Shade of Pale (24 page)

Jukes saw the boat dock where the nightmare began, where the most painful memories of all culminated and died. He could see it in the shadows, the water lapping against its pilings. It stood there like a memorial to Jukes's youth, somewhat sagging now. His failure filled the air like the odor of the lake in midsummer. He saw the local boy, all toughness and arrogance, standing in his dreams, daring him to come down the hill and defend his sister.

“That's the place,” Jukes said. “That's where the bully stood, down by the dock, and I was afraid to walk down that hill. I can still feel the humiliation.”

Fiona touched his knee. “What's important is that you're here, ready to confront it.”

Jukes's hands tightened on the steering wheel, turning his knuckles white. He silently cursed the boat dock and drove on.

Jukes pulled up the dirt road, passed his father's cabin, and drove around to the rear, so that the car would be out of sight to anyone driving up. He killed the engine.

The water was as still and quiet as black glass. From where he sat, it looked as deep as the ocean. They got out of the car, took the overnight bags they'd packed out of the trunk, and walked up to the porch. Crickets and frogs resumed their song. The moon loomed high in the sky.

“It must be beautiful here in the summer,” Fiona said.

“Look at the stars,” Jukes said.

They both looked up into a celestial canopy of countless brilliant dots of light.

Fiona sighed. “God, there's millions of them. I never saw anything like it.…”

“The city blocks out most of it, but when you come out here, away from the lights, you really see the immense scope of the universe. Really gives you perspective. Man is so small in comparison.”

He looked at Fiona, saw the moist affection in her eyes, and kissed her. Her mouth was warm and soft against the chill of the night. Jukes felt his soul swell as he held her close.

Oh, God, it feels good to be held
.

Old Tom Rayburn was as good as his word. The porch light was on, and Jukes could see that the storm shutters had been pulled back.

Taking the flashlight out of his bag, he shone it around the weathered front door.

“It seems so much smaller and shabbier than I remember.”

“That's only normal.”

The old wood planks creaked under their feet as they stepped up to the door. It was unlocked. Rayburn knew that nobody would be around, and he didn't lock and batten down all the cabins until the first week of November. Leaving the door unlocked was something that people still did in these parts. How alien it seemed to Jukes, a native of New York City. His own apartment door back home had four locks on it.

He twisted the knob and swung the door open. Its rusty hinges creaked loudly, like they hadn't been opened or oiled in years.

He felt the wall next to him and found the light switch. It clicked on and the old room was bathed in weak yellow light. Rayburn had turned on the power, and Jukes was grateful for the illumination.

The furniture was unsophisticated, to say the least, and the dust was thick over most of the room. The shabby look of the place, with its hopelessly warped flooring and its cheap wall coverings, gave him a chill. It was something that he hadn't felt in decades.

The place gave him an unmistakable case of the creeps. The smell was damp, the memories painful. He walked in very slowly, careful to avoid touching anything. It all seemed somehow tainted.

“Let me take a look around first, before we get settled. You never know what kind of animals might get in. Why don't you stay here?”

Fiona nodded. “Be careful.”

Jukes systematically began to search the house. First the bedroom. The lightbulb in the hall was burned out. Likewise the bedroom light. He clicked on the flashlight again and inched along.

The bedroom was dreary, and as he splayed the light across the walls, a gloom seemed to settle over him. The peeling wallpaper cast uneven shadows, and the bed, devoid of sheets, looked as cold and unappealing as a coffin. The mattress sagged in the middle with the weight of an invisible body. The metal frame was rusted, and the whole room smelled of mildew.

He shone the light on the closet door. A new chill went through him as he pondered whether or not to open it. He knew he had to, just to be totally sure. The thought filled him with dread, and he had to force himself onward. He tiptoed up to it and listened.

His mind, already stretched to its limit, threatened to play tricks on him. He thought he heard shallow, raspy breathing coming from inside. He had to shake his shoulders to get rid of the gooseflesh there, but it didn't help.

What did he expect to find? The Banshee, her unearthly body coiled and ready to leap out at him as soon as he touched the door? Or Bobby Sudden, murder in his eyes, about to lunge at him with a butcher knife? Or maybe just more bitter memories?

His mind raced. Jukes knew he'd best get it under control or it could be a very long night. He took a deep breath, grasped the door handle, and yanked it open.

A rusted coat hanger fell from the upper shelf and startled him. He jumped back as if it were a poisonous snake. It rattled to the floor with a forlorn metallic clatter.

“Are you OK?” Fiona called from the living room.

“Yeah, I'm fine. It's just a little dark in here.”

He peered into the empty closet. Jukes felt his heart pounding in his chest like a runaway pony.

He shone the light up and down inside the forlorn old closet and backed away. Satisfied that the bedroom was secure, he moved back out into the hallway.

Never an overly religious man, Jukes said a silent prayer, a true testament to his growing unease.

“OK in the bedroom. I'll check the basement next.”

He approached the basement door stiffly. It stood before him like the entrance to a tomb. He gripped the flashlight in his hand tightly.

“Before I go down there, I want to check something.”

Fiona didn't answer. She stood in the center of the room shivering, half with the cold and half with the anxiety of the old cabin. She wondered if she'd be able to sleep in here.

Jukes walked back into the front of the house, where the electric lights still burned reassuringly. There was a utility closet in the kitchen, a walk-in pantry. He opened it and shone the light inside. The empty shelves looked back at him. He stepped inside.

In the back of the pantry, above the top shelf, was a false panel. He removed the loose board that hid a long space from view and reached inside.

His hand touched something cold. He wrapped his fingers around the object and carefully pulled it out.

All right! It was still there after all this time.

Incredibly, his old .22-gauge hunting rifle hadn't changed a speck. Wrapped in a couple of garbage bags, it had stayed dry over the years, and it looked as good as the day he'd hidden it there. He felt around inside the wall for a box of shells. Bingo! He thanked God for one of life's little victories.

He checked the gun. It looked fine. He loaded it up and put a handful of shells into his pocket. The smell of gun oil still clung to it, and he wished he had time to clean it properly.

It had been at least thirty-five years since he had last fired the weapon, when he had killed a raccoon. His parents had been very upset with him for doing that. It was only with the agreement that he would never aim it at anything living that his father had let him have the lightweight .22. Jukes was looked upon as a perfect son, an angel who would never do anything wrong. When he'd abused that privilege, it shocked his parents in a way that he'd never been able to rectify.

Jukes still felt bad about that. He felt bad about the cute little raccoon he'd killed and worse about disappointing his father. What had he been thinking? It was too long ago to remember.

Memories washed over him as he held the rifle in his hands.

Would the gun still work? It had been stored in the secret place for thirty-five years. He'd always kept it clean and oiled.

Jukes Wahler knew deep down inside that it would work; otherwise he wouldn't have wasted his time pulling it out of the wall. Besides, he had no other weapon, except the Swiss army knife he had brought along with the flashlight.

He cursed the fact that he'd left New York without another weapon. He didn't want to confront Bobby unarmed. The knife wouldn't help him much in an open fight; Bobby was young and strong, and he … he wasn't.

Jukes knew he didn't have the killer instinct that allowed guys like Bobby to hurt other people. In a physical confrontation, the good doctor would no doubt be afraid of hurting the other person.

Still, he had this mental image of cutting Bobby down. After all, he was the avenger now; he was the stalker. He had the rage, the anger. He didn't need anything but his own righteous conviction to nail that squirmy toad, right? Wrong. He needed the rifle, and as it rolled on his hands he felt the fire and passion of his youth rising up within him.

Of course the rifle would work. Just because it had been sitting in a wall for thirty-five years didn't mean a thing. It was primed for duty then as now.

He checked the barrel and pulled back the bolt. Everything seemed all right. He wondered if he should go outside and fire off a shot to test it but decided not to. It would attract too much attention. Old Tom Rayburn would probably hear it and come over for a little look-see.

Jukes cradled the rifle in his arms. He felt brave and invincible with it, just as he had so many years ago.

Fiona's eyes were wide as he walked back into the room carrying the rifle.

“What's that?”

“It's my old rifle. It was right where I left it. I thought it might be a good idea in case there's any animals down there.”

He knew what he had to do next, and he also knew that he'd been procrastinating. The cellar, he had to check the cellar.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

O'Connor studied the door with the black dog painted on it. Like all the doors in the warehouse, it was metal-plated and built for security. He put his ear against it and listened.

A loud rock band was pounding away in the next studio, making it hard to hear anything.

Ska music
.

But O'Connor did hear something else. Rising above the music was the sound of a motorcycle, coming from behind him.

O'Connor spun, and the sound got louder. Someone was driving a motorcycle down the hallway.

O'Connor dived for cover, crawling behind a trash container down the hall.

Bobby Sudden roared around the corner a split second later, gunning his motorcycle. He looked crazed, as if he been running and fighting.

Bobby frantically unlocked the door, cussing and fumbling with the keys.

He dashed inside, leaving the door ajar.

O'Connor slipped out of his hiding place and approached the motorcycle. He stealthily planted a magnetic homing device under the rear fender and crawled back behind the garbage container to watch.

A few minutes later, Bobby reemerged, dragging Cathy. O'Connor watched intently as Bobby threw her and a saddlebag across the bike and started the engine. It roared loud and throaty in the enclosed hall. O'Connor could smell the acrid taste of carbon monoxide, and Bobby turned and pointed the bike back down the hall, back to the loading dock door.

He gunned the engine and drove the bike down the hall. O'Connor heard it rattle through the loading dock.

O'Connor stood up. He knew he had about fifteen minutes to follow Bobby, as the range on the homing device was limited, so he wasted no time getting back to his vehicle—the rented Jeep Cherokee. From his laptop computer O'Connor tracked Bobby over a grid of maps, out of the city and to the north.

The hunt had begun
.

The door to the cellar had a stark and ominous look to it, like so many of the doors you see in horror movies. Jukes could almost hear the trailers: “Don't open that door! Don't go down the stairs! Don't go into the cellar!”

There was nothing really distinctive about it. It was just an old wooden door. Jukes had seen it before.

Yet he felt a great amount of trepidation about opening it. Holding the rifle in his hand, at the ready, he put his other hand on the doorknob.

He shook his shoulders, shrugging off the goose bumps. He kept the gun pointed at the center of the door.

He slowly turned the knob, heard the lock disengage, and felt the pressure on the door release. Then, in a smooth, quick motion, he pulled it open toward him.

There was only darkness, and the dank odor of mildew.

The steps went down into the blackness as if they descended into the bowels of the earth, into Hell itself. Cool, fetid air came up to greet him, to welcome him into the abyss.

Come on down
, it seemed to say.
We've been waiting for you
.

A small puddle of light illuminated a portion of the dirt floor. The world was reduced to that size, and Jukes's concentration followed the same periphery. One inch beyond that limited circle of understanding, the darkness swam like a thousand black eels.

He looked around for a light switch and then remembered that there was no light in the cellar, never had been.

Jukes thought it odd that these cabins had cellars at all. But it was one of their distinctive selling features. Dirt floor cellars were considered very chic in the 1950s, especially around these parts. Maybe they intended to make them into bomb shelters, he thought cynically.

The steps were moist and unsafe. For a moment he considered forgetting about it, but a search was a search, and he would never feel safe enough to sleep unless he knew for sure. Bobby could be hiding anywhere. Jukes wanted to secure this area once and for all; that meant getting on with it. The rifle felt substantial and powerful in his hands as he descended into the unknown.

His first step brought forth such creaks and groans that he almost cried out in surprise. The steps actually seemed to bark like a living thing as soon as his weight was brought to bear.