<<>>
Both Jeeps had been left behind the nearest mesa, about a quarter of a mile back. As Brewster and his agents approached the house, they observed no inside lighting. Smoke from one of the chimneys entwined with the crisp night air, drifting their way. The dirt road crunched lightly beneath their feet. Brewster’s right hand shot up, and they came to a momentary halt. He eyed the single-story residence, inhaled deeply, and then proceeded forward. Quietly, they came upon the stone building.
Having been all through the house, Brewster knew the layout quite well. The master bedroom was on the northeast side, where they'd go in. Hopefully, Mills would be sleeping. And if that goddamn dog didn't give them away, the bedroom window could be pried open and Mills would be dead before the woman and her child had knowledge of the attack.
Brewster headed towards one of the bedroom windows, gun drawn, screwing a silencer in place when the woman's scream suddenly brought him to a halt. After nearly dropping the handgun, he regained his stride, filled with a mixture of determination and apprehension.
CHAPTER 38
John sat bolt upright just as Jillian collapsed to the bed like rag doll. His eyes darted to every dark corner, expecting to, but not seeing the demon that surely was responsible for her scream. Bear began to bark in another room. It was that same wild barking that had accompanied the monster's last visit. Yet, he saw nothing in the room that didn't belong here. He brushed the dark bangs from her face and despite the shadows, her faint smile became evident, as did the sweat glistening on her pale moonlit skin.
"Jillian," he said.
Her hand, weak and shaky, reached up and touched his face. "It's not safe," she said. "The nightmare…it's coming."
It partially occurred to him that he now rested on his knees and should be experiencing pain. Mostly, however, all he could think about was Jillian and the horror they would soon have to face. "Are you sure?" he asked.
"I need to be alone. Lock the door behind you."
"No," he whispered, gently stroking her cheek. He got to his feet and slipped into the trousers he'd left on the floor. "I’m not leaving you," he said, and then stared down at his leg. His eyes narrowed and filled with confusion.
<<>>
Brewster laid a pneumatic dart rifle against the stone wall of the house. No longer did they have a reason to sneak quietly inside. The woman was there, in the bedroom. Brewster shivered with delight. He licked his lips, already tasting victory. The element of surprise would keep her panicked enough, allowing him not only to kill John, but time to grab and aim the dart rifle before she could comprehend the situation.
He waved an arm, indicating that he wanted Reese to join him at the window. Reese stood taller than he did by a good three inches. The man had a stomach of rippled hardened muscles, and biceps the size of the average man’s thighs. Reese had to have his shoes special ordered, because size sixteen six E wasn’t found in the average department store. When Reese stepped up beside him, Brewster took aim with the handgun. Through the narrow parting of the drapes, he zeroed in on Mills just as Mills leaned forward over the bed.
<<>>
Tiny shards of glass from the window exploded into the room. At the exact same moment, John’s arms shot up and he pitched forward. Jillian screamed as his body fell upon her. “John! John?”
She pushed back against the dead weight of his body, heart pumping wildly, adrenaline rushing through her system, terrified when her hand slipped in a sticky substance that could only be blood. “No!” she screamed, embracing him. “God, No!”
With trembling, bloody fingers, she reached for his neck, hoping to find a steady pulse thumping away in the carotid artery. She felt nothing. Nothing but utter panic.
<<>>
Reese cleared the glass from the window frame with the butt end of his rifle. He laced his large fingers together to make a step for Brewster then Brewster went in, rifle slung over a shoulder.
Brewster went directly to the bed, where he grabbed a fist full of Mills’ blond hair, and dragged the body off the naked woman, letting it fall on the floor with an audible double thud. He’d rehearsed his line at least a dozen times in the last half-hour. And with much delight, he looked down into the woman’s frightened eyes and said, “I own you.”
Jillian made a grab for the sheet, mouth gaped open. The entire situation was too much to handle all at once. She got to her knees on the mattress, where she could see the motionless body of John Mills on the floor. It couldn’t be happening, but it was. She looked up at Brewster, head shaking, eyes wide and glassy and without any understanding.
“Why?” she asked, bringing a bloody hand up to cover her mouth, fingers trembling. “My God... Why?”
Reese had made his way into the bedroom, followed by Barnes. The three men stood together, looking down at the crying woman, who now rocked on her knees, still clinging to the sheet, sobbing, “Why?” again and again.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” Barnes said, grinning. He turned on the nightstand lamp, then stepped over Mills’ body, undecided as to whether he should kill the barking dog at the other side of the door.
Brewster yanked the bloody sheet from Jillian’s grip and leaned forward so that his hand now rested on the bed. And as she crouched there on the bed, staring fearfully into his soulless dark eyes, he said, “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. It’s up to you. Where’s your daughter?”
“Go to hell!” she cried venomously and spat in his face.
“I think that means the hard way,” Barnes said and laughed.
Brewster backed away, wiping the spittle from his face before leveling the rife at the woman. “Say goodnight,” he said to Jillian.
If these men were nightmare incarnate, she had the power to pull them back into the dream and out of existence. Even now, after the healing had spent much of her energy, there was enough left to undo these men. She could not, however, take them all on at once. Since physical contact was essential to eliminate them, they would catch on to what she was doing by the time the first man disappeared.
The effort would be futile. So, she closed her eyes, not only expecting, but also wanting to die. Which was when Brewster pulled the trigger, shooting a small dart into her neck.
<<>>
The search for Valerie Braedon turned up empty. Under the circumstances, Brewster decided that the child had died during the blizzard. Either that or that Talbot guy had somehow smuggled the child out. Not only did they find no little girl in the house, but also they found no little girl's clothing.
They didn't pull the platinum albums from the wall, yet they took practically everything else of value that was easy to carry. Reese had silenced Bear permanently by putting a single bullet into the dog's brain, killing him instantly. Laurel and Reese had gone back to get the Jeeps, which they loaded as swiftly as any professional thieves could. There was the box from the spare room filled with precious jewelry. The candlestick holders, the vases, and the pewter statuettes...whatever they could scavenge. Barnes took a tapestry down from the living room wall, hoping it would bring a pretty penny from an antique dealer. Laurel went into the dining room, finding all the silverware in a drawer of the china hutch, stuffing every piece into a pillowslip. With the silverware loaded in the Jeep, Laurel returned for the china.
She carried out the first armload of china when Andrews landed the chopper. The man had arrived late, nearly twenty minutes late. Under the circumstances, since all had gone well, Laurel didn't care. Of course, had she known why Andrews was so late, she'd have shot him without hesitation.
Brewster had wrapped Jillian in the quilt from the four-poster bed and now cradled her in his arms as if she were an overgrown baby. One bare arm slipped from the quilt, hanging limply. Her head dropped back as he handed her over to Andrews.
Very carefully, very gently, as if she were made of eggshells, Andrews placed her in the back of the chopper, making sure he was covered well, then removed his overcoat, rolling it up, and placing
it beneath her head.
"We all set?" Brewster asked, seeing that everyone but Andrews now stood outside by the two Jeeps. "Laurel, you ride with Andrews. We'll meet you two back at the house."
Barnes wanted a few extra minutes to plunder through Mills' bedroom closet; sure he'd find something of value in there. Brewster, wanting confirmation that Mills was dead, decided to go with Barnes.
Andrews took the chopper up into the purple night sky, alone with his god. To him, it all played out like a dream. As Laurel rushed below him, arms waving, yelling and demanding him to come back down, Andrews leaned partway out of the chopper with his AR‑15, and cut her in half with a short burst of bullets. He then turned the weapon on Brewster, getting both Brewster and Barnes as they did an about-face on the porch steps. Both men, like puppets without strings, did a little dance, tumbling backwards, dead before hitting the porch floor. Reese came next – cut down as he drew his sidearm. And Carney, who'd ducked between the two Jeeps, got off three poorly aimed shots before the top of his head became one with oblivion.
Andrews hovered the chopper over the massacre below, shining the searchlight upon each dead body, looking for movement.
<<>>
John pushed himself up with one hand to his knees, and then fell flat on the stone floor. The bullet had gone in just below his right shoulder blade on a diagonal path upward, and had exited straight through the collarbone, shattering it into splinters. The pain had reached an unbearable level, and yet the wound itself probably wasn't fatal.
No vital organs had been hit. But the bleeding was severe. He shuddered from the cold that now invaded his body. And the bleeding...
He lay face down in a puddle of his own warm blood, terrified, aware of the nearby helicopter. The shotgun remained in the closet, less than ten feet away. Again, he tried to push himself up, finding his right arm useless. Pale and sweaty, he eased himself over on his back, propping his head and neck against the bedpost to examine the wound. With his left hand, he swept the floor, grabbing the shirt Jillian had worn earlier. A lock of blond hair fell over his sweaty brow. The act of breathing had become not only painful, but also deliberate; he came nearly to the point of passing out. Before he could press the shirt to his shoulder and apply pressure to the exit wound, John had to correct the splintered bone fragments. He dropped the shirt on his stomach, and gritting his teeth, face twisting into a grimace of agony, he snapped the splinters that were beyond mending completely off, as if pulling broken twigs from the branch of a tree.
With the shirt pressed gently but firmly to his shoulder, he slid both legs under him, using the bed as an armless man might use a crutch. He got to his knees first, using his good shoulder and head for leverage then his good elbow.
Once he got to his feet, the dizziness hit him hard. It was then when he heard the roar of an automatic weapon being fired.
As he went to the closet, the bursts of gunfire ceased. He listened, noting only the sound of the chopper. Then, instead of going for the shotgun, John went for the window. From there, he could see absolutely nothing of the carnage outside. And yet, by the sound of it, he knew the helicopter was leaving.
John closed his eyes against the pain, both physical and emotional. Jillian was still alive. She had to be alive. They would need to question her first. As strong willed as she was, they wouldn't get anything out of her without the use of drugs...unless they had Valerie. Which – considering the way Brewster came here knowing what he'd find – was quite possible.
He leaned his bad shoulder to the door casing of the closet, enabling himself to free his left hand from the shirt‑bandage to get the gun. When he turned around, shotgun in hand, the bandage fell to the floor. John swayed on his feet, the wound once again exposed and bleeding. He wasn't about to retrieve the bloody shirt from the floor, for the act of bending forward would surely bring him to his knees.
CHAPTER 39
The dream was a familiar one:
She's driving down a dark road in Jim's Volvo. To either side stands a wall of tall pine trees. It's a muggy night, and hot. The mist from an earlier rain swirls up from the asphalt in front of the headlights. She tries to adjust the headlights to high-beam, only to find the switch stuck.
She comes upon a curve in the road, yet fails to slow down, because she's on an important mission. The mission of motherhood. Vaguely, she remembers that Valerie has been crying. The child is teething – yes. And Jill's job is to find an all night store so she can buy some Ora‑Jel for Valerie. Or, perhaps it's Jim who needs the medicine. Either way, finding an all night store is imperative.
But there's more.
She has an unshakable feeling that someone or some thing is following her. And when she looks up, staring into the rearview mirror, she notices a pair of headlights that weren't there a moment ago. She gives the car a little more gas as she pulls out of the curve, then floors the accelerator. Something's wrong. Terribly wrong. And when she returns her attention to the rearview mirror...
<<>>
Opening the garage door took his every effort. He could hear only a faint thumping of the helicopter. His stomach still turned, his heart breaking from having to step over Bear’s dead body in order to pass through the hall. As he stumbled towards the vehicle, his mind returned to the dead, mutilated bodies now littering his lawn and porch. Brewster was one of them.
When he got to the Land Rover, John eased himself onto the seat, once again struggling against a wave of dizziness. He grabbed the keys in the ashtray, inserted the proper key in the ignition, pumped the gas twice then cranked her up. The engine roared to life almost immediately. John pulled the Land Rover door shut as he sped off towards the sound of the helicopter.
<<>>
Andrews circled the property twice then headed in the direction of Sandstone, flying low to the ground, which was something Brewster had never permitted him to do. Brewster preferred to fly several hundred feet off the ground, to distort the sense of speed so it didn’t feel quite so fast. Andrews, however, preferred that sense of speed. Especially now.
Although he’d done his best to obey most laws, despite Brewster’s orders, Andrews couldn’t help but gloat over this most current thrill. Skimming just above the ground, heart in his throat, he could almost believe himself invincible. The woman was his, finally his. Perhaps he wasn’t invincible now, but soon, very soon…
He kept his eyes glued to the ground below and in front of him, bringing the chopper up and over a rocky mesa, then rounding it on down, keeping within twenty yards of the ground. He could think of little else but his god and what she would soon do for him…
…Until something long and black slithered against the side of his face. Before he even noted its hideously deformed face, talon-like claws sunk into his shoulder. Andrews shrieked, covering his face with both hands, hunkering down as far as the seat would allow.
<<>>
John had never traveled these roads at more than twenty‑five miles per hour...until now. The rough terrain had him bouncing several inches out of his seat. Numerous times, the top of his head struck the headliner. With his right arm totally useless, he had to rely upon his left hand to not only steer the vehicle, but to shift it into low gear as well. No longer could he hear the helicopter. And yet, he didn't slow down, but pushed the Land Rover up to forty‑five miles per hour in low gear. He went up and around Disaster Hill, the left side tires of the vehicle momentarily leaving the ground.
<<>>
Andrews reached beneath his jacket for his sidearm, screaming, as the beast blew plugs of mucus from its pig-like snout. The goddamn thing actually grinned at him. Frantically, he brought the gun up, cowering against the control panel. He pulled the trigger. The blast reverberated in his ears. One blazing demonic eye disappeared from its socket, and a black, oily substance discharged from the hole. The beast screamed. Its tail smashed down on the unconscious woman behind it. Jillian's head tipped off the makeshift pillow as the chopper lost altitude in a steep pitched decline.<
br />
Andrews turned around, eyes screaming with fear, mouth open in a silent cry of terror, hand in mid air, as the chopper exploded into the side of a mesa.
John got to the paved highway and hesitated, fearing the direction he'd pick would be the wrong direction. Blood covered his chest and stomach, still oozing from the wound and soaking into his trousers. He panicked, hearing nothing but the soft humming of the Land Rover's engine and his own labored breathing.
Knowing he'd lost the helicopter, he headed in the only direction that made sense: towards Sandstone.
John put the transmission into gear, spinning up sand behind him as he made the left‑hand turn. He hadn't gone a mile when his head fell back against the headrest. He swam in a sea of black dizziness. He no longer felt cold, just numb, and yet his body continued to shake, doing so right up until the moment the front tires left the road, and the vehicle slammed head‑on into a clustered stand of Pinyon pines.
Seconds, minutes, or hours later, John opened the driver's side door and fell out onto the ground. He could hear sirens in the distance. Many sirens. A Chevrolet Camaro passed him by, and then stopped a hundred or so feet up the road. The reverse lights came on. The engine whined as the car backed down the road to where John lay. He lifted his head, left palm pressed to the dirt. He looked up at the gray-haired man who'd come to his rescue.
"Hold on there, buddy. I'll radio for help."
HIDDEN DOORS, SECRET ROOMS Page 23