Devil's Playground

by D P Lyle

  Dear, God, let this be a dream.

  Another flash of lightning painted the corpse. Recognition struck him like a left hook. It was Roberto Sanchez, a friend and customer for over ten years.

  He back peddled, slipping on the blood soaked carpet, falling to the floor. Blood oozed through his clothes, slicking his skin. Panic squeezed all reason from him. He kicked and squirmed and wallowed in a futile attempt to escape the sticky liquid that seemed to pull him downward as if trying to drown him.

  He grasped the handle of a drawer, then another, and another, scrambling upward. His hand reached the counter top, clawing, clutching, searching for something to anchor to. His fingers brushed against something, which tumbled off the counter, struck him in the face, and dropped into his lap.

  “Oh, God,” he screamed and pushed and kicked the heart away from him, sending it tumbling across the floor. He collapsed, shaking uncontrollably.

  Oh, God, kill me now. I can’t...I can’t take anymore.

  He leaned against the cabinets and sobbed, a deep visceral sob that possessed no end. His heart leaped against his chest as if trying to escape.

  Finally, he struggled to his feet, too exhausted, too beaten to feel anything, except a black, cold emptiness. He turned from the body, the blood, and the madness and headed for the door.

  Another streak of lightning cracked across the sky. He caught a glimpse of something shiny, metallic on the floor near the door. A knife. He picked it up and stepped into the rain.

  The storm driven wind cut through his clothing. He spread his arms and spun around and around, letting the coldness assault him. He dropped to his knees and turned his gaze skyward.

  “Dear, God, tell me, what to do? Am I going crazy?”

  He turned the knife over and over in his hand, examining it. Images careened around inside his head as if looking for an escape route. Finding none, they tumbled and swirled until they blended into a vortex of color.

  From the chaos, structure emerged. Images of blood, of the faces of Miriam Hargrove and Roberto Sanchez, and of the knife. The knife slashed through the air, then through flesh. Someone held the knife and furiously struck at Miriam and Roberto. The knife wielder hacked and slashed and stabbed over and over, then turned. Walter Limpke stared into his own face.

  “No!” he screamed into the wind.

  The cold rain pelted him, pasting his clothes to his shivering body. With a bowed head, he rocked back and forth on his knees, shaking his head in a futile attempt to dislodge the images from his brain.

  When he looked up into the rain streaked darkness, his beautiful wife Margo appeared before him, her gentle smile offering respite, her open arms welcoming. He reached out, crawling toward her, wanting to hold her tightly and lay his head on her comforting bosom. But she retreated, her face twisting into a look of horror, an accusatory finger stabbing at him. He turned away, unable to face her visage.

  “Margo. Forgive me,” he said softly.

  Clutching the knife in his left hand, he slammed it into his gut. The finely honed, eight-inch curved steel blade met little resistance as its full length penetrated his belly. A searing pain exploded through him, causing a sharp intake of breath and a tangle of second thoughts.

  Yet, as severe as the pain was, to Walter, living, facing Margo, facing his own actions would be worse. He yanked the blade free and thrust it again and again and again, until he collapsed face down on the muddy ground.

  Chapter 15

  Maria Hidalgo was running late, as usual. She hurriedly whipped up a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast for her husband and two boys, only toast and coffee for herself. She applied the minimal amount of make-up that allowed her to leave the privacy of home, slipped on slacks and a sweater, and snatched her raincoat from the closet. She kissed her husband goodbye as he headed off to work, then zipped the boys into their rain gear and herded them into the car.

  After dropping the children at school, she drove into town. The windshield wipers struggled against the drizzle, which tugged the steel gray clouds downward, muting the colors of everything. Buildings, cars, people, even the traffic signals gave up their hues to the mist.

  Despite being late, she needed her morning Starbucks’ fix and luckily someone backed from a choice parking space directly in front of the busy coffee shop. She slid her Cadillac into the spot and, not bothering with her umbrella, jumped from the car and darted inside.

  The smell of fresh coffee and pastries greeted her.

  She ordered a large cafe latte and waited impatiently while Tasha Fallow, a teenage girl with green and fuchsia hair and a nose ring, prepared it. Tasha was the daughter of Bob and Sherry Fallow. Maria couldn’t understand how they let their daughter paint and punch holes in her body that way and hoped the fad would be dead long before her boys reached that rebellious age.

  She pushed up the sleeve of her jacket and glanced at her watch, 8:40. Her father’s appointment with Doctor Roberts was at 9:15. She just might make it. That is, if the rain hadn’t washed out the road to his trailer.

  She and her husband Raul had tried for years to persuade the old man to live with them, but he stubbornly refused, preferring to “live out here where people leave you alone.” Roberto Sanchez’s mobile home sat along a dirt road five miles north of town. He occupied himself with his woodworking and his cactus and rose gardens and drove his old Chevy pick-up into town only when necessary.

  Maria and Raul frequently called or drove by to check on him or took him to Millie’s for dinner or dropped his grandsons off for the day on some weekends. They worried about him daily, which she was sure aggravated Roberto, but also pleased him.

  He had never been what you would gregarious, but as the years passed he became increasingly cantankerous and less tolerant of intrusions on his privacy. “If anybody wants to talk to me, they know where to find me,” he would say. However, he did brighten whenever his grandsons came to visit and seemed to anticipate their visits by planning all sorts of activities for them. He taught them about his cactus garden and his roses. He introduced them to woodworking and together they made a variety of toys and other gadgets. They collected rocks and caught lizards. They hiked around the desert in search of unusual insects and plants, which the boys could name with astonishing accuracy. After a day with Roberto, they always slept soundly.

  Maria had been pleased when her father was selected for jury duty three weeks ago. Not that she wanted him to be involved in a case as gruesome as Garrett’s, but she hoped that having to come into town and interact with others on a daily basis would open his eyes to just how isolated he had become.

  She ducked into her car, being careful not to spill the hot coffee, backed from the parking space, and headed out of town. After turning off the paved highway, she found the rutted dirt road sloppy, but passable.

  When she topped the rise in the road and saw the mobile home, she knew something was wrong, terribly wrong. The body, laying face down in the mud caused a sharp intake of breath and her heart stuttered as she pulled to a stop twenty yards from the trailer.

  “Oh, God. Papa, no.”

  She hurled herself from the car, tossing aside the coffee, and raced toward the body. Heart attack? Stroke? All the fears she kept locked in that corner of her mind where she hid such things came pouring out.

  Was he dead or merely ill? How long had he been lying there in the rain and cold? Why wasn’t she there to help him when he needed her? Why didn’t she make him come live with her?

  As she approached the body, these fears evaporated, replaced by new ones. Immediately, she knew the body was not that of her father. But, who?

  She knelt in the mud, grasped the shoulder nearest her, and shook the man. No response. She rolled the man to his side, inhaling with a sharp squeak when she saw blood. A knife, which protruded from his stomach, slid from its fleshy sheath and plopped into the mud, followed by an ooze of thick blood that swirled and folded into the mud, creating a psychedelic pattern.

  A scre
am arose but became wedged somewhere in her throat, swelling, expanding. She couldn’t dislodge it, so it fell silent, leaving only a faint whimper in its wake.

  The man groaned, causing her to recoil and slip backwards on the seat of her pants. She scrambled to her feet, her head swiveling, searching. Where was her father?

  She stared at the trailer’s open door. She struggled to her feet, never ungluing her gaze from the doorway, but was afraid to approach, afraid not to. She stood transfixed, frozen by fear.

  Her first impulse was to run back to her car and flee, go find help. But, what if Papa is in there, injured, dying?

  She took a step, then another, then two more. She called out. “Papa?” The word came out weakly, raspy with fear. Two more steps. “Papa?” she repeated, louder, in a voice she didn’t recognize as her own. Two steps and the door gaped before her.

  She cautiously climbed the steps and peered into the mobile home. At first, nothing appeared out of place. Dark stains in the carpet caught her attention, causing the fear that wound around her gut to crescendo. She leaned through the door and looked toward the rear of the trailer.

  Roberto Sanchez’s pale, bloodless body hung from the ceiling, his mouth distorted in a hideous grin of death.

  The impact of the scene propelled her backwards, her foot slipping on the steps. She slammed against the ground with such force the air escaped from her lungs in a single wheezing bolus. Gasping, she quickly rose to her hands and knees and frantically clawed the mud, pulling herself toward her car, feeling as if someone was clutching at her ankles, attempting to pull her back into the trailer. The faster she dug at the mud, the slower she seemed to move, which only intensified her panic. Her heart pitched and yawed and swelled to the point of bursting.

  Finally she reached the car, hugging its bumper as a drowning man would cling to a raft. She pressed her cheek against the cool chrome and sobbed and cried and finally screamed at the black clouds that hid the sun from view.

  “Nooo!”

  The man lying on the ground stirred and moaned once again. She crawled toward him and for the first time recognized Walter Limpke. Confusion, fear, panic choked her, but she managed to squeak out, “Are you OK?”

  Walter offered no response, did not seem to know she was there.

  She must get help. She half-ran, half-staggered back to her car, flung open the door, twisted the ignition key to the middle position, and snatched her cell phone from its cradle. She dialed 911 and waited through six rings, an eternity, until someone answered.

  “Please. Help me.”

  “What’s the nature of your problem?”

  “My father! He’s dead. And Walter is hurt. Badly. Please, hurry.”

  “Relax. Take a couple of breaths. Now, tell me where you are.”

  “Rattlesnake Road. About a half mile off the highway. Roberto Sanchez’s home.”

  “OK. I’ll have an ambulance and the Sheriff there in a hot minute.”

  “Hurry. He’s dying.”

  *

  Sam sat in the bay window of her home, where sheet after sheet of wind driven rain flapped against the glass like an un-tethered sail. Winter had snatched the leaves from the two Arroyo Willows in her yard, leaving skeletal limbs that reached skyward as if beseeching God for a mild winter and an early spring.

  She watched as rivulets cut through the sandy dirt, joining with one another to form larger rivulets, which further eroded the already scarred slope that fell away from the front of her house. They would continue this marrying into ever larger flows, swelling the typically dry creek beds and filling the washes and arroyos that excoriated the terrain, then succumb to the dictates of gravity and rush into Mercer’s Creek before racing to Lake Mercer some twenty miles to the south.

  Several roads and low bridges would be rendered impassable before the rain ended. Cars and trucks would somehow find their way into the raging waters and a rescue or two was inevitable.

  It was going to be a bitch of a day.

  Scooter curled in her lap. She stroked his fur absently and sipped her second cup of coffee, while she mentally prepared for the day. Scooters soothing purr melted beneath the shrill ring of the telephone.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sam turned onto the muddy road leading to Roberto Sanchez’s trailer. After pulling aside to let an ambulance pass, she rolled to a stop near where Charlie Walker stood and jumped out of her Jeep.

  “What’s the story, Charlie?”

  “Looks like our boy is back at it. Roberto’s in there,” he yanked his head toward the trailer, “Sliced and diced just like the others.”

  “Shit.”

  “They just took Walter Limpke to the hospital.”

  “Walter?”

  “Multiple stab wounds. With this.” He held up a plastic evidence bag, which contained a knife with a thick, curved blade.

  “That’s Garrett’s knife. See the piece missing from the bone handle.”

  “I know. The question is, who sliced up Roberto and left this in Walter’s gut.”

  “What was Walter doing out here this time of the morning?”

  “Don’t know. I haven’t had time to talk with Maria over there.” He nodded toward Maria Hidalgo who sat in her car, her face pale and tear streaked. “Maybe she can tell us. Or if Cat Roberts can pull off a miracle, we can ask Walter himself. He looked pretty bad though.”

  Sam walked to the trailer and stepped inside. The stench struck her like a knotty pine two-by-four. The odor of blood, stomach and bowel contents, sour sweat, and fear blended into a discordance that numbed the senses, watered the eyes, and inverted the stomach. She retreated to the rain.

  With great effort and several gulps of cold air, she managed to suppress the nausea and unwind her gut.

  “You OK?” Charlie asked, tugging his hat down over his eyes, releasing the rain that had collected in the brim in a steady stream that splattered on his boots.

  “Been better,” Sam said.

  Ralph Klingler stepped out of the trailer. He had finished photographing the scene and collecting samples, which he carried in the tan canvas bag that hung off his shoulder. “I’m going to get back to the lab and begin processing this stuff. After you finish printing the knife, I’d like it for a few hours. It’ll help with wound comparisons.”

  “Sure,” Sam said. “I’ll bring it by later.”

  “I called Vince Gorman. He’ll pick up the body in about a half hour.” Ralph climbed in his pick-up, cranked it to life, and headed down the road toward the highway.

  “Like at Roger and Miriam’s, the killer left prints all over the place,” Charlie said, nodding toward the trailer. “He sure ain’t very careful. Either he don’t care about getting caught or he thinks we’re damn fools. I’ll get started on lifting them. Why don’t you talk with Maria.”

  As Sam approached the Cadillac, she could see that Maria was crying. Her head slumped forward and her shoulders jerked with each sob. Sam slipped into the passenger’s seat. The distraught woman clung to the steering wheel with white knuckles as if she believed if she let go she would be swept away.

  “I’m so sorry, Maria,” Sam said, the words sounding hollow.

  Maria looked up, staring at the rain drenched windshield, her face pale, her eyes glassy. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “I can’t believe this is real. I knew he should have come to live with us. Not out here alone. It’s my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “But, if he had been with us, then...” Her voice trailed off. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “The kids. How can I explain this to them? They worshipped him.”

  “Maria, do you know anyone who could have done this?”

  “Anyone? I don’t even know WHAT could have done this. Did you see him?” She swallowed back another sob. “Whatever did this isn’t human.”

  “Any idea why Walter Limpke was out here this morning?”

  “No.”

  “Were Roberto and Walter friends?”

  �
�Not really. Papa would buy things from Walter’s hardware store from time to time, but I can’t say they were friends.”

  “Maybe Walter was delivering something. Is that possible?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” Maria stared ahead, blank faced, then said, “This is what happened to those kids and Roger and Miriam, isn’t it?”

  “Looks that way.”

  She turned and looked at Sam. “This has always been a good town. A safe place to live. But, now.” She sniffed back tears. “It’s like everything has gone to hell. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. It’s completely crazy.”

  They sat silently for a minute.

  “Why don’t you go home?” Sam said. “Get away from here. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks.” Maria lay her forehead on the steering wheel and sobbed.

  Sam reached out and stroked her hair, then rested her hand on her shoulder. She could feel Maria’s pain and swallowed hard, attempting to purge the growing lump in her throat, fighting back her own tears.

  “You OK to drive?” Sam asked. “I can take you home if you want.”

  “I’ll be OK. I just need a minute.”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  Sam stepped from the car and walked to where Charlie leaned into his Jeep, replacing the radio handset in its cradle, shoving a toothpick back into the corner of his mouth.

  “That was Thelma,” he said. “Margo Limpke just called to report Walter missing.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Seems he was gone when she woke up this morning. She thought he had just gone to work early, which he does from time to time. But, when she got to the store, he wasn't there.”

  “Want me to talk with her?”

  “No. I’ll do it,” he said, tugging the front brim of his hat down. “Why don’t you run over to the hospital and see about Walter?”

  “I don’t understand, Charlie.” She released a deep sigh. “Connie Beeson, Roger and Miriam, this? That’s three of Garrett’s jurors that have died in three days. And both foremen. Connie, then Roberto. It’s like nothing makes sense.”