* * *
Paul pushed open the door to the Baxter house and stepped inside. The house was very warm. Warm—it was plain hot. And what was that sickly smelling odor? It smelled like . . . death and disease and rotting meat and bloated maggots and . . . Paul didn’t know what else.
“Guten Tag, Herr Weaver.” The voice came from above Paul.
He looked up. Nora stood by the railing on the second floor. She was dressed in an SS uniform. She smiled at him and snapped him a Nazi stiff-arm salute. “I salute you, you who are about to die.”
“One of us is, girl. That’s for sure.”
“Ja, Herr Weaver. That is correct. One of us is about to die.”
Paul jerked the .41 magnum from leather and jacked back the hammer.
Nora laughed at him.
“You find the most powerful handgun in the world amusing, girl?” Paul asked.
“I find it amusing that you should think you, and that weapon, could inflict any harm on me.”
Paul lifted his arm, aiming the .41 at Nora. His arm and hand began trembling. Slowly, despite all his efforts, the muzzle of the pistol began twisting in his hand. No, not in his hand. His entire hand and wrist was turning.
“Jesus help me!” Paul shouted. “Help me, Michael. Help me destroy this devil-child!”
Nora laughed at him.
“God!” Paul screamed, unable to control his hand and wrist movements. “I’m willing to die, but let me kill this creature in doing so.”
The music began to play.
* * *
Halfway up the water tower, Burt saw Phil scurrying down the other side, on the other ladder. “Goddammit, boy!” he shouted. “What in the hell are you trying to pull?”
Phil scampered down the steel ladder, on the ground long before the older and out-of-shape Burt. Still wearing the rope looped around his shoulders, Phil ran back toward his house.
Burt cursed and panted his way back down the ladder. On the ground he began jogging on trembly legs after the boy. “Foot pursuit,” he said. “At my age. Wonderful.”
Burt he wasn’t about to give up.
His heart hammering, his head swimming, Burt followed the boy back to his house.
Paul had ceased his struggling. He now stood with his arms at his side, the .41 pointed at the floor. He seemed to be waiting for someone. He was. He heard the front door open, but only his eyes moved. He watched Phil enter the house and go straight into the den. The boy did not seem to notice Paul standing at the base of the stairs.
Burt staggered into the house, nearly exhausted. He leaned against the foyer wall, gasping for breath. He heard Paul say, in a strange, hollow-sounding voice, “Watch out for the boy. He’s got a gun.”
“What?” Burt panted the word.
“He’s going to kill you,” Paul said.
Burt looked all around him. He could not see anyone else in the house. The cop pulled his snub-nose. 38. “Where is he?”
Phil suddenly jumped out of the den, screaming. He had a gun in his hand. As he screamed, he hit the floor.
Burt fired, the bullet tearing a hole in the paneling. Paul lifted his .41 and shot the cop in the stomach. The slug knocked Burt backward, against the wall.
“You son of a bitch!” Burt said.
Paul shot him again, the slug hitting the cop in the leg, knocking his feet from under him. As he was falling, Burt raised his .38 and shot the P.I. in the center of the chest, the slug tearing into the heart. Paul staggered, righted himself, and stared at the dying cop through dead eyes. He slowly fell to the floor, landing on his face, smashing his nose and mouth. The .41 slid from dead fingers.
Burt heard laughter coming from above him to the right. He looked up. Nora stood on the landing, the jack-in-the-box in her hands. The ugly clown head was swaying back and forth as some dismal piece of music played. The cop shifted his gaze. He was having a difficult time making his eyes focus; his vision seemed to be cloudy. He could just make out Phil, standing in the archway of the den entrance.
Oh no! Burt thought. That’s a toy gun in the kid’s hand. A friggin’ cap pistol.
Phil laughed at the cop. Burt watched him go to a cabinet and place the toy pistol in a drawer. He turned and said, “Fooled you, didn’t we?”
“Why?” Burt managed to gasp, the pain in his stomach almost blinding him.
“Call the police, Phil,” Nora said.
“Hell, I am the police,” Burt said. Somehow he didn’t think that would impress the kids very much.
“Not anymore,” he heard Nora said, as the darkness began to wrap its cold cloak around him.
“What do you mean?” Burt uttered his last statement.
“You’re just dead,” Nora said.
29
“Damn!” Shawn said. “Lost her.”
Jeanne had cut off the Parkway and shot the juice to the BMW as she headed south. Shawn didn’t know how she’d lost him, but she sure had.
“Maybe I can beat her to the hospital,” he said, turning around and heading back toward the Parkway. As he drove, he thought: Wonder what’s happening back at the Baxter house?
“Just what I need!” Shawn mumbled as his eyes caught the flashing lights coming up fast behind him. “A highway cop.”
He pulled over and got out of his car.
Shawn showed his I.D. and explained that he was on a tail. The highway cop nodded.
“You know a Burt Riley?” he asked.
“Sure, he’s my partner.”
“Not anymore, sergeant. It just came over our Tach frequency. He and some P.I. name of Paul Weaver just shot it out in a private residence outside of New Canaan. Both men are dead.”
Shawn slumped back against the highway cruiser. “But they were working together.”
“Sorry,” the highway cop said. “This have to do with that mass murder the other evening?”
“Yeah,” Shawn said, his voice just a whisper. “It sure does.”
* * *
Jeanne looked at the old woman lying pale and motionless on the bed. Morgan was awake and staring at her. The left side of her face was paralyzed, that eye permanently open and staring. The eye blazed with fury at the younger woman.
Morgan opened her mouth and tried to speak. Grunting sounds were all she could manage. She gurgled and slobbered on herself.
Jeanne stood over the old woman and smiled down at her. “You knew it had to end this way, Morgan. The Prince is impatient.”
Morgan snorted more incomprehensible words and tried to pull away from the evil smile.
Jeanne took a pillow from the bed and covered Morgan’s face with it, holding it firmly. The old woman jerked on the bed as air was cut off.
It did not take long for the woman to die. When her heart monitor began straight-lining, Jeanne put the pillow back on the bed and rushed out the door, waving frantically at the nurses who were running up the hallway toward the room.
“Help me, please!” Jeanne said. “She’s . . . she’s having trouble breathing.”
Jeanne was escorted down the hall to the waiting room. A few moments later, a doctor came to her and told her the old woman had died.
Jeanne sobbed on the doctor’s shoulder for a moment, and then straightened up, wiping her eyes. “It was just a matter of time, I suppose?”
“Yes, Mrs. Baxter,” the doctor said. “Frankly, we were all amazed she lived this long. She was a very strong woman.”
“I’ll . . . make the arrangements,” Jeanne said.
“Mrs. Baxter?” a man spoke from the corridor.
Jeanne shifted her eyes to the man. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this; it’s a lousy time. But there has been some trouble at your house. Your kids are both OK; not a scratch on them. But there’s been a shooting. Two men dead. I’m to escort you back to your home.”
Jeanne’s hand flew to her throat. “Nora and Phil?”
“They’re just fine, Mrs. Baxter. I assure you of that. Is there someone you could cal
l to help out with. . . this?” He waved his hand, indicating the hospital.
“My brother. I’ll call him. Then you’ll drive me home, Mr . . . ?”
The man’s eyes were very cold. “Fremont, Ma’am. Detective Sergeant Archie Fremont.”
* * *
“All right, Sam,” Ed Weiskopf said, standing in front of the small group but looking at Sam. “I have no more reservations. I believe there is some sort of. . . supernatural happening behind all of this.”
The group, sitting in the conference room of the law offices of Baxter, Sobel, Turner, and Weiskopf, included Sam, Father Debeau, Sheela, Steve Blassingham, three cops who were working with Steve—Shawn Cosgrave, Mark Hopper, and Charles Brewer—Bob Turner and Ed Weiskopf, Archie Fremont, and the DA of the county, Dean Ellis.
The young DA’s face reflected a mixture of inner emotions: fear, disbelief, shock, and horror.
But after listening to all the tapes and hearing all the conversation, young Ellis was beginning to believe. He was really ready to believe just about anything. He had eighteen murders to cope with in his county. Twenty-one, if he counted the three dead Nazis.
If anybody really gives a damn whether a Nazi is killed.
“Devil possession?” Archie asked. “I mean, are you all really taking this seriously?”
They were, and all said as much.
“OK,” Archie said. “I’ll play along.”
“Jenny Wright,” Sam said.
“I beg your pardon?” Archie asked.
“Jenny Wright. She’s the kid I told you all about. The one institutionalized at the Center. If she could speak, even write out a statement, telling us that Nora killed Carla Donna, we could put so much heat on Nora she might be forced to reveal her true self.” He looked at Dean Ellis.
“It happened in my county,” the young DA said. “All right. You want me to send someone up there?”
“I’ll go myself,” Sam said. “And I’m not taking anything away from you or your people. OK?”
“Fine with me, Mr. Sobel.”
Sam nodded. “How about the Tremain boy?”
“Being kept in isolation,” the DA replied. “What few friends of his were left alive have told the police and my investigators there is no way Alec could have done it. He had never fired a gun in his life. Did not use dope—of any kind—and he had not been drinking the night of the massacre. There are glove prints all over the lower floor of the house. Lots of them. And Alec was not wearing gloves. Furthermore, tests indicate he did not fire the weapon. And that is ironclad. Lastly, there is not a bruise anywhere on the boy’s body. That was a twelve-gauge shotgun, firing three-inch magnum rounds. At least twenty-five rounds were fired. The recoil of that weapon is fierce. It would have left marks of some sort on the boy’s shoulder—his side, even, if he’d fired it from the hip. Fibers from the shirt were found on the butt pad, and a thread from the shirt was caught in the weapon. But the boy’s mother said those were not her son’s clothes. The giveaway is the shoes. Virtually blood-free. Unlike the shirt and pants, which were blood-splattered Alec Tremain did not kill those boys and girls.”
Going to be a fine lawyer, Sam thought, revising his earlier opinion of the young man.
“And now . . . ?” Ed asked the DA.
“Alec?”
Ed nodded.
“We’re going to keep him in lockup, but in a very safe area.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Tremain?” Bob asked.
“I have given them my opinion,” Ellis said. “And told them we’d like to keep Alec in lockup—very safe lockup—for a few more days, to give us more time to work this thing out. They agreed—reluctantly. But their attorney told me, bluntly, that if something isn’t resolved within seventy-two hours, all this information will be leaked to the press and he’ll demand Alec’s freedom.”
“That would drive Nora further underground,” Father Debeau stated.
“Yes,” Ellis said with a sigh. “I’m afraid that is correct.”
Sam looked at Sheela. “Want to take a trip up to the Center?”
“Sure. Right now?”
“Right now.”
* * *
“She hasn’t spoken a word in years,” the doctor told them. “She eats her food properly. Her body functions are handled normally. She makes her bed and cleans herself and brushes her hair. But she will not speak. And she is utterly terrified when we take her out of her room.”
“Where is Monsignor Vincinci?” Sam asked.
The doctor’s expression became wary. “I thought you were here to discuss the Wright girl?”
“The two are connected,” Sam told him. “And you know why and how.”
“Don’t get pushy, Mr. Sobel,” the doctor warned. “I am under no obligation to discuss anything with you. I can terminate this conversation any time I desire.”
Sam smiled and opened his briefcase, taking out a folder and opening it. “Dr. Walter Kent. You have an interesting background, doctor. As do most of the resident doctors at this institution. Very strange, doctor, that you are all highly schooled in religion first, and then in psychology, psychoanalysis, et cetera, et cetera. It’s also odd that almost all of the nurses here have such an extensive religious background. I’ve been in several mental institutions at one time or another, and I have never been in one that openly displays so much religious paraphernalia. Especially since this is a private institution, and not funded—that I can discover—by any church.”
Dr. Kent smiled at that.
“Parapsychology, doctor. You believe in that?”
“What is it, specifically, that you want, Mr. Sobel?” the doctor asked.
“I want your opinion of what is really wrong with Jenny Wright.”
The doctor drummed his fingertips on his desk. He sighed. “I have been keeping up with what has been happening with the Baxter family, Mr Sobel. Morgan kept me informed. A very strong, very fine woman. She shall be missed.”
Sam remained silent, letting the doctor ramble, finding his own way to the crux of the matter.
“What would you do if I refused to cooperate with you, Mr. Sobel?”
“I honestly don’t know, doctor. But I do know that Nora must be stopped. I will—I think—go to any lengths to accomplish that. That answer your question?”
“Vaguely, and containing all sorts of veiled threats, yes. You’re wrong on one point, Mr. Sobel. . .”
“Call me Sam.”
“Very well, Sam. Various churches do give us contributions from time to time. But this is a privately owned hospital. Not an institution. People of all ages are sent here, Sam. After everyone else has given up on them. Tell me, both of you, what did you feel upon entering this place?”
Sam looked at Sheela. He had felt . . . something. Sheela said, “A strong spiritual sensation.”
“Very good, doctor. Most people can’t readily identify it. We call it a tranquilizer of faith. If all the evil contained within the confines of the Center could be gathered, it would destroy the world. Believe it.”
Sam looked pained. “Doctor, what is this place?”
“A repository for living evil.”
30
Nora sat in her bedroom and turned her gaze toward the outside. She flung her commands across miles. She was getting stronger with each passing hour; soon she would be unstoppable.
She laughed softly.
At the home of the counselor and the coach, Rich stirred in his chair, looking at his wife, Bette. He averted his eyes, afraid his wife might be able to see inside his head, read his thoughts. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
He was thinking about that cute kid in his P.E. class. The one built like a beauty queen—Mary Bennett. Hard to believe she was only twelve years old. Or was she eleven? Didn’t make any difference, Mary knew what she was doing. Rich was certain of that, the way she batted her eyes and flirted with him. He got aroused just thinking about it. Tomorrow would be the day he’d call her bet; tomorrow would be the day he’d make some exc
use to keep her after school, and then he’d take what she was so blatantly offering. He’d bet he wouldn’t be the first one. She just had that look about her.
Tomorrow. Yeah!
Bette was feeling very odd. She didn’t think she had ever been this depressed. And she didn’t know why she should be. But she was. She looked at her husband, and felt nothing for him. Nothing. Just a great big empty void where she had once felt love. Or had she? Maybe she had never loved him. Yes, that was it. She hated the big sloppy pig. And she hated his boring football games too. And what was the slob doing just sitting over there with that stupid damned expression on his face?
She said, “You know, Rich, you’re a real slob, you know that?”
“Huh?” Rich said, jerking his head around, glaring at her.
In her room, Nora laughed softly as she manipulated the couple.
In the closet, the music played dirge-like.
“I said, you’re a big, fat, stupid slob!” Bette told him.
Rich rose from his chair and walked over to his wife. He belted her, knocking her out of the chair. She lay on the floor, glaring up at him.
“Asshole!” she said.
He kicked her on the leg. She screamed in pain and kicked back, catching him on the knee. Rich grabbed his knee and hollered, one-legging it as he hopped around the room.
“That’s my bad knee!” he yelled at her. “That’s the one I hurt in our homecoming game.”
“Really?” she said sarcastically. She got to her feet and banged him on the head with a glass ashtray, nearly knocking him out. She opened the door and shoved him out onto the small porch, throwing his coat out after him. “I’ll see you in the lawyer’s office, you fat pig!” She slammed the door.
Nora laughed and laughed, clapping her small hands in glee. Tomorrow was going to be such fun, she thought. She couldn’t remember ever having so much fun.
* * *
“What are you saying, doctor?” Sam asked. “A repository for living evil?”
“They’re all here,” Dr. Kent said. “All that the church cannot help are sent here. And here they live until the day they die.”
“They?” Sheela said.
“The epitome of evil, Dr. Harte. The very essence of evil. The damned, the marked, the possessed, the believers and worshippers of the Prince of Darkness. The prison system is full of them, but the juries don’t know that when they sentence them. Some of the prosecuting attorneys know, or at least suspect, but can you imagine some DA getting up and telling the jury that the person they are about to convict of whatever crime is actually a witch or warlock or demon, or a possessed person? Not likely. So we have them. Here, and in . . . other places.”
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