by Rio Youers
Morning light sifted through the canopy, vague, like the circles, and in the flashlight’s glow he saw the old pine collapsed against the boulder with a trail of copper pennies leading toward it.
“Here I come,” he said. A blunt throb in his skull. Pain, like a Mack truck, ran over him. First the front wheels, then a gap, then the rear wheels. There’d be another one along soon enough. A fucking convoy, by God. Nothing he could do about it. He tried to make an eagle sound but only gurgled and swallowed blood.
And as always, the mountain whip-cracked and spurred him on. He was a carthorse. A lone husky. A worker ant carrying fifty times his own body weight, trudging faithfully back to the anthill. One purpose. With everything stripped away, even his humanity, only one thing remained: to serve the mountain. He had been chosen because he was strong. He’d give it what it wanted, and when he died—which would be soon, no doubt about that—his soul would cut some serious rug with Leander Bird’s. Together they would make the mountain rumble louder than ever before. They’d turn it into a volcano, and dance on the rim as it erupted.
His bloody lips cracked a smile and he staggered the last seven or eight feet to the fallen pine.
“I know you’re in there, Matthew.”
No sound. He had expected a whimper—had hoped for a scream. But nothing. He shone the flashlight on the curtain of branches.
“Matthew?”
Nothing.
Oliver frowned and used the barrel of the flashlight to part the branches, fully expecting to see Matthew and the children huddled like newborn pups, but the space between the pine and the boulder was empty.
“Nothing,” Oliver said.
Not quite; he shone the flashlight on the boulder and saw a splodge of blood, still wet. Oliver touched it. Warm. So they had been here, and recently. He growled and shuffled around the boulder, looking for their careless tracks. And there, not too far ahead, a flash of white and red between the trees. He followed it with the flashlight and saw that it was the little girl. Matthew traipsed beside her, carrying the boy.
She sensed the light and turned around. Her face was like a crushed petal. She opened her mouth and yes, there was the scream.
It signalled another whip-crack, another Mack truck. Oliver let it roll over him, front wheels and rear. The pain knocked him to his knees, but he hoisted fifty times his own body weight and started to crawl.
The circles had faded. He was dying . . . floopy. But he wasn’t going to stop now.
Couldn’t, even if he wanted to.
Chapter Nineteen
Another beautiful summer morning in Point Hollow. Veils of mist were draped over the lower hillsides, blushing in the sunrise, and the peaks flashed bold colours, almost metallic. The sky appeared soft, like a huge comforter stretched over the town, pinks and baby blues, with a sprinkle of stars in the west. A breeze shared the fragrance of all that blossomed, while endless trees conversed in their secret language. The birds responded with sweet melodies that fell silent at the sound of the first shot.
Sheriff Tansy’s cruiser rumbled down Clover Hill Road, turned left on Acorn, and pulled into its allotted space outside the office. The sheriff sat for a moment, making stiff morning sounds (not nearly as melodic as the birds) and blinking the sleep from his eyes. It was precisely 5:12 in the A.M and he felt, in his own parlance, like dry roasted dogshit. Too many brewskies at the Rack. He was supposed to run the nightshift but that didn’t happen. Not even close. So whaddafuck . . . he’d come in early to make up for it. A few hours and then back to bed. Being the boss had its benefits.
He stepped out of the cruiser and entered the office. Empty. Ruby started work at six-thirty, and until then any calls were relayed to state. There was the batphone, in case of emergencies, but that motherfucker never rang. Tansy threw his hat on his desk and made a pot of coffee. While waiting for it to brew, he grabbed his favourite issue of Finally Legal from his bottom drawer and went to the restroom to jerk off.
He didn’t hear the first gunshot, but he heard the second, by God.
The flags on Main Street rippled above empty sidewalks. Sparrows chirped on power lines. Squirrels played on lawns. On Pawpaw Avenue, two young coyotes strutted coolly down the sidewalk, like teenagers that had stayed out all night. One of them stopped to nose in a trashcan. The other waited, ears cocked curiously, but both took off with their tails between their legs when the first crack echoed in the still air.
Rex Mooney heard it, too—heard both shots, in fact. He was fishing on Old Friend Pond, as he did every Saturday morning from Memorial to Labour Day, and had just dropped-ass into his chair when the first shot rang out. He jumped and looked in the direction of the sound. Birds scattered from the treetops, wings shaking.
“Hell is that?” he muttered, but of course he knew. You’d have to be plumb stupid to think it was anything but a gunshot. He ignored it, though, because that was the way of things. Best not to think about it. Easier. But when he heard the second shot some moments later (this from the direction of town, and with a different sound—a deader sound, as he told folks in the Rack later that night), he decided he’d fished enough for one morning, so packed up and went home.
Others heard the shots (like Tina Quinn, who’d been up all night with a stomach bug, and Rupert Grayson, on his way to a little Saturday double-time at the Mill), and like Rex they turned a deaf ear. No need to get involved. Besides, it was probably just someone trying to scare a bear from their backyard. Those troublesome bears.
Most townspeople heard nothing, however; it was early morning, the weekend, and they were lost to the language of their dreams.
Blissful.
The mist on the hillsides sparkled tangerine. Rabbits hopped brightly in Gabe’s Meadow, doves cooed from the eaves of New Hope, and the fountain on Main Street played softly to no one.
In the dense woodland to the southeast of town, Matthew Bridge clung to the last vestiges of his strength. He had a dying seven-year-old boy in his arms and an infinitely brave eleven-year-old girl by his side. They scraped through the trees and bushes, praying with all the passion in their souls.
And behind them, Point Hollow’s favourite son, Oliver Wray, naked but for a pair of blood-soaked socks and sneakers, singing “God Bless America” and brandishing a loaded .45.
———
Close . . . they were so close now. Matthew saw the clock on the town hall through the trees. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Oliver was right behind them—could hear him singing, each line punctuated by a shrill animal sound. It sometimes felt like he was breathing down their necks.
Branches whipped Matthew’s face, drawing blood. He stumbled, lost one shoe, kept going. The clock blurred between the trees, seen one moment, gone the next. Matthew screamed and threw his legs one in front of the other. Ethan shuddered in his arms, thin legs swinging with the movement of Matthew’s body. Courtney, incredibly, pushed ahead, her fathomless strength fuelling him, her bright hair rippling between the trees like a ribbon.
———
He was close enough to get off a shot. The gun was heavy, but Oliver lifted it and glared crookedly down the sights. The back of the little girl’s head was fat and round, as red as the centre of a target. He curled his finger around the trigger. Time to end this. Time for Matthew to stop running. Dropping the girl, sending her brains flying through the front of her shattered skull, was a pretty effective way of doing that. Oliver sang about the land that he loved, then screeched like an eagle and exerted a touch more pressure on the trigger . . . and be damned if the itty-bitty bitch didn’t weave behind a tree, momentarily out of sight. Oliver growled, lowered the .45, sang about the mountains and the prairies, and waited for that fat red target to shimmy back into view.
———
They broke through a tight band of hemlocks and stopped—just stopped. Dead. Matthew tried to breathe but his throat and
chest constricted, allowing nothing in or out. Courtney threw her arms out in surprise. Ethan opened his eyes and said, “Deer.”
———
There. They’d stopped. Rock-still. For some reason. Oliver lurched closer. He raised the .45, found his target. A perfectly motionless target, praise be to God, floating at the edge of a clearing like a fat red balloon waiting to be popped. He stepped on a twig that cracked like a bone in the still morning air, then hooked his finger around the trigger.
Held his breath and squeezed.
———
Matthew heard Bobby’s voice in his mind, so clear, as if the big guy were standing right next to him: I thought you needed to see that.
They had stumbled into the clearing that Bobby had taken him to, bristling with whitetail. Three dozen, at least. The animals didn’t spring in the opposite direction, tails flashing, as they had before. Instead they stood their ground and looked at Matthew and the children with their heavy, black eyes. Their expressions were passive, intelligent, beautiful. The bucks towered impressively, antlers spread like open wings, while the fawns were almost lost among the flowers. Matthew thought that, of all places to die, this really wasn’t so bad. Cruel that they were so close to town—to safety—but he found solace in this outstanding beauty. I thought you needed to see that. Matthew found his breath and gasped, and then everything happened at once.
There was a crack from the woods as Oliver stumbled closer. The deer reacted, streaming like a slick, reddish river not away from, but toward them. At the same instant Matthew heard a gunshot. He felt warm fluid spatter against him. Blood, on his face and shirt. In Ethan’s hair. He thought it was his own and waited to die. The ground trembled as the deer charged around him, their bodies close and hot. This is death, he thought. The rush of death. He smelled the hollyhocks and the full, woody odour of fur. Blood dripped from his ear. Courtney, he thought, and looked for her, couldn’t see her. The deer snorted and bristled by, and Matthew saw Courtney’s leg—just her leg—on the ground, glimpsed between the frenzied deer, her Croc standing out against the grass like a small purple toy.
———
Oliver had squeezed the trigger and the gun kicked in his hand as the round discharged, as if it were full of flexing muscle. In that same instant—from nowhere—a doe moved into the line of fire. The bullet struck its throat and it sagged to the ground, spurting a crazy wheel of blood, and before Oliver could comprehend what had happened, there was another deer—a buck, running at him, antlers low—and then another.
Another.
And another.
Charging toward him.
My forest brothers and sisters, Oliver thought, and closed his eyes.
———
The first buck hit him hard, gouging his stomach and chest, driving him backward. The second spun him on his feet and dropped him to one knee. The third, a doe, knocked him onto his back. The gory flap of skin drooped across his brow again. His broken jaw clanged and thunder exploded from the hole in his skull.
They ran over him, hooves trampling.
Nothing he could do but wait for it to end.
———
The last deer brushed by with a flurry of warm air and Matthew dropped to his knees beside Courtney. She lay facedown in the grass, blood on her T-shirt. He grabbed her hip and rolled her over, his heart rising in his chest like a thick red bubble breaking the surface of a pool.
“Courtney,” he said.
“Courtney,” Ethan said.
She opened her eyes, her lips quivering, and everything inside Matthew soared. For a moment there was no pain, no grief, no darkness. He even smiled, for just one second. Courtney sat up. A leaf of hair fell across her face. She curled her small, dirty hand into Matthew’s and squeezed.
———
They walked through the clearing and through more woods, then joined a trail that was marked by coloured posts and this led them into town.
They trudged down the middle of Main Street, listening to the flags snap and sigh, looking at their harrowed reflections in dark storefront windows.
The town hall clock struck 5:30.
———
Eight minutes later. Main Street. Silent and ghost-townish. Everything peaceful, until a lone figure emerged from the trails and veered, scattering blood, from sidewalk to road and back again.
“Gobless Amarr-huh,” Oliver gurgled. “Lamb darry lub.”
His stomach had been ripped open by blade-like antlers. He used his shattered left hand to plug the ragged hole—felt his intestine pulsing, pressing against his palm, trying to eek though the cracks of his fingers. In his right hand he still held the .45. There was one bullet left, and you could bet your purdy neck he was going to put it to good use.
The birds on the rooftops sang and he sang with them.
“Gobless Amarr-huh.”
Another beautiful summer morning in Point Hollow.
Chapter Twenty
The sheriff poured coffee he wouldn’t get to finish. Added three sugars and a generous glug of half and half. He sat at his desk and slurped from the mug. Sweet and warm, just how he liked it. Another slurp and he put the mug down, pressed his thumb against his brow. Good Jesus, his head was thumping. Partly because of the night before, partly because the fluorescent lighting in the office was hard on the eye—and the light directly above his desk flickered every now and again, like a goddamn nervous tic. Sometimes Tansy felt like whipping out his Glock and firing a couple of rounds into the son of a bitch. That would stop it from flickering, by Christ. It was enough to drive a man crazy.
Paperwork littered his desk and he considered it for a moment, then decided it could wait until later, even until Monday. None of it was pressing. Nothing was ever pressing in Hollow County. A report here, a signature there, check the payroll sheets, stick his finger up his ass. If the people knew how little he actually did—or needed to do, to be fair—there was no way they’d vote him in every four years. It was the reason he went on his little patrols. Yes, it gave him something to do, but showing face, keeping in with the voters, was so important. Those monkeys paid his salary, after all.
Sheriff Tansy closed his eyes for a moment and massaged his temples with the heels of his hands. Perfect silence. It could stay like this all day and he’d be a happy sheriff, indeed. He took another slurp of coffee and grabbed the Tylenol from his top drawer. He fumbled with the cap and the bottle slipped from his fingers. It rolled across the floor and into the corner.
“Son of a whore.”
He wheeled his chair backward and retrieved the bottle. As he was doing so, the door opened behind him. He thought it was Ruby, coming in early (ugly as a hatful of assholes, that girl, but keen—the best combo for the workplace, as far as Tansy was concerned), but when he turned around he saw that it wasn’t Ruby at all. His breath snagged in his throat and he blinked hard. The bottle of Tylenol slipped from his fingers again, rolled into the same corner. Didn’t matter. He’d forgotten about his headache.
“What in the Jesus?” Tansy gasped.
Matthew Bridge staggered toward his desk, covered in mud and blood, looking like he’d been ass-kicked through the devil’s backyard. He carried a child in his arms. A boy. The ghost of a boy, really. Pale and bone-thin. There was another child behind him. She stepped into view, trembling, clasping Matthew’s shirt tail. Her red hair was clotted with dirt and she looked at the sheriff with huge, grateful eyes.
It’s the children, Tansy thought. I’ll be goddamnned.
He stood up. Sat down again as his legs weakened. Something close to fear—hell, it was fear—gripped his barren soul.
Tears shone on all their faces.
“What did you do, Matthew?” the sheriff said.
Matthew shook his head and tried to speak but managed only hopeless sounds. The sheriff tried again to get to his feet, needing the sup
port of the desk to keep himself up. His legs trembled. The fluorescent light flickered and sweat beaded his brow.
What are we going to do now? he thought. He’d never been so scared.
The little girl wiped her eyes and looked at him, full of trust. He was a policeman, after all. He had the uniform and a shiny badge and on the badge it said SHERIFF. She trusted him. He looked at her and she gave him a weak smile.
“Help us,” Matthew said.
“Shut up,” Tansy said. “Just shut the hell up.”
Matthew shook his head again, his face crossed with confusion. There was a bench against a nearby wall and he shuffled over to it and lay the boy down. He crossed to the water cooler (the girl still clinging to his shirt tail) and poured a cone, gave it to the girl, who drank it quickly, then another. He handed her a third cone and she took it to the boy and cradled his head while he sipped. Sheriff Tansy watched all of this with his heart thudding and lines of sweat trickling down his face and between his shoulder blades. What are we going to do now? he thought again.
“I knew you were trouble,” he said to Matthew.
Matthew took two uncertain steps toward him. “No . . . it wasn’t me, Sheriff. I didn’t do this.”
“You’ve fucked everything up,” Tansy told him. “Stick in my ass.”
Matthew’s mouth hung open, stupidly.
“Stick in my goddamn ass,” Tansy said again.
“No,” Matthew said.
“It was the bad man,” the girl said, and then her face crumpled and she said, “I want to go home.”
“The bad man,” Matthew said. He looked from the girl to Tansy and nodded pathetically. His expression was desperate—somewhere between hopeful and hopeless. “The bad man . . . Oliver . . . Oliver Wray did this. He took them, Sheriff. He took the children.”
Sheriff Tansy sighed. “You think I don’t know that?” He wiped his face and his palm came away wet, as if he’d dipped it in warm, briny water. “You think I don’t know what Oliver has been doing all this time? Jesus Christ, boy.”