While the Savage Sleeps

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  University of New Mexico Hospital

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Morning.

  It had been a long night. It was going to be an even longer day. A tonsillectomy scheduled for ten, gallbladder removal at one—all in a day’s work for Kyle, but this day wasn’t feeling like one of her best.

  Playing hide-and-seek with Bethany into the wee hours of the morning had left her feeling worn-down, empty-handed, and most of all, deeply troubled.

  You only have five days.

  Until what? Kyle wondered.

  The date didn’t seem to hold any meaning, but she had a feeling she’d soon find out.

  She pulled into the hospital parking lot and managed to land a preferred space right up near the front, marked: “Doctors Only.” One fringe benefit, at least, she thought, for suffering through all those years of medical school.

  * * *

  Sierra Conley lay in bed with Kyle at her bedside, her mother seated in a chair right behind them. The elfin six-year-old might have been diminutive in stature, but not in attitude. Her precocious manner was larger than life, as was her loud, penetrating voice. A fringe of slick, black hair cut straight across her forehead, the rest forming a frame around a set of full, round cheeks, which seemed too large for her smallish face. She reminded Kyle of a dwarf-sized clown.

  “When do I get to eat the eyth cream?” the pint-sized youngster queried.

  “Sierra!” her mother scolded sharply.

  “It’s okay,” Kyle said with a patient, polite smile. “Kids always ask me that when I take out their tonsils. Can’t say I blame them—it’s the only thing they have to look forward to. Can you open up real wide for me, Sierra, honey?”

  The child instantly dropped her jaw and shot her tongue out in a manner that appeared automatic and involuntary. She’d already become familiar with the routine.

  “How long will the surgery take?” her mother asked idly, legs neatly crossed, a flawlessly manicured fingernail tapping against the arm of her chair.

  “Breathe deep, Sierra.” Kyle placed a stethoscope against the child’s chest, listened, moved it again, then pulled the instrument from her ears. “No more than a few hours, probably less, if everything goes well.”

  “And how long to recover?” asked Mrs. Conley, wrapping her hand around her Starbucks cup. She raised it to her mouth, took a sip.

  “I have thoccer in three weekth!” the child reminded her mother.

  “Sierra, please!” she said with a snip. “Let Mommy talk to the doctor!”

  Kyle winked at Sierra, smiled, and then addressed the mother. “She should be good to go by then. Takes about ten days on average, maybe two weeks, worst-case scenario. It just depends how quickly she heals. Every child is different.”

  Sierra’s mom nodded then gave a lukewarm smile.

  Had Kyle not been looking at Mrs. Conley, she probably would have missed it; however, because the woman’s chair was right beside the door, Kyle had a clear shot over her shoulder and directly into the reception area.

  There were people, lots of them, mostly nurses, some pushing patients in wheelchairs, others working behind the counter and processing paperwork. Amidst all the confusion, all the people, was a little girl, one who appeared strangely out of place: filthy nightgown, dirty tangled hair, gaze fixed straight ahead. But the face was hard to miss—as was her expression, as blank as china doll’s.

  And those eyes.

  The dull, vacant stare was enough put anyone on edge, but the child’s movements were downright unnerving. Slow, choppy, robotic…

  And backward.

  Bethany’s legs moved as if walking forward, yet she was traveling in reverse. Besides that, her body jerked with a series of spastic, repetitive actions, like a broken mechanical toy.

  People seemed to be walking directly through her, or perhaps she was walking through them. Kyle couldn’t really tell. It almost seemed as if the girl were wandering within some other dimension, superimposed onto the present.

  Suddenly, everyone around her began moving in slow motion. Then they all shifted into reverse. Bethany stood in the middle of the action appearing unaffected, maybe even unaware of what was happening around her. The child pulled to an abrupt stop and in one long, drawn-out movement, turned her head directly toward Kyle, looking into her eyes as she spoke:

  “We died in there.” The words flowed from the small girl’s mouth, but the voice was not Bethany’s.

  It was someone else’s. Deep, growling, labored … and clearly male.

  Kyle shot back on her feet, eyes wide. She ran to the doorway and shouted out to the child, or the man, or whoever was talking to her. “Who did? Who died?” Please, tell me who died!”

  Bethany began to disappear, her image dissipating into the air.

  Just then, an orderly, pushing a gurney, moved past Kyle, but the person lying on it was no ordinary patient. Bethany looked up at her, face stoic. “Four days,” was all the girl said as she disappeared down the hall, the only sound, a squeaky, repetitive noise coming from the wheels moving beneath her.

  Kyle looked up to find everyone staring at her, confused.

  They weren’t the only ones.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Roosevelt High School

  Faith, New Mexico

  Just back from the autopsy, Cameron stood in the middle of the empty high school gymnasium.

  Neat little rows of folding chairs—scores of them—lay out before him, covering the slick, wood floors like an unwavering army of steel. Up front, an old walnut podium stood as the focal point. Soon, the press would arrive, as would the citizens of Faith.

  Game on. All bets off.

  He placed his pad on top of the podium and studied his surroundings. It had been years since he’d been here. Back in high school, the gymnasium seemed like a second home to him.

  And he’d had Sarah.

  The memories came rushing back at him. They’d met toward the end of their junior year. Sarah was, without a doubt, the most beautiful girl in school. In fact, she was the most beautiful girl Cameron had ever laid eyes on: long, wavy blonde hair kissed by the sun, eyes the color of tanzanite, with her soft, delicate skin blending it all together like a brush stroke to canvas. She looked as though she’d be more comfortable walking along the golden, surf-kissed beaches of California than the hot and dry deserts of New Mexico.

  Cameron finally got up the courage to ask her out, and she politely turned him down.

  Sarah’s maturity far exceeded her years, and things that mattered to most kids that age meant little to her. She had no interest in dating the school’s basketball star, especially one who ran with a crowd most considered wild, immature, and heavily driven by ego.

  Hardly accustomed to girls turning him down, Cameron also knew that Sarah was in a class by herself. Smart, pretty, sweet—she was all of those things and more. But there was something else about her, something he couldn’t explain. Maybe it was the way she carried herself, her confidence, her sense of purpose. Whatever it was, he found it irresistible and knew he had to do whatever it took to win her heart. Cameron Dawson never gave up, and the word no only made him more determined.

  With each subsequent rejection—there were five—his resolve only seemed to grow stronger. Finally, on his sixth try, Cameron hit pay dirt. Much later, Sarah would claim she only acquiesced so he’d stop bugging her.

  But Sarah quickly discovered that Cameron Dawson was nothing like the image he’d worked so tirelessly to protect. There was more to him than that, much more, and before she knew it, Sarah found herself falling in love.

  They married right out of high school, despite admonishments from both sets of parents. The couple did manage to keep one promise they’d made to them though, that they wouldn’t have a child until they were sure they could provide for one. About a year later, Cameron landed a job as a deputy with the Faith Sheriff’s Department. Soon after that, the two decided it was time t
o start a family.

  Dylan Wade Dawson came into the world on a cold December night—at least by New Mexico standards—just days before Christmas. For Cameron and Sarah, he was the only gift they needed.

  The boy became the center of Cameron’s world; in fact, Dylan was his world.

  The two were inseparable, and Cameron spent every free minute he had with his son. Together, they attended ballgames, went fishing on the lake, took bicycle rides in the park. Cameron wanted Dylan to experience all there was to see in the world and did his best to make it happen. Things Cameron had done hundreds of times before now suddenly seemed different. Seeing them through his son’s young eyes somehow changed the context, transforming them into fresh, new adventures.

  That was before everything changed, before that day, one that wasn’t just a turning point; it turned his whole world upside-down.

  “Ready to go?” Frank asked, startling Cameron, driving him back to the present.

  “Ready as I’m gonna be,” he replied, trying to appear casual and unaffected.

  Frank walked toward him, feet hitting the hardwood floor and sending an echo throughout the gymnasium. He placed a hand on Cameron’s shoulder. “You look like you just saw a ghost, son.”

  Haunted by one, is more like it, Cameron thought.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  45687 Monument Path Way

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  She was back in that hospital again, wandering through its long, unsettling hallways, feeling lost and alone. Everything looked out of focus, almost warped, as if shrouded in a smoky, yellow haze. Kyle worked her way through a seemingly endless maze. The slick, frosty floors felt like ice beneath her bare feet.

  Although the place looked and felt empty, Kyle knew she wasn’t alone. She may not have been able to see them, but she could hear them. Once again—those agonizing moans, slicing at the air and coming at her from every direction.

  She tried pulling on the doorknobs, but there was no use; somebody had locked them. She even tried knocking—pounding—but to no avail. The rooms were inaccessible.

  The voices began to grow louder, whirling through the air, their volume swelling like an orchestral crescendo. Kyle couldn’t tell if they were protesting her attempts to open the doors or crying out for help. Either way, the noise was unbearable. She stopped, knelt in the middle of the hallway, and pressed her hands over her ears.

  Then they were gone.

  As Kyle pulled her hands away from her head, she could still hear lingering fragments of noise, distant echoes drifting down the halls, like air swallowing up smoke.

  She stood, walked forward a few steps, and as she did, heard something else: shallow, gurgling gasps, barely audible, weak, and anemic. She wandered further down the hall, trying to follow the sound, to find its whereabouts, but its source seemed too elusive, too vague.

  Kyle turned another corner and there, suddenly, was Bethany. The child’s eyes locked onto hers as if pulled in by some strange, commanding, and magnetic force. Bethany said nothing, her only sound a sick, burbling noise, as if struggling to breath. The death rattle.

  There was something else terribly disturbing about the girl: the odor she gave out was foul. Kyle’s sinuses started burning at once, her eyes watering.

  She knew that smell. It was the stink of death.

  Kyle advanced a few steps forward, but as she did, the little girl responded by stepping back the same number, all the while keeping her eyes trained on Kyle’s. She stopped. So did Bethany. She moved forward one more step. The girl moved back one as well.

  In utter frustration, Kyle screamed out, suddenly, “Tell me what you need! I can’t help you unless you let me!”

  As if on cue, the chorus of moans started up again in the background, like waves of misery and pain, one rolling on top of the other. For the first time Kyle realized they were actually saying something, but she couldn’t make out the words: there was too much noise, too much confusion. She strained to listen, but the harder she tried, the more confused she became.

  The sounds grew even louder, and while she wanted to block her ears again, this time Kyle fought off the urge, forcing herself to listen. At just that moment, one voice seemed to break apart from the others, escaping the confusing cacophony of ear-splitting clamor, and falling away from all the commotion. It was a man’s voice, the same one Kyle had heard coming from Bethany’s mouth the other day at the hospital.

  “Make it stop!” it shouted, agonizing, begging.

  “Make what stop?” Kyle cried out, looking around.

  The girl’s explanation came not in words, but in actions. She nodded, and Kyle’s body instantly jerked, violently, as if something had pummeled her, knocking her off her feet and slamming her hard onto the floor. A few seconds later, lying on her back, she felt a cold, prickly sensation against her skin. Something was tightening around her chest, causing it to constrict, making it difficult for her to breathe. The pain intensified, and she tried to scream but couldn’t gather enough air to produce even a whisper.

  She was suffocating.

  Kyle began to panic. Then suddenly her arms slammed down at her sides, as if forced by some invisible entity. Once again, a tight, ratcheting sensation began, squeezing them tight against her body.

  “Why are you doing this?” she screamed out to Bethany.

  The little girl’s face remained fixed, expressionless, and as stiff as an effigy. Then her eyes rolled up into her head. Kyle’s own eyes widened too, like a terrified child forced into the front seat of a rollercoaster.

  A blinding, silvery light ignited behind Bethany’s eyes; they looked like diamonds aimed into the sun, causing Kyle to squint. The light was powerful, the energy electric. Gradually, the glow began to fade. Bethany’s eyes were like mirrors, replicating everything they saw.

  Then the eyes came to a standstill, and Kyle could see something forming inside them. The effect was similar to looking through binoculars—two openings, one image. Splinters of light moved together, flickering and turning until they formed the picture.

  Kyle knew exactly what it was.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Roosevelt High School

  Faith, New Mexico

  The high school’s parking lot was an overflowing sea filled with news vans, satellite dishes, and people—hordes of them—all scurrying in all directions. A broad sense of uneasiness seemed to swirl through the air like waves of nervous emotion, causing tempers to burn, impatience to flourish.

  Closer to the school, things seemed even worse.

  Cameron elbowed his way through the massive gaggle of press congregating outside the gymnasium. It was chaos in every sense of the word. Black, dusty cables poured out from news vans, snaking their way along the glittery asphalt and into a multitude of propped-open gymnasium doors. Outside the school’s main entrance, television reporters basked in the hot glow of spotlights while carrying on conversations with cameras perched atop battered, aluminum tripods.

  Inside, it was much the same but magnified even more by the lack of space. Reporters, residents, and just about everyone else squeezed their way inside, filling the gymnasium until it was standing room only.

  When Cameron reached the podium, he looked out into the crowd, then down at the thick tangle of microphones and cables shooting from every direction and seemingly, from every news media outlet in the state—all pointed in toward him like an octopus with a hundred arms.

  Cameron began by reading a prepared statement, including basic facts about the murders of Bradley Witherspoon, Alma Gutierrez, the Foley family, and Felicity Champion, daughter of Senator Connie Champion. He left out the speculative aspects of the case, as they were still unconfirmed.

  Not a second after he finished, Casey Gold shot up from her chair like burnt bread from a toaster. She waved her hand back and forth over her head in large sweeping motions and began talking, even though Cameron had not yet called on her.

  “Is it true you think that all the homicid
es are unrelated?” she shouted.

  Cameron glanced at Frank, who was standing along the wall watching and shaking his head nearly imperceptibly.

  “We can safely assume the Foley and Gutierrez murders were committed by two different people,” Cameron responded. “However, we have no viable suspects in the other cases so far.” It was the truth.

  A wave of collective chatter passed through the crowd.

  “We heard you think there may be four different killers,” insisted Casey.

  “I believe I’ve already addressed that question. Next, please?”

  “Assistant sheriff,” said a male reporter from the back, “have you been in touch with Senator Champion, and if so, has she made a statement for the public?”

  Cameron cleared his throat. “I’ve spoken to the senator personally.”

  The crowd mumbled, appearing pleased.

  “I offered her our sincerest condolences and informed her we’re actively working this case and are determined to find her daughter’s killer. I also told her we will keep her appraised during every phase of the investigation.”

  “What was her reaction?” This from another reporter on the opposite side of the room.

  Cameron paused and looked to Frank for encouragement. This time, the sheriff nodded his head slowly as if to say: you’re doing fine.

  Cameron looked back into the sea of faces, pens, and pads. “The senator was extremely gracious, despite her tragic loss. She seemed pleased that I called and thanked me for doing so. It was not a lengthy conversation. She has a lot on her mind, and I think it’s only fair we give her the opportunity to grieve for her daughter. Next question, please.”

  A female reporter stood up. “Do you believe the murder might in some way be connected to the senator’s job? Maybe an angry constituent?”

  “We have no evidence to support that—however, we’re certainly looking at all possibilities during the course of our investigation.”