‘No,’ said Barley, his hand reaching down to hold the dog back and to cover its bared breast. ‘Please, not my dog.’
I felt bad threatening his dog, and the feeling made me wonder if this old man could possibly be Caleb Kyle. I thought that I would know Caleb when I found him, that I would sense his true nature. All I got from John Barley was fear: fear of me and, I suspected, fear of something else.
‘Tell me the truth,’ I said softly. ‘Tell me where you got those boots. You tried to get rid of them after we spoke. I want to know why.’
He blinked hard and swallowed once, his teeth worrying his bottom lip until he seemed to reach a decision within himself, and spoke.
‘I took ‘em from the boy’s body. I dug him up, took the boots, then covered him again.’ He shrugged once more. ‘Took me his pack too. He didn’t have no need for ‘em anyways.’
I resisted pistol-whipping him, but only just. ‘And the girl?’
The old man twice shook his head, as if trying to dislodge an insect from his hair. ‘I didn’t kill ‘em,’ he said, and I thought for a moment that he might cry. ‘I wouldn’t hurt nobody. I just wanted the boots.’
I felt sick inside. I thought of Lee and Walter, of times spent with them, with Ellen. I did not want to have to tell them that their daughter was dead. I once again doubted that this raggedy old man, this scavenger, could be Caleb Kyle.
‘Where is she?’ I asked.
He was rubbing the dog’s body methodically now, hard sweeps from the head almost to its rump. ‘I only know where the boy is. The girl, I don’t rightly know where she might be.’
In the light from the window, the old man’s face glowed a dim yellow. It made him look sickly and ill. His eyes were damp, the pupils barely pinholes. He was trembling gently as the fear took over his body. I lowered the gun and said: ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
The old man shook his head and what he said next made my skin crawl. ‘Mister,’ he whispered, ‘it ain’t you I’m afraid of.’
He saw them near the Little Briar Creek, he said, the girl and the boy in front and a figure, almost a shadow, in the backseat. He was walking with his dog, on his way home from hunting rabbits, when he saw the car pull in below him, harsh noises like stones grinding coming from the engine. It was not yet evening, but darkness had already fallen. He caught a glimpse of the two young people as they passed before the headlights of the car, the girl in blue jeans and a bright red parka, the boy in black, wearing a leather jacket that hung open despite the cold.
The boy lifted the hood of the car and peered inside, using a pocket flashlight to illuminate the engine. He could see him shake his head, heard him say something indistinguishable to the girl, then swear loudly in the silence of the forest.
The rear door of the car opened and the third passenger stepped out. He was tall, and something told John Barley that he was old, older even than Barley himself. And for reasons that, even now, he did not fully understand, he felt a chill cross him and, from close by, he heard the dog give a low whine. Beside the car, the figure stopped and seemed to scan the woods, as if to ascertain the source of the unexpected noise. Barley patted the dog lightly: ‘Hush, boy, hush.’ But he could see the dog’s nostrils working quickly, and felt the animal shivering beside him. Whatever he scented, it had spooked him badly and the dog’s unease communicated itself to his owner.
The tall man leaned into the driver’s side of the car and the headlights died. ‘Hey,’ said the boy. ‘What’re you doing? You killed the lights.’ His flashlight beam moved and illuminated first the face of the man approaching and then the gleam of something in his hand.
‘Hey,’ said the boy again, softer now. He moved in front of the girl, forcing her back, protecting her from the blade. ‘Don’t do this,’ he said.
The knife slashed and the flashlight fell. The boy stumbled back and Barley heard him say, ‘Run, Ellen, run.’ Then the old man was upon him like a long, dark cloud and Barley saw the knife rise and fall, rise and fall, and heard the sound of its cutting against the noise of the trees gently swaying.
And then the figure moved after the girl. He could hear her stumbling, awkward progress through the woods. She did not get far. There was a scream, followed by a sound, as of a blow heavily falling, and then all was silent. Beside him, the dog shifted on the ground, and gave a low, soft keen.
It was some time before the tall figure returned. The girl was not with him. He lifted the boy beneath the arms and hauled him to the rear of the car, where he bundled him into the trunk. He opened the driver’s door and slowly, surely, began to push the car down the dirt road that led to Ragged Lake.
Barley tied his dog to a tree and gently wrapped his pocket handkerchief around its muzzle, patting it once and assuring it that he would be back. Then he followed the sound of the car as its wheels crunched on the trail ahead.
About half a mile down the road, just before Ragged Lake, he came upon a clearing next to a patch of beaver bog, dead trees fallen and twisted in the dark water. In the clearing, a pit had been dug and newly excavated earth lay in piles like funeral mounds. There was a slope at one end of the pit, and the old man used it to push the car into the earth. It came to rest almost level, the right rear wheel slightly raised. Then the figure climbed onto the roof and, from there, made its way to the lip of the hole. There was the sound of a spade being removed from the earth and then the soft shifting as it plunged deep once again, followed by a scraping as the first load hit the roof of the car.
It took the old man almost an hour, all told, to bury the car. Soon, snow would cover the ground and the drifts would hide any subsidence in the earth beneath. He lifted and threw methodically, his pace never varying, never once stopping to take a breath, and, despite all that he had seen, John Barley envied him his strength.
But just as the old man had finished circling the area to make sure that he had done his job well, Barley heard a bark from nearby followed by a long howl and he knew that Jess had managed to remove the binding from his muzzle. Below him, the figure stopped and cocked its head, then swung the spade hard into the beaver bog and began to move, his long legs eating up the incline, heading towards the sound of the dog.
But Barley was already moving, quickly and silently. He picked his way over fallen logs, following deer paths and moose trails so that he might avoid alerting the man behind by breaking new branches. He reached the dog to find it pulling from the rope, its tail wagging, emitting gentle yips of joy and relief. It struggled a little as he restored the binding, then he untied it, took it in his arms, and ran for home. He stopped once to look back, certain almost that he had heard sounds of pursuit from close behind, but he could see nothing. When he got back to his cabin, he locked his door, reloaded his shotgun with lethal Number One shot and sat in a chair, never resting until dawn broke, when he fell into a bad, fitful sleep, punctuated by dreams of earth falling into his open mouth.
‘Why didn’t you tell someone what you saw?’ I asked him. Even then, I was not sure whether or not to believe him. How could I believe that he was who he said he was, that such a story could be true? But when I looked in his eyes there was no trace of guile, only an old man’s fear of approaching death. The dog now lay beside him, not asleep, its eyes open, sometimes casting glances at me to make sure that I had not moved during the telling of the old man’s tale.
‘I didn’t want no trouble,’ he replied. ‘But I went back to see if there was any trace of the girl, and for those boots. They were fine boots and maybe, maybe I wanted to be sure that I hadn’t imagined what I saw. I’m an old man, and the mind plays tricks. But I didn’t imagine nothing, even though the girl was gone and there wasn’t even blood on the ground to tell where she might have been. I knew that I hadn’t imagined it as soon as I saw the dip in the ground and the spade hit metal. I was going to keep the boots and the pack, maybe had half a notion to take them to the police so they wouldn’t think I was crazy when I told them the story. But . . .’ He
stopped. I waited.
‘The next night, after what happened, I was sitting here on the porch with Jess and I felt him trembling. He didn’t bark or nothing, just began to shake and whine. He was staring out into the woods, just there.’
He raised a finger and pointed to a place where the branches of two striped maples almost touched, like lovers reaching out to each other in the dark. ‘And there was someone standing there, watching us. Didn’t move or nothing, didn’t speak, just stood watching. And I knew it was him. I could feel it deep in me, and I could sense it in the dog. Then he just seemed to fade into the woods, and I didn’t see him again.
‘But I knew what it was he wanted. It was a warning. I don’t think he knew for certain what I might have seen, and he wasn’t going to kill me unless he knew, but right then and there I wished I’d never gone back for them boots. And if I said anything, he’d find out and he’d come for me. I knew that. Then you came around asking questions and I knew for sure I had to get rid of them. I emptied the pack and sold it and the boots to Stuckey and I was glad for what he gave me. I burned the boy’s clothes out back. There was nothing else for it.’
‘You ever see this man before?’ I asked.
Barley shook his head. ‘Never. He wasn’t from around these parts, else I’d have recognised him.’ He leaned forward. ‘You didn’t ought to have come here, mister.’ There was a tone almost of resignation in his voice. ‘He’ll know, and he’ll come for me. He’ll come for us both.’
I looked out into the gathering night, into the shadows of the trees. There were no stars visible in the sky and the moon was obscured by cloud. The forecast was for more snow; twelve inches were promised over the next week, maybe more. And suddenly I was seized with a fearful regret that my car was back down the road, and that we would have to walk through the darkness of the woods to get to it.
‘You ever hear the name Caleb Kyle?’ I asked him.
He blinked once, as if I had struck him on the cheek, but there was no real surprise in it. ‘Sure I heard it. He’s a myth. There was never a man by that name, least not around these parts.’ But just by asking him I had sown doubts in his mind, and I could almost hear the tumblers falling into place, and I watched as his eyes widened in realisation.
So Caleb had tracked Ellen and Ricky, had wormed his way into their trust. He was the one who had advised them to visit Dark Hollow, just as the hotel manager had told me, and I didn’t doubt that it was Caleb who had sabotaged the engine of their car and then told them where to pull in, close by Ragged Lake where there was a grave already waiting. What I couldn’t understand was why he had done this. It made no sense, unless . . .
Unless he had been watching me all along, ever since I began helping Rita Ferris. Anyone who sided with Rita would automatically be perceived as taking a stand against Billy. Did he take Ellen Cole, maybe even kill her as he killed her boyfriend, to punish me for interfering in the affairs of a man whom he believed to be his son? If Ellen was still alive, then any hope of finding her now rested on understanding the mind of Caleb Kyle, and perhaps finding Billy Purdue. I thought of Caleb watching me as I slept, after he had killed Rita and Donald, after he had placed the child’s toy on my kitchen table. What was he thinking then? And why didn’t he kill me when he had the chance? Somewhere, just beyond my reach, lay an answer to these questions. I tightened my fists in frustration at my inability to grasp it, and then it came to me.
He knew who I was, or, more importantly, he knew whose grandson I was. It would appeal to him, I thought, to torment the grandson as he had tortured the grandfather. Thirty years later, he was beginning the game again.
I motioned to John Barley. ‘Come on, we’re leaving.’
He stood slowly and looked out at the trees, as if in expectation of seeing that figure once again. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’re going to show me where that car is buried, and then you’re going to tell Rand Jennings what you told me.’
He did not move, but remained looking fearfully into the trees. ‘Mister, I don’t want to go back there,’ he said.
I ignored him, picked up his shotgun, unloaded it and tossed the empty gun back into the house. I motioned him to go ahead of me, my gun still in my hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he moved.
‘You can bring your dog,’ I said, as he passed by me. ‘If there’s something out there, he’ll sense it before we will.’
Chapter Twenty Eight
The first snow began to fall almost as soon as we lost sight of the old man’s house, thick, heavy concentrations of crystal that covered the road and added their weight to the earlier falls. By the time we reached the Mustang our shoulders and hair were white, and the dog gambolled beside us, trying to catch snowflakes in its jaws. I sat the old man in the passenger seat, took a pair of cuffs from the trunk, and cuffed his left hand across his body to the armrest on the door. I didn’t trust him not to take a swing at me in the car, or to run off into the woods as soon as he had a chance. The dog sat on the back seat, leaving muddy pawprints on my upholstery.
Visibility was poor as I drove and the windshield wipers struggled to remove the snow. I stayed at thirty at first, then slowed to twenty-five, then twenty. Soon, there was only a veil of white before me and the tall shapes of the trees at either side, pine and fir standing like the spires of churches in the snow. The old man said nothing as he sat awkwardly beside me, his right hand holding on to the dashboard for support.
‘You’d better not be lying to me, John Barley,’ I said.
His eyes were blank, their gaze directed inward, like those of a man who has just heard his death sentence pronounced and knows that it is fixed and inalterable.
‘It don’t matter,’ he said, and behind him the dog began to whine. ‘When he finds us, won’t matter what you believe.’
Then, perhaps fifty feet ahead of us, the driving snow playing games with perspective, I saw what looked like headlights. As we drew closer, the shapes of two cars appeared as they pulled fully into the road, blocking our path. Behind us, more headlights gleamed, but farther back, and when I continued to move forwards, they seemed to recede, then disappeared, their glare reflected now from the trees to my right, and I realised the car behind had turned sideways and stopped, boxing us in.
I slowed about twenty feet from the cars ahead. ‘What’s going on?’ said the old man. ‘Maybe there’s been an accident.’
‘Maybe,’ I said.
Three figures, dark against the snow and the lights, moved towards us. There was something familiar about the one in the centre and the way he moved. He was small. An overcoat hung loose over his shoulders and, from beneath it, his right arm protruded in a sling. As he moved into the glare of the car’s lights, I saw the dark threads of stitching in the wounds on his forehead, and the ugly twisting of his harelip.
Mifflin smiled crookedly. I was already reaching for the keys to the cuffs with one hand while with the other I removed my Smith & Wesson from its holster. Beside me, the old man sensed we were in trouble and began yanking at the cuffs.
‘Cut me loose!’ he screamed. ‘Cut me loose!’
From behind came the barking of the dog. I tossed the keys to the old man and he reached down to free his hand as I slapped the car into reverse and hit the accelerator, my gun against the wheel, hoping to knock the rear car out of the path. We slammed into it with the sound of crunching metal and breaking glass, the impact straining the belts as we jerked towards the windshield. The dog tumbled forwards into the space between the seats and yelped as it hit the dash.
Ahead of us, five figures now moved through the snow in our direction, and I heard the sound of a door opening behind us. I moved the car into drive and prepared to hit the accelerator again, but the Mustang cut out, leaving us in silence. I leaned down to turn the key in the ignition, but the old man was already opening his door, the dog on his lap nosing at the gap. I reached out to stop him ‘No, don’t’ and then the windshield exploded and a black and red spra
y, star studded with glass shards, filled the car, splashing my face and body and blinding my eyes. I blinked them clear in time to see the old man’s ruined face sliding towards me, the remains of the dog lying across his thighs, and then I was pushing my door open, staying low as I hurled myself from the car, more shots tearing into the hood and the interior, the rear window shattering as I tumbled onto the road. I sensed movement behind and to my left, spun and fired. A man in a dark aviator’s jacket, a stunned look on his face and blood on his cheek, twisted in the snow and fell to the ground ten feet away from me. I glanced at the point of collision where the Mustang had hit their Neon and saw the body of a second man forced upright between the driver door and the shell of the Dodge, crushed by the impact as he tried to get out of the car.
I turned and broke for the side of the road, sliding down the slope and into the woods, bullets striking the road above me and the snow and dirt around me, shouts and cries following me as I found myself among the trees, twigs snapping beneath my feet, branches scraping my face, twisted roots pulling at my legs. Flashlight beams tore through the night and there came the staccato rattle of an automatic weapon, ripping through the leaves and branches above me and to my right. The old man’s blood was still warm on me as I ran. I could feel it dripping down my face, could taste it in my mouth.
I kept running, my gun in my hand, my breath sounding harsh and ragged in my throat. I tried to change direction, to work my way back to the road, but flashlights shone almost level with me to my right and left as they moved to cut me off. Still the snow fell, trapping itself on my lashes and melting on my lips. It froze my hands and almost blinded me as it billowed into my eyes.
And then the terrain changed and I stumbled on a rock, wrenching my ankle painfully, and half slid, half ran down a final incline until my feet splashed in icy cold water and I found myself looking out on the dark expanse of a pond, the winter light drowning in its blackness. I turned, trying to find a way back, but the flashlights and cries drew nearer. I saw a light to my far left, another approaching through the trees to the right, and realised that I was surrounded. I took a deep breath, wincing at the pain as I tested my ankle. I drew a bead on the beam to my right, aimed low and fired. There was a cry of pain and the thrashing of a body falling. I fired twice more, straight ahead at the men approaching through the darkness, and heard a call to ‘Kill the lights, kill the lights’.
The Charlie Parker Collection 1 Page 81