Night Prey

by Carol Davis Luce

Lois Paxton, refusing even to handle a gun, wrung her hands and paced. She stopped, looked solemnly at her daughter, then broke the long silence. “You saw this man take Tobie?”

  “Yes.” Robbi slid a shell into the chamber. As though talking to herself, she added quietly, “All along it was really Tobie he wanted; the others were merely surrogates.” She turned and faced the French windows, staring out at the rapidly darkening sky. The gun made a sharp cracking sound as she snapped the barrel shut. “I couldn’t save Ronnie, but, dammit, I will save Tobie.”

  Robbi shivered. Through the windows of the sun porch she saw sheet lightning flash in the distance. A few minutes earlier, as she and Jake closed the windows in the porch against the gusty winds, everything around Robbi had suddenly gone black. At first she thought her blindness had returned. Then she realized she was not alone in her mind; the blackness dwelled in another place. She’d smelled earth and decay and coconut. Then Tobie’s fears had flooded her brain.

  Now, able to see clearly again, and Tobie no longer in her head, she said to Jake, “It was pitch black. She may have been blindfolded.”

  “Any sounds that might give a clue to her location?”

  “Nothing. It smelled of earth. It was cool. I’m positive it was underground.”

  Lightning flashed across the western sky. Thunder followed. Robbi stiffened, remembering the running nightmare. A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows. As the storm clouds increased, the sky darkened.

  Lois had gotten dressed and was now sitting rigid on an overstuffed floral-printed chair. She held a small throw pillow to her chest, picking at the fringe, her lap littered with a cottony fuzz.

  “I’m calling the police,” Roberta said.

  “No!” her mother cried out. “You heard what Hanley said. He’ll kill her. Listen to Hanley, he knows best.”

  “But Mom, Hanley may be dead.”

  “It hasn’t been two hours yet,” Lois said, her eyes darting from Robbi to Jake. “Give him the two hours.”

  Robbi looked at Jake. He nodded.

  FIFTY

  Eckker stood in the shadows of the stable. There had been no sign of his grandfather or the horse on his trip down the mountain.

  He looked through the windows of a room at the back of the large house and watched the woman he had to kill.

  A tall, good-looking man moved to the window and stood gazing out. Eckker’s gut twisted. There was the one responsible for taking pieces of his body. Eckker rubbed the bandaged hand on his pant leg. It would give him great pleasure to annihilate, slowly and with much pain, this man who had deformed him.

  From his pocket he took out a Swiss army knife, then went to look for the telephone line to the house.

  “Hanley’s quarters, where are they?” Jake asked Roberta. “Out by the stable. Why?”

  “This waiting is driving me crazy. Maybe we’ll find something.”

  Roberta gripped the shotgun and opened the screen door. “Cmon.”

  With the wind ripping at their hair and clothes, they ran across the yard to Hanley’s bungalow. The first drops of rain began to fall—fat, silver-dollar-size drops.

  The door was unlocked. They rushed inside and, using the weight of their bodies against the powerful gusts, they forced the door closed.

  “What are we looking for?” she asked.

  “Anything that can shed some light on this ... this . .”

  Roberta didn’t wait for him to finish, she strode across the room to a bureau and pulled drawers out.

  Jake pried open a footlocker under the window and began going through it.

  “Look here.” He sat on the bunk, a shoebox filled with papers, photos, and personal mementos in his lap.

  She sank down beside him and gazed at a faded Polaroid snapshot of a threesome—a thin-legged man in jeans and western straw hat, an ebony-eyed woman, her expression stern, and a dark-haired boy who looked fourteen but probably was only eight or nine.

  Two newspaper clippings. An obituary: Jennifer Eckker, 25, died Monday in her San Francisco residence ... surviving are her parents, Hanley and Emily Gates of Cold Creek, California, and a son, Joseph.

  A two-inch article from the San Francisco Examiner, September 9, 1963:

  WOMAN BEATEN TO DEATH, BOYFRIEND ARRESTED

  Jennifer Eckker, 25, was found dead in her residence at the Colonial Apartments in the Tenderloin. Her live-in boyfriend, Charles Blackstone. was arrested at the scene. Neighbors, hearing the woman’s screams, called the authorities, who were unable to respond in time to save her. Eckker’s eight-year-old son witnessed her death ...

  Robbi looked at the photograph of Hanley, his wife, and grandson again. The three were standing in front of a white wooden church.

  Robbi closed her eyes. Another wooden church materialized in the recesses of her mind.

  She heard faint creaks and groans. The walls of the chapel vibrated like a living creature breathing in and out. The ceiling sagged, opened up to the sky. What did it mean?

  “The walls are coming down,” Robbi whispered. “The church is falling apart.” Jake took her hands. “Which church. His church?”

  “Yes ...” Robbi saw the parishioners in the chapel waver, grow nebulous as they seemed to break up along with the building. The building was disintegrating. She saw weeds and wildflowers growing inside the empty shell.

  “Ruins.” She spun around to Jake, grabbed his arm. “Not a church, but the ruins of a church.”

  “On this mountain?”

  Roberta jumped to her feet, charged by the probability.

  They ran back to the house through the steady rain. Pomona had brought tea on a silver tray and was pouring.

  “Mom, do you know of any old buildings, a church maybe, around here?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never paid much attention to the area. Your father is the one who knows this mountain inside and out. Before his stroke he traipsed all over—”

  A distant voice shouted Lois’s name.

  “That’s the mister now,” Pomona said. “Hanley, he usually put him to bed long ago.”

  Lois rose slowly, looking weary. “Jake, could you help me with my husband?”

  “I think it’s time you, Pomona, and your husband left.” He took her arm. “I’ll help you take him out.”

  “Wait,” Robbi said, stopping them. “Give me a few minutes with him.”

  “Honey, leave him alone. You know how difficult he can be.”

  “We have no choice. Mom. He may know where she is.”

  Lois nodded.

  “I’ll bring the car around to the back door,” Jake said.

  “Pomona will show you where the keys are,” Roberta said, hurrying from the room.

  She had never been in his bedroom in this house, but she had only to follow a tap-tap and the string of curses to find the room and her father. At the end of the long hallway stood a pair of white enameled doors.

  Roberta rapped lightly.

  “Come! Come!”

  She opened the door and stepped in.

  Caught off guard by her presence, his jaw worked up and down. He recovered. “Lost?”

  “No.”

  “Then leave. Send Hanley.”

  “In a minute. I—I need some answers.”

  He looked past her to the doorway, where Lois silently stood. “What is this, a circus? Where the hell is Hanley? I’d like to retire, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Roberta forced herself to stay calm. “Tobie’s in trouble.”

  “Her mother can handle it,” he said. “I want to go to bed.”

  “Cameron,” Lois stepped into the room.

  “Out. Both of you.”

  “Dammit. It’s no use, you were right,” Roberta said to her mother, turning to go. “We’re only wasting time with him. I’m calling the police.”

  Lois stopped her, turned to her husband. “Cameron, this is very serious. Tobie—”

  “Is your responsibility,” he cut in brusquely. “If she’s in trouble,
you get her out.” He swiveled the wheelchair around, putting his back to them.

  Lois stood still for a moment, then bore down on her husband, anger twisting her face.

  “You listen to me. You have a daughter. She’s thirteen years old. Right now, as we speak, a monster of a man has her in some godforsaken place in these woods, and he may kill her. Do you understand? You’ve been all over these hills.” Without taking her eyes from him, she said, “Robbi, tell him what you’re looking for.”

  “A stone and log structure, probably the ruins of a church.”

  Something in his eyes sparked.

  He knew. The bastard knew. Roberta felt a mixture of disgust and elation.

  “Tell her where it is,” Lois demanded, gripping the wheelchair tightly.

  “She’d never find it,” his tone cynical.

  Robbi ran from the room, oblivious of the tears welling up in her eyes.

  She rushed into the gun room. On a bookshelf she found dozens of regional maps. Pulling them down, she tossed one after another aside until she found the right one.

  She ran back into her father’s bedroom. Unfolding the map, snapping the crisp paper open, she put it on his lap, grabbed his hand, and slapped it on the face of the map. “Show us.”

  He glared at her, defiance in his eyes. “Where’s Hanley?”

  “Dead.”

  His head jerked up.

  “That’s right. Hanley’s dead, killed by the man who has Tobie. Killed by his own grandson.”

  He looked from Roberta to her mother; a flicker of uncertainty flashed in his eyes. Then he seemed to deflate before her eyes. He looked down. His hand began to move slowly over the map. He stopped, his palm flat on the paper. Robbi recognized a portion of it as the Paxton land. Then, his hand curled, his shaky forefinger pointed to a spot south of the highway, national forest. “There,” he said flatly.

  She circled it in ink. “How far from the house?”

  “Two, three miles.”

  “Is there more to the structure than the stone and log shell?”

  “A basement.”

  “Did you know he was there?” Robbi asked.

  Her father stared solemnly at her with pale blue- green eyes. He shook his head. “No.”

  Jake appeared in the doorway. “The car’s out back. Ready?”

  “Jake, I know where the church is.”

  “I’ll get the sheriff and Clark on the phone,” he said.

  Robbi watched him go down the hall. She turned back to her father. He closed his eyes, refused to look at her.

  She folded the map, wedged it down into the side pocket of her khaki shorts, then turned, hugged her mother. For now they could both savor this moment of victory.

  In the hallway Jake stood with the phone to his ear, pressing buttons. He opened his arm and she moved into the space. He tapped the lever on the phone. “This phone’s out. Where’s another?”

  She rushed into the gun room, yanked up the receiver, and listened. A flash of lightning streaked across the western sky. Thunder boomed. The lights flickered.

  “Dead,” she said, going to Jake. “The storm?”

  “Must be,” Jake responded, conviction lacking in his voice.

  From the kitchen, glass shattered. Pomona screamed. The house plunged into darkness.

  FIFTY-ONE

  The scream echoed through the large house.

  In the dark, Jake fumbled on the desktop for the shotgun, grabbed it, and ran out of the room.

  Robbi followed.

  They found Pomona standing in the middle of the grayed kitchen, a broken lantern on the floor tiles, kerosene pooling at her feet. She pointed to a window next to the door. “Somebody ... out there!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes—no. I don’t know. The lights go out and I think I see somebody at the window.”

  Pomona put a shaky match to the unbroken lantern. Anemic yellow light blossomed outward. She turned the wick until the light brightened and flickered. Black smoke snaked from the glass chimney.

  “Be careful of that match. Lower that flame.” Jake moved to the window and looked out. “There’s no one out there now.”

  Roberta lowered the gas in the lantern. From a shelf by the door she took down a flashlight and handed it to the housekeeper. “Pomona, tell my mother it’s time to go.”

  Pomona followed the beam of light out of the room.

  Robbi brought the lamp to the table, unfolded the map, and spread it out. She and Jake bent over it.

  “There’s a boundary fence about here.” She pointed. “I saw it once while out riding. I think the best way is to head for the fence and follow it up. The map shows a body of water, a small lake or a large pond, just this side of where the old structure should be. It can’t be too far beyond that.”

  “If for any reason we get separated, we’ll try to meet at the pond.”

  Robbi shuddered at the thought. “We won’t get separated.” She folded the map and put it back in the pocket with the matches and extra shells.

  Pomona entered the kitchen, pushing Cameron Paxton in the wheelchair. Lois followed, her face drawn. “I want to stay here,” Lois said.

  “No, Mom. You’d be alone in the house. You have to go.”

  “Where will you and Jake be?”

  “We’re going to look for Tobie.”

  After securing a rain slicker over the old man, Jake lifted him from the chair. Then, with Robbi at his side acting as shotgun, he carried the invalid out to the car and buckled him into the backseat. The two women got in the front, Lois behind the wheel.

  “Lois, keep the doors locked and don’t stop for anyone,” Jake said. “When you get to Truckee, go straight to the police and tell them what’s going on here. Tell them to send every available man.”

  Jake and Roberta hurried back to the house.

  The horse trod carefully down the slope, its burden shifting awkwardly from side to side. The rider moaned, held his hand firmly against his chest to staunch the flow of blood.

  The rider tipped, caught himself, his arms going around the horse’s neck.

  Prince lowered his shiny black head and continued on, the steady rain beating down on both horse and rider.

  Roberta laid the shotgun on the island counter, then moved to the sink to a box of wooden matches on the windowsill. As she reached for the box, a dark figure loomed up in front of the window. The broad face peered in at her.

  She screamed.

  The face disappeared.

  Jake was beside her in an instant.

  “It was him,” she whispered, backing away.

  “Where?”

  “There.” She pointed.

  A moment later there was a powerful thud at the back door.

  “It’s him!” Robbi shouted. “Shoot him! Shoot him through the door!”

  Jake grabbed the .12 gauge and took a stance.

  Panes shattered from high in the door, showering them with stinging bits of glass.

  Roberta dashed to the island for her gun just as the door flew open, smashing against the water cooler. The Sparklett’s bottle crashed to the floor, sending a cascade of water across the tiles. A figure towered in the doorway, the gray, rainy night a backdrop for the enormous hulk. Still several feet from her shotgun, she realized she had put herself between Jake and the killer.

  Robbi froze.

  The man lunged at her, seizing a handful of her clothes. She felt her back pocket rip, heard the map and extra shotgun shells spill onto the floor. She twisted away, snatched up the shotgun from the counter, and tried to turn it on him. His hand wrapped around the barrel; Then he suddenly let go, his feet going out from under him as he crashed to the floor in an oily pool of kerosene and water.

  Jake rushed around the island, the shotgun aimed at the man on the floor. Just as he pulled the trigger, the man kicked out at the barrel. A blinding flash lit up the kitchen. The blast blew out the window above the sink.

  “Run!” Jake yelled.


  Roberta hesitated, then tore out the door, the gun banging against her legs. Once outside, she slowed, called out to Jake.

  “Get the hell out of here! Run!” he shouted.

  With a despairing moan she turned and ran.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Jake caught a glimpse of Robbi running across the yard toward the woods before he turned back to Eckker. The man, on his feet again, was reaching for him.

  Jake lifted the shotgun, pulled the pump back, but before he could finish the action, Eckker grabbed the barrel and wrenched it from his hands. Jake was thrown onto the center island. He rolled over the top and fell off the other side, landing on the abandoned wheelchair. It careened noisily across the room as he came to his feet.

  Jake circled the island until he had a nearly clear passage to the back door. He saw Eckker glance at the door, anticipating his next move.

  At opposite ends of the island, both men charged for the door. Jake’s ankle rapped the edge of the footplate of the wheelchair and, without slowing down, he grabbed the armrest, whirled the chair around, sending it into Eckker. The big man fell into it, a clatter of metal, then both man and chair tumbled over, blocking the exit.

  Jake reversed his course and bolted out of the kitchen into the dark house. He heard a clamor, the rattle of metal, what sounded like the wheelchair being thrown across the room. Without benefit of light he tried to remember the layout of the house. He had to find the gun room. He ran through the living room, down the endless hall. Not far behind, he could hear glass breaking, cursing.

  Inside the gun room, Jake headed for the rifle cabinet. The first gun he grabbed was a high-caliber rifle, and not certain which cartridges fit it, he tossed it aside. He found a double-barreled shotgun. He yanked out the drawer that held the ammunition, but before he could get his hands on the shells, Eckker charged into the room.

  Jake abandoned the gun. There was no time. He struggled with the tall cabinet, pulling it away from the wall. It clipped Eckker on the shoulder as it crashed to the floor between the two men. Jake picked up the swivel desk chair and smashed it through the low windows, jumping out with it. He rolled in the slick, rain-soaked grass, came to his feet, and, without looking behind him, he ran.