Busted (44 page)

There had been an element of ritual, of something supernatural, in all the murders but the first. That could mean a lot of things, none of them good. It chilled Chris' blood to think maybe something truly supernatural was involved. He shouldn't think it, it ought to be nonsense. But there was Alex. Alex changed everything, and maybe this was real.

Flashes of horror movies ran through Chris' mind, and he regretted every single one he'd ever seen. They never ended well, and he feared this wouldn't, as the monster ate his soul or something equally nasty. Which might well be what this… thing was going to do. Suck his life away, the way Alex had.

Chris considered the basement for a moment, then discarded it. It was too cramped, the ceiling too low. He didn't have the space he'd need to move if an opportunity presented itself. Besides, the basement was a little dark and dank, and he wasn't sure he could cope with it.

"Should we head upstairs, then?" Chris asked. He didn't want to move, but he didn't want to risk the man getting antsy. He'd already shown his impatience, and he had a knife at Toby's throat to move things along.

"Do you have a bag, Grandfather? Perhaps we can put your things in the guest bedroom."

The man gave a little shake of his head. "I don't know that I'll be staying too long," he said. "Just for… dinner."

Chris couldn't suppress the shudder that ran through him, nor the cold tightness around his throat when he realized that the man enjoyed his fear.

"You never said where you met Joe," Chris said. He had started walking towards the stairs to the second floor. "Did you meet him at work?" He was trying to sound casual. It wasn't working too well.

"Yes, it was… work. He's a man of unexpected talents," he said. Chris was certain he wasn't talking about Joe's office.

That's when it hit him. Joe. And Alex. And the Ramirez killings. Alex wasn't real, wasn't seen by anyone until he was around Joe. Alex had first shown up at about the same time. It wasn't quite the same, this old man only struck at the dark of the moon.

Until he'd found Joe again. Chris realized this really could be his grandfather, or some twisted version of him. The ghost of some old man, possessing the living, trying to live himself.

"He is, isn't he?" Chris said, trying to keep the conversation going while he thought. "He's why you're here."

"Oh, not just him," the man said. He was right behind Chris on the stairs. Chris risked a glance behind him, hoping they would give him an opening. He could drop and kick back. It'd hurt, but he could do it if only the knife had moved.

It hadn't. Toby was small enough that the man could still reach his throat with that blade.

"No?"

"You too, grandson. Such a nice pair." The grin was there still. The malice fairly dripped from it.

"I'm glad you approve." If only he hadn't fucked it up so badly. Though that might've been a blessing in disguise. At least Joe wasn't here. Chris was coming to think that he wasn't going to make it out alive tonight. They had pictures of the… host, or whatever he was, though, and someone was watching Joe. If he was the next target, they'd catch him.

Scant comfort, but it was better than nothing.

"The bathroom is here," Chris said, waving to his right. "Do you need to use it, grandfather? I can certainly wait for you if you do." That would actually be handy. He had a second lock box in the bedroom. A minute would be all he'd need to grab it, and this close he was almost sure to hit the man in the head or shoulders. It'd be a better chance than anything else he'd gotten so far.

"No, thank you," he said. That grin didn't falter. It was starting to make Chris realize why people were so creeped out by clowns. The huge, unnatural grin was deeply disturbing.

"Well, then, this room is Toby's here," Chris said, continuing on. He was tempted to try and stall some more, but was pretty sure there wasn't any point. "The guest bedroom is next to it."

"And this is yours, Detective?" he asked. His eyes had lit up, and the old man's face got a little more solid

"Mmm," the man said. He closed his eyes and a shiver went through his body. The knife never left Toby's throat. There wasn't any way that Chris could do anything, though he debated it. He was running out of time, he could feel it. He could take this guy down in a few seconds, he had no doubt about that, but Toby would have his throat slit in that time. There wasn't any way an ambulance could get there and save him before he died. Chris couldn't risk that.

"So very nice in here," he said, opening his eyes. "I'm so very glad you met him, grandson. It makes all this so much better."

"All of what?" Chris couldn't keep the growl out of his voice.

That's when he thought he heard something from downstairs. His 'grandfather' was distracted by something in the room, so he wasn't sure he'd heard it. He needed to make some noise, distract the man. If there was someone in the house then he had a chance. If he was very, very lucky it would be Steve.

"What do you want, anyway? You come barge into my house, abuse my hospitality, lie to me about being my 'grandfather'. Now you do something… strange in my bedroom?" Chris risked a wave, hoping that maybe it would catch his eye, but no luck.

"Watch yourself, child," he snarled back. "I have your son."

"So you've dropped the pretense," Chris snapped back. "Good. What do you want?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me. I'm a
detective
, remember?"

The man laughed. It was a throaty thing, venomous and malign. His face twisted in ways that Chris' eyes couldn't quite follow, and he could feel the pressure on his mind pulse and grow in time with the laugh.

"I can't wait any longer," he said. The voice was low and slithery. The words ran down Chris's spine, like a thousand skittering spiders, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps. "Small, but so rich, so pure. I think I'll have a… snack."

"No, not Toby!" Chris shouted. He lunged, knowing there was no time left. It was a desperate act, but he had no choice.

The man laughed and waved the knife at him. Chris was flung back, bouncing off the bed and slamming against the nightstand next to it. His head was spared by an unexpected softness that fell with him, a pillow or something.

"Too late," the man said. "Too late to stop me."

* * *

It took Joe seven minutes to make the drive, and they were the longest seven minutes of his life. A half block away from Chris' house he threw his car in neutral, cut the engine, and coasted into Steve's driveway. It was probably pointless, but he didn't want any noise to give away his presence.

There was a car in Chris' driveway, a blue Jetta he didn't recognize. It had New Mexico plates, and seemed vaguely familiar.

Joe grabbed his keys and eased himself out of the car. He left the door open – he didn't want to risk the noise of it shutting. From what he could see the house was empty, but the upstairs windows were all curtained, so if there were people in it he wouldn't necessarily be able to see them. They couldn't see him either, which was fine by Joe.

He walked to the back door, fighting every step of the way not to run. He didn't want to take a chance of falling. He was off-balance with his left arm in a sling, and a fall would do him no good. He had the time, he knew he did. Chris was a cop, and a good one. If he were still alive, a few seconds wouldn't make a difference. That didn't make the seconds hurt any less.

The kitchen door was unlocked, and Joe silently thanked his luck. He turned the knob and pushed as gently as he could, praying the door wouldn't stick, and that the shade wouldn't move. It opened slowly and quietly, but the rustling of the sweep seemed to echo through the empty room.

The overhead light was on, and the kitchen looked so… normal. Not like there was anything wrong. That didn't sit well with Joe. There was a maniac in the house. There should be broken dishes, or the sign of a struggle, or blood. He shuddered. Maybe not blood.

As soon as he walked in the nausea hit him, like it had in his apartment, and at Stephanie's. It fogged his brains and twisted his guts, that feeling like something there was very wrong. It wasn't as strong as it had been before, but it was enough that he was glad he'd skipped dinner.

He could hear a low murmur coming from somewhere else in the house. Two voices, not just one. He couldn't make out the words, but he didn't care. Two voices meant Chris was still alive.

Joe felt the smell eat away at him, whatever it was, chipping away at his brain. It had gotten the better of him in his apartment. It had almost gotten him at Stephanie's too. Except… When he'd fallen into his pile of charms, it had vanished.

He didn't have anything with him. No shamrocks, rabbits feet, dream catchers, or paper charms. He patted the pockets of his jacket quickly, on the off chance there was something there, but no luck. Just empty pockets in an empty jacket.

That might be enough. What he'd told Stephanie, the day he'd found her. Faeries couldn't see you if your clothes were inside out. Joe shucked his jacket and reversed it. The pressure on him abated, and he didn't care whether it was all in his head or not.

The voices were still going, which was good. Joe looked around for a weapon, something he could use one-handed. The maniac probably just had a knife, but it was sharp, as his aching shoulder could attest. Playing a hunch, Joe checked the cabinet over the refrigerator. It hurt like hell, the stretch pulling at his stitches, but he was in luck. Chris' lockbox was still there.

Quickly he pulled it down and tried to open it. It was locked, but the key was hanging from a string attached to the handle. That was probably a bad idea, but right then Joe didn't care. He was sure the rasp of the key in the lock could be heard a block away, but the voices weren't stopping. Inside was one of Chris' service pistols.

It was unloaded, but there was a clip in the box. It would've taken a second to load it, but Joe hesitated. He'd been quiet so far, but loading the gun would make a very distinctive noise, one he was pretty sure the psycho would recognize. And loading the gun would mean there was a good chance he'd shoot someone. Joe stared at the gun for a moment, trying to work it out. Could he pull the trigger?

The soft voices drifted down from above him, and Joe knew the answer. He enough of a temper that it wouldn't take much of a push for him to shoot the bastard dead without a second thought and that scared him. He really could kill someone. He just wasn't sure he could deal with what came after. Maybe he could leave the gun unloaded and just bluff his way through. Distract the guy until Chris could whack him with a lamp or something.

"No, not Toby!"

Chris' shout echoed through the house.

Joe slapped the magazine into the pistol and sprinted for the stairs.