“So where does that leave me?”
“Well…maybe you could offer a truce. Go up to him, tell him that you’ve stopped doing whatever it is that pissed him off, and you expect him to call off his ghouls.”
I remembered what I’d seen last night. Ghouls indeed. “Why would he listen to me?”
“You said yourself, he wants to be left alone. And you’ve proven yourself a tough nut to crack. Maybe if he truly believes that trying to take you out will be more trouble than it’s worth, he’ll accept a treaty.”
In spite of everything, the plan had kind of a classy, Hollywood feel to it. I pictured myself in an Italian restaurant, across from Mr. Saberhagen and Dan. “I’ve called off my people, now call off yours. Unless you’d like a repeat of the other night.” Suddenly, my mental picture of Saberhagen changed from Marlon Brando to the beast from the grave. I shivered.
“It won’t work, L.J. I don’t know how to find him.”
“I thought you had the dirt on this guy.”
“Well, I know who he is. Just not where. His operations are mostly, um, underground.”
L.J. wouldn’t give up. “You don’t have any leads? No clues at all?”
I remembered that his headquarters used to be here in town. I did have one address, but it was decades out of date.
“Ever hear of Ciego Drive?”
I was shocked that L.J. was willing to get in a car with me after being shot at the other night, but he readily agreed. Maybe the idea of adventure inspired him. We picked up his car from the parking garage and drove off in search of Ciego Drive.
We searched for nearly an hour. It’s not enough to know an address, you also must know how to get there. Yahoo! had insisted that #4 Ciego Drive did not exist. Mapquest was slightly more helpful, providing we were willing to drive 2,000 miles to Reno, Nevada. Finally, a call to Domino’s Pizza had put in us in contact with a driver who vaguely remembered a Ciego Drive in this particular area.
Columbia was too small to have a neighborhood so bad that it was a ‘no go’ area, but this sure as hell came close. Scores of rotting trailers pockmarked the area, occasionally interrupted by a convenience store with barred windows or some ugly blocks of tract housing.
“Hang on,” said L.J., glancing up from his printed directions. “There it is.”
Ciego Drive proved to be little more than an industrial access road. One lane, it threaded its way between a burnt-out building and a none-too-prosperous looking plastics plant.
Number four was a lot, though it wasn’t vacant. In the acre or so of land, dozens and dozens of bodies lay, end to end. Crumpled and mutilated, they stared at us with blank, accusing headlights.
“Are you sure this is the right address?” I asked.
L.J. gestured to a mailbox in front of the tiny booth that served as the scrap yard’s office. Columbia Salvage, #4, Ciego Drive.
I was a little disappointed. After all I’d been through, I was expecting Castle Dracula, or at least 1313 Mockingbird Lane. Columbia Salvage lacked even the one frightening aspect of the city junkyard: it wasn’t fenced in, so there were no dogs. As for signs of the Northern Synod headquarters, I couldn’t even see the remains of a building.
“Wanna have a look?” asked my roommate.
I shrugged. This was obviously a dead end. The original headquarters was long gone, or else it was miles from here, now located at an entirely different address. “We might as well see what there is to see,” I responded, glumly. The sun was starting do go down, and I didn’t want be out at night.
There’s a certain beauty when a car dies after many years of use. I could almost see a benevolent Mr. Goodwrench beckoning to the soul of a rusty Ford. ‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant.’
A car that reaches a violent end, however, leaves a loss that no insurance settlement can fully succor. As we poked around the lot, I realized that was what all these vehicles had in common. They’d all been wrecked, and rather spectacularly at that.
Each car told the story of a violent end. Cars that had been on fire. Cars that had been underwater. Cars that had been upside down.
I read in the automotive scars the exact manner of their last mile. Here, the shorn-off cab of a pickup told of passing under a semi-trailer. The stoved-in face of a Saturn implied collision with a tree. A horseshoe-shaped Honda recalled a high speed T-boning. Without exception, each of these cars had died violently. Assumedly, so had some of the drivers. I was almost surprised that a certain black sedan wasn’t among the heaps.
L.J. was examining a frighteningly evocative hole in the driver’s side windshield of an SUV. “So what’s the story? Is this Jagermeister guy going into the auto repair business?”
“Saberhagen. And I doubt it.” Flattened tires and a Nader 2000 bumper sticker led me to believe this was a final resting place. With my luck, the ghost of Saberhagen’s car would soon pop out of its grave.
I was about to suggest we leave when I noticed something odd. Though the lot was mostly gravel or bare earth, there was a single concrete slab near the center. On it stood a Chevy Silverado pickup with one door and no glass. Why did that strike me as strange?
The tires were aired up, for one. And though it had suffered significant body damage, it still looked like it might run. That made it unique among the rusted wrecks. I moved closer.
I was right, the truck had been driven recently. Faint muddy tracks on the cement confirmed it. There was something else there as well.
L.J. had knelt to see what I was looking at. It was some sort of drawing, some outline that covered the entire slab.
“What’s that look like to you?” I asked.
“It’s a pentagram,” he replied.
“Are you sure?” If he was right about that, then maybe this hadn’t been a wild goose chase.
“I’m sure. I used to have a girlfriend, Janine, who was into all this.” He smiled for a moment, at a memory that probably had nothing to do with the occult. “She told me that when a pentagram points upward, it represents the human body. White magic. She drew one on my bedroom floor once, when we…” L.J. stopped short and chuckled.
“So what’s it mean if it’s pointing down?”
He kicked the pickup’s tire, as if debating if he wanted to take a test drive. “Then it’s a goat skull. You can guess what that stands for.”
I couldn’t make out which way the scribblings on the concrete faced. “Which is this?”
He shook his head. “Couldn’t tell you.”
I stuck my head under the vehicle and tried to get a closer look. Then I jumped to my feet. “Let’s get out of here before we get busted for trespassing.”
As we drove back home, I pondered what I’d seen under the truck. I wasn’t sure why I didn’t tell L.J. about the trapdoor set in the cement pad. Probably just an old maintenance shaft. But I wasn’t going to wait around, just in case something was waiting for nightfall to reveal itself.
– Chapter Sixteen –
I slept soundly that night. Not because I was relaxed and free of worries. I actually hadn’t dreaded nightfall this much since I was four. It was just that I hadn’t had any sleep for nearly three days. Shrugging off L.J.’s questions about my next move, I collapsed into bed and crashed.
I woke up early, unsure of what day it was, and if I should be fleeing for my life. I hadn’t talked to Dr. Hopkins or my father in days. And Charlie…should I try to call?
L.J. slept on. It was seven in the morning. Even on the verge of nervous collapse, I still wouldn’t allow myself to sleep in. Old habits die hard, I guess. Maybe I should…
My phone rang. I was determined not to answer it, until I recognized the incoming number. The Fulton Psychiatric Hospital. Denton.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Andrews?” It was not a voice I recognized.
“Who is this?”
“Mr. Andrews, this is Dr. Danforth of the Fulton Psychiatric Hospital.” The voice was raspy and unfamiliar, with a slight nervous edge.
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“Yes, Doctor?” I pulled myself out of bed and leaned on my desk.
“I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news about Mr. Denton Dubbs.”
I contemplated hanging up. I couldn’t handle more tragedy right now.
“I regret to inform you that Mr. Dubbs passed away last night. He drowned in a therapeutic bath. It appears to be a suicide.”
Suicide my ass. I collapsed in the chair and clutched a handful of my hair, willing myself not to cry. Stupid, crazy Denton. Dan Cooper or Saberhagen must have gotten him alone. And now the poor bastard was dead.
“Mr. Andrews,” continued the doctor, “you were Mr. Dubbs’ only visitor for the past month. Can you think of any reason as to why he would do this?”
I couldn’t answer. Tears were flowing. What if I’d refused to speak to Denton at the sci-fi convention? Would he still be alive?
“Mr. Andrews, would you be willing to stop by the facility in the next few days and…and…shut up!” I came back to myself. The doctor was talking to someone on his end. And he was laughing. No, not laughing, giggling.
“Who the hell is this?” L.J. jolted awake at the sound of my voice.
There was a racket on the other end and someone else came on the line. This voice sounded like it was being spoken through a vacuum cleaner hose, as if each syllable came with great effort.
“April fools.”
I nearly shat. It was Denton.
“DENTON!” I wanted to hug him while simultaneously inserting the telephone up his nose. “What the hell was that?”
“Practical joke.” He coughed for a while and I heard him take a drink. “Scare you?”
“You son of a bitch.” I suddenly realized Denton was unaware of Saberhagen’s resurrection. “Denton, we need to talk. Something horrible has happened.”
“Not over the phone, Mr. Andrews. And it’s not a good idea for you to come back here, someone may be waiting for you. I’ll try to wrangle a day pass.”
“You watch yourself Denton. Our mutual friend…”
“Not over the phone. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.
L.J. had pulled a pillow over his face. “I must say, Sherm, that rooming with you is a lot more…interesting…than I would have expected last week. But if you’re going to have a loud, early morning phone conversation, take it to the hall.”
I had nearly gotten him killed the other night, but waking him up before his alarm was apparently really crossing the line. “Sorry. Hey, what’s this?”
There was an unfamiliar FedEx envelope on my desk.
“Dunno. Benny dropped it off last night, after you were in bed. I’m sure it can wait.”
I picked up the package, half expecting it to start shrieking. When I turned on the light, my roommate moaned in protest.
Inside, was a folded piece of parchment, sealed with a blob of wax. I squinted at the imprint. Yep, the sideways E and the X. I cracked the seal with my thumb.
“So what is it?” mumbled my roommate, annoyed.
“Letter.”
“I can see that. From who?”
I was already rereading the short message, disbelieving what I was seeing. “It’s from Saberhagen.”
That got his attention. He rolled out of bed, exposing me to his boney body. “That mobster guy? What does he want?”
I handed him the paper. “He wants to meet me.”
Dear Mister Andrews,
I must apologize for cutting our meeting short the other night. Some urgent business in Columbia required my attention. I would very much like to see you in person. If you could come to my office tomorrow, we could discuss some things you may find interesting.
Yours,
Pablo Saberhagen
1400 Fourth Street
#401
Columbia, MO 65201
L.J. slowly read it, his lips moving slightly. “So what are you going to do?” he asked as he handed the paper back.
I fished my toiletry kit out of L.J.’s backpack, which brought an odd look, but no comment. “I’m going to take a shower. Then I’m going to meet with him.”
“The guy who tried to kill you? You sure that’s a good idea?”
I pulled my bathrobe from the closet. “You said yourself, talking to him might be my one chance.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
I bathed, shaved, and made myself all pretty. Strangely, I didn’t feel nervous. Meeting Saberhagen, or whatever was passing itself off as Saberhagen, could very well be the last thing I did on earth. And yet, I’d been more uneasy on my date with Charlie. Maybe this was how soldiers felt on the day of battle. Brave, unflinching, and in complete denial about what was going to happen.
I returned to the room to find L.J. dressed in a button up shirt, attempting to knot one of my ties.
“Dare I ask?”
“I’m coming with you.”
“But…”
“Bite me. You’re not the only one who nearly died in my car. I’d like to get a look at this guy.”
“This isn’t your fight.” I helped him with the tie.
“Your lips are moving, but nothing’s coming out. Seriously man, you’re much less likely to vanish if you’ve got company. I told Aaron to call the cops if we don’t make it back in a couple of hours.”
Fourteen hundred Fourth Street was one of those buildings you could pass by every day and still not be able to describe. Sandwiched between a dry cleaners and a print shop, the office building gave the impression of wearing sunglasses and a trench coat. There was nothing about it that would stick in your brain.
“All right, you ready?” I asked.
L.J. was messing with his tie, which, after several attempts by both of us, still was tied wrong. “Are you sure, absolutely sure, you want to do this? If you recall, your friend wasn’t exactly in a chatty mood last time we met.”
I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t even vaguely optimistic. But something told me more harm would come from ignoring the summons.
“Saberhagen isn’t a fool. If he wanted to kill me, he wouldn’t send me a written invitation. I think that he’s going to offer some kind of deal. Tell me he’ll leave me alone if I do the same.” Or just seeing if I’m stupid enough to walk right into a trap.
L.J. nodded and resigned himself to a Windsor knot the size of his fist. “All the same, if we’re not back by noon, Aaron’s showing up with the police.”
“Right.”
The lobby had an air of long abandonment, followed by a hasty cleanup. The floor was mopped to a glowing finish, but layers of dust still coated odd corners. Though the doorframes had been freshly painted, it was hard to ignore the padlocks on the first floor office doors. Whoever had treated the glass entrance with Windex hadn’t bothered to remove the half dozen waterlogged phone books from the grass.
L.J. sniffed the air. “Smells like my dad’s laundry hamper.”
The directory held no letters, though the sun-damaged felt still showed the names of previous businesses. Law offices, mostly.
“What now?” asked L.J.
I gestured to the door marked STAIRS. “Up we go.”
In the stairwell, all signs of occupation ended. The steps were littered with dusty cigarette butts and newspapers. Broken office furniture had been crammed under the stairwell. Above us, a burnt-out light plunged the entrance into gloom.
Wordlessly, we ascended. I began to wonder if I wasn’t being foolishly naive. What if we were met, not by businessman Pablo Saberhagen, but that thing from the cemetery?
“Maybe you’d better wait outside.”
“Shut up,” said L.J. We had just reached the third floor.
“C’mon, I know you’re worried about me…”
L.J. slashed his hand over his throat.
“Shut up!” His head was tilted towards the third floor exit. He was listening for something.
I strained to hear. The hum of a malfunctioning light. Distant traffic on Fourth Street. John’s breathing.
“What did you hear?” I finally asked.
L.J. looked perplexed. “Nothing. I just thought I heard…nothing.”
I almost called the whole thing off. Was I playing the fool? What if we found ourselves held at gunpoint by Dan Cooper? It was only the thought that I was probably screwed, meeting or no, that encouraged me to follow through.
At the fourth floor we entered a dusty corridor. The only feature was an imposing door labeled P. SABERHAGEN. L.J., probably in an attempt to look like a secret service agent, slipped on some sunglasses. I nodded and threw open the door.
Saberhagen’s new digs were a lot nicer than the coffin in Irontown. His office lobby was decorated with thick carpeting, wood paneling, fancy furniture, and an attractive brunette receptionist.
“Mr. Andrews?” asked the secretary. I’d heard her voice somewhere before.
“Yes?” I approached her desk. My security preceded me, hands clasped in front.
“Mr. Saberhagen will be ready to see you shortly. May I get you gentlemen some coffee?”
L.J. shook his head almost imperceptibly. The secret service thing might have worked if he wasn’t wearing sneakers and white socks.
The receptionist smiled again. “Would you like to have a seat?” I suddenly placed her voice. Please continue to hold. Your call is important to us. A customer service representative will be with you shortly…
I plopped down in a cushy sofa. L.J. stood to the side of me until I told him to knock it off. As he joined me, something crunched under a cushion. He fished it out. It was the package of cleaning instructions that comes with a new couch.
My eyes scanned the room. There were no magazines on the coffee table. No bugs in the light fixtures. The secretary’s computer still had that blue film they use in shipping.
An intercom buzzed, and a voice echoed through the office. A voice soft as Charlie’s skin, smooth as Ex-Lax, cool as a Waffle House omelet.
Everyone Dies in the End Page 15
