by John Russo
The people from downstairs came up into the hallway, bemused looks on all their faces. Stanford Slater, breathing hard and sweating profusely from the effort of mounting the stairs, managed a thick-lipped, flaccid smile as he looked Morgan in the eyes. Morgan realized the embalming had been Slater’s work. “You perverted bastard.” Without a word, the mortician slapped Morgan hard in the face.
Harvey Bronson and John Logan, the two chiropractors, stood by leeringly, glasses of red wine in their hands. Bronson said boastfully, “I knew he wasn’t supposed to be here when he didn’t know the code. I asked him if he ever bought a witch’s bottle, and I forget what he said,. but it wasn’t the agreed-upon response.”
“You see?” said Stanford Slater. “We played along with you and got you here, where you said you wanted to be. Only now you’re going to wish you never poked around where you weren’t wanted.”
Morgan felt Luke’s hot breath on his neck as Luke tightened his full nelson. “Easy, now,” Luke said, “and it’ll be over painlessly almost before you know it.”
John Logan, the short, muscular chiropractor, stepped forward. “Put him on the floor, flat on his stomach, and hold him down.”
Morgan’s legs were kicked out from under him and he fell, landing hard, as Cynthia’s three brothers rolled him over and pinned him face down. The breath was knocked out of him and he ached all over but couldn’t move, he had so much weight on his arms, legs, and back. The people in the hallway crowded in on him, and their hushed murmurs of expectancy were terrifying. With a rush of panic, Morgan wondered: Were they going to kill him? He couldn’t see Cynthia; she was blocked from view.
John Logan set his half-empty wineglass on the floor by a banister post and knelt near Morgan’s head. Morgan felt the strong, stubby hands of the chiropractor seizing him by the head and the back of the neck, and then his head and neck were twisted with a sharp, violent, agonizing pain that ended abruptly—very abruptly—and for a moment Morgan gave thanks that the pain was gone because it had been so excruciating that if it had lasted he could not have stood it at all and would certainly have passed out.
But now, he realized, he did not feel anything at all from the neck down.
He must be temporarily paralyzed. Luke and Cyrus and Abraham rolled him over onto his back and he saw all the people—Cynthia, Logan, Slater, Bronson, and all the others—staring down at him, grinning.
And then he truly panicked, so badly that he lost his mind. Adrenaline pumped through him, his thoughts became a wild, crazy jumble dashing everywhere at once and getting nowhere, while his body remained absolutely inert, like a heavy, useless sack of garbage.
Because he knew, even though he didn’t want to believe it, that the paralysis caused by the chiropractor was not temporary at all, but final and permanent.
“Now Mama allows you to watch the services,” Cynthia told him, in her softest and sweetest voice. “You can have a ringside seat, because we’ll know you won’t run away and tell on us afterward.”
Morgan could feel the hot tears rolling down his cheeks, but he couldn’t feel his arms, his legs, his toes, or his fingers.
CHAPTER 14
Just before sundown, Cyrus and Abraham went across the field to the chapel to start a fire. The main part of the old country church, where the services were to be held, was heated by a large black potbelly stove. A small electric heater was used to take the chill from Uncle Sal’s former office, where Sharon, Gwen, and Nancy were being held prisoners.
Abraham was slightly drunk and anxious to get back to the party still in progress at the house. He unlocked the chapel door and Cyrus followed him in, trundling an armload of split wood. Cyrus stood in the doorway leering at the three caged girls as Abraham entered far enough to plug in the electric heater and adjust the dial.
“C’mon, Cyrus, I don’t want to stay down here too long,” Abraham said, clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder to get him moving out of his way and into the main part of the church, with its rows of varnished pews.
“What are they going to do?” Sharon whispered, still shaken by the appearance of Cyrus and Abraham in the chapel.
“Build a fire, it looks like,” Gwen whispered back. “At least I hope so. I’m freezing.”
Nancy didn’t say a word. She wasn’t asleep, though; she was too cold and scared to sleep and remained huddled in her blanket, knees drawn up in a fetal position on the floor of her cage. Gwen and Sharon were sitting facing each other, wrapped tightly in their blankets, too.
“I’m scared to death of the big dumb one,” Sharon said.
The cast-iron door of the potbelly stove creaked on its rusty hinges as Abraham pulled it open. Cyrus dumped his armload of logs onto the hardwood floor and stooped to pick out choice pieces of kindling.
“Put it all in,” Abraham said impatiently. “I ain’t waitin’ for the small stuff to catch. I’ll get it all goin’ at once with a few good squirts of charcoal lighter.”
Abraham had the can of fluid in his hand and used it to saturate the wood that Cyrus obediently piled into the stove. When Abraham struck a wooden match and tossed it in, the whole works flared up into a roaring blaze, bathing the room in bright, flickering orange light. Abraham shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wishing the chore to be over so he could rejoin the party. Cyrus watched the fire contentedly.
Finally, Abraham said, “Cyrus, you stay here and make sure it catches good. The church has got to be good and warm by midnight. If the fire don’t catch, come back up to the house and tell me. Otherwise, lock the padlock on the outside door and come on up yourself and have a good time. Can I trust you to do what I told you?”
Cyrus nodded his head with great solemnity, trying his best to look trustworthy.
“Okay,” said Abraham. “Now, if you need to ask me for help, do it without letting Luke or Cynthia get wise. Understand me?”
Cyrus nodded his head up and down. Then he gave his attention to the blaze in the stove, till his brother Abraham went out the door. When he turned, his eyes gleamed as he thought about the girls in the other room.
Sharon screamed as soon as she saw Cyrus standing in the doorway, his thick lips wet with spittle.
“You get out of here!” Gwen snapped. “Out! Out!”
Cyrus was cowed momentarily, his beefy face slackening indecisively. Then something bright and shiny caught his eye on the floor beneath Uncle Sal’s old chair. It was the palette knife. Exactly the kind of toy Cyrus liked. The lure of it was too much for him, and, giggling, he waddled into the room.
Horrified, Gwen and Sharon watched him getting on his fat knees, groping for the knife, grunting his satisfaction as he clutched it in his fat fingers.
“Get up, Nancy! Get up!” Gwen shrieked.
Nancy saw what was happening, scrambled frantically, and cringed in the farthest corner of her wire cage. Cyrus jabbed at her with the palette knife, then moved and jabbed again. Both times Nancy narrowly got out of the way.
Cyrus whirled for a try at Sharon, but the short, stubby blade of the knife spronged off the wires, twisting his wrist and making him scrape his knuckles. The knife fell into Sharon’s cage. Cyrus jumped back, sucking on his skinned knuckles. Then he strode forward, moaning in rage and self-pity, and kicked Sharon’s cage until she was jarred from one side to the other, banging and scraping against the wire mesh. When he was worn out, huffing for breath, Cyrus delivered a few last kicks at Nancy and Gwen, making their cages jump. After his tantrum, forgetting about the knife, he waddled out of the office with a pained look in his eyes.
The three girls listened with held breath for fear he might change his mind and return. They heard him slam the chapel door and snap the padlock. In a little while, Gwen regained her composure and said excitedly, “Sharon, we’ve got the knife!”
“Yes, but what good will it do?”
“What do you mean? We can use it to pry open the locks on our cages.”
“And then what about the lock outside?”
Gwen sucked in her breath, struggling to keep hope and determination alive. “We have to take one step at a time, and we can’t give up. If we get out of the cages, we may find a way out of the building. If nothing else, we can rush them next time they open the door.”
“All right,” said Sharon, whispering hoarsely in her desperation. “All right. I have the knife. I’ll give it a try. “
“Pray for us, Nancy,” Gwen said.
CHAPTER 15
In the office of Sheriff Wayne Cunningham in Cherry Hill, Bert Johnson and the sheriff shook hands. Sitting behind his old, battered wooden desk, Sheriff Cunningham told Bert to have a seat, pointing at a folding chair against the wall. Then he said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson? I understand you’re a lawman, too.”
His voice was high and squeaky with a West Virginia twang. His hand had felt hard and calloused, as if his duties as a peace officer didn’t prevent him from digging in the ground or pushing a plow. He was a short, wiry, straight-backed man with bushy black eyebrows and a brown mole on his chin, his black hair rumpled and streaked with gray.
“Yep, I’m a lawman,” Bert said, glad of being able to establish a common bond. “Sheriff, I’m looking for my stepdaughter, Nancy. She’s a runaway, seventeen years old. I’m afraid she might come to harm, and if so it’ll be partly my fault. She left home because of a . . . misunderstanding . . . between the two of us. I want to find her and persuade her to come back. I’ve promised her mother to try and make things right.”
The truth was, Harriet had been unbearable since Nancy’s disappearance. Bert had not been able to bring himself to tell his wife the facts about what he had done. But Harriet sensed he was somehow to blame, and was holding it against him. He was in danger of losing her. In his misery, he entertained hopes of talking sense to Nancy, apologizing to her, even though she had led him on, and getting her to appreciate that it was in her best interests, as well as his, for her to go back to her mother and keep her mouth shut about what had driven her away.
Eyeing Bert, Sheriff Cunningham said, “Maybe you shouldn’t blame yourself too much, Mr. Johnson. Lots of teen-agers go bad these days. And the parents or stepparents ain’t always to blame.”
Bert shrugged disconsolately, the picture of parental concern.
“What makes you think I can help you?” the sheriff asked. “You’re not from this area, are you?”
“We make our home in Lewistown, in southwestern Pennsylvania. The day Nancy left home, three days ago, some buddies of mine in a patrol car saw her hitchhiking. They came around the block to talk to her, find out if everything was okay, but by that time she was being picked up by two young fellows in a white van. The cops in the patrol car got the license number. But they didn’t follow. There was no reason to, as far as they were concerned.”
The sheriff leaned forward, getting interested. “You tryin’ to tell me you traced the van here? Lewistown is over two hundred miles away.”
“That’s right,” Bert said. “I ran a check on the vehicle’s license number, through the state police. It turns out your office has a bulletin out. Some teen-agers stole some groceries right here in town. They were riding in a white van, and the license plate tallies.”
“How about that,” the sheriff said appreciatively. “Good police work, Mr. Johnson.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. Unfortunately, Nancy is going to have petty larceny hanging over her, if I do find her. She’s never been in any bad trouble before. But she’s undoubtedly one of the kids you’re looking for.”
The sheriff pursed his lips and leaned back, making his desk chair squeak. Soberly, he informed Bert, “I hate to tell you, but there’s a chance she’s in much worse trouble.”
“Why?”
“That van you mentioned was pursued by two of my deputies, and they’ve dropped from sight. We found their squad car abandoned twenty miles out in the sticks. The radiator was smashed in. But we didn’t find the deputies. We don’t know what happened to them. I’ve got a shortage of men here, and the ones I can spare have been out trying to turn up a lead. But it’s tough. The backwoods folks don’t trust any agent of the law, and won’t hardly cooperate. Lots of ’em run bootleg whisky, or distill it themselves in some of these old falling-down barns or abandoned coal mines. The Feds won’t even come in to have a look around, ’cause they’ve had men go in and never be heard from again. That’s just what has happened to my two deputies. So far we haven’t had a bit of luck tracing them.”
“Can I join the search?” Bert asked.
Thoughtfully, the sheriff fingered the mole on his chin. “I can’t stop you, I reckon. In fact, I can prob’ly use your help. At least you’re a lawman, instead of an inexperienced busybody. But you’d better be damn careful wandering around out in the boondocks by yourself. The only clue I can contribute is to show you on the county map the area where we found the abandoned squad car.”
“That’s all I can ask for. I appreciate it, Sheriff.”
Both men stood up, and Bert came over to the map on the wall to have a closer look at where the sheriff was pointing.
CHAPTER 16
Sharon and Gwen had traded the palette knife back and forth for the past two hours, each having a try at jimmying the locks on their cages. The only light they had to work by was the faint illumination given off by the electric heater Abraham had plugged into the wall. Both girls had cut and skinned their fingers several times, but the locks wouldn’t give.
They had to stop trying when they heard noises outside the church. The door was unlocked and people filed in, filling the pews. From where they were kept prisoners, the girls couldn’t see what was happening. Sharon hid the palette knife under her ragged blanket. Gwen peered anxiously into the semi-darkness, trying for a glimpse of something through the doorway, but the angle was so sharp that she could see little. A large group of people was coming into the chapel, some of them were carrying candles and wearing black hooded robes. The coughs, whispered conversations, and restrained titters of laughter were reminiscent of any other congregation filing into a church.
Nancy sat up, moving to the rear of her cage, pressing her body backward against the wire mesh. From the depths of her soul, she had the apprehension that something awful was about to happen. Something sinful, revolting, and terrifying.
The congregation settled down. The silence was ominous. Then Luke, Cyrus, and Abraham, wearing black robes, came into the office and unlocked Sharon’s cage. “The last shall be first,” Abraham said, chortling. Sharon backed away, wild-eyed, clutching the palette knife under her ratty blanket. “What’s she got in her hand?” Luke demanded, as Cyrus reached in to pull her out. She made a stab with the knife, aiming for the meaty part of Cyrus’ forearm but missing by inches. The big man jumped back, banging his knuckles on the top of the cage, roaring in pain and anger.
“Look out !” Luke yelled.
Sharon scrambled out of her cage, swishing the knife through the air, trying to carve a path through the three men. Abraham tripped her and she went down, sprawling. Luke smacked her over the head with the butt of his revolver, which he had drawn from beneath his robe. She flattened out, unconscious, and the palette knife dropped from her grasp. Luke picked it up and put it in his pocket. “Who the hell let her get hold of a knife?” he snapped, glowering straight at Cyrus.
The big man whimpered, sucking his sore knuckles.
“Serves you right,” said Abraham. “Don’t try to wheedle any pity.”
While Nancy and Gwen watched fearfully, Luke and Abraham hauled Sharon limply to her feet and dragged her out to the main part of the church and the waiting congregation. Cyrus waddled behind them, after a mean, accusing glance back at the two girls cringing in their cages.
“What are they going to do to Sharon?” Nancy asked, her voice weak and trembly.
Gwen refrained from saying the awful answer that came immediately to mind. She strained to hear what was going on out in the church. The congregation had hushed
. Footsteps and dragging sounds could be heard plainly. There were murmurs of excitement and someone said: “I commend you, Cynthia, on the youthful beauty of our honored guest!” The dragging sounds stopped and there were other noises—titters of laughter and subdued commentary all blurred together. Through the bars of her cage, Gwen looked over at Nancy, whose eyes were wide and glittering like a trapped animal’s, her body quivering under her soiled blanket.
From out in the church came Cynthia’s high, keening voice: “Lucifer, we ask you to accept the sacrifice of this child we now offer to you in return for your blessings. Bless our deeds, that we perform in your almighty name. Consecrate the blood we offer you, the blood that we drink in holy communion with you, the Lord of hell.”
Still trembling violently, Nancy pressed her palms and fingers together till they were white, making a spire pointing upward through the bars of her cage, toward heaven. She began to pray fervently. “Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I renounce all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pain of hell. But most of all I renounce . . .”
“Praying’s not going to do any good!” Gwen blurted. “Oh! You’re as bad as the ones out there!”
Suddenly there came a shattering, blood-curdling scream. The screaming didn’t stop, but went on and on, rising and falling, reverberating in the small room where Nancy and Gwen were caged. Gwen shuddered, realizing the screams were coming from Sharon. Maybe it would have been better, Gwen thought, if Sharon had never regained consciousness.
Nancy continued praying desperately, her palms pressed tightly together as if they were pressed on her ears, shutting out the screams. “I renounce them because they offend Thee, my Lord, who are all good and deserving of all my love . . .”
The horrible screams kept resounding over and over, making Gwen want to throw up . . . or to hurl herself against the bars of her cage. She stuck her fingers in her ears but it didn’t help. If it kept up she thought she’d go mad. When she unplugged her ears, once again she heard Cynthia’s rantingly shrill voice, carrying over Sharon’s weakening screams: “Oh, mighty Lord Satan, we worship you with all our hearts and humbly submit to your desires and commandments. We believe, with everlasting conviction, that you are our creator, our benefactor, our lord and master . . .”