Considering that I’d just freed seventeen kidnapped children from these people, I assumed that the cowboy might have stowed a few more captives in this vehicle between L.A. and here. I should search the dead man for his keys, open the rear doors, and—
“Curiosity is not always well-advised,” Mr. Hitchcock said, startling me so badly that I let out the thin little yeep that a dog will make if you accidentally step on its tail but offend more than hurt it.
In the milky moonlight, the director had a decidedly spooky-dude quality, not merely because he was Alfred Hitchcock and had been dead for more than thirty years, but also because, I think, he wanted to be spooky, the better to impress me with the importance of his words.
“Sir, I’m thinking maybe this guy’s got captives stashed in—”
“He has one captive in the truck, Mr. Thomas, but it is not one you would be wise to release.”
“But—”
Interrupting me with a raised hand, Mr. Hitchcock said, “I stress again that I am not your guardian angel, which I suspect might be a thankless task. But after all you’ve been through this evening, I would be most disappointed if at the very end you did something so stupid that you got yourself violently dismembered.”
“That would disappoint me, too.”
“The gentleman who owned this truck used an ancient ritual to call forth an entity and to imprison it herein.”
I said, “Hmmm. Call forth. Entity.”
“As long as he kept it in his control, he shared in its power.”
“What entity?”
“Let’s just leave it at that, Mr. Thomas. A demonic entity. Now that the gentleman is dead, the aforementioned entity will not be long contained.”
“But—”
Something inside the trailer slammed into the sidewall in front of me, and the sheet-metal skin bulged out toward my face.
I did that yeep thing again, and Mr. Hitchcock said, “We had best adjourn to more hospitable territory.”
Abruptly something of disturbing power and vehemence began to ricochet around the interior of the trailer, slamming into the walls and ceiling, rocking the entire truck, rattling the trailer against the tractor’s frame rail and fifth wheel, making the leaf springs twang like poorly tuned bass fiddles, causing the tires to stutter against the pavement. The entire trailer torqued, and the marker lights in the lower side-rail burst from stress.
As I backed away from the ProStar+, the cultists searching the property grew aware of the ruckus and came running. A multitude of flashlight beams found the truck from all sides, seeming to tie it to the ground as if it were giant Gulliver in Lilliput restrained by the fragile ropes of a legion of tiny natives. As though the eighteen-wheeler took offense at their interest, it began bouncing and rocking so violently that I expected the trailer would uncouple from the tractor and crash onto its side.
Everyone appeared to understand the meaning of this furious display. After a moment of stunned disbelief, they erupted into curses and wordless cries, and sprinted to the cars and SUVs parked just to the east of the big rig.
The funny thing about fear is that after so much of it jammed into a short period of time, you become exhausted, you think you’re numb to it, you’re drained, you’re done with it, nothing can scare you anymore, to hell with everything, you’re fearless now. And then some little thing happens, like seeing all these satanic murderers in a state of terror, and your fear is instantly refreshed, your terror tank is full to the brim, and you’re cranking away with all cylinders once more.
I thought the smartest thing that I could do might be to take one of those cars from its owner at gunpoint and get out of Dodge with the rest of them.
Mr. Hitchcock seemed to follow my train of thought, because he raised his voice above the din and said, “One would be well-advised to stay as far away as possible from anything belonging to these people, Mr. Thomas. On foot. Hurry now.”
I ran past the parked vehicles toward the driveway, but before I had reached the place where the overhanging pines formed a tunnel that continued all the way out to the state route, a colossal noise brought me to a halt. I turned to see the ProStar+ whipping around and around, as though it were caught in a tornado, the trailer torn open as if it were no sturdier than a juice box, the entire vehicle casting off parts of itself—until abruptly it collapsed and lay in ruin, as though a giant invisible child had grown tired of playing with it.
Mr. Hitchcock appeared at my side. “Mr. Thomas, this might be difficult for you to believe, considering my movies, but I was always squeamish in life and remain so to a lesser extent even now. This is not a place I wish to be.”