Closet Treats

by Paul E. Cooley

"Trey, please."

  Dewhurst's smile returned. "My understanding, Trey, is that he's going to be okay."

  Trey blew out a sigh. "Thank, God," he whispered.

  "Yes," Dewhurst agreed. "Now, do you have any other questions?"

  Trey nodded. "Do I need a lawyer?"

  Dewhurst blinked at him, his expression flat. "Not at this time, Trey. Not at this time." The detective pulled a sheaf of paper from the folder and held it up. "I want to read something to you. And you might find it a trifle upsetting." Trey opened his mouth to say something, but Dewhurst held up a single finger to shush him. "If I may, Trey." Trey closed his mouth and leaned back in his chair. Dewhurst nodded to himself. "We looked in the busted open refrigerator. We found, uh, the remains of at least three people. Children," Dewhurst said, peering over the paper at him. "All frozen. All wrapped in plastic. And buckets that appear to be filled with frozen blood."

  Trey swallowed. The color had drained from his face and the weariness threatened to crush him. "I--"

  "What I want to know, Trey," Dewhurst said, dropping the piece of paper, "is what you were doing there."

  "You wouldn't believe--"

  "Try me," Dewhurst said, his eyes glaring into Trey's. "I don't believe you have anything to do with this, sir, but I want to know how you and your friend ended up in that warehouse."

  Trey took in a deep breath, and began to explain. He told Dewhurst about the ice cream van, how he and Dick hadn't liked the man. About Dick's research into the dummy company and about the missing boy. He left out his time at the hospital as well as his visions. As he talked, Dewhurst pulled a small notebook from his suit coat pocket and began taking notes. When he was finished, the detective had scrawled several pages worth.

  "Is that everything, Trey?" he asked without looking up at him.

  "Yes," Trey said.

  Dewhurst nodded. He looked up from the notebook, a shark's grin on his face. "How many times have you been institutionalized, Mr. Leger?"

  Trey's mouth opened and then he closed it again. "I-- How do you--"

  "Police report, sir. From four years ago." The cop opened the manilla folder and pulled out another sheet of paper. "Although your wife chose not to file a complaint, the officer still logged it."

  "But--"

  "Wonderful thing, computers," Dewhurst said. "Makes it easy to search across the neighboring jurisdictions." He tapped his pen on the metal table. "I'm going to find out everything, Trey. So if there's anything you left out, I suggest you tell me now."

  Eyes cast down at his reflection in the table, Trey found his right hand performing the chromatic scale. The three fingers danced in the fast repetition. He stopped them and looked up at Dewhurst. "I'm not crazy," he said softly. "I'm not."

  The grin on the cop's face faded into a gentle smile. "No one says you are, Trey."

  "Bullshit," Trey whispered. "You look at me. You call in some favors, maybe squeeze a little information from one of the nurses at the hospital, or you talk to someone in Montgomery County. They pull a few files for you. Let you peek at something. You'll find out all that crap. And then you'll come back here and call me crazy. Just like most other people would."

  "Assuming," Dewhurst said as he leaned forward, "that I had time to do all that, Trey, and that I had that many friends, what would I find out?"

  "I have not been read my rights, Detective. Is that correct?"

  "That is correct," Dewhurst said in a loud, clear voice, "you have not been read your rights, sir."

  "So you can't use any of this?" Dewhurst nodded. "Say it," Trey snarled.

  Dewhurst leaned back in his chair, his brows furrowed. He turned to look at the mirrored wall and mimicked slashing his throat with his hand. "The department," he said as he turned back to Trey, "may not use any of this interview against you, Mr. Leger."

  Trey nodded. "I suffer from psychosis, Detective," Trey whispered. "Do you know what that means?"

  Dewhurst nodded. "It means you are delusional. Prone to hallucinations, perhaps."

  "Yes," Trey said. "I'm amazed you know the meaning of the word."

  The detective chuckled. "Afraid I have friends in the field who've corrected me more than once, Mr. Leger." He tapped his pen again against the metal table. "So, Trey, did you see something?"

  Trey sighed. "Yeah." He cleared his throat. "I saw a thing." Dewhurst's eyebrow raised. "A thing dressed like a man."

  Pursing his lips, Dewhurst looked down again at his notebook. "What did this thing look like, Trey?"

  "Fuck," Trey whispered, "it looked like a thing, okay? Tall. Skin all fucked up. Jaw filled with large teeth, fingers that ended in long talons. Shit like that."

  "Is that what attacked your friend?" Trey nodded. "You realize I can't put out an APB on that," Dewhurst said.

  Trey shrugged. "He always wears a cream-colored jumpsuit."

  "Wears? But what was he wearing today?"

  "I--" Trey dropped his eyes to the table. "I don't know. I couldn't see-- He just looked like a shadow."

  Dewhurst sighed. "So I'm putting out an APB on a tall, walking crocodile that looks like a shadow. Oh, and he might be wearing a white jumpsuit."

  "I know," Trey said. "I told you it would all sound crazy." Trey raised his eyes. "Until today, he always wore a hat too."

  "Is that important?"

  "He--" Trey swallowed. "It always hid its eyes. Always wore a hat pulled low so you couldn't really see them."

  Dewhurst nodded and scribbled something down on the paper. "That's something I can use," he drawled. He closed the notebook and placed the pen beside it. He tented his hands and locked eyes with Trey. "You think there's a monster out there." Trey nodded. "I believe in human monsters," Dewhurst said softly. "And I believe you saw something, Mr. Leger. And we're going to catch him."

  Trey swallowed again. "Thank you," he whispered.

  "Don't mention it. I'm going to call your wife, Trey. I'll have her come pick you up."

  Chapter 52

  The cold wind bit through his jacket. Trey shivered, but refused to go back inside. Although the station was actually off to the side of downtown, the tall Houston buildings made the city into a wind tunnel turning a stiff breeze into a strong wind, and a strong wind into a hurricane. Every few minutes, an officer or two walked past, coming from or going to their patrol cars. Occasionally, they led in a person in cuffs.

  Evening was fast approaching. The clouds had thickened, all but hiding the sun save for a gentle glow toward the west. He'd been standing in the cold for at least ten minutes, waiting for Carolyn to pick him up. He wrapped his arms around himself. It was damned cold and getting colder. He fought the urge to walk back into the station. It was warm inside, but he didn't want to see Dewhurst. And he sure as hell didn't want all those cops staring at him; he felt creeped out enough.

  Dewhurst. The guy said he believed in human monsters, but Trey didn't know what that meant. At first he thought perhaps the detective was making fun of him, dismissing the story as delusion, but Trey wondered.

  The detective seemed sympathetic. No, Trey thought, that's the wrong word. Was it possible he'd seen something like that in his life?

  Dewhurst had left him in the interrogation room for a while after their conversation. When he returned, he wore a grim smile and put a hot cup of coffee in front of Trey.

  "Do me a favor," the man drawled, "drink this, will you?"

  Trey had smirked. "Any particular reason why?"

  Dewhurst nodded. "You're pale, Mr.-- Trey. Very pale." Dewhurst sat down across from him again. "Think perhaps you need something hot to drink."

  "Okay." He took the coffee cup and sipped. The black liquid scorched his tongue, causing him to grunt. "Shit."

  "Yeah," Dewhurst said. "Freshly made just for you." Trey said nothing and placed the coffee cup back down. Dewhurst stared at him. "Called your wife," he said in his soft drawl.

  "I'll bet that was fun."

  The detective chuckled. "I only told her you we
re here and needed a ride. Nothing more."

  "Oh, thanks," Trey said with mock gratitude. He blew on the styrofoam cup, steam blowing back into his eyes and face, making him feel more awake.

  "Can I ask you a question?"

  Trey said nothing, only nodded.

  "You didn't tell your wife you were coming down here, did you?"

  Trey shook his head. "No. She thinks Dick and I came down to Houston to go disc shopping."

  Dewhurst's eyebrows raised. "Disc shopping?"

  Another sip of the hot coffee. It didn't burn him this time. The black liquid warmed his throat before exploding in his belly.

  "Frisbees. We play frisbee golf." Trey placed the cup back down on the table. "Guess we won't be doing that again anytime soon," he muttered.

  "You," Dewhurst said softly, "look a little less peaked." Trey looked into the man's gaunt smile and felt like hitting him. "Glad to see that."

  "What's your game, Detective?" Trey asked in a growl.

  Dewhurst's smile flat-lined. "My game is trying to figure out who slaughtered at least three children and wrapped them up like they were going to be sold at Hubble and Hudson's premium meat counter."

  Trey blanched.

  "You haven't helped me out all that much, Trey."

  The meat. Flesh enclosed in Ziplock bags. Coils of grey intestines wound together like sausage for sale. The strange crimson scrawl of symbols on each bag. Buckets filled with a dark, frozen liquid.

  Dewhurst's worried grimace was inches from Trey's face. "Trey?" the man said, loud enough to hurt Trey's ears.

  Trey leaned back in the chair, causing the legs to tip. Dewhurst quickly placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him back to the floor.

  "Easy, sir," Dewhurst whispered.

  "I--" Trey tried to speak, but his voice came out in a croak.

  Dewhurst patted his shoulder and retreated a little, giving Trey some space.

  "Thank you," Trey said.

  Dewhurst nodded. "You okay?"

  Trey nodded. "I, um, have a type of epilepsy."

  "Absent seizures," Dewhurst nodded. "Yeah, I know." Dewhurst pointed to the cup. "Go ahead, drink your coffee." He walked back around the table and sat in his chair.

  The coffee was much cooler now. He swallowed a mouthful and placed the nearly empty cup back on the table. "Jesus," he whispered, "how long?"

  Dewhurst shrugged. "Couple of minutes." Trey cursed. "Happens when you get stressed?"

  Trey said nothing, but nodded.

  Dewhurst's phone dinged. The man sighed, pulled his cell from the inside pocket of his jacket and checked the screen. He grimaced and then placed it back in the pocket. "Okay," Dewhurst whispered. "Your wife said she'd be here in about forty minutes." He looked down at his watch. "You shouldn't have to wait much longer." He rose from his chair. "I have to go now, Trey. You can wait in here if you like."

  "Need some air, Detective."

  "Okay, Trey. I'll escort you outside." The man's smile grew wide and genuine. "Let's get you another cup of coffee."

  35 miles to the north, Trey's house waited for he, Carolyn, and Alan to walk through the door and make it a home again. How long would Dick's house wait in silence for its owner to come home?

  Dewhurst had told him which hospital Dick was in. The cops were waiting for him to wake up so they could talk to him, but Trey was certain the doctor would keep them at bay even if Dick woke up and wanted to talk.

  Trey sighed. What the fuck had they been thinking?

  No one would believe them. No one would take the psychotic and his pot-smoking neighbor seriously. The Ice Cream Man.

  Fuck. The kids all loved him. "Except for Alan," Trey whispered aloud. What did Alan see when he looked at the...the thing? Does he see what I see? Trey shivered again.

  The face. The thing in the shadows peering at him over Dick's shoulder, all teeth and scarred flesh. The stench of rot and offal. But the worst part had been that maniacal, malevolent grin. When it had spoken and pointed at him, Trey had nearly wet his pants. That sound was the most terrifying thing he'd ever heard in his life.

  But where had it gone? Its lair was covered. Dewhurst said the warehouse was a cornucopia of forensic evidence and the techs would be there well into the evening. Although Dewhurst didn't say it, Trey was certain the cops would be staking it out as well. They had its van and its food.

  What would happen when it got hungry again?

  Trey looked up as a car pulled in. Carolyn smiled and waved at him. Trey returned the smile and walked to the car. Something past the car caught his eye and he looked up as he opened the door. Standing near a street lamp across from the police station, something glowed in the day's soft light. A tall bum wrapped in a trench coat, a baseball cap pulled low over its face so that just a pair of eyes shone from beneath. They looked as yellow as the arc-sodium street lights.

  Trey shook his head and looked back. The bum was gone.

  He opened the door and got in. He turned to Carolyn as he fastened his seat-belt. "Thanks for--"

  She slapped his cheek. The brilliant pain lit up the side of his face. Trey blinked at her, mouth open. She reached across and hugged him. "Scared the shit out of me," she whispered. When she pulled back from him, he saw redness in her eyes.

  "I--" Trey swallowed. "I'm sorry."

  "Trey," she said, "how the fuck did you think I was going to react to a call from the police?"

  He dropped his head to his chest. "I'm sorry, baby," he whispered.

  "Where is Dick?"

  Trey looked up at her, fighting back his own tears. "Dick had a heart attack."

  She blinked at him, her lip quivering. "What--"

  Trey nodded. "He's in the hospital."

  "Oh, Jesus," she whispered. "Is he--"

  "I don't know. The cops told me he's stable."

  "Oh, fuck," she said. "Where is he?"

  "ICU at Ben Taub," Trey said.

  "We need to go--" She frowned at Trey. "Jesus. You have blood all over your shirt." Trey looked down at the dark streaks on his sweater and nodded. "Did you get hurt?"

  Trey shook his head. "It's-- It's not my blood," he breathed.

  She wiped away a tear and put the car in gear. "I'm taking you home," she said. "We'll get Alan and then figure out what to do."

  The car moved slowly out into the intersection. Carolyn wiped at her face again and got up to speed. Trey watched her hands gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white.

  "Dick didn't just have a heart attack, did he?" Carolyn asked after a few minutes.

  Trey shook his head. His whisper was barely audible above the sound of the wind raking across the car. "No."

  "What did you do, Trey?" she asked, her words an accusation.

  He hadn't dragged Dick down there. Dick had dragged him. It had been Dick's idea to go see the Ice Cream Man. Dick had wanted--

  "Trey!" she yelled. Her hand grasped his left, her fingers tight against his own.

  "I--" Trey said. They were on the tollway now, the freeways long behind them. "How long?"

  "Too long. Too damned long." She exhaled through her teeth. "Taking you home, baby. You can tell me later."

  Trey closed his eyes. "Just don't leave me alone," he whispered.

  Chapter 53

  The world was sleeping, except for Trey. He had finally admitted to himself that dreamland was a forbidden place, and stepped out of bed. The day's clouds had finally moved off, leaving a crystal chipped clear night and plummeting temperature. Even with his robe wrapped about him and his feet enclosed in the fuzzy, monster slippers, the cold seeped into his bones.

  Trey stood in Alan's bedroom doorway watching his son sleep. The boy's hair was already a mess, tufts springing out in all directions against his white pillow. The grey bedspread was wrapped around him along with the blanket and sheet. Trey smiled. It didn't matter how tucked in the sheets were, Alan would have them wrapped around himself before the night was done. Especially if it was cold.


  His wife was another world-class cover stealer. Sometimes he would wake to find his feet hanging out from beneath the twisted sheets and blankets. He'd have to fight her for the covers, twisting them back from beneath her just so he could keep from freezing to death. She never stole the covers after they made love, though. That night, she hadn't twitched.

  All the adrenaline of the day, the stress, terror, all felt very distant, as though it had happened to someone else in another lifetime. Then he closed his eyes, and before sleep could take him, he remembered that Dick was still in the hospital. Still in ICU for observation. That's what kept him awake.

  That and the face of the thing.

  When they had reached home, Carolyn had made him wait in the garage until she ushered Alan to his bathroom for a quick soak--she didn't want the boy to see all the blood on Trey's sweater. Trey had stripped in the laundry room, rubbing cleaning solution on the blood stains. He'd pulled a fresh shirt from the dryer and quickly dressed himself.

  Once Alan was through with his bath, Carolyn ordered Chinese. The three of them ate, both Carolyn and Trey pretending that Dick had only had an accident. Trey didn't think Alan believed them. The boy was too smart for that, but to Trey's amazement, he didn't push it either.

  It wasn't until after Alan was finally in bed that Carolyn sat next to him on the couch and held his good hand.

  "All right, baby," she whispered, "what happened?"

  Her voice was soft, her face expressionless. Trey had wanted to melt under her stare. He'd opened his mouth to speak and then closed it with a sharp click. What could he tell her? That he and Dick had wandered into a serial killer's lair? That he'd seen the zip-locked body parts of at least three children stacked like steaks in a meat market?

  What he'd told her wasn't a lie, it just wasn't everything. The break-in, the discovery of murder victims, and the attack were all he managed. While he spoke of the attack, he'd had a seizure. A short one, but it was enough for Carolyn to let him off the hook.

  When he finished, she sat silent for a moment, her eyes glued to the far wall. "You didn't tell me you were going."

  "No," he agreed.

  She swung her eyes to stare into his. Her expressionless face flushed red, the corners of her mouth turned down. "So you lied to me." It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact. "Why?"