by Gideon, John
She glanced back at Carl in time to see him wince a little. This was incredible: Carl Trosper was a hard-nosed lawyer and professional politician, hardly the kind of man to be rattled by bump-in-the-night tales.
“You’re not telling me that you believe all that claptrap, are you, Carl? For God’s sake, this is 1986, not 1186. The Dark Ages are gone! Monsters are out and computers are in. If we’re going to talk about problems, let’s at least talk about real ones.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t be so quick to poke fun at something you know nothing about,” said Carl with ice in his voice.
“Oh, hey, I’ve heard the whole bloody story,” said Lindsay, “including the part about how Jeremy drove Lorna to kill herself, how somebody stole her body and worked some sort of magic on it, so that she could give birth to a baby monster. Now, if you’re going to try and make me believe that all this is true—”
“It’s true,” said Carl solemnly. “All of it.”
“Oh, brother!”
Lindsay thrust her palms into the air and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. This was bad, much worse than she had feared. Hannie Hazelford’s insanity must be infectious, she concluded, and Carl must have caught it. Which meant that things did not look good for Jeremy, who needed care from a sane, competent adult.
“Carl, I’m going to give you one more chance to prove that you’re not ready to be hauled off in a net. There’s a lot at stake here: your son’s future, his recovery, your own—”
“Lindsay, I went to Whiteleather Place this afternoon. I saw Hadrian Craslowe and Jeremy, and they were engaged in some sort of horrible ritual. Jeremy was in a trance, floating in the air with no ropes or wires. I saw Teri Zolten and Sandy Zolten, old Mrs. Cashmore, and several other people who’ve been missing, and they were all—they were...”
Carl seemed at a loss for words to describe the people he had seen, but his eyes conveyed a stark horror that startled Lindsay.
“I—I can’t really say it, but it was horrible, detestable. And I saw Jeremy’s hands, Lindsay!”
These he could describe, as well as Craslowe’s, and he did. Lindsay stood as though frozen to the floor as Carl talked on, wondering how anyone could remember a nightmare this elaborate. When Carl had finished, Hannie Hazelford rose from her chair and laid her osteal hands on their shoulders.
“This isn’t the time for wrangling amongst ourselves,” she said gently. “We have other matters to attend to, such as saving Jeremy and restoring him to a normal human state. If we can agree on nothing else, can we at least agree on that?”
Lindsay spoke first: “Maybe I should ask just what this entails.”
“Several things, actually,” answered the old witch. “First, we must kill the offspring to which he has become the steward. Then we must destroy Hadrian Craslowe and the Giver of Dreams.”
It all sounded so matter-of-fact, like the old English fish recipe that began First catch a dozen trout....
“In other words, commit murder,” said Lindsay. “And I’m sure that it all involves lots and lots of gruesome mumbo jumbo, doesn’t it?”
“Lindsay, for once in your life stop acting like you’ve got a broomstick up your ass!” Carl shouted angrily. He now stood up, straight and tall, his shoulders thrown back. He seemed strong. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you don’t know everything in the world? That just possibly you could be wrong about something? I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you don’t know everything, and you are wrong about some things! This is one of them.
“I didn’t lie to you about what I saw at Whiteleather Place, and I didn’t hallucinate it. I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you believe me or not, but know this: I’m going to save my son from Hadrian Craslowe and his evil, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to get the job done, no matter how sickening or disgusting or vile it might be. I’m going to do exactly what Hannie tells me to do, because that’s the only hope I’ve got. Now, you can believe me or disbelieve me, or you can call me a fucking lunatic, but don’t even think about trying to stop me. If you want to help, then fine, you’re more than welcome, because God knows we need help. But if you won’t help, then get the hell out of here!”
Robinson Sparhawk spoke for the first time since the introduction, his face long with concern, his voice heavy. “Don’t go high-tailin’ it away, darlin’, because Carl’s right: We do need help. And for what it’s worth, I can tell you that he ain’t lyin’ about what’s out at Whiteleather Place, because I’ve been out there myself. I saw enough to corroborate everything he’s said.”
He took a moment to lick down a cigar, to fire it up with his butane. Blowing out smoke that swirled dizzily in the rays of the waning sun, he went on.
“Know what else, darlin’? I went through just about the same kind of crisis that he did, the same one you’re just now starting to go through—the crisis of belief. It ain’t easy to throw away everything you’ve always known to be true and substitute somethin’ that smells like a jug of nitrogenous waste. But it can be done, and you can live through it, same as he did, same as I did.”
“Robbie’s right,” said Hannie. “The truth always finds a way to be believed, I’ve always said.”
Lindsay’s hands suddenly felt very cold, and she struggled with images and thoughts that were most unwelcome. The things her mother had said about Jeremy’s powers. The historical account of someone named Gadrian Krazlov, who read the future in the guts of murdered women and children. Carl’s description of Jeremy’s hands. For a moment, she almost believed she was the victim of some kind of group hypnosis, because the room was swimming and growing dim in the coppery light.
Carl was talking in a low voice, and Lindsay forced herself to listen, to hear.
“Ianthe Pauling begged me to leave town, said that Jeremy was beyond help, lost. But Hannie says that there’s hope—”
“Only if we act,” the old woman put in urgently. “The time is growing short!”
“I can’t give up on him, Lindsay. He’s my son. I’ve failed him before, but I’m not going to fail him this time. I don’t care what I have to do. I’m going to get him back.”
“If everything you’ve told me is true,” said Lindsay, having gotten herself together again, “wouldn’t it be best to call the police and let them handle this? It seems to me that they’d be anxious to check out any lead on the missing people, no matter how unbelievable it might sound.”
“The police would be powerless against Hadrian Craslowe,” answered Hannie. “They’d go blundering into Whiteleather Place with their guns and dogs and bullhorns, but the best they could do would be to force him to flee. He would only start anew somewhere else. More innocent lives would be lost. What’s worse, the police could do nothing to help Jeremy—for that we require the assistance of much higher authorities.”
“For that, we need magic,” said Robbie with a gentle smile. “Let us leave this house now,” said Hannie, gathering up her slicker from the chair over which she’d tossed it. “Evening will soon be upon us, and this won’t be a safe place after dark. Ianthe Pauling was right, Carl, when she warned of Hadrian’s retaliation against you. You will be safe, however, in my cottage, as you will be, Lindsay. I’ve taken certain precautions.”
“Your cottage!” said Lindsay. “But I didn’t come prepared to spend the night—”
“Not to worry,” commanded the old Englishwoman. “I’ve spare rooms and a sofa that converts to a bed. As for toiletries, we can pick up some things at the Seven-Eleven on the way. No food, though, because tonight will be anight of fasting, which is essential to our rituals. Now come.”
Incredibly, Lindsay let herself be dragged along, not believing and not disbelieving, but only hoping.
29
Vengeance was a cup from which Mitch Nistler had never drunk. Throughout his life he had always been the victim, the target of wrongs, but he had always lacked the means and the will to strike back at the multitude of his tormentors.
As
a kid he had suffered taunts, insults and rejection, simply because he was homely and different and, worst of all, poor. He and his family had silently endured the humiliating charity of a local rich man, Ted Dawkins, who had regularly appeared on the doorstep of their shack near the marina, laden with pots of homemade food and weird little hand-carved figurines that were supposed to cheer the Nistlers’ bleak lives. The food had always tasted bitter and overly seasoned, the toys had brought no cheer, and the Nistler family had crumbled into desolation.
Mitch had hated Ted Dawkins and his phony show of mercy, but he had never thought of striking back for the humiliation that the man had inflicted. In fact, after getting out of prison, Mitch readily accepted the job that Dawkins had talked old Matt Kronmiller into giving him. Mitch had suffered no pangs when he heard that Dawkins and his wife had eaten rat poison shortly thereafter.
He had craved no revenge against his childhood tormentors, nor, in later life, against Matt Kronmiller, his tyrannical boss and landlord. Not until Corley the Cannibal Strecker had reentered his life did he come to know the thirst.
Tonight he meant to drink deep from that cup, knowing that this could well be the last real joy that he would ever taste. Sickness was burning him up from within, eating away the flesh and leaving hideous red welts and itchy blisters. His lungs were tight with fluid, his joints and muscles stiff with ache. If through some miracle he survived this contagion contracted through sexual union with a dead woman, his future looked anything but bright, thanks to Jeremy Trosper and the thing that lived on the second floor of his house.
Even at this moment, the thing was mewling with hunger. Having made his delivery of crack and money to an alley in downtown Seattle, he had returned to his own place rather than drop off the load of unprocessed cocaine at Cannibal’s crack house—a violation of his instructions. He waited now in the inky darkness of his living room, sprawled in a chair that he had moved to a front window, gazing out at the nightscape through the dirty glass. In his fist was an icy bottle of Olympia.
He sipped the beer and relished the sting on his throat. He gloried in the platinum glow of the full moon and the shadowy silence of the woods beyond his weed-choked yard. He savored the fullness of each passing minute. The night was alive with the black promise that for once in his miserable life, he—Mitch Nistler—would be the predator and not the prey.
His heart leapt as headlight beams danced among the trees and swept into the muddy drive of his yard. He heard the grumble of a large engine and the grinding of gears, the crush of gravel as someone hit the brakes hard. Without his glasses, Mitch could not see clearly the dark hulk of the vehicle in front of his house, but he knew from the sound that it was Cannibal’s Blazer. Cannibal had tired of waiting for him, had grown anxious about the fifteen thousand dollars worth of cocaine that had not shown up on schedule, and had come to investigate, just as Mitch knew he would.
He jumped up from the spot near the window and moved back toward his bedroom, pausing en route to open the door that led upstairs.
He heard a voice from the front of the house: “You stay in the truck, Punkin’. I’ll go see if I can find the little puke. I just hope he’s here, so I can get my hands on him.”
Another voice, brassy and grating: “He’s got to be in there somewhere, because his fuckin’ rust-bucket car is here.”
“I know that. I’ve got eyes, too, y’know. Just stay in the fuckin’ truck, okay?”
Heavy footfalls on the porch. A pause. The booming of a huge fist against the door. Which swung open, because Mitch had not latched it.
A gigantesque figure of a man appeared in silhouette against the Blazer’s high beams. Mitch peeked around the doorsill of his bedroom, staying deep within the shadow and squinting through the glare.
“Mitch, are you in there?”
Mitch’s heart started thumping madly. It was happening now, just as he had planned it. The cup was near his lips. The son of a bitch was behaving exactly as Mitch knew he would.
“Mitchie, answer me! I know you’re in there, you little shit! What’re you trying to pull here, anyway?” Cannibal stepped across the threshold and halted. “God damn! It smells like a sewer full of dead rats in here!”
Mitch heard the sound of Cannibal’s hand clawing along the wall in search of the light switch, heard the switch snap; but no lights came on. Mitch had removed the bulbs from their sockets.
“What’s the deal, Mitchie? Did you forget to pay your power bill?”
Cannibal took another wary step, and Mitch reached into his pocket to finger the heavy padlock that he had bought earlier that day. From the thing upstairs came only silence now, as though it knew what was afoot and was willing to cooperate.
Another step.
“Okay, Mitchie, I’m done fuckin’ around with you. Give me the goddamn coke. It doesn’t belong to you, man. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but whatever it is, it’s not worth having Laughing Luis come after you. You’re smart enough to know that, aren’t you, Mitch? Just give me the coke, and I’ll get out of here.”
Right. But not until you’ve pulled my arms and legs off and left me to die like the moths you used to catch in your cell, you sorry mother-fucking piece of vomit.
“I mean it, Mitch. This isn’t funny anymore.”
Mitch was loving this. His senses seemed sharper than they had been in years. Cannibal Strecker was sweating, worrying, and the first draught of sweet revenge was feeling good going J down.
Sweat, you worthless chunk of lard, SWEAT!
Stella DeCurtis’s voice sliced through the night: “Is he in there?”
“Yeah, he’s in here somewhere!” Cannibal shouted back. “And hes going to be one sorry little mouse-man when I get done with him, you can bet your ass on that! Unless, of course, he comes out right now! You hear that, Mitch?”
Cannibal seemed reluctant to take another step, maybe because of the stink. Or maybe because a remnant of childhood dark-fear was stirring in his guts. Time to start phase two, Mitch figured.
He pulled his head back into his bedroom and drew a painful breath. This had better work, or Cannibal would have him, and he would know pain as he had never known it or ever dreamed it.
“I’m up here,” he hollered, “at the top of the stairs! If you want your coke, you’re going to have to come and get it!” Mitch heard movement: the sound of a few more steps. Cannibal was taking the bait.
“Is that you, Mitchie? Where’d you say you are?”
“Open your fuckin’ ears, you big shit-covered pig! I said I’m upstairs, and I’ve got your coke. You want it, you come and get it!”
Silence ensued, and Mitch worried that Cannibal could hear his wheezing. If Cannibal were still sweating, he wasn’t the only one now. Mitch held his breath, edged his face to the doorjamb, peeked around it, and saw the shadowy silhouette of Cannibal standing a few feet away, staring into the blackness of the open door that led upstairs. Mitch froze. He dared not start breathing again, feeling his face grow hot. He imagined that the big man was quivering with rage.
“Okay, if that’s what you want, you little shithead, I’ll come and get it. And I’ll gel you, too!”
Cannibal inched forward and placed a foot on the first step, the other on the second, and moved upward to the creaks and snaps of the old staircase. Three steps, four steps, five. Mitch launched himself at the door, grabbed its edge, and slammed it. With cold fingers he slapped the hasp home and slipped the padlock through the staple, clicking it shut.
He heard huge thumps on the stairs—Cannibal coming back down—and fists booming on wood, hands frantically working the knob. The door groaned against Cannibal’s weight, but the lock and hasp held fast.
“Mitch, God damn it, you let me out of here! What the hell is going on with you, anyway? Mitch! MITCH!”
For a moment there was silence, perhaps some indefinite hint of movement overhead, something scuttling across the floor upstairs, and Cannibal had heard it. Mitch leaned his bac
k against the door, worrying that he lacked the intestinal fortitude to endure what would surely come next.
“0 GOD, THERE’S SOMETHING IN HERE! GOD, MITCHIE, OPEN THE DOOR!”
But that wasn’t possible. The cup was not yet empty. Neither was it as sweet as Mitch had hoped it would be. He heard the scrabbling of claws, the clicking of teeth.
“OH, FUCKING CHRIST ALMIGHTY, ITS GOT ME! JESUS GOD, MITCH, PLEASE! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! IT’S GOT! OH, NO-NO-N-! HELP MEEEEAAAAH-HHHHHHHH!”
Mitch lurched away from the door and staggered-stumbled toward the headlights at the front of the house, unable to bear any more of Cannibal Strecker’s screams. He burst out to the porch and fought the glare with an upraised hand, steering himself toward the Blazer, which sat still on its fat tires, its throaty engine idling. Jeremy had done his part, just as he had promised, and stood next to the pickup near the passenger’s door, his face a vulpine horror. Inside sat Stella DeCurtis, her comatose eyes fixed straight ahead, her once-cruel mouth hanging slack and open, Jeremy’s victim.
Mitch knew she would not move a muscle until Cannibal came for her.
30
The last thing on earth that Stuart Bromton wanted to hear over the intercom was that he had a visitor, and the last person on earth he wanted to see was Dr. Hadrian Craslowe. But he dared not refuse to admit the man, dared not even keep him waiting for long.
“Give me a minute and show him in,” he told the dispatcher.
A minute. Sixty seconds. Not much time to hammer his wits back into shape. For the past thirty-six hours or so, ever since his incredible encounter with the doctor in Mitch Nistler’s upstairs bedroom, Stu had lived in a kind of limbo. He had gone through the motions of being a police chief, a husband, and father. But in his mind he had seen himself as an actor in a play. It was like watching from the safety of a darkened box seat—removed from the action, interested in the goings-on, but not really involved.