The cellar flashed to life around him, painted in the fuzzy green light of night vision when he flicked the unit on. He stood at the end of a narrow hall, not wide enough for more than a single man, and even then, the man would have to twist his shoulders to avoid brushing against the grimy walls. Doors lined the hall, spaced about four feet apart. Each door had an iron U-shaped bolt set into its face, and each jamb had an iron hasp bent to attach to the bolt. All the doors were closed, but only some of them had the hasp thrown closed.
Drew took three steps to the closest unlocked door and put his hand on the cold wood. He pushed the door with his fingers, expecting the shriek of old, rusty hinges, but the door swung inward without a sound. Inside, a low table dominated the center of the small four feet by six feet room. The table took up most of the space, and on the edge closest to the door, large, U-shaped clamps hung open on the corners. A single hook sat in the middle of the far edge of the table.
Along one wall hung instruments of savage torture: a meat fork coated in dried blood, a heavy looking cleaver, a set of iron coal-tongs, an icepick, a pruning saw, a one-handed sledge hammer, several lumps of iron whose only function could be branding flesh, and a long-bladed Bowie knife. A narrow counter with a brazier filled with old, cold coals occupied the other side of the room. The table bore the marks of the instruments of torture, in addition to dried blood and other bodily fluids.
Shivering, Drew backed out of the claustrophobic space and went to the next door. The hasp was thrown to the side, so Drew pushed the door open. It swung inward, again without a sound, and revealed the body of a teenaged girl. Her blonde hair was matted to her skull by blood and sweat. The U-shaped clamps at the end of the table secured her thighs, right about her knees, keeping her legs spread. Her arms were wrenched upward and back so that her wrists were behind her head. A mass of burns, cuts, and dark abrasions covered her skin. A rictus of horror and pain twisted her face, her eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. The tools hanging on the wall still glistened with the girl’s blood, and some of them still glowed. The brazier glowed with hot coals, and next to it, the girl’s clothes and purse lay, contents spilled across the counter and floor.
Drew found her ID card and frowned down at it. “Rebecca Lewis,” the card read. He glanced at the picture and then the face of the dead girl on the table. It’s her, he thought. Wonder if she’s related to Trooper Lewis? If she was, and that’s what brought LaBouche here…
He slipped the ID into his pack and backed out of the room, leaving the door ajar. He knew what Play Time was now—a place of nightmares, a Gehenna, where demons tortured humans to death and fed on their pain.
A restaurant for demons.
He couldn’t let it stand. Drew had to do something about it, to call the authorities, but who could he trust? And what could he say if he found someone trustworthy? He’d never met another soul who could see the demons—not anyone “sane” anyway. He couldn’t just call the police and say: “Yeah, I followed a demon to this place and went in the cellar and found a dead body.” They’d think he did it. They’d think he was nuts, and he’d end up back in Millvale.
Millvale? What the hell is Millvale? he thought.
You know, answered a small voice in the back of his head. You remember.
But he didn’t.
He shook his head and checked another room—empty. Then he saw the next door was secured by the iron hasp. He flipped the hasp open, and someone inside the room screamed. “Shhh!” Drew hissed. He opened the door and stepped inside. Above his head, footsteps rumbled across the floor, and a door slammed. The woman secured to the table screamed again. “Shhh! I’m here to help you,” breathed Drew. Another door slammed, and footsteps pounded down the stairs. “I’ll try to come back for you,” he whispered. He backed out of the room and glanced toward the other end of the narrow hall. Vague shadows danced on the wall. Vague, but hulking shadows.
Drew turned and sprinted for the stairs leading up to the backyard. Behind him, the woman screamed a third time. He pounded up the stairs toward the night sky framed by the cellar bulkhead, and over the din he heard a guttural snarl at the other end of the hall. “Who the fuck is down here?” Another loud, guttural snarl followed the question. “Who the fuck left the damn cellar doors open?”
Drew burst out into the night air and sprinted for the woods at the back of the lot. If the demon in the cellar saw him, his life would end down there in one of those basement cells. He sprinted through the woods, leaping over fallen logs, dodging old stumps, breath whistling from his throat. Fear had wrapped its icy tendrils around his conscious mind, but it wasn’t the normal fear he had of the demons. He was used to that. This was something else…something more. Something old and buried.
The fear threatened to take over, to send him flying through the woods without thought, without plan—a headlong run until he either tripped and fell or broke free of the trees. Something about running through the woods, maybe pursued by a demon, maybe pursued by his own terrors, heightened his dread. Every sound he heard sent a bolt of pure horror screaming along his nerves. Every shadow seemed to loom at him, to threaten him with ungovernable, childlike nightmare images.
His pulse banged through his veins like a trip hammer forming molten metal, thundering in his ears. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth together so hard they creaked. His legs screamed like they would give out at any moment, and his chest hoicked and wheezed like it would burst, and soon. What is this? he screamed at himself. What am I so scared of?
SHUT UP AND RUN, YOU FOOL! a voice screamed in his head.
An image of an eyeless dog-like creature flashed through his mind, lightning-quick, adrenaline-laden. His vision flashed black for a moment, and he slammed into the trunk of a tree, abrading his cheek, shoving the night-vision set to the side.
He clamped his teeth together against a scream of pure terror, and the darkness fell on him like a pack of marauding wolves. Something is out there!
THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN TELLING YOU!
Drew ran blind, trying to right the night-vision goggles, but too panicked to stop to do it. He bounced from tree to tree, getting a bruise here, a scrape there. Something tangled between his legs, and he fell. His mind’s eye drowned in images of dog-like things pouring out of the darkness, drool glistening from their open jaws, moonlight glinting off their fangs. He rolled, frantic, sweeping his arms to the sides to bat away the creatures.
A horrendous crash sounded next to his head, and the reek of garbage washed over him. He swept his goggles off his head at last. A metal garbage can loomed at him from the side. The hose and sprinkler he’d tripped over lay tangled in his feet. Someone’s backyard… He sighed with relief.
“A little too much to drink tonight?” asked an amused man.
Drew turned and saw an old man sitting in a deck chair, holding a beer and a cigar. Drew covered his eyes with his hand, knowing, knowing, that the man was a trick, a hallucination. He shook his head and jerked his hand away. The man still sat there, still smiling.
“Or something stronger than drink, perhaps?” The man chuckled.
One of his patented “aw-shucks” grins swept across Drew’s face without the need for conscious thought. “Damn goggles,” he said, pointing at his night vision set, now hanging around his neck. “I wasn’t looking and ran into a tree. Knocked them sideways so I couldn’t see.”
“Oh,” said the man, smile widening.
“Yeah,” Drew laughed. “Pretty stupid.”
“Kind of like running around in the woods at night without a light.” The man’s droll tone didn’t sound unkind.
Drew stood up and brushed off his knees. “That sounds about right. I got all turned around.”
“I’d say. Where you headed?”
“I was…looking for deer.”
The man cocked his head to the side, a puzzled look in his eye. “Deer?”
“Yeah.”
“Out-of-towner, are you?”
“Yeah,�
� Drew repeated. “Rochester.”
“No deer in Rochester?”
Drew shrugged and pulled the night vision goggles off over his head. He shoved them into his pack.
“Do I know you?” asked the old man. “You’ve got a familiar look to you. Grow up around here?”
Drew shook his head. “Nope.”
“Rochester?”
Drew shrugged and glanced at the driveway leading to the street.
“Related to anyone in Oneka Falls?”
“Not that I know of. I need to get back to my car.”
“Name Witherson mean anything to you?”
Drew looked at the man, expression bland. “Nope.”
“Well, I can see you want to be on your way, son. No need to be embarrassed.”
Drew chuckled and shoved his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants.
“No, I mean it, son. Stumbling into my yard tonight ain’t even on the scale of things around here.”
A small grin crinkled the corners of Drew’s mouth, but he dropped his eyes.
The man sighed. “Well, I tried.”
Drew nodded. “Thanks,” he murmured.
“I’ll not hold you up, son.” Without taking his eyes off Drew, he puffed on his cigar, the coal at the end flaring in the darkness.
“Uh, thanks,” Drew murmured again. He started for the drive and then turned back. “Sorry, but—”
“End of the driveway’s Pembroke.”
Drew lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “Rochester, remember?”
The man laughed and pointed with his cigar. “Head that-a-way. Couple of blocks drops you out on Mill Lane.”
“M-mill?”
“Yep. Take it that way,” he said, jabbing the air with his cigar. “Half a mile, you come to Main Street.”
“Is there another way?”
The man cocked his head to the side and stared at Drew through the fragrant smoke. “Mill Lane mean something to you, son?” he asked.
Drew shook his head. “No. Nothing.”
The man narrowed his eyes but then nodded. “Sorry, son. Pembroke’s a dead ender. Quarter mile or so, you can take Union Street, but that’s the long way ‘round.”
Drew nodded and waved his thanks. He turned and trudged down the drive. The last thing he wanted to do was retrace his steps through the woods. The next-to-last thing was walking around on Union. He sighed. Mill Lane it is.
2
Exhaustion beat down on Scott, not only from the worry, the fear, but from spending the afternoon and half the evening doing nothing—waiting for LaBouche. When LaBouche’s car finally turned into the driveway, fury blasted through him with each beat of his heart. He was out the front door before LaBouche even turned off his headlights. “What the fuck, Lee!”
LaBouche got out of the car, arms up, palms toward Lewis. “I know, I know, partner, and I’m sorry.” He kicked his front tire. “Fucking thing! First the flat tire, and then the fucker broke down! Piece of shit!”
Scott stood staring at him, the sense that LaBouche was laughing at him so strong that if he kept walking, he would be on LaBouche and throwing punches in a flash. “Broke down?” he asked in a flat, wooden voice.
“Yeah. Damn thing popped the radiator hose on one of those long empty stretches of road. I had to walk twenty miles to the next town, buy a hose, then walk twenty miles back.” LaBouche slumped onto the hood of the car and lit a cigarette.
“You walked forty miles today?”
“Yeah, I even ran part of it.”
Scott looked down at his watch. “In six hours? You walked forty miles and drove, what, eighty, in six hours?”
LaBouche stood up straight. “Now, Scott, I know you’re upset, and I’m making allowances, but it sounds like you are calling me a liar. After all the shit I went through to get here…”
Lewis scoffed, arms folded across his chest, eyes blazing.
“Hey, man, if you don’t need my help anymore, I can always—”
A pent-up breath exploded out of Scott’s chest. “No, Lee. I’m sorry, okay. I can’t… I’m just…”
LaBouche smiled from ear to ear. “Letting it all hang out?”
“Yeah,” sighed Scott. “What am I supposed to think, to fucking do? It’s about twenty-four hours since she left for her date with that little shit-stain. When I find him, I’m going to—”
“Stand back and let your old partner Lee do the talking.” LaBouche used his no-arguments voice. “You hear me, Scotty? If he did something, God forbid, if he did something to your daughter, the state will make him pay, not you.”
“Yeah,” said Scott. “If…If we find him. If there’s enough evidence. If the prosecutor is worth a shit.”
LaBouche shrugged. “If it doesn’t happen, Scotty, you and me will make the fuck pay. Okay?”
Scott nodded. “Let’s get going. I need to be doing something, Lee.”
“Yep, I get that. Should you leave Jenny alone though?”
Scott nodded. “Neighbor lady’s over.”
“Okay, let’s go. I’ll drive.”
They piled into LaBouche’s Maxima, and as the car settled under Lee’s weight, Scott wondered for the millionth time why he would drive such a small car. Like the last sardine wedged into a can, LaBouche hunched behind the wheel. He had to lean to the right to get the driver’s side door closed. “Okay, where’s the shit-stain live?”
Scott unfolded a now-worn scrap of his wife’s note paper. “Jenny, she…Jenny made him leave his address.”
LaBouche took the paper and entered the address into his GPS. “I don’t know, Scotty. That looks like a bunch of empty land. Did you check this place out?”
Scott hung his head. “Jenny told me not to be paranoid.”
“Well,” said LaBouche in an upbeat tone that sounded forced. “We’ll be paranoid together and go check this shit out.”
Scott squinted at the nav system screen. “Must be off that little gravel road, yeah?”
LaBouche shrugged. “We’ll find out.” He drove, following the navigation systems’ instructions. When the car informed them the destination was on the left, Scott’s heart fell. The “house” was a big empty space blocked off by a chain link fence.
“You sure this is the address?”
3
Drew drove past the blue Maxima parked in front of the abandoned quarry on Old Penfield Road. LaBouche and Lewis were just sitting there, staring at the empty lot where the quarry used to stage delivery trucks. He continued past and turned onto Sable Oaks Lane. He turned around and tucked his Honda off to the side of the road where the trees made it hard to see him from Old Penfield Road.
Drew had wanted to get Trooper Lewis alone, but by the time he’d gotten the RV tucked in, driven back to Rochester and switched cars, he’d been too late. He’d arrived at the address on Becky Lewis’ ID a few minutes behind LaBouche.
He didn’t know how he would convince Lewis that he wasn’t a serial killer, since he technically was, or how to prove he hadn’t killed Lewis’ daughter, but if he could get Lewis back to Oneka Falls, back to the crime scene, maybe Lewis would believe him enough to look into LaBouche.
Maybe.
4
Scott sat frozen, staring out at the empty lot. His mind roiled with static as if off-channel snow had filled his skull. His limbs felt too heavy to move, and his tongue lay in his mouth like a dead thing.
LaBouche grunted. “You there, Scotty? I asked if you were sure this was the right address?”
Scott moved his eyes far enough that he could see LaBouche staring at him from the driver’s seat. Something seemed weird about his demeanor. He was leaning toward Scott, eyes wide open and staring—like he was drinking in the details, memorizing every nuance. He even panted the tiniest bit. If Scott had been asked to describe LaBouche at that moment, he would have named him a starving man about to eat a steak. “It’s the address the kid gave Jenny.” The words fell from Lewis like lead weights, leaving him exhausted.
“Maybe she had a dyslexic moment and juxtaposed two of the numbers.”
Scott shook his head. “Jenny’s precise about this stuff, Lee. You know that.”
“For fuck’s sake, Scotty, speak up. I can’t hear you over the fan for the heater.”
Scott tried to wave his hand but settled for twitching his fingers. “Jenny’s precise. She wouldn’t get this wrong.”
“Let’s call her, Scotty. Double check the address.”
“No, Lee. She’s been through enough already.”
“But Scotty, if this address is wrong, we might find Becky at the right one.” He rested a heavy, meaty hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Then everything Jenny’s going through can be over.”
“Yeah,” Scott murmured. “Okay.”
LaBouche dialed the number, one thick finger punching at his phone like he hated the thing. “Yeah, Jenny? It’s Lee.” He grimaced and looked at Scott. “No, sorry, hon. Not yet. No, Scotty’s right here.” Scott fought his lethargy to crook his eyebrows. “No, that’s fine, Jenny. I want to double check the address. Can you do that for me?”
Scott turned his head, staring into the dark woods next to the empty lot. The cool darkness between the trees seemed to call to him, enticing him to give up consciousness and sleep beneath the waving boughs of the tree. Forever.
“No, that’s fine, Jenny. Okay. Yeah, put her on. Mrs. Carmody? Yeah, Lee LaBouche, Scott’s partner…yeah, with the State Police. Listen, I need to verify the address Jenny had for this kid Becky went out with. Can you read it to me?” He paused for a moment and then sighed. “Yeah, okay. No, that’s what we have.” He tapped Scott’s arm, and when Scott turned to him, he mouthed: Do you want to talk to Jenny? Scott shook his head. “No, Mrs. Carmody, we’ll fill her in when we get back there.” He hung up without waiting for any response. “Well, fuck, Scotty. You were right. That’s the right address all right.”
“Yeah,” Scott breathed. “What do…Lee, what can I—”
LaBouche put a meaty hand on his shoulder again. “No, Scotty, listen to old Lee. You know how this works. We’ve worked MP cases. Tons of them.”
Nightmare Page 18
