“Sorry, little feller. I forgot about ‘em when I first came down here. Been forgettin’ more and more lately. Seeing them schematics you was thinkin’ about just now triggered a memory of me fetchin’ the keys out of the U-Haul. Don’t remember now why I did that.” A corner of the old man’s mouth turned down. “Then I was busy getting my fingers chopped off. Here ya go.” He reached into one of the overall pockets with his non-damaged hand. With perfect dexterity, he tossed the metal objects through the steel bars. All three landed on the concrete floor next to Fergus’s boots. Two of them would fit older model handcuffs. The third should open the two-lock mechanism of the constraints behind his back.
Too bad about Skeeter’s memory issues. Fergus remembered the old man mentioning them when he first arrived. Early onset dementia automatically ruled out an invitation to Cthor-Vangt, not that the old man would have accepted it anyway.
Fergus made quick work of the key. The handcuffs fell to the floor.
“How you gonna open the cage door?”
“That’s the easy part. The Masterlock ProSeries 6121 is not the easiest padlock to pick nor is it the most difficult. Now that my hands are free, I can access the lock-pick in my boot.” He reached down to his Doc Martens, twisted the lug sole twenty degrees, and then withdrew a small tool with a zig-zag tip.
“Them’s some kind of spy boots? What the hell did you really do before Chicksy?” Skeeter asked, beginning to actively wiggle now. The drug must be wearing off.
“I’ve worked at many jobs in my life. Maybe I’ll tell you about a few when we’re out of here.”
“You sure are an interesting little man.”
“Skeeter, you have no idea.”
“Someone’s coming,” he said suddenly.
“Damn it. I almost have it. Three...more...seconds.”
The basement door flew open again, but by then he was out of the cage and reaching into the tool cabinet for something to use on Lizzy.
He pivoted, bone saw in hand, to face the muzzle of a rifle.
But it wasn’t Lizzy wielding the weapon.
“Where is she?” Otis snapped.
“Isn’t she upstairs?” Fergus said, allowing a moment of relief to wash through his body before addressing Skeeter’s shackles.
“No. Upstairs is empty.”
“She went up there less than five minutes ago. Did you have the cabin under surveillance? Who’s with you?”
“Serena Jo and the kids. They’re hidden. I barricaded the back door and then came in through the front. She’s gotta be in here.”
A niggling thought that had been hovering around the perimeter of consciousness surfaced, evoked by memories of Harlan’s astral-plane images. During their telepathic conversation, Harlan had transmitted what he saw as he hovered above the cabin. Several details stood out: the motorcycle and its helmet and the igloo-shaped structure near the foundation. He’d figured out the significance of the helmet. Now he thought he’d identified the purpose of the dog house.
“Damn it,” he said, as the lock-pick found the sweet spot. Skeeter stood, a bit wobbly on his feet, but already making a beeline for the door. “Hold up, old man. Let’s get that hand bandaged before you lose any more blood.”
“We don’t have time for that.”
Otis glanced down at the fingers on the floor, then Skeeter’s hand. Wordlessly, he blocked the door with a nod to Fergus.
“Dang it!” Skeeter said.
Fergus was already rifling through the rolling cabinet, pushing aside implements of torture. He located a tube of Neosporin in a far corner and some hemostatic gauze. Lizzy must have wanted to keep her victims from dying too quickly from infection or blood loss. Fergus quickly tended to Skeeter’s hand and the three men bolted upstairs. Otis and his rifle lead the charge. The last time Fergus had come through the upstairs, he’d been drugged and loopy, unable to remember much about the interior of the cabin.
A quick scan of the rooms revealed a welcoming environment; décor and furniture practically begged guests to curl up in front of a roaring fire with a cozy mystery novel. Perhaps it was designed to lure people in, like a house made of gingerbread.
That was Willa’s voice again.
“Split up. Search the house,” Otis said.
In what was surely Lizzy’s bedroom, LED monitors covered most of one wall. The screens were black at the moment, but Fergus had no doubt that when powered on, they would reveal grainy, black-and-white images of the basement. Perhaps even other sections of the cabin and surrounding area. On the bed lay patched and faded denim jeans, a threadbare flannel shirt, and a woven straw hat — wardrobe essentials for many of the Whitaker Holler females. Lizzy hadn’t used witchy powers to kidnap Willadean. She’d used a disguise to sneak into the village and snatch the child from her bed. Perhaps he wouldn’t share this discovery with Willadean. The magic stuff is more fun.
The three gathered in the kitchen a minute later. Lizzy wasn’t discovered skulking in a coat closet or hiding under any of the Laura Ashley beds. She had vanished like a bad dream in the sudden light of a bedside lamp.
Something didn’t look quite right about the positioning of a rolling butcher’s block. “Let’s move this,” Fergus said when the three made it to the kitchen.
Otis slid the small cart from against the southern wall...the dog house wall. The butcher’s block had hidden a framed opening along the baseboard, wide enough for an adult to slither through. A curved surface lined the small space beyond. A circular opening had been excavated into the ground; the wooden rungs of a ladder leaned against the side of a bricked tunnel descending into blackness.
Lizzy had spared no expense in building her kill house. She’d even planned for the contingency of an FBI raid.
Otis ducked through the opening, positioning himself on the top of the ladder.
“Wait a minute,” Fergus said. “This may be exactly what she wants. You get to the bottom of that hole and Lizzy might be standing there with a gun.”
“Or she may already be escaping out the other end.”
“Hold on. I have an idea.” Fergus darted from the room. The previous search of the house had revealed a small bedroom used for storage. Tidy shelves and neatly stacked plastic bins lined the walls. On one of the shelves, a braided nylon rope coiled around three stainless steel heavy-duty pulleys, revealing the magic behind Lizzy’s tree crucifixions. In the center of the room lay a familiar object, tossed onto the floor like a child’s discarded toy, its pockets and hidey holes closed except for a rubber strap extending through the top zipper. His backpack.
A quick search uncovered the tear gas cartridge still nestled at the bottom of one of the compartments. He grabbed the pack in one hand and the CS cartridge in the other and ran back to the kitchen. Otis saw the object he carried.
“No way. You toss that down and we won’t be able to follow her. The gas will fill up the tunnel.”
“Contrary to popular belief, there is no gas in tear gas. It’s actually a chemical solid, ground into tiny particles and dispersed using aerosols, creating a fog of unpleasantness that irritates the eyes, skin, and trachea.”
“Exactly. So we’re not using it. I’ll take my chances.” Otis began to descend.
“Wait,” Fergus said, unzipping the largest compartment of his pack. “Ever wear one of these?” Lizzy had returned the gas mask to his pack at some point. Perhaps she had kept his belongings for her trophy collection.
“Never. Help me get it on, then we’ll toss the gas,” Otis said.
“And while you’re navigating the tunnel, I’ll meet you at the other end of it.”
“How the hell do you know where it leads?” Skeeter asked.
Fergus grinned. He had remembered another useful tidbit from Harlan’s astral-plane intel. “Why would anyone build a shed so far away from their house? Why not have your lawn mower and your garden gnomes stored close by, within easy reach?”
“Shit,” Otis said, struggling to position the mask.
“I left Serena Jo and the kids hiding near that shed.”
“Go. Now,” Fergus said, suddenly grim. He finished securing the mask on Otis, popped the canister’s top and dropped it down into the abyss.
Otis didn’t hesitate.
“Can you run?” Fergus asked Skeeter, digging through his backpack for the revolver Ray had given him. It was there, as well as a handful of bullets.
“Not as fast as you. Go on. I’m gonna look for my Mossy. I’ll catch up.”
“You can’t shoot a rifle with one hand, old man,” Fergus said heading for the front door.
“The hell I can’t.”
There was no time to argue. Fergus ran through the door and out into a blustery rain-scented wind — an outflow boundary, the type that precipitated a storm.
As he sprinted down the porch steps, a sudden zig-zag of intense brightness flashed in the east. Ominous rumbles followed the next second, registering inside his chest like the low notes of a bass cello. The storm would soon be upon them and the greenish, bulbous clouds indicated hail at the least — perhaps even a tornado if his good luck had suddenly dried up.
The white siding of the shed peeked through the branches of a copse of pine trees a hundred yards in the distance. He made out movement nearby.
He leaped off the porch and ran full-speed toward the shed, repeating a mantra every time his boots hit the ground:
Let me beat Lizzy. Let me beat Lizzy.
Chapter 24
Willadean
“Get inside,” Mama said, pointing to the dark interior of a tidy garden shed.
“We won’t be able to see anything from inside,” Willa argued. “What if Otis needs help?” The rifle felt like more than just an impulse decision; Otis and Mama thought she was responsible enough to carry a firearm under adverse conditions. Actual lives were at stake and they trusted her with a killing machine. And she’d survived being the captive of a psychopath. When this was all over, she would definitely ask for extra privileges.
“I’m more worried about this storm than anything else right now,” Mama said, glancing at the greenish sky with a deep furrow between her brows. “I want you all out of sight from the cabin and under a roof in case there’s hail. Or worse,” she added, studying the lumpy clouds that Willa knew were a type called mammatus, not worrisome themselves but almost always a harbinger of a dangerous storm. She had learned this in Knoxville while writing a story about a puppy who ventured out during a tempest.
It hadn’t ended well for the puppy.
“Them’s titty clouds, ain’t they, Willa?” Cricket said as the three entered the small shed.
“The word mammatus is derived from Latin, meaning udder or breast. So yes, technically you could call them titty clouds, and of course you would, because you’re a goober.”
A small window allowed a partial view of Serena Jo standing outside, and the witch’s cabin in the distance beyond. Mama stood very still, like a granite statue of Diana the Huntress. But instead of a bow and arrow, she wielded an AR-57.
Mama had left the door ajar, but because the coming storm had turned daytime into dusk, much of the shed’s contents lay in shadow. Anemic illumination filtered through the small window as well as an overhead skylight. Willa did a slow pivot, squinting into corners and perusing the neat shelves. A witch’s shed should be vastly more interesting. Where were the jars filled with bat’s wing and eye of newt? The poisonous herbs lashed with twine and strung from the ceiling to dry? No primitive broom leaned against a wall. Instead, she saw a garden hoe and a spade. No pointy black hat hung on the hook next to the doorway; in its place, a straw fedora dangled from a leather chinstrap.
Of course Lizzy wasn’t an actual witch. Willa knew that. Lizzy was merely a psychopath. But Willa couldn’t help feeling disappointed at the pedestrian contents of the shed. And when she tried to imagine Lizzy wearing the fedora and weeding a garden, she laughed. No way that crazy broad would engage in such activities. Lizzy’s only interest in yardwork would involve digging a hole for a body.
A rustling sound emanated from one of the dark corners. Willa could make out a woven mat on the floor; several pristine flower pots rested on top. Had a rat built a nest back there?
All three children had been standing with their noses pressed against the solitary windowpane. Just as she decided to search the rat corner, she caught a glimpse of a moving figure through the filmy glass. She recognized the spikey flame-red hair as Mister Fergus practically flew down the cabin’s front porch steps.
He ran toward the shed, waving his arms and yelling something she couldn’t understand. It seemed Mama couldn’t either. She was yelling back, “What? I can’t hear you!”
“What’s he saying, Harlan?” Willa said. Harlan may be able to read Mister Fergus’s lips, even from this distance.
I can’t tell. Wait, I think he’s saying...
Willa watched the color drain from her brother’s face as he spun to face the corner. Willa turned as well, dreading whatever had caused that look of terror on Harlan’s face.
The top half of Lizzy’s body extended from the ground where the woven mat had been. She blinked rapidly, like something irritated her eyes, but she wore that awful grin. And she pointed a gun right at Willa.
Willa opened her mouth to scream, but the rifle’s muzzle shifted to Harlan’s head. “I’ll do it, Willadean. I won’t hesitate. Close the door. Do it fast.”
Willa did as she was told.
“Latch it. Hurry,” the witch said.
Willa slid the metal bolt into its housing. She should have noticed that sooner. Why would anyone install a latch bolt inside of a garden shed?
“You came through a tunnel?” Willa replied, switching to her childish voice. “How clever!”
“On some level, I always knew it would end here,” the witch said. “I had the tunnel built as a safeguard against my capture. But you children and your mother bungled everything. None of us will be getting out of this alive.”
It couldn’t have been easy climbing out of that hole with broken fingers and an injured shoulder, all the while keeping the rifle pointed at Harlan. But Lizzy managed it. When she reached the patch of weak sunshine filtering through the skylight, Willa could see which witch she was dealing with. It wasn’t the somewhat reasonable one Willa had managed to charm in the basement. This Lizzy, with her pinpoint pupils and maniacal grin, was the drugged-up psychopathic version. The one with whom there would be no reasonable discussion.
“Put that rifle on the floor, Willa,” Lizzy said.
Willa’s mind raced as she stared into those disturbing green eyes. Problem-solving was one of her talents, but the current situation didn’t present even one good option. After a moment’s hesitation, she complied, setting the Mossy next to the hoe and spade. A sudden pounding on the door surprised her, but the witch didn’t blink or flinch.
“Open up!” Serena Jo was using her overly reasonable voice; it was the one that only sounded reasonable to people who didn’t know her. Anxiety nearing full-blown panic gnawed around the edges of the normal modulation. It was the voice she had used when they’d driven a U-Haul along a Knoxville freeway in the dead of night, dodging stalled cars and bands of armed survivors.
“I have a gun pointed at a boy child,” Lizzy shouted. “I’m guessing he’s your son and the brother of the girl standing next to him. Willadean is your Mini Me.” Lizzy giggled. “So I suggest you back away and position yourself where I can see you from the window. What’s the woman’s name, child?” Lizzy asked the slack-jawed Cricket.
“Serena Jo,” Cricket squeaked. The front of his grubby jeans was wet. Poor kid had peed his pants.
The witch raised her voice. “Serena Jo, I will kill both of your children and the dark-haired boy if I don’t see you through the window with your arms raised and your weapons on the ground in five seconds.”
Willa desperately wanted to turn and watch for Mama through the window, but she didn
’t dare. Any opportunity to prevail in this situation would require her to remain focused on the psychopath before her.
“We are at somewhat of an impasse,” the witch said, glancing through the window. “But clearly I hold the upper hand. A good mother will do anything to save her children, and you strike me as...competent.”
The witch was certainly right about that.
“Let them go and we’ll all walk away,” Mama said, her voice penetrating the wooden boards.
“Fergussss,” Lizzy said. “I know you’re out there. I sense you, using that talent we both share. Show yourself or I’ll kill them all.”
Willa watched the witch’s face and could tell the exact moment her teacher appeared.
“Where is the old man?”
“You shot him full of enough epinephrine and muscle relaxant to make his heart either explode or stop beating completely, remember Lizzy?” Mister Fergus said.
The air escaped Willa’s lungs.
“And cut off a few fingers as well,” Lizzy said. Her eyes dilated as she said the horrible words. “His trigger pulling days are behind him now even if he does survive the injection.” Another giggle.
Willa barely fought the urge to fling herself at the witch.
“I want to see the two of you start walking away...now. If you don’t, I will shoot one child in the head. Which one shall I start with?”
“You know you won’t do that, Lizzy,” Mister Fergus said. Anxiety nibbled at the edges of the deep tenor.
Willa used her childlike voice again, “Please, Miss Lizzy. You know you don’t want to shoot a kid.”
The witch’s expression was difficult to read, but it looked like Willa had struck a nerve. She actually exhibited a trace of remorse before she swiveled the gun away from Harlan’s head, lowered the muzzle, and shot Cricket.
The world seemed to slow to half-speed after that.
Mama yelled from outside. Cricket fell to the ground like a tow sack of potatoes. The rat-rustling sounds from the corner again started up again, but Lizzy was distracted now. She didn’t notice the subtle noise of a gas mask-wearing Otis as he emerged from the ground behind her.
What Befalls the Children: Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Series Page 25