Kill Creek Read online

  Her eyes are actually very beautiful. Not despite the flawed pupil. Because of it.

  He continued: “Some entity, older than time, lacking in anything resembling human emotion, is using our heroes as a means to gain access to our world. And it’s working. They’re becoming addicted to the power, which gives them a high that can’t be matched by drugs or sex.”

  Moore furrowed her brow and stared at Sam. That misshapen pupil seemed to dilate even as the pupil of her other eye stayed the same. “So far I’m not getting what’s so bad about their bargain. Sounds like a good time to me.”

  “Well, that depends on your definition of a good time. See, the entity requires sacrifice. First, it’s sexual sacrifice. You’ll be happy to know there’s a lot of spilled seed and an unnatural amount of fluids.”

  “Perfect.”

  She’s so close. When did she get so close?

  “But then the sacrifice becomes emotional as they pull their lives apart, destroying the happiness of anyone close to them. And finally there is physical sacrifice, each member of the group offering themselves up to be brutally murdered until the only two left are our girl and the dirtbag she’s screwing, whose name is probably something bizarrely antisocial like Thrash or Bobby Filth.”

  “That’s pretty bad.”

  Sam put his hands in the air. “Hey, you’re the one who wrote it.”

  Moore leaned in.

  “I guess we really have each other pegged, don’t we?”

  The breeze picked up, sweeping across the porch and twisting around them, but Moore’s hair did not move; the braid draping down her back remained still. There was a dangerous smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Her right pupil was a bottomless pit inviting Sam to fall in.

  You can’t trust her, he told himself. But Sam wasn’t sure this was true. He wanted to trust her. He wanted to trust someone. And there was something about her that just felt . . . real.

  The sound of the front door opening broke the spell.

  Behind Moore, Daniel lumbered out. The porch boards groaned under his weight.

  “There you two are,” he said.

  Moore pulled her lips tightly against her teeth. “Daniel Slaughter. Exactly who I wanted to see.”

  “Seriously?”

  Without another word, Moore marched past him and disappeared into the house.

  “Oh, I get it,” Daniel said to Sam, “she was just being awful, as usual.”

  “She’s testing you.”

  “And I feel like I keep failing.” Daniel suddenly snapped his fingers, remembering something. “Oh, if you go out back, be careful. The cover on the well is not at all sturdy. I almost fell into it. Lost my phone in the darn thing.”

  The rustling of leaves got Sam’s attention.

  The branches of the beech tree were swaying, the leaves rippling from end to end.

  Yet this time, there was no breeze.

  Moore slipped through the shadows.

  She heard faint voices that were growing louder the closer she crept.

  She loved being in the darkness, feeling its cold embrace as she moved up the stairs, unseen. She stopped at the top and peered around the corner.

  Kate and Wainwright stood in a cramped alcove just off the main hall of the second floor. To their left was a stained-glass window through which the day’s last bit of daylight streamed in, the gloom transformed by the window’s multicolored panes. Against the light, they were silhouettes.

  They were still too far away and their voices too low to make out exactly what they were saying, but Moore could tell by the way Wainwright was holding Kate by the shoulders that there was something wrong with the girl. He bent down to look her in the eyes, but she glanced away. “What was it?” his silhouette was asking excitedly. “What did you see?”

  She shook her head, unable to put it into words. Wainwright pulled her closer, encouraging her to slip her hands around his waist. He whispered something to her.

  Moore strained to hear what they were saying.

  “Try to remember,” Moore overheard him tell her.

  “It was right there.” She motioned to someplace behind Wainwright, farther into the alcove. “I think. Hell, I don’t know, maybe it was just a trick of the light.”

  Moore rolled her eyes. Kate sounded like a goddamn bumpkin with that Southern twang. How could Wainwright take anything she said seriously?

  Wainwright looked to where Kate was pointing. “What did it look like?”

  “It . . .” Her voice trailed off as she tried to conjure up an image in her head. “Forget it. I’m sorry.”

  “But you saw something, right?” It was less a question than a statement of fact.

  “Maybe.”

  He pondered this, his foot tapping the wood floor. Then he nodded. “Okay. Okay. Let’s keep this between us. Don’t tell the others.”

  Moore frowned. She heard Sam’s voice telling her, I don’t trust him.

  Kate gave a small, earnest laugh. “My dad would lose it if he knew his sweet little preacher’s daughter was spending the night in a place like this.”

  “Yeah, well, your dad would be even more upset if he knew you were sleeping with your boss.”

  “Not because you’re my boss,” Kate said teasingly. “Because you’re white.”

  “Right. Not much I can do about that then, is there?”

  Kate smiled. Wainwright ran a hand up her cheek to the nape of her neck and kissed her. Kate dug her fingers into his thick hair and kissed him harder.

  Something about this intimate moment troubled Moore. That girl would let him talk her into anything, she thought.

  She watched as the two silhouettes merged into one big, oddly shaped shadow.

  They finally parted and stepped away from the window; Moore could make out their features once again. Wainwright took Kate’s hand in his, and together they disappeared into their bedroom.

  Time to find out what’s so interesting.

  Moore left her hiding place and moved silently down to the alcove where Wainwright and Kate had been standing. She looked to where Kate had pointed.

  “What the hell?” she whispered.

  Why would someone build a brick wall at the top of a staircase?

  FOURTEEN

  6:25 p.m.

  THERE’S ANOTHER HALLWAY. How the hell did we miss that? Sam wondered.

  In the kitchen, when facing the sunroom and back doors, there was a narrow hall to the right that led to the foyer and, ultimately, to the living room. Had one of them bothered to look to the left, however, they would have noticed a second hall, not quite as narrow as the first but much darker, for it lacked any windows. This hall had not been on their initial tour, either forgotten or purposely avoided.

  Now Wainwright motioned to the dark hallway, telling the group, “We’ll eat in the dining room.”

  On the kitchen island, Wainwright and Kate had arranged a modest spread of food. Beside the numerous takeout containers was a stack of plastic plates and an assortment of plastic utensils.

  The mood was surprisingly light as the group filled their plates, piling on heaps of Midwestern picnic fare: chicken, turkey, roast beef, sides of green beans, baked beans, corn, pasta salad, and potato salad. Sebastian hovered over a plate of cheeses and fruit; Moore went for the rarest of roast beef; Sam made a simple turkey and Swiss sandwich; and Daniel sampled more than a bit of everything. Their drinks were equally appropriate: Sebastian had a glass of Bordeaux; Sam, a bottle of beer from the fridge; Moore poured herself whiskey, neat; and Daniel opted for the more conservative choice of iced tea. Wainwright and Kate prepared their plates and poured their drinks last, allowing the four writers to wander down the hallway as a group.

  As he left the kitchen, Sam noticed the dog-eared paperback of Phantoms of the Prairie sitting on the counter near the island.

  Wainwright’s copy, he realized. It hadn’t been out of the young man’s hands since they’d arrived. And now there it was, forgotten on the counter. Sam
made a mental note of this and followed the others.

  It was astonishing that the dining room could have existed in the house without them knowing. It was a massive space, easily the biggest in the house. Large windows lined one wall, allowing both the fading evening light into the cavernous room and a beautiful view of the back woods. At the center of the room was a long wooden table covered in a red tablecloth. Red leather was stretched over the backs and seats of each chair and secured with rustic nail heads. There were ten chairs, four on each side and a single chair at each head of the table. A two-tiered chandelier was suspended over the table. Three candela-bras were lit and evenly spaced. Opposite the windows, more candles flickered in a small fireplace.

  As was customary when writers gathered, they began by complaining about their publishers.

  “They want me to join Twitter,” Sebastian announced from the head of the table, laughing. “I told them that I still had a rotary telephone and wrote on a typewriter.”

  “Christ, you’re old,” Moore said.

  Sebastian sighed. “There was something wonderfully simple yet elegant about the old way. The first chapter of your book published in The New Yorker or Playboy. Full-page ads in the country’s largest newspapers. A few well-publicized in-store events at the Strand or City Lights. Your books sold on the strength of your writing, not your number of online followers.”

  Moore washed the roast beef down with a sip of whiskey. “Hate to say it, fellas, but you’re all spoiled. You’ve had publishers and agents and managers and publicists for way too long. Seven years ago, I was editing my first book, Biter, begging any friend I could to read it, paying for cover design out of my own pocket, and then putting the damn thing out myself. There were no ‘well-publicized in-store events’ or first chapters in jerk mags for T.C. Moore. It was all word of mouth, and I had to have the biggest mouth of all.”

  “Somehow I doubt that was a problem for you,” Sebastian said with an ornery smile.

  “Screw you, old man,” Moore replied with a grin.

  Sam glanced around the room. They were shy two people. Where are Wainwright and Kate? he wondered. Why would Wainwright miss the opportunity to get this all on camera?

  “I made Biter a massive hit all by myself, and I pulled in seventy percent of the net profits,” Moore continued. “Publishers got down on their hands and knees, begging to take Biter off self-publishing so they could put it in every bookstore in the world. So I made a deal, and what was the first thing I got? A new watered-down cover that would appeal to the one-piece bathing suit crowd. What’s the next thing I got? My profits cut to a pathetic twenty percent.”

  Daniel’s chair groaned as he leaned back. “But you don’t have to hustle anymore. You’re a household name. Your books are bestsellers. You’ve sold the movie rights.”

  “I sold out. That’s what I did.”

  “To reach a larger audience. To make sure your work lives on as long as possible.”

  “Amen to that,” Sebastian said, lifting his wineglass.

  Sam crossed his arms. Wainwright’s absence was making him nervous. He glanced around at the others. They don’t even notice. They don’t seem to care.

  So why do you? he asked himself.

  Because I don’t know why he brought us here.

  He brought us here because he admires us.

  His right hand slid down to feel the haphazard ridges of his scars. How can anyone admire me?

  Moore took another bite of roast beef, still considering Daniel’s last comment. “My work is popular because it pushes boundaries. That’s what my readers expect. But the marketing of my books is shit. My books are loud, but the marketing isn’t, because my books have gone corporate. So yes, I have a team behind me now that allows me to write from a killer house in the Hollywood Hills while they take care of the rest. But what’s the point? I’m willing to go to the darkest, nastiest places in my psyche in order to top my last book, and my publisher is, what? Praying to white Jesus for a starred review in Publishers Weekly?”

  “You want your marketing to be as extreme as your books?” Daniel asked. He looked completely befuddled by Moore’s point of view.

  “Yes!” Moore cried out. “Fuck yes! Nero burned down Rome just so he could rebuild it the way he wanted it. Yes, if I’m going to sweat blood to write a book, I want my publisher to bleed in marketing the damn thing.”

  “I wish marketing were my biggest worry.” Daniel was holding a rolled-up piece of prosciutto between two fingers. “At least you all still have people who want to publish you.”

  “What the hell are you crying about, Slaughter? You have, like, a billion books on the shelf,” Moore said.

  Daniel sighed like he suddenly regretted speaking up. But it was too late now. The other writers were staring at him, waiting.

  “I think my publisher’s going to dump me soon,” he said.

  The comment pulled Sam out of his own thoughts. He shot a confused look to the large man sitting beside him. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “They must have made an incredible amount of money off of you.”

  Daniel shrugged. “My Christian audience isn’t as, well, receptive to my books as they once were. Maybe I’m just paranoid, I don’t know. It’s just . . . The print orders keep getting smaller and smaller. I feel like . . . like my publisher is losing faith in me.” He glanced over at Moore. “Aren’t you going to make some sort of snarky comment about faith or religion or—”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not.”

  Daniel gave an appreciative nod.

  “What about you, Sam?” It was Sebastian, in his all-too-appropriate seat at the head of the table.

  “What about me?”

  “What’s your publishing horror story?”

  Moore twirled a plastic knife between her fingers. “Haven’t you noticed? Sam doesn’t like to share. He likes to listen. Don’t you, Sam?”

  It’s safer that way, he thought.

  He could feel her piercing gaze from across the table.

  “I don’t know if you can call it a horror story,” Sam said. “They want a book a year from me. Doesn’t matter what it is. They just want something to slap my name on.”

  “So give it to them.” Moore shrugged.

  “I want to give them something good.”

  “So write something good,” she said. “You’re Sam McGarver.”

  It was the closest thing to a compliment he had ever heard from her.

  Sam stared at Moore over the flickering flames of the candelabra between them. Through the window behind her, he could see an orange moon beginning to rise over the trees.

  “It’s that easy for you? You just sit down and pound out something you’re proud of every time?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And you’re doing that now?”

  “Yes, I am. I’ve started something that I think is going to be the best thing I’ve ever written.”

  “More adventures under the sheets with erotic demons, I’m sure,” Daniel chimed in.

  Moore leveled an icy stare at Slaughter. “You think I’m a joke, don’t you? Like somehow I don’t deserve to sit at a table with you masters of horror?”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Daniel glanced down at his plate. He looked suddenly ashamed, like a little boy who’d spoken rudely to an adult.

  Sebastian cleared his throat, once again attempting to cut through the tension. He lifted his wineglass into the air. “Well, I would like to propose a toast,” he said.

  Sam followed suit, holding his drink high. He watched as Daniel and Moore reluctantly joined in.

  “To an eclectic group of extremely talented writers. It is an honor to share this experience with you all. I would trust any one of you to ghostwrite my books when I’m dead.”

  Sam burst into unexpected laughter at the comment, as did Daniel. Even Moore had to fight a smile.

  “No one’s going to ghostwrite you, Sebastian,” S
am said.

  “Oh yes, they most certainly will. My publisher is going to ‘Robert Ludlum’ my ass.”

  They all laughed harder.

  “The only silver lining is that my ghostwriters will do all the work, but their names will be in little, tiny letters under mine.” He swept a hand through the air to imply the print on the cover. “Written by A Dead Man, with assistance from Some Poor Asshole.”

  The table was shaking with the group’s laughter.

  Sebastian raised his glass. “Cheers.”

  Thank God for this man, Sam thought.

  Glasses clinked. They drank in silence. The candle flames flickered.

  Something rustled in the darkness of the hallway. Only Sam noticed it. He abruptly stopped laughing and turned to stare into the shadows.

  A shape was moving there. It was coming toward them.

  Sam only had time to think: It’s the house.

  And then Wainwright emerged, carrying two plates of food. Kate followed closely behind him. In her hands were their drinks: a beer for herself and a vodka on the rocks for Wainwright. As usual, her camera was slung over her shoulder, the shotgun mic still mounted on top.

  “What did I miss?” Wainwright asked.

  Sam looked from Kate’s camera to the strange, claylike face of Wainwright. “How long were you there?”

  Wainwright set the plates down in the two spots beside Moore. “What are you talking about, Sam?”

  “In that hallway. How long were you standing there before you came in?”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t really know what you mean there, mate.”

  The hell you don’t.

  Wainwright and Kate took their seats. Kate raised her beer bottle. “Shall we toast?”

  She looked at them, confused, as they all burst into another fit of welcome laughter.

  But Sam did not laugh. He was watching Wainwright.

  For the next half hour, they ate and chatted as darkness overtook the woods outside. Their voices drifted down the darkened corridor, through the brightly lit kitchen, into the foyer, and up the stairs, echoing down hallways and through empty rooms, until finally their words vanished into the very walls.