Occasional Demons

by Rick Hautala

  “Yeah, well—like you say. Fuck it.“ Phil snorted with disgust. “I just wish they’d kept Annie’s name out of the paper.“

  “She still spooked?“

  “Christ, wouldn’t you be?“ Phil snapped. For such a sharp detective, Levesque sure had a way of sounding stone stupid sometimes. Maybe that’s how he got results, Phil thought. Like the TV detective Columbo, he’d make the criminals think he had no frigging clue as to what the hell was going on and then—wham-o!—gotcha!

  Levesque shrugged. “Like I told yah—I don’t think she’s got anything to worry about. This Alley Cat guy’s MO doesn’t strike me as revenge orientated.“

  “That’s oriented,“ Phil said. “Not orientated.“

  “Whatever. All’s I’m saying is, I don’t blame Annie for being upset ’cause of what happened, but that was a good two weeks ago. If this guy was gonna do something to her personally, I think he would have tried by now. ’Sides, he’s gotta know she’s under surveillance. You’re worrying about nothing. He’s a chicken-shit little fuck who’s looking for helpless victims, not a challenge.“

  “You’re probably right,“ Phil said as he spun around and slid off the stool at the lunch counter. He started reaching for his hip pocket, but his partner waved him off. “You got it last time, ’member?“ Levesque took a twenty from his wallet and slid it under his clean-as-a-whistle plate. Both men nodded wordless greetings to a few of the regulars as they walked outside.

  3

  The night was alive with the songs of crickets. A fingernail sliver of moon rode low in the sky as Phil turned left onto Maple Street. Driving slowly, he cruised past Annie’s house. This was the third pass in a little more than an hour, he noted as he glanced at the green digital clock on the dashboard. It was almost one o’clock in the morning. If anything was going to happen, it would have happened by now, he thought. He should call it a day—a double shift day at that: one “official“ and one “personal.“ Time to head on home and get some rest.

  With each pass by his girlfriend’s house, Phil noticed many subtle changes. A light that had been on downstairs in Annie’s house was now out, and an upstairs light that hadn’t been on before was now on. The gate leading into the backyard was closed, as was the garage door. On his final pass down the street, he had seen two people—a man and a woman—walking down the street holding hands.

  That was pretty much it.

  Nothing disturbed the quiet calm of the summer night. It never ceased to amaze Phil how quiet Annie’s street was, and only two blocks from downtown.

  He had gone through a large thermos of coffee during his patrol, and his bladder was feeling the pressure. He considered stopping by Annie’s and asking if he could use the facilities, but as he slowed down to pull into her driveway, the light in the upstairs window winked out. He was sure a knock on the door at this hour wasn’t such a great idea, and he didn’t want to call her on his cell phone.

  Let her rest, he figured.

  At the end of Maple Street, he pulled over and parked. Leaving the car running, he hopped out and watered one of the neighbor’s hedges out of the direct light of the streetlight. Better than holding it all the way home across town.

  Once he was done, he zipped his pants and started back to the car. He jumped when a shadow shifted beside the garage on the opposite side of the street, next to the house directly across from Annie’s. Without breaking stride, he walked casually back to his car, shifting his eyes back and forth, trying to see if there had really been something there or if it was just his imagination. Leafy shadows danced across the garage door. Phil couldn’t resist a shiver as he hesitated by the car door, then got in, shifted in gear, and pulled away. A hundred feet down the street, he spun the wheel and took a right-hand turn onto Middle Street.

  “Let’s just check it out one last time tonight,“ he whispered to himself as he drove slowly up Middle and turned right onto Union Street. He hope if there had been someone creeping around, and if they had noticed him, they wouldn’t immediately recognize his car as it made another pass down Maple Street.

  He rolled the window down on the passenger’s side and watched and listened intently as he got closer to Annie’s house. If the moon had been brighter, it would have helped, he thought, looking longingly at the portable spotlight on the seat beside him and debating whether or not to sweep the yard with it as he passed by.

  No sense getting the neighbors all worked up, he figured. Beside, all of the lights were off at Annie’s. At least she hadn’t heard any suspicious sounds outside. Everything looked exactly the way it had on his previous pass. If someone was out here, either he was gone now or he had ducked for cover. Phil was upset that, following the first attack, Annie hadn’t taken his advice and installed a security system or at least gotten a dog. Sure, dogs were sloppy and shed all over everything, but you couldn’t beat them as an advanced warning system.

  Phil was sure that if it had been anything at all, it must have been a neighborhood cat or maybe a raccoon from the nearby woods making a midnight raid on someone’s trashcan. The night was perfectly silent and still...like always; but in the back of his mind, something was nagging at Phil—a vague uneasiness that not quite everything was as it had been. As he slowed down and looked all around Annie’s yard, he couldn’t quite pin it down. Finally, he shook his head and yawned, feeling a sudden crushing exhaustion. With a sigh, he stepped down on the accelerator.

  “You’re worn out,“ he told himself as he slowed for the stop sign at the intersection ahead. “Time to drag your sorry ass off to bed.“

  4

  Annie had been nervous all night, just as she had been every night since that night over two weeks ago when she had been attacked and just barely escaped with her life. She became compulsive about checking to make sure all the doors and windows, upstairs and down, were locked. Throughout the evening, every half hour or so, she would go through the house and double-check everything. Even on a hot night like this, she wasn’t about to leave a window open, not even a crack.

  She paused and listened every time a car passed by the house, heading either up or down the street. One car in particular, she noticed, seemed to have gone by several times during the evening, circling the block. She never dared to look out to see who it was. Her mind was filled with the image of her pushing back the curtains and seeing a horribly mutilated face, scarred and laced with pockmarks, grinning in at her with wild, maniacal eyes. She had never gotten a good look at her assailant, so her imagination had manufactured the most horrible image possible. Instead of checking, she sat there watching TV and wishing she had taken Phil’s advice and gotten either a dog or a gun. He had told her he’d should her hold to use it, but she wanted no part of that.

  Now, she thought, it might be better to have a gun than live in constant dread.

  After Letterman was over, she switched off the TV and went upstairs to bed. She knew sleep would be a long time coming, and she worried that her lack of sleep might affect her job at the bank. Hell, there was no doubt about it; it was affecting her work, but she had other, deeper worries.

  She had just turned off the light and was settling down in bed when a faint sound came from outside. It sounded like it came from the backyard. Freezing where she was, not even daring to turn on a light, she lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling, listening to her rapid pulse. She waited for the sound to come again, but it never did.

  Just my imagination, she told herself, but now the absolute silence twisted her nerves like frayed strands of rope. She barely took a breath in the darkness as she waited for any sound to break the utter silence. After a while—she didn’t dare guess how long—she heard another car—or was it the same one?—drive slowly past the house. The car rounded the corner, and the sound gradually faded away. She had just started to relax, letting herself melt into the mattress, when the sound of breaking glass downstairs made her sit up in bed and scream.

  In the dark, as she fumbled for the telephone, she heard
a window downstairs slide up, grinding in its track. This was followed by a heavy grunt and a thud. She knew instantly that someone had boosted himself into the house through the living room window. Annie wanted to scream, but there wasn’t enough air in her lungs for her to make a sound. Then she heard the heavy tread of footsteps coming up the stairs.

  5

  Just as Phil was driving past the house where he had recently watered the shrubbery, that something that had been nagging at the back of his mind suddenly clicked into place.

  Annie’s backyard gate …It had been closed before, but on the last pass, it had been partway open.

  A ripple of chills danced up Phil’s back. He glanced into the rearview mirror, knowing that he had two options. He could either drive around the block again, trying not to do anything that would draw the trespasser’s attention—if there was a trespasser—or he could do a quick U-turn and drive back to Annie’s. If he did that, though, he would lose the element of surprise if the Alley Cat was going after Annie to finish what he’d started.

  It took Phil a split second to decide. There was no sense in taking any chances. He jammed the car into reverse, did a quick turn in the neighbor’s driveway, straightened out the wheels, and pushed the accelerator to the floor. The wheels chirped and left thick black marks on the street as he peeled out and drove back to Annie’s house. In that few seconds, all he could picture was that opened gate with the darkness gaping like a missing tooth in a smile. His car skidded to one side as he hit the brakes and squealed to a stop in Annie’s driveway. Looking over at the gate, he saw that it definitely was open, and he was positive it hadn’t been that way before. He had shut off the engine and was reaching to open the door when a light came on in the upstairs window. An instant later, a wailing scream filled the night and then cut off sharply.

  With the scream still echoing in his ears, Phil reached back into the car, grabbed the radio mic, and depressed the button.

  “This is SanSouci. I have a ten-fourteen—an intruder—at seventy-two Maple Street,“ he shouted as soon as the dispatcher answered. “Need assistance immediately. In pursuit on foot. Send backup. You roger that?“

  “Ten-four. I copy,“ the dispatcher said. “Assistance is on the way.“

  “Ten-four. Over and out,“ Phil said, cutting off the transmission. As he drew his service revolver and started across the driveway toward the side door, his heart pounded so loudly in his ears he wasn’t sure if he heard a faint sound from inside the house or not. He leaped up to the top of the landing and hammered his clenched fist against the door.

  “Annie! It’s me! Open up!“

  He kept raining heavy blows onto the door, hard enough almost to splinter the wood as he strained to hear an indication of activity from inside the house. His concern was that he was already too late, that the prowler had already gotten to Annie. Leaning back, he looked up at Annie’s lighted bedroom window. Cupping his hand to his mouth, he called out, “Annie! It’s me! Phil! Are you all right?“

  A wash of chills swept over him when the bedroom window slid up, and Annie—her eyes wide with terror—poked her head outside.

  “Jesus, Phil! He’s here. He’s in the house!“ she shouted, and then she ducked back inside.

  “Can you get out? Can you use the back stairs?“ Phil shouted, but Annie didn’t respond. He lunged forward and slammed his body into the door. The impact pained his shoulder as the door bounced hard, but it didn’t give. A shower of twirling sparks sprayed across his vision, but he shook his head to clear it and rammed into the door again. This time, the wood gave way with a loud snap as the deadbolt lock tore free, splitting the doorframe. Phil fell forward and struggled to keep his balance as he entered the darkened entryway.

  Not exactly correct police procedure, he knew, but he had to do what he could to save Annie. As he fumbled for the light switch in the kitchen but couldn’t find it , his commanding officer Richards’ words came back to him.

  You’re too close to it, Phil.

  After a frantic few seconds and still not finding the light switch, he decided to hell with it. The Alley Cat would be just as blind in the dark as he would be...unless, like a real cat, he could see in the dark.

  With his revolver in hand, Phil raced down the hallway to the stairway. He grabbed the newel post and was wheeling around to start upstairs when something moving fast shot out of the darkness by the closet and caught him square in the gut. An explosion of pain detonated in his stomach, and he saw stars as he doubled over and dropped to his knees. He barely felt it when his head banged against the edge of one of the carpeted steps. The last thing he thought before he was sucked all the way down into darkness was something else Captain Richards had said to him that morning.

  That’s when cops make mistakes.

  6

  Numb with pain, Phil groaned softly as he started to come to. He was groggy and had no idea how long he had been out, but the pain in his stomach was like a heavy, lead ball. Moaning softly, he shook his head and struggled to sit up. Tiny yellow pinpricks of light spun across his vision as he grabbed hold of one of the stairs and hoisted himself into a sitting position. Purely by luck, he found the wall switch and snapped it on. His service revolver was lying on the floor at the foot of the stairs. Struggling to remain conscious, he picked up the gun and staggered up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  “Annie,“ he called out, but his voice was weak and filled with gravel. He burst into Annie’s bedroom, fully expecting to find her sprawled on the floor or on the bed, staring at him with blank, lifeless eyes as blood seeped from the gaping, red slice in her throat and slowly widened in a pool around her.

  To his surprise, he found the room empty. He didn’t dare hope that Annie had somehow escaped the killer, but maybe...just maybe...

  The door leading to the back stairway was wide open, and this further raised his hopes that she had gotten out after he yelled to her. If the Alley Cat—It’s got to be him!—had come down the other stairs and nailed him on his way outside, then Annie might have gotten away.

  But how long has it been? Phil wondered.

  He glanced at his wristwatch and saw that it was twenty minutes past one, so he hadn’t been unconscious all that long. Phil raced down the back stairway. Every breath he took burned his lungs, but he doubled his speed after vaulting over the back porch railing and landing on the grass.

  There was no indication which way either Annie or the Alley Cat had run, but Phil guessed she would have gone through the backyard to get over to the Middle Street where she either could raise the alarm or else hide until she was sure she was safe. As he leaped the split-rail fence that divided Annie’s property from the neighbor behind her, another scream—Annie!—coming from the direction of Middle Street split the night. Phil knew he had guessed correctly, and he pumped his arms madly as he ran. His stomach was filled with a dull, hollow ache, and his breath came in raw gulps as he crossed the neighbor’s backyard, heading toward the street.

  After he reached the street, though, once again he didn’t know which way to turn. Both ends of the street glowed with the stark orange glow of the sodium arc streetlights, making it almost as bright as day. Leaves in the maple trees that overhung the street rustled softly in the hot night wind, casting thin shadows on the asphalt. The echo of Annie’s scream had long since faded away, but then, a hundred yards up the street, Phil saw a shadow, and the leaves weren’t casting this one. The stooped figure of a man rose up above the waist-high weeds that grew in a vacant lot beside a large gray apartment building. The man obviously had someone pinned down, someone who was struggling to get away.

  He’s got her! The Alley Cat’s got Annie!

  In that split second when Phil hesitated, trying to figure out what was going on, he saw the man raise his arm high above his head. The glare of the streetlight reflected off the knife he was holding, making it flash like lightning. Then, as if everything were moving in slow motion, Phil watched as the knife rose higher...and higher
.

  “Freeze!“ Phil shouted as he started running toward the figure. “This is a police officer!“

  He felt the reassuring weight of the revolver in his hand, and he wanted to aim quickly and fire, but he didn’t want to take the chance of missing the Alley Cat and hitting Annie.

  As the knife reached the apex of its assent, Phil felt an adrenaline charge that almost made him cry out loud. Barely conscious of what he was doing, he crouched low as he ran, imagining his days on the college football field. The impact stunned him when he rammed into the dark figure just as the knife began its descent.

  Phil heard a wild scream, not sure if it was him or the Alley Cat. The impact was so hard he lost his grip on his revolver, and it flew from his hand, landing somewhere in the weeds, lost in darkness.

  The man collapsed beneath him, rolling off Annie as both men struck the ground. Both of them struggled to get a grip on his adversary or land a solid punch or kick. Phil realized he had the advantage of weight, but he could feel that his opponent was solidly muscled. He knew if he didn’t finish him quickly, he was going to be in a lot of trouble.

  Both of them swung their fists, striking out wildly as they threw wild haymakers. The labored sounds of their struggle filled the night, sounding like two enraged animals.

  You’re too close to it, Phil.

  That thought echoed in Phil’s mind as he scrambled to get on top of the Alley Cat.

  That’s when cops make mistakes.

  Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a rock-solid fist caught Phil on the chin and snapped his head back so hard he heard something in his neck crack. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, and before the mist in his head cleared, the man punched him again with his other hand, hitting him hard in the temple. They were too close for the Alley Cat to wield the knife effectively, but as Phil rolled back, he saw and heard the knife slice the air above his head. It slashed like a striking rattlesnake.