The Lost Causes of Bleak Creek(91)

Donna cocked the gun.

“You’re just confused. And listen: This isn’t you. Pointing a gun at your old headmaster? Come on now. You’re still a good girl. A follower.”

“Follow this,” Donna said.

The barrel flashed like a firework.

Whitewood grabbed his chest, staring in shock as a bloodstain blossomed on his robe.

“No!” Mary Hattaway shrieked, madly dashing to Whitewood as he fell to his knees.

“But Ruby,” he said, looking toward the spring. “I was…just about to…finally…” He struggled to his feet, blood already dripping from his mouth. He reached the spring’s edge, barely able to keep himself upright, then stumbled in, tripping over his flowing robe and dropping on all fours in the shallow water. As the bloody fabric touched the water, the spring—which had been calm for minutes, only lightly glowing and bubbling—began to gleam brightly. Whitewood continued his labored crawl, eventually reaching deeper water and doggie-paddling toward the center.

“I’m coming, Ruby!” he strained, blood pooling around him, causing the spring to bubble even more fiercely, the surface of the water like a wind-whipped lake. He gurgled one last time before his face fell under the water. After a few weak strokes, he stopped struggling, his motionless body floating in place.

“We have to save him!” Mary said, running out into the spring, Travis and Dr. Bob right behind her.

They didn’t get far, though, before the water whisked up ferociously, waves splashing about, knocking the three followers down. On the far side of the spring in the shallows, even the massive Shackelford, somehow still holding Ben after all this, was blasted over by a wave. Ben was finally able to break free and began to shuffle his way back to the bank.

Rex saw what Ben didn’t, though: an especially dark wave rising high above the surface of the water, accompanied by a loud, buzzing scream.

It darted furiously across the surface, spiraling toward Ben, who had just placed one foot on the shore.

“Ben!” Rex yelled. “Behind you!”

Ben turned his head in alarm right as the black wave engulfed his body, streams of gravity-defying water wrapping themselves around him and dragging him along the surface of the spring.

Ben screamed.

The black wave rocketed to the center of the spring, where it enveloped Whitewood’s body, then suddenly dove down, sucking both Whitewood and Ben beneath the surface.

A second later, the spring went dark and calm.

No blue glow.

No bubbles.

Not even a ripple where the wave had descended.

Everyone standing on shore—Janine, Donna, Hornhat, the remaining students, the cult—stared in confusion at the now placid water. Even the low hum of the cicadas sounded perplexed.

Rex knew what to do.

He picked up his hammer and dug its sharp end into his left palm as hard as he could, then once again for good measure.

When the blood came, he dove in, hammer in hand.

He made his way through the darkness, waiting for the water to start glowing.

He wasn’t sure why it was taking so long.

His hand had definitely been bleeding.

Dismayed, he jabbed the hammer into his palm again, ignoring the searing pain. The fresh cut streamed more blood into the spring.

Nothing. It wasn’t responding.

He swam desperately to the side of the spring, then dove down, feeling the rocks, frantically running his hands across the wall.

No signs of Ben.

No signs of anything.

A horrifying thought occurred to him:

What if the spring never opens again?

What if the gateway is closed…forever?

He pushed the thought away, trying to will the spring back to life.

Any moment now it would start glowing.

Any moment.

Rex gripped his hammer tight.

He waited.





26


“IT’S VERY CLEAR now,” Sheriff Lawson said, speaking to a crowd of reporters and concerned citizens outside the Bleak Creek Police Station, “that Wayne Whitewood was not the man we thought he was.”

“Well, that’s for darn sure,” Martha McClendon said, her arm wrapped tightly around her son as if she intended to never let go. She sat with Rex and her husband on the couch, all eyes glued to the television screen.

“After a tip from an inside source at the school,” Sheriff Lawson continued, “we were able to uncover the truth about what Mr. Whitewood had actually been doin’ all these years, taking certain students captive and, in some cases…”—the sheriff shook his head, seeming genuinely mournful—“murdering them.”

Rex’s mom clutched him tighter, her lower lip trembling. “I just can’t believe it,” she whispered.

“I made the same mistake as everyone else,” Sheriff Lawson said. “I trusted this man.” He grimaced, like he had a bad taste in his mouth. Rex was impressed; the sheriff’s acting chops were nearly as honed as Whitewood’s had been. “That won’t happen again. Even though Mr. Whitewood was able to elude our grasp last night, I have full faith that we’ll find him. Justice will be served.” Rex wondered how long Sheriff Lawson would be able to sustain a fake manhunt. He pictured concerned Bleak Creekians combing the woods around town, destined to find nothing. “And I do have some good news,” the sheriff continued. “Mr. Whitewood had announced Alicia Boykins to be deceased—with a cover story just like the ones he’d concocted for his other victims—but that turned out to be another lie. Last night, we were able to save her.” He nodded solemnly as some of the crowd applauded. “Don’t get me wrong—he put that girl through hell, keeping her isolated and carrying out his sick ‘punishments.’ That poor young lady is still in a place where she doesn’t know fantasy from reality. But now she can start to get better.”