Demon King

by Erik Henry Vick

  “Nah,” said the old man with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I know where we are, all right. The problem is, the glade ain’t here, and neither is that pile of stuff.”

  Matt looked around. “You mean this is the place?” It was too dark to see much of anything—everything looked the same in the gloom.

  “Ayuh. Right here where we are standing, was a pile of kids’ stuff, and over yonder, a glade with a big bastard tree in the middle.”

  Matt glanced at Jonas.

  “Oh, what’s running through your noggin is plain enough, Matt Greshin, but I ain’t gone off around the bend yet. The others saw the glade and the tree, too.”

  “Maybe you got turned around coming back? Things always look different from the other direction.”

  Thorndike’s only response was to hawk and spit into the gloom. “Should be right here,” he grumbled.

  “We could circle outwards for a while. See if we come across this glade.” Jonas hitched his Sam Browne belt into a more comfortable position.

  Thorndike laughed. “Son, do you know why we call this here wood the Thousand Acre Wood?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Look around, then. This time with your eyes open. We call the place that because it all looks the same. If you’ve seen an acre, the next thousand acres are all the same.”

  “But that’s—”

  “Nah. If that glade were around here, we’d have seen it by now.”

  Matt shook his head. “So what are you saying, Mr. Thorndike?”

  Thorndike shrugged and met his gaze. “That pile of things disappeared while we were walking out. Or someone moved it. Someone must have moved that glade somehow while they were at it.” He held up his hand. “Now, that makes me sound a little soft between the ears, but you asked me what I think, and that’s it.” He turned and walked back toward the trail.

  “Matt, is this guy on the up and up?”

  Matt peered after Thorndike’s retreating back. “Yes. He’s old, but he’s always been a straight arrow.”

  “Then what is all this?”

  Matt shrugged. “Mass hallucination? A what-do-you-call-it.”

  “A folie a deux? Nah, it’s either a hoax or he’s trying to cover something up.”

  Matt cleared his throat. “Thorndike’s not involved in any kidnappings. He’s all right, Jonas.”

  “Then this has been a lot of time wasted on a hoax.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Thorn—”

  “Doesn’t matter, though, does it? We’ve still wasted half the afternoon on nonsense.”

  “You boys coming?” called Thorndike.

  Matt turned to follow the old man back to the parking lot and then froze, hand drifting to the butt of his Colt.

  “What?” breathed Jonas.

  Matt held up his hand, head cocked, eyes roaming the surrounding woods. After a minute, he sighed and straightened up. “Did you hear that noise?”

  “What?” asked Jonas.

  “Thought I heard a dog growling.”

  Jonas looked at him for a long moment and then brushed past him. “Wasted enough time out here,” he muttered.

  19

  Shannon recognized the fat boy from school, but she didn’t know his name. He was a grade ahead and a loner to boot. She inched away from him. He smelled like vomit.

  “You were right, babe,” said the man. The driver’s door slammed. “And so was your old man. This is easy.”

  The tinkling laugh sounded muffled through the back seat of the car.

  “You are good at it, my love. A hidden talent.”

  The man laughed. “What now, babe? More kids?”

  “Well, you promised me a teacher or two.”

  The man roared laughter and started the car.

  “Who are you?” the fat boy asked. He was talking loud over the car’s exhaust. “Who is that man? What does he want?”

  Shannon shifted away another inch. “Don’t touch me, I have the chickenpox.”

  “Why did he grab us? Why are we in the trunk?”

  “How would I know? I got picked up same as you.”

  “Shit!” said the man driving the car. “Cops, babe.”

  “Don’t worry, my love,” said the woman in a lilting voice. “Just pull over here.”

  The note of the car’s engine changed, quieted. Shannon bounced and jounced around as the car pulled off the macadam and coasted to a stop on the shoulder of the road. Another car pulled up behind them, and its driver got out of the car and walked toward them.

  “Help!” Shannon screamed. “We’re in the trunk! He’s kidnapping us!”

  The footsteps stopped. “Driver, get out of the car. Slowly!”

  “What do I do, babe?”

  “Do what he says, my love.” The Skylark’s door opened. “But take your rifle.”

  “Babe, if I do that, I’ll get shot.”

  “No, my love. It won’t be you getting shot.”

  The man laughed. It was a nasty laugh. “I think I love you, babe.”

  “And I, you, my love.”

  The car rocked as the driver got out of the car. “It’s you!” he said. His voice was angry, hateful.

  “Fergusson! Get your hands up! Now!”

  “Why, Officer Witherson, I’m starting to believe you don’t trust me.”

  “I will not tell you again, Fergusson. Get—”

  A soft crack sounded next to the trunk. “You are right, Craig. You’re not going to tell me again. Not anything. Ever.”

  The only reply was a gurgling moan.

  “Yeah. Your days of telling people things are over, Officer,” gloated the nasty man. There was a mechanical sound, part click, part clack, and then the soft crack came again, and the nasty man laughed. “See that, babe? His head splattered like a melon!”

  “Yes, my love. Just like that comedian with his Sledge-O-Matic and the watermelon.”

  “Yeah,” said the man, but he sounded confused.

  “Never mind, my love. Let’s get going before someone comes bopping along.”

  “Right you are, babe.” The car rocked as the driver got back in and then the car’s engine roared, and they bumped back onto the macadam.

  “Did he…did he just shoot a policeman?” Shannon whispered.

  “What’s your name?” the fat boy asked.

  What can it hurt? Shannon thought. “My name is Shannon. I’m in fourth.”

  “I’m Bob,” he said. “Fifth. Yeah, he just killed a police officer. That nice one…Officer Witherson.”

  Shannon didn’t know what to say, so she focused on not smelling the fat kid. The car was moving, the man taking corners without a thought for his “guests” in the trunk. They slid around like sacks of cabbages, bumping and grinding together like an unseemly dance. “Don’t touch me,” she said. “Chickenpox.” The car left the pavement, bouncing along over ruts and holes. When it stopped, she breathed a sigh of relief and slid away from the smelly boy.

  The door of the car creaked open, but neither the woman nor the man said anything. The car rocked as the two got out. Something clanked on the roof of the car.

  “Well, babe, silenced or loud?” the man asked.

  “Let’s be loud for a change,” said the woman.

  “Loud it is.”

  Shannon heard a ripping sound, and something clattered into the backseat.

  “You pick the tree, babe.”

  “Not this time, my love. No tree. We will need to get out of here in a hurry.”

  “Oh yeah? Something I missed, babe?”

  “Don’t worry, my love. I won’t let you come to harm.”

  There was the sound of smoochy kissing, and Shannon’s cheeks burned. “I have the chickenpox,” she breathed.

  “You’ve said,” said the fat boy. “Don’t worry. I won’t touch you.”

  A school bus rumbled by on the road, and the trunk filled up with the stink of diesel fumes.

  “Okay, babe,” said the man. “Pick one.”

 
“Teachers, remember?”

  “I remember,” said the man, sounding a little annoyed. “Pick one.”

  “Her.”

  “Pow. Pow. Pow,” said the man.

  “Pow,” breathed the woman.

  There was a deafening boom, and Shannon screamed. She couldn’t help it. The woman laughed her tinkling laugh.

  “I scared someone, babe.”

  “It’s no matter, my love. They’ll be much more scared come this evening.” The woman laughed again. “Him, the one with the whistle around his neck.”

  “Oh, a coach,” laughed the man. “I hate coaches. Pow. Pow. Pow.”

  “Pow,” said the woman, and the deafening boom sounded again. Shannon yelped at the sheer volume of the noise, and the man laughed.

  “Oh! Her next,” purred the woman.

  “She’s sexy, babe. Should we—”

  “Sexier than me, my love?” There was the sound of a zipper opening. “Sexier than this?”

  Oh gross! thought Shannon.

  “What are they doing?” asked the boy.

  “That was her zipper, dummy.”

  “I know that. I mean the booming thing.”

  Shannon’s cheeks burned at the rebuke in his voice. “Oh. I think it’s a…a gun.”

  “They’re shooting people? It’s a game to them?”

  Shannon shrugged, and the deafening boom sounded again. This time, she only flinched.

  “How sexy is she now?” asked the woman, and the man and the woman laughed.

  “Definitely not as sexy as that,” said the man.

  “Do you just want to look? Or maybe…”

  The woman’s voice was funny, Shannon thought. Like the women on her Granny’s soap operas just before they kissed someone else’s husband. “Gross,” she whispered.

  “Someone’s screaming,” said the boy.

  Shannon listened intently, and it did sound like someone was screaming. “Someone will come to help us,” she said with a wistful note in her voice.

  “Oh, put her out of my misery, my love. She sounds like a little girl having a hissy-fit.”

  The deafening boom sounded again, and the screaming stopped. “Shit,” said the man. “They’re on to us, babe. I thought we’d get more than three.” It almost sounded like he was pouting.

  “There will be other days, my love. Other schools.”

  “Yeah,” he breathed. “But for now, let’s go find somewhere secluded. You can show me what’s inside your jeans again.”

  The woman laughed, almost like a cat purring.

  Gross, Shannon thought.

  20

  Hour piled on top of hour with ruthless efficiency, and still, Benny didn’t come home. Still, little Billy lay in a coma sixty miles away. The shooting at the high school had already made the national radio news programs. They called the shootings a “wave of violence perpetrated by a madman, or a group of madmen.” The governor made a speech about declaring a state of emergency and sending in the National Guard.

  When the phone rang, Jim winced and twitched, dreading picking up the receiver. Either Karen would be on the other end, demanding news, demanding he do something, or it would be Matt Greshin calling to say they’d found Benny’s body out in the woods somewhere, raped or who knows what. He reached for the ringing phone, to stop the infernal racket if nothing else. He rested his hand on the receiver and let it ring. If the person calling hung up, he wouldn’t have to talk to them. But the phone kept ringing. On the fifteenth ring, Jim picked up the handset.

  “Cartwright,” he said, sounding as gruff as a lifelong smoker.

  “Took you long enough.” It wasn’t Karen, and it wasn’t Greshin.

  “Who is this?”

  “You know who, Mr. Town-fucking-Manager. Come to your window. I’m right outside.”

  Trying to be so quiet that his movement wouldn’t carry over the phone line, Jim slid out of his chair and crawled into the chair-nook. “Fergusson?”

  The caller laughed. “That isn’t my name, ass-wipe.”

  Jim nodded to himself. “Gray, then.”

  “That’s right. Owen Gray. Have you found out I’m a Marine Force Recon sniper, yet?”

  “I found out you’re a murderous bastard.”

  The line hissed in silence for a moment. “That’s kind of rude, buddy. Come to your window.”

  “Oh, I’ll come to my window if you come out of fucking hiding and face me like a man. But you won’t do that, will you Gray? You won’t do that because you are a fucking coward.” Without feeling the emotion coming, Jim was drowning in a black-hearted fury. “Well, Gray? Do we have a deal? You come out, I come out?”

  Gray laughed.

  “Uh-huh, I was right about you. The Marine Corps flag is scarlet and gold, right? Or is it yellow?”

  An odd sound came over the line and a window downstairs shattered. “Still around, Mr. Town-fucking-Manager? I hope you didn’t die already.” Gray’s voice writhed with hatred, slithered with duplicity.

  “You are a miserable bastard, aren’t you, Gray?”

  The line crackled and popped. The sound of Gray chambering another round clattered harshly in its wake. “More where that came from, Cartwright. Oh, hey, I'm an asshole. How’s your son?”

  “Don’t you talk about my kids!”

  “Poor little Billy. Dead on the inside. Poor little Benny. I bet he wishes he were dead.”

  “Don’t you hurt my boys!”

  “Ha! I’ve got nothing to do with them. Little Billy’s already done, he’ll never wake up. Your boy Benny…well, let’s just say his pain has only just begun. Come to your window. I can make all this go away. All this pain, all this dread…all of it can end right now—”

  Jim pressed the disconnect and dialed Matt’s home phone number. When he got no answer, he called dispatch.

  “Oneka Falls Police—”

  “Angie, Jim Cartwright. Owen Gray is outside my house. He already shot out a window downstairs.”

  “I hear you, Jim.” The phone rustled as she dispatched all available units. Matt’s voice crackled in reply, but Jim couldn’t make out what he said. “Jim? Matt says to hide.”

  “That’s what I’m doing, Angie. Gray thinks I’m downstairs, but I’m not. If he shoots up here, I’ll get into the tub.”

  “Ten-four,” Angie said, but Jim didn’t know if it was in response to his weak plan or to something Matt said on the radio.

  “Mr. Town-fucking-Manager,” Gray called from outside, his tone lilting, mocking. Downstairs, another window shattered.

  Something bothered Jim about that, but he couldn’t figure out what. “Angie? Tell them to hurry.”

  “Don’t worry, Jim, they’re coming code three.”

  “How rude,” said Gray. He stood in the doorway, pointing a rifle at Jim. He was dirty, hair tossed with leaves, bare feet almost black with grime.

  The sound of the rifle shot was deafening.

  21

  Matt pushed his cruiser hard—the 440 Magnum shrieked and roared, and the tires screamed on the corners. He knew the streets of Oneka Falls like the back of his hand and took streets that would get him to Jim’s house the fastest. The red dash-top light spun, and what traffic existed cleared in front of him

  He didn’t run the siren. If Jim still lived, a bunch of sirens roaring up outside the house might be a death sentence. Gray was a whack-job, no doubt about that, and whack-jobs were unpredictable. And Gray was already making them look like fools. While they searched the woods for Benny, he’s miles away, shooting up the high school, and killing cops. All that before he moved on to shooting the town manager. Blood thumped in Matt’s temples.

  He wanted Craig at his back, but the days of that had ended on the side of the road a few hours earlier. Anger sang in his veins. Why didn’t you wait for back up, Craig? What did Gray do to goad you? What did he say to make you rush in like a dumbass? As with the previous three hundred times he’d asked those questions, no answer came. Craig hadn’t been a f
oolish man, and he had been an exceptional law enforcement officer. Something must have happened that made him confront Gray on the side of the road like that. But what? Did he catch him in the act of taking the two new missing kids?

  When he turned onto Rabbit Run, he took his foot off the gas and let the car coast up the street. No sense risking having Gray hear him roar up to the house He brought the car to a silent stop and got out, leaving the door ajar.

  First on the scene, Matt knew he should wait for back up, knew he shouldn’t rush in blind. Fuck that, he thought, and the image of Craig Witherson splattered all over the shoulder of the road raced through his mind. He pushed the image away and ran hunched over to the front stoop and plastered himself to the wall. The big bay window had shattered inward, glass shards all over the living room carpet. Gray must have shot from one of the houses on the street. Of course.

  He tried the door knob, but it was locked. With a shrug, Matt stepped through the shattered bay window, glass crunching under his boots, Colt is his hand. Inside, he froze, straining his ears to catch any sound.

  The house was as silent as a graveyard. Hope I’m not too late, he thought. Better not be for Gray’s sake. Moving quietly, he went to the stairs and climbed to the second floor of the house.

  Angie had told him that right before she lost the connection, she’d heard someone in the room with Jim. He thumbed the safety off as he inched down the hallway, listening hard, peering into the shadowed rooms as he passed them.

  The door to Jim’s study was closed. Matt took a deep breath and edged the door open with his boot and it swung on well-oiled hinges. Matt took a quick glance, and ducked his head back out.

  The room was empty. He’d been in Jim’s study plenty of times, but couldn’t remember where the closet was, or if there even was one in the room. Jim’s desk was against the far wall, and the phone cord stretched into the nook of the desk. Matt charged into the room, spinning to cover the only part of the room he couldn’t see from the door.

  Jim lay slumped against the wall, one hand clamped over his gut. Blood ran down his arm and seeped into the carpet around him, Matt’s knees squelched in the blood as he knelt next to his friend. “Jim?”

  Jim’s eyelids fluttered, and he groaned. Blood seeped through his fingers, thick as sludge.