“Then, . . .” Vickie said, her face pale, “all this . . . what we saw, I saw, all this is really happening?”
“Yes,” Bud said.
Voyles caught Vickie before her head could hit the floor. She was out cold. He carried her to a sofa Bud and Leo were righting.
“I could say something smart-assed about lady cops,” Voyles said. “But to tell you the truth, I don’t blame her for fainting.”
“So it’s over between us,” Scott said. “Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “No reason, no warning, no nothing. I think I deserve something better than that, Claire.”
“I don’t, Scott. That’s the bottom line. Now I think you’d better leave.”
Scott became angry, his face flushing. “Who is he, Claire? Who’s the guy who shot me out of the saddle and has you dressing up like a squaw? Come on. I think I have a right to know at least that much.”
A flash of memory surged through Claire’s brain. The face of Sanjaman appeared in her mind. He was beautiful and powerful and loving to her. Now she knew her fate and she willingly accepted it.
“I don’t think you’d like him, Scott. As a matter of fact, I know you wouldn’t.” She laughed. “But it would probably be a very interesting meeting. No matter. For now, why don’t you just drop the subject and get out?”
Scott’s grin was ugly. His eyes drifted over her attire. “What’d you do, Claire—find yourself an Indian buck with a ten-inch cock?”
She met his ugliness with a matching look. “Actually, Scott, I’d say it’s more like fifteen inches; and as big around as your wrist. It feels good sliding in and out. Sure beats that hot dog of yours.”
The flush on Scott’s face vanished, a paleness taking its place. He jumped from his chair and slapped her, backhanded, the force of the blow leaving fingermarks on her cheeks.
When her vision cleared through the slap-induced tears in her eyes, Claire said, “That’s the last time you’ll ever slap a woman, Scott.”
“Goddamned two-bit whore!” he cursed her. “You’re just like all the rest. You keep your brains under your skirt.”
Then she cut him. Swiftly jerking the knife from her legging, she sliced Scott from his right ear, across his lips, and down to just under the edge of his jaw. She sliced him to the bone and teeth.
Scott screamed in pain as blood leaped from the deep slash. He staggered backward, both hands to his face, attempting to stop the gush of blood. One eye dangled from its socket.
That gave him a very tilted outlook on what was happening.
Claire laughed at him.
She swung the razor-sharp knife again, cutting Scott from right to left, the blade slicing his chest. He screamed and she cut him, this time ripping his arm from elbow to wrist. Blood splattered the walls and the floor. She could see the whiteness of bone as the blade slashed deeply into his flesh. Scott tripped over an ottoman, falling heavily to the floor. He tried to rise but his severed arm muscles would not support his weight. Claire cut him across the buttocks, the blade driving deep, ripping his flesh.
Through his shock and pain, Scott could hear the sound of heavy laughter. He did not know where it was coming from.
Claire stuck the point of the blade into Scott’s back, just under his right shoulder, and cut him all the way down to his waist, stopping only when the blade hit his hip bone. Scott’s right arm flopped uselessly.
He began to scream agonizingly. Claire knelt down amid the ever-growing slick wetness of Scott’s blood and cut the tendons on the backs of his ankles. Scott screamed louder and jerked on the floor.
“God, Claire!” he cried. “Why? Why are you doing this to me?”
At his question, Claire was mentally spun backward in time. She could hear the beating of drums and some type of primitive wind instrument sighing a melodic death song. She was standing beside a large muscular man, near a blazing fire. The man was familiar to her. Of course, she thought. Sanjaman.
A hoarse human wailing cut the night air around the fire.
“End it,” Sanjaman told the woman.
The Indian woman—Claire—walked to the man tied to a stake. He had been horribly tortured. She lifted a stone knife and cut the man’s throat. Blood squirted onto her hands.
The scene cleared in her mind. She looked around the gore-littered and blood-splattered living room of her house. She looked down at Scott.
He was dead. His throat had been cut.
Claire knelt down and began taking Scott’s scalp-lock. When she held the bloody hair in her hands, she squatted down, her bare knees in the blood, and began singing, in a strange language.
When she had finished, she dragged the body into a closet and propped it against the far wall.
Scott grinned grotesquely at her, but his eyes were shut.
“We shall see each other again,” Claire said. “When he who is all powerful bids you come. Until then, wait.”
She closed the door.
Scott opened his eyes.
Jerry looked around, surveying the damage. He shook his head at the wreckage. “We can’t stay here. The house has structural damage. It could collapse on us at any time.”
“Let’s go to my house,” Maryruth suggested. “It’s plenty big enough for all of us.”
“You will all eventually be forced to take sanctuary at the Lancaster house,” Bud said. “And it will not be pleasant.”
“You want to explain that?” Voyles asked.
“No,” the old man said. “In time. All things in time.”
He would say no more.
“I sure could use a drink,” Leo said.
7
“You bastards will do anything to cause trouble, won’t you?” Jack Thomas said, the hate in his voice flowing like venom. The men expected him to start hissing at any moment, so snakelike were his words, and Jerry remembered what Marc had told him about his father’s hissing.
“Your daughter has been quarantined, Mr. Thomas,” Jerry told the man. “And she will remain so until I can pinpoint a disease. She is perfectly safe at Doctor Benning’s house.”
“I’ll call the law on you!” Jack said. “Harry said he wanted to . . .” The man stopped abruptly.
“Will I do until some other law comes along?” Voyles said, stepping forward. “What did Harry say?”
The muscles in Jack’s jaw bunched in anger. Then he relaxed, his face taking on the look of an idiot. He appeared confused, not at all certain what he should do.
“Did Harry say anything about Heather?” Jerry prompted.
“How did you? . . .” Jack looked at the men, leaving his sentence hanging. Then he slammed the door in their faces.
“One down,” Jerry said.
“Yeah,” Voyles agreed. “Now let’s go see Mr. Slime-bag. I don’t think he’s going to give us much trouble.”
“Interesting way of describing the man. You said he left Frederick under a cloud of suspicion?”
“That’s putting it mildly. The police up there are pretty sure he’s guilty of at least five incidents of child molestation. One actual penetration that physically injured the girl. They just couldn’t prove any of them—no hard evidence that would stand up in court. I suppose the guy is more to be pitied than condemned, but it’s very hard for me to do that. Harry Anderson has two very distinct personalities—maybe more. Information is still coming in, and some of it is hard to get. Private psychiatrists are so goddamned close-mouthed about their clients—doctor/patient confidentiality, and all that bullshit—they seem to deliberately stand in the way of a good collar.” He sighed. “Don’t get me started on those people, Doc. Anyway, Anderson has one side to him that is Mister Nice Guy all the way—law abiding, tax paying, faithful to his wife, loving and loyal to his kids. But when the other personality takes over, brother, that’s a real lulu. Likes little girls. Performed oral sex on them, has them do the same with him. Rape? ... Sometimes. Jeff City has tracked him all over the country. It’s a nasty, slimy trail.”
“
Why isn’t he in jail, Dick?”
“Kids were too scared to point their finger at him. He really frightened them. That’s the way it usually turns out. But the cops were able to lean on him enough to get him out of their hair and into someone else’s territory. That’s SOP sometimes, Doc. I’m not saying it’s the right way to operate, but with the laws what they are, it’s sometimes the only way. Push him out and hope he’ll take a fall down the line.”
“How many little girls has the man molested? Does anybody know?”
“Well, they think he started back in junior high school,” Voyles said. “There’s a pattern we can follow, but it won’t hold up in court, ’cause it isn’t one hundred percent accurate.”
“What is it?”
“Well . . . watch the boys who like to torture animals. That doesn’t mean they’re automatically child molesters, but it does mean they’ve got a twisted side to them.”
Jerry shifted in his seat and looked at Voyles.
“I knew a boy like that when I was in school.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was in prison, last time I heard. I believe the charge was crimes against nature.”
“Uh-huh,” the cop said drily.
“Go on, Dick. Say it. And you just turned wrong. The house is back that way.”
“Damn! Well, you sometimes hear people brag about tying cats’ tails together and slinging them over a clothesline to listen to them yowl in pain; maybe they even leave them up there until the tails fester and rot. There are a lot of people who have done that, Doc. View them with suspicion ’cause they’ve got some wires crossed somewhere.”
“I agree.”
“It’s a long list, Doc. Any of those things I named doesn’t make someone a sex offender, but it does make him not quite normal. Still, normal is twenty-seven different ways. Normal, decent, majority-accepted behavior is just that.”
“A rose is a rose is a rose, huh?”
“In my book, Doc.”
“Mine too, Dick. Mine too. Back to Harry Anderson.”
“Where’d we leave him?”
“Junior high school. Turn here and backtrack.”
“The doctors thought they’d successfully brought him out of it in high school, but when his parents died suddenly, that triggered something. Oh. You asked how many with Harry? Fifty or sixty, Doc.”
“Jesus Christ! Then he’s really sick.”
“Yeah,” Voyles said with a sigh. “He’s sick. Can you see the bind that puts cops in, Doc.”
“Yes, but only because my brother was a cop. We talked a lot before he was killed. I’m not a bleeding-heart liberal, Dick. I realize that people like Harry Anderson are sick, yes. But they are also very dangerous. I really don’t know the answer. That image back at the house—your sister was raped, right?”
“Yeah. She was molested. She was eight years old. She never got over it, couldn’t have a normal sex life. Went through boyfriends and finally husbands like a baby goes through diapers. She killed herself five years ago. I see the Anderson house. Next block, on your right. I’m a good cop, Doc. Never abused a prisoner and I pray to God—literally—that I never will. But if I ever see that slimy son of a bitch that did those things to my sis ... I really don’t know what I’ll do.”
The man parked in front of the Anderson house and sat for a moment. Jerry asked, “You know where the guy is?”
“Yeah,” Voyles replied softly, “I know where he is, the bastard. Long as he stays out there, he’s safe. But if he ever comes into my territory . . .”
Voyles shook his head. “I just don’t know, Doc. Sometimes it scares me.”
“Marc seems to be really fond of his Dad,” Jerry reminded Dick.
“Was,” Voyles corrected. “Yeah. That’s what makes it so rough. Like I said: two personalities. At least.”
Harry Anderson answered the knocking at his front door. He stood for a moment, looking at the men. Both Jerry and Dick knew he was not going to cause any trouble; he seemed confused, not quite in touch with reality.
“Fine Harry said, after Jerry told the lie he had concocted. ”Keep the little shit as long as you like. I don’t care if I ever see him again.” He smiled, and it was an ugly smile. “Besides, I think you are all in for a ... well, let us say, a surprise.” He laughed.
“What kind of surprise, Anderson?” Voyles asked, the dislike and contempt he felt for the man evident in his voice.
“Unpleasant,” Harry said.
He shut the door.
Back in the car, his voice strained, Voyles said, “Did you . . . Jesus! Did you see what I saw back there, Jerry?”
“Yes.” The reply was soft. “Harry’s oldest daughter, sitting naked on the couch. Nothing like keeping his act at home, huh?”
“Sick. He’s a real sicko. God! Sometimes I wish I were still working the highways. But, oh no. Not me. I had to keep working, get my master’s and become a super cop. Then I really got to put both feet in slime, clear up to the knees.”
“Right now, Dick, we have a bigger problem facing us,” Jerry reminded him.
“Yeah,” Voyles replied, watching Jerry rub the back of his neck. “We sure do, Doc. We sure do.”
The savage heat did not abate with the coming of evening. The temperature stayed in the upper eighties long after the sun had dipped out of sight, cloaking the land in darkness. The small town of Good Hope seemed to pull into itself, shutting out all outsiders. An invisible but very real barrier surrounded the town. It appeared to the small gathering at Maryruth’s house that someone had pulled a shroud over the place, allowing no one in, no one out.
“Interesting way of putting it,” Vickie said, glancing at Voyles.
The cop grinned. “I’m smiling to keep from crying,” he admitted.
“I can certainly relate to that,” Janet said. She glanced at her left wrist and grimaced. “I left my watch at home. What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock,” Voyles said. He was looking at Jerry The man was once again rubbing his neck.
“Is something the matter with your neck, Jerry?” Maryruth asked.
Jerry glanced up, but he looked at Voyles, not at her. “It’s a nervous habit. Everytime I get tense, I start rubbing my neck. I’ve been doing it for years. Started in medical school when I was cramming.”
Voyles exhaled slowly, relief pushing aside the suspicions that he had been harboring, the uneasiness that had increased each time Jerry rubbed his neck.
Jerry grinned at the highway cop. “Thought I was one of them, didn’t you, Dick?”
“You asshole!” Voyles popped the words at him.
Heather and Marc both laughed at the cop’s outburst and then at his suddenly red face. Their laughter relieved the tension that hung in the room.
“I was watching you too, Dick,” Jerry said. “I saw the Andersons and Thomases rubbing their necks the other night. Then I saw other people doing the same, around town. The minister did it at the service, and all the police officers were rubbing their necks. I said what I did at the drive-in to get your reaction.”
“You sure got it,” Voyles said. “If you had rubbed your neck one more time, I would have had to decide whether to tackle you and tie you up, or shoot you.”
“There are real ugly-looking marks on the backs of my Mom’s and Dad’s necks,” Heather said. “They rub their necks, too.”
“So do my folks,” Marc said. “And they both have red marks.”
“They’ll probably be all right if we can stop the Manitou soon enough,” Bud told the gathering. “But time, as we know it, is rapidly running out. I fear for the worst.”
They all waited for him to explain. But as usual, the old Indian would say no more.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Lightning began dancing about, licking and illuminating the sky with jagged streaks. The storm was coming from the east, and everyone knew it would probably be a bad one.
As if reading
their thoughts, Bud said, “It is genuine, and not the work of Sanjaman. But he can, and probably will, play with it, directing it to his advantage.”
“Against us, you mean?” Maryruth asked.
Bud shrugged. “Perhaps. With a Manitou, even a sane one, one never knows. It all depends upon his mood.”
The wind began howling and screaming, buffeting the home, bringing with it the first drops of rain, large drops that hit the house so forcefully everyone suspected something more than nature was behind the storm.
“Listen!” Bud said.
They heard the regular rhythm of a drum, beaten with slow strokes. The sound was ominous. It contained a note that chilled them all.
“It is time,” Bud said, in that mysterious manner of his.
“Time for what?” Jerry asked.
“Nothing I could say would make any difference,” Bud replied. “Nor could anything I say prepare you for what you are about to face.”
As if in reply, the fury of the lightning increased and seemingly endless rolls of thunder crashed over them.
The beating of the drum remained a constant thing, the cadence never varying.
Conversation became nearly impossible. Shouting was the only way the small band could communicate with each other, and even that was sometimes not heard above the storm.
Heather and Marc huddled together in a corner of the room, two very frightened kids.
Laughter joined the crashing fury of the storm. The laughter rolled in waves of evil noise.
“What is that?”
But Bud would only shrug his shoulders.
“Look!” Maryruth shouted, pointing to a nicknack shelf above her TV.
Janet and Vickie sat in stunned shock, staring at the statues.
They had come to life, and were dancing to a melody only they could hear.
“They’re grinning!” Voyles shouted. “The goddamn things are alive.”
Then, one by one, the statues hurled themselves off the shelves, to crash on the floor below, shattering into chips.
The laughter rolled once more, this time containing a darker sound.
The TV set suddenly clicked on, projecting an instant picture before the eyes of the small group.
Sweet Dreams Page 19