Boone

by Berntson, Brandon

  She walked to the edge of the building and peeked around the corner. It was clear. A slow rumble of thunder sounded.

  She moved along the southeast corner until she came to the front of the police station and felt like crying. Her hysteria and panic were mounting. Part of her knew she wasn’t going to make it out alive. It was just the kind of night she was having. She’d seen him on the side of the road. She’d gotten the call from Wally about the hospital. The restaurant, her car seemed so trivial, like a meaningless board game.

  But this was different.

  She peeked around the front corner of the building. Her car was in the lone spot out front. She wished she’d parked farther away and not so close to the door. She’d now have to move in front of the windows to get to the car. The man would see her easily.

  Her heart was pounding. Tiny sobs escaped her throat. She was shaking violently. She tried to catch her breath, forcing herself to calm down.

  Reba rifled through her purse and got her keys. She leaned her head back against the brick and turned her face to the sky, taking a deep breath. She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer, opened her eyes and looked around the corner.

  It was still clear. Clear, but too quiet.

  Reba hurried to the car.

  She hunkered low, staying out of sight of the windows as best she could. She didn’t see anything and wondered if he’d followed her through the station and out the backdoor. She glanced behind her but didn’t see him.

  She moved to the Volvo, going around the back, and carefully opened the driver’s side door. She climbed inside, pulling the door shut quietly, her eyes on the windows of the police station. She stuck the keys in the ignition and started the car.

  The top of the car buckled with his weight, the roof caving, or so it seemed.

  Reba screamed.

  The windshield shattered, much like it had for Jesse Gabol, and the axe came through, hitting her just under the chin, splitting her voice box in half.

  ~

  Boone heard the sirens coming from the opposite side of town. He did not move but sat watching the ambulance while hunkering low on the roof of the Volvo. The red sirens lit up the rainy night like bright blood, the ambulance moving fast along the turnpike and taking the Takamine Road out to the asylum.

  ~

  Wally looked through the hospital files to see how many people worked here. It was going to be a chore dallying up every staff member and patient. He had the flashlight on in McGovern’s office and had not been surprised to see the body on the floor.

  Everywhere he turned, there was another corpse, either in the hallways or leaning against the wall.

  He could hear the ambulance coming.

  There was still no sign of Miles.

  He’d found a girl facedown in a puddle of water outside, no other apparent sign of death but drowning. He puzzled over it. He’d found some younger kids in the juvenile wing, some as old as seventeen, some as young as twelve. Some, when he approached, said, “Boone? Is that you?”

  The name was familiar.

  Then, there was Reba. He had to get back as soon as possible and make sure she was okay, but he couldn’t leave these people out here alone.

  He had the files of every patient at the hospital on the desk. He rifled through them with the flashlight while McGovern’s body ripened on the floor. The smell wasn’t too terrible at least, not yet.

  He looked through the list of names, the pictures in the folders. One caught his eye, a docile looking man with black hair, the name the kids in the juvenile wing had spoken: Boone. Frankie Solomon Boone. The boy who’d killed his mother, a much bigger man now, of course, but Wally made the connection. He hadn’t heard anything about him in years, but why would the kids be asking about him?

  He saw the height at 6 feet 6 inches, 247 pounds. He thought of Reba’s description.

  Frankie Boone. He was out. He was loose.

  He looked out the door. The ambulance was getting closer.

  “Dear God,” he said, and closed his eyes.

  The thunder cracked.

  ~

  “Look, Ceese,” Wally said. “I’m worried about my switchboard operator. This maniac is close to the police station. She was frightened out of her wits the last I heard from her. I need to get back and make sure she’s all right. I know this is a helluva mess out here, but I just want to make sure you got it okay.”

  “Don’t worry, Wally,” Cecil told him. “I got it.”

  “Leave the bodies, but get the kids someplace safe. We’ll get the coroner to take care of it after the storm, but these people need some looking after. Can I trust you with that?”

  Cecil Burke, the paramedic, had been a long time friend of Wally Manwaring’s. He put his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Don’t worry, Wally. We’ll get them out to the hospital. James can help me. Just make sure you’re loaded, okay?”

  Wally stopped for a second. He thought Ceese had been talking about booze. He let out a breath when he realized he was talking about his gun.

  “God, what a mess. Thanks, Ceese.”

  They’d managed to get the girl in the hallway and the one twirling under the tree into the back of the ambulance. Some were wrapped in blankets on the porch. Boone hadn’t left many survivors, just enough to fit into the back of the ambulance.

  Wally hurried to his car, got in, and shut the door. He keyed the ignition and headed back up Mapleton Drive, turning the sirens on.

  Frankie Boone, he thought. Jesus Christ. Frankie Boone, after twenty years, is on the loose.

  Wally pressed his foot to the accelerator.

  The feeling in his gut tightened . . . cold as dread.

  PART III:

  THE RHYTHM AND THE RAIN

  Chapter 11

  The National Weather Service, for those who cared to listen, was still bleating its repeated flash flood warnings. The tiresome robotic voice went on and on. Around Old Hartford, Wheatridge, and Shepherd’s Grove Counties, the rain continued to pour. The water rose. The lightning and thunder were constants. The Miramac widened, deepened, and moved into surrounding farmlands and neighborhoods. The houses in lower elevations, along with Boone’s old house, disappeared under the floodwaters.

  The death toll climbed, but not by Boone’s hand alone.

  As the survivors were carted off to the nearest community hospital (on the north end of Shepherd’s Grove), the windows and halls of the Shepherd’s Grove Psychiatric Hospital began to fill with water.

  In 36 hours, 20 inches of rain had fallen. Creeks had turned to rivers. The Miramac cut trenches through the soil. Banks gave way. Small trees were felled. Livestock was carried away, and more river channels cut deeper into the geography of the Wide River Valley, while many homes were destroyed.

  Six inches of water is enough to carry away a human being. Two feet can lift a vehicle straight off the ground. Because Shepherd’s Grove lay in the middle of a small mountain range, the mouth of the Miramac Canyon filled quickly, flooding outward beyond the plains and countryside. The downtown area, sitting on slightly higher elevations, saw its first rise of water around 1am.

  The storm circled over Shepherd’s Grove, Old Hartford, and Wheatridge Counties, pouring endless gouts of rain, and would continue to do so for the next 6 hours.

  ~

  Wally got on the radio and tried Miles again, but he got only the ceaseless static of an empty receiver. The storm was making it more and more difficult to make outgoing calls on the radio, but some of the landlines were still in use.

  On his way back into town, he pulled up to the police station, red sirens flashing in the downpour, and noticed the Charger in the middle of the road.

  What worried him, though, was the little blue Volvo still parked where he’d last seen it. He pulled up beside it and looked over.

  The windshield had buckled, a spider-web of cracks. Reba was leaning over the steering wheel. She’d almost made it.

  “Goddamnit,” he said.

  He l
ooked around.

  There was no sign of Boone.

  ~

  He got out of the car, realizing in this situation, that there was only one thing to do. He had to get someone on the line who could go nationwide with the story. It was the only chance he had.

  Carrie Dewhurst, a columnist for the Wide River Gazette was just such a man.

  But before he did that, he had to find Remy.

  ~

  There was static coming through Wallys’ end, but for now, Remy could hear him fine. He just couldn’t believe it.

  “I was wondering . . . I heard the ambulance earlier.”

  “I need you down here as soon as possible. Reba’s . . . Jesus, I can hardly say it. And I can’t get Miles on the line at all.”

  “I saw him about an hour ago.”

  “You what?”

  “I saw him. I saw his car go driving down Main Street about an hour ago.”

  “Are you sure it was Miles?”

  “How many other cop cars are there in the Grove?”

  “What the hell is that sonofabitch doing?”

  “Beats me, I thought he was just checking the rounds, making sure everything was snug.”

  “Listen, Remy. This is serious. There’s a goddamn maniac on the loose. I just had the ambulance out at the psych hospital. There’s nothing out there but dead bodies. Frankie Boone. It was Frankie Boone. You remember that kid who killed his mother?”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Listen, Remy. Reba’s dead. And so is Jesse Gabol. His car is sitting out in the middle of the turnpike on its hood. I need to get word to someone who can get this story out. We have a state wide emergency here, and we need all the help we can get.”

  “I’ll be right there, Wally.”

  Remy put the radio down and looked at Marci. They were sitting in his Ford truck. Her eyes were wide and fearful.

  “What’s going on, Rem?”

  He turned and looked at her. “Miles isn’t answering his radio, and Reba’s dead. So is Jesse Gabol.”

  “Jesse Gabol? My little sister goes to school with him.”

  “It’s Boone.”

  “Huh?”

  “Frankie Boone, that kid that killed his mother.”

  “You can’t . . . Remy, that’s crazy.” She actually chuckled, but it was forced.

  “I have to get to the station.”

  “What about me?”

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “Like hell you are. I’m not sitting at home knowing some fruitcake is on the loose. Rem. Honestly. I’d feel safer with a cop!”

  “Small town deputy. There’s a difference.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Remy shook his head. “All right, but just stay close.”

  He started the truck and pulled away. It hadn’t been a good night for a date anyway. They’d been sitting in his cab just talking, eating combo meals from B-Happy Burgers.

  Marci reached out and took his hand.

  It was cold.

  ~

  Wally had the number for Carrie Dewhurst somewhere. He just had to find it. Dewhurst could get the word out faster than anyone Wally knew. The man had connections. The landlines were still okay, and that worked in his favor.

  “Good Lord,” he said, stealing a glance out the window at Reba’s car.

  He knew it was a running theme, but as long as it kept raining, Shepherd’s Grove was on its own.

  Wally moved to his desk, rifling through his Rolodex, looking for Carrie’s number. It was right there under the letter D. There were two numbers, a home landline and a cell. He tried the landline first. The phone rang half a dozen times before Carrie’s groggy voice answered. He sounded annoyed.

  “Hello?”

  “Carrie, this is Sheriff Wally Manwaring from Shepherd’s Grove. I’m really sorry to wake you up, but I have a situation here that needs to go live as soon as possible, and you’re the only one I can think of. We’re in a lot of trouble out here.”

  Carrie didn’t seem to hear any of this. “Wally?”

  Wally continued:

  “Yes, goddamnit! Wally from Shepherd’s Grove! Now, listen . . . ”

  “Yeah, you got a helluva storm. I get it. So do all the surrounding counties, Wally. There’s nothing that can be done about it right now. Jesus, you woke me up for me for that?”

  “Listen to me, goddamnit! This doesn’t have anything to do with the storm. We have an escaped lunatic out here. I just came from the psychiatric hospital. The place is filled with dead bodies. People have been butchered. You remember Frankie Boone? He’s out. He already killed my dispatcher. Some kid is dead in his car out in the middle of the road. Are you hearing me? We need some help out here! We need it as soon as possible! I need you to get this story out, get it live as quickly as possible, do you understand me? We need help! One of my deputies is missing. I have another on the way in, but we need help! Did you hear me?”

  “Sure Wally, sure. I’ll see what I can do. Is there anything else you need?”

  There wasn’t anything else Wally needed, not that he could think of. He’d been doing fine, blood pressure rising a bit (that was normal), thinking about the bottle that was actually sitting right there on his desk.

  But he wouldn’t need any of it. He’d gone stock-still. His eyes widened in shock. Every muscle in his body turned rigid. He did not hear Carrie on the phone saying, “Wally? Wally? Are you there?”

  Boone yanked the axe out from the back of Wally’s skull, and the man fell forward. The phone clattered against the desk and onto the floor. He could hear Carrie’s voice asking if Wally was still there.

  Boone took the axe and shattered the phone.

  ~

  Carrie Dewhurst was still trying to piece together everything Wally had told him. He was still groggy. A maniac? Several people dead? Had he heard that right?

  Wally had been cut off quickly, something very loud in his ear, a lightning blast perhaps. But he hadn’t hung up. It must’ve been the storm. The storm had gotten to the phone lines.

  Shepherd’s Grove wasn’t terribly far. He could make it in less than half an hour. He had the Jeep Cherokee, which could handle some pretty rough terrain.

  He could call Nora Jorgensen, his editor, and tell her what was happening. That would put him in an even better light, and then when he got to Shepherd’s Grove, he could break with the story. That would not only get him into the bigger papers, but some airtime as well. To hell with the papers, he could get a slot on a local news channel! The thought perked him up instantly.

  Carrie wanted the scoop, because for now, Shepherd’s Grove was just a tiny sinking ship in the middle of vast ocean. No one had any idea what the hell was going on out there, and if what Wally said was true, the National Guard and the FBI would be involved. It would be a breaking story.

  Carrie flipped on the bedside lamp and looked at the digital clock. It was just after 1am. He could get out there by 1:30, no problem.

  He got up, slipped on his pants, his socks and shoes, a shirt, grabbed his keys and wallet, packed his laptop, grabbed his iPhone, and got going.

  He headed outside. He didn’t think to grab an umbrella. All he could think about was the story.

  The rain was fierce. He was soaking wet by the time he got into the Cherokee. He slammed the door, started the vehicle, and backed out of the driveway, flicking on the high beams. He braked in the middle of the road, the tires screeching. He put the Jeep in drive and headed southeast as fast as he could go.

  ~

  If not for the flooding, Miles could have gone back to Boone’s house. But the lower districts and neighborhoods, the area where the asylum was, was now under several feet of water. How many lives had been taken? How many people were trying to swim to safety, stuck in their cars, or climbing onto the roofs of their houses? Probably plenty, most of which they wouldn’t be able to find until the rain let up.

  He’d seen the ambulance from a distance about an hour ago. Wally
had been trying to reach him and must’ve gotten someone to operate the switchboard, then gone out looking for him, deciding to check the hospital. News would spread. Shepherd’s Grove was small. With the rain, Miles could only hide out for so long, and in a cop car, it wouldn’t be hard to find him. He would be stripped of his badge. He knew that now.

  Miles could feel something much bigger going on, though. It was in the electrical charges of every lightning flash, the thunder cracking across the sky, the cold, lashing rain. There were forces at work in Shepherd’s Grove, and Miles wanted to be a part of it. He wanted to put some lipstick on, get close to Boone in ways he’d never been close to another human being.

  His chance had finally arrived.

  But for now, he had to be content with what he could do, which was bask in the thought and—believe it or not—the smell of Boone. He’d been hearing about visualization techniques, bringing something to life by visualizing, believing, and acting as if it had already happened. He thought it was a bunch of silly new-age hocus pocus, but the idea intrigued him. What if he could do that with Boone, relive the moment in the house when Boone found him with his pants around his ankles?

  Miles sat in the police car in an alley behind Main Street. It was dark, the patrol car hidden in the shadows. He was safe for the moment. The rain drummed on the roof, and he had the radio off.

  He closed his eyes, thinking about Boone, the sight of Boone in the doorway. Not so much the house, but the way the house had smelled. That was the trigger, one he wanted to keep reliving. He could smell the rain, the soil and dirt from outside. He could smell the aged, musty, lived-in odor embedded in the plaster, wood, and carpet.

  He could smell Boone’s mother and father.

  But he could smell Boone more than any of these things, the young boy he’d been, the grown man, the relentless killing machine. He could smell his musky sweat, the dirt and blood clinging to him. It was getting clearer, more vivid. The pictures of the past were forming in his mind: Boone’s mother yelling and screaming at him, something that looked like flies impaled on a long needle. He saw a girl with silver hair, marble blue eyes, putting her hands over each ear.