Chương 89: Don’t Go Into The Light (07/18/1989 | 10:15 AM)

DATE: Tuesday, July 18, 1989 LOCATION: Santee, CA | The O'Rourke Residence LOCAL TIME: 10: 15 AM PST The inland heat of Santee was a physical weight, baking the quiet suburban cul-de-sac into a midmorning stupor. Inside the O'Rourke house, the central air conditioning hummed a steady, comforting rhythm. It had been nearly two years since Buckminster Fuller died and was integrated into the Apex Hub of the San Diego Arcology.

Two years since the man who had acted as my conscience—the only man on earth who could look at my empire and tell me "No"—left me completely alone at the controls. Since his passing, I had operated without a tether. The Fractal Net was expanding across the globe, the concrete fortresses were sealed, and my power in the shadows was absolute. But despite the billions in the blind trusts and the automated arcologies shaping the future, I was still, ostensibly, just a thirteen-year-old boy.

And right now, my biggest problem was on a television screen. We were hanging out in the living room, arguing over whose turn it was to play Super Mario Bros. 2. It was a completely normal, lazy summer morning. I was hungry, my mind blissfully empty of corporate sabotage, just trying to figure out how to get past the desert level. The doorbell rang.

"Pizza's here," Heather said. She hit the pause button on the console, tossed her controller onto the couch, and stretched her arms above her head.

"I gotta use the bathroom. You're paying. I don't have my purse."

"You don't have your purse? We are in your house, Heather!" I muttered, standing up and reaching for my waistband to ensure my modified Motorola pager was clipped securely to my belt.

"I got this, Princess Peach." I grabbed my checkbook and a cheap plastic ballpoint pen from the coffee table. Nobody used credit cards for delivery in 1989; you either had a wad of cash or a verified signature. I clicked the pen open as I walked toward the entryway, ready to fill out the tip. I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open, expecting the smell of pepperoni. Instead, a young man in a baggy yellow polo shirt stood on the porch. Early twenties, greasy hair, eyes darting with unwashed frenzy.

No pizza box. His left hand clutched a red paperback—The Catcher in the Rye. His right hand was buried deep inside a brown paper bag. I looked at the book. Then at the bag. I leaned casually against the doorframe, pen still in hand, voice light.

"The Catcher in the Rye? Let me guess—you got lost looking for the Dakota, or you're trying to impress Jodie Foster. Pizza's usually in a box, pal." The guy blinked, completely thrown by the sarcasm.

"What? Is... is Heather home?" he stammered. Through the thin brown paper, the heavy, L-shaped silhouette of a large revolver became painfully obvious as his grip tightened. His right hand started to rise inside the bag. My left hand shifted subtly to my waistband. My thumb found the Motorola pager, pressing and holding the single, rigged panic button—a preprogrammed 911 burst transmitted straight to Marcinko. I didn't wait for the barrel to clear.

I stepped inside his guard, reversed my grip on the pen, and drove the blunt metal clicker straight into the brachial plexus—the dense nerve cluster where the shoulder meets the collarbone. His whole right side short-circuited. The paper bag slipped. I didn't wait for the heavy. 357 Magnum to hit the tile. I trapped it against the doorframe with the top of my left foot, grabbed his collar, and used his collapsing weight to drag him backward. Even deadened, he was a full-grown man.

I absorbed his mass on my thigh, my knee buckling under the sheer tonnage, and guided him over the threshold. I kicked the front door shut with my heel before the suburban glare could catch us. He hit the foyer tile with a controlled, heavy thud. I dropped my knee squarely onto his throat—just hard enough to keep the scream inside. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. Down the hall, muffled behind the closed bathroom door and running water, Heather's voice echoed.

"Who is it? Did they forget the sodas?" The stalker's left hand shot up, clawing blindly for my eyes. I slipped his grip, captured the wrist, and used his own wild momentum to slam the arm flat against the tile. I hyperextended the elbow until the joint locked tight. He bucked, violently. I rode the surge, wrapping my legs around his torso to sink in a tight triangle choke. My quads instantly burned, a thirteen-year-old skeleton straining to contain an adult's desperate, thrashing core.

"Do not go into the light!" I called back, pitching my voice theatrical and bright.

"Stop where you are! Turn away from it! Don't even look at it!"

"Dude, that wasn't even my line!" Heather shouted back. Then, her voice dropped an octave, vibrating with a pitch-perfect, booming imitation of Christopher Lee's baritone through the wood-paneled door.

"Do try not to make a mess of the foyer, Master Dick. One should strive to keep one's extracurricular activities... civilized." The stalker thrashed harder, his heel scraping the tile with a loud squeak. I scraped my own sneaker in counter-rhythm to mask it, straining to keep my voice light as the man's windpipe buckled under my knee.

"Yeah, give me a second, Alfred! Just finding my pen!" He tried to roll. I let the momentum carry us both half a foot—right into the narrow entryway console. A cheap ceramic bowl of keys went flying. I snatched a heavy brass keychain mid-air and drove it into the soft spot under his jaw like a knuckle duster. His head snapped back against the baseboard with a dull thunk. Still conscious. Still dangerous. His free hand found the edge of the welcome mat and yanked. The rug slid out from under my supporting knee.

I went down with him, the impact jarring my spine. I used the fall to pivot, dropping my elbow into his solar plexus. Air exploded out of him in a silent wheeze. Heather's voice floated out again, singsong.

"You need the Princess's hover jump. Toad sinks too fast." I kept the choke locked, sweat stinging my eyes, my kid lungs burning as the seconds agonizingly ticked toward the four-minute mark.

"I'm not using the Princess! Luigi jumps higher anyway! I just need to find the magic potion!" The stalker's fingers scrabbled blindly for the dropped. 357. I hooked the checkbook off the floor with two fingers and whipped it open like a fan, slapping the stiff cardboard cover straight across his eyes—blinding him for the half-second I needed to roll us again. My back hit the wall. A framed family photo rattled. I grabbed the frame off its hook and brought the corner down hard on the inside of his wrist.

Bone met wood with a sickening crack. The gun skittered away under the console. He roared—half pain, half fury. I clamped my hand over his mouth, my fingers digging into the pressure point under his jaw.

"Whatever!" Heather shouted over the sink, laughing.

"Just don't eat all the pepperoni before I get out!" The stalker bit down. I didn't flinch. I drove my thumb into the mandibular nerve bundle behind his ear instead. His jaw went slack, his eyes finally rolling back as the biological override kicked in. Tires crunched on the driveway outside. Pizza guy. Then a second set of tires, aggressive but controlled. A response time of exactly four minutes. Marcinko. I kept the choke locked, breathing hard through my nose, arms shaking with lactic acid.

The stalker's eyes fluttered, terrified, realizing too late that the kid who answered the door was something far worse than any stalker had bargained for. The doorbell rang again—real pizza this time. I looked down at the man pinned beneath me, my voice low enough only he could hear.

"You picked the wrong girl, buddy. And the wrong porch." Heavy, tactical footsteps sounded outside. Marcinko's gravelly baritone took immediate, unquestioned control of the bewildered responding deputy. I finally released the choke just enough for the stalker to suck in a ragged breath—then drove the pen into the same brachial point one last time for insurance. I quickly scooped the. 357 out from under the console and dropped it back into his paper bag.

I stood up, smoothed my shirt, wiped sweat from my face with the back of my wrist, and opened the door like nothing had happened. Marcinko and the deputy were already there. I handed the deputy the brown paper bag with the gun inside, as calm as Sunday school.

"Guy showed up looking for Heather. I hit him in the neck. He's all yours." The pizza kid stood frozen on the walk, boxes in hand, staring at the handcuffed man being hauled to the cruiser. I stepped past Marcinko, took the cardboard boxes and sodas from the kid's trembling hands, and smiled the sweetest thirteen-year-old smile I could manage.

"Marcinko—my checkbook is trashed. Give the kid a hundred and tell him to keep the change for the inconvenience. I'll reimburse petty cash. Thanks." The kid didn't wait around. He was back in his Datsun and peeling away before the cruiser door even clicked shut.

"Get in the car, kid," Marcinko rumbled quietly, his eyes locked on the squad car.

"We need to talk." I kicked the front door closed, locked the deadbolt, and walked back into the living room carrying the pizza like a conquering hero.

"Finally!" Heather said, emerging from the bathroom and throwing her hands up.

"What took so long?" I set the boxes on the coffee table and cracked open a can of New Coke. My hands were finally steady.

"Seriously, Heather," I said, shaking my head with perfect teenage exasperation.

"I can't believe you ordered New Coke and Mandarin Slice. What are the odds?" She laughed, grabbing a slice of pepperoni.

"Hey, it was a deal. And nobody likes a soda snob, Master Dick. Just play the game." I picked up the controller. Heather was alive. Safe. Oblivious. I took a sip. It tasted like chemicals and victory.