Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  “Okay. It looks like I’ll be out all night, so I’ll ask around and keep an ear open. If he doesn’t show up by morning, I think we might be able to get a search-and-rescue team up to take a look. Now, you get out of that canyon.”

  “Don’t worry,” she replied, and broke the connection.

  She turned the headlights on and angled the truck so that they illuminated the trail. Suddenly she heard a rumble and, ten feet ahead, a part of the hill gave way, slipping down onto the trail in a huge mound of reddish earth. “Okay, Moss, I’m out of here.” Remembering the near river that Old Madelyn had become during the first deluge, she didn’t turn around, but headed down the back way.

  The rain fell harder, the noise of it reaching an almost unbearable crescendo as it beat on the Bronco’s roof, turning the dangerous drive down into a hair-raising one. At one point, another landslide blocked the road just behind her.

  Her shoulders and neck were painfully stiff by the time she made it out of the canyon and onto the graded dirt road. If anything, it was more badly flooded than Old Madelyn Highway, the water level rising too quickly for comfort. At last she reached pavement and the fork leading to Madland. The road continuing on to New Madelyn was submerged beneath rapid-flowing muddy water, but Ghost Town Road, leading toward the park, didn’t look too bad.

  Gritting her teeth, she turned and began bouncing along over dirt and rocks that had washed onto the asphalt. It finally brought her to Madland’s parking lot, and she pulled all the way through to check on the state of the highway. It was a river. Possibly she could get through. Possibly she’d get stuck, or worse, swept off the road.

  She looked back at the Madland buildings and spotted a light on in what she thought was Carlo’s upstairs apartment. Picking up the phone, she punched in his number. He answered on the third ring, sounding very surprised to hear from her. But after she told him her problem, he promptly invited her to stay the night, and told her to pull around front because the gates were open. She thanked him and hung up.

  Before pulling out, she turned on the interior lights and went through the luggage, but found no sign of the samples. “Damned government,” she whispered. If she had lost Eric the same way she lost Jack, she’d never forgive herself. God only knew what the military might do to him. Or whatever is in those UFOs.

  Navigating the twenty feet up the river of Old Madelyn was difficult, and she almost went off the road before she finally found the wide gates and drove through. She crawled along Main Street, noting the sandbags lining the south side of the street, knowing her brakes were soaked and barely working. Finally she arrived at Carlo’s.

  She grabbed her phone, bag, and a small nylon bag that held her personal items, then ran for the door. The porch and downstairs were dark; Carlo hadn’t come downstairs yet, and guiltily she wondered if she had gotten him out of bed. She knocked, then tried the doorknob.

  She felt something cold and slimy under her fingers and pulled back, a startled cry escaping her lips. Whatever was on the knob fell with a wet plopping sound to the wooden porch. Involuntarily she stepped back. At least it didn’t feel like another dead animal.

  At that moment, the porch light came on and she saw what she had touched. It was a small heap of red and white matter, with a note pinned to it.

  Carlo started to open the door. “Wait,” she called, bending to pick up the object. “There’s something on your porch. Let me get it.”

  She pinched her fingers around the edge of the object and picked it up, nose wrinkling. The note read, “I know who you are. I know what you do. I want you to show me.” She stepped back, stomach curdling as she held the object closer to the light. Skin! With a strangled moan, she let the flesh drop.

  Carlo pushed the door open, almost knocking it into her forehead. “What’s wrong?”

  She looked at him, then down at her feet.

  “What?” he whispered, squatting down.

  “I think it’s skin,” Alex managed.

  He looked up, his face dead white.

  “There’s a note under there somewhere.”

  Using a pen, he turned the flesh over and uncovered the note. If it was possible, he turned even paler. “Where was it?”

  “On the doorknob,” she said, her stomach turning over. “Is it . . . Is it skin?”

  He nodded. “Someone has a very sick sense of humor. You didn’t see anyone out when you pulled up, did you?”

  She shook her head. “Carlo, I have to wash my hands.” She was also afraid that she was going to throw up.

  He rose and moved out of the doorway. “Go ahead. I’ll take care of this.”

  “What are you going to do? Call Moss Baskerville?”

  “For now, I’m going to get it off my porch.” He paused. “Look, you’re soaked through. Go on upstairs and take a shower. There’s a robe and towels in the bathroom. Bring your clothes down after and we’ll wash and dry them.”

  “Thank you, Carlo.” Refusing to think about the flesh or even Eric, for fear her tired brain would short-circuit, she wiped her feet and walked inside.

  88

  James Robert Sinclair

  THE SKY OPENED AND THE LIGHT SHONE DOWN UPON HIM.

  James Robert Sinclair waited, kneeling, hands clasped, head bowed in prayer. All around, the storm pounded Olive Mesa, but no rain fell upon him, on his white robe, his bare feet, or his hair, loose and whipping in the wind.

  The time is at hand. Arise, my son.

  The words resounded in his brain, thundered in his ears, and Sinclair rose slowly, head still bowed, hands still clasped.

  “What do you wish of me, Father?”

  The Horsemen shall ride, and they shall herald the end of the world, just as you have prophesied. The Living Savior, the New Christ, is returned to the world. He is here and He shall lead the people unto heaven.

  “He is here?” he cried joyously. “How shall I know Him, Father?”

  Look!

  Slowly Sinclair opened his eyes and raised his head. White light, blindingly beautiful and brilliant, surrounded him, and he raised his hand to his eyes to shield them.

  Look, and you shall know your true nature, my son.

  Sinclair pulled his trembling hand from his eyes. A dark silhouette, only a distant pinpoint, appeared within the light. The figure slowly walked toward him, and Sinclair involuntarily stepped back.

  Do not fear, my son, but look upon the face of the Living Savior and you shall know Him.

  Trembling, quaking on his feet, Sinclair stood his ground and forced himself to gaze upon the approaching figure, upon the Dark Angel, upon the Son of God. Now he could see the hair that flowed over the Son’s shoulders, the beard. From a distance he was the classical Christ of Christian mythology. The eyes were dark and unfathomable, and Sinclair averted his gaze, knowing judgment was at hand.

  Look! And know your destiny, my son, for you are the Chosen One.

  He looked. The Christ was a dozen feet away, ten, six, and He held out His hands, showing the scars of crucifixion. Sinclair flinched, his own hands burning with pain, his feet, too. But he did not look away.

  The Christ was four feet away, and his dark brown eyes held nothing but love and compassion. Three feet, and a gentle smile graced his face. Two feet, and He halted. Again He lifted His arms.

  Take my hands.

  This was a new voice, new and yet familiar. This was the voice of Christ, and Sinclair knew it well. Slowly he brought his own hands up and saw that they bled. Though he did not look, he knew his feet were bleeding as well.

  The Son of God took his hands in His own and blood dripped between their fingers.

  The Lamb has returned. The first voice, God’s voice, nearly deafened him. Do you understand now, my Son?

  Sinclair stared into the face of the Living Savior, knowing it, yet a stranger to it as well. He said nothing.

  The Christ’s gentle smile returned, then He spoke aloud. “I am your mirror. I am your soul. I am the Lamb.”

  Th
e pain disappeared from Sinclair’s feet and hands, and the Christ turned his palms upwards. The blood was gone, but each palm held a freshly healed scar of crucifixion.

  Sinclair looked back into Christ’s eyes. “Tell me.”

  “I am you.” The Christ put His hands on Sinclair’s shoulders, then enfolded him in His arms. Suffused with love and a peace he had never before known, Sinclair received the Christ into his body.

  89

  Carlo Pelegrine

  I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I KNOW WHAT YOU DO. I WANT YOU TO show me. The words in the note had been indelibly imprinted in Carlo’s mind.

  He couldn’t tolerate the idea of having the human flesh in his house, so while Alex took her shower, he had wrapped the skin and the note pinned to it in foil, then pulled on his rain poncho and went out the back door and tossed it in the trash bin.

  Now, sitting alone at the table in his reading room, he considered the note as, upstairs, the shower continued to run. I know who you are. I know what you do. I want you to show me. He had been found out: That much was clear. That someone had committed a murder to impress him was all too clear. Perhaps more than one. The disappearances ... He sighed and rubbed his temples.

  Upstairs, the water turned off. Alex would be down shortly, and she’d be asking questions he couldn’t answer. “What am I going to do?” he whispered.

  Suddenly someone hammered on the front door, filling Carlo with dark terror. Panicked, he rose, nearly knocking his chair over in his haste. There was nothing he could do but answer the door.

  He took a deep breath and reluctantly moved through the shop and switched on the porch light as the knocking continued. Steeling himself, he grasped the knob and opened the door.

  Justin Martin gave him a varsity grin. “You’re the Peeler.” He paused, then the grin widened. “I hope you liked your gifts.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Carlo was surprised by the strength in his voice, which belied the shock numbing his body. “You shouldn’t be out in this weather, Justin. It’s dangerous.”

  The youth pulled a paperback book out of his jacket, opened it, and thrust it at Carlo. The page showed the old newspaper photo of him and Vic. Carlo chuckled, trying to hide his trembling hands. “This is a picture of a kid named Charles Pilgrim. What’s your point?”

  “It’s you,” Justin said, the smile broadening. “Carlo Pelegrine is Italian for Charles Pilgrim. And you can’t deny that, can you?”

  “Where did that piece of skin come from, Justin?”

  “You’re the Peeler, aren’t you?” the boy persisted, his impossibly blue eyes lit with cold fire. “Admit it.”

  “You’re wrong, Justin. And even if it were me, the caption identified them as witnesses, nothing more.”

  “The Voice told me I was right, Carlo. I suspected and it said I was right!”

  Carlo studied him, mildly relieved. “Hearing voices isn’t normal, Justin. Perhaps you should see a psychia—”

  “No!” the boy spat angrily. “Don’t pull that shit on me. It’s the Voice, the same one you heard before you chose a victim.”

  “I’ve never heard voices, Justin, and I’m not this Pilgrim person. Now, where did that skin come from?”

  “I called information and got Victor Pilgrim’s phone number in Brooklyn, New York.”

  A knot began to form in Carlo’s stomach.

  “Actually, there were five Victors. The third one I tried was your brother.” The youth’s blue eyes glittered, the anger gone as quickly as it had come. “I told him I was an old friend, trying to track you down. He said you died in Europe the summer before you were to begin college. I said I wanted to visit your grave, and he said that there isn’t one. Your body was cremated overseas.”

  “Justin, you’re imagining things.”

  “Victor gave me your parents’ phone number.” He smiled. “Your mother died last year. Did you know that?”

  Refusing the tears that tried to flood his eyes, Carlo did his best to appear impassive. “I’m going to have to phone the police if you don’t leave.”

  “Don’t force me to share your secret with them, Mr. Pilgrim.”

  “There are no secrets to share.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” Justin’s smile disappeared and his eyes darkened with barely concealed rage. “The Peeler left fingerprints. They’re a matter of public record. I got a copy and checked them against yours. You’re the Peeler.”

  Was he bluffing? Carlo honestly had no idea.

  “Carlo. Charles. Or is it Charlie or Chuck?”

  “It’s Mr. Pelegrine.”

  “I don’t want to have to turn you in.” Justin’s eyes were too bright, his cheeks too flushed. “I want you to teach me your art.”

  There was no art. He had killed and he had cut some skin and the press had built a mythology around “the Peeler,” one that grew until most people thought the killer had totally skinned his victims.

  “Well? Will you teach me?”

  Chances were, it was all a bluff, but Carlo feared otherwise. For now, he decided to play along. “You want to be my apprentice,” he said sternly, trapping the youth in his unwavering gaze. “Answer me.”

  Justin’s expression turned to utter, deranged adoration. “Yes.”

  Carlo frowned. “Your work is very sloppy. The skinned rabbit came from you as well as the human flesh?”

  Eagerly Justin nodded. “I know it’s sloppy. I practice and practice, but I need instruction. From a master.”

  “You practiced on what? Animals?”

  “Sure. Since I was a little kid.” He grinned again. “Old Lady Quigley thinks all her cocker spaniels run away.”

  If Justin knew how that woman cried over her dogs, he would only laugh, but the admission made Carlo sick at heart. He hid it. “But the skin you left tonight was human.”

  Justin nodded. “It’s my best work. Did you like it?”

  The youth desperately wanted his approval. Curling his lip, Carlo sneered, “It’s atrocious. I don’t believe you could ever learn.”

  “Yes I can!” This, urgently.

  “How much practice have you had with human skin?”

  “Not a whole lot. Yet.”

  “You’re responsible for the missing people?” Carlo held Justin’s gaze. “Are they dead?”

  The boy’s look of cunning returned. “Alex Manderley is here. Did you do her already?”

  “No.” Carlo put his hands in his pockets to hide their trembling. “Who did you kill, Justin?”

  “I’ll tell you what you want to know after you let me watch you do her. Peel her. When are you going to do it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tonight,” Justin ordered.

  “No. Not tonight.”

  “Then tomorrow. I’ll come back tomorrow night and watch you peel her.” He grinned that horrifying all-American grin. “If you won’t do it tomorrow, you’ll never do it.” His eyes narrowed. “Maybe you’ve gone soft. Do it tomorrow or I’ll tell Baskerville.”

  “He’ll never believe you.”

  “Do you want to play chicken, Charlie?” He chuckled. “I’ll fax your fingerprints to the FBI.”

  “Carlo?” Alex called from the top of the stairs.

  “I’ll be right up,” he called, praying she wouldn’t descend. He turned to Justin, knowing there was no more time for cat and mouse. Drawing himself to full height, he spoke imperiously. “You be here tomorrow night.”

  “Hi, Dr. Manderley!” Justin called, his voice utterly charming.

  Alex had come downstairs, wearing Carlo’s short white terry cloth robe and carrying her wet clothes. She stopped three steps from the floor, startled. “Hello, Justin. Have you seen Eric?”

  No! Carlo’s mind reeled. Did the skin belong to Eric Watson?

  “No, I haven’t, Dr. Manderley.”

  “You weren’t in the canyon tonight?”

  “Of course not!” He looked taken aback. “There are flash flood warnings p
osted.”

  “Someone picked him up, Justin. Rescued him, I believe. I was hoping it was you.”

  “Sorry. I wish I had. I’ll keep my eyes open, though.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The washer and dryer are in the utility room just beyond the reading room,” Carlo told her. “I’ll be back to help you in a moment.”

  Alex gave him a puzzled look, then disappeared behind the dark green curtains that led to the reading room.

  Carlo turned to Justin. “Whose skin did you leave here? Is it Eric’s?”

  Justin smiled, slow and syrupy. “Heck no.”

  “You haven’t seen Eric?”

  “Scout’s honor.” The boy saluted, and Carlo’s stomach turned over. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Evening,” Carlo told him. “There are things I need. Certain tools to do a proper job.”

  Justin lapped it up. “Can I help you peel her?”

  “Your work is an embarrassment,” Carlo hissed. “Sloppy. I doubt that you’re worthy.” He paused, studying the boy’s eager puppy-dog face. “I’ll have to think about it. Now, get out of here. I have work to do.”

  Justin’s teeth flashed white. “I’ll bet you do.” He turned and walked out, disappeared into the rain. Carlo shut and locked the door, then leaned against the wall, eyes closed, rubbing his forehead.

  “Carlo? What’s wrong?”

  Alex stood in the doorway of the reading room, holding one curtain back.

  “Nothing,” he said, going to her. “Let me help you with the washer.”

  “I figured it out. Tell me what’s going on.”

  He stared into her huge brown eyes, then took her hand and led her back into the reading room. “Sit down.”

  As she did, the robe’s lapel folded outward, revealing a swell of breast. Carlo averted his eyes as he seated himself across from her. “Alex, that boy is dangerous. To you in particular. Never be alone with him.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Carlo put his hands together and twined his fingers on the table. He stared at them, unable to look Alex in the eye. “You remember that I told you I have three regrets?”

  “Yes.”