Escape From Slaughter Beach Read online

  He raised an eyebrow. “What brought this on?”

  “Answer the question, Claire.”

  He took a drag of his menthol, looked up at the ceiling, and gave the question a good, long think. “In twenty years, I’m going to be forty-eight but distinguished. You’re going to be forty-five but still won’t look a day over twenty-five. We’re going to have three kids. Two boys and one girl. They’ll all look like you and spend all day playing in the yard, because we’ll have one of those big houses out in the woods with the veranda that runs all around the house. And on warm summer nights, after the kids have all gone to bed, we’ll sit out on that veranda and listen to Guns N’ Roses tapes and drink tall glasses of bourbon and laugh all night long. That’s what I think we’ll be doing in twenty years.”

  Parker liked the idea of that. “No more slashers?”

  “No more slashers, baby.”

  The door busted open. Corey took one look at Hell and scrunched up his face. “Dude, do you ever wear a shirt?”

  Hell flipped him the bird.

  “If it’s not too much trouble, can the pair of you get dressed?” Corey asked. “Another girl has disappeared.”

  Two

  Fifteen minutes later, Corey pulled the Eldorado into the parking lot of the Columbia Falls Dunkin’ Donuts.

  “She was taken from here thirty minutes ago. The local sheriff’s over in Pioneer Junction, but he’s on the road, and he’ll be here soon,” Corey said. “My suggestion would be to get in there, get what you need, and get out ASAP before the local fuzz rock up.”

  Parker leaned over the back seat, peered through the dirty glass, and locked her eyes on the Dunkin’ Donuts manager. He was round in the middle and wore a ’stache on his top lip; the combination made him look about ten years older than he probably was.

  “He’s not going to talk to us,” Hell said.

  “Maybe not,” replied Parker. “But he will talk to Detective Pillar and Bridgeman.”

  Corey threw her a confused look. “Who the fuck are they?”

  They were Parker’s and Hell’s fake detective alter egos. There were certain times in their line of work where they had to—Parker didn’t really like the phrase—con people into giving them information. Now, everything Parker and Hell knew about being detectives was what they had learned from television, so Parker tied her hair back and buttoned up her leather jacket while Hell slipped on a sports coat and a tie.

  By the time they pushed through the double doors of Dunkin’ Donuts and walked up to the manager, Dave, they looked like a couple of genuine TV cops… kinda.

  Parker flashed Dave a fake badge, but she was so quick that he didn’t have a chance to notice. “I’m Detective Pillar, and this is Bridgeman. We’re here to ask you some questions about the abduction here today.”

  Dave looked them both up and down. “You guys don’t look like cops.”

  “We’re from the city,” Hell said.

  “Oh.”

  “So, Dave,” Parker said. “Why don’t you pour us a couple of coffees, take a seat, and tell us what you saw?”

  And that was just what he did. A couple of minutes later, they were sitting at a booth, and Parker was warming her fingers around a paper cup.

  “Kimberly was late,” Dave said. “She was always late. She only had been working here two or three weeks, and most of that time, she was late for work.”

  “So she was late today?” Parker asked.

  “Yeah,” Dave said. “And she didn’t care too much about it, either, but that’s another issue. About an hour after she started, I told her to go outside and sweep up around the entrance so people wouldn’t track leaves and what have you into the store.”

  Parker took a sip of her coffee. “Did she?”

  “After she finished her complaining, she did.”

  “Was this a task that she did every day?” Hell asked.

  “When she remembered.”

  “So she was out there sweeping up, and then what happened?” Parker asked.

  “A van pulled up out of nowhere.”

  Hell leaned forward. “What kind of van?”

  “Brown, I think? I really don’t remember. But it pulled up kinda fast. I remember that because I heard the tires screech on the ground. The side door swung open, and some big, dark figure just reached out and grabbed her.”

  “A dark figure?” Hell said. “Can you describe him?”

  “He was huge,” Dave continued. “Like Hollywood Hulk Hogan. He grabbed Kimberly, slammed the door shut, and the van sped off again. It was all so fast.”

  Parker leaned back in her chair. Something about his story smelled like bullshit, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what. Then her eyes drifted up to the surveillance camera in the corner of the room. “Do you have a camera outside?”

  Dave nodded.

  “Show me,” she said.

  The three of them squeezed into the tiny back room that doubled as Dave’s office and huddled around a black-and-white television. Dave pressed Play, and they all leaned in as best they could to watch what unfolded on the video.

  It started off just as Dave had described. Kimberly begrudgingly swept up outside the Dunkin’ Donuts. A van pulled up alongside her. The door swung open. Some big bastard grabbed hold of Kimberly and violently dragged her into the van. The door slammed shut, and the van sped off.

  “Hit Pause,” Parker said.

  Dave’s chubby finger pressed the button, and the image paused on the rear of the van. There it was, as clear as day: the license plate.

  Parker jotted down the number, and a moment or two later, the two fake detectives and the very real Dunkin’ Donuts manager walked out of the store.

  “That’s a great car,” Dave said, pointing to the Eldorado.” Then he squinted and saw Corey sitting behind the wheel. “Who’s the kid?”

  “Ride along,” Hell said.

  “See you around, Dave,” Parker added as she and Hell climbed into the Eldorado.

  Corey cranked up that massive V-8 engine, gave Dave a wink, and sped out of the parking lot. They hit 10th Avenue just as a Columbia Falls cruiser passed them. Parker watched it pull up to the Dunkin’ Donuts and the two sheriffs walk over to a confused Dave.

  “Once they find that surveillance tape, they’re going to be right behind us,” Parker said.

  Hell pulled a VHS tape out from under his jacket. “No, they won’t.”

  “I knew you weren’t just a pretty face,” Parker said as she slumped back in the seat. “There’s something fishy about this.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Slashers don’t drive cars.”

  “Ah, that’s not entirely true,” Corey said. “In Halloween, Michael Myers drives a car.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “In the movie, Michael Myers drives a car.”

  “Halloween was based on Hurricane Williams, and I killed Hurricane Williams, and I can assure you that that particular son of a bitch most certainly did not drive a car.”

  “That may be true, baby,” Hell said. “But we’re still looking at five missing girls in the past three weeks. Slasher or not, those girls didn’t kidnap themselves.”

  Three

  Back at the Motel 6, Corey yanked the telephone cable out of the phone and plugged it into his Macintosh Portable. “I’m going to hack into the MVD and find out who that license plate is registered to.”

  Confusion washed over Parker. “Hack?”

  “On the Internet?”

  Hell wasn’t convinced either. “The Internet?”

  “Yes, the Internet?”

  “It this going to take long?”

  “No,” Corey snapped.

  He eyed Corey’s laptop and all the cables hanging out of it like the thing was on life support. “Because it looks like it’s going to take a while.”

  Corey hit Return on the little Apple machine, and the dial-up kicked in.

  Pshhhkkkrrr. Kakingkakingkakingt
sh. Chchchch. Ding. Ding. Ding.

  “Is it supposed to be doing that?”

  “Yes!” Corey snapped. “Look, why don’t you and Parker go and wait by the car or something, okay?”

  “All right, all right,” Parker said, and the pair of them headed out of the room, into the near-empty parking lot and leaned up against the Eldorado.

  Hell lit two cigarettes and passed one to Parker. She waved it off. “I was thinking about what you said before.”

  “That the Teenage Ninja Turtles should merge with the Golden Girls and become the Teenage Mutant Ninja Golden Girls?”

  “No, not about that,” he said. “I was thinking about what we’re going to be doing twenty years from now.”

  “Guns N’ Roses on the tape deck, a couple of kids, and no more slashers?”

  “Why wait?” Hell said. “I mean, really? Why do we have to wait? Why can’t we do that now?”

  She pushed off the car and moved around so that she stood in front of him. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m saying that after this hunt, maybe we should retire.”

  “For real?”

  “Yeah, I mean…”

  She threw her arms around his neck. “Just shut up.” And she kissed him.

  Mid-kiss, Corey busted out of the motel room. “Hey, Joanie and Chachi! I’ve got an address.”

  Four

  The Eldorado cruised down the suburban street and came to a stop outside the address Corey had pulled from the MVD records. He shut the engine down and looked out at the single-story, four-bedroom family home with a two-car garage. He figured that none of it looked out of the ordinary. Then again, he knew from the last couple of years running around with Parker that most evil places didn’t go around advertising their evilness.

  “So what do we do?” he asked. “Just knock on the door and ask if they’ve been kidnapping girls?”

  Parker shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”

  “It’s not much of a plan, Parker,” Corey said, but it was too late. She was already halfway out of the car, and Hell wasn’t far behind. “Ah, man,” Corey mumbled as he gave in and got out. He caught up with Parker and Hell as they reached the front door.

  “Here goes nothing,” Parker said as she pressed the doorbell.

  Then they waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  “Looks like no one’s home,” she said.

  Hell took a step back. “Guess I’m kicking it in.”

  “I guess you are,” Parker said.

  Hell planted his legs and got his balance just right. It wasn’t the first door he had ever kicked in, and he was just about to unleash the force of his power on that innocent door when a voice called out, “Can I help you?”

  Hell hit Pause as the gang all looked over their shoulders at the next-door neighbor. Her name was Molly, and she was taking groceries from the back of her minivan while a couple of kids played in the front yard.

  The boys followed as Parker made her way over to Molly. “We’re looking for the Perrys.”

  “What do you need them for?” Molly asked. “No offense, you don’t look like their kind of folk; that’s all.”

  “I doubt we are,” Parker said. “The truth of it is, five girls have gone missing in the past three weeks, and we think the Perrys might know a thing or two about that.”

  Molly raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say I’m surprised. There’s something about them that just gives me the willies.”

  “Do you know where they may be?” Hell asked.

  “They’re members of that church up there near Halfmoon.”

  “Which church?” Parker asked.

  “The First Mantus.”

  “The First Mantus,” Parker repeated. “Are you sure that’s what it’s called?”

  “Yeah,” Molly said. “Why?”

  “Mantus is the God of Hell.”

  A silence lingered between them as they all took that in.

  “Now I’m getting the willies,” Corey said.

  Five

  The small chapel on a hill hadn’t started out as a church for the God of Hell. Sometime in its history, it was home to a more Christian faith, and at some point, it had quite possibly even had a cross perched somewhere on its roof. The lights were on, and people were inside. By the sound of it, a sermon was in full swing as the Eldorado crawled up to the chapel and came to a stop among the twenty or so vehicles parked haphazardly around the front.

  The gang climbed out and popped the trunk. Inside was a treasure trove of ass-kicking, slasher-hunting weapons. Hell reached for a chain saw.

  “You won’t need that,” Parker said. “There’s no slasher in there. It’s a cult. There’s nothing slashery about it.” She pulled out a .45 and checked the chamber; that bad boy was all locked and loaded. “Here’s the plan—we kick in the door, flash some guns around, make some noise, rescue the girls, and get out of Dodge.”

  Both Hell and Corey tossed back in their slasher weapons and picked up a couple of pistols.

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” Hell said.

  They made their way up to the double doors of the chapel. Hell lifted up his boot and kicked those doors wide open.

  The church was about half full, and Parker was looking at maybe twenty or thirty people, and when those doors were kicked in, each and every one of them had swung their heads back to them. Then each and every one of them pulled up the guns in their hands and took aim at Parker and her gang.

  “Guys,” Parker said, “I really don’t think we thought this plan out.”

  “You think?” Corey said.

  And then they had no choice. With all those guns on them, their only option left was to drop their weapons and do as they were told. Which was just what the gang did.

  Then they were told to march down to the altar and to get on their knees, looking out at all the members of the church. What struck Parker was just how goddamned normal they all looked. Standing there in their dresses and plaid shirts with khakis from the Gap, they could have easily passed for regular everyday people. They looked like dentists, real estate agents, and people she would run into down at the local store. There was nothing mad about them—not on the surface anyway.

  Parker shifted her gaze to the other side of the altar. The mystery of the missing girls was solved. All five teenagers were on their knees, with gags in their mouths, hands bound behind their backs, and tears rolling down their cheeks. And then at center stage of all that madness stood Cornelius LeClaire. He was part preacher, part Wayne Newton, and all sleaze. He buttoned up the jacket to his white linen suit, stepped to the front of the altar, and raised the Bible in his hand high above his head.

  “I’ve had the honor to live in God’s creation for fifty-five years, and in those fifty-five years, I have seen true acts of compassion, true acts of inspiration, and I have also seen wonderful acts of love.”

  The flock all nodded and smiled. A couple of them even threw up a couple of fist pumps.

  LeClaire’s voice dropped down real low. “But I have also seen acts of sin. My eyes have laid witness to the sins of greed.”

  Mmms and yeahs come out of the flock.

  “The sins of lust,” LeClaire continued. “The sins of gluttony. I have seen, with these very two eyes of mine, the deterioration of God’s people deep down into the sewers of humanity. Now, God loves you.” He paused. “He loves you no matter what; that is not in dispute. No, sir. But don’t you think that God deserves more?”

  “He does,” the flock all said in a kind of unison that suggested they’d heard this sermon before.

  “Don’t you think we owe him more?”

  “We do,” they said, only louder.

  “Don’t you think we can give him more?”

  “We can!” they answered.

  “And who is going to give us that?”

  “Hurricane Williams!” the flock all shouted.

  Oh shit, Parker thought to herself. As the flock chanted “Hurricane” over and ov
er, she knew whatever these maniacs had in mind, it wasn’t going to be good.

  “At the precise stroke of midnight,” LeClaire continued, “we’re going to summon not a man! Not a beast! But a vessel that God is going to act through, and that vessel is going to purge the earth of all sinners.” He jabbed a yellow-stained finger at the five teenaged girls on the altar. “These sinful, sinful women will be our sacrifice to Hurricane Williams. At the stroke of midnight, we will open a portal to the afterworld and bring Brother Williams back. Brother Williams will travel this great land of ours, and he will purge every single sinner, and God’s greatest achievement will be pure again.”

  The flock were so overcome with joy that when they climbed to their feet and cheered. A few had tears of joy in their eyes.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Parker said as everyone quieted down. “You’re telling me—and correct me if I’m wrong—you’re telling me that you’re going to raise a slasher from the depths of hell?”

  “Oh, we most certainly are, miss,” LeClaire said.

  “Having been someone with some personal experience with raising slashers from the depths of hell, I know to achieve that you need to read from the Book of Evil. Now there’s only two people on the face of the planet that know where that bastard book is. One is me, and the other is my accomplice, Corey, here.”

  Corey gave LeClaire a slight nod.

  “Therefore,” Parker continued, “we know for a fact that the book in question does not currently reside with you. So you can say whatever you want to say up there on stage in front of all these idiots, but at the end of the day, you ain’t raising shit.”

  “Is that so?” LeClaire asked.

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Since you’re such a scholar of the Book of Evil, did you know that before it magically disappeared in 1944, Adolf Hitler’s top mystical scientist, Erik Von Junge, tattooed various passages of the Book of Evil onto his own body and then smuggled himself out of Europe before the end of the war?”