by Jeremy Bates
A chorus of weak croaks erupted from the other side of the doors, followed quickly by an equal number of gut-wrenching coughs.
“We need to help them!” she said as thunder crashed overhead, so loud it seemed to shake the ground. Forked lighting flashed moments later, searing the sky a blinding white.
Beetle was already reaching for the Beretta tucked into the waistband of his pants. “Step back,” he told Greta, aiming the pistol at the padlock.
“You have a gun!” she exclaimed. “Why—?”
“Stand back!”
Greta backed up.
Beetle squeezed the trigger.
The first bullet ricocheted off the padlock, pock-mocking the metal but otherwise leaving the lock intact. He fired two more rounds—pop, pop—both direct hits. The second smashed the tumblers inside the lock to pieces and left the lock dangling by the hook.
He tucked the pistol away, snapped a branch off a nearby sapling, and poked it through the ribbon of flames, lifting the dangling padlock free of the chain. The padlock struck the cement pavers with a metal clack. He worked on the chain itself next, unraveling its length loop after loop until it was free from the handles and dropped in a slinky coil beside the lock.
“Try opening the door now!” he shouted to those trapped inside the burning structure.
For a long moment nobody replied, nothing happened, and Beetle feared he and Greta had arrived too late. Then, abruptly, the right door swung open. In the hazy gray smoke that filled the church a man stood hunched over, the hooded black robes he wore pulled up over his mouth and nose to form a crude mask so only his eyes were visible. He leapt through the flames, took several drunken steps, as if he’d forgotten how to walk, doubled over, and vomited.
A second man clad in black robes—he must have been close to seven feet tall—followed the first. He carried two unconscious men as if they weighed nothing.
“Nuh…nuther…” the big man said between poleaxing coughs. The two men slipped from his grasp like ragdolls. One landed on his back, his arms spread out at his sides, the other on his chest, his arms folded beneath him.
“Another inside?” Beetle said.
The man’s head bobbed.
“Help them,” he told Greta, nodding to the unconscious men. Then he covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his elbow and ducked inside the burning church.
The heat hit him like a physical force. The cloying gray smoke stung his eyes, causing them to blur and water. He dropped to his knees, so he could see in the space where the smoke had risen off the floor. He spotted the last man. He was several feet to the right, lying motionless on his side.
Beetle seized him by the wrists and dragged him toward the door. At the threshold he scooped him into his arms, stood—and heard coughing from deep within the church.
“Shit!” he mumbled. Leaping through the flames, Beetle deposited the man next to Greta and returned inside the church, thinking, So this is what a firefighter feels like—only firefighters have fire retardant suits and oxygen masks and powerful water hoses.
Crouched low, he scrambled on all fours down the main aisle, and discovered a woman atop a candle-lit altar. She was naked. Her wrists and ankles were bound with rope secured to the eyelets of four iron stakes hammered into the floorboards.
Ignoring the questions banging around inside his head, he untied the ropes and carried the woman outside. He set her down on the ground, then collapsed next to her. His eyes itched maddeningly. His throat felt stripped raw. Each breath was equally glorious and excruciating.
“Greta…” he rasped. He might not know what happened here, but he didn’t think it was an innocent sex game gone wrong. “Go…”
“Not so fast,” the first man out of the church said, standing straight and wiping puke from his mouth. “No one’s going nowhere.”
Still on his knees, squinting against the rain, Beetle whipped out the Beretta and aimed it at the man with the muttonchops and handlebar mustache. “Get back!” he said. “Now!”
The man, who had been approaching them, froze. “Whoa, hold up there, hoss.” He raised his dripping hands. His hair was plastered to his head like a helmet.
“Get back!”
“Listen—”
“Get back!”
He took a single step backward.
Greta helped the naked woman into a sitting position. “Can you stand?” she asked her, taking off her jacket and draping it around the woman’s shoulders.
Still coughing, the woman nodded. Greta eased her to her feet.
“Get behind me,” Beetle told them.
“Now wait just a sec—” Muttonchops said, his words drowned out by an explosion of thunder. “You don’t understand,” he went on a moment later. “We weren’t doing nothing wrong. The little lady there, she’s here of her own free God-given will.”
The woman shook her head vigorously. Lightning shattered the sky. The succession of brief flashes illuminated her face starkly, gouging deep shadows beneath her saucer-wide eyes. “He’s…he’s lying…he killed them…he killed everyone…” Her coughs turned into sobs that wracked her body.
“Who’s everyone?” Beetle demanded.
“Everyone!” she blurted, fixing the man with a murderous glare. “Noah! Steve! Jeff! Austin! You fed Austin to a snake! You fed my boyfriend to a snake!”
“Listen to her!” Muttonchops said. “Too much smoke got into that tiny pinhead of hers—”
“It’s true! I heard you! And Jenny…” She issued a low moan, as if reliving some terrible moment inside her head. “I saw you…you raped her…all of you…she’s in there…the church…” She devolved into inarticulate noises.
Beetle glanced at the church. His stomach sank. It was nothing but a gigantic fireball now. If anyone were still inside, they were dead. He didn’t know what was going on, but even if half of what the woman was saying was true, it was something much bigger than either he or Greta had imagined, or were prepared to deal with.
“Greta,” he said without taking his eyes or pistol off Muttonchops, “take her back to the motel, call the police, get them out here.”
The big man, who had been slowly getting his coughing fit under control, now wiped a meaty paw across his slobbering mouth and pushed himself to his feet. He glanced at Beetle’s pistol, then at Muttonchops. Beetle didn’t like the dumb, cruel look he saw in his eyes. It reminded him of a dangerous dog awaiting an order from its master.
“Greta,” Beetle said. “Get going, now—”
Muttonchops tipped his head in a barely perceptible nod. The next moment he and the Goliath charged Beetle simultaneously. Beetle fired a round at Muttonchops, clipping him in the shoulder, sending him to the ground. He swung the pistol at Goliath and fired two more rounds, point blank into his chest. Goliath stiffened and slowed but didn’t stop, and then he was right in front of Beetle. He batted the pistol into the flames. In what seemed like the same instant his huge hands were around Beetle’s throat, lifting him clear off the ground. Beetle straight chopped him on either side of the neck. It was as effective as striking stone. He dug his thumbs into the brute’s eyes. Goliath roared in pain and launched Beetle through the air. He landed on the wet gravel, the sharp pebbles tearing the skin off his chin and both elbows. He rolled over to find Goliath rushing toward him. Rage had transformed his ugly, blunt face into something inhuman.
Beetle scrambled backward, splashing through shallow puddles, away from the impossibility barreling down on him—I shot the fucking guy point blank—but he was too slow. Goliath reached him in a few strides and lifted his booted foot, as if to squash him like a bug.
Beetle slipped his legs around the man’s ankle, locked his own ankles, and corkscrewed his body. Goliath fell like a tree, stiffly and inelegantly, issuing a strange womanly yelp when he struck the ground.
Beetle climbed onto Goliath’s back and locked his arms around his neck in a chokehold. Despite Beetle’s size and strength, Goliath lumbered to his feet with monstrou
s ease. Beetle squeezed his arms tighter, in an equal effort to subdue the man and hold on. His feet dangled in the air.
Goliath reached a hand over his shoulder and swatted Beetle with powerful blows. Then he staggered, and Beetle filled with hope. Either the gunshot wounds to his chest were finally exacting their toll, or the chokehold was cutting off sufficient airflow to his brain.
Goliath spun left and right, trying to shake Beetle free. Beetle felt like a cowboy, riding a maddened bull. He held on with all his willpower and strength.
The blows became weaker. The spinning lessoned.
Then Goliath staggered again, this time dropping to one knee.
His calloused fingers pried at Beetle’s arm in a final, desperate attempt to free himself. He was making a dry, wheezing sound that was almost lost in the drumming rain.
Beetle wondered if he was trying to speak, to beg for his life.
Finally he shuddered, then collapsed to his chest, dead.
While the stranger wrestled with the giant, Cherry attacked the man named Cleavon, shrieking like a woman possessed. She had never wanted to kill another person in her life, but she wanted to kill Cleavon right then. She would claw his eyes from his face if she could, she would spit in their bloody sockets, and she would laugh while doing it.
The man lay on the ground, cupping his injured shoulder where he had been shot, trying to rock himself to his knees. He saw her coming and kicked. She dodged his foot and fell on top of him, unleashing a fury of blows.
“Bitch!” he growled, shoving his hand in her face.
She bit his fingers to the bone.
He wailed, tried to yank his fingers free. She bit harder and tasted sweet, coppery blood. She shook her head, trying to sever the digits.
“Cunt!” he gasped and walloped her in the face so hard he might have broken her jaw. She seemed to fall through space, seeing stars.
Greta had picked up the wet, slimy branch Beetle had used to work the chain free from the church doors. Now she stood indecisively with it raised in a threatening gesture, unsure whether to help Beetle or the naked woman. When the man with the muttonchops walloped the woman in the side of the head, Greta made up her mind, rushed to the woman’s aide, and began striking the man with the stick. He shouted obscenities at her and tried to protect his face. She got three solid licks in before he grabbed hold of the end of the stick and tugged it free from her grasp. He struck her with it across the shins, flaying the bare skin below the hem of her dress. She cried out and fell as he rose to his feet. He whipped her several times before the stick snapped in two. He tossed what remained away, then started toward one of the vehicles.
Wiping blood and rain from her eyes—the stick had sliced a gash across her forehead—Greta staggered after the man. She didn’t know what she was doing. He was obviously fleeing the scene, and maybe it would be for the best to let him do so. But she was filled with adrenaline and hate, and she grabbed his hair from behind, yanking it as hard as he could.
“Aiyeee!” he said, stumbling backward.
She released his hair and gripped his injured shoulder, digging her nails into the bloody bullet wound.
He shrieked louder.
Nevertheless, he was not only muscular and wiry, but resilient, and he didn’t go down. Instead he grabbed a fistful of her hair, bending her sideways, and growled, “Eat this, bitch!” He dragged her to the nearest car and slammed her face against the hood, smashing teeth loose from her gums and knocking her senseless.
CHAPTER 29
“Trust is a tough thing to come by these days.”
The Thing (1982)
Spencer made a left onto Grandview Lane, an unpaved rural road that switch-backed to the top of Eagle Bluff. The posted speed limit was twenty miles an hour, but it was wise to slow to half that when rounding the hairpin corners, especially in a full-blown storm.
The Volvo’s windshield wipers thumped back and forth like a metronome, yet even on the fastest setting they barely cleared the water gushing down the windshield. Inside the vehicle, however, it was comfortable, with heat humming softly from the dashboard vents, warming the chill air. Paul McCartney sang of yesterdays on the tape cassette.
Spencer had been a fan of the Beatles since he saw them on their 1965 North America tour at the Cow Palace in San Francisco. This was a year before the official inauguration of the Church of Satan. He had gone with Anton LeVay, who had used his connections to get them backstage passes, and while LeVay had been tripping out on acid with Ringo Starr and George Harrison, Spencer had spent an hour speaking to Yoko Ono. They’d been alone, sipping wine in a room with comfortable sofas, but aside from this all he could recall of their time together was the nearly uncontrollable urge he’d had to strangle her to death. Although he had these urges often, the reason for the intensity of that particular urge, he suspected, was because she was famous—or at least famous by association to someone famous by merit—and he had never killed a famous woman before. But of course killing her had been out of the question. He would never have gotten away with it. So he parted her company with a pleasant farewell and a kiss on the cheek.
When John Lennon was murdered fifteen years later, Spencer had liked to think he was indirectly responsible for the man’s death. Because if he’d killed Yoko Ono that day in 1965, John Lennon’s life would have followed a different path. He might never have purchased the apartment at The Dakota. He might never have returned from Record Plant Studio on that fateful night. And even had the delusional man who shot him tracked him down elsewhere, the bullet he fired might not have been fatal.
Time, Spencer thought, was like a coat with an infinite number of pockets containing an infinite number of futures: you never knew what lay hidden within each.
A reflective yellow road sign warned of an upcoming turn.
Spencer slowed to fifteen miles an hour and reminded himself to return the jerry cans to the shelf in the garage, and to wash his hands in the first-floor bathroom, to eliminate any trace smell of gasoline. He and Lynette no longer shared the same bed. He had taken to sleeping in the guest bedroom some years ago, so now it was no longer the guest bedroom, he supposed, but his bedroom. Even so, when the news of Mary of Sorrows church burning to the ground during the night reached her tomorrow, he didn’t need her wondering if she could smell gasoline as she puttered about the house. She wouldn’t be able to, of course, he was being paranoid, but being paranoid had served him well throughout the years.
At the summit of Eagle Bluff, Grandview Lane flattened out and continued for another half mile. He passed only two other residences, both impressive country estates with gated drives and three-car garages. Grandview Lane was the most desirable address in all of Summit County, offering sweeping views of Boston Mills Country Club far below.
Spencer’s home sat on two lush acres at the end of the road. It was a modern design made of reinforced concrete and glass, oval in shape, the second floor off-centered from the first in an avant-garde sort of way. He had designed it himself and had collaborated with the architects during the planning phase, then with the builders during the construction phase, making sure no corners were cut. It had been an expensive project, but money had not been an issue. He’d been investing in the local real estate market for nearly twenty years. He had a savvy knack at finding diamonds in the rough, and knowing when to cut his losses. Consequently he’d amassed an impressive portfolio of properties, all of which were occupied with long-lease renters, providing him a substantial cash flow on top of his regular income.
The Volvo’s headlights fell upon a rain-whipped police cruiser parked in the roundabout driveway in front of his home. Lights burned behind the Levolor blinds in several of the first floor windows.
Spencer was so surprised he almost slammed the brakes. His immediate impulse was to turn around and get the hell out of there. He didn’t do this. His headlights might have already been spotted. Moreover, whatever business had brought the police to his home at this late hour couldn’t be
related to Mother of Sorrows church. He had set the fire all of ten minutes before. This had to be an unrelated visit—but concerning what?
Had something happened to Lynette?
Yes, that had to be it. She’d had a stroke, or a heart attack.
Spencer wanted to believe this was the case. He wished fervently it were so. Yet he couldn’t convince himself of it. The timing was too coincidental.
Spencer parked behind the black and white—“Sheriff” stenciled next to the police department shield—and cut the engine. He retrieved his briefcase from the passenger seat, climbed out, and hurried through the downpour to the front stoop. He took a moment to collect himself at the door, then swung it open and stepped into the marble foyer. The house was silent. “Hello?” he called.
Alan Humperdinck, the Summit County sheriff, and a young deputy, both wearing gray rain slickers over their uniforms, stepped from a doorway a little ways down the hall. They had been in the living room.
Humperdinck was in his sixties, on the cusp of retirement. He had a sun-weathered face and hard gray eyes, cop’s eyes, suspicious, wary. Spencer had been introduced to him a half dozen times over the years at community gatherings and festivals. However, they’d never exchanged more than passing pleasantries. The deputy couldn’t have been more than twenty. Beneath his wide-brimmed Stetson, his face was gaunt, white, anemic.
“Sheriff Humperdinck,” Spencer said, allowing his genuine confusion to inform his tone. He took a step forward and extended his hand in greeting.
Humperdinck merely looked at it with an expression equal parts surprise and loathing, and right then Spencer knew Lynette was fine. They were here for him. Somehow they knew about the church. It was impossible, but there was no other explanation for the frosty—no, the downright rude—reception.
Spencer lowered his hand and adopted a concerned expression. “What’s happened, Sheriff? Is it Lynette? Is my wife all right?”
