CHAPTER 11

After

 

asey lay with his face buried in the pillow. He stretched his legs and wriggled his toes. The white cotton sheets were deliciously cool and clean, and he was tired. So terribly tired.

But he was safe in bed and, apparently, it had all been a dream. At least some of it had been. He tried hard to think, but everything started to blur. An attempt to roll over resulted in a flurry of aches and pains.

“I feel like someone used me for a piñata. I’ve got to…”

What did he have to do? Everything seemed hazy, but he had been in the middle of something terribly important. Now, if he could only remember what it was. His eyelids flickered a bit, and then closed again. The room was way too bright.

He made another attempt and peeked through narrow slits.

Glaring white light bounced off stark walls and a tiled floor.

“Don’t freak out, kiddo. You’re in the hospital.” Margo was suddenly there, warm and comforting. “You’re a lucky kid. Just got a few bruises. With a little rest, you’ll be fine.”

“Hospital? When…” Casey tried hard to think but everything seemed to blur. Wait. So that part, the part in the factory with Pike wasn’t a dream. Pike, the factory, and that monster. “What about Pike? Did they get him?”

“Did who get him?”

A broad-shouldered man with a square jaw and heavy lidded eyes was leaning against the doorway. His voice was low and gravely, but not unfriendly.

“My name is Kestrel, Casey. I’m a detective looking into the recent disappearances. You’ve had an eventful weekend. Do you feel up to talking about it?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. At least enough to talk. Something was in the woods and we were being chased,” said Casey, choosing his words carefully. The detective looked trustworthy. Maybe he could end this nightmare if anyone could. If he said too little, the detective wouldn’t be interested in helping him. If he said too much, he’d sound delirious. “When the old factory exploded, I was on the hill with Pike.”

“I am sorry to tell you this, but unfortunately your friend didn’t survive,” said Kestrel softly. He paused to let Casey take in the news. “His name was actually Markson not Pike. The Markson boy had disappeared a while back, before the others did.”

“Markson?”

This didn’t seem right. Casey sank back down onto the pillows. “What did he look like? I mean before the…accident.”

“Seventeen years old,” said the detective evenly. “Kind of a big guy. Football player. Blond crew-cut.”

Casey sighed with relief. “That wasn’t Pike.”

Hazy half-remembered pieces of the events leading up to the explosion started to fall into place. He had seen the monster grab something and heave it through the air toward him. It had hit the ground just before the blast.

“Oh no.”

Casey covered his eyes with his hands. It wasn’t something that Malakaan had thrown. It was someone. It had to have been the Markson boy.

“Are you alright, Casey?” asked Oliver.

“I’m okay, I guess.” Casey reached out and squeezed his mother’s hand. “I’m just trying to straighten out my thoughts. Give me a little time, please. You should go home now. Don’t worry. What can happen to me here?”

After everyone had gone, Casey lay quietly in the narrow hospital bed thinking over all that had taken place. If it was the Markson boy that Malakaan had hurled at them, where had he been before that? He crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. “I didn’t see that Markson boy because he wasn’t human when he was inside the factory. He was one of those green shadow guys.”

Casey turned in bed and looked out the window into the clear Vermont night. Under a full moon, Whistlebrass looked deceptively safe and sleepy. He hoped Pike was somewhere safe. Malakaan had sent a terrible message. It was a message he hoped he would be able to understand before it was too late.

But that would have to be tomorrow. Exhaustion had overtaken him, and his eyes began to close. As Casey sank into a troubled sleep, he heard the voice from his dream, the crazed and crackling voice of Victor Wilberforce.

“The devil is in the details, buddy boy. The devil is in the details.”

 

*

 

The dirt road that curved around Maplecraver Lake passed clusters of spruce vacation cottages, shuttered now for the winter. The cottages were all situated at the south end of the lake which was closer to the main road, and more likely to get the elusive summer sun.

On the far end of the lake, a narrow rutted driveway, nearly hidden by overgrown bushes and tangled ivy, forked off from the road. It plummeted down toward the lake and ended on a weathered L-shaped dock that wrapped around a derelict boathouse. Three walls of the structure were built with roughhewn planks. A natural ridge of craggy rock formed the fourth. The boathouse was one of many New England structures built in the early 1900s that incorporated nature in the design, providing a sturdy backbone on which to build.

Gaps between boards nailed over two broken windows allowed moonlight to paint pale stripes of light across a dirt floor that had been oiled and worn until the surface was hard and smooth.

An Ohio match flicked by a practiced thumbnail hissed and flared up. The flame was pushed under the glass globe of a hurricane oil lap which sputtered before filling the low ceilinged room with light. At the far end of the room, two big doors led to the dock. Pike cracked one of them open and braced it with a cinderblock, letting in the bracingly cool night air. By the soft light of the lantern, the bruises and cuts on Pike’s face didn’t look too bad, but in a few hours, it was going to hurt just to blink his eyes. He winced as he kicked off his mud caked boots. Deeper bruises in his back and knees were already making themselves known.

“Better to stay here tonight,” he told himself.

Better not to run into his old man looking like this.

Better not to have to try and explain what happened.

Pike wouldn’t know where to begin. He didn’t even know what really had happened. He relaxed for a moment closing his eyes and listening to the sounds of the night. An owl hooted, and the cold water of Maplecraver Lake lapped against the battered pilings that supported the boathouse. Something shifted in the shadows, and Pike turned toward the open door. Two strange eyes glinted in the lamplight.

“I knew you’d come back. I knew it, and I’m ready for you.”

Pike reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a small oblong tin can and placed it on a rickety card table. There was a soft pop as he pried off a metal key glued to the top, and a shadowy form streaked across the room and leapt up onto the table.

The big, black tomcat circled the tabletop, sat down squarely in front of Pike, and watched him turn the little key. Pike teased the top off the can revealing rows of shiny fish nestled in oil. A hungry stray should pounce on sardines, but this one just sat, studying him with narrowed eyes. The left eye was emerald green. The right was yellow.

The cat stared at Pike and Pike stared back. For several long minutes, neither moved. Finally, Pike pulled the white wedge of howlite out of the pocket of his jeans and placed it on the table in front of the cat.

“You definitely know something, don’t you? Something about this. It’s just a rock, right? So how come that Casey kid thinks it’s so special? And why did those other rocks by the river do magic tricks for him? You look like a Halloween cat. You should like magic. It wouldn’t surprise me if you two were pals already.”

The cat fixed the boy with its gold and green gaze. The two stared into each other’s eyes until, finally, Pike looked away.

“Okay, cat. You’re right. I’ll find him for you.”