A Haunting of Horrors, Volume 2: A Twenty-Book eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult

by Brian Hodge

  "Any questions, ladies and gentlemen?"

  Some hands shot up in the front row and Griffen devoted his attention to the two reporters bold enough to be the first.

  "Fancy that!" one of the Associated Press reporters murmured in a mock astonished aside to Laura Rainey, sitting to his right. The man, a reporter she casually talked with on those rare occasions when she attended the monthly meetings of the Society of Professional Journalists and whose name she couldn't remember offhand, winked broadly at her. "I guess he thinks we don't read or something. I mean, we've only known about this wingding for the last five months."

  Laura smiled, aware that Griffen was frowning in their direction. He always seemed to hear the whispering or snide comments in the back rows. He would have made a wonderful high school teacher, she thought wryly. "Yes, but you must understand. Politicians never overestimate their foes. And obviously they think we don't read--because they don't read."

  He laughed, and she bent over her note pad, her dark hair fanning to hide her face. Griffen was now looking directly at her and frowning, his expression making him look like a petulant baby. It wouldn't do to get him angry at her … again. After all, he still hadn't forgiven her for her article earlier in the month about the city street's numerous potholes. And she didn't need to have this source dry up on her.

  "Mister Mayor!" someone said, vigorously waving from the side of the room.

  He flashed a bland politician's smile at the man. "Yes?" The man, rangy and dressed in jeans and a western shirt, unfolded his long legs, stood up and faced the reporters. In a booming voice, he said, "I'd just like to emphasize again to the members of the press that the Balloon Fiesta Committee is not trying to endorse one political party over another or make a particular political stand. In the years since the first Fiesta it has always been our stand to be neutral in these affairs, no matter what was going on at the time. But, of course, now that's different. Well, it's just that …."

  "Yes, yes," Griffen said, impatient.

  "That things seem to work out that way." The man sat down without another word. There was a smattering of applause.

  "Are there any further questions?" Griffen smiled again.

  Laura had rarely seen him do anything but smile. Of course, that was one of his duties as a politician. Too, his term was up the following year. And there was little doubt that he would run for office again. Campaigning already, it would seem.

  "Will Father Lopez, who discovered the Indian statue, be on hand at the ceremony?" one of the women from the all-news radio station asked.

  For a moment Laura thought Griffen's smile slipped just a little, but he quickly recovered. "Father Lopez is exceedingly happy that he found the statue in his church, but he disdains publicity, as you know from his reticence to talk to you all this past month, and he plans to retire to a contemplative order up north."

  "What's on the agenda for the Senator?" the reporter from AP asked.

  "I believe my press assistant, Miss Buddeke, has already handed out a schedule for the Senator's visit," Griffen said.

  "Are there any changes?" The AP man asked.

  Laura listened with only one ear as Griffen went on to point out laboriously that no changes had been made, that none were expected in the immediate future and that the members of the press would, of course, be notified at once of any changes. He continued to answer the other perfunctory and polite questions.

  She rubbed a hand across her nose and thoughtfully stared at her colleagues. Not one of them was asking the questions she would have—would—once she had the courage to speak up. They were scared, she thought, noting the tightened lips, the restrained conversation. Scared, but of what? Her fingers fussed with the top button of her cotton blouse as she considered her next question. Should she ask it? She'd been worried about accessibility to the Mayor's office. If she went ahead, she certainly wouldn't have to worry about getting in to see the Mayor. The doors would be shut tight in her face.

  But, on the other hand, if she didn't ask the question, what kind of a reporter would she be? The others hadn't asked because they were all older, more established in the news community than she was. Who was she? Just Laura Rainey, who'd come to the University of New Mexico in her second year from Colorado, obtained a Bachelor's in Journalism from the University, then gone on to get a lowly job at the Courier. Only recently she'd been promoted from writing obituaries to covering city hall. Her duties didn't include covering the important events, only those small, day-to-day, mundane meetings and news releases that no one else was interested in.

  No one except Laura Rainey, who wanted desperately to get a toehold in reporting and would take anything, anything, just to write, to work on a real newspaper.

  No one asked it.

  Go ahead, one part of her prodded.

  I'm afraid, too. I don't want my career to end before it's started.

  There are other papers, other cities. Go ahead. What have you got to lose?

  "Mister Mayor!" She had her arm up in the air now and waggled the fingers just enough to catch the man's roving eyes.

  "Yes, Miss—" He paused. He knew who she was, but he wanted to embarrass her a little in front of the others. One of his games.

  "Ms.," she corrected automatically. "Laura Rainey. With The Albuquerque Courier." She smiled sweetly at him, not letting him bother her.

  "Go ahead." His hands were now folded in front of him on the podium and he looked so serious, so intent she could have laughed.

  She took a deep breath, then plunged. "I have just one question. How will the murders in the Sandias affect Senator Kent's stay?"

  Some of the reporters, around her murmured and the AP man stared at her, while Griffen continued to regard her blandly.

  "Murders?"

  "Yes, you know, Mister Mayor." Her voice was sharper than she would have liked, but she didn't know why he was pretending ignorance. She knew he was aware of the murders, knew because one of the Courier's reporters had talked to a relative in the police department about them. Why couldn't he just answer the question, for God's sake? She went on. "The recent ones in the mountains. Those Texans killed on Sunday. And we have reports of some picnickers killed as well. "

  "An unfortunate encounter with a wild animal. The police are handling it." He took another drink. "I'm sure the deaths—not murders—will have little effect on the Senator's visit. They were, after all, highly isolated. Next question, please."

  "Mister Mayor—about those murders." She couldn't let him wiggle out of giving her an answer.

  "Miss Rainey, I believe I've already answered your question." He looked to another up stretched hand. "Mr. McDonald?"

  She was suddenly left standing alone in the middle of the room and she knew she looked foolish. The other reporters assiduously avoided looking at her—she'd embarrassed them as well as herself. Anger flooded through her, and the pencil in her fingers snapped in half. She threw it down on the floor, drew up her cloth purse and rummaged through its contents for another.

  "Tough break, kid," the man from AP said, leaning over to hand her a tooth-marked pencil. She accepted it gratefully and faintly smiled her thanks. "You'll get used to it—that is, if you stick around long enough. It's all part of the game, all of us believe we can change it when we start." He winked. "But now we know better."

  Damnit, she wasn't going to let it stop her. She wasn't going to know better. She was going to pursue this matter, pursue it until she could get a straight answer from the man.

  A woman from the NBC affiliate stood up. "Are you worried, Mr. Mayor, about the proposed protest by members of the National Coalition of American Indians? I understand they're concerned about the removal, of the statue from its rightful home."

  "I haven't worried about Indians for the past one hundred years," Griffen said with a smile. "But seriously," he said, after the laughter had died down, "I don't think there'll be much of a protest. There's been a lot of talk and I think that's all it is—a lot of hot air. Which sho
uld be quite welcome at the Balloon Fiesta!"

  She had had enough. Deliberately she tucked her closed notebook under her arm, hung the strap of her purse over her shoulder and stood and pushed past the knees of the men and women in her aisle. She was aware that most eyes were on her, but she really didn't care. She just hoped they couldn't see her trembling.

  She reached the door of the conference room. "All of you," Griffen said, pausing slightly, "are of course invited to the cocktail party and barbecue this Friday." She knew he was watching her closely. She opened the door and left not a little quietly.

  War, she thought with a savage smile, had just been declared.

  "So you don't know anything, Del-Klinne," Sheriff Roy Daltry, who'd finally introduced himself, said for the third time.

  "That's right, Sheriff," he replied for the third time. How many times would he have to repeat his words before the cop would believe him? No, he hadn't seen anyone. No, he hadn't heard anyone. No, he didn't have any idea how long the Chicanos had been there.

  Hadn't seen anyone … The sheriff hadn't asked if he'd seen anything.

  Was that obstructing justice, if he didn't say anything about the strange noises? Yet, what could he say? That he'd heard whispers in his head? That something dark had chased him, had tried to hurt him? The sheriff wouldn't believe him. He wasn't sure he even believed it. Even now it seemed remote, unreal.

  "Okay, you can go."

  "What?" He was startled. He stared at the sheriff. He hadn't expected this so soon.

  "Go on. Just give us a call when you find a place to bed down. We want to stay in contact with you."

  "Sure."

  He stood up, stretched and walked across the scuffed linoleum floor to the window to retrieve his belongings. He had been at the sheriff's main office downtown for over two hours now. He had missed his job interview—lost it, for sure. He was hot, sweaty, tired, and he wanted to get something to eat. And he wanted to sit down with his feet propped up.

  But at least he wasn't suspected of murdering all those Chicanos. Jesus, he thought, with a shake of his head, he'd have had to have started early in the morning. And how the hell was one solitary guy supposed to have attacked all those people and butchered them? Apparently Sheriff Daltry had seen it that way, too.

  Finally.

  Maybe.

  He had mentioned his hitchhiker, and the cop had put an APB out on the man. But he didn't think the old half-breed would be found. Too many places in town for him to hide; too hard to find a man like that, who wanted to stay hidden. He could have collaborated Chato's story, confirmed that he had picked up Junior in the early afternoon, that he was far away from the Sandia Mountains when the picnickers had been murdered.

  But he guessed that wasn't necessary now.

  He waited a little impatiently as one of the deputies told him to stay in town, gave him the phone number of the sheriff's department, droned on. He knew he'd be followed for at least a day, but he didn't care. He didn't have anything to hide. He got the contents of his pockets, thoughtfully packaged by the police in a manilla folder, then walked out the glass doors.

  Outside on Marquette, away from the stale odor of the bureaucratic offices, he inhaled deeply. Couldn't smell much of the autumn here, but it was a hell of a lot better than being inside. There was still a little light left in the sky, and the clouds reflected streaks of brilliant pink and gold. Over the horizon, just above the row of extinct volcanoes, was a solitary star.

  He found his pickup in a back lot, claimed it from the suspicious guard at the link-wire gate, then got in and drove away without a backward glance.

  The traffic light blinked red and he braked sharply to avoid hitting a low-slung Pontiac. He rolled down his window, stuck his elbow out and waited. It was his luck—the cops let him go just at the height of rush traffic. It was a little after 4:30, so there was no way he could make it to his interview—not the way he looked or felt.

  He waited while the cars seeped from the government office parking lots, waited as the city buses, swollen with their loads of Grades 3 and 5 and 7, slid away from the yellow zones, waited until there was some distance between the truck and the next car.

  Seeing the Pontiac, its back fender almost scraping the pavement, reminded him of what he had seen earlier in the day.

  He wished he hadn't decided to go for a simple drive in the mountains. To see the goddamned pretty leaves.

  A simple drive.

  And here he was, almost a suspect in a multiple slaying, out of a job, caught in a bunch of traffic in downtown Albuquerque, and…. Absurdly, he started laughing.

  A cool rush of wind, signalling the advent of evening, swept across his face at that moment, and he felt a little better. He had other things to worry about now. Such as lodgings.

  He cut over to Central and cruised along, looking at the gaudy neon signs of the stucco motels. The Sundown, The Sunup, The Sunrise, The Sunset, the Buena Vista, The Sandia Vista, the Manzano Vista. With Air Conditioning, Triple X-Rated Movies, Waterbeds, Privacy. All the extras he really didn't give a damn about. All he wanted was a simple room that didn't cost him much and was convenient in location.

  He found what he wanted just a few miles north of the University on Central. The Siesta Motel, with its dingy pink walls and a broken neon sign that showed a palm tree, was set back far enough from the busy street that he thought he wouldn't have headlights shining through his window all night long, and it was cheap as well, just fifteen dollars a night. Around the corner was a dingy mom-and-pop convenience store, and up a few doors was a Mexican restaurant with a faded "B" rating. Not the best, but he didn't think he'd die from anything he ate there.

  He located his room, tossed his suitcase on the bed, then walked straight across to the bathroom, a trail of clothing behind him. He turned on the water as hot as he could stand it, lathered himself vigorously, then rinsed off. Slowly the weariness drained from him. After that it was a cold spray, which left him feeling numb and a little more alert than before. Just a little. He yawned and wrapped a white towel around his middle, and leaving wet footprints on the worn beige carpet, he walked across to the phone and called the sheriff's department to let them know where he was.

  He fell back on the bed and stared up at the crack radiating along the plaster ceiling. He'd get dressed, then walk up to Niflo's and Son and get a heaping plate of cheese enchiladas, rellenos and rice, drink as many cokes as they had, then come back and watch a little television before he went to sleep.

  The last thing he remembered, before blackness swept over him, were the sibilant voices he had heard in the forest.

  He awoke to a shrill ringing. A little confused, he slowly sat up and groggily rubbed a hand over his chest, looking around, trying to remember where he was. His skin was cool, a little damp.

  And he had been dreaming again, dreaming strange dreams that disturbed him while he slept, but now that he tried to remember them, he couldn't. The ringing continued. Grey light filled the room. He yawned as he glanced at his watch.

  8:15 a.m.

  A.M..? Christ, he'd slept over twelve hours. He blinked blearily. Groggily he realized where the ringing came from and leaned over to get the phone. He cradled it against his shoulder as he pulled the towel off and began reaching for his clothes.

  He cleared his throat. "Yeah?"

  "Sheriff Daltry here." The man didn't wait for him to respond. "All charges have been dropped against you, Del-Klinne."

  "Good." He paused, buckling his belt. "Why, if I may ask?"

  There seemed the slightest hesitation in the Daltry's voice, and then the sheriff was saying: "We called in one of those anthropology profs at the U last night after you left."

  "Yeah." There was something odd in the man's voice. The last vestiges of sleep fled and he was now wide awake. "Go on."

  "He took casts of the tooth-marks. Said he'd get right back to us. He worked all last night, called early this morning to report."

  He sensed the man
wanted to be prompted, wanted to talk—even to him. "And?"

  "And…. " The man's voice deepened, lowered, became almost a whisper. "He said the tooth-marks weren't human." He cleared his throat explosively. "He said, that professor, that he's never seen a tooth-mark like what was seen on those Mexes. Said he didn't know what it could be."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  After he'd finished talking with the sheriff, he left the motel and walked down to the convenience store to buy the early morning edition of the Courier. Back in his room, he spread the newspaper on the chocolate-brown bedspread and began scanning the long columns of the help-wanted section. There were plenty of jobs for barmaids, sales clerks and other jobs he was either not interested in or not qualified for.

  He'd called his prospective employer right after Daltry had hung up, but as he'd suspected already, the position of hand on the horse farm outside Albuquerque had been filled. Not many outside jobs on farms or ranches were offered, and he figured they generally weren't advertised through a newspaper.

  Which left him out of a job and without much money to his name. He could last for another couple of months before worrying, but he didn't want to use it all up.

  But what then?

  He closed his eyes, and saw again the mangled bodies and the blood. Remembered again the unnatural silence. Something was happening.

  Something was wrong.

  He knew it; he … sensed … it. Sensed. Hunches had no part in the scientific world. They belonged only in the past—in his past.

  Sensed. Oh no, he didn't believe in that anymore. He didn't want to … but he still sensed.

  And he had those dreams, those vague memories that threatened to come to the surface, but floated away whenever he reached out to them.