by Jeff Gunhus
Night Chill
Jeff Gunhus
From the author of Jack Templar Monster Hunter comes a supernatural thriller for adult audiences.
Jack Tremont moves his family to the quiet mountains of Western Maryland hoping to leave behind a troubled past and restart his life. Instead, he finds himself caught up in a nightmare when his daughter Sarah is targeted by Nate Huckley, a mysterious and horrifying stranger driven by a dark power that will stop at nothing to possess Sarah. When Sarah goes missing, suspicion falls on Jack and he must uncover the secrets of the small mountain town of Prescott City and face the evil secret hidden there. As he digs further, he learns the conspiracy reaches more deeply than he could have imagined. Finally, he will have to face the question, What is a father willing to do to save his child? The answer? Anything. Anything at all.
Jeff Gunhus
NIGHT CHILL
A Novel
For Nicole
I love you
He who fears death dies every time he thinks of it.
— Stanislas
I said to Life, I would hear Death speak. And Life raised her voice a little higher and said, you hear him now.
— Kahlil Gibran
Never open the door to a lesser evil, for other and greater ones invariably slink in after it.
— Balthasar Gracian
ONE
Nate Huckley leaned forward against the steering wheel, eyes searching the colorless brick buildings that slid by on either side of the street. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. He couldn’t believe he was spending valuable time, time he didn’t have, looking for a hardware store in this back woods, one-factory, Pennsylvania town.
Huckley spotted the store. The boy back at the gas station had stuttered like a moron, but his directions had been good enough. Huckley pulled into the small gravel parking lot next to the concrete tilt-up building on which the last remnants of the word “Hardware” clung in tall flaking letters. The lot was empty except for a beat-up VW Bug, more rust than metal, squatted in the far corner. Huckley checked his time and felt the anger churn harder in his stomach.
Grabbing the roll of tape, he marched through the parking lot, the hard soles on his leather boots crunching the small rocks into the dirt. Like stepping on bugs, he thought to himself. He smiled and started to twist his foot on each step and stomp down a little harder. By the time he reached the double-wide glass doors that faced the street he felt a little better. Until he saw the sign.
CLOSED.
Bullshit. Huckley pounded on the glass door with the tape. He leaned down, opened the mail slot with his forefinger and shouted, “Hey! Get out here. I know you’re still there, Godammit! I can see your car.”
He stood up and kept beating the door until he saw a light go on in the back room. A smile spread across his face. He always got his way. Always.
The door in the back opened and Huckley saw the outline of a person walk down the aisle. Huckley grinned a little wider. He’d expected an old man, but it was a young girl who came to the door. She squinted at him through the glass, twisted the locks and stuck her head out toward him.
“We’re closed,” the girl said. She rolled her eyes in case her tone hadn’t made her annoyance perfectly clear.
Huckley looked the girl over. Dark circles ringed her eyes as if old layers of eyeliner had melted into her skin. Her cheekbones stuck out like there wasn’t enough skin on her face to go around, giving her an emaciated, hungry look, like a stray dog who thinks a wrapper with grease on it is a meal. Black roots a few inches long told the world her bleach-blonde hair was more bleach than blonde. The girl was a mess. Huckley couldn’t believe his luck.
“Well, hello sweetie. When’d you start working here?”
The girl ignored the question. “Mr. Cooper left me to close today. Told me not to let anyone in.”
“That’s what Mr. Cooper said, huh? Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean me.”
The girl looked up and down the street. Huckley already knew there wasn’t anyone there. He had checked when he first saw that it was a young girl coming toward the door.
“Look, I’m new to this town, mister. I don’t know who you are. So I think you’d better go now. Come back tomorrow.”
“C’mon now, it wouldn’t hurt to talk to me a little.” Huckley smiled as he concentrated. The girl’s mind was an open book. He pushed a little and the pages tumbled open, images dancing free form, garbled and non-linear. Hers was the kind of mind that used to confuse him, but that was a long time ago. Now it was easy. With a little concentration he could find out everything he needed to know. Like how the girl was a druggie, a loner, picking up a few bucks before moving on. How she was frustrated the owner hadn’t trusted her with the cash register yet. How the first time he did, she’d take the money and be gone. And there, amid all the adolescent self-consciousness and emotionalism, was a burst of sexual images. Many partners. Some for money. Some for drugs. And blazing out in front was an evolving fantasy with Huckley himself.
Ahh, young hormones, he thought. Little teenage girls could never resist his looks: white skin unmarked by any blemish, blonde hair combed back flat against his scalp, lips dark red as if he had spent the day sipping wine, eyes squinted half shut as if he held a secret too valuable to share. Although he appeared to be in his thirties, it was always the young ones who found him most attractive. And they were always so eager to prove they were women by following him to whatever bed, car seat or back alley he chose.
He left the girl’s sexual images behind and shifted through her thoughts until he found the right information.
“Your name’s Doreen, right?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
He smiled at the girl. “I just guessed. You look like a Doreen.”
“Is that a good thing?” she asked tugging on a few strands of her blonde hair and twirling it over her ear.
“Sure, pretty name for a pretty girl.” God, it was so easy. Huckley moved a step closer to the girl and inhaled through flared nostrils. Cheap high school perfume mixed with cheap high school marijuana. He smiled. That’s my girl.
“So Mr. Cooper left you all alone, huh? Surprised your father let you work a job like this. What are you, seventeen?”
“I’m eighteen,” she lied. “Don’t know who my daddy is. Even if I did, I wouldn’t let him tell me what to do.”
“I see. But you let this Mr. Cooper tell you, huh?” Doreen shrugged. Huckley held up the roll of tape, “Listen, I really need some duct tape. This stuff doesn’t work for what I’m using it for.”
“I’d like to help, mister. I really would. But the register’s closed and emptied out for the day so....” Doreen started to smack the chewing gum she’d been hiding in her mouth.
“No problem. I’ll just leave some money and you can put it in the register tomorrow. I’ll be in and out of here. Let you get back to your own business, if you know what I mean.” Huckley raised a hand to his lips and took a drag off an imaginary joint. Doreen broke eye contact and stared at the floor. Huckley smirked. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with it. Lord knows I’ve smoked my share of weed.”
Doreen smiled self-consciously, “You smoke?”
“Are you kidding? My generation invented the stuff.” He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “In fact, I wouldn’t mind a hit if you have any left. I’ll pay you a little extra for it.”
She hesitated, looked up and down the street again. “I don’t think that’d be a good idea.”
“All right. I understand. Maybe you’re too young for me to be talking like that anyway. I’m sorry.” Huckley turned to leave.
“I’m not too young. I told you I was eighteen.”
“Yeah, that’s what you told me.”
Doreen bit he
r lower lip, then moved to the side to let him in. “I don’t believe I’m doing this.”
“That’s a good girl. You know, I was really lucky you were here.” Huckley smiled. “You have no idea how much time you’ve saved me.”
He leaned into her as he passed. An electric jolt moved through him as his arm rubbed against her breasts. Huckley curled his hands into fists and rubbed them up and down his thighs. He knew he had to wait until she closed the door behind them, but this was his favorite part and he could hardly contain himself. He smiled at his good fortune. He was back on schedule.
TWO
Jack Tremont was late. That he would be running so far behind schedule was unthinkable, especially since the two clients waiting for him were his most important. The traffic light ahead of him turned yellow. He thought about running it until he saw a stop sign thrust into the air behind the row of cars to his right.
His Jeep Cherokee, a far cry from the BMW 750 he drove just a few years before, braked easily before the intersection. Still, the school crossing guard shot him a withering look for stopping a foot into the crosswalk. He returned her scowl with a smile but it was wasted. With a look of disgust the guard held up her stop sign in front of his bumper. She stared Jack down as she waved the mass of school kids across the street.
Jack knew the woman, Mrs. Hilder. She was no-nonsense New England and she had little tolerance for the relaxed southern attitude abundant here in western Maryland. All of the kids and half of the adults in Prescott City were scared of her. The parents remembered her as the crossing guard when they were in school and they carried the same fearful awe as their kids did now. One of the parents had admitted to Jack that she still stood up a little straighter each time she saw her coming down the street. Tough as woodpecker lips, the parent had whispered, laughing but glancing around as if the crossing guard would come charging at them any minute. Mrs. Hilder’s stare was enough to convince Jack of the truth of it. He tried to ignore her and watch instead the stream of colorful jackets, cartoon lunch pails, and action hero backpacks parade in front of him, all headed toward a carefree afternoon. No stress. No worries.
Jack took a deep breath and felt the tension drain from his shoulders. He couldn’t help but laugh at himself. When would he learn to relax? He and Lauren had moved to Prescott City a year ago for exactly this reason, to undo the mess they had created trying unsuccessfully to balance two high-paced careers while starting a family. To be fair, it had been more his mess than hers. She was an overachiever but always seemed to keep things in balance. He was the workaholic to whom family had become something squeezed into planned increments in a schedule.
The outrageous materialism of living in Orange County, California hadn’t helped matters either. They had chased success so hard that they hardly noticed they were failing every day.
Then the accident happened.
As horrible as it was, in some strange way, Jack realized the accident had probably saved his marriage. Almost two years later he was still paying for this marital help with nightmares and a constant black guilt that clawed in his stomach like a living creature. He bore the suffering without complaint. For what he had done, he knew he deserved worse.
The last of the kids skipped across the street and with one last glare, Mrs. Hilder returned to the sidewalk to let Jack pass. He smiled and gave a little wave.
“C’mon Mrs. Hilder. Give me some love,” he murmured. Nothing doing. The crossing guard’s stern mouth grew more wrinkled as she scowled. Jack shook his head and laughed. “Playing hard to get, huh? Maybe next time.”
A few minutes later he pulled into the pick-up area and saw his important clients hanging out on the swing set next to the head office. They saw him and squealed in delight. Grabbing their matching purple Groovy Girls backpacks, his daughters ran over to him and gave him a huge hug.
“Sorry I’m late girls.”
“Are you late?” Becky asked.
“Yeah, a little,” he smiled. Every day he was away from the business world he was reminded that life didn’t have to be so difficult. In the real world, being five minutes late wasn’t such a big deal. He looked back at his girls piling into the Jeep. “You girls know what today is, don’t you?”
“My birthday. I’m gonna be seven!” Sarah shouted.
“Your birthday’s not for months, silly. And you’re only six.” Becky said, poking her sister in the arm.
Jack twisted around in the front seat and said in a serious voice, “I can’t believe you don’t know what day this is. How could you possibly, possibly forget that today is…” he paused for added drama, “ice cream day!”
The girls screamed and then giggled at their dad. Soon they were lost in an important discussion about the relative coolness of different flavors of ice cream. As Jack edged into the after school traffic he thought that moving to Prescott City was the best thing he had ever done. He actually knew his kids now. Even he and Lauren were starting to feel normal again, as if the worse was finally behind them. Lauren had started to talk about plans years from now, not just weeks and months. It was a subtle change, but its significance hadn’t been lost on him.
Prescott City had been good for the Tremonts. In California they had sped through life, racking up accomplishments and wealth instead of memories and relationships. Here they were all taking notice of life and enjoying it. Besides some periodic consulting work, he’d even taken the time to dabble in writing mysteries. Sure, life was simple here, but he was learning that simple wasn’t the epithet he’d thought it was. Simple was good and he hoped things stayed that way.
THREE
Doreen couldn’t breathe. She pressed her tongue between her lips and pushed against the gag over her mouth. Nothing. She couldn’t move it. Mucous blocked her nasal passages and they wouldn’t clear no matter how hard she tried.
Tears flowed down her face and she whimpered from the effort. Her lungs burned from lack of oxygen. On reflex, she bit down and her mouth filled with blood. Then, with a violent snort, the blockage in her nostrils partially cleared and she was able to inhale.
A few breaths and her head cleared enough to allow a different kind of panic to take hold. Her hands were bound behind her back; her legs bent back at an awkward angle in the confined space. Her first thought was that she was in a coffin. Just like in the horror movies she watched. Buried alive. Then she noticed the smells around her. The air reeked of oil and dirt.
Where am I? Oh God, what’s happening to me?
Her head ached. Thoughts churned too fast for her to hold on to anything coherent. She closed her eyes and tried to focus but the world spun around her. She opened her eyes wide, swallowing hard to fight down the urge to vomit. Even in her confusion, she understood the danger. If she threw up while the gag was over her mouth, she would die.
Then the earthquake hit. Everything shook and her body slammed into the metal walls surrounding her. Something dug into her back sending a sharp pain through her body. She tried to twist to the side but it was too tight to move. She was closed in on all sides by the walls, the ceiling only inches from her face. She flexed her arms and legs but the more she strained the more the bindings cut into her skin. Finally the pain was too much to bear and she stopped struggling. The world wasn’t shaking any more.
Maybe it wasn’t an earthquake after all.
She lay there in the dark trying to slow her breathing, trying to understand what had happened to her.
Then she felt it.
Tha-thump…tha-thump…tha-thump.
She recognized the rhythm from a different time. A better time. Laying in the back seat, wrapped up in a blanket, listening to soft country music on the radio as her momma drove home.
Tha-thump…tha-thump…tha—thump.
Tires going down the highway.
Then it all crashed over her. The blond haired man at the hardware store. Being grabbed from behind. Strong hands pressed against her mouth. A bad smell. Like chlorine. Then everything went black.
&
nbsp; The seconds it took for the scene to replay in her mind was long enough for her to organize her thoughts. Everything fit together. The sound beneath her. The sudden, jolting movement. The cramped space. The smell. She understood what had happened.
Kidnapped—I’m in the trunk of a car.
Panic followed close behind realization. She screamed through the duct tape covering her mouth. She kicked and thrashed her body against the walls of the trunk but accomplished nothing except to inflict more pain on herself. Finally, her body went limp again from exhaustion and frustration, the only movement coming from the sobs that shook her small frame.
Doreen Johnston hadn’t whispered a prayer since she was a little girl in Sunday school, but she closed her eyes and had no problem recalling how it was done. Sweet, merciful Jesus, please let me get out of this alive. Over and over, she recited the same words, trying to find strength in them, trying to find hope. But she knew she was in real trouble. The kind of trouble where no amount of praying was going to help her. Tremors shook her limbs and she squeezed her eyes tight as if it could block out what was happening to her. Sweet, merciful Jesus, please let me get out of this alive.
FOUR
Ice cream was a hit. The girls settled easily on a flavor, pink bubble gum. Sarah waited until Becky made up her mind and then copied her. Jack was happy that the girls enjoyed being around each other. Becky and Sarah fought every now and then but they generally got along. He just hoped it lasted. The thought of having two teenage girls in the house at each other’s throats over boys and clothes made him cringe.
After ice cream and the ritual cleaning of faces and hands, he herded the girls back into the car and headed to the Dahl’s house. Kristi and Max Dahl had two girls the same age as Becky and Sarah and they took turns having play dates. The girls were confused the first time they arrived for a visit. “This is just a regular house. I thought we were going to a doll’s house,” Becky had complained. It was one of those moments that was now firmly fixed in Tremont family lore, trotted out and retold at family functions.
