Salem's Daughters (33 page)

Chapter 53              Epiphany

Detective Thomas Darrowby paced the industrial gray vinyl flooring of his office at the Battle Creek Police Department. He knew somewhere in the stacks of files he and his partner, Sergeant Detective Kowalski, and a host of other police officers were sifting through, was someone or something that would break the Murcat Manor case wide open. They needed to be relentless in their search. He knew their work would pay off. It always did.

He rubbed his jaw, still sore from the left hook Bob connected. Darrowby hated to lose. One more reason to bust Bob and send him to Jackson State Prison for the rest of his life.

Darrowby looked at his watch, then to Kowalski. “I’m tired and hungry. Let’s grab something to eat. We’re going to be here late into the night.”

Kowalski closed the file he was working and slapped it onto his desk. “I’m frankly befuddled, partner. Every lead ends up going nowhere. The Stevens’ attorney will dismiss everything we have as circumstantial evidence.”

Darrowby kept pacing, still rubbing his jaw. “There’s something here. I can feel it. We just need to keep interviewing previous guests at Murcat Manor. Six deaths and hundreds of guests over the past two months? Somebody had to have seen something.”

A knock on the door got his attention.

“Come in. And you’d better have something to tell me.”

Two police officers let themselves in. “Sure do, Cap’n. We just came back from that interview you sent us to have with Patrick and Marian Allen. They stayed at Murcat Manor the first week it opened.”

Darrowby ran the timeline through his head. That was after DeShawn Hill was killed but before the first guest, Paul Knudson, died of simultaneous choking and a heart attack.

“Yeah? And?”

“Turned out, there wasn’t an interview. Least, not with them. They’re dead.”

“Dead? How?”

“Remember that house fire in early June on the other side of Battle Creek? A young couple died. It was ruled arson, but so far investigators haven’t determined the cause.”

“That was the Allens?”

“Sure’s hell was.”

“Whaddaya got?”

“We interviewed their family and neighbors. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except this.” The officer held up his cell phone. “I had Mrs. Allen’s mother forward me these pictures.”

Darrowby snatched the phone and scrolled through them. “I recognize that cat.” Darrowby enlarged one image, then focused on the collar tag. “Rebecca. That’s one of the Stevens’ cats.”

“Bingo. The Stevens gave it to them when they left. A few days later their house burned down to the ground.”

“The cat must have found its way back to Murcat Manor.”

Kowalski frowned, pulling on his ear. “That has to be twenty miles away. You read stories all the time about pets finding their way back home.”

Darrowby grabbed his car keys. “So the death toll just went up from six to eight. Kowalski, let’s go. We’re paying the Stevens another visit.”

Darrowby thought back to when Bob told him he saw three cats on roof when DeShawn Hill fell backward and was skewered on the spike of the front lawn gazebo. For the first time, he considered there might be more to the cats than he wanted to acknowledge.

In the parking lot, Darrowby tossed Kowalski the keys. “You drive. I need to think a few things through.”

“Sirens on?”

“Not this time. I want to surprise the Stevens.”

Darrowby had a few minutes to sort through what he previously dismissed as unreasonable, that the thirteen cats at Murcat Manor were more than lazy pets. Could they have played a part in the eight deaths?

Or, God forbid—the commissioner would have his badge if he pursued the matter—could the cats be the center of supernatural activity linked not only Murcat Manor, but also the Turner place and the Amish family?

“It’s weird how that cat was able to walk all the way back home,” Kowalski said, intruding on Darrowby’s thoughts.

“Huhn? Oh yeah. Right. Sure is. I’ve hear of dogs doing that. But not cats.”

“Give me a dog over a cat any day. Dogs, they’ll listen. They obey. And come when you call. But a cat? Fuggedaboudit. They have a mind and a will all their own. You can’t train ’em. They do what they want, when they want to.”

His partner’s words struck a chord. Cats do have a will of their own. Darrowby didn’t trust cats and never paid any attention to them. Until now. But he had a case to solve. Multiple cases, actually. He had to consider his career as well as his sanity. No way could he mention cats as accomplices. Any chance of moving up the corporate ladder would surely stop.

What to do? Continue the investigation under the rules his superiors would judge him by? Or Begin to delve into matters that expanded far beyond his training and the results expected of him.

Chapter 54              Ross’s Last Words

Murcat Manor came into view as Ross Dempsey passed the last rolling hill on Oak Hill Drive. Debbie looked at the dashboard clock. 7:45 p.m. Bob wouldn’t be home for another fifteen minutes. Debbie clutched her cell phone and again called her grandmother. Again, no answer. She sent another text. No response.

“Here we are,” Ross said. “There’s nothing to worry about. She’s probably sleeping on the couch, sweetie. Trust me. My Erma’s okay.”

Ross pulled into the driveway. “See? What’d I tell you? Everyone is here. There’s your Ford Explorer. And I see the freaks’ cars too. And look, McDonalds’ fast food sacks and wrappers are on the gravel next to their cars, the disrespectful little cretins.”

“And there,” Ross pointed. “Raymond parked his truck furthest in the back. Everyone’s here. Just like they should be.”

Ross parked close to the front door. Debbie got out and viewed Murcat Manor. She sensed something was terribly wrong.

“Well, let’s go inside,” Ross said, taking Debbie’s hand. “What’s wrong? You’re shaking like a leaf on a wind-blown tree.”

Debbie pulled back and looked at all the windows on the front of the house. What she expected to see, she wasn’t sure. There was movement upstairs. The lights were on in the Goths’ and Vamps’ rooms. Shadows passed back and forth through the blinds. Music from the Ramones blared loud enough to be heard in the driveway.

But downstairs, she could not detect any activity. Even though it was still daylight, the sun was beginning to set toward the western horizon. She thought there should be a few lights on. And no way would her grandmother tolerate punk rock music to be played that loud. She’d surely put a stop to that.

“Okay. Let’s go. I want to make sure Grandma’s okay.”

“Pish posh. Erma’s fine.”

Ross opened the front door and Debbie rushed through the foyer into the living room, hoping to see Erma sleeping on the couch. The place was empty of people and cats.

“Grandma,” Debbie cried out.

No reply.

“She’s probably in the kitchen.”

Debbie ran up to the arch entry of the kitchen. No lights were on and there was no sign of Erma or the cats.

Debbie turned in a full circle and gave a shout that could be heard throughout Murcat Manor. “Raymond, are you here?”

Her only reply was the Ramones being turned up louder.

Ross tossed Erma’s To-Go dinner, wrapped in a plastic bag, on the table. “No offense, sweetie. Your turkey leftovers are delicious. But Cornwell’s, well, you can’t beat seventy years of greatness.”

“Grandpa, I’m really worried. Where’s Grandma? And Raymond?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the freaks have them tied up in the backyard and are sacrificing them.” Ross almost laughed himself silly.

“Okay, that’s totally not funny.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Maybe Erma’s upstairs scolding those punks. I bet she has one by the ear and putting the switch to the others.”

Debbie ignored his insipid attempts at humor. It was eerily quiet, even with the rebellious rock music from upstairs.

“Grandma. Where are you?”

Ross resumed laughing. “She’s locked herself in the storage closet.”

“How do you know that?”

Ross stopped and looked at her. “You didn’t hear her shouting she’s in the closet?”

“No. I didn’t hear anything.”

Ross grabbed his belly and laughed harder as he walked back through the living room and down the hall toward the pantries and storage closets. “She just yelled out again. Oh, that Erma. She must be taking a few swigs from
Old Faithful
again. Wouldn’t be the first time. She’s locked herself out of our house and cars too many times to remember.”

Debbie cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled out one more time at the top of her lungs. “Grandma. Where are you?”

Ross turned and gave her an indignant look. “Stop shouting. You could wake up a graveyard. She’s right here. In this very closet.”

Ross reached for the door knob. Debbie imagined the worst. Emily and the other cats had set a trap. She lunged at him. “No. Don’t open the door.”

Ross gave Debbie a cavalier flip of his hand and opened the closet. He stepped in and split a swath through winter coats on hangers with his right arm.

“Erma? Where in tarnation are y—”

Ross’s last words were drowned out by a wail from Debbie as a bowling ball crashed into the center of his head, collapsing his skull.

He sank to a kneeling position and stayed in a slumped, although upright posture, the bowling ball firmly implanted into the top of his head. His eyes bulged out of their sockets. His tongue stuck out at an awkward left angle. His chin was buried into the top of his chest.

Inside, Chloe, Midnight and Helen sat on the top shelf. Debbie knew they had somehow managed to extricate the blue bowling ball from its usual place in the bowling bag on the floor, levitate it up to the top shelf, then wait. As soon as Ross was in position, they pushed it over the edge, plummeting down on its trajectory of death.

Debbie felt a complete sensory deprivation, a whiteout that while still conscious, blocked out communication from her five senses to her brain. She didn’t know for how long, but when she came to she was still standing, staring down on her grandfather.

One of the most powerful men she had known was reduced to a heap of wobbly flesh and bones. He looked like the smallest disturbance would cause him to tip over. Chloe, Midnight and Helen were nowhere to be seen.

Unwillingly, her mind replayed the scene in great detail. She thought it would stop after the first time. But the event repeated itself over and over—as if the thoughts were implanted in her head, like the sound of Erma’s voice that only Ross could hear.

Debbie knew her free will had been invaded. She shook her head and covered her eyes.

“No more,” she screamed out. “Whoever or whatever is planting this in my mind has to stop. Now.”

Debbie continued to shake her head and took a quick breath. She had freedom and control over her mind. But she could feel the tug of another presence, an unhallowed force that’d had its way far too many often on the property.

But not this time. This was her house. She would fight to take back control of her domain.

What would Grandma do? Debbie never took martial arts or boxing lessons. She looked at her open hands. What she needed were weapons. She turned and marched into her kitchen. Here in her bailiwick an arsenal awaited.

There was no shortage of knives and things she could throw. Each counter and island had a set of steel forged Japanese Chubo kitchen knives. Small cast iron skillets hung from the ceiling. Vases and mugs were everywhere. The chairs at the kitchen table could be broken into smaller pieces and used.

Debbie reached for the knives when a blast of heat hit her, knocking her down. It was as if a massive bubble of hot air burst in front of her.

“What the hell,” was all she could manage as she stumbled to her feet, gobsmacked at the unforeseen force that blindsided her. But it was the heat on her face that scared her most. She felt her cheeks, glad her skin was still attached.

A second blast leveled her, sending her back to the floor. Frantic to escape a third burst, she stayed low and crab-walked backward on all fours. Her kitchen table would provide refuge, if only for a few moments.

Once on the other side she backed into something. Her hands and feet gave out and she collapsed, on, what’s this? The red and white checkered table cloth. What’s it covering?

Debbie lifted a corner to reveal a badly damaged hand and forearm. She jumped to her feet, tearing off the fabric. Between her legs lay her beloved grandmother, stuck halfway through the animal door of the basement door, staring up at her through vacuous eyes. A frying pan lay by her head.

“Oh, good God Almighty. This can’t be.”

Debbie was too appalled to scream, although she realized she had assumed the position with her hands grabbing both sides of her head and her mouth wide open. Forget about the knives. She needed firepower.

She steadied herself on the table and walls, making her way through the back of the kitchen and down the hall to their bedroom. She ripped off the yellow police tape from the door. The officers had performed a meticulous search of her bedroom when Joseph Meicigama was found dead in their bed the previous night. But not thorough enough.

Debbie leapt up onto the bed. She balled her fingers and reared her fists up and over her head. With a forward thrust she smashed her fists into the wall above their headboard and tore off a large chunk of drywall.

There, strapped to the inner wall, was a loaded Mossberg 500 pump-action twelve gauge shotgun and a Ruger SR9 9mm semi-automatic handgun. A hunting knife with a leather and Velcro leg strap complemented the firepower.

A satchel full of shotgun shells hanging from a nail completed the mini arsenal. Compliments of their architect Michael Fronteria and builder DeShawn Hill who, when they said they had thought of everything, really meant it.

Security was a top priority, and both insisted Bob and Debbie sign off on this detail. Hill claimed the shotgun was one of the most efficient close range killing machines. He made a convincing argument, as ten rooms filled over a year’s time would allow for at least a few unsavory characters. The past residents of The Roadhouse Blues alone confirmed Hill’s concerns.

Just above the headboard, covering the space between two wall studs, he had installed ¼” thick drywall, rather than the 5/8” thick material used throughout the rest of the house, making it easier to punch a hole in the wall. With the thinner material shimmed out flush with the rest of the wall, it made a perfect hiding place.

Debbie confirmed the safety was on and tucked the handgun in her belt under the small of her back. She wrapped the leather leg strap above her right ankle and secured the hunting knife. The satchel of twelve gauge shotgun shells was now slung over her left shoulder. The shotgun in her right hand, safety on, Debbie Stevens was ready to go.

Although not an expert in firearms, Debbie was raised with three brothers. She did know how to aim straight and shoot. With a fully loaded shotgun in close quarters, that’s all she needed.

Debbie composed herself the best she could and moved forward with a determined steady pace. She glanced at her Grandmother on her way back through the kitchen. “Don’t worry, you didn’t die in vain. I’ll get those hellions for you. I promise you that.”

Debbie entered the living room. To her right and down the hall she could see her grandfather’s corpse. He was dead. There was nothing she could do to bring him back. But she would certainly kill the cats. She turned off the safety. Left hand holding the hand stock. Right hand on the grip behind the trigger. Shotgun held low.

What to do? And where were the cats? Surely they were organized and ready to ambush. And she was alone.

With no definitive plan, the only option was to wait. The clock on the wall told her Bob would be home in a few minutes. Until then, she could only pace back and forth between the living room and kitchen, ready to blast any cat foolish enough to challenge her.