Devil's Playground

by D P Lyle

  They returned to Garrett’s cell and Charlie stepped inside. He turned his back to Garrett and awaited the blow he knew was coming.

  *

  After rendering Sheriff Walker unconscious, Garrett took his gun and locked the cell door. He then tossed Charlie’s and Sam’s guns into the cell that occupied the far corner of the lock-up area. They clanked and skidded to the far wall. He locked the cell door and tossed the keys through the bars.

  Returning to Charlie’s Jeep, he checked Sam’s restraints. Satisfied, he hopped in, cranked the engine, and headed north, out of town, toward Devil’s Playground.

  *

  Nathan couldn’t sleep. Red wine did that to him from time to time. Or was it Sam? After leaving her, he had returned to his motel room and stretched out on the bed. He could still feel her soft lips on his, and her firm body in his arms. Deciding sleep was impossible, he rolled out of bed. Either work or a cold shower. He opted for work.

  He called his voice mail and retrieved two dozen messages, none of which were important. He made notes to return four of the calls the next morning, then settled in front of his laptop computer to rewrite the three stories he had underway. He shuffled through his notes: interviews, other news stories, and snippets of his own rambling thoughts. How to put this all together into a coherent story? What hook to use? Plain vanilla Satanic stuff wasn’t big news anymore. He needed a angle. Something that would tug at the sleeve of shoppers at the check out counter, make them pause, peruse, purchase this week’s edition of “Straight Story.”

  Sometimes he hated this job.

  For an hour and a half, he absorbed himself in the work, until his brain would no longer concentrate. He picked up the Roberto Clemente autographed baseball he carried in his briefcase everywhere he went. He found the smooth leather, the perfect seams, and solidity of the ball relaxing. Simple. Pure. His own personal worry stone. He had been a pitcher on his high school baseball team and now wrapped his fingers around the ball in various patterns. Fast ball, curve, slider, knuckle ball--his favorite. With a knuckler, the batter never knew which way the ball would move. Up, down, right, left, the batter always off balance.

  That’s how he felt. Off balance. Was it Sam? This story? Probably both. Why had this woman from Nowhere, USA affected him so? Because she was different from the plastic, fantastic bullshit of LA. Because she was the real deal. And, why was this story eating at him? Because unlike the usual drivel he worked on, something very real, very wrong was happening right here, right now. What, he didn’t know, but his always-reliable gut said something was amiss.

  His stomach growled and rumbled, reminding him that he had eaten little at Sam’s. He glanced at his watch, 1:30. He shuffled through his suitcase, uncovering two empty granola bar wrappers. A search of the chest of drawers yielded nothing. Time to scavenge, he thought.

  He snagged his jacket and headed to his car. The apple pie he had shared with Sam the previous night at King’s Truck Stop sounded good. Besides, it was the only option at this hour. He drove north through town toward the freeway overpass where King’s was located. Main Street was quite, no traffic, shops dark. Not even a vagrant dog wondered the street.

  As he passed the Sheriff’s Department, he saw Sam’s Jeep at the curb. Lights blazed from inside. What was she doing there at this hour? He pulled to the curb and jumped out. Maybe she would join him for pie again, he thought.

  The door was ajar and he stepped inside. “Sam?” he shouted.

  No response.

  “Sam? Are you here?”

  Nothing.

  He noticed the evidence room door, its frame splintered as if it had been forced open. Apprehension stretched his gut like a bowstring. He looked into the room. The contents of several boxes had been strewn across the floor.

  “Sam?”

  No answer. Something was wrong. His fear swelled, panic approaching rapidly.

  He looked in Sam’s office, then Sheriff Walker’s. Nothing. He pushed open the door to the jail area, surprised it was unlocked. The stark brightness of the overhead Fluorescent lights assaulted his eyes.

  “Sam? Sheriff Walker?”

  He heard a groan to his right, then saw Charlie Walker face down on the floor. Charlie rolled over and sat up, his eyes glassy. He rubbed the back of his head and neck.

  “Sheriff Walker. Are you OK? What happened?” He yanked on the cell door, but it would not budge.

  Charlie staggered to his feet and blinked at Nathan. “Mister Klimek. What are you doing here?”

  “A better question is why are you in your own jail?”

  Charlie looked around as if he had just realized where he was. “Garrett,” he said.

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where’s Sam?”

  “I don’t know. She was here, then...” His eyes widened. “My God. Garrett took her. Open the door.”

  “Where are the keys?”

  Charlie searched around, beneath the bunk, then looked toward the other cell. “There,” he pointed.

  Nathan crossed to the other cell and pulled on the door. Locked. The large metal key ring lay near the back wall, out of reach. “Do you have another set?”

  “Thelma’s desk. Lower left-hand drawer.”

  Nathan retrieved the keys and unlocked the cell.

  Charlie then unlocked the other cell and grabbed his gun. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ve got a good idea where he’s taken her.”

  They walked out the front door.

  “The bastard took my Jeep,” Charlie said.

  They climbed into Nathan’s SL500. “Where to?”

  “That way,” Charlie said, pointing north.

  Chapter 40

  The darkness smothered her. The dank petroleum smell of the tarp that lay over her smothered her. Fear smothered her. That fear that lives deep inside everyone, visceral, paralyzing, lurking in the dim corners of the psyche where we refuse to look. A place where panic and terror and horror reside. Feelings that live only in dreams. Feelings that are never released from their shackles in the light of day.

  Yet, she was awake and those emotions crawled all over her. Fear sizzled up her spine to the base of her brain, then outward to her fingertips, deadening them.

  She felt the cuffs that dug into her wrists and the ropes that bound her ankles. What happened? Why was she here? Then, she remembered. Garrett. The blow to her head. Someone had struck her. Who? Charlie had been there. Had Charlie hit her? No way. Then, who? Garrett had been in front of her. In her grasp. No one else had been there.

  Was Charlie Garrett’s ally? She refused to accept that possibility. Had Garrett taken over Charlie like he had Walter and Carl Angelo? That was crazy. No one had taken over anyone. Walter was sick and Carl criminally insane.

  Yet, earlier she had convinced herself that that is exactly what had happened. That Garrett was in control. That all the bizarre things that had happened in the past week sprang from Garrett. That’s why she had come to the jail. To lean on him. To beat the truth out of him.

  And now, he had her. And maybe Charlie. Or had he killed Charlie?

  Death seemed to envelope her, taking her in its arms like an unwanted lover. She had never really thought about her own death, never let the idea creep into those dark corners of her psyche. Not even after the unexpected death of her father or the smoldering death of her mother.

  During her two-year stint with LAPD, she had faced death twice, had looked it square in the face. Once in a multidirectional shoot-out in South Central and once in a darkened liquor store, where muzzle flashes seemed to come from everywhere. In each case, panic and adrenaline delayed the fear of death. That came later. Hours later, at home, in her shower, she had broken down into a shivering, sniveling mass of hysteria.

  But now, bound and helpless, the possibility of her death was very real. An idea that was difficult to grasp, but impossible to avoid.

  She sensed the presence of
those murdered all around her, like shadows within shadows, beneath the penumbra of Garrett’s black soul. The ghosts of the children, Roger and Miriam Hargrove, Roberto, Betty McCumber were all with her. And now, she might join them.

  She must do something.

  Her first impulse was to kick and scream and tear the cuffs from her wrists. But, that wouldn’t work. Rather it would betray the fact that she was now awake. She would lose the advantage of surprise, which seemed to be her only ally at the moment.

  She took a slow, deep calming breath. Think, devise a plan, she told herself. Prayer wouldn’t hurt.

  She took inventory of her surroundings. She was in the back of a vehicle. From the smell of the tarp, the stench of old fishing gear, and the faint odor of cigar residue, she figured it was Charlie’s Jeep. From the whine of the tires and the rumble of the engine, she sensed the vehicle was moving rapidly. To where? Who was driving? Garrett? Charlie? Was Charlie here? Alive?

  The Jeep was definitely on a paved road, but not I-40. The road sounds she could hear were not freeway noises. At this rate, traveling in a fairly straight line, that left two choices. Route 66 or Main Street north of town.

  The Jeep slowed, swung to the left, and began bouncing and pitching. She realized the driver had turned off the paved road onto a rutted dirt road. Where? Why? She liked none of the answers that came to mind. Only one place made sense, given the circumstances. Garrett was returning to Devil’s Playground, where he had carved up the children, where he probably planned the same fate for her.

  She must free her hands if she wanted to survive. Now, with her movements masked by the gyrating Jeep, may be her only chance. Her handcuff key lay in the bottom of her shirt pocket. She must get to it.

  She hunched her shoulders forward, downward and slid her cuffed hands beneath her buttocks. Being careful to move the tarp as little as possible, she drew her knees to her chest and her heels tightly against her. Her shoulders ached, the cuffs tore at her wrists, but she just managed to clear her feet and bring her hands to her waist.

  Something fell against her body, her face. Something cold and hard. She slowly moved her bound hands forward and upward until her fingers closed around the object. A fishing rod. Definitely Charlie’s Jeep.

  The road smoothed out; the bouncing and bumping lessened.

  She eased her hands upward, careful not to dislodge the rod from its position. The cuff chain released a muffled rattle. She held her breath, but the Jeep continued to move forward, unchanged.

  Her right hand reached her pocket. Two fingers crept inside and brushed against the key. Using her index and middle fingers as tweezers, she precariously gripped the key and slowly slid it toward the top of the pocket.

  She felt the fishing rod as it lay against the back of her hand. Careful, she told herself, but the rod slipped, sliding away from her. The metallic rattle echoed through the Jeep’s box-like interior. She froze, breath held in mid-inspiration.

  “Hello, Samantha.” Garrett’s voice came from the driver’s seat.

  “Where’s Charlie?” She continued easing the key upward. She must get it firmly between her thumb and forefinger or risk losing it.

  “In jail.” He laughed. “How ironic. The Sheriff in his own jail and the deputy my prisoner.”

  “Listen, Garrett. Don’t do anything stupid.” The key neared the pocket’s opening.

  “Such as killing an officer of the law?” he mocked.

  “That’s right.” She clasped her thumb over the key, securing it.

  He laughed. “What a pathetic argument. You still don’t understand do you?”

  “Understand what?” She twisted her wrists and attempted to align the key with the hole in the cuffs. The metallic restraints dug into her flesh.

  “It was me all along. Connie Beeson, Miriam Hargrove, Roberto Sanchez, Betty McCumber. Even the two Mexicans. Walter Limpke and Carl Angelo were so helpful. Of course, they didn’t have much choice.”

  The truth of what he said attacked her like a thousand tiny knives, prickling her skin. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Sure you do. Ever since we dreamed together.”

  She stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come now, Samantha. Don’t hurt my feelings. Surely, you remember our time together. How I held you, caressed you, penetrated you. And how you enjoyed it.”

  “No.”

  He laughed. “Denial of pleasure is so human, so false.”

  She hated him. And hated herself for the truth of his words. She slid the key along the metal cuff, searching for the keyhole.

  “I thought the devil made you do it. I thought he was in control.”

  “He is. But, soon he and I will be equals. No longer master and servant, but partners, joined for eternity. A dyad that even God cannot defeat.”

  “What do want from me?” she asked, trying to buy time, keep him talking. The key slid across the cuffs, occasionally catching the lip of the keyhole, but she could not engage it.

  “I need you, Samantha.”

  A chill coursed through her. “For what?”

  “You're the one. My sacrificial lamb. My key to the kingdom.”

  She hated it when she was right. No doubt remained, he was taking her to Devil’s Playground for a repeat of his previous performance. Panic slid upward from her gut, entwining itself around her throat. She swallowed hard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that. What the children started, you will complete. Through you, my union with Lucifer will consummated. Then, the war with the legions of God can begin.”

  “Garrett, listen to me. You need help.” The key danced across the metal; her palms dripped sweat. Don’t lose the key, she told herself, frustration and fear growing by the second.

  “I think you are the one that needs help. But, I don’t see the cavalry coming.”

  “You’re sick. Can’t you see that?” The key brushed over the lock. She turned it one way and then the other trying to seat it.

  "You don't believe that," he laughed. "You know who I am. What I need."

  "I thought you said I had to come willingly."

  "You did."

  "No." She felt the key catch on the lip of the hole, but could not align it. She twisted it one way then the other, but it refused to seat itself. "I'd call hog tied in the back of a Jeep an abduction."

  "Semantics. You came to the jail on your own."

  "To beat you half to death."

  "Still, you came."

  "OK. You need me. I came. Now what?" The key danced across the hole, caught briefly, but sprang free as the Jeep lurched sideways.

  "The final ritual," Garrett said. "The ultimate sacrifice. The giving to Lucifer that which I most cherish."

  "Get real, Garrett. You don't cherish anything. You're not capable."

  "You're wrong. I will make you my bride, then present your soul to my Prince."

  "Listen, you psycho..."

  The Jeep came to a sudden stop.

  “No time for conversation, Samantha. I have preparations to make.”

  The blow came suddenly. Pain shot through her shoulder. She tried to roll out of the way, but another blow slammed into her back. Fearful of losing the key, she slipped it in her mouth and shoved it between her upper teeth and cheek with her tongue.

  Pain erupted from the back of her head. She fought to maintain her grip on consciousness, but it waxed and waned as a swinging ceiling light in a dark room will cast light, then darkness, followed by light again. She struggled to hold the light and fend off the darkness, but lost as thick, oily waves crashed over her, dragging her into their depths.

  Chapter 41

  Sam fell from the darkness into an inverted world. Her momentary confusion quickly cleared and realization of her predicament smacked her square in the face. She dangled in mid-air. A rope, which hung from the thick crossbeam at the entry into an abandoned mine shaft, bound her ankles. Her handcuffed arms hung limply two feet above the flo
or as if she were an Olympic diver, plunging toward the water. Streaks of dried blood stained her arms. In the flat light of the full moon, they appeared as black as motor oil, dripping from a dying truck. Gravity pushed blood into her brain, which in turn pounded against her skull with each heartbeat. Her head felt as if it might split like a ripe melon.

  Cutting her eyes upward, she realized she was naked. She was also cold and terrified.

  A fire flickered twenty feet before her in the open desert. Gusts of wind whipped its flames first one way and then the other as the cold currents twisted around and over the pile of rocks known as the Granite Mountains.

  The sound of scrapping footsteps approached from behind her, from inside the mine. She closed her eyes and fought the urge to tremble against the cold breeze. She felt someone brush past her, and then through her closed lids, sensed a shadow cross between her and the red-orange flames. She cracked one eye.

  Garrett.

  He stacked a rock on top of a crude pile of other rocks near the fire. Sam recognized the formation immediately. An altar. Identical to the one she had found two months ago in exactly this spot, before this same mine, where the heartless corpses of the three children had hung.

  A shiver ripped through her as Garrett lay a knife, his knife, on the rocks. He knelt before the altar and seemed to pray, his back to Samantha.

  She turned her head one way and then the other, taking in the surroundings, while trying to control the panic that swelled inside her. Looking upward again, she noticed that the rope was not tied but rather looped in such a fashion that her weight pulled it tightly around her ankles. If she could reach the rope, she could pull herself up and slip her feet from their bonds.

  First, she must ditch the cuffs. Her tongue found the key where she had tucked it.

  Movement caught her eye. Garrett stood, turned toward her, and approached. She closed her eyes, trying to relax, playing opossum.

  He walked around her, very near, his arm brushing against her. He stopped in front of her, inches from her nude body. She felt his hot breath play across her stomach. Then, the knife blade brushed against her, causing her stomach muscles to contract involuntarily.