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.”

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.”

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