Evil Returns

by Cave, Hugh

  He began walking toward the city, forcing himself to a fast pace at first, then slowing to a shuffle as he tired. Cars passed, but none stopped until he walked at least a mile. Then it was the kind of vehicle a car-loving kid would drive, old but done over, with flashy wire wheel covers and a new red paint job.

  Behind the wheel was a six-foot towhead who had to be a high-school fullback. His blue jeans were a second skin. His red T-shirt yelled in white I'D RATHER BE FISHIN'.

  "Hey, you look tired, mister. Want a ride?" Gratefully, Ken got in.

  "Where you headin'?" the youth asked, putting the car in motion again.

  "I don't know. The police, I suppose. I—we had an accident."

  "We?"

  "My girlfriend and I. The car went off the road back there. Turned over."

  "Jeez." The youth made a face. "Where is she now?"

  "That's just it. A van came along. The driver stopped to pick us up. But the minute she was in beside him he took off like a drag racer, leaving me there."

  "You mean he kidnapped her?"

  "It looks like it."

  "Right here on this road? Jeez! It don't seem possible."

  "That's why it worked, I guess. I just didn't expect it. If I had—"

  "You any idea who the guy was? A van, you say? Commercial? A name on it?"

  "Zodt's TV Service, Vero Beach. And a phone number I didn't really look at."

  "Hell, I know where Zodt's is at. The driver a little skinny guy with pimples and bad teeth?"

  "Yes, yes!" Perhaps this husky teenager would want to help.

  "What's your name, mister?"

  "Ken Forrest."

  "Where you from?"

  "I work for a sisal firm in the West Indies, flying. But I'm an old Florida hand. Went to Miami U."

  "You're a flyer? A pilot?"

  "Yes."

  "Jeez!" A touch of awe sent the voice up half an octave. "Well, look, I bet we can find this guy, if you're game to try. You game?"

  "How?"

  "First we go to his shop. If he's not there, we look up his home address in the phone book and try that. Okay?"

  It was less risky than going to the police. "Okay. And thanks. I don't know how—"

  "Your name's Ken, huh?" The kid thrust out a hand that looked big and strong. "Mine's Wayne. Wayne Lawry. Glad to make your acquaintance."

  "I'll bet you play football."

  "I did last year, but I quit school. Got me a job in a fish house now, in Sebastian."

  They were coming into the city, Ken saw, and Wayne Lawry was a competent driver, handling his rebuilt car with ease in the thickening traffic. You had to be a good driver here; the streets must have been laid out by blind men. As he coped with seemingly senseless traffic patterns, the youth kept up a running commentary.

  "Lemme see now. . . Seems to me that shop was out there in back of where Rent-a-Wreck used to be. Yeah. One of those warehouse-type places on a dirt road off Route One . . ."

  They were on Route 1 now, Ken saw by a highway sign. Traffic heavy. A shopping center on the right, mostly car dealers on the left. What would he and the kid do if the man with bad teeth was armed? He had looked like the kind who might be—and who would use a weapon without hesitation if he felt himself threatened.

  Young Wayne voiced a triumphant "Ha! Sure!" and swung so sharply onto a narrow dirt road that the car traveled for yards on only two wheels. After settling back down with a thud, it abruptly slowed to a crawl, and then proceeded like a stalking cat for another hundred yards before coming to a halt.

  Just ahead was a long aluminum shed with four closed doors. Above one of them a weathered black-on-white sign read ZODT'S TV SERVICE. Under it gleamed a thread of light. In front of it stood the van.

  "Your girlfriend's in there," Wayne Lawry said. "I figured he wouldn't take her home. He's married." He flashed Ken an anxious glance, as though afraid that in this off-beat area, in the dark, his newfound buddy might have become timid. "You okay, Ken?"

  "I'm okay."

  "Leave him to me, hey? I'm younger'n you and most likely in better shape." Sliding out, he took time to close the car door quietly.

  Ken was only a stride behind him as they approached the shop door.

  It was a metal door with no glass in it. No way to see what was going on inside. Wayne put a hand on the knob and tried it. It would not turn. "Locked," he whispered. "Stand back so he won't see you."

  His knuckles beat a tattoo on the metal.

  No answer.

  He knocked again, more insistently. "Hey, Mr. Zodt!"

  Inside, a sound of footsteps. Then a voice close to the door said, "We're closed. What you want?"

  "Got a package for you from Bill's TV." Was there such a place in Vero? Ken wondered. There probably was. This kid was sharp.

  A scratchy, metallic sound as the lock turned. The door inched open and an eye peered out. The voice said, "All right, give it—"

  Wayne Lawry responded by hurling himself at the barrier as though he were only a yard from an opponent's goal with a football in his grip.

  The door clattered wide and he was inside with Ken at his heels.

  It was a poor kind of shop. A couple of dozen TV sets, obviously secondhand, covered the concrete floor on both sides of an open lane to a grimy counter. A wall behind the counter went only partway to the ceiling and displayed a row of calendars featuring nude women. The wall contained an open door to a dimly lit room in the rear, in which Ken could see an old refrigerator, a threadbare couch, and a work bench littered with sets being repaired.

  In front of the couch, in bra and panties, stood Sandy Dawson, both hands behind her back, seemingly stopped in the act of unfastening the bra. On her face was a look of annoyance or anger.

  Anger at what? Being interrupted in the act of undressing for Zodt's pleasure?

  Ken started toward her but stopped. The TV man had backed up a few steps and dropped into a crouch. With knees bent and arms spread wide, he rocked gently on his toes, facing young Wayne.

  "You ain't from Bill's. What the hell you want?"

  "You," Wayne said.

  "Out! Get your ass out of here, God damn it!"

  "Shall I take him, Ken?" Wayne asked over his shoulder.

  "Be careful," Ken warned. The crouch looked too—what? Professional?

  "Try it, junior," the TV man challenged.

  Wayne charged.

  What happened was some form of karate, Ken guessed. Only once before had he seen anything like it: a night in Port-au-Prince when he and a couple of friends had gone to a theater on the Champ-de-Mars to see a Chinese martial-arts film.

  Zodt leaped from his crouch and met the boy's charge with his right foot high. The side of his shoe took Wayne under the chin with a sound like that of a baseball bat clouting a home run. Without even a grunt, the youth flew through the air and sat down in a sprawl.

  The vacant expression on his face said he would not soon get up again.

  Zodt glared at Ken. "You too, sucker?"

  With arms poised, Ken advanced. In the movie there had been a way to counter Zodt's brand of attack. After seeing it, he and his friends had retired to a little self-service bar in a nearby pension, the Etoile, to practice it, sort of. If he could just remember it now. . .

  Zodt shot out of his crouch again, the right foot stabbing upward so swiftly, it seemed only a blur. Ken dipped sideways and grabbed the ankle in both hands. Lunging in close, he wrapped both of his legs around the other's left one, then pushed up on the karate man's right with all his strength.

  They crashed to the concrete together in that position.

  Zodt swore. Then, with his legs being forced apart, he stopped swearing and moaned. When the treatment worsened, the moans became whimpers.

  Not until even the whimpers ceased did Ken let go and stand up, leaving him out cold on the floor. A little distance away, young Wayne Lawry was on his hands and knees, groggily shaking his head as he tried to rise.

  Ken helpe
d him up. "You all right?"

  "Jeez. I thought my head came off."

  "Are you okay?" There wasn't time for this.

  "I guess so. Yeah."

  Striding toward the back room, Ken looked down at the TV man. Zodt lay on his back with his mouth open in a frozen cry of agony. It would have been satisfying to apply one of his own karate kicks to his face, if only to knock the rotten teeth out. Instead, Ken hurried on by.

  "Sandy. . ."

  She was still in front of the couch, reaching behind her to unfasten her bra. A statue. A stop-action, life-size photograph. A figure in a wax museum. Staring straight at him as he took hold of her shoulders, she seemed not even to see him, though the look of annoyance was still on her face.

  "Sandy!" He shook her and nothing happened. Slapped her face and shook her again. Kept shaking her until the look changed into one of bewilderment and recognition flickered in her eyes. Her eyes were still red, he noticed.

  "Where are we?" She was looking around now, confused and frightened. "What are we doing here?"

  It could wait. Turning, he saw her shoes on the floor and her skirt and blouse on a bench where either she or Zodt had tossed them. "Come on, we have to get you dressed!"

  The red in her eyes was fading, thank God. There was still some alien color in the whites, but not so much of it. He helped her put her clothes back on. Knelt to guide her feet into the shoes while she leaned on him to keep from falling. Then he led her to the front part of the shop.

  The TV man was still out on the floor. Young Lawry had the front door open, waiting. "Now what?" the youth asked, rubbing his jaw but grinning as the three of them hurried to his car.

  "I don't know. We have to get to Gifford. If I can rent a car—"

  "Gifford isn't far. I can take you there."

  "Thanks, but I need a car anyway." Helping Sandy into the boy's made-over hot rod, Ken got in beside her. "Didn't you say something about a Rent-a-Wreck place?"

  "Yeah, but they moved. They're north of town now."

  "On the way to Gifford?"

  "That's right. Yeah."

  "Then if we could stop there—that is, if the place is open—"

  "We can sure check," Wayne said cheerfully.

  There was a light on in the Rent-a-Wreck office, and a man at the desk. A credit card produced a small two-door sedan. Ken turned to Wayne Lawry and clasped his hand.

  "You sure you're all right?"

  "Well—" The youth rubbed his jaw again, as he had done several times since leaving the TV shop.

  "You may have to see a doctor. Look, take this in case you have to." Ken fingered a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet.

  The boy shook his head. "Jeez, no! That's way too much!"

  "Take it. Here's my card, too. If you have problems, write me in Haiti. I want to know."

  "Well, gee. . . you're the one got your lady away from that creep, not me."

  "Without you she'd still be there. So long, and God bless." Ken turned away, certain the lad would suffer for being a good Samaritan but not knowing how else to help him. They couldn't stay with him or seek a doctor for him. They couldn't even go back to the wrecked car for their luggage. They were only a few miles now from the house in Gifford where Sandy's daughter was being held prisoner.

  That maddeningly elusive house.

  Was it real, or just a phantom?

  Chapter Thirty-two

  "Can you direct me to the police station?"

  "The police station!" Brian Dawson was now so nearly terrified by what he was daring to do, his voice sounded like steel on glass.

  Fortunately the old man on the curb did not interpret fear as rudeness. Or didn't care enough to make an issue of it. With a shrug, he turned from peering at Brian's not-now-handsome face to point to an intersection just ahead.

  "Police station y'want? Just make a right turn there, mister, and go three blocks. It'll be on your right. Y'can't miss it."

  There was no time to thank him. Getting here from Interstate 95 had used up all but a small fragment of Dawson's initial resolve, and he shook now with an all-consuming fear. Unless he reached the police station in a few minutes, he would not have the courage to enter it.

  His silver Jaguar made the turn on squealing tires, but then had to slow to a maddening crawl behind a truck that hogged the street. Recklessly passing the offender at the next intersection, he covered the second block in only a few precious heartbeats of time. Then, as he feverishly waited for a traffic light to change at the final crossing, the voice of the man in Gifford exploded like a thunderbolt in his brain.

  "Go to the right here, M'sieu Dawson!"

  The light turned green and he sat frozen behind the wheel, incapable of moving hands or feet. The truck growled up behind him, its driver leaning on the horn.

  "No, master," Dawson whimpered. "No, no—please!"

  "Do as I say! At once!"

  He turned to the right, nearly sideswiping a car and earning from its driver an outburst of profanity. Completely disorganized now, he almost welcomed the next command that crackled in his head.

  "Draw up to the curb and stop!"

  The drivers of passing cars eyed him askance while giving him a wide berth. Had the Jaguar been moving less slowly, it would have climbed the sidewalk.

  It lurched to a stop with both right-side tires squeezed out of round against the curb.

  "Now sit and listen. For I am on the verge of losing patience with you!"

  Dawson's hands slid from the wheel into his lap and struggled there like dying crabs. There was a nearly intolerable ache inside his head. Moaning from the pain of it, he squeezed his eyes shut.

  "Before I allow you to resume your homeward journey, m'sieu, take time to consider what may happen if you dare to challenge me again." Though quieter now, the voice seemed even more relentless, in the way a hysterically furious man becomes even more dangerous with his rage under control. "Are you hearing me?"

  "Yes..."

  "And paying close attention?"

  "Yes, yes . . . I swear it!"

  "I could cause you to drive at high speed into an oncoming truck. You agree?"

  Merry Dawson's father squeezed his eyes more tightly shut while moving his head up and down.

  "Answer me!"

  "Y-yes, you could. I know it."

  "I could cause you to drive off the road into a tree. Or into a roadside canal deep enough to drown you. Is that not so, too?"

  "It is so. Yes, master."

  "I could even, if I wished, cause you to stop your car by the side of the road and take the cap off the gas tank and drop in a lighted match, could I not?"

  "You—you could."

  "There are so many ways I could destroy you, m'sieu. So many, many ways, depending on my whim at the moment. Some of them could be most interesting. Think of how the newspapers might report them. 'Last night the son of the President's right-hand man was found naked beside a highway in Virginia with his wrists slashed, apparently a suicide.' You do carry a penknife in your pocket, you know. Such a pretty one, too, with mother-of-pearl inlays in its silver handle."

  Not called upon to reply, Dawson only voiced a moan of terror.

  "Or suppose the papers were to report . . . well, never mind. If I alarm you too much, you may have a legitimate accident. We don't want that, do we? You must arrive here safe with the items I sent you for. No?"

  "What—ever you say, master."

  "Good. Now return to the road you should not have left and resume your journey. And this time keep in mind that you are not alone. Until I no longer have a use for you, you will never for one moment be alone again. Let the ache in your head warn you that Margal the bocor dwells there, reading your every thought."

  Brian Dawson opened his eyes and they overflowed with tears that trickled down his cheeks. His whole body trembled. But he was able to put the car in motion again and, as ordered, continue his homeward journey.

  In Gifford, Clarisse stood beside the bed on which her mas
ter had just finished his dialogue with Brian Dawson. "You are tired," she said, peering with compassion at his fire-scarred face.

  "Only le bon dieu knows how tired," he agreed, exhaling heavily. "This business takes too much out of a man. Think of how many I am required to control—M'sieu Dawson, his wife, his child, and the pilot fellow who, let me tell you, is not easy. And soon I shall have to include Dawson's father and the biggest conquest of all."

  Reaching out, he patted her hand as she bent over to adjust his pillow. "We must find a way to lighten the burden, my pigeon. Think about it, eh? Perhaps we can make use of our mouse, Jumel."

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Something about the woman beside him was not right, Ken decided. She looked like the Sandy of old, except for a hint of red remaining in her eyes, but she wasn't.

  It wasn't a difference he could put a finger on. But since rescuing her from the TV shop he had been uneasily aware of it.

  Now as he drove north on U.S. 1, on what ought to be the final leg of their nightmare journey to Gilford, he glanced at her and said, "Think, hon. Did he give you anything?"

  "Did he what?"

  "Did you use any drugs?"

  "Ken, I've told you." She was annoyed with him for his persistence, he sensed. "I don't remember what happened."

  "Not any of it?"

  "No, not any of it!"

  She didn't even remember wrecking the car, she had told him. In fact, she only barely recalled having turned off 1-95 at the Vero Beach exit. All the rest, including her driving off with Zodt and leaving him there by the road, was a blank.

  She must have been given something by the TV man to make her welcome the creep's advances, Ken reasoned—if only because such a man could be expected to have drugs on hand. And whatever he had dosed her with must have been potent. Her speech was slurred now, and even the slightest movement seemed to require a special effort.

  He ought to be taking her to a doctor. But there wasn't time.

  Vero Beach was behind them. The Sunday night traffic was light. Coming up on the right was a country-style bar with an oversized sign that read JAKE'S PLACE.