Dragged into Darkness by Simon Wood Page A

Even if the engine was off, the sound was so high pitched that he would have had to wait for the frequency to fall within the realms of human hearing.  And when he did hear the sound, it took a couple of seconds to realize what it was—a scream.
    Rose was screaming.  They locked eyes and her mouth opened, releasing the ferocity of her fear.  His hand withered on her sex and his beer fell from his grasp. 
    But it wasn’t enough of a retraction.  A hand leapt out and locked onto his throat.  Manicured fingernails sank into flesh and cartilage.  Hard and unforgiving, Rose’s sharpened nails punctured him like he was dough.  Unlike the wailing banshee, his screams were killed before they had a chance to live.  
    In another second, she was upon him.  Her agility scared him.  The Camaro’s cabin was spacious but not enough for a person to move the way she did. 
    He sank in his chair and groped for his knife.  She followed him down.  Her other hand shot out, grabbing his arm and ending his last source of help.  Razorblade fingernails bit into his flesh and blood poured freely.
    His other arm was clamped, vice-like, between her shin and his knee.  The unforgiving vice jaws drained the strength from his hand.
    Her scream continued, relentless.
    Rose bore down on him and the pink polka dot dress was in his face.  He realized what her dress was made from; it was paper.  The polka dots weren’t polka dots but blood spots and he had just made his contribution.  Blood jetted from his throat and added to the polka dot pattern. 
    And the dress wasn’t a dress.  The reflected image in the skewed rearview mirror confirmed it—a row of paper bows covered her naked back.  It was a hospital Johnny and not from an ordinary hospital.  Blythe Mental Facility fitted their patients with pink Johnnies. 
    He heard his windpipe crack and his breath die in his chest.  He’d never heard a death rattle but he was hearing one now.  It was his own . 

SPECIAL DELIVERY
     
     
    Terry Mack groaned when he bent to pick up the parcel tucked away under his porch.  Retirement didn’t look good on him.  It was making him old.  He still hadn’t gotten used to it after ten years.  What did they say about old dogs and new tricks?  He only proved the point.  He closed the door with the back of his heel.
    Mack took the package into the kitchen, shaking it along the way.  The eighteen-inch cube was well wrapped with tape and bulged on all sides with padding.  He wasn’t expecting anything special.  He plonked the parcel onto the kitchen table and retrieved a carving knife from a drawer.
    He slit the tape and the box popped open, spewing shredded paper.  Pulling out the wadding, he found his present—a foot, severed an inch above the ankle, sealed in a plastic bag.   Holding the bag by the corner, he examined his gift.  Condensation clung to the inside of the clear plastic.  The foot was cold to the touch.  It hadn’t been long out of the deep freeze. 
    The average pensioner would have burst a lung in shock—not Terry Mack though.  He was used to atypical situations.  He was a spy and damned good at it.  He was once a thorn buried deep in the Kremlin’s side.
    Oh yes, he was a spy—heavy on the was .  After the Soviet Union collapsed in the early nineties, so did his career.  He was retired off early, a relic of his time.  Military intelligence needed a different kind of operative.
    And yes, he was used to the atypical, just not this atypical.  He wasn’t shocked or disgusted—none of the conventional reactions.  He was irritated.  “Who” leapt to the forefront of his thoughts.   Obviously, it was someone from the old days.  But there were so many to choose from.
    He did know one thing about the foot.  It belonged to a man.  It wasn’t dainty enough to be a woman’s and the coarse hair on top and on the toes confirmed his suspicion.
    He checked the postmark.  It was sent yesterday from his