by Brad Hart
Footprints were in the mud, starting from the driver’s side of the car. Logan and Walsh followed the prints into the woods, and their vision dimmed as they found themselves surrounded by a sea of dark pine trees which blotted out the sky.
“Stick close,” she said to him.
“You do the same.”
They held their guns out, walking side by side in the dark and ominous woods. After a short while they heard a sound, which sounded curiously like wailing, dreamy music. It came from deep in the woods, and the further they followed Michael Jones’s tracks the louder the disturbing sounds grew in their ears.
The music sounded like the groaning of ghosts, or spirits. It sounded like the cries of a cult, a series of demonic wails for some ritualistic sacrifice. Logan had a big imagination, but that’s sure what it sounded like to him. He shuddered at the thought of it, and at the thought of the master - whoever that was… He had an itching sensation that he and Walsh were not only going to find Michael Jones by following his tracks – but that they were also going to find the master.
Logan closed his eyes and hoped he would make it out of there alive. He hoped that both of them would make out of there alive.
Chapter Thirteen
Frank Walker stood and watched as they wrapped up the body of the man he had brutally killed in self-defense and hauled him into the back of the vehicle. He was a big old thing, that was for sure, ugly and bloody and the latter part of that was thanks to Frank.
“We got men looking for that old car?”
“All around the surrounding areas. No sign of it except for one, but that turned out to be a dud. Eighty-something year old couple driving home in an old Lincoln but sounds like it was a whole hell of a lot nicer than the old car you’re talking about,” a young officer said.
“Yeah, this wasn’t no Lincoln,” Frank said. “This piece of shit would stick out like a sore thumb around these parts.”
“What are you going to do now, Chief?”
“I’m going to look for him myself.”
“Need me to come?”
“That a joke, kid?”
Without another word, Chief Frank Walker got into his car and drove in the direction the rusty old beater had gone. He didn’t expect to find him, but he was going to drive those back roads until he did, come hell or high water. He kept his foot on the pedal and resisted the urge to light up another cigarette.
Need to stay focused. No distractions. Need to be on edge, no time to relax. No time to feel good about things.
Frank drove for forty minutes down the back roads without even coming close to the California 1 Highway, and then he slammed hard on the brake and breathed in. Where in the hell are you?
He looked ahead and saw nothing down the straight stretch of road. Farmland bordered it side to side and it looked like it stayed that way for quite a distance, or at least as far as the eyes could see. He kept on going until he saw a road that veered left and then he took it by chance, realizing he had nothing else to go on; no sense of direction or clues for that matter.
Walker drove down the long road which took him into an area that was heavily covered by a tree line. The road got dark from the branches blotting out the sun and sky and Walker felt a chill pass through his body. He had seen some creepy stuff in his time as a cop, but today had been the creepiest. He couldn’t stop thinking about the drugged out, mostly toothless freak in the rusty old car, and the giant that had been walking toward him from behind.
He kept thinking about how he’d been over the top of him, smashing his head into the pavement, screaming like a madman himself. Was he turning into one of them? He began to tremble.
Were they connected? Who the hell were they?
He already knew there was more than one killer terrorizing his beloved state. He knew that for a fact, and so did Stone. He pulled out his cell and tried to dial him, but the call didn’t ring. It went straight to voicemail. Maybe he was busy. Maybe his phone had died. He dialed Walsh to no avail. It was the same outcome – straight to voicemail.
Frank shuddered again. That wasn’t a good sign, and it didn’t give him any hope. Of course, he wasn’t going to expect the worst. He knew that the two had gone to LA, but he had no idea of their current predicament. If he had, then he’d have been hightailing it up into the mountains with a team of men coming from every direction by helicopter. He was one step behind them, but just as close in his own way to cracking the case, because there was more than one thread tangled and intertwined.
And it was right there in his town.
He drove on through the darkened, winding road until it swerved right and then took him up a long hill. In all his years, Frank Walker had never taken this road, and he could see now that it was for good reason. The place gave him the heebie-jeebies and looked like something out of a hallucinogenic nightmare, where monstrous things would pop out of the trees and end his life.
A chill went through him then, as he saw something up ahead in the dim distance. He couldn’t make out the shape as the road was too dark with the pine trees blocking out the light, but it looked like a car. He slowed his own car and crept along the dark straight shot of the road until the object came clearly into a view and showed itself to be a car indeed, and a nasty one at that.
It was old and almost rusted through with holes in random spots, and it looked like it would barely run. It was like something you would see in a junkyard, not parked neatly on the side of the road. Frank pulled next to it slowly, gun drawn with one hand while the other hand gripped firmly on the wheel. He stopped directly beside the piece of junk and peered inside. There was no one in it that he could see unless they were lying down on the back seat, and that was unlikely.
His radio buzzed. “Chief, we just found another body that had washed up out of the sea. Feet were missing. Looks like the killer tied them to bricks and finally they broke off when they got soaking wet and decomposed enough. It’s a real nasty surprise, Chief. Don’t know how long it’s been out there, but it’s been there a while.”
Frank stopped, ignoring the radio, put his cruiser in reverse, and parallel parked behind the rusty car. He waited a minute, feeling truly scared for one of the first times in his life. He kept his finger on the trigger when he finally got out and walked slowly toward the vehicle. One step at a time, and hesitantly at that. Frank didn’t want a surprise ambush coming out of those dark woods, and he kept a close eye on the tree line as well as the car itself.
“If anybody’s inside, go ahead and make your presence known now by saying something,” he said, voice a bit shakier than he would have liked. A cop should sound commanding, stern, and confident.
Not like a whining dog with its tail between its legs.
His hands were sweaty on the cold metal of his gun. His mind started to race. He stood next to the car and lurched forward to look inside the back seat, which was visibly empty. Frank breathed a sigh of relief. The cold sweat began to recede, and he looked ahead into the woods.
From which sounds emerged.
Frank’s heart began to flutter, thump, thump, thump. He needed to wipe the sweat from his eyes as it was starting to sting and blind him, but he didn’t want either hand to leave the grip of his gun.
“Make yourself known,” he shouted.
Sounds grew louder; the crackling of leaves and breaking of twigs and snapping of branches filled his ears as he steadied his gun. His eyes burned with sweat as he blinked profusely and then a sudden series of shapes began to come into view from the darkness of the forest. Bright, colorful, dull, muted. They were wearing capes or a type of hooded dress. Frank squinted as his beating heart began to work overtime. They were shining something at him - torches, or flashlights. He couldn’t see.
“Freeze,” he screamed as a gurgling set of roaring noises filled his ears.
He kept his eyes open. He could see now. The flashlights had been lowered. Chilled to the bone, Frank Walker’s eyes swelled as he saw a group of four in hooded robes standing out
side the tree line, fifteen feet away from him. They were standing in a line, humming what sounded like an ancient, unintelligible chant. He pointed his gun at each of them, moving from one to the other.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m Chief Frank Walker. You all are going to do exactly what I say, alright? No questions about it, nothing funny.”
Frank didn’t hear the sound coming up behind him. If the man had been wearing shoes, then he would have heard – but the man had been smart, and he had carefully removed them while approaching from the opposite direction of the others. He walked slowly across the road, his white socks a blackened and muddied mess. He set his boots down as he smiled and then took two more steps and was a mere foot behind Frank.
In his left hand, he held a cloth which was damp with the smell of chemicals. In his right hand, he held a tire iron. Frank Walker smelled the cloth, sensed a warm body behind him, and began to quickly turn. He wasn’t quick enough.
“Shit,” he shouted just as the tire iron crashed down over his skull.
The man had been light with it, but it had still been enough to send Frank straight down to the ground. His legs buckled and then he tumbled as his knees smacked against the hard road. He sat there on his knees for a moment, head spinning, and then he felt the man grab him by the throat and place the soft, wet rag over his face.
The sickly toxic smell sent Frank right to sleep, just as planned. There was no struggle, no putting up a grand fight. As soon as the tire iron had whacked him down, he was done for. Frank watched the gloomy black tree line go even blacker, until he could see nothing, and then he fell into a place of pure nightmares.
Chapter Fourteen
The haunting sound of chanting grew louder in Logan’s ears as he and Walsh walked further into the darkness. They stayed silent, watchful, and kept their guns at eye level as the noise pounded into their ears. Things seemed to move slower inside the woods, deep in the heart and belly of it. They walked along pine needles as the chanting seemed to reach a crescendo, echoing around them.
“Logan,” Walsh said in a soft voice. “I think we’re really close to wherever this noise is coming from.”
“I think so too,” he said.
“Stay ready. I’ve got the creeps right now. I’ve never heard music like this before...”
“And it doesn’t put happy thoughts in your head, does it?”
“Sure as hell doesn’t.”
The footprints had all but vanished because at that point the ground was mostly dry from the trees blocking the sky, so they relied on the bizarre chorus which led them further and further into the darkest and most inaccessible parts of the forest. Logan led the way, maneuvering toward the noise from the smooth path of pine needles they had been walking on and dipping instead down into a rocky ravine. He paused and looked down. If he fell, it would be nasty, and he would likely wind up with at least something broken. The rugged but easy to navigate path they had been traversing had disappeared, dropping off into this hellish looking landscape, and it was the only way. They had no choice.
“Be careful, Logan,” Walsh said.
“You too. I wish there was another way, but, uh, this is it, I guess.”
They made their way down the rough terrain, and Logan had to be careful not to snag the cuff of his pants on jagged rocks. The chanting continued, louder than ever, threatening to burst their eardrums as they wandered on down the slope until they reached the bottom and found themselves in a gray, barren landscape seemingly devoid of life.
Logan looked around. The voices seemed to be coming from all different directions. It was unlike any choir he had ever heard. If he had been asked to describe it, the word uplifting would have been the opposite. The melody was monotonous and brooding, and they both tried to block it out, but that wasn’t possible.
“God, I wish they’d shut up,” Walsh groaned.
“Just keeps getting worse and worse. Try not to think about it,” Logan said.
“How? It won’t stop. Just keeps going. My head hurts like hell.”
“I don’t know which way to go.”
“It’s coming from up ahead, or maybe to the left. I can’t tell. Let’s just keep walking.”
Logan looked back at her. In this dead, cold wasteland of rocks and fallen pines, she was the only thing that reminded him of life. She was warm, beautiful, and a distant reminder of how far they’d come in a matter of hours. Los Angeles seemed so far away. He stared into her eyes and could feel the sea and palm trees. He could see San Feliz, the quiet beach town. He could see a great leader in Walsh, probably more than himself.
Maybe it was time to let her take charge.
“You want to lead, or you want to follow?”
She paused. “I can lead. Stick close behind me,” she said.
They veered slowly off to the left and traveled along the rocky slope, down in the flatlands. There were no signs of anyone, or anything, except for a burned-out old fire. Ashy, blackened wood lay around it. There was no smoke, that was long gone. Logan glanced behind himself every ten steps to make sure they weren’t being followed. He couldn’t shake the nauseating sensation that the two of them were being watched by an omnipresent force.
“Walsh,” he said.
“What?”
“You get the feeling that someone’s right on top of us, looking down?”
“You mean up on the hill?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I feel it. Feel like there’s somebody around that we can’t see. But they can see us. I can feel them close.”
She stopped and looked up. It was cold at this altitude, and there was mist in the air. It was hard to see or make out much of anything beyond the random shapes of sharp rock that lined the hillside. She nodded her head and looked at Logan.
“I don’t know. I can’t see a thing. But I know I’m creeped out too, that’s for sure. Would be really nice to be back home now, looking out the window of my apartment and thinking about nothing except the potato I was cutting and how good my dinner was going to taste. You cook, Logan?”
“Cook?” Logan laughed. “I can make a mean set of bacon and eggs, if that’s what you mean by cooking.”
“Well, that’s better than some people, at least.”
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Give me seafood any day of the week. Crab legs, lobster tail with a big bowl of melted butter, some garlic bread to go with that… And we get it fresh from the sea here, don’t we? We’re lucky.”
“True, but as a private eye I don’t make enough to enjoy that kind of lifestyle every day of the week.”
“Hey, as a cop I don’t either.”
She laughed and the two of them stopped for a moment, huddled close together in the dark mist. It was comforting for her to feel his warmth and protection. For Logan, the feeling was mutual. If he had been alone in these woods, he would have done alright. He would have gotten by, at least. He would not have felt very confident, though, or at least not as much as he did right then and there with Officer Walsh at his side.
“I have to say I was hesitant about you leaving San Feliz. I like to work alone, and I always have from the very beginning. I’m not good at this sappy friendship stuff, but I’m glad you’re here now, Walsh. You’ve been a good help so far.”
“This means we’re a team?” She smiled, and the smile was real. Despite the fear, despite all the death, the smile was real. In the thick mist, her eyes shone and her big grin warmed Logan’s spirits.
Then the chanting music stopped. Things grew deathly silent and entirely still. It stopped at once, suddenly and for no apparent reason. Logan turned. The mist had grown stronger. They had nothing to go on then, no noise or footprints. They were stuck deep in the woods, having walked for what felt like miles from a direction he wasn’t even sure of anymore.
He looked up at the ravine and couldn’t see it. Which way was it? His sense of direction and time had suddenly gone out the window, and he didn’t know what was going on. The mist w
as so thick that he could have sworn the rocky hill had been to his left, but then again, wasn’t it on the right?
Logan slapped himself in the face. Get yourself together.
He wasn’t the only one. Walsh looked around and grew more disturbed by the growing mist. It was hard to tell which direction they were going and if they had already gone the same way. Were they going in circles? She hoped the mist would clear, but in the meantime, she stuck close to Logan and the two of them began to walk again.
“Just keep moving,” he said. “We have no choice but to just keep going.”
They walked on for what felt like another mile, and the mist had grown so strong that Logan led the way and was reaching out to feel for trees or objects so that they wouldn’t stumble into them. He tried to keep calm, but the slight itching urge for a fiery drink of whiskey came back to taunt him in this time of misery and desperation.
Just one drink would have sharpened him up. It would have made him able to handle this more like a man. He’d have just gulped it down - a shot, or maybe two or three, and then he’d have tossed the bottle off into the distance and never needed it again. Just one more little drink. Maybe a few for old times’ sake. Just to take the edge off. Just to make my skin stop crawling and my heart stop feeling like it’s going to explode.
The music began again. This time it was soft, but not far away. They were getting closer. The chorus droned on, chanting in a language Logan had never heard, a language that sounded like gibberish to his ears.
“Shut the hell up,” he muttered.
“What?”
“The damn music,” he said.
The mist grew thicker, but the air began to turn from wet to dry. Walsh sniffed the air and then nudged Logan in the back. “You smell that?”
“It’s smoke.”
“I think it’s all around us. I can’t tell if it’s mist or smoke.”
“It’s both, and the smoke is making things worse. I can’t see anything. I’ve never seen woods like this before.”
“It gets bad up here; the mist I mean. But this is something else. It’s smoke on top of the mist now. Keep going, we’re getting close to something.”
