Hellfire

Phillip Sturgess sat in Norm Adcock’s office, facing the chief of the Westover Police Department over a desk that looked even more worn than Phillip felt. In the chair next to him, Alan Rogers sat, his eyes grim as he waited for Phillip to finish reading the report Cosgrove and Jeffers had filed. They’d already listened to Brett Kilpatrick’s story.

For Phillip, there was a dreamlike quality to the whole thing, as if something out of the past were being replayed. And, of course, it was — the events of that afternoon were an eerie replay of what he’d heard about the day his brother had died.

The police, he was beginning to understand, were much more interested in the minutiae of what had happened than in the death of Jeff Bailey. Of course, he knew why that was. Jeff Bailey, like Phillip himself, was one of “them” to Norm Adcock. One of the rich ones — the ones who lived in Westover but were seldom seen in the town. Not, to Adcock, really a part of the town at all. Had it been this way when his brother had died?

Undoubtedly it had.

He finished reading the report, and put it back on the police chief’s desk. “But the door had to be locked,” he said now, in response to the question he’d heard Adcock asking Alan Rogers. “I can’t believe no one checked it before the workmen left Friday.”

His eyes went to Alan, who shook his head. “I’m sorry, Phillip, I’m almost sure I checked the lock myself, but I suppose it’s possible I didn’t. At any rate, it doesn’t matter now. The lock was open, and doesn’t show any signs of being forced. So part of the responsibility for what happened is mine.”

Adcock shrugged. “Or maybe one of the kids had a key that fit. It’s unlikely, but it’s a possibility.”

“What about charges?” Phillip asked. “Will there be any?”

Adcock shrugged noncommittally. “That’s not really up to me, Mr. Sturgess. That’ll be up to the prosecutor. I s’pose he could make a case that the mill is an attractive nuisance, and probably a few other things, too.” He leaned back in his chair, his fingers fiddling with a ballpoint pen. “And I think you can probably count on being sued by the boy’s folks.”

“Which is between their attorneys and mine,” Phillip said tightly. Then, hearing how cold his own words sounded, he tried to recover: “I couldn’t feel worse about this if Jeff had been my own son.”

Adcock nodded, though the expression of contempt in his eyes didn’t change. He laid the pen back on the desk. “Then you won’t object to fencing the place off, will you?” he asked, making no attempt to disguise the fact that his words had not been a question but an order.

“You don’t even have to mention it,” Phillip replied. “Alan, you can start the work tomorrow, can’t you?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll post a guard on the place until the fence is finished,” Phillip added.

“I already put a man out there for tonight,” Adcock said. “I know it seems like closing the barn door after the horse is gone, but things like this have a way of gettin’ out of hand. Unless I miss my guess, there’s already kids in town planning to try to sneak in there tonight.”

Phillip nodded. “Bill us for your man’s time, Chief. The mill’s my responsibility, not yours.”

“I wasn’t planning to do anything else,” Adcock observed coolly. He stood up. “Well, I guess there isn’t much else we can do tonight. I better get back home before Millie comes looking for me.” He shook his head as he fished in his pocket for his car keys. “Hell of a thing,” he said. Then, again: “Hell of a thing.”

The three men walked together through the small police station, Adcock greeting each of his men by his first name.

All of them replied to the chief, all of them spoke to Alan Rogers.

For Phillip Sturgess, there were no greetings, not even a nod of the head.

Then they were outside, and the chief had gone. Alan and Phillip stood for a moment next to Alan’s car. Silence hung over them until finally Alan reached out and put his hand on the other man’s shoulder.

“I really don’t know what to say, Phillip.”

“There’s not much to say, is there?”

“If you want to fire me, I’ll understand. In fact, I’ve already written a letter withdrawing from the contract.”

Phillip said nothing for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I can’t see how that will solve anything. It won’t bring Jeff Bailey back, and the job still has to be finished.”

Alan nodded, then got into his car. “Can I buy you a drink? I know I could use one.”

Again Phillip shook his head. “Thanks, but not tonight. I think I’d better go home and start taking care of things.”

“Okay.” He turned the key in the ignition. The engine of the old Fiat coughed twice, then caught. “Phillip, try not to let this get to you. What happened today was just an accident, nothing more. But people are going to talk — it’s all too much like what happened to your brother. All I can tell you is, don’t listen to them. Don’t listen to any of them.” Then, before the other man could answer, Alan put his car in gear and drove off into the night, leaving Phillip Sturgess alone on the sidewalk.

Phillip parked his car on Prospect Street, and sat for a few minutes, staring at the mill, wondering what his father had meant all those years when he’d insisted over and over that it was an evil place. Though Phillip had pressed him to explain, Conrad Sturgess had gone on pronouncing his dire words as though the statement itself were sufficient, adding only that someday he would understand.

But it was all nonsense. There was no such thing as a building that was evil, not even a building as ugly as the mill, with its stark facade and unadorned utilitarian lines.

He switched off the ignition, then reached into the glove compartment for the flashlight he always kept there. Locking the car, he crossed Prospect Street, and started toward the side of the building and the metal door.

“Hold on there, mister,” a voice said from behind him. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

Phillip turned, and was immediately blinded by the bright beam of a halogen light. Two seconds later the light went out. “Sorry, Mr. Sturgess,” the voice went on. “I didn’t recognize you.” A man stepped forward. Phillip recognized his police uniform, but not his face.

“It’s all right. I was just going home, and thought I’d stop to have a look around.”

The officer hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. “Well, I suppose you can go in if you want to. It’s your building.” Another hesitation, and then, with even more reluctance: “Want me to go with you?”

“No, thanks,” Phillip immediately assured him. “I’ll only be a few minutes.” Then, with the officer still watching him, he used his key to open the door, and stepped into the black emptiness of the mill. He stood still, listening, then reached out and groped for the light switch. The darkness was washed away by the big worklights suspended from the roof.

Phillip glanced around, then headed toward the back of the building, and the stairs leading downward.

He paused at the top of the stairs, looking into the blackness below, and wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t leave now, and simply go home.

But he couldn’t.

A boy had died here today, and it had happened down below, in the black reaches of the basement.

For some reason — he wasn’t really certain why — he had to see the place where Jeff Bailey had died.

Turning on the flashlight, he started down the stairs.

At the bottom, he paused again, and shone the light around the basement.

Nothing.

As far as the weak beam of the flashlight could penetrate, there was nothing. Only a worn wooden floor, covered with dirt, and a scattering of tools.

He turned the light onto the area beneath the stairs.

There, the dust had been disturbed by many feet. In the midst of the footprints, Phillip saw a brownish smear.

The stain left by Jeff Bailey’s blood.

Swallowing hard in an attempt to quash the wave of nausea that threatened him, Phillip turned away, switched off the flashlight, and started up the stairs.

Halfway up, he stopped.

From the darkness below, he was certain he had heard something.