by Hults, Matt
Kale Kane a voice whispered in Mallory’s ear.
The girl lunged.
Before Mallory could find her voice, the girl shot over the bed on all fours with the speed of a springing spider.
DAD! Mallory tried to yell, but the girl crashed into her, knocking her across the hall, through the bathroom door. She landed on her back, head bouncing off the tile floor. Her teeth clattered. Her vision blurred. At the same time, the girl’s full weight crashed down on her chest, knocking the wind out of her lungs and setting off a tremor of paralyzing agony inside her body.
Pain pinched her throat, seized her limbs.
Pinned under her attacker, Mallory could only gaze upward as the girl’s dead-white face loomed into her vision, black eyes gleaming. Her lips parted, revealing those bloody teeth.
“Dad—,” Mallory managed to get out when she heard her father call her name, but then the black-eyed girl clutched her jaw with one hand, forcing her mouth open and—
Aghk!
—shoved her other hand into Mallory’s throat.
A new pain exploded inside her chest.
Pain beyond pain.
Hell.
And with it came a terrible revelation: the girl gazing down at her was dead. Mallory knew it without doubt. Through the horror and torture her mind still detected the cold touch of the girl’s skin, the stiff feel of her flesh.
She dead! She’s dead, and I’m next!
Mallory gagged, convulsing in terror. Her legs kicked wildly, her hands closed over the appendage groping farther and farther into her throat. It was cutting off her air, choking her, trying to grab something inside her!
She pulled at the girl’s arm, dug fingernails into her skin. But the girl wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t relent. And just when panic had no more meaning, Mallory felt her fingers sink into the rotten meat of the girl’s forearm, piercing dead muscle and severing spongy bone until—
The girl’s hand broke off.
Mallory watched in perfect clarity as the girl drew her arm backward, trailing only a putrid black stump. And yet the fingers of the hand inside her still scampered and twitched and clawed to get deeper.
Mallory grabbed the thing’s wrist, seizing it with both hands, but when she tried to pull it free, the soft meat simply stripped off in her grasp, like oily skin sliding off an overcooked chicken.
Free from her grip, the hand plunged down her throat. She could feel her neck bulge as the slime-greased thing slipped past her esophagus, digging toward her stomach.
All she could do now was thrash about, clenching the muscles of her abdomen, trying again and again to lurch the hand up. She jerked from side to side, kicking and flailing, and—
“Mallory,” her dad cried. “Wake up!”
She jerked awake, still trying to lash out, stopped only by her dad restraining her arms.
“Mallory!”
Now the room came into focus. She saw her dad at the bedside, BJ huddling behind him, looking scared.
She stopped thrashing, relaxed. Lingering fear kept her heart pumping at a runner’s pace, but she managed to calm her breathing and sit up. Her dad released her and she wiped sweat-soaked bangs off her forehead.
“Are you okay?”
Too embarrassed to say anything, she merely nodded. But with the nod came a sob, and with the sob came tears.
Crying, she clutched her dad in a hug. He held her tight, stroking her hair like when she was young. He told her she was safe and that he loved her and that it was only a dream.
“Everything’s okay,” he said after she’d gained control again. “You’re safe.”
She wiped her cheeks dry. “I know. I’m fine now.”
“You sure?”
She nodded.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No way.”
He smiled, and she smiled back, even if it was forced.
“All right, then.” He ushered BJ out of the room and turned off the light. “Goodnight, Mallory. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
After they’d gone and she found herself alone in the darkness, Mallory scrunched down in her bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, just like BJ.
CHAPTER 16
Harry finally had an excuse to visit the Andersons.
Earlier in the week, when he’d spoken to Jerry during his walk, the man had shocked him with the news that he and Margaret planned on attending church the coming Sunday.
“Maybe we could all go together?” Jerry had asked, looking sheepish and prepared for ridicule. True, Harry’s jaw almost dislocated from the surprise, but the man had obviously come to him looking for support, and it warmed his heart to hear the Andersons had actually developed an interest in God.
But neither of them had showed.
Harry meant to ask them about it yesterday, but then he’d noticed Father Kern’s car in their driveway and guessed the Andersons had called him for whatever spiritual advice they’d been looking for. The priest stayed for a long time, too, well into the evening, and Harry eventually decided to let the matter rest for the night.
Now he noticed Kern’s car had returned, parked in the exact same place, almost as if he’d never left.
He ascended the front steps and rapped on the door. Like a shot out of some old detective movie, the unlatched door clicked open on the first knock and drifted inward to reveal a scene of devastation: the staircase railing lay in ruin, its banisters reduced to firewood kindling.
Harry stood silent, his gaze taking in the damage.
“Jerry?” he called. “Margaret? Is anyone here?”
The air inside the house attacked his lungs the second he spoke, tainted by a smell that dredged up memories of Saigon hospitals ripened by the heat. He took a tentative step inside, his gaze fixed on a number of rust-colored smears leading toward the back of the house. His breath caught at the sight, and though his better judgment told him he should run back to his house and call the police, he needed to know what happened to his friends.
“Jerry,” he called louder. “Father Kern? Anyone?”
He ventured farther inside, following the reddish-brown trail toward the back of the house. It led out the rear door, across the patio, past the barbeque pit. From his place at the doorframe, he focused his gaze on where the marks terminated in the garden.
His mouth dropped open at the sight.
And for the first time in over fifty years, he screamed.
CHAPTER 17
Detective Melissa Humble found the small town of Loretto on the other side of Highway 55, going south on County Road 19, less than three miles from the Pattersons’ house. The neighborhood she’d been called to, a wealthy subdivision comprised of only a couple dozen homes, waited minutes to the east.
Harold Fish greeted her in the driveway of Jerry Anderson’s house. Even before getting out of the car, she recognized the look of absolute shock on his face, an all-too-familiar expression universal to the friends and family of murder victims.
She got out of the car and introduced herself. The man’s blanched face matched the ashen color of his powder-white hair, and his words trembled when he told her about the horrifying discovery he’d made in his neighbor’s backyard. For a second, Melissa thought he might even pass out.
“Y-you’ll have to forgive me, Detective,” he stammered. “I’ve seen bodies messed up pretty bad before, both what the Viet Cong did to our guys and what we did to them, but that thing in the backyard …”
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Fish,” she assured him. “Take your time.”
He explained how he stumbled upon the local priest in his neighbor’s backyard, and despite being prepared for it, Melissa stopped short when she saw the man’s body for herself. She lingered in the doorway like a swimmer catching her breath before taking a dive. The priest had been stripped naked and sliced open, propped up like a scarecrow with his decapitated head inserted within a gaping abdominal wound. The brutality of the crime seemed to match the violence of
the Patterson killings, but she didn’t notice any obvious calling cards.
The wind gusted and a cloud blocked the sun, darkening the lawn where Melissa stood.
In the shadow, fluttered by the breeze, the flimsy green arms of the corn stalks in the garden appeared to be reaching for her.
* * *
Mallory followed her dad out to the Ford, navigating the front walkway on autopilot. Across the street numerous police cars lined the curb in front of the Andersons’ house. Barrier tape surrounded the front steps and entryway now, and a tall man with a camera circled the one vehicle in the driveway, endlessly snapping pictures.
She’d arranged to meet with Becky at the Mall of America by one—she was already late—but part of her wanted to hang around home and find out what was going on. She thought about the shape she’d seen watching her from the Andersons’ window on Saturday, and the creepy tale her brother delivered moments before almost drowning in the pool.
She glanced over at BJ while her dad buckled him into his booster-seat. He sat slack-faced, still acting distant, not himself. This morning she’d overheard him mention something new about the pool incident, something about clothing in the water, but she couldn’t remember seeing any.
She settled into the front passenger seat and once again turned her attention toward the house across the street when they pulled out of the driveway.
“What do you think happened over there?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” her father replied.
“Voodooman,” BJ said.
Mallory could tell her dad didn’t approve of the boy’s remark, but he didn’t comment on it.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Next stop, The Mall.”
* * *
Melissa strolled through Mr. Anderson’s den, a cozy room on the first floor styled with Scandinavian décor: unvarnished pine woodwork, exposed beam ceiling, forest green carpeting, stone fireplace in the corner. She’d learned from Mr. Fish that Jerry Anderson held the title of Judge within the Minnesota judicial system, although he’d been retired from the bench for several years now. From what she understood, he had no connection to Kane whatsoever.
She looked up and found Rictor standing in the doorway.
“I could hear the gears in your head turning all the way from the driveway,” he said.
Melissa forced a smile. “How’s it going out there?”
“Better than at the farmhouse,” he answered. “We’ve retrieved three bullets from the upstairs bedroom and the M.E. gave us an estimated time of death on the priest. I’d still like to get my hands on their vehicle, though; any word on the van?”
“I put out a BOLO report,” she replied. “Now it’s a time issue. Have you found any K markings?”
“No.”
“Me either.”
“Perhaps these two incidents aren’t related.”
“I’m not ruling anything out until we locate the Andersons or their van.”
Rictor nodded.
Melissa perused the room, still mulling over the feeble facts.
Late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the den’s window, illuminating dust particles that drifted in the air. The yellow beam ended at the far wall, beside the Judge’s desk, where it spotlighted a variety of reference books. Melissa’s gaze glided across the binders displayed on the lowest shelf—where law books and encyclopedias gave way to mystery novels—and focused on a small stack of paperbacks resting on the floor.
Kane’s name appeared in irregular black lettering across the spine of the fifth book in the stack.
If not for the sun’s rays reflecting off the book’s glossy red binding, she might not have noticed it so quickly. She hurried across the room.
“What is it, Detective?” Rictor asked.
“Look at this.”
She picked up the entire collection of books and transferred them to the Judge’s desk. On top sat a work about modern-day voodoo entitled The Risen Dead, followed by a book called Flesheaters, which had something to do with ancient tribes and human sacrifices.
“Grimly ironic subjects, huh?” Rictor remarked.
The title, The Lost World of the Aztecs, adorned the cover of the third volume in the stack—stamped in bright gold lettering—and it sat atop a thick reference work on Gnosticism. Next came the one Melissa had spotted, A Killer’s Shadow, the arrest of Kale Kane, by Frank Atkins.
Frank Atkins.
Melissa knew the name well. Detective Atkins had been the man who’d originally ended Kane’s string of kidnappings and murders. Frank had even been on one of the reserve tactical teams that stormed the killer’s farm in Stillwater. Melissa vaguely remembered hearing Atkins had been injured in the raid, and later retired from police work altogether. She had no idea he’d written a book on the madman.
“Have you ever seen this?” she asked Rictor.
He frowned at the cover and nodded. “Yes, some time ago—a year or two after the shootout.”
She opened the cover and noticed a yellow post-it note stuck to the inside that included Frank’s name and a phone number.
“It didn’t do too good on the market, if I remember correctly,” Rictor continued. “I recall seeing an interview Channel 9 did with the man a few months after it was published. He looked haggard, tired. I guess he got a lot of criticism for his writing. The local papers seemed ruthless about smearing his name.”
Melissa flipped the copy over and found a picture of a handsome man with thick black hair, passive eyes, and a thoughtful expression printed on the back cover. He looked more like a concerned psychiatrist than a cop.
“Did you ever work with him?” Melissa asked, looking to Rictor. “He’d already retired by the time I transferred here from Chicago, but I still hear his name in conversation from time to time.”
Rictor shook his head. “I was still a medical examiner in St. Paul back then. I did manage to get a look at one of Kane’s victims while Detective Atkins was on the case, though. One of the amalgamates, as my colleague referred to it.”
Melissa eyed him. “Amalgamate?”
Rictor nodded. “Remind me to show you a photo sometime; we had to call in a special veterinarian surgeon to aid in the autopsy. Now that I think of it, it was that experience that drove me out of the morgue and made me want to work in the field with CSI.”
Melissa shuddered at the mention of Kane’s butchery and redirected her attention to the slim paperback in her gloved hand. A moment later she glanced at the remaining piles of books on the floor.
Frank’s seemed to be the only one not based on the supernatural.
Yet the main subject sounded just as scary.
CHAPTER 18
Mallory met with Becky outside of Nordstrom’s.
“Back here at six,” her dad said when he dropped her off, then she hurried away with Becky.
Inside, they flowed with the crowds, updating each other on the current events of their lives. They hit all their favorite shops, spending sporadically, talking, checking out guys. Becky teased her with some new info about Derrick but then confessed that she didn’t really have anything to report.
At three, they saw Glade’s Bend in the mall’s theater complex then relocated to the food court to get something to eat. A group of older boys leaning on the low wall beside the escalator whistled when they walked past and Becky soaked up the attention as if it was sunshine.
“I think that was for you,” Becky said after they ordered their food, “but if you don’t want it, I’m happy to take the credit.”
Mallory shrugged and paid the cashier.
They sat at a table overlooking the huge central atrium that housed the paths, trees, fountains, game areas, and amusement park rides in the middle of the building.
“Why so spacey?” Becky asked while they ate.
“What do you mean?”
Becky made a casual gesture to the left. “That dude over there just flashed you his dong, and you totally missed it.”
Mallory gaped at h
er. “What?”
Becky laughed. “That’s what I mean. You’re in orbit. What’s the deal?”
She sighed and put down her fork. “Well, it’s just that—”
She stopped herself and looked around, making sure they were alone. She leaned forward. “If I tell you something kind of strange, do you promise not to freak?”
“Look who you’re talking to,” Becky replied.
Mallory took another swallow of her drink, biding an extra second. “I’ve been having these really messed up dreams lately,” she confessed. “Nightmares. I can’t even explain how awful they’ve been. But last night … last night I dreamed about being with a girl.”
Becky talked around her straw as she sipped her own drink. “What, like hanging out or getting nasty?”
“Nasty,” Mallory whispered.
Becky’s mouth dropped open. “For real? It wasn’t about me, was it?”
Mallory didn’t laugh. “No. It was this older girl with purple hair, Penelope. Penelope Styles.”
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know. She in each of the dreams, though.”
“So what happened?”
Mallory looked at her food rather than meet Becky’s inquisitor-like stare. “Well, we were in this strange room. It was like someplace underground, with stone walls and fires burning around the room. There was this raised area in the middle with animal furs on it that I guess was supposed to be a bed. Anyway, we were kissing. Really kissing. I’m talking tongue knots. And we were …” She cleared her throat and continued at a lower volume. “We were naked, and after a while Penelope, you know, went down on me.”