“Technically, you know, he wasn’t at the death of the other kid’s father.” Nayles rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Croyant.”
“As far as we know, right?” Meehan twisted her lips into a half smile. “I just think we don’t know. But regardless, all his friends were there. You know, Manson-style.” She hoisted the stack of papers and jammed them into her wire inbox. “Doesn’t necessarily need to be there to get them to do his grisly bidding.”
“That may be. I’ll give it a .001% possibility. Not zero, but not very likely.” Nayles looked up at the ceiling then back at Meehan. “We got any other suspects?”
“No, nothing.”
“Anything come back from the lab?”
Meehan took a folder out of her desk drawer and pushed it across to Nayles. “Everything looks to be exactly as the kids described and matches our initial assessment,” she said. “The squad car and the Martin kid’s Camaro were in a serious, high-speed collision. The impact lines up, physics-wise, and the tire marks are all in roughly the right place. But no signs of either car braking. The impact caused the cars to roll and flip. A bad one.” She leaned back in her chair as Nayles flipped through the report. “But a suspicious one, in my book.”
“Why do you say that?” Nayles tossed the folder back on to Meehan’s desk.
“The velocity,” Meehan said. “It’s just not right. According to CSI, they’d have to be traveling at over two hundred miles per hour and heading straight at each other from two different directions to get that kind of carnage. I mean, the double decapitation. Come on— ” Meehan sat up, shaking her head. “When have you ever seen anything like that?”
“It happens.”
“Double?” Meehan said, raising both eyebrows high.
“Okay, that’s a little out of the ordinary.” Nayles shook his head slowly. “What about the bus accident?”
“That was no accident!” Meehan hit the desk hard with the flat of her hand. “Smooth road, no other traffic, and the bus just flips like that? Every single tire on one side had exploded. Don’t know how it was done, but somebody set it up so that bus would drive over something or hit something to make that happen. The rest, I think, was pure luck on the part of the perps.”
“Luck? What do you mean?”
“Luck, in a macabre way. Luck that so many died in the initial crash. Luck that the bus exploded, killing even more.” Meehan then held her head in her hands, propped up by her elbows.
“That’s sick.”
“I’m just saying . . . ”
“So, what now?” Nayles asked, yawning and wiping his hand straight down his face. It was 1:45 in the morning. “Go arrest the Martin kid?”
Meehan looked up and dropped her hands. “No can do. No tangible evidence. Only my suspicions and a lot of circumstantial evidence. We hold off.” She sighed loudly. “For now.”
“Never believe what anyone tells you, that’s my new philosophy.”
Ricky Martin leaned against his bedroom wall and looked out the window of his bedroom at the rainy afternoon.
“What are you talking about?” Almira said. She sat on his bed, flipping through a magazine.
“I mean, everyone tells you that the universe is benign, for the most part. Benevolent. With a good God up in Heaven.”
“Hmmm,” Almira said, pretending to be listening.
“Well, I say bullshit!” Ricky Martin bellowed.
Almira jerked where she sat and looked over at Ricky. Having not followed what he’d been saying, she had no idea why there was a sudden and loud expletive outburst.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m just saying we’ve been lied to.”
Almira closed the magazine reluctantly.
“How so?”
“Like I was just saying. Everyone says, ’enjoy life,’ ’have a nice day,’ ’good morning, good night’ and all that shit.” Ricky sighed. He stared out the window to watch the rain. “It’s a lie. Or we’re all deluded.” He turned back from the window to face Almira. “We are all going to die, and in a lot of cases, it’s going to be a horrible death. Explosion, car crash, disfiguring disease. Painful and ugly. ’Have a nice day,’ my ass. The world is a treacherous place, and we are all targets.”
“Maybe . . . ” Almira said, her eyebrow arched. She carefully laid the magazine down. “Death has decided that waiting for people’s ’moment,’ their ’time,’ was getting too dull, too predictable. So, it—really ’they’. As I’ve said before,” Ricky said, interrupting himself. “I think there’s lots of Deaths out there.” Ricky shuddered. “So, the Grim Reaper—Death itself—has decided that we would be the prey now. Hunt us down and kill us. One by one, or twenty by twenty. It’s sport, a game. And we’re just animals, running for our lives. The Most Dangerous Game, with a twist.” Ricky Martin frowned, his eyes unfocused.
Almira said nothing. The bleak picture Ricky painted was too awful to contemplate. On the other hand, she had a strong feeling that he might be right. Maybe not exactly, completely, perfectly correct, but in the right ballpark. Something had gone terribly wrong. And there was a very good possibility that the four of them were the reason it was all happening.
“We have to do something,” she said, sounding scared.
“I know. We are going to do something. We’re putting these bastards away. Turn the tables. Just like that guy in The Most Dangerous Game. Who was it? Rathbone?
“Rainsford. Sanger Rainsford.”
“Yeah, that was it. You got quite a memory.”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah, so, the hunter becomes the hunted.”
“I don’t see how we can do that.”
“We have to go back to that shadow land.”
“Go back?” Almira said, jumping off the bed. “No fuckin’ way!”
“So,” Almira said, “Please explain to me why we should have to go back there, back to Hell?” She gestured at Ricky Martin, both palms out and facing up.
“There’s power there,” he said.
“There’s death there, you mean.”
“There’s death out here, too,” Ricky said, walking back to the window and the rain and pointing outside. “But in the shadow place, something happened to me. Ya’ll got out before it happened to you guys. But something changed me.” He punched his fist into his other hand while gritting his teeth. “I’m different, stronger. And I’m wondering if there are other powers waiting in that dark place for those brave enough to stay in there and wait for them.”
Almira laughed nervously “You’re talking like an absolute loon.”
“Listen, you know the other night, when Flower got attacked?”
“Of course. What’s your point?”
“It attacked me, too.”
“No it didn’t. You weren’t even hurt.”
“Yes it did and that’s my point. The shadow thing attacked me, but all it could do was pass through me. It couldn’t harm me, you get it?”
“What do you mean, ’pass through you’?”
“Like I said, it just went in and out of my body, like a ghost.” Ricky Martin waved his arm in front of him, back and forth, like sawing wood.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Almira’s hands took their familiar position on her hips.
“I’m saying the Shadow couldn’t harm me. It attacked as if me and it were both human. As if it was trying to beat me up. Like it did to Flower.”
“Wow,” Almira said under her breath. “That’s weird.”
“It’s weirder that it didn’t work,” Ricky said, half-sitting on his desk. “It couldn’t get a hold of me. That’s why I’m still here. Why I’m not dead.”
Almira pondered this then she pointed at Ricky Martin, her hand bobbing.
“So . . . you think by staying in that black place, you acquired, ah, immunity?”
“Yes, I think so. I’m pretty sure. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
“I know I can’t.” Almira bit her lip and looked to the si
de as she did so. “Okay, okay,” she said, standing taller and straighter. “Let’s do it!”
“Wait, really? Are you sure you can do this? Are you sure you have the courage? I mean— “
“Thanks,” Almira said, smirking.
“Sorry. No insult intended.”
“What choice do I have? We’re at war, yes?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get Conner and let’s get going.”
“You mean today?” Ricky Martin asked, his eyes huge.
“Yeah,” she said. “Today.”
“Now I have to say something,” he said, his voice grown softer. “We need to slow down just a bit.”
“Why?” Almira demanded. She was already at the bedroom door, her hand on the doorknob.
“You’re not going to like this . . . ”
“What? Tell me,” Almira said, a storm sweeping across her face.
“I think Flower should be with us when we go. Yes.” Ricky ducked his head into his shoulders.
“Flower? Are you kidding me?” Palms up again. “Ricky, she’ll be in the hospital for weeks!”
“Week.”
“What?”
“Let’s give her a week, to get off the intravenous,” Ricky said. “Then let’s spring her.”
“What are you talking about now?” Almira started to tap her foot.
“I have another theory about that place.”
“What?”
“You know Nietzsche, right?”
“Oh, not this again.”
“Right.”
Then they said, in unison, “’That which does not kill me, makes me stronger.’”
They stood scrutinizing each other for a bit.
“It’s the ’that which does not kill me’ part everyone seems to ignore,” Almira said, drumming her fingers on her folded arms. “And which bothers me the most.”
“I think the dark place, with the kind of immunity it gives us . . . ” Ricky took a deep breath. “I think it can heal Flower.”
“How the fuck,” Almira raised her voice, “did you come to that crazy-ass conclusion?” She threw her hands up yet again.
Ricky Martin winced. Then he said in hushed tones, “The place was scary and nasty and full of evil, I agree.”
“But?” Almira tried to burn a hole in Ricky’s head with her eyes.
“I felt another force in the place, the longer I was there.”
“All right, I’ll bite. What was this so-called ’force’ you felt?”
Ricky hesitated a moment, and then he released a long, loud sigh. Finally, screwing up his courage, he said only one word.
“Love.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Please Leave Before I Call Security
Flower Gardener laid in a coma in Kantaby General Hospital, room 243. Tubes and wires and hoses ran to various parts of her body to supply fluid, pain killers, oxygen, measurement, and metering. She laid still, only the din of the various pieces of equipment indicating that a human being was in the room.
In her state of unconsciousness, Flower dreamed of a world covered in daisies and blooms. The sky was a crystal-clear blue and the roads were immaculate. Baby birds flew from tree to tree, and streams flowed gentle and clear. The sun shone brightly in this world, and it cast no shadows.
Flower Gardener walked along clean streets, like a young beauty in a Disney film. She wore a spring dress, her hair in a ponytail and no shoes on her feet. She smiled, and waved to the birds, who sang in return. She threw her head back and giggled. Behind her, five pure white cats followed, purring and meowing, batting at orange and blue butterflies.
They all strolled along, past creeks with pretty fish springing out and wriggling in the air before they splashed back in. Doe and deer with big eyes glanced at Flower before they frolicked happily away. Baby squirrels, raccoons, chipmunks, and bunnies bounded across the path in front of her, all with smiles on their faces.
There was soft music in the air, and puffy clouds chugged happily through the clear sky.
Flower had never felt so content, so carefree, in all her life.
But something wasn’t right with this scene. Yes, it was real. Real life. She just couldn’t put her finger on what was wrong.
No matter! Flower started to skip, her heart full of joy.
But she caught a shadow out of the corner of her eye.
A shadow? There’s no such thing! Shadows don’t exist, they’re only the things of fairy tales, horrid children’s stories.
In the real world, Flower knew, there was only sunshine and blue sky, and the occasional marshmallow-white cloud cheerfully going about its business.
No shadows because it’s not right. It makes no sense. There can’t be shadows.
Not here, too. Oh, God, not here.
The monitor in the room beeped a sustained buzz. Two nurses from up the hall ran in to see what was wrong. Flower’s heart was beating too fast, and erratically. Arrhythmia. Her blood pressure was sky high, as well.
The nurses called the doctor, who advised them to insert a needle into the fluid line that fed into Flower’s arm to give her necessary medicine quickly, and then to monitor her after. Flower’s blood pressure stabilized almost at once, as did her heartbeat.
One of the nurses remained in the room, to sit and visually monitor Flower for a while. The other nurse returned to the nurses’ station to be available to others and to write the incident up in her notes.
The nurse left behind in the room, Mrs. Jean Beatty, R.N., wriggled her ample behind in her chair to make herself more comfortable. She noticed a shadow, perhaps from something in the hall. The shadow cast itself against the far wall, moving as if a light moved across an object in the hallway. Nurse Beatty got up to investigate.
The lights in the passageway were perfectly normal. There were no large objects in the hall at all. Pretty much empty for once.
When she returned to Flower’s room, the shadow was gone.
The nurse, perturbed, tilted her head as she gazed at the wall. She then shrugged her shoulders, checked that Flower and all her monitors were fine, and sat back down. Nurse Beatty sighed. She liked this one, this girl named Flower. She’d taken a personal interest. That’s why she was prepared to sit here, for at least an hour or two. Keep her eye on the girl.
She had no idea that, by doing so, she had chased the shadows away. But in doing so, insured her own death later that evening.
For the Shadows would return, two Shadows instead of one, and rip through that hospital room. It would look like a serious malfunction of the EKG machine: an explosion and a fire. Mrs. Beatty would appear to have been electrocuted in a freak accident.
Flower’s recovery would be set back. The doctors would not be able to determine for how long. A day. A week. A year.
No one would be able to say.
“Asshole!”
Ricky Martin was pushed from behind and bounced against a locker. When he turned around to see who had assaulted him, he saw only a sea of students, moving in every direction.
He turned slowly around again and continued walking. Welcome back, he thought to himself.
His first day back in school after shit had hit the fan. Ricky Martin had never been one of the most popular kids in school, but so far he had been cursed at, called a murderer, and accused of being a Satan worshiper. All this before homeroom.
Although formerly known for his sense of humor (or at least he liked to think so), Ricky Martin wasn’t feeling all that funny today. One of his best friends was in the hospital, in a coma, and pretty much everyone thought he’d beaten her up and put her there.
His best friend’s dad, by the way, was dead. Dropped dead of a brain aneurysm in his own living room last Saturday. Boom, he was no more. Shit, Ricky thought. A lot of deaths. Not to mention all the other people in Kantaby who had died recently.
They think I’m some kind of serial killer or something, Ricky thought. Well, I’ve never heard any dogs talking to me, so
I can’t be crazy. Christ, I don’t even have a dog!
He continued down the hall and turned the corner to get to his homeroom, where he was stopped by a group of clowns. Not literally clowns, of course, but guys from the football team.
“Asswipe.”
“Antichrist.”
“Killer”
“Dickwad.”
“Shithead.”
That about covers the spectrum, Ricky thought.
“Wife beater.”
Oh yeah, there was that, Ricky thought. Not technically my wife. And I didn’t beat her. But, well, there you go.
“Psycho.”
That’s new.
Ricky headed off the other way. The gang chased him for a few feet until the bell signaling the beginning of homeroom sounded. They didn’t want to get detention, so instead they all circled back, punching Ricky on the shoulder or slapping him on his head as they headed off.
“Ow. Fuck. Ow. Shit,” Ricky said, ducking and increasing his pace.
They all didn’t get to hit him, but the ones that did more than made up for it with the vigor with which they attacked him. Bruises were a definite. Probably welts, too.
Ricky Martin pushed the door open to the outside. A security guard gave him “the look,” and opened his mouth as if about to say something. But when Ricky’s gaze met his, his look of authoritative superiority turned to one of disdain and disgust.
Ricky Martin didn’t give a shit anymore. He was done; he had given it the ol’ college try, and it just wasn’t working. If he came back tomorrow, they’d beat the living daylights out of him. That was obvious. Might even stab him or who knows what. The self-assured attacks of the self-righteous. Ricky didn’t want to take any chances.
Well, I’m still susceptible to attacks by the human animal, he thought to himself, even if I appear to be safe from Reaper attacks.
He dashed down the cement stairs and across the parking lot, through the field, and out the gate at the end of the high school property. As he hiked along, he decided to go visit Flower in the hospital.
SHADOWS OF DEATH: Death Comes with Fury (and Dark Humor) To a Small Town South of Chicago Page 10
