Devil's Playground

by D P Lyle

  Carl raised the knife. Billy crossed his arms above him for protection, but in the darkness could not determine the blade’s path and thus had no chance to alter its course. The knife lashed across his throat, severing everything in its path. Billy clutched at the wound, blood pulsing between his fingers, over his chest.

  “A gift from Lucifer,” Carl said.

  Billy’s eyes widened further, then fluttered. His head collapsed forward on his chest and he exhaled his last breath. Carl watched as Billy’s life ebbed from him and pooled in a black cherry lake on the bed.

  He quickly finished his work and when he held the still trembling heart in his hands, he marveled at the power that flowed through him. Deep inside, where his true being lived, pushed there by the alien force that controlled him, he relished the feeling.

  He was given little time to savor the sensation, however. The compelling drive within him pulled at him, drawing him from the bus, into the cool night air, toward Billy’s limousine.

  After climbing in his car, he cranked the engine, and, with blood stained hands, gripped the steering wheel. Carl Angelo drove through downtown Mercer’s Corner and headed south.

  Chapter 38

  A sound yanked Sam from sleep. What sound? A click? A scrape? Did she lock the door?

  She replayed last night in her mind. After Nathan drove away, she stood for several minutes gazing into the sky. The day’s rain and clouds had cleared, leaving behind a crystalline night sky, and her friend Orion had loomed large above her like a protective Centurion. The full moon painted the desert with its creamy glow. She had walked through the kitchen door and into the house. She saw her hand twist the lock and slide the dead bolt into place. Yes, she had locked the door.

  She remained frozen, senses on edge, attempting to probe the darkness, searching for sounds, any sounds that seemed out of place. She expected to hear the creaking of floorboards or the scraping of feet or the metallic click of a cocking gun. She heard only the thumping of her own heart against her chest and the whooshing of blood through her ears, which sounded like the raspy breathing of a dying coal miner.

  Had she been dreaming? Was the sound that woke her part of the dream? She lay on her side, facing her bedside clock. Its digital display read 12:32, then 12:33. Scooter slept near her head, undisturbed. It must have been a dream or he would have awakened, she told herself.

  Then, she sensed movement. Scooter cracked an eye, then raised his head, peering into the darkness. Fear coagulated in her throat.

  Again, she felt movement. It came from the far corner of the room where the darkness clotted like stagnant blood. The movement was so slight it was as if the air molecules had been shoved in her direction and collided with her skin, sending electric shivers through her, standing the fine hair on her arms at attention. Cold sweat seeped from every pore.

  Scooter sat up on his haunches and stared into the shadows.

  No doubt. Someone was in her bedroom.

  Her gun lay in the drawer two feet from her head. If she could get to it, she might have a chance. She eased one foot over the edge of the bed, hooking the mattress with her ankle for leverage.

  Again, she sensed movement, this time closer, near the foot of the bed.

  She tensed, preparing herself for action. In a flash, she whipped back the comforter and spun off the bed, dropping to the floor. She yanked open the drawer and clutched the .357. Whirling around on one knee, she raised the weapon.

  Before she could level the nickel plated Smith and Wesson, a foot slammed into her wrist and the gun flew across the bed and banged against the wall. She ducked as the shadow of a fist flashed by her ear, barely nipping the side of her face. She lunged upward and landed a solid left hook to the mid-section of the attacker. He grunted, but did not move, his belly as solid as the heavy bag at the gym and just as unforgiving.

  A massive fist crashed against her face, propelling her backwards. She collided with the bedside table, knocking the clock and lamp to the floor. A wave of dizziness spread over her. She shook her head, attempting to clear the fog.

  Again, the attacker lurched forward, two hands reaching for her. She deflected them with a sweep of her left arm and slammed her right fist into the attacker’s jaw. This time, he staggered backwards.

  The overhead light snapped on, dissolving the darkness, chasing the shadows into the corners of the room. Penelope and Melissa charged through the doorway.

  “What’s going...” Penelope began, but stopped when she saw Sam and Carl Angelo.

  Sam jumped to her feet. “Carl? What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed at him.

  “I came for you,” he said.

  He lunged at her, his massive right hand reaching for her neck, but she side stepped him and once again hammered her forearm across his wrist. She followed with a left, right, left combination, all of which landed against his thick jaw. He staggered, but did not go down. Pain flashed through both her hands. What was he made of? Cast iron?

  “Get out of here!” Sam yelled at the girls. “Go call for help!”

  Carl crashed his huge paw into Sam’s right temple and she went down hard. Multicolored balls of light flashed before her and she felt herself slipping toward unconsciousness. Hold on she pleaded with herself. Somewhere in her brain Jimmy’s voice arose. “Get up. Crush the fear. Ignore the pain. Don’t panic,” the voice said.

  Carl leaped at the girls. He grabbed Melissa by the hair and slammed her forehead into the wall. She crumpled to the floor, unconscious. He drove his left fist into Penelope’s jaw. She went down in a heap.

  Sam pulled herself up and shook her head clear. She raced across the bed and sprang on him like a lioness protecting her cubs, landing on his back. Locking her left forearm beneath his chin, she raked his face with the nails of her free hand. She knew she must do as much damage as quickly as possible. Overwhelm him with her rage or succumb to his superior size and strength.

  She pressed her right forearm against the back of his head, mustering all her strength, attempting to flex his neck forward. She could not bend it even slightly. Applying a chokehold to this slab of meat was impossible.

  He spun and slammed her against the wall, his weight crushing her. No longer the attacker, she locked her left arm beneath his chin and hung on like a rodeo bull rider. She repeatedly pounded the side of his face with her right fist. He seemed impervious to her attack and thrust her into the wall again and again. She tightened her grip.

  His hand clamped on her wrist, steely fingers digging into her flesh. He pulled and torqued her arm, but she resisted. At least, she tried to, but she was no match for his strength. He peeled her arm away and she plummeted to the floor.

  He dropped on top of her and locked his fingers around her throat. She attempted to pry them lose, but they held like welded steel bands.

  She rained blows to his face, but he ignored them. His lip, his eyebrow, his cheek split and blood cascaded down his face onto hers, in her eyes, nose, mouth. Its coppery taste caused her stomach to churn and a wave of nausea rippled through her, acid burning her throat. She fought it back and renewed her attack. His grip on her throat tightened.

  The overhead light dimmed; her vision tunneled. She continued to pummel his face, but her blows weakened. Her lungs screamed for air. Her heart leaped against her chest.

  “It’s useless to struggle,” he sneered.

  She clutched at his throat, but could not get her hands around his tree trunk neck.

  “I don’t want to kill you,” Carl said. “I need you.”

  She tore at his fingers, but could not break his grip.

  Blood poured from his mouth as he spoke. “We have someplace to be. Someplace special.”

  The roar was deafening. Carl lurched forward. Then, another roar, and another. Blood exploded from his chest and he fell forward on top of her, limp, heavy. She scrambled from beneath him, rolling him to his back in the process.

  She looked up. Penelope held the gun in both hands, arms extended,
shaking. Tears streamed down her face. She dropped the gun.

  “Oh, my God,” she stammered. “I shot him.”

  “It’s OK,” Sam said. She turned to Carl. His mouth gaped open as he struggled for air; bloody foam gurgled from the three holes in his chest with each breath. “Who sent you? Reverend Billy?”

  “Wrong end of the spectrum, Samantha,” he wheezed, blood now bubbling from his mouth.

  “What did you call me?”

  “Samantha.” A bloody smile cracked his macerated face. “Your mother chose such a beautiful name.”

  “And she’s the only one that ever called me Samantha.”

  “Her. And me.”

  “You? I don’t even know you.”

  “Of course you do, Samantha.” He coughed, a foamy red river escaping from the corner of his mouth. “We were together last night. And the night before.”

  “What are you talking...?” It hit her like a left hook. The face, the square body, the thick neck were Carl’s; the voice was Garrett’s. She scooted away, colliding with the bedpost, wanting to put more distance between her and the dying man. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Come to me, Samantha. I’ll be waiting.” He released a long sigh as his last breath escaped.

  Chapter 39

  Sam ignored the stop sign and slammed her foot on the accelerator, propelling the Jeep through a skidding left turn and on to Route 66 toward town. The full moon seemed to race along the highway with her and painted the road before her a silvery gray. She had the eerie sensation that even the moon was Garrett’s ally and was at this very moment keeping him informed of her location.

  But then, Garrett already knew she was coming. He had invited her.

  A wispy band of clouds glided across the moon’s ghostly face, creating a silver edged blindfold. Good, she thought. One less witness to what she had to do.

  Before she left home, she had calmed Penelope and Melissa enough so that they were merely crying and not sobbing hysterically. She gave Penelope her spare gun and told them to lock the door and open it for no one. She called Charlie and told him to meet her at the jail.

  Carl Angelo’s words echoed in her head.

  I need you.

  Come to me.

  Words that she knew were not Carl’s, but Garrett’s. Or Satan’s? Were they one and the same? Did Garrett have Satan’s powers?

  She slid the Jeep through a left turn on to Main Street, roared past Millie's, and screeched to a stop in front of her office, just as Charlie’s Jeep turned the corner. Charlie parked in front of her and stepped out, tucking in his shirttail.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, unlocking the department’s front door.

  She grabbed his arm. “Let’s talk out here. I don’t want Garrett overhearing any of this.”

  He pulled the door closed.

  She quickly told him of Carl Angelo’s attack and Penelope’s heroic actions. She repeated what Carl had said to her.

  “It wasn’t Carl talking,” she said. “It was Garrett.”

  Charlie raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “It was Garrett. I know it. He was speaking through Carl Angelo.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Of course it’s crazy. That’s why it makes sense.”

  “It does?” Charlie looked at her as if she were from another planet.

  “Why not? With all the murder and madness we’ve had around here, it’s like Mercer’s Corner has become Hell’s own Petri dish. We’re sprouting psychos like fleas on a dog.”

  “So, how’s Garrett involved in this? He’s been in jail the entire time.”

  “I told you about the kid’s dreams. You saw their drawings. Then, there are the dreams Walter and Penelope had.”

  “So?”

  “What I didn’t tell you about was my dreams.”

  Charlie cocked his head and with a finger beneath the brim tilted his hat back. “Your dreams?”

  “The past two nights, I’ve had weird dreams. Dreams like the others. Each time Garrett was there.”

  “Where?”

  “In my dreams. I figured they were from stress, over-work, lack of sleep, that kind of thing. But, now I know it was Garrett all along.”

  “I don’t understand. How did Garrett control your dreams?”

  “Maybe he has supernatural powers. Maybe he’s Satan or Beelzebub or some other creature from Hell. Whatever’s going on, it starts and ends with Garrett.”

  “Hmmm,” Charlie said.

  She could tell he wasn’t convinced. Of course, she wasn’t sure she was convinced either. Saying it out loud made it seem a lot crazier than when it simply rattled around in her head.

  “How did Penelope know where the knife was?” Sam asked.

  “Maybe she’s the one that stole it in the first place.”

  “No way. How did Walter Limpke become a killer?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “Let’s play ‘What If.’ What if Garrett does possess special powers? What if he can manipulate other people’s actions? Make Walter and Carl Angelo killers. What if he can invade people’s dreams?”

  “That’s a lot of what ifs. But, let’s say he can. Why doesn’t he simply make someone, one of us, open his cell and let him disappear?”

  “Because he wants revenge. And because he needs something.”

  "What?"

  "Me."

  Charlie sighed, lifted his hat and pushed back his thick hair, before reseating the Stetson. “What do you propose?”

  “I want to lean on Garrett. Pressure him. See if he’ll crack.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “Then, we might get lucky. He may try to escape.”

  Sam pushed open the front door and flipped on the lights. She snatched the cell keys from Thelma’s desk and unlocked the door to the jail area. She toggled the wall switch and the overhead Fluorescent lights flickered to life.

  “Wake up, Garrett.” She raked the keys across the bars.

  Garrett sat on the edge of his bunk, cardigan sweater over his orange jumpsuit, shoes on, as if he had expected them. He shielded his eyes from the lights with one hand and smiled. “So good of you to come, Samantha. But then, I knew you would.”

  “Cut the crap, Garrett.”

  “But, I guess you really didn’t have a choice, did you?” he said.

  Sam unlocked his cell and tossed the keys to Charlie. Charlie caught them and leaned against the wall opposite the cell.

  “OK, Garrett. It’s time for you to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  “But, you know, Samantha.”

  “I told you, asshole. Don’t call me that. Now, I want some answers. Why did Walter Limpke kill three people?”

  “You tell me. You’re the cop.”

  “Wrong answer.” She grabbed a handful of his jumpsuit and lifted him from the bunk. She pushed him against the wall, pinning him, the palm of her hand pressed against his chest. “Let’s try again. Who made Walter Limpke kill three people?”

  “Satan, of course.”

  “Not you?”

  “He’s the master. I’m a servant. As was Carl Angelo.”

  “So, you know what just happened at my house.”

  “Of course I do.” He smiled. “I was there. Too bad about Carl. He was very helpful.”

  “Helpful? That’s not exactly the word I’d use for what Carl tried. ”

  “He got you here, didn’t he?”

  “Why?”

  “I told you, Samantha. You are the one. I need you.”

  “For what?”

  “All in good time.”

  “Your time is about up.” She tightened her grip on his shirt.

  “Reverend Billy thought the same thing. He learned otherwise.”

  “What about Billy?”

  “Tomorrows news. But then, you won’t be around to see it.”

  “You’re in this up to your fucking ears. I want to know how. Or do we do the dance, right here, right now?”


  “Which dance? The devil’s dance?”

  “The one that ends with you telling me what I want to know.” She slammed her fist into his gut. His knees buckled, but she held him against the wall.

  He coughed and gagged. “I don’t think I’ll tell you.”

  She wadded his hair in her fist and through a tight jaw said, “Yes...you...will.” With each word, she slammed the back of his head into the concrete wall. “We used to have a sign on the wall around here until the ACLU morons made us take it down. It said: ‘You came in here with information and a pretty face. You can’t leave with both.’ So, what’s it going to be? You going to talk? Or am I going to beat your teeth into your lungs?”

  He looked at her, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. His eyes flashed like two angry rubies and he spoke in a low growl. “Things are never as they seem are they, Samantha?”

  The blow to her head yanked consciousness from her grasp.

  *

  Charlie Walker stood over Sam’s prostrate body, the gun he had struck her with in his hand. Garrett extended his hand toward him, but said nothing. Yet, Charlie heard, or sensed, what he wanted. He looked at the gun, turning it over. It glowed a brilliant green as did the bars of the otherwise rich coral cell. He handed the weapon to Garrett.

  He watched Garrett stoop beside Sam, roll her over on her stomach, and pull her gun from its holster. He removed her handcuffs from her belt and slapped them on her wrists.

  Sam’s head lolled to one side and Charlie saw that blood soaked her strawberry blonde hair. His instinct was to help her, protect her. He wanted to clean the blood from her hair and wrap her in his arms to shield her from the violence he sensed around them, but he couldn’t. Why? He didn’t know. He only knew he must follow the impulses that ricocheted in his brain.

  He grabbed Sam’s ankles, while Garrett lifted her shoulders. They carried her to Charlie’s Jeep. Charlie opened the rear hatch and they rolled her inside. Garrett used a two-foot length of rope to bind her ankles, then covered her with the tarp that lay rolled in one corner of the cargo area.