He never really slept now-he just dozed off every now and then and was jerked awake each and every time. By Natter's evil whispers, and by the hideous things he showed him in his head. Natter's wrecked face always seemed to hover just outside the bars, all squashed like something run over in the road, them dry puffy lips barely moving, them big blood-red eyes staring at him. Sometimes Natter'd scratch on the wall, and other times Gut thought he heard him tapping on the gla.s.s of the jailhouse's only window with those long kinky fingers of his. Gut, Gut, the whisper creaked like old wood. Look...

And Gut looked. He had no choice really. And Natter would say fancified things too, while Gut was looking, like, Such blessings, Gut! Such epiphanies! and Behold my promised dominion, little one. Upon some future time, it will be your dominion, too... And that's when Gut was forced to look into that place.

It was a horrible place. Smoking canyons of rock, miles deep. There was never a sun, just a big warped black moon shining its black light over blacker hills and lakes-yes, lakes, like giant steaming pools of tar, and Gut could see things in those lakes. He could see people. And then he saw other things that weren't people at all, but monsters. The monsters would pull people out of the lake and put a rucking on them like ta make the stuff he and Scott-Boy did look like two kids playing paddycakes. These monsters would bust open folks' heads like they was melons under Scott-Boy's big-a.s.s hickory pick handle, and they'd yank off arms and legs likes they was wings on flies. They'd slice folks' bellies open and haul out their kidneys and livers and stuff and play catch with 'em, and they'd pulls people's faces off like they was rubber masks only they wasn't masks at all, they was the folks' real faces. One time he'd seen one yank a fella's spine right out his a.s.shole. They'd chop folks up into big piles of chunks and then walk around in the piles. Once he saw one suck some fella's insides right out his mouth lickety-split and swallered it all right down neat. And as for havin' themselves a nut-well, these ugly monster dudes got ta layin' d.i.c.k on gals-and fellas, too-in a bigtime way. They'd stick their peters inta any hole they seed fit. s.h.i.t, one of 'em twisted a fella's head clean off and f.u.c.ked his throat, and another time Gut saw one bite a hole in a gal's belly and get his rod off in the hole, and a whole lotta super gross s.h.i.t like that...

And the whole time, Gut knowed full well what it was he was a'lookin' at. Sure as s.h.i.t, yes, sir, he was lookin' smack-dab right down inta h.e.l.l...

Yeah, he a.s.sured himself yet again, but I'm safe in here. They can't get me in here...

And that's when he noticed the two figures step out of the shadow by the doorway.

Two Creekers...

They peered crookedly into the cell, inbred red eyes sunk into their bulbed heads. One's face seemed jawless, the other had no ears and just a pit for a nose.

"You can't get me in here!" Gut yelled.

The two Creekers t.i.ttered and smiled. Then the jawless one advanced, jingling the keys to the cell door.

"What's this?" Phil asked. "This right here?"

"Huh?"

"This tattoo," Phil said, and pointed. His finger daintily touched her flesh, which felt moist and very soft.

It looked crude, primitive, burned onto the milk-white skin of her upper left arm. Probably homemade, he realized. Did it with ink and needles herself. The tattoo, tiny as it may have been, clearly depicted a horrifying face whose mouth was crammed with jagged teeth. Two stubs modestly sprouted from its head.

Horns, he realized.

"It looks like a demon. Is that what it is, Honey? Is it a demon?"

"Deem-nom," she attempted. The misp.r.o.nounced word sounded like a child talking with a sore throat. Her shining hair remained hanging in front of her face; she smelled slightly sweaty. Only a few wedges of blinking light from the road sign seeped into the car. The girl elected not to answer Phil's question-if she'd understood it at all-but instead slid over right next to him.

The bench seat's springs groaned as Phil, in reaction, slid away a few inches. "Honey, listen..."

At once her perfect hands touched him, one rubbing his neck, the other sliding to and fro along the inside of his thigh. "b.l.o.w. .j.o.b, ya want?" she asked. Then her hand slid directly over his crotch and squeezed.

Ho, lord! Phil thought and immediately jumped in the seat. He took her hand away and placed it in her lap. "Listen, Honey, I just want-"

"f.u.c.k me, ya wanna then, huh?" she presumed. "Everwhat ya want, s'okay," and then she reopened the satin robe and let it slide off her pretty shoulders. Suddenly Phil was looking right at her perfect bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Jesus, he thought, and promptly gulped. "No, Honey, that's not what I want either," he said and pulled her robe back up over her.

"Oh-uh," she murmured. Then her head bowed in a pause. "Hit me ya wanna, I guess."

Phil shook his head. The girl's plight was just another exercise in despair. She thinks I want to beat her. "Honey, I don't want to hit you, I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to do anything except talk."

"Talk?"

"That's right, I just want to talk to you for a few minutes."

She peered back at him through her raven hair, as if in complete confusion. "Hit me no?"

"No, Honey, I won't hit you." The whole thing was so sad when he contemplated what life must be like for her. Though no deformities were noticeable, she was still one of Natter's Creeker wh.o.r.es: kink fodder. Probably gets slapped around every night, he realized. Tied up, beaten, you name it. "Lets just talk, okay?"

"Talk I-uh good-no, er no good," she peeped.

"You talk fine. I can understand you fine." He wanted to set her at ease; he didn't want her to be afraid of him, or think he was just another sick redneck slob who wanted to use her. "But first, let's get all this hair out of your face," he said calmly, and then he reached across and pushed her hair back.

And nearly shuddered.

Be cool, he ordered himself, and then quelled the urge to recoil. Once he'd pushed her hair back, her deformity was manifest.

At first she seemed to have no face at all; he was looking at her left side, and her face was- Nothing, he saw. Featureless, No eyes, no mouth, no nose. Just...skin.

Then she turned her head toward him. Jesus, he thought, and it was a dry, inhuman thought. Nature had pushed her face all the way over to the far right side of her skull: tiny mouth, tiny nose, two tiny red eyes all existing in a narrow strip running from her right temple to her chin...

"Ugly me," she wisped. "I know."

"No, you're not, Honey," he said. "You're just different."

"Iffer-dent."

"Yeah, you're different, that's all, and there's nothing wrong with that." But these words of consolation were hard to form looking at her. Here was proof of what a monster nature could be. It was difficult for Phil to absorb all at once.

She tied the sash of her robe and quickly brushed her hair back in front of her face.

"What about you wanna talk?" she asked.

Crickets trilled in his ears, backed by the bizarre words he remembered. "I want you to tell me about...Ona," he said.

Suddenly the silence seemed to ooze from another world. Phil thought he could hear the girl's heart beating.

"Ona," she said.

"Tell me about Ona. It's a demon, isn't it?"

"Ona," she repeated. Then her hair-cloaked face turned to him-she seemed about to speak.

Holy- Phil didn't have time to complete the thought. Shadows jerked and fluttered, maddeningly fast. At once his door was yanked open; misshaped hands reached in and hauled him out of the car. Can't get to my piece! he realized; one guy had Phil's arm twisted behind his back, and another had him in a half-nelson.

Creekers.

Phil's captors held him up on his feet beside the car. The more Phil struggled, the tighter they gripped him. Two more Creekers pulled the girl out and shoved her forward.

Then another figure advanced, a huge figure...

"Welcome to our world," a voice intoned. The voice was resonant, heavy as lead. "How do you like it?"

Phil squinted up. Standing before him, tall and still and frightfully gaunt, was Cody Natter.

"Tell these f.u.c.kin' apes to-let me go!" Phil shouted.

"In time. But first, I understand you've been making some inquiries about my proud family, hmm?" Natter's cracked face turned toward the girl. "Tell him, Honey. Tell our friend here about Ona."

The girl, still backed by two Creekers, shivered in Natter's presence.

"Go on, Honey-"

Then one of the Creekers put a buck knife in her hand.

"-our friend wants to know." Natter was staring intently at the girl, his smile like a canyon gouged across his face.

"I-uh-yuh-" the girl muttered.

"Go on."

"I-"

"Go on."

Natter held his stare.

The girl raised the knife, croaked, "Ona-prey-bee," then- "Noooo!" Phil screamed.

-dragged the knife so deeply across her throat that her head fell back as if hinged. She collapsed to the gravel immediately, blood pouring from the wound freely as water from an open spigot.

"You motherf.u.c.ker!" Phil exclaimed, wincing at the downward pressure on his neck. "You ugly sick Creeker son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

"Really now," Natter chuckled. "I should think a police officer would be more politically correct."

I'm made, Phil realized. "Who fingered me?"

Gravel crunched. Natter laughed softly as another figure stepped out of the bank of shadows.

"Hey, bub."

It was Sullivan, his beady eyes fixed, his grin c.o.c.ked.

"How the h.e.l.l did you get out of jail?" Phil demanded.

Sullivan pinched Phil's face between his fingers. "Well, see, bub, that no-call order you slapped on me didn't wash with the public defender. He got it pulled. So I gave Mr. Natter here a call, and we had a nice long talk. And he was kind enough to post my bail."

"Natter, you a.s.shole," Phil said. "Sullivan's the one who's been cornering your dust operation."

"My 'dust' operation, oh dear," Natter replied. The permanent smile seemed to appraise Phil with hilarity. "So you're the best that Mullins could summon? Such a sad state of affairs for our local law enforcement contingent."

"And, bub," Sullivan added, squeezing Phil's face harder, "I owe you a couple, and I think I'll pay ya back right now."

"Don't be a f.u.c.king id-" Sullivan rammed his fist into Phil's solar plexus. All the breath in his chest exploded out his throat, and his knees gave out.

"Hold him up. Lemme take a few more pops."

Phil was hanging by his elbows; his two captors hoisted him back up where his face was suddenly on the receiving end- whap! whap! whap!

-of Sullivan's fists. Each blow jarred Phil's brain.

Then he fell to the ground.

His vision wobbled, his head reeled. Spitting blood, he managed to raise himself to hands and knees, and gasp, "You a.s.sholes, I'm a f.u.c.king cop, you can't do this to a cop!"

"Oh, but we can, my good constable," Natter informed him. Then- crack!

Sullivan kicked Phil square in the chin. Phil's upper body snapped back, flipping him completely over in the gravel.

"No witnesses, bub," Sullivan said, wiping his hands.

Phil was close to pa.s.sing out. He wasn't seeing stars, he was seeing galaxies. Footsteps scuffed around him in the gravel; chuckles and crisp laughter fluttered like birds. I'm losing it, Phil thought...

The Creekers picked him up and threw him into the car. Sprawled on the front seat, he sidled over, limp. He sensed more than saw Natter's big warped face leaning over.

"Go home, officer. And don't come back."

"Yeah, later, bub," Sullivan added. "Hope ta run into ya again sometime. Let's make it soon."

"But before you leave," Natter went on, "don't forget your prize. It's well earned."

More shuffling. More chuckles. Then a squeal...

A sudden weight landed on Phil's back. Someone else had been tossed into the car. The figures were walking away, their laughter fading. Eventually Phil was able to lift himself up. He turned his head, drooling blood, and saw that the other person they'd thrown into the car was Vicki- Those sons of b.i.t.c.hes...

And he could also see that she'd been beaten considerably worse than he had been.

Twenty-Nine.

Somehow, Phil managed to drive back to his room; he didn't know how he was able to do this-instinct, perhaps. He'd practically had to lug Vicki down the hall. Blood dripping from her mouth left a trail along the floor. But- Aw, no, he thought once he got her inside and had the door locked. His consciousness tripped around in his head like a rummie about to stumble and fall.

Eventually, and before he could tend to Vicki's wounds, he did indeed fall.

He fell into the cloaks of his past...