Strange Magic (20 page)

Wilson waited until he was deep into the cell and then he burst out from behind the overturned mattress and ran for the cell door, slamming it shut and locking the bewildered officer inside before he could do anything to respond. “Sorry, Mack. Had to be done.”

“You little shit! Let me out of here, damn it!” Mack reached for his firearm but it wasn’t there anymore. He’d
taken off his belt before going to the bathroom and put his weapon in his desk drawer. Mad as hell, Mack rushed over and was pounding on the cell door, but he knew it was pointless and soon settled down. “You’re only making things worse for yourself, man. Give up now before you do something really stupid.”

“I can’t, Mack. You don’t believe me yet, but I didn’t have anything to do with any of those deaths. You’ll believe me once they collect and test all the evidence from the Hendersons’ and from the church. I was there tonight, both places, but I didn’t kill anybody. I’ll gladly turn myself in tomorrow for blood tests and DNA samples, but tonight I’ve got to go save my daughter. I’m sorry I have to leave you here but there’s no other choice. I gotta go.”

“Wait, Wilson. What about your daughter? Maybe we can help? Just let me out and I’ll—”

“Not gonna happen, big guy. I can’t risk it, even if I thought you believed me, which I don’t. Someone will let you out soon. Sit tight and please don’t try finding me tonight. I know you will, but I need this one night to try and make things right. I’ll face whatever consequences there are tomorrow. Promise.”

Leaving Big Mack fuming in the cell, Wilson went to the front office and was thrilled to find his canvas sack of supplies waiting for him on top of Officer Daniels’s desk. He quickly checked to see his gun was still inside as well as everything else, then dashed for the front door and out into the night. So far his luck had held up, but the night was far from over. In fact, it was only beginning. Wilson ran across the parking lot, disappearing into the darkness beyond.

The house on Leamon Avenue waited for Wilson with open arms. Every light in every room was on now, including two exterior spotlights: one shining on the driveway and garage, and the other illuminating the front door. Although midnight, the house looked anything but a comfortable haven ready to settle in for a peaceful night. It looked more like an enormous mutant spider hiding among the large oak trees waiting for some unsuspecting person to be enticed into its glow-in-the-dark web. Even from the street, Wilson could see the front door was open about a foot, clearly tempting him inside but not open enough to allow a view of what might be waiting inside. To go inside the house was surely suicide, and deep down Wilson knew it.

He headed for the door.

By the time he hit the front steps, Wilson had his gun drawn and ready. He was a rank amateur with a firearm but he’d seen enough bad police movies to know he should check to see if the safety was in the off position. He had no desire to die from such a foolish mistake but as far as he could tell, the gun was ready to fire.

Just point and shoot, Wilson. Point and shoot. The gun’s
just an extension of your arm. Point your arm then, not the gun. Point…Shoot!

But first he had to find someone to shoot at.

Wilson paused at the door, wanting to charge in, but wondering if he was walking into a trap. The Heatseeker could be waiting with a gun ready to shoot him point-blank as soon as he stepped inside. This was the easy way inside, sure, but would it be better to find another way in? Maybe he could get in through a back window and surprise the Heatseeker. No, that wasn’t going to happen. The Heatseeker knew he was coming and had things all planned out. He’d left this door brightly lit up and open simply to speed things along and get Wilson inside. It wasn’t a trap; it was arrogance. The Heatseeker didn’t see Wilson as any real threat to him so he was playing games, mocking Wilson’s fear by leaving the door open for him.

Better be careful, old friend…your arrogance might just be your downfall.

Wilson opened the screen door and shoved the heavy wooden inside door out of his way as he stepped inside. The door was hard to move, and when it bumped to a stop a full ten inches away from the wall, Wilson knew there was something—no, make that
someone
—hiding behind it. Adrenaline pumped through his system and he almost took a shot through the door, but a stale, nasty, rotting smell hit him then and instinctively he knew it wasn’t the Heatseeker behind the door.

With great trepidation but needing to find out, Wilson pulled back the door and looked around the other side. An older woman with silver hair was there to greet him, a long-bladed knife pinning her in an upright position through her head and into the wood behind her.
Her flowery dress was drenched in dry blackened blood and she still wore a pair of white slippers on her feet. Her wrinkled skin was turning a shade closer to purple and sagging badly on her ruined face and upper body but her chubby legs were stretched tight, the blood in her body having settled in her lower extremities, bloating and swelling them until they looked ready to burst. Worst of all, the flies had found her open eyes and head wound, with dozens of them swarming over her eyeballs, moving in unison and looking like bulging pupils, making it appear as if the poor old lady were still alive and gazing around.

Wilson turned away, gagging. He had no idea who this woman was, but he guessed it was the original owner of the house before the Heatseeker had decided to move in. Leaving her there for him to find was just another twisted ploy to frighten Wilson and show him how futile it was to resist what the Heatseeker had planned for him.

Yeah, well, fuck you, old buddy. You’re not going to do that to me.
Wilson nearly added,
I hope
, but choked that negative thought off and headed farther into the house. As scared as he was, part of him wanted this confrontation, needed it, and there was no sense in delaying it any more than necessary. This evil sicko had taken his beautiful daughter, hurt her badly, and threatened her life. He had caused Wilson to go into hiding for more than two decades, wasting away his life at the bottom of a liquor bottle, and wanted to destroy his family. Wilson wasn’t going to let it happen. No way. As screwed up as life had become, Susan, Amanda, and he had found something special with each other and no one had the right to take that away. Wilson was frightened, of course,
but he was definitely ready to kill to protect his family. If the Heatseeker believed he didn’t have it in him, he was in for a big surprise.

Through the main floor he crept, moving as quietly as he could, investigating the living room, dining room, and kitchen, but knowing he wasn’t fooling anyone. His attempt at stealth was far from perfect and he even bumped into one of the dining room chairs, sending it screeching across the floor about eight inches, but he just kept moving, kept searching, and trying to be ready for the inevitable attack.

The tension was incredible, the pressure making him sweat. It pooled on his forehead, dribbling down his face. The gun in his right hand, the canvas bag in his left, it was hard to wipe away. The sweat trickled into his eyes, stinging painfully and blurring his vision. The gun was getting heavy too, heavier than he expected anyway. It was tough to keep it held out in front of him, ready to fire. His right arm was shaking, ready to cramp from the effort, and he was forced to let his arm drop to his side every now and then, to let it rest. Wilson was sure that was when the Heatseeker would pounce, when he was most vulnerable, but the attack never came. On and on, room after room he searched, but didn’t find a damn thing.

Wilson was starting to think maybe the Heatseeker was playing a trick on him, that maybe he wasn’t even here and was using this meeting as a distraction so he could easily go kill or kidnap Susan while he futilely stumbled around here. But then he heard a noise coming from above him, a floorboard creaking and what might have been a quick yelp of pain.
Amanda
! Wilson thought.
Upstairs. He’s got her hidden on the second floor. Is he up
there too?
Impossible to know and there was obviously only one way to find out, so Wilson headed for the staircase.
Easy now…don’t charge up there like a fool. That’s what he’ll be expecting. Stay focused. Stay in control.

Wilson wanted to shout up to Amanda he was coming, that Daddy was going to save her and everything was going to be all right, but it would be a pointless, silly thing to do, so he bit his tongue and stayed quiet. There was no sense giving his position away for what amounted to false hope.

Up the stairs he went, slowly, alertly, gun raised and pointing toward the landing above. Wilson kept his wits about him, making sure to keep a watch behind him as well, just in case the attack came from below. None did though, and he reached the second-floor hallway unimpeded. It was a central corridor, with two rooms off to each side and one at the far end of the hall, which Wilson could clearly see was an empty bathroom. That left four rooms to check, all of which were presumably bedrooms. Inside one of them would be his daughter and his gut told him the Heatseeker would be with her. It was possible he was hiding somewhere else, or not in the house at all, but Wilson was sure he’d find the two of them together, the Heatseeker using Amanda as cover or at least as leverage in what was to come.

Which door
? he wondered. And what shape would he find Amanda in when he saw her?
Please let her be okay. Please!
Now wasn’t the time to be thinking like that. Now was the time for action, so Wilson threw caution to the wind and charged into the first room on his right. As luck would have it, Amanda was there in front of him, sitting on the threadbare carpeted floor eight feet away, a tall dark-haired man in full magician’s garb
standing above her with a knife held to her trembling throat. Behind them, a wall-to-wall bloodred velvet curtain hung, the words FIRE AND ICE stitched into the cloth in big golden silk letters.

Wilson gasped in shock, not because he’d burst into the correct room to find them on his first try, but because he was so amazed when he finally stood face-to-face with his enemy and saw who it was that had hold of his daughter.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

It wasn’t the Heatseeker.

No, it wasn’t his old partner, Douglas Williams, but Wilson knew the dark man just the same. He was older, sure, but it was hard to tell on first glance, especially with his hair dyed jet black. “Lucius? Is that really you?”

The Stranger smiled, and gave a little wink. “Long time no see, Wilson. Now back up and toss the gun.”

“Not a chance. How about you drop the knife or I’ll blow your brains out. I don’t know what your problem is, but let the girl go. None of this is her fault. It’s between you and me.”

Lucius Barber, the man who’d taught Wilson everything he knew about magic, his mentor and one-time manager, only laughed, not in the least bit intimidated. “You always were a moron, Wilson. You have no idea what is going on here, do you? Drop the gun or I cut her throat. You might get off a lucky shot and take me out, but you’ll be swimming in your daughter’s blood before I’m dead. I should have killed you years ago after you let Doug die and destroyed all our careers but I’ll take Amanda with me if it’s all I can get. What do you say, hero? Feel like calling my bluff? Come on. Do it! See what it gets ya!”

Lucius tightened his grip on Amanda, pressing the serrated edge of the blade deeper into the tender flesh of her throat. “Daddy,
nooooo
!” Amanda squealed.

“No, wait! Stop! Okay…okay. I’ll do what you say. Just don’t hurt her. Do what you want to me, but leave her alone, okay?”

Wilson‘s head was spinning, thinking this through.

Last he’d seen Lucius Barber, he’d had gray hair and a beer belly, but not anymore. He’d lost at least forty or fifty pounds, leaned down to solid muscle, and was now tall and wiry, looking like he’d hardly aged a day. In fact, in some ways he looked younger than Wilson remembered he had twenty years ago. Surely in his sixties now, Lucius was in much better shape and looked as strong as a bull.

“Do what I tell you then,” Lucius said. “The gun has to go, tough guy. Make it disappear.”

Wilson, thinking fast, did just as he was told. He dropped the canvas sack down onto the floor and said, “Sure. Whatever you want. You’re the boss.” Wilson put the gun flat against his chest and covered his right hand with his left. With a flourish of gestures that looked like he was rubbing his hands together, he suddenly spread his hands palms out to show they were both, indeed, empty. The gun had miraculously vanished.

“Bravo, Wilson. Nice try…but it was I who showed you that trick a long time ago. You used to practice with hard-boiled eggs, remember? Then you moved on to bigger stuff. Looked good. I barely saw you slip the gun into your jacket. Now take it out and get rid of it for real.”

Wilson knew it wasn’t worth his breath protesting, so he unzipped his Pittsburgh Steelers jacket and sure
enough, the gun was inside just as Lucius had known it would be.

“Okay. Now back up into the hall and toss it down the stairs. Do it!”

The shock of seeing his old trainer was finally behind him and Wilson actually breathed a sigh of relief. As insane as this situation was, at least things could be rationally explained now. There was no supernatural demon from beyond the grave stalking him and his family. No vengeful devil escaping from hell to make him pay for the mistakes of his youth. No, it was Lucius Barber, a bitter old magician who’d clearly gone off his rocker and convinced himself Wilson had to pay for what happened to Doug back in the past. It didn’t make things any easier, but it gave Wilson great confidence to know he was fighting a man and not some sort of monster. Wilson reluctantly did as he was told, backing up a few steps into the hallway and heaving his weapon down the staircase and out of sight.

“Good boy. If I tell you to sit up and bark, will you do that too? Ha!” Lucius bent over to speak to Amanda. “Isn’t your daddy a good boy, sweetie? Why don’t you give him a hand for that amateurish little trick he did for us? Go on…clap for your worthless father.”

Amanda tried, just to keep the madman holding her happy, but her right hand was swollen and bloody from where her finger had been severed and she screamed when she tried to put her little hands together, fresh tears of pain sliding down her flushed cheeks. “Daddy, it hurts! Please…help me. I wanna go home to Mommy.”

Lucius laughed harder, clearly enjoying the young girl’s suffering.

“You vicious, rotten bastard!” Wilson screamed, blinding
rage taking the place of good sense, and he charged across the room. Lucius appeared about to speak—maybe to explain why all this was happening—but Wilson didn’t want to hear any more. He didn’t give a shit why this lunatic had targeted his family and the people of this small town. All he wanted to do was make him pay for the sadistic things he’d done, and still planned to do. He was taking a huge risk and putting his daughter’s life in grave danger but he just couldn’t stop himself. He’d crept through this house of horrors like a tightly wound coil of nerves and fear and now that he had the source of his misery in sight he had an overpowering need to explode into action and smash his ex-manager’s face in, to inflict at least some of the pain this deranged man deserved.

Wilson’s reckless gamble paid off.

The last thing Lucius had been expecting was for Wilson to go postal on him, and before he could react, they were crashing to the floor and rolling around, fighting for control of the knife. Lucius was obviously the stronger of the two combatants but Wilson had the strength of fear and desperation to aid him. Amanda screamed and rolled out of harm’s way, but she’d distracted her father enough that Lucius was able to regain his feet and land a hard, swooping punch to the side of Wilson’s head. Wilson nearly blacked out, but he bit down on his tongue and his vision cleared in time for him to block Lucius’s dagger hand as the razor-sharp blade jabbed toward his unprotected belly.