Devil's Playground (38 page)

She sensed the presence of those murdered all around her, like shadows within shadows, beneath the penumbra of Garrett’s black soul. The ghosts of the children, Roger and Miriam Hargrove, Roberto, Betty McCumber were all with her. And now, she might join them.

She must do something.

Her first impulse was to kick and scream and tear the cuffs from her wrists. But, that wouldn’t work. Rather it would betray the fact that she was now awake. She would lose the advantage of surprise, which seemed to be her only ally at the moment.

She took a slow, deep calming breath. Think, devise a plan, she told herself. Prayer wouldn’t hurt.

She took inventory of her surroundings. She was in the back of a vehicle. From the smell of the tarp, the stench of old fishing gear, and the faint odor of cigar residue, she figured it was Charlie’s Jeep. From the whine of the tires and the rumble of the engine, she sensed the vehicle was moving rapidly. To where? Who was driving? Garrett? Charlie? Was Charlie here? Alive?

The Jeep was definitely on a paved road, but not I-40. The road sounds she could hear were not freeway noises. At this rate, traveling in a fairly straight line, that left two choices. Route 66 or Main Street north of town.

The Jeep slowed, swung to the left, and began bouncing and pitching. She realized the driver had turned off the paved road onto a rutted dirt road. Where? Why? She liked none of the answers that came to mind. Only one place made sense, given the circumstances. Garrett was returning to Devil’s Playground, where he had carved up the children, where he probably planned the same fate for her.

She must free her hands if she wanted to survive. Now, with her movements masked by the gyrating Jeep, may be her only chance. Her handcuff key lay in the bottom of her shirt pocket. She must get to it.

She hunched her shoulders forward, downward and slid her cuffed hands beneath her buttocks. Being careful to move the tarp as little as possible, she drew her knees to her chest and her heels tightly against her. Her shoulders ached, the cuffs tore at her wrists, but she just managed to clear her feet and bring her hands to her waist.

Something fell against her body, her face. Something cold and hard. She slowly moved her bound hands forward and upward until her fingers closed around the object. A fishing rod. Definitely Charlie’s Jeep.

 The road smoothed out; the bouncing and bumping lessened.

She eased her hands upward, careful not to dislodge the rod from its position. The cuff chain released a muffled rattle. She held her breath, but the Jeep continued to move forward, unchanged.

Her right hand reached her pocket. Two fingers crept inside and brushed against the key. Using her index and middle fingers as tweezers, she precariously gripped the key and slowly slid it toward the top of the pocket.

She felt the fishing rod as it lay against the back of her hand. Careful, she told herself, but the rod slipped, sliding away from her. The metallic rattle echoed through the Jeep’s box-like interior. She froze, breath held in mid-inspiration.

“Hello, Samantha.” Garrett’s voice came from the driver’s seat.

“Where’s Charlie?” She continued easing the key upward. She must get it firmly between her thumb and forefinger or risk losing it.

“In jail.” He laughed. “How ironic. The Sheriff in his own jail and the deputy my prisoner.”

“Listen, Garrett. Don’t do anything stupid.” The key neared the pocket’s opening.

“Such as killing an officer of the law?” he mocked.

“That’s right.” She clasped her thumb over the key, securing it.

He laughed. “What a pathetic argument. You still don’t understand do you?”

“Understand what?” She twisted her wrists and attempted to align the key with the hole in the cuffs. The metallic restraints dug into her flesh.

“It was me all along. Connie Beeson, Miriam Hargrove, Roberto Sanchez, Betty McCumber. Even the two Mexicans. Walter Limpke and Carl Angelo were so helpful. Of course, they didn’t have much choice.”

The truth of what he said attacked her like a thousand tiny knives, prickling her skin. “I don’t believe you.”

“Sure you do. Ever since we dreamed together.”

She stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come now, Samantha. Don’t hurt my feelings. Surely, you remember our time together. How I held you, caressed you, penetrated you. And how you enjoyed it.”

“No.”

He laughed. “Denial of pleasure is so human, so false.”

She hated him. And hated herself for the truth of his words. She slid the key along the metal cuff, searching for the keyhole.

“I thought the devil made you do it. I thought he was in control.”

“He is. But, soon he and I will be equals. No longer master and servant, but partners, joined for eternity. A dyad that even God cannot defeat.”

“What do want from me?” she asked, trying to buy time, keep him talking. The key slid across the cuffs, occasionally catching the lip of the keyhole, but she could not engage it.

“I need you, Samantha.”

A chill coursed through her. “For what?”

“You're the one. My sacrificial lamb. My key to the kingdom.”

She hated it when she was right. No doubt remained, he was taking her to Devil’s Playground for a repeat of his previous performance. Panic slid upward from her gut, entwining itself around her throat. She swallowed hard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that. What the children started, you will complete. Through you, my union with Lucifer will consummated. Then, the war with the legions of God can begin.”

“Garrett, listen to me. You need help.” The key danced across the metal; her palms dripped sweat. Don’t lose the key, she told herself, frustration and fear growing by the second.

“I think you are the one that needs help. But, I don’t see the cavalry coming.”

“You’re sick. Can’t you see that?” The key brushed over the lock. She turned it one way and then the other trying to seat it.

"You don't believe that," he laughed. "You know who I am. What I need."

"I thought you said I had to come willingly."

"You did."

"No." She felt the key catch on the lip of the hole, but could not align it. She twisted it one way then the other, but it refused to seat itself. "I'd call hog tied in the back of a Jeep an abduction."

"Semantics. You came to the jail on your own."

"To beat you half to death."

"Still, you came."

"OK. You need me. I came. Now what?" The key danced across the hole, caught briefly, but sprang free as the Jeep lurched sideways.

"The final ritual," Garrett said. "The ultimate sacrifice. The giving to Lucifer that which I most cherish."

"Get real, Garrett. You don't cherish anything. You're not capable."

"You're wrong. I will make you my bride, then present your soul to my Prince."

"Listen, you psycho..."

The Jeep came to a sudden stop.

“No time for conversation, Samantha. I have preparations to make.”

The blow came suddenly. Pain shot through her shoulder. She tried to roll out of the way, but another blow slammed into her back. Fearful of losing the key, she slipped it in her mouth and shoved it between her upper teeth and cheek with her tongue.

Pain erupted from the back of her head. She fought to maintain her grip on consciousness, but it waxed and waned as a swinging ceiling light in a dark room will cast light, then darkness, followed by light again. She struggled to hold the light and fend off the darkness, but lost as thick, oily waves crashed over her, dragging her into their depths.

Sam fell from the darkness into an inverted world. Her momentary confusion quickly cleared and realization of her predicament smacked her square in the face. She dangled in mid-air. A rope, which hung from the thick crossbeam at the entry into an abandoned mine shaft, bound her ankles. Her handcuffed arms hung limply two feet above the floor as if she were an Olympic diver, plunging toward the water. Streaks of dried blood stained her arms. In the flat light of the full moon, they appeared as black as motor oil, dripping from a dying truck. Gravity pushed blood into her brain, which in turn pounded against her skull with each heartbeat. Her head felt as if it might split like a ripe melon. 

Cutting her eyes upward, she realized she was naked. She was also cold and terrified.

A fire flickered twenty feet before her in the open desert. Gusts of wind whipped its flames first one way and then the other as the cold currents twisted around and over the pile of rocks known as the Granite Mountains.

The sound of scrapping footsteps approached from behind her, from inside the mine. She closed her eyes and fought the urge to tremble against the cold breeze. She felt someone brush past her, and then through her closed lids, sensed a shadow cross between her and the red-orange flames. She cracked one eye.

Garrett.

He stacked a rock on top of a crude pile of other rocks near the fire. Sam recognized the formation immediately. An altar. Identical to the one she had found two months ago in exactly this spot, before this same mine, where the heartless corpses of the three children had hung.

A shiver ripped through her as Garrett lay a knife, his knife, on the rocks. He knelt before the altar and seemed to pray, his back to Samantha.

She turned her head one way and then the other, taking in the surroundings, while trying to control the panic that swelled inside her. Looking upward again, she noticed that the rope was not tied but rather looped in such a fashion that her weight pulled it tightly around her ankles. If she could reach the rope, she could pull herself up and slip her feet from their bonds.

First, she must ditch the cuffs. Her tongue found the key where she had tucked it.

Movement caught her eye. Garrett stood, turned toward her, and approached. She closed her eyes, trying to relax, playing opossum.

He walked around her, very near, his arm brushing against her. He stopped in front of her, inches from her nude body. She felt his hot breath play across her stomach. Then, the knife blade brushed against her, causing her stomach muscles to contract involuntarily.

“Are you with me, Samantha?” he whispered.

She remained motionless.

“I know you hear me.” The knifepoint traced across her belly, downward to her breasts. Its wicked tip flicked one of her nipples.

She jerked and twisted.

“That’s better,” he laughed.

“Get away from me, you bastard,” she hissed.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you love me anymore?”

“Fuck you, you sick son-of-a-bitch.”

He knelt so that their eyes met. His black pupils flickered with fire and oozed an evil older than Earth itself and darker than any Hell she had ever encountered in Sister Margaret’s Bible study classes.

Fear gripped her throat, squeezing her voice to a raspy whisper. “Why me?” she asked.

“Because you are pure of heart, Samantha. Innocent. Like the children. Because I love you. Because I must prove that I love nothing so strongly that I will not watch it die.”

She wanted to claw his face, rip his throat open. But, could she? She could lock her hands around his throat and hold on. It would never work. He had the knife and could kill her long before she could choke him into unconsciousness.

Patience, she told herself. Just like Jimmy said. Wait for the right moment, then attack. The right moment better come soon, she thought.

He drew the knife across her cheek. “So pretty,” he said. “What a pity it has to end this way for you. I truly love you, Samantha. I wish I could spare you.”

“You still can. Cut me down and leave. Disappear.”

“I can’t. I need you, now. My path to Lucifer requires that I deliver your soul to him.”

“You need help. Don’t you see that?”

“I see everything. It is you that is mistaken.”

He stood and walked behind her. The knifepoint skated across her back and up to her buttocks. He walked back to her front, trailing the knife across her ribs. Again he flicked one of her nipples.

“Get away from me,” she hissed. Her heart pounded against her chest and despite the cold, sweat erupted from her pores.

“You don’t mean that. I know you better than you know yourself.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I’ve been there. In your mind. In your body. Remember? We made love so passionately.”

The knife trailed across her stomach.

“And you enjoyed it,” he whispered. “You enjoyed it a great deal.”

The knife tip slid down her inner thigh to her tender lips. She froze, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

“Yes, you did,” he droned. The knife continued across her stomach, her breasts, to her throat. “Soon, very soon, we will begin.”

*

“How much farther?” Nathan asked, guiding the Mercedes through the ruts in the dirt road.

“About a mile.” Charlie said. “Turn off your lights.”

“But...”

“Turn them off,” Charlie growled.

Nathan switched off the headlamps and slowed the car. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he found the full moon lit the way better than he would have imagined. A half-mile down the road, they neared a rocky hill, which the road skirted to the left.

“OK,” Charlie said. “Pull over. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”

Nathan eased the car off the road and parked. They stepped out, met by a chilly gust of wind. “Where are we?” Nathan asked.

“This is Granite Mountain.”

“Looks like a pile of boulders to me.”

“It’s a mountain to us. Lot’s of mining used to be done in here. Not now.” Charlie nodded toward the expanse of flat desert to the west. “That’s the Devil’s Playground.”

“Where Garrett killed the kids?”

“Exactly.”

“You think this is where he brought Sam?”

“It’s the only place I could think of. Let’s hope it’s a good guess.”

They quickly moved along the road until the moon dipped behind the rocky escarpment, casting them into darker shadows. Suddenly, Charlie grabbed his arm and pulled him deeper into the darkness, near the rocks. He pointed. A hundred yards away a campfire glowed. Charlie’s Jeep sat near a rock outcropping just beyond. Garrett knelt nearby. Sam’s nude body, hung by her ankles in the mouth of a mineshaft, reflected the fire’s golden glow.