Invisible Terror Collection Part 23

Becka was grateful she'd worn her navy blue hooded sweats.h.i.+rt.

It was getting cold and it had started to rain. The clouds blot-ted out all light from the moon and stars, and there was a slight wind blowing against her face.

She headed down Second Street, turned onto Ramona, and was surprised at the office building that suddenly loomed before her. It was an old, three-story brick affair. She double-checked the address. 233 Ramona. It matched. But other than a light in the front lobby, the building was completely dark inside. Pitch black.

Becka stood a moment, feeling the chill run across her shoulders. She shook it off, then started for the entrance. She wondered why there was no sign on the building or any lettering on the door's gla.s.s window. If this was a business, shouldn't there be a sign or something? Reluctantly she climbed up the concrete steps, then reached for the weathered bra.s.s handle.

She hoped it would be locked. She prayed it would be locked.

It wasn't.

The door was left ajar with a small piece of cardboard between the bolt and the hole, preventing the bolt from locking into place. Becka pulled the door open and watched the cardboard flutter to the ground then blow off down the street.

She called, "h.e.l.lo?"

No answer. There was a deserted counter with an equally deserted receptionist's desk behind it. The lamp above the desk burned brightly, but Becka found little comfort in its soli-tary light. It just made the place seem more deserted ... more spooky.

"Is anybody here?"

Still no answer. Reluctantly, Becka stepped into the lobby, letting the door close behind her. Suddenly remembering the lock, she spun around to catch the door, but she was too late. It shut and the bolt clicked into place behind her.

She gave the door a push, trying to open it. Then another push, much harder. It did no good. She was locked inside.

"Great," she murmured, "just great." She turned back to the lobby. Now what? She took a tentative step inside, then another.

"h.e.l.lo?" She searched the room. It was absolutely silent and still. There was a frosted-gla.s.s door behind the desk, but it was closed. To her right was an old-fas.h.i.+oned drinking fountain, an oak door labeled Restroom, and a set of stairs. What had Z done?

He didn't make mistakes like this. If he said meet somebody at five o'clock, there would be somebody at five to meet. That's how he operated. So why wasn't there - And then she remembered. The message on the computer. It had said to go to the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Becka slowly turned toward the unlit stairway. No way was she going down those. Not in the dark. She turned away.

Still ... the message had said, "Bas.e.m.e.nt." She glanced at her watch - 5:06. She stuffed her hands into her pockets. She looked around, then back at the locked door.

She sighed. She rechecked her watch. Then, slowly, she turned back toward the steps.

They really weren't that dark. The first half, down to the landing, anyway, was lit by the desk lamp. It was a little dim, but she could definitely see where she was going. With another sigh she turned and started for the stairs. Slowly, carefully, one step at a time, she moved downward.

"h.e.l.lo?" Part of her wanted to make lots of noise so she wouldn't sneak up on someone; the other part wanted to be absolutely silent so no one would know she was there.

She reached the landing. That was the easy part. The lit part.

Now the stairs did a sharp about-face in the opposite direction and descended into black shadows.

Still, she had come this far.

"h.e.l.lo? Is anybody down here?"

There was no response.

Clinging to the rail, she inched her way into the darkness.

"h.e.l.lo ... ?"

Step followed step. Gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and by the time she reached the bottom, she could see wire-meshed, double gla.s.s doors straight ahead. They were newer than the rest of the building. They almost looked like hospital doors. She strained to see through the gla.s.s to the other side, but there was only darkness. She moved toward them. Three, four, five steps. She reached out and touched the doors; they were cold. She pushed against the right one, hoping it wouldn't move. It did. She pushed harder. It opened.

"h.e.l.lo ..." Her voice was much thinner. She stepped inside.

It was cold in there. Very cold. Directly in front of her, within touching distance, were more desks. No, not desks ... they looked like tables. She turned toward the wall, feeling. There had to be a light switch somewhere. Ah, there it was. She flipped the switch up. The entire room fluttered as the overhead fluorescents sputtered on. She looked around the room. She'd been right, there were tables in front of her. Three of them.

And on the one closest to her, the one she could reach out and touch, was a body. Human. Dead. The bottom half covered by a sheet. The top half naked.

Becka screamed. She stumbled backward, turned, and ran straight into another body. But this one was alive.

At least, it was standing.

Ryan's Mustang had barely slid to a stop before he threw open the door, leaped out, and headed for Becka's front porch. He was freaked. He'd been okay when the angel told him it knew about his doubts on h.e.l.l. He'd even managed to hold it together when the thing talked about his desire to be student-body president. It was the threats against Becka's life that did him in.

That and the flying porcelain doll.

Ryan had raced out of Julie's room, not because the doll had barely missed his head, but because he now knew what he was dealing with.

An angel? No way. He'd seen demons try to play that game before. In the mansion. And if the thing - or things - were out to get Becka, and she didn't know ... well, somebody had better warn her. And fast.

Ryan knocked on the front door. n.o.body answered. There had to be somebody home. The lights were on. He could see one in the kitchen and one in the upstairs hallway.

He knocked again. "Becka! Scott!"

Impatiently he grabbed the handle and gave it a push. It stuck briefly, then opened. "Becka? Mrs. Williams?" Still no answer.

Except for Muttly. The little guy bounded toward him at full speed.

"Hey, fellow," Ryan bent down for the onslaught of slurping tongue and wiggling body. "Where is everybody? Huh, fellow?

Is anybody home?"

The dog whined and continued the licking attack.

Ryan rose and moved toward the stairs. Somebody had to be there. They wouldn't have left with lights on and the dog in the house. "Becka? Scott?" He started up the steps. "It's me, Ryan.

Is anybody home?"

Muttly did his best to follow, but he still hadn't mastered the fine art of stair climbing. Not that he didn't try. But each attempt was met with slips, spills, and some very impressive backward somersaults.

"Beck ..." Ryan reached the top of the steps and looked down the hall. What had happened? Had Julie's guardian already struck? Steeling himself for the worst, he started down the hall.

He'd barely reached the first door before he heard: "BEAM ME UP!"

Ryan leaped out of his skin.

"BEAM ME UP! SQUAWK. BEAM ME UP!" He turned to Scott's room and saw Cornelius strutting back and forth on his perch. "MAKE MY DAY. MAKE MY DAY.

MAKE MY DAY."

Ryan took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then spotted the computer screen. It was still on. "Scotty?" he called.

Still no answer.

Cautiously, he entered the room, stepped over the mound of dirty clothes, and moved to the screen. It read: TO: Rebecca FROM: Z.

233 Ramona Street Bas.e.m.e.nt. 5:00 p.m.

And below that, a Bible verse: "Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light." 2 Co rin thi ans 11:14 Ryan stood there, puzzled. Not about the verse. It only con-firmed what he already knew. It was the address. It seemed familiar. He couldn't put his finger on it, but somehow he'd heard it before. He glanced at his watch - 5:12. That must be where Rebecca was. Maybe that was why everything was left on and Muttly was still in the house - she'd dashed out to try and make the meeting in time.

If he was right, he was probably just a few minutes behind her. He turned and headed out of the room, darted down the hall, and took the steps two and three at a time.

233 Ramona Street, 233 Ramona Street ...

The address kept ringing in his head. Why did it sound so familiar?

It wasn't until he was out the door and running for his car that it clicked.

233 Ramona Street. That was a place they used to tease each other about as kids. That was the place they used to dare each other to visit at Halloween.

233 Ramona Street was the city morgue.

Chapter 9.

Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

Becka looked up. She opened her mouth, but no words would come.

"I was upstairs in the men's room."

She still couldn't find her voice.

"You must be Rebecca Williams."

She finally managed a nod.

"I'm Dr. Gary Woods." He stuck out his hand for a shake.

Becka numbly took it. He seemed a nice enough man. Bald-ing, late fifties, a little on the overfed side. Not at all what you'd expect for a serial killer. Then again, what exactly did serial killers look like?

"Are you ..." She cleared her throat. "Z said I was to meet someone."

The man chuckled. "Z? Is that what he's calling himself now?"

"You're not him, are you?"

The man shook his head and continued to smile.

"But you know him?"

"Oh yes, I know him." His smile slowly faded. "I owe him a great deal. In fact, you might say I owe him my life. Please," he motioned to a couple of stools across the room, "let's sit down." Becka looked nervously at the body lying, half-naked, on the table beside her.

"Oh, don't worry about John." Woods grinned. "He's in no hurry."

"John?"

"John Doe. That's what we call the bodies we can't identify."

"Identify? Are you, like, a ..." Becka searched for the word.

"I'm the county's a.s.sistant coroner. I investigate deaths, perform autopsies, that sort of thing. Please." Again he motioned to the stools across the room.

Becka turned. But as she walked past the body on the table, she couldn't help staring. It was amazing how white and lifeless the thing appeared. The thing? She gave a shudder. This was no thing, it was a person. Well, at least it used to be a person.

Somebody who ate and laughed and cried and loved, just like herself. Still, just to be safe, she gave the table a wide berth. Sensing her uneasiness, Dr. Woods pulled the sheet over the body. It helped some, but not much.

Becka glanced about the room. It wasn't big. The three steel tables filled most of it. Over each table hung a large light. Two of the walls were lined with laboratory-type counters that had various pieces of medical equipment resting on them. The farthest wall was made of the same stainless steel as the tables. It looked like a giant freezer. But instead of one door, there were a dozen, three feet wide and two feet high. They were stacked side by side and on top of one another. Almost like a giant filing cabinet.

A giant freezer/filing cabinet with drawers just wide enough to hold a ...

Becka gave another shudder.

"May I get you some tea or anything?" Dr. Woods asked.

"Uh, no, thanks." Becka took a seat on one of the stools as Woods approached the nearby counter. He filled a coffee mug with water from a faucet and set it in a microwave.

"So you, uh ..." Becka cleared her throat. She had lots of questions, but she wanted to be delicate, just in case he was a part-time serial killer. "You work here at night ... all alone ...

by yourself?"

The doctor laughed. "It's actually quite peaceful when you get used to it. The folks here - " he motioned toward the stainless steel freezer - "they don't give me much trouble. Most cooperative patients I've ever had." He punched the time on the microwave and pressed start. "Besides, they give me a much clearer perspec-tive on life: what's important, what's not, that kind of thing." Becka forced a nervous smile.

"But ... that's not why Z wanted us to talk. He said you had some questions about h.e.l.l?"

Rebecca looked at him and blinked. She'd completely forgotten about that question. With all that was going on, it no longer seemed important. But Z must have thought it was. Well, since she was here and since she really had no other place to go ... or friends to go there with ...