by J. Thorn
"The Sheriff? Why? You think he's goin' to help?"
"We're not going to give him a choice. Someone down there did a good job covering things up so the trail would lead away from the killers and right to Wellman's door. Tell me how a Sheriff can live a few miles from a bunch of murdering lunatics for years and not know anything about it."
Beau thought about this. "Maybe they threatened him."
"Yeah, probably. But if you're living in fear for your life in a town with a bunch of maniacs, you don't stick around. You move, and then you tell people all you know."
"So you think this guy's a rotten apple."
"That, or a coward. But we need him. And Claire. I want to know all she knows. The more information we have about who, or what we're going up against, the better prepared we can be."
"What makes you think she'll tell you anythin'? You know what it's like to walk through Hell. It isn't somethin' you enjoy talkin' about, right?"
"Like I said, when someone you love has been killed, there's a whole lot of rage. And she loved Danny. She'll want justice as much as I do."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Worst case scenario, we work with what the Sheriff gives us."
"Assuming he'll talk."
Finch gave him a dark look. "Beau, you're not hearing me. I said we're not going to give him a choice."
Beau began to pace. "So when we leavin'?"
"Friday night."
Beau stopped. "This Friday?"
"Yeah. We got two days to get our shit together."
"Why so soon?"
Finch looked annoyed. "It isn't soon, man. It's been eleven goddamn weeks. As it stands it'll be a miracle if that family hasn't already pulled up stakes and moved on. If they have, our job is going to be a whole lot harder. We need to do this now before they vanish off the face of the earth forever."
-24-
"I once beat a man until he cried like a baby just for looking at my sister the wrong way," Jeremiah Krall said. "What makes you think I won't chop your goddamn head off for deliverin' her to me dead?"
Papa shook his head. "Because it ain't my doin', that's why. I can understand what you must be feelin' right now: hurt, anger, sadness, but you're quarrel ain't with me. Outsiders done this, and if what Momma said before she died has any truth to it, then it won't be long before they send folks to try to get us. I figure you might appreciate bein' here to see their murderin' faces when they do."
They were standing at the back of the battered truck they had bought from Lawrence Hall, the old mechanic back in Elkwood. Stricken by fear at the sight of Papa-In-Gray limping into his garage, he'd sold the vehicle for a song and eschewed the paperwork in an effort to be clear of him quicker. But from the start, the truck hadn't run right. It didn't much favor steep inclines and spluttered a lot, but it was better than nothing, and they'd only needed it to get them as far as Radner County, and Krall's place. Once they got settled, assuming Krall allowed them to stay, they could seek out a replacement and dispose of Hall's junker.
In the bed of the truck was an enormous dirty white tarp they had once used to drag bodies from one shed to another and to cover logs in winter. It was raised up enough to obscure the small window at the back of the truck's cab, but Papa sensed the three boys watching.
"What happened to her?" Krall asked. There had been no discernible change in his tone since he'd first stepped foot into the cabin. Even the news of his sister's death hadn't appeared to rattle him, but Papa guessed he should be glad of that. Another man might have used his grief as an excuse to kill the messenger.
"Heart, I reckon. She's had problems for a while."
"You reckon?"
"We didn't have no time to get her seen to, and there weren't much sense in it. She was gone, and we needed to be quick about leavin'."
The tarp moved. Papa saw it and was not surprised, but he saw Krall frown and look around, as if expecting to find the wind had risen suddenly. It hadn't, and he drew his gaze back to the truck.
The tarp moved again, rising in the middle as if the body underneath was struggling to get up.
"Now what the hell is this?" Krall said, and despite his apparent fearlessness, moved back a step. "You sure she's dead?"
Papa nodded a single time. "I'm sure."
This time something seemed to punch at the tarp from underneath. Rainwater that had puddled in the folds ran down the material.
"If'n you let varmints get at her, 'ol man, you ain't drawin' another breath," Krall told Papa. Now that the initial surprise had abated, the man's gruff tone had returned, though it was laced with a note of confusion.
Without a word, but not without effort, Papa grabbed the edge of the truck bed and hauled himself up. Krall watched impassively as the old man began to untie the cords that were restraining the now pulsating corpse. Rain made the sound of fingernails drumming against the material as Papa hunkered down with a wince—his leg had been bothering him since the night Luke had clipped him with the fender of the truck, and it was not showing any signs of getting better—and grabbed the upper hem of the tarp. He paused, both for effect, and to look up at the boys. Aaron, Isaac and Joshua had their faces pressed against the cab window, their features misted by their breath against the glass. He offered them a faint smile. All the way here Aaron had chatted excitedly to his silent brothers about the unveiling Papa had promised them once they reached Krall's cabin, and now Papa was keeping that promise.
The old man glanced over his shoulder at Krall, who stood in the rain looking as fierce as always, but now he looked curious too.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Papa told him. "And mine too. But it's times like these we got to think about rebirth, about the good that can come from tragedy. Momma-In-Bed asked me to make her a promise and to let you know it was her wish."
He began to unroll the tarp. Maggots spilled out onto the truck bed. Noxious fumes rose from the corpulent remains, but they did not bother Papa. To him it was a sweet perfume and one he would miss once they put his wife in the ground. He took a moment to whisper a short prayer over the body, then rose and tugged the covering away from her. Underneath, she was naked, the enormous mounds of skin a bluish gray.
"Goddamn maggots," Krall said in disgust and waved a hand. "It's them that's makin' her move."
Papa looked at him serenely. "No," he said. "It isn't." With a nod he indicated the thick black stitching that ran from the base of Momma's throat to her groin. Some of the stitches had ripped. Krall stepped up onto the bed to get a better look, though there was scarcely room, and the truck was in danger of flipping over backward under his weight. He stooped forward a little and shook his head, then looked coldly at Papa.
"You said you didn't bring her to a doctor."
"Correct."
"So who cut her opened?"
"We did. At her request."
"The hell for?" Krall was outraged.
Suddenly Momma's midsection lurched upward, pushed from within, sending maggots tumbling, and he took another involuntary step back. The truck rocked on its wheels.
Papa reached into his coat and produced from within a pocketknife, the edge well maintained and razor-sharp. "Momma died from fear, Jeremiah," he said. "She knew our world was comin' to an end, and couldn't bear the thought of us bein' claimed. They already poisoned our baby girl, and then Luke. She loved that boy and wanted to take him back. To give him another chance." He smiled. "So that's what we done."
He bent low, stuck the blade between two of the stitches, and began to saw at them. The pressure from within the corpse subsided. It took only a moment for the thread to snap, the flesh to gape, and when it did Krall joined him in looking down.
"Jesus Christ Almighty," Krall whispered in horror.
"Rebirth," Papa said simply, as both men stared down at the fingers slowly wriggling out from inside Momma-In-Bed's corpse.
-25-
"What are you doing up?" Kara asked. "It's late."
Claire shrugged, and fingered the c
ell phone on the kitchen table, setting it spinning. She watched the slow revolutions until it came to a stop, then did it again. "Couldn't sleep."
"Well, you should try. I have some pills."
"I don't need pills. I'm sick of pills."
Kara, dressed in a pair of red silk pajamas, came around the table and sat down opposite her sister. Claire's eye was swollen from crying, the lid puffy, and there were dark bags beneath both sockets. Her hair, always so lustrous, was lank and tousled. Kara didn't imagine she herself looked any better. She had slept a little, but not much. Worry for her sister, and the memory of her conversation with Finch had kept her awake.
She looked around the kitchen, quiet but for the sound of Claire playing with the phone. It seemed odd seeing the room like this. Ordinarily such a hodge-podge of activity, for both girls and their mother loved—or had loved, at least—to cook, in the early morning hours, it seemed abandoned despite their presence, the sun not yet risen to give it the cheery glow they were used to seeing. The clock on the microwave told her dawn was still an hour or so away.
"We should make breakfast for Mom," Kara suggested. "It'll be nice."
"I don't feel up to it," Claire said. She continued to stare at the phone until Kara felt compelled to do the same. Earlier, she had walked in on her sister and found her on the phone, her dead boyfriend's number on the nightstand, and had quickly deduced what she was up to. Saddened, and more than a little frightened, she had attempted to talk some sense into Claire, then watched as her sister went rigid with shock as she hung up the phone, dropped it on the floor and began to sob into her hands. There was someone on the line, she'd said, and though Kara had no doubt Claire had imagined it, it still broke her heart to see her sister this way.
She's broken, she thought. And I don't know how to fix her.
Maybe Finch does, another part of her suggested, but she quickly overruled it. Finch was handling his grief the way he had handled every other trial in his life, the way he had handled her—with anger. Whatever he did, short of therapy, would solve nothing. All she could do now was protect her sister from his obsession.
"Maybe I'll make us something," she said, to get away from the same incessant badgering of her thoughts that had denied her a good night's sleep. "Maybe a ham and cheese omelet? Some onions, peppers..."
"I'm not hungry," Claire said.
Since she'd joined her, Claire had yet to make eye contact. She was so fixated on that damn cell phone, Kara had to resist the urge to snatch it away from her.
"Somebody answered," her sister said now, surprising her, as if they'd both been tuned in to the same mental frequency.
"What?"
"Somebody answered when I called Daniel's phone."
Kara exhaled slowly. "I know you think—"
Claire continued as if she hadn't heard. "Somebody answered. Whoever it was didn't say anything. They just listened."
The strength of the sincerity in her voice, coupled with the eerie look of intense concentration sent a shiver through Kara. "Honey..."
"I wonder if it was enough."
"Enough? For what?"
And now Claire did look up. Her eyes were free of tears, of sleep, and startlingly clear. "Enough to trace the signal," she said.
*
She didn't expect Kara to believe her, and didn't care. She loved her sister, but her presence here, now, while Claire was lost in her thoughts, meant that she was good only as a sounding board for her own. And it had worked. She knew from the movies that signals could be traced when someone made a call from a cell phone, but not if the phone being answered was traceable. But she was determined to find out. There was little sense in sharing this idea with Kara; she had done so only to hear it spoken aloud, and it still sounded reasonable. The killers had Daniel's phone. Tonight they had answered it. If she could get that information to someone who would believe her, someone who could use that information, then it might make all the difference.
She looked at her sister.
"I don't..." Kara said, looking helpless, frustrated.
"I've changed my mind. Let's make the omelet," Claire said, to deny Kara another chance to make her doubt herself. Relief washed over her sister's face and she reached over and squeezed Claire's hand. Claire forced a smile to placate her further, but behind her eyes she was remembering what Ted Craddick had said earlier. Has Danny's brother been to see you? He's calling on all the parents, and he mentioned wanting to see you too.
She studied the name displayed in black against the cell phone's glowing green LCD background:
T. FINCH
*
Red was still alive, and wailing like a child with a cut knee, though of course his injuries were a lot worse than that. He was on his back on the floor, rolling over and back. Louise stood by the couch, a trembling hand to her mouth, alternating horrified glances from the writhing form of Red to Pete, who watched her, eyes wide, his whole body shaking violently.
Get it together, she told herself, but for most of her life, that secret, inner voice had tried to guide her and she had seldom heeded its advice. Don't go with Wayne, it had said, or believe for one second what he's promisin' you. You're smarter than that. Don't leave the boy. Don't leave Jack, the only man who didn't hit you and never would for one who probably will. Again and again, she had refused to listen to reason, opting instead for spontaneity and gut instinct to lead her to greener pastures and ultimately, the fulfillment of ambitions she'd harbored since childhood. And not a single one of those gambles had paid off. Now, she intended to pay attention, and to do what good sense was telling her.
"Pete," she said. "We've got to get out of here."
He simply stared dumbly at her.
Quickly, she stepped around the fallen man. The end of the shard jutted from his ruined eye, his hands weaving around it as if desperate to pull it out but afraid what might happen if he did. Occasionally the heel of one palm would bump the shard and he would convulse and cry out. His right cheek was drenched in blood.
"Pete," she said, louder now as she came to him. He continued to stare at her. The boy had saved them both from certain death. For now. But he was young, and the guilt and horror of what he'd just done to another human being would no doubt override all others. All he would see was that shard, slicing through a man's eyeball, over and over again.
She clamped her hands on his shoulder and brought her face close to his. "Thank you," she told him. "Thank you for helpin' me. He would have hurt us both before he was through. You know that, don't you?"
He didn't answer.
"Look...I know you feel bad, but we've got to get out of here. We've got to run, and I can't do that on my own. I'm gonna need your help. Are you with me, Pete?"
Expressionless now, his eyes on hers, lips parted slightly, she feared she might have lost him again, this time to himself and not as a casualty of her selfishness, though both incidences were, at the back of it all, her fault. Had she not left him in the first place, he wouldn't have had to track her down, and wouldn't have—
Stop it, she chided herself. Just stop. This is gettin' you nowhere. You start thinkin' about blame and in a few minutes both of you are goin' to be walkin' out of here in handcuffs because you lost the will to move.
"Shit." She struggled against tears. "Will you do this with me? Will you do this for your Momma?"
At that, a small light reentered his eyes. He blinked but his expression remained the same.
"He was goin' to rape me, Pete. You had to stop him. And now we gotta get goin' or they'll throw us both in jail."
He wouldn't, or couldn't speak.
With rising urgency, Louise noted the faintest strains of red peering through the buildings beyond her window like blood in the cracks between tiles. They were out of time.
On the floor, Red was muttering curses. "Fuggin'....kill youuu....they'll...."
"C'mon," Louise said, and clumsily guided Pete toward the door, shielding him with her body as best she could from the s
ight of the wounded man. At the apartment door, she put her hand to his cheek. "I want you to wait for me outside."
He looked at her.
"I want you to wait outside," she repeated. "Don't talk to no one. Don't go nowhere. I'm just goin' to be a few minutes. Gotta get dressed, okay?"
She didn't wait for a response, doubted he had one, so she opened the door and gently pushed him over the threshold. A quick check showed no one in the hall. Satisfied, she stepped back into the apartment, leaving him alone. "Wait," she told him, with a look of pleading, and closed the door behind her.
*
"Fuggin...bitch...My eye...." Red moaned. He was up on one elbow, struggling to get up. Louise watched him from the door, her hummingbird heart threatening to stall under the weight of panic.
You can't leave him like this. You know that.
Red dug his heels into the carpet and after a moment, managed to get to his knees. He swallowed, and glared at her, the ruined eye only adding to the malevolence. "Gonna kill you," he said hoarsely. "Wasn't gonna, but now..." He sneered, blood trickling over his lips, streaking his cheeks. Breath rattled from his lungs.
"I'm sorry," Louise said, and meant it. This was not part of any plan. No one had promised her this. It had happened all on its own, and now it would have to continue.
"Bitch," Red said, swaying slightly.
Louise took a deep breath and in three short strides was across the room and standing before him. She saw him tense to strike her despite the extent of his injuries, but he never had the chance. She was crouching down and in his face, one hand grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking his head back before he could even draw back a fist. Then, eyes narrowed so she might be spared the full extent of her actions when the memory of them came back to haunt her, opened her free hand and drove her palm against the shard, slicing her own skin and forcing the thick glass into Red's brain.