“I know you’re still here!” he shouted. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you! I’ll find you tonight!”
When the light went out, Jimmy counted to two hundred, and then moved out from under the robes. He made his way back to the room as quietly as he could, and found Harbus sleeping on the bed. At least Jimmy thought he was sleeping, until he nudged him and got no response, lightly at first, then harder; lifting Harbus’ arm, releasing it and watching it fall limply to his side, pinching and prodding, slapping and shaking, but getting no response whatsoever from Harbus.
Seven Thirty:
They arrived at Pitch Place to find Charles Hadley’s Cadillac and ten other vehicles lined up in front of the huge mansion. After parking next to Doc Fletcher’s new El Dorado, Nathan led his men to the front door. He rang the doorbell and James Hastie opened the door, and Nathan stepped inside.
“What a surprise,” Hastie said. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“Well, I tell you, Mr. Hastie.” Nathan looked at the frail old man, and couldn’t believe what he was about to do: drag a tired old man back to town and tell him he was suspected of having abducted three children. “Uh, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to—”
“The hell are you boys doing here?” Charles Hadley called out from over Hastie’s shoulder. To Hastie, he said, “You’re wanted in the dining hall, Mr. Hastie”, waiting until Hastie was out of earshot before launching an angry tirade against his sheriff for coming out there without talking to him first.
Nathan let it go on for a moment or two, but when Hadley started in on how much Pitch meant to the town, he grabbed the mayor and shoved him against the wall.
“You listen to me, you son of a bitch.” With his face an inch away from Hadley’s, he drove home the fact that three children were missing, and he would do whatever it took to get them back. “And if I have to kick your ass, and his,” he told him. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.”
Then he released the terrified mayor, and explained why they had come.
“You know good and damn well that little old man ain’t got nothing to do with this shit,” Hadley told him. “Look, I’ll get a picture for you, but you’re barking up the wrong tree here.”
Hadley, not about to be embarrassed by having his sheriff drag Pitch’s butler away, walked off down the hallway. Moments later, he returned and handed Nathan a photograph. Then he ushered the men to the front door, wished them luck and slammed the door in their faces.
“What do you think?” Nathan asked on his way back to the car.
Walt Davis shrugged his shoulders.
Donnie didn’t think Hastie had been involved. “He’s way too old.”
Johnny remained silent.
“I’d like to know what all these people are doing out here,” Walt said, and then asked the others if they knew.
“Not me,” Johnny said.
“Me either,” said Nathan.
“Seems kind of funny, doesn’t it?” Johnny said. “All these people havin’ a party up here and nobody’s heard nothin’ about it?”
“Son of a bitch,” Nathan said, pointing at the cruiser, where someone had drawn a message on the foggy windshield:
IN THE LIBRARY
“What the—”
“Let’s go!” Donnie shouted, and then ran onto the front porch, opened the door and turned to the others. “What’re we gonna do? I mean, do y’all even know where the library is?”
“It ain’t out here, Cuz,” Nathan said, and then stepped forward to lead the way, into the house and down the hallway, toward the noise and laughter.
* * *
On his way back to town, Pops stopped by to talk with Vonda Peters. She wasn’t home, so he left a note asking her to get in touch with him at the hotel. He was hungry and he stopped off at the diner. After eating, he returned to his room at the hotel and took a nice hot bath. On the lumpy mattress, staring up at the ceiling, he thought about John Smith and the strange stories he had heard earlier in the evening, how Marcia Lowrey’s murder had led him to this place, how it seemed to tie in with a series of bizarre crimes dating back to nineteen twenty-nine.
How could this be? he wondered, knowing it couldn’t be.
But what other explanation was there?
What other explanation could there be?
Pops, sighing, took out his notepad, and began thumbing through its pages.
* * *
Handcuffs bit into Nathan’s wrists, but as much as it hurt, the pain also helped him. It kept his mind from giving in as the others had, as he almost had. When Newton Hayes drove a fist into his stomach, the pain brought him all the way back. He descended the basement stairs in a state of shock. He had to act soon. He knew it, yet he didn’t see how he could. At the bottom of the stairwell, the mangled heap that had once been Vonda Peters stared up from the cold stone floor, a horrific image he carried with him as they crossed the basement to Mickey’s Clubhouse, where the door was opened, revealing something even more horrible: Norval Jenkins and the little dead bodies.
“I knew Norval was dead.”
Pitch chuckled. “Yes, Sheriff, he’s dead.”
“Yeah, brother, but don’t worry, he went out like a man.” Newton put his face an inch or so from Nathan’s. “How about you? You going out like a man?”
“Fuck you,” Nathan said, and spit into his brother’s face.
“No,” Newton said, driving a knee into Nathan’s gut. “Fuck you, big brother.”
Nathan fell to his knees, gasping for air for a moment before looking up at Charles Hadley, Clyde Barlow and the others. “Y’all won’t get away with this shit, Charley.”
“We’ve gotten away with it for years, Nathan. You know that. Why didn’t you just leave like I told you, look the other way like Earl did?” Hadley looked down at Nathan, smirking at the anger in his eyes. “That’s right, Earl knew all about it. He just had sense enough to know he couldn’t do anything. Hell, you could’ve been home with your family. Now you’re never going to see them again.” Hadley knelt down in front of Nathan, looking him dead in the eye. “None of you, will ever, see your families again.”
Nathan launched himself, smacking the grinning mayor’s face with the top of his head. Blood spurted from Hadley’s nose as he fell to the floor, crying and clutching his face while Newton kicked him in the side, put a foot on the sniveling mayor’s neck and pressed his face to the ground. “That’s right, crawl like the worm you are.” He spit on Hadley’s head, removing his foot as he told him to, “Get the fuck up.”
Hadley, struggling to his feet, turned to Pitch. “He didn’t have to do that,” he said, tripping, and then almost falling when Newton feigned an attack.
“All right, children,” Pitch cooed. “Get sleeping beauty over there and let’s get him ready for the party.”
Nathan looked over at Gary Harbus, lying unconscious on the bed. “The fuck?”
Pitch’s eyes lit up like the lights on a Christmas tree. “Now, now, Sheriff. Why so surprised? After all, this is who we are. This is what we do.” He laughed and looked at the others, prompting them to burst out in nervous laughter. Nodding at Newton, he said, “Let’s get moving, son.”
Newton put a foot in Nathan’s chest, and shoved him over. Then he grabbed Harbus and threw him over his shoulder.
“This ain’t over you sons of bitches!” Nathan yelled. “Doc! Barlow! I’ll see your asses dead!”
Doc Fletcher turned.
Smiling wryly, he said, “I doubt it, Nathan. I really do.”
* * *
While Doc Fletcher and the others ascended the stairs, Pitch turned and started toward the slab. Newton, with Harbus still across his shoulders, followed behind him.
“What about the other kid?” Newton said.
“What about him?” Pitch called over his shoulder.
“Aren’t you worried he might make it back to town and bring those miners up here?”
“That little fucker? He’s down here somewhere. Probably
found a hole and ratted his ass inside it. We’ll find him sooner or later. And if we don’t, hell, we’ve got the whole police department locked up and the town’s leading citizens to protect us. After tomorrow night, it’s not going to matter anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
Pitch kept quiet. He wasn’t quite sure why he had said it, or how he knew it. But he did know: after this one was over, he would never come back to this mud hole again.
“Well, I don’t like it. If he makes it to town, he’ll bring a shit-load of—”
Pitch whirled and stuck the flashlight in Newton’s face. “I don’t give a good goddamn what you like or don’t like! You just do what the fuck I tell you to do. You got that?”
“Y, yeah… I got it.”
On the slab, crouched behind the statue, Jimmy watched everyone except Pitch and Newton Hayes walk past a very dead-looking Vonda Peters and climb the stairs. His heart sank when Pitch lit out toward the slab… toward him, toward little Jimmy Pritchard, the seven-year-old child who stood frozen in place as Pitch approached.
It was only a matter of time until one of them saw him. He knew there was a way out; he’d seen Pitch use it. But knowing that did him about as much good as knowing the world was round, if he couldn’t figure out where the exit was. He’d scoured every square inch of the slab, and still found himself searching for a way out. But he had found no way out. Nor had he found a place to hide.
They stopped and the flashlight swung around, shining directly into Newton’s face as Jimmy looked up past the monstrous head of the stone demon, into the darkness.
“Please, God,” he whispered. “Help me.”
When his eyes fell back on the statue, he saw not a demon, but a huge rock with ridges running up its back. The flashlight went into the waistline of his pants; his hands onto the statue as he scurried to its top.
Pitch stood at the edge of the slab, staring into the darkness as Newton placed Harbus on the altar. After a minute or so he moved alongside Newton and began securing Harbus with thick leather laces, tugging and testing the knots, and then fastening a leather strap tightly around the boy’s waist. Beneath the altar was a knife, and Pitch picked it up and passed it in front of Harbus’ face, hoping he would wake up and see it. He wanted the child to see what was about to happen to him, to see the fear in his eyes. But he didn’t open his eyes, and after a moment or two, Pitch laid down the knife and stared out across the basement, wondering where the other child could be hiding.
“He’s down here somewhere,” he said, loud enough for Newton to hear.
“You think so?”
“I know it for a fact.” Pitch turned and smiled. In the shadow of the flashlight, his face was a horribly grotesque mask. “That’s okay,” he said, then, “Stay at the bottom of the stairs in case he tries to go back and let your brother and his playmates out of the clubhouse.” When no reply was forthcoming, Pitch shoved the flashlight into Newton’s face. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then pay me the fucking courtesy of a response.”
“Yes, sir,” Newton said.
Pitch, turning his attention to the rear of the slab, shone his flashlight all around the statue, making a complete circle around its base before pausing a moment and leaning against the granite demon. Then he began sweeping the beam over the slab, and the walls beyond it.
“I know you’re still down here!” he called out, then, pulling a gold pocket watch out of his jacket, he held the light on it. “Oh, my. It’s getting late.”
Pitch strolled to the wall, and placed his hand in the center of an engraved emblem of a dragon with wings and horns, an octagon carved into its chest. A moment later a panel slid open, and Pitch disappeared inside it.
* * *
Sitting cross-legged atop the statue, Jimmy watched Pitch disappear into a dark passage, and the panel slide shut, a great weight slowly lifting from his shoulders as he realized what he had done.
He was proud.
He had survived.
He had frustrated them.
They had combed the basement, but they didn’t find him. And he knew if he could make it this far, that he might just make it all the way home. If only Jackie and the rest of the High Street boys could see him now: Jimmy Pritchard, King of hide n’ go seek!
But the moment was fleeting as his current situation came crashing down upon him, and the only thing on Jimmy’s mind now was racing across the basement and letting the sheriff and his men out of the room. Sooner or later, Newton Hayes would get tired and leave. An hour passed as he sat there, waiting for Newton to start up the stairs. Minutes later, Newton stood up, stretching as he started across the basement floor.
When he disappeared up the dimly lit stairwell, Jimmy climbed down the statue, and moved quickly to Harbus’ side, shook him and whispered directly into his ear, slapped him and pulled his hair. When that didn’t work, he grabbed his chest, and pinched him as hard as he could, but Harbus never stirred.
“Get your ass back down there and keep an eye out for that kid!” Pitch yelled, and then hurled a string of obscenities at Newton Hayes, the shouting growing louder, closer as Jimmy hurried to the rear of the slab, to the dragon’s emblem with the octagon shape in its center. He pushed it but nothing happened, pushed it again and… nothing. His heart fluttered as he pushed frantically at the dragon’s chest, and Newton Hayes came cussing all the way down the stairs, stopping for a scant moment to thud a boot off Vonda Peters’ body before venturing further into the basement.
Moments later, a beam of light swept over Harbus. Soon it would find Jimmy. He pushed again and a panel slid open, allowing him to step through it a split second before a cylinder of light played over the spot he had just vacated, and the panel closed. He pulled the flashlight from his waistband and pointed it up, turned it on and followed the beam. It took him a while, but he finally reached the end of the line, which seemed to him to have gone on forever. When he did reach it, though, he found a lever, pulled it and the panel slid open, allowing him to step into the closet while the panel slid shut. He walked across the closet and stood before a door. Then, turning off the flashlight, he opened the door and stepped into the bedroom.
It was as dark in the bedroom as it had been in the basement, and Jimmy was tired… hungry. He had lost all track of time, and wondered how long he’d been held there. It felt like forever. He crawled over to a crack of light beneath the bedroom door and tried peering into the hallway. Getting up the nerve to open the door was difficult, but he finally did open it. Relief flooded him when he stepped into an empty hall. He saw a staircase and walked toward it, slowly, and then a little faster. In a room directly to his right, somebody laughed, and somebody proposed a toast. Somebody else said, “Damn good beef!” Glasses clinked together and Jimmy froze. Any second now, somebody could come out and see him. He knew he shouldn’t just stand there, but he couldn’t make himself move.
Chairs scuttled across the floor; footsteps thudded around the room.
The doorknob turned and Jimmy ran to a door on his immediate left, opened it and ran into another pitch-black room. Outside in the hallway, people were laughing and joking. Something gurgled, and Jimmy clamped a hand over his mouth. He heard it again… a strange murmuring sound, and it dawned on him it was the sound a baby might make.
He switched on the flashlight, sweeping the beam from side to side until it fell upon a bed. A little baby lay sound asleep there, and Jimmy knew just who that baby was. Pointing the flashlight at little Johnny Porter, Jimmy didn’t know why, but he felt hope, like he might actually find a way out of this thing. They might find a way out. He heard a noise in the hall, footsteps approaching. The doorknob turned and Jimmy switched off the flashlight. The door creaked open as he scurried under the bed, and a pair of shiny black shoes walked directly toward him. Once again, he clamped a hand over his mouth to keep from giving himself away, and heard Pitch’s voice: “Well, well, my sweet little prince, my inno
cent little prince. Sleep well, my baby, and I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Jimmy kept his hand over his mouth, breathing slowly through his nose, silently, his thundering heart nearly bursting through his chest, as those shiny black shoes came so close he could reach out and touch them. Directly above him came a wet, smacking sound. Closing his eyes showed him a goat-horned, white-haired Devil kissing little Johnny on the forehead.
And then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the black leather shoes turned and exited the room, leaving Jimmy curled up into a ball as tears streamed down his cheeks and he wiped them away. He took a deep breath and let it out, buried his face in his arms and closed his eyes.
Ten minutes later, he was fast asleep.
Friday Morning
A hacking and coughing next door neighbor stirred Pops groaning from his sleep. He checked his watch on the bedside table to find that it was six a.m. The noise stopped and he rolled over and shut his eyes. Ten minutes later, the neighbor started hacking and coughing all over again.
“Jesus H. Christ!” he called out, loud enough for the neighbor to hear, but apparently not loud enough to silence him. He gave up on going back to sleep, slid out of bed and crossed the hardwood floor. In front of the toilet, waiting for a weak stream to make its way around his swollen prostate, he muttered something about a sorry, loud-assed son of a bitch. Then he showered, returned to his room and dressed. By then it was six-thirty, just time enough to stop by and talk to Vonda Peters before she left for school.
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