Sandman

by William W. Johnstone

  Mike nodded. “Sure. No problem. But how do we get it to her without that brother of hers finding out?”

  “I have a hunch Mantine is listening to every word we’re saying anyway,” Father Gomez said. “So what difference does it make?”

  Mike and Leo could not help themselves; they looked around the conference room. Then, realizing what they were doing, they grinned sheepishly.

  “Tell her we’ll get it to her as quickly as possible.”

  Stanford relayed the message and hung up.

  Mike muttered, “I’ve got one of the best departments in the entire Southwest, and it’s all coming down to a ten-year-old with a walkie-talkie out to catch a bunch of spooks!”

  * * *

  Janis called Melissa, who said she couldn’t have picked a better time. Her mother was going on vacation with her boyfriend, and she’d been worried about leaving Melissa alone. This would work out fine.

  Janis didn’t worry about whether it would be all right to have someone over. The house was so huge her friends never interfered with the day-to-day doings of her family.

  Several times she’d had friends over for the night and her parents hadn’t even known it.

  Janis looked out back. Her father was sitting by the pool, enjoying the late afternoon sun. Connie was sitting with him.

  At first, Janis had been excited about her dad’s return. Then she had looked into his eyes, and her excitement was replaced by a cold feeling.

  Something was very wrong with her father.

  She didn’t know what.

  But she could make a pretty good guess.

  And it scared her.

  Her father’s eyes were dead looking, and his voice was a dull monotone. He had joked and kidded only until Janis’s friends had left.

  Then he had abruptly changed.

  Into what, Janis didn’t know.

  But she had a hunch things were about to go from bad to worse.

  Maybe that night.

  The girl glanced up the hallway. The door to Paul’s room was still closed.

  Janis opened the sliding doors to the patio, and joined her parents, by the pool. “Why don’t you two just relax and I’ll cook Mexican for dinner?” she suggested.

  Mark did not even acknowledge his daughter’s presence.

  Connie smiled. “That’s sweet, honey. We’ll take you up on that.” When she looked at her watch, Janis knew there was something on her mother’s mind. “Just go easy on the hot peppers this time, OK?”

  Mark scratched himself absentmindedly.

  Janis nodded at her mother, and went back into the house. She got a big package of ground chuck out of the freezer and put it in the microwave to defrost. Then she began to gather up onions and peppers and lettuce and cheese and tomatoes.

  She wished she could get those disturbing thoughts about her father out of her mind.

  But they would not entirely leave. They remained, crouched in a dark corner.

  And she did not like the sensation of them being there.

  She busied herself getting ready to cook her specialty: tacos.

  Melissa was dropped off, said hello to Mark and Connie—Mark only grunted a greeting. Then the girls busied themselves in the kitchen, staying out of Mark’s way.

  “What’s wrong with your dad, Janis? Just a few hours ago he was laughing and joking and acting like he was really up.”

  “I don’t know. You wanna grate the cheese? Something’s very wrong, though. You seen Lisa or any of the others since this morning?”

  “Naw. Talked to Bing and Roy though.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “They both took some money from their savings and went down to the hardware store. Bought hunting knives. You know, the kind you wear on your belt, in one of those leather cases.”

  “That might not be such a bad idea.” Janis told Melissa what she was getting from the police.

  “Awesome!”

  “Cool it. Here comes Paul.”

  No greetings were exchanged. Paul just looked at what she was fixing and grimaced.

  “You don’t have to eat it, you know,” Janis reminded her brother.

  He smiled very sweetly. “Of course, I’ll eat it, sister darling. Why, for me not to come to the table and be a part of the family on Dad’s first night home from the hospital . . . heavens!” He feigned great shock and consternation, putting a hand to his forehead. “What kind of son would that make me?”

  Janis had a pretty good idea, but kept her response to herself.

  Melissa was standing back, away from the boy, watching him closely.

  “What are you up to now, Paul?” Janis asked him. “I know you’re pulling something.”

  “Why, sister! How could you even think such a thing? Oh, when you’re ready, call me. I’ll be more than happy to help set the table.”

  He walked out of the kitchen, humming a popular rock song.

  Melissa watched him until he closed his bedroom door. “I thought he liked serious music.”

  “Yeah. He does. He’s gonna do something nasty. I just don’t know what. Or when.”

  Melissa, like Janis, wondered what Paul was up to.

  “He’s gonna pull something. I just know it. I wonder what it is ... ?”

  * * *

  Nothing.

  Nothing at all. Paul was a perfect son that evening. He helped set the table. He poured the iced tea. He helped serve. He was a joy to his mother.

  He was a fraud and a pain in the neck to Janis.

  If Mark noticed his son, he made no mention of it.

  He merely picked at his food, although he loved his daughter’s Mexican cooking.

  And he rarely looked up from his plate.

  Then he excused himself, saying he was tired, and went to the bedroom.

  “I guess Mr. Kelly is still kinda weak from staying in the hospital, huh, Mrs. Kelly?” Melissa asked.

  “I’m sure that’s it, Melissa,” Connie replied with a smile. But she had something on her mind.

  Janis picked up on it, and figured from the smug smile on Paul’s face, he knew what it was.

  “What’s wrong, Mother?”

  Connie patted her daughter’s hand. “I have a slight problem. I was supposed to speak to the Tucson Writers’ Guild this evening. But I hate to go off and leave you with your father.”

  “Oh, we’ll be all right, Mother. The Matthews are right next door. And Daddy’s here. Go on.” She looked at her watch. Just a bit past six. They had eaten early. “Besides”—this was directed at Paul—“the police have increased patrols in this area, remember?”

  Did Paul flush?

  She thought so.

  “You’re sure?” Connie asked. “You know how your father can be when he doesn’t feel well. He can be a bear.”

  “Oh, we’ll be just fine, Mother,” Paul assured her. His charming little smiles looked like a shark’s grin to Janis. “You go on and have a good time.”

  Connie returned his smile and gently ruffled her son’s hair.

  He hated that! He felt like reaching across the table and slapping her silly.

  But he smiled and tolerated it.

  Connie left the table, intent on bathing and dressing.

  “I think I’ll call Roy and Bing, and ask them if they’d like to come over.” Janis was looking directly at her brother.

  “Yeah!” Melissa said. “I think that’d be a really neat idea.”

  Janis rose from the table.

  “Sit down, sister,” Paul said.

  Janis sat.

  “There is no need to do that. Look at it from my point of view. I can’t stand the heat, so to speak. If you don’t understand that, let me put it another way: It would be stupid of me to cause any more trouble so soon. Around here. You get my drift?”

  “I get your drift, Paul. I just don’t trust you. Not at all. Not after all the things you’ve admitted to.”

  “Well, that is entirely your problem, sister.” Paul wolfed down the remainde
r of his food and stood up. “I’m going to my room and listen to some music, and perhaps read a bit. Then I shall bathe and retire for the evening. Good night!” He almost spat the last two words at them.

  The girls watched him go. Glad he was leaving.

  Paul caused goose bumps to rise up on Melissa’s flesh.

  But then, he always had.

  She said, “Every day, he talks more and more like some college professor, Janis. Not like a kid.”

  “I noticed. But he isn’t a kid, Melissa. He’s a hundred, a thousand, a million years old.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “He’s as old as evil!”

  Melissa shuddered.

  * * *

  Leo and Stanford dined at about the same time Connie was en route to Mesa Drive, to lecture would-be writers about the pitfalls of getting published.

  “Lovely time of day,” Leo observed, to break the pall that enveloped them, even in the busy dining room of the motel.

  “Yes.” Stanford looked up from his food. “Leo, I am not looking forward to this night, although I doubt we have to worry about the children. I think the boy has thought things out, or Mantine has warned him to go slow.”

  Leo waited for the other shoe to drop.

  “I’d wager, for a time, Paul will content himself with mischief rather than murder. I’ve seen this occur several times on the islands.”

  “And the missing body?”

  The inspector shrugged. “I’m only guessing—and hoping—that the deceased officer won’t make a deadly appearance. Not yet. Mantine will want the heat to die down.”

  “Let’s hope that you’re a good guesser, Stanford.”

  Willingston’s smile was thin. “Yes. Let’s do that.”

  * * *

  Mike Bambridge and Peter Loneman sat in Mike’s office. They were bachelors and neither one wanted to return to an empty house that evening.

  Not yet.

  Even though Mike was tired, the adrenaline was running high and fast.

  “Have you talked with Sheriff Sandry yet, Mike?”

  “Not yet. I know I should, but I just haven’t got in mind yet what I’m going to say.”

  Pete had to smile. “Should be a very interesting conversation when it occurs.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s a good cop, Mike. He’s a politician, but still a good cop.”

  Mike nodded.

  “Want to cruise the town?”

  “Beats sitting around here staring at the walls.”

  “Well, we could go pick up some women.”

  It was an old joke between them. Both men had suffered through some disastrous love affairs, and their emotional scars ran deep.

  Just the same, Mike was once more experiencing those old familiar pangs whenever he looked at Mary Beth.

  And he had a hunch that Pete knew it.

  He had changed out of his blues into street clothes. He stood up and clipped his holster onto his belt, checked his .38 Chief’s Special. Looked at it with some degree of disdain.

  “I don’t know why I carry it. Am I supposed to kill a spook with this?”

  Peter’s smile was somewhat forced. “Let’s roll.”

  * * *

  Father Dan Gomez knelt in front of the altar and prayed for strength to see them all through the ordeal to come.

  The priest sensed Satan all around him.

  Even as he knelt, he sensed the presence of the Dark One. He felt the Prince of Darkness was silently mocking his prayers and pleas to God.

  And he fought to concentrate, to keep his eyes downcast, to resist the almost overpowering urge to look around him and search the dark corners and pockets of the church.

  Dan knew the Lord of Filth was close; but he wasn’t about to give him satisfaction by showing fear.

  Though he certainly was experiencing a touch of it.

  Facing the Dark One was nothing new to the priest. But this time he felt the danger more strongly than ever before.

  And it filled him with a myriad of emotions. These, too, were stronger than any he had experienced. Anger. Hate. Disgust. Loathing. Fear. And the primitive urge to kill. To destroy.

  But he knew that he alone could not destroy the evil that slithered silently about the town.

  He also felt that not one of his new allies would, or could, kill a child. An eight-year-old boy. Ten thousand years of evil contained within a child’s form. Paul. Yet killing him went against everything all of them had been taught since childhood.

  They couldn’t do it even if he convinced them that Paul was totally, undeniably evil. The epitome of wickedness. A monster. The Son of Satan.

  Inspector Stanford Willingston ... ? Gomez felt the man was hiding some dark secret in his past. Yet the inspector just might be the one person with the insight to see beyond the boy’s innocent façade, to look past the mortal shape and see into the darkness beyond.

  Maybe.

  But if it came down to Dan Gomez, and he knew the boy had to be destroyed, would he have the strength to do it?

  The priest didn’t know.

  But Gomez, despite his doubts and fears, was certain of one thing: He was going to have to meet the boy, face to face.

  A lowly and humble, and very mortal, man of God meeting the child of Satan.

  Gomez wasn’t looking forward to that either.

  He bowed his head and prayed.

  * * *

  Mary Beth Fletcher was restless. Rising from her chair, cutting off the TV, pacing the confines of her nice home. She paused often to look outside.

  It would be dark in about an hour.

  The central air conditioner spewed forth its artificial coolness, filling the house.

  But Mary Beth felt something else creeping around her, touching her—something as intangible as the cooled, pumped air.

  She didn’t know what it was.

  Yes, she did.

  She just wouldn’t admit it.

  Not yet.

  But soon.

  Her chin set in determined defiance, she walked to the wet bar and fixed a light gin and tonic. Clicked on the stereo. Spun the dial. Could find nothing she liked. She flipped through her records and tapes. Same thing.

  She turned off the stereo.

  The silence pulsed around her.

  Like a heartbeat.

  Heavy. Thudding. Slow.

  She heard a giggling.

  The house creaked.

  The giggling stopped.

  She heard a rattling. Looked around her. She could see nothing.

  “Damn!” The word exploded from her mouth.

  The rattling grew louder.

  She looked down at the bar, at her glass of ice and gin and tonic.

  The glass was moving. Shaking from side to side. Slopping out the liquid. The ice cubes banging against the side of the glass.

  Impossible.

  But there it was.

  She grabbed for the glass. Missed. The glass had side-stepped her hand. She tried again. Caught the moving glass.

  She immediately turned it loose and fought back a yelp of pain.

  She looked at her fingers.

  They were reddening and beginning to blister where the icy, moisture-coated glass had burned her.

  Burned her!

  That was impossible.

  But the throbbing in her fingers, the blistered flesh, mutely told her it had happened.

  The glass had ceased its movements.

  The giggling could not be heard.

  The house grew silent.

  Controlling her shaky nerves, Mary Beth walked to the bathroom and tried to open the medicine cabinet to get some salve.

  The mirrored door would not budge, no matter how she tugged and jerked at it.

  She looked into the mirror, then screamed at the sight staring back at her.

  Snakes.

  Hundreds of coiling, open-mouthed and fanged serpents, piled on top of one another, greeted her eyes. They seemed three-dimensional, re
ady to leap out at her.

  She felt something tugging at her jeans.

  Looked down. Didn’t want to look. Afraid of what she might see.

  Her fears were confirmed.

  A dirty human hand and part of an arm were protruding out of the commode, the fingers clutching at the denim.

  She screamed in pure terror, kicking at the hand and arm, dislodging the fingers from her jeans. Then she ran, in blind panic, from the bathroom. Ran into the hall wall in her haste. Stumbled. She could hear the snakes hissing in the bathroom, the hand and arm flopping around on the tile. It was a wet, oozing, slimy sound.

  She ran up the hall and into the kitchen, grabbing her purse and fumbling in it for car keys. Then she tore through the door to the garage, slammed it shut, and ran to her car.

  Something grabbed at her behind, catching on a pocket.

  She howled in fear.

  Looked around.

  It was only a broken handhold on a garbage can.

  She jerked free and managed to get into the car. Fumbled with the keys, but got them into the ignition.

  Something moved on the back seat.

  There was a sickening sweet odor in the car.

  Smelled like . . .

  Death.

  The door from the kitchen to the garage was slowly opening.

  She heard that wet, slapping, slimy sound.

  The arm and hand.

  She lifted her eyes to the rearview mirror.

  Met the eyes of the cop, Andy. She could see where the mortician had repaired his mangled throat.

  He was dressed in uniform.

  Grinning at her.

  He put his hands, pale and lifeless, on the back of her seat and slowly pulled himself forward.

  She could feel his stale breath on the side of her face as he came closer.

  She could not move, was frozen in the seat.

  In the mirror, she watched the corpse open its mouth, saw stitches tear out of dead lips to dangle down like tiny black worms.

  His breath was horrible.

  Andy put a dead hand on her shoulder.

  The kitchen door banged. Cutting horror-filled eyes to it, Mary Beth could see a slime-trail, like a large slug would make, glistening behind the arm as the fingers pulled it along.

  Andy’s hands reached over the seat.

  And Mary Beth’s mind clicked off. Darkness drifted over her, red-tinged darkness.