by L V Gaudet
They stop, standing over the thin old man.
After a long moment of making them wait, Anderson slowly looks up.
“Mr. Andrews?” Jim stares down at him.
“Yes.” Anderson stares back at him with cold intelligence.
There is no loss of sharpness in this old codger’s mind, Jim thinks.
“What is your connection to the McAllisters?”
“I don’t believe I know any McAllisters.”
Jim pulls out the photo, showing it to him.
“This man was just here visiting you. How do you know him?”
“I don’t know that young man.”
Jim’s lips tighten.I know you are lying old man.
“Michael Underwood. You don’t know the name?”
“No.”
“You know the face. He was just here. You had a heated conversation.”
“I’m afraid not.” Anderson doesn’t break his cool composure. He has nothing to fear from the fat detective. There is only one man who he has ever felt a reason to fear.
“William McAllister. He is old like you.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Anderson lets his lips pull back in a small smile. He knows the detective is just fishing.
“Jason McAllister? Marjory?”
“No.” Anderson casually shakes his head once.
As Jim questions the old man, Lawrence focuses on the home, the residents, the little details, feeling the place out.
An image comes to him. A boy, thin and hungry and dirty. He is talking to an older woman. She could be his grandmother. A young woman comes briskly around a corner of the house. She looks angry.
“This is David,” the older woman says. “He came-“
“I know why he came,” the young woman interrupts. She stops, staring at the boy, hands on her hips. “Go away. You can’t come here.”
“I just-,” the boy starts, tears in his eyes along with hopelessness.
“Go away,” the young woman says again, stern.
The older woman is wringing her hands, twisting a shirt she was hanging on the clothesline. She looks at the boy, then at the younger woman.
“Sophie, we can’t-.“
“Sophie,” Lawrence says, snapping out of it, the name David ringing in his head.
Lawrence smiles, nudging Jim. Jim turns to him.
“He is looking for Sophie.”
Jim turns to the old man. “Why is Michael looking for Sophie McAllister? Who is she to him?”
Anderson just smiles that little smile, saying nothing.
“I know Jason McAllister has a connection to Michael Underwood. Whatever the McAllisters are to you, it doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care. It is Michael Underwood I’m after. Just tell me what his connection to Jason is.”
Jim already knows, but he wants confirmation.
No response, just the small smile, Anderson staring him down unflinching.
“What is his connection to Sophie?”
Silence.
“Where is Sophie?”
Silence.
“Look, if Michael is looking for her, she is in danger. He is connected to Jason, and he is a serial killer. You are not protecting Sophie by not speaking. You are putting her in danger.”
Silence.
“This is no use,” Jim mutters, turning away in frustration.
“We will find her on our own,” he spats back at the old man, walking away. Lawrence follows him out.
When they get to the car, they both get in and sit there, deciding where to go next.
“We have to find out why Michael went to see the old man and why he is looking for Sophie McAllister,” Jim says.
“That is not hard to guess,” Lawrence says. “Sophie is Jason’s sister.”
Jim looks at him.
“What do you do when you want to find someone who is missing?” Lawrence asks.
“You talk to their family.”
“Right. Let’s go find Sophie. Any idea how?”
Jim starts the car. “Let’s see if Beth found anything yet. If there is a record trace anywhere there is a computer, she will find it.”
“You check with her. Drop me off at home. I have a few things I need to follow up on.”
38Looking for the Kid
Jason parks in front of the rooming house. It feels like he hasn’t been back here in a long time. He gets out and walks to the front steps, noting that the grass has not been cut since he left. He mounts the steps. They creak under his weight. He sidesteps the soft spot on the porch, opening the door and going in. He is immediately assaulted by the foul stench of old garbage.
“Buggers couldn’t even take the trash out,” he mutters.
He looks in the living room, finding no signs the kid has been there. Either the kid is doing what I said and leaving no signs he is here, or he hasn’t come back.
Jason goes upstairs, the stairs making the now familiar creaks and groans when he puts his weight on the right stairs. The country music is conspicuously absent.
He enters his room, looking around. The room looks undisturbed, but that does not mean much. There was little there to disturb. The bag with the boy’s belongings, the books and phone that he gave him, still sits where he left it along with the note. He picks up the note, reading the jagged scrawl again.
“If I’m not here the white van people got me.” He can feel the kid’s terror in those words.
He puts the note down and heads back towards the stairs. A man he doesn’t recognize comes out of the bathroom. He looks at Jason out of the corner of his eyes, careful not to make eye contact, and slips into The Cowboy’s room.
Looks like The Cowboy has moved on. He isn’t surprised at the fast turnover of the room.
Jason stops in the kitchen, looking at the locked basement door. He takes a step back and kicks it with the flat of his foot. The door slams open with a crunch of the lock hasp screws tearing out of the wood and the loud bang of it hitting the wall with force.
He glances up at the ceiling. There is no sound from above. As expected, no one will bother investigating the loud noise. These kinds of people don’t get into other people’s business.
The basement is in darkness. He flips the switch, turning the light on, and goes down. He stops at the bottom of the stairs, looking around at the cavernous emptiness of a basement one would expect to house remnants or former residents and who knows what other refuse the landlord tossed down here instead of hauling to the dump.
It had been cleared out, but there are enough scraps left behind to confirm his suspicion. Someone was set up down here doing surveillance.
Jason goes back to his room, snatching up the note again, reading it again.
“If I’m not here the white van people got me.”
The white van people.
“What does the kid know about the white van?”
Across the street from the rooming house the curtain in an upstairs window shifts, pulling back a little and drops back into place.
Nathan throws himself backwards, banging against the wall and dropping down to a low crouch, scuttling to the corner of the dark room. The only light is what comes in through the little open door in the homemade cardboard and papier-mâché covering the window.
Nathan’s long hair is tangled and greasy, his face unshaved, and his eyes wild with an animal fear. His clothes hang off his emaciated frame, his cheeks hollow and eyes bulging from their sunken sockets, making the dark circles under them darker.
He rolls his eyes to stare at the little opening giving access to the window.
He sobs and moans piteously.
Bracing himself for it, he lunges at the window, the light touching his arm and face, searing his flesh and making him scream. He stares in rapt horror, seeing his flesh smoke and crisp, melting under the onslaught like a candle melts beneath the flame.
He flips the little door closed, blocking out the light, and retreats back to his corner, sinking to the floor and cradling his ruined arm whi
le he weeps.
“NO. NO. NO. NONONONONONONOnonoooo.”
He leaps up, scrambling to another wall, frantically snatching up sheets of newspaper and tinfoil and plastering them with white liquid from a bucket. He pastes them to the walls, rushing back for more, adding another layer. The walls are already wallpapered with many layers of newspaper and tinfoil papier-mâché.
He doesn’t know why he does it. He only knows he must. The shiny metallic foil blocks out the radio signals coming from the radio towers and satellites. The words on the newsprint block in the demons writhing inside his head.
He can feel them in there now, writhing torturously, screaming and clawing, trying to get out.
He moves on to the window, putting too much pressure and feeling the false wall of newsprint and foil move, indenting in under his hand. He screams, clawing at it frantically.
“It can’t touch the glass! If it touches the glass it will shatter and they will get in!” He digs his nails in, pulling it back, flattening the indent.
He falls back with relief, gasping and panting. He claps both hands over his mouth and nose, holding them tight and looking at the window in a panic.
Don’t breath! Don’t breath! It will hear you!
It’ is the man across the street. If it hears him, it might sneak up on the house.
“It’s back. How? How did it do it?”
Trembling so hard it takes him three tries to pick it up; he snatches up his special suit for going outside, pulling it on with shaking hands. He pulls on the pants, then the jacket, zipping it up. His special suit is a track suit with newspaper and tinfoil stapled to it, covering every inch of the old worn suit he had gotten from a shelter when he was homeless.
That was before Nathan’s mother found him and brought him home.
He pulls on rubber boots, newsprint and foil glued to them, including the soles. Finally, he puts on his helmet. It is his masterpiece, his own design. It started as a lamp shade for one of the lamps downstairs. Now it protects him from the beams, rays, and mind controlling wavelengths. It also traps the monsters inside his head, freezing them and allowing him to think more clearly. Last, he puts on large oven mitts made of a shiny silver fabric. He feels braver now that he is dressed in his protective suit.
Ready, he clomps down the stairs noisily. The extra noise chases out the spirits hiding under the stairs.
Reaching the door, Nathan pauses long enough to call out, “I’m going out Mom, back in a bit.”
The elderly woman sitting in the darkened living room doesn’t answer. The lights are all off and heavy curtains drawn closed, blocking out the light outside.
He fumbles with the latch with the big mitts on, finally getting it open. He blinks against the searing white hot light of the sun on his eyes. With a quick look to make sure it’s safe, he covers his eyes with his mitted hands to protect them and dashes out from the safety of his doorway, sprinting across the street and taking the steps of the rooming house two at a time. He plasters himself against the door, breathing heavily, trying to get his panting under control, his tongue lolling out like a dog.
With deliberate slowness, Ryan quietly opens the door and slips outside the nursing home, closing it behind him.
He smiles as he slips safely out of the building.
“I know where to find Sophie. He’s wrong, I did meet her. It’s time to pay my Aunt Sophie a visit.”
Jason comes down the stairs.
What do I do? There has to be a way to get the kid back, if he’s still alive. He’s innocent. He knows nothing. No, that’s not true. His note, what is this about people in a white van? His writing is sloppy, hurried. Scared. Is that our people after him or someone else? He didn’t strike me as a druggie, but it could be a gang or dealer trying to recruit him.
He reaches the hallway outside the living room entrance and stops in his tracks. He turns and gapes at the strangest sight he has ever seen. A wild looking man dressed in newspaper and tin foil is standing just inside the living room staring at him with crazy eyes.
In shock, he reacts and braces himself a moment too late.
With a strange low animal sound, the crazy looking man launches through the doorway and is on him, wrapping his long arms and legs around him. The sudden collision and weight sends them crashing down, bouncing hard against the wall and rolling on the floor. The strange lamp-hat goes flying, rattling as it rolls away. The newspaper and foil covering his suit tear easily, becoming ruined.
Jason fights to break free but the man is impossibly strong, the adrenaline surging through his veins giving him super-human strength. He grapples at him, trying to get a hold of him, to punch and kick him. He slams his forehead against his attacker’s face, trying to knock him in the nose and blind him, sending searing pain shooting through his own head when he misses and collides with the top of his skull instead.
Jason manages to get his feet under him, bracing his back against the wall and breaking his attacker’s double arm and leg bear hug. He pushes up, pushing his attacker off. On his feet now, he tries to deflect another lunge.
His attacker’s single-minded purpose wins. Moving with shocking speed, he has his hands on Jason’s throat, squeezing his airway and screaming “HOW HOW HOW HOWHOWHOWHOW” over and over in an endless chant.
Jason fights to break his grip and fails. His air cut off, he weakens fast, his head feeling like it’s swelling, his face reddening. His mouth opens and his tongue bulges out, desperate for air. His knees start bending. He is slowly going down.
Blackness is closing in and Jason flails, punching blindly. A wild swing strikes a lucky blow, hitting his attacker in the side of the neck, compressing the carotid artery which sends a sudden shock to his brain, making Nathan fall suddenly limp. Nathan hits the floor like a discarded rag doll, his weight taking Jason down with him.
Coughing for air, Jason struggles to roll him off. He gets to his feet.
“What the hell was that?”
Angry, he gives the prone figure a few hard kicks. He looks around quickly for something to tie him up with.
The lamp cords. He starts for the living room, making it as far as two steps inside the doorway when he hears his attacker already coming to. Without any thought for anything but keeping him down long enough to tie him up, he pounces for the nearest lamp, snatching it up and roughly tearing the cord from the wall socket.
Jason runs quickly back into the hallway and brings the lamp down on his attacker’s face. Nathan looks up at him with wide eyes just in time to see the growing lamp coming down at him.
Jason pulls it back again, striking him a few more times in the head, making Nathan slump down unconscious again, blood trickling from his head now.
He turns the lamp over and savagely rips the cord out, using it to tie Nathan’s hands behind his back, wrapping it so tight his skin his pulled in and slightly wrinkled, cutting off the circulation to his hands. He rips the cord out of the other lamp, using it to tie his feet. He looks around for something else to use before his attacker regains consciousness.
Finding nothing else, he yanks the T.V. forward and rips the cord out from the T.V. It takes four tries, yanking it violently, before it tears free. He ties one end around the man’s neck like a leash.
Grunting, he struggles to drag the unconscious man to the stairs, propping him against the stair wall with the inner railing running up the open steps, he ties the other end off on one of the vertical rungs above, turning the cord into a noose. He checks to make sure the man can still breathe.
The now secured attacker is coming to, blinking his eyes, disoriented. His eyes come into focus and he sees Jason.
Jason stands over him, staring down at him in disgust.
“What the hell are you?”
“A-a-a-a-aa—aaaa—a,” is all that comes out. Nathan stares up at Jason in wild-eyed terror.
Jason kicks him, making him grunt from the force.
“I asked you a question. What the hell are you supposed to be?
Why did you attack me?”
“Ha-ha-ha-hu-hu-hu.” It’s an unhappy stuttering sound.
“You can’t talk? You can’t make words?”
“Ha-ha-ha-how? How?” Nathan’s vocal paralysis breaks. “How can you? You-you were the man. Then you were the boy. But I got you. I locked you up safe, trapped you.”
Nathan twitches with the need to tap his head, but his hands are tied painfully tight behind his back.
Jason leans over him, looming. “What about the boy?”
“Weak, weak, you are weak as the boy. The boy is weak. I got you. I fixed you. You can’t change, Changeling. You can’t leave the boy form. How did you get free? How did you be the man again?”
“You got the kid? You took him?”
“Y-yes, the boy, you. You are weak as the boy.”
Jason looks at his prisoner more closely. “You are bloody nuts, aren’t you? Crazy.”
Nathan shakes his head, discovering he can’t move much, that his neck is tied. He tries to look up. He scrunches his face like he’s in pain.
“Augh,” he moans. “I can feel them. I can feel them in there, trying to get out.”
“Who?”
“The demons.”
“The demons?”
Nathan groans again. “Yes, they do terrible things when they get out. They want out to do bad things. I can hear them.”
“How do you know they didn’t already get out?” Jason smirks at him cruelly.
“I can’t hear them anymore. I can’t hear them if they’re not in my head. I know. I know what they do when they get out. They whisper to me about it inside my head when they come back.”
Nathan tries to look around frantically.
“My hat, I need my hat. To lock them in, keep them quiet.”
Jason remembers the messed up lampshade his attacker wore and fetches it.
“This hat?”
“Yes, yes, I need it.”
Nathan sighs with relief when Jason puts it on his head.
“Now talk, you psycho freak. What did you do with the kid?”