It fit.
He turned it.
A click, then the trunk attempting to fly open.
But Jack held it open a crack, the trunk light squelched by the lid being held low.
Got the keys—and now I got the car.
A fucking match.
He slid to the left of the car, finally out of sight of anyone who might look down at the lot.
He couldn’t enter the car. The inside would light up. And like most cars, the interior light would stay on for a good few minutes.
He brought his head up slowly to look inside. Just at the level of the door lock. Another inch, so he could look inside.
On the dashboard—a picture magnet. The frame looked like a palm tree.
A picture in the frame.
Too damn dark to see.
He looked over his shoulder.
He’d have to risk a quick flash.
It would have to be so goddamn fast.
He dug out the flashlight.
He held the compact light next to his eyes. He aimed the light as if it was a weapon.
Targeting the small frame stuck just to the side of the radio.
It was possible that the frame held nothing.
Some knickknack that someone bought along. Empty. Useless
He held the light close to his face, breathing steadily. One quick flash.
Three, he thought.
Two.
One.
Now.
His thumb flicked the light on, then off.
To anyone looking, it might have seemed like an illusion. A flash of light? A lightning bug? Maybe nothing.
But Jack’s eyes had been locked on the small magnetic frame.
The light had missed its target by an inch or more, but there was enough of a glow around the core ray to hit the frame.
For Jack—whose eyes were locked on that frame—to see:
Tom Blair. His wife, Sharon. The two boys.
Then the image was gone.
Jack fell back, falling onto the ground.
He felt sick. He could throw up. The fear so real now. This was Tom Blair’s car. They hadn’t gone anywhere.
And only after sitting there for what seemed like such a long time did Jack look up.
To see a glow on the car’s front windshield.
A glow, picking up a reflection from the hill, from the service area up on that hill, up that road.
Something fiery, streaming up, way above the treetops, dissipating into a plume of smoke.
The reflection danced on the windshield of Tom Blair’s car. Something happening up there so late at night.
This night wasn’t over.
Not yet.
Again, Jack got into the painful crouching position.
He knew where he had to go.
He started a slow careful climb up the small hill.
33. 1:41 A.M.
Christie turned in the bed and let her arm reach out, a chill in the air making her seek warmth.
Instead, her arm touched nothing. The years of sleeping with another person by her side, just right there, made her awaken.
She looked at the empty space.
And immediately she sat up.
“Jack?” she said quietly.
Thinking he’d gone to bathroom. That he was somewhere outside.
Again: “Jack?”
But there was no answer and even before she slipped out of bed, feeling how cool the night had become, she knew he wasn’t here.
She stood in the middle of the living room. Then she went to the window. She saw Paterville guards standing outside by the lampposts at the end of the path leading from their cabin area.
Did he leave, just walk past them?
And where did he go?
But she knew. She knew as strongly as she knew anything. As much as she might have wished that Jack left work, his cop mind back in New York.
It was impossible. He wasn’t wired that way.
And if those keys… if they really were Tom Blair’s keys—
God, what would that mean…
Then he would have to find out.
And if they were, what would he do?
No—what would they do?
Because she also knew that Jack would talk to her. Tell her everything. He may have slipped out somehow. But when he came back, he would talk.
For now there was nothing she could do but sit down on the couch, in the darkness, and wait.
She grabbed a throw blanket filled with woven images of a summer mountain holiday from the nineteenth century, people with parasols and top hats.
Times change…
She draped it over her, then pulled her legs up, tucking them under the blanket.
* * *
Every step that Jack made brought the possibility of a noise that would catch someone’s attention.
He took care to bring his weight down slowly, testing the underbrush.
Near the top of the small hill, he stepped on a twisted piece of dried branch. The crack of the wood sounded like a gunshot.
Jack immediately looked up, eyes scanning the nearby woods for any movement, any response to that cracking sound.
Nothing.
He thought of his face, so pale, probably catching any light.
If there had been a moon, he’d easily stand out. But all there was were the flames from a chimney ahead, the dancing fiery embers floating up with the smoke.
The closer he got, the more light would fall on him.
Steady, he told himself. No rushing.
Another few minutes at a crawling speed, and he was at the top of the hill.
Closer to where the woods ended.
He finally saw where the service road led.
And for a minute, all he could do was look.
Cabins. Lots of them. People lived up here. Way too many for just the workers and the guards. The cabins looked bigger, like homes. Not the rustic summer-only places down below.
And other buildings, one nearly the size of the Great Lodge. A central meeting place maybe. Other buildings nearby. Mostly all dark.
He saw the building with the chimney, the smoke, the flames licking the sky.
The thought, standing there in the chilly darkness, It’s a town. This is a fucking town.
Something hidden from the guests.
Back to the big building with the chimney off to his left. What happened there? What were they doing there in the middle of the night?
He thought of something stupid.
They’re baking bread. Making tomorrow’s gruel. Cooking the soy crap, whatever the hell the cook used for soy.
Mighty big flames.
He had to get closer to this hidden town. But more important, to this one building that seemed to be operating at full steam.
Jack hugged the apron of the woods to get closer to the big building.
He also passed the cabins, dark as those below. Some with cars parked out front.
Because people live here, Jack thought.
This town also had guards—two stationed where the service road ended, both holding rifles.
And behind the town, above the woods, a turret like those by the main gate. No telling if it was manned; no lights.
Of course it’s manned, he thought.
They’d have a good look at the whole service area.
Got to remember that.
And cameras.
Got to have cameras here as well, not that I’d be able to make them out.
The odds of not getting spotted seemed slim.
But he had no choice.
He felt like an animal, step after careful step, moving closer to the big building.
And still well away from it, he caught the first breeze that carried the building’s smell.
It filled his nostrils. His stomach tightened. A stench that he couldn’t identify. He opened his mouth to breathe and then he kept moving.
* * *
Alongside the building. Crouched in the bushes.
The back of the building was closest to where he crouched. A front entrance faced the cabins and other buildings.
This building—well away from the others.
No cabin, no workshop, was even close to it.
That was good.
He needed to get in.
He looked up at the turret. It stood far away from this area, near another exit out of Paterville. They could get a look at him if he left his cover, but only if they happened to be looking at this spot at the right time.
And while Jack looked around, immobilized by his analysis of what he was going to do…
Two back doors to the building flew open.
The cook, Dunphy, walked out, a dark shadow in his apron and sleeveless T-shirt. He laughed. Two other men, one on either side, walked beside him.
The two men were half the cook’s size. The cook a monster. Obese. But having seen him in the kitchen, Jack knew he was also a monster with arms as thick as most men’s thighs. No neck, just that bowling-ball head that melted into a barrel of a body.
The three of them passed a bottle back and forth. Cook’s moonshine, Jack thought. More laughter, the words blurred but the tone lewd, drunken.
They walked to the side of the building, Dunphy fumbling at his pants. Moments later, Jack heard the sound of the cook’s piss hitting the ground.
C’mon, Jack thought. Go walk somewhere else. Let me look inside.
Then, as if hearing Jack’s thoughts, the three walked around to the front of the building. Cool night. Maybe it was hot inside.
Jack waited.
A few more steps, and the three of them stood near the front, out in the open. The laughter faint now. The bottle still being passed.
He took a breath.
Struggling to remain in the crouch, he hurried to the two open doors at the back of the building.
* * *
Charnel house.
That’s what he thought going in. Huge bubbling pots, the floor filled with blood.
A big oven under the chimney had massive black pans and pots bubbling away. On the other side, a walk-in freezer. The biggest walk-in freezer Jack had ever seen.
The walls, lined with saws, bolt guns, butcher knives.
The image so powerful he didn’t move, even though Dunphy could walk back and find him any minute.
And how would that go down? Jack thought.
Not too well.
He moved to a table to the right, a solid block of thick wood. He crouched down just in case the cook returned. On the floor something glistened. A curved butcher knife that must have fallen off the table.
Across the way, the entrance to the freezer. He crouch-walked his way to the double doors of the freezer.
He moved behind what had to be a twelve-foot-long table as if he was a soldier moving up on a target.
He looked around as he moved.
This kitchen, this insane place with its smells and cooking pots, could all be seen from here.
He saw something on a table across the way.
His attention first drawn there by the steady drip, drip, drip of blood running off the table.
His first thought: They’re going to eat the Can Heads.
Like when desperate cattle ranchers fed their steers the dead offal of other creatures… anything to try and make some money.
Is this their food? Jack wondered. Is this where they get it from?
Who’d be crazy enough to eat Can Heads, knowing that whatever threw a switch turning them into feral animals could be within them, ready to infect whoever ate it?
He slowly stood up, keeping his ears cocked for the sound of Dunphy and his laughing companions.
When he stood he could see the table, and what was on it. A body. First thought: They are dismembering the Can Heads and using them for food. For the chili, for the stews, for whatever the hell they served and ate.
But after a glance at the open back doors, Jack took a step toward the table, then another. Expecting to see some crazed Can Head face on the table.
The face, smeared with blood, but intact. Though already, its legs had been removed. One arm left.
He fought the gag reflex.
Until the angle was about right and he could really see the face.
Tom Blair.
Jack realized that he had been pushing that thought away the whole time.
Still no sounds from outside. It had only been minutes. They could stay out there for awhile, letting these pots bubble away.
He turned away from the big wooden table. Next to it, the freezer.
He hobbled his way over.
Hand on the freezer door. It had a latch that could be thrown over the handle and a place for a massive lock. But the latch wasn’t flipped, and there was no lock in sight.
He grabbed the handle. Important to pull it gently, he told himself. Don’t want a telltale click that cuts through the night sounds.
He pulled back so slowly.
He felt the latch disengage, the large freezer door ready to swing open.
When it was free, he pulled on the door smoothly now. A cloud of frost rushed out.
He saw metallic shelves loaded with covered plastic trays—so many, stretching to the full height of the freezer, which was nearly as high as this charnel house itself.
And deep. The freezer went back and to the side, easily half the length of the whole building.
When Jack walked in few more steps and the frost settled, he saw the hooks.
A row of fifteen metal hooks. Things hanging from them.
Different sizes.
His brain screamed at him: Leave. Don’t look. You’ve seen enough. Leave!
More steps into the freezer, his strides kicking up icy clouds as the humid air from outside also entered the freezer.
He saw the bodies hanging from the hooks.
God. The bodies.
Still dressed. Different sizes, because some were adults.
Some were—
Children.
He was close enough that he could touch the nearest, a woman. His hand felt the frozen, crinkly material of the skirt. The body twisted a bit, the head hanging down, gaping right at Jack because the hook had to be embedded in the back.
Sharon Blair’s eyes wide open.
Her dead, dull face for once registering something.
Horror.
His mind repeating dully:
Leave. Now.
There are things to be done.
Things that had to be done. He had seen enough. He knew enough.
He limped out of the freezer. As carefully as he had opened it, he shut it.
He went over to his hiding place, near the fallen knife. His journey from there seeming to have started a lifetime earlier.
Before he knew—really knew—everything.
Crouching down. Listening. So quiet.
34. 2:28 A.M.
He heard the laughter.
Dunphy the cook, his helpers—shit, they were coming back. The laughter louder. No way now to get out before they returned.
He stayed crouched.
The only guide to what was happening now were the sounds. The steps outside. The cook’s loud drunken voice. The others, the human hyenas at his side, laughing at anything, everything.
The voices passed close by, and the cook’s tone shifted.
“Chuck, go give the damn oven a look. Got to be cooked down soon. And Willy, let’s finish breaking this fucker down. I wanna get some goddamn sleep tonight.”
Everyone getting back to their assigned tasks.
The human butchery getting back in operation.
But Jack hadn’t heard them shut the doors.
He edged as close as he could to the way out. There was an open space of six or seven feet before he could slip away.
If anyone looked, they’d see him. They’d be all over him.
> No, he thought. That can’t happen.
I have things to do. Things that must be done.
Like a simple—what did his wife call it?—a mantra.
I have to get my family out of here.
He gave them a few minutes to get to their places, two men hacking at what was left of Tom Blair, the other at the stove. Possibly all of them looking away when Jack started to move.
Which he did.
Staying low, nearly crawling to the open doors. The blessed outside air hitting his nostrils. Step after awkward step. Not so fast that the footfalls made any sound, not with all the bubbling, and now the hacking, the chopping, the sawing.
Whack, whack, whack.
He finally got outside and moved like some insect, a hunted bug, a wounded cockroach hurrying as fast as he could to the safety of the dark woods, miles away, an eternity away as he sucked in each breath with every step.
Then deeper into the woods, still refusing to stop, though clearly sheltered by the darkness now.
Until, so deep, he felt he could stop and he fell forward.
His face catching a thorny bush, the prickers tearing at his face. He felt so happy, so goddamned happy that he had escaped, that he nearly cried with joy.
He had escaped.
He could get his family out of here.
He gave himself a few minutes to recover.
Such a small rest before he started moving again.
* * *
Christie sat on the couch, the throw blanket tight on her lap, when she heard the sound from the back.
She had seen the open bathroom window and realized how Jack had left. She looked in that direction and waited.
She heard a grunt. Then the sound of the window being shut, sluggish from humidity.
Jack’s steps told her he was limping.
Welcome to our vacation, she thought.
He walked into the room. He might have passed right by her.
“Jack,” she said quietly, not wanting to startle him in the darkness.
He stopped.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“I woke up. You were gone.” A pause. Then: “Where were you?”
He tossed the keys onto the coffee table.
Even in the dark room, the keys caught some light.
“I had to know,” he said. “About those keys.”
“I figured that, when I woke up and you were gone. Guess I know you.”
Vacation Page 18