Night Terror

by Chandler McGrew

  “Oh, shit. Should I send the paramedics?”

  “I found her downstairs passed out beside the fridge. I brought her back up to bed, but she hasn’t woken up. I’m scared, Marg.”

  “Is she breathing all right?”

  “She seems to be.”

  “Check her eyes. See if they dilate.”

  They did.

  “Is she cold?”

  “She feels clammy. But she always feels that way.”

  “You want Doctor Burton?”

  “Hold on, Marg. I think she’s coming around.”

  Doris groaned and rolled against his side. He slipped another pillow under her head.

  “You scared the bejesus out of me,” said Virgil when she opened her eyes. “What did you think you were doing? Are you all right? Did you break anything?”

  “Sirens.”

  Virgil sighed loudly. “It was Babs. Her house burned down.”

  Doris’s head barely bobbed. “She’s dead. She told me she’d die today.”

  “I’m going to call an ambulance for you.”

  “No,” she said weakly, grabbing his hand. “They’ll take me to the hospital.”

  “Not if I tell them not to.”

  “Please,” she whispered. She swallowed dryly and he lifted a glass off the bedside table, holding it to her parched lips.

  “What were you thinking, going downstairs?”

  She shook her head. “I was worried. I knew Babs was going to go today. What happened?”

  “Nothing you need to be getting upset about right now.”

  “Virgil.”

  He sighed loudly. “She was murdered. Mac Douglass carried gas into her living room and set both of them on fire.”

  She closed her eyes as though fighting down one of her pain attacks. When she opened them again, she stared directly at him. “The tarot cards foretold it.”

  He kissed her gently on her parchment brow and held her close.

  “Coincidence,” he said.

  “You don’t believe in coincidence and you know it.”

  “I don’t believe in a lot of things.”

  “Just what you see.”

  “Yes.”

  But was it just coincidence running into Cooder when he did? Was it just coincidence that Babs blathered something about the Merrill boy’s bike and he found it right where she said? Was it coincidence that two people who were at Perkins at the same time as Tara Beals suddenly ended up dead? And what kind of coincidence was it when a woman said she was going to die on a specific day and she did? How could she possibly have known something like this was going to happen?

  “Do you still believe that, Virgil? After everything?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. I believe Tara Beals is behind it though.”

  “Talk to Audrey again,” whispered Doris. “She’s not crazy and you know it. And you shouldn’t leave her thinking you believe she is.”

  He stared at her and, for just an instant, he saw the old Doris. The Doris with gleaming eyes and sun-bleached hair and glowing skin. The Doris with a ready smile or a quip. He kissed her again.

  “I’ll do that. But I won’t leave you right now.”

  A buzzing noise caught his attention and he realized that he had laid the phone facedown on the bedspread. “Sorry,” he said, putting it to his ear. He was surprised when Doris reached up and took it away from him.

  “Marg,” she said in what was left of her husky soprano. “Doris. Could you come over and baby-sit me while Virgil goes out on official business? Yes. That would be nice, thanks.”

  He stared at her dumbfounded. “I told you I’m not going anywhere just yet. That was a heck of a spill you took.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll be fine. You go tell that young woman you believe her.”

  “I can’t tell her what I don’t know.”

  “You know she’s not crazy.”

  “I don’t. She thinks Merle Coonts kidnapped her son and I know there’s no way he did.”

  “Sometimes things aren’t what they seem. You go talk to her and at least tell her you don’t think she’s crazy. I won’t sleep worrying about her.” She stared at him with that do-it-or-you’ll-be-sorry look that was always the end to a conversation like this.

  “All right,” sighed Virgil, climbing wearily to his feet.

  Doris snatched his hand. “I need you here with me. But you have to stay a good man through this. The man I married. You know?”

  “I know.”

  Her voice was raspier than before and each word seemed dragged from her throat, but she was determined to have her say. “I don’t know if you do. I’m ready and all that. I know everything will be okay. But I don’t want to be alone when I go. I’m glad I’m going first. That’s not fair to you, because then you’ll be alone. But you’re stronger than I am. You promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

  “I promise,” he said, knowing that she was the strongest.

  “I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  “Eat something now and fix something for Marg.”

  He did as he was told, taking his time making sandwiches, soaking up the sounds of life: cars on the street outside, the hum of the fridge, water rushing in the sink, even the sound of another fire siren down on Main Street. He’d been certain that Doris was dead when he pulled into the driveway. Now everything seemed as normal as normal had been for the two of them in the past few months. But he couldn’t get over the sense that he’d missed something.

  49

  COODER HEARD THE MEN’S CRIES coming from around the side of the house and—like Audrey—the sights and sounds of the night touched him on more than one level. He knew that someone was fighting for his life now. But a part of his mind related it to a fight then. And he had difficulty separating the two. Cooder wasn’t telepathic—at least not where human beings were concerned—but he could read strong feelings, even at a distance.

  Now his mind was like a television badly tuned, picking up more than one channel at a time, filled with static and snow and weird images that came and went like ghosts. He could sense the powerful emotions around him. Most of all, he felt the little boy. But suddenly a pall seemed to drop over the night. A chill hovered in the air.

  Doctor Beals was almost here.

  He sensed her well before he heard the hum of the tires on asphalt, approaching from the direction of town. What had she been up to? She’d kept passing by, back and forth like a lion in a cage. Now he heard the car slowing, just over his head. Stopping.

  Had she found him? Had she finally found him again? The thought turned his blood to ice. His fingers dug into the loose gravel up to his knuckles, trying to crush the cool stone and sand. But no footsteps approached. No terrible presence lurked above.

  With dreadful slowness, he found the courage to climb to the edge of the road and peek over the lip of pavement. She was parked in the road behind the other car. Her door slammed and Cooder caught just a glimpse of her slipping silently across the front of the house and disappearing around the corner. There was a dog with her. A powerful, excitable, loyal, brave dog.

  Cooder steeled himself. He knew in that instant that she was after the boy, not him. She wanted to do to Zach Bock what she’d done to him, to so many others. He couldn’t help but picture it, and the thought of a child in that terrible place was more than he could bear. He didn’t know what he could do. If there was anything he could do. But the picture of it was more terrible to him than any pain he had ever imagined. He closed his eyes and stiffened, concentrating harder than he had in years. Thinking until his head hurt. When he opened his eyes again, he had the awful sense of being within touching distance of Doctor Beals.

  He could feel the cool earth beneath his paws.

  50

  AUDREY LISTENED TO THE SOUND of her own breathing and her pulse pounding in her ears. She was still in contact with Zach, and from that strange, soundless dialogue she was forming a skewed, fil
my picture of what she was supposed to be looking for. It wasn’t a suitcase. It was a trunk.

  She had reached the end of the wall beside the door where she’d entered, and turned the corner, heading toward the main house, creeping slowly along the rough stone foundation, only to discover that she was in a stall. She could feel the top of the hewn pine barrier and she sidled quickly around it. Then she followed it back into the next stall.

  Again and again.

  She had just an inkling of vision. The occasional moonbeam that peeked through the slit of open door did nothing this far into the barn. But here and there the faintest tendril of starlight struggled through a crack in the floor above, lending the huge open area a cavelike appearance. And if the vague visions that were passing between her and Zach were accurate, then she was approaching the last stall. She rounded it and discovered, as she slid her hands along the wall, that there were indeed no more barriers. She quickened her steps until her fingers struck something hard and she moaned. She’d found the back corner. Without stopping, she followed the wall to her left until her shins struck something solid.

  She knelt and ran her fingers over the old trunk, her hands caressing the front, feeling for the hasp. When they reached it she gasped. Locked. She spun the cylinder ineffectually, cursing under her breath. She ran her fingers over the top, along the rusted iron straps to the thick hinges that were solid and unyielding. She felt as though she had been struck in the gut. She knew this was the hidden entrance to the cellar where Zach was held. It was just as he had shown it to her. But what good did knowing do?

  She jerked hard at the lock, but the hasp was as solid as the hinges.

  Zach! What’s the combination?

  But even as she thought that, she realized she wouldn’t be able to see the numbers on the dial anyway. There had to be another answer.

  I don’t know.

  Is there another way in?

  I don’t think so.

  I have to find some way to open the lock.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  Richard’s scream cut through the old barn boards and Audrey was torn. Help Richard? Or save her son?

  The sounds of the two men struggling seeped into the darkness. Boots and bodies striking wood. Panting. Cursing. She started to rise.

  I can open it.

  What?

  Watch.

  She sensed a young boy’s pride in the thought. Here was something he could do to help himself. To help her. Barely audible beneath the sound of the fight outside, a tiny clicking reached her ears.

  What are you doing?

  But she knew. He was inside the lock.

  Wait.

  Silence outside.

  Audrey’s hands quivered against the trunk.

  “Richard?” she called weakly. Could he hear her through the barn wall? Was that another tiny tinkling noise inside the lock or was she just imagining it?

  “Richard?” A little louder this time.

  Nothing.

  Had she made a mistake? Was she going to save Zach only to lose Richard? She rose to her feet and turned toward the big barn door.

  She’s coming.

  Zach’s voice echoed in her head just as a loud clack sounded inside the lock and it fell open. She jerked at it, fumbling it out of the hasp. She ripped at the clothing inside the trunk, scattering it wildly until there was nothing but wood bottom.

  Lift it up.

  She ran her fingers along the old paper-covered panel, discovering a small hidden finger grip at one end. She lifted it out of her way and stared in surprise at a steep, well-lit stairwell. She drew in a short breath that tasted of barn dust and dark, half-remembered yesterdays.

  Another cellar.

  Her throat was dry as sand and her chest was so tight she could barely catch another gasping breath. But Zach was down there, waiting for her to come and save him. Shaking like an old woman, she descended step by shaky step to the floor below. The ceiling was barely a foot above her head and the smells here were of dampness and mildew, reverberating even stronger with the surfacing memories in her mind. It was impossible, but Audrey knew it was true.

  Somehow, after all these years, her mother had come back to haunt her.

  51

  RICHARD COULDN’T SEE out of his right eye. It stung like blazes and his throat felt as though someone had fired a bottle rocket down it. He’d twisted his knee and a couple of ribs were beginning to ache every time he drew a breath. But Merle was in worse shape.

  The battle had been brief and Richard’s emotions had careened from mind-numbing terror to murderous rage. At times he’d been certain that Merle was about to kill him. He’d struggled wildly, gouging Merle’s eyes with his fingernails, grasping the man’s throat between broken fingers, kneeing, punching, head-butting. At other moments he was afraid that he was going to murder Merle and there seemed to be no stopping himself.

  Merle had a torn cheek where Richard had bitten his lip, and part of Merle’s ear hung away from his skull. But there was little strength left in the man, and now he had Richard’s knee on his abdomen and both of Richard’s hands around his throat. It was only when Richard saw the light fading from Merle’s eyes that the fire went out of him and he eased his grip on the man’s soft larynx, removing both thumbs from Merle’s bobbing Adam’s apple. Slowly Merle began to cough and shake and some color returned to his cheeks.

  A noise to Richard’s right caused him to jerk and he spun, trying to make out the shadowy figure silhouetted against the stars. At first he thought it was Audrey, but then his eyes adjusted and he stared in shocked disbelief, barely able to speak. “Tara, what are you doing here?”

  “I saw your car out front.”

  Merle shook beneath him. “You!” shouted Merle, pointing a shaky finger at Tara.

  Richard saw the light of recognition in Tara’s eyes. “You know each other?” he said, struggling weakly to his feet.

  “Yes,” she said, stepping away from Richard and removing a small automatic pistol from the back of her pants.

  “Tara, what…” sputtered Richard.

  She shot Merle once in the forehead and once in the chest before Richard could blink.

  “My… my God,” he gasped.

  “Yes. Pity you had to murder poor Merle.”

  “What?”

  “Where did Audrey go?”

  “Tara, you just shot that man!”

  Tara aimed the pistol directly at Richard’s face. “Take me to Audrey.”

  “What are you doing? Why are you doing this?”

  She fired a shot over Richard’s shoulder and he jerked. “I don’t have time to waste, Richard. Take me to Audrey. Now!”

  52

  VIRGIL FILLED THE COFFEEMAKER, not paying attention to what he was doing, spilling water over the counter. He glanced at the spot where Doris had fallen and he almost broke the glass pot, shoving it back into the machine. He locked his hands on the countertop and took a deep breath. Doris had almost died right there. If he hadn’t come home when he did, she might have died. Right there. On the goddamned kitchen floor! And she looked like hell. Like there was nothing left inside her. He rested his head in his hands and tried to calm himself.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d gotten out of bed and fallen when he was gone. During the first few weeks being house-ridden it had irked her, coming to terms with the new realities of life. She hated being an invalid. But lately she hadn’t had much strength, so he at least hadn’t worried about her going down the stairs. The thought that she might have taken a worse spill, that she might have tumbled down that long flight while he was away, made him physically ill.

  He dropped into a chair at the table, waiting for the coffee. A car honked somewhere downtown and he thought once again of the fire. He couldn’t get the look he had witnessed in Mac’s eyes out of his head. Why would a man like Mac commit murder or suicide? Even with a gun on her, why would Babs pour gasoline over herself like it was baby lotion? Surely she had to know it would h
ave been better to get shot than to burn to death. When the fire blasted them, they knew. Wherever Mac was before that instant, when the heat scorched his skin, he was awake then.

  The phone rang and when he answered it, Charlie was on the line.

  “I did what I could,” he said. “But whatever Tara Beals was into at Perkins, most of it is buried real deep. I have an old friend on the inside and he got me what little info I could dig up.”

  “The inside?”

  “Well, some people way back used to call it the Company. It’s in better favor now than it was then, okay?”

  “Okay. So tell me.”

  “Tara Beals was the last researcher involved in something called Project LongLook.”

  “Long-distance viewing?”

  “Yeah, right. I told you”—Charlie sounded like he was sipping coffee, or maybe something stronger—“Project LongLook was one of those sixties leftovers that somebody in the government kept funding forever, even though cooler heads had long since declared it a waste of time. During the sixties or seventies, word got around that the Russians were experimenting on mind control and ESP, and this longdistance viewing baloney. He claimed Tara’s group actually had results where people could locate buildings and rivers and stuff they had never seen before, just by being told to focus on a certain area.”

  “It worked?”

  “Evidently.”

  “But they stopped it?”

  “Well, it was never any more accurate than the information they could get from spy planes and satellites and spies. I guess the technology outstripped the spooks. And he said it was never all that reliable. If you’re going to start a nuclear war, you don’t want somebody coming in thirty minutes later and telling the president it might have been church steeples he was seeing and not ballistic missiles. Beals was the last one to lose her funding. My friend didn’t know why, except that she must have had friends in high places.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Beals was working on mind control. Drugs. Hypnosis. That was a different project and I couldn’t get much out of my buddy about that one. Just talking about it made him real nervous. The way he talked, Tara’s research made even his people nervous.”