Kill Creek Read online

  The ceaseless tap of Moore’s fingertips on the keyboard was the sound of a heavy downpour, as if a black cloud had broken open right in the living room.

  Today was a special day. Today was the start of a new novel.

  Screw Cutter. Screw Gary. Screw Tanner and Phillip. Screw the studio and her lawyer and every other pathetic little man who wanted her on her knees.

  She would leave them all behind. They were already little more than blurry mile markers in her rearview mirror.

  Words raced across her computer screen as particles of a story collided in her brain.

  It came to her as most stories did, with a single image smashing into existence. It was the image of a painting in a museum. As with her other tales, Moore began to ask questions.

  What is so special about this painting?

  The painting is being restored by a woman.

  Who is she?

  Her name is Sid. She has recently broken up with her boyfriend and is burying herself in work. Because of her young age, as well as her many piercings and tattoos, she is not taken seriously by her colleagues. One night Sid discovers something unexpected about the painting.

  But what? What does she discover?

  That there is another painting beneath it. The seemingly straightforward restoration has taken a turn. She is no longer restoring; she is revealing. Against the wishes of the museum’s curator, Sid begins to strip the top layer away.

  What does she find?

  An eye. The eye of a god. Cold and cruel. And within it, the markings of an ancient language, long thought lost.

  And what does it say?

  It says that through the suffering of others, she can finally rid herself of her own pain.

  Moore had let herself free-fall so deeply into this new tale that the sound of her cell phone ringing actually made her flinch as if she had been electrocuted. Her fingers left the keyboard, the connection broken as she took a step backward.

  “Dammit!” she yelled.

  Her heart was racing, her pulse thumping noticeably in the bare flesh above her left breast. She snatched up her phone from the glass coffee table behind her. She glanced at the name on the screen: Anaya Patel.

  She let out a slow breath. If it were anyone interrupting, she was glad it was Anaya.

  She answered the call.

  “So?”

  The flat, unemotional voice of her agent spoke from the cellular abyss. “So I still think you’re making a mistake.” Despite being born in Los Angeles, Anaya had more than a hint of her parents’ Indian accent.

  “That’s not what I meant, Anaya.”

  A distorted sigh crackled in Moore’s ear. “So they wouldn’t tell me any more than you already know,” Anaya said.

  “Why are they being so damn secretive?”

  “Because it’s Wainwright. He likes to play games.”

  Moore felt a momentary sense of unease. She quickly swatted it away like an annoying insect. “And it’s one interview. In and out.”

  Silence. Only the soft crackle as the call ricocheted between towers.

  “That they did tell me. It’s not quite in and out,” Anaya said finally. “They’ve requested two days, two nights.”

  “For an interview?” Moore cocked her head to one side, closing her eyes. Her black mane draped down over her breasts. “I get the feeling I’m being messed with here, Anaya. You know I don’t like being messed with.”

  “Then pass.” It was what Anaya wanted. She had called every day since Moore had told her about the unnecessarily dramatic note stuck to the front door. The fact that it happened on the same night as Moore’s ambushing at the West Hollywood steak house only served to make the agent more skeptical. It wasn’t a good idea. Not right now. Now was the time to retreat and plan their next attack in the form of a new T.C. Moore bestseller.

  When Moore did not reply, Anaya relented. “Or take the offer. But Wainwright has the upper hand on this one. He likes stunts. It’s probably not as clear-cut as it seems.”

  Moore twisted her long hair around her wrist like a boxer wrapping her hands for a fight.

  “I want to do it,” she said.

  “Okay, fine, but listen, Moore, you can’t use this as an opportunity to slam Gary and the studio.”

  “It’s my interview. I can say anything I damn well want.”

  “And they can damn well sue you. Please, if Wainwright tries to go there, don’t take the bait. Talk about your work. Talk about Cutter the book. Just don’t talk about Cutter the movie, unless it’s to put asses in seats when it hits theaters.”

  Moore clenched her fist and gave her ponytail a hard tug. “I have work to do.”

  “Moore—”

  A silver nail tapped the “End” button, and Anaya was gone.

  Moore tossed the phone onto the white midcentury sofa and turned back to the computer. Once again, her house was filled with the sound of typing.

  FIVE

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 29

  THE VINES DID not want to give up their hold.

  Green tentacle-like arms snaked through every empty space of the chain-link gate, securing it in place. Cappie Kovac slipped his gloved fingers through several of the diamond-shaped holes and gave the gate a hard shake.

  “Deke!” he shouted over his shoulder to his son. “A little goddamn help here!”

  A pair of thirty-six-inch bolt cutters bit into the lower corner of the gate and snapped it free. Deke quickly worked his way up the side of the gate, row by row, veins starting to bulge across the crest of his biceps. He was in his late twenties and already beginning to show the hint of a beer belly, but he was a strong kid. Ready to work. All commitment. No sass.

  “Almost done,” Deke announced in a high-pitched voice. It was the last sound one would expect to hear from his broad-shouldered, thick-necked frame. He forced the handles of the bolt cutters together, their sharp teeth cutting through the final row of fence.

  Cappie wrapped his stumpy gloved fingers around the center of the gate and gave it another tug. It was free from the rest of the fence that bordered the land around the house. Yet it still would not budge.

  “Help me get this bastard down!” Cappie ordered his son.

  Deke stepped up next to his father and took hold of a section of gate. Together, they pulled backward with all of their might. The vines actually seemed to tighten. Tendrils twisted tighter.

  “Pull!” Cappie shouted.

  Without warning, the entire gate came free. It was as if every twist of vine released at the same moment. Cappie and Deke had no time to shift the direction of their power. They both fell flat on their backs, the eight-by-six-foot-gate landing on top them.

  “Holy mother of Christ,” Cappie exhaled.

  “Sorry,” was all Deke could offer.

  Carefully, they slid the gate away and got to their feet.

  “Jesus,” Deke whispered.

  Before them was a mound of vines that, only moments before, had been secured to the gate, keeping any visitors from entering the house on Kill Creek. Beyond the fence was a field of tallgrass, the blades swaying in the soft breeze like rows of soldiers standing in Cappie’s way.

  “Want me to get the brush cutter?” Deke asked.

  Cappie barely heard him. There was something about this expanse of overgrown countryside that gave him pause. The wind was blowing to the east, but the tallgrass seemed to be swaying in the opposite direction. There was a pattern to the movement, like the jitter of a snake’s rattle.

  Cappie rubbed the bald spot on the back of his head and gave a snort. It had been a good hour since his last drink. He could almost hear the sound of the flask in his jacket pocket calling him, begging him to suck it dry.

  “Yeah,” he finally said.

  From this distance, he could see only the second and third stories of the house rising above the field of tallgrass.

  He took a step through the opening in the fence.

  Something seemed to slither away from his foot. Cap
pie hopped back, expecting a rat snake or, maybe, if he were truly unlucky, a copperhead.

  There was nothing there. Only a cluster of tallgrass stalks.

  The wind picked up, and the entire overgrown yard suddenly collapsed. What had appeared as an impenetrable pass to the front porch was now a relatively clear path.

  It was as if the house wanted Cappie to enter.

  The sound of Deke firing up the brush cutter made Cappie leap a good foot into the air. He yelled, “Christ Almighty!” but Deke was already hard at work, the roar of the gas-powered brush cutter drowning out all sound. He must have gone back to the truck to retrieve it.

  Deke gave a thumbs-up and continued plowing through the overgrowth, creating a clearing through the field of tallgrass. Clumps of stalks went flying into the air. It would take a while, but Deke would clear most of what could be called the “front yard.”

  The job was simple. Make an abandoned house habitable for a few nights. Clear the yard. Clean the main rooms. Install a generator.

  Cappie watched as Deke reached the front steps. Deke killed the brush cutter’s engine. He turned back and waved to his father.

  Cappie waved back. Time to get to work.

  Cappie stared at the last of the sunlight glinting off the third-story window. He unscrewed the top of his stainless-steel flask, his mouth already watering at the thought of a much-needed swig. The window looked like a cyclopean eye, staring out at the horizon, unblinking.

  “Don’t stare at the sun there, bub, you’ll go blind,” Cappie said to himself, then added, “Plentya ways to go blind. Fun ways too.” He gave a raspy chuckle that quickly became a cough that rattled the phlegm deep inside his chest.

  Behind him, parked on the now-cleared gravel driveway, was his beat-up old pickup truck. Fresh paint on the doors stood in contrast to the rust that was quickly devouring the automobile from hood ornament to trailer hitch. KOVAC & SON, the paint proclaimed. There was little fanfare beyond this. Just stenciled letters. Clean and simple.

  The faintest hint of a “Dammit!” blew in from around the house, and Cappie grinned. That was Deke. Cappie pictured him grunting and cursing as he put his weight into a stubborn nail in a window plank that refused to budge. For the son of a professional handyman, Cappie was shocked at how often Deke complained about the jobs they landed. Maybe he should have been harder on the kid. Maybe he should have whipped him a few times when he was younger. Really taken the belt to him. Toughened him up. Like Cappie’s old man had. That was the way they brought you up on the farm. You complain, you give the old man any lip, and whap!, your skin would be on fire from a lash of the strap.

  Ah, who was he kidding. The kid meant no harm. He worked hard. He tried his best. Cappie couldn’t ask for much more. He gave his flask a shake. “Except maybe for a bit more hooch,” he said, the comment sending him into another fit of hacking laughter.

  Cappie screwed the top back onto the empty flask and slid it into the inside pocket of his flannel jacket. He shivered. It was cold out, strangely cold. The chill seemed to snake under his clothes and across his flesh. He took a few steps away from the house, tilting his head back to take it all in. The structure loomed over him, the peak of the triangular roof like a fang sinking itself into the purple clouds of the darkening sky. White paint flaked like dead skin from the house’s weathered wood. At its base, thick weeds sprouted, burrowing into the brick foundation wherever they could. Yet for all the time it had been abandoned, neglected, the windows were not so much as cracked. The glass panes remained intact, the light of each passing day reflected upon their surfaces.

  The house made Cappie nervous. He couldn’t say exactly why. Cappie was not a superstitious man. He did not believe in God. But he had heard stories about this place. And now, being here, it seemed . . . what was the word? Sinister. That was it. If he were drunker, he would have sworn this place was waiting for something, biding its time in the last of the open prairie.

  Cappie shuffled uncomfortably. He checked his watch. It was a quarter to six. “Come on, Deke!” he called out. “Finish ’er up and let’s hightail it back home! Your mama’s gonna have dinner on soon!”

  There was no reply. Not the angry screech of nails being pried from wood. Not even a random curse word for good measure.

  “Deke?” Cappie called again. Nothing.

  A flock of black birds suddenly sprang from a cluster of oaks nearby. They circled the edge of the forest once and flapped off into the darkness. He hesitantly took a few steps closer to the house.

  From just inside the front door of the house, someone giggled. It couldn’t have been Deke, though. The giggle sounded immature, like a child’s, but it had the weight of an adult’s.

  Cappie had made it to just a few feet from the porch. He tilted his ear toward the closed door, but there was no other sound. Cautiously, he moved up the uneven front steps to the wraparound porch. The warped stairs groaned under his weight. His work boots knocked dully as he slowly approached the front door, his footsteps echoing under the porch.

  Thick, thorny vines had curled their way up the door and around the doorknob. They should have removed these hours ago, but neither Cappie nor Deke had been in a hurry to step up to the front door. Now Cappie tore them away. He reached for the tarnished brass knob, and he paused. Behind the door, something shuffled. He heard it draw a quivering breath. Whatever was there, it was excited. Anxious for him to enter.

  “Hello?” Cappie heard the fear in his own voice.

  His fingers touched the knob, and he paused again.

  An image confronted him, from countless nights of passing out in front of the TV: Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? Her old hag face smeared white with thick makeup in a hideous attempt to look like a baby doll. Black lips that grinned below wide staring eyes.

  Cappie didn’t want to open the door. Sure, Deke could have gone in one of the back entrances to pull one over on his old man. But something deep down inside him—deeper than the love he felt for his wife and son, deeper even than the fear that his rattling lungs may be the first signs of cancer—something at the very core of his being told him not to open that door.

  But open the door Cappie did. He gave a soft push, and it slowly swung inward on its ancient hinges.

  Footsteps scampered away, farther into the house.

  Even in the dusk, Cappie could see that the front entrance was empty.

  Cappie allowed himself a sigh of relief. He gripped the knob, preparing to pull the door shut and look for Deke around the side of the house when, without warning, a gust of wind whipped past him, whistling wildly into the foyer. Cappie looked over his shoulder and saw that the outside world remained undisturbed by the strong breeze. In the doorway, though, the wind picked up speed, the whistle growing to a howl. Cappie could feel its weight on his back, an invisible hand pushing him forward, ushering him into the house. He risked a half step, planting his foot to steady himself against the phantom gale.

  And then, as quickly as it had begun, the last of the wind slipped by, spun itself wildly up the staircase, and was gone. In an instant, all was still.

  “Dad?”

  A tiny yelp escaped Cappie’s mouth. He spun around.

  It was Deke, a hammer in one hand, the keys to the truck dangling from the other.

  “We leaving?”

  Cappie pushed past him, taking the porch steps two at a time. “I been ready to leave for near twenty minutes now,” he snapped, hoping Deke wouldn’t ask why the hell he was suddenly so jumpy.

  “But what about the rest of it? What about the generator?”

  “We’ll deal with the rest tomorrow,” Cappie barked, knowing damn well he would be sending Deke out with someone else from the shop, maybe Ricky or Clayton. Cappie would not be returning to the house.

  The pickup’s engine turned over on the second try, and Deke was soon piloting it down the winding gravel road back to K-10. It was true that Deke’s mama probably had food on the table by now, but Cappie
had no intention of devoting his evening to a sit-down family dinner. He wanted nothing more than to belly up to the bar at the Innkeeper on Sixth Street and drink himself numb.

  He couldn’t tell the boys at the bar what he’d experienced. He couldn’t even tell Deke. They would think he was crazy. It was crazy. But back there, on the porch, Cappie could have sworn the house had taken a breath.

  SIX

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 30

  A SKYLIGHT HIGH above cast a single stream of sunshine down into the darkened room. At its center was a wooden bench.

  Moore listened to the soft click of her footsteps echo off the concrete walls and distant corridors. There were others here, moving slowly in silent contemplation, but she ignored them. She came to this place not to be inspired like so many other visitors but to turn everything off, to flick the switch in her mind, and just . . . be.

  Now she needed it more than ever.

  Shut off the thoughts. Just exist. Float. Be nothing.

  The Getty Center was a fairly new addition to Los Angeles, opening to the public in 1997. Perhaps that was what Moore liked most about it compared to other art museums—its lack of true history. It was pretending to be as ancient and important as the works of art it sheltered. It was an old soul in a new shell. The building thought it was doing the art a favor, protecting it, displaying it. The shell had invited the soul in. One day the shell would collapse, and the soul would move to a new place.