Wilson gawked in disbelief.
Lester turned to him, pale and slack-jawed. “Get outta my way,” he mumbled, and pushed Wilson aside.
“No, d-don’t,” Wilson said. “There’s another one out there!”
Lester looked at him calmly. “Then I’ll shoot the sonofabitch just like I did the last one. What’s it going to do? Smoke me to death?” He ejected the empty clip from his gun, then dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a fresh one. After slapping it into place, Lester yanked the door open.
The sidewalk was empty, the night still, save for the chirp of crickets. Lester crept forward, the .38 held out in front of him. Wilson followed closely behind. The neighboring houses stood dark and quiet, and Wilson wondered how the owners could still be asleep after all the shouting and crashing and gunshots.
Lester slipped past the threshold, and Wilson drew in a sharp breath.
Like a strike of lightning in an unsuspecting sky, the second dog appeared, leaping over the hedges for Lester. Wilson shouted, but not before the animal had a chance to rip Lester’s hand from his arm. The pistol clattered uselessly to the concrete, and screams filled the night.
Something grabbed Wilson by the collar and pulled. He flew back into the funeral home, stumbling and grabbling, then finally landed on his side on the floor. Before he had time to get on his feet again, the back door began to close. Inch by horrifying inch it moved, giving him plenty of time to witness the dog clamping its jaws around Lester’s throat and ripping out his windpipe.
Plenty of time for the dog to look back at Wilson.
Plenty of time for the animal to transform into the old man with bare feet.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Ellie!” Michael shouted into the cell phone. But once more, he heard no response. “Janet’s not dead,” he said fiercely. “She’s not!” He threw the cell phone down on the seat, then swerved the Cadillac to the right, out of the line of traffic and into the construction zone. Horns blared from all directions, but Michael ignored them and stomped the accelerator to the floor. He had to get to a working phone fast.
The Cadillac shuddered and wheezed while the speedometer needle crawled up to eighty. He held tight to the steering wheel, fighting for control as the car began to careen right then left atop grated pavement. Traffic cones thudded against the fender, flying off in any given direction like giant orange bullets. He had no idea what lay before him. A ten-foot drop into a swamp? A concrete barricade? He needed a phone, and he needed to get to his family, that’s all that mattered right now.
By the time Michael finally broke through the construction area, his teeth were chattering. Frigid dread had seeped into his bones. He tried focusing on the slick hard surface of the road, the trees that refused to give him access to a faster, shorter route, on the rain that had slowed to a steady drizzle. None of the diversions worked for long. He kept picturing Ellie alone with a dead mother—Janet lying cold and quiet in some dark corner—his life never being the same again.
“No!” he shouted, and sat up straight, leaning into the steering wheel. “Stop thinking like that. She’s not dead, dammit!”
A sharp curve loomed directly ahead, and Michael took his foot off the gas pedal for a second to steer into it. Coming out of the curve, the sedan fishtailed into the straightaway. When Michael regained control, he stomped for speed again.
Moments later, he spotted a road sign that read, PUCKET 2 MILES. He’d never been to Pucket, but figured any town was better than the miles of trees ahead. Especially if routing through that town allowed him to reach Carlton faster.
He turned off at the appropriate intersection and discovered a U-Pack-It store five blocks farther.
Michael swerved into the store’s parking lot, brakes squealing, and gritted his teeth until the Caddy slid to a stop inches from a wide plate glass window. He shoved the gearshift into park, jumped out of the car, and ran into the store.
A pimply faced man wearing an oversized red tunic with the name BEN embroidered over a breast pocket, scowled at him from behind the counter. The short stiff hairs of his crew cut glistened with sweat.
“Lord, mister, you scared the bejesus out of me!” the clerk said. “I thought for sure you was gonna plow right through the front and park on up here ‘tween the chips and dip.”
“Sorry,” Michael said. “Look, can I use your phone? It’s an emergency.”
“’Mergency, huh? What happened? Accident I bet. We get more fools than frogs on the road in this kinda weather.” Ben pointed to the canopy outside. “Anyway, you can try the phone out there. We’re not allowed to let anybody use the one in here. Company regs and all that.”
Not wanting to waste any time arguing with him about company policy versus human decency and the pittance of a phone call, Michael reached into his back pocket for his wallet so he could make change. The wallet wasn’t there. For a moment, Michael stood puzzled, his hands searching rapidly through every pocket he possessed. Then he remembered the soggy clothes he’d stripped out of at home. He’d been so anxious to leave for Carlton, he must have left his wallet in the suit pants.
“Uh . . . Ben,” Michael said, glancing at the monogram again to make sure he got the man’s name right. “It seems like I left my wallet back home. Could you just let me make one quick call on your phone in here?”
Ben shook his head. “No can do. If my boss shows up and you’re on it, he’d can me faster than tuna in a fish plant.”
Hoping the clerk to be a man with a price, Michael stripped off his watch, a Seiko his mother had given him after he’d graduated from mortuary school. “Here,” he said, handing the watch to Ben. “It’s not new, but it’s expensive, and it’s yours if you’ll just let me use the phone.”
The clerk fingered the silver band and ran a thumb over the crystal. He peered up at Michael. “How expensive?”
“Probably worth two, two-fifty new.”
“Yeah?” Ben’s eyebrows arched with appreciation.
“Yeah, and I bet a pawnshop might give you fifty, maybe a hundred for it.”Michael didn’t have the slightest idea what a pawnshop might offer for the Seiko, but as long as he had the clerk’s attention, he figured it best to ride it for all it was worth.
“I don’t know—” Ben pinched his chin thoughtfully. He scanned the store as though making certain they were alone, then nodded. “Okay, deal.” With a crooked grin, he slipped the watch onto his wrist and held out his arm to admire it.
Michael allowed Ben his second of glory, then said, “Phone?”
“Oh, right.” The clerk stuck a hand beneath the counter, pulled out a cordless, and handed it to him. “Make it quick, though.”
Michael nodded. While punching in the number to the cabin, he motioned with his chin to the street out front. “You know if that road leads to Carlton? Or do I need to get back on twenty-eight?”
Ben blew on the watch face, then rubbed it against his tunic. “Stick to the one out front, that’s seven fifty-four. Go left at the four-way. Carlton’s only ‘bout ninety miles down. You’ll have a coupla red lights to deal with but overall you’ll save ten miles of distance and better than an hour’s time ‘cause twenty-eight’s got more construction fifteen miles or so north of here.”
“Thanks.”Michael pressed the phone to his ear, but heard nothing except Ben cooing behind the counter over his new watch. He hung up and waited for the dial tone so he could try again. The dial tone didn’t come. Michael’s chest suddenly grew heavy, like it had become an inadequate dam trying to hold back some monstrous tidal wave of pain and grief. He felt sure it would burst at any second.
“Line still dead?” Ben asked.
“What—wait—” Michael balked. “You mean you knew it was out all this time?”
Ben hid his left arm, with watch attached, behind his back. “Well, yeah. What’d you expect in this weather? From what I hear, phone service is out damn near to Shreveport.”
The dam in Michael’s chest burst, and he slammed a fis
t against the counter. “And you took the fucking watch from me anyway?”
“Hey! Don’t even think about crankin’ it up, mister,” Ben said, puffing out his narrow chest like a rooster ready to spar. “For all I knew the phone could’ve been back in service when you called whoever you called. It’s not my fault it still ain’t workin’.”
“Hand it over,” Michael demanded. “Now!”
“No way. A deal’s a deal. You gave me the watch, I gave you the phone. Fair swap.”
Torn between wanting to jump over the counter and strangle the worm or getting to his family, Michael let out a roar of frustration and kicked over a greeting card rack. He barreled out of the store with Ben’s threat swelling up behind him.
“ . . .out of here, you damn loony, or else!”
Panting with fury, Michael jumped into the sedan and without even looking for oncoming traffic, sent the car into a backward spin out of the parking lot. The right bumper clipped the side of a nearby trash bin. He ignored the crunch of metal and redirected the Caddy left toward Carlton. After a quick glance at the odometer so he could clock off ninety miles, Michael floored the accelerator.
Although he managed to get the sedan up to eighty-five, time and distance felt stagnant. Ben had warned him about red lights, and true to his word, two appeared. Michael blew past them as though they were starting lights on an Indianapolis drag strip.
Five miles—six.
With every passing mile, the road seemed to take on a new hazard. Sharp curves, thick tree branches strewn across the road from the recent storm, deep puddles filling worn tire tracks. Twice Michael felt the sedan threaten to slip out from under him, wanting to hydroplane into the nearest pasture. He gritted his teeth and held on, pushing the sedan faster. He passed cars like they were parked on a sales lot.
Only when he reached a twenty-mile count on the odometer did Michael feel some sense of accomplishment. Seventy more to go, he thought. Almost there. Almost—
Ahead, a yellow sign warned of a sharp right turn, and Michael let off the accelerator and tapped the brakes. The road seemed to disappear a hundred feet ahead, so he worked the brakes harder to slow even more.
While crawling into the curve, the Cadillac’s headlights suddenly flashed over a patch of blue. Startled, Michael slammed on the brakes, and the car slid another ten feet, close enough for him to make out the back end of a blue Oldsmobile rising over the curve’s embankment. The right rear wheel spun lazily, and a thin blanket of steam rose from below, forcing its way up through the drizzle.
Michael hesitated, his foot itching on the brake pedal. He wanted to ignore what he saw and keep heading toward his family. But what if someone was in that car and hurt? He let off the brake, barely touched the accelerator, and his conscience pressed—what if you’re the only hope that person has right now?
“Fuck.” Michael crept onto the left shoulder, training the headlights as close to the embankment as possible. He switched the lights to bright, slapped the gearshift into park, and hurried out of the car.
As soon as he peered down into the four-foot drop, he spotted her. Thirtyish, small framed, dark brown hair, blood spilled over the right shoulder of a white, wet blouse. The driver’s door hung open at an awkward angle, and more than half her body dangled through the opening. The only thing that seemed to keep her from falling into the pool of water below was her blouse sleeve, which had snagged around a door handle. From where he stood, her eyes appeared closed, her face peaceful. He slid down the steep embankment, already fearing her dead.
Grasping at handfuls of grass, Michael struggled to slow his descent. He managed to land on his feet, but in ankle-deep water that immediately filled his shoes.
He waded toward her.“Ma’am?”
Drizzle fell onto her face and soaked her blouse until it was nothing more than a translucent film over her bra. She didn’t stir.
“Ma’am?” Reaching her, Michael pressed two fingers against her carotid and felt for a pulse. Weak, but at least she had one. Blood trickled from the corners of her mouth and out both ears.
Knowing better than to move her lest he exacerbate the injuries, Michael stripped off his jacket and quickly set up a makeshift tent with it to keep the rain off her face. He stood up, whipped drenched hair away from his forehead, and peered over the embankment. Now what? he thought. He was desperate to get to Carlton, but couldn’t just leave this injured woman. And there was no way for him to call for help without cell service. The only thing he could think of was driving back to the U-Pack-It. Maybe he could find help there.
Michael squatted, soaking the seat of his pants, and lifted a corner of the jacket. “Ma’am, if you can hear me, I’m going for help. I—”
The woman’s eyelids fluttered open, and her lips parted like she meant to say something. Michael leaned closer and heard her moan more than say, “Don’t.” She grimaced and dabbed the corner of her mouth with the tip of a blood-coated tongue. Her left arm twitched, and for a moment Michael thought she meant to sit up.
He touched the top of her head gently. “Try not to move. You need—”
The sound of tires swishing through water puddles brought Michael to his feet. He peered over the embankment and saw headlights traveling southbound a few hundred feet away.
“Don’t move,” he called down to her, then scrambled, slipped, slid, and pulled his way up the side of the curve’s wall.
When Michael reached the side of the highway, he held both arms over his head and waved, signaling for the oncoming vehicle to stop. A dark-colored pickup truck veered closer to the centerline of the road and bypassed Michael like he was road kill.
“Hey! Stop!” Michael shouted at the taillights, which quickly disappeared around the bend. Cursing, Michael jabbed the air with a fist, wishing it would connect with the driver’s face.
Just when he thought he had no other choice but to drive back to the U-Pack-It, Michael spotted headlights bearing down on him from the south. He ran out into the middle of the road and began to wave his arms out wide. This driver wasn’t getting away.
The lights drew closer—closer still, and for one dreaded moment, Michael feared the vehicle wouldn’t stop, and he’d have to jump to safety. He braced himself, tensing the muscles in his legs like a sprinter awaiting a starter gun.
But the white Acura did slow and eventually stopped alongside him.
The tinted driver’s window lowered a couple of inches, and a man’s voice called from inside, “Hey, you’re going to get yourself killed standing out here—whoa, what happened over there?”
“Accident,” Michael said. “There’s a woman down there, and from the looks of it, she’s hurt pretty bad. ”
The window lowered more, finally revealing the driver, who was a dark-skinned man with a bulbous nose and pointed chin. He frowned behind thick, wire-rimmed glasses.
“Ambulance on the way?” he asked.
“Not that I know of,” Michael said. “I just found her. My cell phone—”
“Yeah, I know,” the man said. “Doesn’t work. No service area. Mine’s useless, too. But look, I can run back to Dulac for help.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s only about six, seven miles back that way, shouldn’t take me long. Oh, wait . . . here—” He leaned over, dug through the glove compartment, and pulled out a flashlight. “You need this?”
Michael took the flashlight from him. “Thanks.”
The stranger gave him a dismissive wave. “No need,” he said, already backing into a U-turn. “Be back as quick as I can.”
Once the Acura sped away heading north, Michael turned the flashlight on and hurried back down the side of the curve.
The rain had slowed to occasional drips, drips he heard patter against his tented jacket when he reached the injured woman. He bent down, lifted a corner of the jacket, and fixed the halogen beam near the side of her head so as not to blind her. Her eyes were still open, barely, and dull green irises shifted in his direction.
“Hel
p’s on the way,” Michael said softly. He wanted to add, “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” but couldn’t. The truth was she didn’t look like she’d be fine at all. A thicker stream of blood flowed from her right ear, and when he moved the light closer to her face, her right pupil dilated but the left one remained wide and fixed.
She blinked slowly and whispered, “D-Don’t. Can’t . . .don’t—” Her eyes widened suddenly, and she began to swallow rapidly as if she’d been given a river to drink.
“Jesus,” Michael breathed, unsure of what to do. Injuries or not, he couldn’t just sit here and watch her die. He reached down, cradled the back of her head with a hand, and lifted slightly, gently.
The woman’s spasms calmed immediately, and her eyes slowly centered back on him. Her lips parted, and Michael shook his head.
“No, don’t talk,” he said. “Just lie still. They’ll be here soon.”
Small, bloody bubbles flowed from one corner of her mouth, and she lifted a wobbly right hand. “C-can’t stay. Y-you have . . .have t-to—”
“Please, lady, don’t talk.” Michael knelt on one knee to relieve the cramp building in his thigh. He paid little attention to the water soaking into his pants. “You won’t have to stay here. Help’s coming, I promise.”
Her head shook ever so slightly in his hand. “N-not me. You c-can’t stay. Sun c-coming s-s-soon.”
At the mention of the sun, Michael’s hand tightened involuntarily around the back of her head. No, not sun, he thought. I heard wrong. Can’t be sun. She meant some, right? Some like in somebody’s coming soon.
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