“Dan!” Leah shouted. “No! He doesn’t know. He’s not the Stickman! We got the wrong guy.” As soon as she said it, the irony hit her. This could’ve turned out exactly like the Harry Stork murder did fifteen years ago.
While she talked, Ethan came around and helped Dan off of Tommy Stork after taking the gun from Stork’s loosened grip. Dan slowly got up, leaving Stork gasping in the mud. “It wasn’t me,” he said quietly.
“I know,” Leah said. “I know. It was your goddamn pa.”
“What do you mean?” Dan asked as Ethan brought Stork’s arms around behind and slapped on the cuffs.
“The blood. The blood should have been a hundred percent match to Harry Stork’s if it was Tommy’s. They’re identical twins. They have—had—identical DNA. But the blood, it wasn’t . . . The match wasn’t one hundred percent. It was ninety-nine point nine . . . whatever. The blood can’t belong to Tommy.”
She saw revelation wash over Dan and she nodded vigorously. He was probably going through the same thing she just had, the moment when everything started making sense, when all the pieces of the picture started lining up, and once it started, it just kept going.
Ethan looked up, but his expression was more one of pride. Almost as though he was silently telling Leah, See? I knew you could do it. Dan, on the other hand, started connecting the dots. She could see it happening right there, plain as the moon frowning down.
“Exactly,” she said without him saying a word. “The blood’s not from him, it’s from his pa, Noah. Noah Stork is the Stickman. And, I guess, the Strangler. And that’s why he knows so goddamn much about mental illnesses. He’s got one. Actually, I think he’s probably got many, but one’s gotta be something like dissociative identity disorder.”
Dan looked confused. “Dis—” he started.
“Multiple personalities. He’s like that woman in that movie.” She couldn’t remember the name of the movie. It didn’t matter. “Come on! Let’s go.”
Dan raced after her. “Wait,” he said. “Let’s take my car. I’ll drive!”
She stopped and turned back for just long enough to snap, “Like hell you will !”
CHAPTER 63
After landing fairly quietly on the lush grass between Stork’s garage and the woods, Jonathon left the ladder where it was, up against the roof. It was actually well-hidden here in the shadows. Likely the absence of it from the back wall would give it away faster than a casual glance back here.
Jonathon didn’t like leaving this side of the garage. He felt safer here with the wild forest only a couple of yards away and the bony light of the moon blocking him out than he did anywhere else. Other than being slightly more hidden, being here really wasn’t any safer than anywhere else, but something about those clutching trees and bushes made him think that if anything started to happen, he could just dive in to the underbrush and lose himself.
Then he heard something, something that tore a hole right into him. From the other side of the wall, Carry, whose sobs had been growing since Jonathon had arrived, gave out a shriek.
Oh, dear Christ, Jonathon thought. Not now. Not when I’ve come this far.
In one way, hearing Carry had bolstered him. She still lived. But in another, having never heard her cry before, he felt as though he could crumple right into the lawn at his feet.
He shook the thought away. Now he had to finish this. It didn’t matter what had happened to Miss Leah and those other guys, it was all down to Jonathon. And he could do it. He thought about his grandpa and whispered to himself, “Indian blood, my friend. Indian blood.” He remembered all his grandpa’s stories and thought that, after tonight, he’d have a good story of his own.
Keeping down, he crept around the back of the barn. It was more open here, and he felt more exposed. Not only that, the moon was near on its way to being right overhead, and it focused down on him like a searchlight.
The cat he owed so much to had disappeared. Not that he blamed it.
Feeling something rise in his throat from all the stress roiling in his stomach, Jonathon slowly lifted his head to peer in the window.
And, for the first time, Jonathon got a look at the man who would kill the girl whom Jonathon loved, someone who, according to the police report Abe had given him, was named Tommy Stork.
Stork didn’t see him. He wasn’t interested in the window. And, for a moment, Jonathon’s heart slowed down and he almost relaxed. He knew where Stork was, and as long as he did, he was safe. He could take his time. Then he saw something else in that garage, and his relief quickly disappeared in a flurry of adrenaline.
It was Carry. She lay on the floor on her side, just a few feet away from where Stork stood. Her arms and ankles were pulled backward where they’d all been hog-tied together. On top of this, she wasn’t wearing a shirt or even her bra. Jonathon felt a surge of heat rise in his body. If that animal in there had laid even a finger on her, it would be the last chance he’d ever have to do it again. Jonathon would make sure of that.
The irony of what he just thought about Tommy Stork wasn’t at all clear to him, of course, because he had no way of knowing the man he now watched speaking something to Carry wasn’t Tommy Stork at all, or that Tommy Stork had already lost two of his fingers in a construction mishap. Nor did Jonathon have any way of knowing that, at that very moment, Leah, Dan, Chris, and Ethan were driving to his position, hopefully in time to throw a monkey wrench into the way this dizzyingly terrifying night was unfolding.
Jonathon allowed himself another second to gaze from his vista. Carry appeared in shadow, slightly behind a tall, narrow table that sat ninety degrees from a workbench that ran the length of the wall beneath the window. The light in the garage was dim and, indeed, flickery. Only two fluorescent lights were installed along the bottom of the ceiling joists, the inside of the garage being unfinished, and of the two, only the dual bulbs in the far one by the door actually worked. The other, the unit closest to Jonathon, had one dead bulb and another with that annoying flicker. Jonathon figured that bulb didn’t have long to live.
So, it’s a race, he thought, between a fluorescent bulb and the girl of my dreams.
Carry’s chest heaved with deep breaths. The way she was tied pushed out her abdomen and obviously made it hard to inhale far. When she blew out, it all came with a continual sob that practically broke Jonathon’s heart every time. His insides felt as cold and dead as the cement floor Carry couldn’t get up from.
While Jonathon appraised the situation, his eyes constantly went back to Stork, waiting for him to telegraph any sort of move or a turn of the head. Jonathon knew Carry’s only chance of survival was now left with him, and he wouldn’t go down that easily. At the far end of the garage, as though waiting to be packed up, Jonathon made out the shadows of what looked like some tools. One stood on its head, either a sledgehammer or an ax or something to that effect. Beside it, something else that Jonathon couldn’t make out leaned against the inside wall.
Then he saw something about that wall and the others that almost made him vomit.
The long wall, the one Jonathon had felt safest hiding behind, was nearly completely covered with what looked like a dark brown paint, shot from one of them paint guns he’d played with once at someone’s birthday party he’d been invited to. Now, Jonathon couldn’t remember whose party it was, but he certainly remembered those guns. They weren’t real, but they were close enough for him. Even though the company hosting the event made everyone wear goggles, Jonathon took a shot to his upper cheek, and it hurt so much he’d had to sit out the next two rounds. The green paint that impacted him splattered up over his goggles and down around his neck in a pattern pretty similar to the “paint” he was seeing now.
He felt himself retch when he realized this was the room all of the Stickman victims had been killed in. He looked at the wall across from that one, the one Stork and Carry waited alongside, and saw more of those faded patterns. Only, near on halfway between him and the door, there were tw
o splatters that weren’t faded at all. Even the fluorescents glimmered in the bright red explosive bursts that looked even fresher than the blue paint on the outside of the garage.
None of the splatters rose to more than four, maybe four and a half feet from the floor. The victims were all shot sitting down or, more likely, Jonathon surmised, while tied up backward the way Carry was now. It was all too gruesome and, finally, Jonathon had to duck away. Not because he worried Stork was going to glance out the window and see him, but because the thought occurred to him that the way the blood was situated made it appear to be a strangely macabre wainscoting.
Jonathon realized one thing: For him to successfully save Carry, it was integral that he control his mind. Already, it was breaking free of its cage far too easily, and the really hard part hadn’t even started yet. Crouched down beneath the window, he did a visualization technique his grandfather had taught him, claiming it originally came from a great Indian shaman.
This was one of the stories Jonathon never knew whether to believe or not, but the fact remained that it did help clear his mind and calm him down. Thinking only of his breath, he let all other thoughts flow down a river in his mind. He gave them none of his attention, only assured himself that the thought had happened and then he let it go, like a dandelion seed floating on a late September breeze. Soon, fewer and fewer thoughts came down that river, until all he saw was the gently ebbing and flowing of the water. No longer did he even feel his breath.
Just like always, something happened then. From out of the woods following the slowly curving river, came a bear. Always it was the same bear. His power animal, as his grandpa said. “Not everyone gets a bear, you know,” he had told Jonathon the first time he’d managed to get that far into the exercise. “You should feel very proud to have that bear.”
“What do others get?” Jonathon had asked when the visualization was over.
“One never knows. Some get a frog. Some a beaver.” His grandpa laughed. “I know one who even got a coyote.”
“Why is that funny?”
His grandpa stopped laughing. “Coyote is not a good power animal. He is a trickster. Having a coyote for your animal makes you weak and a sham. A charlatan.”
“What is your animal?” Jonathon asked quietly, unsure of how apropos the question was.
“What do you think?”
He considered the question, his eyes falling to one of the wooden masks on the wall of the room. “An eagle?”
His grandpa raised one eyebrow. “No, but you’re close.”
Jonathon shook his head. He could think of nothing close to an eagle. “A hawk, then?”
“No.” His grandpa laughed. “What’s my name?”
Then it came to him. His grandpa’s power animal was a raven.
“Is a raven good? What does it mean?”
Light came to his grandpa’s eyes. “Raven is very good. He is a master of time and space, and he can fold each together to put you in the right moment at exactly the right time.”
“For what?”
His grandpa raised an index finger. “That’s part of it. You don’t know. Raven knows, only. He has a plan already set out. Raven stands for rebirth, recovery, a sort of renewal of one’s soul. He can heal and cast light where there is only darkness.”
“Wow, that’s a lot.” Jonathon dropped his gaze. Suddenly his bear didn’t seem all that fantastic anymore.
His grandpa’s hand gripped his shoulder. “What made you change just now?”
“I dunno,” Jonathon said, trying not to sound disappointed. His eyes lifted to his grandpa’s. “What does a bear do?”
His grandpa’s eyes grew wide and clear. “Bear is fierce, a protector. He is the embodiment of the Great Spirit. And don’t forget, your animal has his own constellation. Remember? The Great Bear?”
Jonathon smiled. He certainly did, a group of stars otherwise known as Ursa Major. The Big Dipper formed from his neck and body.
“He learns quick, too,” Jonathon’s grandpa added, “and is by far the most fearsome hunter in the woods.”
“Really?” Jonathon had asked, a little perkier but dubious of this last claim. His eyes narrowed. “What about tigers?”
His grandpa had waved the question away. “Oh, tiger’s good, too. But you are bear!”
Now, Jonathon stood on one side of the river and across from him stood the bear, up on his hind legs. Almost the same height, they stayed silent, staring into each other’s eyes. The water no longer flowed. Gentle ripples in an otherwise mirrored surface caught the rays of sunlight beaming warmly upon them. Jonathon made out the bright flashes from the corners of his eyes.
The bear’s voice filled Jonathon’s head. “She needs you. Your courage has brought you this far. You must protect her, as I protect my cubs. Think of her as your cub, and you’ll become the most dangerous animal in the world.”
With that, the voice left Jonathon’s mind, and the bear got back down on four legs, turned, and lumbered slowly back into the woods, the bushes and trees closing up behind him, leaving not a trace of his path.
Jonathon opened his eyes, still sitting squatted beneath the garage window. Carry’s crying still reverberated through the walls, but Jonathon was no longer panicked about them. He knew what he had to do. And he needed to be careful and slow to do it right.
Then, Carry’s sobbing stopped and, although her voice still sounded chilled and wet, she asked Stork something. The words were too muffled by the wooden siding for Jonathon to make them out, but Stork’s answer came through loud and clear. “Don’t worry, honey,” he quipped, his voice strangely bell-like. “This will all be over soon enough. And it won’t even be painful, I promise. It’s really just one quick shot. In and out in no time.”
Carry fell into a trio of shrieks, each louder than the other. So loud, Jonathon made a quick look around to see if anyone had heard. Then he remembered that the closest house he knew of was at least a mile away. That was precisely why Stork lived way down here, Jonathon was sure of it.
When her cries finished, she said something else Jonathon couldn’t hear.
“Oh, all right,” he replied. “I suppose so, but just this once.” Jonathon heard the man moving, but didn’t dare chance another look.
He heard footsteps quietly walk across the garage’s cement floor. Then came the loud sound of the garage door being pulled up on its steel tracks and Jonathon jumped. At first he thought Stork had opened this back door right beside where Jonathon hid, crouched on the lawn. Jonathon couldn’t believe how loud that front door really was.
He decided to quickly make another visual. When he did, he almost crapped himself. Stork was outside but turned around, his face looking directly toward the back of the garage where the top of Jonathon’s head poked up above the bottom of the window’s glass.
“Shit!” Jonathon said, quickly ducking and flipping around, his back pressed tightly against the siding between the window and the door. “He saw me! Goddamnit!” The only good part about all of this was that Jonathon hadn’t seen a gun anywhere.
At least not yet.
Then followed the sound of the door being rolled right down until the final shuddering when it came to the end. After that, Jonathon heard no more except Carry’s faint sobs from inside the garage. From everywhere else, the lawn, the forest’s perimeter, and the back of the house, cicadas filled up the night with their song, which, to Jonathon, sounded way too similar to a dentist’s drill.
With panic still coursing through him, Jonathon stood there, trying to hear around the cicadas for any trace of footsteps on the lawn walking down either side of the garage. He heard none, but then, he, too, was able to walk on Stork’s lush grass without making any noise. Finally, he decided to make the first move. Stork had enough time to be waiting just around one of the sides.
Jonathon picked the one he knew, the one that made him feel almost comfortable and, again keeping low, spun quickly around, his fists ready to fight.
Stork
wasn’t there. Quickly, Jonathon ran around the back of the garage, staying lower than the window, and checked the other side. Stork wasn’t there, either. But then, while Jonathon started high-fiving himself in his head for not actually being seen, he heard the sound of Stork’s house door being closed.
Jonathon’s eyes grew as his adrenaline picked up. He jogged in place for a second, blowing on his palms before rubbing them together. This was his chance, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get another. This one felt pretty much like a gift from his friend, the old bear.
Going around the back of the garage again, Jonathon inspected the knob on the white back door. Indeed, the lock was a Schlage. That was good. It shouldn’t take him more than a minute—probably more like thirty seconds—to get in.
“Of course, there’s always the chance he’s got a heavy-duty latch with a giant-sized Abloy padlock hanging off the end on the inside,” he whispered to himself, then remembered what his bear had said. Just think about saving Carry. Nothing else matters.
Whoever had installed the door handle had gone to the bother of putting a pretty heavy-duty striker plate on the door frame. Without that plate, there was a chance the old credit card slide trick might have worked. It worked a lot more often than Jonathon suspected most people thought. Bend your card slightly, insert it between the door and the jamb—above the door latch—and bring it down on an angle, working it against the latch until, voilà! The card literally opened the door for you. Jonathon didn’t have a credit card, but his student card would’ve probably worked. It had worked before.
First things first, though. He had to check to see whether the door was even locked. Wrapping his fingers around the knob, he slowly began to turn it, whispering what wouldn’t be the last in a series of small prayers tonight, this one going out to the patron saint of whomever they had in charge of door security.
It turned in his hand, and Jonathon felt his heart swell right up into his chest as he kept turning until ...
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