Adermoor Cove: Sanctuary - 2. Chapter 2

The sight of the bar and hotel sent shivers up and down Bill's spine. The feeling of supernatural dread was far stronger than what he'd felt at the cabin in Michigan.

Lane Hardy, everywhere you go, death follows.

Up until now, Lane Hardy had been nothing more than a picture - a photoshoot of a young man with his dead lover, a man who looked like one of those goth models straight out of a tattoo magazine. Bill had taken the photograph from the cabin, so he could keep perspective. In a way it helped him stay connected with the person he was tracking. He never let himself become emotionally attached to the person; when he first started working for the boss this had been hard to do, but after fifteen years he had built a wall to protect himself from the emotional turmoil that came with the job.

But now the picture had shifted. Whether he meant to be or not, Lane Hardy was dangerous. Wherever he went, this anomaly, whatever the hell it was, also appeared.

The fire department had managed to put out both fires, but both buildings were damaged beyond repair. Most of the roof of the hotel was gone, the jagged tops blackened and eaten away. The fire had happened less than twenty-four hours ago. Bill could still smell the smoke - an unpleasant smell given the circumstances. The bar didn't look much better.

The scene had been closed off with yellow duct tape. Several men and women stood around, dressed in suits, looking official and imposing. One of the men stood over by a large white van. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his hair cut into a crew cut. Bill had only seen him without his glasses a few times. Bill knew him as David Teague, which of course wasn't his real name. Bill didn't know his real name and David didn't know his name.

Bill's name was Lawrence Foster at the moment, and he worked for the CDC. So did everyone else on the scene.

Bill ducked underneath the tape and walked across the parking lot. Several heads nodded respectfully in his direction. Everyone at the scene worked with the government through the Boss, but few had stuck around as long as Bill had.

"I figured the Boss would send you in." Teague raised the smoldering remains of his cigarette to his lips, took a drag, threw it onto the cracked asphalt, and ground it in with a shiny, black shoe.

"Came here straight from the plane." Bill glanced in the direction of The Rainbow Baret.

Teague gave Bill a grim smile. "Yeah, well when has anything we've seen or done in this job been pretty?"

For the next five minutes, Teague filled Bill in on what had been discovered so far. Bill took in the information without asking questions or making comments, committing it all to memory. In the end, he knew, none of it mattered unless he found Lane Hardy.

Once again people had died because of Lane Hardy, whether he had meant for it to happen or not. A Brendan McCoy and the owner of The Rainbow Baret's bodies had been discovered, charred to a crisp. Lane had set fire to the building in an attempt to cover his tracks. Or perhaps to reduce the chances of the infection getting out.

With these deductions in mind, the picture was getting bigger, the resolution behind the glass clearer so to speak. Bill was starting to get a better idea of what kind of person Lane Hardy was. Bill was beginning to like the young man, which wasn't good because it would make his job harder in the end. Never form emotional attachments to the people you're tracking, had always been Bill's rule of thumb.

According to Teague this is what happened: A couple, Willis and Diane Cooper, were driving down the interstate, heading towards Denver when they noticed the smoky blaze on the side of the road. Diane called the emergency number and the fire department was alerted. Chief Ralph Buchanan and a team of firemen showed up at the fire. It took them almost two hours to put out the fires.

"Did anyone get infected?" Bill asked.

Teague shook his head, lit another cigarette. "There's no signs anyone else made it out of the scene infected. We did find a stain, just like the one in Michigan, in the office of the bar. There wasn't one in the hotel...at least not that we could see. The fire department did discover the bodies of a Brendan McCoy and the owner of the bar, but they were both shot in the head. Most likely the work of our friend, Lane."

"You smoke like a chimney, you know that?" said Bill. "I won't be surprised if you die of cancer.

Teague chuckled. "Yeah, probably. Do you want to see the sites?"

Bill nodded. "Show me.”

What remained of The Rainbow Beret was mostly charred grey and black. The floor was covered in thick motes of ash that puffed into the air wherever Bill and Teague stepped. Both men were dressed in full body hazmat suits.

The air Bill breathed tasted and smelled of plastic. While everyone working on the site had been assured the plague was not airborne, the protective suits were encouraged; even with the tests that had been done, there was still too many unknowable factors.

Teague led Bill past the remains of a pool table, into a narrow hallway. They moved carefully, stepping over rubble and pieces of the collapsed ceiling. If Bill looked up he could see slices of the slate-grey sky; gloomy weather to match the gloomy death scene Lane had left in his wake. They squeezed into the office. The stain was on the remains of the walls in front of them. It looked like dried tar, not like the thick dripping substance Bill had seen before. And there was none of the insidious intent from the stain in Michigan.

Just what the hell is it? The answer everyone wanted to know. Was it extraterrestrial? Did it lead to another dimension? Or was it natural, something that had been around since the days the dinosaurs roamed the earth but only now been discovered? Bill thought out of all the possibilities, the latter was the most unlikely.

"What the hell do you think it is?”

Teague shook his head. “Fuck if I have a guess.”

                            …

That night Bill stayed in a hotel in Denver not unlike the Mountaintop Inn. The room was cheap, forty bucks a night. It stunk of cigarettes. Wood paneling, very 70’s. He could hear Sheila complaining: I don’t even want to know how long it’s been since they washed the bedsheets. She was the kind of woman who always wanted to stay in the Mariott or the fucking Hamptons, Bill recalled. Expensive tastes.

God, I wish you were here lying next to me, he thought, staring up at the ceiling. You and Savannah both. I wish I could run my fingers through your hair.

He couldn’t sleep. His thoughts were like a cloud of agitated bees, buzzing buzzing buzzing. He thought about the cabin in Michigan. The fire here in Colorado. The dream he’d had at the zoo. And most of all he thought of Lane Hardy.

It was only a matter of time before they found him. The Boss and his people probably would have found him a lot sooner - if they wanted to. He had the money and resources to do whatever he wanted. Know this, the Boss was a patient man. Like a jungle cat hunkered behind the bushes, waiting for the perfect time to strike its prey. Bill had learned to be the same way over the years.

He took out the picture of Lane, folded neatly at the bottom of the suitcase. Studied it. Let his eyes pass over the planes of his face, already etched in Bill’s memory. Where are you going? What does it want with you? Why do people keep dying around you? These questions burned in Bill’s mind. When he found Lane he would ask these questions. The sad thing is he would probably have to bring him to the Boss afterwards. Or kill him, which would probably be better. Less painful in the end.

He woke up sometime later with the photo still in his hand. The photo was scrunched up in his fists. He opened his hand and found it resting in the center of his palm, crumpled up like a ball. Shit.

He was getting ready to try and unfold it, to flatten it, when he realized something wasn’t right. The door was hanging wide, cold morning air was seeping in, and a wolf stood in the doorway, looking at him with blackened eyes. It was a large beast and there was something wrong with it. First of all, its eyes should not have been that color of black. It wasn’t natural. Its mouth hung open, air pluming out in the cold morning as it panted. All the teeth in its mouth were gone; Bill could see the decayed lining of its gums. There was some sort of black substance growing along its fur, in patches, like algae.

Its infected with that shit from the bar! Bill thought.

All fear for his own safety vanished in an instant. He knew he couldn’t let the animal leave the room alive or else it could spread the disease. His gun was resting on the table beside the bed, next to the lamp. It never crossed his mind to wonder what this wolf was doing in the city, where it was populated. He picked the gun up. He went to stand up but tripped over his shoes, fell face first on the floor. The gun flew from his hand. The wolf was already padding out the door.

“Fuck!”

He stood up.

Bill didn’t bother to put on his shoes; there wasn’t time. He sprinted out into the misty morning air, with no socks or shoes on. He looked around wildly. His hair stood up in wild tufts. He turned his head just in time to see the wolf step into a smokescreen of ghostly fog, disappearing from view. He ran from the parking lot, into the street. Already the cold asphalt was starting to numb his feet but he kept running.

Shapes loomed out of the fog: Buildings, street lamps, traffic lights, cars parked on the side of the road. But there were no people. The city was utterly deserted. This should have struck Bill as odd but it didn’t. All that mattered was catching and killing the wolf if he could. He was thinking of Sheila and Savannah, of all the daughters and wives that could become infected with this thing. And who knew what would happen then?

He’d run for several blocks when he couldn’t run anymore. The wolf was nowhere in sight. It had fled. Stupid to think he could keep up with a four legged animal. He hunched over, the palms of his hands planted on his knee caps. It was hard to breathe. His sides heaved. His bangs hung in his eyes. He shook his head to the side to get him out of his face. I need a haircut.

Bill didn’t know how long he’d stood there before he heard the sound of footsteps. It sounded like leaves scraping against gravel. It was impossible to see, impossible to tell where the sound was coming from. It seemed the fog was thickening with every second that passed, obscuring sight and distorting sound. He gulped, trying to stay calm. He had a gun, fully loaded. He killed people for a living. He was an assassin. He could take care of himself. But it was driving him crazy, not being able to see who or what was coming towards him. All he knew was that he sensed an otherworldly presence. Something dangerous.

At last he saw something: a shadowy figure stepping slowly out of the fog. The figure was short, the shape of a child. He recognized the shape of the person. He’d be able to tell who it was in a whiteout snow storm. Slowly, Savannah Vickers took form. She stepped out of the fog with her Dora the Explorer backpack, her hair braided into pigtails, dressed the exact same way she had been at the zoo. Only like the wolf, her eyes were black. Just like they’d been in the aquarium in the zoo.

“Oh God, Savannah,” he said. His teeth chattered together. His legs were so cold, so numb it hurt.

He couldn’t stand anymore. He fell to his knees. The despair that filled him felt like a spike to the heart. He took her in his arms and held her to him as tight as he could. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry I let this happen to you...”

She pressed her mouth to his ear and said, “Adermoor Cove.”

“What?” He brushed her bangs out of her face. What was she doing out in the cold like this?

“The dark man,” she whispered. “He says Lane Hardy is in Adermoor Cove. He says he’s the cause of all this. He says if you kill him you can save me.” She began to sob black tears. She hugged him again, buried her face in his shirt. Her tears stained his shirt. “Please save me.”

“Alright, baby.” Bill rocked Savannah. “I’ll stop it. I’ll kill him.”

                    …

Bill stepped off the ferry, onto the island.

The wind blew at his back, ruffling the hem of his jacket. He squinted his eyes against the bright sun and slid on the sunglasses he’d bought from the airport in Denver. The sunglasses helped protect his eyes from the glare.

He hadn’t slept for the last day and a half. Every time he’d drifted off on the plane, he would wake up with the sweats, having dreamt of Savannah. She said the same thing every time. Go to Adermoor Cove...Save me. His eyes stung from the lack of sleep and it took a great amount of effort to keep his mind focused on the task at hand. It was simple: Find Lane Hardy and kill him, but the exhaustion was also causing Bill to doubt himself. What if I’m wrong? What if this is the wrong thing to do?

It was strange enough he should be asking himself these questions. He’d learned to kill men without blinking an eye, why should he now be experiencing this moral dilemma? And yet he was also convinced, on some level, that the dreams were prophetic. Prophetic dreams? he told himself. You never used to believe in this stuff before. Funny how things change, isn’t it?

He reached the end of the boardwalk and stopped. His suitcase - the only suitcase he’d brought with him on the trip; he never left home with more luggage than was necessary - dangled from one hand. He looked around the pier. People hurried this way and that in their winter hats and coats, cheeks flushed from the chilly wind. The blue skies and lighting belied the frigid gusts coming in from the ocean.

It’s hard to believe I’m actually here. Bill had found Adermoor Cove easily enough on Google: An island in the middle of Casco Bay, cute and touristy. But up until now he had been skeptical the place actually existed, convinced this was nothing more than some sort of farce. But now I’m actually standing on it and there’s honest to God people here.

He spotted a diner called The Treasure Trove and headed towards it. A cup of coffee sounded like heaven right now. He paused at the animatronic pirate inside the diner, uncertain whether or not he was amused.

His waitress was a perky young woman named Annabelle. She couldn’t have been a day over twenty - too young for Bill that was for sure - but this didn’t stop him from getting a good look when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. He ordered a coffee with cream and sugar. Looked around at all the faces around him. Hoping by some chance he might spot Lane Hardy. But from what he could see Lane was not in the diner.

He waited until Annabelle brought his check by and asked her if she knew a Lane Hardy here in town.

Her face immediately brightened in recognition of the name. “Yes, he lives in the lighthouse out on Donovan Road.”

“Thanks.” For the helpful information he tipped her with a five and left.

He took a cab out to the lighthouse on Donovan Road and had it drop him several yards away from the parking lot, where a black Mustang was parked. Lane’s black Mustang. Seeing the lighthouse, knowing that he had caught up to Lane at long last somehow drained the last reserve of energy Bill had.

I don’t know if I can do this.

But you have to do it. For Sheila and Savannah.

He waited until the cab was out of sight, then made his way towards the lighthouse. He stopped at the edge of the driveway and pulled a pair of leather gloves and his pistol out of the suitcase. As an extra precaution he screwed a silencer onto the end of the muzzle.

He was prepared for the door to be locked but it came right open. He crept stealthily inside, gun in one hand, suitcase in the other. To the left of Bill was a set of stairs leading up to the second floor. Before him was the parlor. He closed the door quietly behind him and listened for the sound of Lane’s presence within the lighthouse.

So far he heard nothing.

Bill crept past the stairs, into the living room.

What the hell is Lane doing in a lighthouse? he wondered. There’s no way he could afford something like this - not without some help. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was doing what he came here to do and get off the island without being caught. Then Savannah and everyone else would be okay.

He caught his reflection in the glass door of a curio cabinet. He looked insane: Hair sticking up in every which direction, dark circles around his eyes, shirt clinging to his skin. Stubble all around his mouth. This is what I’ve been reduced to. Then he saw movement behind his shoulder: Something was growing on the wall behind him.

He turned and felt his heart slam to a stop inside his chest. A black stain like the one he’d seen at The Rainbow Beret was spreading across the wall. It’s happening! It’s happening just like Savannah said it would! He watched as the stain continued to grow. Watching it made his skin crawl with a primal fear he couldn’t recall feeling before. Before he could stop himself, he let out a shout, picked something up - a lamp - and threw it at the wall. The lamp hit the wall with a loud thud, tearing at the wallpaper. The lightbulb shattered.

The stain continued to grow, discoloring the wallpaper around it.

Bill grabbed another object - a record player - and threw it at the wall with both hands. The panic he felt was inescapable.

It was some time later when he noticed movement again out of the corner of his eye, coming from the stairs. He turned his head to look. There Lane Hardy stood at the foot of the stairs, his hair wet. It was clear he’d just gotten out of the shower. He didn’t have all the makeup on like in the photo, but Bill knew he would have recognized that face anywhere.

But he was a lot shorter than Bill had expected.

“Lane Hardy,” he said. “At last. I’ve been looking everywhere for you, you little shit.”

Lane looked surprised, maybe even a little afraid. Bill was impressed when he steadily said, “I don’t know you.”

Bill laughed before he could stop himself. He didn’t know why this situation suddenly struck him as comical...it just did. It was as if a switch had been flipped. The funny switch. “But I know all about you. I know all about your false identities. I know about what happened with your fag boyfriend. I know about what happened with that fairy bar in Colorado.” He could feel tears coming to his eyes. He didn’t know why; maybe it was just exhaustion.

He couldn’t stop his shoulders from shaking. “I have to kill you...in order to save my daughter.”

Then he raised his gun and pulled the trigger.

He didn’t understand what happened next. He knew the bullet should have hit Lane in between the eyes but instead it curved and hit the wall several inches away from Lane. It wasn’t possible - not physically possible.

He was getting ready to fire again but Lane was surprisingly quick and nimble. Having already leapt over the banister and landed on his feet like a cat, Lane lashed out. The gun flew from Bill’s hand and clattered across the floor. Before he could react again an explosive pain unlike anything he could imagine exploded between his legs. He fell to the ground, unable to breathe, unable to think.

Somewhere inside the waves of pain and exhaustion he heard his daughter say, “Get up, you must get UP! He’s getting away!” She was wailing in pain. He could hear her but he couldn’t see her.

Where are you Savannah?

Bill ground his teeth together, forced himself to get to his feet. Tears stung his cheeks. What he felt now was anger. All he had to do was let me shoot him. Quick and easy and it would all be over. Instead he has to make things harder. They always feel the need to make things harder. He scooped up the gun and ran out the front door.

Lane was already in his Mustang, starting the engine. Bill emptied the gun into the windshield. Webs of cracks spread across the glass. Tires squealed. The Mustang bounced, swerved around to face the road. Lane drove like a bandit on the run. Was a bandit on the run. He’d been running for a long time and was probably quite good at it by now.

The Mustang was zooming out onto the road. Fumes shot out from the exhaust pipe. A gust of chilly, autumn wind blew a flurry of leaves around it. Bill would catch up. One way or another, he would catch up and do what needed to be done.

For his daughter.