Nightscape

by Stephen R. George

  NIGHTSCAPE

  By Stephen R. George

  A Macabre Ink Production

  Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright 2015 / Stephen R. George

  Originally published by Zebra Books, New York, 1992

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Stephen R. George writes under his own name and the pseudonyms Jack Ellis and Valerie Stephens. His first novel, Brain Child, was published in 1989, by Zebra Books, New York. It was followed that same year by Beasts, then Dark Miracle. George quickly became a stalwart of the Zebra Books horror stable, writing and published a total of 14 books through the 1990s. His novels have been translated into Italian, Polish, Romanian, and Norwegian. His shorter works have appeared in a number of publications and anthologies including Cemetery Dance, the Hot Blood series, Deadbolt Magazine, Science Fiction Chronicle, Horror Library and more. George was born in Scotland in 1959; he lives and works in Canada.

  Book List

  Beasts

  Bloody Valentine

  Brain Child

  Dark Miracle

  Dark Reunion

  Deadly Vengeance

  Grandma's Little Darling

  Mirror, Mirror (as Valerie Stephens)

  Near Dead

  Nightlife (as Jack Ellis)

  Nightscape

  Seeing Eye (as Jack Ellis)

  The Forgotten

  Torment

  Follow Stephen R. George on Bookbub to be notified

  when new books are released

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  We hope you enjoy this eBook and will seek out other books published by Crossroad Press. We strive to make our eBooks as free of errors as possible, but on occasion some make it into the final product. If you spot any problems, please contact us at publisher@crossroadpress.com and notify us of what you found. We’ll make the necessary corrections and republish the book. We’ll also ensure you get the updated version of the eBook.

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  Thank you for your assistance and your support of the authors published by Crossroad Press.

  To Kaitlin, for giving me time to write.

  Thanks to George Godwin, Jamie Conklin, Scott Ellis, David Annandale and Kate Bitney, for criticism at various stages of writing this novel, to James A. Hall for seeding the idea, and of course to Val, who puts up with so much.

  NIGHTSCAPE

  Chapter One

  The reception area of the Hennepin County General emergency room was quiet. Two waiting gurneys sat left of the entrance. An old woman in a bloodstained flannel nightgown dozed in a wheelchair beneath a poster that warned against smoking or drinking while pregnant.

  Bonnie Laine waited by the triage desk and nervously twisted her fingers. When a man in a gray suit came through two swinging glass doors and approached her, she made her hands be still.

  “Miss Laine? I’m Lieutenant Peterson. I’m glad you came down.”

  Peterson was tall, heavy, pale, with a round face and sharp, blue eyes.

  “You said on the phone that there had been an accident.”

  “Your husband’s car went off the road.”

  Bonnie felt dizzy. She leaned on the counter.

  “Was Evan with him?”

  “Yes. He was shaken up, but he’ll be fine.”

  “And Harris?”

  “We’re not sure. He wasn’t at the scene when the attending officers and ambulance arrived. There was blood on the dash, and in his seat.”

  “I don’t understand. Where is he?”

  “It’s possible he suffered a concussion, and simply walked away, not even aware of what he was doing.” Peterson rubbed his hands together. “Miss Laine. Can we talk?”

  “Where’s Evan?”

  “You’ll see him soon, but please, just give me a minute.”

  He led her into the waiting room, sat her down, and sat down beside her. There were four other people here. Two teenaged boys, one holding his stomach and grimacing in pain while the other read a magazine, and a couple sitting across from Bonnie and Peterson, the woman bleeding profusely from a cut over her right eye, the man with a nose that looked broken. They were holding hands.

  “I understand your husband—”

  “Ex-husband.”

  “I understand he’s had custody of the boy since you separated. Six years now?”

  “What does that have to do with the accident?”

  “Well, we’ve already contacted the boy’s grandparents.”

  “The Laws? But why?”

  “Your ex-husband had them listed as an emergency number.”

  Bonnie shook her head, dismayed. Why hadn’t Harris had her name as an emergency contact?

  “What did they say?”

  “They’re here. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Are they with Evan?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to see my son.”

  “Just a minute. I want to ask you a question.”

  Bonnie squirmed in the uncomfortable seat, hands wringing one another.

  “Now, please don’t react badly to this. I just want to know. How well do you get along with the Laws?”

  “They hate me,” Bonnie said sharply, surprised at the bitterness she felt. “Why?”

  Peterson seemed reluctant to go on. “They had a proposal they wanted me to present to you, and I’m just not sure that I should be the one doing it. It’s just that they’re friends of my parents, and I couldn’t really refuse.”

  For a policeman, he seemed extremely uncomfortable.

  “What proposal?”

  “We’ll find your ex-husband, I’m sure of that. He’s bound to show up. They always do. The thing is, somebody’s got to take custody of the boy until then, do you understand?”

  “Can I see him now?”

  “Just hold on. The thing is, the Laws have offered to take custody.” He blushed furiously. “They see the boy frequently, so they tell me, and they know you don’t want custody, or that’s what they think, and so they’ve offered to take him, for now.”

  “It’s not that I didn’t want Evan, it’s just that, at the time I was sick.”

  “Listen, just pretend I didn’t say anything, okay? I shouldn’t have become involved.”

  He stood up, sighed as if he’d dropped a heavy weight.

  “Can I see my son now?”

  “Of course, come on.”

  Bonnie followed him past the triage desk, then through the glass doors. He held them for her and ushered her ahead.

  “In here.” He directed her into a brightly lit treatment room.

  Evan was lying on a gurney under an examination light, one arm pulled over his face
to shield his eyes. The hand of that shielding arm was heavily bandaged. Although he was eight, he looked small and fragile. He had been a colicky baby and a sickly child, and nothing had changed. Every virus that came along found a home in Evan. Harris had told her that Evan never made friends. Not at school, not at home. He was a loner. A shy, quiet, unhealthy little boy. A product of bad genes, as the Laws were so fond of pointing out, mostly from Bonnie’s side.

  Tom and Roberta Laws were sitting beside the gurney. Roberta was holding the boy’s free hand, stroking it as if it were the head of a cat.

  “Nice to see you, Bonnie,” Tom said.

  Roberta had been crying. Her mascara was running. Still, she managed to impart disapproval with her eyes as she took in Bonnie’s jeans and sweatshirt.

  Bonnie felt immediately inadequate. Felt herself no older than Evan himself.

  “How is he?” she asked, but did not move closer.

  “He’s hurt,” Roberta said stiffly, and sniffled.

  “His finger,” Tom said, “cut off.”

  “Cut off?” Bonnie heard her voice rise an octave.

  “Shhh!” Roberta said. “He’s resting.”

  “You said shaken up!” Bonnie said to Peterson.

  “Well.”

  “What happened?”

  Peterson blushed. “The car rolled, and his window was open.”

  Bonnie flinched, and held up a hand for him to stop. She didn’t want to hear more. She moved closer to the bed, reached out, and touched the boy. Evan stirred on the gurney.

  “Just leave him,” Roberta said. “He needs to rest.”

  Bonnie stepped away, unable to stand up to Roberta. She had never had that strength.

  “Did Detective Peterson tell you about our proposal?” Tom asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll wait outside,” Peterson said nervously.

  “Of course, it would only be until Harris is found,” Roberta said. “The boy should be with his father.”

  Bonnie felt herself shrivel. When Peterson had told her what the Laws proposed, she had been angry, intent on refusing. But now the old doubts came flooding back. On her salary, could she really care for the boy? Even for a day or two? Who would look after him while she went to work? It was summertime, after all, and he wasn’t in school. And what would she do if he got sick?

  Six years ago, those doubts had been so strong, that she had asked Harris to take custody of Evan. She had been young then, barely twenty, and unemployed. Harris, older, more mature, and with the support of his parents, would have no difficulty. And of course, she had been sick. What a horrible euphemism that was. Sick. She blocked off the images of green walls and the smell of disinfectant that came rushing back.

  The memory came to her of that March morning, on the steps of the hospital, holding two-year-old Evan tightly, crying. “Where Mommy go?” Evan had asked, waving, as Harris had carried him to the car.

  She had seen her son fewer than six times since then, and never for longer than an hour.

  “He’ll be fine with us,” Tom said.

  “Of course he will,” Roberta said.

  “He’s coming with me,” Bonnie said softly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Tell her, Tom. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m not sure that would be a very good idea.”

  “He’s my son, and I want him to come with me.”

  Roberta turned pale. “You’re not equipped to take him. You’re hardly equipped to take care of yourself, never mind yourself and an eight-year-old boy. Especially a boy like Evan.”

  Peterson poked his head into the room. “Everything okay in here?”

  “Talk some sense to this little fool,” Roberta said.

  Bonnie turned to the detective. “Can I take him if I want?”

  Peterson took a deep breath and, avoiding the eyes of both Tom and Roberta Laws, said, “I suppose you can.”

  “And what happens if Harris never shows up?” Roberta cried. “What if he’s dead somewhere on the road? Are you prepared for that?” Her voice was full of worry and grief, changing to anger as she faced Bonnie.

  “I’m sure we’ll find him.”

  “Even so,” Roberta said, still looking at Bonnie. “Think of the boy.”

  “I am thinking of him. I want custody. I can if I want, can’t I?”

  “Yes,” Peterson said.

  “You can’t be serious,” Roberta said. “Isn’t it obvious she’s an unfit mother? She hasn’t seen the boy in years! We see him every week! He probably doesn’t even know her!”

  “That may be,” Peterson said. “But she is his mother, and if she chooses to take custody, then there’s not much you can do about it at the moment.”

  “Tom, call Kennedy right now. We’ll sue for custody.”

  “Of course, there’s always that,” Peterson said.

  Bonnie moved to the gurney. She reached down and stroked Evan’s soft dark hair. Roberta moved away, releasing the boy’s hand reluctantly.

  “This is monstrous!” she said, and moved into her husband’s arms. “Stop her, Tom!”

  Bonnie blocked out everything as she looked down at her son. She had seen him before Christmas, for an hour. He had had a cold then. Now, in addition to looking sickly, he looked battered and wounded.

  As she touched him, he opened his eyes. He moved his arm, winced.

  “Hi,” Bonnie said.

  “Mom?”

  “How are you feeling, honey?”

  “Sore.”

  “Do you want to come home with me? For a while?”

  He stared at her. For a moment she thought he was going to ask about Harris, but he only nodded. He looked, with his pale face bobbing, like a very strange bird.

  Bonnie leaned over him, and to the sound of a strangled cry from Roberta, she kissed her son on his forehead.

  Shep Thomas slid low in the driver’s seat and dropped the sunglasses over his eyes. With both front windows open a breeze passed through the car, but it was hot. Sweat dripped off his forehead, down his nose. The glasses slid on his slick skin. His mouth tasted of the chili dog he’d eaten two hours ago. So much for his stakeout days being behind him.

  He watched the front door of the Edina branch of the Minnesota State Bank across the street. Pedestrians passed in both directions, and Shep studied each of these carefully until they were out of view.

  When Tony Browning came out of the bank, Shep sank even lower in the seat. Browning was twenty-five and good looking. His jeans and denim shirt were clean and pressed. He looked, Shep thought, like a country boy visiting the big city. But no ordinary country boy. This was pure freak.

  Browning looked both ways along the street, then walked south. Shep watched, and waited. Nobody followed.

  Grinning now, he started the car and pulled into traffic. He drove slowly past Browning. A block ahead he pulled to a stop, left the car running, and got out. On the sidewalk he kneeled and pretended to tie his shoelaces. Browning came closer.

  So nice and normal, Shep thought, but I know you’re a sick bastard.

  He took the roll of quarters from his pocket and fitted it snugly into his right fist. Instinct told him when to stand up, and when he did Browning was right there.

  “Hi!” Shep said.

  Tony Browning looked momentarily surprised. That surprise turned quickly to alarm.

  “Nice to see you again!” Shep said.

  His voice was loud enough to attract passersby.

  Browning started to protest, but Shep kicked him in the crotch so hard that his shin throbbed. Browning collapsed. Shep took careful aim and punched him in the face. His weighted fist struck with such force that Browning’s smooth, tanned nose split down the middle as the flesh expanded. Blood splattered the sidewalk.

  A woman who had seen it all started to scream.

  “Oh, jeez, he’s always getting nosebleeds,” Shep said. “I gotta get him to a hospital, or he might bleed to death.”

  He dragged the unconsciou
s Browning to the car, opened the passenger door, and threw him in. Then, whistling, he got in and pulled out into traffic. In the rearview mirror he saw the crowd congregating around the scene of the assault.

  Ten minutes later he was taking the Fifth Street exit toward downtown. The white bulge of the metrodome drifted by on the right, looking like the worst hot-air balloon disaster of all time. He guided the car through light morning traffic, and finally to a stop in an alley off Washington Avenue. In the passenger seat, soaked in blood, gurgling and moaning, Browning was coming to.

  Shep dragged him from the car, careful to keep the blood away from his own shirt and pants.

  “Just a little farther,” he said.

  The warehouse was empty, derelict. Light speared through breaks in the corrugated iron ceiling, spotlighting small piles of debris spread across the floor. He had set the place up this morning, and now he dumped the still groggy Browning into a broken kitchen chair and steadied him so he would not fall.

  “How are you feeling, fella?”

  Browning groaned.

  “I know what you mean. I’ve had nosebleeds myself. Hey, that’s better. Take a deep breath.”

  Browning stiffened and sat straight.

  “All right, now we’re in business.”

  The young man’s eyes, glassy and unfocused only a second ago, were suddenly wide, wary, and fearful.

  “Where am I?”

  “That’s not important. I know where we are, so don’t worry. What you should worry about is that I know who you are, and I know what you are.”

  Browning looked at him from eyes slowly swelling shut and bruising. He looked around himself, up at the ceiling.

  “Christ, you almost look human, you know that? Jeff was right. Can’t even tell the difference. Bet I couldn’t even tell the difference if I slept with you. Could I?”

  Tony Browning groaned. He had the eyes of a trapped animal.

  “Nice place, huh? Picked it out myself. Now, just sit still for a minute.”

  Shep reached behind him to the holster tucked into his pants, and brought his old service Beretta 9mm into view. Browning stiffened and his hands twitched.