The Pit in the Woods: A Mercy Falls Mythos

by Nathaniel Reed

  “Did you happen to hear when he’d be leaving, for San Diego? Did he say anything about a flight?”

  “Tonight!” the man brightened. “Man be dare tonight!”

  “Great,” John said. Thinking aloud again: “So where would he be going in the meantime? He could be anywhere right now.”

  He looked at the Mexican. “Did he say anything about where he’d be staying? Or give a time his flight was leaving?”

  The man shook his head, uncertain. “No, I don’t tink so.”

  John grinned. It wasn’t much to go on, but at least it was something.

  “Thank you sir. You’ve been a lot of help.”

  The attendant nodded. “Is bad man?”

  John agreed. “Yes, is very bad man. You mind if I use your phone? I left mine in the rental car.”

  “No,” the man waved him toward the bank of pay phones, “Iz for public.”

  “Um,” John looked at him, a bit embarrassed. “I meant your desk phone. I don’t have any change.”

  “Can only make call from room. No outside lin.”

  “No outside lines?” John asked.

  The man nodded. “Here, fiftee cens.”

  “Thank you,” Johnny said, surprised.

  “Get bad man,” the Mexican said, with a serious look on his face.

  John nodded grimly, “I’ll do my best.

  3

  “Yes, a flight just left for San Diego, at 7:40. There won’t be another until 10:45.”

  “10:45?” Another three hours? Wonderful!

  “Are there any connecting flights that would get me there any faster?”

  “Hold on a minute, and I’ll check for you sir.”

  Some cheery, happy crappy elevator music wafted over the line, making him want to strangle the phone. Fortunately she came back on promptly.

  “No sir, I’m sorry. That’s all.”

  “All right, book it.”

  With any luck he might actually catch him at the airport, unless he already took the 7:40 flight. In that case he was more or less screwed. It would be that much harder to find him in San Diego, if he was still there. Rotten luck, to think he had to go back to California, when he’d been so close already. If he’d gotten this information before he left LA, it would have been ideal, but as experience showed, things never quite worked out that way.

  When he was done giving the woman on the phone his information, he walked back to the attendant.

  “Hi again, you rent rooms by the hour here?” John asked.

  “Yes. Need room?”

  “Yes, I’d like to rent a room for two hours.”

  He was hoping he could catch some shuteye before he had to go to the airport.

  “Okay,” the attendant said, after Johnny paid him. “Is room 204,” he said, handing him the key. “Have a good night.”

  “Yes,” John frowned. “I’m sure I will.”

  4

  He drove around to the back and retrieved his cell from his car. As soon as he got to the room he set the alarm on his phone. John figured a hotel that didn’t have an outside line wouldn’t have a wakeup call service either, though he didn’t bother to ask. After all, this wasn’t Best Western. He got up at nine and was on his way to the airport at a quarter after. Along the way the pictures kept flashing in his head- the severed limbs, the girl with no eyes. This guy Stuart Fahey had raped and killed at least twenty girls, which they knew of, ranging from ages 6-24. He was frustrated and anxious to bring this to an end once and for all.

  “Thank you,” he said, paying the cabbie upon arriving. He felt bad only giving a dollar tip, but he was low on cash. He scoured the airport as best he could before boarding the flight. He walked up and down the aisle on the airplane, looking for the man that matched the picture. No one that he could see. John took his seat and showed the flight attendant the photo when she passed. She shook her head

  slowly. “No, I’m sorry. I haven’t seen any one that looks like that.”

  He asked her if she could take that to the pilots and see if any one recognized the man. She did, and John watched interestedly as her long stockinged legs pumped away, her sleek hips and butt swaying from side to side. She came back with the picture, but it was “no” again. He thanked her, flashing his pearlies, and asked for a coffee, black. He would need to stay up. Maybe Mr. Fahey was catching a midnight flight, or later. But John had the feeling he’d taken the earlier flight. He’d most likely changed his appearance, perhaps his alias too. He’d be trying to travel incognito. He guessed that Stuart Fahey was aware of the TV program, and the fact that they were on the lookout for him and his several aliases. Stuart Fahey; alias Bob Fahey; alias Leonard Radcliffe; Bob Renny; Stuart Renny, Lester Burman… Chances were his new alias would be some derivative of his name, but not necessarily.

  John Winter had his hand on the seatbelt latch before the plane fully landed.

  5

  San Diego was definitely more familiar territory. Except he didn’t know where to even begin to look. He stopped at a bar and asked around. Many shaking of heads. He guessed he could use that drink after all. He ordered a scotch on the rocks, and as he sipped it slowly, he noticed a woman at the other end of the bar eyeing him over the glass. He grinned, got up, and walked over.

  “Hi there,” Johnny said.

  “Hi yourself sailor,” the lady said, raising her eyebrows.

  It was rather hazy how the conversation went after that. Due to his extraordinary good looks, Johnny found he often didn’t have to say much. All he knew was that twenty or so minutes later, they were in her hotel room taking off each other’s clothes. She was blonde, curvy, and loose, just the way he liked them. Her name? Didn’t matter. He forgot it a few hours later. Pumping away, sweating, his well-toned biceps and abs rippling on his lean frame, he leaned over and whispered in her ear.

  “You want it in your mouth?” he said.

  “Yes, yes, give it to me baby!” she said, opening her mouth wide.

  His orgasm was volcanic. He sprayed all over her face, to her delight.

  God, she looked so good with his come all over her face. She wrapped her fist around his cock and sucked on it, squeezing out any that might be left.

  “Damn baby,” Johnny said, “That was sweet.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

  “Maybe,” he said, knowing he’d never see her again.

  6

  At three in the morning he still had no clue as to Fahey’s whereabouts. He was incredibly tired and figured he should call it a night. He rented a hotel room and lay in bed, but didn’t sleep until after watching the news. In case anything remotely resembling Fahey’s work popped up on the local news radar. Zilch, as of yet.

  He got up at eight a.m. Another beautiful California day. Except he knew what was out there, ready to ruin that day for some unsuspecting girl. He turned on the tube as he got dressed, skipping the luxury of a shower, his expectations low. But there it was, on the morning news. The body of a girl surrounded by spectators, the police only now coming on the scene, and pulling everyone away.

  “Shit!” He got dressed faster.

  “The body of Sheryl Finch found early this morning by a janitor…” the newsman was saying.

  “Where, motherfucker, where?!” Johnny yelled at the TV, impatient, grabbing his keys and readying himself to bolt out the door.

  “…Florida street between San Diego Zoo and Balboa Park,”

  the reporter said in response.

  “Balboa Park, right.” He was out the door, the TV still on.

  “It’s over motherfucker, OVER!” Johnny said, fists clenched at his side as he strode down the corridor. A lady passed him in the hall, looked at him cautiously, obviously distraught. She flickered for a second at the corner of his eye, barely registering. He was running on pure adrenaline now. Once outside run is exactly what he did. He knew the city well, and knew it was at least twelve blocks to the park, but at this point running was qui
cker than trying to catch a taxi. He ran down Washington St., pedestrians swerving to avoid him on the sidewalk, and cars screeching to a halt as he bolted across the street. He didn’t hear any of the cursing.

  John arrived, panting. The police were rolling out the yellow tape. He pushed through the crowd, found the nearest officer, and showed him the photo, all the while watching the people gathered around. If all his years chasing sickos had taught him anything, it was that the culprits usually returned to the scene of the crime, getting some sort of cheap thrill from people’s horrified reactions. It was a power thing.

  The policeman shook his head. He stayed a while, surveying the area. Waited while the paramedics arrived, loaded her onto the ambulance, and the crowd began to disperse. It seemed like everything was moving in slow motion. He saw the photographers, drenching the scene in bursts of white light, as an officer leaned over and outlined the body with chalk, just before they lifted it onto the stretcher. Clearly she’d been dead for some time, beyond reviving. Perhaps the killer had dropped her here alongside the road as a warning that he wasn’t done. He was still around, and one step ahead of everyone. It was that cockiness Johnny was waiting for. You’re done now.

  The ambulance pulled away. Again, it seemed too slowly. Not that there was any rush. The scene fell eerily silent as people moved along. Just like that first time they all went into Jeremiah’s Woods. Even the cops were leaving the scene now. Johnny looked around, exhausted. What? Something. He saw something. He spun his body

  full circle. There! Movement! In the shadows between two buildings.

  It could be… Don’t make a move, don’t make a sound Johnny. Don’t alert him at all, if it’s truly him. He can’t suspect that he’s been seen.

  John Winter moved slowly, indeed turned and faced the other way as if he were walking away. Then he turned, quick as a wildcat and sprinted toward the buildings. Yes, he was still there, sure he hadn’t been seen. Even in the murky shadows, he caught the startled whites of his eyes. The man bolted. Johnny was sure it was him now, though all he could see was his back. Dammit! He wished he had a gun. He could shoot the bastards legs out from under him. Shoot him right behind the kneecaps. He barely made him out in the narrow opening, and tried everything not to lose sight of him.

  “Stop you fuck!” he screamed, not that it would do any good. He saw what he thought was Fahey stop in the light at the other end of the buildings, and do a quick side to side of his head, determining which would be the best way to run. Only there was no best way. John had him now. He wasn’t going to lose sight of him. Fahey turned left. Johnny swerved around the corner. A flurry of people dotted the sidewalks, still in mid-turn, halted by the shock of Fahey’s sudden intrusion. If it weren’t for the path Fahey cleared through the crowd, which even now was re-patching, Johnny might have lost him after all. But just before the path filled itself in he saw Stuart Fahey at the very end, pushing some poor old couple aside. He was wearing a purple hoodie, with the hood up, though it was seventy five degrees out, and a pair of dirty dark blue jeans.

  Now it was Johnny’s turn to push himself through the crowd and make a nuisance of himself. Of course, he was giving them a little more notice.

  “Fugitive on the loose! Move aside folks! Fugitive on the loose!”

  He saw the bobbing purple head about three blocks down, and a young couple, hearing his cry (God bless their hearts) tripped Fahey. Well, the guy did anyway. The girl let out a little squeal of surprise. Unfortunately Johnny still didn’t reach him in time. He watched him get up and dust himself off, muttering something before he was off again.

  He watched Fahey turn a corner, still a block away. Dammit, can’t lose him, CAN’T lose him! He reached the corner, turned. The people on this block were sporadic. No purple head. No sign of sudden intrusion. Everyone was just milling about languidly.

  “Fuck!” Johnny exclaimed. Where did he go?

  Squeak.

  What was that? He looked to his left, a few feet away. A metal door was ajar, the entrance to a building. It creaked open and shut in the light breeze.

  “Umm-hmm,” Johnny grinned, “Got you motherfucker.” He ran through. He could make out the fleeing footsteps several flights up.

  “Stuart Fahey!” Johnny yelled. “You can stop running now! There’s no escape!” He was panting again. The dueling sound of their footsteps going up the stairs sounded like the mad clopping of wild horses. He heard another door creak open. He followed the sound. Up, way up. He was on the roof. Dumb bastard. Johnny took the metal ladder off the landing, at the last flight of steps leading up toward the roof. The jerk off closed the door behind him, trying to fake him out, but he could hear the padding of his feet on the rooftop.

  He banged the door open. Fahey turned, startled. Yes, it was him all right. Even though he’d gone lighter, his hair bleached blonde, and he’d grown a mustache, which was lightly dyed, Johnny recognized him. He’d been chasing him long enough, looked at his picture often enough.

  “Get away from me man!” Fahey gibbered.

  “Man?” Johnny mocked, “I don’t think so man. Your time is up asshole!”

  “I, I didn’t do nothing wrong,” Fahey said, shaking.

  “Nothing wrong?” Now that took the cake. Johnny charged him, slammed him up against the wall of the roof’s storage shed.

  “Why the eyes Fahey? Why did you cut out the one little girl’s eyes?”

  “Because she saw through me. The others trusted me. I didn’t want her to see me.”

  Johnny slammed him again.

  “I had sex with them because I knew they wanted it,” Fahey volunteered, without any prompting.

  “And you cut them apart? Did they want that too?” Johnny said, disgusted.

  “To free their spirits of their bodies. Their bodies were unclean.”

  “Yes! Because you soiled them you sick fuck!”

  “No, no,” Fahey said vehemently. “They were already dirty! I simply freed them!”

  “How about I free you right now?!” Johnny screamed.

  “Ah, you’re twisting my arm!” Fahey cried.

  “That’s right freak. Figured that out yourself did you?”

  He slapped the cuffs on him, the one thing Johnny was allowed to carry at all times.

  “You raped and killed more than twenty innocent girls, and you don’t think you’ve done anything wrong?!” Johnny screamed, grabbing the back of Stuart Fahey’s head like a basketball and slamming his face into the shed.

  “Aaaaah!” Fahey’s face was a bloody mess, his nose broken. “I’ve got rights you know!”

  “Rights?” Johnny laughed, “Rights?” He pulled the hood back, and yanked Fahey’s hair so that his mouth was to the killer’s ear, his teeth bared. “You have no rights. You lost your rights as far as I’m concerned, when you hurt those girls. And since I’m no cop, I don’t have to read you your so-called rights. I just have to turn your sorry ass in. You have the right to shut the fuck up! How about that?”

  Fahey surprised him by slamming his head back into Johnny’s face, the back of his head connecting with his jaw.

  “God! Fuck!” Johnny staggered back. His vision swam for a second, but he regained his footing. Fahey ran, except now he was a lot slower with his hands cuffed behind his back, and Johnny was standing in front of the door leading back down.

  “Where are you going to go?” Johnny asked. “Huh? Where ya gonna go?”

  Apparently the roof’s edge was the answer. The killer looked back at him, shaking.

  “What?” Johnny said. “You’re going to commit suicide? Well boo hoo. Big loss for the world. Come on back. I want the pleasure of seeing you fry.”

  “Don’t step any closer,” Fahey said.

  “Why?” Johnny asked. “Don’t you get it? I don’t care whether you live or die, as long as you pay.”

  “I’m warning you!”

  “Just shut up,” Johnny said, walking toward him. “If you’re going to do it, do it already. Fuck
ing coward.”

  “Fuck you!” Stuart screamed, indignant, as he threw himself off the roof.

  Johnny rushed over. Startled screams from below. He saw his splayed body on the sidewalk. People were already starting to form a circle around him.

  Hmm, didn’t expect that. Johnny shrugged. Oh well.

  “Works for me.”

  7

  It was back home now. When John arrived he simply fell into bed. It was a restless sleep at first. The last few days had worn him out, but they also troubled him, and he couldn’t say why. Perhaps the work was finally getting to him, living in these other worlds, of disturbing behaviors and disturbing pictures. Or it could be that he missed his son. Or maybe it was both. His life disturbed him. In the end he fell into a dreamless sleep, and awoke to the sound of the phone ringing.

  HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT

  1

  Baby steps. Just little steps. She’d pretty much gotten used to walking with a cast on her legs, crutches underneath her, but taking a shower was still bad. She was on her way there now, and it was a case of Saran wrapping the cast, or try to keep one leg out of the tub, and just try not to get it wet. She found many times the wrap tended to work best, though she still tried to keep that leg as much away from the stream of water as possible. Besides, it was really hard to take a shower standing on one leg.

  From the looks of her one might assume that Staci sustained her injury from a sport-related activity, but she actually received it in a car accident. The cocky teen in the low rider red sports car had been speeding around a corner, apparently not realizing, or not caring that Staci still had the right of way. He sideswiped her silver Mazda Miata, crushing the door on the driver’s side, and her leg. She had several breaks but no other part of her body was injured. The kid, of course, came away unscathed, although his ride took quite a wallop, which Staci wasn’t entirely unpleased to notice.