by Ronald Kelly
Rusty growled and tugged at the bars of the jail window with all his might. But no matter how hard he struggled, they remained firmly in place.
“Best save your strength for that long walk to the gallows, McLeod,” the outlaw told him. “I hear there’s gonna be quite a turnout to see you swing. It’s sure to make you a downright celebrity… if only until you shit your britches and your face turns black from strangulation.”
“I’ll get out of here somehow,” declared Rusty. “And then we’ll have us a real showdown, just me and you. No trickery, just steel nerves and skill with a gun.”
Sidewinder shook his head. “Naw, I don’t think so, McLeod.” He stepped away from the window and gestured toward the porch of the Whipping Post Saloon. In the light of the batwings, Rusty could see a half-dozen men standing there, laughing and drinking from bottles of red-eye. All of them wore their guns tied down and ready for a quick-draw, the same as Sidewinder.
“You see those fellas yonder?” asked the outlaw.
“Yeah,” answered Rusty. “Are they friends of yours?”
Sidewinder’s eyes glittered in the red glow of the cheroot’s ash. “Nope. They’re my deputies.”
Rusty couldn’t believe his ears. “What are you talking about?”
The outlaw grinned and, taking the cigar from his lips, lowered it toward the front of his black vest. Pinned to the lapel was the brass badge of a U.S. Marshal.
“After that stunt you pulled on Main Street, the mayor figured they needed someone around to keep the peace,” he said. “So they hired me and the boys to keep an eye on things here in Carnage City. And to make sure your hanging goes as planned, nice and proper like.”
“But you’re an outlaw!” protested Rusty. “You’ve killed dozens of innocent men. There’s a price on your head, for goodness sakes!”
“Yeah, it is a hoot, ain’t it?” chuckled Sidewinder, taking a draw on his cigar. “They figure I’m gonna be the perfect picture of law and order, but you and me know differently, don’t we?” He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Confidentially, I intend to make this town my own. First, me and the gang are gonna clean out the bank, then we’re gonna start our own extortion racket with the local merchants. Maybe we’ll branch out, too. Gather up all the pretty ladies in town and start our own private whorehouse. How does that sound?”
“You’ll never get away with it!” Rusty told him.
“Oh, yes I will, and there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it, McLeod,” said Sidewinder. “Now, you’d best get back to your bunk and rest up. You’ve got a big day ahead of you. Or at least the first few minutes of one.”
“I won’t go without a fight,” Rusty claimed. “I’ll break away and then I’ll deal with you.”
Sidewinder snickered. “You’ll march right up the steps of that gallows and slip your head through that noose like a good boy. If you cause any trouble, I’ll have the boys shoot you down like a flea-bitten dog in the street.”
Rusty watched as the tall, lean gunfighter tossed the butt of his cheroot away and walked toward the saloon. He considered yelling out something bold and biting, but knew it would be pointless to do so. In this nightmare world he was now a part of, the man named Sidewinder held all the cards. Rusty could scheme to break his appointment with the hangman the following morning and attempt an escape from Carnage City, but he knew, in the long run, that it would all be futile.
With a sensation of cold dread settling deep in the pit of his belly, Rusty McLeod sat down on his bunk, staring into the darkness of his cell and listening to the hammering construction of the gallows.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Allison Walsh awoke at five that morning. She showered, dressed, and ate a quick breakfast at a Hardee’s across the street from her motel, all the while attempting to determine her next move. Her visit to the town of Harmony had been a complete bust the day before, so she finally decided to locate the scene of Larry Bell’s murder and see if she could find anything of substance there. She drove south down Interstate 24, made a U-turn at the Manchester exit, then headed northward again. The sun was just coming up when she spotted something up ahead and pulled to the side of the road. Allison had stopped several times before, believing that she had found the murder site, but each time she found that she was mistaken. This time, however, she was sure she had located the right spot. A fragment of fellow police boundary tape clung to the dull steel of a guardrail at the side of the interstate. True, the strip of adhesive plastic could have been blown several hundred yards from its original position by a heavy wind, but hopefully this would turn out to be the place she was looking for.
Allison cut the engine of the Altima and got out. She took a few minutes to examine the spot where she believed the state police had found Bell’s Lincoln Continental. There was little evidence left to even assure her that she was at the correct place. There was the fragment of POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS tape, as well as a couple of reddish-brown spots on the pavement that might or might not have been blood stains. Other than that, there was absolutely nothing present to identify the place as being the site of a horrible and brutal murder.
Allison felt disappointment began to creep up on her. The constant string of dead ends she had run across since beginning her private search for Slash Jackson had become increasingly frustrating. It was as though the rapist had snapped his blood-stained fingers and completely vanished from the face of the earth, leaving no trace behind. But as she stood on that stretch of interstate, Allison was sure that Jackson had been responsible for killing the Kentucky businessman and this was where he had made his getaway, only a few moments before the arrival of the Tennessee state trooper. She was certain of it. She could almost feel the dark aura of his presence still lingering there, like the spoor of a wild animal.
Allison walked over to the guardrail and stared down the steep embankment to the heavy forest that grew below. Had he headed for the cover of the woods when the patrol car showed up? She shielded her eyes against the morning sun. Treetops stretched both north and east for as far as the eye could see. Carefully, she climbed over the steel railing and then cautiously made her way down the grassy slope to the edge of the woods. By the time she reached the bottom, she had picked up several scrapes on her elbows and the heels of her hands, as well as grass stains on her white slacks. Allison dusted herself off, then began to examine the edge of the thicket for a distance of fifty yards, studying the ground the branches of the trees and underbrush for some tell-tale sign of a hasty entrance.
She covered the stretch several times, growing discouraged the more she looked. So far, she had been unable to find a single shred of evidence to verify that Jackson had ever been there. Maybe I’m just grasping at straws, she told herself. He’s probably several hundred miles away… maybe even out of the country by now.
Allison was about to turn and trudge back up the embankment to the interstate, when a glimmer of sunlight reflected through the treetops and glinted off something on the ground. She bent down and picked up the tiny object. Her blood ran cold. It was the gold cross pin. The one Jackson had worn on the collar of his shirt when she had first picked him up at the gas station in Atlanta. The one he had worn, inverted, through his nipple during that long session of rape and torture in the abandoned house near Adairsville.
Hope suddenly returned. A peculiar sense of excitement filled her; a mixture of triumph and underlying fear. He had been there! He had murdered Larry Bell, then dodged into the woods to make his escape. Allison stepped into the trees, looking for another sign. She found it a few moments later. A branch from a maple sapling had been broken off near its slender trunk, too high up to have been damaged by a possum or skunk. Yes, he had been there alright. He had headed into the shadowy depths of the woods, probably intending to circle around and meet up with the interstate again further north.
She looked up at her rental car parked at the side of the road, scarcely visible beyond the steel barrier of the guardrail. Then she
turned her eyes back to the miles of Tennessee wilderness that stretched in a widening swath toward the northeast. Shadows choked the forest. The foliage was so dense that very little sunlight was allowed to penetrate. He could be long gone by now, or he could still be in there somewhere, hiding. Dark images of those horrible days and nights in the deserted house came back to haunt her. Images of fear, blood, pain, humiliation, and the threat of immediate death from the honed blade of a knife. And that leering, whiskered face returned as well, painted with slashes of fresh blood – her blood – and glowing with an evil the likes of which she had never known before, and hoped to never know again.
Before, she had fought back those devastating memories. But not that morning. Instead, she kept the hell she had endured fresh in her mind, allowing it to stoke her resolve with the heat of hatred and rage. Allison dipped her hand inside her purse and made sure that the gun was within easy reach. It laid there, ready, cool, and hard, loaded with explosive retribution.
Taking a deep breath, Allison Walsh stared into the dense forest, then set off in search of the one person she despised most in the world. The one who had shattered the protective veneer of her life – a life of normalcy and naïve trust – and brutally forced her to see the evil that lurked just beneath the surface.
CHAPTER FORTY
“One more time!” bellowed Colonel Raven through the funnel of his megaphone.
Maggie clung to the floor of the platform, her muscles quivering, tears blooming in her eyes. “I can’t!” she cried. “I’m exhausted!”
The crack of a whip split the air. With it came a sting of pain at her right elbow. The sudden hurt caused her to jump to her feet and stumble to the edge of the platform, despite the protest of her aching muscles and raw terror of her acrophobia.
“You heard the man, Queenie!” snarled Max from the rungs of the pole. “One more time. And this time, put a little flair into it!”
“Please,” she pleaded. Her tears caused the mascara around her eyes to merge with the greasepaint on her face. “Don’t make me do it again. Sooner or later, I’m bound to lose my balance and fall.”
The dwarf smiled cruelly. “Save that for today’s performance. The crowd will be out for blood when your act rolls around. Don’t disappoint them like last time. Give them the splattered guts they’re paying for.”
“Miss Sutton!” roared the amplified voice of the evil ringmaster below. “One more time! I am beginning to lose my patience!”
Maggie stood at the edge of the platform and looked down. Somehow, the distance between the ceiling of the Big Top and the center arena seemed even greater than before. At least twenty or thirty feet greater. This time, instead of the tank of hungry alligators, there was a deadly blanket of jagged steel spikes and shards of broken glass covering the sandy earth of the arena. And this was only supposed to be a practice session!
She glanced over her shoulder at Max. The little man was unfurling his whip, ready to lash out if she refused to obey. Maggie took a deep breath, calming herself as much as she possibly could. Then she stepped forward, placing her left foot on the narrow rope. She groaned as the wire took the brunt of her weight. The sole of her foot was sore and tender from having clenched the rope during several practice runs that morning. The muscles of her arms and legs were stiff and weary as well. Tension thrummed through her lean form as she once again attempted to maintain her balance.
Halfway across the high wire, her strength began to give out. She stopped in mid-stride, afraid that one more step would send her spiraling into open space.
“Continue, Miss Sutton!” demanded Raven from below. His voice was heavy with disdain.
“If I go any further, I’ll fall!” she screamed down at him.
“Chief Bobo,” called the ringmaster. “Motivate our star attraction, please.”
She glanced over her shoulder. On the platform she had left seventy-five feet ago, stood the clown, this time dressed like an Indian chief. He grinned broadly and raised something at arm’s length. It was a wooden bow with a flaming arrow positioned against its taut string.
Suddenly, the arrow was blazing toward her. It soared uncomfortably close; near enough for her to feel the heat of it against the top of her shoulder. She stepped forward as the fiery projectile jetted past her and into the darkness. But she found that she could not rest after several steps. Three more arrows flashed around her, one after another, prodding her onward. One even skimmed the outer edge of her left thigh, searing the material of her black tights and blistering the flesh underneath.
Maggie cried out in pain and nearly ran the rest of the way to the opposite platform. The rope swayed from side to side and the open air yawned dangerously around her several times. On the floor of the arena below, the spears of steel and glass glinted menacingly up at her, as if yearning to pierce tender flesh and impale internal organs.
A few seconds later, she was safely on the other platform. She dropped to her knees, trembling, a wave of nausea washing through her. Maggie thought for sure that she would throw up, but she breathed deeply and managed to drive the sick feeling away.
“That will be enough for this morning, Miss Sutton,” echoed the arrogant voice below. “You may come down now.”
She remained on the platform until her strength returned, then carefully made her way down the steel pole, one rung at a time. Even when her feet touched solid ground, she felt no relief. The moment she reached the floor of the Big Top, a tall, angular shadow loomed oppressively over her.
“Better, my dear,” said Colonel Raven. “Much better. But this afternoon, when you are up there performing for the masses, do the act as planned. And when you fall – and you will fall this time – be sure to scream loudly and flail your arms on the way down. The crowd loves such theatrics. Although, in your case, Miss Sutton, I’m sure it shall come quite naturally.”
Maggie lifted her eyes and glared defiantly into the face that resembled that of Augustus Leech. “Why are you tormenting me like this?”
The ringmaster merely smiled. “Because I enjoy it, that’s way. I love to see you shake and shudder on that high wire, so afraid of falling to your death. That’s the entire appeal of Circus Horrific. The shock and sheer terror it brings. Our audiences pay generously to see our performers die. Whether it be a lion tamer torn limb from limb, or a human cannonball falling short of his net and splattering against the earth of the arena, the crowds come time and time again to enjoy the fragility of human life. And today it shall finally be your turn to give them what they crave.”
“But if I fall and die, your star attraction will be gone,” she pointed out, attempting to reason with him.
Raven chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry about that. You see, there are plenty of replacements, just waiting for their turn.” He gestured toward a nearby section of bleachers.
Maggie peered into the gloom and was shocked to find a dozen other girls sitting on the wooden risers, all dressed in the same Spider Woman costume that she wore. She realized then that she held no real importance to the evil ringmaster; that she was completely expendable in his opinion. After she plunged to her death during the next performance, there would be another one to take her place. And after that one, yet another.
“Now remember what I told you, Miss Sutton,” warned Colonel Raven. “Today you will give our audience what they want. If you falter even one step, I will have Bobo put one of those flaming arrows squarely between your shoulder blades next time. And you will end up both crushed and burned to a cinder when you hit the arena floor.”
Maggie could only stare at the man in horror. There was no doubt that his threat was genuine. If she didn’t purposely commit suicide by stepping off the high wire, he would sic his sadistic clown on her and have him do the dirty deed.
A moment later, she had been escorted back to her trailer and locked securely inside. Listlessly, she collapsed on her cot in the corner and laid there. She felt like crying, but her tears were all gone. She felt hollow and numb, res
igned to a horrible fate she had no control over. Maggie thought about Keith and wondered what perils he was facing in his own nightmare world. She secretly wished that he would appear out of nowhere and rescue her from her imprisonment at the hands of the diabolical Colonel Raven.
But she knew that was impossible. There was simply no chance of such a convenient reprieve. In fact, she was so desperate to escape, that she wouldn’t mind seeing her brother Tom’s zit-riddled face right about then. But that was even more remote than Keith coming to the rescue. Her brother hated her. She had sadly come to that conclusion after years of harassment and cruel practical jokes.
With a sigh, she lay on the cot and stared at the ceiling of the cramped trailer, waiting until the moment when a knock on the door would signal that it was finally showtime.
~ * ~
“We are here,” whispered the elderly man who sat next to him.
Chuck turned and stared through the open slats of the boxcar as the train ground to a clanking halt. In the gray light of dawn, he could see a sprawling complex of buildings and barracks that took up several hundred acres along the Sola River in southern Poland. At first glance, it might have been mistaken for a city. But upon further inspection, that illusion faded, revealing the camp for what it truly was. High fences lined with barbed wire surrounded the long barracks and in the distance could be seen tall chimneys spouting clouds of ashy smoke. Smoke that carried with it the undeniable stench of burnt flesh.
“This is it,” said the old Jewish man fearfully. “The place that has nearly destroyed my people. The hell known as Auschwitz.”
Chuck felt dread fill him. During his hobby of studying the history of the Second World War, he had focused mainly on the heroic battles of those who had fought in the European and Pacific campaigns. But he had also explored the darker aspects of that horrible conflict, namely Hitler’s evil plan to completely erase the Jewish and Gypsy races from the face of the earth. Those grim stories of mass genocide had greatly disturbed him. He would much rather look upon the photographs of conquering generals and victorious armies, than at the grainy black and white images of skeletal holocaust victims and mass graves piled high with pale, naked bodies. But he could no long confine the ugly side of World War II to the back of his mind. For here it was, in stark reality, staring him squarely in the face, refusing to go away by the mere turning of a page.