Wicked Game

by Lisa Jackson

  This was the scene of those visions, not Siren Song.

  “Dear God,” she whispered, her throat tightening.

  Her cell phone jangled and she jumped, then realized that it hadn’t actually rung, but that a message had been left on her voicemail. She punched buttons to retrieve it and heard, over the pounding of the surf far below, Hudson’s worried voice. He asked her to call, to meet him at the motel as he was checking himself out of the hospital. And she was to call Zeke’s number, as Hudson was using his friend’s phone. He signed off with a quick “love you,” which nearly brought tears to her eyes. He’d forgive her for keeping the secret about the baby. Maybe he really did love her. Maybe it wasn’t all about Jessie.

  She tried to call him back, once, twice, three times, and three times she failed.

  “Damn,” she whispered as she climbed out of the car and the wind, fierce now, tore at her clothes and hair. She considered leaving, driving into cell phone range and calling Hudson, but she didn’t want to take the time.

  Not when she had the overwhelming sensation that time was running out, faster and faster, grains of sand slipping through the hourglass that was her life.

  But she tried to call Hudson one more time and failed again, the call never going through. Swearing softly, she tucked the phone into her pocket and started up the broken flagstones to the “office” door. Glancing around the side of the building to the open sea, she hesitated briefly. Darkness made it hard to see the shifting gray waters of the Pacific, but she could hear the waves pounding the base of the cliffs, spraying upward while the wind wailed.

  Spiderwebs of realization brushed up her arms.

  She had been here before. She was certain of it. What was it about this place? Nervous, she walked along the exterior of the decaying motel, barely noticing that some of the glass panes of the windows had been replaced with plywood, the plywood having grayed and buckled over the years. When she reached the back of the motel she stopped short.

  “Jessie,” she whispered as her hair whipped over her face.

  This narrow point of land on which she now stood was the ridge in her visions, the one in which Jessie was poised over the angry, rushing sea. It had to be. She felt familiar here, and she thought for just an instant that the girl she’d seen in her trancelike state hadn’t been Jessie at all, but herself. Hadn’t people said they resembled each other?

  But, no, the girl she’d seen had been Jessie. Jessie, trying to tell her to get justice from the man who’d murdered her. Becca recalled suddenly that Jessie had told Renee when she was sixteen, “It’s all about justice,” which made Becca wonder if Jessie had seen her own death approaching.

  She shivered, then gazed at the surrounding cliffs, seeing the dark shape of the lighthouse on its rocky mound and the island farther out, barely distinguishable tonight in shades of black and gray.

  How many times had she witnessed just this view? How many times had it terrified her? “No more,” she vowed as her sweatshirt flapped around her. “Jessie?” Becca called. “Tell me what to do.” She closed her eyes for just a second, willing the dead girl, her newfound sister, to enter her mind. If the dark figure, the image of the killer, joined the ghost of Jessie, so be it. “Come on, come on,” she said, feeling the cold from the ever-changing Pacific seep through her skin and burrow into her heart.

  But nothing came to her.

  Just as she had in life, Jezebel Brentwood played by her own rules, stubbornly refused to bend to anyone else’s whims.

  Becca opened her eyes. It was dark and she was alone. Alone and on her own.

  Backtracking to the front of the motel, Becca walked up a couple of steps to a sagging porch and pressed the doorbell. Over the keening howl of the wind, she heard the faint sound of a buzzer and then nothing. No footsteps. Maybe the old gal had fallen asleep in front of the television. Or maybe she wasn’t home. Becca rang again, heard the buzzer, but no other sound.

  “Maddie?” she called loudly. “Madame Madeline? It’s me, Rebecca Sutcliff. Ryan. We met at the antique store?” She started to pound on the door only to have it creak open. She froze, arm raised to beat on the weathered panels again. “Maddie?”

  From within came a low, pain-filled moan.

  Becca’s heart dropped through the rotted floorboards of the porch. She thrust open the door and stepped inside to the smell of fried fish and ashes from a wood stove and something else. Something metallic and out of place. “Maddie?” she called again and was already extracting her cell phone from her pocket. The living room with its flickering television screen was empty, the worn recliner sitting near a TV tray with a plate of food—tater tots, cole slaw, and fish sticks—half eaten. A fork with some white sauce still globbed on its tines had clattered to the floor. A cigarette burned in an ashtray.

  And stains on the floor? Dark red stains. Blood…?

  Oh, dear God, what was this?

  The hairs at Becca’s nape stood on end. She speed-dialed Mac, but the call didn’t go through. She should turn back now, drive into town, call the police…

  Another groan emanated from a doorway at the back of the house.

  Carefully, her pulse racing, her nerves wound tight as watch springs, Becca peeked around the corner to a bedroom where Madame Madeline lay slumped on the floor, blood pouring from her abdomen, a pistol in one hand.

  “Maddie!” Becca said, trying to remain calm, not knowing what the wounded, crazed woman would do. Maddie looked up, her bloody fingers wrapped around the butt of the gun. “Justice,” she whispered and leveled the barrel of the pistol straight at Becca’s heart.

  Mac took the call, a patch in through the sheriff’s department, and he couldn’t make out much, mostly static that the detectives had to repeat. The upshot was that Hudson Walker had checked himself out of the hospital against doctor’s orders and now he was worried sick that Rebecca Sutcliff might’ve taken off after the killer—the same sicko that so far had eluded capture by all the authorities in Tillamook County. Hudson was certain Becca had gone back to Siren Song—a place Detective Clausen informed Mac was a cult.

  “What the hell’s she doing?” Mac growled as he noticed a turnout in the road and pulled a quick U-turn. “Son of a goddamned bitch.”

  “Don’t shoot,” Becca said as calmly as she could, though her heart rate was zooming wildly. “Don’t shoot. Please…”

  “Justice!” Maddie cried again, her face ashen, her eyes round with terror, the gun wobbling in her hands.

  “You’ll get justice, I swear, but now we need to get you to a hospital. Drop the gun,” Becca said, terror striking deep in her heart. She thought of Hudson, of their unborn child, and she knew she couldn’t die. Heart jack-hammering, she stepped out of the gun’s sights, and miraculously, the old woman didn’t train the muzzle on Becca’s moving form, just kept the barrel pointed at the doorway. “It’s all right,” Becca lied, a wary eye on the weapon and the heavy-knuckled fingers curled possessively over it. “It’s all right,” she said softly, again.

  She moved closer to one side and eased the pistol away from Maddie’s nerveless fingers. Quickly, she retrieved her phone with the other and dialed Mac again. Maddie’s eyes closed. She was bleeding profusely from a wound in her abdomen. Self-inflicted? Or…what…? She set the gun down, put the phone on speaker, and tried to stanch the flow of dark blood with some of the old woman’s clothing. “Don’t move,” she said, “I’ll get help.” But there was so much blood, so damned much blood. “Hang in there.”

  This time, the call went straight to voicemail, and snagging up the cell, she sputtered off where she was and that she needed an ambulance and that she was going to call 911—when he stepped from the shadows, from the hallway.

  Becca froze, eyes wide. For the first time she got a good, hard look at this psycho who had been chasing her down, for that’s who he was. She nearly crumpled when she recognized his features, so like Jessie’s, so like her own. He was an older, stronger, male version of Jezebel Brentwood. And
he was related to Becca in some way, as well.

  “Sister,” he snarled, smiling and showing strong white teeth as he realized she recognized him for the monster he was, a murderer who was blood kin. He lifted a hand. In his fingers was a long-bladed knife. Blood dripped from its cruel razor edge.

  “Why?” she whispered, gesturing vaguely toward Maddie’s crumpled form.

  “Her time came.”

  She saw the deadly intent in his hazel eyes as the wind raged around the cliffs, rattling the eaves, screaming over the thunder of the tides. “Why? Why are you doing all of this?”

  “You are Satan’s spawn, witch.” His nostrils flared. “And you carry a new evil.”

  “Bastard!” she screamed.

  His heartless leer chilled her to the bottom of her soul. “If you only knew.”

  The gun was only a few feet away. If she jumped to the left…

  “At last, your blood will spill,” he taunted. “Your time has come, too.”

  “Justice,” Maddie whispered, glaring up at him, tears streaking down her wrinkled cheeks. “Run, girl.”

  Justice. His name was Justice. He’d attacked Maddie with the knife and hidden upon hearing Becca arrive. The gun was her defense, and Becca had taken it from her.

  And now he was back to finish the job.

  Take not only Madeline’s life, but hers as well.

  No way!

  Becca lunged for the gun but he was quick, anticipating. His knife whizzed through the air, sliced into her arm. She cried out but her fingers found the handle of the gun. She grabbed it, flung her arm around, aiming the barrel his way, finger on the trigger.

  He yelled at the same moment she screamed.

  BAM!

  The pistol kicked, but he’d expected the shot as he threw himself sideways, rolling out of harm’s way. Becca scrambled to fire a second shot.

  BAM!

  The bullet slammed into the side of the wall, kicking up sheet rock and bits of wood. He ducked sideways, then quickly out of the way, around the corner.

  Becca’s pulse deafened her. “Leave before I blow you away!” she yelled, but heard nothing save her own ragged breathing, the shriek of the wind, and Maddie’s slow moans. Becca’s hands were shaking, but she forced them steady, training her aim on the doorway. If the son of a bitch stepped one foot into the open area, she’d pull the trigger again. Her arm hurt and she saw blood soak her sleeve. The useless cell phone was still within reach, but surely the shabby motel had a landline…She glanced around the room, searching for a receiver. A shadow streaked across the window.

  He was outside!

  She turned toward the sagging window where the panes rattled and cold air hissed into the room. But she was mistaken. The moving umbra she’d seen wasn’t this monster of a man, but merely a branch being tossed in the wind. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement in the hallway.

  What?

  She whirled as he flew through the door, his knife raised. She shot again, the bullet zinging into his shoulder. Again! Her fingers tightened over the trigger, but he was on her, the weight of his body, toppling her to the floor. She screamed and they fell on the near-dead woman and she groaned painfully.

  The demon-man’s breath was hot against her, his body all muscle and sinew as they struggled. Becca slapped at him, tried to claw his face, attempted to shoot the damned gun again, but as she did, he wrestled her arm behind her back.

  Pain shot through her shoulder and she dropped the gun, heard it hit the floor. No! Oh, God, no!

  “Finally, sister,” he growled. “Finally.”

  “No way in hell,” she threw back at him and he cinched her arm up a little higher. She screamed in pain and he, lying atop her, pinned her to the floor, said, “Scream all you want, Rebecca. No one will hear you out here.”

  He was right. Even on a day when the wind was still and the surf quiet, this old ruin was so isolated, a scream would never carry to another human’s ears.

  “By the light of the moon,” Maddie whispered. “When the demons of the earth arise, then will you be taken, son, to the world from where you came. I curse you this day and the day of your birth. You, Justice, are the true spawn of Lucifer.”

  Becca felt the man atop her tense. This monster was Mad Maddie’s son?

  “You curse me?” he demanded, looking up and glaring at his dying mother. “You curse me? When I’m God’s messenger? Sent here to right all the wrongs of Siren Song?”

  Becca didn’t move, didn’t want to distract him. He was on his knees now, all of his attention focused on the woman who had borne him.

  “I’m the only reason there are not more of them. I’m the only one who can cleanse the earth of their evil.” He was moving now, closer to his mother, no longer straddling Becca.

  It took all of Becca’s willpower not to move, to feign unconsciousness, to draw no attention to herself.

  “You are as bad as the rest, old hag.”

  Maddie gurgled and rasped, “Go to hell.”

  Becca’s eyes darted around the room. The window.

  She didn’t wait. In one motion, she scrambled to her feet, hurtled herself through the rotting pane, tucking and rolling as glass shattered and crackled around her. She hit the sandy ground outside, sprang to her feet, and took off screaming at a dead run.

  “Whore!” I bellow, jumping toward the window.

  Behind me the old woman makes a sound of glee. I whirl back on her.

  “You cannot kill them all,” she says.

  “I can. I will.”

  “God will save them…”

  It’s all I can do to keep from strangling her right there. But it’s what she wants. To deter me from my goal. To hold me with her. To protect them!

  “I’m coming back for you,” I whisper. “Wait for me.”

  Terror fills those old eyes and I grin as I leap through the window after the evil one. She is just ahead of me. I have wounded her. Her blood will spill and I will have her very, very soon.

  Mac was hauling ass to Siren Song. At the local Safeway store he’d picked up Hudson Walker who’d tersely told him the way. Walker had been hell-bent to storm the gates of the cult, but Mac had been able to calm him down, insist that they leave the sports car and drive together.

  “…but when we get there, you stay in the car. We have to wait for a search warrant anyway, but the sheriff’s department thinks they can get one.”

  “We don’t have much time.” Walker was ashen, one knee jiggling nervously, his arm in a sling, and probably on some kind of pain medication. Useless, Mac realized. Worse than useless. A liability.

  “So here’s how it’s going to go down. We wait until we hear, then you stay in the vehicle while I—”

  “I’m not staying in the vehicle.”

  “You’ll stay or we won’t go.”

  “I can’t, Mac, you know that.”

  “And I can’t have you—wait a sec.” His cell phone was ringing, the tone indicating he had a voicemail message. “The phone never rang,” he said. “Fuckin’ coastal service.” He listened to the terrified message from Becca Sutcliff. As he did, his heart plummeted and at the next wide spot in the road, he executed a police U-turn.

  Hudson grabbed on to the dash, his seat belt tightening, his injuries screaming at him.

  “She’s not at Siren Song,” Mac informed him tersely as he hung up.

  “Where is she?”

  “Mad Maddie’s motel? Know where that is? She said it was north of Deception Bay on a ridge.”

  “I got a good idea,” Hudson said tersely.

  “Lead the way,” Mac muttered, phoning for backup and praying the damn cell phone would make a connection.

  Her screams useless, Becca ran as fast as she could around the building toward the rental car. Her keys were still in the ignition and if…

  Oh, God, she heard his footsteps pounding behind her. He was running fast, gaining on her.

  Heavy footsteps chased her down.

  Closer
.

  Faster.

  Oh, dear God, help me! Help my baby!

  She willed her legs to move, but she was losing ground. She’d been crazy to come looking for him, should have known he’d get the upper hand. You’re not dead yet, she told herself and saw the fence in front of her. With missing pickets, like a gap-tooth smile, it was still a barrier. Could she vault over it or would she have to find the gate? Where was the damned opening?

  She spied a break in the graying pickets and turned.

  Too late!

  He leapt through the air, his heavy body catching her and driving her to the ground. She hit hard, her jaw banging into the sand, grit on her lips and tongue. “Stupid woman,” he snarled, yanking her to her feet.

  She was a rag doll in his arms, head lolling, blood staining her sleeve a dark red.

  He shook her. Hard. Lips pulled back in a triumphant grin.

  “Finally! Finally, I have you!”

  Becca couldn’t move. She felt played out. Spent. Done.

  His evil face glared into hers. “Nothing to say, bitch?” He hauled his right hand back and slapped her.

  My baby, she thought. My baby. Have to save my baby…

  As if reading her mind, he snarled, “That abomination will die before it is born. You will all die. I’ve been waiting. Waiting! And now the time is right.”

  “Please…”

  “That’s right. Beg. It will do you no good. The devil’s own will be returned to him. Now!”

  No way was Hudson going to sit in the car like a trained dog while Becca’s life was in danger. No effin’ way!

  Nor was Mac waiting for backup. He parked his Jeep on a stretch of road less than a quarter of a mile from the cabins, and with strict instructions for Hudson to wait for the sheriff’s department, he slid into the night.

  Hudson gave him thirty seconds, then checked the glove box and lo and behold, there was Mac’s backup weapon. Perfect. He checked the chamber. It was loaded.

  He wasn’t going to wait for the damned backup.