MORTAL COILS (61 page)

Fiona
stepped closer to Eliot so they were elbow to elbow, hidden in the shadows.

The
man brought the flame to his face and puffed a cigarette to life. He looked
normal . . . at least on the right side, but he turned and Eliot got a better
look.

Eliot’s
breath caught in his throat.

On
the left side all the man’s hair was gone. His face was melted. His left ear
was missing, and one eye was white and blind.

It
was Perry Millhouse.

“I
heard you,” he rasped. “I’ve been expecting you both. I know you’re there
somewhere.”

Eliot
saw now that in his other hand Millhouse carried a gallon milk jug. Eliot could
smell the stench of gasoline.

“We
have to run,” Eliot whispered.

“You
think after what they did to me that you can kill me?” Millhouse turned to his
left. “You think I haven’t tried?” He turned around and shouted, “Come out!
Come out! Wherever you are!”

“If
he’s out here,” Fiona murmured, “then the little girl . . . ”

“Has
to be alone,” Eliot said. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.”
Fiona pulled out her shotgun.

Millhouse
released a great sigh. “Okay . . . so we do this the easy way. That can be fun,
too.”

He
pocketed his lighter, reached up, and wrenched an old-fashioned two-pronged
electrical switch. Sparks crackled as it made the connection.

The
shadows vanished. The carnival lit with a thousand blazing globes that strobed
and raced one another and made the faded colors pop with intensity.

Millhouse
turned and spotted them. “I have fire. That means heat, children . . . and
light.”

In
the light Eliot could see that Millhouse’s coverall was unzippered. His chest
and stomach were a mass of scars—not burns, but as if he had had a hundred
operations, and no one had bothered to properly sew it all up.

Eliot’s
heart hammered, but he finally found his breath. He turned to Fiona. She was
too terrified to move.

He
grabbed her hand and ran, pulling her along. This broke her trance.

Hand
in hand, they sprinted down the lane of carnival games.

The
flashing lights made Eliot dizzy. The colors blurred together. He dropped his
gaze to the straw-covered ground and kept moving.

Behind
them, he heard the sloshing jug and the man wheezing—getting louder.

“Shotgun
. . . ”

“I
can’t just shoot someone,” she said, half-pleading and half-panting.

Eliot
risked his balance and looked over his shoulder.

Millhouse
was only ten steps behind them.

“He’s
going to catch us! You have to.”

They
kept running, sprinting as fast as their legs would pump.

Millhouse
sounded close enough to reach out and grab them.

Fiona
suddenly stopped—whirled about, raising her shotgun.

She
screamed and fired.

Twin
flashes belched from the double barrels and the recoil knocked her over.

Millhouse
fell backward, rolled, and skidded to a stop.

The
milk jug bounced in front of Eliot—and he kicked it away, not wanting that
gasoline anywhere near him.

The
jug spun across the lane; its cap popped off and gasoline glugged out.

Fiona’s
face was frozen, horrified as she looked at the crumpled man. She dropped the
smoking shotgun and got to her feet.

“I
killed him,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”

“We’ll
call 911,” Eliot said. “The police can help us find the girl.” He took a step
closer to Millhouse’s prone form, wanting to somehow help—but afraid to touch
him. “Maybe it’s not too late for him, either.”

Millhouse
coughed and, laughing, rolled over. “It’s far too late for me, junior.”

A
shotgun-blast pattern peppered the front his coverall, but there was no blood.
Instead the tiny chest wounds erupted with jets of flame that sputtered a thick
napalm fluid onto the ground . . . igniting the straw . . . then the puddle of
gasoline.

Millhouse
stood and then reached out to the fire. It crept toward him, licking up his
left side, melting the polyester fabric of his coverall.

Flames
collected in his hand, and he held it out, the fire curling and blazing and
popping hypnotically.

Eliot
couldn’t move, too fascinated by the dancing flames to think.

Millhouse
took two steps closer.

There
was a whoosh and a sudden wave of heat.

The
jug of gasoline had melted and released its contents; flaming liquid flowed to
the baseball-toss booth and set the plywood ablaze.

The
sudden noise and heat broke the trance Eliot and Fiona were in.

They
ran.

Behind
them, Millhouse laughed.

The
lane of carnival games twisted right—and dead-ended.

Blocking
their way were trailers that had been cobbled together into a single sprawling
mass of glittering glass and polished steel. Over this, blazing in neon was:

MADHOUSE!!!!

It
was a maze of mirrors. There was no way to get around it. No way to climb over
it.

They
were trapped.

Eliot
turned, his heart hammering in his throat, but his hands balled into fists. He
didn’t stand a chance; nonetheless, he was ready to fight.

Millhouse
strolled toward them, trailing fire, and grinning. He knew he had them.

Eliot
spotted the shotgun—far away where Fiona had dropped it. Not that it had done
much good . . . but it had slowed Millhouse down a bit.

Fiona
whipped her head around. “Come on.” She pointed. “Look. There!”

Out
the other side of the mirror maze were stairs. A way out.

Eliot
had done a thousand maze puzzles when he was a little kid. He was good at them,
even the three-dimensional ones where the paths crossed over and under one
another. Maybe they could lose Millhouse in the maze.

Fiona
led the way, running up the stairs to the madhouse entrance.

Eliot
was right behind her.

Inside,
however, the walls were clear glass and perfectly reflective mirrors—as Eliot
found out as he ran straight into one.

That
dazed him for a second.

“Move!”
Fiona shouted at him. “This way. To the left.”

Eliot
shook his head, clearing the minor concussion. “No, go right!”

Most
mazes had a right-hand path solution. It was always best to try the obvious one
first. He felt in front of him, making sure there were no more invisible
barriers.

He
turned.

Fiona
hadn’t followed him. Stubborn as usual. She had taken the adjacent passage.

“Turn
around!” he shouted through the glass.

Millhouse
thumped up the steps and stood at the maze entrance. In his hand he still
clutched fire.

Eliot
smelled burning hair and charring skin.

Fiona
instinctively tried to move toward Eliot. She put both hands on the glass
between them helplessly. “Go!” she shouted.

There
was no way Eliot was leaving her.

Millhouse
entered in the maze, turning down the path Eliot had taken—coming for him.

But
there was no way Eliot could stay, either.

He
ran.

46

TIES
OF ADDICTION

Fiona
watched Millhouse pause at the maze entrance. He looked at her . . . looked at
Eliot, then plodded down the passage after her brother.

Eliot
ran away—jackrabbit quick.

Millhouse
passed Fiona in the adjacent passageway a hand span from her on the other side
of the glass. His flesh burned, fell away, regrew, and reignited.

She
felt the heat from his fire. She wanted to scream but found herself too
frightened to even breathe.

Millhouse
held up one flaming finger, grinned, and mouthed, You’re next.

He
turned and continued after Eliot.

Fiona
helplessly watched. Her brother moved effortlessly through the invisible twists
and turns, avoiding the dead ends in the maze.

Millhouse
moved just as fast, though, as if he had the maze’s solution memorized.

Fiona
had to help. She reached for her shotgun, but it wasn’t there. She had dropped
it when she thought she had killed Millhouse. She wished she had. Wasn’t
killing for self-defense okay?

If
only she had the shotgun now. A point-blank shot to the head would stop him . .
. at least long enough for them to get out of here.

Her
hand brushed against the box of chocolates. She should eat one so she’d be
stronger, think clearer.

No way.
She was going to waste time eating truffles? She had to get to Eliot first.
They were stronger together; he’d need her to face Millhouse.

Fiona
sprinted back toward the entrance. She’d get the gun and—

She
ran headfirst into an invisible glass corner.

She
bounced off and fell. The edges of her vision dimmed and blurred, and her body
went numb. A high-pitched ringing echoed in her head . . . that faded to a dull
whine.

Her
vision cleared a bit and she rubbed her head. It was wet. Must be sweat . . .
or had it been raining outside?

She
looked at her hand. It was covered in blood.

“Oh,”
she said, realizing in a calm, abstract sense what she had just done. At the
very least she had a concussion. Maybe a genuine skull fracture.

She
pressed her palm to her hairline and felt blood ooze.

Smoke
curled along the wooden floor. She saw the path Millhouse had taken over the
plywood was on fire.

Her
head cleared a bit.

She
remembered: Perry Millhouse, the little girl they had to save by midnight, her
brother in mortal danger.

Fiona
stood, got dizzy, and sat back down—hard.

Her
head throbbed so badly she thought it would split. Blood trickled down her
forehead and into her face.

She
spotted her book bag, its contents spilled. Her box of chocolates was missing
its lid and the glazed contents glistened in the firelight.

Yes,
that’s exactly what she needed to snap out of this: a sugar boost, some
courage, the willpower to get up and get that shotgun.

She
crawled toward the heart-shaped box, stretching her hand for one of the milk
chocolate diamonds . . . or the toffees with the candied roses on top . . . or
an almond cluster.