Strange Magic (10 page)

He was far enough away to avoid unwanted attention, but close enough to revel in the ensuing panic. Hidden within the dense foliage of a towering maple tree, the Stranger watched as three police cruisers were summoned to the macabre calling card he’d left for Wilson Kemp. Lurking around in daylight was something he usually avoided, but today was an exception. The magic trunk’s plan had swung into action and he didn’t want to miss Kemp’s reaction.

The skeletons had been discovered about twenty minutes ago, yet the real surprise was still hidden. With the arrival of the local law enforcement, it would only be a matter of time. The thought of how Kemp might react had the tall Stranger tingling with excitement.

Somehow the trunk of secrets had known Kemp would be coming to the park today and the evil magician had long ago learned to trust and obey its directives. After killing the black dog last night, he’d dragged the huge animal back to his hideaway and deposited its stiffening corpse into the deceptive emptiness of the trunk. When the savage ripping, chewing, and slurping had ceased, a contented whisper inside his head told him it was time
to take action. It was news that brought a sadistic grin to the Stranger’s thin, pallid face.

Following instructions, the scruffy-faced man with no name had dragged his beloved magical trunk out of the house and onto the back of the red pickup. In that last blissful hour before dawn, he’d driven the rusty Ford directly to Riverside Park. Taking full advantage of the early morning solitude, he’d driven off the road onto the dew-covered grass and backed the truck up to the wooden steps of the circular bandstand.

The stooped skeleton of the old farmer, Duke Winslow, laid waiting at the bottom of the trunk but there had been no sign of the two dogs. Not worried in the least, the Stranger had lifted the surprisingly heavy skeleton out of the trunk and gently set it down on the truck’s bed. By the time he’d returned to the trunk, the freshly polished bones of the large black dog lay waiting. Setting these bones down beside the old man’s, he returned once more to the trunk for the smaller mutt. From the way its tiny neck was snapped, he easily identifi ed it as the scraggly Benji he’d killed by the campfire early Friday morning. It seemed ages ago since he’d sat in the woods planning revenge, still unaware how close he was to actually achieving it.

After removing all three sets of polished bones, it had only taken a few minutes up and down the stairs to artfully arrange his ghastly masterpiece. The skeletons had hung together surprisingly well, considering their condition. Many of the bones had fallen to the ground and the bottom half of Maxwell’s spine had snapped clean off above its hips but the Stranger had pieced the skeletons back together as best he could and was pleased with his efforts. He took a few satisfying minutes to savor his
display, then another few seconds to plant his surprise for Kemp, but then he knew it was time to leave. He hid the truck nearby and climbed the maple that would offer him a perfect vantage spot but at the same time, screen his presence.

The Stranger settled in and waited.

Impossible as it seemed high up in the tree, but far too exhausted to fight it, the tall man drifted off to sleep. When the Stranger dreamed, it was always about violence and pain, suffering and death, and this dream was no different. Today, he was bombarded with gruesome images of a man covered in blood and missing nearly all of his skin. He was a mess of veins and muscles and open, weeping sores. It was a familiar dream about a real man the Stranger had once known years earlier. In the dream, the flayed man was screaming in agony but still stood up and twirled around to let the Stranger see him better, even though every movement caused great torment and made his raw wounds bleed anew.

The skinless man was another magician—no, wait; he’d only wanted to be a magician—but at the moment the Stranger couldn’t recall what the man’s name was. Theodore something-or-other. Didn’t matter; the Stranger had only ever called him by the name
Peeler
, and he’d been out of his mind long before they’d met. This deranged man had lost much of his skin in a horrible accident and the pain and suffering of countless failed skin grafts and the torture of endless rehab had driven him completely bonkers. He’d somehow come to the irrational conclusion his only salvation might be if he could peel off the rest of his damaged skin, freeing his mind and soul to travel away from his hideous body, which had become his excruciating prison. Yeah, Peeler
had been a pretty fucked-up guy, but that hadn’t stopped the Stranger from being his friend.

Or from supplying him with razor blades…

With a contented smile on his face, the Stranger slept on, happy to replay memories of the good old days. He would have loved to sleep longer, to watch crazy Peeler tear more strips of skin off his arms with his bloody teeth, but eventually people started drifting into the park and the trunk of secrets whispered in his head that it was time to open his eyes. His memories of Peeler instantly forgotten and refreshed from his short nap, he watched the people of Billington coming and going, his powerful body tensed and ready for what was soon to come.

It had frustrated him how long it had taken for someone to notice his handiwork. Hardly anyone had entered the park before nine, and the majority of those first people had been walkers and joggers, far too intent on their own activities. It wasn’t until the churches started spewing out their faithful that the park started to really come to life. Hundreds of people soon converged on the picturesque riverside setting. He was glad he’d taken the extra effort to conceal himself high in the maple’s thick branches, unconsciously holding on to its solid limbs tighter than necessary, relishing its cold, lonely embrace. He was a hunter, a solitary man, and crowds always disturbed him. Fortunately, the magic trunk whispered reassuringly, always there to soothe and calm his paranoid fears.

The Stranger hadn’t even known his quarry was in the park until after the skeletons had been found. Only after the first scream and the initial chaos had died down
did he catch sight of Kemp running among the gathering crowd. A strange chill ran down the dark man’s spine, a cold shock unlike anything he’d felt since beginning the long hunt. An excited chill brought on by seeing his long-lost enemy would have been normal, almost expected. The strange part of it all, however, was an amazing revelation that almost took his breath away.

His dark thoughts should have been centered on Kemp, and on the brutal revenge plan that constantly preoccupied him.

But they weren’t.

He should have been happily thinking about all the fear, confusion, and panic unfolding before him.

But he wasn’t.

He should have at least been planning a quiet way of slipping away after the discovery of his little surprise.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t do any of these things because one icy thought swirled through the pathways of his sick, degenerating mind. A secret he had just learned.

“Kemp has a wife and daughter,” he whispered, astonished. “My God! The bastard has a family!”

Interesting. Very interesting.

Six burly policemen continually urged the gathering throng of onlookers to move back from the scene. At first they tried politely interjecting, but the pushing and shoving continued. Angry glares and veiled threats failed to hold the ring at bay; within minutes of pushing them back, they’d creep in to where they’d stood before. Eventually they gave up trying and allowed the crowd to just mill around.

Wilson recognized most of the cops, although this was the first time he’d seen them in an official capacity outside the drunk tank or issuing the occasional speeding ticket. They seemed to be more enthusiastic and on the ball today than when Wilson usually saw them. Officer Jackson stood next to his partner, Byron “Big Mack” MacKenzie, and rubbing the baby stubble on his chin to their immediate left stood Sandy Carson, Billington’s newest and youngest recruit. Carson was a tall, awkward-looking kid trying to put on the tight-lipped, weathered scowl of an experienced veteran. His uniform, seemingly designed for someone much larger, hung loose on his not-so-copious frame, giving him a somewhat clownish appearance. A boy playing dress-up cops and robbers.
The other officers looked familiar but, for the moment, Wilson couldn’t recall their names.

When all the pushing had started Wilson almost left but was reluctant to give up the excellent front view to this rather odd spectacle. Like everyone else, he was partly fascinated, partly repulsed by this macabre scene and found it awfully hard to look away. He did take the time, however, to make sure his wife and daughter were out of harm’s way before taking the liberty of watching Billington’s finest in action. They too looked bewildered, not quite knowing what to do next.

After giving up on the crowd-control idea, they looked just as confused as everyone else. Was this a murder scene or a joke? Were these skeletons for real or simply impressive fakes? They sure smelled real, that was for sure. It wasn’t an overpowering stench, perhaps because there was so little meat and tissue left on the bones, but there was still a definite odor of rot and decay lingering in the air. It was the smell of death.

None of the officers had ever been confronted with such a situation before. Wilson figured if they wanted answers, rather than chaos, they’d better start asking questions or taking some sort of progressive action in a hurry.

Acting on his own initiative, young Officer Carson began telling the crowd not to worry, the mobile crime lab would soon be on its way and the matter would soon be resolved. This raised many an eyebrow among not only the onlookers, but also his uniformed buddies who’d never heard of such a van. Most people present were smart enough to know a small town like Billington didn’t have the resources to afford such luxury, but
Carson annoyingly kept repeating his ridiculous message until finally Big Mack couldn’t take it anymore and not so quietly told the inexperienced youngster to shut the fuck up.

It took the law a few minutes to recover from their embarrassment and resume their former position of uniformed observers. They still weren’t accomplishing much, but at least Mack’s outburst had quieted the crowd down enough to let them all think.

It ended up being a twelve-year-old boy who spotted it first. He had red spiked hair, round chubby cheeks, and a nasty purple shiner shadowing his left eye. He wormed his way under a few people’s legs and walked right up to the male skeleton and said, “Hey, guys…what’s that thing sticking out of its mouth?”

The curious crowd, policemen included, temporarily went silent as all eyes followed the small, pudgy finger pointing toward the largest of the three skeletons. Within seconds they all saw it too and once again tongues were wagging.

If this had been a large city, such as New York or Washington, things would have been handled much differently. The crowd would have been moved back clear of the crime scene and the area sealed off with ribbons of fancy yellow tape. Wilson wondered why the local fuzz hadn’t thought about doing just that.

Maybe they don’t watch enough TV
, he thought.
The
CSI
guys would have had this scene under control ages ago.

In a properly cordoned-off crime scene, no one would have been allowed inside, never mind touch or possibly destroy vital evidence. Sadly, this wasn’t one of those big cities, and none of these procedures were followed.

Small-time cops or not, they should have had the good
sense to leave the bony remains alone, but they too were just as excited to find out what was inside the human skeleton’s gaping mouth. Sandy Carson, still smarting over his earlier chastisement, had moved away to avoid the crowd and consequently was the closest to the bones. Without a thought toward preserving evidence, he bent down and removed a small scroll from the grinning skull.

It looked like an unfiltered cigarette, but after unrolling it, everyone could see it was a piece of white writing paper containing a scribbled note. Even to the untrained eye, for anyone standing close enough, it was easy to tell the crimson words had been written in blood.

“What’s it say?” echoed the crowd in almost perfect synchronization.

Obviously, the police would never answer that question and divulge such vital evidence, or would they?

Quickly recovering from his recent embarrassment concerning the nonexistent crime lab, Officer Carson was enjoying the sudden attention. Unable to control himself, and before Big Mack could get near him, his mouth got in the way of common sense again.

“It doesn’t make much sense to me,” he started, then raised his voice so everyone in the area could easily hear him. “It says…
‘This is a message from the Heatseeker. What I’ve done here is nothing compared to what I’ll do to you when I get my hands around your treacherous throat. You know who you are. There is nowhere left to hide!’
”

“What on earth does it mean?” Officer Jackson asked to no one in particular. “Sounds like a freakin’ nutcase to me,” he added, laughing nervously.

No one else was laughing. Mayhem had broken loose. People were yelling and screaming, and looking at the skeletons again as if seeing them in a whole new way.
There was little doubt they were real now. The message confirmed this was no hoax. This was serious—deadly serious.

Billington had a madman on the loose. People were trying to come up with reasonable explanations for the unfolding chaos, but none of them could. No one, not even the veteran police officers, had any idea what was going on. Every man, woman, and child in the park was clueless.

Except for one of them.

Wilson Kemp stood among the rabble as if in a trance, the color slowly draining from his usually flushed face. A knot of burning fear was growing in the pit of his stomach, swelling by the second like a rampant malignant tumor.

It can’t be
, Wilson thought, denying the horrifying thoughts now threatening to engulf him.
It simply can’t be! I must not have heard right. Yeah, that’s it.

He was standing in close proximity to Officer Carson when he heard the officer reread the same macabre message. Without warning his vision blurred, cold beads of sweat oozed from his pores, and he felt light-headed and giddy. His legs began to buckle but, fortunately, the tightly packed crowd prevented his collapse.

Wilson knew he had to get away from here but wasn’t sure if he possessed the strength to walk. It was only when someone excitedly asked him who he thought this Heatseeker might be that his feet started to move. Hot bile rose in his throat just thinking about that name. No one could possibly know who the Heatseeker was, but he certainly did. The Heatseeker was the…

“No!” he yelled, quickly and effectively derailing that train of thought.

This can’t be him
, he silently prayed.
It’s impossible. Something strange is going on here, but not that. Anything but that! It must be some kind of strange coincidence, that’s all
. He tried not to torment himself or jump to conclusions but his mind would not let go.

His dark thoughts nibbled, scratched, and clawed their way deeper into the haunted space of his subconscious mind, where all bad memories of his hidden past were locked away. Years of agonizing memories began to boil to the surface, erupting out of his tortured soul to fill his entire being with hot molten fear.

He fought his way through the mob and down the bandstand stairs before staggering across the open ground to where his family anxiously waited. He tried to hide his mounting fear, tried to harness the overload of emotions swirling unchecked inside his head, but Susan sensed something was wrong.

“Wilson…your face? It’s so pale. What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What happened?”

“Nothing,” he lied. “It’s all just so creepy. I guess I’m spooked a little.”

Susan thought to question him further but Amanda began to cry and ran to her father, burying her face in his pant leg, her muffled cries still very much audible.

“What’s happening, Daddy? Why is everybody yelling?”

“It’s nothing to worry about, honey. Trust me, everything is going to be okay.”

While he lovingly stroked the back of his daughter’s head, trying his best to reassure her, Wilson quietly whispered to Susan, “Maybe you’d better get her home. I think she’s had enough for one day.”

“I think we all have. Can I give you a lift?”

“No, I don’t need it. It’s only a few blocks and I could use the walk to clear my head.”

Wilson walked them to the car, putting on a brave front, and breathed a sigh of relief as Susan backed out of the parking lot and waved good-bye as she sped away. Wilson could only return an acknowledging nod. He wanted to blow Amanda a kiss, but couldn’t risk taking his shaking hands out of his pant pockets. No sense in upsetting them any more than they already were.

He left the park the moment their car was out of sight, trying to convince himself he was leaving because of the noisy crowd, but deep down he knew it was because of the bloody note found inside the skeleton’s mouth.

And because he needed a drink.

Several, actually, or as much booze as it took to extinguish the red-hot fear smoldering within his trembling body. He walked quickly, willing himself to think of only the vodka bottle waiting at home, but the incident in the park made it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

“Stop it,” he scolded himself, a series of black memories already filtering across the movie screen of his mind. “I’m wrong. That’s all there is to it. I have to be, right? Because if I’m not…God help us all.”

Wrapped up in his troubled thoughts and his urgent desire to get home to his bottle of liquid poison as soon as possible, Wilson was completely unaware that less than a block away a slow-moving red pickup truck was inching along the road behind him.