House (17 page)

Either/or, the fact that he was thinking again was encouraging. In some ways he felt more alive running down this tunnel than he had for years playing tough guy. Why?

Terror. Cold-blooded fear was pumping him full of life. Not panic. Just plain, unrelenting fear. The kind that propelled him pell-mell down a pitch-black tunnel.

Straight into a wall.

Randy found the gun. He staggered to his feet, aware that something cool was running over his lips. Sweat or snot or blood.

He faced the coming boots, which he'd decided must belong to Stewart.
We got us one, Betty!
Somehow Randy didn't figure White as the kind who would chase his prey down a tunnel. He'd more likely just show up at the other end.

Randy was fumbling for the trigger, bringing the gun up, when he felt the door handle dig into the small of his back.

Randy grabbed at it, twisted, pulled a door open, and stepped through the opening.

Rather, tripped through the opening. The threshold consisted of a foot-high retainer. He splashed headlong into some water.

Gray light filtered into the puddle from a shaft a hundred feet or so to his left. Must be a sewer, or a drain. Water ran from right to left, maybe six inches deep. Soaked his good shoes.

The pounding feet slowed. Randy lunged to his left just as a shotgun blast crashed through the tunnel, spraying the water on his right.

A snarl of frustration chased the sound.

Not a cry, not a shout, not a
take that, you rat.

A guttural snarl. It was Stewart, had to be Stewart, and the sound reminded Randy why he'd had no desire to face the man earlier. Maybe the shotgun-as-baseball-bat idea needed refinement.

Randy splashed down the passageway toward the shaft of light. There was a room beyond it, and another light source, both of which he had to reach before Stewart rounded the corner and got off a second . . .

Bam!

Several pellets smacked his left shoulder, and he yelled with pain. But he made the room and pulled up behind the wall on his right before a third shot could be fired. Stewart was sloshing through the water behind him. Walking now.

Taking his time.

Another single bulb in the ceiling. Water streamed down the walls. It was at least a foot deep in here and rippled around old oil drums, pickaxes, large-bit drills, a jackhammer. A hard hat with a cracked lamp floated by.

A two-foot-wide round pipe ran into the concrete wall on one side. But there was a door on the opposite wall. A tall wooden hatch with a curved top, the kind that belonged in dungeons.

Randy glanced back around the corner. No mistaking Stewart's oxlike form striding down the passage, pump-action shotgun in both hands. Fifty feet off.

He had two choices: he could take his chances with this ancient, untried shotgun, or he could see what lay behind the door. The only thing that gave him pause was Stewart's slow pace.

What did he know?

Who cared? Randy ran to the door and jerked it open, grateful that it wasn't locked.

But that's where his gratefulness ended. Stewart, walking straight for him over there, walked toward him in this passage too, now only forty feet away. How—? Stewart shifted the gun to one hand and used the other to unbuckle his belt and slide it out of his waistband, which was crazy 'cause the man had a shotgun, why would he need a belt?

Randy was so horrified by the optical illusion that he fired the shotgun without aiming.

Click.
The antique would not fire.

Randy slammed the door shut and jumped back. How was that possible? Two Stewarts? Or was that White? He'd imagined it all. No. Stewart was still coming from the other side.

Now Randy began to panic. This was the end. The only other way out was . . .

He jerked his head to the large pipe that ran into the wall. He could fit into that. Without another thought Randy leaped across the room, threw his shotgun through the opening, climbed onto one of the drums, and shoved his head and arms into the hole.

It was a tight fit with his broad shoulders, but he squirmed through like a snake and dropped out five feet later into a concrete room with two feet of standing water. Above and below the open pipe, metal rods embedded in the wall formed steps, possibly for servicing. Two sources of light here: the hole through which he'd just come and a grate directly overhead, facing the stormy night sky.

Bolted into a concrete ceiling.

Water poured into the room through two six-inch pipes. Rainwater? All the walls were concrete. There were no other openings. What was this place? A septic tank of some kind?

Something eclipsed the light from the pipe.

Stewart was coming after him? He spun, searching again for any way out. Nothing. He was in a sealed coffin. With water pouring in, fast.

And Stewart coming through the only exit.

Randy felt for the shotgun. He'd thrown it through, heard it splash. Good for nothing more than a club now, but he could use a club.

The water was rising quickly.

His fingers bumped the shotgun, and he jerked it out of the water before realizing that he held a spade. Just as good.

Randy screamed and jabbed the sharp end into the hole. The thought of striking his father with a shovel made him tremble, but he had no choice, right? This bigger man was going to kill him!

And Stewart wasn't his father. He was losing his marbles.

A blast of hot lead tore at his side. He jumped back and to one side, slapping at his shirt. Small flesh wound. He was lucky. The next one would cut him in half.

Still the man was coming in, gun first, trigger-happy, and all Randy had was a spade. He'd smack the gun from Stewart's hands when it came out.

It occurred to Randy that the water was now at his waist. And that it was aiming to flow
out
the hole that Stewart was now blocking.

The ingrate grunted. He wasn't coming through so fast. Randy waited for the gun barrel to emerge.

Water was still rising.

Still no gun barrel.

Waiting there in waist-high water, Randy began to anticipate a scenario that frightened him more than the shotgun. Not that he was any expert on death, but of all the ways he'd ever imagined going out, drowning struck him as one of the least favorable.

Stewart snarled with frustration again.

The barrel poked through the hole, and Randy's vision of drowning disappeared. He raised the spade, waited until the bulk of Stewart's weapon was out, and swung down.

Metal clashed against metal. A flash lit the chamber, harmlessly drilling the concrete with lead. Judging by the amount of trouble Stewart was having getting through the pipe, Randy doubted he'd have room to pump the action for a fresh shell.

He grabbed the barrel with both hands and tugged with all his weight. The shotgun came free, and Randy flew back into the rear wall.

He had his gun. A gun that he knew worked. Salvation was in his hands. He pumped the action, chambering a shell.

Stewart's hands were out and clawing at the mouth of the pipe, pulling himself forward. Randy could see his big beady eyes a couple of feet inside, filled with fear.

He lined the barrel up with the man's triple scar and was about to pull the trigger when his good business sense managed to overpower his passion. The last thing he needed was a dead body wedged in that pipe.

“Help me!” Stewart roared.

Help you?

“I'm stuck!”

Randy knew there wasn't an ounce of fat on Stewart's massive torso. It wasn't lack of power that had momentarily stalled his progress. It was lack of leverage. He did indeed need help.

Randy was too stunned to respond. A moment ago he was ready to blast the man's head from his shoulders given the opportunity. Now that same man wanted his help.

“That room's gonna flood! Push me back!”

“Are you nuts?”

“Please . . .” Stewart jerked, trying to move. “You're gonna drown. Push me!”

Randy looked up at the grate. Rain streamed between the bars. There was no way past the bolts. He looked down at the pipe with that bald head bobbing frantically.

Stewart suddenly let out a terrifying roar, an unnatural roar. His head began to tremble, then shake. And then it was over, and he just stared up at Randy.

“Please,” he said. “I swear, if you don't get me out of this pipe, you'll drown. Push me.”

“You were trying to kill me!” Randy said, as if this were helpful information.

“I'll get you out; I swear I'll show you how to get out. You got no clue how to get outta this basement, you know. None. You're stuck down here till you die. But I know how. Push me. Please, you gotta get me out!”

Maybe Randy could shoot the man once he pushed him through. One thing was certain: Stewart's body would block the water. Unless he backed out, they would both drown.

Randy pushed the barrel into the hole. “Grab this and push yourself. And remember, my finger's on this trigger.”

The man grabbed the barrel and pushed. But it was Randy, not Stewart, who moved.

“You have to push me!” the man said.

“How?”

“My head. Put your hands on my head and push.”

The idea of pushing his bald head seemed obscene.

Water was at his chest, about to spill into the pipe.

Not wanting to get the shotgun wet, Randy balanced it on one of the bars protruding from the wall over the hole. He braced himself on a lower step, reached into the pipe, and placed both hands on the bald head of the man who'd been bent on his killing.

“Remember, I have the gun.”

“Push!” Stewart yelled.

Randy pushed. He could bench 400 and was putting about that much pressure on Stewart's head now. Any ordinary neck might have buckled.

The man moved about six inches then stopped with a cry of pain.

“What?”

“My shoulder. I think you dislocated my shoulder!”

“You're stuck,” Randy said.

“I know I'm stuck, you sinner!”

“Settle down. I'm trying to get us out of here!”

They were yelling. Water lapped at the pipe.

“What if I pull you?”

“I'll never get out . . .” The man was whimpering now. “Please, you have to help me. Push me.”

“I did!”

“Try again.”

Randy tried again, but it became immediately apparent that there was no pushing Stewart out as long as his broad shoulders were wedged tight.

Randy considered the knife tucked in his belt, the one he'd snagged from the kitchen. Maybe he could cut Stewart out. Shoot him dead and cut him out.

He pondered this. Randy had never killed a man. Not in defense, not in war, not in rage. And certainly not one stuck in a pipe crying for help, never mind that he was the devil himself.

He suddenly wasn't sure he could do it. The idea of sticking that barrel into that pipe and blowing Stewart away was horrifying. Absolutely out of the question. He began to panic.

Easy, boy. Just take a deep breath.
Give me one dead body.
This would be the one. Self-defense. You do it or you die, as simple as that.

“Please . . .”

“Shut up!” Randy screamed.

“Please . . .”

Stewart's own words from earlier in the evening came back to Randy.
You like water, don't you?

Water. He might not have the strength to kill the man outright, but he could let him drown.

Dead or alive, the man was stuck. But Randy had a knife. And a spade.

“Please!” The man's voice was garbled now, with water splashing around his mouth. “Get me out of here!”

Randy began to shake.

17

“I SWEAR! I'M GUILTY! STOP IT, STOP IT!”

Leslie was sobbing, not so much from the pain of the two darts protruding from her body, but from the dread of any further damage.

He was a demented boy, and she was the puppy he'd chosen to extract allegiance from. If there were such things as demons, Pete was undoubtedly a demon trapped in a person who had the body of a man and the mind of a child.

Pete stopped the rotating wheel when she was upright.

“You promise?” he asked.

“I promise!”

“Say it again.”

“I'm guilty.”

“As sin.”

“As sin.”

“Will you show me how bad you are?”

Meaning what?
She sniffed and took a deep breath.
What did he mean by that?

“Will you eat the cereal?”

His mother had made him eat the rotten dog food to remind him that he was no better than it was. By forcing him to embrace the notion that he was evil, he became evil. Or more accurately, he believed he was evil, and therefore was predisposed to exhibit antisocial behavior—the real definition of
evil
to her way of thinking—in a sane world stripped of religion.

Leslie was now absolutely certain that he could not be saved from those false beliefs anytime soon.

“Yes,” she said, sniffing. Saying it brought relief. “I will. And I'm sorry for being such a disobedient wife.”

He stared at her. A dumb grin formed on his face.

“Okay.”

He untied her wrists and legs and set her on the floor. Then he walked toward the bowl of dog food.

“Can you take these darts out first?” Leslie asked, sitting on the bed. Adrenaline had eased the pain in her thigh, but now the dart in her biceps was throbbing. She could have pulled them out, but she wanted him to do it. Anything to stall him.

Pete returned to the bed, leaving the bowl for the moment. She lay down, unsure if she could avoid breaking down again.

He sat beside her and reached for her arm. But he didn't pull the dart out. He touched her bare skin lightly. Traced it gently.

Instead of recoiling at his touch, she welcomed it. Maybe . . . maybe if she endeared him. Disarmed him with a show of tenderness. When was the last time he'd felt any tenderness toward a human being? From a woman, never.

Leslie reached across her body and rested her hand on his hand. “I'll be a good wife. Would you like that?”