Coming of Winter

by Tom Threadgill

  Jeremy handed over a twenty, and the girl pushed two flashlights toward him.

  She placed the cash in a metal box and spouted her spiel. “We’ll blow an air horn when we’re getting ready to close. If you’re still stuck in there, someone will guide you out. That’s a few hours away, though. There’s spare flashlights and batteries in there, so if yours dies, just let one of the workers know. There’ll be a box at the exit for you to leave your flashlights. Oh, and please don’t touch any of the decorations.”

  “That happen a lot?” Jeremy asked.

  The girl squished her nose and peered at them through her red-framed glasses. “Does what happen a lot?”

  “People mess with stuff in the maze.”

  “Not really. We’re just supposed to say it. I mean, sometimes a pumpkin gets busted, but that’s about it.”

  Jeremy flicked on the flashlights and checked the brightness of the beams. “Wish us luck.”

  “Oh, and somebody stole one of the skeletons once. Least that’s what they said at school.”

  He glanced at Maggie, then back at the girl. “That so?”

  “Yeah. That’s what Lucas told me.”

  “Lucas?”

  “The Millers’ oldest boy. Y’all have a good time now.” She smiled and held out her hand to the teenage boy in line behind them. “Hey, Billy. You by yourself tonight?”

  The agents moved a few steps into the maze and stood to the path’s side.

  “What’re you thinking?” Maggie asked.

  “The jawbone they found. That’s the connection. If one of Miller’s skulls did get stolen, maybe that’s where the jawbone came from.”

  “Could be. But even if it did, you’re not going to find others in here. These skulls aren’t the same. Miller will say he swaps them out every now and then for whatever reason.”

  “Yeah, but think about it. What if Lanny saw something? Figured it out? Or asked the wrong question?”

  Maggie frowned. “That might explain a lot. Like why Miller would strike so close to home. It’s a panic move. But without some evidence, still not enough for a warrant.”

  Jeremy stared off into the corn, listening as the piped-in Halloween music overpowered the rustling of the dry stalks. Groups of people, mostly kids, ran past, eager to dive into the dark maze. One couple strolled by, holding hands and whispering to each other. He watched until they rounded a corner, then spun toward Maggie.

  “The hands. Where is he keeping the victims’ hands? Miller wouldn’t let them get too far away. Maybe they’re tucked in the scarecrows. Hidden so only he knows.”

  “Why would he?”

  “Same reason as the skulls. The thrill. Knowing that all these people see his work but don’t understand who he is. It’s his way of getting the publicity virtually all serial killers crave.”

  Maggie took a step into the maze. “Simple enough to check out and won’t need a warrant.”

  He grabbed her arm. “No. I don’t want us both to be in here if something does turn up. You go back. Tell that girl you forgot your phone in the car. Make a call and see if you can get a few more people out here in case we need them.”

  “Jeremy, look around you. It’d be too obvious if we brought out more cops. Besides, there’s no way we could control the scene even if we had a hundred officers out here. Too many people around, and half of them are probably armed. That’s the way it is around here. I say we check out the maze and see if we find anything. If we do, we come back in the morning when there’s no crowd.”

  “No. Gives him time to dispose of evidence. If he thinks we’re onto him, the longer we wait, the worse our chances. These kids are going to be out here for another few hours at least. If the evidence is in the open, Miller’s not going to be able to do anything until they’re gone. Go to the car and make the calls, but tell everyone to keep it low-key. Personal vehicles only. The last thing we need is a bunch of lights and sirens pulling up in here. If it is Miller, and we spook him, no telling what he might do.”

  “Why can’t I stay with you? I can make the calls here just as easily and watch your back too.”

  “We need eyes outside the maze in case Miller makes a run for it. Chances are he knows we’re here.”

  “I don’t like it. Sounds like you’re protecting me.”

  He kissed her forehead. “Heck of a date, huh? And I’m covering all the bases, not protecting you. I’ll call you in a few minutes.”

  Jeremy waited until she was out of the maze before heading to the first scarecrow. The crowd thinned out the farther he walked, but running kids bumped into him often. He kept the palm of his right hand pressed against his pistol. Just in case.

  Flashlight beams bounced across openings in the paths. Stars popped in and out of view as thin clouds floated across the sky. A teenage zombie leapt at Jeremy, then retreated after getting no reaction.

  There were far scarier things on his mind tonight.

  The first skeleton was just as he’d last seen it. A young couple handed him their phone and asked him to take their picture with the decoration. He smiled, obliged, and told them to have fun.

  The setting seemed different at night. Much more realistic. A spotlight cast shadows that fought against the LED lights inside the skull. The skeleton’s teeth scowled or grinned, depending on your mood.

  He massaged the scarecrow’s arms, squeezing and twisting the shirt until he was sure. Nothing but hay. He ignored the noise from passing teenagers and ran his hand inside the shirt and pants. Still nothing.

  Three scarecrows later, the story was the same. Hay-stuffed shirts and pants. Plastic skulls. Good luck getting a judge to issue a warrant with what they had now. Time to find his way out of the maze and talk to Maggie. Have her casually chat with Paula Miller while he scoped out the rest of the operation.

  He stood on tiptoe and strained to see above the corn. Useless. He’d find one of the teenage zombies and get them to show him out.

  Might all be for the best anyway. So many people here that it’d be impossible to ensure everyone’s safety. If the two of them didn’t come up with anything tonight, there was always—

  He froze. The laughter and yelling and music and screams faded into the background. Strong gusts shoved thicker clouds across the sky and obscured the moon. The same wind carried a message to Jeremy that things had just become much more complicated. An unmistakable odor.

  Deadly.

  Smoke.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Jeremy grabbed his cell phone and hit the speed dial. “Maggie, I smell smoke. Can you see anything?”

  “Yeah, I smell it too, but I don’t see anything. I’m out front where the pumpkins are. Could be someone down the road burning trash. Maybe a bonfire. I made the call to the TBI, and they’re rounding up some ... There—looks like smoke coming from the old barn. Wonder if Miller’s in there burning evidence? Heading over there now.”

  “Maggie, stop. Call 911 and wait for me. If that thing’s on fire, we’ve got to get these people out of the maze before we do anything else. This thing will go up like a tinderbox if sparks hit the corn. I’m going to head to the entrance. You get them to sound the air horn to evacuate.”

  “On it. Call me back.”

  He ran to the closest scarecrow, stacked a few hay bales, and climbed on top. The entrance was off to his left. Two minutes away, maybe less if he took a straight path through the corn. No way to keep his orientation, though. He’d have to—

  An orange flicker caught his eye. Flames licked through openings between the old barn’s boards and fought to climb higher. The wind was in his face, and already, tiny specks of ash drifted through his flashlight’s beam. Another group of kids passed him, laughing and oblivious to the danger. No more time. These people needed to get out of the maze now.

  A screech shot across the field. The air horn. Maggie. The teenagers paused and looked confused before ignoring the signal and continuing into the maze. The music stopped, and another squawk echoed through
the maze. This time, a few kids yelled that it was too early to close. Others stood around, confused by what was happening.

  The cindery odor grew stronger by the second. Within a minute, two at the most, there’d be no mistaking it. The kids would figure out something was burning, and it’d only take one or two people to panic before the situation turned from dangerous to deadly. He had to get them out. Now.

  He pointed at one of the older boys. “You!”

  “What’s going on?”

  Jeremy pointed toward the entrance, the shortest path out of the maze. “Take them that way. Straight through the corn. Trample down as much as you can on your way out, but hurry.”

  “Mr. Miller will get mad if we—”

  “Go! Ten steps, then turn around and look for me. I’ll direct you. Ten more steps, then turn back around. Got it?”

  One of the girls in the group tilted her nose into the air. “Smoke? Do you smell smoke?”

  The others’ eyes widened, and they began scanning the area with their flashlights, searching for the source of the potential threat.

  Jeremy pointed at the boy again. “Hey! That way. I’m counting on you to get them out. Others will be behind you so leave a trail. Move fast, but stay focused on me.”

  The air horn sounded again, this time one long continuous blast. Yelling erupted from other sections of the maze. Hopefully, the zombie guides were doing their job and clearing the cornfield. The distant wailing of a siren echoed. Fire or police. At this point, it didn’t matter. He’d take any help he could get.

  He motioned slightly left to the boy leading the group out. Another minute and they’d be safe. So many others, though. There was time. As long as no one panicked, they’d make it out safely.

  A loud series of screams came from his left, then another from behind him. He spun around and paused a nanosecond before cursing.

  Tiny flickers of orange grew everywhere. The sparks had found the maze.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Mason Miller perched in the combine harvester watching the FBI agent move farther into the maze. From this vantage point in the machine’s cab, a good nine feet plus off the ground, he could still make out shapes as flashlight beams danced through the cornfield. Such a shame it had to end this way, though it was worth it. His family and his farm would be protected. They’d go on without him. They were strong. He’d made sure of that.

  The boys knew their duties. How to farm and hunt. Take care of the land and the animals. Love their family. Watch over their mom.

  And Paula. His sweetheart since high school. Love without limits. Willing to accept him as he was. He’d given his permission that if she found another man, she was free to remarry. She’d rolled her eyes and laughed, told him she already had a couple of guys lined up, then kissed him deeply and wept.

  But the farm goes to the boys.

  A twinge of regret that there could be others hurt. His neighbors. Good folks. Mostly. Lanny had been a mistake, but an unavoidable one. In a minute, the boy would be nothing more than bits and pieces of bone scattered across acres of farmland.

  Paula had started the fire right on time. Anything they feared might not be completely destroyed otherwise—clothes, shipping boxes, Troy Obion—had been soaked in gasoline and ignited. The barn would be an inferno before long. There’d be no evidence Paula had ever been in there. All that money wasted on the metal roof, though. Couldn’t be helped.

  A high-pitched squeal sounded, and Mason squinted toward the maze entrance. Someone had signaled a warning. No matter. He sighed and picked up his cell phone.

  Funny what you could learn on the Internet. All you had to do was search for stories on the Oklahoma City bombing back in 1995, and you’d learn most of what you needed to know. All you needed was a detonator, some fertilizer, a diesel fuel mixture, and nitromethane, all fairly easily obtained by a farmer.

  Another blast of the air horn.

  His eyes watered, and he pulled his lips into his mouth. His granddaddy’s barn. Built by hand and made to last. Could survive anything short of a tornado.

  Or bomb blast.

  One continuous shriek of the air horn.

  Mason cleared his throat and sat up straight. He cranked the combine and switched on the overhead lights, illuminating a section of the maze. Some kids still wandered about, either ignoring the warnings or confused about the way out. A couple of them turned toward him and began moving toward the combine. By now, Paula would have their kids safely away from the danger.

  He shook his head and dialed the phone number for the detonator, pausing before he hit the send button. The barn, built by hand by his grandfather, was about to disappear with a simple press of his finger. The materials he’d labored to get into the root cellar would destroy everything down there. Tubs and beetles and tools and the freezer and any evidence of his activity. There’d be no trace of Paula anywhere in the barn. Plausible deniability for her.

  He’d have to close his eyes so he wouldn’t see that piece of his heritage destroyed. The barn would remain in his memory for the next few minutes until his own death. The FBI agents made it easy. He’d attack them, maybe even kill the man or his girlfriend. There’d be no joy in it. No pleasure. Simply a necessary act in order to ensure the outcome he wanted. Death by cop sounded so much better than suicide. Made him appear crazy, like he was imbalanced or something. That’d give the boys something to hold on to until they were ready.

  The crowd in the maze seemed to be moving quicker now. Some running toward the barn, others away from it. Time to go.

  He closed his eyes and pushed the send button.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  Not where he’d been a second ago. That’s all Jeremy knew. Flat on his back. No noise save a dull ringing in his ears. Smell of fire. Gunpowder. Another grenade. The dark Afghanistan sky overhead. Pain in his ... everywhere.

  He forced his head to turn to the side. Nothing except a few dark strands of something. He blinked several times.

  Had to get his weapon. Get ready in case more came.

  His right hand dragged across scratchy vegetation. Not right. Something’s not right.

  He grabbed a handful and lifted it to his face.

  Blink.

  Concentrate.

  Corn stalks.

  Not Afghanistan. But ...

  The maze. Flattened as far as he could see.

  What ...?

  Kids.

  Maggie.

  Got to go. Get moving. Find help.

  He pushed himself into a sitting position, gasped, and fell backward. His brain performed triage. Metallic taste of blood. Chest and stomach felt like he’d swallowed razors. Legs were there, but ignoring him. Arms cooperating.

  He felt for his phone. Gone.

  Flipped his head the other way. A light.

  Bright.

  High.

  Coming directly toward him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  Mason dabbed at the blood on his forehead. He’d hit the steering wheel hard, though hadn’t lost consciousness. His fault. He’d badly misjudged the size of the blast. Overcompensated for the depth of the root cellar. Somehow, the combine’s windshield remained intact, though covered in dirt, debris, and who knows what else. A piece of clothing—T-shirt?—hung limply on the outside left mirror.

  The old barn was gone, obscured by a cloud of dust. Wouldn’t be anything except a crater to see anyway. The explosion would’ve ripped everything apart, sending wood shrapnel in every direction. The cast iron stove might’ve survived, but he didn’t see how anything else could have. Bits of that cop and Lanny and Sarah and Blue Shirt and Catherine Mae Blackston and everyone else now scattered over rich farmland.

  Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

  People to fertilizer.

  Car alarms echoed across the field. Lights from inside the house cast a dim circle around the home, revealing broken windows. Soon, the farm would be covered up with emergency personnel. Two things. That’s all he wanted.
>
  First, Paula and the kids surrounded by friends. Comforted. Consoled. Told they couldn’t have known. It wasn’t their fault. It’ll take time, but they’ll get over it.

  Second, that any cops or FBI agents who showed up were good shots. Don’t let the prey suffer.

  He put the combine in gear, switched on the cab’s interior light, and moved toward what remained of the maze. People were stirring now. Staggering around. Helping others. That’s what neighbors did.

  A few waved at him. Motioned for help. He ignored them and kept moving.

  Searching.

  The male FBI agent had to be somewhere in this area. The blast would’ve blown him toward Mason, though how far was anyone’s guess.

  No bodies on the ground. Good. No serious injuries, at least at this distance.

  Only one person had to die today. Two, if the Fed or his girlfriend didn’t kill him in time.

  But he was ready. A farmer working his land. Harvesting his crop.

  No better way to die.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  Jeremy struggled onto all fours and closed his eyes. Deep breaths. There’d be injured. And Miller still out there somewhere. Had to make sure help was coming.

  A wave of nausea pounced, and he spewed his lunch on the ground. Too dark to be sure, but likely there’d be blood mixed in.

  He straightened and ran the back of his hand across his mouth. Hearing was returning in his right ear, and he could make out the wah-wahing of car alarms nearby. Shadowy figures moved about, a few running, some staggering, one falling.

  He pushed himself off the ground, stood for a heartbeat, then dropped to one knee.

  A hand on his back. A young voice. “You okay?”

  He nodded. “Help the others.”

  The voice hurried off, and Jeremy stood again, extending his arms to maintain his balance. Electricity shot a warning signal down his left leg. It wasn’t going to hold him up for long. Too much damage, both new and old.