Sandman

by William W. Johnstone

“Finally!” Arranger said. He locked the rig in a tight left turn. The trailer sheared off from the fifth wheel, to go rolling into the darkness and break open, spilling Mother Martha’s Yummy Yummy Good for the Tummy candy bars all over the ground.

  The police cars slid to a halt by the disabled unit and the rig. Arranger headed for them, the headless man still hanging on to the windshield.

  Suddenly he stood on the brake pedal and slid to a stop, then bailed out, landing on his belly in the sand. He scrambled for the protection of the cops.

  Some of the cops had ropes in their hands.

  “Get that thing off the truck!” Lone Arranger hollered, pointing.

  Mike looked. Blinked his eyes. “That’s impossible!”

  Lone Arranger stuck out his chin. “Oh, yeah? Well, you get on up there with him then.”

  Peter made a loop and tossed, the loop settling around the screaming naked woman. He jerked and she came tumbling off the hood. Another cop roped her legs, and the two men then tied her up securely. Carefully avoiding her snapping teeth, they also cuffed her wrists and ankles.

  The headless man had been roped and hauled down. He, too, was cuffed, hands and ankles.

  A deputy held out a boot to Goose. “You want this?”

  Goose recoiled as if he’d been handed a live cottonmouth. “Hell, no!”

  “Just get me back to Missouri,” the Lone Arranger said. “I ain’t never leavin’ again.”

  * * *

  The sun finally came bubbling up out of the east, spreading light over the besieged little city of Tepehuanes, and the cops breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  The headless man and his screaming girlfriend had been taken to the hospital, admitted through the basement, and placed in isolation. Along with the snarling and biting head that had rolled up and attached itself to a cop’s boot. That officer, though frightened out of his wits, had managed to free his foot without injury.

  But the damage to his mind was yet to be determined.

  Both rigs had been towed into town and stored at the impounding area. Their drivers, hospitalized for observation, were in isolation—to keep them away from the press, once more gathering like flies on a dead carcass. The drivers’ companies had been notified that the men had been involved in an accident—not their fault—and they would be released in a few days. No cause for any alarm. No charges. No tickets. The county would pay for any and all damages.

  Mary Beth and Belline sat in the lab with Larry Carleson and stared at the bloody head, encased behind thick heavy wire.

  The head snarled and howled and cursed and spat at the doctors.

  They were careful to remain at a safe distance from the spitting, wild-eyed horror.

  “It has to be destroyed,” Mary Beth finally said. “I guess by fire.”

  “Not yet,” Carleson said. “I want tissue samples to study. You all know what we’re witnessing is absolutely impossible.”

  “How do you propose to get those tissue samples, Larry?” Dr. Belline looked at his colleague. “Ask the damned thing’s permission?”

  The head laughed at them. “Die!” Its grotesque mouth formed the word and spat it out. “Die. You’ll all die.”

  Which was what the head had been saying for the past hour.

  Mary Beth stared at Hell’s creation. “You have a very limited vocabulary.”

  The lips peeled back in a semblance of a grin. “If I were you I’d keep my mouth shut, bitch.”

  Her back stiff and her lips compressed in anger, Mary Beth rose from her chair and walked out of the room, ignoring the laughter pealing from the head.

  The eyes of the head shifted to Belline. “What about you, Frenchy? Got anything to say?”

  Belline got up and left the room.

  Larry Carleson sat alone in the lab and stared at the head.

  The head spoke. “Ask and ye shall receive.”

  “What was your name before the . . . accident?”

  “There is no before. Only now.”

  “Why aren’t you dead? You’re a medical impossibility.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Carleson. You know perfectly well where I get my life.”

  “I want to study you.”

  “So come closer.”

  “I’m not that stupid.”

  The head laughed at him, curving its lips back to expose needle-sharp teeth and a very red tongue. “How would you like eternal life, Carleson?”

  “You can do that?”

  “Oh, yes. A favor for a favor.”

  “At what price?”

  The head grinned.

  “No, thanks. I’ll find eternal life with my Savior.”

  “Then the hell with you!”

  “If you won’t tell me your past name, what is your current name?”

  “Henny Penny. Maybe Lucy Goosey.”

  Carleson stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To arrange for you to be transported into the desert and burned. Destroyed.”

  “I thought you wanted to study me?”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Worse than a woman.”

  Carleson stared at the head.

  “Let’s make a deal,” it said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Come closer.”

  “I can hear you very well, thank you.”

  “Coward!”

  “Say what’s on your mind.”

  “Attach me to my body.”

  “Medically impossible.”

  “Don’t be naive. Just stitch my head back on and I’ll take it from there.”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  “That makes you a fool.”

  “Perhaps. But it insures me of something.”

  “Oh?”

  “Staying alive.”

  FIVE

  Stanford stepped out of his room early, just after the sky lightened. He walked to the dining room and enjoyed a hearty breakfast, lingering over coffee, which he assumed would be his last cup.

  He then drove about the town for the better part of an hour, making his peace with God, steeling himself for the ordeal he knew awaited him.

  He also knew there was not one chance in ten million that he would ever see another dawning.

  Not on this earth.

  At seven-thirty on a beautiful Western morning, Stanford parked his rented car in front of the Kelly house and walked up to the porch, ringing the bell. Janis opened the door and smiled at him.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  She greeted him and invited him in, walked toward the den. “I don’t have any coffee to offer you. I don’t drink it and neither does Linda. Mother is still in bed. I think they gave her a real strong pill last night.”

  “That’s good. She needs her rest. Janis, I want you to do something for me.”

  She shrugged. “All right. If I can.”

  “I would like you to wake up your friends and Linda, and then go to the playground at the end of the block, all of you. Wait for me there.”

  “You’ll come for us?”

  “Someone will.”

  She stared at him.

  “Will you do that for me, Janis?”

  “I’m not going to ask any questions.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I’ll go get the others out of bed. How about Mother?”

  “I don’t believe she’ll wake up.” Stanford felt that Paul would take care of that. The boy wanted a showdown. He would set the stage for it. “I don’t believe this will take very long, Janis.”

  Only forever, he silently added.

  Janis nodded her head, meeting the tall man’s eyes for a moment. Then she walked out of the den.

  Stanford sat quietly, waiting as the girls were awakened. They dressed and gathered briefly in the kitchen, to have toast or juice or cereal. They did not speak to him, and he did not attempt to engage any of them in conversation.

  They all knew why he was here. Even Linda. He supposed Janis had quickly br
iefed her.

  And he did not see Paul.

  Stanford didn’t have to. He could feel Paul’s presence. Knew that the devil-boy was wide awake and waiting eagerly for him.

  To destroy him.

  The girls walked through the den toward the front door. They looked curiously at Stanford, but said nothing to him on their way out. Only Janis paused for a moment at the door and looked back.

  “Will I see you again, Mr. Willingston?”

  “I ...” Stanford hesitated. No need to lie to the girl. “That is rather doubtful, Janis.”

  “I . . . see. I think. You don’t believe you are going to win, do you, sir?”

  “That is also doubtful, child.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “Don’t you see, Janis?” He looked right at her. “Someone has to try.”

  She nodded her head, her eyes very serious. “Can anybody beat him, Mr. Willingston?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She turned and walked outside, quietly closing the door behind her.

  Stanford rose from the chair and walked slowly up the hall. He looked in at Connie Kelly. She was sleeping very soundly, very deeply. He took a book from her dresser, and dropped it on the floor.

  She did not even stir at the sharp sound.

  Stanford stepped out of the room and closed the door. While he had been in Connie’s room, the door to Paul’s room had opened.

  Stanford doubted the boy had moved to do it.

  He could see Paul, sitting in the center of his bed, smiling at him.

  Stanford stepped to the open door.

  “Come on in.” Paul’s deep, well-hollow voice made the invitation. “My mother will not wake up unless I call her. I can assure you of that.”

  Stanford stepped across the hall, walked into Paul’s room.

  “Close the door, Pig!”

  Stanford pushed the door closed. Staring at Paul, he could feel hot evil pulsing from the boy.

  Paul clenched his right hand into a fist and extended his middle finger to Stanford. With a laugh, he said, “A salute to you who are about to die!”

  * * *

  Leo banged on Stanford’s motel-room door. No response. With a curse, he looked around him. Stanford’s rented car was gone.

  “Losing my touch,” he muttered. “I should have looked for that first thing.”

  As he was walking toward the car he’d rented, a dark sedan pulled into the motel’s parking lot, Father Gomez behind the wheel. The priest parked, got out, and walked swiftly toward Leo.

  “I awakened this morning from a terrible dream.” Gomez’s words came in a rush. “I dreamed that Inspector Willingston was dead.”

  “He’s not in his room. And his car is gone.”

  “You think he’s gone to face the boy? Alone? My God, why?”

  “Because somebody had to do it, Father. Yeah. I think he’s gone to face Paul.”

  “Have you called Mike?”

  “I was just going to do that. Come on, let’s use my car. We’ll find a phone and call on the way.”

  Walking toward Leo’s car, Gomez glanced at his watch. “How long has he been gone?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Pray for his safety.”

  “Pray that he shoots straight while you’re at it.”

  * * *

  “One of us is going to die, for sure,” Stanford told the boy.

  “It isn’t going to be me. You should have stayed on the island, Pig.”

  “Call it destiny, but we had to meet, Paul. Or whatever your name is.”

  Paul grinned. The lip-curving contained more evil than Stanford had ever witnessed. “Did you enjoy killing your wife, Pig?”

  Stanford maintained his composure. With an effort. “Not particularly.”

  “You know she screwed Mantine, don’t you?”

  Stanford remained silent. Not trusting his voice. He knew Paul was trying to anger him into making a sudden and deadly move.

  Paul laughed. “I was there, you know? In another form, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “She was with child when you shoved that stake through her heart.”

  “I suspected that.”

  “I suppose the child would have been a cousin of mine. Destroying it is reason enough for you to die. Tell me, why hasn’t Mantine killed you?”

  “Mantine isn’t strong enough to overpower my faith. He’s tried, and always failed.”

  “I wondered about that,” Paul muttered in that strange voice. He lifted his burning eyes. “But I’m strong enough, right, Pig?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You know I’m not alone.”

  “Of course. You’re a coward. Like all of your kind.”

  Paul showed no emotion.

  “I know your plan, Paul. I will not—cannot—allow you to commit the ultimate evil.”

  “You can’t stop me. Not now. You might have when you first arrived. But it’s far too late. You know that. My human mother will have my child.”

  Stanford grimaced. “Hideous. Disgusting.”

  “That’s the breaks of the game, Pops.”

  “Janis?”

  “I have plans for her. I’ll have a good time with her, I assure you of that.”

  “No doubt.” Stanford’s reply was as ugly-sounding as Paul’s thoughts were evil.

  The insult bounced off Paul like a velvet BB. He pointed toward the TV set in the corner of the room. It was off. “I’ve been reviewing some past events, Pig. Now it’s your turn.”

  “I’m sure that will be entertaining.”

  “Watch.”

  The set clicked on. The screen lightened. The islands.

  Stanford kept his expression bland. He knew what was coming at him.

  Figures filled the screen. A tall man in a police uniform and a naked woman. Stanford held a sharpened stake in his hands. Sound filled the room. The man’s hard breathing. The woman’s wild shrieking and cursing.

  She leaped at him, her mouth open, a terrible fanged aperture. Stanford swung the heavy stake, striking the woman in the face. She fell back, her face bloody. Stanford tried to ram the stake into her chest. She rolled away and tried to get back on her bare feet. He swung the stake again, hitting her on the back, once more knocking her down. Then he held the stake with both hands, raised it high, and drove the point downward. He was screaming out his rage and disgust.

  It missed her chest, drove deep into her naked belly. She screamed in pain, both hands gripping the wood, trying to pull the hurt from her.

  Stanford kicked her in the head, and jerked the stake from her bloody belly.

  She rolled away, the ground slick with her blood, and came to her feet, screaming and spitting at him, attacking him with fingers like claws, ripping his face.

  He fought her back, both of them bloody. She leaped at him. Stanford held the stake like a spear, the point catching the woman as she jumped. She impaled herself on it, and howled insanely. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

  Stanford fought her to the ground and, with all his strength, forced the stake deeper into her chest, the point finally touching her black heart.

  The struggle ended abruptly when the stake was driven through her heart. The woman’s hands fell to her sides. She trembled, and was dead.

  A man stepped out of the tropical darkness. A priest, carrying a large can of kerosene. He poured the flammable liquid onto the woman’s naked, bloody body. Turned her over and saturated her from head to toe. Stanford had walked away, to get another five-gallon can of kerosene.

  The priest looked at him. “Now, old friend?”

  Stanford nodded. “Yes.”

  The priest struck a match and tossed it on the woman’s head. She exploded in flames. Flesh bubbled, hair ignited, eyeballs melted and ran down charred flesh. More kerosene was poured onto the pyre. Flames leaped into the warm night.

  The men continued to douse the body with kerosene, for an hour, until there was nothing left except cooke
d bits of flesh and charred bones.

  The remains were carefully stirred into a pile, then shoveled up and placed in a large steel box. The lid was locked:

  The scene shifted. A small cemetery behind a church. The men worked hurriedly, as if fearful of the dawn that was but an hour away.

  They mixed concrete in a wheelbarrow. Lined the grave and then placed the locked steel box into the hole, covering it with more cement. Finally earth was shoveled into the pit.

  Exhausted, Stanford and the priest both slumped to the ground.

  The priest was praying.

  Stanford was openly weeping.

  Rain began to pour from the sky.

  The earth seemed to tremble.

  “Oh, my,” Paul said sarcastically. “How touching!”

  Stanford jerked out his pistol and shot the boy.

  * * *

  Leo stopped at a pay phone and called Mike’s office. The chief had just walked in, after snatching a few hours’ sleep.

  “It’s Stanford. I think he’s gone to the Kelly house to face Paul alone. To kill him if he can. Gomez and I are on the way. Meet you there.” He slammed down the phone and raced back to his car.

  As they roared through the streets, Leo asked, “Can he kill the boy? Any hope at all?”

  “I doubt it. He might hurt him. But it’s doubtful he can kill him. The best we can hope for is that he’ll weaken him.”

  “And if that’s the case?”

  “Someone will have to finish it.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “All right—how?”

  “With God’s help.”

  “You know who, don’t you?”

  “I think I do.”

  “You won’t tell me?”

  “The person has to find out first.”

  * * *

  Paul rolled off the bed onto the floor just as Stanford pulled the trigger. The slug just grazed his shoulder.

  Paul screamed. Not a scream of pain, but of rage and black hate.

  The room filled with a stinking yellow smoke, almost blinding the inspector.

  Paul’s brother materialized, in all his hideousness. He leaped through the yellow haze, onto Stanford’s back, his long, stained teeth biting into Willingston’s shoulder.

  With a scream of pain, Stanford hurled the demon from him. Blood pouring from his torn shoulder, he lifted his pistol and shot the creature in the chest, knocking it back. Swinging the muzzle in the direction he’d seen Paul roll, Stanford pulled the trigger.