The Devil Will Come (8 page)

There was a lot to do, before dark

* * *

Sixteen hours later:

Cavanaugh brought the unmarked car to a slow stop and parked it along the side of the country road. The directions weren’t that precise, but he’d had little trouble finding the location. From some distance away he could see the smoke, and closer up he was guided by the flashing red lights of the other State Police cars, the fire truck, and the two ambulances.

He got out of the car and headed toward the people who were gathered around the crime scene. Cavanaugh was a tall man, underweight for his height, with thinning blond hair and calm gray eyes that looked like they hadn’t been surprised since he’d learned the truth about Santa Claus. He was dressed in a quiet blue suit and wore a light topcoat against the morning chill.

Cavanaugh had his State Police ID in his pocket, but didn’t bother to wave it around. All of the others knew him by sight.

He walked up to the ranking officer on the scene, a uniformed Corporal named Morris. “So what do we got here?” he asked the trooper.

“Damned if I know, Lieutenant. One homicide, for sure, along with arson. Maybe carjacking, too— although I guess you could call it ‘truck-jacking,’ considering the vehicle involved. And there’s… something else, too.”

Cavanaugh looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and said, “Let’s take a look.”

They stepped carefully over the yellow crime scene tape and approached the burned-out truck. All around them, crime scene technicians from the State Police lab were busy photographing, measuring, tagging, and putting things into little plastic evidence bags.

Morris led Cavanaugh over to something that lay near the front of the truck, shielded from the elements by a plastic tarp. “Here’s the vic,” Morris said, lifting the covering away.

In life, the victim had been male, considerably shorter than average, and completely bald. The pointed ears combined with the hairless skull reminded Cavanaugh of a movie he’d seen once,
Nosferatu
, but he dismissed the thought immediately.

He bent over the corpse, peering at the wounds that had presumably ended the little man’s life. “Gunshots?”

“Looks like,” Morris said. “I make it four rounds, grouped within a two-inch circle, more or less. No powder burns, so it wasn’t close up. Somebody knows how to shoot.”

“Just what we need.” Cavanaugh’s attention was then drawn to the long, slim knife, made of some black material, which lay a foot or so from the little man’s outstretched right hand. “This is an interesting little toy.”

“Yeah, I know,” Morris said. “Looks like some kind of dirk, doesn’t it?”

“It’s more than that,” Cavanaugh said, still bent over. “This here is a Sykes-Fairbairn fighting knife. It was developed for British Commandos in World War II. Damn thing looks old enough to be an original, not a replica.” He straightened up before going on. “My brother collects that kind of stuff. He told me once this thing is the best special ops knife ever made. It’ll hold a razor-sharp edge, doesn’t reflect the light, and it’s balanced, in case you wanna throw it. It has only one purpose: killing people, quickly and quietly.”

“Well, this guy looks a little small for the Commandos,” Morris said. “But it’s his, all right. Got a special sheath for it sewn into the left sleeve of that bomber jacket he’s wearing.”

“Are those bloodstains, on the blade?”

“Most likely. Lab’ll know for sure. But it looks like somebody got cut, and pretty bad. See, here.”

Morris pointed to a blood trail that led away from the little man’s body. He and Cavanaugh followed it for about fifty feet, where it stopped amidst a collection of fresh-looking tire tracks.

“So, this guy made it as far as his car,” Cavanaugh said, “even though he was bleeding like a stuck pig. Wonder how far he got, driving by himself?”

“He may not have been alone, sir.”

“How do you figure?”

“Looks like two sets of footprints, both going from the car and leading back to it. And there’s these, too.”

Morris led Cavanaugh back toward the truck, and pointed to the ground, where the crime scene techs had placed a number of little yellow markers with numbers on them. “They found some ten-millimeter shell casing here,” Morris said. “Four of ‘em.”

“The holes in our little man looked like they might have been about ten-millimeter,” Cavanaugh said pensively. “Lot of police departments use that caliber, don’t they?”

“Yes, sir,” Morris said. “And there’s these, over here.” He led Cavanaugh over to the rear of the truck, or what was left of it. There were three more yellow markers there. “Shotgun shells. Twelve-gauge. I figure two guns probably means two perps.”

“Nothing on the vic that looked like wounds from shotgun pellets, was there?” Cavanaugh said.

“No, sir. I’m betting the shotgun was fired in here.” He gestured toward the back of the truck. “Take a look, if you want. Forensics is done in there. It’s pretty… well, see for yourself.”

Cavanaugh peered into the ruin that had been the back of the truck. It had burned, that much was certain. And it looked like sunlight was coming in through a number of small holes in the side that might have been made by shotgun pellets — big ones, like double-ought buckshot, the kind that cops call “man-killers.”

And there was something in the back of the truck.

Something dead.

Something that smelled to high heaven.

Cavanaugh looked at for a long moment before turning to Morris. “Got your flashlight on you?”

He took the flashlight and climbed into what was left of the truck bed, heedless of the soot that was getting all over his clothes. The scent of gasoline was strong in here, but it was overpowered by an odor of putrescence that Cavanaugh had not experienced since the time he had helped uncover a mass grave containing the bodies of six murdered migrant workers.

He closed his mind against the disgust the smell was prompting, and went closer. He was looking at the burned body of—
something
. It seemed vaguely humanoid, but almost certainly had not been human. Cavanaugh could make out scales in the place of skin, and claws where there should have been hands. And the sharp teeth belonged in the jaws of a bull alligator, not the face of a human being.

One of the shotgun pellets that had killed the creature was caught between two of its scales. Overcoming his repugnance, Cavanaugh reached down and pried it loose. It glinted back at him in the uncertain light. It was not the dull color of lead, but something bright and shiny.

Silver? Who the fuck uses shotgun pellets made of silver?

Then he noticed something in the one corner that had apparently escaped the fire. He went over and picked it up. It was a baseball cap, dark blue, with a Boston Red Sox logo on the front.

On a hunch, Cavanaugh tried it for size on his own head. Too small for him. Far too small.

But just the right size for a child.

Cavanaugh climbed back out of the truck and took a few steps away to get some clean air into his lungs. “Going to be some very interesting lab reports coming out of this one,” he said to Morris. “I look forward to reading them.”

He stepped back even further. “What the hell kind of truck
is
this, anyway?”

Morris shrugged. “Looks like a standard delivery vehicle, but there’s no company logo or ID anywhere on it that I can see. Maybe somebody bought it used from a commercial place and painted it black, then used it for their private business.”

And I wonder what kind of “private business” they had going? Child Murder Incorporated, maybe?

“Well, whatever it was, it’s nothing but junk now.” Cavanaugh sighed once, heavily. “Check the local hospitals and clinics for somebody with a bad knife wound, the usual routine. And make sure I get copies of all the photos and lab reports, will you?”

“Yes, sir, I sure will.”

As Cavanaugh headed back to his car, a fresh breeze came up. It caught the few tendrils of smoke that were still issuing from the ruins of the burned-out black truck and took them away from the scene, away from the nearby town, and far off into the air, where the purifying rays of the sun soon burned them away into nothing.

* * * * *

Let Us Prey

A Screenplay

FADE IN ON:

EXT. SKY OVER CHICAGO — NIGHT

A full moon shines in a mostly clear sky, with a few wispy clouds around it that do not obscure the view of that great, glowing orb.

Below is a quiet street in a run-down part of the city— not a ghetto, but an area of stores and office buildings that are old, rather worn, but still in business after many years. It is around 10:00 o’clock, and the businesses are closed. A few lights burn here and there in the office buildings.

A white Lexus drives slowly up the street and then, after some hesitation, parks at the curb.

The Lexus’ license plate reads: HOLY 1

The driver, REVEREND LARRY JOE TALBOT, 45, gets out. He is a somewhat fleshy man, carefully barbered and dressed in an expensive-looking suit.

Talbot closes the car door and looks around at the shabby neighborhood disdainfully— he is used to better places. Then he pulls a business card from an inside pocket, and looks at the office building he has just parked in front of, as if checking the address. Seeing that he has the right place, he sighs resignedly and puts the card away. He looks up at the building, sees lights burning in one set of windows on an upper floor. The rest of the building is in darkness. He walks to the building’s front entrance and goes in.

INT. LOBBY — NIGHT

Talbot crosses the building’s deserted lobby at a steady pace. The lobby contains some old, frayed furniture, a few tacky-looking potted palms, and a news stand that looks like it has not been open for business since the Kennedy administration. Talbot’s steps ring hollowly on the worn linoleum floor.

Talbot comes to the elevator and looks at the directory to the right of the elevator door. It is the old-fashioned kind, with plastic letters pushed into a black, cloth-covered background to list the tenants and their office numbers. Several of the letters have fallen away here and there, contributing to the air of general decrepitude that infuses the place. But at least one listing remains intact: “HULL & HELSING — 718.”

Talbot pushes the elevator’s call button and the doors open instantly, startling him a little. He recovers quickly, and enters the elevator. The doors close behind him.

INT. 7TH FLOOR HALLWAY — NIGHT

The elevator doors open, and Talbot comes out into a dimly-lit hallway, its carpeting faded and threadbare. In the old style, the doors of each office are frosted glass at the top, wood at the bottom. All the offices are dark except one, about halfway down the hall, behind which light burns brightly.

Talbot strides down the corridor to stand in front of the lighted door of room 718. On the frosted glass is painted “HULL AND HELSING,” and below, in smaller letters, “INQUIRIES.” The black paint of the letters is fresh and new-looking.

Talbot raps on the pebbled glass. No response. He is raising his hand to knock again when the door suddenly opens inward, to reveal MISTER HULL, 60, a mild-looking, balding man wearing a three-piece suit and a bow tie.

HULL: May I help you?

TALBOT: I’m Larry Joe Talbot. I called earlier today.

HULL: Of course, of course. Please— do come in.

He ushers Talbot into the office and closes the door.

INT. OFFICE — NIGHT

The men shake hands as Hull says:

HULL: Abe Hull at your service, sir. It’s a great pleasure to meet you.

Talbot turns to look at the room he has just entered.

In contrast to the decrepitude of the rest of the building, the office is a wonder, resembling more the study in a rich man’s home than a place of business. It is larger than one would expect, well-lit by floor and table lamps, and comfortable-looking. The floor is covered with oriental rugs, and the room is carefully furnished with antiques, but not cluttered. At the far end of the room is an elegant-looking desk, and just beyond it is a large window covered with a heavy set of drapes.

Behind the desk sits HENRY HELSING, 60, a distinguished looking man in a quietly elegant suit. Like his colleague Mister Hull, Helsing’s manner is polite, refined, and just a little prissy.

Helsing puts down the book he has been reading and stands as Talbot is escorted over. He smiles politely in greeting.

HULL: Mr. Talbot, my partner, Henry Helsing. Henry, this is Larry Joe Talbot, the gentleman we’ve been expecting.

The two men shake hands.

HELSING: A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Reverend Talbot. Please, have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.

Talbot sits in an upholstered armchair in front of the desk. Hull sits in an identical chair off to the side, placed so that he is now perpendicular to Talbot and Helsing.

TALBOT: I’m a little surprised, Mr. Helsing, to have you address me by my clerical title. I’m sure I didn’t use it when I called to make this appointment.

HELSING: Oh, we were already familiar with your name, Reverend. We’ve both come across your program on television, from time to time.

HULL: Indeed we have. And very uplifting it was, too.

A WHISTLING sound suddenly begins. It is coming from a kettle atop a hot plate, which is sitting on a sideboard against one wall.

HELSING: Mister Hull and I usually enjoy a cup of tea this time of evening, Reverend. Will you join us?

(To Hull:) What is it tonight, Mister Hull, the Earl Gray?

HULL: Right on the button, Mister Helsing. The Earl Gray it is.

Talbot looks momentarily nonplussed by their fey manner, then quickly puts a pleasant expression back on his face.

TALBOT: Tea will be fine, thank you. With sugar, please.

HULL: Of course.

Hull stands, and goes over to the sideboard. Talbot pulls the business card from his pocket again.

TALBOT: What you’ve got on your door back there, it’s a little different from your business card. I mean, “Inquiries”— that could refer to practically anything.

HELSING: Yes, the ambiguity is deliberate. We thought it wise to be discrete, as far as the general public is concerned.

TALBOT: But this card here— that’s not intended to be quite so discrete, is it?

Helsing smiles, a little embarrassed.

HELSING: No, I suppose it isn’t.

TALBOT: (Reading from the card) “Helsing and Hull — Werewolf Hunters.” (Beat) I assume you are serious.

HELSING: (Nods, solemnly) We are, sir. We are indeed.

They are interrupted by Mister Hull, who comes over with a tray laden with elegant, fragile-looking cups and saucers. Hull distributes tea to the other two, takes a cup for himself, and resumes his seat.

Talbot sips some tea.

TALBOT: Delicious. (Beat) You know, there was a time not very long ago when I would have said that werewolves were just a myth. You know— the kind of thing that exists in scary campfire stories and very bad late night movies on TV, and nowhere else.

HELSING: (Very serious now) But you no longer hold to that view?

TALBOT: Well, it’s pretty hard to deny the evidence of your own eyes.

Helsing and Hull exchange concerned glances.

HELSING: Perhaps you’d best tell us about this “evidence.”

Talbot sips some tea while gathering his thoughts.

TALBOT: I own a small farm in California, near Oxnard. As a business, it doesn’t amount to much— in fact, it usually loses money. But it’s beautiful country, and quiet. I go out sometimes just to get away from the hustle and bustle of my ministry. (Beat) The last time I spent there was just about a month ago.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. FARMHOUSE KITCHEN — DAY

Talbot, in casual slacks and a shirt with the sleeves rolled back, is fussing with a complicated-looking coffee-maker.

This flashback sequence is shot MOS, with all dialogue provided by Talbot off-screen.

TALBOT (V.O.): I’d only been there an hour or so when I got a visit from my foreman, Rey Martinez. He’s in charge of all the day-to-day operations, been with me for years.

REY MARTINEZ knocks on the screen door of the kitchen and is invited in. He is Hispanic, in his fifties, wearing work clothes. His weathered face bears a worried expression. The two men converse.

TALBOT (V.O.): Rey tells me that there’s something been going on that bothers him very much. He says it involves the Skorzenys, who own the land that borders mine. I ask him what are the Skorzenys doing— stealing our water, or something? He says, no, nothing like that. So I ask, then what is it? He says, I won’t believe him if he just tells me. He insists he needs to show me. He asks me to go with him that night, to a hill on my property that overlooks the Skorzenys’ farm. He says we should try to be there about eight o’clock.

“Why?” I ask him. “What happens at eight o’clock?” He looks at me strangely and says, “Moonrise.”

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. HILLSIDE — NIGHT

Talbot and Martinez are lying prone, side by side, just below the crest of the hill, positioned so that they can look over the top while still remaining mostly concealed.

TALBOT (V.O.): So, a little before eight that night Rey and I are lying on the ground like a couple of damn Redskins in a movie, sneaking a peek over the top of this hill down at the Skorzeny place.

EXT. FARM — NIGHT

There is enough natural light for us to see that it is a fairly small place, with a few outbuildings around a central farmhouse. There is a small corral in the foreground of the property, containing six or seven sheep.

TALBOT (V.O.): The Skorzenys don’t have a real big operation, but I suppose they manage to make a living out of it. We wait there for a few minutes, and I’m about to ask Rey what the hell we’re waiting for, when the back door of the main building opens, and the Skorzenys come out.

The door of the farmhouse opens, and four people come out: MR. SKORZENY, 40, MRS. SKORZENY, 40, their SON, 18, and their DAUGHTER, 16. All four are dressed casually, and are very ordinary-looking.

They all walk over near the corral. They pause, exchange glances, then begin to take off their clothes. They do this matter-of-factly, as if each was alone, undressing for a shower.

EXT. HILLSIDE — NIGHT

Talbot and Martinez, lying on the hill, are watching this. Talbot looks shocked, then angry. He clutches Martinez’s arm, and speaks to him.

TALBOT (V.O.): I tell Rey if he’s brought me out here to spy on the Skorzenys having some kind of sicko sex orgy, then he’s made a very bad mistake.

Martinez remains calm and replies briefly, holding up one hand in a “wait a minute” gesture.

TALBOT (V.O.): Rey tells me that’s not what’s happening, and says we should wait a little longer. And sure enough, he’s right.

EXT. FARM — NIGHT

The four Skorzenys, stand just outside the corral. They are all nude now, but it doesn’t seem to matter to them. They are not looking at each other; instead, they gaze up toward the sky, expectantly.

TALBOT (V.O.): They don’t have sex with each other. They don’t even touch each other. They just stand there, buck naked, looking up at the sky as if they’re waiting for something. (Beat) And then— well, then the moon comes out from behind the clouds.

EXT. SKY — NIGHT

The full moon appears from behind a bank of clouds.

EXT. FARM — NIGHT

The Skorzenys’ eyes have started to glow red. Then they begin to transform into werewolves. We only see the early stages of the transformation — fur begins to appear on bodies, facial features start to transform and become wolf-like, etc.

TALBOT (V.O.): Suddenly, they just start to… change!

The sheep in the corral begin to show agitation. Up to this point, they have been placidly munching grass, paying little attention to their owners. But now they start to run around the corral nervously, and to “baah” in fear, as if they have suddenly realized they are in the presence of predators.

The camera pulls back a little to include the gate of the corral in the foreground. Suddenly a hand reaches out to unlatch the corral’s gate.

CLOSE ON:

The hand, which is not quite human. It is fur-covered, with long, cruel claws in the place of nails. We can hear GROWLING on the soundtrack now — the growling of hungry wolves. The hand unlatches the corral gate and opens it. Suddenly our view is blocked by a large, fur-covered body that walks in front of the camera.

EXT. HILLSIDE — NIGHT

Talbot and Martinez take all of this in. Martinez looks grim — he has seen it before. Talbot’s eyes are wide with shock — he can’t believe what he’s looking at. The growls continue on the soundtrack, and the sheep are heard BLEATING in terror.

TALBOT (V.O.): They go into that corral, and they fall on those sheep like the end of the world.

CLOSE ON

Talbot’s face, which goes from incredulity, to shock, to horror.

TALBOT (V.O.): They just tear the poor animals to pieces.

Talbot starts to vomit.

TALBOT (V.O.): And they… they devour them.

The camera pulls back slowly from Talbot and Martinez, revealing the two men, the hillside, and, vaguely, the slaughter taking place below them on the Skorzeny farm. The growling of wolves is very loud now, seeming to fill the whole world.

EXT. SKY — NIGHT

The full moon shines on, indifferent to the carnage it has provoked. The growling of the wolves is still heard at full volume.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. OFFICE — NIGHT

Talbot is lost in a reverie, as if still seeing that night in his mind.

The sound of wolves growling gradually fades from the soundtrack, as it is fading from Talbot’s memory.

Talbot blinks a few times, dragging his mind back to the present, and looks at Helsing and Hull.