Kill Creek Page 8

  Wainwright sighed. “Well . . . yes. I guess you could say that. But if you had known the plan from the beginning, would you have come? Would I have been able to get you all together in the same room?”

  “Well, you did it,” Sam said. “Congrats. You got us in the same room. But I’m not interested.”

  Sam pushed his chair away from the table. He was going to leave.

  “What’s the matter, Sam? Give any one of your students a six-pack and they’d be knocking down the front door of the Finch House. Don’t tell me the modern master of horror is afraid of a . . . what did you call it . . . a campfire tale?”

  Moore expected the Midwestern mainstreamer to take the bait, but he did not. Sam remained seated and silent.

  Wainwright turned to the others. “We could do the interview here in this library, we could do it in a conference room somewhere, or we could do it in a place that is guaranteed to light up the goddamn internet.”

  Wainwright paused, long enough for any one of them to stand and walk out. They did not move.

  “I can’t force you to do this. You’re free to leave now. Or you can stay the night—we have rooms booked for each of you at a hotel on the Plaza—and you can leave in the morning.” He leaned over the table, the spotlight overhead casting long streaks of shadow down his face. “Or you can come with me to Kill Creek and, by the first of November, you won’t just be the four most famous horror authors on the planet; you’ll be the four most famous authors on the planet.”

  “We’re already famous,” Sebastian countered, his posture stiffening.

  Wainwright slowly nodded. “Yes, sir, you are. To a certain generation. But what happens when they forget you?”

  He looked to Daniel Slaughter. “Or they outgrow you.”

  To Moore. “Or they misunderstand you?”

  To Sam. “Or they give up on you?”

  A heavy silence fell over them. No one wanted to confirm that Wainwright’s shots had hit dead center.

  Screw this guy, Moore thought. “This is bullshit.”

  “Is it?” asked Wainwright. “Or is it exactly what each of you needs at this moment?”

  “Baby, you don’t know what I need,” Moore told him. “And even if you did, you couldn’t give it to me.”

  Wainwright gave a sharp laugh. It was not meant to be mocking; it was genuine amusement. “Look, I promise, it’ll be a good time. We’ll have all the comforts of home. The house really isn’t that old. Rachel Finch lived in it until 1998. A few days ago, we had the water turned back on. There’s a generator for power. A cleaning crew went out this afternoon to give the place a bit of sprucing up.”

  Daniel Slaughter sat up in his seat. “So people have gone in the house?”

  “Just the cleaners. A handyman. A few other workers, maybe.”

  “And did anything . . . happen?”

  “Whaddya mean, mate? Like supernatural?”

  Daniel nodded. “It’s sort of what you would expect in the Finch House.”

  Wainwright shook his head. “Nah. But they were only inside for a few hours, in broad daylight.”

  Sebastian rapped his knuckles lightly on the table. “In broad daylight,” he repeated. “So what you’re implying is, at night, all bets are off.”

  Wainwright gave a sharp, gravelly laugh. “Look, if you’re asking me if I believe the house is really haunted, the answer’s no. If you’re asking if I have something planned to make the house seem haunted, well, same answer. I really mean it—this is an interview, a chance to dig deep into your genius brains in a, you know, appropriate setting. I’ve purposely kept the party cozy. Just us. A few cameras. A simple sound package. Nothing slick. No place for bells and whistles. I want my subscribers to feel like they’re there with us, not watching a cable show. Which is why I’ve purposely kept my team small. Kate and I will be the only ones joining you in the house.”

  Wainwright touched Kate lightly on the hand.

  Moore shook her head. Way to give the girl permission to speak.

  Kate lifted the Nikon into the air with one hand. She looked each of them straight in the eye as she explained: “I’ll document our time in the house through several mounted wireless cameras and a handheld. We’ll be live-streaming from the moment the interview starts to when it ends. Giving the viewers access to every minute we’re in the house would only dilute things, spreading our viewership over hours instead of minutes. We want to create an event that will bring a big audience for the live stream and still be short enough to go viral. This is about reaching as many people as possible, as quickly as possible. Any other footage we gather from the night will be recorded wirelessly to hard drives and edited later. This isn’t Ghost Hunters. We’re not rigging the whole place with night vision. This is about your time together. This is about your conversation with Wainwright. The focus should and will be the four of you.”

  “Thanks, Kate.” The legs of Wainwright’s chair squeaked as he stood. “So? Who’s in?”

  “I’m in,” Daniel announced with nervous excitement.

  Moore rolled her eyes. “Of course you are.”

  “What?” he said. “It sounds like fun.”

  Sebastian breathed in through his nose and exhaled slowly. “I’m in as well,” he said, though with much less enthusiasm than Daniel. “I’m not dead yet, and I suppose this old man could use a bit of excitement.”

  “Are you both serious?” Moore asked. She looked to Sam. He was rubbing a hand lightly over the intricate tattoos that covered his left arm. “You’re not doing this, are you?”

  Sam glanced from Moore to Sebastian Cole, who appeared content with his decision, his gaze steady, posture ruler-straight. The chance to spend more time with literary royalty was clearly swaying Sam.

  “Screw it. I’m in,” he said.

  Moore gave a disgusted snort.

  But Wainwright turned to her as if he had noticed nothing.

  “The men are on board. What about you, Ms. Moore?”

  Much later, after the reality of their situation had come horrifyingly into focus, Moore would look back at this moment and curse herself for not walking out of that room. She had wanted to leave. She was free to do so. But just like the others, something made her stay, made her take a seat at the table, made her listen quietly as Wainwright explained his master plan. Moore could not speak for the others, but when she truly pressed herself for a reason for her participation in Wainwright’s grand charade, the answer was so pathetically simple that it sickened her:

  She stayed because the men did. She stayed because of pride. She had fought too hard against these condescending pigs to walk out now.

  Room 819. Sam inserted the key card and heard a sharp click. He pushed the door open.

  Stale, recycled air rushed at him. He let the door swing shut behind him. He tossed the key card onto the dresser, dropped his duffel bag to the floor, and fell back onto the bed.

  For ten minutes he lay there, staring up at the ceiling. A single water stain blemished the whiteness.

  He closed his eyes.

  This is ridiculous.

  The hum of the air conditioner filled the room.

  His fingers began to slowly trace the burned flesh of his left arm.

  The air-conditioning unit below the window blew a cool, steady breath across the room.

  Sam could taste the ash at the back of his throat. He could smell the sickeningly sweet aroma of charred skin. He recognized his own. But there was another, in the fire, being consumed by the flames. . . .

  He sat up.

  His cell phone came to life as he picked it up. No messages. Who the hell did he expect to call? Eli, perhaps, checking in on his client. Erin. Not likely. Although Halloween had always been one of their favorite holidays. They would rent a stack of horror movies, fill a large tub with candy for trick-or-treaters, and turn off all the lights so that only the flicker of the television illuminated the room.

  It was October 30, and not a word from her.

 
Maybe tomorrow, he thought. While we’re at the house.

  He knew she wouldn’t call. She was done with him.

  Sam got up from the bed and paced the small room. What am I doing here? I should be at home, writing. Or at least trying to write. I should have brought my laptop. No, he reconsidered, what kind of writing could I get done locked in a house with three other authors? Maybe none. But maybe the visit will inspire me. Maybe a first sentence will come to me, there in that old ghost-filled house. A phrase might suddenly appear in my mind, perfectly formed, like a healthy child.

  On a table near the window was a complimentary pad of Fairmont stationery and a single ballpoint pen. Sam snatched them up, unzipped his bag, and tossed them in. He let out a breath. There. He felt better. One problem solved. A million to go.

  He dug into his bag and pulled out the small dopp kit. He unzipped it. Inside was a travel pill case, and inside this were three green pills. He popped one in his mouth and swallowed it dry.

  At quarter to seven, the lounge at the Fairmont was like every other hotel lounge—appropriately dim, artificially constructed, and packed wall to wall with businesspeople. Light jazz tinkled through the air.

  Sam entered and scanned the room, almost immediately spotting Sebastian Cole perched at the bar, a glass of what looked to be single-malt scotch dangling loosely in his hand. He was staring at the window behind the bar, through which darkness was beginning to engulf the city. The infinitely blue sky was riddled with stars, the once-white clouds glowing a warm pink as if they had been slapped. The lights of the Plaza shops blinked on one by one, each window a warm invitation to the shivering shoppers outside. A horse-drawn carriage rolled leisurely down the street as cars trailed patiently behind it.

  Sebastian’s eyes were widened slightly, unfocused.

  “Hope I’m not disturbing you.” Sam’s voice startled Sebastian. He turned sharply.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam continued. “If you want to be alone—”

  “You’re not disturbing me at all.” Sebastian offered a warm smile. “Please. Have a drink with me.”

  Sam pulled himself up on the next barstool and ordered a beer. The bartender delivered a perfect pour. “So,” Sam said after a much-needed sip, “here we are.”

  “Of all places.”

  Sam took a cocktail napkin from a nearby stack and began to twist it into a tight roll. Just get it over with, Sam thought. There’s no casual way to say it, so just say it.

  “Mr. Cole, I—”

  “Please. Sebastian.”

  Sam nodded. “Sebastian. I’m sure you get this on a daily basis, but your writing really does mean a lot to me. It’s safe to say your books are the reason I became a writer.” He fumbled nervously with the mangled cocktail napkin.

  “Not to sound like an arrogant old man, Sam—May I call you Sam?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Yes, I do get fans telling me how much they’ve loved my books, particularly A Thinly Cast Shadow.”

  “A classic,” Sam blurted out, instantly ashamed. He remembered the way Sebastian had flinched when Daniel used the same word earlier that day.

  “A classic,” Sebastian agreed with a melancholy smile, “much like myself.” He took a hard swallow of scotch. “But coming from a writer like you, Sam, a talented writer, an honest writer, the accolades have weight. Because I believe you know a good story from a bad one. And if my stories are some of the good ones, well, then I’ve done my job.”

  Sam nodded. He raised his glass to his lips, but he stopped short of drinking. There was something else that needed to be said.

  “I read A Thinly Cast Shadow when I was twelve. Two years before that, my mother died. I wasn’t . . . Well, let’s just say I was having a tough time. Your book, your writing, it didn’t just inspire me. It . . . It saved me.”

  Sebastian nodded slowly, but he said nothing. For a moment, the two men drank in silence.

  “I’ve read your books, too, Sam,” Sebastian said finally.

  Sam could not help feeling a flutter of excitement in his chest.

  “I liked them very much,” Sebastian continued. “You have an honest way of writing, especially your first book. It’s genuine. That may not seem like the most thrilling compliment, but a voice like yours—a real voice—is rare these days.”

  Now it was Sam’s turn to repay praise with silence. Sebastian’s kind words meant the world to him, and yet one phrase chipped away at Sam’s confidence like an ice pick: especially your first book.

  Sam took a long gulp from his glass, hoping the beer would mix with the slowly dissolving pill in his stomach and numb his nerves.

  “As for our other brethren . . .” Sebastian did a quick visual sweep of the room, making sure they were nowhere in the vicinity. “Mr. Slaughter writes for teenagers, a group I never have understood, nor ever will. And Ms. Moore, besides being insanely successful, panders to a—I’m just going to say unique crowd that thinks sexual liberation means letting a demon fuck you in the asshole.”

  Sam almost choked on the beer but managed to swallow it down around a laugh.

  “If I may be frank,” Sebastian added dryly.

  Night had finally fallen on the outside world, the last streaks of dusk quickly pulled below the horizon. The bar seemed to welcome the darkness, the music taking on a slightly more electronic sound, the dim lamps that had been easily overlooked in the daylight now casting narrow orange streaks upon the bloodred walls. The place felt smaller, the patrons crowding closer and closer to the bar. When had it gotten so busy? It was loud, voices over voices, a steady bombardment of muddled, drunken banter.

  Through the window, Sam could see things moving in the darkness. He assumed they were people, but they scurried through the streets like beetles, seeming to stick to the shadows, just out of sight.

  “Is there a story there?”

  Sebastian was looking down at Sam’s arm. He knew the old man wasn’t referring to his tattoos.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you told it?”

  Sam swirled the last of his beer around in the glass. “Part of it. To my wife. Ex-wife.”

  “Why only part?”

  “Sometimes . . .” Sam paused. The acrid gray cloud of smoke was rising in the back of his throat again. “Sometimes stories have too much power. They change who people think you are.”

  The old man nodded. “They do indeed.”

  At a nearby booth, a group of businessmen in ill-fitting off-the-rack suits erupted in a startlingly loud roar of laughter.

  Sebastian sat up straight on his barstool, the intimacy of their conversation lessened a bit. “Well, I would hate to think we’re only going to get four books out of you.”

  “No, I’m working on something new. It’s going well.”

  You’re lying, he scolded himself. You just lied to your idol.

  Sebastian seemed to sense the dishonesty, for the smile he gave faltered a bit at the edges.

  “Sam, agents talk. Nothing stays a secret for long in this business. Sometimes a writer just needs a break, to regroup.”

  Sam gave a sharp laugh that he hoped sounded incredulous. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I promise, they’re only rumors.”

  “Funny thing about rumors,” Sebastian said softly. “It doesn’t matter if they’re true or false, only that people believe them.”

  NINE

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 31

  DANIEL SLAUGHTER HAD always been an early bird.

  Even when he was at home in his own bed with his wife, Sabrina, by his side, his eyes would click open as soon as the first rays of dawn broke the horizon. He would roll out of bed as quietly as possible, wincing as the bed frame squeaked, as if it were relieved to be temporarily rid of his bulk. Sabrina rarely woke. She was a heavy sleeper. Her petite body, unchanged since they had met in their early twenties, would remain curled in a tight ball under the sheets.

  So it came as a shock to Daniel that in a strange hotel room in a city he had
visited only a handful of times in his life, he had slept in.

  When his eyes blinked sleepily open, sunlight was already cutting like a knife across the foot of his bed. He checked the digital clock on the nightstand: 10:14 a.m. His hand swept out from under the covers to grasp the clock. He had to touch the clock, actually feel it in his thick fingers, to believe that the numbers it was displaying were correct.

  “Gosh darn it,” he whispered.

  They’d planned to meet in the lobby at eleven thirty. After showering and getting dressed, he would barely have time to wolf down a late breakfast.

  He rocked forward in the bed, but the pillow-top mattress seemed to only sink beneath his immense weight.

  A sudden thought, totally irrational, surfaced in his mind:

  Holy heck, I’m not gonna be able to get up.

  He swept his hand from the nightstand to grip the bed frame for added leverage. As he did, his hand hit a paperback book beside the clock and sent it tumbling to the carpeted floor.

  Daniel looked down.

  It was the book Kate had given him the previous evening.

  Phantoms of the Prairie.

  Daniel groaned, irritated with himself.

  That book was why he had slept in.

  He knew he should have gone straight to bed after returning from the hotel restaurant shortly after nine. But the book had intrigued him from the moment Kate had handed it to him. It was something about the cover, which was deceptively simple compared to the outrageous artwork that adorned his own novels. There was the farmhouse adrift in a sea of tallgrass, a single light on in the uppermost window, glowing with supernatural menace. He’d held the cover close to his eyes. Were there faces peering out from the trees beyond the house? He couldn’t be sure, but the shadows between the slim tree trunks seemed to twist into vaguely human forms.

  He had settled himself down into a chair at the small table by the window and opened the book.

  A True Story of Supernatural Terror, the subtitle proclaimed.

  He began to read.

  The writing was journalistic in style, verging on the academic, but there were enough lurid flourishes that Daniel found himself, somewhat guiltily, pulled away from his hotel room in Kansas City and out to the dark countryside of Kill Creek.