by Jack Quaid
“Any help is appreciated,” Morgan said.
Corey turned down the volume. “How far is the El Wray Motel?”
“From here?” Parker said. “Not far at all. Let’s get down there before that cop turns up and gets himself killed.”
Corey cranked up the engine, and the Eldorado sped off down the street.
Thirty-One
When it came to motels in Slaughter Beach, the El Wray wasn’t anybody’s first choice… or second choice. The El Wray Motel was the motel people went to when their pocketbook was lean or they didn’t want to answer any questions. It boasted of “clean sheets” and had fourteen rooms, basic cable, and a dirty pool. The rooms formed a U shape around the parking lot in the middle.
By the time Corey and Parker arrived, the El Wray Motel sat deathly quiet. Besides the couple of scattered cars and the big-rig truck in the parking lot, there wasn’t much else around.
Corey shut off the engine, climbed out, and took one look at the lifeless motel. He couldn’t spot a light or the blue hue of a television coming from any of the rooms, and the only sound in the air was the hum of the neon light above them that advertised vacancies.
“This doesn’t look scary at all,” Corey said after glancing around at the joint.
Parker cocked her head, studying the open door to the reception area, more specifically, the two legs poking out of the open door. “That certainly doesn’t look promising.”
“Nope,” Corey said. “I can’t say that it does.”
Parker made her way over, and Corey followed. When they reached the door, Parker gently pushed it all the way open with the tips of her fingers then stepped over the dead body on the floor and into the horror of the lobby.
She counted three bodies or maybe four. It was hard to tell considering how many pieces they were in. Mary Brown, the owner and proprietor of the El Wray Motel, was pinned to the wall, machete buried in her belly that busted out the other side and into the wall behind her. Mary’s husband, Bob, was slumped over the counter with a revolver in his hand, his guts ripped out, while the body of their daughter, Lily, was folded over itself in the corner. Not to mention there was a trucker down by Parker’s feet. The big rig out in the parking lot must have been his.
“I guess you can check in,” Corey said. “But you can never check out.”
Parker crouched and took in the sight of the massacre. “That’s not funny, Corey. I knew these people. They were good folk.”
All those years ago when Parker had first rolled into Slaughter Beach, the very first place she stayed was the El Wray Motel. She had a bag of clothes that didn’t fit her anymore, a stolen car, and no idea about what the hell to do about anything. Not only did Mary Brown rent her a room for a couple of weeks until she found a place, she also somehow sensed Parker was alone and afraid. Then Mary Brown did two things that Parker would never forget. The first thing she did was tell Bob to get rid of the stolen car and never speak a word about it to anyone. The second thing she did was drive over to the Kmart in Georgetown and buy a cart full of diapers, pacifiers, bottles, and Sam’s very first outfit, which she’d come home from the hospital in.
In the years that had passed, Parker and Mary Brown had seen little of each other. But those times they did happen to bump into each other at the store or a local event, they would stop and talk. Parker would show her photos of Sam, and they would promise to catch up. Neither of them ever mentioned the secret they both knew: that Christine Turner wasn’t really who she said she was.
Looking at the body of the lady who’d been so kind to her all those years ago, Parker realized that she had never thanked Mary Brown, and now she never could.
“What’s the plan?” Corey asked.
Parker looked over her shoulder, past Corey and at the night beyond. “He’s here. We need to make him come to us.”
“And exactly how do we do that?”
“I’ve got a little idea,” she said.
Thirty-Two
“Little” was an understatement. Parker’s idea was big. And dangerous.
She stood in the middle of the El Wray Motel’s parking lot. In one hand, she had a machete. In the other, she had a Zippo lighter she’d found in the glove compartment of the Eldorado. The important part was the empty gas can by her feet. It should be noted that the emphasis there should be on the word empty.
She sparked the Zippo and got a flame. She held that lighter in her hand for a moment, just watching the orange flame dance around in the blueness of the night. Then she tossed that Zippo to the pool of gas by her feet. It didn’t take more than a second to erupt into flames, which ran as fast as they could toward Room Fifteen of the El Wray Motel and set that entire suite on fire. The fire spread to the next room, engulfing it, and so on until every single room of the El Wray was covered in flames and burning to the ground.
Parker gripped the machete tightly and kept a keen eye open for any kind of movement coming from any of the dark shadows, but there was nothing whatsoever.
“Come on!” Parker said. “Come out, you son of a bitch!”
But nothing.
Not. A. Single. Little. Movement.
Then just as it was starting to look as if Parker had burned an entire motel to the ground for nothing, she spotted something in the flames of Room Twelve. A tall, dark figure emerged from the burning room. It paused in the doorway for a moment before stepping out into the night.
It was Hurricane Williams, all right. Parker would recognize that maniac anywhere. He hadn’t changed one single bit since she’d dragged him back to hell in Columbia Falls. He was still huge, still wearing that orange prison jumpsuit and hood over his head, and still had the machete in his hand. The only thing new about him was that the son of a bitch was on fire.
“Hey!” Parker yelled. “Is it me you’re looking for?”
It was indeed. Hurricane took off running full throttle at Parker Ames, and as his big heavy boots thumped on the concrete, the flames on his body went out, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. As he got closer to Parker, he raised that machete, and Parker didn’t skip a beat.
She raised hers too. Was she afraid? Yes.
Did her knees feel weak? Absolutely.
Did she have any other choice? Definitely not.
Parker took off running toward Hurricane Williams as fast as he was coming at her, and they were going to collide—there were no two ways about that. Hurricane swung that machete down hard and fast to strike, but at the last moment, Parker threw up her machete and blocked him.
The slasher was so strong that when he slammed down on that blade, he almost chopped it in half, sending Parker off balance. She scrambled out of the way and caught her breath. Parker wasn’t the slasher hunter she used to be, and the whole mess was going to be a hell of a lot harder than she thought.
A gust of black smoke drifted past as Hurricane came at her again. Parker wasn’t the type to back down. No way. So she went straight for him.
The machetes collided, tossing sparks. Parker pulled back, swung again, then dodged. She moved and swung again and again and again, but no matter how hard or how fast she attacked, Hurricane blocked every blow.
The bastard wasn’t slowing down, not one bit. In fact, Hurricane was speeding up. The tables had certainly turned. Parker was no longer on the offensive; she was clearly on defense.
Then in one swoop, Hurricane knocked Parker’s machete out of her hand, sending it clunking onto the concrete. Hurricane moved in, swiping that machete left, right, and center, just inches from her face.
Parker fell back and hit the deck.
He had her now! The bastard totally had her, and he knew it, too, so he slowed down with the hacking and slashing and took his time. The faster Parker crawled backward, the more steps forward Hurricane took. Then strangely, Parker stopped.
The fear faded from her face, and it turned into a smile. He was exactly where she wanted him to be. Whatever her plan was, getting him standing in that exact spot, at that ex
act moment was all part of it.
On the other side of the parking lot, the headlights to the Eldorado lit up and threw a spotlight on Hurricane. The Eldorado was aimed right at Hurricane Williams, and on the other side of him was the big rig that belonged to the dead trucker lying facedown on the lobby floor of the El Wray.
It didn’t take any stretch of the imagination to figure out that Parker was playing slasher bait to get Hurricane in place for Corey to finish the job off by ramming the slasher into the back of the trailer, slamming the doors shut, and trapping that maniac inside.
Hurricane looked around at his predicament, and Parker didn’t know how she knew, but she knew that Hurricane had worked the whole thing out.
“You’re not going to get us anymore,” Parker said.
Hurricane settled his attention back on Parker, then he spoke. Up until that moment in time, with over sixty dead slashers under her belt, Parker could count only a handful that had actually spoken. And in her time with Hurricane Williams back in Illinois, then Happydale, and later on in Columbia Falls, she had never, not once, heard a single syllable uttered from his lips… that was until that night.
It was just one word, but it was the most frightening word she had ever heard. Not because of what the word was or how he said, but because what it meant to her. He looked down at Parker, and in nothing much more than a grunt, he said, “Us?”
And that was it. She knew she had just given the game away. She was no longer a lone wolf, and he knew it. There was somebody else out there for Hurricane to hunt, and that somebody was Sam.
There’d be time for regrets later. Parker filled her lungs and yelled out at the top of her voice, “Now! Now! Now!”
Not wasting a moment, Corey buried the pedal into the floorboard of the Eldorado. The tires spun on the concrete for a couple of seconds before catapulting forward with Hurricane Williams right in the center of his sights.
At the last millisecond, Parker rolled out of the way before the Eldorado slammed straight into Hurricane, sending him flying through the air and straight into the back of the semitrailer, where he thumped against the wall at the other end. Corey slipped that big beast into reverse and got the hell out of the way so Parker could rush in and slam both of the doors to trailer closed, locking Hurricane Williams in the steel box.
Corey stood next to Parker as the El Wray burned to the ground behind them and Hurricane smashed, bashed, and crashed his way around inside the back of the rig.
“Easy-peasy,” Corey said. “You think this thing will hold him?”
“Yeah,” Parker said. “It’ll hold. But we can’t send him back to hell. He’s busted out of there twice already.”
“Then what do we do with him?” Corey asked as he lit two cigarettes, then he passed one to Parker.
She took it and slipped it between her lips. It was the first cigarette she’d had in over a decade, and she would have been lying if she said she didn’t enjoy it. “If he hasn’t busted out by now, he’s probably not going to. Let’s bury it.”
“Where?”
“In the middle of the ocean.”
Thirty-Three
Stacy Burke had been sheriff of Little Creek for approximately seventy-two hours when Deputy Morgan radioed in for assistance from Slaughter Beach. He’d hoped to hit the ground running, but he was expecting at least a few days to get used to the new job. He hadn’t expected anything like this. The reality of it was he didn’t even really know what this was. Morgan over at Slaughter Beach didn’t, either. All Burke knew was they needed assistance, and he was going.
Burke was the youngest sheriff in the history of Little Creek county—or anywhere he knew of, for that matter. He was twenty-four years old, had a college degree in criminal justice, and almost zero experience in policing in the real world. In any other county, in any other state, in any other part of the country, Stacy Burke would have been the worst possible candidate for sheriff. The small town had a population of just over a few hundred people, and as evidenced by the badge on his shirt, it turned out they weren’t too picky.
When Burke left Little Creek at eighteen to go to Purdue, he’d expected the only time he would ever come back would be for the holidays. Then his mom got cancer, and there wasn’t much of a chance of her getting better.
Burke was so new to the job that he’d driven three blocks before he realized he’d left his revolver at home. He had to go back and get it before starting the trip out to Slaughter Beach all over again.
Then he hit the sirens and lights and put pedal to the metal. Ever since he was a kid lying on his belly on the living room floor, watching T.J. Hooker, he’d wanted to hit the sirens and lights and speed through town on his way to some important case or emergency. Driving out to Slaughter Beach with the sirens on, he felt exactly like that kid lying on the floor of his mom’s living room all over again.
He was somewhere along DE-1 and figured he was probably only a couple of minutes away from the El Wray when he saw Ricky Moore’s semi hauling ass in the other direction. The rig was unmistakable. Ricky had it painted bright orange with Ricky Moore’s Big Rig Express painted on the side. He didn’t think much of it at the time except that Ricky looked like he was in one hell of a rush.
Burke saw the flames from the El Wray Motel two miles out. At first, he didn’t really know what it was, but when his mind caught up, it was as clear as day that the entire motel was an inferno.
Burke hit the gas, and when he took a slight bend in the road, the old patrol car’s ass end swung out sideways. He almost lost control of the whole thing, but as soon as he eased off the pedal and straightened the wheel, the tires gripped the road again. He had complete control as he pulled up to the El Wray, or what was left of it anyway.
Burke climbed out and shielded his face from the heat. “Oh, my…”
He had no idea what to do, and the sight shocked him for a couple of seconds. Then he saw a couple of legs poking out of the office doorway. All the excitement he had felt while speeding over with the flashing lights and sirens just made him feel foolish. He pushed all that aside, and without so much as a second thought, he ran underneath the flashing neon light that was still managing somehow to flash on and off while burning with fire.
He shielded his face as flames licked at his arms and legs. With one arm up to protect his eyes, he grabbed hold of one of the boots hanging out of the doorway then ran as fast as he could, dragging that body behind him. He knew it wasn’t the gentlest of rescues, but he figured that it was better than burning to death. Burke dragged the body out into the street and into the beams of his headlights, where it was safe from the flames and fire.
Burke dropped to his knees and rolled the body over. He was about to start CPR when he stopped dead in his tracks. He was looking at Ricky Moore, and Ricky wasn’t unconscious from smoke inhalation or anything like that. He was unconscious because somebody had stabbed the absolute hell out of him. There was no way known CPR or anything else was going to help him.
Then Burke remembered the truck he’d passed on the road, realizing Ricky Moore hadn’t been behind the wheel of the big rig. There was a very high chance that whoever was behind the wheel had stabbed poor Ricky to death and set the El Wray on fire.
Burke jumped into the front seat of the cruiser, turned the key, yanked the wheel, and floored it. The car did a violent one-eighty turn, taking two of its wheels onto the dirt shoulder before straightening back up and speeding off in the direction it had just come from… in the very same direction of Ricky Moore’s truck.
Thirty-Four
Telly watched as Joe and Morgan slipped on rubber gloves and masks. He couldn’t believe they were going back into the gas station again. Seeing Lloyd like that once was enough for Telly.
Joe’s radio squawked to life. “This is Stacy Burke! I’m on DE-1 and in pursuit of Ricky Moore’s big rig, last seen heading North on DE-1.”
Joe and Morgan swapped a curious look.
“The El Wray Motel is on fire,
Ricky Moore is dead, and I suspect the suspects are currently in his rig, heading…” and Burke continued on.
Joe pulled the mask from his face. “I suppose I should go.”
“I think you should,” Morgan said.
He didn’t waste any time. Within seconds, Joe was behind the wheel of his Jeep and speeding off down the road.
Thirty-Five
Parker and Corey had no idea what was heading their way. They were driving east on DE-9, right near the ocean, where the fog was thick and the air was cool. Parker lit another of Corey’s cigarettes and let it dangle from her lips as she wrapped up a gash on her arm from when she was too slow to get the hell out of the way from one of Hurricane’s attacks back at the motel. It wasn’t the worst injury she’d ever had, that was for sure, but she knew that if she left it unattended, it could turn into a pain in the ass. The last thing she needed was to see the local doctor and explain how the whole thing occurred. She would have to make up some story to cover her tracks, but any story that didn’t end with Parker getting stabbed wasn’t going to pass any doctor’s bullshit detector, so she figured she better just clean it up before it became the loose thread that pulled her cover apart.
She’d found a first aid kit in the truck and was almost finished bandaging up that arm when flashing red and blue lights lit up the mirrors.
“This can’t be good,” Corey said.
“Do you think it’s possible they’re looking for two other people who set fire to a motel and stole a truck?”
“For the record,” Corey said, “this was all your idea.”
The Little Creek cruiser sped up in front of the big rig and tapped the brakes. The message was clear: pull the hell over.