I shove the flashlight into the pocket of my sweater and drag Percy into the shelter of the oak and make him as comfortable as I can in the hard pillows of its roots. He'll wake soon, but by then I will be too far ahead for him to catch up.
I kiss his mouth again. Whisper in his ear when he murmurs in his sleep. “I promise you will hold me again soon.”
It is the biggest lie I've told yet.
21
I know the bones of Jack Green were buried somewhere in these woods. Know too that The Salesman lurks somewhere in a clearing, but there is a lot of ground to be covered, and I don't have the time to search it all.
There is a game that high school girls play sometimes, staring in a mirror and saying a name until a death's head appears behind them. Some versions you say the name of some boogey man and some you say your own name. What those that play don't realize is this is the surest way to summon a ghost.
I don't have a mirror, but blood will reflect my call just as well. I stab my finger on one of the plentiful brambles and blow the welling drops of blood into the air. “Jack Green, Jack Green. Come to me. Jack Green, Jack Green. Come and see.”
A cool wind slithers past my knees and a shadow rises from the ground, thin as breath in winter. It's hard to make out his face and the flashlight don't help, but there somethin' in the shape of his eyes and the strength of his mouth that reminds me a little of the face that stares back at me from the windows at Greenhaven.
I push my hair back over my shoulder and bob a little curtsy. “Hello, many-great granddaddy.”
The ghost drifts close enough the skin on my arms prickles with the sudden chill. What do you want?
“Show me where your bones lie, Granddaddy Green.”
Mine no longer. For a moment his teeth flash, surprisingly white and horrible in the winter-mist of his face. Something evil has taken them.
“I know. And I plan to fix that. If you'll kindly show me where they and it be.”
He points off into the trees. This way. He moves like a thing in a dream—legs and feet going through the motions of walking but drifting over far more ground than each step should.
I have to run to keep up, the flashlight clutched in one hand, the other one shielding my face from the slap and scratch of branches. Falling once as my foot skids on a root hidden in the leaf mould and scrambling back upright and running on, despite the hot trickle of blood creeping down my shin.
Behind me I hear the voices of the rest of the search party. No doubt they have heard the noise and are following. Or looking for Percy. I still need to reach the clearing before they do, but I doubt any of them will interfere with what I mean to do.
Granddaddy Green slows and turns to look at me, then points again. There.
A bright spot in the trees leads me out into the clearing where everything is just as I have dreamed it.
Luke and Merv are carrying something big and wiggling between them. I don't have to see the worn blue plastic of the tarp to know they've got a woman wrapped up in it.
And toward the other side of the clearing is the sooty bulk of the iron chest and the thing named The Salesman standing in it, more terrible than anything I can imagine.
It is shaped like a man, but misshapen too—lumps of ash that mimic muscles but don't move, and skin that flickers bright and dark like the spots that come from staring at the sun. There is something else about it, hard to pin down in any fashion, but it is inhuman. Not a man with a broken mind or soul, or a ghost that was once flesh and blood. The Salesman is the sum of everything dark in the human spirit—envy, fear, guilt, spite—all stuck together with the bitter magic of unkind tongues.
My gut hurts like I've been eatin' glass, but I know that girl that Luke and Merv are dragging across the clearing will die if I don't do something.
My feet move, following the road I have laid for myself.
I run straight across the clearing, past Luke and Merv who react too slow to do anything but drop the woman they got between them. Straight to stand in front of the fury and flame that is The Salesman.
It looks at me, fire pooling in the big dark hollows of its skull. “Foolish.” One knobby hand grabs my arm, and my sweater smokes and flames ripple up the sleeve and down and around my body. The thinner fabric of the dress flares up fast, but my skin remains unbroken.
Not that it don't hurt, 'cause it stings like I stepped in a shower turned too hot or too cold, but it don't burn. I don't burn. I raise my arm, pull against its grip and a couple of pieces of smoldering bone break off and fall to the ground. A thread of smoke rises from the tall grass, then the bits disintegrate into dust.
The Salesman may not be human, may not even be sentient in the way we tend to think of things that move and kill in the name of revenge, but conscious or not, it wants to survive. It lets go of me, shuffles back in the iron chest, but the words of the story that brought it to life also bind it to the box.
I step into the chest and grab its other hand, twisting it around 'til more fingers break off and dissolve in my hand. I slip my arms tight around its waist as it tries to hit me. “That ain't doin' you no good.”
It puts its arm against my throat and tries to choke me, but its strength lies in its flames—the ash and bone underneath are fragile.
It screams at me. “Let me go.”
“Oh, no.” I grin the best I can with my heart playing Skip to My Lou in my chest. “I'm gonna break you into little bits and scatter you far and wide across these woods 'til you can't ever put yourself back together.”
It pushes harder against my throat and I cough under the pressure, but one of its wrist bones snaps like a green twig. The flames lick higher, the last threads of my sweater curling off and away. “Let me go.”
“You know I won't do that. Deep in your borrowed bones you know I'll hold on 'til I ain't nothin' but bones myself.”
The flames wrap around us, hot and hotter, and the iron chest starts to glow. Hot iron. That what burned me before and will do again, just like it did Jack Green. It wasn't the flames but the trunk that was his undoing, and his bones are in the middle of The Salesman. His bones are mortal against the touch of fire and iron.
A thin layer of ash still covers the bottom of the chest, providing me with a fleeting protection from the red hot metal as I push The Salesman back against the edge of the box.
It screams again and I'm certain I hear the voices of the thirteen girls it murdered in the sound. Glowing white hot now in an attempt to burn me up and I glow too, my bones soaking up the heat and magic pouring out of The Salesman.
Its legs crumble away at the knees as the iron pressed against the back of its legs takes a toll.
I turn and drop The Salesman into the chest and stagger out of it. Grab the edge of the lid and throw it closed even though it burns my hands—skin peeling back like paper to leave the bones all naked underneath. But I'm not the only one hurt.
The iron is glowing too hot now for the thing named The Salesman to survive. For a moment or two it thumps and screeches against the red hot metal, beating itself to pieces as Jack Green's bones finally and permanently crumble into dust.
The chest itself breaks apart, unable to stand the supernatural force that has been exerted upon it. The sides crumble outward in a shower of sparks and the lid falls in with a whumph that sends fine black ash curling like fog.
It should be quiet in the clearing now, but someone is still screamin'.
Me.
My hands and feet all burned to blood and bone and the rest of me glowing white hot and fearsome as The Salesman itself.
Luke and Merv are still standing there, mouths open like their jaws are broke. Stupid bastards.
Lightning slices overhead and the thunder hits the clearing hard as a kick to the head. Sparks fly off me like dust off a rug, and I reach toward the Trainer boys with my burning hands.
They take off for the edge of the clearing, hoping to reach the dark and shelter of the trees. But I ain't The Salesman bound t
o Jack Green's chest or any other place, and my magic is different.
I lay my glowing bones against their threads and burn their future into nothing. They drop headlong into the grass where their bodies crackle and spit like bacon in a frying pan.
They don't suffer 'cause I ain't cruel. Just angry.
More lightning crackles overhead and I scream at the clouds. Where is the rain? The first heavy drops sizzle on my skin making dark marks that fade as quick as I see 'em. More drops follow, slap-slap-slap against the ground, and they temper the flames but cannot quench the magic burning in me.
There are more voices. I can barely hear them above the screech of my own voice, which just goes on and on and on because the pain doesn't stop. Neither do the flames. I shuffle around, guided by these threads I have been laying into place for years.
Mains tucks the shotgun up against his shoulder. His cheeks are wet and maybe that's just 'cause of the rain, but I'll bet it's not.
To the left are Martinez and Percy. They have their guns out, yelling at Mains to put the damn shotgun down. They don't want to shoot him. They might even know that he's got the right idea, but years of training say they can't let him put two barrels full of buckshot in my chest.
But Mains ain't afraid of death. Just like I ain't. Though I figure neither one of us can muster the strength to pull the trigger ourselves.
I hold my arms out wide so he can see that this is what I planned and swallow the pain for long enough to let my voice die out. Look at Percy who is yelling, not just at Mains, but at me. Begging me for something.
“Please,” he says, over and over. “Please, Delaney.”
Even that won't cool the fire.
I smile, and my lips crack away. “I will wish to be moonlight.”
There is thunder, but no lightning, and the buckshot splinters me into a thousand pieces. The world breaking apart, leaves and dirt swirling up around me as I fall. Everything is so bright.
Grass tickles my skin and I lay quiet for a moment. Wind whispers across me from head to toe, and the air is sweet with the smell of warm-gold grass and honeysuckle.
A shadow touches me, and I open my eyes and squint up at the face looking down at me.
“You gonna lie there all day?” Addie says. She's got the baby hitched up on one hip, her fist planted on the other.
I sit up and brush bits of dry grass out of my hair. The field stretches out to the horizon, save for the western edge where there's a darker line of trees marking where the woods begin.
Addie moves so she stands between me and them. “Took you long enough.”
“Yeah.” I stand up and stretch. My feet are all right and my hands, too. Not even scarred. Maybe 'cause whatever I have left, it ain't my physical self. Least not the one that don't burn.
“Yeah,” I say again. “I came as fast as I could.”
22
Percy sits on the steps of the abandoned house and watches as Sheriff Tolbert directs the collection of the bodies and supervises the interview with Martinez.
It turns out there was a road that led back here. Small and close to overgrown, they were able to follow it back out to the main road and bring the coroner's van and a couple of cruisers back, plus an ambulance for the woman who’d been tied up in the tarp. She was mostly unhurt, although hysterical. The emergency folks gave her a sedative and packed her off to the hospital to rest.
Percy rubs his hands together, trying to feel something other than cold. The storm has blown over and the moon peeks through the ragged clouds. Somehow the cold light does nothing to soften the burned ground or the memory of what happened here.
Martinez sits down next to him and holds out a Styrofoam cup. “MacKenzie thought you could use coffee.”
“Thanks.”
“It tastes like shit, but it's hot.” Martinez forces a smile.
Percy can't summon the energy to smile back so he takes a sip from the cup. Watches as the coroner and his assistant roll one of the Trainer brothers up in a piece of plastic, then shimmy the corpse into a body bag.
Martinez fidgets, uncomfortable with the silence. “I've seen some pretty bad stuff before.” He shakes his head. “But this was messed up.”
Percy cradles the cup in his hands. “Yeah.”
“You think...” Martinez stops for a moment, fiddling with his own cup. “It was like she knew what was going to happen.”
“She did.”
“But why?”
He rubs his fingers together, remembering the book in Del's woods. “She wanted to be free.”
“By dying. Horribly. And taking Mains with her. Because if she knew what was going to happen to her, she must have known...”
“She did.” His shoulders ache and he stretches. “So did he, though not as clearly.”
Martinez looks at him sharply. “And you? Did you know?”
“Not enough. Not in time.” She'd planned it that way. Dangerous and seductive, just like they'd warned him. And now he's sitting here all in one piece and she's gone. Percy can't complain about being alive, though the grief is strong enough to turn him cold straight through. But there's a nagging feeling that this ain't over.
Mains told him Delaney averted a death by violence and saved his life. Gave him eight years more than he might have had. Then took him all the same when it worked best to her purpose.
Now he's sitting here on the steps of the porch instead of being scooped up off the burned grass and shoveled into a bag, and Delaney's gone. Maybe he's already paid whatever is owed.
Maybe she'll come back to claim that debt.
Percy’s hands shake. He ain't sure if it's relief or fear. Maybe she'll come back.
“Cox?” Martinez is looking at him. “You okay?”
He swallows hard. “Maybe.”
“You should get some sleep. You'll feel better in the morning.” Martinez has him by the arm, guiding him toward one of the cruisers.
“Sure.” He nods as Martinez mutters on about staying with him, making sure he talks to the psychiatrist right away. Slides into the car and leans back against the seat without protest. He could use some sleep. And time to think.
Percy leans his forehead against the window once the car pulls away. The deputies are shoveling dirt onto the flames that still burn where Del was standing. Persistently and desperately smothering the supernatural.
He sighs and closes his eyes.
Maybe she'll come back.
Epilogue
Summer never ends here.
Addie and the baby play in the grass all day while the sun winds back and forth—not standing still, but never falling below the horizon. An eternity of perfect days.
The baby doesn't move like an infant, walking with her feet wide to balance her head—still too big for her tiny limbs. I suspect she can talk, too, but she doesn't. At least not to me, but sometimes I see her snuggled up on Addie's shoulder, and it seems they might be whispering to each other.
Every now and then the baby pulls an acorn out of the pocket on her tiny dress and stuffs it into the ground before she wishes it into a tree. The shade underneath is cool and still, and they lie down underneath and sleep. Not because they need to. None of us need to eat or sleep or drink nothin'. But I figure they get bored with running in the warm grass and weaving necklaces of daisies and bluebonnets.
An eternity of perfect summer days but never any nights.
They never go into the woods either.
I can see the trees on the western horizon, dark as storm clouds in the distance. But every time I try and walk there, Addie drags me off to play some other game.
I'm taller now and older if you count years spent in flesh and blood, but she's still the eldest of the three of us. I know I don't have to do what she tells me if I don't want to, and there's not much she could do to stop me, but it's hard not to think of her as the one in charge. Or maybe it's guilt. She's been here all this time with no one but the baby for company. Even though neither of us says it, we both know I'm no
t intending to stay.
An eternity of perfect summer days but never any nights.
It's not a bad way to pass the time. I run and sing, even though my voice wobbles on the high notes and Addie's is clear as glass. Tickle the baby who chuckles and clutches at me with her little hands, and make a chain of daisies that winds from my head down to my bare toes. Lay under the ceaseless sun and sprawl in the shade of the baby's oak tree as if I ain't ever going anywhere else.
But sometimes I catch the scent of the trees—the sweetness of old leaves and rain—and long for the shelter of the woods instead of the wide open field that lays everything bare. Sometimes I dream of fire and moonlight.
We have an eternity of perfect days, me and Addie and the baby, but sometimes I long for the night.
That's where I'll find my way back to Percy. In the murmur of beech leaves and the spreading arms of old trees. That's where I'll find him.
Addie's yelling for me to come and help her swing the baby back and forth. A smile on her face and long gold-brown hair flying out in the breeze, but there's a wrinkle above her nose like she used to get when Mama would start yelling. She waves her arm, beckoning me to come back, and the baby claps her hands together and chuckles. Begging me to stay in every way except actually sayin' it.
And I will stay. For now, anyway.
The woods will be waiting.
II
Of Shade and Soul
Prologue
The car rolled up beside Percy almost silently. “Hey, son.” The driver leaned across the passenger seat. “Is there a place to get a cup of coffee around here?”
Percy stopped, thumbs hooked through the straps on his backpack. “There’s a diner on Oak Street.”
The guy behind the wheel grinned, sheepish. “I’m just traveling through. I don’t know…”
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