“Keys,” explained Benson. “He's clearly thought it through. Or had it had been thought through for him.”
“Oh God,” said Gould. “He's going to let it out!”
“That does seem to be the plan,” Benson said calmly, and switched back to the cell interior. The guard was going through Forster's keys one by one, eventually finding the one that unlocked the shackle on Lucy's ankle.
“You can't let that thing go free in this building!” shouted Gould, trying to control a rising sense of panic. “You know it's a killer!”
Benson gave his thin, humorless smile.
“Calm down, Edward,” he said. “You're quite safe here.”
***
“Don't hurt me, mister!” pleaded the little girl, seemingly unable to grasp what Barrett was saying.
“It's all right!” the guard insisted, unchaining her. “I'm going to get you out of here. You can go home!”
The girl let him scoop her up and carry her out of the cell. Forster and the scientist were still moaning and twitching from the taser hits. Barrett walked quickly out of the cell and strode along the corridor.
“Are we going to see my mummy?” asked the girl, her head buried in his shoulder.
“Yes, that's right, poppet,” Barrett replied, heading for the elevator. “We'll find your mummy and you'll be fine.”
He swiped Forster's ID card on the reader by the elevator. The doors opened and he got inside, putting the girl down.
“What's your name?” he asked. “I'm Noel.”
“I'm Lucy,” said the girl, looking up at him with huge, unblinking eyes.
“Okay Lucy, we're going to get you out of here,” he said firmly.
In the back of Barrett's mind, a small, sane voice was warning him to stop, but he brushed it aside.
I've got to save her. Get her out of here. No matter what the cost.
He took out his telescopic baton, formed a mental picture of the foyer and the quickest way out into the street. Once in public he could always call for help, for the police. The challenge was getting the girl past the guard at the main desk and the other guy at the door. Barrett visualized bursting from the elevator, taking out the first guard with one blow, getting the second before he could respond.
Tight margin, he thought. But it can be done.
“Get ready to run out of the big doorway after me, Lucy,” he said. “Can you do that? Follow me?”
The girl nodded, stood up. There was a familiar chime as the elevator stopped moving. Barrett moved forward, braced himself, leaning forward with the baton at chest level. The doors slid open.
“Hello, Noel,” said a familiar voice. “Taking a little break?”
Davenport, Forster's deputy, was standing just behind a group of four guards in full riot gear. For a moment, Barrett felt something urging him to attack regardless. It was an insanely violent impulse. Then common sense reasserted itself and he slumped, his baton falling to the floor of the elevator.
“That's very sensible,” said Davenport, stepping forward.
Something brightly-colored hurtled past Barrett. In the time it took him to realize it was the pajama-clad little girl, she had already fastened herself onto one of the guards. The man yelled in pain and fear as the impact knocked him onto his back. The other guards flinched in obvious surprise, seemed to be moving in slow motion compared to Lucy. Davenport, reacting far more quickly, lunged at the tiny figure with a long, black rod. There was an electric spark as the cattle prod connected.
Lucy jerked, spun round, and detached herself from the guard. Barrett stared at the wounds to the man's face, saw that the little girl had somehow sprouted talons on her hands and bare feet. She seemed taller, now, spindlier, and her face had changed shape. Davenport jabbed at her with his cattle prod a second time, but before it could connect, she had knocked it aside. Snarling, she bounded over the injured guard, heading for the door. But when she reached it, the door was locked.
Barrett gaped as Lucy tore at the handles with her weird claws until two of Davenport's men threw a net over her. She began to tear at the net until Davenport shocked her a few more times, then she lay gasping, curled up like a wounded animal.
“What – what is she?” asked Barrett. “What's going on?”
As he spoke, he felt a cloud lifting from his mind. The influence that had gradually taken him in his grip during his shift was gone.
“Good question,” said Davenport. He pointed to a corner of the ceiling. Barrett looked up and saw the security camera.
“Mister Benson's idea of entertainment,” Davenport went on. “I think you gave him value for money.”
***
Denny was in her good place, imaging a tropical shoreline and waves breaking on white sands. Zoffany's voice came from far away, out of the clear blue sky.
“Now move back in time,” the scientist said. “Remember your colleagues at Malpas Abbey.”
Denny's imagination conjured up the familiar team that had made a moderately success show about the paranormal. Brie, Matt, Marvin, all appeared, improbably dressed in beach attire – Bermuda shorts, Hawaiian shirts. But they said nothing to Denny, gave no hint of recognition. All of them were dead, slain by Interlopers. Except Frankie, who was missing, presumed alive but not in this world.
As she thought about Frankie's fate, the pleasant vista started to darken. The sea receded, the sky faded to pale gray, and the beach became a grim wilderness. It was the unearthly landscape of the Phantom Dimension.
“I don't want to be here,” she muttered, starting to feel alarmed. “This is not my good place anymore.”
“Okay, pull back,” said Zoffany, soothingly. “Go back to the beach, the sun.”
But Denny could not pull away from the grim, alien world. Instead she felt herself carried forward, over the reddish soil, towards the tunnel where she had gone in search of Frankie. She tried to resist, but an irresistible force drew her on. She was underground now, hurtling towards the chamber she remembered all too well. In the dark cavern, she again came face to face with the being that had posed as Lucy, Gould's long-lost sister.
“Hello again, Denny,” said the creature, in its high, childish voice. “Thank you for coming to see me.”
“No!” Denny shouted, writhing now. She could hear Zoffany's voice, far more distant now, trying to bring her out of the trance. But instead she was drawn closer to the diminutive entity, which reached up and grasped her face. She felt once more the crawling sensation in her mind, black tendrils groping through memories and feelings. She fought against the creeping incursion, lashed out with her mind against the invader.
This is not a memory, Denny thought. This is happening now.
“I can bring her back,” whispered Lucy. “If you help me.”
“… three, two, one!” said Zoffany.
Denny was back in the drab laboratory, the scientist anxious, leaning over her.
“You okay?” Zoffany asked. “I was a bit worried there.”
Denny sat up, took the scientist by the arm.
“Lucy is still alive, isn't she?”
Zoffany looked shocked, then embarrassed.
“How – I mean, why do you say that?”
“Because I felt her,” Denny replied. “She reached out to me. Made me an offer, in fact.”
“You contacted her telepathically?” Zoffany asked, eyes widening. “You're sure?”
Denny nodded solemnly.
“And I'm also sure that you and Gould lied to me about her being dead,” she said. “Is there anything else I should know?”
Zoffany looked around, then leaned closer.
“Look, this is strictly between you and me …” she began.
***
“That was reckless in the extreme!” exclaimed Gould, knowing even as he spoke that Benson might well demote him for insubordination. The chairman had punished underlings who had made far milder criticisms of his methods.
“You're too personally invested in this whole p
roject, Edward,” Benson said, apparently unperturbed.
The chairman gestured at the screen, which showed the security team carrying Lucy back to her cell. Barrett was still looking baffled, while Forster and the scientist had recovered from their tasering.
“Now we know,” Benson went on. “We had an inkling about the Interloper's mental abilities, but now we can be sure. Prolonged proximity lets them – or at least, some of them – unlock more than our fears and fantasies. They can shape our thoughts, channel our impulses. In this case, it was relatively easy.”
“Easy?” Gould erupted. “Turning a professional soldier against his commanding officer–”
“Former soldier,” Benson corrected. “And a naïve young man by any standard. He was set to guarding a cell, which implies a prisoner. From that it was relatively simple for the Lucy being to undermine his self-control, triggering what would appear to be distressingly moralistic impulses.”
Gould snorted at that, but said nothing.
“Imagine,” Benson went on, switching off the video feed, “imagine how effective such a being could be if we could somehow control it.”
Gould stared at his boss for a couple of seconds before speaking.
“You can't be serious?” he finally asked in an unsteady voice. “Those things are killers!”
“Precisely!” Benson put in. “And if we can somehow get the upper hand, they could be killers in the service of the right side. Shape-changing, telepathic, able to sway weaker minds – the potential is immense.”
There was another brief silence.
“But you don't approve, do you, Edward?” Benson went on. “This has always been more of a personal crusade. Your poor sister, trapped over there, still awaiting rescue? That's a wildly unlikely scenario.”
“Not impossible,” snapped Gould. “We know humans can survive for extended periods in the PD.”
Benson shook his head.
“We have one example of that – not a happy instance. But if you want to cling to hope, Edward, you must do so. Just don't let it influence your decision-making. You may go now.”
***
That night Doctor Russell Wakefield followed his usual routine. After making himself a ready meal he ate it in front of the TV. Then he caught up on some electronic 'paperwork' from his medical practice. By the time he had finished it was nearly ten pm. As was usual now, he began to feel nervous anticipation.
Will she come tonight? She doesn't come every night. I wish I knew for sure that she's coming. Did the fact that I examined Isobel Bavistock mean that she will come? I said the things she wanted me to say. Didn't mention any anomalies …
Marie's visits were irregular, unpredictable. Whenever Wakefield asked if she would come back the next night she would answer 'Maybe! If you're a good boy.' Or something along those lines. He had once accused her of manipulating his emotions, keeping him off balance, playing him. She had laughed, and then asked if he wanted her to stop visiting him. He never made the mistake of accusing her of anything again. Every time he contemplated an end to their nights together, the same thought arose.
To lose her again would kill me.
He washed up the dishes, put away his laptop, and went upstairs to get ready for bed. After cleaning his teeth, Wakefield stood at the bedroom window looking out across the valley. Night had long since fallen, and creatures of the night were moving. He caught a glimpse of a pale shape moving, swooping over the meadow beyond his garden.
Owl. Night predator. Silent killer.
Wakefield tried not to think about the cruelty and violence that dominated the natural world. He had become a doctor to save lives, alleviate suffering, make people happy. And after he and Marie had gotten married, Wakefield had been happy, too. They had spent eight years together. And then a stranger, some maniac the police had still not caught, had killed Marie and left her mutilated body on the edge of Branksholme Woods.
She so enjoyed walking there. I didn't like it, she called me foolish. Went for a hike alone.
Wakefield shuddered at the memories of bleak years that had followed his bereavement. It had been a gray period. He had done what so many medics did and self-prescribed, rapidly taking things to excess. First, he had tried to find a way to sleep, then he had sought drugs to numb the pain of everyday existence. Eventually he had been unable to get through the day without pharmaceutical help. And then everything had changed, the impossible had happened.
“Hello, Russ,” Marie had said, on the night she had come back.
She had knocked at his door just before midnight. When he had opened it, she had stepped inside, while he had retreated before her in stunned silence. Her whole manner had been so commonplace, as if she had just been away for a few days at a conference, or visiting relatives. When in fact she had been dead for three years.
“You're dead,” he had said, feeling like an idiot as the words came out of his mouth. “I'm imagining this. You can't be real. Oh God.”
Marie had followed him into the living the room, smiling, holding out her small, pale hands. Her feet, he saw, were bare and caked with dirt, as if she had walked over miles of open country. Her clothes seemed to be a mish-mash of rags – the sort of stuff people put into charity collection bags. But she was still beautiful, even more beautiful than he remembered, in fact. Her face, her body, the way she moved, her voice, all were perfect.
“You're a ghost,” he had stammered, reeling back until he was pressed up against the living room wall. “Or I'm dreaming.”
Marie had given a shake of her head and reached out, taken his hand, held it to her. The warmth of that touch changed his entire world. She was flesh and blood, not an illusion. She had come back from the dead. The only love he had ever known had been given back to him. She had led him upstairs and they had made love. And when he had awoken the next day, she had gone. But the muddy footprints on the floor were still there to prove she had walked back into his life. She had taken some of the clothes and shoes he had never been able to throw out. And there had been a note on the pad beside the phone.
Back Soon My Darling – M xxx
The childish, spidery handwriting was nothing like his wife's fine cursive. That had been his first inkling that it could not really be Marie. As her night visits continued, he grew more doubtful, but never dared ask outright. It was partly for fear of losing her, partly for fear of what her answer might be. Then, just a few weeks ago, she had asked him to do something for her, something questionable. And he had done it. He had lied about the children, about their heartbeats, blood pressure, and other things.
But if it isn't Marie, who could it be? She knows so much about me, what I like, what I feel …
There was a click, the sound of the front door being opened, then closed. She had taken a spare key that first time. He felt his heart race as her footsteps moved along the hall, mounted the stairs. He held his breath for the few moments it took for her to reach the bedroom doorway. Then she was standing before him, impossibly alive once again.
“Marie,” he began, moving toward her. “Oh, Marie.”
She reached out and put a finger to his lips, began to undo his clothes with her other hand. Every move she made was the right one. In life, after years together, there were times when their lovemaking had seemed routine, stale. Now she pleasured him in every conceivable way, knowing exactly what to do, and when to do it. He allowed her to push him gently back onto the bed. Kisses, playful bites, caresses all did their work.
It can't really be Marie.
Wakefield's treacherous thought formed despite his sensual joy. At the same moment, she stopped moving, reared up, and looked down at him. Her face was blank, devoid of her usual playful half-smile.
“Does it matter?” she asked in a low voice.
“No,” he said feebly. “No, not really.”
Chapter 3: The Valley of Fear
Two days after her last session with Doctor Zoffany, Denny was on her way to Machen. This involved taking the train from Lond
on as far as the small city of Hereford, then on to the Welsh border by rental car. Before she left, she changed her appearance, shedding her on-air look in favor of shorter, darker hair and minimal make-up.
During the long train journey, she tried to focus on the task ahead, despite nagging doubts about the foundation's aims.
Focus, she told herself. Gotta get a clear idea of what the situation is.
Denny began by checking the history of the town, and found plenty of facts and figures. Machen's population was less than four hundred at the last census. It relied mainly upon agriculture and tourism. Pictures showed a few streets of attractive stone cottages nestled in a river valley. There was the usual village church, some more modern buildings such as a school and a medical clinic. There was also the Black Swan, which had been able to find her a room, it being October and well out of season.
Bored with general data she switched to more specific matters and typed in 'Machen War Memorial'. This yielded a number of claims on history sites, some contradicting one another. The one point everyone seemed to agree upon was that not a single man from Machen died in the First World War. This was, she realized as she read on, extraordinary. The war had been the most devastating in British history, and war memorials were set up in every city, town, and village after 1918.
Except for Machen, she thought. Statistical fluke? Like a lottery win?
One comment stood out.
'Check the church – there is a memorial inside to local men killed in the Second World War.'
She made a note to follow that up, though she could not see any obvious connection to the Interlopers. Then she moved on to the child abduction case. It was only briefly covered in the national and local press. This was because the search had only just gotten underway when the youngsters were found, safe and well.
Nightmare Valley Page 4