by Amy Cross
“So do you think that was one of a million things?” Ramsey asks, and I turn to see a grin on her face. “Or maybe there's someone else down here.”
“Why would there -”
The words catch in my throat. Before I can try again, I hear another scratching sound in the distance, and Ramsey quickly grabs my arm, pulling me around the next corner.
“Listen!” she hisses, as the sound continues.
I listen, but all I hear is something that seems to be scrabbling at the rocks somewhere in a nearby tunnel. This time the sound persists for several seconds, maybe even getting louder and more insistent. Whatever it is, I can't pretend it's something natural, not now. We definitely have company.
“We need to go!” I whisper. “It's probably some drug-crazed hobo or -”
Ramsey places a cold, slightly clammy hand over my mouth, silencing me.
“Whatever it is, it's alive,” she says after a moment, as the sound seems to get closer for a few seconds before scuttling away again. “Does it sound human to you?”
I wait, with her hand still over my mouth, before shaking my head.
“What if it's him?” she continues, turning to me. Her eyes seem bigger than ever, as huge as dinner-plates. She's really beautiful. “What if it's the devil, and we're down here at the same time that he's down here? Maybe he's come up to poke around again and we're going to come face to face with him. How lucky does that make us? Is your phone any good at taking photos in bad light? 'Cause I've gotta be honest, mine kinda sucks..”
I stare at her, waiting for her to tell me she's joking, but after a moment she looks away and stares along the tunnel as the scratching sound continues in the distance.
Suddenly she turns back to me.
“Or maybe he realized we were down here,” she adds, “and he came to find us.”
I shake my head.
“Maybe,” she continues. “What would you say, Leanne, if the devil started hunting us tonight?”
With her hand still clamped over my mouth, I stay completely still. I know she's wrong, I know she's bluffing and making all this stuff up, but I'm still scared and my heart is still pounding. I don't want to act scared and make Ramsey think I'm immature, although at the same time I'm pretty sure only a kid would want to mess around in the tunnels like this.
“Feel my pulse,” she says suddenly, removing her hand from my mouth and placing two fingers against the side of her neck. “It's hammering so hard, I can hear it! And I can feel it even before I touch my neck! Feel!”
“Ramsey!”
“Feel!”
She grabs my hand and places my fingers against her neck, and sure enough I can feel her heart thundering. At the same time, she touches the side of my neck, and I can feel my own pulse pounding against her two fingers.
“We have to get out of here,” I whisper. “It's not the devil, the devil doesn't exist, but it might be, like, some kind of Oxy hobo who's gone crazy on moonshine. You remember in horror movies when characters go exploring and do something stupid and you think they're idiots? And you're, like, begging them to turn back? That's how stupid we're being right now, and we need to stop and leave before something bad happens.”
“You can leave,” she replies, taking a step back. “I'll be fine.”
“No way!”
“I can handle myself,” she continues. “Seriously. I'm not a little kid anymore. Neither of us are. If this is as far as you're willing to go, then that's cool, but I'm going further.”
I can't help sighing. “Ramsey, we -”
“And don't you think it's weird,” she adds, “that the one who says she doesn't believe in the devil, is the one who's running away? And the one who thinks maybe there's something to the devil is the one who wants to keep going? It's almost as if...”
Her voice trails off. From the look in her eyes, it's clear she thinks she's made some profound point that'll change my mind, but I'm cold and tired and I really don't see the point in stumbling along these tunnels for a few hours only to chance upon some drop-out drug addict.
“I'm going,” I tell her, stepping back around the corner. The scrabbling sound is persisting, off in the distance, and I stare into the darkness for a moment before Ramsey comes to join me. “I've followed you twice now. I really think you should follow me this time, and come out of here.”
“I want to see what it is!”
“Well, I don't!” I hesitate, hoping against hope that she'll see sense, before realizing that maybe she's just changed too much and she's into all this dangerous stuff.
Maybe we're more different now than I'd realized.
“I really hope you come with me,” I continue, as the scratching, scrambling sound continues in the distance. “I really hope you're smart and you'll do the right thing, and that you'll be a good friend.”
She pauses, and for a moment it seems as if she's actually on the verge of agreeing.
“Well,” she says finally, “I could decide to do that, or I could not. But either way, there's a problem that I don't think you're realizing.”
I sigh again. “And what's that?”
“Hear the noise?”
I turn and look ahead, into the darkness. “Yeah, I hear it. And I don't wanna go see what it is.”
“Then you have a bigger problem than I do,” she continues, and for the first time I see a hint of fear in her eyes, “because it's doubled around behind us. That's not the way forward deeper into the tunnels, Leanne. That's the way back out. It's blocking our exit.”
I open my mouth to tell her she's wrong, before turning and looking along the tunnel.
She's right. Whatever's in here, it's not ahead of us anymore. It's behind us. And it sounds like it's getting closer.
Six
Sheriff James Kopperud
“What we have here,” Doctor Shaw says as she wheels the trolley through, “is precisely 132.5 pounds of meat and bone. In other words, if there's anything missing, it can't be very much.”
I open my mouth to reply, but she quickly pulls the sheet away, revealing the various body parts placed on separate metal trays. My gut immediately clenches as I see the dead girl's intestines on one tray, and I can't help noticing that they already appear less bright and red, as if exposure to the air has begun to dull their color.
“Are you okay?”
I turn to the doctor, and I can see her concern.
“You look a little pale,” she adds.
“Just get on with it.”
“As far as I can tell,” she continues, grabbing a clipboard and ticking some boxes, “there are no missing body parts. She has all her organs, all her skin, all her hair. There's no sign of any invasive work, beyond the obvious severing of the limbs. In fact, my best guess is that the killer simply cut the body into pieces and then disposed of it. There might turn out to be a few fragments missing, but -”
She hesitates for a moment, staring at the corpse, and then suddenly she sniffs the air.
“Do you smell something?”
“Formaldehyde?” I suggest.
She sniffs again, before stepping closer to me and sniffing the side of my face.
“It's your hair,” she says finally. “Have you washed it lately? It smells like, I don't know... It smells nasty. Almost like death.”
“I'll take that into account,” I reply, very deliberately stepping away from her and making my way around to the head of the table, where I stop to look down at the girl's severed legs. “So the killer cut her up and then just dumped her in the forest?”
“As far as I can tell. I guess not every murderer takes trophies.”
“He didn't even strip her,” I point out, peering at scraps of what looks like an old t-shirt, caked to the girl's blood-stained torso.
“Well-spotted. As far as I can tell, he only removed items of clothing where it was strictly necessary. Some things fell off, others were just cut into along with the flesh.”
Spotting something metallic that seems to be glintin
g next to one of the chunks of flesh, I reach down and pull the metal loose. It's part of a little silver necklace, with an umbrella-shaped charm.
“Mass-produced,” Doctor Shaw says. “There are probably tens of thousands of them in circulation. Not much use for identification purposes.”
“I've seen one like this before,” I whisper, turning the piece of metal over. I don't remember where I've seen it, but I know I have.
“I know I'm straying a little from my remit, James,” she continues, “but I don't think this was done by someone who had a deep interest in the body of his victim. There's no reverence shown, no care. It's as if the body was garbage, something that didn't interest him at all.”
I let the necklace fall back down against the metal tray. “So it was just his way of getting rid of her?”
“That's another assumption I made early on, but based on a preliminary analysis of the cuts, and of the blood-loss.” She hesitates for a moment. “I'm pretty sure the victim was alive when the cutting started. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that the cutting was the cause of death. He didn't hack her up after he'd done whatever he wanted with her. Hacking her up was what he wanted.”
***
“Now it's been a long time since you came in for a drink this early in the day,” Harry says as she brings a double whiskey over to me. “Years, even. Something up?”
I guess I'd been hoping she wouldn't mention any of that, and that she'd just let me take a drink without interruption, but I guess I'm probably the first person who's been into the bar since she pulled the shutter up a few hours ago. I look down at the whiskey for a moment, not wanting to snatch it straight away, but I can already feel myself fantasizing about the taste and finally I pick it up. I hold it to the light, pretending to analyze the color or some other bullshit like that, and then I down the lot in one swig. Once I'm done, I can't help letting out a gasp.
That was good.
And cold.
I needed it.
Although something wasn't quite right.
“You gave me single,” I mutter, glancing at her. “You just watered it down to make it look like a double.”
“Did I? My bad.”
“I'd better take another, then.”
She hesitates. “James...”
Before she can argue, I slide the glass toward her. She's clearly not happy, but she gives me a refill anyway, and this time she gives me a double. She knows better than to try tricking me again.
“Some of your men were seen heading out toward Devil's Lookout,” she continues, grabbing a cloth and starting to wipe a section of bar near me that – as far as I can tell – is already perfectly clean. “Three cars, I heard. It's been a while since three cars were seen heading out anywhere. Dad always told me a three-car situation was bad news, so I kinda got to worrying that something might be wrong. Of course, I haven't heard anything since, so I'm hoping it was just a false alarm.”
I take a sip from my glass.
“Was it a false alarm, James?”
“Not exactly,” I mutter, already feeling a sweet sharpness in my belly. The whiskey's not going to settle well, but it should be okay if it's chased down. I finish the rest before sliding the glass toward her. “Just give me one more, okay?”
She checks her watch.
“Seriously?” I continue. “Are you gonna read me the riot act, or are you gonna give me another whiskey?”
She turns and heads over to the bottle. She doesn't hurry, though. She just goes at her own goddamn leisurely pace, like she thinks I can wait all day. I swear, sometimes Harry acts like she thinks she knows what's best for me. I watch as she starts pouring. She's obviously got more to say, but she's taking her time and chewing on the words before she lets them out. Frankly, I'd rather she just said whatever's on her mind.
“You remember Tommy Hague, don't you?” I ask finally. “Sweet little kid, vanished a few years ago.”
“He was sweet,” she replies. “Very sweet. What's that got to do with anything?”
“Nothing. I just...”
She brings the next double whiskey over to me.
“What happened to him?” I ask.
“You're the sheriff,” she points out. “Shouldn't you know?”
“I wasn't sheriff back then.”
“You worked with him, though.”
“Humor me,” I continue. “You've got your ear close to the ground, Harry. You know what people are saying. Tell me what you heard happened to Tommy Hague.”
“Well, he vanished.” She hesitates, eyeing me with a hint of suspicion. “He was murdered, I guess, and you guys never caught the killer. It's awful. I remember his parents, they were so kind and caring. That kid was loved so much.”
“And he was never found,” I point out.
“I guess he will be some day.”
“You don't know that. People can vanish, Harry. They can just disappear into the world and no-one ever hears from them again.” I pause for a moment. “People vanish all the time. One minute they're here, the next they're gone.”
“Are we still talking about Tommy Hague?”
I maintain eye contact for a few seconds, before looking down at my drink. “Sure,” I mutter. “I just wish we knew. That's all.”
“Why are you bringing it up? You never caught the bastard who did it. You didn't get a breakthrough, did you? After all these years? If you did, you should tell Dad.”
I shake my head, before taking a long sip of whiskey. I want to drink it all in one go, but I know that'll only arouse Harry's suspicions so I set the glass down once it's half-empty.
“Are you reopening the case?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I am not.”
“Do you have someone in mind, though?”
“I do not.”
“Then why did you mention him?”
“I just wanted to know what people have been saying,” I continue, trying to make the whole situation sound completely casual. “I want to know the word on the grapevine. You know how a bunch of false stories can carry, right? People get things all twisted up and backwards, and then hundreds of different versions spring up and...”
My voice trails off. Harry's staring at me as if she thinks I'm a madman. Before I can say another word, however, I feel a slow, gnarling chewing sensation in my gut, as if the pain is going to strike again at any moment.
“You're sweating,” she says suddenly.
“No, I'm not.”
“Uh, yeah,” she continues. “You're glistening under the lights.”
“Well, maybe your lights are faulty,” I reply, finishing the whiskey and then pushing the glass back. I want another, but I know she'll overreact, so I figure I can just get a bottle from the store and take one more glass in my car. “Do you grill all your customers, or just the ones you think'll put up with it?”
“As far as I know, James, nobody really talks about Tommy Hague's abduction, not anymore. It's not that people have forgotten, it's just that it was a long time ago now and life moves on. I can't speak for every single person's inner monologue, but I can tell you that I don't remember the last time I overheard anyone even bring up his name in here. And even back in the day, when his disappearance was still big news, I never heard anyone question the police statements or the official version of events. So whatever you're worried about -”
“I'm not worried about anything.”
“If you were worried, you'd be wrong.” She eyes me cautiously for a moment. “Although I've gotta admit, you've got me wondering now. Seems like an odd thing for you to suddenly bring up on a Tuesday morning.”
“I just need to use your restroom for a moment,” I tell her, turning and heading toward the door at the far end of the room, “and then I'll be out of your way. Sorry for disturbing you, Harry. Obviously you're very busy this morning.”
She mutters something in return, but I don't pay enough attention to hear. Instead, I push the door open and head into the bleach-stinking bathroom. My gut is really h
urting now, and I reach into my pockets before realizing that I left my pills in the car. Figuring that I just need to tidy myself up and then head out there, I wander over to the sink and look at my reflection, and I'm immediately shocked to see that Harry was right.
I'm sweating like a pig, and I look clammy. I'm pale too. God, I actually look sick.
“Fuck,” I mutter, turning the faucet on and taking a moment to splash some cold water on my face. Not that it helps much, but at least I can make an effort.
I run a hand through my hair, and then I smell the hand.
Nothing.
Nothing bad, anyway.
God knows what Doctor Shaw was on about back at the morgue, but my hair doesn't smell bad at all. What does death even smell like, anyway?
Grabbing some paper towels, I start dabbing at my face as I feel the pain in my gut getting worse and worse. I really need to drop by the pharmacy and get something that'll loosen my bowels. It must be six days now since I managed to squeeze anything out, and now my appetite's lousy as hell. Tossing the towels into the trash, I take another look at my pasty face, and then I turn to head back out the door.
Suddenly the pain bites me real hard, slicing through my gut. My left leg buckles and I drop down onto my knees, and I reach out to steady myself against the wall as the pain builds and builds. The pain has never been like this before, never so quickly anyway, and now I can feel a cold sweat all over my face.
“Come on!” I hiss, as the pain grows a side of ache in my belly. “Not now! Please!”
I feel like I'm filling with air, like my stomach's going to explode at any moment. I try to squeeze, and after a moment I manage to force out a little gas, but it's not enough to relieve the pressure. Leaning against the wall, still down on my knees, I close my eyes and try counting to ten. Sometimes that helps, but not now. Instead, I feel the pain twisting in my belly, and I gently turn and ease myself down until I'm resting with my back against the wall. Sometimes it's good to shift around and try to move the trapped air, but I don't feel any respite, not this time.
“Come on!” I gasp again, squeezing my eyes tight shut. “This isn't right. It'll pass, just focus.”
