“So, how’s Garrett involved in this? He’s been in jail the entire time.”
“I told you about the kid’s dreams. You saw their drawings. Then, there are the dreams Walter and Penelope had.”
“So?”
“What I didn’t tell you about was my dreams.”
Charlie cocked his head and with a finger beneath the brim tilted his hat back. “Your dreams?”
“The past two nights, I’ve had weird dreams. Dreams like the others. Each time Garrett was there.”
“Where?”
“In my dreams. I figured they were from stress, over-work, lack of sleep, that kind of thing. But, now I know it was Garrett all along.”
“I don’t understand. How did Garrett control your dreams?”
“Maybe he has supernatural powers. Maybe he’s Satan or Beelzebub or some other creature from Hell. Whatever’s going on, it starts and ends with Garrett.”
“Hmmm,” Charlie said.
She could tell he wasn’t convinced. Of course, she wasn’t sure she was convinced either. Saying it out loud made it seem a lot crazier than when it simply rattled around in her head.
“How did Penelope know where the knife was?” Sam asked.
“Maybe she’s the one that stole it in the first place.”
“No way. How did Walter Limpke become a killer?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“Let’s play ‘What If.’ What if Garrett does possess special powers? What if he can manipulate other people’s actions? Make Walter and Carl Angelo killers. What if he can invade people’s dreams?”
“That’s a lot of what ifs. But, let’s say he can. Why doesn’t he simply make someone, one of us, open his cell and let him disappear?”
“Because he wants revenge. And because he needs something.”
"What?"
"Me."
Charlie sighed, lifted his hat and pushed back his thick hair, before reseating the Stetson. “What do you propose?”
“I want to lean on Garrett. Pressure him. See if he’ll crack.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Then, we might get lucky. He may try to escape.”
Sam pushed open the front door and flipped on the lights. She snatched the cell keys from Thelma’s desk and unlocked the door to the jail area. She toggled the wall switch and the overhead Fluorescent lights flickered to life.
“Wake up, Garrett.” She raked the keys across the bars.
Garrett sat on the edge of his bunk, cardigan sweater over his orange jumpsuit, shoes on, as if he had expected them. He shielded his eyes from the lights with one hand and smiled. “So good of you to come, Samantha. But then, I knew you would.”
“Cut the crap, Garrett.”
“But, I guess you really didn’t have a choice, did you?” he said.
Sam unlocked his cell and tossed the keys to Charlie. Charlie caught them and leaned against the wall opposite the cell.
“OK, Garrett. It’s time for you to tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“But, you know, Samantha.”
“I told you, asshole. Don’t call me that. Now, I want some answers. Why did Walter Limpke kill three people?”
“You tell me. You’re the cop.”
“Wrong answer.” She grabbed a handful of his jumpsuit and lifted him from the bunk. She pushed him against the wall, pinning him, the palm of her hand pressed against his chest. “Let’s try again. Who made Walter Limpke kill three people?”
“Satan, of course.”
“Not you?”
“He’s the master. I’m a servant. As was Carl Angelo.”
“So, you know what just happened at my house.”
“Of course I do.” He smiled. “I was there. Too bad about Carl. He was very helpful.”
“Helpful? That’s not exactly the word I’d use for what Carl tried. ”
“He got you here, didn’t he?”
“Why?”
“I told you, Samantha. You are the one. I need you.”
“For what?”
“All in good time.”
“Your time is about up.” She tightened her grip on his shirt.
“Reverend Billy thought the same thing. He learned otherwise.”
“What about Billy?”
“Tomorrows news. But then, you won’t be around to see it.”
“You’re in this up to your fucking ears. I want to know how. Or do we do the dance, right here, right now?”
“Which dance? The devil’s dance?”
“The one that ends with you telling me what I want to know.” She slammed her fist into his gut. His knees buckled, but she held him against the wall.
He coughed and gagged. “I don’t think I’ll tell you.”
She wadded his hair in her fist and through a tight jaw said, “Yes...you...will.” With each word, she slammed the back of his head into the concrete wall. “We used to have a sign on the wall around here until the ACLU morons made us take it down. It said: ‘You came in here with information and a pretty face. You can’t leave with both.’ So, what’s it going to be? You going to talk? Or am I going to beat your teeth into your lungs?”
He looked at her, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. His eyes flashed like two angry rubies and he spoke in a low growl. “Things are never as they seem are they, Samantha?”
The blow to her head yanked consciousness from her grasp.
*
Charlie Walker stood over Sam’s prostrate body, the gun he had struck her with in his hand. Garrett extended his hand toward him, but said nothing. Yet, Charlie heard, or sensed, what he wanted. He looked at the gun, turning it over. It glowed a brilliant green as did the bars of the otherwise rich coral cell. He handed the weapon to Garrett.
He watched Garrett stoop beside Sam, roll her over on her stomach, and pull her gun from its holster. He removed her handcuffs from her belt and slapped them on her wrists.
Sam’s head lolled to one side and Charlie saw that blood soaked her strawberry blonde hair. His instinct was to help her, protect her. He wanted to clean the blood from her hair and wrap her in his arms to shield her from the violence he sensed around them, but he couldn’t. Why? He didn’t know. He only knew he must follow the impulses that ricocheted in his brain.
He grabbed Sam’s ankles, while Garrett lifted her shoulders. They carried her to Charlie’s Jeep. Charlie opened the rear hatch and they rolled her inside. Garrett used a two-foot length of rope to bind her ankles, then covered her with the tarp that lay rolled in one corner of the cargo area.
They returned to Garrett’s cell and Charlie stepped inside. He turned his back to Garrett and awaited the blow he knew was coming.
*
After rendering Sheriff Walker unconscious, Garrett took his gun and locked the cell door. He then tossed Charlie’s and Sam’s guns into the cell that occupied the far corner of the lock-up area. They clanked and skidded to the far wall. He locked the cell door and tossed the keys through the bars.
Returning to Charlie’s Jeep, he checked Sam’s restraints. Satisfied, he hopped in, cranked the engine, and headed north, out of town, toward Devil’s Playground.
*
Nathan couldn’t sleep. Red wine did that to him from time to time. Or was it Sam? After leaving her, he had returned to his motel room and stretched out on the bed. He could still feel her soft lips on his, and her firm body in his arms. Deciding sleep was impossible, he rolled out of bed. Either work or a cold shower. He opted for work.
He called his voice mail and retrieved two dozen messages, none of which were important. He made notes to return four of the calls the next morning, then settled in front of his laptop computer to rewrite the three stories he had underway. He shuffled through his notes: interviews, other news stories, and snippets of his own rambling thoughts. How to put this all together into a coherent story? What hook to use? Plain vanilla Satanic stuff wasn’t big news anymore. He needed a angle. Something that would tug at the sleeve of shoppers at the check out counter, make them pause, peruse, purchase this week’s edition of “Straight Story.”
Sometimes he hated this job.
For an hour and a half, he absorbed himself in the work, until his brain would no longer concentrate. He picked up the Roberto Clemente autographed baseball he carried in his briefcase everywhere he went. He found the smooth leather, the perfect seams, and solidity of the ball relaxing. Simple. Pure. His own personal worry stone. He had been a pitcher on his high school baseball team and now wrapped his fingers around the ball in various patterns. Fast ball, curve, slider, knuckle ball--his favorite. With a knuckler, the batter never knew which way the ball would move. Up, down, right, left, the batter always off balance.
That’s how he felt. Off balance. Was it Sam? This story? Probably both. Why had this woman from Nowhere, USA affected him so? Because she was different from the plastic, fantastic bullshit of LA. Because she was the real deal. And, why was this story eating at him? Because unlike the usual drivel he worked on, something very real, very wrong was happening right here, right now. What, he didn’t know, but his always-reliable gut said something was amiss.
His stomach growled and rumbled, reminding him that he had eaten little at Sam’s. He glanced at his watch, 1:30. He shuffled through his suitcase, uncovering two empty granola bar wrappers. A search of the chest of drawers yielded nothing. Time to scavenge, he thought.
He snagged his jacket and headed to his car. The apple pie he had shared with Sam the previous night at King’s Truck Stop sounded good. Besides, it was the only option at this hour. He drove north through town toward the freeway overpass where King’s was located. Main Street was quite, no traffic, shops dark. Not even a vagrant dog wondered the street.
As he passed the Sheriff’s Department, he saw Sam’s Jeep at the curb. Lights blazed from inside. What was she doing there at this hour? He pulled to the curb and jumped out. Maybe she would join him for pie again, he thought.
The door was ajar and he stepped inside. “Sam?” he shouted.
No response.
“Sam? Are you here?”
Nothing.
He noticed the evidence room door, its frame splintered as if it had been forced open. Apprehension stretched his gut like a bowstring. He looked into the room. The contents of several boxes had been strewn across the floor.
“Sam?”
No answer. Something was wrong. His fear swelled, panic approaching rapidly.
He looked in Sam’s office, then Sheriff Walker’s. Nothing. He pushed open the door to the jail area, surprised it was unlocked. The stark brightness of the overhead Fluorescent lights assaulted his eyes.
“Sam? Sheriff Walker?”
He heard a groan to his right, then saw Charlie Walker face down on the floor. Charlie rolled over and sat up, his eyes glassy. He rubbed the back of his head and neck.
“Sheriff Walker. Are you OK? What happened?” He yanked on the cell door, but it would not budge.
Charlie staggered to his feet and blinked at Nathan. “Mister Klimek. What are you doing here?”
“A better question is why are you in your own jail?”
Charlie looked around as if he had just realized where he was. “Garrett,” he said.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s Sam?”
“I don’t know. She was here, then...” His eyes widened. “My God. Garrett took her. Open the door.”
“Where are the keys?”
Charlie searched around, beneath the bunk, then looked toward the other cell. “There,” he pointed.
Nathan crossed to the other cell and pulled on the door. Locked. The large metal key ring lay near the back wall, out of reach. “Do you have another set?”
“Thelma’s desk. Lower left-hand drawer.”
Nathan retrieved the keys and unlocked the cell.
Charlie then unlocked the other cell and grabbed his gun. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“I’ve got a good idea where he’s taken her.”
They walked out the front door.
“The bastard took my Jeep,” Charlie said.
They climbed into Nathan’s SL500. “Where to?”
“That way,” Charlie said, pointing north.
The darkness smothered her. The dank petroleum smell of the tarp that lay over her smothered her. Fear smothered her. That fear that lives deep inside everyone, visceral, paralyzing, lurking in the dim corners of the psyche where we refuse to look. A place where panic and terror and horror reside. Feelings that live only in dreams. Feelings that are never released from their shackles in the light of day.
Yet, she was awake and those emotions crawled all over her. Fear sizzled up her spine to the base of her brain, then outward to her fingertips, deadening them.
She felt the cuffs that dug into her wrists and the ropes that bound her ankles. What happened? Why was she here? Then, she remembered. Garrett. The blow to her head. Someone had struck her. Who? Charlie had been there. Had Charlie hit her? No way. Then, who? Garrett had been in front of her. In her grasp. No one else had been there.
Was Charlie Garrett’s ally? She refused to accept that possibility. Had Garrett taken over Charlie like he had Walter and Carl Angelo? That was crazy. No one had taken over anyone. Walter was sick and Carl criminally insane.
Yet, earlier she had convinced herself that that is exactly what had happened. That Garrett was in control. That all the bizarre things that had happened in the past week sprang from Garrett. That’s why she had come to the jail. To lean on him. To beat the truth out of him.
And now, he had her. And maybe Charlie. Or had he killed Charlie?
Death seemed to envelope her, taking her in its arms like an unwanted lover. She had never really thought about her own death, never let the idea creep into those dark corners of her psyche. Not even after the unexpected death of her father or the smoldering death of her mother.
During her two-year stint with LAPD, she had faced death twice, had looked it square in the face. Once in a multidirectional shoot-out in South Central and once in a darkened liquor store, where muzzle flashes seemed to come from everywhere. In each case, panic and adrenaline delayed the fear of death. That came later. Hours later, at home, in her shower, she had broken down into a shivering, sniveling mass of hysteria.
But now, bound and helpless, the possibility of her death was very real. An idea that was difficult to grasp, but impossible to avoid.