by James Swain
The first twenty pages were notes about the novels of Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck. Then the notes stopped, replaced by drawings of a crouching, devilish figure with pointed ears holding a sword dripping with bright red blood. Every remaining page of the notebook contained the same drawing.
The other notebooks were identical. After about twenty pages, the school notes ended, and were replaced by the devilish figure.
The notebooks went back into the bag. He placed the bag on the bed so the CSI team wouldn’t miss it. Behind the bed was a black wall with a peculiar shadow. He leaned in for a closer look.
Not a shadow, but a drawing. The same devilish figure, only much larger, almost human size. It’s texture looked odd, and he ran his finger across the outline.
It had been burned into the wall.
He heard a noise and spun around. His flashlight’s beam captured the man standing on the other side of the bedroom. It was young Crutch, holding a baseball bat.
It felt like a dream, and maybe it was, Linderman running up the basement stairs after Crutch, knowing he couldn’t change what was about to happen, but still wanting to try. Thinking perhaps that it would still lead to saving Vick, not knowing why.
He froze in the doorway to the dining room. Crutch’s mother and three sisters sat at the dining room table, chatting amicably while enjoying dinner. Crutch stood at the head of the table, yielding the bat, screaming like a banshee.
Linderman blinked, and everything changed.
The four women lay dead on the floor in their own blood. Crutch was bashing the furniture and the walls with the bat, gnashing his teeth like a lunatic. He somehow looked bigger and more menacing than he really was, the veins on his neck bulging like a weight lifter.
Linderman blinked again.
The dining room was now empty, the dead women gone. Linderman went to the window and stared out onto the front lawn. Crutch was dragging his mother’s lifeless body across the grass by the armpits. Taking her away to be buried.
He ran outside the house and down the creaky steps. He had to see where Crutch was taking his mother’s body. That was why he had come here. To find the bodies.
Halfway to the barn, he stopped running. Crutch and his mother had disappeared in the downpour.
“Hey, are you okay?” Fitch called out.
Linderman stopped and turned around. Fitch stood on the porch with a worried look on his face.
“Do you have cadaver dogs?” the FBI agent asked.
“The department’s got two good ones.”
“Get them.”
Chapter 45
“Wake up. Breakfast time.”
Wayne Ladd’s eyelids snapped open. Renaldo stood in the open doorway, wearing his trademark gym shorts and no shirt, his upper torso glistening from his workout. His eyes were smiling, and he almost looked happy.
“What’s on the menu?” Wayne asked.
“Scrambled eggs, bacon, and whole wheat toast. I squeezed some fresh orange juice, too. I also bought some strawberry preserves.”
Wayne heard his stomach growl. Despite everything that had happened, he had not lost his appetite. The meals Renaldo were cooking for him were delicious, and gave Wayne something to look forward to, his day a mindless repetition of watching sick porno movies and listening to loud music.
Wayne tossed back the sheet and threw his legs over the side of the bed. The room where Renaldo made him sleep was no bigger than a closet and without windows. Like a prison cell, only worse, his lack of contact with anyone but Renaldo driving him crazy. A naked lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, and could only be turned on from the hall.
Renaldo sniffed the air. “The toast is burning.”
“Better not burn the house down,” Wayne joked.
“Put some clothes on and join me.”
Renaldo pushed himself off the doorframe and walked away. Wayne sat motionless for several seconds, expecting his captor to come back and padlock the door, just like he had every time when Wayne was by himself.
Only Renaldo didn’t come back and shut the door. Wayne nearly pinched himself. Was he dreaming? It felt way too normal — being woken up, the smell of breakfast, the way Renaldo had addressed him. Like his old man used to do before he died.
Wayne got up and started to get dressed. He looked for his clothes, which he threw onto a chair each night before going to sleep. They were gone. In their place was a brand-new pair of chinos and a navy polo shirt that still had the tags on them. He unfolded the clothes and held them up for inspection.
“Oh, wow,” he said.
It had been a long time since he’d worn new clothes. Most of his wardrobe were hand-me-downs from his brother. Not that he’d ever complained, but wearing his dead brother’s clothes had started to be a drag. He needed to become his own man.
He tore off the tags. Renaldo had paid full-price for the threads. It made him want to like the guy, only he couldn’t get the head in the refrigerator out of his mind.
“You coming?” Renaldo called from the other side of the house.
“Just getting dressed. I’ll be there in a second.”
Wayne slipped on the clothes. They fit. He wasn’t supposed to feel happy — he was a prisoner — yet he couldn’t help but smile. The clothes were way cool.
Wayne walked down the hall to the kitchen, smelling breakfast. In the kitchen he found Renaldo standing at the stove, doling out the food onto a pair of plastic plates. His captor nodded approvingly as Wayne entered.
“The clothes look good on you,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have,” Wayne said.
The remark drew a blank stare. The humor was lost on him.
“Where did you get them?” Wayne asked.
“The men’s shop at Dillard’s. They have nice things.” Renaldo handed Wayne a steaming plate and a tall glass filled with orange juice. “Have a seat at the table. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Wayne moved into the adjacent dining area, which consisted of a round table with four high back chairs. A blond-haired woman sat at the head of the table, facing him. Small and pretty, she was securely bound to the chair, and had a wild, helpless look. She opened her mouth and tried to speak, only a gag ball prevented the words from coming out.
Wayne gasped. “Who’s that?”
“Your new girlfriend,” Renaldo said.
Wayne’s plate hit the table with a soft thud. He took the chair next to the captive woman, and tried not to make eye contact. He wanted to help her, but had no idea how to accomplish that. She was in just as bad a situation as he was. Probably worse.
No longer hungry, he moved his food around the plate. The silverware was made of transparent plastic. Renaldo still didn’t trust him with anything sharp. He was still being tested, and needed to watch everything he said and did.
Renaldo sat down so he faced the woman, and started to eat. A mountain of scrambled eggs filled his plate along with a towering stack of bacon. He washed down a mouthful of food with orange juice and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“Who is she?” Wayne asked.
“Her name is Rachel,” Renaldo said. “I met her last night. I thought she was very pretty. She reminded me of an actress in the movies. I couldn’t remember her name.”
Wayne lifted his eyes to stare at Vick. She did have a face out of the movies. Not just pretty, but genuine. In a small way, she reminded him of his girlfriend Amber.
“Reese Witherspoon,” Wayne said.
Renaldo slapped his hand on the table. “That’s the one. She was in the movie with the little dog. They could be sisters, yes?”
Wayne nodded woodenly. He saw tears well in the corners of Vick’s eyes. She had to know she was fucked.
“Yes,” the teenager said.
“Have you tried the OJ? I squeezed it myself. It’s very good.”
Wayne lifted his glass of orange juice and took a long swallow. It was a strange combination of sweet and tangy. His heart was pounding against his rib cage,
his mind racing. He had to help this poor woman, only he didn’t know how.
“How did you meet her?” he asked.
“She was looking for me,” Renaldo replied.
“What do you mean? Is she a cop?”
“FBI agent. She and her partner thought they could capture me, only I turned the tables on them. It’s too bad you weren’t there.”
Wayne drained his glass. The drink was having a strange effect on him. He no longer felt scared or intimidated by the situation. If anything, he felt empowered, and ready to take on the world. It was a wonderful feeling, and he heard himself laugh.
“Is something wrong?” Renaldo asked.
“I just think it’s funny that you put a gag ball in her mouth,” Wayne said. “What are you afraid of — her talking you to death?”
Renaldo roared with laughter. “Very good!”
“Why don’t we untie her, and let her run around the house. Then we can try and catch her. It would be fun.”
“You mean like a game,” his captor said.
“Yeah. First one to catch her wins a prize.”
“What would it be?”
“I don’t know — you still got the head in the fridge?”
Renaldo let out another roar. “Very good, but I have a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
Renaldo went to the kitchen, and returned with a plastic pitcher of OJ. He came around the table so he was behind Vick, and with his free hand, removed the tie holding the gag ball in her mouth. Vick spit the ball onto the table and glanced fearfully at Wayne.
“Open your mouth,” Renaldo said.
Vick shook her head defiantly. Renaldo grabbed her by the back of her hair, and jerked her head back. He brought the pitcher directly over her face.
“Do it, or I will break your neck,” Renaldo said.
Vick parted her lips. Renaldo poured the OJ in a long stream into her mouth, then grabbed her jaw and forced her mouth shut.
“Swallow it,” he commanded.
Vick gulped the liquid down while twisting violently in her chair. Renaldo released his grip on her, and returned to his chair. He resumed eating his breakfast.
“What did you just give her?” Wayne asked.
“The drink is spiked with drugs and vodka,” Renaldo said. “She’ll be out soon.”
“Was that in my drink, too?”
Renaldo nodded. Wayne tried to protest, but the words wouldn’t come out. His tongue had grown thick and the room was spinning. He was going to pass out, and he had the foresight to move his plate before resting his head on the table.
Chapter 46
Linderman had to wait for the cadaver dogs.
The dogs were on the other side of the county with their police handler, trying to find an Alzheimer’s patient who’d slipped out of a nursing home and ambled off into the woods. Wearing a bathrobe and slippers, it was assumed the patient had crawled into a cave or a hole when it had grown cold, and died from exposure. Now his body needed to be found and put to rest.
Linderman had still asked the trainers to hurry. He was running out of time.
He stood on the front porch with Fitch and watched the never-ending rain. Fitch had a habit of taking off his hat whenever he was standing still. It added gravity to his words, even though he rarely spoke.
“I know it’s none of my business, but would you tell me what happened down in the basement earlier?” Fitch asked.
“I saw Jason Crutchfield,” Linderman said.
Fitch did a double-take. “You mean a ghost?”
“I don’t know what it was, but I saw him.”
“That’s downright spooky.”
Linderman thought he heard a noise and shifted his attention to the road. Being an FBI agent had a lot of pluses. For one thing, people rarely questioned his sanity, even at times when it probably should have been questioned.
“Were you aware that Jason was involved with Satanic worship?” Linderman asked when he realized it wasn’t a car.
“That’s news to me. How did you find that out?”
“There’s evidence of it in his bedroom. He quotes the laws from the Satanic Bible in his notebooks. There was also a creepy cartoon character he drew over and over. It’s burned into the wall of his room by his desk.”
“Burned? Are you sure?”
That was a good question. Linderman wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t real anymore, the two sides of his brain melding into one, the hallucinations blending into what was absolute and concrete. He said, “Maybe I need to look again.”
They entered the house and headed downstairs to the basement. Linderman wondered how long Crutch had lived in this black hole as a boy. A year? Two? Had he been banished here for a reason? Or had his mother and three sisters just wanted him out of the way, their lives inconvenienced by the presence of an adolescent boy?
They entered Crutch’s bedroom. Holding Fitch’s flashlight, Linderman pointed the beam at the wall behind the desk, and the menacing character with pointed ears materialized before their eyes. Fitch ran his fingertip across it.
“You’re right — it’s burned into the concrete.”
“Any idea what it is?”
“No, sir.”
Linderman took one of the spiral notebooks off the desk, and headed upstairs. Stopping in the kitchen, he flipped the notebook open to the middle. Both pages were consumed with drawings of the same character burned into the wall. He photographed the character with his cell phone, and emailed the image to FBI headquarters with the request that the analysts in D.C. run it through the bureau’s image data bank.
The FBI had many unique data bases for catching criminals. There were data bases for DNA samples, fingerprints, facial recognition, known aliases, and reoccurring images in violent crimes. Linderman was hoping that the image he’d found in Crutch’s room had appeared in other crimes, and might lead him to understand its significance.
Five minutes later, he had his answer.
The image was the symbol for the Pagan Motorcycle Gang, and was of a mythical figure Surtr, or “the black one.” That was all the information the bureau had.
He called Vaughn Wood in Jacksonville. The Pagans were one of the motorcycle gangs that Wood had run with during his Little Jesus days. Linderman hoped Wood could shed more light on the image’s significance.
“You back in South Florida?” Wood asked by way of greeting.
“I’m in Pittsburgh. You heard about Vick.”
“Saw it on the news this morning. I thought I was going to puke. Are you having any luck finding her?”
“I’m chasing down a lead right now. I need for you to tell me about the Pagan Motorcycle gang’s association with Surtr, the black one.”
“That’s an odd request.”
“I’m at Crutch’s family home. There’s an image of Surtr burned into the wall in Crutch’s bedroom, and Crutch’s highschool notebooks are filled with drawings of him as well.”
“Well, that explains a lot of things.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means that Crutch went over to the dark side a long time ago. Surtr is an evil god from Norse mythology. He looks small, yet can spring up at any time, and become a jotunn, or a giant. According to mythology, at the end of the world Surtr will wage war and defeat all the gods and burn the world with fire.”
“So he’s a killer.”
“An evil killer, without pity for human life. He’s also a cannibal and a vampire. The Pagans worshiped Surtr and considered him the embodiment of everything they stood for. Part of joining the club was swearing your allegiance to him.”
“So Crutch is possessed by Surtr.”
“I wouldn’t use the word possessed.”
“Why not?”
“I have to go back to my experience with the Pagans. Those boys were evil because they wanted to be. They wanted to hurt and kill people.”
“So they were evil before they found Surtr.”
“That’s
right. I did a lot of soul-searching when I ran with the Pagans. I came to realize that good and evil are impulses buried within a person’s soul. You can choose to be good, or choose to be evil. It’s a free choice.”