“Terry?”
Terry Wolfe stiffened as he heard the tiny voice behind him in the elevator. His big body became suddenly rigid and he stared forward, instantly afraid to turn and look.
“Terry…?” asked the voice.
He stared at the closed door of the elevator, too terrified to even move. He knew he was alone in the car. This is it, he thought with something like resigned acceptance, this is the way it happens. First the dreams, then the hallucinations, and finally the voices. This is how people become insane. This is what it feels like when your mind dies. Oh God!
“Terry, please…”
“Go away!” he hissed between gritted teeth. He brushed a hand behind him as if shooing away a cat. “You’re not here!”
“Terry, please…look at me.”
“No,” he muttered, grinding his teeth. The elevator stopped at his floor, but the doors refused to open. He stabbed the buttons but they remained cold and dark.
“Just look at me…look what happened to me.”
Behind him she shifted and now he could see her hazy reflection in the stainless steel of the closed elevator door. A small, slim figure, girl-high and girl-shaped in a ragged and tattered green dress. Even though the reflection was smeared and distorted, he could see her face, see the slashes on it, the blood that welled from it that ran like rainwater down her dress and clung to the matted red curls.
“Oh…God…” he breathed and pressed his eyes shut against the sight; tears struggled out from under his eyelids and burned their way down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry…please…”
“Terry, I don’t want to make you cry.”
“Then go away!”
“I can’t, Terry. You know that.” The voice was a little girl’s voice, but the words and the manner of speech were far older than that.
“For the love of God, why can’t you leave me in peace?”
“God?” she echoed with soft mockery in her voice. “God didn’t save me, Terry. God didn’t save you, either. And God won’t save this town. Don’t you understand yet? He’s not dead, Terry.”
He almost turned, almost wheeled around to face her. “What? What did you say?”
“He’s not dead, Terry,” she said quietly, but there were echoes of sadness and of fear in her voice. “He’s still there, Terry. Still there after all these years.”
“No! That’s not true.”
“Yes, Terry. It is and you know it. He’s still there—still here!—and he is going to start it all over again.”
“No!”
“Yes. All of it, over again. All the hurting, all the dying. Can’t you smell the blood already? He’s coming back, Terry, but this time he’s different. He’s a lot stronger now. Being dead has made him so much stronger.” Her voice was so old now, ancient with cynical grief. “You thought he was a monster back then, Terry? He’s worse now. You know I’m right—you’ve seen it in your dreams. And you know what he wants from you, what he wants you to be. You see that, too. You see that every time you look in the mirror.”
“Shut up! Please!”
“You can stop him.”
“I can’t stop him! How could I ever stop him? I couldn’t stop him from…from…”
“From hurting me?” she offered. “I know, Terry, but you tried. You did try, and I love you for it. But he hurt me, and he hurt you, and then the Bone Man came and hurt him.”
“Killed him, you mean.”
“No, hurt him. Reduced him,” she said in her young-old voice. “Don’t you understand? Evil never dies…it just waits, and it gets stronger in the dark. He can’t die. He isn’t like other people. He isn’t real.”
“Neither are you!”“I know,” she said in a sad whisper of a voice, “I know. That’s why it’s up to you, Terry. You have to fight him.”
“It’s you who doesn’t understand! How could I fight him, even if he was still alive?” There was a long silence, and then Terry felt her hand slip into his. Her fingers were small and cold and wet, and he almost jerked his own hand away—almost, but he didn’t.
“You know how to fight him, Terry.”
“Then how?” he suddenly snarled. “How am I supposed to fight someone like him? Fight—some-thing like him?”
“By coming with me. By not being like him.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not like him!”
Her silence answered him; then after a pause she said, “Terry, the only way to not be like him is to be like me.”
Now he did jerk his hand away. “What is that supposed to mean?” He wheeled at last and faced her, but she had vanished completely, leaving only the chill of her touch on his fingers. He looked at his hand, at each finger where she had touched him, and saw the tiny droplets of blood. “Mandy…” he whispered. Behind him the elevator doors opened and he spun and blundered out into the empty corridor.
2
Officer Jim Polk slipped the little pint bottle of apricot brandy into his hip pocket and tugged his uniform jacket down to cover the bulge. He felt tired, but now with an ass-pocketful of good times, he felt relaxed.
He was not a good-looking man by any stretch. He was average in height, weight, color, and build, but his whole appearance was spoiled by a shiftiness in his eyes that hinted at the avaricious pettiness of his soul. At fifty he looked like a seedy used car salesman in someone’s borrowed cop uniform. Out of uniform, no one would ever have guessed him to be a professional law enforcement officer with thirty-one years on the job. Not that he cared. If he had a bottle of something sweet, or maybe a good fifth of Wild Turkey for those really pissy days, then he was sitting pretty. The weight of the brandy bottle in his back pocket was a comfort to him, and it made him want to smile.
Across the street, his new temporary partner sat slumped behind the wheel of his unit, arms folded across her chest, head nodding. Polk grinned as he walked up to her side of the patrol car, and stood there for a moment, watching her sleep. Polk liked having a woman partner. He liked it a whole lot. He had never been paired with Rhoda Thomas or Shirley O’Keefe, and he had always wondered what it would be like to share job time with a chick. A chick with a shield and a gun. A chick who knew guns and could talk rough and act tough.
Polk thought it was just Jim-jumping-Dandy.
He conceded to himself that this one, Melanie White, was no Pamela Lee, but she had a good rack of bombs—he could tell that even with the Kevlar vest she wore. Despite the bagginess of her uniform trousers, she looked to have nice buns, too. Polk was pleased as punch. Her face wasn’t much, though, he decided, a little too rough, nose too long and bent, and her lips too thin. What the hell, he reminded himself, they all looked the same in the dark.
Still grinning, he tugged the Jacquins out of his pocket, broke the seal with a twist, and took a warming mouthful of the burning syrup. Licking his lips, he glanced quickly around as he replaced the cap and stowed the bottle once more out of sight. There was no one looking in his direction except the town tramp, Mr. Pockets, who was looking up from a trash can he’d been picking though. He favored Polk with a faint smile and went back to his explorations. Polk ignored him, still smiling, feeling very good.
Polk’s smile froze into a mask of semicurious delight. It occurred to him that if he leaned over until his forehead was pressed against the frame of the closed door, he could probably see down Melanie’s shirt. Hmm. His tongue searched for more of the brandy residue on his lips, and, once again checking the street, he eased himself forward. The cold metal of the door frame felt nice against his forehead, and as he shifted and squirmed for just the right angle, he could see the top inch of cleavage, caught in shadows cast by the vest and the folds of the shirt, but there sure as hell. Dotted with freckles, too, and Polk thought that was just the cat’s ass.
“Still going for the cheap shots, Jimmy?” a voice asked him.
Polk jerked erect and spun around, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. A pickup truck that he hadn’t even heard drive up was idling five feet away. Vic Wingate leaned against the fender by the open door, arms folded across his chest, head cocked to one side, and a mean little smile on his face. Polk stared at him for a moment, flicked a guilty glance back at the quietly snoring Melanie White, then faced Vic again. He shrugged and walked over to Vic’s truck, lowering his voice. “My new partner.”
“No shit,” Vic said blandly. “You fuck her yet?”
“Shh! Christ, she’ll hear you!”
Vic chuckled. “Who cares? Ugly bitch anyway. Face like a stone wall.” He considered for a moment. “Nice jugs, though.”
Polk took an unconsciously covetous step to one side to block Vic’s view. “What’s going on, Vic? You want something?”
“Can’t a guy stop to say hi to one of his buddies?”
Polk made a face. “Yeah, right. You wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire, so don’t jerk me off, Vic. I’m on the clock here, so what do you want?”
Unfolding his arms, Vic turned, reached into the truck, fished around on the floor of the passenger side, and then turned back. He had an old grease-stained rag in his hands and he handed it to Polk, who took it with a puzzled frown, then felt the weight and shape of it. Polk almost unwrapped it, but Vic touched his hand and shook his head. Instead, Polk felt the shape of it again, judging it by its thickness. He looked at Vic with a face like an expectant schoolboy’s. “This is…”
“Yeah,” agreed Vic.
“But…wha….?”
Vic leaned close and spoke very quietly. “For services rendered.”
“For what? I don’t get it. I haven’t done anything for you since…”
“Let me put it another way. It’s for services about to be rendered.”