Barker looked it over.
“Most of the passengers were minor offenders. Mental patients.”
Setting his coffee cup on the table, Barker ran his thumb down the list.
“One stuck out. A-2201,” Hawkins continued.
Barker’s thumb paused on the line, marked with a yellow highlighter. He looked up at Hawkins, concerned.
Hawkins nodded. “Michael Myers. The Babysitter Murders, 1978. It’s forty years to the day.” Hawkins took a sip from his coffee to let that tidbit sink in. “Is this a coincidence or some part of a greater plan?”
Frowning, the sheriff looked at Sartain. Hawkins wondered if Barker had now reached his level of impatience over the doctor’s inconvenient state of unconsciousness. “Greater plan?” Barker asked. “You talking about fate or karma or some damn shit?”
Hawkins shook his head. “Myers,” he said. “Maybe he waited for this specific day, the anniversary, to come back to Haddonfield.”
“He’s a serial killer, Hawkins,” Barker said. “Not Houdini. This isn’t some nefarious plan, it’s just… really bad timing.”
“Bad timing, sir?”
“Look, Frankie, I don’t want to incite panic until we have all the facts. Myers loose with a bunch of nutbags in Haddonfield on Halloween night is a fucking joke if it’s not legit.” He scoffed. “It sounds like a joke.” He sighed, shook his head. “It would ruin our department. And if it is legit, if Myers did escape, we’re gonna have a serious circus on our hands.”
Hawkins stared at the sheriff in disbelief. Right then, the reputation of the Haddonfield Police Department was the last thing on Hawkins’ mind. With a serial killer on the loose, he didn’t give a shit about spin or optics or whatever the hell the latest buzzword was for covering your ass. The only thing that mattered was apprehending the killer and throwing him behind bars. Then again, Hawkins wasn’t a Warren County elected official worried about polling numbers for the next election cycle.
“I mean, what are we gonna do, cancel Halloween?” Barker asked with a nervous chuckle.
Forty years had passed since the Babysitter Murders. Many of Haddonfield’s residents hadn’t been alive the last time Myers terrorized the town. A fair amount talked about the knife-wielding madman—whenever the topic arose—as if he were a damn urban legend. Few experienced the terror on a personal level, and none more so than Laurie Strode.
Ask the average Haddonfield resident the meaning of Halloween and they’d talk about kids walking door to door for trick or treat, carrying bags of candy, sexy costumes for adults, fog machines, zombie movie marathons, and parties. Most of them had forgotten, if they ever knew, that ancient civilizations believed the dead returned to Earth on Halloween. Hawkins remembered a quote from a movie, “The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.” Had Myers’ infamy followed a similar trajectory, his heinous acts transformed into scary stories for summer camp, his very existence forgotten? Had they all been lulled into complacency?
“There’s a reason we’re supposed to be afraid of this night, Sheriff.”
“Bunch of campfire tales,” Sheriff Barker scoffed, basically proving Hawkins’ point. But he was the boss, so Hawkins bit his tongue before he said something he’d regret, professionally.
Fortunately, at that moment his radio squawked.
“Dispatch to 601. Dispatch to 601.”
18
The final bell sounded, signaling the end of the school day at Haddonfield High School. Soon the foot traffic flowing through the halls poured out into the parking lot. After a quick pit stop at her locker, Allyson exited the halls of higher learning and waited beyond the wrought-iron fence for her friends. She glanced to her left and saw the large green handmade poster promoting the “Exquisite Corpse Dance” on the brick wall and felt a flutter of nervousness in her gut. Dave showed up first, so the two of them waited for Vicky while other groups of students walked around them.
The primary topic of overlapping conversations was the Halloween dance: who was going with whom, and in what costume. Some chose to keep their costume plans secret while others solicited suggestions. Allyson cast about for Vicky, letting the snippets of conversations roll past her.
“I can’t go as a hobo again,” Becky Burke, a junior with a blue streak in her black hair, groaned. “Ripped jeans, flannel shirt and burnt-cork smudge on my face? No. Just no.”
“I’m going as an epiphany,” Evan Price, a student council officer said.
“A what now?” his friend Larry something asked.
“Using a wire coat hanger to suspend a lightbulb over my head.”
“That’s a good idea!”
“Thanks—wait, I can’t tell if you’re being ironic.”
As Evan and Larry passed them, Allyson turned to Dave, “What’s taking her so long?”
“Um… she got a call.”
“A call? What kind of call?”
“Made me promise to let her tell you.”
Allyson grabbed his upper arm. “What? Is something wrong? Tell me!”
“Can’t,” Dave said. “According to the promise rules. Seriously, it’s all in the fine print. But it’s not a big deal. Kind of business as usual.”
“Dave, that makes no sense.”
“Then I’ve upheld my duty as a promise keeper.”
“But you’d tell me if it was serious?”
“Um… yes,” Dave said. “Also in the fine print.”
Allyson turned toward the school entrance again, trying not to worry. If Dave said the call wasn’t serious, she had to believe him. And try not to let her imagination run wild. Instead, she casually eavesdropped on more passing conversations.
Of course, those not attending the dance talked about how lame it was. Kid stuff with chaperones. One group talked about attending a kegger instead. Still another discussed their plans for a covert party at one of their houses, after the host’s parents left for a private party at a nearby nightclub. A few teenage misanthropes talked about how they planned to scare any little kids who knocked on their doors begging for candy. “I’ll show the little bastards a trick or two!” Gordo Swanson said, laughing. “Give them nightmares for a month.” One of his friends deemed this endeavor worthy of a fist bump.
“Here she comes,” Allyson said, spotting Vicky walking out the front door of the school. Allyson waved to catch her attention.
Someone honked a car horn several times, startling Allyson.
She turned around and saw a silver convertible roll by at the speed of a parade float, with no less than seven cheerleaders piled into the front and back, standing or sitting on seat backs, wearing their blue-white-and-yellow cheer uniforms and carrying their pompoms. With a nod to Halloween, some wore novelty headgear, including cat ears, a red-and-green-striped unicorn horn and a pair of floppy antennae.
“So many cheerleaders, I should be cheerful,” Dave said. “And yet there’s no room in that car for me.”
“Observe the poor overwhelmed male brain,” Vicky said as she joined them, patting Dave’s cheek affectionately. “So typical.”
Vicky placed her hands on Allyson’s shoulders and frowned. “So, bad news,” she said. “Can’t go to the dance tonight.”
Allyson glared at Dave, but he refused to acknowledge her ire, looking up into the sky and pursing his lips, acting unaware and oblivious. So Allyson turned back to Vicky, “Are you serious?”
“I was at my locker,” she said. “Got a call to babysit for the Morriseys.”
“Vicky, no,” Allyson said. “Really?”
Vicky gave a slow nod. “They need somebody last minute,” she said. “I tried to say no but Mrs M. wouldn’t let me get out that one little word. She was relentless. She begged, wheedled, pleaded, implored, inveigled—”