirt. Wasteful. Thoughtless. Humanity’s flotsam discarded to become someone else’s problem.
Human beings were filthy creatures.
He noted the fleeting thought, but decided it was unimportant and unrelated to his future. To the mission.
The back door glowed a fluorescent green as though it were showing him the perfect entry. A signal he was on the right path.
Green meant go to him, but he didn’t fully understand why.
On the opposite side of the building would be the front door to Café Amaretto. Toby knew this area well, the entertainment section of the city, populated with myriad restaurants and clubs, ranging from small cafés to silver service establishments.
As he neared the doorway, the green intensified, the light piercing his eyes, making his brain feel as though it were pulsing. The alley, which had been dark upon his entry, now appeared bathed in green. This radiance, like colored breadcrumbs, gave him assurance this was his mission path.
This way. This is for you.
He’d followed the markers for the past hour, and they’d led him here. A streetlight, a car, a crosswalk sign—they were all just like the door. At first they would shimmer softly with a gentle hum of color against the darkness of night, then intensify as he neared, so he never doubted his path.
The voice buzzed again in his brain. He stopped and listened, tilting his head to the left, then the right, stretching his neck. The sound of his joints cracking like a sharp snap, felt like a mini-explosion in his skull.
Then he was moving again. The voice wanted him inside that door. He wanted to be inside that door.
Ten more steps and he would be inside and then—
Wait.
Toby stopped, his feet felt suddenly magnetized to the ground. He stared at the door a few steps away. Inside the door lay his future, the rest of his life, the thing he was born to do, an act to change the world. So said the voice.
Doubts slipped into his mind, a million ideas and images circling simultaneously as the gray film covering his eyes disappeared.
Why did it matter? Why was he really here?
An urgent idea swept over him. He should be home asleep, or watching television, his girlfriend snuggled against him.
The word desperate hung before his eyes, ferociously demanding his attention, with the same fierceness the door beckoned. He should be home. Not here. Not in this alley. Not ten steps from that door.
Toby wanted to turn and walk away. His legs wouldn’t move, wouldn’t allow him control. His desire to move forward greater than his desire to back away and abort the mission.
Mission?
Where did that come from?
He didn’t go on missions. He went to work. He came home. He made plans for the weekend. Plans for dinner. Plans for the future. He thought about his past, only twenty-seven years in the making. He didn’t walk down dark alleys. Not like this.
Toby began to turn, to walk away, but the sight of the door caught him. The deep green flashing: Enter me. Enter me, now!
He did want to enter. Yes. Be inside, on the other side of the door. The need, strong, intoxicating, overpowering him like a drug. The thought wended through his synapses, drilling into his subconscious until thoughts of his girlfriend and his life disappeared, until it became him and the door, and the thing stowed inside his bag.
Ten steps, he now took, the sound of his boots echoing in the hollow of the alley, the reverberations, earthquake loud in his skull. All doubts evaporated, his steps, the sound of destiny as he approached the door.
He shrugged his shoulders and stretched a hand across his chest to yank the bag from his shoulder, allowing it to drop to the ground at his feet. Bending to it, he pulled back the zipper and reached inside, his hand electrified as he found the prize he sought.
Toby drew the axe up, the smooth weight soothing to his palm, his skin melding with the wood as though an extension of his body. This axe had served him well. Last autumn, when he’d removed the tree whose roots insisted on invading the front pathway, its blade swung true and straight. Now it would serve another purpose. Just as true. Just as straight.
He reached for the door’s metal handle. As he turned the knob, he felt the click of the enabled lock resisting him. He took two steps back, examining the impediment. The gray film swimming before his eyes had returned, blurring his vision. Still he saw what needed to be done.
It would take two hands. He knew this from chopping the tree. He moved his left hand to the axe and swung the weighty and powerful tool over his shoulder. Then back at the door. As the blade slammed just left of the handle, the crack of splitting wood sounded sharp and loud.
A fracture appeared in the door, jagged splinters protruding from the dull, white surface.
Again.
He repeated the action, this time swinging with even more conviction. This time his aim was true. The blade sliced through the wood, hitting the internal lock. The door instantly sprang open as if relieved to be free of constraint.
Toby shifted the axe to his left hand and reached down to pull open the door. Coming from behind the entry, he heard voices and the sound of shattering plates and glasses.
The light from within spilled out, enveloping him in a pool of brilliance. He blinked rapidly, momentarily blinded, the light painfully piercing his eyes. Then, as though an automatic recalibration was made, he could see again.
Inside lay a small kitchen, fifteen feet by ten feet wide. Two men, dressed in t-shirts and jeans, wearing white aprons from chest to knees, stood staring at him. To the side, a ponytailed woman, wearing a white shirt and black skirt, covered her mouth with her hands. At her feet lay the shattered mess of an unserved meal and drinks.
Toby looked toward the men, then to the woman. Behind her, he noted another door. The door to Amaretto Café’s dining area filled with patrons enjoying a meal; laughing, drinking, eating, never thinking in the next five minutes their destiny would change. Soon something would enter their lives and they would be part of changing the world. Part of the message.
Those who survived.
“What the hell?” The speaker was a burly man with a carefully groomed three-day beard and blue bandanna tied about his head. His hand clasped a fryer basket submerged in bubbling oil. He hadn’t moved, still standing in the same position since Toby had entered. His eyes were as white as the dinner plates laying on the counter.
“Listen, buddy, we don’t want no trouble. Whatever you’re thinking, we just don’t—”
The third person in the kitchen, a scruffy teenager, skinny, with a pimple-peppered face, stepped back toward the sink. Dishes and pans overflowed the suds as though the sink was some kind of birthing incubator.
The three smelled of fear and confusion, vulnerable human beings now part of something they’d only imagined in nightmares. They didn’t understand. This was a good thing. Soon they’d see. Just like Toby, who didn’t fully understand, but still knew what needed to be done. Thanks to the voice, he was getting the picture, slide by slide, word by word, command by command.
Take the axe.
The voice was inside his mind, commanding his body. He sensed it wasn’t his own thoughts, but he didn’t care anymore. He didn’t need direction on what to do with the axe, so hefty in his hand. He’d never done this before, never seen it done before, yet he knew. He knew to move fast. In seconds, they’d rally. It’d be the waitress, who decided to move, to leave the other two. It was in her eyes, the realization she couldn’t help them. She could only help herself.
She wasn’t quick enough—not for Toby on his mission.
Move quickly forward. Eight, maybe nine steps, is all. Swing now.
Toby accepted the commands firing in his brain, pulled back the gate inside his mind, the guard of all things sane, and allowed the impulses to travel from his head to his body. His arm twitched as the energy flowed through his being, down his arms and his legs, through his hands and his feet. Blue ice travelling at light speed.
A crazy kick thwacked in his mind like a detonator releasing an explosion in his synapses, and he was on the woman. She couldn’t escape. That wouldn’t do for the mission if she alerted the patrons. He couldn’t have that. He didn’t know why. He just knew.
The speed of his forward movement gave him momentum, as he firmed his grasp about the handle and swung the axe behind his shoulder.
Striking distance was three feet, and it was all in the timing.
The woman had expected to only fetch a table’s order; fried calamari and chicken pesto pasta, now lying at her feet. It was in her eyes. The revelation had arrived. She should have run, but she’d wasted time evaluating, thinking this can’t be real, thinking this is some kind of joke. Her hands flew to her face, instinctive and pointless.
As Toby swung it was as though his cognizance slipped outside his body. He saw where he was, saw her, and recognized he had no reason for this, no reason to take another step or do another thing, except put down the axe and run back out the door, leaving these people to their evening and their lives.
Then the thought was gone like a car fishtailing down a street, glancing off parked cars before careening away, without leaving a note—it’s not their responsibility.
It’s not his responsibility.
Toby let go of everything that was him, everything except the arc of the axe as it swung from behind his shoulder and the swish of air sliced like it was a solid thing.
The blade landed square in the woman’s chest, the sound like the thick thud made when a basketball slaps against a wall. The axe stayed there, wedged, as though in a block of wood. She looked down at her front like she’d spilled coffee that could be wiped away with a cloth.
Add some soda to that and it’ll be good as new, sweetheart.
Blood, rich and red, sprayed out at crazy angles. Some landed on him, thick and warm. Blood streamed down her body and legs, to run to the floor and begin to pool. The woman looked up at him again, before collapsing, her life gone.
The axe came away easily, her fall’s momentum loosening it, so it required only a tug on the handle to retrieve. Back, in his control, resting between his legs, he gripped his weapon with both hands like it was a macabre walking stick.
Toby turned his head toward Fryer Guy, who still held the handgrip of the metal basket like it would be his salvation. Toby’s neck stiffened. A sudden dull throb made itself known. A muscle pulled when he swung the axe?
He stretched his neck, twisting it sideways, left, toward his shoulder and then to the right.
“What the fuck, man?” said Fryer Guy, taking a step toward Toby, then moving like a world-class athlete, hurling the basket toward him. The metal container only made it halfway, landing between them; the smell of oil and half-fried chips bloomed in the air.
The woman’s body lay crumpled to the left of the dining room doorway. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling as though examining a mark up there as her sprawled corpse blocked that avenue of escape. Fryer Guy appeared reluctant to pass near her, perhaps fearing he’d slip on the blood—there was a lot of it now. The only other exit was through the door Toby had entered. That meant moving by him, the intruder. A lost look crossed over Fryer Guy’s face as he scanned the room, and probably realized there were only bad options.
Toby, also, calculated his next move.
A metal island stood in the center of the room, and it would be five strides to Skinny Kid round the right or three to the left to Fryer Guy.
He trusted his instinct. Straight and true. The phrase, embedded in his head, powered every command, the words like background music to his thoughts.
Skinny Kid cowered by the sink, barely breathing, his hands gripped together as though in prayer, his knuckles white and curled like mini rocks. Not a word or a cry had passed the kid’s lips since Toby’s entrance.
He would be easy.
The bulk of Fryer Guy made him more of a threat; he appeared more aggressive, more of an adversary ready to fight, as he stretched to his full height, his chest expanding as he drew in deep, readying breaths.
Fryer Guy had worked it out, weighed up his options. Trapped, yes, but not going down without a fight. Maybe he thought he could win. How could he believe anything else? What creature does when facing death?
Toby saw the thoughts in his eyes. If he could throw this intruder off balance just for a second, he might have a chance. Too bad for Skinny Kid—he was on his own. When death visits, it’s every man for himself.
Fryer Guy lunged for a knife on the counter. A good size blade, too—a blade used for dicing carrots and onions the way cooks do, with machine-like fingers. An axe wasn’t made for chopping onions. No, it was destined for greater things. It’s blade came with a weight of conviction you just don’t get with a knife.
Fryer Guy didn’t understand this.
“You motherfucker,” Fryer Guy screamed, lunging toward Toby, the knife held high as though he were flying a kite. Toby was ready, his thinking clear, as though he was an automaton with only one function. He sidestepped the spilled oil, moving with grace and instinct—and purpose. Purpose is a powerful thing.
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