The Man From Primrose Lane Part 42

I led the way. I didn't want to be in that hallway any longer. If there were any means of escape, they would not be found in that hall with a gun trained on us. David followed closely behind, with Katy between us.

As we drew closer, my vision grew focused. The heightened stress was causing a kind of tunnel vision I hadn't experienced since the more frightening moments of my childhood. I expect it was the same for David.

Trimble had turned the room into a work of art for some grotesque exhibition. Something fitting William Blake, perhaps. Or Jeffrey Dahmer.

In the middle of the room, the Edmund Fitzgerald desk lay on its side. Trimble had sc.r.a.ped a word into its top. BEEZLE. To the right of the desk was a woman of grandmotherly size, sitting in a chair, blindfolded, gagged, handcuffed, and dead. Her throat was cut at the jugular and she had bled out, quickly, on her blouse. Her head hung backward, making the wound look like a wet and gaping mouth.

"Peggy," said David softly. "Ah, Christ. Peg."

To the left of the desk a man was constrained in a similar manner but very much alive. Above his blindfold made of ... sackcloth?... was a full head of bushy gray hair. He wore a b.u.t.ton-down white s.h.i.+rt and a pair of jeans. He whimpered around the gag. Dean Galt.

There was a low guttural sound from behind the captain's desk and then, so suddenly it caused me to lurch backward, a cat appeared, jumping onto the desk from behind the dead woman. It was an old cat. I had never seen one so ragged and worn, its hair mottled, grayish, sickly. The color of the absence of color. It was minus a few whiskers and one ear had been ripped clean from its scalp, leaving nothing but a gangrenous hole. It tilted its head at us and hissed.

"Beezle, shhh," said Trimble.

"A cat?" asked David. "Beezle's a cat?"

Trimble pushed us back by pointing his gun and slowly walked toward his familiar. "Not just a cat," he said.

"You're insane," said Katy.

"Shut up, you are!" he said, then laughed. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out two pairs of police-issue handcuffs. He tossed a pair to me and the other to David. "Do yourselves up nice or I'll have to."

"No," said David.

The shot was immediate and loud. The echo of the gunfire made my ears ring. To my left, David collapsed to the floor, clutching his knee. Beezle growled loudly. The blindfolded man screamed into his binding. Trimble even seemed a little stunned. "f.u.c.k," he said. "That was really loud."

Katy went to David's side. "Are you okay? Jesus, David."

He didn't say anything. Instead, he handed the cuffs to Katy, who reached around a radiator and secured her left hand to David's right. Trimble pointed the gun at me then and so I went to Katy's side and cuffed my left hand to her right, around the same cast-iron radiator.

"Good," said Trimble, hunkering down so he was on our level. Then he looked at me. "Now, first things first. Who. Are. You?"

"I'm David's uncle."

Slowly and deliberately, Trimble turned the gun sideways in his hand and then punched me with it, hard, square in the forehead. It felt like running into a steel door.

"Why does it matter?" asked David.

"Because I have a gun and I say it does."

"I'm him," I said. "Him. I'm David, you dumb motherf.u.c.ker."

And then Trimble did something that sent a fresh wave of fear up my spine. He turned to Beezle, who was perched on the desk behind him, and waited for some reply. The cat looked over to me, and when it did, my heart was filled with such dismay. It was the darkest, deepest sadness and it seemed to turn on inside my head the moment our eyes made contact. I heard a voice, a deep husky voice, that said, You have failed. You were, in fact, always a failure. Everything to which you have devoted your life is as empty and worthless as your soul. There is no grace. No meaning. No balance. Only me. Only the Dark.

Trimble turned back to me. "How?"

"How do you think?" I said.

"Time travel?"

"Yes."

Trimble looked back to Beezle, then at us. He laughed and slapped his knee hard enough for me to think he might accidentally set off the pistol. "No way! That's rad, man. That's totally rad. f.u.c.k. Listen to this. I get to kill you twice!" He pointed the gun at David. "One." And then at me. "Two."

He looked at Katy.

"And you already knew, didn't you! Ah. You little rascal," he said. "I love smart girls. Too bad you're all grown up. I bet you were a cute little thing, huh? Yeah. You were. I can tell. I bet you let your little boyfriends feel your flat chest, didn't you? Play a little doctor?" He started to lean toward her and I thought he meant to kiss her, but then Beezle meowed and he stopped short. "Right," he said. He shook his head to clear it, then he stood and walked to the man in the chair.

The man screamed again when Trimble touched the back of his head to untie the blindfold.

"Shuddup," said Trimble. "I ain't gonna hurt you." He let the blindfold fall but the gag stayed in.

The bushy-haired man, already in shock, seemed to go insane when he saw Katy. Galt's eyes were as big as a horse's, like the eyes of a horse stuck in a pen watching the fire that will engulf the barn begin in a corner. He looked at me and recognized me, too. He started shaking his head. He said something against the gag.

"What's that?" asked Trimble.

"He said, 'You're dead. I watched you die,'" I explained.

"Huh. Far out."

"That's him," said Katy, sullenly, to David. "That's the man who came up to me outside Big Fun."

"She knows who you are, man!" said Trimble, jumping around the man's chair. "I told you! I told you she'd figure it out. G.o.d, this is fun! I told you I'd catch him for you, David. I told you I'd do it. We should have worked together!"

"Why would I work with you, Trimble?" asked David, and I had begun to wish he would just stop talking until I figured out a way to get us out of there. I knew well the disdain I'd always had for authority, though. "You're the same as this man. You're the same."

"No," he said. "You're wrong. There's a very big difference. This man kills for himself. I only ever killed for Beezle."

"A f.u.c.king cat?" screamed David.

I had already begun to doubt that Beezle was only a cat.

"Well, he's a cat right now," said Trimble, as if David had offended it and he was trying to make amends. "But he was a dog for a while, right, when he used to live in New York? And a donkey once, long ago. A pig, too. He could be a man if he wanted. I bet he could. I think he's a cat because I wanted him to be a cat."

"What are you talking about?" asked David.

"He came to me, when I was five. I was stuck outside all day, and the only thing I had to play with was a sandbox. I prayed and prayed and prayed to G.o.d that I could have a friend to play with. What I really wanted was a cat. A little cat to rub and make purr and chase around the house. And something heard me."

Trimble looked over to Beezle, as a lover might regard his partner when remembering their kismet introduction. "He came to me and stood in the sandbox in front of me. He told me his name was many things but also Beezle. He told me that if I would be loyal to him, if I obeyed him and did all that he asked of me, he would be my friend whenever I needed a friend. I told him yes, yes, I would do all that. But he told me to prove it. A contract. It was a contract, I realize that now."

I didn't want to know.

"He asked me to get rid of the neighbor's dog. You see, the dog knew what Beezle really was. The dog could smell it. And Beezle didn't like that. So I did what Beezle told me to do. I tied the dog to a tree in the woods behind my house and cut out its stomach with my pocketknife. The police thought some other kid did it-that blond kid from down the street. They carted him off in a white van.

"Beezle is my friend now. He helps me when I need helping. He came to me at the hospital and told me to stop taking the pills. He unlocked my door and showed me the way out through the boiler room window. That's what friends are for. Course, a couple orderlies happened to be taking a smoke break outside, but we took care of them, too, didn't we?"

Beezle mewed.

"I didn't need to kill those girls to get what I wanted. But Beezle was pretty insistent. He said I had to. He said those particular girls had to die."

"Why?" asked David.

"The universe is out of balance, David. Don't you feel it in your bones? This isn't the way things are supposed to be. Nature is balance. For every thing there is a reason, right? Or something like that. But you fiddled with it. Beezle told me that you're the reason our lives are d.a.m.ned. And he caught you! We caught you!" Trimble hopped to his feet and danced a short jig in front of us.

David moved before any of us saw it. He had retained a little length in the handcuff behind the radiator when Katy had secured it to his wrist. He had a little more room to play with than any of us realized. And he was able to push himself forward very close to Trimble. He kicked his foot into Trimble's crotch, followed him down, and stomped on his b.a.l.l.s with the heel of his shoe.

Trimble yelled and fell back. The gun tumbled to the floor, spinning toward David's outstretched hand. It was going to be close, but it looked like David would reach it.

But then my head was filled with white-hot pain. It took me a couple seconds to realize it was pain from a sound. Pain like standing next to an amp during a guitar solo at a metal show. Blistering, dull, numbing pain. David forgot the gun and clapped his hands to his ears. Katy tried to do the same, but could only get one, due to the lack of give between her left hand and the register. She screamed. Where was it coming from? I looked around the room and recoiled when I saw it.

It was Beezle. The cat's hackles were raised and its mouth was wide open. It was making the sound in its body. Its fur rippled in thin waves along its sides. Then its mouth shut and the cacophony ended.

Trimble recovered first, picked up the gun, turned it around, and shot David in the belly. Blood poured from the wound, through David's fingers, and onto the hardwood floor.

"David!" shouted Katy.

David squinted his eyes up at Trimble.

"You should thank me," said Trimble. His voice sounded regretful, though. Like he'd had to put down his rabid dog. "You would have obsessed over this man like you obsessed over me. And what sort of life is that?" he said, motioning to Dean Galt. "Questions. Questions. Questions. You feed on the answers. It's the only thing that fills you up. You would have spent the rest of your life trying to get this man to tell you what he told me in one hour. Get this, David-he found Elizabeth again after reading your book. You put all kinds of personal information about her in there. He became obsessed with her again. He stalked her. And she led him right to the Man from Primrose Lane. Can you imagine his surprise when he saw them together? He was furious. He was the one who called your wife that day in the hospital, pretending to be the Man from Primrose Lane. He waited out back of the house until she arrived. He followed her in.

"He told me everything, David. What happened when he got inside. Why he set up your wife's murder to look like a suicide. Why he believes he kills. What he did with Elaine's body. But he would never have told you, David. He'd have never told you, because you wouldn't have put a knife to his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es like I did."

Trimble knelt in front of David, beside Galt's feet. "And you know what the worst part of it is? The worst part is, in the end, the answers never really change anything. You don't try to finish a crossword puzzle because you like to see all the squares filled in. You try to finish it to see if you can. And when you do, there's another one tomorrow. The solution is not the point. Get it?"

David didn't answer.

"Here, I'll prove it," he said. Another shot rang out. Galt's head exploded like a balloon, hitting us with hot shards of his brain and skull. "G.o.dd.a.m.n it!" shouted Trimble, wiping a chunk of gray matter off his shoulder. "This was my favorite s.h.i.+rt!"

I didn't hear the next gunshot. It's possible my brain didn't register it because it came so close to the one that ended Galt's life. All I noticed was a bright red stain appearing in the center of Trimble's s.h.i.+rt. He tried to wipe it away, but the redness only grew. Beezle hissed loudly and jumped down from the table. Then Trimble looked up at the doorway.

Sackett stood there, leaning against the frame. He fired two more into Trimble's chest. And still the man did not fall. He seemed mostly annoyed. So Sackett shot him in the face and then it was over.

"The keys!" cried Katy. "Get the keys. And call an ambulance. Please! Call an ambulance!"

Sackett fished through Trimble's pockets and came up with the cuff keys, which he tossed to me. My hands trembled. It took me several attempts to unlock the cuffs.

"I'll be right back," he said.

"Kate," breathed David, lying on his back. "Where's the cat?"

I looked around. It was perched on the windowsill behind the overturned desk, leering at us with quiet fury. I reached down and pulled the gun from Trimble's grip. I swung it up and fired as the beast leapt through the thin screen. I honestly don't know if I shot it or not. If I did, it surely wouldn't have made it far before lying down to die. But I'd say the odds that my aim was true are something like fifty-fifty.

"What the h.e.l.l was that sound it made?" I asked. Katy didn't react and I could tell she was already convincing herself that part had never happened. David motioned for me to come closer.

"Not a cat," he said. "I saw it. When Trimble shot me. For a second."

"What was it?"

A tear escaped his eye and rolled off his cheek. "Formless. Darkness."

"Shhh," I said. David's skin was taking on a sickly glow, his breath coming in short rasps.

"Is that ... what ... we get?" he asked. "All ... the murderers we caught. Do you think ... could that defeated darkness come for us? It called to me. I could feel myself going there."

"Just focus on not dying. Be still."

He shook his head. He gripped my arm with what strength remained. "Watch after him."

His eyes stopped moving.

All I can say, Tanner, is that I tried to do just that.

Of course, if you're reading this, something bad has happened again.

I suppose you have to ask yourself, how much of your father is in you?

How far will you go?

It's up to you. It's a terrible choice. No matter what you decide, know he loved you. That I loved you.

INTERLUDE.

THE BALLAD OF THE LOVELAND FROG.

2012 This time, Everett Bleakney was ready.

He kept a packed bag next to the door of his double-wide. Inside was his father's gun, a can of Mace, a cattle prod, two pairs of handcuffs, duct tape, earplugs, tinfoil, and rope.

They had locked him up. Called him crazy. Hannah had left him for another man while he had recuperated inside the psych ward of Cinci General after his last encounter with the Loveland Frog, in 1996. They wouldn't let him into the academy because of his psych evaluations. The monster had murdered his father and ruined his life. If it ever came again, he would be ready. And this time, he wouldn't run. Even if he felt its telepathic tentacles coil around his mind.

He waited. For years he waited, listening for sounds emanating from the direction of Twightwee Road. Every time an old truck backfired out by the ruins of Camp Ritchie, he grabbed the bag and jumped into his car, zooming down the back roads of Loveland at a speed that was nearly physically impossible. He didn't care if it was a false alarm. He viewed these distractions as training runs.

Bring your spark-wand, motherf.u.c.ker, he thought. Let's see how well it works against a nine-millimeter.

So when that low, percussive, probing DOOOOOOOOOFFFF! sound shook the ground beneath his trailer on October 3, 2012, he was ready.

"This is it!" he shouted. He was getting ready for his s.h.i.+ft at Capri Pizza when he heard it, felt it through the faux-wood walls. If he went now, he'd never make it to work in time. And that meant he'd be fired. Again. Did he care?

Everett grabbed the bag and bounded out the door like a paratrooper. A minute later, he was in his battered Volkswagen Rabbit, spitting up dust on Twightwee at roughly fifty miles an hour.

Just beyond the bridge over the Little Miami, Everett slammed on the brakes, sending the Rabbit skidding to a stop along the berm. He jumped out with the backpack, withdrawing the sidearm and the can of Mace as he walked into the woods. He checked the weapons. Undid the safeties. He held the heavy gun in his right hand, the Mace at the ready in his left.

DOOOOOOOOOOOOOFFFF!.