Lunatic's Game

by Margaret Lashley

  “Try to keep your concentration,” he said, “Find your balance.”

  His eyes were bright with excitement—the sparkling, wide-open, intense eyes of a madman. Was he going to shock me senseless and try to rip my throat out? I didn’t know. But I’d found myself too curious to refuse him. He’d promised to show me something that would change my world as I knew it. For better or worse, I was ready for the change.

  And, thanks to Beth-Ann, I was also ready with my Glock.

  “Brace yourself.” Grayson took a step back and began to fiddle with the controls on the machine. “What I’m about to show you isn’t for sissies.”

  “Okay. I’m ready.”

  “Here goes.” Grayson pushed a button. An image came on his laptop screen. But this time, it wasn’t a series of static pictures. It was a video.

  Shaky and amateurish, it appeared to have been made with someone’s cellphone as they walked around inside a small ship or submarine. Everything was gray and slick. The hand holding the camera was trembling so badly that after a few seconds of watching, I began to feel nauseated.

  I swallowed against the bile rising in my throat. On the screen, the cameraman entered a small, black, oval doorway. What happened next made me forget all about being sick. I was too astounded.

  Beyond the doorway, three gray, human-like alien creatures looked up from what appeared to be control panels. Despite having no eyelids, no discernable nose, and only a slit for a mouth, I could still clearly read the panic on their faces.

  Suddenly, a cacophony of human voices rang out in confusion, like the drug raids I’d seen on detective shows. A man in military fatigues ran in front of the camera. He yelled at the creatures. “Stop what you’re doing. Now! Release them!”

  The shaky camera panned to the right. Three columnar, aquarium-like tubes glowed eerily in the dim light. Inside each one was a human child no older than ten.

  I gasped.

  “Steady,” Grayson said. “Think of your happy place.”

  In my mind, I climbed into Grandma’s lap as the man with the automatic weapon fired at the top of the first glass tube. It shattered. The child inside cried out. “Daddy!”

  I wrapped Grandma’s imaginary afghan around me as the guy in fatigues fired at the other tubes. They blew apart. The children held captive inside screamed and cried out for their parents.

  The camera panned left. The three gray aliens were in a state of sheer horror, clumped together in a corner like frightened rats.

  Then a man screamed.

  It was a horrific, unforgettable howl. Off camera, the automatic weapon fired repeatedly. The phone taking the video fell to the ground.

  Screams and shrieks and unearthly wails echoed into each other, but whatever was causing them wasn’t captured by the phone. The device lay still on the floor, its camera focused on the ceiling of what surely must have been some kind of alien spacecraft.

  I hugged Grandma and started sucking my thumb. Hard.

  Suddenly, the decapitated head of a gray alien flew into view. It hit the ceiling above the camera with a sickening thump, then fell on top of the cellphone. The image went black.

  “Excellent,” Grayson said.

  “Excellent?” I screeched. “You think that’s excellent?”

  “Not the video. You. Drex, you were able to maintain your alpha waves better than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

  He showed me the graph. My alpha waves looked like a roller-coaster ride that fell into a ravine. “That doesn’t look that good to me.”

  “Believe me, compared to the others, this is phenomenal.”

  “What others?”

  Grayson shrugged.

  “Is this just another made-up test, Grayson?” I wished and hoped and prayed he’d say yes.

  “Depends.” Grayson stared at me with the least readable expression I’d ever seen on a human face. “Do you want it to be fake?”

  “Hell, yes!” I shouted.

  Grayson nodded.

  I bit my lip. “But it’s not, is it?”

  “That information is on a need-to-know basis, Drex.”

  Aggravation climbed up my neck and clenched my jaws like a vise. “Why are you showing me this, Grayson? Why?”

  “Because I think you’ve got a gift.”

  “This pineal twin thing?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “What do you want to use my so-called gift for?”

  “I can’t tell you unless you’re all in.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was discredited because of my pursuit of paranormal entities, like the ones in this film. I believe they’re real, Drex. It’s possible that so are Mothman, Bigfoot, Skin Walkers, ghosts. There’s a whole gamut of things that exist beyond the ability for the rational mind to accept. I’m obsessed with proving that they’re real. And I want you to help me.”

  “Me? Help you?”

  “Be my partner.”

  “Partner?” I muttered, too stunned to do anything but parrot Grayson’s words back at him.

  Grayson nodded. “It’s dangerous. But it’s also the adventure of a lifetime. But Drex, if you take this step, there’s no going back to life as you now know it.”

  I think I’ve already crossed that threshold.

  Someone banged on the front door, making me jump off the bed and rip half my electrodes out.

  “Hey boss man,” Earl called out. “We’re almost out of Fritos!”

  I pressed my molars together and looked Grayson square in the face.

  “So how much does this partner thing pay?”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “WHERE DID YOU GET THE film?” I asked Grayson as I pulled the rest of the pasty electrodes off my scalp.

  He smiled softly. “I have friends in low places. Now do you believe me about the possibility of Mothman?”

  “I don’t know. The two don’t seem related.”

  Grayson frowned. “What would it take to convince you? I’ve seen him, Drex. You saw him yourself last night!”

  “I saw something fly over my head at night. Not exactly the same thing as saying there’s a mutant cryptid on the loose.”

  “Your skepticism is appreciated ... up to a point. For me, the only question remaining is why Mothman would choose to turn up here, in Point Paradise.”

  “I think I might know the answer to that.”

  I pulled the dog-poo-shaped magnet from my pocket. “I got this off Vanderhoff’s refrigerator. She said it was the last thing her niece Mandy sent her from her travels.”

  “So?”

  “Mandy’s been missing for two weeks.”

  Grayson studied the magnet. “Grave Creek Mound?”

  “Yeah. I googled it.”

  Grayson looked up at me and smiled. “You did, did you?”

  “Save it. The place is an old Indian burial mound. It’s in West Virginia, not that far from Point Pleasant where they had the—”

  “Original sightings of Mothman,” Grayson said. He set the magnet down and flipped open his laptop. “Interesting.”

  “It’s the burial mound of a chief or something.”

  Grayson shook his head. “Then why would it warrant an entry by Lewis & Clarke in 1803? Drex, this is the biggest burial mound in the United States.”

  “Okay. So it’s big. I only brought it up because I think it might’ve been possible for—”

  “This mound is over two thousand years old,” Grayson said, paying me no mind. “Good grief. It’s over sixty feet tall and as big around as a football field.”

  “So?”

  “Says here it was excavated in 1838. They found two burial chambers and three bodies inside.”

  “And let me guess. You think one of them was Mothman?”

  “Drex, why would Stone Age people bust their butts moving sixty thousand tons of dirt just to cover three bodies? They didn’t have backhoes back then, remember.”

  “I know that.”

  “They didn’t even have h
orses or the wheel.” Grayson studied the screen again. “Huh. It says the original structure had a forty-foot-wide moat around it, too.”

  “Okay. It had a moat. What’s that got to do with Mothman?”

  “It seems to me like these people wanted to make damned sure those bodies didn’t get unburied. But why?”

  “I dunno. Why did any ancient culture build monuments?”

  Grayson shot me a knowing glance. “Precisely.”

  “Argh!”

  Ignoring me, Grayson turned back to his computer screen. “Huh. It says during the excavation, they noticed the soil around the bodies had turned blue.”

  “Blue? What could cause that?”

  “Copper. Toxins. Radioactivity.”

  Radioactivity?

  “Okay, Grayson. Suppose you’re right. What if they did bury Mothman monsters in there? How could they have gotten out of the mound?”

  “Any number of ways. The excavations. Earthquakes. Coal mining. Injection of industrial waste. Any of those could have unsettled the soil and created an escape pathway. Look.”

  I glanced at the computer screen. The giant earthen heap comprising Grave Creek Mound was dotted with huge trees that appeared to be a hundred years old or better.

  “These trees growing on the mound could’ve disturbed a protective talisman or penetrated a protective barrier. Even time itself could’ve done the deed. It’s had a couple of thousand years to crack it.”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  Grayson punched a few keys on his computer. A map of the town of Moundsville, West Virginia appeared. “Huh. Take a look at this.”

  “What?”

  “Notice what’s just a few blocks away from the burial mound.”

  I glanced at the map. “The Roller Derby?”

  “No.”

  “Dairy Queen?”

  “No. The West Virginia State Penitentiary.”

  “Aha! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Grayson. About how Mothman got here, I mean.”

  “What? You think Mandy gave Mothman a lift on her way home to Point Paradise?”

  “Well ... not exactly. Maybe Mandy got involved with a conman in Moundsville. Or maybe he spotted her in town and marked her as a target. It was the last place she was seen. I mean, it’s plausible. Mandy lived here. And now Mothman is here. I dunno, Grayson. You said everything is interrelated.”

  Grayson’s lip twitched. “Sure. But why would Mothman need a ride when he can fly?”

  I scowled. “Very funny. You said Mothman liked to chase cars. Maybe he followed her car here. Or maybe he likes to chase women, too.”

  Grayson appeared to be mulling over my idea. “Well, it’s the best theory we’ve got to work with right now. Speaking of working with, will you give my partner offer a serious think?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. No pressure or anything, but I’m considering leaving in the morning. With the Feds around, I don’t want to tangle you up in anything you don’t want to be part of. I can continue my investigation alone from the RV, if need be.”

  I let out a bitter laugh. “I’m already tangled up in it. And what about the wiretap contraption you left at Vanderhoff’s? You going to take that with you, too?”

  “No. I bought the tele-bug on the black market. No one can trace it back to me. Besides, she won’t be getting any more calls.”

  My internal alarm started clanging again. I hadn’t mentioned Vanderhoff’s death. “Wait a minute. How do you know that?”

  “Because I—”

  The phone rang. Grayson clammed up mid-confession. Somehow, he knew Vanderhoff was dead without me telling him. Had he killed her after all? I grabbed the phone like it was the governor offering me a stay of execution.

  “Hello?”

  “Bobbie, it’s Paulson. Listen carefully. I’m trapped in my office out at Alto Lake. I didn’t want to tell you, but two convicts escaped from Starke ten days ago. Two FBI agents came out to help me apprehend them, but something in the woods out here killed them, Bobbie. And now it’s after me! I need help—”

  The line went dead.

  I looked at Grayson. “Paulson’s in trouble. The nearest help is all the way in Gainesville. I gotta go.”

  “Not without me.”

  “You need to stay here, Grayson.”

  “Not happening.”

  Whoever or whatever was after Paulson, I knew it wasn’t Grayson. He had an airtight alibi. He was standing right next to me, sticking his Glock in my ribs.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I WAS DRIVING MY FATHER’S Mustang like a hostage on a desperate, life-or-death mission.

  Mainly because I was.

  Grayson was in the passenger seat beside me, his Glock pointed at my vital organs.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed at him. “You ask me to be your partner, then you pull a gun on me? Are you working undercover? FBI? CIA? MIB?”

  I was too afraid to say what I really thought. It might set Grayson off enough to pull the trigger. Was he a deranged physicist? A throat-ripping serial killer? A crazy UFO chaser? An alien with two navels? A real-life Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde?

  Or maybe it was even worse than that. Maybe he was telling the truth.

  “No offense, but I just didn’t have the time to argue with you,” Grayson said. “Is this the fastest this thing will go?”

  I stomped the gas pedal. “Vanderhoff’s throat was ripped out. Did you do it?”

  “No.”

  “But you practically confessed. You said she wouldn’t be getting any more calls. You knew she was dead!”

  “I didn’t know she was dead. And I didn’t know her throat had been ripped out.”

  “Then how did you know she wouldn’t get any more calls? Wait. You made all those weird calls, didn’t you?”

  “No, Drex. I tried to call Vanderhoff this morning to test the battery on the tele-bug. Her phone had been disconnected.”

  “Oh.” My gut flopped. I slunk back in my seat, more confused than ever.

  Grayson stared ahead. “Sometimes a ripped throat is just a ripped throat, Drex.”

  “But how do I know you’re not the killer, Grayson? How can I be sure you’re not some kind of monster trying to save yourself?”

  Grayson turned and looked me in the eye. He shook his head softly and said,

  “Aren’t we all, Drex?”

  WE DROVE ALONG IN THE fading daylight until the darkness and tension were both thick enough to cut with a hacksaw. I blew through Waldo without a word, and pulled onto the road leading to Paulson’s office cabin by Lake Alto Preserve.

  Finally, Grayson spoke. “Listen, Drex. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just needed to go with you, and I knew you’d put up a fight. This Mothman thing could’ve been ripping Paulson’s throat out while we stood around pissing and moaning at each other.”

  I was too angry and scared to say anything. Grayson had a point. Still, lots of serial killers came across as rational people, didn’t they?

  As we approached the driveway to Paulson’s cabin, a gray sedan blocked the dirt road.

  “I had a feeling,” Grayson said. “Good thing you’ve got a gun.”

  What? How did he know?

  “A feeling about what?” I asked.

  “Things not being what they seem. They rarely are. Is that Paulson’s car?”

  “No.”

  “Then he’s got company.”

  “Mothman?” I asked.

  Grayson shook his head. “No. Most likely the FBI. Like I said before, Mothman prefers to fly.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  GRAYSON CAUTIOUSLY climbed out of the Mustang, his Glock at the ready in his hand. He used it to motion me to follow his lead.

  We skirted past the gray sedan and stalked, hunch-backed, the twenty yards to Paulson’s cabin. Our only cover was the darkness of a mere sliver of a moon. As we approached the front door, the yellowish light on the porch flickered. The shower-scene music from Psycho jarred through
my head.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked, hoping it didn’t include Grayson luring me inside and killing me.

  “We’ll have to play it by ear.”

  Grayson shoved me against the outside wall of the cabin. Then he leaned over, reached out, and turned the knob on the front door. He pushed it open with a heel, then flattened his body against the side of the cabin. We waited a beat—I supposed to make sure we weren’t going to be taken down in a hail of gunfire.

  After about thirty seconds of listening to crickets, Grayson took a cautious peek inside. He waved me in.

  Paulson’s place was a sty, literally covered in spider webs, pizza boxes, and crushed beer cans.

  “Geez,” I whispered. “This guy needs a broom.”

  “Help,” a weak voice called out from behind a ratty sofa. It didn’t sound like Paulson.

  I gripped my Glock and inched over until I saw a pair of legs. Nice dress pants and Gucci loafers. Definitely not Paulson. Not on a cop’s salary.

  I whipped around the sofa and pointed my Glock at the guy. “Who are you? What’s going on here?”

  A second later, Grayson was at my side.

  “FBI,” the man gurgled. Only then did I see the blood oozing out from beneath his jacket. “Agent Johnson. Officer ... down ... Terry Paulson ....” He hacked up blood.

  “We’ll find him,” I said. “I know what he looks like.”

  “She ... she.” Johnson fumbled for his jacket pocket, then lost consciousness.

  I reached inside his jacket and pulled out a photo of a red-headed woman in a police uniform. “Terry Paulson’s a woman?”

  “Was a woman,” Grayson said.

  “I like redheads,” Paulson’s voice sounded behind us. “So sue me.”

  I jerked my head around. Paulson was standing with a semi-automatic weapon trained on Grayson. The air hummed around me, and an image of Grandma Selma flashed in front of Paulson, temporarily obliterating my view of him.

  “Drop your guns,” Paulson demanded.

  Grayson and I did as we were told.