Chapter Ten

Eric listened in astonishment as the sounds from below faded. That weasel Bledsoe had actually forsaken them to follow Charly. There was disrespecting a man to his face, and then there was doing what Sam Bledsoe was doing to him: shitting on a plate, thrusting it into a man’s lap, giving him a knife and fork, and laughing at him while he ate it.

If he’d been mad at the guy before, there weren’t words for how he felt now. Not in his darkest dreams had he imagined he’d be humiliated this badly. Not when his first team got taken out behind the woodshed on ESPN to the tune of a hundred and six to fifty-two. Not when he’d been demoted in junior college to a benchwarmer. Not even during that awful morning during his freshman year in high school, when the senior boys gave him a wedgie so severe the seam of his jockey shorts sliced the skin around his bunghole so badly it made him bleed through his white gym shorts.

This was worse than all those times because humiliation was supposed to be a part of a man’s youth, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that why a boy grew up, to end the embarrassment and enjoy being on top for a change? Yet here he was, forty years old and finding himself on the verge of being cuckolded by an unsuccessful construction worker.

His jaw still ached where Bledsoe had decked him. Eric ran his fingers over his chin and touched the split bottom lip, the nose that felt as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Christ, he was lucky they were down here in the dark; if Mel got a good look at his mangled face she might never spread her legs for him.

A slow pulse of lust mingled with his fury. He’d fucking kill that Bledsoe, and he’d laugh doing it. Robertson was saying something to him, but it didn’t matter; all Eric’s attention had migrated south, where his cock was stretching his shorts tight. Sure, he got erections every day, but this…this was something new and exciting. He figured it was that depraved combination of sex and death that killers got off on, those blank, staring murderers he and Charly sometimes watched on that Cold Case Files show. He enjoyed the hell out of that show, every part but the end, when the killer got his comeuppance. He supposed it had to end like that; otherwise there’d be no show. People wouldn’t go in for a series based on unsolved murders that stayed unsolved. But for his money the best part was the beginning, where the victim was described and you saw all those pictures of the person as a child, then as a teenager. Those were the best, the teenager pictures. He’d always experienced a slight sexual thrill when they showed some future murder victim in her cheerleading outfit or leotard. Knowing what was coming made him feel…what? Powerful, he supposed. Omniscient. I know what’s in store for you, Little Lady. You think the world is your oyster, but it’s actually a nasty, ugly place. At least for you.

And then the best part, the description of how the victim went missing and how the body was found. They nearly always showed you pictures of the corpses. None of those faggoty reenactments you got on so many shows these days. It wasn’t scary or remotely interesting to watch some actress pretend to be afraid. What the hell—if he wanted that, he’d watch a horror movie, though those were bullshit too. You could do anything with makeup and special effects.

No, you got to see the real thing on that show, mm-mmm…a pale, naked body lying dead in the woods, the dirt and leaves that smudged the skin giving the corpse the appearance of some discarded doll. But these weren’t dolls, uh-uh, they were real, and where Eric’s mind went at that moment, other than between the legs of the victim to see how much the network dared to show, was back to the moment of the crime. There was always a rape first. Otherwise, why do it? There’d be a rape, then a strangulation. Sometimes there were signs of captivity, and man, that really sent his heart racing.

Someone was shaking him by the arm, and with an effort he tore himself out of the fantasy.

“…you think?” Mel finished.

“Do I think what?” he said as though in a fog.

“The lady wants to know if we can go back,” Robertson said.

Mel’s expression was pained, childish. “It’s spooky down here, Flo. We can get help if we go up now.”

Eric said, “We’re going after them.”

The blood drained from her face. She glanced imploringly at the sheriff, and Eric felt another wash of anger at her disobedience. This bullshit was going to end. Pronto.

“Tell you the truth,” Robertson said, “I’m of a mind to follow them too.”

“But—”

“I get your point, Miss Macomber, and there’s some logic in it. We go back now, we can call in the cavalry, do this thing by the numbers.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Problem is, by that time we might have three missing persons to search for. There’ve been rumors of caves in this area since before I was born, but I never credited them until today. The old codgers claim it’s a veritable ant farm under this land. Tunnels leading to tunnels, caverns branching off in a hundred directions. A man wanting to disappear after he committed a crime would find it ideal.”

Mel’s face pinched. “What if we get lost too?”

“We’ll leave a trail,” Robertson said.

“Of what?” Mel asked.

How about your clothes? Eric thought.

“Whatever we have on us,” Robertson said, and reached into his pocket. He fished out a white box.

“Cigarettes?” Mel asked.

“I quit officially three years ago, but I keep them around for special occasions.”

Eric grinned. “Your wife know you still smoke, Sheriff?”

“Unlike others I know, this is the only thing I keep from her,” Robertson said.

Eric flushed. He glanced at Mel to see if the accusation had registered with her, but thank God for small favors, she was casting fretful looks into the pit. Eric felt his good spirits return. Maybe this could work in his favor. She got scared enough, she’d look to him for solace. Perhaps the two of them could accidentally split off from the sheriff for a few minutes, just long enough for her to break down entirely. Once that happened, Eric knew from experience, the deal was as good as sealed.

No, he told himself. Don’t drift away on that cloud yet. Focus on Charly, who’s getting farther and farther away while you stand here. You think Mel’s the only one who’ll need comfort? Charly’s gonna break down too—she’s a woman, isn’t she?—and when that happens who’ll be there to console her?

His fists bunched into tight knots. He imagined what would happen if he stumbled upon Charly and Bledsoe screwing. He did, it wouldn’t matter if ten cops were with him, he’d slaughter them both. They’d find Charly twenty years later, her pale legs smudged by dirt…

“Better get to it,” Robertson said.

“I’ll go first,” Eric said.

Robertson nodded. “I’ll let you.”

Mel hopped in place, a pitiful, keening sound emanating from her throat.

Eric slid a comforting arm around her lower back, his fingers stroking the top of her perfect ass. “I’ll be with you the whole way,” he said. “It would mean a lot to me if you’d help me find Junior.”

Mel sniffed, nodded. Eric massaged her lower back, the top of her butt.

Robertson was watching Eric’s rubbing hand. His eyes rose to meet Eric’s.

So what? Eric wanted to say. You gonna do something about it?

Eric moved to the edge of the pit and jumped.

 

 

In the gravid silence of the tunnel, Emma said to Jesse, “They’re the only two I had that were clean.”

He looked at her questioningly.

“Bras,” she explained.

Jesse opened his mouth but could think of absolutely no response.

“I have four all together,” she went on. “A sports bra, the push-up and two regular ones. One was dirty, and anyway, it’s starting to fall apart. The wires are showing through in places. So I left it at home.”

Jesse frowned, did his best to be scientific about it, to not picture Emma in just a bra. “How many bras do most girls have?”

“I have no idea. More than four, I’d imagine. Colleen has about twenty strung all over the bathroom like Christmas decorations.”

“So…”

“Why do I only have four?”

She looked away, a rueful smile darkening her face. She tongued the inside of her cheek a moment, uttered a mirthless little laugh, and said, “Quite a thing to talk about, huh? Maybe you should share what kind of underwear you have on. You know, to put us on equal footing.”

“Boxer briefs,” he said.

She regarded him, eyebrows raised, some of her good humor returning.

He nodded. “I used to wear tightie whities because that’s what my mom bought for me, but it wasn’t until college that I realized they were incredibly uncomfortable.”

“Is that so?”

“Like being in prison.”

“I see.”

“Boxers were worse, for the opposite reason. About a year ago I finally bought a pair of these from JC Penney—” He lifted his shirt and pulled out the plum-colored waistband of his boxer briefs. “It was like the heavens opened.”

She chuckled.

“I’ll never go back,” he said. “It’s the perfect marriage of security and freedom.”

“You do all your underwear shopping at JC Penney’s?”

“Some,” he said. “I went to Abercrombie and Fitch a couple times, but I was surrounded by teenagers.”

“So?”

“So I felt out of place. Isn’t that sad? Not even thirty yet and already feeling like a dirty old man.”

“Maybe you are.”

“Old or dirty?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe both.”

He laughed softly.

She said, “I’m dirt poor.”

He looked up at her, waiting for the punch line.

She returned his stare, her pretty face both vulnerable and defiant.

“What do you mean you’re dirt poor?”

“How many ways are there to take that?”

“I don’t… How much do you make at the paper?”

She crossed her arms. “How much do you?”

He told her.

“About the same,” she said. “When you subtract my college loans from that, there isn’t much left.”

“Your bio says you were on scholarship at Brown.”

“Partial scholarship. Which means I’ll be paying off the other half for the next sixty years.” She suddenly brightened. “You read my bio?”

He colored. “I was bored one day, I just happened—”

“‘Jesse Hargrove is a graduate of Western Indiana University and a native of Shadeland. He enjoys movies of all kinds—especially horror—and when he’s not photographing for the Truth, he can be found at the local theater taking in the latest zombie release’.”

He could only stare at her.

“Was that right?” she asked.

He shook his head slowly. “Verbatim.”

“Well,” she said and looked away.

After a time he said, “Tell me more about your bras.”

“Oh that,” she said and inhaled deeply. “The only three I brought camping were the two you’ve seen—”

“I haven’t really seen either.”

She punched him on the arm. “You know what I mean.”

“Right, the two you’ve worn and the sports bra.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why didn’t you wear the sports bra?”

She eyed him, a frisky gleam there that made him a trifle light-headed.

“The sports bra mashes my boobs flat, and they don’t need any mashing to begin with.”

“I think they’re nice,” he heard himself saying.

Her mouth fell open, an amazed smile on her lips. “Jesse!”

Holy crap, he thought, what was he saying? “I…uh, I only meant—”

“Thanks,” she said.

He swallowed. “You’re welcome.”

“Anyway, the sports bra doesn’t do me any favors, and the regular one fits better.”

“What about the…”

“The push-up bra?”

He nodded.

“It makes my breasts look bigger.”

“That’s true.”

“Why do you like boxer briefs?”

“Same reason.”

She laughed at that, leaned closer. The summery smell of her flesh drowsed over him. Man, it felt good to relax, if only for a moment. The warm feel of her arm against his soothed him, made him wonder for a moment if those horrors outside might leave them alone, might be content with the carnage they’d already wrought.

When their laughter dissipated, they sat quietly a minute, listening to the others whispering down by the trap door. So far, nothing seemed to have changed, and that was just fine with Jesse.

He looked over at Emma. “Why did you tell me all that?”

She shrugged. “I wanted you to understand, but I’m sure as hell not telling the others. Especially Chief Horn Dog.”

“What about the cell phone thing with Greeley?”

“What about it?”

“Do you really hate technology?” he asked.

“I don’t like how it takes people out of the moment.”

“So you don’t have an iPhone?”

“I can’t afford one.”

“What if you had the money?”

“I’d buy more bras.”

They both laughed. Emma clapped a hand over her mouth, pressing against him.

“You two might want to keep it down,” Red Elk called.

“What’s happened?” Emma asked.

“Nothing much,” Red Elk answered. “Just that we can hear them scratching around up there.”

 

 

Jesse crowded up close to Red Elk, who stood staring up at the trapdoor.

“Have they found that section of floor yet?” Jesse asked.

Red Elk gave him a deadpan look. “They’d be down here if they’d found it.”

“You covered the trapdoor with dirt?”

“Well as I could. Kinda tough to cover a door you’ve just closed.”

“I guess so,” Jesse admitted.

The silence drew out. A few feet behind them, he could make out the others in the gloom. Emma’s eyes were large and watchful, Colleen’s grim and narrowed. Greeley was bouncing on his heels and making little humming noises. Clevenger, Ruth Cavanaugh and Debbie stood immobile, like cardboard cutouts Red Elk had stored down here.

Jesse strained to hear the creatures above them, but save for an occasional muffled scrape, the crawlspace remained quiet.

Jesse eyed the dusty plastic tube depending from the notched corner of the trapdoor. The flatulent reek of propane was growing stronger despite Red Elk’s thumb, which plugged the bottom of the tube. The lighter Red Elk grasped in the other hand was an old-fashioned one, the silver kind with a flip-top and a wheel. Its polished surface gleamed in the muted glow of the mining helmet Jesse wore.

“You sure this is safe?” Jesse asked.

Red Elk looked exasperated. “How the fuck should I know? You ever blow up a house?”

“No,” Jesse said.

“Me either.”

Emma looked around. “Should we…I don’t know, take cover somewhere?”

“Not a bad idea,” Red Elk said.

Clevenger took Colleen by the elbow and guided her and Emma down the corridor a ways.

“Get ready,” Red Elk whispered.

Debbie stepped backward until she stood with the group. Greeley had retreated several feet behind the rest.

“Are they coming?” Jesse whispered.

“I can’t hear them,” Red Elk said. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not.”

Jesse and Red Elk remained motionless, the only sound in their part of the tunnel the husky susurrus of their breathing. Above, the crawlspace had grown preternaturally quiet. Distantly, Jesse detected a faint tapping sound and realized it was the rain on Red Elk’s roof.

A voice behind them blurted, “Oh, for God’s sakes, what’s happening up there?”

Greeley was marching past him toward Red Elk.

From Greeley’s angle, Jesse realized with mounting anxiety, he couldn’t see Red Elk raising the lighter to the plastic tube, didn’t see the large, chipped thumbnail settle on the silver wheel.

A flurry of noises erupted above them. The click and scrabble of talons and toenails converged on the trapdoor. Without hesitation Red Elk flicked the lighter, but nothing happened.

Oh God, Jesse thought and moved away from Red Elk.

“What are you—” Greeley began. “I thought you had it remotely charged or something.”

Red Elk didn’t respond, was too immersed in flicking the wheel. But the damned lighter wouldn’t light.

Scratching sounds above Red Elk.

“Get out of there,” Clevenger hissed.

Something creaked. Jesse’s heart thundered as the trapdoor swung open and a creature’s virulent face poked through the aperture.

The lighter flared into life.

The creature groped for it.

Red Elk let his thumb off the propane tube. Greeley threw up an arm. The creature pawed at Red Elk’s face.

Red Elk touched the flame to the tube.

There was a high-pitched zipping sound. A blue puff of flame seemed to engulf Greeley and Red Elk. Jesse saw the creature’s hideous face twist in surprise. The tube became an incandescent spire of heat.

Then the zipping sound was drowned out by a low whump that shook the entire tunnel.

Greeley screamed. The others began to run. Before Jesse followed them, he glimpsed Red Elk and Greeley stumbling away from the trapdoor. The creature tumbled screaming into the tunnel, its haunches and legs aflame. Greeley fell and Clevenger doubled back to help him. Blue fire spat out of the trapdoor, pooling on the writhing creature and starting a dozen bonfires on its sizzling flesh.

Another whump shook the tunnel, this one far stronger than anything that had come before.

The propane tanks.