Devil's Playground (39 page)

Perception is reality. Nathan had said that hundreds of times. If someone perceived something to be true, then it was, no matter how bizarre, how impossible. Simple. Clean. Requiring no corroboration, no science or physics, no sanity or reality. Perception existed on its own, needing no support.

God, he hoped he was wrong.

Right now, the reality was that he was concealed in the shadows of the rocks. His perception, however, was that the full moon bored through the rocks, spotlighting him as if he were on a Hollywood movie set, that his heart pounded so hard against his chest that surely Garrett could hear it.

“Is she alive?” Nathan whispered.

“Don’t know.”

“What do we do?”

Charlie scanned the area. “You wait here.”

“But...”

“Wait here,” Charlie snapped in a low whisper. “Our only hope is to surprise him. I don’t know whether he’s armed or not. Other than his knife, which we know he took. If I can work my way up that wash,” he pointed to his left, “I might get close enough to dump him.” He pulled his gun from its holster.

“Wouldn’t two be better than one?”

“No. More likely he’d spot both of us. Wait here.”

*

Charlie slipped into the wash, a five-foot deep, thirty-foot wide, gash through the desert floor, created by rainwater runoff. It cut diagonally away from him, passing twenty yards to the left of where Garrett knelt, before disappearing into the darkness. The recent rains had softened the dirt beneath his boots.

Crouching, he moved forward and quickly covered the first sixty yards, then slowed to lessen the noise of his steps. He could see Sam more clearly. She was alive. She appeared to be watching Garrett as he conducted his ritual, while at the same time surveying her surroundings. Probably planning her escape.

Don’t move, Sam. Not yet.

If she would just hold on until he could get a clean shot.

Another twenty yards and he knelt, weighing his options. He could take a shot from here, maybe eighty, ninety feet from Garrett. But, if he missed and Garrett was armed, a shootout would put Sam in danger. If he continued to creep closer, Garrett might see or hear him and the ally of surprise would be lost.

After a moment of deliberation, he crept forward, hunched as close to the ground as possible. He carefully placed each foot, avoiding loose rocks and twigs as best he could.

His luck ran out.

A twig snapped under his boot, echoing through the still night air like the crack of a bullwhip.

Garrett’s head whipped toward him. Charlie raised his gun and squeezed off a shot.

The explosion of the weapon echoed through the night air; the strobe of the muzzle flash danced across the rocks.

Garrett rolled to his left.

Charlie fired again.

Garrett disappeared. Where was he? Did he vanish into thin air? Then, he saw him. Behind Sam, kneeling, his knife to her throat.

“OK, Sheriff. Come out where I can see you.”

Charlie remained crouched.

“Now. Or I’ll cut her to pieces.” Garrett grasped her ponytail and pulled her head back, exposing her throat.

Charlie trudged out of the ravine and faced Garrett.

“Ditch the gun.”

Charlie hesitated, looking at Sam, searching for some way to avoid giving up his weapon.

“Now.” Garrett demanded.

Charlie tossed the gun behind him, where it clattered down the slope into the wash.

“Come over here,” Garrett ordered. “I should’ve killed you at the jail, but I was in a benevolent mood. But, not anymore. Now, get over here.”

Charlie walked toward him. He spoke to Sam. “You OK?”

“She is for now,” Garrett snapped. "Who’s here with you?”

“No one.”

“How’d you get out of jail?”

“Keep an extra key in my boot,” Charlie lied.

“Clever,” Garrett hissed. “Turn around. On your knees.”

Charlie complied, Garrett snatched Charlie’s handcuffs from his belt. “Put your hands behind your back.” He ratcheted the cuffs tightly on his wrists, then lifted Charlie to his feet. “Welcome to the ceremony.”

“Don’t you touch her,” Charlie snapped.

“Or what?” Garrett sneered.

“I’ll kill you.”

“You had your chance. You’ll not get another.” He pushed Charlie toward the fire. “Now, sit down and enjoy the show.”

“Listen, you...”

Garrett backhanded him across the face. “Be quite or I’ll set your clothes on fire. Hear me?”

“Do as he says, Charlie,” Sam said.

“Yeah. Do as I say,” Garrett said.

Sam watched as Garrett returned to the altar and picked up the knife, its thick blade reflecting the red-orange flames of the adjacent fire. Holding it high above his head, he shouted into the black sky, “Lucifer. Your sacrifice is prepared.”

Sam felt the wind increase slightly, pebbling her bare flesh.

Garrett continued. “Lucifer. Come forth and welcome your disciple into your service.” He turned toward Sam. “Her heart will be yours and I will be your confederate for all eternity.”

The flames leaped higher as if feeding on the air above them. Sam could feel none of their heat from where she dangled, rather only the cold breath of the desert night and the damp coolness of the air that drifted upward from the depths of the mine. She shivered uncontrollably.

Her tongue slid along the key that she had secreted between her cheek and gum. If she were going to get out of this alive, she must free herself from the cuffs that bound her wrists and from the rope that wound around her ankles and suspended her three feet above the hard rock floor of the mine’s threshold.

Garrett orbited the fire in a slow counter-clockwise circle, head down, knife cradled in his out-stretched palms, his incantations now a low mumble, which Sam could not decipher.

Could she unlock the cuffs and slip her feet free while he had his back to her? She counted as he circled.

Twelve seconds.

It took twelve seconds from the moment he turned his back to her until he reached the far side of the flames where he would be able to see her again.

Was that enough time? It would have to be. Otherwise, she and Charlie were both dead.

She tensed, focused on every step Garrett took. He shuffled toward her, across in front of the flames, then turning, began to move away.

Before she could move, she sensed motion to her left. She looked, but saw nothing. Then, again. Something lurked behind Charlie’s Jeep a hundred feet away. Who? What? A curious coyote? Satan himself?

Suddenly, Nathan hurtled from the shadow of the Jeep and raced toward Garrett. Garrett jerked around to face him just as Nathan leaped on him. They fell to the ground, wrestling and rolling in the sandy soil. They clutched and clawed at each other and slammed fists into the other’s face. 

Garrett rolled on top of Nathan and raised the knife, but Nathan grasped his wrist. With his other hand, Nathan pounded Garrett’s face, but Garrett laughed, unfazed.

Charlie, hands still cuffed behind his back, charged Garrett, knocking him to the ground with his shoulder.

Now is the time, Sam thought. Adrenaline stoked her, giving her renewed strength. She tongued the key from its hiding place and pinched it between her thumb and forefinger. Twisting her hands she aimed the key at the lock. In the dim light, she could not see to align it. Careful, she told herself, if you drop the key, you’re dead. She scratched the key along the metal cuffs, searching for the keyhole.

Garrett jumped to his feet and chopped the heel of his hand across Charlie’s throat. Unable to protect himself, Charlie absorbed the full force of the blow. He dropped to his knees, coughing and gagging.

Nathan slammed a fist against Garrett’s head, high, above his ear. Garrett slashed at him with the knife, but Nathan jumped back. Again and again, Garrett cut the air between them, moving closer to Nathan with each swipe of the blade.

The key clicked into place. Sam twisted it and the cuff on her left wrist sprung free. She flexed her body upward and grasped the rope, pulling herself up. The rope slackened and she slipped her right foot free. As she attempted to extract the other foot, her grip failed and she fell. A knife-like pain shot through her left hip as she dangled by one foot.

Garrett looked up at her and started to move toward her, but Nathan stepped between them. Garrett lashed at him furiously with the knife, but Nathan sidestepped the attack and landed a solid right hand against Garrett’s jaw. Garrett staggered backwards.

Again, Sam flexed upward and tugged her other foot free. She dropped to the ground, landing on her left shoulder with a thud, air escaping her lungs in a wheezing bolus. She leapt to her feet. Her hip protested and her shoulder ached. No time for pain or injury now, she told herself. She quickly unlocked the cuffs from her other wrist and tossed them to the ground.

Garrett feinted one way, then brought the knife down toward Nathan, who attempted to slide out of its arcing path, but was not quick enough. The knife buried deeply in his shoulder. Nathan grimaced and clutched at the weapon, dropping to the ground. Garrett turned to face Sam.

“You’re mine now,” she hissed at him, rage coiling in her like an angry cobra.

“I don’t think so,” Garrett sneered.

She circled him to her right, then fired a wide left hook that landed against his face.

He stumbled backwards, but quickly regained his balance.

She followed, landing a right to his body and a left high on his head.

He backpedaled.

“You’re going to pay for what you’ve done,” she said and slammed a right into his face.

Blood trickled from his mouth. He smiled. “Things are never as they seem, Samantha.”

Garrett released a low sonorous laugh. His eyes flashed crimson and his pupils mutated into reptilian gashes. His face elongated, as did his ears. His nose narrowed and sharpened. Sam felt as if she beheld more than Garrett’s insanity, more than the face of his alter ego Beelzebub, and was looking into the soul of Satan himself.

She pressed forward with a sense of urgency. A right, a left, another right landed sharply against his face, ripping his flesh, exposing a glint of bone beneath his left eye. Blood erupted from the deep laceration and cascaded down his neck. She threw a left hook, which Garrett sidestepped and circled behind the fire. He glared at her through the glow and wispy smoke.

He again expelled a raspy growl, his breath flowing from his gaping mouth in purple billows. His eyes burned ruby red and emitted bolts of crimson light.

Sam was certain she was going crazy. No other explanation fit.

The fire between them flashed a bright green and the night sky transmuted to a creamy orange.

Energy seemed to bleed from her. She could barely hold her fists up.

She stared at Garrett, mesmerized by his fiery eyes. The gash beneath his left eye exuded scales, which spread across his face, down his neck, to his chest and arms. Sharp claws protruded from his fingertips and a black tongue snaked inquisitively between two sharp fangs.

He was becoming Snakeman before her eyes.

This is all your imagination, she told herself. It’s not real. Or was it Garrett in her head again? Like her dreams? Like Walter’s dreams. Garrett was taking control of her.

And if he did? Then what? She would have no chance against him. She must attack now. Finish him. Yet, she remained frozen, unable to move.

A seductive murmur arose within her brain. She could make out none of the words, but the meaning of the purring voice was clear.

She turned toward Nathan, who lay on the ground near her. She knelt, grasped the knife, and yanked it from his shoulder.

He cried out and clutched the wound. His face paled and sweat erupted on his forehead. He appeared as though he might pass out at any moment.

Inside her head, another voice erupted, screaming at her to help him, to protect him, but the voice sank as the murmuring swelled in her head. She raised the knife over him.

Garrett seemed to float through the fire toward her. He stopped at her side and rested his hand on her shoulder.

“Sam. What are you doing?” Nathan said. Fear and confusion etched his face.

Garrett said nothing but she sensed his unuttered command. Like a soft seductive whisper, it seeped through the wailing chorus of voices and the swirling ribbons of color in her brain, demanding attention, obedience.

She looked down at Nathan. He was vulnerable, helpless, his eyes begging her to help him. She wanted to, but could only raise the knife higher.

Nathan grabbed her other hand and looked into her eyes. “Sam. Don’t.”

The colors that filled her world flickered, faded, and then returned, in waves of increasing intensity.

“Sam. It’s me. Nathan.”

Again, the colors rippled and began to fade.

Garrett’s soft command intruded, snapping the colors to renewed brightness. Her grip on the knife tightened.

“Sam,” Nathan said. “What’s wrong with you?”

She looked into his eyes. They pleaded with her, tore at her heart.

She started to lower the blade, but Garrett’s siren’s song murmurings wound themselves around her thoughts, obscuring everything else. Swirls of color in soothing, seductive hues enveloped her mind.

From the chaos, Jimmy’s face appeared and spoke to her, repeating what he had said so many times. “You must reach deep inside, where you live, where your soul lies, where your strength dwells, and grab hold. This alone will pull you through.”

Jimmy’s face receded and with it the colors dimmed, faded, fell away.

In a flash, Sam turned and drove the knife deep into Garrett’s belly.

Garrett screamed and clutched at his stomach, ripping the knife free. He slammed his foot into the side of Sam’s face. She fell onto her back, dazed, the world spinning.

Garrett leaped on her and slashed at her with the knife. She deflected his thrust and landed a left to his jaw. He toppled off her and she rolled away.

She sprang to her feet as Garrett lunged at her, the knife in his right hand. Side-stepping the thrust, she landed a rapid-fire three-punch combination to his bloodied face.