Devil's Playground

by D P Lyle

  He ripped off his shirt, buttons skittering across the tile floor, then snatched the soap from its cradle and furiously scrubbed his hands and arms and face. He removed his pants, which were splotched with burgundy stains, filled the sink with water, and dunked his clothing, releasing crimson streaks and whirls. He drained and refilled the sink repeatedly until the water remained clear, then wrung the garments, squeezing them until his forearms ached as if this would strangle the images from his mind.

  He walked to the garage and hung the wet clothing on a makeshift clothesline, which hung above the washer and dryer. As he returned to the kitchen, he saw bloody hand prints on the door handle and drips of blood on the hardwood floor. He followed them through the bedroom and into the bathroom, where similar stains decorated the door and wall.

  With a dampened hand towel, he removed every smear, print, stain, and drip he could find. Returning to the garage, he wiped clean the car door, seat, and steering wheel. He rinsed the towel in the sink beside the washer and hung it with the clothing.

  Exhausted, he returned to bed and pancaked for a half hour before drifting into a fitful sleep.

  Chapter 9

  The call came at 7 a.m. Sam apparently didn’t hear the first two rings. Scooter apparently did. During the night, he had wormed his way under the covers and curled against Sam’s back and now gave her several bunny kicks with his hind legs as if to say, “Would you answer that, I’m sleeping here.” She snatched the phone from its cradle in the middle of the third ring.

  The emergency operator connected her with Esther Coombs, who babbled hysterically about Miriam and Roger and bodies and blood. It took Sam several minutes to calm her enough to find out what had happened.

  Sam arrived fifteen minutes later to find Esther, dressed in flannel pajamas, an overcoat, and unlaced high-top boots, sitting on Roger and Miriam Hargroves’ front steps, sobbing into her hands. She didn’t look up, but pointed toward the open door behind her.

  Sam removed her .357 and held it near her right shoulder, pointed upward, as she entered. The entry foyer was narrow and dark and opened into a high ceilinged living room. The musty, coppery scent of blood hung in the air. Sam felt moisture accumulate on her forehead, upper lip, and the palm of the hand that held the gun.

  She stepped into the living room and scanned right and left. The darkness of the room in no way diminished impact of what she saw. With a sharp intake of air, she reflexly brought her weapon down to a level firing position and her finger curled around the trigger.

  The bodies of Roger and Miriam Hargrove, stripped of clothing, hung from a loft railing. A half-inch thick rope snaked its way back and forth through the railing before each end plummeted downward and wound around the victims’ ankles. Their throats had been ripped from ear to ear, their abdomens punctured with numerous stab wounds, and their chest cavities slashed open, revealing their hearts had been removed. Blood had cascaded from each body, down limp arms, which dangled near the floor, producing ten-foot maroon circles, which coalesced into a sanguine hourglass pattern.

  Overcoming her initial shock, she returned to cop mode. Time for emotions later, she told herself. Sweep the area first. No surprises.

  She took a deep calming breath, then skirted the blood pools and searched the dining room and kitchen. Next, she searched the upstairs. Assured that no intruder remained, she holstered her weapon and called Charlie, then Ralph Klingler.

  She returned to the porch and sat next to Esther. She learned Esther had come over for coffee with Miriam as she did most mornings. They didn’t answer her ring and the front door stood ajar, so she went inside. After she saw them, she called Sam. No, she didn’t touch or move anything except the phone she used to call. No, she didn’t see anyone or hear anything unusual during the night.

  Sam sent Esther back to the security of her home next door. Esther didn’t argue. Sam then began to work the scene.

  First, she circled the house, searching for footprints, broken or open windows, anything that might constitute evidence. Finding none, she returned to the living room and performed a careful grid search of the scene.

  She completed the task just as Charlie’s Jeep pulled up. She met him on the small front porch and led him inside.

  Charlie inhaled sharply when they entered the living room. “Jesus Christ.” He swallowed hard. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was Garrett’s work.”

  “A copycat, maybe?” Sam asked.

  “Or an accomplice.”

  “That’s all we need.” Sam said.

  “Garrett is in jail isn’t he?” Charlie asked. “He didn’t break out or anything?”

  “No. I called Thelma and she went in early and checked. He’s sleeping like a baby. Is it possible he found a way to slip out, do this, and slip back in?”

  “If he could get out, why would he return? Why not just take off?”

  “Unless he’s trying to manipulate Westbrooke into throwing out his conviction. If the crimes are still going on while he’s in jail, how could he be the perp?”

  “Except, he never denied killing the kids.”

  “True.” Sam shook her head. “Maybe it’s a revenge thing. By a sympathetic friend or follower.”

  “Maybe.” Charlie rubbed his eyes. “Whoever and for whatever reason this happened, we’re back in the middle of it.”

  “When are we going to get some help around here?”

  Mercer’s Corner’s Sheriff’s Department currently consisted of three people--Sam, Charlie, and Thelma. Occasionally, Hector Romero, the court bailiff, would help out. There had been three other deputies until six months earlier when one retired, one had a heart attack, and the other moved to Oregon. In spite of that, Charlie and Sam handled the situation without problems. Until Garrett came along. Since then, they found themselves stretched to the limit and beyond.

  “Don’t know,” Charlie said. “The County Board of Supervisors is still reviewing applications and looking for money.”

  “Tell them anyone with a pulse will do.”

  Charlie circled the dangling bodies, being careful to avoid the blood pools. “Where’re their hearts?”

  “There.” Sam pointed toward the living room, where the two hearts sat like nick knacks on a polished wooden coffee table. Blood had oozed from them and cascaded off the table, staining the Oriental rug beneath.

  “Good, God.”

  Sam and Charlie jumped, then turned to see Ralph Klingler standing in the doorway.

  Klingler approached the bodies. “Did Garrett escape?”

  Sam glanced at Charlie, then said, “No. But, I almost wish he had. At least then we’d know who to look for.”

  Placing his toes an inch or two outside the lake of blood and keeping his arms near his body, Klingler leaned over to closely inspect the body of Miriam Hargrove. “Cause of death is fairly apparent. The wounds are similar to those on the kids.” He exhaled loudly. “When can I begin processing the scene?”

  “Now,” Charlie said. “Sam found a couple of footprints in the entry way and some clear fingerprints on the door, the wall, and the table. We’ll lift those, then get out of your way and go see if the neighbors saw or heard anything. One of us will stop by the hospital later and see what you turn up.”

  *

  The neighbors were of little help. No one heard or saw anything. Just another quiet and boring night.

  Grace Wilcox, who lived across the street, came home about 9:30 last night and saw Roger and Miriam through their front window, sitting on the sofa, watching TV. Like they did most nights, according to her. She saw no one else and didn’t remember any unusual cars.

  “I’d have noticed,” she said. “I know everyone in this neighborhood. And their cars, too. My bedrooms on the corner there.” She pointed toward her house. “I leave my window cracked and I hear everything that goes on.”

  Frustrated, Sam returned to her office. Telephone messages, some old, some new, blanketed her desk like giant yellow snowflakes. She shuffle
d through them, deciding they could wait. She peeled off her jacket, tossed it on a chair, and headed into the jail area.

  “Hey, Slick.” Sam banged the palm of her hand on the bars to Garrett’s cell. “Rise and shine. I’ve got a few thousand questions for you.”

  Garrett rolled over in his bunk, the sheet and blanket sliding to the floor. He swung to a sitting position and pulled on a pair of slippers, then eyed Sam. “Deputy Cody, what can I do for you?”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  He stared blankly at her, the perpetual smirk on his face mocking her. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Your friend? Your pal? Your sidekick?”

  “I don’t follow you. What are you talking about?”

  “Last night, Roger and Miriam Hargrove were murdered.”

  “I know.”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed and she clenched her jaw. This arrogant son-of-a-bitch really pissed her off. “You know? How?”

  “I told you. I know all Satan knows.”

  Sam’s anger boiled over. “Look, Garrett, I don’t...”

  “My name is not Garrett. Lucifer has given me a new name. One worthy of my position at his side.”

  “OK, I’ll play. What’s your new make-believe name?”

  “I assure you it’s not make believe. It’s very real and powerful beyond your imagination.” He arranged his facial features into a look of haughty superiority, which infuriated her further.

  “OK, Garrett, cut the crap.”

  “I am no longer Garrett. He is dead, nonexistent. I am Beelzebub, servant to Satan.”

  “OK, Beetle Juice, or whoever the fuck you want to be, I want to know who your partner is and I want to know now.”

  “My partner, for all eternity, is the Prince of Darkness.”

  “Somebody whacked the Hargroves. Looked like your work. So, I’ll ask again, who is your partner in crime?”

  “I have no partners in this world.”

  “Not even your groupies that hang out down the street?”

  “They know nothing of my master. They play at something they could never understand, much less achieve.”

  “So, they aren’t your pupils? Your disciples?”

  “Only in their own weak minds.”

  “And they wouldn’t do something crazy to gain your approval?”

  “Why don’t you ask them?”

  “I thought you might know, Slick. After all, you do possess Satan’s knowledge of everything.” She made no attempt to temper her sarcasm.

  “That doesn’t mean I’ll share it.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “I see you're as full of shit as a septic tank.”

  “Your blindness to the true power of Lucifer will be your downfall.”

  She wanted to rip open the cell door and smash his smirking face with her fists. She wanted to slam his teeth into his lungs and tear out his lying tongue. She wanted to, but she turned and walked away, knowing she would get nowhere with him. Whoever his accomplice was, he would never betray him.

  Before reaching the door, she stopped and faced him once again. "Why are you here?" she asked.

  "You put me here."

  "I don't mean in jail. Mercer's Corner. Why did you come here?"

  "I was compelled to do so." When she didn't respond, he continued. "Just as Lucifer tested Jesus in the Wilderness, he is now testing me. Here in this little corner of the desert. To see if I am worthy of his grace."

  "I see. This is Satan's proving ground? Seems to me he could have found a better place. Las Vegas. The French Riviera. Someplace more decadent."

  "Devil's Playground is more than a name."

  "You mean Satan actually hangs out there? Amazing. I've lived here all my life and I've never seen him. In high school, we used to go parking up that way. Make out, drink beer, stuff like that. And he never showed up. I wonder why?"

  "Oh, but he did."

  "I guess I missed him," Sam said.

  "You don't believe the stories?"

  The room suddenly felt cold. "Those are just campfire tales. There never were any covens of witches or Satanic human sacrifices. That is until you came along."

  Garrett smiled. "Joey Barlow?"

  Sam felt as if a fist had slammed into her gut. She took in a quick breath and locked her eyes with Garrett's. "Don't you dare," she hissed. "Joey made a mistake. That's all." Then it struck her. How did Garrett know about Joey in the first place? Joey died 12 years ago.

  As if he had read her mind, he said, "I know the truth of it."

  She reached through the bars, wadded the front of his jailhouse orange jump suit in her fist, and pulled him toward her. "You don't know shit."

  "I know he failed the test."

  Sam released her grip. "He took LSD and tried to fly off the peak of Bristol Mountain."

  "No. He failed his test of faith."

  "And you passed? You're going to tell me you can fly now?"

  "Each of us is tested in a different manner."

  "And killing the children was your test?"

  He nodded with a slight shrug. "Part of it."

  "Roger and Miriam Hargrove? Were they a test?"

  "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe they were simply an amusing diversion."

  "Yeah," Sam said. "Me and Charlie could hardly contain our laughter." Exasperated, she blew a wayward strand of hair back over her forehead. "So, if you passed the test, why hasn't Lucifer taken you to Hell or where ever else he hangs out?"

  "My testing is not complete."

  A cold chill danced up her spine. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Just that. My trial is not yet over."

  "Actually, it is. You lost. You got the death penalty."

  He laughed. "That mockery means nothing. My trial is before Lucifer."

  "And what does he want from you now?"

  "That's part of the test. I have to discover what he wants."

  "You haven't figured it out yet?" she asked.

  "Close."

  "Well, let me know when you do. In the meantime, I guess you'll have to be content to stare at these four walls." She headed toward the door, but stopped when he spoke.

  "I believe it will involve you though."

  *

  Sam walked into Charlie's office. He looked up from the file he was reading.

  "Joey Barlow?" Sam asked. "He did take LSD, didn't he? That night?"

  "Probably."

  "What do you mean 'probably'?"

  "The other kids, there with him, said they had taken some and they thought he had too. We didn't do blood tests, if that's what you mean. Why?"

  "Garrett. He has another theory. Says Satan made him do it."

  Charlie ran his fingers through his hair. "And that upsets you?"

  Sam dropped into the chair facing his desk. "I just haven't thought about Joey in a while. I try not to. But..." She shook her head. "How does Garrett know about him?"

  "Probably heard it from someone. You know he was around here for a few months before he killed the kids."

  "I suppose."

  Charlie walked around his desk and placed a fatherly hand on Sam's shoulder. "I know you and Joey were close, but he had his share of problems."

  "Problems? Not Joey. He smoked a little grass. Most of the kids did."

  "You didn't. Lisa McFarland didn't." Charlie settled one hip on the corner of his desk.

  "No. But, Joey was kind and sweet."

  "But, he changed during that week before he died."

  "I knew him better than anyone," Sam said. "I didn't see anything."

  ""Why would you? It was summer. No school. You didn't see him every day. Besides, you were young." He scratched the back of his neck. "I can tell you, his parents were very concerned. They couldn't decide whether he was using drugs or going crazy. Planned to have him evaluated by a neurologist and a psychiatrist in Los Angeles."

  Sam couldn't believe it. She knew Charlie wasn't lying. It wasn't in his nature.
But, she also knew Joey, and the person Charlie described wasn't the Joey she grew up with.

  Charlie's words continued their assault. "He became moody and angry. Fought with his parents. Slapped his mother once. Threatened to run away from home. Had nightmares and headaches."

  "Why hasn't anyone ever told me about this?"

  "Why would they? It was a family problem. And after his death, what purpose would it serve?"

  Sam leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and massaged her temples. "All those stories about Devil's Playground. Any truth to them?"

  Charlie smiled. "Garrett's really got you going today. No. There weren't any witches or goblins or devil worshipers hacking up people in the desert."

  "I didn't think so."

  "Twenty, maybe 25 years ago, when you were just a kid, we ran across some old fire pits with animal skeletons nearby. Rabbits mostly. Probably some camper's dinner. That's the only thing unusual we ever found."

  Sam stood. "I'll be glad when Garrett's out of here."

  "Me, too."

  "I'm going to meet Lisa for breakfast. Want to go?"

  "I'd better finish up this paper work or Thelma will kill me."

  *

  Sam sat across from Lisa McFarland in a booth at Millie's. While they ate, she told Lisa about the Hargrove crime scene and her visit with Garrett. She finished the stack of pancakes, pushed her plate aside, and dove into a third cup of Millie’s coffee. Lisa nibbled dry toast.

  "Then, Garrett had the audacity to bring up Joey."

  Lisa dropped the half eaten piece of toast on to her plate. "What?"

  Sam told her of Garrett's take on Joey's death and what Charlie had said. "Those weeks before...before that night...did you notice anything unusual?"

  "With Joey? No. That's why it was such a shock."

  Sam stared into her coffee. Neither spoke for several minutes. Yes, Joey's death had been a shock. She and Lisa and Joey had been best friends since the third grade. Joey had been a star on the track team, a good student, and a devoted friend. His death had shaken the entire community and had knocked Sam and Lisa completely off balance. And now this. Joey drugged or sick. Or possessed. Get a grip, Sam.