All Hallow's Eve (14 page)

The man looked up, spotted the detective’s badge, and threw himself toward the other side. His hand fished around under the railing.

“Looking for this?” Paxton asked the scruffy sailor as he held up a small Saturday night special.

“Hey!” Gimpy shouted, pulling the rain slicker over his head. “You can’t do this! You don’t even have a warrant!”

Paxton hopped inside the small fishing vessel. “And what would we need a warrant for, Gimpy?”

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” Gimpy insisted.

Ruth too jumped down into the boat. “Besides launching against the Coast Guard’s orders? I believe that is a felony.”

The man shuffled between Paxton and Ruth. “I was just … just … just prepping my rig for the storm.”

“Sure,” Ruth snorted. “And I’m a size four.”

Actually, Paxton would have guessed that she was, but who was he to judge a chick’s figure? Gimpy, however, looked ready to dive right into the water to get away from her.

“Calm down, Gimpy. We aren’t here to bust your chops. We just need a lift.”

The informant’s eyes darted back and forth between them. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Ruth stated. “Get us to the island, and the night is yours.”

But Gimpy backed away, shaking his head. “You’re just gonna get over there, then call the Coast Guard on me.”

Paxton caught Gimpy by the back of the shirt. “Don’t ferry us over, and we’ll call the Coast Guard over right now and search this tub. What would they find, Gimp? Huh?”

As the boat rocked violently and Paxton got soaked for the second time tonight, the informant chewed his thumbnail.

“Just taxi you over, right?” Gimpy asked.

“You got it,” Paxton answered.

“No bull? No FBI, no cops, and no Coast Guard?”

Ruth put her hand on Gimpy’s shoulder, but Paxton doubted that the gesture gave the informant much comfort. “No—to all of the above.”

Gimpy hobbled over to the railing and threw Paxton a line. “Tie that to the mast, and then get below deck.”

Paxton did as instructed. Gimpy pulled the other lines as Ruth leaned into Paxton.

“Sometimes you’ve got to love the criminal element.”

If it was going to get Paxton across the lake faster, you bet he loved it.

* * *

Helen awoke to pain searing up her arm. She screamed as she found barbed wire tied around her wrists. She tugged at her arms, but that just dug the points in deeper. She screamed again. Helen knew that no one could hear her, not over the storm and the concert, but still she screamed.

“Oh, just wait,” that damned mechanized voice taunted her.

He then slammed a hammer into a spike that sliced through her skin. Through her muscles. Through her bone.

Helen wailed as the usher swung the hammer again. The pain was so intense that no sound she made could ever hope to express it, so she simply descended into sobs.

As the usher prepared another spike, Helen begged, “Please, no. No!”

But the second spike drove into her left wrist. Her vision expanded and contracted. Her pulse raced. Her clothes were wet with sweat and blood.

“Why?” she breathed out. “Why are you doing this?”

The killer cocked his head at her. “It is not for us to ask why, Helen. Surely Sister Switzler told you that.”

Of course she had. Helen’s head spun. Sister Switzler? How had the usher known her vice principal?

“Oh, my God!” Helen stammered out. “You go to my school!”

“And they all said you weren’t too bright,” the mechanized voice said. “We will see how the rest fare.”

He swung the hammer again, shattering her wrist and all hope.

* * *

Cecilia stood four feet away from the buffet table. Michael had been gone awhile, and the crackers hadn’t lasted all that long. But still, she was loath to go to the food table. She had just gotten her stomach settled. She didn’t need fake leeches and intestines to unsettle it again.

The speakers rattled overhead, broadcasting Diana Dahmer’s message of world peace and love.
Yeah, right
. While she wanted to know that Helen was okay, Cecilia was not quite sure how she was going to last an entire dance to this so-called music.

But, no matter. She needed to eat. Scooting a step closer, Cecilia eyed the table suspiciously. Luckily, it appeared kids far braver than she had dug into the food, distorting its original, grotesque shape. It turned out that Frannie was right. They did have chicken wings. Gulping, Cecilia took another step closer. And what was once brain matter now looked more like egg salad.

Cecilia grabbed for a plate, but someone grabbed her wrist. She turned to find John smiling a harsh grin down at her.

“I see you finally ditched that loser.”

Cecilia snatched her hand back. “Actually, he is checking on Helen for me.”

“That redheaded bitch? You really need to ditch that crowd and hang with people who actually know how to roll.”

“Like you?” she asked, as John beamed. “No thanks. I’ll take my chances with the demon worshippers.”

John slammed his fist down onto the table hard enough to make the desserts nearly bounce off of it.

“I am not joking.”

“Neither am I,” Cecilia said, through clenched teeth. She glanced around. Where was Michael? Or even an usher?

“Come with me. I’ve got something to show you,” John implored as he pointed toward the backstage area. “They’ve got these awesome rooms where we can be alone.”

Cecilia noted a set of long scratches on John’s neck. Plus, images from the “torture” room were permanently etched in her brain.

“I’ve seen what goes in those rooms, John, and I am not interested.”

John stepped forward so that he towered over her. “You’re not the only girl here, you know.”

“Thank
Gawd!
”

Red flushed John’s checks as his fingers curled into fists. “You’re going to pay for that, bitch.”

Cecilia had no idea what John would have done if an usher dressed as Frankenstein hadn’t walked up. “Hey, fresh chicken wings!”

John turned on his heel and stomped off, leaving Cecilia shaken. Exactly how far would John go to end this rivalry?

“So nobody’s sure who the girl…” Michael said from behind her, but once he saw her face, he frowned. “Cec, are you okay?”

She put a hand on his arm. “I am now.” His smile helped warm her and shake off John’s fury.

“You were saying something about Helen?” she asked.

“Yeah. Security didn’t get the name of the girl, and the story is that one of the ushers let her back out into the crowd.”

“So we still aren’t sure if it was Helen?”

Michael shrugged. “It could have been Helen, or she and Quentin are holed up somewhere making out.”

Cecilia felt like they should go out and look again. However, she really did not know how many of those “fun” rooms she could take. Plus, what if they ran into John again? Without a bat or an usher to keep the jock’s temper in check, who knows what could happen?

“I know that I didn’t deliver Helen, but how about that one dance?”

Cecilia looked out over the dance floor. The lights were dimmed as Diana Dahmer’s band struck up a softer tone.

“This song’s got kittens in it,” Michael teased.

Cecilia frowned. “To sacrifice.”

Michael grimaced. “Maybe we won’t listen to the lyrics?”

“Just this one,” Cecilia said, wanting to fulfill her obligation in case Helen showed up and they could leave this wretched island.

* * *

Ruth held onto the boat’s console as they hit another huge wave head-on. Water cascaded down, hitting the windshield and swirling on the deck. Now out in the storm, Ruth could understand the Coast Guard commander’s concern. Perhaps they should have waited. But with her son out there?

On the one hand, Ruth was proud that Evan had done something—anything—a little bit brave. She knew she should be mad that he had lied to her and gone to this concert without permission, but she was having a hard time scrounging up the anger. After his father left, Evan had pulled into himself. He had never been a social butterfly, but the move seemed to shatter him.

He was like a ghost walking in her son’s skin.

Of course, he decided to assert his rebellious streak right when a serial killer was on a rampage. But hey, at least he was coming out of his shell. Now she just had to make sure Evan was safe enough to enjoy it.

“We’re going to get there in time,” Paxton whispered in her ear.

She could only hope so. Ruth looked at Gimpy. As awkward as he was on his feet, the informant steered the boat with a sure hand. Even when it seemed certain that the next wave was going to knock them off course, if not capsize them completely, Gimpy stared straight ahead, watching for the next wave, preparing to hit that one square on as well.

“Did you see that?” Paxton said, pointing ahead.

A group of lights flickered in the distance, but then another wave rose up, blocking the view. But it was their first sighting to prove that Gimpy wasn’t just hauling them out to the middle of the lake to dump their bodies.

“How much longer?” she asked Gimpy.

“Depends on if we survive this next swell.”

Ruth looked up to find a veritable wall of water in front of them.

“Holy …” Paxton did not finish his sentiment. He didn’t need to.

“Grab hold of something!” Gimpy yelled.

Paxton wrapped his arm around Ruth and pulled them to the floor. Both of them grabbed hold of the railing. Glass shattered above them, spraying into them as the wall of water hit. The deluge drenched them. Ruth’s hand began to slip. She tried to regain her grip, but the boat bucked into another wave.

Water poured into the bridge, nearly filling it. Ruth could hear the boat’s motor chug, then give out. With no forward momentum, the boat began to tilt back. The water tried to carry her and Paxton with it.

But her partner’s firm arms were around her waist, securing her to him. His other arm held them fast to the boat.

Gimpy cursed as blood ran down the side of his face. He tried to restart the engine as lightning flashed.

Ruth panicked as she realized that they were nearly vertical to the water. One more wave… One more wave, and they would have an express water burial.

But then the motor sputtered to life and lifted them up. Then the bow slammed back down onto the lake’s surface.

As they regained their footing, Paxton shook off a waterslide of lake water.

“Next time? Next time we listen to the commander.”

Yeah. Ruth couldn’t argue with that suggestion at all.

* * *

Cecilia leaned her cheek against Michael’s shoulder, at first tentatively, and then, with a sigh, more fully. They swayed to the rhythm. If she closed her eyes, and her
ears
, she could imagine they were dancing on a rooftop alone. Just she and Michael.

This is how it was supposed to be, wasn’t it—if she didn’t have to worry about her brother and her mother all the time? If bills and utility company messages weren’t constantly on the voice mail? She could just sway to the music, feeling Michael’s heartbeat against her cheek. It was so perfect. Well, except for the death-row kittens, but Michael was right. She could just ignore Dahmer and focus on them.

Cecilia lifted her face up to find Michael looking down at her. She smiled. He smiled. Could they really capture some kind of magic from this doomed night?

Michael’s finger caressed her chin, tilting it up even more as he leaned down. Cecilia’s mouth parted slightly, ready to receive his kiss, when the ballad ended and guitar music screeched once again. But she ignored even that as their breath mingled. Each was not sure if the other was ready.

Then a bloodcurdling scream came from overhead. Everyone looked up.

High above them, from the catwalk, a huge cross hung down over the stage. But the object wasn’t just a cross. A girl was crucified upon it. And not just any girl. It was her friend.

“Helen!” Cecilia screamed as her friend swung overhead, then back toward the stage.

“Help!” her friend cried.

“Help her!” Cecilia screamed, pointing to the cross. But everyone else thought it was nothing more than Diana Dahmer putting on a great show.

She turned to Michael. “That’s Helen!”

The cross began to swing back over to the audience, but one of the ropes broke, tilting the cross askew. The other rope broke, and the cross fell into the crowd.

Cecilia pushed her way forward. “Put her down!”

But the crowd, ignorant that a girl was about to die on that cross, lifted the object, and Helen, over their heads. The unholy spectacle surged forward and back, as if the audience were lifting Dahmer himself. But they weren’t carrying a rock star. They were carrying her friend. Helen was covered in blood. Not the sticky stupid stuff all over the mansion, but the real, bright red kind.