by J. Thorn
McKindrey did not immediately look away from the gun. Instead he took his time until he had formulated what he felt was an adequate response to the insult he'd just been dealt. Hooking his thumbs into his gun belt, he smiled tightly. "I know you, son?"
"Doubt it. My name's Beau, though, just so we can officially say we're acquainted."
McKindrey reckoned it sounded like a faggot's name.
"Well, Beau," he said. "Why don't you give me one good reason why I shouldn't drag your black ass to jail for insultin' an officer of the peace?"
Without hesitation, the man nodded. "I'll give you two."
McKindrey felt himself tense as the man reached behind his back and produced a handgun, which he held up for the Sheriff to see as he cocked it. "This is one," Beau said, then nodded at something over McKindrey's shoulder, something the Sheriff realized much too late was the sound of more footsteps, coming at him fast. He cursed.
"That's two," the black man said, and McKindrey turned. He had the impression of a pale-face looming in his vision before something struck him hard between the eyes and he went down into the darkness.
*
He awoke with a groan and almost immediately two things dawned on him:
First, his nose was broken and throbbing like a teenager's pecker at the prom. He tasted blood on his lips. The tops of his cheeks were stiff and unyielding when he tried to gauge the extent of the damage by grimacing.
Secondly, he was no longer at the creek. The absence of sound was his first clue. The smell and the gloom confirmed it. Slaughterhouses had a similar odor, like shit and rotting carcasses. Automatically he tried to wrinkle his nose but the flare of pain stopped him and he spat a wad of blood and phlegm that landed with a smacking sound on the stone floor between his feet. He blinked to coerce his vision into cooperating, and a moment later, the room in which he sat with his hands bound behind him and his feet tied to the legs of the chair came into focus.
A kitchen, dirty and abandoned, the windows caked with dust, the floor littered with trash, broken dishes, and mouse droppings.
The kitchen of the Merrill place. He had never been inside the house before, but the procedures he'd been required to follow had occasionally brought him out this way, and more than once he'd peered in through the grimy glass to see if anyone was inside. Even when the Merrills had lived here, it hadn't been any tidier than it was now. Hygiene had never been a priority for that clan.
"What am I doin' here?" he croaked, every word scraping its way out of his raw throat.
A few feet away, the black man—Beau—leaned against the kitchen table eating a bag of Doritos. His gun rested on the table. Standing directly opposite McKindrey was the man he assumed had struck him.
"Nice of you to join us, Sheriff," he said.
This one was white, his hair coarse and dark above brilliant blue eyes that were almost manic. He was unshaven, a few days worth of stubble framing thin lips in a gaunt, narrow face. He wore a wrinkled black T-shirt and jeans.
"Who are you people?" McKindrey asked, and spat again, the bitter expression on his face intended to let them know the action was only partly out of necessity.
"This is Finch," Beau said around a mouthful of chips.
"That don't answer my question," McKindrey said. "But I hope you boys know the shit you're wadin' into by doin' this."
Finch appeared to be mulling this over, then he shrugged. "Not a whole lot I'd imagine, considering the way things tend to get forgotten, or breezed over in this town. People vanish all the time in your jurisdiction, don't they? So why would you assume anyone will miss you?"
"I got a wife," he told them. "Couple of hours and she'll have the state police out lookin' for me."
"You think?"
McKindrey nodded. "If I was you, I'd cut me loose and get goin' before you bring more trouble down on yourselves."
"We'll take that under advisement," said Finch, and stepped close to the Sheriff. "First I have a few questions. I suggest you answer them quickly and truthfully or your wife won't recognize you even if you do make it home, you understand?" While he spoke, he cocked his gun and aimed it at the floor, squinting through the sight. "Because unfortunately for you, we can't leave without some information, and my gut tells me you have it. So…" He dry-fired the gun, then retrieved a magazine from the table. "The sooner you tell us what we want to know, the sooner you'll get out of here." He slammed the clip home and leveled it at the Sheriff. "But for every question you don't answer, I'm going to shoot you somewhere that will hurt unlike anything you've ever felt before, but it won't kill you. And Beau here makes a killer tourniquet. I could cut off your head and I bet he'd be able to keep you alive long enough to answer our questions."
"Don't know about that," Beau said and upended the Doritos bag. Rust-colored crumbs filled his palm.
Finch smiled at him. It faded when he looked back at McKindrey. "So what's it to be? Are you gonna be a hard ass and make us get tough with you or what?"
"You boys are fools," McKindrey replied with a sour grin. "You think this is the way to get someone to cooperate? Y'all can go fuck yourselves way I see it."
In two steps Finch was up close and shoving his palm against McKindrey's broken nose. The agony was unbearable and the Sheriff writhed against it, the ropes digging into his hands as he clenched his teeth to keep the scream behind them. Unconsciousness loomed and was denied as Finch slapped him across the face, once, twice, and then a third time. "Listen to me you redneck fuck," he said, "You pass out and when you wake up there'll be pieces of you missing, got it?"
McKindrey took a moment to swallow the pain, to steel himself, though it was an enormous undertaking. "Go to hell," he said when he finally found his voice.
Finch shot him in the left foot. The bang was like a wrecking ball through the kitchen. McKindrey screamed.
"Fuck," Beau said, rubbing crumbs from the legs of his jeans. The Doritos bag was lying on the floor by his feet. "Warn me when you're gonna do that shit, all right?"
"How about now?" Finch asked, glaring at the Sheriff. "You sensing the rhythm we have going here?"
"Okay, okay," McKindrey told him, shutting his eyes as blood filled his boot. "Shit…" He was awash in sweat. "What do you want to know?"
"The Merrills," Finch said. "I want to know all you know about them. Who they are, where they went, and lastly, how they've managed to turn this town into the Bermuda Triangle without anyone taking them to task for it."
"I don't know," McKindrey said, spitting blood onto his shirt. He jumped at a sudden hiss, but it was only the black man, who had twisted the cap off a bottle of Orange Crush. Beau smiled at him as he took a sip.
"Wrong answer," Finch told him, and stepped back, gun aimed at the man's right foot this time. He cocked the hammer.
"No," said the Sheriff. "Wait. What I meant was I don't know everythin' you're askin'."
Finch didn't lower the gun. He waited.
McKindrey went on.
"They run this town, not me. That's the first thing you gotta understand. They run it because they own it. However it were done, whoever they kilt to get it, they own more than sixty-five percent of the land around here, mostly unpopulated, old farms, woods, that kind of thing. But even if they didn't, people here have learned to coexist with 'em best they can. They stay out of anywhere's got the Merrill name on the deed. No one interferes with their business, and they don't interfere with ours. You probably seen what happens when that changes."
Finch nodded. "Wellman and the farmer."
"They've been around long enough to know better. Should've just stayed out of it."
"And let a girl die."
McKindrey knew he had to be careful. He did not yet know what connection this man had with the girl that had escaped the Merrills. "That was unfortunate," he said.
"What was?" Finch asked. "What they did to her, or that she survived?"
The Sheriff shook his head. "Elkwood's nowhere. Six minutes away from not bein' on no
goddamn map no more. Nobody cares what happens here, 'cept those few who come lookin' for all that rustic rural bullshit. World's changin', ain't no place left that's got the feel of the old times to it. So sometimes folks come to Elkwood, lookin' for God only knows what. But that ain't what they find, and ain't no one gonna hunt 'em off. If'n you lived here, you'd understand. Fear can be a great governor."
"You saying Elkwood's a town full of cowards?"
McKindrey glared at him. "I'm sayin' it's a town full of scared folk, folk who feel bad for what happens here but ain't about to get kilt for doin' the right thing."
Finch smiled bitterly. "And your role is—what? Chief chickenshit?"
"I handle whatever I can. Whatever's in my power to handle. That's the job I were given and that's the job I do. Folks here feel safe because of me. They know nothin' gonna happen to them as long as they mind their business."
"So you do nothing, in other words."
McKindrey felt the strength ebbing from him, despite the awareness that he might need it if an advantage presented itself. He was exhausted and in a great deal of pain. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"I want you to tell me why you never called someone up in the dead of night who maybe wasn't such a spineless weasel and told them to get an army together to eradicate the Merrills. State police, FBI, whoever. There were always options. Why didn't you take them?"
"That dog don't hunt. Anyone who ever tried to go up against them ended up in the dirt," McKindrey told him. "They're vicious people, Mr. Finch. They'll stop at nothin', and there's no one they won't kill in the name of their God."
This gave the man pause, and a curious look passed over Finch's face. After a moment he asked, "Who is their God?"
McKindrey shrugged. "Same one as ours."
"Where do we find them?"
"I don't know."
Finch uncocked the gun, walked to the table and set it down beside his friend. Any relief the Sheriff might have experienced as a result of this development abated when the man picked up a hunting knife.
"Do you know what they did to the girl?" he asked.
"Yes," McKindrey admitted.
"Good. Then you might want to reconsider your answer. We've already taken your toes, just like the Merrills did to Claire. And in keeping with their methods, your fingers are next. Then your eye." He looked at his friend. Beau drained the bottle of orange crush, smacked his lips and handed it to him. Finch held it up and looked pointedly at the empty bottle as he spoke.
"They also raped her, Sheriff."
McKindrey felt cold in the pit of his stomach. He had no doubt that they would do all the things they'd threatened to do if he didn't give them what they want. So he started talking.
"The Mother," he said. "She got a brother or a nephew or somethin' livin' in Radner County. I don't know who he is, or whether he's as crazy as the rest of 'em, but he lives about twenty miles north of the chemical waste plant in Cottonwood. There's nothin' out there but dead land, a few abandoned homes. Can't say for sure that's where they went, but it's the only one of their kin I know about, and that's the God's honest."
Finch and his friend exchanged a look. Beau nodded.
"You've been a great help, Sheriff," said Finch.
They started to move, holstering weapons and sheathing knives. McKindrey waited until it was absolutely clear that they were not going to untie him before he started yelling.
"You sonsabitches! Let me go!"
The men had been heading for the door. Now they stopped. Beau muttered something in his friend's ear, then looked at McKindrey. "Nice knowin' you," he said and left, the door clattering shut behind him.
Finch lingered at the door.
"Untie me, I done told you all I know," McKindrey said.
Finch shook his head. "We'll get you on the way back," he said with a grin, and went outside.
In disbelief, McKindrey waited for the sound of their return, certain they were only making him sweat it for a few minutes more. But then came the unmistakable sound of their car starting up and then pulling away.
"You ain't comin' back, you hear me?" he screamed. "Mess with them and you ain't never comin' back!"
-31-
Papa-In-Gray looked up and smiled as Krall entered the cabin. "Join us in prayer, Jeremiah."
They were gathered around the table, waiting for him.
Krall looked from face to face. Disgusted, he turned without a word and stalked back outside, slamming the door behind him.
"We have to be patient," Papa explained, and reached out, palms turned upward, inviting them to join hands. All but Luke obeyed, preoccupied as he was by something over the door only he could see. His mouth was open, his face vacant. Aaron had washed him, but hadn't expended too much effort on it, as he was not entirely convinced that Luke would not turn on them again. He had yet to see proof that there had been any change at all. As a result, there were still smudges of blood on the boy's face and neck, and flecks of flesh tangled in his hair. Aaron roughly grabbed his hand and a moment later, Isaac, on the other side of Luke, did the same.
"Your uncle's grievin'," Papa continued, "And we know what that can do, no matter how strong your faith. Ain't we grievin' ourselves? But we know how to use that for the good, how to turn it into fuel in our fight against the coyotes. Poor Jeremiah has no faith, not yet, so he don't even have God to hate."
"So he hates us instead," Aaron said sourly. Grieving or not, Aaron didn't much like Uncle Krall. He'd never met the man before, and wasn't too impressed now that he had. For one, he was not a man of faith, and Aaron had watched his expressions as Papa told them what had to be done, and why. Up until he'd seen Momma, he'd shown contempt, whether for Papa or his beliefs Aaron didn't know, but in his mind they amounted to the same thing. Papa was a vessel for the Almighty, which made Krall's disdain akin to blasphemy. His sudden interest in Luke was troubling, as if Luke's poison might be spreading, infecting him too.
"He only has himself," Papa said. "He'll come around."
"What if he don't?"
"It'll come," said Papa. "Soon as the outsiders set foot on his land and try to claim him, he'll find his faith."
Aaron sighed and glanced at Luke, who was still staring vapidly at nothing. "I think Luke's gone slow," he said, "He ain't talked since we took him outta Momma."
"What you're seein' in your brother now," Papa said, addressing them all, "is the effect of the poison when it's been purged. It leaves you empty, hurts your mind. Like your uncle, Luke's return will take time, but return he shall, and he'll be stronger than us all."
Aaron remained doubtful. Papa seemed certain that Luke's rebirth would cure the poison. The twins wanted to believe it. But they hadn't been the ones to find Momma-In-Bed that night after Luke tried to kill their father. Whatever a medical man would say was the cause of death would be wrong. Fear and heartbreak had taken her from them. Fear of the coyotes that were gathering in the woods, biding their time, drawn by the scent of panic. She would have sensed them out there, knowing long before they went to try and track down the girl that it was already too late, that the end was coming. And maybe, as Luke was turning on them all, angels had come to her and told her what had happened at the Wellman place, what her favorite son had tried to do.
She'd died alone, and screaming.
Aaron had found her with her face paralyzed by terror, her dead eyes bulging from their sockets, her long tongue blue and limp against her flaccid chin. The stink in the room had been terrible, worse than it had ever been while she'd lived, forcing him to try to open the window for the first time in years. But it was stuck firm; some kind of greasy brown sludge had hardened in the gaps, and in the end he was forced to take off his shirt, wrap it around his hand and shatter the glass.
As he'd set about cleaning the waste that had flooded from her as her bodily functions quit working, he thought of what his brother had done to Papa, to them all. He recalled Papa's bravery. Or perhaps it had been the same misguided be
lief in his son's faith that he was showing now that had made him stand his ground as Luke tried to run him down. Either way, he had shot Luke in the throat, causing him to jerk the wheel to the right and away from Papa, clipping him with the fender and cracking his knee. Once the full extent of his brother's corruption had been made clear, Aaron had found himself disappointed to realize the bullet had only grazed Luke's throat.
It would have been better if it had killed him.
Papa squeezed his and Joshua's hands in his own. "Now," he said. "A final prayer before the war."
Aaron waited until their heads were bowed before he glanced again at Luke. He leaned over so that his lips were touching his brother's ear. "If'n you ain't better," he whispered. "I'll do to you what I done to that whore sister of ours."
"Aaron," Pa chastised and yanked on his hand.
"Yes, Pa."
They began to pray, and when next Aaron looked, he saw that Luke was no longer staring at the wall, but at him, his eyes empty and soulless.
*
Almost four hours after leaving Louise to die on the park bench, Pete arrived on Redwood Lane, a long tree-lined street wet from the recent rain. He had missed the turnoff the elderly man he'd approached for directions had told him to look for, and had ended up going almost three miles too far before turning around and going back.
Now he was on the street, but wasn't sure which of the many houses was Claire's. He rolled down the window admitting the smell of smoke and damp earth, the breeze winding through the boughs of fire-colored leaves to bring him the scent of autumn. After almost an hour spent driving the half-mile length of Redwood Lane hoping to catch a glimpse of her in one of the yards, or on the street, or perhaps as a pale ghost through one of the large windows at the front of many of the expensive looking houses, he conceded and pulled the truck up a short gravel driveway. The house was painted sky blue with rusty red trim, the lawn neatly clipped. As he got out and walked up the drive, an old man wearing a brown wool sweater and dark brown slacks opened the front door and peered warily out at him.