Because I didn’t have a ghost dog to lead me, I didn’t want to make my way through the woods to the road where Mrs. Fischer waited. Psychic magnetism would reliably pull me to her, and there were most likely deer trails that I could follow rather than blunder noisily through the brush, but I would have to use my flashlight, which was out of the question.
I intended to leave via the long driveway by which I’d entered earlier. A crew of cultists would already have taken up position there, guarding the exit. To leave by that route, I would have to be reckless, and I would have to kill everyone I encountered before any of them might go out to the end of the private lane and discover the limo parked along the state route. No doubt Mrs. Fischer was expert with a handgun, smoothed out and fully blue, but she
couldn’t hold off an army while she loaded the kids in the superstretch.
As the three men continued toward the stable, I saw more flashlights past that building, probing along the tree line. They would soon find the sleeping Dobermans.
The night was a box of dynamite. The fuse had been lit.
Ever since fleeing the house, I’d operated under the assumption that they knew who they were looking for; but that wasn’t necessarily true. Rob Burkett, Jinx, and the two Kens were too dead to describe me to anyone. The senoculus knew my face, which was exactly like its face with a more reasonable number of eyes, but just because that demon and all of these devil-worshippers were on the same team didn’t mean that they were constantly text messaging one another.
Anyway, in the dark, probing here and there with a light, I might be just another bad guy looking for the intruding bigot who had violated the sanctity of our religious service. Pistol in my right hand, flashlight in my left, I walked boldly away from the pine tree, toward the parking area, beyond which lay the driveway that led out to the state route.
So many flashlights were sweeping this way and that across the large property that I was reminded of the scene in
E.T
. when Peter Coyote and the other feds are searching the woods and fields for any indication of where the little visitor from another planet might have gone. I was E.T. and I really did just want to go home, but these searchers had crossed over from a different movie,
Rosemary’s Baby
.
As I walked past the back of the ProStar+, someone came around the side of it and shone a flashlight in my face just as I shone mine in his, and thus began an encounter as choreographed as any Rockettes
number. The rhinestone cowboy. High priest of the cult. He wore the suit from the vision in which he had torched three children. He was probably more startled than I was, because he thought that I was dead but I knew that he wasn’t. He had a pistol with a silencer, and I had a pistol with a silencer. Simultaneously, we said, “You.” We pointed our weapons at each other, but neither of us fired immediately. I hesitated because I suddenly thought there was something I needed to know that only he could tell me. I think he hesitated because, even though I’d taken out the Kens and freed the children, he still felt invulnerable. He said, “Where are they?” I said, “Where are who?” He said, “Listen, pussy boy, I need those kids. I have a commitment, and I’m damn sure gonna keep it.” He looked a little fearful, like maybe, if he failed to sacrifice the seventeen, he would spend eternity in Hell, eating toe jam and boogers, and none of it fried. I realized what I needed to ask him, but first I said, “I think everything’s now coming full circle for me.” With some fury, he said,
“Where are those snot-nosed little bastards?”
I said, “I think soon I’ve got to go back home.” He said,
“You [fornicating] little [fornicating] [fornicator], WHERE ARE THOSE KIDS!”
I asked what I needed to ask: “You people, you or others like you, have something planned for Pico Mundo?” His eyes widened, and I had my answer. He shot me in the chest at the same moment that I shot him in the chest.
Whifff, whifff
. Because he wasn’t wearing a Kevlar vest, he collapsed. I
was
wearing one, but I also collapsed, because although the bullet flattened against the bulletproof fabric and didn’t penetrate, I felt as though I’d been hit in the breastbone by a hard-pitched baseball. He dropped his pistol. I dropped my flashlight. I knocked his weapon beyond his reach. He tried to kick my gun hand, but with a bullet lodged in the torso, he lacked the strength to follow through. He coughed up
some blood, and I spit out a little blood because I’d bitten my tongue. He was weak and going fast. He called me a disgusting name that suggested I had committed incest, and as I got my wind back, I called him a nutjob. I took the flashlight from his hand and switched it off.
My flashlight, lying on the ground and aimed at me, drew his attention to something, and in a thin, quavering voice, he said, “Why are you wearing
that
, where did you get
that
?” The object of his astonishment proved to be the diamond-and-ruby exclamation point, the brooch that Mrs. Fischer had pinned to the sleeve of my sweater for good luck. The cowboy’s gaze shifted from the pin to my eyes. He said, “Who
are
you? Who are you to be wearing
that
?” Instead of answering him, I said, “I’m done with you, Lyle Hetland,” and I put him out of his misery with another shot, this time to the throat.
Gagging but trying to be quiet about it, I got to my feet and leaned against the back of the eighteen-wheeler. A quick survey of the night confirmed that our encounter had attracted no attention. The various clusters of flashlights were fanning the night elsewhere, with increasing urgency.
Being a positive thinker, at least overall, I thought that putting an end to the cowboy must be a good omen, a sign that, with my primary enemy dead, I would walk off this property unscathed. That was when the night
really
got nuts.
AFTER SWITCHING OFF MY FLASHLIGHT, I DRAGGED THE cowboy from the back of his truck to the side of it and rolled him under the vehicle, sort of tucking him in for the night, though in this case an endless night. I didn’t want to waste time on the task, but leaving the body in the open, where someone might stumble across it, seemed likely to complicate my situation.
No sooner was the dead man safely out of sight than a loud thump issued from the trailer. Back in Los Angeles, when I’d looked inside, I’d found nothing behind the rear doors except that ornate stainless-steel gate worked through with all manner of symbols from a Celtic cross to swastikas, to an ankh, and beyond it an empty trailer painted black with arresting patterns of symbols in bright yellow. A quick series of heavy thumps and a rat-a-tat-tat of rapid knocks convinced me that the cargo space was no longer without freight.
Considering that I’d just freed seventeen kidnapped children from these people, I assumed that the cowboy might have stowed a few more captives in this vehicle between L.A. and here. I should search the dead man for his keys, open the rear doors, and—
“Curiosity is not always well-advised,” Mr. Hitchcock said, startling me so badly that I let out the thin little
yeep
that a dog will make if you accidentally step on its tail but offend more than hurt it.
In the milky moonlight, the director had a decidedly spooky-dude quality, not merely because he was Alfred Hitchcock and had been dead for more than thirty years, but also because, I think, he
wanted
to be spooky, the better to impress me with the importance of his words.
“Sir, I’m thinking maybe this guy’s got captives stashed in—”
“He has one captive in the truck, Mr. Thomas, but it is not one you would be wise to release.”
“But—”
Interrupting me with a raised hand, Mr. Hitchcock said, “I stress again that I am
not
your guardian angel, which I suspect might be a thankless task. But after all you’ve been through this evening, I would be most disappointed if at the very end you did something so stupid that you got yourself violently dismembered.”
“That would disappoint me, too.”
“The gentleman who owned this truck used an ancient ritual to call forth an entity and to imprison it herein.”
I said, “Hmmm. Call forth. Entity.”
“As long as he kept it in his control, he shared in its power.”
“What entity?”
“Let’s just leave it at that, Mr. Thomas. A demonic entity. Now that the gentleman is dead, the aforementioned entity will not be long contained.”
“But—”
Something inside the trailer slammed into the sidewall in front of me, and the sheet-metal skin bulged out toward my face.
I did that
yeep
thing again, and Mr. Hitchcock said, “We had best adjourn to more hospitable territory.”
Abruptly something of disturbing power and vehemence began to ricochet around the interior of the trailer, slamming into the walls and ceiling, rocking the entire truck, rattling the trailer against the tractor’s frame rail and fifth wheel, making the leaf springs twang like poorly tuned bass fiddles, causing the tires to stutter against the pavement. The entire trailer torqued, and the marker lights in the lower side-rail burst from stress.
As I backed away from the ProStar+, the cultists searching the property grew aware of the ruckus and came running. A multitude of flashlight beams found the truck from all sides, seeming to tie it to the ground as if it were giant Gulliver in Lilliput restrained by the fragile ropes of a legion of tiny natives. As though the eighteen-wheeler took offense at their interest, it began bouncing and rocking so violently that I expected the trailer would uncouple from the tractor and crash onto its side.
Everyone appeared to understand the meaning of this furious display. After a moment of stunned disbelief, they erupted into curses and wordless cries, and sprinted to the cars and SUVs parked just to the east of the big rig.
The funny thing about fear is that after so much of it jammed into a short period of time, you become exhausted, you think you’re numb to it, you’re drained, you’re done with it, nothing can scare you anymore, to hell with everything, you’re fearless now. And then some little thing happens, like seeing all these satanic murderers in a state of terror, and your fear is instantly refreshed, your terror tank is full to the brim, and you’re cranking away with all cylinders once more.
I thought the smartest thing that I could do might be to take
one of those cars from its owner at gunpoint and get out of Dodge with the rest of them.
Mr. Hitchcock seemed to follow my train of thought, because he raised his voice above the din and said, “One would be well-advised to stay as far away as possible from anything belonging to these people, Mr. Thomas. On foot. Hurry now.”
I ran past the parked vehicles toward the driveway, but before I had reached the place where the overhanging pines formed a tunnel that continued all the way out to the state route, a colossal noise brought me to a halt. I turned to see the ProStar+ whipping around and around, as though it were caught in a tornado, the trailer torn open as if it were no sturdier than a juice box, the entire vehicle casting off parts of itself—until abruptly it collapsed and lay in ruin, as though a giant invisible child had grown tired of playing with it.
Mr. Hitchcock appeared at my side. “Mr. Thomas, this might be difficult for you to believe, considering my movies, but I was always squeamish in life and remain so to a lesser extent even now. This is not a place I wish to be.”
A couple of SUVs were pulling out of the parking area, but they didn’t get far. Both tumbled away as if they had been hit hard by the shock waves of a powerful explosion, though no explosion had occurred. The other vehicles began to rock back and forth, shuddering together into a tighter and tighter space, as if they were inside a circular car-compacting machine similar to those that reduce a full-size sedan into a cube of metal no bigger than an armchair, although this one would be a disc or a ball of many vehicles. Windshields burst, metal squealed and crackled—and the people trapped in the cars screamed.
I smelled something familiar. That scent as sweet as incense yet suggestive of decomposition. I had experienced this malodor only once before, when it came to me from the empty black-and-yellow trailer, through the steel filigree of the elaborate gate of symbols. And again I felt the chill draft that came with the smell, not like a breath as before but a full breeze that prickled my face as though with tiny bits of sleet.
When I glanced toward the lake, I saw torchlight reflected on water. The link between this place and the wasteland had been broken. But the thing that Lyle Hetland had conjured and contained in his eighteen-wheeler was loose now and intent on kicking butt.
A cultist appeared on foot, running for the driveway. Spun off his feet, flailing at nothing I could see, he suddenly came apart in midair in such a spectacular fashion that I recalled Mr. Hitchcock’s warning about dismemberment, and I ran for my life.
As I raced along the tunnel formed by the pines that overhung the private lane, the racket behind me increased, and I expected to be suddenly flung into the air, but I passed the halfway point with my head still on my neck and all limbs functioning. I saw the portly director standing on the farther side of the low ranch-style gate, where he had fled in his magical way. He waved at me as I approached, pleased that I had finally gotten the message and acted on it.
The moment that I stepped around the gate, the escalating tumult behind me instantly ceased. Startled by the sudden hush, I stopped, turned, and peered back. The house and grounds were at too great a distance for me to see much, but I could discern that chaos still reigned there.
Mr. Hitchcock said, “They are quite loath to be overheard by neighbors even though none are close, so a certain spell was laid down around the perimeter of their property.”
When I stepped behind the gatepost, setting foot in the tree-canopied lane once more, the thunderous noise might have been that of the celestial foundry where entire worlds were cast and set spinning. I preferred the silence where the director stood, and I returned to him.