Greely's Cove (52 page)

Cannibal seemed reluctant to take another step, maybe because of the stink. Or maybe because a remnant of childhood dark-fear was stirring in his guts. Time to start phase two, Mitch figured.

He pulled his head back into his bedroom and drew a painful breath. This had better work, or Cannibal would have him, and he would know pain as he had never known it or ever dreamed it.

“I’m up here,” he hollered, “at the top of the stairs! If you want your coke, you’re going to have to come and get it!” Mitch heard movement: the sound of a few more steps. Cannibal was taking the bait.

“Is that you, Mitchie? Where’d you say you are?”

“Open your fuckin’ ears, you big shit-covered pig! I said I’m upstairs, and I’ve got your coke. You want it, you come and get it!”

Silence ensued, and Mitch worried that Cannibal could hear his wheezing. If Cannibal were still sweating, he wasn’t the only one now. Mitch held his breath, edged his face to the doorjamb, peeked around it, and saw the shadowy silhouette of Cannibal standing a few feet away, staring into the blackness of the open door that led upstairs. Mitch froze. He dared not start breathing again, feeling his face grow hot. He imagined that the big man was quivering with rage.

“Okay, if that’s what you want, you little shithead, I’ll come and get it. And I’ll
gel you,
too!”

Cannibal inched forward and placed a foot on the first step, the other on the second, and moved upward to the creaks and snaps of the old staircase. Three steps, four steps, five. Mitch launched himself at the door, grabbed its edge, and slammed it. With cold fingers he slapped the hasp home and slipped the padlock through the staple, clicking it shut.

He heard huge thumps on the stairs—Cannibal coming back down—and fists booming on wood, hands frantically working the knob. The door groaned against Cannibal’s weight, but the lock and hasp held fast.

“Mitch, God damn it, you let me out of here! What the hell is going on with you, anyway? Mitch! MITCH!”

For a moment there was silence, perhaps some indefinite hint of movement overhead, something scuttling across the floor upstairs, and Cannibal had heard it. Mitch leaned his back against the door, worrying that he lacked the intestinal fortitude to endure what would surely come next.

“
0 GOD, THERE’S SOMETHING IN HERE! GOD, MITCHIE, OPEN THE DOOR!
”

But that wasn’t possible. The cup was not yet empty. Neither was it as sweet as Mitch had hoped it would be. He heard the scrabbling of claws, the clicking of teeth.

“
OH, FUCKING CHRIST ALMIGHTY, ITS GOT ME! JESUS GOD, MITCH, PLEASE! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! IT’S GOT! OH, NO-NO-N-! HELP MEEEEAAAAH-HHHHHHHH!
”

Mitch lurched away from the door and staggered-stumbled toward the headlights at the front of the house, unable to bear any more of Cannibal Strecker’s screams. He burst out to the porch and fought the glare with an upraised hand, steering himself toward the Blazer, which sat still on its fat tires, its throaty engine idling. Jeremy had done his part, just as he had promised, and stood next to the pickup near the passenger’s door, his face a vulpine horror. Inside sat Stella DeCurtis, her comatose eyes fixed straight ahead, her once-cruel mouth hanging slack and open, Jeremy’s victim.

Mitch knew she would not move a muscle until Cannibal came for her.

The last thing on earth that Stuart Bromton wanted to hear over the intercom was that he had a visitor, and the last person on earth he wanted to see was Dr. Hadrian Craslowe. But he dared not refuse to admit the man, dared not even keep him waiting for long.

“Give me a minute and show him in,” he told the dispatcher.

A minute. Sixty seconds. Not much time to hammer his wits back into shape. For the past thirty-six hours or so, ever since his incredible encounter with the doctor in Mitch Nistler’s upstairs bedroom, Stu had lived in a kind of limbo. He had gone through the motions of being a police chief, a husband, and father. But in his mind he had seen himself as an actor in a play. It was like watching from the safety of a darkened box seat—removed from the action, interested in the goings-on, but not really involved.

He wondered if this were some sort of an emotional defense mechanism that had been switched on to soften the direful new realities that had entered his life since—

Since Monday night. When he had shaken hands with Hadrian Craslowe. When his soul had taken a little unannounced vacation from his shuddering, drooling body. Had he really been a little boy again? Walking along through a chilly wood? Only to chance upon a hole in the path, a black opening about the diameter of a grapefruit, that sank downward through decades worth of spongy leaves? What had made him get down on his knees and thrust his little hand into that blackness?

Police Chief Stuart Bromton discovered that his body was trembling again, that he was gripping his right hand with his left, as though to confirm that it was where it should be. He forced down a sip of coffee and was struggling to swallow it when the door of his office swung open.

Dr. Hadrian Craslowe walked in, his awful hands tucked deep into the pockets of a shapeless overcoat, his steel-rimmed glasses impeccably clean and his white hair swept back from his walnut face. He was a kindly patrician today, his head held high.

“Good morning, Chief Bromton,” he said with his rich British voice. “I trust you’re well.”

Stu was not well, but he nodded.

“I wonder if we might have a moment of privacy.” To which Stu responded by asking his secretary to take a coffee break and to close the office door behind her.

“Well then,” said Craslowe when they were alone, “I’ve popped in to notify you that your assistance is needed.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I’ve learned that certain people here in Greely’s Cove intend to trespass upon the home of Mitchell Nistler. Their motives are most harmful, and you must see to it that they do not succeed.”

“Who are these people?” asked Stu.

“The same ones we spoke of the night before last, and two others as well—friends of yours, I think: Carl Trosper and Lindsay Moreland.”

Stu felt the wind being sucked from his lungs, as though an invisible fist had slammed into his solar plexus. “Carl is the oldest friend I have,” he managed to say. “Are you sure he’s involved?”

“Come now, Chief Bromton, you don’t really believe that I could be mistaken, now do you?”

No, of course he didn’t. “What do you want me to do?” Hadrian Craslowe told him, and for the tiniest fraction of a second his rage grew monstrously. He nearly launched himself out of his chair and across his cluttered desk, to clamp his hands around Craslowe’s neck. But his consciousness altered suddenly, and he was the little boy in the woods again, and he was pushing his hand deep into that freezing hole in the ground. His fingers touched something spongy and viscous. A stinging tentacle wrapped itself around his wrist and pulled, and the pain shot like electricity into his shoulder, his arm, his scrotum, and right down to the core of his soul.

So Stuart Bromton merely nodded, having heard Hadrian Craslowe’s orders. To protest would have been useless, and even so, they had shaken hands on an agreement, which was inviolate, which superseded old friendships, long-held values, and all old notions about goodness and decency.

Dr. Craslowe did not have far to travel for his next call of the morning: only upstairs to the mayor’s office, where His Honor Chester Klundt received him warmly. The office was small and garnished with framed awards and honors from local civic organizations. Here and there were icons of Klundt’s ardent religiosity: a calendar that featured scriptural verses and paintings of biblical scenes, a carving in wood of the ancient Christian fish symbol, a small desk plaque with “
I’m Ready for the Rapture
” printed on it.

Dr. Craslowe bowed deeply, rather than shake the mayor’s outstretched hand.

“Gosh, it’s nice to get a visit from one of our town’s newer citizens,” said Klundt, once they were seated. “You know, I usually don’t come into the office this early in the morning, so you’re lucky to catch me.” He beamed his politician’s smile.

The doctor, who sat with his overcoat folded over his hands, said, “I’m grateful that you agreed to see me on such short notice, Your Honor.”

“Hey, you don’t have to call me that,” said Klundt. “Just call me Chet. What do I call you?
Hade?
Or maybe
Haddy?
I knew a guy in the Navy named Haddy, but his first name was really Hadford.”

“You may call me”—the doctor cleared his throat, smiling to conceal his utter loathing for the fat little man who sat behind the desk—“
Hadrian,
of course.”

“Ah, good. What can I do for you, Hadrian?”

“Mayor—or, rather,
Chet
—I come to you this morning not as a citizen of the town or as a voter, but as a fellow Christian”—Klundt’s eyes lit up, and he leaned forward slightly in his chair—“knowing that you are a very spiritual man. You are also a powerful one, and you have tremendous responsibilities to the community. I deemed it wise to talk with you before talking with anyone else.”

“Well, I’m glad you did, Hadrian, I’m glad you did. I have to say, I never dreamed that you were a Christian. Do you belong to a church here in town?”

Craslowe spun a yam about having not yet taken time to seek: out a church, that back in England he had belonged to a fundamentalist congregation that was “truly spirit-filled.” He was on the lookout for a church whose pastor preached “salvation” and not modernist heresy. Until he found one he would content himself with his daily devotions and fellowship with a few close friends. After all, for a born-again Christian, every waking minute is spent in communion with Jesus. Klundt answered with a
praise God!
and naturally suggested the church that he belonged to. Craslowe promised a visit.

“But on to the matter I must discuss with you, Chet,” continued Craslowe. “It’s a most difficult subject to broach, and I pray you’ll bear with me. I’m afraid that the Devil is hard at work here in Greely’s Cove.”

Which Klundt first took to mean the disappearances, but Craslowe quickly set him straight.

“I’m speaking of sorcery and witchcraft, Chet.”

The mayor’s face went white.

“I cannot divulge my sources to you, because they are patients of mine, and what they’ve related to me is privileged. But I can tell you this: There is a woman who lives here in town, named Hannabeth Hazelford, who has been practicing witchcraft with alarming openness. Using power given her by Satan, she has even managed to cast a spell on our city council, I’m told, in order to bring in one of her close allies, a man who calls himself a psychic—”

“Yes, yes, I
know!
His name is Robinson Sparhawk. It pains me to say this, Hadrian, but everything you’ve heard is right. I naturally opposed bringing this man to our town, but I was outvoted. I can’t say I’m surprised that old Hannie’s a witch. She even
looks
like one. I’ve never liked her!”

“She and Mr. Sparhawk are servants of Hell,” said Hadrian, putting on his most somber face. “I came to you because these two demon-worshipers are contriving to convert others to their art, one of whom is a patient of mine. They have intimidated him, bullied him, and have even threatened his life. I suppose I can trust you if I were to give you his name, your being born-again.”

“Absolutely.”

“His name is Mitchell Nistler. Very soon—tonight, as a matter of fact—this Sparhawk fellow and the Hazelford woman intend to hold a sabbat at Mitchell’s house, even though he is terrified of the idea. I’m told that they will be in the company of two other witches—I don’t know their names—and that their ceremony will consecrate Mitchell and his house to the service of Satan. In other words, Chet, they intend to establish a working community of witches right here in Greely’s Cove.” The mayor’s eyelids were fluttering with God-given rage. His breathing was short and raspy, his lips pale. His eyes saw but his brain did not register the motion of Hadrian Craslowe’s hand as it tossed a tiny pouch made of skin to the carpet under the desk, where it began to release its vapors.

The hypnotic voice droned on: “I know that you are aware of God’s commandments concerning witches, Chet. In Exodus the Lord says,
‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’
And in Deuteronomy, ‘
There shall not be found among you any that is an enchanter or a witch, for all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord.
’

“I realize that I can’t go to the police, Chet, because I would only hear from them that this nation’s laws protect the beliefs and religious practices of everyone, even witches. Yet I keep hearing the Lord’s words in my heart....”

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

Craslowe’s voice flowed on, and his gaze bore into Chester Klundt’s eyes. The room swirled with a power that Klundt could neither see nor feel, but he soon drifted into its influence. He did not notice that his visitor occasionally slipped a foreign and very guttural word into the conversation, but even if he
had
noticed, he could not have known the power that the words unleashed.

“Magic depends on many things,” said Hannie Hazelford, “but most of all it depends on words.”

She stood naked in the center of the pentagram she had carefully drawn in red wax on the floor of her kitchen. At each tip of the five-pointed star she had placed a thick white candle. The combined light fluttered across the surfaces of cupboards and walls, throwing jerky shadows.

Carl forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying and not on the misshapen marvel of her naked body. He stole a quick look at Lindsay, who stood between himself and Robbie: Her eyes were huge and disbelieving, her mouth slightly open. She absently fingered the small pouch that hung on a thong against her sweater.

“The proper combination of words, uttered with reverence and respect for the powers they represent, can set the magic in motion,” Hannie went on, moving now to a counter, where she had placed a large collection of vials, jars, and boxes. “It’s very much psychological, and emotional, too. Though it’s true that the ingredients of potions and charms produce their own kind of energy, more often than not they serve merely to put a person into the right frame of mind for doing magic. By mixing together various herbs and spices, and by executing the required rituals, I simply prepare my mind and body for uttering the words of power.”