She could picture Ryan holed up with hostages, along with the criminal who had assaulted his mother, and the two juvenile delinquents. A horrible family of outlaws, and Ryan had let himself get pulled into their orbit. There was nothing she could do now. Ryan was in too deep.
When she saw the other men arrive, the ones not wearing police uniforms, she wondered absently if one of them was the investigator who had contacted her.
She blamed herself for driving Ryan away with a stupid argument right when he needed her most. Finding out his father had lied to him all his life had been too much for him to handle alone. Despair overwhelmed her.
Knuckles rapped on the window.
Sumiko nearly jumped out of her skin.
A flashlight shone in her face. “You can’t stay here, miss! Move along!”
Heart racing, she started the Odyssey and drove along the shoulder until she could swing into the street. She couldn’t leave Ryan, but she had to move the car. She turned left down the nearest side street, made a U-turn and parked near the curb where she could see the police cars but not the traffic cop or the front of the theater. She left the car and walked to the corner, looking toward the intersection. That’s when she saw the speeding car, weaving back and forth across two lanes of traffic.
The car never slowed. The traffic cop bolted out of the way just in time and rolled across the hood of a cruiser. The speeding car smashed through the angled cop cars in a rapid series of destructive impacts before veering into and splitting a utility pole. EMTs rushed from the parked ambulance to the driver.
Sumiko hugged herself, wondering what else could go wrong.
Everything went to hell five seconds after Dean walked through the doorway into the theater. He allowed himself a frozen moment to take in the extreme level of carnage before him, dozens of broken bodies, severed limbs everywhere he looked, blood running down every surface. Walls, chair backs, support columns, and wall sconces dripped with gore. Survivors huddled together, small islands of life in an ocean of death. In the left aisle, the oni sported a wild head of red hair around the two bone-colored horns. His arms spread, a cleaver in one hand and his cane in the other, he stalked more victims. Farther down the left aisle, near the fire exit that had been rammed open by McClary’s men, Dean spotted Ryan, one of the three teenagers pictured on the blog page. Ryan fought the cops with a knife, screaming “No!” every time he lashed out at someone. In the right aisle, the largest son, Jesse, ripped out an old man’s throat with his dark fingernails. Jesse had horns now, half the size of the oni’s.
The K-9 officers released the German shepherds on entry and both dogs bounded toward the oni with rumbling growls and hackles raised.
When the oni whirled to face the new threat, Dean hoped to see fear in his inhuman eyes, but nothing registered. He swept out his foot and kicked the first dog in the chest, sweeping it aside so hard it flailed through the air and struck a blood-wet wall with a whine of pain. He drove the cleaver blade into the second dog’s head. It dropped to the floor, unmoving.
“So much for that theory,” Dean said grimly.
McClary yelled, “Agent Willis and I have armor-piercing rounds. Get the sons!”
Sam and a couple of McClary’s men angled toward the left aisle, closing on Ryan. Bobby stood near McClary to get a bead on the oni. That left Dean and Roy, along with the remaining cops, to tackle Jesse in the right aisle—
Wait! Where’s the third son? Dean wondered.
The disemboweled body of a man in his sixties dropped in front of him with a heavy wet splat. From above, a woman screamed, “Dalton! Stop!”
“Shut up, you worthless bitch!”
“Balcony!” Dean said to Roy.
They scrambled up the stairs and found Dalton by the balcony railing, covered in blood, with one arm wrapped around an old woman’s neck, his sharp-toothed mouth close to her throat, a blood-drenched knife in his other hand pressed to her abdomen. Twin horns had erupted from his head, protruding more than an inch, and the center of his forehead was unusually lumpy. Something squirmed under the skin.
“He killed my husband right in front of me and laughed,” the woman said, “after killing all these people. My evil grandson—”
“I told you to shut your mouth!”
Dalton’s dark nails bit into her fleshy neck, drawing blood.
Roy stepped forward, the gun in his right hand lowered, nonthreatening. “Dalton, listen to me,” he said. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Why the hell not?” Dalton said. “The way this bitch treated me my whole life.”
“I had a boy. He was a few years older than you when he died,” Roy said, taking another tentative step forward.
“What the hell, Roy?” Dean whispered fiercely.
Roy ignored him. “It’s hard raising a boy, son. Sometimes parents are strict, maybe too strict. Doesn’t mean they don’t—”
A rapid series of car crashes erupted from outside.
Dean half expected a cement truck to plow through the wall of the theater.
Dalton raked his claws across his grandmother’s neck, ripping her throat apart, and hurled her body sideways over the edge of the balcony, trailing an arterial spray of blood.
“Oh, no…” Roy said, raising his gun.
Before he could get off a shot, Dalton lunged toward him, knife raised.
Dean fired twice as the blade came down. Both bullets hit Dalton square in the chest, but neither penetrated his skin. He merely twitched from the twin impacts as his dagger plunged into Roy’s chest.
Roy dropped to his knees, the knife handle protruding from his torso.
Dalton raised his blood-soaked hands, smiling. “Bullets can’t hurt me,” he boasted, “and I don’t even need a knife to slice your throat open.”
The lumpy flesh on Dalton’s forehead parted and—as Dean had suspected—revealed a milky-white third eye just as he lunged toward Dean, flashing his dark claws. Dean reacted instinctively, shooting the third eye. Blood burst from the gaping hole and white fluid spilled over Dalton’s nose. His human eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed face first.
“Aim for the third eye! Weak spot!” Dean shouted down from the balcony.
A moan escaped Roy’s lips. He pitched sideways, caught himself briefly on his right arm, then tipped over. A moment before his face could strike the floor, Dean caught him.
“Roy,” Dean said. “You’re gonna be okay.”
“No… I’m not,” Roy said, gasping for air. “Thought I could get her clear.”
“I know,” Dean said. “Hold on.”
Roy shook his head. “Finish this.”
“I will.”
“Tell Singer… Tell Bobby he’s too damn old for this work,” Roy said. “And… don’t ever un-retire.” He coughed up blood and closed his eyes. “Never… ends well.”
Dean could say the same for most hunters’ lives.
He felt the moment Roy died, and laid him gently on the floor.
Now that he had discovered the chink in the oni armor, Dean had to hope he could keep that promise to Roy, and end the reign of terror. He hurried down the curved staircase to join the fight below.
Thirty-Two
When Dalton died, the severing of the blood-bond staggered Tora, as if he had been dealt a physical blow. For long moments he had trouble breathing. His rampaging bloodlust, shared with his transforming sons, had clouded his better judgment. Because of the nature of his abilities, he often had to soak up the fear and grief he caused from a distance. The completion of the oni rite of passage into adulthood had, however, allowed him to sink his claws into the gloriously violent celebration. But they had stayed too long.
The last group of police officers had come with the two infernal hunters, and they must have discovered that holly leaves neutralized his direct influence over human behavior and actions. He noticed the difference immediately—it was as if they were invisible to his third eye. And while he could withstand the force of the arm
or-piercing bullets, those rounds could injure his sons, though not mortally. He should have signaled a retreat earlier. Because he waited, his nascent family had suffered an irreparable loss. Moreover, the hunters had discovered the one fatal weakness in his sons. Dalton and Jesse had developed their third eye already and Dalton had died because of it. Ryan’s hadn’t formed yet, but could at any moment, placing him at risk.
“We leave now!” he ordered through the blood-bond. “Out the back!”
Sam and the other police officers fighting Ryan and Jesse discovered that, in addition to being impervious to bullets, the oni’s sons were endowed with inhuman strength. When Sam’s group got a clear shot at Ryan, they took it, but direct hits produced nothing more than a grunt, a flinch or the occasional stumble. Though scores of theatergoers had been killed, with twice as many wounded and slowly bleeding to death, Sam estimated one to two hundred survivors. Some cowered on the floor between rows of seats, others lay prostrate under seats or feigned death to escape the attention of their attackers. Small groups huddled together, inaccessible for the moment because of a veritable barricade of corpses. The survivors, uniformly too terrified to flee, were also potential victims of stray bullets. Even when Sam urged them to run for the exits, they wouldn’t budge. They had seen one horrific outcome after another for anyone who ventured into the aisles.
So far, neither the police nor the hunters had done anything to instill hope in the survivors. They waged a war of attrition in which only one side suffered losses. With the exception of Winemiller, the half-dozen officers who had rammed open the rear door of the theater had already fallen, victims of physical battery or knife wounds from Ryan or friendly fire. One had slipped in blood and split his head open on an armrest.
With their armor-piercing rounds, Bobby and McClary had interrupted the oni’s killing spree, but they would run out of special ammo soon and they had to dodge his attacks with the cleaver and cane.
In the right aisle, three officers had fallen, victims of Jesse’s knife or claws. The remaining police officers were retreating, taking shots when they had a clear line of fire, but their bullets could have been made of modeling clay for all the damage they inflicted.
Sam took a shot at Ryan and hit him in the throat without opening a wound. Undeterred, Ryan stepped over the body of a dead policewoman toward Winemiller, slashing his knife back and forth. Winemiller jumped back, almost fell, but regained his balance.
We can’t stop them, Sam thought grimly. They’ll kill everyone here.
They were only a few minutes into the battle, but a dire outcome seemed inevitable.
Then Sam heard his brother shouting. “Aim for the third eye! Weak spot!”
Sam immediately drew a bead on Ryan’s head, but Ryan’s third eye wasn’t open yet.
Behind him, Sam heard a commotion. As he whirled, he saw the oni backhand McClary with the flat of the cleaver. The force of the blow hurled the sergeant across a half dozen theater seats.
Jesse stabbed a cop in the chest, pulled the gun from the man’s weak fingers and shot the other two cops near him. Then he loped across the seat backs in the middle seating section toward the oni in the left aisle. Bobby tracked him and fired a shot that whipped back Jesse’s head. He crashed between two rows of seats.
Bobby spun, sighted on the oni’s head and got off one shot. The oni’s head jerked back, but he recovered quickly. With his cane, he clubbed Bobby, who managed to turn away from the brunt of the blow, but fell in a heap. A moment later Jesse was up again, a line of blood along his temple, his blossoming third eye intact.
Based on Dean’s experience, Sam wouldn’t need an armor-piercing round if he could score a direct hit. He took aim at Jesse.
The lumbering oni closed on him, his cane raised like a spear. Sam had no choice but to face Tora. Sam got off one shot, his last, but it struck the oni’s right horn and ricocheted. He swung his gun hand up to deflect the iron tip of the cane. The automatic was knocked from his numb fingers and he was airborne, brushed aside by the oni’s powerful arm, and crashed into seats, landing atop two sprawled corpses. The side of his jacket had been sliced open and a line of blood trickled down his abdomen, the result of a close call with the cleaver. Wincing, Sam pushed himself up in time to see Winemiller take a shooting stance.
“Winemiller!” McClary called weakly. “Stand down!”
“I got th—”
The tip of the oni’s cane skewered the junior officer’s throat. While his body twitched, gushing blood, the oni embedded the cleaver in an armrest, then shoved his clawed hand, palm flat, claws aligned, through Winemiller’s torso and ripped out his beating heart.
Dean strode down the aisle, firing round after round at the oni, whose bulk shielded his two remaining sons. The oni hurled the cleaver toward Dean, who ducked as it whistled past his head. While Dean dodged the cleaver, the oni picked up Winemiller’s body and flung it at him, knocking him over.
By the time Sam managed to disentangled himself from the corpses, the oni and his two sons had slipped out of the fire exit.
Sumiko sat huddled in the Odyssey and tried to call her mother, but her phone kept dropping signal bars whenever she dialed. The ambulance had left with the injured driver who had been too drunk to find his brake pedal and nearly killed the traffic cop. The street was deserted.
Movement caught her eye. Instinctively, she ducked, peering over the edge of the door. Three dark figures ran through a backyard, hunched over.
The streetlight on the nearest utility pole had died when the DUI driver crashed into it. But she recognized one of the men, Ryan, and he appeared to be injured. He was with the tall man and Jesse. They must have left Dalton behind. But why? Had he caused the crisis at the theater? Surely the cops wouldn’t have let the others go that easily. They would be questioned.
When they piled into the red Durango, drove slowly away from the theater blockade area and turned down a side street, she made up her mind. She tossed her useless phone on the passenger seat, started the Odyssey and followed them. If Ryan hoped to salvage anything out of this disaster, he had to turn himself in. Maybe he had been coerced into helping the vile man who was his real father. She refused to believe he would willingly take part in a holdup or hostage-taking situation. This might be her last chance to help him.
To avoid answering questions all night at police headquarters, Dean, Sam and Bobby left the theater after helping McClary back on his feet. The sergeant took charge of the situation, but winced continually, having suffered several fractured ribs in addition to dealing with a broken wrist. Patrol sweeps of the area had turned up nothing and, as they might have predicted, traffic cameras in the area had malfunctioned.
Sam’s cut was several inches long but shallow and had stopped bleeding. Bobby’s torso was one large bruise, but he didn’t believe he’d cracked any ribs. If he had, he refused to admit it. He took the news of Roy’s death hard.
“Aw, hell,” he said. “Told the stubborn bastard this wasn’t his fight.”
“It never ends well,” Dean said, recalling Roy’s final words.
“At least we found a weakness,” Sam said. “We got one of them, and I almost hit the Big Daddy’s third eye.”
“Almost?” Bobby said. “Hell, I nailed it. Point blank.”
“No damage?” Sam asked.
“By the look of it, sure hurt like hell,” Bobby said. “It gripped that cane something fierce.”
Sam frowned. “The cane,” he said. “According to the lore, an oni wields a club.”
“A kanabo,” Bobby said. “Reshaped for modern times?”
“The expression ‘oni with an iron club’ means something’s invincible in Japanese, right?” Sam said. “So, what if the club enhances its abilities. What if the third eye is a weakness that’s protected?”
“Right. Protected,” Dean said. “So we’re screwed. No Achilles’ heel. No chinks in the armor.”
“No, Dean,” Bobby said, nodding. “Sam’s onto something
here. That cane’s not just a weapon, it’s an amulet, a protective shield.”
“We take the cane, then shoot the eye,” Sam reasoned.
“Fine,” Dean said. “But we gotta find him first.”
“There is someone who might know.” Sam glanced across the street. “If I can find her.”
“The blogger?”
“She knows those kids, the oni’s sons,” Sam said. “Probably tracked them here. Her car’s gone now. Maybe she followed them when they left, too.”
Sam took the laptop from the Monte Carlo’s trunk and discovered a message from Sumiko, stating that she suspected something was wrong with Ryan and had followed him and the others to the theater. She was worried, but didn’t know what was happening. “She sent this after we arrived.”
“Say where she is now?”
“That was the only message,” Sam said, a look of concern on his face. “She’s not replying to email. We need to call her, but I don’t have her number.”
“I’ll call McClary,” Bobby said, reaching for his phone. “Should have access to her home number. If it’s unlisted, someone at the high school should have it.”
Sam turned to Dean. “If she went after them,” he said, “she’s following them blind.”
“With no idea she’s chasing a bunch of cold-blooded murderers.”
Thirty-Three
Sumiko parked a block and a half away from Hawthorne’s. She waited until the three of them slipped inside the shuttered department store before leaving the minivan. She planned to pull Ryan aside and convince him to ditch the other two. Once they were away, she would urge him to contact the police, tell them how he’d been forced to go along with the others. There was no other explanation in her mind for his behavior. She knew Ryan too well to believe he would willingly commit a serious crime. If he gave evidence against the man who attacked his mother, the obvious ringleader, the police might give Ryan a reduced sentence, maybe probation or house arrest. She had to help him make it right.
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