Infinite Doom
Page 23
The bad man went back inside his cabin.
“Which one is it? Is it one of these?”
No. His cabin is in the woods, past the water. There’s a path behind these cabins that he uses.
“So just keep straight?”
Yes.
Myla crossed the road. Then she cut through the front yard of one of the rental cabins and went around back. There were more woods behind the cabins, and these woods, too, were not very thick. She walked until she came to a narrow trail that—according to the compass—continued to the north. “Is this the path?”
Yes. The bad man just came out of his cabin again.
“He did?”
Yes. Now he’s walking back toward the water. He goes to the water to drink it and to take a bath.
Myla headed north up the path. The fact that Alenzo’s cabin had no running water undoubtedly meant that his was not a rental. She didn’t know how many privately owned cabins there were in the Catskill Mountains. Probably hundreds. Possibly thousands. She just hoped that Scarlett would be able to lead her to the right one.
She walked until she came to a shallow stream that flowed west to east. “Is this the water you were talking about?”
Yes.
“And his cabin’s on the other side?”
Yes.
Myla crossed the stream. “Now what? Do I just keep straight?”
No.
She looked to the right. “This way?”
No.
She looked to the left. “That way?”
Yes.
Myla headed west along the stream.
There he is.
“Where? I don’t see anything.”
He’s right up there.
Myla raised the binoculars. In the distance, straight ahead, a skinny bald man was kneeling at the water’s edge with his hands down in the water.
She closed the gap between them, then crouched down in some weeds beside the path and zoomed in with the binoculars. She didn’t know if he had lost his hair or had simply shaved his head, but she was definitely looking at Steven Alenzo’s face. He pulled his hands from the water, and she saw that he had been cleaning a couple of paintbrushes. Then he stood and began walking north—presumably back to his cabin.
Myla lowered the binoculars and followed him. She kept to the trees and the weeds beside the path as she walked with the painting beneath her left arm and the crossbow in her right hand. She only walked as quickly as he did. She intentionally refrained from closing the distance between them because she didn’t want to alert him to her presence. Apparently, he never heard the sound of her footsteps. Not once did he turn around to see if there was anyone walking behind him.
She trailed him for about a mile, and then he took a left off the path and headed west through the woods. Myla followed.
It wasn’t long before he reached a small cabin surrounded by maple trees. The cabin looked very old and had a chimney. Alenzo climbed three steps to the front porch.
Myla set the painting on the ground and leaned it against her leg. She cocked the crossbow and lifted it to her shoulder. She curled her finger around the trigger and targeted the center of his back. Then she waited for Alenzo to open the door.
He did.
“Your walking days are over,” Myla whispered. Then she squeezed the trigger.
He dropped quickly. Myla set the crossbow down and picked up the painting. Then she grabbed the gun from her pocket and ran toward the cabin. She expected him to start screaming, but he never did.
He crawled inside the cabin, but she was already there before he could close the door. He was sitting on the floor, looking up at her. She had missed his spinal cord. The arrow was lodged in his body. The front half was sticking out of his abdomen. Blood dripped from all edges of the broadhead tip.
We’re too late.
Scarlett was right, of course. They were definitely too late to save the girl.
Standing in the doorway, aiming her gun at Alenzo’s face, Myla had already swept her gaze around the one-room cabin’s interior. Curtains covered the two windows, but sunlight through the doorway provided plenty of illumination.
In the back of the room, near the left corner, the girl’s decapitated corpse was hanging upside down from a rafter in the ceiling. She had not been dead for long. Blood was still draining from her corpse into an old clawfoot tub. Her severed head was on the floor between the tub and a blank canvas that was mounted on an easel.
“Blood Moon Rising,” Steven Alenzo said. Still on the floor, he was looking up at the painting Myla was holding in the hand not aiming the gun at his forehead. “One of my old favorites. Where did you get it?”
Kill him! Please! Kill the bad man now!
“Brooklyn,” Myla said. Then she pulled the trigger, killing him instantly. Also instantly, she stopped hearing Scarlett’s voice inside her mind for the first time since setting her eyes on Blood Moon Rising in Paracosmos.
She tossed the painting down atop Alenzo’s lifeless body. Then she swept her gaze around the room again.
The fugitive artist had powered the cabin with a generator. The generator used gasoline to produce electricity. There was a plastic container of gasoline beside the generator. She found a box of matches on the nightstand by his bed.
She doused Blood Moon Rising and Steven Alenzo’s corpse with gasoline. Then she splashed gasoline throughout the interior of the cabin.
She stopped in front of the blank canvas mounted on the easel, ignoring the little girl’s severed head on the floor. She had an easel set up at home in her living room, but she had yet to mount a canvas on it. She wanted her first painting to say something. She was waiting for a story to tell. She remained hopeful that inspiration would strike soon.
Myla struck a match and dropped it on top of Blood Moon Rising. Flames engulfed the painting, and then quickly spread to Steven Alenzo’s clothes. She stepped back from the flames, knowing that the cabin would soon be reduced to a pile of ashes.
Myla took the blank canvas with her when she left.
• • •
The landline phone was ringing when she returned to her apartment in Manhattan. Her hands were full and she didn’t bother trying to answer the phone. Her cellphone was still on charge in the bedroom. Because cellphones were also tracking devices, she had not taken hers to the Catskill Mountains.
The landline stopped ringing.
Myla set the crossbow down on the coffee table. Then she mounted the blank canvas on the easel that was set up in her living room.
She was still dressed in the camouflage clothes. She emptied her side pockets of the gun, the spare arrows, and the hunting knife. She put those on the coffee table next to the crossbow. Then she took the compass and the binoculars from around her neck and set those on the coffee table, too.
The landline began ringing again. Myla lifted the cordless phone from its cradle. For once, she didn’t cringe when she saw her sister’s name and numbers on the screen. Instead, she simply pressed the TALK button. “Hello, Marlow.”
“Hi Myla. I’m sorry to bother you, but Nick wants to know if you’ve had a chance to get his old photo albums down from the attic yet.”
“Not yet.”
“I see. Well, are you doing anything now? I could come over and help you look for them, if you’re not too busy.”
Suddenly, inspiration struck. Myla picked up the hunting knife and looked over at the blank canvas. “Actually, I’m not doing anything right now. I’m not busy at all. Why don’t you both come over?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Both of us? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I think it’s time we all three buried the hatchet.”
“Oh, Myla, it’s so great to hear you say that! I’ll tell Nick and then we’ll both come over right away. You’re my sister, Myla, and I’m always going to love you. No matter what.”
“I love you too.”
Myla pressed the END button. Then she retur
ned the phone to its cradle.
She was excited. The handle of the hunting knife seemed to be tingling in her hand.
She crossed the room and stood before the blank canvas on the easel. The canvas would not be blank for long.
Myla smiled. She finally had a story to tell.
About the Author
Brian Bowyer has been writing stories and music for most of his life. He has lived all over the East Coast. He has worked as a musician, a banker, a bartender, a bouncer, and a bomb maker for a coal-testing laboratory. He currently lives and writes in Ohio. You can contact him at brian.bowyer@hotmail.com.