by Lukens, Mark
He needed a shower first.
The shower . . . he didn’t really want to be alone in there right now.
“Come on, old man,” he told himself. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Fifteen minutes later Quinn was in the shower. He had actually locked the bathroom door before getting in the shower, chastising himself for doing it, but feeling a little better with it locked. He was going to take a quick shower, five minutes, tops. He hadn’t taken a shower in three days and he wasn’t going down to Lucky’s reeking of body odor, so he had to get this done.
Once he was in the shower he felt a little better. He washed the hair he had left on his scalp and then lathered his flabby body with soap. He was rinsing off when he heard a sound out in the hallway.
He froze, the water streaming down his body. He stood there, listening, leaning forward so that his head was out of the water. It sounded like something had thumped against the wall out there, or maybe the floor. Maybe one of his stacks of junk had fallen over.
No one’s inside. I locked all the doors. Checked them again before I got in the shower.
Quinn finished rinsing and shut off the water. He tore the shower curtain open, standing there naked and dripping, staring at the closed bathroom door across the room, listening for any more sounds out there.
Nothing. No sounds.
“It’s nothing—” he started to whisper to himself, but another noise cut off his words; a scraping sound on the wood floor out in the hallway that he knew very well. Bruno used to push his dog bowl across the floor when it was empty, pushing it with his nose all the way into the living room and then looking up at him with his sad, puppy dog eyes that said: Feed me.
Someone was pushing one of the metal food bowls along the floor outside the bathroom door just like Bruno used to do. The bowl clunked up against the bathroom door. Quinn could even see a small shadow under the door where the bowl was right up against it.
“Who’s out there?” Quinn said as he grabbed the towel off of the toilet tank lid to cover himself. He felt vulnerable, suddenly scared to death. He wished he would have brought his gun into the bathroom with him. And that led to a terrible thought: his gun was in his bedroom on the nightstand, and someone was out there in the hallway. Whoever had pushed Bruno’s dog bowl up to the bathroom door was going to eventually find his gun.
Quinn heard panting from the other side of the bathroom door now. The sound was down low by the bottom of the door, like a dog was panting. Just like Bruno used to do; sometimes he would follow Quinn to the bathroom and wait outside in the hall, lying down by the bottom of the door, just waiting patiently and panting.
“It’s not Bruno,” Quinn whispered. His lips were trembling and he was breathing quick and shallow breaths. It was difficult for him to catch his breath now. His heart was thudding so hard in his chest that it hurt, sharp pains near his left armpit jolting him. He was afraid he was going to have a heart attack.
“Who’s out there?” Quinn said, trying to yell, but he still felt like he couldn’t draw or exhale a complete breath. “I’ve . . . I gotta gun in here. And a phone. You better go now or I’m gonna call the cops.”
The panting stopped. Someone scratched at the bottom of the door now, the sound of claws digging quickly at the door, moving up from the bottom of the door. The doorknob jiggled, then something struck the door hard.
Quinn jumped. There was no window in the small bathroom and the air was thick with steam from his shower, but he could see clearly enough, he saw the two black tentacles poking in underneath the bottom of the door. At first Quinn thought they were snakes, but there were no eyes or mouths, they were just slick, thin tentacles thrashing around. Two tentacles, then four, then seven, all of them whipping around in a frenzy. One of the tentacles slithered up the door to the doorknob, wrapping around it, unlocking it.
When the door was unlocked, all of the tentacles shot back under the door and into the hallway at the same time, all of them gone now.
Everything was quiet.
Quinn cried, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, trying so hard to be quiet.
It was just a hallucination, that’s all it was. What he’d seen wasn’t real, couldn’t be real. Maybe he was finally getting the DTs.
I’ll quit drinking tonight. I swear to God I will.
The door burst open, slamming into the bathroom wall.
Quinn yelped, jumping, the towel falling down into the bathtub around his feet.
A man stood in the doorway. He was tall and thin, his skin so pale. His head was completely bald, he didn’t even have eyebrows. His eyes were cold; there was no mercy in those eyes, no feeling, no humanity.
Tentacles shot out from underneath the sleeves of the man’s hoodie sweatshirt, and Quinn screamed.
*
Two hours later the killer was driving Quinn’s Buick down the highway, traveling south towards New Mexico, to the Navajo Reservation. It wouldn’t be too much longer until he reached the border and the town of Iron Springs. That’s where he would find David.
The killer wasn’t sure why the Ancient Enemy had tasked him with killing a teenage Navajo boy, but it didn’t matter—he would do anything his god told him to. Yet it still intrigued him. As powerful as the Ancient Enemy was, it seemed like the being was scared of David, like the god couldn’t kill David on its own. He didn’t know why, all he knew was that he’d been chosen to carry out this very important mission.
The traffic was light as he drove through the mountains. He had left the pieces of Quinn in the bathtub, and then he had relieved himself in Quinn’s toilet. He had grabbed whatever water and sodas Quinn had, stowing them in a cooler with some ice. He stopped at a fast food place at the next exit off of the highway and bought three sandwiches, three fries, and two more drinks. He hadn’t even tasted the food as he shoveled it into his mouth while he drove; he was just loading his body up on calories, fuel for the tasks ahead tonight. It felt like his body was a machine that he had filled up with oil and gasoline, much like this car he was driving.
It was a strange feeling to have the Ancient Enemy inside of him. The killer still felt like himself but also not like himself anymore. It felt like a dark and powerful energy had been coursing through his veins earlier when he had killed Quinn, but now it was like that dark energy had collected in some far-off corner of his mind, dormant and waiting to be activated again. It wasn’t painful even though the idea of another living being taking up residence in his body was a strange concept to grapple with. But was this god really a living being, or was it something he would never be able to understand?
He let his mind wander as he drove, visualizing David. He could home in on the boy like he was a beacon. He couldn’t wait for tonight, couldn’t wait to kill David and complete this task for his master. He was so close now, only hours away. But he had to make a stop before he got to David; there was something important he needed to do, revenge for something done to his master long ago in an Old West town.
“Use me,” the killer whispered as he drove. “I’ll do anything you want.”
CHAPTER 21
Palmer
Southern Colorado
Like the killer, Palmer was also traveling south on the highway.
He’d still been parked in his ex-wife’s driveway a few hours ago when he’d hung up the phone with Eliza—or more accurately, she had hung up on him. He had checked airplane reservations on his phone after that. The flights were expensive on such short notice, but that wasn’t a problem; he had plenty of money on his credit cards and in the bank. He paid his bills from his FBI pension and then hardly ever spent any money on himself. The airplane might get him down to New Mexico faster, but he would still have to rent a car when he got there. And then he thought of trying to get his gun on the plane with him. He had a concealed carry permit, but he wasn’t an FBI agent anymore, and the hassle of trying to get past TSA might not be worth it.
He’d driven back to his condo and packed an overnight
bag. He had his gun, a Glock 17 like he used to use in the FBI even though they had switched over to a different model now. He also had two boxes of ammo, a hunting knife, a pocket knife, and he wore a crucifix around his neck, a necklace his mother had given to him when he was a teenager, a necklace he hadn’t worn in decades. He packed three changes of clothes, a few bathroom supplies, and an envelope of extra cash. He also packed a cooler with drinks and loaded a plastic bag with snacks. He would stop and pick up some more food on the way, but he wanted to get down there as quickly as possible.
When he was done packing, Palmer stood at the door of his condo with his bags down by his feet. He looked back at his condo like it might be the last time he ever saw it.
And then he had left, going down to his car in the parking garage, loading his overnight bag in the trunk, and the cooler and bag of snacks on the passenger seat. He had his Glock in a shoulder holster under his windbreaker jacket.
And now he drove down the highway as the sun was beginning to set. He was still a few hundred miles away from the border of Colorado and New Mexico. He picked up his phone and dialed Begay’s number.
“Palmer.”
“Begay, there were two more murders last night. My ex-wife and her husband. The killer got inside their home without setting off the alarm. He left pieces of their bodies all over the house.” He saw Teresa’s severed head hanging from the ceiling fan with the trail of vertebrae and strings of flesh hanging down from her neck. He tried to push that image out of his mind.
“I’m sorry,” Begay whispered, and it sounded like he meant it.
“There were two more names written in blood on the wall: Cole and Stella. I think the Ancient Enemy is inside the killer now and the killer’s going after Cole and Stella.”
“They’re not in the United States.”
Palmer nodded and sighed. He remembered that now. “Maybe it’s a distraction then. Maybe the killer’s going down there for David, but it wants us to think it’s going after Cole and Stella.”
“I’ve got David with me now. We’re at his aunt’s house. I’m taking them back to my place tonight.”
“Are you going to get some more protection? Police?”
“I can’t justify it. They would never be allowed to camp outside my home because I told them a monster is coming to kill us. But I have told some trusted friends, and the word will spread. They’ll all be patrolling tonight. And we’ll be ready here. As ready as we can be.”
“Okay,” Palmer said.
“What about you?” Begay asked.
“My daughter is safe. She’s out of state with her kids. I don’t even know where she is, and I don’t want to know. I just talked to her a few hours ago.” He thought of the last thing Eliza had said to him, that he hadn’t caught the killer the first time and what made him think he could catch him now.
Palmer thought about telling Begay that he was coming down there to help, but he decided not to. Begay would only tell him to stay away. But Palmer wanted to help. He felt that maybe they would all be stronger together. Obviously they hadn’t finished that thing off in the ghost town, but maybe this time they could. Maybe David was stronger now; maybe instead of driving the Ancient Enemy away, he could actually kill it this time. But Palmer didn’t say any of that. Instead, he said: “You just stay alert down there.”
“We will. You be safe, too.” Begay hung up.
Palmer set his cell phone down in the console. Three seconds later it rang. Palmer thought it was Begay calling right back, but he saw Cardenelli’s name on the screen.
An anger flared up inside of him at just seeing the man’s name on the phone. He couldn’t believe his former SAC suspected him in the murder of his ex-wife and her husband, but it just showed how desperate Cardenelli had become—he had no leads, no physical evidence, no video, no witnesses, and the bodies were starting to pile up.
He thought about ignoring the call, letting it go to voicemail, but he picked it up on the third ring and answered it. “Palmer here.”
“We got a lead,” Cardenelli said.
“A lead?”
“Found one blood sample at the crime scene that doesn’t match either of the victims.”
Teresa and Gary, Palmer thought. Those are the victims.
“And we picked up a few clothing fibers.”
“That’s good,” Palmer said. His DNA was already in the FBI database so Cardenelli would be able to rule him out as a suspect pretty soon.
“There’s more,” Cardenelli said. “A call came in two hours ago. Neighbors called about some noises from a house near them, a man named Quinn Kurtzman. Police found the man’s body in his bathtub. The pieces of his body.”
“The same killer?”
“Has to be. Same shoeprints. And the killer took the man’s car, a ten-year-old Buick. We’ve put out a BOLO in Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona.”
“Good,” Palmer said. He thought about saying something sarcastic about not being the prime suspect anymore, but decided not to.
“We’re gonna get this guy now.” Cardenelli hesitated for a moment. “Hey, about what happened back at the crime scene, I didn’t mean to imply that you had anything to do with that.”
Palmer didn’t say anything. It didn’t sound like Cardenelli was apologizing; it sounded more like he was telling him that he didn’t need him anymore.
“Well, I just wanted to say that and let you know what’s happening,” Cardenelli said.
“I appreciate it.”
They hung up and Palmer set his cell phone back in the center console. He knew Cardenelli wasn’t going to catch the killer. Even if a cop stopped the killer, that cop would be dead in seconds when the Ancient Enemy attacked.
We’re going to have to catch him, Palmer thought, but then his daughter’s last words to him earlier on the phone echoed in his mind: You couldn’t catch him before. What makes you think you can catch him now?
CHAPTER 22
Officer Sam
Iron Springs, New Mexico
As night fell on Iron Springs fear blanketed the town. Word had spread that a killer was coming tonight, the same killer who had murdered the scientists at the dig site near Randy Tahoma’s ranch, the same killer who had murdered and mutilated Jim Whitefeather, the same killer who had murdered John and Deena Bear, removing the skin from their heads and faces. The whispers of horrors done in the past were on the townspeople’s lips.
Many in Iron Springs locked their doors and windows as the night came, many doing this for the first time in years. Many got rifles and shotguns and pistols loaded and ready. Many planned to stay up late and keep watch over their families.
As night came businesses closed early, including the Mexican restaurant where Kiki worked. She’d been working there for nine years now and she remembered when the Dig Site Murders had happened seven years ago. She remembered waiting on Captain Begay and an FBI agent that night, both of them coming in for dinner. She remembered Old Woman Sloane screaming at the men in Navajo, telling Begay that she knew who the murderer was—the Ancient Enemy. Kiki remembered her skin crawling when Old Woman Sloan had screamed the name of that demon in the restaurant, the old woman’s eyes wild with fear. The woman’s niece had pulled her away from the captain and the FBI agent, and Kiki had apologized to them for the old woman’s outburst.
The murders stopped after that day. Many had performed ceremonies and sang prayers, and many said that the power of those rituals had stopped the killer, drove him (or it) away. Even though there were no more murders, the FBI and BIA had stayed in town for weeks afterwards. She had waited on agents, scientists, and reporters. The small motel and the bed and breakfast were filled to capacity every night, rooms rented out in advance. Empty houses and trailers had been rented out, and some stayed in distant towns. Reporters stood in front of cameras and reported on the mysterious tragedy that had befallen this once-quiet and quaint Navajo town. Kiki had been interviewed by the FBI, but she had nothing important to offer them. She kne
w nothing. And she had never mentioned Old Woman Sloane’s warning to the captain and the FBI agent that night about the Ancient Enemy—the FBI agents never would have believed her anyway.
It took a while but life in Iron Springs finally returned to normal. The FBI agents left, the scientists left, and the reporters left. Every once in a while some people would come into town, an author working on a book, filmmakers producing a documentary, a person doing research for a blog. The cave at the dig site had been deemed U.S. property now, and scientists and archaeologists still studied the ancient city built inside the cave and the ancient Anasazi writings they had found on the stone tablets. The whole canyon floor was off-limits to the Navajo now, their own land, and the land of their ancestors, had once again been taken from them.
Kiki went home when the restaurant closed down. She made sure the doors and windows were locked. She brought their dog inside for the night and her eighty-year-old father got his shotgun out and loaded it, keeping the weapon and a box of shells near his chair. She watched TV as her father fell asleep in the chair. She couldn’t sleep and she knew she would be awake until dawn.
*
Old Woman Sloane lay in her bed staring at the ceiling in the dark. She’d been singing songs and burning herbs all day, doing her part to keep the evil spirits from coming back to their town. Rumors had spread about a killer coming, the same killer coming back. But Sloane had felt the evil long before the rumors had started. She’d felt the evil spirits lurking in the shadows seven years ago, and those same evil spirits were returning. She had tried to warn people back then that the Ancient Enemy was coming, but of course no one listened to a foolish old woman. Many called her a witch, but she didn’t care. They hadn’t believed her then, but many believed the warnings now. And after what was going to happen tonight, they would all believe.
A killer was coming. She’d seen this in her dreams, and she knew some others had seen him too. She was sure David had seen the killer in his dreams. The killer was only a man, but the Ancient Enemy demon was inside the man, controlling him. When the Ancient Enemy was done with the killer after tonight, the demon would throw the killer away like a used tissue, leaving behind a husk of dry, dead skin; the killer’s insides and his soul would be gone, taken to the demon’s world. Maybe the killer already knew his fate, maybe he didn’t care, maybe he wanted it that way.
