Strange Magic (18 page)

Wilson drove the Honda Civic to Susan’s house. It was the first time he’d been behind the wheel of an automobile in a very long time. He didn’t have a valid driver’s license, had lost that several years ago for repeatedly drinking and driving under the influence, but that was the least of his concerns tonight. He made it safely to Derby Hill, parked in the driveway, and walked his trembling wife into the house. She was fading on him, going into an emotional state of shock worrying about her baby girl but unfortunately there wasn’t much Wilson could do about it. He couldn’t take her to a doctor or even a friend, because there would be far too many questions asked that would only lead to trouble. The best he could do was wrap her up in a big fluffy comforter on the couch and get her a hot cup of Earl Grey tea.

“You going to be okay?” he asked. “It’s nearly nine thirty Susan, and I have to get going.”

“You’re leaving now? Why?”

“I have some things to do. I can’t walk in there unprepared or I’m a dead man. Just stay here and keep warm. I’ll be back with Amanda as fast as I can. If we’re not back by one A.M., call the police and give them the note. No wait, make it one thirty, just in case. Okay?”

“You come back to me, damn you. You hear me?”

“I will. With Amanda. Promise.”

They hugged and Wilson thought she might never let him go, but in the end she kissed him and lay down on the couch, trying hard not to break down completely until after he was gone. “I’ll wait up for you,” she said.

“Do that. And try not to worry. I’ll see you soon.”

All Susan could do was nod her head and as soon as Wilson left the house she buried her face into the throw pillow and cried like she’d never cried before. Inside she was breaking, on the verge of losing the two most important people in her life, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. She wept for both of them, holding on to the dream of seeing them safe, but in her heart of hearts sure they were lost to her forever.

Wilson could hear his wife sobbing as he closed the front door and he hated leaving her like this, but what choice did he really have? Tonight would either reunite his family or destroy it for good. He’d either bring back Amanda alive, or die trying himself. It was all or nothing, and sitting around comforting Susan wasn’t going to help get their daughter back. To do that, he needed some help; an edge that might swing the balance of fate in his favor.

And time was running out.

He jumped in the car and headed for his house as fast as he dared. The last thing he wanted was to get stopped for speeding tonight. That would bugger things up royally. Luckily there were hardly any cars on the road tonight, and none of them had little flashing lights on the roof. Back at his bungalow, Wilson headed inside to gather some things and to change his clothes. Within
minutes, he was back in the kitchen and ready to roll. He’d put his gun, a sharp knife, and an empty glass container he needed inside an old canvas bag and was headed for the door when he spotted a half-full bottle of vodka sitting on the countertop near the sink. The sight of it stopped him dead in his tracks, glued to the floor as every nerve in his body screamed at him to take a drink.

Just one maybe, that’s all, to take the edge off and calm my nerves. Just a little sip to make my troubles go away for a second, and then I…

“No!” he shouted. “Not this time. Not tonight and never again. I don’t need booze to make me feel good. All I need is my family!”

As corny as it sounded, standing alone in his run-down kitchen talking to a vodka bottle, Wilson knew he was right. Felt it deep in his heart and the feeling of peace that came over him let him breathe again and start moving. He walked to the counter and dumped the bottle down the drain, smiling as he did it. There were other bottles around the house but he’d have to worry about them later. For now, he had someplace he badly needed to go.

Feeling strangely empowered, Wilson grabbed an old but warm Pittsburgh Steelers jacket out of the closet and ran for the car. Quickly backing out onto the street, he wanted to get over to St. Michael’s church to see Father Harris as fast as he could. Putting his foot to the floor, Wilson was totally oblivious to the fact he was being followed at a distance by an old red Ford pickup truck.

As rushed as he was, Wilson couldn’t help but drive by the big two-story house on Leamon Avenue, hoping by some miracle he’d get a glimpse of his daughter through
a window, or better yet, perhaps see her bolting out through a door or window and being there to whisk her away to safety without the inevitable confrontation set to happen later tonight. No such luck. The Heatseeker’s house lay in darkness, entombed within the branches of several old oak trees and set way back off the street where neither the streetlights nor his straining eyes could make out more than several different layers of shadow.

Part of him wanted to stop, hide the car farther down the street and go in looking for Amanda right now. Maybe he could catch the Heatseeker by surprise, unprepared for an early assault. That was crazy talk though; wishful thinking and Wilson knew it. His old friend would be ready for him no matter what time he showed up, so it was best to stick to the game plan for now, or at least appear to. Amanda would be safe enough for the time being. Besides, he really wanted to see Father Harris about something before it was too late. Smacking the dashboard in frustration, Wilson gunned the engine away from the dark house heading for the Catholic church.

St. Michael’s appeared to be in darkness too, but Wilson knew enough about Father Harris to know he’d be there somewhere. He parked the Honda out front and headed around the side of the huge brick building to where there was a small but tidy cottage attached to the church. Patrick Harris had lived there for as long as Wilson could remember and he was always telling his congregation he took pride in being available to each and every one of them at any hour of the day. If they needed him for anything at all, spiritual or otherwise, just go ahead and show up at his door. Wilson wasn’t 100 percent sure the priest had meant it, but he was about to put that promise to the test.

Susan would have thought him mad for coming here, which was precisely the reason he hadn’t told her. After all he had explained and shown her, Susan still didn’t believe they were up against a supernatural enemy. A maniac, yes, but not an evil man-monster reborn from hell. She might believe Earl Henderson’s gun would be enough to kill the man who’d taken their daughter, but Wilson wasn’t nearly as convinced. To kill a demon, he figured you needed more than man-made weapons; you needed to battle on a spiritual level as well, which was why he’d decided to come to St. Michael’s tonight. If anyone could help him and his family, it was the fiery Irishman Patrick Harris.

Wilson took a deep breath and knocked on the cottage door. It took several minutes and a few more raps, but eventually he could see the priest approaching the door through the panes of glass. Father Harris didn’t look particularly happy to see him, but opened the door to greet him anyway. The Catholic holy man looked tired, sweaty, and disheveled, like maybe he had the beginnings of a fever and was coming down with something.

“Wilson? What in blazes are you doing here? Are you hurt? Susan and Amanda okay?”

“Ahh…um, no, actually. Ahh…” Now that he was here, he had no idea what to say to the intimidating priest. How could he possibly say his family was being stalked by a dead man? Maybe it
had
been foolish to come here.

“Come on, out with it man,” Father Harris scolded him. “I haven’t got all night. What’s wrong?”

Wilson could only think of one thing to say, one way to start this conversation. “Bless me, Father, for I have
sinned. Sinned a lot, actually…and plan on sinning more before the end of the night.”

Father Harris was taken aback by that comment, not sure what to think. He looked Wilson up and down, trying to size up the situation. “You been drinking again?”

“No, sir. Not a drop. I need your help.”

“Then you’ll have it. Get in here.”

The priest took Wilson’s football jacket, hung it in the hall closet, then stepped aside to wave Wilson past him into a small room near the front of the cottage he used as his office. It was a bare bones kind of room, with no pictures on the walls and furnished only with an old rolltop desk and two wooden chairs. “Have a seat, Wilson. Tell me what’s going on.”

Wilson sat down and considered where the best place was to start. “Okay. The man the police are looking for, the one who left the skeletons at the bandstand in the park…I know who he is. He came to Billington to kill me.”

“My goodness. Who is it?”

“This is just between us, right?”

“You, me, and God, Wilson. Out with it.”

Wilson took a deep breath and then just started talking. He told Father Harris everything, condensing things a little to save time, but told him all about growing up and training to be an escape artist and about the death of his partner, Douglas Williams. Then he told him how he’d gone into hiding in Billington and how the guilt had driven him to the bottle and ruined his marriage to Susan. Before he lost his nerve, he told the priest about how he thought his one-time friend had returned from the dead, tracked him down, and about the notes from the Heatseeker he’d been sent since his
arrival. Eventually Wilson made it to the part about opening his partner’s empty coffin in Jamestown, then speeding back home to find Edith and Earl Henderson dead and his daughter abducted. He explained how he had no choice but to face the Heatseeker to night at midnight, and that he planned on sending him back to hell if that was what it took to get Amanda back.

Father Harris listened to Wilson’s tale with a blank expression on his face. Wilson had no idea whether he was even listening half the time, never mind believing anything he was saying. He still seemed sick to Wilson, clammy-looking and much paler than the usually rosy-cheeked Irishman normally was.

“I take it you won’t be going to the police with this information, even though you should?” Father Harris asked when he was sure Wilson had nothing further to say.

“I can’t. The Heatseeker said he’d kill Amanda if I do and I believe him. I have to face him alone.”

“Why are you here then? What can I do to help?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest. All I know is the man I used to know isn’t human anymore, Father, and I just hoped maybe you could pray with me and maybe give me something to take with me. I…I brought this glass bottle. I don’t know…I was thinking maybe you could bless some water for me and that it might help.”

The priest sat quietly for several minutes, thinking about everything he’d just heard. It was a crazy story and Wilson was sure Father Harris was about to stand up and toss him out. He didn’t though.

“Tell me, Wilson. Do you believe with all your heart what you’ve told me is the God’s honest truth? That this old partner of yours died and has somehow escaped the chains of hell to return for you?”

“I know it’s true, Father. As crazy as it sounds, in my heart I know I’m right. I’m scared, but I know I have to make a stand and face him.”

“I’m scared too, Wilson, for you and for your daughter. I don’t know if I believe your story, but I know you believe it, so you’ll have my help, son. And God’s blessing too. Give me that bottle…and let’s pray.”

Ten minutes later, Wilson walked out of Father Harris’s office with a bottle filled with holy water and a heart filled with renewed hope and dare he even say it…faith. Facing the Heatseeker alone was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life, but it felt good—no, it felt
right
—to have Father Harris and God on his side. Whether they ultimately helped would have to wait until later.

Walking down the hall toward the back door, Wilson was just opening the closet door to retrieve his jacket when Father Harris literally ran into him and bumped him out of the way.

“Oh, sorry, Wilson. Here, let me get that for you.”

Wilson was startled, having thought the priest was still back in his office but he smiled and accepted his coat with thanks. “Okay. Thanks for…well, everything.”

“Be careful, Wilson. Godspeed to you.”

Wilson nodded, then left the cottage to return to his car parked out front. As soon as he was out of sight, Patrick Harris slumped down against the door of his cottage, tears starting to flow down his sweaty cheeks. “Oh God, what have I done? Why have you let me become so weak…so useless to you?”

Struggling to stand, the priest walked to the hall closet and fully slid open the door. Inside, and clearly visible if Wilson had managed to open the door, was Father Harris’s
black mask, dark clothing, and the replacement red flashlight his alter ego used while prowling the dark streets of Billington night after night. He’d tried so hard over the years to ignore the urges, to resist the change, but they kept beating their drums inside his head, breaking him down physically as well as spiritually, transforming him into the pervert who reveled in peeking into people’s bedrooms and liked to call himself Tom.

Father Patrick Harris hung his head in shame.

Sitting parked out in his red pickup, the Stranger was curious. Intrigued even. Why had Wilson gone to see the priest? Were they friends, or was he trying to pull a fast one, have the priest secretly rally the police, perhaps? No, he was stupid, but not crazy. The Stranger knew Wilson well enough to know he wouldn’t jeopardize his child like that. No, it had to be something else.

Wilson had been inside the priest’s cottage for nearly half an hour, and had just pulled away in his wife’s silver Honda. The Stranger had started to follow, but instead, he’d pulled to a stop in front of the church, perplexed and not liking the idea he wasn’t sure what his adversary was up to. Was he planning something? Plotting some way to bring him down, or enlist help in the coming battle?

Hmmm…what’s he thinking? Better stop thinking of him as just a hopeless drunk. Be on guard for anything…

That was the problem though. He hated not knowing Wilson’s plans, loathed the thought of not being prepared for every contingency. Of course, there was always a way to find out what was going on.

Risky but perhaps worth it. Yes?

Yes. He shut off the truck.

The urges were calling Father Harris again. They beat their drums in his head and he felt their fingers roaming all over his body like he’d stepped on a nest of hungry army ants, probing, biting, and crawling inside his mouth and ears. “Noooooooo! Leave me alone!”

Patrick tore at his clothes to try get them off but they were on his bare skin now, scratching and clawing to the thump of the drums. “Please, God! Help meeeeeeee!” But God wasn’t there. Not for him. Not for a man who’d fallen so far from grace, and Patrick knew it. He understood he was getting exactly what he deserved. He also knew Tom was anxious to take over, to bury him in the dark again, where he had no control, no choices to make, no consequences to face, no guilt to endure—at least until he woke up in the morning. What used to be a prison was now starting to become a place of refuge, a place he almost looked forward to. Down in the dark corner of his mind where Tom put him was the only place he ever felt at peace. He could just slide away into blessed oblivion and let Tom deal with the problems of the world. It was the coward’s way out, and Father Harris knew he should fight for his sanity but it was just getting too hard. His mounting sins getting too heavy a burden to carry…

Tom stood up straight and looked around. He smiled, cracking the knuckles of his right hand into the palm of his left. He reversed it and cracked his remaining knuckles, enjoying the sound as they went
pop
, and relishing the feeling of power flowing back into his body. Why the priest chose to live life the way he did was mind-boggling to Tom. Why slither on the ground like a worm when you could soar in the clouds with the eagles? It made no sense.

Tom discarded the torn shirt he wore and stripped off the rest of his clothes. At the closet he quickly redressed, his black mask the last to go on.
Crawling like a worm…bah!

There was no way Tom was crawling anywhere. He was a predator, the hunter, the black panther, and tonight he would hide no more. He was going out to do more than just peek in a few windows tonight. Being a voyeur was child’s play and he was tiring of it. It was time to ramp things up a notch or two. Time to start becoming the nightmare he truly was and show the people of Billington what fear truly was. To do that though, he had to rid the town of the imposter who had come to take his place—this Heatseeker Wilson Kemp had told the priest about. He’d watched him before and yes he’d felt fear in the dark man’s presence but not anymore. Never again.

From the top shelf of the closet, beside the red flashlight, Tom took down the toy he’d been wanting to play with for a very long time—a folding boa knife he’d stolen from the garage of a local hunter he knew. Tom thumbed the release and the four-inch blade glided open. It was made from heat-treated hardened stainless steel but coated all in black, even the blade. The knife was beautiful, like him, and he’d longed to take it along on his nocturnal adventures but until now, never had. Tonight was different though. Tonight he would evolve again, take out this Heatseeker while he was occupied dealing with Mr. Kemp. Wilson had told the priest where his daughter was being held and Tom was heading there tonight to take care of this intruder once and for all.

From there, the city was his, and the first place he might go was back to that sweet little Irish schoolteacher
with the red hair, the alabaster skin, and the hard, delicious body.
The things I could make her do at the end of this knife! The way she’d beg…oh the way she’d scream…
His penis swelled in his pants, thinking of how powerless she would feel. How completely at his mercy she would be. And not just her; the entire town. Billington would be his for the taking.

Tom felt a sharp pain in his hand, the boa knife dropping to the floor, and a larger blade pressed into the flesh of his neck before he even realized he wasn’t alone in the cottage anymore. Someone had entered the house, crept up, and disarmed him without Tom hearing a thing.

“Move and you’re dead,” the intruder said. “Okay. Now turn around. Very slowly.”

Tom did as he was told, trying to remain calm and in control but fear exploded in his belly when he saw who held the dagger at his throat.
Him! Oh my God! How? How did he know I was coming?
“Please,” he mumbled through the mask. “Don’t hurt me.”

The dark man slowly shook his head, amazed at what he was seeing. “What kind of fucking freak show are you? Huh? I saw you once, up on the trellis, when I killed the dog. Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with the priest?” When Tom didn’t say anything, the man screamed in his face, “Answer me, damn you!”

Tom slowly reached up and pulled off his black mask, revealing himself. “I…I am Father Harris. Please…”

The tall man looked shocked for a second, but then started to laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re the priest here? Wilson’s priest is a fucking nutcase? Ha! Doesn’t that just figure.”

Tom could think of nothing to say.

“Why was Wilson here? Tell me or I slit your throat!”
He pressed the serrated edge of the dagger harder into Tom’s throat, ready to slice.

“Wait…don’t! He was here telling me about you. About his daughter…asking me for help.”

“Help? How in hell could a broken down nutter like you help anyone?”

“He asked me to forgive his sins and bless him. And he asked me to bless a jar of water. Seemed to think it would help against you. Please don’t…”

“Holy water? Ha! From you? That’s perfect! You can’t bless anything, Father. Not without faith. You stopped being a real priest a long time ago, my friend. Probably even before you put on that silly little mask and went out looking at titties. Wilson’s big secret weapon is a dud, and he doesn’t even know it. He put faith in you, Father, and you let him down big-time, didn’t you? You’re nothing but a worthless piece of shit.”

Tom wanted to stand up to this man, to show him who was boss in this town, but he couldn’t summon his body to lash out and defend himself. He couldn’t do anything except stand there and be humiliated, tears starting to run now, which made him feel even worse. Where was the predator? Where was the hunter? Where was the panther? Nowhere, of course. They never existed, just like Tom. All of them just parts of a failed priest’s disturbed mind; figments of Patrick Harris’s perverse imagination.

The drums stopped beating.

The urges faded away.

Tom fragmented into shadows and was gone.

Father Harris was left all alone, standing in front of a real-life predator, a real killer, and knew deep in his hammering heart he would prowl the streets of Billington
no more. The thought brought the first genuine smile to his face in years.

The dark man put his knife away.

“You like looking into windows, do you? Makes you feel tough spying on people? You make me sick. Damn your eyes…” he said and forced Patrick to his knees. With savage strength, he plunged both his thumbs into the fallen priest’s eyes, mercilessly digging in until the eyeballs exploded and sprayed outward like a massive squeezed pimple. The priest screamed in agony, but the dark man dug his thumbs in deeper, pressing through the optic cavity and shoving through the membrane into his brain. Something deep inside the priest burst.

Father Harris began to shudder, his legs spasming, his bowels and bladder letting loose as he slumped against the closet door. When the Stranger pulled out his thumbs, they were covered in blood and sticky clear gore. Gray matter was visible through the gaping holes in the dying man’s face. Father Harris was silent now, still gasping for breath, but blood poured from his mouth and nose, his damaged brain misfiring, his systems quickly shutting down. He felt warmth spread through his body and a calming peace finally coming to claim him and put an end to years of self-loathing and suffering. With his dying breath, he managed to say to his killer, “Tha…thank you.”

The Stranger bent down close to his ear and whispered, “You’re welcome, ya sick son of a bitch. You’re welcome.”