Abattoir (19 page)

Then the other guard led him away from the opening.

“This way, young man.”

Before he turned, the boy managed one final glimpse into the chamber, watching as the guards fastened his father’s arms and legs to the chair with thick leather straps.

He heard a low male voice, almost whispering: “Do you have any last words?”

Cross did not hear the reply. The guard was taking him swiftly away. He wanted to resist, to break away—to remain by his father’s side—but was unable to do any of those things.

Instead, like a sheep, he allowed himself to be herded, silent and unresisting, into another hallway.

But it was not really a hallway.

Cantrell grabbed Wingnut’s arm.

“You’ve got to stop this . . . ”

Cross was a third of the way up the ramp. His moans had begun to deteriorate, no longer even reminiscent of what a human throat might produce. To Cantrell, they sounded horribly bovine—the unmistakable sound of terrified, lowing cattle.

“I’ve tried, man. The director says to keep rolling.”

“Can’t you see that something’s wrong?”

Wingnut pushed Cantrell’s arm away, and ordered his hand-held cameramen to keep following Cross up the ramp.

It was not a hallway, but a
ramp
.

And he was no longer alone.

Cross was one of many now, all of them unbearably compressed into the narrow, fenced confines of the chute. He felt them shoving from behind, felt himself being pushed into those in front.

He smelled their fear too, but not the same as before. Much deeper; more
primal
.

They lowed, and Cross lowed with them.

The mass cries of the condemned.

None of them, including him, knew where they were. None of them knew
why
this was happening to them, or who was doing it.

But they all knew that this was a place of death.

They heard it above and before them, the pleading cries, the mechanical thump of the device which delivered the death blow, the jangle of chains, the shouting of men, the sharpening of knives.

And they smelled the fresh, warm scent of blood. Endless streams of it.

As their journey up the ramp progressed, they could feel the steaming liquid flowing down the wooden walkway beneath their hooves like a river; their hooves sticking in it as it began to dry, so that when they lifted their legs to take yet another step, they could feel the syrupy resistance.

It felt as if there were no longer any air in the place, or light, or sound. There was only fear—pure, undistilled, unthought, unrationalized fear. It seemed to seep from the stone walls, from the wood floor, from the breath of the condemned.

From everywhere.

The cameras were still rolling when Cross dropped down on all fours.

As he lowed—louder and shriller than before—his tongue protruded grotesquely from his mouth. He shook his head back and forth, as if trying to wake from a bad dream.

“This is insane,” Wingnut said into his mouthpiece.

“That’s an understatement,” came the reply.

Cantrell stood to the side, not believing what he was seeing. Was it possible that Cross was really staging this? Could he really be that good an actor?

He dismissed the thought in an instant. The man now nearing the top of the ramp, crawling on his hands and knees, making noises he’d never heard a human being make, was no longer Cross.

Cantrell feared that he might never be Cross again.

As the ramp neared its apex, there was only room for one animal at a time. The one directly before Cross was shoved into a narrow chute. He could not see what they were doing up there, but heard the awful mechanical thump, a terrible shudder passing through the animal’s pinned body.

He watched as the victim was pulled forward then wrapped in long chains. Its body was raised and rudely swung away into the darkness beyond his vision.

Now it’s my turn.

The pressure from behind pushed him into the chute. He felt its walls press against his body on both sides. He smelled the emptied bowels of those who had gone before, felt his own betray him.

It’s so cold here.

He looked into the cavernous darkness, feeling something metallic pressing against his temple.

For the briefest of moments, he glimpsed the terrified face of a young boy, watching him.

The blow fell. There was no pain. Then darkness.

When Cross reached the top of the stairs, he did not rise to his feet, or open the door to the conference room.

He simply fell over, as if he’d been struck by an invisible force.

“Okay,” Wingnut said at last. “That’s a cut.”

The three cameramen that were filming the scene pushed stop.

“Fantastic job, boss!” Wingnut cried to the man at the top of the ramp. “You were great. We got unbelievable footage.”

Spontaneously, the crew broke out in applause. Smiles were on every face, high fives punctuated the air.

There was no response from Cross.

The applause slowly died away.

Cantrell was the first at Cross’s side.

The mystic’s face was ashen. His mouth gaped open in a horrific rictus. His legs were curled up to his chest in a fetal position.

Cantrell turned back toward the storage room and looked down at the crowd of crewmen below. They were all silent, staring back with blank expressions.

“He’s dead.”

16

The female reporter stood before what was by now a familiar television landmark—the grand entrance to the Exeter. She wore a parka and gloves, for it was snowing and cold, and spoke into the mike that was clipped to her lapel:

“Four days after the untimely death of television mystic Steven Cross here at the upscale lofts known as the Exeter, we have the answer at last.”

The next face to fill the screen was a balding man identified by the crawling words beneath his image as the county coroner.

“The cause of death was a massive coronary,” the obviously uncomfortable man said. “Although the victim, in this case Mr. Cross, was a relatively young man of 55 and appeared in fine health, such coronaries commonly strike without warning and with devastating effect. It is my opinion that he died very quickly of natural causes.”

The view returned to the snow-frosted newswoman.

“The chief of police announced today that foul play is not suspected in this case, and a criminal investigation is unlikely.”

She paused and turned toward a small group of people clustered near the entrance.

“Not everyone agrees with the official assessment,” she continued. “Here at the site of Cross’s death, in addition to fans of the popular host of Night Crossing, are those who believe that supernatural forces might have been at work.”

She paused, taking a quick look at the notebook in her hand.

“Cross’s death is only the latest in a string of tragedies at this location, all of which we have reported in recent months. The uncanny nature of those occurrences, coupled with the deadly results, have given rise to numerous theories, ranging from criminal conspiracy to demonic possession. The death of the television mystic is sure to add to those claims.”

The camera panned to a handful of shivering people, some of them holding signs with such messages as: “The devil lives here!” and “The Exeter = Evil.”

The reporter resumed her report:

“Whatever the cause, it is clear that Cross’s death will leave a huge void. Among those gathered here tonight are devoted fans and believers. Standing next to me is Mary Ann Fulton of Cleveland, who traveled many hours to be here.”

She turned to the young woman at her side.

“Why did you come here tonight?”

“Cross was my hero,” the woman replied in a shaky voice. “He had the courage to bring the supernatural into people’s living rooms. It’s because of him that I believe, and that I no longer fear death.”

Tears began to flow from the woman’s eyes. “Now here I am, paying my last respects to
him.
I’ll miss him every day for the rest of my life.”

She deteriorated into sobs, the reporter resuming her monologue:

“Three days ago, there were dozens of such fans here. As you can see, there are only a few left.”

The camera did a quick cutaway shot of the sparse crowd and a collection of flowers and Christmas wreaths, now stiff and wilted with the cold, the wreaths steadily disappearing under the falling snow.

“Perhaps it’s the cold that’s driving them away. Perhaps their grief is just too much to bear. Whatever the cause, it’s clear that while Steven Cross might be gone, he won’t soon be forgotten.”

Su Ling pointed the remote at the TV and turned it off.

“She’s right,” Cantrell said, looking out the window. “They filmed that three hours ago. They’re all gone now. There’s nobody left.”

“Thank God,” Su Ling said quietly.

She looked at him hopefully. “Do you think it’s over? Will they come back?”

“I doubt it.”

The crowd was different this time. The energy was different. When the press and public gathered after the Sloanes and Derek Taylor, there had been a carnival frenzy. Why was it different this time?

He wasn’t sure. For the first day or two, the carnival atmosphere was certainly there, but it faded quickly. It grew somber and quiet. Even the reporters seemed hard pressed to sustain their interest.

It was almost as if, despite the celebrity of its latest victim, people were tiring of the Exeter. No, more than that. As if they were beginning to
sense
the place . . . to dread it.

They left not because of boredom, but because of repulsion.

And fear.

Even Detective Maudlin had displayed a cagey aversion. He’d already warned them to leave the place themselves, the last time something like this had happened. He repeated the warning to Cantrell the day after Cross’s death:

“You won’t leave, will you, you stubborn son of a bitch?”

“No,” Cantrell answered.

“Then God help you.”

§

After a few days, the snow stopped.

Cantrell looked out of the living room window over the bleak winter scene below.

Three feet of snow blanketed the desolate streets surrounding the Exeter. The air was cold, the skies gray and solemn, the traffic virtually nonexistent. Not a single footprint, animal or human, marred the snow-covered sidewalk and parking lot.

The press had withdrawn, the Cross loyalists finally departed, leaving behind only a few frozen wreaths, candles and a handful of handwritten cards and notes.

The Exeter was once more left in restless—
but blissful
—isolation.

Cantrell sighed, drawing a curtain over the scene. He made his way down to Su Ling’s apartment, barely noticing the vaguely cockeyed slant of the ornate staircase, the shadows that were somehow wrong.

As Su Ling opened the door, he immediately saw the look on her face. He also saw, on the other side of the room, her computer screen blinking off.

“What’s wrong?”

“I saw it, Alex.”

“Saw what?”

“Cross’s death. It was on the Internet. Somebody must have gotten a pirate copy of the tape.”

“Oh Jesus, Su, why in the hell did you . . . ”

“I had to see it, Alex, that’s all. And I’m sorry I did. I’ll never forget the look on his face.”

He took her in his arms and held her tight.

“I was hoping that you’d never have to see that. I’ll never forget it either.”

They sat at the kitchen table. She’d prepared hot tea for them.

He looked in her eyes.

“I’m not mad at you, Su,” he said. “I just wanted to spare you that, that . . . whatever the hell it was that happened down there.”

She returned his smile, but it was faint, still colored by her reaction to the video.

“What
really
happened down there?” she asked.

“Well, the coroner … ”

“You don’t believe that any more than I do. Maybe it
was
a heart attack, but that’s not what killed him. You know that, don’t you?”

Cantrell said nothing.

“The man turned into something before our eyes,” she said. “Before
your
eyes. I saw
you
on the video too; you were scared out of your wits. You can’t deny that.”

“Okay, I
was
scared. Who wouldn’t be? And you’re right. He did turn into something, or at least, he acted like it. It was awful, Su. I don’t know if it was something that was just going on in his head, or whether something else was happening. I don’t know—something’s happening in this building, something that not all of us can see, something that nobody can understand. Is that what you want me to say?”

“Yes,” she said, a little sharper than she intended. “I do want you to say that, because we both know that’s exactly what’s happening here.”

She rose and went to the kitchen, returning with an envelope.

“This came today. It’s from Sharon Knaster.”

Cantrell sat up, intrigued.

“Let me read this to you, Alex. It’s important. I think Sharon has a far better idea than either you or I about what’s happening.”

He nodded his assent.

“Dear Su Ling,” she began.

Please forgive me for not having had the opportunity to say goodbye to you and your lovely daughter, who I miss so very much. I know how badly we both wanted my work with Anna to bear results, and I believe that we were on the right track. There’s still hope for her—you must not forget that—but I’m afraid that I will no longer be able to help her, and you, through the darkness. You’ll have to find someone else, and I strongly urge you to do so.

I would have preferred to talk to you by phone, but I couldn’t take that risk. Please don’t laugh at me, but I believe there is a terrible force at work in the Exeter. I will not allow even the risk of my voice being heard within its walls, let alone ever set foot in that wretched place for the rest of my life.