“You gonna be okay, son?” Jack Henneman said. The tanned rancher placed a hand on Jared’s shoulder.
“Yeah. Gimme a minute.”
Jared kept his gaze far from the colt. Maybe he should have stayed in New York. His agent hadn’t liked the idea of him leaving. He should have listened.
“Is it worth it?” Jack asked. “This book a yours.”
Jared stood straight as he steadied himself. He fiddled with his smartphone and took a few shots with its camera. “I hate to say it, given what’s happened to your colt,” he said apologetically. “But there’s a story here.” He prayed there was. His working title was Skinner, a kind of true-crime horror novel about a rich rancher—an alien rancher with a taste for sacrificial blood.
He paused a moment. “Thanks for calling me first.”
The rancher gave him a nod. “Not a problem, son. It’s not like the authorities would do much anyhow. They never seemed to give much of a shit about it when it was a thing. You know, though, one thing sticks. It’s kinda odd it’s happened again now. I mean, after you called me like you done.”
Odd as hell, Jared thought. He was never one to see signs or entertain any kind of hocus-pocus; he was a card-carrying member of the Camp of Shit Happens. Still, maybe the guy upstairs was helping out with his book, just a little. His initial research on the Internet had come up empty, save an obscure blog he’d stumbled upon two weeks ago. There had been a reference to the late Jack Henneman—Jack Jr.’s father—about a series of grim animal mutilations in Madison County in the 1980s. It was one thing to find a local who had first-hand knowledge of something that had happened years ago, quite another to find yourself face to face with the nasty shit as it happened.
“One of those things,” he shrugged in agreement. “I think the last one was six years ago.”
“Sure enough,” Henneman said. “Like clockwork, too. You could pretty much count on one at seedin’, one at harvest. Went on in these parts for as long as I can remember. Thirty years, easy. Then it just stopped.”
“It doesn’t make sense it would start up again like this. Not after so long.”
“It’s him,” Henneman said.
Jared ignored the lingering look the old man gave his scarred hands. “How can you be sure?”
The evidence aside—his doubt aside—he knew the history. Animals had been butchered across the county for years. Ritualistic killings. They were placed just so, and the head had always been left behind. Sawed off, yes, but left behind, a cross carved into its forehead. Its placement was crucial, set precisely above the torso. Coupled with the two crosses fashioned from the limbs, it created one all-encompassing cruciform. Sonia Wheaton, a self-proclaimed “reporter-slash-blogger” for The Torch Falls Monthly, had been so reckless as to call it the Trinity—which, sadly, caught on with a number of locals—yet Jared had never subscribed to such nonsense. He was not the religious sort, and while he had no alternate explanation other than this being the work of a sick and depraved mind, as a young boy he had accepted an alternate label. What his father had called la mano del diablo—the hand of the devil.
The rancher led him past the colt and down a steep bank toward a dried-up creek. He pointed to a patch of tall weeds.
Jared stepped past him and stopped shy of the severed head. His gut began to turn again. He gathered himself and examined what remained. With the edge of his boot, he turned the head for a better look. He slipped a wrinkled photograph out of his pocket, straightened it, and compared the cross on the grainy black-and-white print of the cow’s forehead to this one. Bang on.
Still, one thing didn’t make sense. “Why’s the head down here?”
“What kinda stories you write, mister?”
“Sorry?”
“This ain’t no mystery,” Henneman said. “So if that’s what you write, son, maybe you should pick another kinda book.”
Jared gave him a blank look.
“Jesus,” Henneman said. “You really think it’s some kid playin’ a nasty prank? A copycat?” He aimed an old finger at the remains. “Look at them bite marks. Likely wolves draggin’ it about, fightin’ over it. Gravity did the rest.”
Jared couldn’t argue the point. “So you do think it’s … uh … you think it’s him.” He had the name on the edge of his lips, but it wouldn’t come.
“It’s him,” Henneman insisted. His down-home friendliness had evaporated. “The Phantom.”
~ 5
El Fantasma, Jared thought as he drove away. He recalled the first time he’d heard it: It was September 27, 1978, when the larch and the aspen had turned yellow and gold. He and Judd had been sprawled out on the living room floor in front of the old black-and-white RCA, smack in the middle of Happy Days. Mom was knitting a blue scarf with a winding white pattern. Dad was wedged into his big cushy chair lost in his newspaper, smoke from his cigar wafting from behind. ABC had cut to a commercial when the Perdomo dropped from Dad’s lips, and his paper went up like a Christmas tree. Mom snuffed the flames with her half-knitted scarf and what remained of her tea. Dad had always been a God-fearing soul, and had stood there, hands shaking, eyes growing, rambling on about the article on page three—about la mano del diablo. The Phantom had struck for the second time that year.
The Land Rover took Jared south back to town, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where his new home was. He cruised Main, passing a number of shops, some familiar, some not, hoping something might jog his memory. He had the address in his smartphone, a definite upgrade from his ratty spiral notepad, but it was just so damn frustrating having to resort to a computer database, like a mindless old man who has lost his way.
How the Christ can you remember every stupid detail about some night with the Fonz thirty years ago, but not remember where you live?
It had been this way for most of his life. Ever since he was a kid, his busy mind was always forgetting one thing or another. What day it was, or dates and times for appointments. Or something as simple as remembering to brush his teeth before bed—or if he already had. Had he turned off the stove? Locked the front door?
And what of that night?
Even now, seven years on, he could write a book about what happened—at least some of it. Signing Julie Jacobs’ breast, Ricky Cowen toasting him, beating that train by seconds—but once the lightning struck and sent him into a coma for two weeks, everything changed. The gaps in his memories had grown wider and deeper. At times, it was almost painful trying to force himself to remember. It was one thing to forget your address, quite another to forget the last words of the dying.
The accident was like watching an old silent film where some of the frames were missing. He remembered those faceless figures hurrying through the intersection, the driving rain … the Jeep … but after that, most of it was lost in that cold blackness of his mind. Sometimes he would bolt awake out of a nightmare screaming his father’s name, his heart pounding, his sheets soaked in sweat. Over the years, bits and pieces had revealed themselves to him in those dreams, yet how strange they were, how fleeting and fuzzy. It was as if there were some locked room in his mind and he held a ring with a thousand keys, or worse, one key before a thousand locked rooms.
He tried to remember where his house was; it wouldn’t come. He passed a coffee shop and turned off Main, not with any destination in mind, but because he thought that driving around for a few minutes might settle his mind and let him remember. In the old days he could have called up his brother, and Judd would have given him directions. How many times had he wandered about town after school, trying to find his way home? Judd had dropped out of high school in second year, but there he was, Big Brother to the rescue, finding Lost Little Brother and showing the way.
But now? Even if he got past the embarrassment and actually called—not that Judd would know where his house was, he hadn’t told anyone he was back—he could imagine how the conversation would go. They hadn’t spoken since he came out of the coma, and Judd’s last words to him ha
d been brutal and cold.
You shouldn’ta been late, Little Brother. For once in your miserable, brain-fucked life, you shoulda remembered.
And Judd had been right. If only he’d been on time, Mom and Dad wouldn’t have gone for that walk. If only he’d been the good son for once in his miserable, brain-fucked life. But no. He had to be the big-shot writer, had to celebrate the new Jared Cole, the new voice of horror. Had to sign Julie Jacobs’ left tit, like his useless scribble was gold or something.
He drove for another few minutes, only to find himself back on Main, no closer to remembering where he lived. He refused to check his phone. His doctor in New York had asked him not to give in so easily, to try and make himself remember. It was maddening.
Main Street was busy for a Saturday afternoon. Glancing left, he did remember Hung Fat, the best—okay, the only—Chinese restaurant in town, partly because of its hilarious name, but mostly because it used to have killer szechuan chicken. Even better than what he could get back East.
He recognized a few of the faces walking along the sidewalks, but most of them he didn’t know—or couldn’t remember. He felt a hankering for a soft drink, and he parked the Land Rover outside the Eight-Ball convenience store. He smiled. He and Judd used to come here as kids for the latest Marvel comics, and later, he and Marisa had come to get ice cream and cigarettes. She didn’t smoke, he was a chimney, and while she had hounded him to stop, he never did.
He got out and looked across the street at the old Strand Theater. The last movie he saw here had been with Marisa: Reign Over Me with Don Cheadle and Adam Sandler. The memory upset him. Like Sandler’s character, Charlie Fineman—who’d suffered a severe mental break after losing his family in the 9/11 attacks—he’d suffered his own personal hell of dealing with the horror of the everyday. The reality.
His shrink in New York had tried to get him to talk about these things. He didn’t want to. The truth was, he couldn’t talk about them. Not his dirty little secret.
In front of the theater, a teenager with earbuds was up on a ladder, grooving to the beat of his music as he updated the marquee. He was setting a big red K after The Jungle Boo.
Jared took the first of three steps to the store, when growing shouts stopped him. He turned to look back, and froze in horror.
~ 6
“Oh my god!” Jared shouted.
A black Buick shot through a stop at the four-way intersection. The driver was slumped over the wheel. The car cut sharply left, clipping another vehicle that was crossing the other way. It headed straight for the theater and rocked over the curb.
The Buick struck the ladder and crashed through the front doors. The sound of grating metal and exploding glass drowned out the screaming that filled the street. The car came to rest, buried in debris, half of it inside the main lobby. Part of the steel door frame had smashed through the windshield and had rammed through the driver’s head.
The teen on the ladder hadn’t heard the car. The impact spun the ladder away from the building, the force so great that it flung him over the car and into the street. His body slammed to the pavement with an audible smack. A delivery truck squealed its tires, stopping a few feet short of him. People rushed to the scene, most of them shouting, all in a panic.
Jared shot into the street and knelt beside the boy. “Somebody call an ambulance!”
A crowd quickly gathered. A smaller group hovered near the Buick, some of them trying to get to the driver. Jared took the boy by the hand. He still had one earbud lodged in his ear. Blood dribbled from his lips. His body quivered.
“Jesus,” Jared muttered. He had thought the kid looked familiar. It was Bobby Duncan’s son.
“Stay with me, Kyle.”
The boy looked up at him, dazed. He was fading fast.
Jared searched the crowd. His heart was racing. “Does anyone know first aid? Has anyone called 9-1-1?”
He took out his smartphone. As he started to call the emergency number, the boy coughed up blood. Jared dropped the phone.
No—
It was coming. And he couldn’t stop it.
No—not now. Not with all these people here—
His eyes locked with Kyle Duncan’s. He couldn’t look away if he tried; it was simply impossible. His body became cold and stiff, but he felt the fading warmth of Kyle’s hand, the rapid beat of his dying heart. His own pulse rocketed as his head began to pound.
Already it was too late.
The gateway had opened.
He tried to fight it. Tried to close it. But that crippling force, that damnable curse, had an iron will. It held him in its inescapable grip. He was helpless, useless. All he could do was stare into Kyle’s dying eyes.
And know.
“It’s all right, son,” he said softly. He feared what was coming next, coming through. He knew full well the terrors that could come for him, but no. Not this time. His body trembled, overwhelmed by a sweeping contentment that quickly consumed him.
His lips curled into a smile. He couldn’t help it. “It’s all right, Kyle. I know. I know.” Tears slipped from his eyes.
Kyle Duncan drew a final breath, tried to speak, and died.
Jared slumped back, overcome. He couldn’t focus. The world was a haze. He still held a slight grin.
The crowd stood hushed. A young woman wept as she knelt beside Jared. “Are you all right? Your nose … it’s bleeding.”
“Why are you smiling?” a man said, his voice biting.
“Yeah, what’s that shit?” another said. “What did you do?”
“That’s Jared Cole,” someone said. It was Tom Greenwood, the assistant manager of the Eight-Ball. “Holy smokes, that’s Jared Cole!”
Jared groaned, dizzy. His head throbbed.
The woman reached into her purse and drew a small tissue. She offered it, but he didn’t take it.
Gently, Jared set the boy’s hand to the ground. It felt cold, like death itself. He struggled to rise.
“Sir! Are you okay?” the woman asked.
Jared stared at the stunned faces around him. The crowd looked like ghosts. Blood slid down his lips and his chin. He staggered back to the Land Rover and steadied against it.
The woman hurried up to him. “Are you going to be all right? Please. Take this.”
Jared looked at her. She was coming into focus now. He nodded as he took the tissue, and he stemmed the flow of blood from his nostril.
She handed him his phone. “You dropped this.”
“Thank you,” he said. He looked over at the dead boy. This was all too familiar. He couldn’t believe it was really happening.
He got in behind the wheel. His mind was racing, and he panicked as two men approached. One rapped hard on the tinted window. Rapped again.
He started the engine and hit the power locks. He tried to call up his address on his phone, but he fumbled it, cursing it as it tumbled to the floor between his legs.
Why the hell didn’t you update your fucking GPS? Why the fuck can’t you remember something so goddamned simple?
He sped down Main.
~ 7
It was a good ten minutes before Jared stopped. He couldn’t push Kyle Duncan from his mind. He just kept driving, turning down one street after another. Now he was out near the tracks on Old Mill Sideroad.
He pulled off the road and buzzed his window down for some air. His headache had ebbed. The nosebleed had stopped quickly as it usually did, and he tossed the tissue he’d drawn from his glove box on top of the mound of bloodstained others on the passenger floor beside him.
He killed the engine and checked his face in the mirror. “Shit.” He dabbed the tip of his finger on his tongue, then cleaned up the last few specks of blood on his chin.
He was reeling. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, but it was the first time it had happened in public. The first time he’d been exposed.
He tapped a finger on the wheel, going on like a machine until he realized he was doin
g so.
Maybe it’ll blow over, he thought. It’s not like you grew claws out of your ears.
For the next hour he smoked one cigarette after another. He sat quietly, savoring the soft breeze coming in. His mind swam with images and emotions, and he found himself smiling from time to time. What he had seen in the gateway—what he had lived—was bliss. He had been wrapped in a soft, warm blanket on a bitter winter night.
He drifted off.
~ 8
It was half past five when Jared awoke in the Land Rover. He’d been asleep for over two hours, but he still felt fatigued. The gateway had taken its toll.
He gave his head a shake trying to kickstart his brain. He closed his eyes a moment and focused. Nothing.
Well, old boy, you can’t very well sit here until nightfall, wondering where the fuck you live.
He picked his phone off the floor of the vehicle and gave his lame brain one more chance. Nothing. Zip. He caved, and the Notes app gave him what he needed. His GPS beeped as he updated it with his new address, and with one bitter cuss, he headed for home.
Home was five miles off the beaten path, well beyond the town limits. Home was also a six-bedroom, two-story European-style house on three acres of lush forest, complete with a guest house, solarium, and in-ground swimming pool. He didn’t need all of this, but he’d gotten it for a great price. Besides, it was isolated, with no neighbors. Best of all, it had the perfect study upstairs at the back, with a walk-out deck and tall, west-facing windows overlooking the winding Boone River that led to the falls.
He parked in the stone circular driveway and went inside. For the most part he was moved in, but the study and master bedroom still held stacks of sealed boxes. The kitchen wasn’t much better.
He fixed himself a stir-fry and ate in the living room. Sipping his wine, he glanced above the arched stone hearth, admiring the oil painting there. An American bald eagle. His father had painted it before he was born.
Gateway Page 2
