“Okay! So let’s see what you’ve been scribbling in this thing–”
As his hand touched the cover of The Journal, his head reeled back as if something had physically slammed into it. He was abruptly locked in a vision – a horrific one.
It was pitch dark – a darkness like nothing he could ever remember. A nerve-shattering shriek ripped the darkness, and a small dot of light swept forward, expanding as it came, until, with no warning ...
... it took form: a slobbering, hellish demon, eyes sunken in their sockets, streaked with sinister red lines; mouth open, jagged, rotting teeth dripping fresh blood...
It lunged forward, charged at Daniel, slamming him with a thunderous wail–
He ripped his hand away from The Journal and stumbled back, reaching out and grasping the edge of the bookcase for support. The vision disappeared the instant his hand left the book.
He stood there, afraid to move a muscle, his breathing forced, his eyes momentarily glazed. He fought to regain his composure. Eventually he sucked in a huge breath and sighed.
It was a good few minutes more before he looked back at the book, his brow creased in a mixture of confusion and questioning.
“Damn! What have you got in there, buddy?”
He checked to make sure John and Jennifer were still too busy with each other to have noticed his prying. Then he plopped tiredly into one of the big chairs, mumbling to himself as he did. “I vote we leave your book here in Malibu, John. Something tells me we’ll have enough problems on our hands in London without dragging whatever you got in there along with us.”
He eased himself back into the chair, drew in a couple of long deep breaths, and used every good thought he could conjure to help him to relax.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sergeant Bill Conlin eased his Austin police sedan into the last tight corner on the road from Ainsworth to Briarcliff. He didn’t get over this way much these days. There was no real need. The two small stores left in business rarely had any trouble; the rest were boarded up after being gutted by their owners, trying to sell everything they could find to help them move to someplace else – anywhere else.
It had been eight years since Briarcliff Hospital had been finished – eight years since the locals were finally informed by government authorities that it would not be the Sanatorium everyone had been originally told it would be; that it would be a hospital for the seriously mentally insane: an asylum. The first residents began leaving soon after. Most of the rest trickled away when they were able.
Old Ian Salwell and his wife Vera had spent most of their lives here, a good part of it as the local grocers. Their small shop carried a bit of everything, from clothes and dry goods to lollies and chocolates in all shapes and sizes. They even ran the small Post Office Annex, until there was so little business it was no longer feasible. When Vera died, Ian just didn’t have the heart to leave. After Vera passed away, most evenings he would drive ten miles over to Ainsworth, to the local pub. He obviously missed his wife of thirty years and just needed a little company. In no time, he was treated like an Ainsworth local, and even ended up representing the town in a regional darts tournament. Bill and Ian would often stand at the bar and enjoy a pint of Guinness, just chatting.
Bill would miss those times.
Ian wasn’t a youngster anymore, so it wasn’t all that surprising when Bill received the call to say his old friend was found dead. It was a little unusual that the doctor from Briarcliff, who had been called to tend to the body, had seemed confused about how Ian had died – confused enough that he felt Bill should come check it out. When Bill had asked him if he felt Ian’s death might be a case of foul play, the doctor had answered, “All the signs say heart attack. But there’s something else I’m not exactly sure how to explain.” Bill tried to push for more, but the doctor said he would rather Bill make his own assumptions. “I just really think you should see for yourself,” he insisted.
The small police station in Ainsworth was rarely what one might call busy. There was often little for Bill or his one constable to do. So Bill had left immediately.
He eased his Austin to a stop out front of Salwell’s Grocery Store, behind the closed-in van from Briarcliff. He couldn’t help feeling sad as he left his car and made his way to the front door.
Inside the store, Bill met with Doctor Rayner, the only general practitioner at Briarcliff; or for many miles in any direction for that matter. He was tall, officious-looking and wore a white lab coat. Bill didn’t really know him that well. They’d met only once or twice before, but Bill always found him erudite, if a little fastidious.
The two men stood in front of one of the glass counter-cases of Salwell’s Store. The large white sheet stretched out on the floor nearby covered the remains of Old Ian. There was a large smashed lolly jar a few feet from him, and a number of shelves appeared to have been forcibly ripped from the wall, spilling grocery items everywhere.
“I am sorry to have bothered you, sergeant,” Doctor Rayner started. “And, I suppose it could be nothing. But I felt your presence was a … necessary safety precaution, if nothing else.”
Bill had been a policeman for enough years to have developed a gut instinct when something didn’t add up or someone was holding something back. He’d been a constable and later a sergeant in London, until a few years ago when he and his wife decided to find a simpler life for them and their two small kids. But he had learned quickly: being in a small town like Ainsworth may have been the perfect place to take it easy, but it didn’t mean he’d lost his edge entirely.
Something wasn’t right here, that much Bill was sure. He stared at the doctor long and hard, and then he instigated an old police ploy: he smiled warmly, then immediately asked one or two sharply aimed questions, guaranteed to catch the subject off guard.
“It’s no problem at all, doctor,” Bill smiled. “It’s my job.” He looked casually around, and then quickly added: “I hear you’ve had problems up at Briarcliff?”
The doctor was taken aback, as Bill expected. He hesitated, and then stuttered over his answer. “I.. I…why would you … what makes you think that?”
“I realize Briarcliff doesn’t come under my jurisdiction, but if–”
The doctor forced a weak smile. “Oh! I understand. Someone reported the alarm that went off last evening. Our Chief Administrator was afraid that might have caused some undue concern.”
Bill didn’t answer … but his demeanor made it obvious that he didn’t believe a word the doctor said.
“That was … just … a yearly test,” the doctor said, his anxiety growing. “Although I realize it did go on for longer than usual. Some kind of snafu with maintenance.”
Bill Conlin was sure Rayner was being evasive about something … but what? He looked around. “Can you estimate when Ian died?”
“I would say sometime yesterday evening.”
“Could he have caused this mess, trying to get to a phone, or something?”
“It’s possible.” The doctor was relieved to change the direction of the conversation. “But I need for you to see something back here.” He hurried into the nearby storeroom and Bill followed.
Most of the shelves were empty these days, and the few that held supplies were fairly bare. Only a section marked Briarcliff supplies was reasonably well-stocked. But the doctor disregarded them both and pointed to the rear door.
Now he finally had Bill’s full attention.
A large section of the old door was simply gone, including the section that would normally hold the lock. In its place was an almost perfectly circular hole. It looked at first glance as if it had been literally seared through by fire, but the edges of the burned area were an intense, almost neon green.
Bill took a step towards it, and the smell hit him. He sniffed the air, then the area around the strange burn, and straightened, his nose screwing up in complaint. “Holy Mother!” he exclaimed. “What is that smell?”
“I have no idea,” the doctor
said, again somewhat defensive. “But it was a good deal more pungent when I arrived.”
When he was a boy, Bill had a friend who worked in a foundry. He and Bill would often play there, dodging in and out of the huge pots of molten steel. His friend came from a religious family and he would often joke with Bill that his mother told him if he wasn’t good he’d be thrown into hell to burn in its fire and brimstone. Then he’d point at one of the smoldering steel containers and say. “Just like that, Bill. We’re both gonna end up burning in hell.”
Bill Conlin hadn’t thought about that conversation in more years than he could remember … but something about this smell brought the memory rushing back.
He finally pushed the memory aside and checked inside the door, then immediately outside.
“Who took the lock, you?”
“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “I don’t understand.”
“The lock. Fire might burn the wood, but the remains of the lock should still be here.”
“The old lady who called me never said anything about a lock,” the doctor said. “But she did mention that Mr. Salwell’s grocery van seemed to be missing.”
Bill checked the area at the rear of the store, then went back and again questioned the doctor. “Doctor, are you sure Ian died from natural causes?”
“Well, I would have to perform an autopsy to be completely certain, but I am relatively certain the results of an autopsy would confirm my diagnosis.”
Bill finally checked out old Ian. “It looks to me, doctor, like he put up some kind of struggle?”
“That is possible; and that may have contributed to his heart attack.”
“All right, doctor, I’ll let you get back to taking care of Ian,” Bill said, dismissing the medical man. The doctor appeared relieved until Bill added: “If I have any other questions I’ll take a run up to the Sanatorium.”
“No! That’s all right,” the doctor answered much too quickly. “If you need me just call, I’ll be glad to answer any questions on the phone.” He quickly handed Bill a card. “The bottom number will reach me wherever I am.”
Bill let it go although he was sure the doctor wasn’t telling him something. Still, a theory that might explain at least some of the inconsistencies here was beginning to form in his mind; so he thought he’d check the few possibly local witnesses and then check it out further.
After an hour, Bill had talked with the two other people currently in town. Both had heard the wailing siren at Briarcliff, and both said there seemed to be some sort of serious commotion up there. One had made a call to the authorities to report the noise.
Bill’s gut told him Doctor Rayner’s calling him may well have been by way of preempting any further inquiry of Briarcliff by him or his constable. But he had nothing to back that up. And if Ian had died from natural causes, then what could they have to hide?
Neither of the old ladies had heard or seen anything at the grocery store. One was fairly sure Ian’s van had been there earlier in the afternoon.
There was nothing much more he could do here, so Bill returned to his car. He stood for a long minute staring up at Briarcliff, wondering. A part of him would have loved to have driven up to the Asylum and poked around, but he had no real cause.
Doctor Rayner looked up from Ian’s body and watched as sergeant Conlin prepared to leave. When the sergeant drove away, he went to the large black phone on the counter and made a call. He spoke curtly. “The police sergeant just left. As we suspected, he was suspicious. I am sure he wanted to come up there, but I believe I have averted that eventuality. I managed to successfully cover the tinge of green in Mr. Salwell’s hair for now and he never noticed it. Has our … miscreant been spotted anywhere as yet?”
He listened briefly.
“Maybe that’s for the best. It will give us time to get this thing under control. If word of what really happened here ever gets out, there will be inspectors everywhere. By the time they finish, we’ll all be ruined.” He glared ruefully at the body under the sheet. A green stain was starting to spread across the fabric. “And send an assistant immediately to help me move this body to the hospital morgue,” he said, and sighed.
Back in Ainsworth, Bill Conlin alerted the local area police that Ian’s van was missing and presumed stolen. Then he went to work on the theory that had been niggling at the edge of his mind while he was with the doctor in Ian’s store. He checked a number of alerts he’d been receiving about a young bunch of larrikins who had been breaking into small stores in an area of about a thirty-mile radius of Briarcliff. This seemed to jibe with his growing assumption that they may have tried to rob old Ian’s store, thinking he was already gone for the night. He wasn’t the kind of man to just let them do it. Bill theorized that he fought with the would-be robbers and his heart gave out from the effort. It seemed to fit the facts, except for that nagging point about the mysterious burn in the door. If he’d still been in London, he would have had it checked by his forensics people and had the green stain analyzed. But here in Ainsworth that would have used up a great deal of their entire monthly investigative budget. So he duly filled out his report and tried not to think about it too much.
It wasn’t until two days later that Jessie Bartlett, the petrol station owner in Ainsworth, mentioned to Bill that he had seen Ian’s old Hummer a few days before. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time. The hummer never stopped for gas, but sped out of town towards the motorway.
Bill sent out a wider, general ‘missing presumed stolen’ report, but he never heard any more about it. A coroner’s inquest found no foul play in Ian’s death, as verified by Doctor Rayner.
The four larrikins Bill suspected were involved in Ian’s death were apprehended just over three weeks later while attempting yet another robbery. But evidence proved they were many miles away at the time.
Bill Conlin never was able to explain the burned door.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“SOON! … SOON! … SOON! … SOON! … ”
The force of the words, and the violent accompanying pain hit John like an exploding lightning bolt. His fingers unconsciously tightened around the Starbucks coffee he was on his way to top off with half-and-half. The plastic lid popped off and hot liquid splashed over his hand. Raw instinct took over: he half-dropped, half-threw the container and it hit the floor with a loud splotch! Steaming hot coffee splashed out in a wide spray, sending a number of other Starbuck patrons scrambling to evade the murky dark liquid. Some frowned openly at him.
John weaved about, just barely able to snag the nearby wall in the Starbucks Coffee airport shop to prevent him collapsing to the floor. He stood there panting for breath and fought to gain control of his body. He tried to figure out what the hell was happening. The voice and the pain seemed to be everywhere: inside his head; in every bone; in every joint; in every blood vessel.
And then, as abruptly as it came …
… it was gone.
Seconds before the bizarre attack, Daniel was in the middle of paying for his drink. The money had literally been passing from his hand to the girl behind the counter. But the payment never made it. Daniel froze in place … dropped the two dollar bills and three quarters … and wheeled about to stare at John. The two quarters clattered onto the glass counter top with a loud butdadading, but Daniel was already striding across the short distance to reach John.
Jennifer was staring into the glass display case at the counter, trying to decide between a toasted bagel and an organic muffin, when the sound of Daniel’s falling coins grabbed her attention. She was only a few steps behind him when Daniel reached John’s side and held out a hand in support.
John cautiously straightened and looked around as Daniel grabbed his elbow. The abrupt relief was euphoric, like the seconds after a dentist’s drill stopped tearing at your tooth. He wanted to wheeze out a deep sigh and relax, but that inherent instinct some believed to be psychic intuition was on high alert. He glanced about, unsure of what it was he was trying t
o find. Whatever it was, it had his gut in a tight grip and wouldn’t let go.
Daniel hadn’t said a word and still didn’t. Instead, he carefully ‘scanned’ every inch of this mini-Starbucks.
“John! What is it? What happened?” Jennifer was worried and didn’t try to disguise it.
“You didn’t hear that, Jen?” John managed to ask.
Her worried frown was all the answer he needed. He quickly flashed a questioning look at Daniel. “You either?”
Daniel was still intently ‘feeling’ the area. He didn’t turn back, his answer hesitant, spaced between bouts of heavy concentration. “No … no I … didn’t.” He finally turned to face John. “But I felt something. That’s for sure.”
“Like what, Daniel?”
Daniel frowned, his look distant; he was still trying to understand the feeling himself. “I don’t know, Jennifer. I’ve never felt … anything … like it before.”
Jennifer’s worry level shot to high alarm status. In the time she’d known Daniel, she’d learned: if he could ‘feel’ something, sense it, he could usually get a bead on some part of what it was, or at least some idea of what was happening.
Daniel glanced over his shoulder. “I suggest we take this outside.” He’d already noted a number of people who’d been openly staring at them since John dropped the hot coffee and staggered against the wall. “We’re beginning to attract unwanted attention.” He saw the young guy in the Starbucks uniform with the “Manager” tab on his chest – the one who looked too young to shave – heading for them.
Daniel nudged John away from the wall as the young manager asked: “Is everything okay, here?”
Jennifer gave him one of her best smiles, even as she held John’s arm and the three of them began to head for the exit. “My husband just slipped and spilled his coffee. But he’s fine, thanks.”
The young manager’s relief was blatant. He was obviously still new at the position and had none of the smoothness that only comes with time. Still, he walked with them a few steps, unsure if there was more he should do about this situation.
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