Spawn of Hell (22 page)

The ones in the cave had also been food. And the ones in the woods. Finally they had ventured out of their dwelling place, had found that in the darkness they could hide and make their way about unseen, though they had never gone far from the caves. The food had come to them. Now it was time, yes nearly time, for them to go to the food.

But not just yet. For they sensed that more food had somehow found its way into their dwelling place.

They waited for the food to come closer . . .

Aiming his flashlight towards the right of the cavern, Walters found to his surprise that it illuminated a rather large body of water—an underground lake. He felt like a primordial man coming upon a stagnant prehistoric sea, a dead sea full of seaweed and the skeletons of Mesozoic creatures. He expected to see giant fish bones sticking out of the water. He stepped closer, ignoring the shrill (Ties of the bats circling up above, concentrating on the lake before him. Yes, it was huge. Absolutely huge. It stretched out towards the back of the cavern, becoming narrower as it turned into a stream which had rim through the earth for God only knows how long, before coming to rest in this monstrous pool near his feet.

The light was reflected by the water, chasing away some of the surrounding shadows. The Chief looked around and saw piles of bones, hundreds of them. Animal bones. And a few that looked . . . human.

Jeffrey,
he thought. And then he turned his head back to the underground sea because he sensed movement. Yes, something was rippling the surface of the water, just beneath the tiny bubbles that were rising to burst upon the air. Yes, he could see something. He could see . . .

Oh my God!

The lake . .. the lake was literally alive with hundreds of—there was only one way his mind could describe them—
things,
horrible man-sized
things
with eyes, bright, flashing eyes. And each pair of eyes was focused on him!

The water parted and the things came out. Chief Walters bolted, screaming and running through the pile of ghastly bones, stepping on bits of cartilage, shattering and cracking the pieces beneath his heavy feet. He stumbled and fell to the ground, felt the sharp pain of something jagged caught under his leg. He tried to get up, but couldn’t.

These creatures were hungry; some had not been fed in weeks.

Joseph Walters closed his eyes, for he could look no longer. He felt the stabbing pains as needle-like appendages were thrust brutally into his body. Felt his blood dripping out, draining away. Felt teeth—huge, grinding jaws—ripping away chunks of flesh, biting all the way down to the bone. Heard the horrible eating, swallowing noises of the creatures as they consumed him. Heard the soft roar in his ears as death approached, the rush of blood hurtling towards the gaping wounds in his body. He felt the rendering tear of muscle, the popping and wrenching of sinew and bone. Blood was lapped. Cartilage sucked. Flash gnawed away.

Calm and satiated after their gorging frenzy, the wave of hungry creatures subsided. The lake bubbled briefly as they returned to the water; bubbled, billowed and at last settled down.

All was still.

Chapter Nine

The Milbourne Motel was not exactly the lap of luxury, but it would have to do. David felt at home here; he suspected he would feel at home anywhere as long as Anna was with him. He had gotten used to Anna. That was it. He knew it seemed ridiculous—after all, how long had they known each other? A couple of days? They’d spent one night together, then a few hours one evening after that, and all day today. Yet he had seen her in her most vulnerable state, and therefore understood her better. Not only had they been “intimate,” but they’d been
personal,
probably the more important of the two. He had tried, in his way, to share her pain.

True, that had not yet come about in reverse. Anna had not yet had a chance to see him vulnerable, to feel his need for her. Or could she sense his loneliness, his desperate need for companionship, his need for love of a certain kind? Did she think he was merely starstruck, or
so
desperate that anyone would do? Did
she
feel the same closeness that he did? Some day he would find out. He had to. He was getting in too deeply. He lay on the bed wrapped in a towel, and waited for her to come out of the shower.

Anna’s thoughts were similar as she washed away the dirt and tears of the afternoon, the grime of this most depressing of days. Yet in some ways it had been a happy day, too. Because of David. Because David was there. Not because he was a man, coming to the rescue of a damsel in distress, but because he
was
David, someone she liked and trusted, and maybe—though she told herself again that it was much too soon—even loved a little.

She wanted to make love to him now, and refused to let thoughts of her brother interfere. It would be no crime against Jeffrey to share this man she cared about, knew so little of, this evening. She knew her desire for him, on the carnal level at least, came not just out of a need to be comforted and held, although she needed that, too. No, she felt pure lust for him as, she was sure, he felt for her. They had both enjoyed it that first time. The second time would be even better.

She cried again in the shower, thinking of the beautiful things in life her brother would never feel or hear again, assuming he had ever had a chance to. How deep had his relationship with Paula Widdoes been? Ah yes, it was
she
Anna really cried for. The one left behind, the one suddenly left with nothing to do, no one to turn to in that special way that everyone needed.

She turned off the water, got out of the stall, and toweled herself dry, checking her face in the misty-white mirror. She rubbed it with the palm of her hand. Were her eyes too bloodshot, too puffy? She would have laughed at her vanity, only it was no joking matter for a woman in her profession. Ever the model, checking for the first wrinkle, the first dreaded sign of a cold sore or pimple. The ugly lines of fatigue. Those were her greatest enemies. She could not turn it off, this compulsion to always check her beauty, to make sure it was still there. How she wished at times that she could be like other women, without this fear of growing older, of growing
old,
this lack of purpose, this gap in her sense of self-worth. Was it too late for her to break out of the chain of oppression, the rigid cocoon she’d been imprisoned in? She’d been taught for so many years to be a “lady,” to be feminine and proper and subservient, to dress and walk and eat properly, to subordinate herself to a man, any man. Yet, she was not really like that. Not any longer, if she ever had been. She was not subservient to Derek. But Derek was not faithful so there was no need to be. She was so confused, pulled apart by conflicting mores and patterns and social beliefs.

Derek was on the way out of her life—or rather she was on the way out of his. She would have to be the one to pack up and leave, as Derek had lived in that town-house long before he’d even met her, and she had no desire to stay there and live with old memories, especially since most of them would be unpleasant. She could probably get the house away from him if she tried, but who wanted it? So she was more or less free to pursue her relationship with David Hammond. Or was that the wrong move, a mere flight from independence, a rush to find some other form of masculine security? He seemed to be developing an intense feeling for her—it radiated out of him—or was it merely sexual attraction, a desire to fondle and touch and kiss an object that was held up to the world as a personification of female beauty? Did he see
her,
really see her for what she was, and did he like what he saw? Were his feelings as intense as hers obviously were? Maybe all his concern, his compassion, was just a reaction to her grief over Jeffrey—a natural softness and caring even strangers give to those who are in emotional or physical pain. But that had nothing to do with love, more with “Christian charity.” Was that all it was? Oh, how she wished she knew.

She stepped outside of the bathroom, her towel wrapped around her, and saw him smiling at her from the bed. He did not pat the mattress, the space next to him, in that friendly but vulgar manner like so many men did. He just smiled and waited for her to come over to him. When she sat on the bed, he asked her if her shower had been nice. She answered the question as if his words had been profound, sighing yes in a low, clear voice, bending over to place her mouth gently above his. His lips pushed upwards, pursing to meet hers. The tips of their mouths touched gracefully, then blended together, their mouths suddenly opening wide, all lips and tongues and moans of pleasure. David’s arms went around her body, pulling her in close to him, enveloping her in a luxurious warmth and sexuality. She responded, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him over, all the way over, on top of her. She squirmed out of her towel, pushed him up momentarily so that she could pull it free and fling it across the room. David’s hands went out to the lamp on the night table by the bed. He extinguished it, then removed his own towel. He was stiff and ready, wanting her to feel how much he loved her, feeling definite lust without apology, but something
more
also, something that could not be spoken or communicated in any other way but this.

They seemed to melt into each other, the lights from the window speckling their bodies, creating a white-and-black pattern over the bed, a painted backdrop for their passion. He entered her and she cried out with joy. Her fingers scraped his back, grabbed the edge of the sheet. He covered her lips and face and neck and eyes with gentle kisses. His head went back and he moaned softly.

Her fingers found his face and she drew him in for a lingering kiss that seemed to last for the remainder of their night together.

Back in the Hall of Records—a pretentious designation if ever there were one, as it was only a small, cluttered room—Harry poured over various forms and leaflets, looking for further information on Hank Danielson and the Barrows Corporation. Miss Elden, the mousy creature who was mistress of the record room, waited impatiently at her desk in the corner. It was five minutes to five and she was anxious to get home, shove a TV dinner in the oven, and watch the news while whatever it was in the package baked until ready. Under normal conditions her disposition was nice enough. Now it was strained and irritable.

“Have you found what you’re looking for yet, Mr. London? It’s almost closing time,” she reminded him.

“Uh, yes. Yes. Almost there,” he replied. “Just give me a moment more, please. Just a moment more.”

He had found the floor plans of the Forester Building, an old tattered copy that had been lying in back of a drawer since the year one. Each floor had been outlined and built to specification. The Corporation had apparently not made any changes in the design. No new rooms or partitions. No walls knocked down. All that had to be explained was that big hole in the northeast corner.

Chief Walters had said that as far as he knew the hole had not been there when the building had been shut down a few months before. Yet, Harry had always wondered why they’d shuttered a perfectly good building, especially when there’d been civic groups and the like clamoring for office space and meeting halls. It didn’t make sense—even Walters admitted that. Harry recalled someone on the town council mentioning something about “structural weaknesses”; who had it been? It had happened so long ago; no one had paid that much attention, too concerned at that particular meeting with zoning laws and property taxes and other things of larger concern. Whatever, it indicated that the damage to the building might well have happened before it had been closed down; in fact, might have made it imperative to close it down in the first place. Why had no one been honest about it? He could understand the town not wanting to pay good money to fix the old place up when there were better ways to use the cash. But why all the secrecy? Who’d been bought off to hush the whole thing up? (For that matter, why was there such a hush-hush atmosphere surrounding Jeffrey’s autopsy?) He shrugged; there he was—imagining conspiracies and counterplots. He read too many paperback thrillers, that was what was wrong with him.

“Are you about
through,
Mr. London?” came the nasal voice again from the other end of the room.

“Look, might I borrow this for a few days?” He indicated a pile of papers on the table beside him. “And these other documents?”

Miss Elden looked as though he had expressed an intention to set fire to the record room. “Borrow?” she said in disbelief. “No one
borrows
material from the Hall of Records, Mr. London. This is not a library.” She let out with an involuntary chuckle, as if he were a child who’d committed a ridiculous but charming faux pas.

“Can’t you make exceptions, Miss Elden? This is rather important.’

She started to approach the table, tugging on the edges of her sweater, which she’d placed over her shoulders without pulling her arms through the sleeves. She was so hunched over from the chill in the room it was unlikely the sweater would fall off. “Just what
are
you looking for, Mr. London? “

Harry was in no mood to be cross-examined. Like every worm, Miss Elden had turned. The sweet, quiet mouse apparently changed into a tiger every night at five o’clock. “I’d like to go home,” she snapped in response to his silence. He had turned away from watching her advance, and was again studying the floor plans. “What
is
it you’re looking for?” she bristled.

Oh, hell—maybe if he took her into his confidence she’d let him stay a little longer. Out in the hall the janitor was moving about, shutting off lights and checking doors. “Look,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. He motioned for her to bend down so she could study the document on the table.
“This
one is the floor plan to the basement of the Forester Building. Notice anything unusual? “