Bortha was across from the door, leaning against the wall, breathing hard. Richards snapped off two quick shots, both darts thudded home and hung loose from Bortha’s skin like all the rest.
Bortha screamed and lashed out, too far away to hit him, but even so, the gun jerked from his hands and flew away into the shadows. Red leapt at him, arms held wide. Mike stepped into the leap, swinging hard, throwing punches at Bortha’s liver. If he landed the shot just right, and with all his strength, even a heavy lunk like Bortha would fall to his knees.
“Get down!” Lewis yelled from behind him. “Get down, goddamn it!”
His fist smacked into Bortha’s abdomen, right under his ribs. Perfect, except instead of grunting and going down, the demon chuckled. It felt like Mike’s hand sank into soft wax. Bortha slammed into him, carrying him against the wall.
Mike rocked to the left, lifting his knee as hard as he could, going for another body shot. Bortha was breathing hard but seemed unaffected by anything Mike tried. Red grabbed his shoulder and hooked between his legs, jerking Mike up to shoulder height. “I never liked you, you weak fuck,” Bortha grunted. He threw Mike across the length of the shack, and Mike slammed against the far wall, still three feet off the ground. Pain exploded through him on impact, and he sank to the ground.
“Liver shot, eh?” Bortha grunted stomping toward him. He grabbed Mike by the chin and lifted him as if he weighed no more than a toddler. He held him there for a moment, grinning into Mike’s face.
“My love! My love! My love!” screamed Shannon. “Help him!”
He hoped Shannon got clear of this, got clear of the entire fucking town. Summoning what saliva he could, he spat into Bortha’s face and grabbed his wrist, trying to wrench it away from his own chin. A moment later something whipped across his abdomen. At first, it felt like the demon had slapped Mike’s belly, but after a few seconds, the pain sank its teeth into Mike, burning as if someone had injected boiling acid in his side. Breathing seemed impossible, but he could breathe fine. His arms fell slack.
“Tha’s a liber shop, you numb suck!” Mike sagged against the wall behind him, and Bortha lurched toward him, then away, reeling like a drunk. “Naw fur da cup d’grass. Ima love killin you.” He towered over Mike, grinning, and his ugly mug started to fade. Behind it stood something that looked like a melted candle with three tentacles. The tentacles jerked and spasmed up over the thing’s head. “Injoy wat you say?” the thing crooned. “Las’ tink you eber say.” Dagger-shaped claws tipped the tentacles, and those claws plunged downward at him, only to stop before hitting him and return to the air.
Then, the demon slashed the air with its claws, it juked and jived, lurching this way and that, but ever away from where Mike slumped. The beast spun in a circle, tentacles whipping out like one of those creeping sprinklers that drove across the lawn. It was as if it were fighting something Mike couldn’t see.
The battle took it to the far corner of the shack, and the beast stayed there, backed into the corner, tentacles weaving in front of it as if in defense. Mike watched with wonder as the monstrous thing fought nothing.
He lurched to his feet, eyes scanning the ground for the tranquilizer rifle. If the thing’s slurred speech was any indicator, Bortha was close to going out. He almost tripped over the gun, then scooped it up and fired the remaining darts into the thing’s face.
It screamed and shrieked, but the thing didn’t come out of the corner. The thing bent at the waist and fell forward, one of his mouths digging a furrow in the damp earth.
Mike stood, staring down at the thing. Lewis stepped inside the shack, gun in one hand, loaded tranquilizer magazine in the other. “Did you see it?” croaked Mike.
Lewis nodded. “He went a little crazy there at the end.”
“No! Did you see it?”
“See what?” Lewis asked with a shrug.
“Tentacles. Mouths. Red…”
Lewis stared at him without speaking and shook his head. “He was just a man. A big man, granted, but a man.”
Mike shook his head. “No, he was much more than that. It’s…it’s like those two said. A…a demon.”
Lewis stared at him, not moving, not speaking. He shrugged. “Either crazy is catching, or there’s something going on here I’m not party to.”
Mike nodded. “Where’s Reid? We need to know what to do next.”
Lewis hooked his thumb toward the clearing. “He’s out. The bearded guy said Reid thought he was poisoned or something, but that Reid’s okay. Unconscious, but okay. Who’s the woman?”
“Friend of mine,” grunted Mike, staring down at the tentacled monster that shouldn’t have existed.
“Seems she sees it another way,” said Lewis. “You should go to her.”
Mike looked at him in confusion for a moment but nodded. “Yeah. She’s been through it tonight.”
“What do we do about your friend?” Lewis asked pointing at the tentacled lump.
“Reid said something about having a place in Rochester. We take him there. We’ll keep pumping him with M99 until Reid wakes up.”
“Dangerous,” muttered Lewis. “That might kill him.”
“I don’t think so,” said Mike as he stepped through the door and wrapped Shannon in his arms.
7
In the back of Shamu, Shannon smiled a small, secret smile. Mike had paid her little attention since they’d gotten back to the car, but his attention was on the road. He drove like his ass was on fire, lights flashing, siren screaming, but he’d put his arms around her back at the shack. That means something, right?
The other cop sat up front and stared out the front window, not talking, not even grunting when Mike tried to get him to respond. The man Mike called Toby sat nestled between Benny and her, head lolling with each bump in the highway, oblivious to the world.
Lost in her thoughts—at least that’s what Shannon told herself—because she didn’t want to remember the nightmarish fugue she’d gone into back there in the shack, she was thinking about cleaning. Cleaning her house, her workspace at the town hall, her car, Mike’s place, anything, anything, but the trunk and that evil man.
Mike said he saw something, so Shannon believed him. Mike also said the smelly guy with the unkempt beard in the back seat with her was Benny Cartwright, so it must be Benny, but my goodness he stank. It was like a mixture of sweat, chemicals, and old, rotten cheese. Gross. “How much longer?” she asked.
Mike glanced at her in the rearview mirror. His eyes looked scared, and she’d never seen him like that before, except for that night at Lumber Jack’s when he’d almost—No, I won’t think about that either. She could tell he was fighting the urge to get a drink—she could almost feel his want, his need for a drink. “Not long now,” he said. “How is he?”
“Still out,” Benny said. “He likes to sleep.”
Shannon looked over at him, trying to guess if he was making a joke, but he sat pressed up against the car door with his window cracked and his nose pressed into the crack as if she was the one that reeked like an elephant. He was mumbling something into the wind, something repetitive. She strained her ears until she caught his words: “…an elephant. Not an elephant. Not…” She blushed and ducked her head. Did I say that aloud? she wondered.
The tires thumped over the expansion cracks in the highway’s concrete surface. Ka-thump. Ka-thump, Ka-thump. The engine whined like Mike was asking too much of it. Mike rubbed his eyes, and Benny muttered into the wind. The other cop stared out the window—she thought he might be crying. Toby nodded to the beat of the tires against the cracks.
Shannon shivered and turned her mind back to methods of cleaning her car.
8
Scott had a painful, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The muscles across his upper back and shoulders stretched so tight they hurt. He stared out the car window, watching mile markers flit past through the veil of his tears.
Becky was gone. He knew that now. LaBouche…maybe LaBouche had
done it, had tortured and murdered her. Each thought brought reams of fresh pain shivering across his shoulders and back. He drew a breath, and it burst from him with an evil-sounding hiss.
“You okay?” asked Chief Richards.
Scott ignored the question, licking his lips, scared that if he tried to speak, he would end up screaming. He feared that if he started screaming, he would never stop.
He wanted to be alone, to curl up in a ball somewhere. Jenny would be so angry with him when he told her…when he told her Becky was dead. Jenny would be furious, would blame him for their loss. And she would be right.
This fucking car ride is taking too long. Why is he creeping along like an old grandma? He glanced at the speedometer. It was buried. Pegged. That’s strange…I would have sworn he was going forty. Why does it seem like we are going so slow?
He had to decide what to do. These three men he was with…he wasn’t sure what was going on, but the crazy seemed to be spreading. The woman, well, as traumatized as she was, what she said didn’t matter, but Richards… What’s his excuse?
They were going to kill the man who’d kidnapped the woman—if they hadn’t already with whatever weak tranquilizer they thought was M99. That shit will kill an elephant. Kill anything in the amounts they’d shot into this Bortha character. How in the hell can they believe it’s M99? That’s not rational.
But images of LaBouche hiding a smirk of a smile as they drove around looking for Becky kept flashing through his mind. He kept hearing LaBouche humming—humming—while he told Scott not to worry, that changing the flat would only take ten minutes. His expression when Scott yelled at him so many hours later when he’d showed up. Something is…
He didn’t want to complete the thought, didn’t want to believe LaBouche could do something like that to Becky. He didn’t want to believe Becky was…
Jenny’s going to kill me!
They were going to kill the man in the trunk, these three from Oneka Falls. There was no doubt in his mind what they intended to do. Am I going to let them? Am I going to help them?
He imagined Jenny sitting on the couch next to Mrs. Carmody, listing to the left due to the Xanax. He imagined her watching the local twenty-four-hour news channel on cable, searching for signs of their daughter. Their only child. Their baby. She would kill him, for sure.
Can these jokers be right? Can Reid be right about these…these…demons? Could LaBouche have been this evil the entire time we worked together? How could I miss it? I’m supposed to be a trained fucking investigator! A profiler!
“Oh Jenny,” he murmured. “Forgive me.”
“What’s that?” asked Richards.
Scott stared out into the darkness and closed everything else out, and his thoughts began their cruel, savage cycle again.
9
Benny sat with his nose pressed against the crack between the window frame and the cold glass. Mike was hauling ass, and Benny liked the sensation. He hadn’t ridden in many cars, not since his daddy’s Oldsmobile.
He glanced at Toby’s reflection in the window glass. Toby’s having a dream. Hope it’s a good one. Shannon was still ruminating about cleaning things. And she thought Benny was insane…
The other cop in the front seat worried Benny. His thoughts had taken on a spiraling quality that Benny recognized from other patients in Millvale. He’s driving himself insane. He needs a way out; he needs someone to guide him.
Benny could be that person, but he didn’t know if he should be that person. He still didn’t understand what the polite limits of his ability were or should be. When should he let on that he knew what he did and when should he keep quiet?
Life outside Millvale was so hard.
He almost longed for the simplicity of life as a mental patient. Almost.
He wondered where Owen Gray was that night. What the man was doing. He wondered if the LaBouche guy was with him. He had the feeling the two were together. What could they be planning?
He sighed and leaned back in the seat. Let Shannon think I’m gross, he thought. What do I care? She’s crazy. Fantasizing about cleaning all the time.
I should be helping someone. He took slow, even breaths, trying to steady his thoughts, to make the surface of his mind as smooth as a mirror. But should I help Toby? Trooper Lewis? Shannon? He let his eyes drift closed, letting the ka-thump, ka-thump of the tires against the surface of the highway soothe him, carry him away from himself. Or should I go see what Owen Gray is up to?
With a deep sigh of relief, Benny floated into the ether.
10
Owen pulled the stolen pickup off the freeway, angling down the off ramp with an ease that belied his long incarceration. Brigitta snuggled next to him in the bench seat, just like he liked. “Why are we getting off here, babe?”
Her laugh tinkled like broken glass. “I told you, my love. We’re here to meet a friend.”
He glanced at her sideways, and a harsh note crept into his voice. “A guy friend?”
“Ah, my love, it’s so endearing that you are jealous after all this time. He is a male, and he is a friend, but there is only you, Owen Gray.”
Mollified, Owen turned his attention back to the road—just in time to slam on the brakes. The back of the truck jittered sideways, but he brought the vehicle to stop before he plunged out into the intersection.
“It’s okay, my love,” said Brigitta in a quiet voice. “This far out, there’s little traffic. Especially at this time of night.”
Owen wiped his brow with a shaking hand. “Still, that was a close one. Which way?”
“Go left,” she said. “Pull in to the diner on the left about three miles up.”
They drove the three miles in silence, each lost in thought. No one but me? And her still looking like Miss America? Not fucking likely.
Oh, Owen. LaBouche is no one to be jealous of. You’ll see, my love. You’ll see.
It still freaked him out when she spoke in his mind. It had been so long since she’d…since his arrest. So long since he’d had any constant contact with her—with anyone other than Toms—that it was surprising all over again.
He put on his left blinker and pulled the car into the narrow lot in front of the Cascade Diner. It was garish—polished chrome and cherry-snow-cone red. Doesn’t anyone have taste anymore? There was a little silver car in the lot. A Japanese thing, by the look of it. He didn’t enjoy driving the modern cars, not one bit. Under-powered lumps of plastic and aluminum. He wanted good old American iron beneath his right foot—something with a big block.
He put the truck in park and got out, Brigitta sliding out behind him. He stretched his back and groaned. “Getting old sucks, babe. You’re lucky you don’t have to do it.”
“Don’t I?” she asked, an amused lilt to her voice.
“Freeze! Both of you!” snapped a baritone voice.
Owen reacted instantly, leaping back toward the truck, ripping the door open and grabbing the rifle. Deep booming laughter echoed across the lot. “Did you see him, Brigitta? Did you see him jump?”
Owen straightened and turned, the old, familiar anger tingling in his spine and stinging his eyes. A hulking man stepped out from the side of the diner. Anger thrummed through Owen’s torso, contracting his muscles until they were hard nuggets of burning ache.
“LaBouche!” snapped Brigitta. “It wasn’t funny!”
The big guy laughed harder, even slapping his thigh and wiping away a tear. Doesn’t know who he’s fucking with, eh? Well, I can fix that happy horse-shit right the fuck now. With a smooth, continuous motion, he brought the rifle up one-handed and fired from the hip. The report boomed across the parking lot and flew away into the surrounding country side.
“Owen! No, my love!” yelled Brigitta an instant too late. She stepped between Owen and the big asshole.
The big asshole was still laughing at him. Owen worked the bolt on the rifle he’d stolen from a guard at Sing Sing, sending spent brass flying into the big plate-glass window and jac
king a new round into the chamber. “Keep laughing. Go ahead,” Owen murmured
“It’s his way, my love. He doesn’t mean anything.” Brigitta whirled to face the big man. Something in her demeanor changed, and her voice, when it came, cracked like a whip and sent chills down Owen’s spine. “He’s mine, LaBouche! You invoke my anger when you toy with him.”
LaBouche sobered and stood straight. He performed a perfunctory half-bow. “My apologies, Brigitta. My sense of humor is…well, you know my proclivities.”
“And you know mine. Find your own meals.”
Meals? Owen thought. What the fuck?
“A manner of speech, my love,” she said over her shoulder.
He would have to learn the trick of thinking his thoughts quietly again and tout suite. “Yeah, well, we better get back on the road, babe. This guy can find his fun with someone else.”
“Oh, no,” said LaBouche. “I’m going with you.”
“No,” snapped Owen. “No, you’re not.”
Brigitta turned to face him and put her hand on his forearm, cooling most of his anger. She looked up into his eyes, her expression imploring. “My love, this is how my father wants it.”
“Ah. Your father.”
“Yes, my love. He’s calling us to him at long last.”
Owen looked over at LaBouche, whose expression was hidden by shadows, but Owen was sure he was smirking. “Fine. Let the big asshole drive, and you and I can hang out in the back. You can sit on my lap, and we’ll talk about whatever pops up.” When LaBouche’s head snapped back as if slapped, Owen smiled. He swung the rifle across his shoulders and took Brigitta’s hand. “What do you say, babe?”
“That sounds perfect, my love,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to look at LaBouche. “LaBouche doesn’t mind. Do you LaBouche?”
Without a word, the big man brushed past them and got in the driver’s seat of the little silver car. “If you have room back there, knock yourselves out.” There was a thunk, and the little car’s trunk popped open. “Rifle goes in the trunk, though.”
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