To Doc Ingram, he said, “As soon as I cuff Jurkowski, I’m going to talk to the boy. Why don’t you come along? Maybe he’ll need a sedative or something.” He reached for his handcuffs.
Before his fingers found them, Don was knocked backward. He fell, and suddenly Jurkowski was on top of him, his hands ripping at Don’s holster, trying desperately to get his service revolver. Don tried to fight him off, but Jurkowski clawed at him furiously. Then hands grabbed the man and pulled him off, Jurkowski writhing, swinging his arms, kicking frantically, trying to free himself.
If the Evil dies, it loses eternity, Kesselring had said.
The Evil wanted very badly to live.
Jurkowski flung one man away from him, whirled, punched a man on his other side, and suddenly he was free. He leaped over one fallen man, dashed toward the street.
Don scrambled to his feet, drawing his gun. Jurkowski turned to face him, staring at him with those knowing eyes in which all sorts of alien emotions danced, swirling around like the cartoon creatures in Fantasia. Instantly Jurkowski leaped at Don. He fired at Jurkowski’s legs, missed, and the man was on him, again trying to get the gun. But this time he had no chance, for hands instantly grabbed him, pulled him off Don, pushed him to the ground. A couple of blows landed in Jurkowski’s midsection, and the struggle was over. Jurkowski lay on his back, three men on top of him, watching him very closely.
Getting up, Don slipped his handcuffs from the back of his gunbelt. “Hold him while I put these on him,” he said. The men complied, and Jurkowski was handcuffed. Don put him in the back seat of the Cherokee, locked him in. “Watch him,” Don said.
Inside the yellow house, they found four-year-old Marky Jurkowski, who was sitting on the couch, with two women hovering over him. Tears were rolling down the boy’s cheeks. He looked bewildered.
“I … I saw Daddy choking Lauren,” he said weakly. “And he came after me, and … and I ran.” He stared at Don with wide blue eyes. “Are Mommy and Lauren okay?” He started to sob, his small body shaking.
Uncertain what to do, Don glanced at one of the women, who shook her head, apparently indicating this wasn’t the time to try explaining that the boy’s mother and sister weren’t okay at all. And before this tragic episode was over, his father was going to be dead too. Leaving Doc Ingram to check the boy over, Don went across the street to the Jurkowski house.
Vanessa Jurkowski was in the kitchen, lying face-up on the floor, her deep blue eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling, and still filled with some of the confusion and surprise of being attacked by her husband. The girl, who was a couple of years younger than her brother, was lying on her bed, face-down, her silken hair fanned out on the pink spread. She looked like a large doll that had been tossed there by a child. Don had heard something about the Jurkowskis and their children, and he tried to recall what it was. It hung just out of reach for a moment, then he had it. The Jurkowskis had tried unsuccessfully for years to have children, and then only a few years before Vanessa would probably have gone into menopause, she gave birth to Marky. A couple of years later, Lauren was born. The Jurkowskis, devout Catholics, had said it was a miracle, two gifts from God.
What the Lord giveth, Satan taketh away, Don thought.
Don did what he had to do. He took photos, got statements, filled out forms. Then he took Jurkowski to jail, removed everything from the cell that could conceivably be used to aid the man in killing himself, and locked him in, giving Corrine strict instructions that no one—not the mayor or the president or even God—was allowed to see the prisoner under any circumstances. Next he bought three more freezers from Dennis O’Connor and had them sent to Doc’s office. Then Don and the physician began collecting the bodies. Six from the woods. Two from Detroit Street.
“If this keeps up,” Doc Ingram told him as they were heading for his office with the last of the bodies, “we’re going to run out of freezers.”
Don said nothing.
The rain was still pouring down, sizzling on the roof of the Cherokee like a burger on the grill, the windshield wipers flailing valiantly at it, the tires splashing the water out of muddy puddles, only to have them re-form as soon as the Jeep had passed.
2
“It’s like a sickness,” Corrine said, looking at Don from her desk. “A killing sickness.”
Sitting at his own desk, Don looked up, startled. “You been talking to Kesselring?” he asked.
“No. Why?”
“That’s his term for what’s going on here.”
She nodded, then looked away, and the office became silent except for the constant sound of rain pattering on the roof, running down the drain spouts, gurgling into the gutters.
Don shifted his gaze to the door that led to the building’s three jail cells. The Evil was in there. And Don didn’t know what he was going to do about it. The part of him that refused to accept such things as evil spirits that looked as though they were built from the component parts of assorted nightmare creatures had long since given up. For although it was programmed to reject such notions, it had been overwhelmed by events. Unable to deny what had happened and unable to deny that Kesselring’s explanation fit all the facts, it had become silent.
And now that Don had the Evil trapped within the body of the host, what was he going to do? He’d been mulling that over ever since getting back to the office. And he still had no answer.
The door burst open with such suddenness that Don jumped. It was Kesselring. He was dripping wet and out of breath. And he had the case with him, the case that looked as though it contained a fancy pool cue.
“Do you have him here?” he asked, stepping through the gate in the counter.
“Jurkowski?”
“Of course Jurkowski. Who else?”
“I have him.”
“He’s alive?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” he said as he sat down by Don’s desk. He looked pale.
For a few moments the two men just looked at each other, then Kesselring said, “We have to do it.”
Don couldn’t think of a response.
“And quickly,” the ex-cop said.
Don noticed that Corrine was staring at them, taking in every word. He stood up. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”
“In the rain?”
“A ride then. We need to talk.”
“But there’s no time. We’ve got to do it now, right away.” There was desperation in his voice, and his eyes were wide, intense.
“If you need me for anything,” Don said to Corrine, “I’ll be in the car.” Standing up, he took Kesselring’s arm and guided him toward the rear exit. “Come on. We’re going for a ride.”
When they were in the Cherokee, rain beating on the wagon’s roof, the wipers flapping back and forth at full speed, Don said, “You’re talking about killing a man, and that’s not the sort of thing we should discuss in front of Corrine.”
“Not a man,” the ex-cop said. “The Evil.”
“What do you call Hollis Jurkowski?”
“He’s dead no matter what we do.”
“That’s not the way the law sees it. If you and I conspire to drive a spike through that man back in the jail, we’re guilty of first-degree murder. For you, maybe that’s fine. I mean, you’re retired, you’ve got no family, and this thing’s an obsession with you. You want to rid the world of this Evil, no matter what.”
“I have to destroy it,” Kesselring said. “I have to.”
“Well, I don’t. I’m just a middle-aged guy with a wife and daughter and a lot of years ahead of me that I’d just as soon not spend in Jackson pursuing a new career in license plate manufacturing.”
“I’ll do it. You’ll have no part of it.”
“It’s too late for that. I’m already part of it.”
Kesselring shook his head. “I can keep you out of it. I can. I promise. Please don’t try to stop me.”
“I haven’t decided what to do,” Don said.
“Think about what’s happened here. Think about what Jurkowski just did. And about what happened to the Gordons. And about the bodies in the woods. Don’t you see that it has to be stopped? How can you balance the death of one man against that—especially when he’s dead already? Sure there’s a risk, but it’ll be my risk, not yours. I may never get another chance like this to destroy it. Please don’t do anything to interfere. Please.”
Don said nothing. He was driving west on Island Avenue. The water in the gutters was nearly up to the tops of the curbs.
“The Evil found a new host and got greedy. Instead of taking the time to make sure it had some way of killing the host—a gun, whatever—it decided to feed, find the means of killing the host later. Well, it got caught, and we have it, and it may never happen again.”
Don sighed. “I know.”
“Every second counts. While we’re here riding along in the rain, Jurkowski is desperately trying to find some way to kill himself. And sooner or later, he’ll come up with one.”
“There’s nothing in the cell with him he could use.”
“How about a fork?”
“When I feed him, I’ll sit there and watch him.”
“How about his finger?”
“His finger?”
“There’s a way you can pop your eyeball out and jam a finger through the opening into your brain.”
“Jesus,” Don said. The image of someone actually doing that popped into his head, and his stomach constricted. He fought off a wave of queasiness.
“It’s got to be done as soon as possible.”
“Jesus,” Don said again. “I’m in a nightmare, you know that? I’ve got to be in a nightmare, because there’s no way this can be real.”
“It’s real. Look at the Gordons, the Jurkowskis, the others.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got to do it.”
Don nodded. “Yeah, you’ve got to do it.”
“Right away.”
“Not while Corrine’s there. Not while I’m there either—unless you can’t do it without my help.”
“I don’t need any help. When can I do it?”
“Corrine will be off in about forty-five minutes. There’s no night dispatcher. Town can’t afford one. I’ll leave as soon as Corrine’s gone.”
“Will the building be open?”
“No. You’ll have to break in. Use the back door. No one’s likely to see you. If you know how to pick a lock, that one ought to be a snap. If you don’t want to do that, a crowbar will work fine. It’s a pretty flimsy door.”
Don felt himself pulled in different directions. A part of him wanted to help Kesselring, because the Evil should unquestionably be destroyed. He’d seen it. And he’d seen what it did to people. He’d seen how it could influence his wife and daughter, and he knew that Sarah and Allison stood the same chance of being its victims as anyone else on the island did.
And yet …
And yet he did have a responsibility to his family and himself. He knew about the Evil. He believed. But the rest of the world did not. If he helped Kesselring, he could truly be stepping knee-deep into shit. Convicted of murder, he would go to Jackson, where the life expectancy of imprisoned cops could be very short. And what would happen to Allison and Sarah then?
Dilemmas were easily resolved; all you had to do was choose. I’ll take this one. I’ll do it that way. But then the doubts come. What if you made the wrong choice? That’s what Don was wondering now. What if he’d made the wrong choice?
He said, “Jail’s through the door to the left of my desk. Keys are in my top right drawer.”
“Does it always rain like this in the spring?” the ex-cop asked.
“No. This is very unusual.”
“The help you were expecting can’t make it in this weather.”
“No.”
“Very convenient.”
“Convenient?”
“For the Evil. No one can get off the island, and no one from the outside can get in.”
“You mean it’s responsible for the weather? How could it be?”
“I don’t know. I’m just saying that the weather is unusual and seems to suit its purposes.”
Don let Kesselring off at his car, which was parked in front of the police station. Then he drove around to the rear of the building, parking the Cherokee in front of the police vehicles only sign. Before doing anything else, Don checked on his prisoner. Jurkowski was still in his cell, still alive, and there were no indications that he’d tried to kill himself by beating his brains out against the bars or anything like that. He looked at Don knowingly, his eyes aglow with all sorts of unidentifiable and frightening emotions.
When Don sat down at his desk, Corrine was staring at him questioningly. Having no explanations to offer, he stared back, and she looked away. Don’s mind was awhirl with conflicting emotions. He should help Kesselring. He should not under any circumstances help Kesselring. He should pinch himself and wake up, for this could not possibly be happening—uh-uh, no way at all.
Corrine went home at five.
For a long time, Don stared at the door through which she’d left. Then he checked again on the prisoner. Jurkowski was simply lying there, doing nothing. Why hadn’t he tried to bash his head against the wall, something—anything?
“I’ll bring you something to eat in an hour or two,” Don said.
The creature on the jail cot stared at him, said nothing.
Don left the building.
3
Steven Kesselring had never learned to pick a lock, so after the constable dropped him off, he went to Ace Hardware and bought a crowbar. Now, five minutes after Don Farraday left the building, Kesselring stood at the rear entrance. Putting down the case that contained the instrument of the creature’s death, he worked the end of the crowbar between the wooden door and its frame, then pulled. There was the cracking and splintering of old wood. The door popped open.
He stepped into a hallway with a wooden floor. He knew that the man at the hardware store would remember selling a crowbar to the stranger who was stranded here during the Split. And he knew someone might have seen him entering the building. He wasn’t worried about it. As Farraday had pointed out, Kesselring was retired and alone. If killing the Evil meant he had to spend the last few years of his life in prison, so be it. It was a small price to pay.
The monster was evil, pure evil, something sent here from hell.
It had to be destroyed.
The black case was in his left hand. He could feel tingly pulsations through the handle as if the object within were aware of the Evil’s nearness and growing restless.
He’d been worried that the beast would find some way to kill the host before he got here, but now he was sure it hadn’t happened. The creature was here, waiting for him. The ex-cop entered the police station part of the building, got the jail keys from Farraday’s desk, moved toward the unmarked door in the west wall of the room.
Opening the door, he found three cells. Each had a single bunk, a sink, and a toilet. The walls, floors, and ceiling were cement. Each cell had a drain in its floor. Only the center one was occupied. Jurkowski, the school janitor, was sitting on the bunk, looking at him. The tingling from the handle of the case grew more intense, as if it were connected to an electrical source and someone was turning up the juice.
“I see you’ve been expecting me,” Kesselring said.
The monster said nothing. Looking into its eyes, Kesselring saw hatred, and something else, something it took him a moment to identify. It was fear. And he knew why the creature hadn’t attempted to kill the host. If it tried to leap headfirst into a wall or strangle itself or almost anything else it might try, it ran the risk of injuring the host but not killing it. With the host incapacitated but still alive, the Evil would be at Kesselring’s mercy—and he would show none.
The monster had decided that it wanted the host in one piece. Because this was where it was going to make its stand. The Evil ve
rsus Kesselring. Winner take all.
Suddenly Kesselring wasn’t seeing the beast at all, but a man in his early fifties. A school janitor. Just another guy getting by as best he could. The ex-cop shook his head. This man before him had been a normal guy once, but now he was the Evil’s host. He was doomed to die no matter what Kesselring did.
“Got greedy, didn’t you?” Kesselring said.
The man on the bunk said nothing.
“You got greedy, pal. And now it’s going to cost you.”
Kesselring held up the key to the cell. The man’s eyes followed it, showing no other reaction. Then Kesselring put down the case, popped the catches, and raised the lid. He lifted out the silver-plated spike with the sharp stone tip. The man’s eyes fixed on it, and this time the fear was obvious. The metal pulsated, all but vibrating in the ex-cop’s hands.
Kesselring sized up the man. Though thin and not especially powerful-looking, he was about fifteen years younger than Kesselring, who was experiencing all the problems that came from being a senior citizen. He had a bad back, arthritis that occasionally flared in his knees, physical stamina that diminished with each passing year.
He wished Farraday were here to help him. But then the constable had barely acquiesced as it was, and Kesselring had not wanted to admit that there might be difficulties. So here he was, about to attempt something of monumental importance, all by himself. Rise to the challenge, he told himself. You can do it. Because you have to.
Inwardly Kesselring sighed. He had always thought people who espoused the wonders of positive thinking were deluding themselves.
He hadn’t brought a gun with him, because he hadn’t wanted to take the chance that something might go wrong, that the creature might get hold of the weapon and end the life of the host before Kesselring could do what he had to do. Although he still thought coming unarmed was the right decision, he had to admit that shooting Jurkowski in the leg to incapacitate him would certainly have made things easier. Perhaps he could have wounded the host, then locked the gun away somewhere before entering the cell. The ex-cop dismissed the idea. The monster would not obligingly sit still and get wounded. It would be a moving target. If Kesselring’s aim was off, he could kill the host. And even the slimmest chance of that was too great a risk to take.
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