The Haunter of the Threshold (38 page)

Hazel was mortified. “So, what? You told him you wanted to suck his dick? And then he turns you down so you kill him?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” he fussed. “I knew Horace would never consent, but I always imagined his cock was magnificent. It was providential that I’d never get to see it while he was alive, but what’s the harm, really, now that he’s dead?”

“Somebody cut his
head
in half!” Hazel shouted. “If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”

“Oh, I confess to the deed”—he bent over—“but I did not end Horace’s life for the reason you seem to be harboring.” He rose again, hoisting a double-bladed ax. “I did it with this, and not too bad of a job, if I may say so. But you must understand that I didn’t
want
to kill Horace. I was instructed to.”

“Instructed by who?”

“Our emissary.”

Emissary?
“Is his name Frank? Frank Barlow?”

Pickman paused. “I never did get his name, but nevertheless he’s our indoctrinator. An amiable enough chap, I suppose, if a bit testy at times.” Pickman pointed toward Hazel’s cross. “Like your Jesus, he can walk on water.”

Hazel’s tone lowered. “Was he wearing sunglasses?”

Pickman seemed surprised. “Why, yes! So you know of him.”

She had to keep her eyes averted from Horace so she could think.
Frank ordered this fruitloop to kill Horace, AFTER Horace
finished the clay boxes.
“And you’re the one who put all the boxes in the suitcase, right?”

“Right, again.” He huffed. “But they’re hardly mere
boxes,
miss. I’d explain but I’m
certain
you’d never understand. Understanding only comes after indoctrination.”

“The box is some kind of a carrier or activator for the Shining Trapezohedron, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is,” Pickman said. “I’m impressed.”

“Horace told me the box is supposed to hold the crystal, like some sort of a storage box, but Wilmarth’s notes referred to it as a ‘power carrier.’ The only thing I can guess is that you put the crystal in the box, then...something happens.”

“Something incredible,” Pickman intoned, but now his eyes had drifted down to the sagging plastic bag. “Miss, if I may? Is
that
the Shining Trapezohedron you have there?”

“Yeah,” she said at once. “And the gold box from Henry’s cabin.”

Pickman contemplated something. “Give it to me, please, then you may go. I’ve no instructions to kill
you.
”

“I’m not giving you shit,” she blurted.

Pickman’s eyes rolled; he hefted the ax. “Need I remind you of the implement in my hands? If you
don’t
give me the crystal, I’ll simply take it, after I do to you what I did to Horace.”

Hazel pulled out the revolver and pointed it.

“My, oh, my...”

“Yeah.” Hazel eyed him with complete disdain. “Why did you call Frank an ‘indoctrinator?’”

Pickman sat down at the bed, took a last forlorn glance at Horace’s dead genitals, and slumped. “Because he indoctrinated us all–the chosen. He helped us see the truth, he brought us into the fold, when he came to us.”

“In dreams?” Hazel reasoned. “He came to you in a
dream,
and there was black mist coming out of the floor?”

Pickman looked quizzical. “Surely
you
haven’t been indoctrinated.” He looked closely at her hands. “If so, you’d have a ring.”

“Like that one on your finger?” she challenged, noticing the uneven scarlet stone, just smaller than a marble.

“Yes. I’m afraid I was being disingenuous when I told you it was a Nova Scotian corundum.”

Hazel was getting a headache trying to make sense of this. But there was still the objective problem of what to do with Mr. Pickman. Questions, however, continued to peck at her.

She noticed no such ring on Horace’s corpse.

“Horace
wasn’t
‘indoctrinated,’ as you say. But he still must be part of what’s going on. He made all those boxes.”

“He’s no more a
part
of it than you are, miss. He was merely an unknowing pawn. Our only interest in him had to do with his skill as a craftsman.”

“So he didn’t really even know what he was making.”

“No, the poor fool. And when he’d completed the task...” Pickman raised the ax.

“You killed him ‘cos you didn’t need him anymore.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Frank,
she kept thinking.
It’s all centered around Frank.

“So Frank indoctrinated certain people into this cult of yours—”

“Not a cult. A congregation.”

“Fine. But what’s this got to do with thirty-three passport applications for a bunch of local rubes?”

“My, you do know a lot,” he said. “But I’m afraid on that note, I’ll elect to keep silent.”

Hazel leveled the gun.

“I’m not afraid to die, miss, because, in a sense, I
won’t
die, just as the emissary promised.” He smiled, pointing again to her tiny cross. “Our god is much more generous in the dispensation of immortality that
yours.
”

What was the name I heard?
Hazel strained her memory. “Narl-something? Narlo...”

“Nyarlathotep...” His thin-lipped grin beamed. “Give me the Shining Trapezohedron and you can enjoy the fruits of the Messenger as well.”

“Nyarlathotep. The Messenger.” Hazel stared. “But...who is he a messenger for?”

“And even greater god,” Pickman whispered dreamily. “Yog Sothoth.”

The word was familiar, wasn’t it?
Yes!
Henry’s computer
password!
“All right. Then what’s the message?”

“I’m afraid it’s not for me to say—”

Bam!

Hazel’s hand jerked up when she squeezed off one round into Mr. Pickman’s belly. The ax clunked, and Pickman was shoved to the wall where he slumped to the floor, blood pouring.

Agony contorted his face. “Whuh—why did you do
that?
”

Hazel shrugged. “Let’s see. One, you murdered Horace and I
liked
Horace. Two, your pursy face pisses me off. Three, I
hate
that arrogant, pedantic tone of voice of yours. And four?” She glowered at him. “Your paintings
suck.
”

Pickman gurgled, looking up at her appalled. Hazel put the gun down and picked up the ax. She lined the blade up with the middle of Pickman’s head, steadied herself, then took a deep breath and raised the ax high, arching her back, lifting up on tiptoes, and then—

Swoosh!

She drove the blade back down in a perfect arc. The impact split Pickman’s head in half, in fact, splitting the entire neck and stopping only at the sternum.

Somebody needs a hug...and I guess it’s me.
She looked at Pickman’s halved head, then rationalized that he deserved it for killing Horace. An eye for an eye, a cut-in-half head for a cut-in-half head.

Hazel grabbed the bag and walked back to Horace’s work room. She had every intention of retrieving the suitcase full of clay boxes but when she looked down, that intention became moot.

The suitcase was gone.

“Fuck.”

She left the trailer in haste, fairly sure that her nostrils had detected the smell of raw meat...

Hazel drove just short of lead-footing it, soaring down the road’s long curves, heavy-boughed trees passing on either side.
The only guy in
this whole fucked up town I trust is dead. So, what now?

The tires shimmied through another winding turn.
Wait a minute. There IS one other person I trust...

Several minutes later, her headlights roved across the front of Bosset’s Way Woodland Tavern. The parking lot looked full. “Sonia, I’m going inside to talk to Clonner, then I’ll be right back out, okay?” She nudged the groggy Sonia. “Okay?” Sonia nodded sleepily, mumbled something, then drifted back to sleep.

Finally. Some decent luck.
When Hazel got out, she immediately saw the feisty, old Clonner Martin sitting by himself in his wheelchair just outside the front door.

“Clonner!”

“Well, hey there, Hazel!” the old man cracked a greeting. “Stoppin’ by fer a late one, I’se see. Well, we’re always glad to have ya.”

She rushed right up. “Clonner, I came here to talk to you–”

“Somethin’ wrong? You look a tad troubled. Well, whatever it is, I’se sure I can help out.”

She leaned closer, eyes wide in the dim lights. “There’s a whole bunch of things happening that aren’t right. Some of the people around here have...changed. I know this sounds nuts, but there’s some kind of weird cult activity going on, and it all has to do with Henry Wilmarth and some things we found in his cabin.”

Clonner’s wizened face seemed suddenly contemplative. “If’n ya wanna know the truth, Hazel, that don’t sound nuts at all. And you’se right ‘bout some folks changin’. There’s some other really queer stuff I been hearin’ too, like folks waitin’ fer
passports,
of all things, and—”

“And some very unlikely locals anticipating trips to other cities, some of them
international
cites.”

A look of dread came to Clonner’s eyes. “I heard the same type’a stuff, just over the past two days. And I heard somethin’ else, just tonight...” Clonner looked to either side as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Come on in, we’se’ll go talk in my office...”

So it’s not just me,
Hazel thought in a wash of relief. Strange, though, that the tavern was so quiet in spite of the full parking lot. She opened the door for the old man, waited for him to roll in, then entered behind him.

There must’ve been thirty people inside, all sitting at tables or at the bar, chatting quietly as they sipped beers. “Low-key night,” Hazel said.

“Aw, yeah, we’se not all rowdy rednecks here.” Clonner moved his wheelchair to a table, where Ida the barmaid immediately brought him a beer. “Actually, we’se just havin’ our nightly meeting, hon.”

Hazel’s eyes scanned the interior. She saw several women amongst the patrons, but mostly men. Several she’d seen before, like Nate Peaslee, whom she’d met earlier.
Hadn’t his name been on that
list?
she asked herself. Also, the man and woman—Cal and Emma, she thought—who’d been arguing the other day, with the sheriff playing referee. Plus some others she’d seen around town.

Very slowly, every single person in the bar turned their heads to look at Hazel...and grin.

Hazel shrieked when the door banged open behind her, and in walked Clayton and Shot Glass, carrying Sonia inside.

Several men rushed her in a blur; one got her in a neck-lock, the other picked her up by her ankles.

Both had scarlet-crystal rings on their fingers.

“Not you too, Clonner!” Hazel wailed as they carried her to a table and slammed her down on her back. “I thought you were a good person!”

Clonner guffawed from the chair, cracked, “Then ya thunk wrong,” and took a swig of beer by denturing the can’s lip. “We’se amazed that a gal with yer college smarts could be so blammed stupid. How come ya didn’t leave town?”

“Because I trusted
you!
” and Hazel squirmed uselessly against her marauders as they flipped up her denim skirt and pulled her T.S. Eliot T-shirt up over her breasts. A woman stepped forward and handed them some rope. Hazel instantly thought of the pistol—then wilted when she realized she’d left it in the car.

“The Fish Boys tell me you’se’re one
hail
of a dirty girl,” Clonner remarked.

“Ee-yuh she is,” Shot Glass agreed. “En’t never met one dutty-ur. Drinks piss like a champ, eats the nut, begs fer it in the ass, and comes when yew choke her aout.”

“Dirtiest dang whore you ever seed,” Clayton contributed, and then they both carried an unconscious Sonia back into the kitchen.

Clonner showed gleaming but misaligned dentures when he grinned. “So you think yer dirty?” He winked. “
We’ll
show ya dirty.”

The harder Hazel struggled the more violently she was man-handled. “Haow’s
thet
for a pile’a hair?” one commented and
cracked
her exposed pubis hard with his palm. Then Ida, the fat barmaid, wriggled her fingers through it. “Aw, naow, Wilbur Whateley, durn’t yew be disrespectin’ my li’l friend heer,” and then—
Kuuuuur-HOCK!
—she spat into the rust-colored tuft. Next, a man with a bent spine hobbled up, and said, “Shee-it, Ida, if I curn’t dew better’n thet, my name en’t Charlie Ward”; the twisted codger stuck both thumbs into Hazel’s labia, pulled the thumbs apart, then leaned over and—
Kuuuuur-HOCK!
—expectorated right into her vagina. “Thar yew go, honey. Mebbe yew’ll git’cherself a hock baby naow.” One of the other men who’d tied her up addressed them next: “Yew light-weights durn’t know nuthin’.”
Smack!
He rammed his fist into Hazel’s jaw, knocking her senseless, but as her mouth gaped—
Snnnnnnn-ORT!
—he blew a wad of mucus into it after thumbing a nostril closed. Then he pushed her jaw closed and forced her to swallow. “Haow’s
thet,
eh?”