Devil's Playground (36 page)

Billy sat up in bed and reached for the lamp that sat on the bedside table. The killer, with feline agility, circled the bed and slammed the butt of the knife across the extended forearm.

Billy recoiled and cried out, then looked up at the intruder, squinting, obviously unable to see clearly in the dark room. “Who are you?” His eyes cut to his left, where the girl lay. He reached out and touched her, but jerked back, his hand covered with blood. “What’s going on? What have you done?”

The killer grabbed Billy by the throat and slammed his head against the headboard. He stared into Billy’s eyes and curled his lip in a sneer.

Recognition erupted on Billy’s face. “Carl?” he stammered.

“I am not Carl.”

“But...”

“I am all that you fear. All that you disdain. All that you dismiss.”

“I don’t understand,” he sobbed. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I must. Because I can.”

Billy shook his head. “Please,” he moaned. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Why should I spare you? Would you spare me?”

“Of course.”

“I think not. But, you have neither the power to condemn me nor spare me. You thought you did. In you arrogance, you thought you were in control of my fate. But, as you can see, I control my own fate. And yours.”

“Please. I don’t know what this is about. Carl, please...”

“I told you. I’m not Carl.”

“Who are you?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“No. Please...leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

 “Because, like the others, it is your time.”

“My time? What are you talking about? What others?”

“All of them.”

Horror etched Billy’s face. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you know? Can’t you feel it?”

“No. Please.” His breath came in great labored gasps. “Tell me who you are.”

“I have many names. Garrett, Beelzebub are the ones you know.”

“Oh, God.”

“God had nothing to do with this. This is your own doing. And God can’t save you. But, you never truly believed he could, did you?”

Billy sputtered and sobbed, unable to speak. His fleshy body quivered with fear.

Carl leaned forward, his face only inches from Billy’s. “Had you taken your money and left this town, you would never have seen me again. But, you needed more. Needed to extract your vengeance. In the name of God, you stoked the fires of hatred and contempt. Against me. Against my blessed work. You have interfered with my plans and put my destiny in jeopardy. You have forced me to act before I am truly prepared. Now, you must reap that which you have sown.”

Carl raised the knife. Billy crossed his arms above him for protection, but in the darkness could not determine the blade’s path and thus had no chance to alter its course. The knife lashed across his throat, severing everything in its path. Billy clutched at the wound, blood pulsing between his fingers, over his chest.

“A gift from Lucifer,” Carl said.

Billy’s eyes widened further, then fluttered. His head collapsed forward on his chest and he exhaled his last breath. Carl watched as Billy’s life ebbed from him and pooled in a black cherry lake on the bed.

He quickly finished his work and when he held the still trembling heart in his hands, he marveled at the power that flowed through him. Deep inside, where his true being lived, pushed there by the alien force that controlled him, he relished the feeling.

He was given little time to savor the sensation, however. The compelling drive within him pulled at him, drawing him from the bus, into the cool night air, toward Billy’s limousine.

After climbing in his car, he cranked the engine, and, with blood stained hands, gripped the steering wheel. Carl Angelo drove through downtown Mercer’s Corner and headed south.

A sound yanked Sam from sleep. What sound? A click? A scrape? Did she lock the door?

She replayed last night in her mind. After Nathan drove away, she stood for several minutes gazing into the sky. The day’s rain and clouds had cleared, leaving behind a crystalline night sky, and her friend Orion had loomed large above her like a protective Centurion. The full moon painted the desert with its creamy glow. She had walked through the kitchen door and into the house. She saw her hand twist the lock and slide the dead bolt into place. Yes, she had locked the door.

She remained frozen, senses on edge, attempting to probe the darkness, searching for sounds, any sounds that seemed out of place. She expected to hear the creaking of floorboards or the scraping of feet or the metallic click of a cocking gun. She heard only the thumping of her own heart against her chest and the whooshing of blood through her ears, which sounded like the raspy breathing of a dying coal miner.

Had she been dreaming? Was the sound that woke her part of the dream? She lay on her side, facing her bedside clock. Its digital display read 12:32, then 12:33. Scooter slept near her head, undisturbed. It must have been a dream or he would have awakened, she told herself.

Then, she sensed movement. Scooter cracked an eye, then raised his head, peering into the darkness. Fear coagulated in her throat.

Again, she felt movement. It came from the far corner of the room where the darkness clotted like stagnant blood. The movement was so slight it was as if the air molecules had been shoved in her direction and collided with her skin, sending electric shivers through her, standing the fine hair on her arms at attention. Cold sweat seeped from every pore.

Scooter sat up on his haunches and stared into the shadows.

No doubt. Someone was in her bedroom.

Her gun lay in the drawer two feet from her head. If she could get to it, she might have a chance. She eased one foot over the edge of the bed, hooking the mattress with her ankle for leverage.

Again, she sensed movement, this time closer, near the foot of the bed.

She tensed, preparing herself for action. In a flash, she whipped back the comforter and spun off the bed, dropping to the floor. She yanked open the drawer and clutched the .357. Whirling around on one knee, she raised the weapon.

Before she could level the nickel plated Smith and Wesson, a foot slammed into her wrist and the gun flew across the bed and banged against the wall. She ducked as the shadow of a fist flashed by her ear, barely nipping the side of her face. She lunged upward and landed a solid left hook to the mid-section of the attacker. He grunted, but did not move, his belly as solid as the heavy bag at the gym and just as unforgiving.

A massive fist crashed against her face, propelling her backwards. She collided with the bedside table, knocking the clock and lamp to the floor. A wave of dizziness spread over her. She shook her head, attempting to clear the fog.

Again, the attacker lurched forward, two hands reaching for her. She deflected them with a sweep of her left arm and slammed her right fist into the attacker’s jaw. This time, he staggered backwards.

The overhead light snapped on, dissolving the darkness, chasing the shadows into the corners of the room. Penelope and Melissa charged through the doorway.

“What’s going...” Penelope began, but stopped when she saw Sam and Carl Angelo.

Sam jumped to her feet. “Carl? What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed at him.

“I came for you,” he said.

He lunged at her, his massive right hand reaching for her neck, but she side stepped him and once again hammered her forearm across his wrist. She followed with a left, right, left combination, all of which landed against his thick jaw. He staggered, but did not go down. Pain flashed through both her hands. What was he made of? Cast iron?

“Get out of here!” Sam yelled at the girls. “Go call for help!”

Carl crashed his huge paw into Sam’s right temple and she went down hard. Multicolored balls of light flashed before her and she felt herself slipping toward unconsciousness. Hold on she pleaded with herself. Somewhere in her brain Jimmy’s voice arose. “Get up. Crush the fear. Ignore the pain. Don’t panic,” the voice said.

Carl leaped at the girls. He grabbed Melissa by the hair and slammed her forehead into the wall. She crumpled to the floor, unconscious. He drove his left fist into Penelope’s jaw. She went down in a heap.

Sam pulled herself up and shook her head clear. She raced across the bed and sprang on him like a lioness protecting her cubs, landing on his back. Locking her left forearm beneath his chin, she raked his face with the nails of her free hand. She knew she must do as much damage as quickly as possible. Overwhelm him with her rage or succumb to his superior size and strength.

She pressed her right forearm against the back of his head, mustering all her strength, attempting to flex his neck forward. She could not bend it even slightly. Applying a chokehold to this slab of meat was impossible.

He spun and slammed her against the wall, his weight crushing her. No longer the attacker, she locked her left arm beneath his chin and hung on like a rodeo bull rider. She repeatedly pounded the side of his face with her right fist. He seemed impervious to her attack and thrust her into the wall again and again. She tightened her grip.

His hand clamped on her wrist, steely fingers digging into her flesh. He pulled and torqued her arm, but she resisted. At least, she tried to, but she was no match for his strength. He peeled her arm away and she plummeted to the floor.

He dropped on top of her and locked his fingers around her throat. She attempted to pry them lose, but they held like welded steel bands.

She rained blows to his face, but he ignored them. His lip, his eyebrow, his cheek split and blood cascaded down his face onto hers, in her eyes, nose, mouth. Its coppery taste caused her stomach to churn and a wave of nausea rippled through her, acid burning her throat. She fought it back and renewed her attack. His grip on her throat tightened.

The overhead light dimmed; her vision tunneled. She continued to pummel his face, but her blows weakened. Her lungs screamed for air. Her heart leaped against her chest.

“It’s useless to struggle,” he sneered.

She clutched at his throat, but could not get her hands around his tree trunk neck.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Carl said. “I need you.”

She tore at his fingers, but could not break his grip.

Blood poured from his mouth as he spoke. “We have someplace to be. Someplace special.”

The roar was deafening. Carl lurched forward. Then, another roar, and another. Blood exploded from his chest and he fell forward on top of her, limp, heavy. She scrambled from beneath him, rolling him to his back in the process.

She looked up. Penelope held the gun in both hands, arms extended, shaking. Tears streamed down her face. She dropped the gun.

“Oh, my God,” she stammered. “I shot him.”

“It’s OK,” Sam said. She turned to Carl. His mouth gaped open as he struggled for air; bloody foam gurgled from the three holes in his chest with each breath. “Who sent you? Reverend Billy?”

“Wrong end of the spectrum, Samantha,” he wheezed, blood now bubbling from his mouth.

“What did you call me?”

“Samantha.” A bloody smile cracked his macerated face. “Your mother chose such a beautiful name.”

“And she’s the only one that ever called me Samantha.”

“Her. And me.”

“You? I don’t even know you.”

“Of course you do, Samantha.” He coughed, a foamy red river escaping from the corner of his mouth. “We were together last night. And the night before.”

“What are you talking...?” It hit her like a left hook. The face, the square body, the thick neck were Carl’s; the voice was Garrett’s. She scooted away, colliding with the bedpost, wanting to put more distance between her and the dying man. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Come to me, Samantha. I’ll be waiting.” He released a long sigh as his last breath escaped.

Sam ignored the stop sign and slammed her foot on the accelerator, propelling the Jeep through a skidding left turn and on to Route 66 toward town. The full moon seemed to race along the highway with her and painted the road before her a silvery gray. She had the eerie sensation that even the moon was Garrett’s ally and was at this very moment keeping him informed of her location.

But then, Garrett already knew she was coming. He had invited her.

A wispy band of clouds glided across the moon’s ghostly face, creating a silver edged blindfold. Good, she thought. One less witness to what she had to do.

Before she left home, she had calmed Penelope and Melissa enough so that they were merely crying and not sobbing hysterically. She gave Penelope her spare gun and told them to lock the door and open it for no one. She called Charlie and told him to meet her at the jail.

Carl Angelo’s words echoed in her head.

I need you.

Come to me.

Words that she knew were not Carl’s, but Garrett’s. Or Satan’s? Were they one and the same? Did Garrett have Satan’s powers?

She slid the Jeep through a left turn on to Main Street, roared past Millie's, and screeched to a stop in front of her office, just as Charlie’s Jeep turned the corner. Charlie parked in front of her and stepped out, tucking in his shirttail.

“What’s going on?” he asked, unlocking the department’s front door.

She grabbed his arm. “Let’s talk out here. I don’t want Garrett overhearing any of this.”

He pulled the door closed.

She quickly told him of Carl Angelo’s attack and Penelope’s heroic actions. She repeated what Carl had said to her.

“It wasn’t Carl talking,” she said. “It was Garrett.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“It was Garrett. I know it. He was speaking through Carl Angelo.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Of course it’s crazy. That’s why it makes sense.”

“It does?” Charlie looked at her as if she were from another planet.

“Why not? With all the murder and madness we’ve had around here, it’s like Mercer’s Corner has become Hell’s own Petri dish. We’re sprouting psychos like fleas on a dog.”