The Killing Room (30 page)

Douglas moved stealthily down the hall, holding the rifle in front of him. He’d loaded up with more ammunition in the library, knowing it might take several shots to bring David Cooke down. He could hear the commotion in the foyer. Leaning his back up against the wall, he peered around the corner.

Ryan was crumpled at the other side of the room. David Cooke stood in the middle of the floor. He had clearly just hurled Ryan against the wall. And from somewhere above—or below, or maybe from everywhere—came Malcolm’s laughter. The child was delighted with the show.

The zombie was now beginning to lumber toward Ryan once again. Douglas lifted the rifle and looked through the finder. He steadied his grip, focused his aim. David Cooke stopped walking, seeming to sense he was being watched. He began to turn. Douglas pulled the trigger.

Cooke took a direct hit just above his left ear. A chunk of his head tore away, exposing gray brain matter. But once again, there was no blood.

But still the zombie walked. He turned, facing Douglas now. Douglas fired again. This time the bullet tore into Cooke’s neck. He staggered, but kept approaching. Douglas fired a third time. This time, blowing yet another hole into the undead man’s chest, Douglas accomplished what he had set out to do. David Cooke fell over backward with a loud thud, his mutilated head cracking against the marble floor. Malcolm’s laughter abruptly ended.

Douglas rushed over to Ryan, who was woozy and confused from the thrashing he’d endured.

“Get up!” Douglas ordered. “Get up before he revives!”

Ryan looked at him. “Did you…did you just save my life?”

“Yeah,” Douglas said sullenly. “I just did.”

He helped his cousin to his feet.

“Hurry up,” Douglas said. “I’ll take you to the library.”

“Is it safe there?”

“It’s not safe anywhere until we can unplug the power that keeps that zombie walking,” Douglas said.

Even as he said the words, he saw Cooke stirring. The creature was trying to stand. Its right arm flexed as it tried to leverage its body off the floor.

“Hurry!” Douglas urged, pushing Ryan along.

They were crossing the floor of the foyer when Cooke sat up. Ryan screamed.

“Move!” Douglas shouted, and they began to run.

Cooke was on his feet in seconds. With his long legs and extraordinary speed, he was able to sprint across the foyer, blocking their access to the corridor that led to the library. The zombie growled like a bear, its dead eyes fixed on them.

“Quick!” Douglas yelled, grabbing Ryan’s arm. “In here!”

He shoved him into the dining room, then turned to aim his rifle at Cooke from the double doors. He fired. He missed. His hands were trembling. He fired again. He barely nicked Cooke’s shoulder. The zombie was no more than two feet away from them.

“Goddamn you!” Douglas screamed and fired directly into the creature’s chest.

The impact was enough to stop Cooke’s approach, but he didn’t fall. He swayed for a moment, then regained his balance. Reaching out with a sudden move, he grabbed the rifle from Douglas’s hands and snapped it in half.

Ryan screamed. Behind Douglas, he slammed the doors of the dining room closed, leaving his cousin outside. Douglas spun around, banging on the doors.

“Let me in, Ryan!” he called. “Let me in.”

But it was too late.

The cold hands of the zombie were around his throat.

Inside the dining room, Ryan could hear the maniac banging his cousin’s head against the doors. He cowered under the table.

That’s when he realized he wasn’t alone in the room.

From under the table, he saw the bare feet of a woman wearing a long white dress. She moved across the room almost as if she were gliding. She reached the doors and made a motion to open them.

“No!” Ryan cried, leaping out from under the table. “Don’t let him in here!”

But Beatrice paid him no mind. She pulled open the doors, and Douglas tumbled inside. David Cooke, upon seeing her, backed off.

Douglas was on the floor, blood gushing from his nose. He wasn’t moving.

Ryan stood over at him, once again in the zombie’s sights.

And Beatrice was gone.

David Cooke smiled. His teeth were broken; his head was partially blown off. But he seemed absolutely delighted.

“No, please!” Ryan begged. “You killed Douglas! Isn’t that enough?”

The zombie lunged.

Ryan had only a second to realize what was happening. David Cooke had grabbed him around the waist and was throwing him down onto the dining table. The laughter had returned. Suddenly, from the kitchen beyond, a shower of knives descended, each of them piercing Ryan’s body, pinning him to the table. Ryan screamed from pain and terror. Then David Cooke very gracefully removed a large serving platter from a hutch against the wall. Placing it on the table, he plucked one of the large knives out of Ryan’s shoulder. Then, as if he were a master chef—or the family patriarch on Thanks-giving—he began slicing off pieces of Ryan’s flesh. Tenderly he placed each piece on the platter. Blood flowed in rivers across the table and gushed onto the carpet below. Malcolm laughed as Ryan screamed, watching David Cooke slice his body into pieces. First his arms were defleshed, then his legs. The pain was excruciating, but somehow Ryan stayed conscious. Only when the knife was turned to his throat and began the process of delicately cutting out his Adam’s apple did his screams finally cease.

In the library, Carolyn and the others heard the screams and were certain that both Ryan and Douglas were dead. Holding back tears, Carolyn summoned the strength to call on Beatrice to help them.

They were standing in a circle. At first Jeanette had seemed resistant to grasp her uncle’s hand, but Carolyn had insisted they needed to make contact, to use their combined energy to summon Beatrice. Once the four of them were linked, Carolyn cleared her mind the way Diana had taught her to do. She struggled to keep thoughts of Douglas—which could only invoke despair, grief, and defeat—far from her mind.

“Beatrice Swan,” Carolyn said. “I know now why you came to me. I understand what you have been asking me to do. Help me now to accomplish this task.”

There was nothing. Carolyn feared for a moment that Beatrice had abandoned them, if perhaps they were too late.

But then it began to thunder. Rain hit against the windows in a sudden downpour. The day grew ominously dark. Occasional lightning lit up the room.

“Beatrice,” Carolyn called. “Help us to reunite you with your son.”

The door to the library blew open. A gust of damp air filled the room.

No longer was Malcolm laughing. He was crying. His anguished wails filled the house.

Gently Carolyn broke contact with the circle. “Wait here,” she whispered. “I will go out there. Beatrice will protect me.”

“Are you certain?” Jeanette asked.

Carolyn gave her a small smile. “No. I am not certain. If I don’t come back, try the circle again. Ask Beatrice to help you. At this point, it’s all we have.” She indicated the second rifle, leaning up against the wall. “That will slow David down, but not kill him. Use it as you need to.”

“You should take it with you,” Michael suggested.

Carolyn shook her head. “I’ve got to trust Beatrice.”

Slowly she stepped out into the hall. The air in the house was increasingly cold and damp. Carolyn shuddered once, hugging herself. Then she made her way to the foyer.

It was empty. Expensive vases and mirrors were smashed, and tables were overturned. But there was no sign of Douglas, Ryan, or David.

“Beatrice?” Carolyn whispered.

She crossed the foyer and noticed a trail of blood leading toward the dining room. The doors were open. Blood was everywhere. On the table, she saw the remains of a man, much of the flesh sliced off his body. His face was nearly gone, having been hacked down to expose the skull. Carolyn gasped in horror and revulsion.

Douglas? Was it Douglas?

But then, beyond the table, she saw another man lying on the floor.

She recognized Douglas’s shoes.

Was he dead too? She began hurrying toward him. But before she could get there, she felt a hand on the back of her neck. She spun around.

It was David.

All of her old terrors returned, coupled now with new ones. This man she had once loved now glared at her with dull gray eyes. The scar on his face was no longer the most hideous thing about him. Part of his head was torn away. His neck was ripped open, exposing dry gray veins. His body was riddled with bloodless bullet holes.

“Hello, Carolyn,” the zombie spoke in a throaty, gravelly voice that bore no resemblance to the one Carolyn remembered. David had been a singer, and a good one; it had been hard to believe, listening to him sing of love, that he was a cold-blooded murderer at heart. Maybe, then, this had been David’s real voice all along.

“You’re a monster,” Carolyn told him, still shaken by what she had seen on the dining room table. “Malcolm may be using you, but only an inherently evil nature could do such a thing.”

She managed to pull away from him. David’s lifeless eyes studied her as if she were a strange creature he had never seen before.

“I’ve been looking for you,” David said, a grin slowly spreading across his broken face.

She backed away, hoping that Beatrice would show herself and intervene, or at least find a way to keep David from hurting her.

“You can’t hurt me, David,” Carolyn told him. “I spent many years being afraid of you, but no longer. Your power ends now.”

David just continued to smile, taking small steps toward Carolyn. She backed up now, nearly tripping over Douglas’s body on the floor.

Beatrice.
Where was Beatrice?

Had Carolyn been wrong? Was Beatrice not going to protect her?

David’s smile grew wider. Then he lunged at her, gripping her throat with his cold, clammy hands.

What brought Douglas back to consciousness were Carolyn’s screams.

Blood was in his throat, so thick he could taste it. He was almost choking on it. At the same time, his shoulder pained him. It felt dislocated. His ears were ringing, and his head throbbed.

But still he knew Carolyn was in danger.

He forced himself to his feet, trying to keep his balance, trying to force his eyes to focus on the scene in front of him.

Carolyn was just outside the door. David Cooke was strangling her to death. Her screams had been replaced by an intense gagging.

Douglas leapt.

He had no idea if he had the strength. He had no idea if he’d even make contact with the brute. But all he needed to do was to dislodge him a bit, make him loosen the grip he had around Carolyn’s neck.

Douglas bounced off Cooke and fell back against the wall of the corridor. But it seemed his effort had done the trick. He could hear Carolyn now gulping in air. But still the zombie had her in his grip. Douglas tried to stand again, but this time the pain in his shoulder flared up so fiercely that it knocked him back to his feet.

In that moment came a huge bang. Douglas had no idea what it was until he saw David Cooke drop Carolyn onto the floor. Then came another bang.

Someone was shooting at Cooke.

Douglas managed to look over his shoulder. It was Uncle Howie, with the second rifle.

David Cooke roared in fury. There were now so many holes in his left shoulder that he could not seem to lift that arm. That’s when Douglas realized that if they couldn’t kill the creature, they could immobilize it.

Cooke was lumbering across the room toward Uncle Howie. The old man shot again, shrewdly aiming once again for the weakened shoulder. The left arm now hung limply at the creature’s side.

But with his right arm he still managed to haul off and backhand Uncle Howie across the face, sending the old man flying backward. The rifle clattered across the marble floor. Douglas knew he had a microsecond to act, or else Cooke would reach the gun first and then snap it in two like a matchstick, just as he had done with the other one.

Disregarding every muscle that screamed out in pain, Douglas threw himself across the floor, landing on the rifle. He could hear the pounding of Cooke’s footsteps behind him. Even without looking around, he knew the zombie was standing over him, reaching down to grab him, to twist in his body in half.

“I don’t think so,” Douglas cried, flipping over and in nearly a simultaneous move, pointing the rifle up at Cooke and firing directly at the beast’s wounded shoulder. The left arm blew completely off the body.

Cooke let out a long wail. With his right arm he made a grab for Douglas, but he was off balance now, and toppled to the ground. Douglas stood over him and fired twice more into the hole in his neck. The second shot severed the spine. No matter how much his body ached, Douglas managed one swift kick of the zombie’s head, snapping it free of the body and sending it rolling across the floor. All the while the creature’s mouth still moved in anger.

The body, too, wasn’t ready to quit. It tried to get back onto its feet by using its right arm. But Douglas kept shooting into the creature’s back, smashing the spinal cord to bits. Finally the zombie could do nothing but writhe on the floor. They had nothing more to fear from David Cooke.

But then Malcolm began to scream.

“Mr. Young!” Carolyn called, her voice raspy, her throat painful. “Talk to him! Talk to your son!”

The baby’s shrieks threatened to make them all deaf. The sound was like nothing they’d ever heard before. Sharp, shrill, piercing. It seemed to come from every brick, every beam of the house. Now deprived even of his toy—a zombie named David Cooke—Malcolm’s tantrum had gone over the edge.

“What am I supposed to say?” the old man asked as Carolyn helped him up off the ground.

“Tell him you will bring him to his mother,” Carolyn said.

The pitiful man just looked at her with his watery, bloodshot eyes. “How am I going to do that?”

“Ask her for forgiveness, and Beatrice will meet you halfway,” Carolyn told him.

How she knew that, she had no idea. All she could do right now was trust her gut. All the good psychic investigators she had worked with—Kip, Diana, many others—had told her that there were times when all you had left was your gut. And when that happened, your gut instinct would never steer you wrong.

“How can I dare ask for forgiveness for what I did?” Howard Young lamented. “I was a cowardly, ruthless young man motivated by greed. I coldly took three lives that night and in the process ruined dozens more lives over the course of the next eight decades. How could I possibly stand here and ask for forgiveness? I do not deserve forgiveness. I deserve damnation.”

Malcolm’s cries had dissolved into stuttering hiccups of fear and frustration.

“Your son is crying for you,” Carolyn told Howard.

The old man looked around the room.

“My son,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Carolyn said. “Your son.”

Mr. Young walked unsteadily into the center of the room, looking up at the high vaulted ceiling.

“Malcolm,” he said.

The crying flared up louder at the mention of the name.

“Malcolm,” Howard Young implored. “The time has come to end all the killing. The time has come when you can finally rest. I am here, my son. I am here to take you to your mother.”

The crying just went on, echoing throughout the house.

“Listen to me, Malcolm. I know you are alone. You are alone and frightened. I am your father. Don’t think that all these years you have been forgotten. I have lived with the horror of my deeds all my life. Over your grave I had a small stone inscribed with the letter
M
. I had a cherub carved to mark your place of rest, because that is how I came to think of you. As a cherub. But I know now that you were never at rest. And it is all my fault. All mine.”

His voice broke.

“But now I come for you,” Howard went on. “I will bring you to the mother you seek. Please, my son. Let me finally help you!”

The crying suddenly changed. Instead of being dispersed through the house, it was now localized. It came from one corner of the room. Carolyn looked in that direction. And there, on the floor, wrapped in nothing more than soft white blanket, was a little baby.

“Malcolm,” Howard Young gasped.

The baby lay on his back, his little pink hands clutching fistfuls of air. His face was red from crying.

“Go to him,” Carolyn told the old man.

Slowly Howard Young crossed the room. He gazed down at the baby on the floor. Then he stooped, and with difficulty, picked him up in his arms.

Carolyn braced herself for what might happen.

But all that occurred was that Malcolm stopped crying.

Douglas had come up beside her. “Where is Beatrice?” he whispered. “Will she not come to take her baby?”

“I don’t know,” Carolyn admitted.

“I know where she is,” Howard Young said, his eyes transfixed by the child he held in his arms. It was the first time he’d ever held his son, the first time he’d ever looked him in the face.

“In the room in the basement?” Carolyn asked. “Is that where you should take Malcolm?”

“No,” Howard said. “Not to the place where he died. I will take him to the place where he first came into this world.”

Slowly, and with great effort, he began climbing the stairs. Carolyn and Douglas followed a few steps behind. The baby cooed and gurgled in his father’s arms. Carolyn worried that after all he’d been through, Howard might fall or lose his footing on the stairs. But the old man didn’t waver. He kept ascending the marble staircase, and at the landing turned and continued up the next flight.

The attic. They were going to the attic.

Finally, they reached the top, stepping off into the small alcove with the view of the entire estate below. Carolyn felt Douglas take her hand. He had brought her here. It had been his special place. It had been a special place for Howard and Beatrice as well.

Through the large picture window they could see the storm had passed and the sun was setting. The sky was a liquid mix of pink and gold and blue. Howard stood in front of the window holding the baby.

“I have brought him to you, Beatrice,” he said. “Our son.”

Outside the window, in the gathering dusk, there was a swirl of white. Carolyn strained her eyes to see.

It was Beatrice.

“It is time we were a family,” Howard said. “It is long past time.”

Outside, in the darkening air, Beatrice beckoned.

And before Carolyn even knew what was happening, Howard Young, his son clutched to his chest, leapt forward, smashing through the large pane of glass.