The intruder slammed Aaron into the stall door. A work boot slipped forward, near the edge of the door. Without hesitation, Dana dropped from her perch and turned the crowbar to drive its narrow tip into the boot. Whether from the pain or the distraction, the intruder released Aaron, who collapsed to the floor, his face visible under the door.
They locked eyes, her terror mirrored in his gaze.
“Aaron—”
His throat raw, Aaron whispered, “What have we done…?”
Before she could reply, his body was yanked away. The heels of both trainers slid across the floor as the intruder dragged him away from her. She heard a brief, muffled struggle then a loud crash of shattered glass. Pieces of the bathroom mirror rained down on the tile floor.
“Aaron!”
Unbearable silence followed—no response from Aaron. She couldn’t see either of them. Her palms sweaty, she shifted her grip on the crowbar. Agonizing seconds passed, then…
Shuffling sounds.
The intruder approached. Aaron’s heels slid across the tile floor.
“Aaron!” she called. “Aaron, are you—?”
THUMP!
The door rattled under the weight of Aaron’s body slamming into it.
THUMP!—THUMP!—THUMP!
He’s using Aaron’s body as a battering ram!
THUMP!—CRASH!
The door flung open, banging against the partition as Dana leapt out of the way. Aaron’s body, still clutched in the intruder’s grip, knocked the crowbar from her hands. Dana screamed.
In that moment of contact, she glimpsed Aaron’s bloody face, his jaw sagging. He was alive, but barely conscious. Then the intruder pulled him back and tossed him aside, hurling his body toward the far corner of the restroom where he crashed helplessly into the trash can.
Too weak to offer any further resistance, Aaron felt himself careen through the air and crash into a round metal trash can in the corner of the women’s restroom. Even with the crowbar and the element of surprise, he’d failed to stop Myers. Or slow him down. To Aaron, it seemed as if the man felt no pain—or that physical pain registered as nothing more than a temporary distraction.
Aaron tried to rise, but his legs wouldn’t budge. Each time he tried to stand, he merely twitched in pain. Blood dripped from his face and hands. Broken ribs made breathing painful and difficult. With blurred, fading vision he watched helplessly as Myers entered the toilet stall.
Dana’s boots rose from the floor…
…and her head appeared above the stall as Myers hoisted her in the air with one hand clamped around her throat. She clawed at his hand with both of hers but couldn’t break free. Aaron heard the muffled thuds of her kicking him, frantic at first, then gradually slowing.
Myers’ hand choked the life out of her.
Desperate to act, Aaron redoubled his effort to rise, to come to her aid—but only managed to lift his left arm, hand outstretched, fingers reaching, trembling helplessly.
Horrified, Aaron watched as Dana’s struggles ended.
Her body hung lifelessly in Myers’ hands…
16
The service station remains empty as The Shape leaves the restroom and turns the corner to walk past the ice machine.
On the transistor radio in the small office, a man with a deep voice gives a weather report accompanied by Halloween-themed sound effects: shrieks, chains rattling, creaking doors…
The sound fades as The Shape takes a direct path to the black rental car at the self-service pump. In the backseat, The Shape sees a storage box with a binder, folders, newspaper clippings and photos—some of The Shape. None of these items interest The Shape.
Using the tall man’s keys, The Shape opens the trunk of the car and finds another box, opens the flaps and pauses, staring down.
The Shape’s hands reach into the box, gripping the Mask between them, lifting it close enough to smell, staring into the eye holes. The Shape turns the Mask around, lifts it overhead, pulls it down, fitting it into place… Perfect.
The Shape breathes…
Complete again.
17
Officer Frank Hawkins stood beside Ranbir Sartain’s corner bed in Haddonfield Memorial Hospital, thumbs hooked inside his duty belt, willing the injured doctor to wake the hell up. According to the hospital doctor, Sartain had lost a lot of blood from the bullet wound in his shoulder and—though in a stable condition—remained obstinately unconscious. Not for the first time, Hawkins considered removing the extendable baton from his belt and giving Sartain a gentle prod to rouse him. Failing that, he could always poke the center of the freshly bandaged shoulder.
Glancing at the monitors, wires and tubes hooked up to the unconscious Sartain, Hawkins wondered if he could cajole the on-duty nurse into temporarily lowering the man’s IV dosage of pain meds. Considering the significant age difference between him and the nurse, Hawkins didn’t like his chances of succeeding with a charm offensive.
Clearly, he had to wait for Sartain to awaken on his own. But he didn’t have to like it.
Shifting his feet, he crossed his hands in front of his waist and sighed. “Time to wake up, Dr Sartain,” he said in a conversational tone. He’d read that comatose patients might hear everything said at their bedsides. Maybe the same held true for victims of gunshot wounds. “Do you hear me, Ranbir? Can I call you Ranbir? Yeah, probably not. Okay, but it’s mighty important you wake up and tell me what you know.” He tapped a piece of paper on the hospital bed tray table. “I need to know about this list, Doc.”
Sartain’s eyes remained stubbornly closed.
Bearing two cups of coffee in a cardboard serving tray, Sheriff Barker arrived in a much better mood than Hawkins. Barker was a powerful black man with a neatly trimmed goatee, sporting an impressive black cowboy hat to go along with his dark suit and light-brown necktie. If it were not for the small sheriff’s pin on his lapel, one might not realize he was in law enforcement. In contrast, Hawkins wore the standard-issue Warren County police uniform, which included a forest-green jacket with a faux-fur trim collar and a full-sized six-sided star pinned to the chest, over khaki slacks with a dark stripe down the outside of each leg. He would be mistaken for nothing other than a police officer.
After handing a coffee to Hawkins, Barker said, “Thought I heard you talking to someone, Hawkins.”
“Just the good doctor here,” Hawkins said, nodding toward Sartain.
“But… he’s unconscious, right?” the sheriff asked in a tone that suggested Hawkins’ sanity might be in question.
“Currently,” Hawkins said. “Any news?”
“Still waiting to ID the patients we recovered to see who’s who. Almost all accounted for. Two were checking their email at the local library, and we just found three sons of bitches holding hands and chasing butterflies by the flea market off 220. No clarity on what happened.” He took a sip of coffee. “Any word from Rip Van Winkle over there?”
“Not yet,” Hawkins said. “Hasn’t really regained consciousness. Nurses say he’s been in and out. Lost a lot of blood. Somehow managed to fall on a bullet. I’m trying to get the story because here’s my concern.” Hawkins picked up the piece of paper on the tray table and passed it to the sheriff. “Take a look at this list.”