“Good. Now, you look like nice kids. So do yourself a favor: Go home. If you haven’t enough money for gas, call your folks, you can reverse the charges. Get them to wire the gas money out to you. Whatever heat you’re gonna take from your parents for running away isn’t going to be one percent of the heat you’re going to take out here.” He paused. “And just if I haven’t concentrated your minds on the issue, check out the newspapers. Some fine young people just like yourselves have been disappearing from hereabouts over the last couple of years.”
“Murdered?”
He shook his head. “Who knows? Never been found.” He gave them a relaxed wave. “Now, remember what I said. You point that truck back east. Don’t stop until you’ve reached your front door. Now you take care of yourselves. Good night.”
With that he drove slowly away.
A moment later Pix sat up primly in the backseat. “See? What did I tell you?” She folded her arms. “Now can we go home?”
CHAPTER FORTY
Claire Thompson, propped in her bed, watched Casablanca on television for the umpteenth time. She knew most of the movie by heart, and often mumbled the words in unison with Rick and Ilsa and Victor Laszlo. It was the saddest movie she knew.
She first saw it in the old Palace Theater in Charleston, Illinois. The year was 1944. She was seventeen and in love with Junior Clyde. He took her to the movie, to King’s Drug Store afterwards for a cherry phosphate, then to the Harrison house. The Harrisons were on vacation. They sat on the porch swing of the deserted house, kissed. Petted. She let Junior go further than usual that night. He wanted to go all the way, but she refused. She never did let him. Not that night or the next night. And then he was inducted. He became one of Uncle Sam’s infantry… the poor bloody infantry they called it. But Junior was proud to be fighting. On the troop ship he enjoyed the camaraderie and used to lead the singing in the mess with his buddies. Even on the ship they trained hard. Physical exercise. Weapon skills: rifle practice, marksmanship, bringing down the seagulls that trailed the ship; learning how to strip a Thompson sub-machine gun blindfolded, then reassemble it so it was ready to fire when the sergeant gave the command. And the endless boot-polishing, of course.
In one of his letters to Claire, he said he’d been to North Africa. To Casablanca. There really is a Rick’s Café Americain, he’d written. But where were the Germans? They were pulling back faster than the Americans could advance. At this rate he’d be marching into Berlin still with desert sand in his boots.
But then the Germans did make a stand in a narrow mountain pass in the middle of nowhere. Their 88-millimeter guns lit up the night sky. Stukas screamed down, dropping bombs, strafing with machine guns. Two weeks later, Junior Clyde was killed in action.
On the screen, Rick said, “We’ll always have Paris.”
Claire gasped, a loud sob that made Herb groan and roll over.
She wiped her eyes. Felt her heart give as if this time it would break. Stay broken forever. She thought about Junior’s photograph she still kept hidden in a drawer.
Then a long, wailing cry came through the open window. The eerie sound made goose bumps rise on her flesh. She pulled the sheet up to her throat. The cry continued. A cat. It had to be a cat.
It sounded so much like a baby, though. Like a baby crying in pain and terror.
Must be in the backyard. Must be close. Just outside her window. Close as that.
Tossing back the sheet, she climbed from the bed. She walked to the window and looked out. Her eyes scanned the moonlit concrete, the lounge chairs, the shimmering surface of the pool. At first, she didn’t see the dark figure standing motionless near the diving board. Then it slowly turned toward her. She gasped at the sight of the baby in its arms.
She stared. Shivers in her spine. The dark figure seemed to notice her and stare back. Claire suddenly felt frightened and vulnerable. She wanted to step away from the window, but she was afraid to move—as if the least motion might trigger a horrible attack.
The thing didn’t move. Claire felt its cold hatred. In the poor light, it looked like a strange, starving woman. But all that red hair. Pouring in glossy tresses down her back. Down over her shoulders. Such beautiful hair. Yet the legs? Horribly withered. Like dark sticks.
The crying baby couldn’t possibly belong to such a creature. It must have been stolen from its mother.
Her breath became a quiet, trembling whine.
The baby kept crying.
Kept pulling her heartstrings.
The thing continued to stand there, staring at her. Hating her.
Claire trembled, clutched the sill for support. Her knees were so weak she sagged.
“For Christsake, what’s all that racket?”
Herb’s voice startled her. She flinched and turned to him. Quickly, she sidestepped away from the window. Then she leaned weakly against the wall, shaking.
“Claire? What’s wrong?” He rolled out of bed and rushed to her.
“The window,” she gasped.
He looked out. “Jesus H. Christ!”
“It’s got a little baby!”
“I can see that. Quick, call the cops.”
He hurried to the nightstand.
“No, Herb!”
He took out his pistol. Checked it. Six rounds. Man-stoppers.
“Please! Don’t go out there!”
“I’ll take care of it, you call the cops.”
“No!”
He ran to the bedroom door.
“Herb, please!”
He didn’t answer. She heard his bare feet thumping as he ran down the hall.
She grabbed the bedside phone and dialed 911. Then listened to the ringing. Once, twice. Far off in the house, a door bumped open. Footsteps sounded. On the sixth ring, her call was answered.
“Operator. How may I help you?”
“I need the police. It’s an emergency.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Westing Vale.”
“Just a moment, please.”
“Hurry!”
She listened to more ringing.
This time no one was going to answer.
The phone would keep ringing. Herb’s all alone out there.
The police are never going to come in time to—
“LAPD. Officer Kerry, how might I help you?”
“We need help! Quick!” Craning her neck, she tried to see Herb through the window. She could see only concrete and a corner of the pool. The wrong corner.
“What’s your address?”
“Eight-two-five Ash Road.”
“Name?”
“Thompson. Claire Thompson.”
Herb shouted, “Stop!”
Dropping the phone, Claire rushed to the window. Her heart beat so wildly against her ribs it hurt.
“Put it down!” Herb commanded. He was on the far side of the pool, close to its edge, a dozen feet from the thing. “Put down the baby,” he repeated. His voice had a shrill, hysterical sound that Claire had never heard in it before. His arm was straight out, the gun aimed high. “Put the baby…”
The creature raised it overhead.
Herb fired. The flash lit up the pool area, while the report of the gun snapped as sharply as a firecracker.
The baby shrieked as it was thrown. Claire watched it fly at her husband, its legs kicking as it tumbled through the air. He dropped the gun. Tried to catch the tumbling child, but the force of it knocked him backward. The baby splashed into the pool.
The creature rushed Herb, long hair flying out.
Claire ran. She ran to the bedroom door, down the hall, into the living room. The poker. She needed the poker. Rushing to the fireplace, she bumped a corner of the coffee table and cried out in pain. But she didn’t stop. She clutched at the stand of fireplace tools, knocking it over with a metallic clattering… and grabbed the poker. It was heavy, wrought iron, with a hook near the end. She ran through the open glass door to the yard.
Across the pool
, the creature was on top of Herb. His arms were up, hands shoving its chest and shoulders. His harsh breathing had a panicked sound, the way it did sometimes during his worst nightmares.
The thing bore down on Herb. Its stick arms reaching out on him, while it tilted its head from side to side. In the meager light the hair gleamed dull copper.
As Claire ran along the pool’s edge, she glanced at the water. The baby was floating facedown.
In a corner of her mind, she knew she might be able to save it. The decision was simple: the baby wasn’t hers. Herb was.
The thing’s claw fingers tore Herb’s face. His arms gave way. Its head darted down.
“No!” Claire cried.
Raising the poker as she ran, she thought she saw the thing kiss Herb. Its head jerked savagely, though. It came up, flesh hanging from its mouth. Droplets of blood spotted the poolside tiles.
Screaming, Claire swung the poker down. It whacked across the creature’s back with a resonant thump as if she’d drummed a hollow log. The thing paid no attention. It thrust its head against Herb’s throat. Claire turned the poker hook downward and struck again. She watched the curved spike pierce the back. She noticed other holes already in the dark flesh. Awful, gaping holes. In the moonlight, they looked deep and empty. As if there was nothing inside. Nothing.
She started to bring the poker down again, this time on the head. But suddenly the creature twisted. A hand grabbed the poker. Off balance, Claire staggered forward, almost falling onto the thing. Its other hand clutched her nightgown. It pulled her. Tossed back its head, flicking the red hair from its face. In horror, she gazed into eye sockets as empty as the holes in its back.
Letting go of the poker, she strained to free herself from the claws. The claws were pulling her down to a gaping mouth, its teeth stained red with Herb’s blood.
She realized she was only caught by her nightgown. Quickly, she tore the bodice free of the shoulder straps. The gown skimmed down her body. She threw herself sideways, splashed into the pool, kicked away from the wall.
Coming to the surface near the pool’s center, she felt her bare shoulder brush against the baby. She stood in the waist-high water and lifted the child. It was silent. Motionless. Its mouth hung open. Water trickled out. Claire pressed her lips to its mouth and blew in gently, keeping her eyes on the creature.
The thing seemed to be watching. Herb, beneath it, was motionless. Legs sprawled out wide. In the moonlight it had become a silhouette again. Hunched. Predatory.
Slowly, Claire began stepping backward. She continued to blow into the baby’s mouth and ease the air out by lightly pressing its chest. The body felt warm against her bare breasts. She could feel its small chest inflate as she blew, but that was the baby’s only movement.
Finally, her back touched the wall. The entire width of the pool now separated her from the creature. It was on hands and knees, facing her, mouth hanging open.
Could she beat it in a race to the house? Unless it was incredibly fast, her chances looked good. Her main obstacle would be climbing from the pool. Once she was out, she could reach the open back door in seconds.
Keeping her eyes on the creature, she turned just enough to set the baby on the pool’s edge. In one fluid movement, the thing leapt to its feet and began to run. Its feet made a hard clicking sound against the tiles, as if it were dry bones striking the floor, not flesh and blood. The hair flew up around its head as it moved, a copper-colored halo in the moonlight.
Claire spun around. She flung herself forward, sprawling with a great spray of water onto the concrete. Getting to her knees, she picked up the baby. She looked back.
The thing was already past the diving board, arms out as if reaching out to her; its hair flying behind it in the slipstream.
She scampered to her feet. She ran full out, baby clutched to her breast, eyes on the open, sliding door. She felt clumsy and slow. The strength drained from her legs. She didn’t think she could take more than a dozen steps before she collapsed exhausted.
If only she’d stayed in the pool!
Her feet slapped the pavement. Behind her, she heard the strange, dry sounds of her pursuer’s feet. Click! Click! Click! The sound of bones striking the hard surface of the ground. So close! And closing all the time.
She even heard the crackle of static in the thing’s hair. The rustle of dry skin.
From inside the house came the ring of the doorbell, followed by harsh, rapid knocks.
“Police!” a voice snapped.
She lunged through the doorway and spun round. The creature wasn’t far behind.
But far enough.
Claire’s left hand grabbed the door handle and jerked. The door rolled shut: a heavy glass partition that would give her time to reach the front door and let in the police.
The outstretched arms of the creature dropped, but it kept coming. Full speed. Those pit-like eyes on Claire’s. Hating. She watched, amazed.
Its head smashed into the door. The glass exploded. It burst through, that mass of red hair erupting inward into the house like napalm. Its bone-thin arms reached for her.
With a yelp of surprise, Claire lurched away.
It caught her by the hair.
“Help!” she cried.
It tugged her off balance. She stumbled backward. Felt the slice of glass shards underfoot. The penetration of fragments through soft flesh.
A sharp crash. The front door shot open. Just before she went down, she saw a pair of policemen rush in, guns drawn.
They’ll save me, she thought as she fell. They’ll save me. And then something like ice chopped into her back.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Jason Brown crouched in a combat stance and aimed into the moonlit room. He saw a naked white woman falling backward—no, jerked backward—by a weird-looking woman behind her. She had a baby in her arms. As she hit the floor, her body jumped stiff as if jolted by an electric shock.
The weird one bent over her, its long hair cascaded forward to hang down over the naked woman. The dark figure pulled the baby from her arms.
“Freeze!” Brown yelled.
The weirdo spun away.
Kraus, Brown’s partner, fired a warning shot into a ceiling. The gal leaped through the broken door and ran. She looked to be naked too. But horribly bony. Horribly thin. Some disease maybe.
“Get her!” Brown snapped.
As Kraus ran out, Brown holstered his revolver and crouched beside the fallen woman. She was lying across the broken door, back arched. Her mouth and eyes were wide, her body quaking with convulsions. Brown tried to lift her. No dice. She seemed to be stuck. Bracing himself, he clutched the sides of her rib cage and lifted her straight upward. There was momentary resistance before she came unstuck. He carried her away from the door, set her down on the carpet, and looked back. A broad glass blade remained where she had been. Still upright at the bottom of the door’s aluminum frame.
He searched her neck for a pulse.
Found none.
No sign of respiration either.
With a single shake of his head, he sprang away from her and rushed through the break in the door, barely clearing the dark crescent of glass that had ended the woman’s life.
Outside, he saw a body across the pool.
“Oh, motherfucker,” he groaned. He started forward, feeling sick, thinking it was Kraus. Then he realized it wasn’t in uniform. Relief surged through him. “Kraus!” he called. “Kraus?”
“Over here. Quick.”
The voice came from the right, from beyond a high wood fence. Brown ran to it, holstering his revolver. He jumped, caught the top, scrambled over it. Dropping to the other side, he found himself in an alley.
Kraus was standing close to a telephone pole, looking into the darkness of a carport across the alley. There were two cars inside the shelter.
“She’s in there behind the Pontiac,” Kraus whispered.
“Put your piece away. We’ll go in with batons.”
&n
bsp; “Christ Almighty, Jase, did you see the dead guy by the pool? This gal’s a brain case.”
“We don’t know she did that. We don’t know anything about her, ‘cept she’s got a baby with her. She still got the baby?”
“Yeah. I’m not so sure it’s alive, though. It’s been awful quiet.”
“She armed?”
Kraus shook his head.
“We drop an unarmed lady, pal, they’ll roast our asses. We hit the kid, they’ll fry us in Mazola.”
Kraus holstered his service revolver.
They both slipped batons from the loops on their belts.
“I’ll go in, flush her out,” Brown said. He stepped briskly across the alley, eyes searching the darkness in front of the Pontiac. “Come on out, ma’am,” he said in his best persuasive voice. “No call to be alarmed. We won’t harm you. We just want to talk.”
He reached the rear of the car. Ahead, he still saw no sign of the woman. He walked along the car’s side, past its back door.
“Ma’am?”
He stopped beside the front tire, gazing toward a two-foot gap between the bumper and the wall. If she was there, she had to be crouching awfully low, or lying down. He leaned over the hood. Not there.
Not in front of the other car either.
Could she have crawled under one of them?
Perhaps. From what he saw, she was as skinny as they came.
He got down on his hands and knees and looked.
Nothing.
He climbed to his feet, dusting his pants with his hands as he did so. Then walked quickly past the front of the Pontiac, angry, daring the woman to show herself. She didn’t. Nothing. Not so much as a hair. He glanced down the space between the cars. He stepped past the front of the other car, dropped to his knees, and peered under it. Then he hurried toward his partner.
“She ain’t there, Kraus,” he snapped.
“She had to be.”
“You see her run out?”
“No.”
“You see her run in?”
“What’re you driving at?”
“You fucking well know.”
TO WAKE THE DEAD Page 25