The Monster Novels: Stinger, the Wolf's Hour, and Mine

by Robert R. McCammon

  “Maybe you could just lock them up somewhere,” Edward said as they walked. “You know? Lock them up and leave them.”

  Mary didn’t answer. They walked on, through the oak and pine woods, leaves and sticks cracking underfoot. “You don’t have to kill them,” Edward tried again, his breath white in the frosty air. “Mary, do you hear me?”

  She did, but did not answer. When they’d gotten about a hundred yards from the cottage, Mary said, “Stop.” Her eyes were used to the dark now. She ripped Laura’s purse off her shoulder, planning on searching it for cash and taking the credit cards. “Face me,” she told the two women, and she stepped back a few paces.

  “Please…don’t do it,” Didi begged.

  Click. Mary had pulled the Colt’s hammer back. The baby was silent, little plumes of white leaving his nostrils.

  “Mary, don’t,” Edward said, standing beside her. “Don’t, okay?”

  “Any last words?” Mary asked.

  Laura spoke, the side of her face swelling up. “Rot in hell.”

  “Good enough.” Mary aimed the pistol at Laura’s head, her finger on the trigger. Two squeezes, and there would be two less mindfuckers in the world.

  She started to pull the trigger.

  There was a shot: a quick pop! that echoed through the woods.

  Edward staggered into her, hit her arm, and the Colt went off with a harsher crack, the bullet going into the trees over Laura’s head. Something warm and wet had sprayed into Mary’s face, all over her shoulder, and onto the baby. The white blanket was mottled with dark clots. She looked at Edward, and could tell that a sizable piece of his head was gone, steam swirling into the air from his oozing brains.

  “Oh,” Edward’s mouth gasped, his face a blood mask. “Light hurts.”

  Another shot came. She saw the flare of fire off to her right in the woods. The bullet thunked into a treetrunk behind Mary and stung her scalp with pinebark. Edward was clinging to her arm. “Mama? Mama?” A sob left his dripping lips. “Eddie be good boy.”

  Mary shoved him aside. As she did, a third bullet exited Edward’s chest in a hot spray, and she felt the slug pull at her sweater as it passed close to her back. Edward went down, gurgling like an overflowing drain. She dropped Laura’s purse and squeezed off two shots toward the gun’s flare, the Colt’s noise making Drummer start screaming again. High-powered rifle, she thought. A pig gun. One sniper, at least. She turned away from Laura and Didi, and began racing back to the cottage with the baby trapped in her arm and Edward Fordyce’s blood and brains on her face.

  The rifle spoke again, clipping a branch less than six inches above Mary’s head. She fired another shot, saw sparks fly as the bullet ricocheted off a rock. Then she was running for her life, slipping in the leaves and trailing the infant’s scream behind her.

  Someone shooting, Laura thought. Shooting at Mary Terror. David in her grasp. David in the path of the bullets. She, too, had seen the muzzle flash, saw it again as another bullet searched for Mary. Her gun. In Edward’s hand. Laura took three strides forward and fell upon the twitching body, and she grasped the automatic and tore it free from Edward’s fingers.

  Then she stood up, aimed into the darkness where the sniper was, and pulled the trigger. The gun almost jumped out of her hand, its report cracking her eardrums. She kept shooting, a second bullet and a third, ripping the fabric of night. The other gun was silent. Over the buzz of pistol noise, Laura heard the roar of Mary Terror’s van starting. “She’s getting away!” Didi shouted. Car keys! Laura thought. She grasped her purse from the ground, and she began running toward the house.

  Mary Terror threw the van into reverse and backed down the driveway, Drummer wailing in his bassinet on the floorboard. She saw it in her sideview mirror: a BMW parked on the road, blocking the driveway. She pressed her foot to the accelerator, and the van’s rear end slammed against the BMW’s passenger door, crumpling it in with a crash of metal and glass. The BMW trembled and groaned, but would not give way. Sweat was on her face, the taste of Edward’s blood on her lips. She fought the gearshift into first, roared back up the driveway to try to knock the car aside again. The headlights caught Laura coming, gun in hand, followed by Bedelia Morse. No time to waste. Mary gritted her teeth, put the van into reverse again, and wheeled it off the driveway, knocking down thin pines and smashing one of Didi’s abstract sculptures to rubble. The van scraped past the BMW’s front fender, and Mary twisted the wheel to straighten the van out, hit the accelerator once more, and the van shot forward with a scream of rubber. She sped away, heading west.

  Laura reached her car, saw the van’s taillights in the distance—both the red lenses broken—before the vehicle took a curve and disappeared. She heard Didi breathing hard behind her, and she turned around and aimed the pistol into Didi’s face. “Get in the car.”

  “What?”

  “Get in the car!” She tried to open the rear door on the passenger side but the hinges were jammed. Laura grabbed Didi’s arm and shoved her around to the other side, where she opened the driver’s door. Didi balked, tried to fight free, but Laura put the gun’s barrel up under Didi’s jaw and all her resistance faded. When Didi was in, Laura slid under the wheel, fished her keys from her blood-spattered purse, and started the engine. Something rattled and skreeked under the hood, but the gauges showed no warning lights. Laura mashed down on the accelerator, and the battered car laid strips of rubber to match the van’s.

  The window on Didi’s side was broken out, freezing wind shrieking into the car as the speedometer’s needle passed sixty. Laura took the curve at sixty-five, skidding over into the left-hand lane. No taillights ahead, but another sharp curve lay in wait. Laura’s foot didn’t move toward the brake. She battled the car around the curve, went off onto the shoulder and almost into the woods before she got the car back up onto the road again. Laura glanced at the speedometer: the needle was moving past seventy. Didi was jammed back into her seat, her red hair flying in the wind, her face strained with terror in the dashboard’s green glow.

  A third curve almost threw the BMW into the trees, but Laura held tight to the shuddering steering wheel. Then there was a long straightaway ahead, and two white lights on it. Laura wiped her bleeding nose with her forearm and let the car wind up, the engine roaring and the speedometer showing eighty. But the van was going fast, too, black smoke billowing from its crumpled exhaust pipe. On both sides of the road the barren trees swept past in a dark blur. Laura got up close enough to read the numbers on the Georgia tag, and then the taillights flashed; Mary was cutting her speed, going into another wicked right-hand curve. Laura had to hit the brakes, too, and she faded back as the tires bit into the curve, wrenched them right, left, and then led them into another straightaway. Now Mary was standing on the accelerator, the van shooting forward with a fishtailing slipslide that made the breath freeze in Laura’s lungs. If the van went off the road, David could be killed. She realized she couldn’t ram the van, force it off onto the shoulder, or fire a bullet at a tire. Any of those things might cause Mary Terror to lose control of the wheel. A bullet aimed at a tire might go through the van’s body, or hit the gas tank. David would die in the flaming wreckage as surely as by one of Mary Terror’s bullets. Laura cut her speed, began to let the van pull away. The speedometer’s needle dropped: through seventy-five seventy…sixty-five…sixty. Mary kept the speed up at seventy and the van was moving away, dark smoke billowing behind. Laura saw a sign on the right: I-94, 6 MI.

  The highway west, she thought.

  The automatic’s barrel pressed against Laura’s right temple.

  Didi had picked the gun up from beside her. “Stop the car,” Didi said.

  Laura kept driving, the speed now at a constant sixty.

  “Stop the car!” Didi repeated. “I’m getting out!”

  Laura didn’t answer, her attention focused on the road and the van ahead. Mary Terror would take the interstate because it was the fastest route to California.

/>   “I SAID STOP THE CAR!” Didi shouted over the wind’s racket.

  “No,” Laura said.

  Didi sat there, stunned and helpless with the gun in her hand.

  Laura’s nostrils were jamming up with blood. She blew her nose into her hand, enduring a savage pain that shot through her cheekbones, and then she wiped the scarlet mess onto her jeans. “I’m not going to lose Mary.”

  Didi’s emotions ripped like a ragged flag. “I’LL KILL YOU IF YOU DON’T STOP THE CAR!” she screamed. “I’LL BLOW YOUR DAMNED BRAINS OUT!”

  Laura didn’t let up on the pedal. “You’re not a killer anymore,” she said without even glancing in Didi’s direction. “That’s all over. Besides, do you want to go back to your house and try to explain to the police why Edward Fordyce is lying dead in the woods?”

  “Stop the car, I said.” Didi’s voice was weaker.

  “Where are you going to go if I do?”

  “I’ll find somewhere! Don’t you worry about me!”

  Laura’s head was pounding fiercely, the blood beginning to thicken in her nostrils. She had to breathe through her mouth to get any air. Bitch knocked the shit out of me, she thought. “I need you,” she said.

  “I’ve already ruined my life for you!”

  “Then you don’t have anything else to lose. I need you to help me get my baby back. I’m going to keep following Mary Terror all the way to California. All the way to hell if I have to.”

  “You’re crazy! She’ll kill the kid before she’ll let you take him!”

  “We’ll see about that,” Laura said.

  Didi was about to demand to be let out again when a pair of headlights blazed in the rearview mirror. Didi looked back, saw a car gaining fast on them. “Christ!” she said. “I think it’s the cops!” She lowered the gun from Laura’s temple.

  Laura watched the car coming. The damned thing was absolutely flying, doing over eighty. No siren or blue lights yet, but Laura’s heart had jammed in her throat. She didn’t know what to do: hit the accelerator or the brakes? And then the car was upon them, its headlights glowing like white suns in the rearview mirror. Laura jinked the BMW to the right as the car veered alongside them and screamed past. It was a big, dark blue or black Buick, maybe six or seven years old but immaculate, and the winds of its passage almost whirled the BMW off the road. The Buick tore on, swerved into the lane ahead of Laura, and kept going. It had a Michigan tag and a sticker that said WHEN GUNS ARE OUTLAWED, ONLY OUTLAWS WILL HAVE GUNS on the rear bumper.

  In the van, Mary Terror saw the new arrival coming. Drummer was still crying, his bassinet having overturned on one of the curves. Pigs, she thought. Here come the fucking pigs. Edward’s blood was sticky on her face, bits of his skull and brains spattered on her clothes. She cocked her Colt and rolled down her window, and she eased up on the accelerator as the big car left its lane and started to pull around her.

  “Come on,” she said into the wind. “Come on, little piggie!”

  The car pulled up alongside her and hung there, both of them doing about seventy on the backwoods road. Mary saw no police or FBI markings, and she couldn’t see the driver’s face either. But suddenly the car whipped to the right, and there was a crash of metal as it slammed against the van. The wheel shuddered. Mary shouted a curse and the van veered toward the right shoulder. She fought its weight, the dark woods reaching out to embrace her and Drummer. Mary got the van back up onto the road again, and again the big car slammed into her side, trying to butt her off the pavement like an enraged bull. The car hit her a third time, and sparks flew into the air as pieces of metal ground together. The van was shoved sideways, the wheel trying to tear itself out of Mary’s grip. She looked to her left, saw the passenger’s window going down, a smooth electric slide. The car pulled up, its driver almost even with her. There was a loud crack, a flare of fire, and something metal clattered in the back of the van.

  Bullet, Mary realized. Handgun. Son of a bitch was shooting at her.

  It dawned on her, quite suddenly, that whoever was in the big Buick was the bastard who’d killed Edward. This wasn’t exactly pig procedure. The fucker was trying to kill her, that much was certain.

  She hit the accelerator again, whipping past a sign that read I-94, 2 MI. The Buick stayed abreast. Another crack and fire flare, and she heard the whine of the slug ricocheting inside the van. The Buick remained with her, touching eighty miles an hour. Mary held on to the wheel with one hand and fired a shot at the car. The bullet didn’t hit, but the Buick backed off a few yards. Then it lunged forward and crashed into the van’s side again, shoving the van toward the shoulder. Mary fired once more, trying to hit the Buick’s engine. The van’s tires slipped on loose gravel, the vehicle’s rear end fishtailing. Two seconds passed in which Mary thought the van was going over, but then the tires found pavement again and the scream died behind Mary’s teeth. The Buick, its right side battered and scraped, started to pull up even with her. Mary’s foot was already on the floor, the van at the limit of its power. The Buick was coming, its long, scarred snout easing up. Mary dropped the Colt, reached into her shoulder bag, and brought out the Compact Magnum.

  Before she could get off a shot, the BMW that had come up from behind veered into the left lane and slammed into the Buick’s rear fender. The collision jarred the finger that was squeezing a pistol’s trigger, and the bullet whacked into the van’s side seven inches behind Mary Terror’s skull.

  Mary fired downward with the Magnum, the noise explosive and the kick thrumming through her forearm and shoulder. The Buick’s right front tire popped, and as the driver stomped on the brake Laura jerked the BMW’s wheel to the right and cleared the Buick by half a foot, pulling her front fender right up behind the speeding van. The Buick, its tire shredding to pieces, went across the left lane and down a knoll into a copse of trees and bushes.

  “Back off! Back off!” Didi was shouting, and Laura hit her brakes just as Mary did the same. Fenders clanged together like swords. Laura veered to the left, saw the interstate’s ramp just ahead. And then Mary Terror was swinging the van up onto it, black smoke gouting from the exhaust. I-94 WEST, the sign said. Mary swerved off the ramp onto the highway, reached down, and righted Drummer’s bassinet. He was still wailing, but he would have to cry himself out. She glanced into the rearview mirror, saw the BMW about fifty yards behind, cutting its speed. She cut hers, too, down to about sixty. Whoever was in the Buick would have to change the tire, and by that time she’d be long gone.

  But Laura Clayborne was in the car behind her. Maybe Bedelia was with her. Traitor, she thought. A bullet wasn’t enough for her; she should be slit open and gutted for the crows, like the lowest kind of roadkill.

  The BMW kept its distance. Mary returned the Magnum to her shoulder bag. She was trembling, but she’d shake it off soon enough. At this time of the morning the interstate was almost empty, just a few trucks hauling freight. Mary began to relax, but her gaze kept ticking to the BMW’s headlights. Should’ve blown out the tires when I had the chance, she thought. Why didn’t the bitch bring the pigs with her? Why had she come alone? Stupid, that’s why. Stupid and weak.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked the headlights. “Follow me to California?” She laughed: a harsh, nervous bark.

  “Earl Van Diver is his name,” Didi was saying to Laura. “An FBI agent. Mary shot him in the throat in 1972, at the shootout in Linden. I think he found out who I am, but he doesn’t want me.” She nodded toward the van. “He wants Mary.”

  Laura had turned the heat up to high, but the BMW’s interior was still uncomfortably cold, the wind shrieking in around them. There was nothing else left to do. Nothing except to keep that van with the broken taillights in sight. Sooner or later Mary would have to stop to get gas. She would get sleepy, hungry, and thirsty. She would have to pull off, sooner or later. And when that happened…what then?

  Laura checked her own gas gauge. A little less than half a tank. If she had to stop first, Mar
y would pull on out of sight. She might turn off the interstate, try to hide until she was sure Laura couldn’t find her again. But Mary was interested in only one direction, and one destination. Between here and there was over two thousand miles, and who knew what might happen in that terrible distance?

  “I want out,” Didi said. “I’m not going with you.”

  Laura was silent, her nose clogged with dried blood and her injured cheek turning blue-black.

  “I swear to God!” Didi told her. “I’m not going with you!”

  Laura didn’t answer. She had watched a human being be murdered this morning. His blood was all over her purse, and the smell of death was in the car. She felt the horror of what she’d seen start to consume her mind, take her away from the task she had set for herself, and she did the only thing she could: she just stopped thinking about Edward Fordyce, and thrust the memory of his writhing body back to a place from where it couldn’t easily be summoned. She had to think about one thing and one thing only: David, in the van fifty or sixty yards ahead. Mary Terror at the wheel. Armed and dangerous. Two thousand miles between her and a man who might or might not be Jack Gardiner.

  “I want out! First gas station!”

  They passed one in a few minutes. It was all lit up.

  The van kept going, its speed constant at sixty-five.

  Didi was quiet. She put her hands to her ears, to shut out the wind’s scream.

  You’ll stop somewhere, Laura thought. Maybe ten miles. Maybe fifty. But you’ll stop, and when you do I’ll be right there behind you.

  She glanced at the automatic lying on the seat where Didi had put it down. The grip had a dried smear of scarlet on it. Then she returned her attention to the broken taillights, and she brushed aside the nagging question of how she could possibly get David away from Mary Terror without the woman putting a bullet through his head.