Hartman landed on the cruiser’s trunk, talons from his feet scrabbling along the slick painted metal. His gazed burned on Toby, his mouth agape. He folded his wings behind him and extended his claws.
Toby threw himself away from the car, rolling in the gravel and glass. He hadn’t had time to grab the bag holding his filled darts, but judging by how Hartman staggered, he didn’t think he would need them. “Benny! Mike and Scott?”
Almost here, said Benny in his mind.
Hartman slipped and fell on the trunk’s lid, then slid off the car altogether, landing in the gravel on his hip. He still glared at Toby, but his efforts to regain his footing were more comical than concerning.
Toby fired his remaining five darts into the demon and treated him to a nasty smile as Hartman quivered and thrashed. He circled wide, giving the flailing claws a wide berth.
Hartman groaned and lunged in his direction but missed, his claws sweeping through thin air.
“How did he get out?” asked Mike, stepping out of the grove behind him.
Toby shrugged and continued loading his magazines while keeping an eye on Hartman. “Where’s Scott?”
Hartman flopped on his back, drool sliding out of the corner of his mouth.
Mike gestured behind him at the apple grove. “Last I saw him he was moving slow. It’s hard to walk and scan the sky for a little yellow magpie at the same time, I guess.”
“You didn’t get him?”
“LaBouche?” asked Mike. “No. He got away again.”
Toby grimaced. “That’s no good.”
“In more ways than one,” muttered Scott, stepping out of the trees.
“We’ll need chains again. I’ll see if I can figure out how he slipped out of them last time.” Mike turned and approached the front doors.
“Forget that,” said Toby. He approached Hartman, who was staring up at the sky with bleary eyes. With a fresh magazine in his tranquilizer rifle, Toby pointed it at the demon and fired five more darts into him, point-blank.
“Shouldn’t we keep him around? Think of the information we could learn from him.”
“Not worth the risk.” Toby shook his head. “Besides, we got answers to most of our questions. If we need more information, there’s a woman living near Batavia who would suit.”
11
Anger burned through LaBouche as he flew south. They kidnapped a demon! Interrogated him like some…some criminal! He had to get back to Oneka Falls, had to tell Chaz what was going on.
He had to tell Chaz that the war was starting in earnest.
12
Ice cold water splashed across Kelly-Ann, soaking her clothes and hair. She gasped and cracked her eyes open. Candles burned around the periphery of the room, casting golden light and flickering shadows on the walls of a lake cottage with the windows obscured.
“Wakey, wakey!” He stood at the foot of the table, grinning with malicious glee, an empty bucket held loosely in one hand.
“Ugh,” she breathed, settling back onto the cold, hard table on which frigid water now puddled. “I’m easy to wake up—no water required.”
His gleeful expression died. “What fun would that be?”
She let her eyelids sink closed, but a stinging slap opened them wide.
He leaned close, his eyes burning, lips curled in a snarl. “No,” he said.
“Sorry!” she gasped, pressing a hand to her burning cheek.
“Don’t mistake my letting you live through the night for weakness. Don’t mistake it for cowardice.”
“No,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Have you guessed who I am yet?”
She shook her head, gaze glued to his face.
He straightened, a small smile playing on his lips. “But I know who you are, Kelly-Ann Malley.”
“Sure. You have my driver’s license.”
He shook his head, his grin blossoming into a sneer. “I knew before we met. I knew before your car broke down.” He winked at her, and something in his eyes sent shivers racing down her spine. “I knew before I rigged your car to break down and lifted your phone out of your purse.”
During the long night, she’d suspected he’d been stalking her, that he may have done something to her car, but hearing it confirmed brought her terror to the fore. “I don’t want to die,” she said in a very small voice.
“No, of course, you don’t. Who does?” He patted her shoulder. “But, like everyone else, you can’t control when Abaddon comes calling.” He leaned in again, a chuckle rumbling in his throat. His breath smelled of garlic and onions and strong coffee. He stared into her face as if expecting something.
…when Abaddon will come calling, she thought, dread wrapping hot, sticky fingers around her soul. Abaddon was the name the press had given the serial killer active in New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio. He was suspected of killing more than fifteen women, and the FBI had no clue who he was. She tried to shrink away, but he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her even closer.
“No, no, Kelly-Ann. You can’t get away.”
“Oh my…” Her breath ran out before she could go on. Her pulse pounded in her temples, but her face felt like a slab of ice.
“Yesssss,” he breathed. “You see it now.”
She tried to nod, but as he was still holding a fistful of her hair, she succeeded only in pulling her own hair. “You’re…you’re Abaddon…”
He let go of her hair and straightened up, face suffused with pride. “Yes, that’s what the press calls me.” He shrugged. “It’s but one cross we artists must bear—nicknames in the press. Don Daba, at your service.”
“Artist,” she repeated numbly.
“Oh, yes. Killing can be an artform, as with almost every other human activity. I’ve surpassed the mundane murderer in every way.” He patted her shoulder in an almost fatherly manner. “Before I turned eighteen, if you want the truth of it.” He lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “But then again, I apprenticed to a master. A teacher, a tutor, if you will.” He arched his eyebrows, his eyes taking on a far-away look. “More than one.”
“Tutor,” she murmured. She felt frozen, sluggish. Her thinking seemed stalled, and she struggled to process what he told her.
“Yes!” he snapped. “Can you do nothing more than parrot what I say?”
“Sorry,” she said in a weak, tremulous voice. “Why… I mean, I’m…”
He waited to see if she could finish the thought, a malevolent grin playing on his lips, eyes whirling. When she shrugged, he chuckled. “Why you? Why not you? You’re nobody? You’re unimportant? Not to me, you’re not.” He turned and began to pace toward the foot of the table where he turned and came back toward the head in even steps. “Do you understand what it takes to make good art? Have you ever tried? Oils on canvas? Pencil sketches? Music? Anything?”
She shook her head.
He frowned at her, and a twitch developed in the corner of his left eye. “Such a wasted life.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Well, I’ll tell you. Good art develops at the intersection of a good subject, the artist, and a good medium—a good canvas. Do you see?”
She thought furiously, aware that his words might be the ravings of a broken mind but searching for any thread she might weave into a lifeline. “I get the part about subject and artist, but can’t a good artist make art regardless of the media?”
He curled his lip. “Perhaps it's okay for a mundane artist, but a true master? No. Never. You are both the subject and the canvas.”
She swallowed hard, her dry throat clicking in the silence that followed his pronouncement.
He smiled. “I’m sorry for your discomfort, but it won’t last long.” He reached behind him, and when he brought his hand forward, a scalpel glinted in the low, flickering light.
Kelly-Ann Malley screamed as the scalpel descended toward her face, but as with her thirst, her screams didn’t last long.
Chapter 5
1986
1
; Tom Walton climbed out of his cruiser in the parking lot of Jenny’s Diner just in time to catch the sunset. The place was garish—full of chrome and candy apple red—but it was a great place to meet. For once, John Morton’s cruiser was already in the lot.
Tom walked inside and spied the big man right away, sitting in their usual booth. He glanced at Jenny, and she gave him a wide-eyed look and a shrug. Wearing a puzzled smile, Tom slid into the booth opposite John Morton. “John,” he said.
“Tom. How’s it all going?” John spread his thick hands on the table in front of him.
Tom swept the hair off his forehead and rubbed his temples. “I don’t want to…” He sighed and shook his head instead of finishing the sentence.
John rubbed his chin, a grave expression settling over his features. “Is it the same as the other time? You know, back then?”
“I’ll tell you this for nothing, John. I keep trying to convince myself that it’s nothing like what happened in 1979, but…” Tom rested his elbows on the table and rested his face in his cupped hands. “It reminds me so much of how those kids disappeared over in Oneka Falls.”
John shook his head. “You know what? It’s as though I’ve been holding my breath since we caught Gray but missed his woman. Like I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Tom’s chuckle was a sour one. “I understand exactly what you mean, John. I wish I didn’t—God knows I wish I didn’t—but I do. This disappearance, though, it makes me feel as hinky as back in ‘79.” A thousand-yard stare settled in Tom’s eyes. “Maybe hinkier.”
“Not sure that’s a word, partner,” said John in a grave voice. “But I know what you mean all too well.”
“Anyone…” started Tom.
“Anyone from Cottonwood Vale go missing? Thankfully, no. And I haven’t gotten any calls from anyone else, either.”
“So it’s just me. Only Genosgwa?”
“Seems like it. Is Wallace being of any help or just getting in your way?”
Tom scoffed and made a shooing gesture with his hand. “The bastard had the gall to be pissed off that I’d rather use Leland Chambers’ dogs than the new K-9 unit. Can you imagine?”
“I don’t know, Tom. Attack-trained German Shepherds versus trail-trained bloodhounds?” Morton made a funny face and lifted one large hand to twirl a finger next to his temple. “Just think…those dogs could’ve attacked every bush between the road and the heart of the forest.”
Despite his mood, Tom chuckled. “No doubt. No doubt.”
“Did Leland turn anything up?”
Tom leaned back in the booth and threw one arm over the seat’s back. “It’s the weirdest thing. At first, his hounds were on the boy’s trail like…well, if you’ll excuse the bad metaphor…like ticks on a hound dog. But later… I don’t know. It was as if the scent disappeared into nothing. As though the boy walked out to a certain point in the woods and got picked up by one of them UFOs.”
“No, I believe you’re wrong there, Tom. Leland’s dogs could track a UFO.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and both men chuckled.
Jenny strolled up, order pad held in her hand, her gaze directed at John Morton. She continued to stare at him even after she reached the table.
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Do I have a cowlick or something?”
Jenny shook her head. “I was trying to figure out if you’re one of them pod-people or not. You know, from outer space.”
Tom chuckled.
“You must be,” Jenny said. “Since you were here first and all, I’m having a hard time accepting you’re John Morton.”
John lifted a big hand and flapped it back and forth. “Yeah, yeah.” Despite the tone of his voice, she amused him, and he smiled to show it.
“Well, boys, what’ll it be?” As she asked, Jenny folded her order pad and stuck it in her apron. “No, let me guess. John will have the usual, and Tom will have what John’s having.”
Tom made a finger gun and shot her with it.
Without another word, Jenny whirled and strode into the kitchen. Through the red vinyl padded swinging door, they heard her shout, “Two orders of cockroach stew, heavy on the cockroaches.”
Both men chuckled.
After a moment, John took a deep breath and leaned back. He fixed Tom with a stern gaze. “Tell me, Tom, what can I do to help you? And none of this ‘it’s my problem nonsense.’”
Tom closed his eyes and pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids. “I wish I had any idea what you could do to help, John. I’d welcome you by my side in a heartbeat—if there were anything I could do. It seems it’s sitting-on-my-hands-time. Waiting-for-something-else-to-happen-time.”
John made a face and shook his head. “That’s the worst part, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.”
2
Greg’s parents had decided to pack up and leave early. The news about the kidnapped kid had resolved the issue. Greg didn’t want to go despite everything that was happening, but his mother was firm. Grandma and Grandpa Canton would come with them back to Florida and stay for a while, so at least there was that.
He lay on the couch in the living room, still too scared to sleep in the bedroom, but not so frightened that his dad had to sleep with him anymore. In a way, Greg preferred sleeping on the couch in the living room. The room was larger, and the big bay window let in a lot of moonlight. From where he lay, the shore was invisible, but starting from the middle of the dock, the lake was visible. The sounds of the lake comforted him again rather than making him feel scared, but at night, he wanted that big bay window between him and the water. It didn’t open.
Everyone was so understanding. Everyone said they would feel the same way he did. He still felt like a seven-year-old. And now, they were cutting out early—because of him. Guilt edged around the corners of his mind, jeering at him and taunting.
Greg should have been sleeping already. Their flight was an early one, and the trip from Genosgwa Lake to the airport in Buffalo took two hours. Under his thick blanket, he shrugged. It was as if something inside of his mind refused to go to sleep.
It was as if something inside of his mind sat there waiting for something to happen.
He forced his eyes closed and tried to count sheep, even though it never worked. He tried to think sleepy thoughts, tried to imagine himself in a deep sleep.
Outside, the sound of the wind changed.
One of his eyes cracked open, and he glanced nervously at the plate-glass window. The window rattled in its frame as if the wind blew straight at it from across the lake. Greg opened his other eye and propped himself up with his elbows.
Sure enough, whitecaps dotted the lake and clouds covered the moon. It reminded him of the storm…the storm that had started everything. The storm that had unveiled the Lady in the Lake—that had maybe awakened her. He stared at the black water, eyes dancing from whitecap to whitecap, searching for any shape, any color that didn’t belong.
Greg swung his legs off the couch and sat up, keeping the blanket wrapped around him. Like a shroud, said a voice in his head, but it sounded like his own voice. His little red kayak had escaped its place on the shore and was drifting against the wind toward the center of the lake. He sucked in a breath of cold air, and goosebumps erupted across his back. Kayaks can’t do that.
Are you sure, sport? Looks as though your kayak is doing just that.
There’d been an uneasy truce the past couple of days between Greg and his invisible friend. His friend had told jokes, Greg had laughed, and they’d left it at that.
You know who it is.
Greg didn’t speak, didn’t think, he only shook his head.
Come off it, Greggy. You know it’s her.
Greg squeezed his eyelids shut—hard enough that tears sprang to his eyes. I don’t care, he thought. We’re leaving tomorrow. She can have the kayak.
Sport, if you think the kayak is what she’s after… And why do you believe she’ll allow
you—any of you—to leave tomorrow?
Greg twisted his head from side to side hard enough to make his spine crackle. No.
His invisible friend sounded amused when he spoke next. No? What does that even mean? No, you don’t think she’s after the kayak? No, you don’t think she’ll allow you to leave?
No. No. The kayak passed the end of the dock, and as it did so, a lazy hand extended toward the sky from the stern. Like a puppeteer, the hand seemed to look in one direction, then the other, before the palm turned toward Greg, and the hand waved bye-bye.
You know what she will do, right, kiddo?
Greg didn’t, and he didn’t want his invisible friend to tell him, either.
What kind of friend would I be, if I didn’t tell you what you needed to do? Well, I’ll say it anyway, boyo. The way she will stop you is by killing. She will kill someone in your family, so you have to stay. Who do you suppose it will be? Mommy? Daddy? Gramps?
No. No, no, no, no!
I don’t know what you think you’re doing there, sport. What will be will be. The Lady in the Lake will do as she pleases.
Greg shook his head and continued to shake it nonstop. No! I won’t let her! Greg smashed his fist into his other hand. “I won’t let her!”
“Greggy?” came the sleep-slurred voice of his mother from the bedroom she shared with his father.
Again, Greg had the sense of great amusement from his invisible friend. Not too loud, kiddo. Not too loud or you’ll have the whole house away, and if that happens, there’s nothing that can be done. Nothing!
I’ll stop her! I’ll…I’ll…
You’ll what, boyo? Hmm? How do you intend to stop her? What, will you say pretty please? Will you cover your eyes and pretend she’s not doing what she’s doing?
Panic gripped Greg around his middle. What can I do? You have to help me! Really help me this time! Tell me what to do!
Hmmm. I’m not sure I should.
But…but…but… Greg’s gaze bounced around the living room, searching for something—anything—that he could use as a weapon.
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