The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [66]
The problem was that now he had only one syringe left. If something went wrong with the car or if they were delayed in traffic, that syringe would be his last line of defense. After that he’d be on his own.
By now it was nearly 4:15 and the rain was coming down heavier. The windshield began to fog and Osborn fumbled for the defroster. Finding it, he clicked on the fan and reached up to clear the inside of the windshield with his hand. This was one day he was certain no one would be in the park. The weather, at least, was something he could be thankful for.
Glancing over his shoulder, he looked at Kanarack on the backseat. Every expansion and contraction of his lungs was a supreme effort. And Osborn could tell from the look in his eyes the horror he was going through, wondering, with each breath, if he’d have the strength for the next.
Ahead, a traffic light changed from yellow to red and Osborn stopped behind a black Ferrari. Once more he glanced over his shoulder at Kanarack. At this moment he had no idea how he felt. Incredibly, what should have felt a monumental triumph no longer did. In its place was a helpless human being, frightened beyond all measure, with absolutely no idea what was happening to him, battling with everything in him for no more than the air to keep him alive. That the creature was innately evil, had caused the deaths of two people and horribly and inexorably gnarled Paul Osborn’s own life from childhood on, seemed, at this point, to have little meaning. It was enough to have gotten the beast this far. For Osborn to go through with the rest would make him the equal of Kanarack, and that was someone he was not. And if that was all, he might have stopped the car right there and simply walked away, thereby giving Kanarack back his life. But it wasn’t all. The other thing had yet to be addressed.
The WHY of it. Why Kanarack had murdered his father!
Ahead of him, the light changed to green and traffic moved off. It was getting darker by the moment and motorists were switching on their yellow headlights. Directly ahead was avenue de Clichy. Reaching it, Osborn turned left and headed toward the river road.
Less than a half mile behind him, a new, dark green Ford pulled out in traffic and speeded up to pass. Turning onto avenue de Clichy, it changed quickly into the right lane and slowed, staying three cars behind Osborn’s Citroën. The driver was a tall man with blue eyes and a pale complexion. Light blond eyebrows matched his hair and the hair on the backs of his hands. He was wearing a tan raincoat over a dull plaid sport coat, dark gray slacks and a gray turtleneck sweater. On the seat beside him was a small-brimmed hat, a hard-shell briefcase, and a street map of Paris that had been folded back. His name was Bernhard Oven and today was his forty-second birthday.
36
* * *
“CAN YOU hear me?” Osborn said, as he turned the Citroën northeast along the river road. The rain was coming down harder than before and the wipers beat a steady rhythm across the windshield. To his left, the Seine was just visible through the dark of the trees that lined the road. Little more than a mile ahead was the turnoff to the park.
“Can you hear me?” Osborn repeated, glancing first into the rearview mirror, then turning so that he could look into the backseat.
Kanarack lay staring at the car’s ceiling, his breathing becoming more regular.
“Uh huh,” he grunted.
Osborn looked back to the road ahead. “You asked me if I knew what happened to Jean Packard. I said yes. Maybe you’d like to know what happened to you. You were injected with a drug called