The sound of rolling tires approached from around the bend and broke the tranquility of the woods, reminding Marny that civilization was not that far away. A full-sized, extended-cab pickup came into view, passed them, then slowed and pulled to the shoulder. Through the rear window Marny could see the driver, a woman, holding a cell phone to her ear. The white reverse lights came to life, and the truck rolled backward. It pulled alongside them and stopped; the passenger side window slid down.
The woman behind the wheel was in her midthirties, attractive, with shoulder-length brown hair and dark green eyes. She leaned to the side and eyed William, then Marny. “You guys okay?”
Marny realized how William’s bloodied shirt must look to the driver. “Uh, yeah. Actually we are. Got into some trouble along the trail up there, but we’re both all right. It looks worse than it is.”
“Looks pretty bad.”
William’s shirt did look bad. Most of the front was stained crimson.
“Yeah, I know. I fell and knocked my head. You know how head wounds bleed. We used William’s shirt here as a bandage until the bleeding stopped.”
“William, huh?” The woman nodded at William. “How are you, sweetie?”
William didn’t answer. He simply lifted his good hand and gave a little wave.
The woman looked ahead, then back at Marny. “Well, if you’re headed this way, I can drop you off somewhere. You think you need a hospital?”
“No. I’m fine, really. You know where Monroe Bridge is? We have a friend who lives there.”
She smiled and nodded. “Sure do. Hop in.”
Chapter 39
THE HOUSE WAS everything he expected it to be.
Gary pulled the Taurus along the side of the road and shifted into park, but he didn’t shut off the engine. First, he double-checked the address he’d gotten from the computer in Condon’s house. It was the correct house, Harold Rose’s. And it was completely Harold: remote, unassuming, and dangerous. But more than the house, he was interested in the Buick parked in the driveway. His hunch was correct. Esther had taken William and her new friend to seek help from her long lost daddy. There were no other vehicles on the property, which meant Harold had taken them elsewhere.
Gary tightened his jaw and bowed his head. Immediately the voice was there.
The good shepherd is willing to lay down his life for his sheep. To him, nothing else matters but the safety and protection of the sheep.
“I’ll find him. I’ll take care of it.” His voice sounded oddly weak to his own ears, not the voice of one certain of success. Was his faith wavering?
He shifted the car back into drive, drove a hundred or so feet up the road past Rose’s place, and parked behind a stand of birch trees, out of the home’s line of vision. Grabbing the rag from the passenger seat, he exited the car and made his way along the edge of the property to the rear of the house. Carefully, so as not to be seen and mistaken for a common burglar or peeping Tom by any passing motorists, he moved from window to window. No one was home.
At the back door, Gary wrapped the rag around his hand and, as he’d done at Condon’s garage, put his fist through the window. The glass made a popping sound when it broke. He waited a full minute before entering to make sure the house was indeed clear and that there were no alarms triggered by his intrusion. It was a minute of silence. For an ex-cop, Harold Rose was not as cautious as he should have been.
The door opened easily, and Gary quickly found his way through the house to the study. At the desk he scanned the papers in full view, looking for anything that might signify where Harold had taken William. Nothing but bills, auto insurance papers, and a calendar book. One by one he then went through the drawers and emptied them of their contents. Harold had kept every form and receipt and manual imaginable, but nothing that spoke of a destination, a hideaway, an alternate residence.
His last hope was the file cabinet in the corner of the room— one of those metal, four-drawer jobs that always hid the answers to questions in the movies. In the top drawer he found file after file of nonsense. Electric bills, propane bills, credit card statements. Nothing he could use. The second and third drawers were more of the same. Harold Rose was quite the pack rat. The bills and statements went back some ten years. In the bottom drawer, though, he found a stack of newspaper clippings.
Gary lifted the stack out of the drawer and took it to the desk. He wasn’t worried about Harold returning home and finding an intruder sitting in his office. No, Harold was long gone by now, and there was nothing Gary could do about that except find out where he was headed, where he was taking William, God’s anointed.
It took but one article for Gary to realize what this stack of newsprint was. Invisible spiders climbed up his arms and over his back and neck. Page after page, article after article, the stories recounted the work of the serial killer known as the Maniac. A decade ago, a lunatic ravaged the Down East region of Maine, killing twenty-three people in two weeks.
Gary scanned one article, then the next, looking for any clue. He was about to give up when his eyes caught a line in the last story: Lieutenant Harold Rose of the Maine State Police said that local and state law enforcement officers are working closely with federal investigators but that they currently have no credible leads. He said the frustration levels of all who are involved are rising steadily.
There was a photo of Harold in his uniform, looking directly at the camera, a mixture of fear and anger tightening his face. The caption read: Lieutenant Harold Rose stands over the body of the latest victim of the Maine Maniac, seventeen-year-old Emily Rooter.
Gary dropped the clipping and ran his hands through his hair. He was trembling. Rose was taking them back to Maine; it had to be the case. He’d be familiar with that area. Comfortable. He’d feel in control. And he had a house there. When Angela died, the house would have gone to Harold.
He stood from the chair so quickly it nearly toppled over backward. He was about to stuff the articles into a folder to take along with him when he heard the crunch of tires on the gravel outside.
Chapter 40
THINGS ARE RARELY as they seem.
When the pickup pulled into the driveway of Harold’s house and stopped next to the Buick, the home appeared to be empty, still.
The driver, who had earlier introduced herself as Cheyenne, kept the engine running and said, “Here you go, guys. Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”
Marny forced a smile. “He must’ve just run out for some groceries. Maybe to the hardware store. He should be back soon. We’ll just let ourselves in, and I’ll take care of this head of mine.”
“You sure? I can run you by the hospital now. It isn’t but twenty minutes away.”
Marny opened the rear door of the truck. “No, that’s okay. Thanks for the lift. I’ll be fine.”
Cheyenne shrugged. “Well, it’s your head. I wish you’d let me help, though.”
“Really, we’re okay,” Marny said.
She nodded to William and grinned, but her smile was anything but genuine. “You take care too, William,” she said. “Nice meeting you.”
William said nothing. His eyes found Marny, and in them was panic. What did he know about their new friend that Marny didn’t?
“Well, okay then,” Marny said, stepping out of the truck. “I guess we’ll be all right on our own now.”
William followed him out, and Marny shut the door behind them.
The passenger window rolled down, and Cheyenne leaned toward it. A thin smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You guys didn’t think it would be this easy, did you?”
A tingling started in Marny’s fingers and crept up into his hands. William pushed closer to him; he put his arm around the boy’s shoulders.
The truck’s engine still ran; Cheyenne had yet to shift it out of drive. A red danger light went berserk in Marny’s head. This woman was no stranger. Her happening upon them along the side of the road was no accident.
He thought of maki
ng a run for it, heading for the house, but Cheyenne would run them down before they could get off the driveway. Maybe they could turn and bolt for the barn where Harold crafted his one-of-a-kind cupolas. But what good would that do? They’d be trapped.
Cheyenne lifted a handgun and pointed it at Marny. “The thing I don’t understand,” she said, “is how are you two even standing here? Harry said he took care of both of you.”
If it was a question intended for an answer, Marny wasn’t playing along. Though Marny had some questions of his own. “Are you working with Harold?” It was obvious she was, but Marny wanted to hear her say it. There was a lot you could tell by the tone of someone’s voice and the body language that accompanied what they said.
But Cheyenne wasn’t playing along either. “You can’t run, you know; it’s no use. You won’t get far now.”
“How did you know we’d be by the road?”
“Shut up.”
“How did you know we’d been shot?”
The gun wavered in Cheyenne’s hand. Her arm was getting tired. Sooner or later she’d have to change positions, either get out of the truck or scoot over to the passenger seat. Either way, she’d have to take her focus off Marny and William, and that’s when Marny would make his move. He had no idea what he’d do. He was making this up as he went along.
“I said shut up.” Cheyenne’s eyes grew more intent. She nudged the gun toward Marny. “You, we really don’t have a need for. You have a big mouth. But the kid we can use.”
Marny’s eyes went to Cheyenne’s finger an instant before it depressed the trigger. He wrapped his arms around William, and they both hit the ground as the gun went off. Another shot sounded, but this one was followed instantly by the pop of breaking safety glass. The windshield.
Marny’s head spun, processing all it could in a matter of seconds. Had he been shot? He’d felt no impact. No pain. What about the glass? Was it the windshield?
A third shot rang out, this one close, and Marny flinched. He moved over William to shield him. That shot was followed by a series of more distant cracks coming from the direction of the house.
Suddenly the pickup’s engine revved loudly and the tires spun in the gravel. They found traction, and the truck lurched forward, the engine roaring. More gunfire erupted from the house. The truck picked up speed and smashed into the house, busting through the exterior wall. Its rear tires continued to spin, pistoning the truck back and forth. The front tires were caught on the home’s foundation.
Marny climbed to his feet and pulled William up with him. “The car. Get in.”
More gunshots sounded. The truck’s tires continued to spin.
Marny jumped in behind the wheel of the Buick, and William slid onto the passenger seat beside him. Marny felt his pockets. No keys. He fumbled with the ignition. He hadn’t left them there. He patted his pockets again.
“William, can you do something? Please?”
William reached for the ignition, but before his hand could make contact and supernatural power flow from him into the car’s starter, the car door swung open and something hard nudged the side of Marny’s head.
“Get out.”
Gary.
Chapter 41
THERE WAS NOTHING sweet about returning to this home.
Esther stood on the sidewalk, now cracked by weeds pushing their way up between the slabs of concrete, and stared at the house she once loved. The sun was far enough down in its arc that it hid behind the treetops; here in the woods darkness came early.
Despite the thin film of grime that coated the windows and the moss that had begun growing on the shady side of the roof, the house was in surprisingly good condition.
Harold wrapped his hand around Esther’s arm and guided her up the steps. Her head was still a little foggy from sleep, and it felt like someone had scooped out her brain and filled her skull with concrete. She’d awakened in the car to find they were back in Maine, back in their old town of Comfort, back at their old home on Cranberry Road. The house was on a remote stretch of the road, out of view of any others. It sat on three acres of land, mostly wooded.
On the porch Harold said, “You remember this place?”
The question was absurd, but everything about this day was absurd. What had she been thinking? She must have been out of her mind to hope Harold would help them. And now her miscalculation had cost William and Marny their lives.
Esther grabbed her head with both hands. She couldn’t think about this now; it was too much to process at once. William was gone, and Harold was asking her if she remembered this house?
“Of course I do,” she said. Her words sounded slurred to her ears.
He turned and frowned at her. His face was hard, and his cheeks appeared gaunter than they had earlier. If he felt any remorse at all for taking two lives, he wasn’t showing it. “What do you remember?”
“You killed William.”
“About the house. This place.”
“You shot a child.”
Harold looked away and swallowed hard; his Adam’s apple bobbed in his neck. “He’s no child; you know that.”
“He is a child. My brother.”
“He’s a monster,” Harold said. “A freak. I put him out of his misery.”
“He isn’t in misery. He loves life despite the hell we’ve been living.” She was talking about William as if he were still alive, still in Massachusetts waiting for her to come and rescue him. But he wasn’t. He was gone. Dead. She’d seen it with her own eyes.
“I wasn’t the only one. Angela, your mother, she was disgusted by him too. She was afraid of him.”
He was lying; Esther was sure of it. Trying to defeat her psychologically, beat her down and into submission so she wouldn’t struggle against whatever it was he had in store for her. Their mother had loved William, cared for him, adored him even. She would never say such a thing, especially not to the man who walked out on her because of her precious baby boy.
“You’re a liar,” she said. “And a coward. You ran out on your responsibility.”
Harold dug in his pocket and removed a key. “That may be, but right now I’m in charge, and we’re playing by my rules. Now what do you remember about this house?”
There was a point to his question; there had to be. Esther decided to play along. She thought it best to stay on his good side. “The last memory I have is walking out of here, off this porch, with two suitcases stuffed full. I tried to change Mom’s mind, tried to convince her to stay and raise us herself. I was convinced you’d come back sooner or later, find us gone, and never try to find us again. I fell right here”—she pointed at a spot on the porch right above the first step—“and cried. I thought you’d come back sooner or later, that you and Mom had just had an argument and when the dust cleared and everyone settled down you’d be back and make things right. That things would be the way they used to be before …”
“Before the freak came along?”
“He isn’t a freak.”
Harold put the key in the door and turned it. The dead bolt clicked, and he pushed the door open. He started to go inside, but Esther stopped him.
“Wait. The last good memory I have is playing ball with you. I’d stand here on the porch and you’d be in the yard. You’d throw me the ball and I’d jump off the porch and catch it. We’d do it until my legs wouldn’t work anymore. Do you remember that?”
For a moment Harold looked as if he might cry. His chin dimpled and his mouth tightened. His right eye twitched. Then just as quickly the hardness returned, the mask of indifference. “Of course I do. Now come on, inside.”
“What if I don’t want to?” She wasn’t making a stand there on the porch; she was merely testing him, peering into his soul.
He shrugged. “I can make you, Esther. You know that. Now let’s go.”
She crossed the threshold from porch to foyer and was immediately swept into tears by the sudden rush of memories that flooded her mind. She’d spent years putting this
behind her, trying to forget. The good memories only served to usher in the hurt and pain and abandonment that followed. She didn’t want to relive any of it. And now here she was.
Harold put his hand on her shoulder, but there was nothing soft about it, nothing fatherly or comforting. “That’s it, girl. Let it out.” His voice was flat, mechanical. “It’ll all be over soon.”
Chapter 42
MARNY KNEW THIS day would come sooner or later.
Eventually his curse would backfire and turn on him. It would have succeeded already if not for William, but Marny doubted the wonder boy would be able to do anything this time. Kinda hard to heal a head that’s been blown off.
Marny climbed out of the car and for the second time that day put both hands in the air. A habit he didn’t want to get used to.
Gary stood before him, red-faced and panting. Sweat dotted his forehead and cheeks. In his eyes was the look of hunger, of death. He held the handgun at shoulder height, the barrel pointing right at Marny’s forehead.
And for the second time that day Marny found himself staring at the black, soulless eye of the reaper bringing death.
But death was no stranger to Marny. It had been following him his whole life, and now it had turned its gruesome claws on him. Strangely, he wasn’t afraid of the gun trained on him, wasn’t afraid of the monster holding the gun. A part of him was actually relieved. The world would be a safer place without Marny Toogood in it.
Gary’s lips parted and the muscles in his shoulder tensed.
Marny shut his eyes. If this was how he was going to go, he didn’t want to watch. At least it would be quick.
“Wait.” It was William’s voice. “Don’t do it, Gary.”
Marny opened his eyes. Gary’s eyes were on the boy.
William shuffled his feet. “We need him.”
This was certainly an odd turn of events.
Not until the barrel of the gun pointed at the ground did Marny lower his hands. He swallowed hard and wiped his palms on his pants. He was alive, yes, which was certainly better than being dead, but he wasn’t entirely comfortable with where things stood. He and William had fallen into the hands of a madman, a monster. Things would get ugly, and Marny couldn’t count on anything better being on the other side. He didn’t have the super faith of William. He didn’t even have common faith.
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