The Cove: a shocking thriller you won't be able to put down (The Devil's Cove Book 1)

by Malcolm Richards

  “Sit there.”

  “I really just need to use the phone, if that’s all right.”

  Grady’s eyes narrowed.

  Still pinching the bridge of his nose, Scott reluctantly sat down. He was going to have to shower as soon as he got home.

  “That was some clout the Pengelly boy gave you,” Grady said, with a chuckle, as he picked up the kettle from the stove and brought it over to the sink, which was surprisingly free of dirty dishes. “Deserve it, did you?”

  “The boy’s unhinged. Just like his mother.” Scott pulled a fresh tissue from his pocket and dabbed his nose. The bleeding was slowing, but the pain was growing more intense. He had painkillers in the car but there was no way he was leaving until he had spoken to someone at the Chronicle.

  A growl from beneath the table made him look down. Caliban glared back and bared his fangs.

  Scott wondered if he should use the old man’s bathroom to clean up his face before driving to the office. Plus, he’d gone hours without pissing and now his bladder was throbbing in complaint. His eyes swept the room, taking in the disarray. If the kitchen was this unsanitary what hope did he have of not coming away from Grady’s bathroom with some incurable disease?

  Across the room, Grady dumped the kettle on the stove, turned a dial to release the gas, then struck a match. There was a sharp whoosh and blue flames shot out in a wide arc.

  “Is that thing safe?” Scott asked. The stove had to be at least thirty years old.

  “My house is still standing, is it not? You a tea drinker, boy?”

  Scott smiled. It had been several years since he had been referred to as a boy. There was no time for tea and gossip. He had a career-changing story to write. Where was the damn phone?

  Grady was staring at him expectantly. No tea, no phone. It was suddenly obvious that was the deal.

  Damn it.

  “Sure,” Scott said, his whole head throbbing now. He had no intention of imbibing anything made in this house. Perhaps he should just leave. Take his chances in the car and hope for empty roads. He glanced at the kitchen door.

  “So, you saw the Anderson boy with your own eyes?” Grady removed two cracked mugs from a cupboard. Even from where he sat, Scott could see they were covered in a fine layer of dust.

  “That’s right. You’ll read all about it tomorrow. So, if I could just use your phone. . .”

  Ignoring him, Grady opened the refrigerator door. Terrible smells came out but he didn’t seem to notice. He pulled off the top of a carton of milk and brought it to his nose. “You ask me, that boy should have been taken away from her when she had him. What did she know about looking after a child? She was a child.”

  Scott looked up. Perhaps there was some more meat for his story here. “What about Callum’s father?”

  “Kye Anderson. Scum, like the rest of his family. Only thing they’re good for is collecting money from the state.” He shuffled over to the table, a rancid odour of stale urine trailing him. “You ask me, it was Carrie’s own fault she lost her boy. Maybe if she kept a closer eye on him, she wouldn’t have had all those years of grief. Women like Carrie Killigrew only care about one thing; what men think of ‘em. That boy deserved better than he ever got from her.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe wherever he was, he was loved. Bet she hasn’t even thought about that. Bet she hasn’t even thought to be grateful.”

  On the stove, the kettle began to whistle.

  Scott stared at the old man, noting the anger on his face. And something else he couldn’t quite read. Was it pain? Grief? Grady Spencer turned his head sharply and locked eyes with him. Scott forced a smile to his lips. The throb in his bladder intensified.

  The old man shuffled over to the stove and, removing the kettle from the burner, began pouring hot water into the mugs. There was something here. Scott was suddenly sure of it. His intuition was singing like a choirboy.

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked. “That wherever Cal was, he was loved?”

  Grady poured milk into the mugs. “Didn’t mean a thing. Sugar?”

  “No thanks. So where do you think Carrie’s son has been all this time? Do you think someone local could have taken him?”

  The drinks made, Grady shuffled over to the table. As he moved, tea slopped over the sides of the mugs and splashed on the faded linoleum. Setting them down on the table, he pushed a pile of magazines off a chair and onto the floor.

  He sat, staring squarely at Scott, then smiled, revealing cracked, yellow teeth.

  “Trouble is these days, everyone thinks they know everything. Everyone thinks they’re too clever for their own good.” He glanced down at Caliban, who had moved to sit by his side. He reached down and allowed the dog to lick his hand. Scott grimaced. “Just like with the Pengelly boy. Everyone has an opinion about what happened to him, too. But they’re all wrong.”

  There was a strange look in the old man’s eye. A spark of something. Was it danger? Excitement?

  “Oh? And how would you know that?”

  Grady leaned back, an unnerving, triumphant look on his face.

  Scott leaned forward, pressing down on his bladder. The urge to piss grew unbearable.

  “Mr. Spencer, is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  Spreading his lips into a full-toothed grin, the old man began to laugh. And then the smile vanished. “There are things I could tell you that would make your hair turn white. Stories that would make you curl up in a corner and cry like a baby.” He paused, his pupils growing large and black, like pools of oil. “But you’ve heard enough tales from me for now. We’ll save those for another time.”

  He smiled again.

  Blood rushed in Scott’s ears as he stared at the old man. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to be a hundred miles away from Grady Spencer and his claustrophobic kitchen.

  But he needed to make that phone call before it was too late. And now he was about to piss himself. God damn it!

  “Could I use your bathroom?” he asked, as a searing pain shot through his bladder.

  Grady watched him, that strange smile still on his lips. He nodded to the kitchen door. “First on your left at the top of the stairs. The chain’s rusty. Be gentle when you give it a pull.”

  Scott jumped to his feet. “Thanks. Perhaps you could point me to your phone as well?”

  The old man stared.

  Unable to wait any longer, Scott raced out of the kitchen, glad to be away from Grady Spencer for now. All the mess and bad odours were making him queasy. Heading through the hall, he reached the stairs and took them two steps at a time, careful not to touch the railings with his hands.

  The upstairs landing was gloomy and dank. Curtains were drawn over the single small window. The stench of mildew choked the air. Pushing open the first door on the left, Scott was relieved to find that, except for the mouldy walls, the bathroom was relatively clean. He made quick work of emptying his bladder then gave the chain a gentle pull as Grady had instructed. He washed his hands while trying not to imagine the origins of the strange stains at the bottom of the sink, and splashed water over his face to wash away the dried blood.

  Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror, he winced. His nose was swollen to almost twice the size. A dark bruise was blooming on his chin. Nothing was broken, though. Good job, he thought, looking around for a towel before deciding to dry his face on the sleeve of his shirt.

  He turned to leave. Something caught his eye.

  A bright blue rubber boat sat on the edge of the cracked bathtub. Its little funnels were painted bright red. On the front of the boat were two large cartoon eyes. In other circumstances, Scott would have laughed at a grown man being in possession of something so childish. But the sight of the toy sent a sliver of ice slipping down his spine. He leaned forward and picked up the boat, turning it over in his hands.

  Perhaps Grady had grandchildren that sometimes came to visit. But what parent in their right mind would bring a chil
d into a house like this?

  Replacing the boat on the edge of the tub, he stepped back onto the landing. Something was wrong. He’d felt it in the kitchen, a kind of energy teasing the hairs on his skin. He’d felt it when he’d looked directly at Grady Spencer, when the old man had spoken so cryptically about Noah Pengelly.

  Scott’s eyes roamed the landing. The door next to the bathroom was ajar. He glanced back at the stairs and cocked his head.

  He would take a quick look. Just poke his head around the door. Then he would go. He’d find a pay phone along the way. He should have done so in the first place. Scott stepped through the open door and peered inside.

  It was a large bedroom. The curtains were open, but the filthy window panes let in little light. To Scott’s surprise, the room was almost clutter free. The furniture was old and rickety, the carpet bald. The double bed in the centre had seen better days.

  Wrinkling his nose at the overpowering stench of urine and stale air, Scott moved silently into the room. There was nothing out of the ordinary here. Just an old man’s bedroom in need of a good bleaching.

  He shook his head. Perhaps the knock to his head and unbalanced his instincts. His mind returned to the toy boat.

  And that was when he saw it.

  In the corner of the room.

  A cage. It was too big for that stupid terrier. In fact, it was better suited to a much larger dog. A German Shepherd perhaps. A Doberman.

  Or a child.

  Scott moved up to the cage and bent his knees. The inside was cast in shadows but he could see something lying on the floor inside. Slipping his hand in between the bars, he scrabbled around until his fingers found what they were looking for.

  He drew them out. His heart smashed against his ribcage. In his hand were old comic books, their pages curled as if read many times. Fear blossoming in his stomach, Scott stumbled back. He stared at the comics still clutched in his hand.

  What did he do?

  He could run downstairs and out the front door, and head straight to the police. And tell them what exactly? That Grady Spencer was somehow behind the disappearance of Noah Pengelly? A handful of comic books was not evidence. Finding Noah, dead or alive, was.

  Or he could get to the press room and make sure his story was on tomorrow’s front page.

  A voice from downstairs shattered his thoughts.

  “You get lost up there, did you?”

  Goosebumps prickled Scott’s arms. Fuck.

  He gave the comics one more glance then stuffed them down the back of his jeans. He found Grady Spencer back in the kitchen and sitting at the table. He looked up when Scott entered, that strange, disconcerting smile on his lips.

  “Your tea is going cold,” he said. “I didn’t make it for nothing, did I?”

  Scott remained standing. He should have chosen the door. He should have been on his way to the police station.

  “I need to go,” he said, his throat running dry.

  The old man leaned forward, watching him closely. “You wanted to use the telephone. You said it was urgent.”

  “I remembered something I have to do back at the office.”

  “I let you in my home and I made you tea. You haven’t taken a single sip.” Grady’s eyes grew even darker. The shadows in the room seemed to reach out to him. Then the old man threw a hand in the air. “Suit yourself.” Reaching over, he picked up Scott’s still full mug. He shuffled across the kitchen and dumped it in the sink.

  Now there was some distance between them, Scott sucked in a breath. If Noah was here, he had to find him. He may have behaved like an asshole most of the time, but Scott was not a monster. Besides, he thought, as he turned and glanced at the kitchen door, he could already see the headline: JOURNALIST SAVES MISSING BOY FROM HOUSE OF HORRORS.

  Perhaps he would be the hero in this story after all.

  He’d need to distract the old man. Use physical force if necessary to subdue him. Then he would search the house from top to bottom. Noah had to be well hidden. His mind whirring, Scott wondered if the house had a basement.

  “The trouble with you journalists,” Grady said, standing by the stove, “is that you think you can waltz in and out of people’s lives, asking your questions and making up the answers without a care in the world.”

  Scott was half-listening, half-watching the door. He tried to mentally picture the hall. Stairs were on the left. Two doors on the right: a living room and a dining room.

  “Oh, you think you’re changing the world, changing people’s lives,” Grady continued. “But all you’re really doing is poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. Sniffing around like some filthy animal, spreading disease with your words.”

  There had been another door, hadn’t there? On the left, just past the stairs. Scott had the sudden urge to run out and see.

  “You don’t understand a town like this. You think you can pull wool over our eyes any time you please. Well, we’re not all so naive, Mister Journalist. Some of us saw you coming a mile away. Some of us saw what a scourge you were, coming in here, trying to drag up trouble when things needed to be left alone.”

  Scott looked up, startled to see Grady Spencer beside him, his face twisted into a frightening grimace.

  “He’s my boy,” the old man snarled. “Mine.”

  The kettle struck the side of Scott’s head, sending him crashing against the wall. He slid down it. The room went white. Then red. Pain ripped through his skull.

  Grady brought the kettle down again, smashing it into his face. Bones snapped. Blood spurted.

  Scott slumped forward. The world went dark.

  16

  THE HOUSE WAS QUIET. Carrie stood in the landing, listening to the creaks of the old cottage. A blanket of tiredness wrapped around her. It had been a strange day. A joyous day. One filled with fear and doubt. But one filled with wonder and a feeling she could not put into words.

  Tiptoeing to Melissa’s room, she pushed open the door a few inches and peered in. Melissa lay on her side, long hair covering her face. She purred softly like a kitten.

  Carrie smiled. Melissa had coped well with the new addition to the family. It wouldn’t be an easy transition, Carrie knew that, but Melissa was young. She would soon grow to love having an older brother to watch out for her.

  Closing the door, Carrie moved noiselessly until she stood outside Cal’s bedroom. The door was open a crack. He had been afraid to be left alone in the dark and confused by the bedtime routine. Carrie wondered just how much he could remember of his old life. She pushed the door open a few inches more and poked her head inside.

  Her heart stopped. The bed was empty.

  She looked down the hall and peered into the bathroom. The door was open, the lights switched off.

  She saw him moments later.

  He was curled up beneath the bed with his back to the room, naked except for his underwear. The pyjamas she’d given him still lay on top of the mattress. Carrie winced as she looked at the myriad scars and marks on his skin.

  “Cal?”

  He remained still, his shoulders gently moving with each breath. She wondered if she should wake him, to get him into the bed where he would be more comfortable. But waking him might cause another panicked outburst. It had taken Carrie over an hour to calm him down following the incident at dinner.

  She hung in the doorway for a minute more, listening to his breaths, then moved along the landing.

  Dylan was barely awake, a John Grisham novel slowly slipping from his hands. Carrie climbed into bed beside him. He lifted one arm and she slipped into the crook.

  “Everyone okay?” Dylan’s voice was heavy with sleep.

  Carrie rested her head on his bare chest. The steady beat of his heart filled her ears. It was calming, quietening the anxieties that plagued her mind.

  “Cal is under the bed,” she said.

  Dylan opened an eye. “What’s he doing under there?”

  “Sleeping.”

  They were both
quiet for a moment.

  “I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that, not in front of you or the kids.” Dylan brushed strands of hair from Carrie’s face. She remained silent. “What about tomorrow when Cal’s name is released to the papers? What’s going to happen then?”

  Carrie sighed. She didn’t want to think about it. Not now. She just wanted to sleep.

  “I guess we’ll find out come the morning.”

  Dylan had both eyes open now. He put the book down and kissed the top of Carrie’s head. “I’m worried about leaving you on Thursday.”

  “So, don’t leave.”

  “Carrie...”

  She sat up. “I know. We need the money. But can’t you wait just a few more days?”

  “You know I can’t. The fish aren’t going to wait for us and nor are the other fleets. If we lose a few days, it could mean the difference between food on the table or going hungry.”

  Carrie turned away.

  “I need you here,” she said.

  Dylan sat up. “I am here. And I’ll only be gone for a few days.”

  “A lot can happen in a few days.”

  Carrie drew in a deep breath and held onto it. She hated how helpless she sounded. Like she couldn’t cope on her own. The truth was, she wasn’t sure if she could. She had no idea what was going through Cal’s mind. She had no idea if she had the strength or the knowledge to deal with his trauma. But he was her son. It was her responsibility.

  Dylan turned to face her, his tired eyes softening.

  “Look, if you don’t think you can cope, I’ll see if I can get someone else to replace me. It means we’ll be eating beans three times a day for a while, but you’re right. I should be here.”

  He kissed her shoulder, then her neck. Carrie felt her skin tingle. She shut her eyes. Dylan was right. Holiday season was over. The shop would soon be closed until next spring. Business hadn’t been great this summer as it was. There was maybe enough money in the bank to cover things, just. But if Dylan stayed home any longer they’d be in trouble. The last thing she wanted was for her family to go hungry.