Kill Creek Page 9

  He was there with the author, Dr. Malcolm Adudel, as Rachel Finch greeted him. Her face was moonlight made flesh, a stark contrast to her hair, which was as black as a starless night. He was at Adudel’s side as the parapsychologist explored the house, room by room, listening as a phantom breeze swept through hallways and corridors like air into lungs. When Daniel closed his eyes, he could see the ghoulish face of Rebecca Finch, dead by the time Adudel visited the house but no less a presence than her sister, Rachel. Several times Daniel jumped in his chair as a maid’s cart wheeled by in the hall outside his door.

  He was sure, absolutely sure, that it was the squeaking wheels of Rebecca Finch’s wheelchair.

  He was two-thirds of the way through the book before he realized he had been reading for four hours. It was after one o’clock in the morning.

  He quickly jumped up, brushed his teeth, and pulled on his striped pajamas. Daniel slipped into bed, fully intending to leave the book where it lay and go to sleep.

  But there were faces in the woods on the cover. He was now positive it wasn’t just his imagination.

  It was almost four in the morning when he turned the last page.

  He had set the paperback on his nightstand, right next to the digital clock. He was reaching for the switch on the lamp when a voice in his mind screamed:

  Don’t!

  It was not his own voice. It was lighter. Sweeter. Yet there was unbelievable power in it.

  It was the voice of his daughter, Claire.

  His Claire. Barely sixteen years old, every bit a teenager, and still she was his rock. His hope. His life.

  Daniel’s hand had hovered inches away from the light switch as he felt the residual vibrations of that voice fading into the darkness.

  He was a grown man. He was not going to sleep with the light on. But he could also make sure that doggone creepy cover wasn’t staring at him all night.

  Opening the nightstand drawer, Daniel had dropped the paperback inside, right next to the obligatory copy of the King James Bible.

  Strange bedfellows, he thought.

  Hopefully old King James would keep those shadow faces at bay until dawn.

  And there he was, at a quarter past ten in the morning, staring down at the floor and the book he knew—he knew—he had put in the nightstand drawer.

  Come on, buddy, you’re remembering it wrong, he told himself. It was late. You were tired.

  “Sure,” Daniel said aloud. “Maybe.”

  He hoisted himself up out of bed, making sure to take a wide step over the book as he crossed to the bathroom.

  He left it on the floor until he was ready to go.

  Moore stood at the curb, the handle of her bag clutched tightly in one hand as she stared out through black cat-eye sunglasses at the monstrosity parked a few yards away. Behind her, the automatic front doors of the hotel opened with a whoosh, and Daniel hurried out, pulling a large suitcase. His face was flushed and sweaty even in the crisp October air.

  He, too, came to an abrupt stop when he saw it.

  “Is that our ride?” he asked.

  Moore ran her tongue over her top front teeth. “Unfortunately, I believe it is.”

  Son of a bitch, she thought. We’ve officially joined the circus.

  The side door of the vintage Volkswagen Microbus stood wide open, revealing a center row and a third in the far back. Kate leaned against the pale yellow body of the bus. She was dressed in fitted cargo pants and a long-sleeved thermal shirt. Unlike the night before, she was free of makeup, revealing small clusters of acne scars on each cheek. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail. Her camera hung on a strap from her shoulder. She was talking quietly to Wainwright, who was decked out in dark blue jeans and a black leather jacket over a plain white V-neck. His thick hair fluttered in the soft breeze, strands falling down around the tinted frames of classic aviator sunglasses.

  Kate’s brown eyes flashed over to the authors at the curb. She smiled warmly as she instinctively brought the camera up. Her thumb hit a button on its body to begin recording. “Mornin’,” she said, quickly focusing the wide-angle lens.

  “Good morning,” Daniel replied.

  Wainwright turned, his face smooth and strangely artificial in the late-morning light. He slapped the metal side of the bus with an open palm.

  “What do you think? She’s a beauty, right?”

  Moore groaned softly. “Let’s get this over with,” she said as she crossed to the open door and climbed inside.

  The old bus bounced down the road.

  Sam looked out the window, his face long, his eyes tired. He had not slept well the night before. His nerves were like millions of tuning forks humming in different keys.

  Here I go, on my way to camp, he thought. I feel like a kid. I hate feeling like a kid.

  “She’s a 1975 VW,” Wainwright said, his voice booming from the driver’s seat.

  When no one else responded, Sam leaned forward from his seat in the third row. “What was that?”

  “The bus. She’s from 1975, the same year the Finch sisters moved into the house on Kill Creek. The same year, I believe, Mr. Cole published two novels: At the End of the Tunnel and The Dark Before Dawn.”

  “That’s correct,” Sebastian said, obviously a bit embarrassed by Wainwright’s comment.

  Moore gave a sarcastic whistle. “We get it: Sebastian has written a lot of books in his hundred years.”

  Sebastian gave a good-natured chuckle. “Don’t worry, Ms. Moore, The Dark Before Dawn was complete shit.”

  “And Tunnel?” Moore asked.

  “Well, it was genius, of course,” he said with a wink.

  Sam leaned back, listening to the drone of the highway under the wheels. Daniel Slaughter sat beside him on the leather bench, his hands folded obediently in his lap. He was clad in an unremarkable green polo shirt. This was tucked into tan Dockers and cinched with a brown leather belt, a little too tightly, Sam observed, based on the considerable bulge hanging over. Daniel’s chubby arms were pale against the short sleeves of the shirt, his flesh the pinkish gray of a dead fish’s belly.

  The ride from the hotel in Kansas City had been a relatively quiet one, although Wainwright was determined to change that. Every few minutes, he made a new attempt at mundane chitchat, but so far, every attempt had failed. For this, Sam was thankful. The internet tycoon’s over-the-top introduction the night before had been exhausting, and Sam felt as though he had a hangover despite only having three beers at the hotel bar.

  For a few more miles, they rode in silence. Sam wished he had snagged the seat next to Sebastian, but Moore had claimed it first, leaving the backseat for Sam and Daniel. Now Sam stared at the backs of their heads, Sebastian and Moore in the middle row, Wainwright and Kate up front, each off in their own little world. Coming to terms with their decisions to join Wainwright on his bizarre little field trip, Sam assumed.

  “Okay, time for a pop quiz,” Wainwright announced, trying a new approach.

  “Oh Christ, here we go,” Sam grumbled under his breath.

  From the passenger side, Kate swung her camera around the edge of the seat and pointed it at the authors in the two back rows. The sunlight glinted off the wide-angle lens, giving it the illusion of having a slender, reptilian pupil.

  Sam shifted uncomfortably in the camera’s gaze.

  Wainwright tapped his copy of Phantoms of the Prairie resting on the dashboard. Sam could see its cover reflected in the glass of the windshield. “You were all given copies of the Adudel book, so this shouldn’t be too hard.” Wainwright kept his eyes on the road as he called back over his shoulder. “How many owners has the house had?”

  They responded with silence.

  Sam slid down in his seat. Enough with the game. No one wants to play.

  The lack of enthusiasm did not please Wainwright. “Anyone care to venture a guess?”

  Daniel glanced awkwardly at the others, realizing no one was going to participate. “Uh .
. . six, I think.”

  “Wrong,” Wainwright said flatly. “There were five.” He sighed. “Anyone know their names?”

  Again, there was no quick response.

  “Sam.” Wainwright adjusted the rearview mirror so that he could see Sam in the third row. “How about you?”

  Sam glanced up and found himself staring straight into Kate’s lens. He shrugged and shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. Sorry.”

  Wainwright’s already deep voice dropped even lower. Any pretense of pleasantry was gone. “But you have the book. I gave it to you specifically for our trip.”

  Kate seemed to sense something coming, her body tensing, but she held the camera steady.

  He’s pushing you, Sam told himself. He wants you to react. Sam met Wainwright’s gaze in the mirror. “It was late. I was tired.”

  The leather steering wheel creaked as Wainwright tightened his grip. “What’s the point of going to this house if you all know nothing about it?” There was anger in his voice now. Sam could see the back of the young man’s jaw moving ever so slightly. He was clenching and unclenching his teeth.

  “Did no one bother to look at the book?” Wainwright snapped.

  Kate lowered the camera, pretending to busy herself with adjusting the settings.

  “I gave it a go,” Sebastian announced. “But I couldn’t quite stomach Mr. Adudel’s assault on the English language. His use of exclamation marks was more terrifying than the description of the paranormal events they followed.”

  Moore swiveled on the bench to face the old man. “You’d prefer he wrote in the self-consciously elegant style of the great Sebastian Cole?”

  “Honestly, I would have prefered anything to Adudel’s prose, even the self-consciously perverse style of T.C. Moore.”

  The comment caught Sam by surprise and he snorted unexpectedly.

  Moore shot him what, even through her dark sunglasses, Sam could tell was meant to be an irritated look.

  Perhaps not entirely irritated. There was the tiniest hint of playfulness there. Despite her best attempts, she was beginning to warm to her companions.

  “I read it. I read the whole thing.”

  They all turned to look at Daniel, surprised by the sound of his voice.

  Sebastian cocked an eyebrow. “It’s not your fault, Mr. Slaughter. Insomnia has been known to make people do irrational things.”

  “It wasn’t that. I wanted to read it. I wanted to know what you’re getting us into.”

  “And?” Wainwright asked, his voice deep and probing. He was nothing but a pair of eyes in the rearview mirror. “What am I getting you into?”

  Sam watched as Wainwright glanced over at Kate. The subtle hint of a smirk played at the corners of his lips.

  He likes that we’re in the dark, Sam thought.

  Daniel shifted nervously. “Well, I mean, I didn’t really believe a word of it. Seemed like a bunch of hooey to me.”

  “I don’t know what’s scarier,” Moore said, “the fact that you read that entire awful book or that you just said hooey with a straight face.”

  “Not everything has to be laced with profanity.”

  “I guess we just have two different styles, don’t we, Mr. Slaughter? I say what people think and you tell people what to think. Don’t worry, you’re not the first Holy Roller to think he knows better than everyone else.”

  Daniel’s cheeks flushed red. “I don’t think I know better. I see writing as a way to teach a lesson through entertainment. You see it as an opportunity to glorify deviant behavior.”

  “Okay now,” Sebastian said.

  Moore ignored the old man. She had turned around in her seat to stare Daniel down with those dark cat-eye lenses. “I simply encourage my readers to free themselves of the fabricated morality that is shoved down their throats every day by hypocritical priests and politicians.”

  “How? By telling teenage girls to cut themselves?”

  “That’s enough,” Sebastian said louder.

  Once again, Wainwright looked to Kate, and Sam could see that he was grinning. He gave a sharp nod, and Kate obeyed the order, whipping the camera up and instantly recording.

  He’s enjoying this, hearing us tear each other apart.

  Moore continued: “The only reason teenage girls would even think to harm themselves is because high-and-mighty pricks like you tell them that their own biology is sinful. They only need my release because of your repression. Maybe that’s why my first book—a self-published book—sold more copies than an entire series of the church pamphlets you call novels.”

  “Enough!” Sebastian’s tone was that of a father pushed to the limit by his arguing kids.

  “Stop fighting over who is the better writer or I’ll turn this car around,” Wainwright called back in a faux stern voice. He gave a low chuckle, amused by his own comment.

  Sam frowned. There’s something off about him. One second he’s ready to tear into us; the next he’s joking like we’re old friends.

  “What’s on your mind, McGarver?” It was Moore, looking back at him.

  “What?” Sam asked, caught off guard.

  “You look like you got something to say.”

  Sam watched Wainwright’s eyes flash up to the rearview mirror. He waited for Sam’s response.

  “I like your sunglasses,” Sam told Moore.

  She gave a surprisingly honest laugh, then nodded to Sam’s left arm. “I like your ink, but I’m more curious about what it’s hiding.”

  Instinctively, Sam slid his right hand over his scars, doing his best to cover them.

  Sebastian sighed. “There, see? We can all get along.”

  In the rearview mirror, Wainwright’s eyes were still on Sam.

  What’s your game? Sam wondered.

  Without warning, the bus swerved. Everyone gripped their seats as Wainwright swung the vehicle past the sign for “Kill Creek Road” and around the sharp curve of the exit ramp.

  “Sorry about that,” Wainwright said in that flat, deep voice. Soon the paved road gave way to gravel.

  Sam pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window. The trees along the side of the road had already shed their leaves for the winter. Long, bare branches stretched over the road like a canopy of skeletal hands. Blackbirds, grackles perhaps, dotted the trees, their beady black eyes watching as the car rolled past. Every now and then, one would give a shrill squawk at the intruders.

  You are not wanted here. You should turn back.

  Something flashed by on the side of the road, a chain-link gate covered in twisted green vines. A fence cut through the trees, running perpendicular to the road for about fifty feet before being swallowed into the shadows that stretched between ancient brown tree trunks.

  Wood planks rattled under the tires as the bus crossed a small, weather-beaten bridge. The dry bed of a stream snaked beneath them.

  “That’s the creek,” Wainwright said. “Let’s try this again: Anybody know why they call it Kill Creek?”

  Moore gave an irritated sigh. Sam barely made out the words she whispered: “Please be quiet.”

  “In his book,” Daniel said, “Adudel speculated that this land was the site of a massacre, possibly during the Civil War border battles between Kansas and Missouri.”

  “I sincerely doubt the creek is named after a massacre,” Sebastian interjected. “‘Kill’ or ‘kille’ is Middle Dutch for ‘creek.’ Early settlers probably used the word to describe this pitiful little stream. As more and more folks moved to the area, they must have thought kill was the name of the creek, hence Kill Creek. Its name is nothing but a redundancy. Like saying ‘the Rio Grande River’ or ‘the Sahara Desert.’”

  “Or Christian extremists,” added Moore.

  Sam glanced over at Slaughter, expecting the tension in the bus to ratchet back up, but Slaughter chose to ignore Moore’s jab.

  Leaning forward, Sam got a better look through the windshield. They were making their way up a long driveway of gray pebbles.
On either side, tallgrass waved in the breeze. It appeared as if it hadn’t been cut in years. Through a break in the trees, he could see the dingy white wood of the house. Its crumbling brick chimney peeked over the top branches of the highest oak like a solitary horn. Except for the badly neglected Kill Creek Road, this house was completely cut off from the rest of the world.

  Exactly how Wainwright wants us. All to himself.

  He shook his head. Stop. You’re trying to make a mildly annoying situation into something worse. But that’s your MO, isn’t it, Sammy boy? He closed his eyes and tried to silence his mind.

  Two minutes later, Wainwright brought the VW bus to a stop. “We’re here,” he announced.

  Sam was the last one out. He slid the side door shut and turned to follow. But the rest of the group had not moved. They stood in a perfect stillness, staring up at the old house as if half expecting it to jump up and dance. It did not. It sat as a house should, motionless and silent, planted firmly on the secrets of its past.

  Had it not been for the size of the structure, Sam would have thought it was nothing special, a Folk Victorian farmhouse, mostly square in shape with an angular porch wrapping around from the front door to the middle of the south wall. Several slender windows dotted the façade, the wood splintered on the sides where, Sam assumed, protective boards had been removed to make the place more inviting. It wasn’t an ugly house; on the contrary, the simple architecture and rural surroundings should have made it a quaint little cottage. Except that it wasn’t little. It was huge, so big in fact that the word monstrosity came to mind. At a mere three stories, the house must have been at least six thousand square feet, maybe more. A good quarter of an acre had been cleared of trees to make room for the foundation and sprawling yard. One tree remained, an ancient, gnarled forty-foot beech, growing just to the right of the front steps. The grooves of its twisted trunk resembled an arm stripped of flesh, the muscles exposed, its long-dead branches reaching upward like an arthritic claw.

  “Who in God’s name built this . . . thing?” Sebastian asked, breaking the silence.