Chapter 3
“He came out through the back door with both women,” Angela murmured as they headed out themselves.
“The question we need answered is this—did he keep going into the woods or did he circle through some of the woods and head back out to steal another car on the road somehow—or to one of the cars he’d already stolen and left in a certain place on purpose? ”
Jackson nodded. “That’s the question. And they’ll get dogs out here who can follow scents; they should be here at any minute. But look at the woods facing us—at first, you don’t see a trail, but then you do.”
The trees appeared to grow thickly together with strings of vines curling around them.
Fall was upon them. The leaves hadn’t gone yet—there was a variety of striking oranges and reds.
Autumn. A season that could be so damned lovely. Before the cold set in, before the leaves fell.
Angela read his mind too easily, he thought dryly.
“The good thing is,” she told him, “we can see broken branches there—and he’s going to leave broken branches because it’s not easy to drag two women through trees and shrubbery when they’re half knocked out without breaking some branches.”
“I believe,” Trent Fielding’s spirit told them solemnly, “that he took them separately—at least to a point in the woods where they wouldn’t be seen.
Did he go back to a car that he’d stolen?
Possibly. That would make sense because he’d know that law enforcement would bring dogs and he’d be followed—but a dog can’t really follow a long car trail, even out here. ”
“Good point,” Jackson told him. He looked at Angela. “So, where did he go from here? He has a plan; we know it. The man always has a plan. But as we’ve said, he’s had to do a fair amount of manipulation on his usual agenda.”
Jackson’s phone rang and he answered it quickly—it was Bruce McFadden.
“With Angela and Trent getting ready to walk into the woods,” Jackson told him. “You’re on speaker.”
“Okay, great,” Bruce said over the line.
“So, Jackson, you ordered an all-hands-on deck on this, and we sent a few of our agents out to the prison interviewing anyone Darrell Manderley might have any conversation with whatsoever. So far, we haven’t gotten much—even some of the hardened inmates feared the guy and stayed away from him.
They haven’t discovered which of the guards might have given him a bit of a hand slipping out of the infirmary into the ambulance, but there was this—when he talked, he talked about the wonder of Halloween, that the ancients had it right, those who wanted a decent survival way back when were required to make sacrifices, to understand the darkness that really controlled the world.
It’s not much, but I thought we should report the idea that he is obsessed with Halloween. ”
“Good to know and not a surprise. So, what kind of a reaction did most of the men have?” Jackson asked.
“Is he crazy, does he believe himself, or he uses his crazy as a way to manipulate and perhaps scare people?” Angela asked.
“That’s the strange thing. Some thought he was crazy.
Some almost believed him—I mean that was his first gig, right?
Getting the vulnerable to believe he truly was all the power in creation.
Some thought he was just having fun at their expense.
Whether he’s crazy or not, Halloween is his big thing. So . . .”
“We’ll get everyone watching out for Halloween,” Jackson said.
“And watch yourselves!” Bruce warned.
“Of course,” Jackson said.
“Always,” Angela said.
“And not to worry; I’ll keep tabs on them.” Trent said, making Jackson smile and roll his eyes at the spirit.
“Trent is great, amazing,” Jackson said. “Anything Halloween—we send him in first.”
“That’s a plan,” Bruce assured him. “I’ll be back with anything I can get.”
“Thanks, and yes, of course, anything, no matter how small. Tell our people we need to know who helped the man; they might still be helping him. Find out what guards are off today, which guards are . . .”
As his voice trailed, Angela quickly picked up the thought, “Which of the guards might be susceptible to someone like Manderley, someone who could be easily manipulated and actually give in to his beliefs, who might be having a bad life and believe a man like Darrell Manderley might be the power who could change that for them.”
“Gotcha. And out!” Bruce told them.
They ended the call.
“Into the woods,” Angela reminded him.
“Into the woods,” Jackson agreed, striking off the almost invisible, slender trail through the trees and the brush.
“Maybe we should have been forest rangers!” Angela said lightly, crawling over a tangle of roots. We do seem to wind up in forests often enough.”
“And Halloween. Banshees and . . . we did manage to pull a girl out of a coffin alive when she’d been attacked and left in an attraction.”
“We did. It’s just that this man, Darrell Manderley, Jackson, we’ve come across human beings who work off a great deal of evil, but this guy! He’s beyond horrible, the way he uses psychology and torture and makes people believe his lies, makes people have faith in him!”
“Faith,” he said. “In most religions, faith is believing in god in one way or another, and faith itself is believing in what hasn’t been proven.
Most people look to a higher being, God, as a creator who seeks human beings to behave well, to be kind .
. . and since it’s all faith in one way or another, this man just learned how to twist it all horrendously. ”
“As do most cult leaders,” Angela said sadly. “He’s just pushed it beyond.”
“Here is the thing that many good people believe when it comes to be horrible things among men—wars aren’t fought over religion.
Religion teaches kindness and caring. Those who are seeking power, money, recognition or land are great at using religion as an excuse to do horrible things.
This fellow has really learned how to twist things in a way few others in history have managed. ”
“So, this time, we must stop him—for good.” Angela said.
“He’s a game player. We just need to figure out the game. And it has something to do with Halloween,” Jackson reminded her.
“I wonder if he’s doing something similar to criminal activity we’re seen before—kidnapping people and putting them into Halloween exhibits.
The thing is, at so many of these places, the companies come in and set up their haunted houses, mansions, school rooms, whatever, and the organizers really have no idea of just what they’ve got.
People expect to see coffins, spiderwebs .
. . ghosts and goblins. So, unless it’s had time to decay, a human body is going to look just like a body prop that’s really been done well. ”
“That’s true. But . . .”
“You think he’s planning something more devious,” Trent offered. “I do, too. From what I’ve heard you say about this man.”
“But what? And what is it going to do with Halloween?” Angela wondered. “I sincerely doubt he’s going to set a giant bonfire—that would just draw attention. And I don’t think he wants to get caught again. Oh! He likes to watch what he makes people do—or what he does to people. So . . .”
“So, you don’t think he’s going to be hanging around a Halloween attraction of any kind—one with security and now, possibly, dozens of cops?” Jackson asked.
“Right. And woah!” She was in the lead, following the trail that was barely a trail, reading the twisted broken branches and leaves as they moved along. “Sorry, watch it, Jackson, massive root right there.”
“Shush, shush!” Trent whispered suddenly.
They both fell silent.
And he was right—ahead of them, they heard the sound of rustling in the bushes.
Naturally, that’s when Jackson’s phone began to vibrate; he was glad he had it on silent mode and still, he needed to answer it.
Bruce McFadden was calling again.
“Moving forward.” Angela whispered, giving him a nod that meant he needed to take a few steps back and answer the phone.
With Trent right behind her, Angela was off.
Her Glock was at the ready.
“Bruce, something is happening here—”
“Quickly. One of the stolen cars was reported to be near your vicinity except that when police went to check it out, the car was gone. I think our guy parked that car where he might have needed it and took the other to park at that coffee shop.”
“So, he’s gone. But there’s someone on the trail. Going after Angela.”
He ended the call, doing his best to race along the root-strewn trail. He knew he didn’t need to worry; she was an expert with her Glock when it came to it.
Still . . .
Every agent and officer known to man did their best work when they had a partner covering their back.
He heard Angela before he reached her.
“Now! On your knees, hands high! Let me see your hands!”
He burst into a small clearing. Angela was just ahead and a bit to the side of a giant oak, her gun trained on a man who had been strangely dragging a coat over the clearing.
Trying to hide any footprints, Jackson sought.
And, of course, he hadn’t just been carrying the coat. He was armed; his gun was at his side.
“Don’t move and I mean it,” Angela said. She knew Jackson was there. “Want to grab that Smith and Wesson from him? No need to worry; you know I have a hair trigger on this thing,” she said casually.
Jackson went ahead and walked toward the man. He had gone to his knees as commanded; he hadn’t gone for his gun.
Jackson took the weapon from him. He was starting to cry.
“You might as well shoot me. I’m a dead man walking!” the man said.
He was in his late forties or early fifties, Jackson thought. Maybe he’d been seeing some hard times—his jeans were just about threadbare, his beard hadn’t had a decent trim in forever, and his thinning gray hair was wild.
Vulnerable.
Perfect victim for a would-be Satan.