Scott Nicholson Library Vol 1

by Scott Nicholson

  “I didn’t break in,” he replied. “I was just cutting through the yard to walk through the woods when this freak jumped me.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Walter. “What’s that in your back pocket, then?”

  The cop shined his flashlight at the man, turned him around, pulled the frilly black teddy from the man’s pocket. The cop held it up, letting it dangle between his thumb and forefinger as if it were contaminated. The college guy looked sheepish.

  “Is that yours, ma’am?” asked the cop with the gun. He had relaxed his stance and was now pointing his gun at the ground near Walter’s feet.

  Julia nodded. “Yeah. I just noticed it missing a few minutes ago. Someone had broken into my house.”

  “Anything else missing?”

  “Not that I know of, but he said something about looking for a ring.”

  “Do you know this man?” the cop asked, waving the weapon casually toward Walter.

  “Yes,” Julia said. “He’s a friend of mine.”

  The cops looked at each other, and then one led the Creep around the house, reciting the Miranda warning.

  “Are you both willing to make statements?” the other cop said, finally returning his gun to its holster.

  “Sure,” said Julia. “You want to come in the house? I guess you’ll want to check for fingerprints and all that.”

  “The crime scene tech is on duty at the hospital,” the cop said, taking out a small notepad. “She’s going to hate coming out this time of night. So, you going to press charges, Mrs.—?”

  “Stone. Julia Stone. Of course I’m pressing charges.”

  The cop scribbled down her name and asked for Walter’s name. When Walter gave it, the cop lowered the notepad and let his writing hand make a subtle crawl toward his holster. “Triplett?”

  “That’s right.” Walter straightened a little and glanced at Julia. “That Walter Triplett.”

  The cop nodded and asked Julia, “So you’re vouching for his side of the story?”

  Julia considered the possibility that the intruder had actually been Walter, and the college guy may have caught him in the act. But Walter had a key and needn’t bother sneaking in or out the window. And despite his reputation as a possible wife-killer, his kindness had eased her fears. “He’s safe,” she said.

  The cop glowered at Walter, went to his car, and retrieved a clipboard. He spent the next fifteen minutes filling out an incident report. Then the car pulled away, lights still flashing. The college students jeered as the cops passed, holding their beer cans in the air.

  “I thought they were going to check for fingerprints,” Julia said.

  “This is Elkwood,” Walter said. He touched the bruise under his eye and winced.

  “Come in and let me get you some ice for that.”

  Julia retrieved her Louisville Slugger on the way inside. If discretion was the better part of valor, she figured 34 inches of hardwood would bridge the remainder of the gap if necessary.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Walter sat in the living room, looking at the baseball cards spread out on the table, as Julia wrapped some ice in a washcloth. She brought the cloth to him and then sat across the room in the chair at her work desk.

  “Stan Musial,” Walter said, noting the arrangement of the cards by position. “Didn’t he play centerfield?”

  “No, left,” Julia said. She shifted restlessly on the couch. She had leaned the bat in the corner, but the mace still bulged in her pocket. “He couldn’t throw well enough for center. He hurt his arm pitching in the minors. Three-time MVP. Led the Cardinals to two championships during World War II.”

  “I thought all the good players got drafted by the army. Wasn’t Ted Williams a fighter pilot?”

  Julia shrugged. “Maybe it was a conspiracy to make St. Louis look good. The old St. Louis Browns made their only World Series appearance in 1944. First time in 42 years. They won in 2006, too.”

  Walter pressed the impromptu ice pack to his cheek. “Ouch.”

  “Did that Creep slug you?”

  “Nope. He accidentally elbowed me in the face when I tackled him.”

  Now came time for the question Julia had been delaying. She tried to sound casual, not like an interrogator. “When did you see him break in?”

  In other words, what were you doing lurking in the woods behind my house? WATCHING my house?

  “I do yard work for Mrs. Covington. She saw me fixing up this house after Hartley moved out and she hired me. I was over yonder—” he waved with his arm, “—laying some mulch when I saw somebody go around back of your house. I didn’t think much of it, figured he was heading down that trail in the woods. My Jeep was parked behind Mrs. Covington’s, so I reckon he didn’t know I was watching.”

  Julia slid her hand into her pocket, felt the contour of the mace canister. “He lives in one of those apartments. Mrs. Covington told me one of them had a history of peeping.”

  “Guess he took it a step further this time. When I didn’t see him pass there where the trail goes by Mrs. Covington’s back yard, I got suspicious. So I went through the woods and saw your window open. I figured somebody had been messing around there before, or else you wouldn’t have asked Mr. Webster to check your windows.”

  “Maybe you should become a cop,” Julia said. Just like T.L. Snead. Then Walter could be part of the great Satanic conspiracy and get his piece of the action.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “I don’t like guns.”

  “You sure didn’t flinch when that cop pointed one at you.”

  “Because I was frozen stiff. I thought old Barney Fife there would blow my head off if I so much as blinked.”

  Julia laughed a little, but her abdomen was too tense to put much force behind it. “I take it that the Elkwood police don’t have a very good reputation.”

  “They thought ‘Police Academy’ was an instructional video.”

  Julia laughed more easily this time. She was so tired that she was almost giddy. Too much had happened in the last few days. The skull ring, a piece of the past unburied. The discovery of Snead’s move to Elkwood. A sexual assault by the man she had thought loved her. A Creep stealing her underwear. If she dared to think at all, she feared she might just start laughing and never stop.

  Walter must have noticed her weariness. “I seen him climb in the window right as it was getting dark. You drove up about two minutes later. I was afraid he might jump you or something, so I went to warn you, but then I saw him climb out with the . . . um . . . underwear thing.”

  He’s BLUSHING.

  Wait–if the Creep was only in the house for a few minutes . . . then how did he have time to find the clock, plug it in, unlock the front door, prowl through her dresser, and get out the window again?

  Walter continued. “He went into the trees, and I saw your lights come on and heard the window close. I waited to see what he would do. Then, when he snuck back to your window and started peeping, he made me so mad that I wanted to bust him.”

  “Let’s see, peeping, burglary, breaking and entering—”

  “Oh, he didn’t break nothing. Your window was already open. Which kind of made me wonder, since you were so worried about the locks.”

  “The window was open?”

  “Yeah. What’s wrong?”

  “The ring. My fiancé gave me a huge rock and somebody wanted it. I better check.”

  He followed her into the bedroom and waited by the door as she pulled the burgundy velvet box from its hiding place behind Mr. Ned. She opened the box and the diamond glistened from its golden set.

  “Man, that could keep a Creep fed and liquored up for a year or two,” Walter noted.

  She rubbed her head and yawned with exhaustion. “It’s just dirt and metal, when you get down to it.”

  “Listen, I better go and let you get some sleep.”

  Go and leave her alone with the night and the locks and the mace and the Louisville Slugger and the skull ring and the haunted clock—
>
  “Do you know much about electronics?” she asked.

  Walter’s head tilted inquisitively. “A little, yeah.”

  “I’d like to hire you for a job.” She went to the kitchen, feeling his gaze on her back. She extracted the clock from the trash, took off the outer bag, and carried it to Walter. “Would you mind seeing if this has been tampered with?”

  “This that broken clock?”

  Julia nodded. She didn’t want to tell him she’d found it plugged in when she’d arrived home, that the digits were still stuck on 4:06. Let him examine the clock without her imbuing it with any mystique.

  Their fingers brushed briefly together as he took the clock, and Julia felt an odd tingle of electricity. Similar to what she had experienced when putting the skull ring on her finger.

  No. The ring had no power. The clock contained no dark magic. Satan didn’t exist, and therefore had no influence in the world besides in the minds of desperate, gullible people.

  And Walter had no magic power, either. She was just tired, that’s all.

  He stood and their eyes met. One heartbeat, two, a third. They both looked away at the same time.

  “Uh—I’ll give this a look-over,” Walter said. “But don’t expect to pay me.”

  He moved toward the door, carrying the clock as if it were a football, in a hurry now, almost clumsy for the first time since she’d known him. She followed, but not too closely.

  He paused in the doorway and pointed to the bat leaning in the corner. “Would you really have used that?”

  She smiled. “You don’t ever want to find out.”

  “Reckon not.” He grinned back with strong, slightly-uneven teeth. Was he blushing again? None of the men she knew blushed. Rick O’Dell didn’t blush. Mitchell had certainly never blushed in his life. “Well, see you later.”

  “Bye.”

  He went out into the darkness as moths clustered around the porch light. The college students had gone back inside, to continue their drinking in front of the television. Maybe having a friend arrested was just one more reason to party.

  “Walter?”

  He stopped beside the Jeep, his face shadowed. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “My name’s Julia.”

  He nodded.

  “Thanks,” she said. “For . . . you know.”

  “Might want to lock your door,” he said, braver now with the distance between them. “There’s bums and creeps everywhere, even in Elkwood. ‘Night, Julia.”

  She waved, closed and locked the door, then stood leaning against it, replaying the sound of his saying her name. She found herself comparing it to the way Rick said it, the way Mitchell had said it back in more innocent days.

  “Jooolia,” Walter pronounced it, stretched out and lazy, a musical “ooo” in the middle. Jooolia, the way her dad had once teased. Mitchell’s high-brow friends said “Jewlia,” more precisely adding the “you” sound.

  She took the wooden box from her purse and examined it. This relic didn’t belong in Elkwood, in the new life she was trying to build. Maybe Mitchell, as screwed-up as he turned out to be, was right about one thing: perhaps the past should have been left buried.

  If I were stronger, able to control my anxiety better, we could have been married years ago, and I’d be happy now. Mitchell wouldn’t have resorted to—

  No. The attempted rape wasn’t her fault, no matter what kind of tricks her mind tried to play. And she wasn’t to blame because Mitchell had tracked down and hired a Creep to prowl in her underwear drawer and try to steal the engagement ring. If he were in financial trouble, she would have gladly pawned the ring and given him the money. She would have been happy with a simple diamond chip, or no ring at all. Jewelry had never created a commitment or love through its precious substances alone.

  Dr. Forrest would sort it all out in the morning. In the meantime, a night of hours must pass.

  Maybe, if she acted as if this were the end of a perfectly normal day, she could survive. Papers waited on her desk, notes for articles. Other chores required her attention. Reality exerted its own brand of pressure. And reality offered an escape, however briefly, from dark thoughts.

  Julia booted up her computer, surprised that the screen saver didn’t exhibit some sinister message. Other appliances seemed to belong to the unseen forces of Evil, why not her computer? With any luck, her toaster might start spouting backwards Led Zeppelin lyrics.

  She connected to the Internet, knowing she should get to work on her articles. But first she checked her e-mail, one of her strongest addictions besides coffee. A few posts from her Cardinals newsgroup speculated on a possible managerial change, Sue asked if Julia had arrived safely and said she’d soon have more info on Snead, and the director of the animal shelter had sent an e-mail of thanks. Nothing from Mitchell. Big surprise there.

  Creepmail must have closed its accounts.

  Julia closed the e-mail program without responding to the messages. She did a search for “Satan,” then got the obvious, www.satan.com. Seemed like typing w-w-w-dot-anything brought access to some bizarre site. She linked and read through some sites built by self-styled Satan worshippers.

  Not only were their edicts contradictory and juvenile, they were also poorly worded. Someone who was filled with the power of the Master of the World should at least know how to run their text through a spell check. How could these people not hold their hokey posturing up to a fire-lit mirror and laugh themselves into the grave, and thence to the hell they so eagerly sought? Except they didn’t seem to believe in hell at all, and certainly in no everlasting punishment. They mostly held up their religion as an excuse for self-indulgence and vapid cruelty.

  She finally reached the biggie, the official Church of Satan Web site. After reading through some of the Church of Satan’s premises, based on the writings of the late Anton LaVey, Julia believed that Satanists were even crazier than she was. And, at the bottom line, the little rules and rituals were as demanding and tedious as those of the most disciplined and austere religions.

  The Nine Satanic Statements. The Eleven Satanic Rules of Earth. The Nine Satanic Sins. So Satanism had its own sins. Its gate was just as strait and its way just as narrow as those of fundamentalist Christianity. Most amusing was the fact that LaVey, who actually had the audacity to die while positioning himself as Satan’s High Priest, was as possessive and money-grubbing as the most odious of corrupt Christian evangelists. Here was his supposed “gift” to the world, his Satanic Bible, but it had the copyright symbol attached to every tiny segment, lest someone spread the Word without LaVey or his heirs drawing a percentage of the profit.

  Other regalia was available for purchase through the site, such as black candles, silver candelabra, ceremonial robes, daggers, and various herbal potions. And the Devil took credit cards.

  Julia could easily separate these self-serving tenets from the cruel memories of her own past. This packaged-and-shrink-wrapped product bore no connection to the abuse she had suffered at the hands of Satan worshippers. As with all religions, it wasn’t the words or the beliefs or the long-dead prophets that defined transgressions. It was people, those of flesh and blood and bone who mindlessly swallowed whatever was fed to them, blind to the true nature of the hand bestowing the blessings.

  Julia shuddered as her own memories tried to spill from their carefully latched closet–goat’s head and a silver blade and smoking crucibles and bad people.

  Julia clamped her eyes shut and squeezed her temples between her palms. Her breath became shallow and her pulse accelerated to a flutter.

  No, that’s for Dr. Forrest and Dr. Forrest only. Not for here, not for now, not for YOU.

  She took a deep breath, scared. The panic attacks were occurring more frequently. Despite her sense that she was being healed, despite her faith in Dr. Forrest’s treatment, she felt on the edge of a great black chasm, and the next step would have her falling into the ink of oblivion.

  She forced herself to inhale, thought of s
unshine and clouds, heard Dr. Forrest’s voice counting down from ten, let her fingers grow warm and plump and light. Let her body dream itself as a piece of the sky, apart yet part of it all. Let herself become air.

  And, riding on the breath came a warmth and comfort and a soft, distant breeze that suggested a gentle voice.

  God? Is that you?

  But if it had been God, the very act of focusing had driven him back to his hidden hole in the heavens. She concentrated on Dr. Forrest’s instructions and let herself relax further.

  When she returned from her mental vacation, the computer screen still glared. Nothing but words. If she were to understand how Satanists worked, she needed to translate this nonsense. Maybe if she read LaVey’s ideas with a cold and academic eye, without the preconceptions, Satan would lose his power to reach out from the past.

  After a few minutes of going through the rules, she thought she understood something of Satanism’s attraction. Indulge yourself in this world, right here and now, instead of waiting for an eternal reward. Seek gratification of the flesh and mind instead of the spiritual satisfaction of a life wasted helping others. Be kind only if it leads to personal gain, otherwise practice cruelty, and don’t dare turn the other cheek.

  Give in to nature instead of rising above your base animal instincts. Take what you want, because if you have the power to take it, it rightfully belongs to you.

  Be selfish and petty and to hell with everybody else.

  The “official” portrayal of Satan wasn’t the damned, evil Prince of Lies presented by the conservative sects of the Christian church. This Satan was a smiling, benevolent uncle who always had a pocketful of candy to dispense. This Satan never punished. This Satan didn’t require that his followers roast for an eternity to prove their devotion.

  Well, which one is the real Satan? If God indeed wears many faces, the devil must have more masks than a Hollywood prop shop.

  Even though LaVey urged his followers not to harm children or animals, only full-grown adults who happened to be standing in the way, the other camp believed that blood offered power and magic. And to them, what Julia considered the Crowley Camp, power was what Satan was all about.