Matt grabbed the telephone receiver from where it lay beneath the desk. There was no dial tone. He traced the spiral telephone cord to the base of the phone, or what remained of it. It looked like someone had filled it with explosives and set them off. “Shit,” he muttered.
Jim groaned again and mumbled something incomprehensible.
“Where is another phone, Jim? What room?”
Jim’s fingers twitched and then pointed up the hall. His hands were abraded and scratched like he’d put up one hell of a fight. Matt pushed Jim’s hand away and ripped the man’s shirt open. The wound was about a quarter of an inch in diameter, surrounded by an abrasion ring and stippling in a wider arc around that. Matt spread the wound and peered inside, ignoring Jim’s hissing curses. Everything that should be inside still looked intact. “Looks like he gut-shot you, boss, but the good news is that he didn’t rupture anything in there.”
“That coward, that bastard,” grunted Jim, eyes still squeezed shut.
Matt took off his shirt and pressed it over the wound and then pressed Jim’s hand on top of that. “Keep pressure on this, Jim.” He ran up the hall and through the door into the master bedroom. He called Angie for an ambulance and told her to get a couple of troopers from the high school to come over to the Cartwright house and start processing the scene.
When he got back to the study, Jim looked a little better. “Jim?”
He opened his eyes and looked around bleary-eyed and in obvious pain. “Where’s—”
“Gray ran off, though why he left you alive, I can’t guess.”
“Girl heard you out front,” Jim croaked. “A sick expression washed over his face and he turned tail.”
Matt laughed. It was an ugly sound. “I thought I was so quiet. Wait a minute… Did you say a girl saw me?”
Jim nodded. “Had his new girlfriend with him. They’re all lovey-dovey. Babe, this. My love, that. Almost wanted him to shoot me.”
“Did you get a piece of him?” Matt asked, nudging Jim’s scraped up hand.
“Yeah,” said Jim. “He snuck up on me while I was talking to Angie, shot the phone. I rushed him while he was reloading. Was beating the ever-loving piss out of him when the girl knocked me across the room.”
“The woman knocked you down?”
Jim nodded. “Strong little thing. She…she backhanded me and I flew—feet off the floor and everything.” He shook his head. “Fuzzy, though.”
Matt patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about that, Jim. So, he shot you after the girl—”
“Bridget, or Bridgetta maybe. Something like that.”
“Can you describe her?”
“Yeah, blonde hair, high cheeks, full lips. Blue or gray eyes maybe.
“You got beat up by Bo Derek? Some people have all the luck.”
Jim smiled, a weak smile not much different from a twitch of his lips, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Nah, no tan.”
Sirens shrieked in the distance and Matt patted Jim’s shoulder again. “Paramedics will be here soon, boss.”
“Gray said to tell you something.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“He said to tell you you’re next.”
Matt laughed. “I sure as fuck hope so.”
“He also said to say he enjoyed watching you all run around in the woods.”
This time, Matt’s laugh was bitter and sour. “Figures.”
“Did you…”
“No, buddy. We didn’t find anything. Which, while it sounds like bad news, is better than at least one of the alternatives.”
Jim’s eyes drifted closed. “What the hell is happening to our town?”
“Owen Gray,” said Matt. “But I will stop him. I will get him, Jim. I promise you.”
22
It was 5:30 am, and the sun was peeking above the tops of the trees. Reg Thorndike parked his Coupe de Ville in the Thousand Acre Wood trailhead parking lot. Those cops thought he’d slipped a cog, but that bastard tree had been there, and he was going to prove it. He shoved his Polaroid into an old knapsack and slung the thing over his shoulder. He’d be walking alone into the woods, but he had enough experience not to get himself lost. Plus, sometimes it was better to be alone in the woods—no yapping, no whining, no questions.
He walked down the trail to the cutoff point, lost in his thoughts—almost daydreaming. Thorndike had never much cared for Thousand Acre Wood. He didn’t understand it, not on the top layers of his mind, anyway, but when given a chance to walk these woods, or go somewhere else, he always chose somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark blur of movement, low to the ground, but when he turned, there was nothing there. Shaking his head, he kept walking. Quiet, he thought. Too quiet for day time. Should be birds singing, animals rooting around doing animal things. He cocked his head to the side, listening hard. Must be going deaf at last.
He saw the dark blur again, but on the other side of the trail. He stopped in the middle of the trail, arms akimbo, peering into the woods on either side. “What’s this?” he said. “You want my attention?” His voice echoed through the woods, but there was no answer, no stray sound. He shook his head and pulled the map he didn’t need out of his pack. He pretended to study it, using his peripheral vision to scan the edge of the woods on either side of him.
When the movement came again, he saw a black dog belly-creeping from one bush to another. It looked like that Omen-dog, all right. Same bull chest and knobby head. Big dog, he thought. Don’t want to mess with it, do I?
“Saw you that time, you big bastard. Might as well come out.” He kept his tone friendly and light, despite the meaning of his words. Dogs responded to tone, not semantics.
Growls came from three bushes—two on the left, one on the right. What the hell? He folded the map and stowed it away. “Well, I know you’re there and you know I’m here. Do we go on pretending we don’t see each other?”
The big Rottweiler stepped out of the bushes and looked at him, eyes bright. Eyes intelligent. It stood there, meeting his gaze as if it were waiting for him to realize something.
“Well, there you are,” Thorndike said. The dog dipped its head but kept its eyes on his. “Smart one, are ya? Care to do my checkbook?” The dog cocked its head to the side, ears perked up. “Oh ho! You like that word? Checkbook?” The dog looked off into the woods, and then met his gaze again. “I guess that couldn’t be any clearer, eh, puppy?” He reached out to pet the thing, but it snarled, and he jerked his hand out of range. “Okay, not too friendly then. Fine. Going to lead me again today?” The dog stood, still as a statue, and looked at him, not making a sound. The dog held his stare for a moment more, then turned and trotted off into the woods. With an uncomfortable shrug, Thorndike followed.
As they walked, other dogs appeared out of the woods, one by one, until they surrounded him. He glanced at each newcomer—they were all different breeds and sizes. The only thing the newcomers had in common was a distinct lack of eyeballs. Thorndike suppressed a shudder. That big bastard had eyes, right? He was no longer sure, but he thought he remembered eyes. These new ones didn’t even have eye holes in their skulls—just smooth skin and bone.
“Hey up there,” he called, hoping the dog would turn around and look at him. The dog stopped but didn’t turn. “You have eyes, don’t you, pup?” The Rottweiler growled deep in its chest—a deep rumble that promised violence if not heeded. “Well, pardon my curiosity, then.”
The dogs set a fast pace, perhaps trying to wear the old man down, but Reg Thorndike prided himself on staying active. He kept the pace with no more trouble than breathing hard. The dogs surrounding him crowded against him, brushing his legs, growling, snarling and snapping, nipping at his heels, but were never underfoot. They walked for twenty minutes, and to Thorndike, it seemed like it was a straight line, but the sun danced in the sky—first on his left, then behind him, then to the right. Trying to get me lost, he thought. Trying to herd me somewhere
I don’t want to go. Well, I’m no fool, dogs. I won’t be herded. Thorndike shoved his way out of the knot of dogs surrounding him, ignoring their snarls and bared teeth. Every time they tried to surround him, he shoved them away, and continued on the course he wanted.
One by one, the dogs perked their ears and then peeled away into the woods until it was only Thorndike and the Rottweiler again. “Well, pally, just you and me again. Your friends have somewhere else to be? Or just don’t like failure?” The Rottweiler glanced at him over its shoulder and made a sound that was part growl, part whine.
The dog stopped and turned to face him, barring the path. Thorndike looked past it once again ignoring its warning growl. Leaning against a tree were two filthy children. “Well, ain’t that a peach? So what now, doggie? Do we fight? Or can we agree to be friends?” He held out his hand for a sniff like he would for any dog he didn’t know. The Rottweiler looked at his hand and then looked up at his face. It held his gaze for a mere moment, and then, before his eyes, the skin of the dog’s face wriggled and squirmed. The dog didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Its eyes shrank back into its skull, like grapes withering into raisins. The skin of its eyelids stretched together and merged without leaving a scar or a blemish or a mark. The wriggling stopped, and what remained was a smooth, eyeless expanse of forehead. Thorndike jerked his hand away from the thing, unable to repress his shudder. The dog opened its mouth, looking for all the world like it was smiling, and let its tongue loll out. Its teeth were ebony and jaggedly sharp. When it growled, he couldn’t help stepping back. As if that’s what it was waiting for, the dog snarled and snapped its teeth. Thorndike jerked his snub-nosed .38 revolver out of his front pocket and pointed it where the Rottweiler should have had eyes. The dog flinched and backed up a step. “That’s right, doggie. I’ve got teeth, too. Now do we fight or part friends?” The dog cocked its head at him, and Thorndike got the distinct impression it understood and was weighing its options. With a parting growl, the dog turned to the side and sprinted off into the woods.
With a shiver, Thorndike hid the pistol away again. The two huddled forms lay on the ground amidst the gnarled roots of a tree, not touching one another, but close. Thorndike sprinted through the underbrush and knelt next to the children. One of them stirred. It was a little girl he recognized from around town, but he didn’t recall her name. Her face was tear-streaked and dirty.
“Are…are you real, mister?” she asked.
“Shush, now, child. What kind of question is that? ‘Course I’m real.”
“Oh,” she said. She was listless, lethargic.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, kneeling beside her. “Are you hurt? Hungry?”
She turned and gazed into his face. Her movements were slow like she was in a daze. “Are you real?”
“Yes, child,” he said. He put a tender hand on her cheek. “You must be hungry, yes?”
She nodded, and her eyes lost focus. “Huh-huh-Herlequin has… I forget his name.”
Thorndike spun his pack around and dug out a bag of trail mix. “Munch on this. What’s your name?”
“Shannon. Bertram.”
“Well, Miss Bertram, I’m Reggie Thorndike, and everything is okay now. I’ll have you out of here in a jiffy.” He eyed the lump next to her. It was a filthy little boy, whose eyes were open, staring at the canopy of the trees overhead. “Who’s this with you, Miss Shannon?”
“I don’t know. He was here already. When the nasty man brought the other boy and me. This one doesn’t talk or nothing.”
“Quiet type, is he?” Thorndike reached over and grabbed the boy’s ankle, meaning to shake his leg to get his attention, but the boy shrieked and kicked his feet. “Whoa, there, boy. You are safe, now, settle down. You’re safe.” At the sound of his voice, the boy quit screaming and kicking, but he never took his eyes off the dark canopy above them. “All right, Miss Shannon. I need to carry this one. Can you walk beside me?”
Shannon groaned. “My legs burn. He…he made us run and run. My feet…” Her voice drifted away to nothing. Moving like a robot, she reached into the bag of trail mix and scooped a handful into her mouth.
“This boy here made you run?”
“No. No, it was Huh-huh-herlequin.”
“Herlequin, huh? Just like in the story about the monk who was chased by the—”
“No. Herlequin’s real. He…he chases us. With the dog-things.”
“Dog-things?” asked Thorndike. “Dogs like in the Omen movie?”
“I’m not allowed to watch scary stuff. I’m only nine.”
“Right you are, dear. Stupid of me.”
She reached across and patted his hand. “It’s okay. We all say silly things sometimes.” He grinned at her, but she didn’t grin back. “Can we leave now? Before Herlequin comes for me?”
“We can, dear. But is there a glade around here? A glade with a big bast—uh, a big tree in the center?” He stood and brushed at his knees. “You have more of that trail mix. See if you can get the boy to eat a little, too.” He took a single step away from the kids.
“No!” grated the boy. His voice sounded like he’d broken it.
“Stay away from it,” snapped Shannon. “He will know. He will come and bring the dog-things.”
“Okay. Yeah, okay.” Thorndike lowered himself beside the boy, and moving his hand slowly, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The kid shuddered but allowed the contact. “Can you walk, boy? I can carry you, but it will be easier if everyone goes under their own steam.” The boy didn’t answer. His eyes never left the tree tops above them.
Shannon got to her feet and leaned this way and that, unsteady on her feet.
Thorndike scooped the boy into his arms and creaked to his feet. “Here Miss Shannon, you hold on to my elbow here.” Moving as if she were in a dream, Shannon raised her hand and rested it on his forearm, just below his elbow. “Good girl,” he said. “Civilization is back this way.”
23
Bob lurched forward on bleeding, unfeeling feet. They were behind him again, all of them, eyeless faces snarling as they closed in on his heels. His mind was blank, he had no plans, no ideas left. The muscles on the backs of his thighs cramped each time he put down his feet.
“Is this the best you have, Big Bob?” It was the monster’s voice—the gargoyle, the architect of his suffering. “I am disappointed, Bob.”
Bob whimpered in the back of his throat. He knew what that meant. The bully had grown tired of playing around with him and wanted to hurt him in earnest. “I’ll…I’ll do better,” he gasped, his voice so quiet he doubted anyone heard him.
“No, no,” said Herlequin. “It’s much too late now, Bob. I warned you, didn’t I? I told you what would happen if you didn’t satisfy me.”
Tears trickled down Bob’s cheeks, and not for the first time that day. They cut paths through the grime on his face from so many faceplants after tripping on roots or stepping in holes.
“Didn’t I, Big Bob?” called Herlequin.
“I’ll try harder. I…I’ll do better. Somehow. Run…run faster.” Bob was gasping for breath he couldn’t catch, staggering more than running.
“No. I think not, Bob. It’s almost over for you.”
“No!” Bob cried, lurching forward at a faster pace. “I can do better, you watch.”
Behind him, Herlequin laughed. “Hear that, my daughters? He can do better.” The dog-things howled and pawed at the ground.
24
“See now?” said Thorndike. “We’re on our way and don’t you feel better? Don’t you just?”
Shannon nodded, but with significant weariness.
“And how ‘bout you, boy?” Thorndike squeezed the boy in his arms. When Thorndike had first picked him up, the boy’s muscles had quivered with stress, but with each step, he’d relaxed a bit more until he lay in Thorndike’s arms like a limp rag. He didn’t respond to the question or the squeeze.
Thorndike figured they were about half-way b
ack to the trail. “We’ll have you home soon enough—both of you. I’m sure Chief Greshin knows who you are, boy.” The boy stirred but lapsed back into his stupor.
Shannon squeezed Thorndike’s elbow. “Do you hear them?”
“Who, dear?”
She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “The dog-things.”
“What are they doing?”
“Howling. Snarling.”
Thorndike peered into the trees. “Are they close?” A small sound escaped the boy in his arms. It was a pitiful sound.
“They are always close,” cried Shannon. “He’ll be mad.”
“Don’t you worry,” said Thorndike. “This Herlequin fella comes upon us, I will have words for him, you better trust in that.” Thorndike’s mind went to the pistol in his pocket, and he grinned a vengeful, angry grin.
25
The dog things snapped and snarled right behind him. Bob could feel their hot breath on the backs of his legs. Their slobber splashed him as they snapped their jaws and barked. He tried to run faster yet.
But he couldn’t do it. He had nothing left. Too much junk food, too many stories on the TV after school, not enough activity. Doc Hauser had been right. His habits had killed him.
He stumbled, and the dog-things snarled. Pain exploded across his left calf, and Bob fell, face-first, into a tree trunk. The bark scraped his face, but the pain of it felt distant, unimportant. The pain in his calf was excruciating. He peeled his eyes open and shrieked. One of the dog-things had clamped onto his calf, blood streaming out of the corners of its mouth and steaming in the cool fall air. His blood. The thing worried at his calf, tearing its head from side to side and with each savage tug, the pain doubled. He kicked the dog-thing with his other leg, but it only growled at him.
Another dog-thing lunged forward and grabbed his right foot, biting down hard. More blood dripped on the carpet of decaying leaves. More pain coursed through him.
Bob screamed, long and loud, and bent to punch at the two dog-things. His pudgy fists glanced off their hard skulls, and the growling increased.
The other dog things sat in a semi-circle around him, looking on, tongues lolling out of their smiling faces. They had no eyes, but he was sure they were watching and enjoying the show.
Demon King Page 27