Tad put his hand into the box again, feeling all the way to the bottom, then felt something almost like an electrical shock as his fingers touched something else.
Something metal.
Warm metal.
“Wait,” he breathed. “Yes.” He pulled out an old rusty hacksaw, its blade missing.
“This is so weird,” Eric said, slowly turning the pages of the ledger.
“Look at this,” Kent said from the other side of the room, where he stood by a rack of metal shelving. He held up a rusty hacksaw blade. “It was just lying here. Not even wrapped or anything.”
“And here’s the entry,” Eric murmured a moment later, after turning more pages in Hector Darby’s ledger:
3/6 Acq. saw and bags from K. Wharton, LAPD evid rm. w/K&H docs. $4600.
“Are you kidding me?” Kent said, taking the saw frame from Tad and fitting the blade into it. “You could buy this thing brand new at a hardware store for less than twenty bucks.” He tightened the wing nut that locked the blade into place, and shivered as a peculiar stream of something almost like electricity flowed out of the tool and into his body.
His body, and his mind…
…and his soul…
He held up the completed saw, and suddenly its rusty spots were glowing red in the lamplight.
Bloodred.
“All the pieces fit together,” Eric said slowly, his gaze wandering over the room. “The table. The saw. The bag and the scalpels.” His eyes came to rest on Tad Sparks. “It’s almost like this room is a giant puzzle.”
“If it’s a puzzle,” Tad replied, his own gaze fixing once more on the shadeless lamp, “it sure is a creepy one.”
A silence fell over all three boys, broken seconds—or perhaps minutes—later as Moxie began to bark outside the carriage house.
“Crap!” Eric said, the strange spell he’d fallen under shattered by the dog’s racket. “Mom’s home. What time is it?”
“Four-thirty,” Tad said, his eyes widening as he stared at his watch. “Jeez, how could it be that late already?”
Kent was already dousing one of the lanterns. “How come you sound so surprised? Isn’t that what always happens in here?”
Leaving everything as it was, the boys pulled the plywood back over the opening and went out through the carriage house door. Then, though no words had been spoken, they turned away from the house and slipped unseen into the woods.
AFTER SUPPER THAT night, Eric went up to his room and turned on the computer.
With a few keystrokes he Googled “serial killers,” and a moment later found himself staring at something called the Crime Library.
The images from Hector Darby’s ledger were burned into his mind: JD…Milwaukee…K and H in Los Angeles.
A few seconds later he found it.
All of it.
JD in Milwaukee: Jeffrey Dahmer, who had killed young boys.
Killed them, and sat at his cracked Formica kitchen table, eating them.
Eric forced down the wave of nausea that rose in his gut, and kept reading.
K and H in Los Angeles: Patrick Kearney and Douglas Hill, the Trash Bag Murderers. They had killed young hitchhikers, dismembered their corpses with a hacksaw, packed their body parts into trash bags, and left them strewn about the Los Angeles area.
His hand trembling, Eric picked up the phone and began dialing, first Tad, then Kent.
His voice low, he began telling them what he’d found.
ELLIS LANGSTROM DUG his toes into the sandy bottom of the lake and gazed dolefully out over the water, wondering why the liquor wasn’t making him feel any better. Between them, he and Adam Mosler had swallowed almost half of what had been left in the bottle of Jack Daniel’s that Ellis had swiped out of the cupboard where his mom put all the liquor after his dad left two years ago. And even if he took away the one swig Adam had talked Cherie into—which hadn’t been much more than a sip, if she’d actually taken any at all—it seemed he should have had enough to feel a lot drunker than he did.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned away from the lake and started unsteadily toward the picnic table that the three of them had been sitting at for the last hour while he and Adam passed the bottle back and forth, both of them doing their best to ignore Cherie’s disapproval. He knew that pretty soon Adam would start trying to put the make on Cherie, and Cherie would get pissed off, and then Adam would get pissed off, too, just like he always did. And that, Ellis decided, was the problem. Everybody he knew—everybody in town—always did exactly what they always did, and tonight, with half a dozen shots of whiskey in him, he decided he’d had it with the whole thing.
“Know what I’m gonna do next year?” he asked as he handed the last of the whiskey to Adam. “I’m gonna get outta this stupid town.”
“Yeah?” Adam said, raising himself up just enough to drain the whiskey into his mouth. Flopping back down onto the tabletop, he screwed the top back on the bottle and hurled it toward a clump of bushes a few yards away.
“You know, this isn’t just your park,” Cherie said, glaring at Adam as the bottle dropped to the ground five feet short of the bushes.
“Wha’d I do?” Adam whined as Cherie slid off the bench and went to retrieve the bottle.
“Just don’t be throwing your trash around.”
“Someone paying you to pick it up?” Adam shot back, then shifted his attention back to Ellis before Cherie could say anything else. “So, where you going to go? That’s if you really split, which you won’t.”
“I don’t care,” Ellis said, wheeling around to peer across the park at the empty streets of the little town. “Somewhere. Anywhere. Just far away from here. I hate it here. I hate school, and I hate the summer people, and I hate—”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” Adam interrupted, having heard it all before and wondering how much time he had to put the make on Cherie before she would decide she had to go home. “So if you’re going to leave, why wait? Why not just go right now?”
“Maybe I will,” Ellis said, his eyes fixing blearily on Adam.
“And maybe I should never have come out here with you guys,” Cherie said, dropping the empty bottle in a trash barrel, then coming back to the table but not sitting down again. In fact, she was starting to wish she’d never come to the park with them at all. “You’re both drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” Adam said, reaching for Cherie, who rolled her eyes as she sidestepped his groping hand. “An’ Ellis isn’t drunk, either—he’s just a loser.” He uttered a cackling laugh at his own words, which only elicited a glare from Cherie.
“You really think you’re smart, don’t you?” she asked, her voice edged with a sarcasm that was completely lost on Adam.
“Smarter’n Ellis,” he said. His eyes drifted back to the other boy. “He doesn’t even know when it’s time to leave a guy alone with his girl.”
“I don’t want to be alone with you,” Cherie said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I’m not your girl.”
Ellis weaved slightly as he stared at Adam. “You really want me to go away right now?”
“Yes, for Chrissakes,” Adam said. “Go. Just go.”
“Stop it, Adam!” Cherie said. “Just leave him alone.” She turned away from Adam and started out of the picnic area. “Come on, Ellis. I’ll walk home with you.”
The alcohol he’d consumed was suddenly ignited by Adam Mosler’s stinging words. Ellis wheeled on Cherie. “Why would I want to go home?” he demanded. “Why would I want to go anywhere with you or Adam? Know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna do exactly what I said I was gonna do. I’m outta here. I’m done with all of it.” He glowered foggily at Adam. “I’m done with you, Mosler. You’re nothing but a loser! When I’m long gone, you’ll still be here in Phantom Lake, doing lawn work for Mrs. Henderson when you’re eighty.”
Adam sat up, felt a wave of dizziness, and quickly lay back down again. “So go,” he muttered. “It’s not like anyone wants you around here.”
“Fine!” Ellis said. “And don’t be surprised if you never see me again.” He turned and stumbled off into the darkness, heading toward a path that led into the woods.
“What are you doing?” Cherie demanded of Adam as Ellis vanished into the night. “Ellis is your best friend!”
“C’mere,” Adam said. He sat up again and reached for her, but Cherie backed away.
“No, Adam. Just leave me alone, okay?” She pushed him away, but he caught hold of her arm and jerked her closer to him. A moment later his other hand was on her breast and he was pulling her face close to his.
Then, just as his lips were about to press against hers, she slapped him.
Slapped him hard.
Startled, Adam lost his grip on her, and she whirled around and headed out of the park without so much as a backward glance.
Adam’s fury rose as he watched her go. This was the night he was supposed to get lucky! He’d been sure of it when she’d agreed to come to the park with him. All he’d needed to do was get Ellis to take off and leave him with the bottle, and he’d have had Cherie’s clothes off in five minutes. But instead Ellis had drunk most of the booze himself, and then picked a fight.
And Cherie had sided with him!
With Ellis!
What the hell was going on?
Lurching to his feet, Adam felt the alcohol burning in his belly.
Ellis’s fault.
That was it. It was all Ellis’s fault.
His fury building, Adam staggered off into the darkness.
A DREAM.
It had to be a dream!
The tunnel was all around him, a tunnel so dark that nothing was visible—not even the walls of the tunnel itself. Yet he knew it was there, surrounding him, closing him in, giving him nowhere to go except straight ahead.
Ahead to what?
There was a feeling of menace in the darkness now, an undefined terror that seemed to emanate both from the walls and the air itself, making every breath a moment of fear as he struggled against the noxiousness that flooded not only his lungs, but every cell of his body.
He needed to get to the end, needed to get out, needed to escape before what little air was left had vanished and only the deadly fumes remained.
He could see his destination now. Though it seemed impossibly far away, it hung in the darkness, gleaming and glittering, shining out of the blackness. He struggled to increase his pace, and now his raspy, fear-choked breath echoed off the close walls.
His feet felt as if they were glued to the floor, and he had to consciously pull them free. Each step made a hollow sucking sound, as if his own coffin were being pulled from a grave of viscous muck.
With every step, his panic grew. His chest heaved; his heart slammed against his ribs.
The air grew still heavier, and now he felt himself dying.
Dying slowly, vanishing into the blackness of the tunnel until nothing would be left of him at all.
Nothing but the pain in his body, and the terror in his soul.
Just as the last of his strength was being leached from his body, a sliver of light glinted from some invisible source, and he suddenly recognized the shiny objects at the far end of the tunnel.
Except that now the end of the tunnel was at hand, and the objects were almost within his reach.
Scalpels.
The blade of a saw.
A hacksaw.
They were on the ground in front of him, gleaming and glowing on the tunnel’s floor, tiny blue flames dancing along their glimmering surfaces.
The blades were whispering now, speaking to him, inviting him to touch them, to pick them up.
To become the vessel of their evil.
He tried to draw away, but his feet seemed sealed to the ground.
Panic gripped him like a powerful serpent, its coils threatening to crush not only his body, but his spirit as well. He lashed out, flailing his arms against the tunnel wall.
And all he touched was plastic.
The tunnel was nothing more than a long, black plastic trash bag.
He ripped his way through it, his fingers tearing the tunnel to shreds, and abruptly it all fell away, as if it had never been there at all.
He was on a path.
A path in the woods.
But the menace—the terror—was still with him, closer now than it had been before.
The sounds of the night were all around him, but amidst the keening of the crickets and the calling of owls in the starlight he could also hear the whispers and taunts of formless beings.
Beings that had pursued him out of the tunnel…
But here, at least, he could breathe.
Here, he knew the path.
Here, he knew where he was.
Suddenly, the unseen menace was closing in on him, surrounding him.
He tried to shout, tried to scream defiance into the night, but his mouth felt stuffed with cotton and no sound emerged.
Now he tried to run, but his feet were mired in something even thicker than before, and each step threatened to imprison his foot.
Mud?
He looked down.
Blood!
It wasn’t a path at all, but a roiling river of thick, sticky, coagulated blood.
Blood, with something floating on its surface.
He reached down, scooped it up.
Intestines.
The intestines of some kind of animal.
Then the face of a cat was hanging in the darkness, its dead eyes fixing on him, accusing him….
The cold of the cat’s own death dropped over him, and its intestines fell from his fingers back into the stream of blood whose babbling was the voices of the victims from whom the river’s scarlet waters had been drained.
The menace was closing on him now; the faceless terrors hiding behind every tree, the river of blood growing deeper with every step.
He dare not stumble lest he plunge into the river of gore from which there would be no escape at all.
Something struck him from behind.
Something heavy.
A rock?
He turned, and suddenly felt a glimmer of hope. Only a step or two away was solid ground. If he could reach the bank—if he could climb out of the river of blood—he could run.
Run for his life.
Run to save his soul.
Another rock hit him, this time in the leg.
He managed to slog a step toward the shore, then another.
The menace drew closer. He could smell it now, even more putrid than the river itself.
One foot was on solid ground. He put his knee down and his hands on the cool, piney earth to pull his other foot free of the muck.
His hand fell on something hard. Something long.
A table leg.
A table leg that transformed itself even as he touched it into a stick.
A heavy stick with a great burly knot at its end.
A surge of power flowed into him as his fingers closed on the stick, and as he rose to his feet he knew he was finally ready to face the menace surrounding him.
Face it, and destroy it.
He could see the menace now, see it as clearly as if the darkness had suddenly lifted, driven away by the morning sun.
But there was no sun.
The night was still around him, yet at last he could see the menace that had been hidden a moment ago.
A menace that was no longer drawing closer, creeping up on him in the darkness.
No, the menace was running.
Running away.
Running from him.
He went after it, his weapon held high.
And as he ran, a strange thought flitted through his mind.
What if it wasn’t a dream?
What if was real?
What if it was all real?
ELLIS LANGSTROM WAS barely aware of the thigh-high brush as he slogged through the woods. He was still pissed at Adam Mosler, and the whiskey he’d drunk was making him a little dizzy, b
ut it didn’t matter—he’d been wandering around in the woods for as long as he could remember, and the path that would take him to his house on the far edge of town was only a little farther ahead, and there was plenty of moonlight.
Which was a good thing, since he didn’t have a flashlight.
A branch lashed across his face, and Ellis swore under his breath as he pushed it aside, then swore out loud as he tripped over a root.
Where was the damn path?
It had to be here somewhere!
Except now that he thought about it—and now that the pain of the branch slashing his face had cut through some of the fog in his mind—it seemed he should already have found it.
He stopped and peered around, searching the darkness.
Nothing looked familiar.
In fact, he didn’t recognize anything at all.
Could he have crossed the path without noticing it?
Or was he maybe going in the wrong direction?
He looked up, searching the sky for something familiar, and finally found the Big Dipper, then followed its line to the North Star. So now at least he knew he was going in the right direction. If he kept going straight, he’d get back to town.
But he’d actually get home a lot faster if he found the path, and as the beginning of a headache throbbed behind his left ear, the idea of going to bed sooner rather than later seemed pretty good.
Maybe he shouldn’t have had so much to drink.
He started walking, getting pissed at Adam all over again; if Adam hadn’t been such an asshole, they’d have just finished off the bottle, had a couple of laughs at the expense of the coneheads, and by now he’d be home and in bed instead of trudging through the woods trying to find a path that wasn’t all that easy to spot even in daylight.
Abruptly, the woods gave way to a large open space, and Ellis stopped short as he saw a towering deadfall standing alone in the center of the clearing. Its leafless, barkless branches gleamed in the moonlight like great lifeless arms reaching out to him.
Reaching out to touch him.
To close around him.
To crush him…
With a strangled cry, he took an instinctive step backward, tripped, and fell to the ground.
He scrambled to his feet, his eyes still fixed on the looming deadfall.