Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection) (60 page)

“Stupidity?” Paxton added.

Ruth frowned at him. “Obstructing justice. Now move.”

“This is complete bull!” Dahmer yelled. Now without his microphone, Dahmer’s voice sounded tinny. “I’ve got a show to put on!”

“Not anymore.” Paxton stated. “Everyone backstage.”

But Dahmer charged forward, wrists offered up. “Go ahead. Arrest me!” He opened his arms to the rapt audience. “It’ll make great press.”

“I’ll show you press,” Paxton said under his breath, but Ruth grabbed his arm.

Dahmer just ate it up, though. “Go ahead! Police brutality will be my next Top Ten hit!”

Ruth seemed to keep her temper, though, as she stepped closer to Dahmer. She indicated the screaming, wailing, and flailing fans trying to claw their way onstage. “I don’t think you want me to arrest you and some of your more zealous fans.”

“Go ahead. They will eat it up.”

Ruth’s tone lowered, but nothing was timid about her words. “I know. And then we will put you in a cell with all those kids who eat up every word you write about torture and human sacrifice. I’d love to see how that goes for ya.”

Dahmer’s red eyes flickered right, then left, then back down to the maniacal crowd.

Ruth’s words were barely above a whisper. “Help me get them under control, or I swear, you will be getting to know your fans up close and personal.”

Paxton knew that they had broken Dahmer before the singer even realized it. The guy’s shoulders slumped as his nostrils pinched closed.

“Fine. But my manager will be talking to your captain.”

“Awww. I’m trembling at the thought,” Paxton grumbled as he urged the other band members off the stage.

Ruth went to the microphone. “I’m sorry, but the concert has been …”

She stopped. The crowd drowned her out. Paxton rushed over and plugged the mic’s feed back in—grateful for the skills his youthful indiscretions brought him.

“I know that this sucks, but we need everyone—”

Even with the mic, the audience’s boos overran her.

Dahmer turned toward the mic. Paxton went to block him, but Ruth shook her head. “Let him.”

Ruth whispered harshly to Dahmer, “Calm the crowd, or your cell will be the size of a closet.”

And maybe they would throw Darby in there as well, just as a kicker,
Paxton thought. If they didn’t get this crowd under control soon, it would turn into a mob. And no matter that the police got a mob under control. Injuries, and even death, were always present. A stampede, even by human feet, could easily crush people. Forget the killer. More people could die in a stage crush than at the hands of a madman.

Dahmer sneered at Ruth as he took the mic. “Fans! Worshippers! True Believers!”

Paxton had to grab a girder as the stage shook with the crowd’s response.

“There are times to fight, but tonight is not yet ripe.” Despite the crowd’s boos, Dahmer still stalked the stage. “Follow these unredeemed souls. Pretend you are sheep, but know the wolf beneath will soon be released!”

He went to hand Ruth the microphone back, but the detective crossed her arms.

Dahmer leaned low over the side of the stage. “But you must wait for my signal. Until then,
behave
!”

The crowd milled a bit, but the overhead lighting finally came back on and the audience dispersed. Especially after someone shouted, “Fresh chicken wings!” from the back of the ballroom.

Paxton breathed a sigh of relief.

Now they just needed to capture the saint-obsessed serial killer.

As Jeremy would say,
No biggie
.

* * *

Cecilia jumped as a creak sounded overhead. Now that the concert wasn’t going full blast, every little sound made her flinch. It was almost better when the walls shook from the bass. At least then, you could chalk a noise up to Diana Dahmer. Now, though, each and every squeak of a baseboard seemed to be a sure sign that the killer was nearly on top of them.

“This sounded so good in theory,” Cecilia said, mainly to fill the emptiness that threatened to consume her.

“Yeah. Being noble sucks.”

She grinned at Michael. Out of all of this, he was the biggest surprise. He hadn’t left her. He hadn’t wavered during this whole grotesque night. She was about to tell him so when a muffled yell came from down the hallway. Cecilia squeezed Michael’s hand so hard that she feared she would cut off the circulation.

“What do we do?” Cecilia whispered.

Then a girl’s scream cut through the walls.

They both ran forward as a half-naked girl burst from a room. Blood spattered the side of her face as she screamed.

“Annette?” Cecilia asked. It was hard to tell, but it looked like a girl in her trigonometry class.

The girl just screamed again, clutched her broken bra strap, and ran.

“Wait!” Michael called out, but she was gone around the corner. “Well, at least she’s healthy enough to be able to run.”

“We’d better catch up with—” Cecilia was interrupted as John charged out of the room. His unbuttoned shirt flapped at his side, and his belt hung loose.

Michael shoved Cecilia behind him as John turned on them. His features knotted in anger. “What are you looking at?”

Cecilia stepped out from Michael’s shadow. “Probably at the bloodstain on your shirt.”

“Cec?” John blinked twice as his features softened. “What’re you doing here?”

“Better question—what are
you
doing here, John?” Michael asked. “And where’s your costume?”

Fury returned to the jock’s face as he turned to Michael. “I’d leave now, bitch, and not look back.”

Cecilia watched in horror as John’s hands balled up into fists. His arms shook as he backed up a step, like a snorting bull getting ready to take out the matador. She grabbed Michael’s arm.

“Come on.”

Michael stood his ground, though, clinging to his only weapon—the lamp they had stolen from a room. “Go.”

But she couldn’t leave him here. She knew exactly how she would feel if she found Michael like she had Helen. Slashed and crucified. “No.”

“Damn it, go!” Michael yelled, as John charged forward.

Seeing the whites of John’s eyes, Cecilia nearly balked. She would never know whether she would have stood her ground, since the floor beneath them cracked. Then the hallway between them and John exploded. Cecilia’s hands flew up to protect her face as chunks of wood rushed past them.

Smoke stung her eyes as a ring of fire rose from the edge of the hole. Heat shimmered, distorting John’s already tangled features. His chest rose and fell as he prepared to make the leap across.

Michael snatched her hand. “We’ve got to jump.”

“No!” Cecilia cried, unwilling to face that wall of flame.

“That’s the stage level down there. We’ve got to.”

Choking on the smoke, Cecilia felt panic rise. They couldn’t go back the way they came—not unless they wanted to run across the glass and nails. And she couldn’t draw John back to Frannie and the others.

Finally, Cecilia nodded.

Michael counted down. “One. Two …”

Cecilia was prepared when Michael leapt long before he said three. Instead of being terrified, though, Cecilia was struck by the beauty of it all. The flames flickered as they passed, as if they were being reborn in fire. Air caught her dress, making it flap, as it would from a warm summer breeze. And for the first time in a while, things were actually light enough for her to see.

Of course, then they hit the next level, really, really hard. Her ankle buckled and she banged her elbow, but considering they were falling through fire with a serial killer on their tail, it wasn’t all that bad.

Michael staggered up, seemingly a little dazed. A bright gash seeped on his forehead. But Cecilia was more concerned as she looked up to find John framed in flame.

She grabbed Michael’s wrist and tugged at him. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”

As they fled down the hallway, Cecilia risked a glance over her shoulder. Just as they turned the corner, a large figure jumped down, hitting the floor hard.

Michael listed to the side as she tried to get him to pick up speed.

With Michael injured, could they outrun death?

* * *

Ruth coughed, still pointing toward the exit. “You have got to get them out in an orderly fashion,” she said to the security chief. “We do not want anyone trampled. The fire is still contained—”

Another explosion rocked the building—this time on their side of the room. The chandelier above swayed precariously.

Diana Dahmer rushed from his dressing room. “Get us out of here!”

Paxton put a hand on the singer’s still-naked chest. “We are getting the kids out first.”

“Bull—”

Another bomb exploded, this time right behind the dressing rooms. The band poured out of the room as smoke billowed. Ruth looked to her right. That, too, was aflame. She couldn’t see if the security chief had survived the blast, or even if the exit was still accessible.

“This way!” Paxton ordered.

The path he suggested moved them deeper into the mansion, but there was no other direction to head toward, which worried Ruth. Those weren’t random explosions. They were timed. Synchronized. And now they had to wonder when the next one would strike.

One of the band members tripped and skidded out on the floor.

Without breaking stride, she hauled him up by the back of his black crushed velvet jacket. “Move it!”

“I can see a light ahead!” Paxton called out, as they all rushed forward.

“Watch out!” Ruth yelled, as she saw a figure round the corner.

In horrible slow motion, she watched Paxton pull his weapon.

* * *

Cecilia didn’t see who was wielding the gun—only its bright, shiny barrel. She tried to stop, but Michael was right behind her, and his legs had finally kicked in.

She heard someone yell, “No!”

Careening around the corner, Cecilia ran headlong into the figure, who
oomphed
loudly. He kept his feet, but barely. Her face buried in his shirt, Cecilia smelled pretzels and whiskey.

Cecilia looked up. “Uncle Paxton?”

His brow furrowed in surprise. “Cecilia?”

“Uncle Pax!” she screamed, heedless of the group gathered round. She opened her arms and hugged her uncle.

It took a second, but he hugged her back. Paxton felt solid and real. And while the gun had scared her, Uncle Pax came bearing weapons. God, she had never loved him more than she did right now.

“Cec, where’s Jeremy?”

A woman stepped forward. “And Evan?”

“I don’t know. They should be at Evan’s.”

The woman’s face clouded over.
Didn’t Cecilia recognize her?
Ruth thought.

Was that Evan’s mom? Uncle Paxton’s partner?
Cecilia asked herself.

She swung around to Michael. “I thought Jeremy wasn’t here?”

Before he could answer, another explosion rocked the mansion.

Paxton urged her back the way they had come. “Let’s get somewhere safe and discuss it.”

“No,” Cecilia said. “The killer’s that way.”

“Great, just great,” her uncle grumbled the way he always did.

She tried to urge him back down the way his party had come. “We’ve got to go this way.”

But Evan’s mom, Ruth—Ruth was her name—blocked her way. “The bulk of the fire is that way.”

Paxton pointed toward a side hallway. “Down here.”

Cecilia followed her uncle, and Michael was right behind her. Quickly, they found themselves at a dead end. Ruth and Paxton both checked their weapons, making sure they were loaded.

“Brilliant. Now we are trapped,” one of the group said.

“
Der
, Eyeliner Man,” Paxton shot back.

The shirtless man scoffed. “Glad to see our tax dollars are going to such good use.”

Even more bizarre than finding her Uncle Paxton here, Cecilia realized, was that Diana Dahmer was with his group. The goth king paced as his bandmates grumbled. She wanted to say something, but what could she say? It was surreal.

The flames, though? The heat? The killer? Those were all real.

Paxton opened a side door and swung his flashlight around the room.

“It’s clear. Everyone in.”

Even though her uncle held the door open for her, the band brushed Cecilia aside, and Dahmer himself elbowed her out of the way. But a lack of manners was the last thing on her mind as Michael escorted her into the room. He looked stronger, but he still had a sway to his step that Cecilia didn’t like.

Once the door was shut behind them and Ruth was guarding it, her uncle turned to her.

“You said the killer was deeper in the mansion?” Paxton asked her.

“He wasn’t far behind us,” Cecilia said.

Ruth asked from the door, “Could you identify him?”

Cecilia looked at Michael, who nodded. “Yes. I mean, we think so.”

Michael pressed his palm against his forehead wound as he stepped forward. “It is John Rampart.”

Cecilia squirmed, almost embarrassed to speak in front of her uncle. “We, Michael and I, caught him… Well, with a girl… And they both had blood and—”

“Is he Catholic?” Ruth asked.

“All-American altar boy,” Michael answered.

A look passed between the adults. Cecilia had seen that look before. When they knew something the adults didn’t want to “kids” to know. Like when her dad was diagnosed with cancer, or when her mom had lost her job for being out on too many “sick” days.

“What? What is it?”

Neither adult looked inclined to tell her, though.

“My best friend is dead, we’ve got three others injured in a room upstairs, and Quentin is missing,” Cecilia said, stepping closer to her uncle. “You can’t spare me, shield me, or protect me, Uncle Pax. So, just tell me already.”

More looks passed between the adults. Then, strangely, Ruth tossed her phone to Michael. “Look up everyone’s names.”

“I don’t understand,” Cecilia said as Michael flipped through the pages of a book on the detective’s phone.

“Me, either,” Paxton said as he turned to his partner. “What are you thinking?”

Ruth paused, cracked open the door, and surveyed the hallway before answering, “I thought we might be a tad more prepared if we knew
how
the perp was planning on killing us.”