Devil's Creek

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  Present Day

  Chapter 52

  Before Anderson could take aim again, Chandler dove into the water and disappeared. Legs burning, Anderson labored through the cold water toward Grace, who’d slipped beneath the surface when Chandler slammed the gun against her temple.

  He reached her in seconds, pulling her up and into his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chandler surface before diving again to swim toward the woods on the far shore.

  “Grace,” Anderson said, dragging her toward the grassy pond edge. “Baby, come on.”

  She moaned and coughed up mouthfuls of water, and after a few seconds, her eyes opened. She clutched his hands. “Anderson. I’m sorry.”

  “I know, honey. I know.”

  Boone appeared at his side, his arm bound by a strip of cloth torn from the bottom of his tee shirt. He leaned down to Grace. “Are you all right?”

  Grace suffered a ragged coughing fit, turning back to him. “I’ll be okay.” Her eyes widened when she saw his arm. “But what about you? Oh my God, Boone. You’re bleeding.”

  “I’m fine,” he shrugged. “Probably needs a few stitches, but the bullet went in and out. Clean wound, as we used to say.”

  In the distance, Anderson saw Chandler climbing out on the far shore, dripping wet, but moving fast toward the cover of the woods. Unfortunately, the gunshot in his arm hadn’t disabled him. “Oh, crap.” He pointed toward the escaping man. “He’s getting away.”

  Grace shivered, leaning into Anderson’s arms. “Who is he? Who the hell is that guy?”

  Anderson felt the blood drain from his face. Hank. It was definitely Hank. Older, thinner, but it was him. “I can’t believe it’s him.”

  “Who?” Boone and Grace said in unison.

  Anderson noticed a bright red kayak on the shore, and exchanged a glance with Boone. “His name isn’t Chandler, it’s Henry Turner. We called him Hank.”

  Boone shoved the rifle into Anderson’s arms. “Go,” he said urgently. “I’ll take care of Grace.”

  Grace’s jaw dropped. She grabbed Anderson’s face and turned it toward her. “No! You can’t leave me.”

  Anderson stood, his face a stone mask. “Take care of her, Boone.”

  “I’ve got her,” Boone said. “Get the bastard.”

  While Grace protested, Anderson sprinted for the kayak. He flipped it over and grabbed the double-sided paddle. Grace called to him, but he ignored her. No way was Hank getting away again. He slid the boat into the water and started paddling.

  First he lost Caroline, and he would’ve lost Grace if they’d arrived just seconds later. He thought of the course of events and shuddered. If he’d run just a little bit slower, if he’d tripped, if there had been traffic… it had all hinged on a few seconds of timing.

  But Grace was okay. For now. He steeled himself.

  I’ll never let this happen again.

  You’re going down, Hank.

  In the distance, he spotted Hank on the shore. He was climbing fast, but Anderson now had the advantage of a good rifle with an even better scope. He stopped paddling for a minute, waited for the kayak to settle, took aim, and fired at Hank’s back.

  A tree exploded beside his target and the man whirled around.

  Anderson took up the paddle again and began to streak across the water. Almost to the shore now, he felt red-hot fury rising within him. Like lava overflowing the rim of a volcano, it flowed and spread into every cell of his being. Pure hatred nearly blinded him, and he stroked forward like a madman, water swirling around his paddles. The kayak glided silently toward its prey.

  All these years of wanting to know. All these years of his own anguish.

  Deep inside, he knew Hank had taken Caroline. He still ached to know what he had done to her.

  To have gone almost twenty years without knowing… It had damaged him, torn him up inside. He needed to know. He raised the gun again, then lowered it. If I kill him, I’ll never find out.

  Even if he had to torture the bastard, he’d find out what Hank did and where Caroline’s body was buried.

  He heard the police sirens just as the bottom of the kayak scraped on the shale beach. Perhaps they’d follow in his wake, but at this point he didn’t care. He had to keep going. He stepped out of the boat, tucking the rifle under his arm. Hank had disappeared into the trees now, but that wouldn’t be a problem. Tracking prey had been his specialty in the desert overseas. On sand it had been challenging. With grass, bushes, and tree branches to use now, it would be a piece of cake.

  Anderson began to run up the side of the hill, through oak and maple trees. The morning sun was strong, and he began to perspire. He peeled off his sweatshirt, tossed it aside, and stared into the forest. The incline steepened sharply just past this point and the trees changed to evergreen. A dark ceiling of balsam, pine, and spruce spread overhead.

  Still, the trail was fresh and although he lost it a few times, he backtracked and picked it up again. Hank was heading straight to the summit, no doubt about it. It was as if he wanted to be followed, because now he seemed to be taking an established, well-worn path. More than a deer trail, this seemed like a hiking trail to the top of the mountain.

  Chipmunks chattered overhead, as if scolding Anderson for going so slowly. He pushed harder, making good progress, although now his lungs burned.

  Fifteen more minutes of climbing and his breath came in ragged gasps. The trees began to thin into a grassy meadow. In one insane moment, he thought he heard the music from The Phantom of the Opera playing in the distance.

  He stopped to catch his breath and felt the world spin.

  It couldn’t be.

  But there it was.

  The voice was clear and pure, and in a flash, Anderson realized it was the recording of Caroline’s version of “Think of Me,” from the production they’d done in college. It was her pure, sweet, lyrical voice. There was no doubt about it.

  Am I going mad?

  He listened again, treading carefully now.

  It must be a trap.

  He glanced down for tripwires, scanned the branches overhead for Hank. He could be laying in wait overhead with a knife or club. Or maybe he hid weapons up here?

  Could Hank be playing the recording on his phone?

  No, the volume was too high. It had to be a player with high powered speakers.

  Anderson stopped and stood behind a thick-trunked pine tree, smelling the pungent sap that oozed from the rough bark. He waited and listened.

  The music trailed off, and a moan came from the woods on the other side of the meadow.

  Did he imagine it? Or was it Hank, trying to lure him into the dark woods?

  He decided to circle around and approach the noise from the back. With slow, careful steps, he headed to the right, making a loop around the edge of the meadow. On the far side, he saw an old shack. Approaching from the back, he waited and watched. The moan came again, and then the music started up.

  Anderson watched Hank march from the shack to a clump of young sumac trees, where he crouched down to stand guard. A revolver glinted in his hand. Anderson crept closer, observing Hank waiting for him. The man’s clothes clung to his body, wet and muddied. He straightened and shifted from leg to leg, as if getting impatient.

  Anderson ducked down and waited five more minutes.

  When Hank grew tired of waiting and the song ran out again, he turned and trotted back into the shack.

  “Shut up,” he screamed to someone inside. The sound of flesh hitting flesh came from within, followed by another muffled groan.

  Caroline?

  Chapter 53

  Anderson’s throat tightened. Could it be? Could Caroline be alive in that godforsaken shack?

  Could this monster have possibly kept her for nineteen years through the blistering summers and harsh Vermont winters?

  Hope filled his heart. He crept closer to the back of the building, sliding up to the rough boards that flanked a window. Barely breathing, he
inched sideways to get a look.

  There was Hank, walking in tight circles, with a bloody patch on one arm. He could hear him complaining. And when a police helicopter flew overhead, Hank’s face screwed into a panicked mask. “Where is he?” he shrieked, sounding more manic than ever. The man turned to speak to someone on the far side of the room, someone who stood or sat out of Anderson’s field of view.

  He ducked down beneath the window and moved to the other side of the shack, slowly peering into the window from the opposite direction. Was that an oversized chair of some kind? The window glass—streaked with years of dirt and mold—offered a limited view.

  Anderson heaved a quiet breath. It’s now or never.

  Carefully, he stole around the building, slipping around the corner to the side of the porch. Ducking under the window, he approached the doorway. If Hank came out now, he could tackle him, take him down by surprise.

  Better yet, he decided to approach from the other side, behind the door. He’d hide and spring on Hank when he appeared on the stoop. He carefully edged up to the doorway, glanced inside, and sprinted to the other side when Hank’s back was turned.

  He caught a blurred vision of some type of tall-backed chair and possible movement closer to the ground. Was there a person collapsed on the floor beside the chair?

  The helicopters came back overhead, and Anderson wished like hell he hadn’t jumped into the creek with his cell phone in his pocket. It was ruined now. No way to contact anyone for backup.

  It’s all up to me.

  After a loud howl of frustration, Hank appeared in the doorway, gun leveled at the woods. “Come find me, you moron!” he screamed.

  Anderson saw him through the crack in the door, and muttered, “Here I am.” He slammed Hank in the door, knocking his weapon to the porch floorboards. In a flash, he leapt around the door and pinned Hank’s arms behind him with one hand. With the other, he snaked his arm around the man’s neck.

  “One move and I snap your neck.” Anderson breathed softly. “I’ve done it many times. It’s easy.” He wanted to crush this man’s throat, squeeze the life out of him. Oh, how he wanted to see the last light drain from his eyes. Feel him go limp, see him gaze sightlessly at the sky.

  But he didn’t.

  Hank squirmed and pulled away, favoring his injured arm, but when Anderson tightened his grip, he finally went quiet. Together, they shuffled into the shack.

  Anderson almost let go of his captive when he saw what sat upon the elaborate throne inside the room. The last notes of Caroline’s song floated on the air, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. There she sat, a skeleton of shiny white bones now. His love. His Caroline.

  He tore his eyes away. The movement he’d seen on the ground had been courtesy of two people, both trussed and gagged. They began to moan and struggle when they saw him.

  Could it be Dennis and Sheila O’Rourke, the couple that owned the mansion Hank commandeered?

  The skeleton on the throne was meticulously dressed in Christine’s clothing from their college product of The Phantom of the Opera. She even wore the sparkly ring that was part of the show. It swung on the bone of her fourth finger, flashing in the sunlight.

  Hank had prepped and dressed her with a morbid attention to detail. Had he stolen that beautiful white dress with the lace and sequined bodice? Or had he requisitioned it from a costume shop? And how long had Caroline sat there on that throne before she died? Was she dead when he set it up? Or had he starved her to death?

  Anderson’s legs quaked. Still holding Hank, he took a deep breath and reached for a coil of rope hanging from the wall. Quickly, he trussed Hank and threw him into a corner. When the man wouldn’t stop yelling and swearing, he gagged him with rope and a cloth he found on the table.

  All of this had taken no more than a few minutes. When Hank was safely out of the way, he turned to the couple on the floor.

  “Dennis and Sheila?” he asked gently.

  “Yes.” The woman nodded and wept. Her lips were cracked and dry, and her eyes were circled in black smudges. “We’ve been here since yesterday. We need water.”

  Anderson noted they’d been tied with ropes to two heavy rings on the wall. And there, on the other side of the shack, were two large six-packs of spring water. The cruelty of it made him cringe. Restrained next to a skeleton and dying of thirst with water eight feet away… he couldn’t believe Hank was this brutal to virtual strangers. And yet, was he really surprised?

  “Come, let me help you.” He untied the tight gag on Dennis’s mouth and brought them both bottles of water. They drank while he untied their bonds.

  “He’s crazy,” Dennis said, wiping the water from his chin.

  “Tell me about it,” Anderson said, helping them both to their feet. “Here. Sit at the table until you get your strength back.” He got them both onto the crude bench beside the makeshift table.

  While they began to tell their story, Anderson stared at the skeleton. The long dark hair was Caroline’s. The slippers she wore looked exactly like those she’d worn nineteen years ago in their production at college. When he looked closer, he saw thin nylon threads encircling the forehead, shoulders, and waist.

  This was how Hank kept the skeleton sitting upright.

  A wave of horror washed over him.

  Oh, God, Caroline. What did he do to you?

  Chapter 54

  Anderson came back to the present when Dennis mentioned that Hank had been their long-time house sitter.

  “He’s watched the place forever,” Dennis said.

  Sheila added, “He was always so good. Fastidious. Responsible. We never had a doubt that he was taking excellent care of the property.”

  “What we didn’t realize,” Dennis said, taking another swig of water, “was that Hank must have been using this shack all along. We think he built it, but he may have just discovered it up here and taken it over.”

  Sheila let out a long sigh. “I wonder who this poor creature is? He decked her out in such bizarre clothing. It’s like she’s sitting on a throne or something, isn’t it?”

  Anderson walked over to check Hank’s bonds. They were still tight. “Her name is Caroline Wells.”

  Hank let out a snicker beneath his gag, and Anderson ran over to kick him hard in the ribs. “Shut up,” he growled. “Or I’ll kill you right here and now.”

  Sheila drew in a sharp breath. “Oh. Please, mister. Don’t do that. We just want to get home safe and sound.”

  Anderson came back and slid to the ground with his back against the wall. “No worries. I’m not the monster he is.” He turned to look at the skeleton again. “This woman was the love of my life. She used to date that idiot in high school. But he couldn’t take it when she dumped him and picked me instead.”

  Hank squirmed and rolled to his side, kicking into the air.

  “He killed her, rather than let go.”

  A heavy silence descended on them.

  Anderson had the urge to rip off the gag and question Hank until he discovered exactly what had happened. Yet… did he really want to know? Caroline’s dead. She’s gone. And there’s no turning back.

  The O’Rourke’s needed his attention, and he couldn’t fixate on the past. The helicopter had passed over them and droned in the distance. He wasn’t sure if it would come back. He turned to them.

  “How are you two feeling? Do you think you could make it down the mountain?”

  Sheila tried to stand, but wobbled back to the bench. “I’m so sorry to be a bother. But I don’t think I have the strength to trek all the way back.”

  Dennis took her hand. “I’ll wait with you. No worries. As long as this gentleman takes Hank down with him.” He turned to Anderson. “And your name is?”

  “Anderson Rockwell.”

  Dennis thrust a shaking hand toward him. “Very pleased to meet you, sir. I can’t thank you enough.”

  Anderson waved his thanks away. “I’m just glad I found you two.” He recove
red the revolver from the porch, jerked Hank to his feet, and jammed it into his ribs. “Move,” he said. “Try anything and you’ll feed the crows for months to come.”

  As if responding to his promise, a group of crows cawed back and forth from a large balsam branch overhanging the shack.

  Anderson smiled. “See? They’re hungry.”

  Hank shook his head as if trying to free the gag, but it stayed firmly in place.

  Shoving the gun harder into Hank’s side, Anderson pushed him out the door. “Help is on the way,” he promised, looking over his shoulder. “We’ll get someone up here in no time flat.”

  Hank stumbled forward, struggling with his bonds even as they walked. Anderson shoved him a few times, but the guy didn’t seem to get it, and he sure as hell didn’t want to knock him out. That way, he’d have to carry Hank’s sorry ass all the way down the hill. Fortunately, his arm had stopped bleeding. Anderson figured the bullet must have just grazed his skin.

  “Come on,” he said. “Stop struggling. Just walk. One foot in front of the other.”

  Hank slogged along, seeming to drag his feet. He cast glances back at Anderson every few minutes, glaring at him with narrowed black eyes.

  How could this ragged, crazy man be the same person he’d stood next to in the production of The Phantom in college? He’d been a jerk then, but no one in his or her right mind would have thought he was a murderer.

  No one, except maybe Anderson. Suddenly he realized that he’d have to tell Caroline’s aunt what he’d found.

  Poor Sunny.

  Oh, God. He hated the thought of telling her. She was so sure that Caroline was still alive, so sure she’d been held hostage somewhere, waiting for rescue. Or that Caroline had somehow had amnesia, and would some day walk back into their lives.

  But she’d been wrong. And Caroline was dead.

  Caroline is dead.

  Anderson felt himself pulled between the past and present, aching inside and hurting so much he could barely breathe.

  After all these years.

  He wanted to ask about Antonio, too. Had Hank really caused the accident that killed him?