by Gideon, John
“Hannie!” screamed Robbie, and his voice died in a gag.
The old woman glanced to the right and grimaced fearfully, tromped the accelerator harder, and began to chant in that ancient language at the top of her lungs as the car lurched and heaved down the road.
Robbie cowered from the face outside the glass, strained against the seat belt, and screamed and choked and fought to keep from pissing himself. Above the roar of the engine and Hannie’s shrieking chant came a groaning, moaning growl—it had to be coming from Craslowe’s mouth—that burrowed into his skull, into his sanity, where it erupted like a volcano of hideous promise and threat:
You cannot seek to destroy my handiwork and live. You cannot spy upon me, come prowling around my servant and the object of my demon-love, and live. I will cut off your testicles with a red-hot knife; I will tear out your organs, one by one, while you still live; I will burn out your eyes and tongue; and I will force-feed you a dead man’s shit before giving you to the Giver of Dreams...
Suddenly there was heat on Robbie’s chest, and it quickly became searing. It scorched his shirt and filled the car with an acrid, dizzying smoke, making him writhe and claw wildly at the pouch around his neck. The charm that Hannie had given him for protection against “minor forces”—the ones that could be “troublesome” and “hurtful”—was throbbing and growing hotter by the second. The pain was excruciating. Just when he was certain that he was about to burst into flame, the vial exploded, shredding its skin pouch and spattering its horrid contents all over his front, his face, his hands. The heat, mercifully, was gone.
But Hadrian Craslowe, sorcerer, steward of the Giver of Dreams, was not. His lurid face was less than an inch from the window, contorted with that slavering grin, and his body was twisting and his arms flailing like the wings of some wicked, reptilian flier. The wind stream was whipping at his dark tweeds. He planted a horrible hand on the glass, and to Robbie’s stark terror, the glass began to fizzle and melt.
Hannie turned her attention away from driving—which itself could have been disastrous—and leveled a bright-eyed stare at the thing that glided mere inches from where Robbie sat. Her chanting grew louder. Her face and eyes were luminescent.
Somehow the Jaguar stayed on the road. A blast of bluish-tinged energy rushed past Robbie’s face from Hannie, and he felt more than saw it impact against Craslowe, saw the abominable form falter briefly away from the window. Another blast came, and then another, and Craslowe fell out of sight, just as the Jaguar dashed out of the woods to shoot headlong onto Sockeye Drive, where it whirled with a screech of rubber and a scream of brakes, before Hannie got it under control again.
Stu Bromton, warned by the oncoming roar of a huge engine, plunged into the thicket at the side of Old Home Road and flattened himself against the bark of a pine as Hannie Hazelford’s Jaguar thundered by, a bright streak of headlamps and bloody red taillights. He stood still a moment, catching his breath in the inky blackness, listening to the diminishing roar and wondering just what the hell was going on.
Why Hannie and Robbie had driven from town to Old Home Road, he could not imagine. The fact that they had done so was more than a little unsettling, because the only two inhabited houses out here belonged to Cannibal Strecker and Mitch Nistler, neither of which should have been of any interest to them. Hannie and Robbie had sniffed at the edges of the local crack industry, perhaps without even knowing it, and this gave Stu a case of ants.
Having seen Hannie’s Jag turn onto Old Home Road, he had hidden his Pontiac in the trees near the intersection, pocketed his police-issue flashlight, and started trudging toward Nistler’s house on foot. He certainly could not have followed in the car without giving himself away, since Old Home Road came to a virtual dead end at Cannibal Strecker’s crack house. Casual traffic was nonexistent, and any passing car would have attracted attention. He had walked less than two hundred yards before he heard the sound of the approaching Jag and saw the first glare of its headlights, before he realized that it had reversed its direction and was fleeing toward him at high speed.
Yes, fleeing. Lurching, swerving, thumping over ruts and watery potholes, barely staying on the road as it bore down on him. Stu had just managed to hide himself before the car was past him.
He picked his way through damp foliage back to the road and stood a moment in the bright moonlight, thinking. Mitch Nistler, he knew, was away from his house, because this was Monday, and Monday was delivery day. After carrying a batch of Cannibal’s crack to Seattle, Nistler would return with a load of unprocessed cocaine and drop it at the crack house farther up the road. But that would not happen until much later. Cannibal Strecker and his appalling girlfriend were undoubtedly waiting at the lab this very moment, probably drinking and toking and snorting themselves blind. It seemed unlikely that Hannie and Robbie had gone to the crack house, quite simply because there had not been time. The road beyond Mitch Nistler’s hovel had deteriorated badly, even worse than this stretch, and Hannie would have been forced to drive at a crawl to keep from high-centering the low-slung Jag. She and Robbie would just now be arriving at Strecker’s place, Stu figured, had they been headed there.
So they had stopped at Nistler’s, but only briefly.
Why?
Stu decided to have a look. After a brisk, ten-minute hike—which, because of the fulgent moon, had not even required his flashlight—he stood before the front door of the rickety, neglected house that Nistler called home. The surrounding weeds were nearly shoulder-high, the yard was a nest of refuse and abandoned appliances, and the windows were stygian maws.
How could anyone actually live here? Stu wondered.
As he placed his foot on the first step of the porch, his eyes caught a flicker of movement behind an upstairs window, a trace of greenish light that had the indefinite quality of an old-fashioned, radium-coated watch dial. He put it down to a prank of the moonlight, for clearly nobody was home. The muddy drive was empty of Nistler’s old El Camino.
The lock on the front door was broken, apparently having been recently forced with something like a crowbar, or so suggested the splintery marks on the wooden frame. The door swung easily open.
He stepped into the blackness of the house and immediately choked on the thick, putrescent stench that descended on him. He fought to keep his lunch down, drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and pressed it over his mouth and nose. It smells like a body, he said to himself.
Unwholesome, worrisome thoughts flashed into his head, scenarios in which Mitch Nistler was the perpetrator of the spate of evil doings in Greely’s Cove, the kidnapper and killer who abducted innocent people and snuffed out their lives, who stashed their bodies in the closets of his sorry little house in the woods, or in the cellar or under the floor, or maybe even sewed them into the furniture. But that couldn’t be, Stu reassured himself—not Mitch Nistler, whom he had known since boyhood. The guy was weird, no doubt of that, and was certainly not the type you’d want your sister to marry. But he was no homicidal kidnapper, no malicious blood-fiend. Was he?
Stu snapped on his flashlight and waded deeper into Mitch Nistler’s abode, sweeping the beam over the beggarly contents of the living room, moving into the reeking kitchen where the refrigerator suddenly kicked on and nearly scared him shitless, into the main-floor bedroom with its pestiferous bed and sheets. Amid the squalor he saw nothing that accused Nistler of kidnapping or murder, nothing to indicate that Hannie Hazelford and Robinson Sparhawk had been here. And certainly nothing that explained their hasty retreat from the place.
Then he heard a sound overhead, the crack of old flooring and something that sounded vaguely slithery. He moved out of the bedroom and beamed the light against a warped and splintery old door that he assumed led upstairs. He pulled it open.
A moment earlier he would not have believed that the stench could have gotten worse, but now it was indeed worse, an egregious vapor that stung his eyes and soaked through his handkerchief to torture his nostrils and t
hroat. It was the reek of dead things, of moldering flesh and decaying bones.
He lowered the handkerchief and stuffed it into a pocket, letting his hand fall onto the handle of the Smith and Wesson nine-millimeter pistol that hung in his holster. As he stepped onto the creaking stairway, he wondered why his instincts were raising such a ruckus, why a part of him wanted to turn and run away from this house, to sprint fiercely toward Sockeye Drive and his waiting Pontiac. He fought those instincts, wrestled them back into their holes, knowing that, having come this far, he could hardly run away without first finding answers to his questions. He climbed the stairs, step after creaking step, until he stood on the upper landing.
A few feet ahead was a door that stood partially open, a thin rectangle of scant moonlight that filtered through a dirty window in the bedroom beyond. He pushed through the door, following the flashlight beam into the bedroom, trying not to think about the smell. He stepped on something that seemed fleshy and soft, yet somehow brittle. He lowered the beam and saw that he had crushed the head of a dead cat, or more likely a kitten, judging from its size.
Rats must have gotten to it, he told himself, for much of its flesh was gone, and its orange hide was splayed open, ripped to shreds. He swallowed a clot of spit and kicked the lifeless animal aside, hoping that he had found the source of the stench, though he doubted it.
Movement. To his right. Barely a ripple in the blackness on the fringe of the flashlight beam.
He swept the circle of light across the floor to the far wall and nearly choked at what he saw: a dog, or what had once been a dog. It was a small, dark animal, leaning against the musty wallpaper, lacking its eyes and much of its snout—for that matter, a good share of its body. The hide had apparently been ripped backward from its neck, or so suggested the raglike train of bloody fur that hung from its hindquarter onto the floor. There were gaping holes in the muscle tissue of its shoulders and torso, through which hung tatters of arteries and veins. Incredibly, it was still alive.
Sweet Jesus, rats didn’t do that!
He could not have heard the sounds behind him, the scuffing and slithering, the pops and snaps of the old wooden floor under moving feet, so thunderous were the heartbeats in his head. He swept the beam forward again, toward the bed that stood beneath the moonlit window. A body lay on that bed. A woman’s body, naked and entangled in a crusty sheet.
It was oozing filth onto the mattress, which in turn was oozing filth onto the floor. The flesh was greenish and blistered, spotted with bacterial decay, the limbs splayed over the bed. Mercifully, its face was turned toward the wall.
He moved toward it—one step, then another, not liking the thoughts his mind was weaving, not liking the familiar blond tone of the hair that hung in webby festoons from the body’s head. Another step, and he was loathing now the insane suggestion taking shape in his brain. He stooped over the thing, directed the light into its face—
Her face.
Lorna!s face—still recognizable, despite the discoloration’ and swelling, despite the work of bugs and fungus and maggots. But just barely.
Revulsion shook him, and rage that someone had thus defiled the remains of the one woman he ever really loved. Stu pressed his hand to his mouth, struggled to keep breathing, promised himself that he would not lose his wits and go crashing down the stairs into the night, fleeing.
Revulsion, rage, and certainly fear, yes. What kind of idiot, screamed a voice in his soul, would deny that there was something to fear here? Something that did unspeakable things to harmless little animals? That stole the body of a young mother? That stank the very stink of Hell? Who could deny—
“Those are intelligent questions, Chief Bromton,” said a deep voice from behind him. Stu would have gone for his Smith and Wesson had he been able to move a muscle. But as it was he could only stand like a figure carved in petrified bone, bloodless and white. The world was ending, of that he was sure, for it could not go on in the face of madness like this.
“You may turn around now, if you please.”
Somehow he did. And the world did not end.
A pair of figures stood in the darkness near the door, one tall and old, the other shorter and young. Stu found the strength from somewhere to raise the flashlight and direct the beam onto their faces.
“I’m glad you’re here,” said Dr. Hadrian Craslowe in his House of Lords voice, with his steel-framed spectacles throwing back the light and his dentures flashing with every grinning word. “It’s always nice to have someone with whom to share a secret, especially if that someone can be trusted to keep it.” Stu lowered the light a little, beamed it onto Jeremy Trosper, then back to Craslowe. He searched for his voice. His body felt leaden, as though at any moment it might crash through the floor to the living room below. At last: “I guess you have me at a disadvantage, Doctor.” Not bad at all; his voice was a little thin, a little squeaky, but it didn’t quiver or crack. It hadn’t shamed him. “Maybe you can you tell me what’s going on here.”
“I hardly think that’s necessary or even advisable,” said Jeremy, sounding like an Oxford prodigy. “You wouldn’t like it.”
Understatement of the fucking century, thought Stu. This was the body of Lorna Trosper, the boy’s own mother, lying here in bacterial filth. Any possible explanation of that would certainly be outside the bounds of liking.
“What are you doing here?” Stu demanded of Jeremy, feeling a little stronger now, more aware of his status and authority. “Why aren’t you home with your dad?”
“Ah, those questions aren’t nearly as intelligent as the earlier ones,” intoned Craslowe reproachfully, “the ones about fear. You were right, Chief Bromton, to suspect that there was something to be afraid of here.”
Stu felt an unholy tickling in his guts. He had merely thought those things, not spoken them aloud. “Suppose you tell me what it is,” he managed.
“It is what humans have always feared,” answered Craslowe, “from the time before they were even humans. It is the same fear, I suspect, that a small herbivorous animal feels when it gets the scent of a predator, the instinctual dread of tearing claws and teeth, the terror of being eaten. Man was also once a prey animal, you know, the staple of cave bears and saber-toothed tigers, other carnivores. Today, in every human mind, lurks a remnant of the old fear of claws and fangs, of being caught and eaten, a racial fear that dates back to the era when man himself was prey.”
“You haven’t told me anything,” said Stu, wondering if he had the strength to unholster his pistol, if need be. “Something is very wrong here, and you know what it is.”
“Wrongness is a matter of definition,” said Jeremy, smiling hideously.
“The boy is quite right,” said Craslowe. “But on to other things, for the moment. I said that I was glad you dropped by, Chief Bromton, and I am. You see, now that each of us knows a little something of the other’s secrets, we can be useful to one another.”
“I don’t follow you. All I know is what I’ve seen here.”
“And that should be quite enough, I daresay. I must have your assurance that you will say nothing to anyone of what you’ve seen, and further, that you’ll endeavor to keep Hannabeth Hazelford, together with her crippled Texan friend, away from this house and my estate at Whiteleather Place. The rewards for your cooperation in this regard will be substantial, I assure you.”
“What in the hell are you saying?” asked Stu, becoming increasingly angry. “Are you trying to bribe me?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, that’s precisely what I’m trying to do,” answered Craslowe, his aged eyes glinting. “But more than that, I’m also threatening you. Chief Bromton, make no mistake about that. You see, should you fail to do as I ask, I shall ensure that the entire world learns of your—ahh—arrangement with Mr. Corley Strecker and his esteemed associate, Mr. Luis Sandoval. I doubt that this knowledge would set well with the county sheriff’s office and the Drug Enforcement Administration. I understand that they take a dim view
of fellow law-enforcement officers who throw in with the purveyors of illegal drugs. And prison, I’m told, is especially unpleasant for a former policeman.”
Stu felt the room whirling. He wanted to shout something like You could never prove it! You don’t have any evidence! But that seemed so feeble, so pitifully theatrical, and for all he knew, maybe Craslowe did have evidence. The mere suggestion that he was an evil cop could be disastrous, particularly if it had the ring of truth. Discovery of Strecker’s crack lab, right under Stu Bromton’s nose, would supply that ring. He wanted to struggle, to avoid going down without a fight, but all that came out was, “H-how in the hell did you know?”
“Oh, I make it my business to know everything,” said Craslowe merrily. “You don’t live as long as I have without picking up a variety of useful skills.” In his watery, insanely lit eyes was a power that Stu could not doubt was capable of seeing into the deepest reaches of a man’s mind and soul. No one could keep secrets from Hadrian Craslowe.
“You’re a lucky man, you know,” continued the doctor. “Had you blundered into this house merely one day later—say tomorrow night instead of tonight—we most assuredly would not be having this conversation.”
From somewhere behind him came the sound of slithering, scuffing movement, the moist sounds of ripping flesh, chewing, swallowing. Stu’s skin began to crawl, and his jaw began to quiver.
“It would be best for you to leave now, Chief Bromton. But before you go, let us shake hands on our agreement.” Craslowe glided, not walked, the short distance to where Stu stood. “You will protect me, Chief Bromton, and I will protect you. We will advise each other of any move against the other, isn’t that right? And just as important, we will keep silent about each other’s secrets. Is it a deal?”
Craslowe withdrew his right hand from the pocket of his tweed suit jacket and extended it into the glaring cone of Stu’s flashlight. Without glancing downward, Stu gripped that hand with his own, shook on the deal, and plunged briefly into insanity.
