The Wicked

by James Newman

  “David,” George said, and David’s attention shot back to the old man. George nodded toward the front of the patrol car. “Look.”

  David gasped.

  He barely even noticed that Deputy Keenan had come out of the house now and was walking zombie-like back to the patrol car, when he saw the name on that mailbox at the curb.

  The name of the family who lived here. The name of the family Hank Keenan had just slaughtered in cold blood, in the name of someone—or something—called Moloch.

  In stylish calligraphic letters, the word was underlined by a painting of a single thorny rose: KEENAN.

  CHAPTER 44

  “But we didn’t do anything!” David shouted at the man behind the desk. “That motherfucker tried to kidnap my daughter!”

  “Watch your mouth, sir,” said the deputy who had fingerprinted them and filed the report at Keenan’s request. He was a skinny middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a face stippled with faint acne scars. His fingers were permanently stained blotter-ink-black and nicotine-yellow. His gold nametag read HARWOOD. “I’m a church-goin’ man, don’t appreciate profanity.”

  “This is such bullshit.”

  “Sir—”

  “Look,” said George Heatherly. He tilted his head toward Deputy Keenan, who had just walked out of Sheriff Guice’s office, passed them without a word, and headed in the back where the cells were located. Keenan seemed to exist in his own little world now, as if after bringing them in he had become oblivious to their presence altogether. “You’re arresting the wrong men here. Do you understand what we’re trying to tell you? That psycho just killed his whole family.”

  “And how do you know that, sir?” asked Deputy Harwood.

  “We were there.”

  “You saw this with your own eyes?”

  “We heard it,” David said, and George explained, “We saw the muzzle flashes through the window.”

  Harwood stared at them, and it was obvious from the expression on the man’s face that he believed their story about as much as he bought their claim of having nothing to do with this assault-and-battery charge on which Hank had hauled them in.

  “We’ll send a man out there,” Harwood said once Deputy Keenan was out of earshot. “But let me tell you something. Hank is one of the Department’s best. He’s a respected man in this town. A member of the Fire Department, president of Morgan County’s Dads Against Domestic Violence chapter. Not to mention a lifelong friend of the sheriff. If this is some kinda sick joke, you better believe you two are gonna regret it.”

  “It’s not a joke,” said David.

  “He killed them,” said George.

  “Fine.” Harwood came around the counter. “Now come with me.”

  “I wanna talk to Sheriff Guice,” George demanded. “He’ll listen to what we have to say.”

  “In due time. Walk.”

  The jail stank of stale piss and sweat. Attached to the rear wing of the station, there were only eight cells in the place, four on each side of the corridor. The walls were an ugly lime green. Each cell held a single lidless toilet and a dirty cot. At present, the facility was empty of prisoners, save for David and George. Their footsteps echoed through the corridor like the ghosts of past inmates tapping out bored rhythms on the jailhouse walls.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” David groaned.

  “We’ll make it,” George said. “Hang in there.”

  Deputy Harwood ushered them into a cell together, locking the heavy iron door behind them. When it clanged shut, the resulting sound seemed so harsh, so final, it brought tears to David’s eyes.

  “We get a phone call, right?” David asked as the deputy removed their cuffs through the cell bars.

  “Sit tight,” Harwood replied. “We’ll get to that soon.”

  David shook his head, gazed at his surroundings. He tried to breathe through his mouth as the stench of the jailhouse assaulted him like a heavy fog. He rubbed at his wrists, wincing, but it felt good to have his hands free at last.

  “This sucks.”

  “What time does the maid drop by?” George asked Harwood as the deputy turned to leave.

  “Funny,” Harwood said. But then the deputy stopped in his tracks as soon as the word was out of his mouth. He looked toward the rear of the jail, to the end of the corridor between the cells.

  “Hank?”

  All three men had seen Keenan walk back this way, when David and George were being booked, but now he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’d you go, man?”

  David joined George at the bars now, holding onto the cold steel as he tried to peer out toward the rear of the jail. He had already begun to feel like an old pro at this. All he needed was a mirror to hold through the bars, and the image would be complete. He sighed.

  Harwood left his prisoners standing there and headed down the corridor at an urgent trot.

  “Hank?”

  George and David glanced at one another, puzzled.

  Harwood’s jaw dropped.

  The heavy steel door at the back of the jailhouse stood open. But the only way to unlock that door—from either side—was with a succession of keys on a heavy iron ring that stayed beneath the desk out front. And then there were the multiple deadbolts to get past.

  “What the...?” Harwood began, but his voice trailed off.

  Birds chirped in the back alley behind the jail. A hint of early-morning sunlight washed across the steps. Somewhere in the distance the beep-beep-beep of a reversing garbage truck wafted in with the breeze like a muted, insufficient alarm indicating that the back door had been breached.

  But no Hank Keenan.

  Just that heavy metal door, standing wide open.

  And the khaki puddle of Keenan’s uniform, lying there abandoned in the threshold.

  HE’S COMING had been scratched into the wall above the cell’s toilet in long, narrow letters. Below that, in pencil: EAT SHIT, followed by a crude drawing of what looked like a mutated anus with teeth.

  David sighed, looked away from the scrawled memos left by prisoners before him. He tilted his head to one side, and his neck made a popping noise. He stretched. Groaned. Rubbed some more at his raw, red wrists.

  “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

  “This whole goddamn town’s going to hell in a hand basket,” George said.

  “No kidding,” David said. “It’s like everybody’s lost their fucking mind.”

  George cleared his throat, walked away from the bars and sat on the dirty cot against the wall. The thing squeaked like something slowly dying beneath his weight.

  The old man sighed, rubbed at his temples. He stared at David for a long minute or two, as if debating whether or not he should say whatever he was about to say.

  “I don’t think I have to tell you that Morganville hasn’t been the same since the night Heller Home burned down,” the retired Marine finally said.

  “I figured as much,” David replied.

  “I don’t mean what you think I mean, David. There’s a lot more to it.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m gonna ask you a question. You may think I’m crazy, and that’s fine. All I ask is, don’t insult me by laughing in my face.”

  David glanced down at the dirty cement floor before plopping down there, his back against the wall. “Far be it from me to insult an ex-Marine.”

  George didn’t laugh. His mind seemed preoccupied with much darker thoughts.

  David said, “So? Shoot.”

  “Do you believe in demons?”

  David blinked several times fast.

  “I’m serious,” said George. “You know, like in the Bible, principalities, powers of darkness. Shit like that.”

  David said, “I don’t read the Bible much.”

  “Humor me, then.”

  “Okay,” David said. “No. I don’t think I do. Believe in demons.”

  “Why not?”

  David shrugged. “I’m no
t even one hundred percent sure I believe in God, George. Much less devils and demons.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I do believe in evil,” David said. “But not Evil with a capital ‘E.’ I think it exists, but in the heart of man. I don’t believe there are invisible forces out there, things with horns and forked tongues, things that can possess us like something out of The Exorcist.” David gave a nervous little laugh at that, but otherwise went on without pausing. “I believe it’s in here.” He jabbed a thumb into his own chest. “Inherent. The ‘heart of darkness’ and all that.”

  George Heatherly’s eyebrows rose. He nodded slowly, seemed to be in deep thought for the next few seconds.

  “Good,” he said finally. “Because I don’t think I believe in demons either.”

  David almost laughed. George Heatherly was one in a million, no doubt about that. “Then why did you ask?”

  George sounded very tired, as if he could lie down to sleep right there on that dirty cot and sleep forever. “I don’t know. I’m just an old fool, I guess, growin’ senile before my time.”

  “What are you getting at, George?” David said.

  “Shit, man...I don’t know why I even brought it up. There just seems to be so much about this town that I don’t understand anymore.”

  “Like what?”

  “I used to think I knew this place. It was home. I was born and raised in Morganville, lived here all my life except for my stint in the Corps. My kids grew up, moved away. My daughter, Janie, when she got married, her and her husband wanted me to come with ‘em, out to California. I love California, David—spent several years there when I was with the Corps—but I never wanted to live anywhere else but here. In Morganville. At least, I could say that at one time. But these days, I find myself thinking about leaving more and more. I don’t like it here. Haven’t for quite a while.”

  “Since Heller Home burned down,” said David.

  “That was the start of it all, yes.”

  “Now I’m going to ask you a question,” David said.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  David took a deep breath, said, “What do you know about this...Moloch?”

  George stared at him, his expression tight.

  “You’ve heard that word before, haven’t you, George?”

  George just kept staring at him, his old-man eyes so sad and oddly yellow.

  “What does it mean?” David said. “Is it a name? Who is he? What is he?”

  George still said nothing.

  “He did something to that man back there, at my house, didn’t he?” David asked. “Whatever this Moloch is, he did something to that deputy.”

  George bit his lower lip, bowed his head. “You think the guy was...possessed, somehow?”

  “Jesus Christ, that sounds so crazy,” David said. “We told one another, not two minutes ago, that we didn’t believe in shit like that.”

  “Yes,” George said. “We did.”

  “But there’s something going on.”

  “Yes.”

  “And as desperately as I try to deny it, I don’t think it’s anything that has a logical, scientific explanation.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Fuck, man, what the hell are we saying?” David said. “We sound like we’re stuck in a bad horror movie.”

  David winced as his foot began to fall asleep. He stood, never taking his eyes off his friend.

  “Talk to me, George. This Moloch I keep hearing about—who is he?”

  Finally the retired Marine looked up and David nearly gasped when he saw the shiny tear that rolled down the old man’s wrinkled cheek.

  “You want to know who he is?” George asked. “I’ll tell you what I know. Which ain’t a whole helluva lot. Not that it matters anyway, though. ‘Cause it’s not gonna do us a damn bit of good...”

  CHAPTER 45

  Sheriff Guice stopped at the house on the corner of Cangro Boulevard and Tenth Street and quickly exited his patrol car. He didn’t expect to find anything, it was his job to check it out anyway.

  Damn, what a night. First the accident out at the old Heller Home property, the casualty that turned out to be Joel Rohrig’s gay lover, then the thing at that new family’s house. He’d been forced to give the attempted kidnapping call to Hank. And now this, something about Hank’s family being murdered in the middle of the night?

  And supposedly at the hands of Keenan himself?

  Impossible. Surely he had misunderstood Al Harwood on the patrol car’s squawking radio.

  Couldn’t be.

  Still, he had to check it out.

  Guice saw nothing out of the ordinary yet. The property was dark, quiet. The eerie blue glow of a television set was visible through the bay window at the front of the home. Someone was up. Probably Marjorie, Sam assumed, getting ready for her job at the Bonworth factory over in Hendersonville.

  Guice cleared his throat, took the steps onto Keenan’s porch in two big strides, and wondered what he would say to Hank’s wife when she opened the door. He sure as hell didn’t want to scare her. And God knew the sheriff standing on your doorstep at five o’clock in the morning qualified as one of those “no-way-it-can-be-good-news” moments.

  Guice flinched as the door swung inward beneath his knock.

  Ah, shit.

  The tinny sound of canned sitcom laughter on the television filled his ears. Otherwise, the house was silent.

  Guice unholstered his .357, swallowed, and stepped through the threshold as quietly as possible, his heart pounding in his chest.

  He crossed himself as he stepped through the foyer of the Keenan home. His mouth was dry, coated with the metallic taste of his own fear.

  No, not fear, he realized. Not only fear.

  The unmistakable odor of blood. Lots of it.

  He turned the corner into the Keenans’ living room, and found he was correct.

  CHAPTER 46

  George told David about Moloch, what little he knew about that word, anyway, which for the most part consisted of news reports and town rumors detailing Bobby Briggs’ fascination with variations on that word. How he had scribbled it on his arms during his trial.

  “Is this all because of him?” David asked.

  “I think so. For the most part.”

  “What was the little fucker into? Satanism? Devil worship?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, David.”

  David sighed, shook his head. “Jesus Christ. This gets weirder and weirder all the time. What do you think he is, George? I mean, what do you really think Moloch is?”

  “I don’t know what he is,” George replied, “I don’t know where he came from, or why he’s here in Morganville, but I damn well believe he’s real.”

  “Is he...a demon?”

  “I didn’t say that.” George bit at his lower lip. “Hell, I don’t know, David. You and I both agreed that we don’t believe in such silliness. But everything that’s happened in this town...it makes me question everything I’ve ever believed. Something is out there...something is responsible for the deaths. All the craziness. I just don’t know what.”

  “Do you think we can stop him? Because I’ll help you, whatever you need.”

  “You want to be a hero, do you, David?”

  “No, but...”

  “Well, our first step is to get the hell out of here. There ain’t a damn thing we can do in this dump. Let’s get home—then, we’ll see what happens.”

  Ten minutes later, Sheriff Guice arrived at the station. He was short of breath, his forehead stippled with droplets of sweat.

  “He killed them, Frank.” His eyes were wide and wild. “Jesus God...he killed them all.”

  “Sir?”

  “They were telling the truth. Hank killed his whole family. With a shotgun.”

  “Oh, Lord, no.”

  “I want an APB out on Hank. And I want it yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And let those two out.” />
  “Sir?” Al Harwood said again, as if it was the only word he knew.

  “You heard me. Let those two gentlemen out. Now. I need them. I need Little’s brother-in-law. We’ve got three bodies back at Hank Keenan’s house, and two of them are children.”

  “Dear God,” said Deputy Harwood, and his face went as white as the top of his desk.

  “I need you to fill me in on everything that happened tonight,” said Sheriff Guice as he slid into the front seat of his patrol car.

  David and George got in the back, slammed their doors.

  “What good would it do?” David said. “Everyone thinks we’re the criminals here.”

  “I don’t,” said Guice. “I believe you. I saw the evidence myself.”

  When neither David nor George said anything for several minutes, the sheriff said, “Look, I saw a man earlier tonight who looked like his cock had been chewed off, for Chrissake. Not to mention the bodies of my best friend’s family, dead at the hands of my best friend. There’s very little you could say that I wouldn’t believe right now.”

  David’s stomach churned. He looked ill. He glanced toward George, and the old Marine’s expression mirrored his own.

  “I’m all ears,” Guice said.

  “Okay.” David cleared his throat and proceeded to explain to Sheriff Guice everything that had happened since he first received Joel’s call—six hours ago, had it really been that long?—at the hospital. He told him all about Fred Dawson, and how they had subdued him until the deputy arrived, and how Keenan had treated them after closing the door and spending several minutes alone with the man in the Santa Claus suit. David held nothing back. Perhaps, he thought, Sheriff Sam Guice might turn out to be their only hope through this whole mess. God knew they needed someone who might believe their insane story, who would listen without committing them to the sanitarium in Fleetwood before they were halfway finished.

  “I see,” Sheriff Guice said several times, but for the most part he allowed David to speak without interruption. He kept his eyes on the road as he drove out of Morganville’s business district, only glancing in the rearview mirror every couple of minutes to assure David that he was listening.