From Darkness Comes: The Horror Box Set (8 Book Collection)

by J. Thorn

  A split-second before the arrow found him, Finch saw another shadow detach itself from the trees behind the boy. He might have cheered, might have cried to realize that it was his friend come to save him. But the chance for salvation for men of their kind was long gone, and would never be found here, or anywhere else.

  *

  Stunned, Aaron fell backward, his momentum halted by what he assumed was a tree until it moved, large hands grabbing fistfuls of his hair and jerking him off his feet. He fell, the gunshot wound burning in his shoulder.

  "You son of a bitch," his assailant cursed, and then was upon him like a ravenous animal, punching him in the face, ramming his meaty knuckles into the flesh, cracking bone. Aaron did not struggle. He simply lay there, enduring the battering, one hand silently and slowly straying to his belt and the knife nestled there, the handle hard against his exposed belly.

  "Where are the rest of them?" the man asked and abruptly rose, dragging Aaron to his feet. The boy let the strength leave him so that the man was burdened with his weight and would have to struggle to keep his own balance. "I said where the fuck are they?" Spittle flew from his lips and Aaron had to restrain a cry as it found his eyes. He's poisoned me, he thought desperately. His venom's in me. Oh Jesus...

  Driven by fear of a kind previously unknown to him, he grabbed the knife and swung it up and out in a short arc. His attacker moved away, but not quickly enough. The blade slashed his chest, and he grunted in pain. Aaron did not wait for him to recover. He moved in low and fast, dodging the man's fists, and jammed the blade up to the hilt in his belly and kept it there even as those large hands found the sides of his face like a lover about to impart a secret, and squeezed.

  Aaron moaned.

  "Fucker," the man said, and began to turn Aaron's face away from him. The boy tried to jerk the knife upward but his hand no longer felt under his command, refusing to obey his instructions to keep traveling up until the coyote was split wide open. Agony seared his throat as his neck muscles began to protest the angle at which his head was being forced to turn. His vision wobbled, dimmed.

  "Stop," he whimpered, his voice sounding muffled and very far away.

  The man merely grunted, his trembling hands clamped like a vice against the sides of the boy's head.

  "Stop," Aaron said once more as his muscles became ropes of fire, bones cracked and split, and he was suddenly facing in the opposite direction, all feeling gone but for a momentary incredible starburst of pain that buzzed through his brain before the lights went out.

  *

  On the bank of a sluggishly moving river almost a half-mile to the north of Krall's cabin, Papa-In-Gray knelt down in the reeds, joined his hands and prayed. Beside him, thrumming with anxiety, stood Isaac, who had come to deliver the word that Aaron and Joshua had fallen to the Men of the World, but not, he'd said with obvious pride, without taking their attackers with them.

  When Papa was done with his requests that his boys be sainted, and fairly recognized in the Kingdom of Heaven, he rose with a grimace of pain and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "We move on," he said. "No place they've touched can be used again. They'll have turned this place to poison, and it will spread." He shook his head in sadness. "Your brothers were brave," he said, gazing down into Isaac's eyes, in which he saw no grief, only anger and impatience. "As were you. But we must take our mission elsewhere." He sighed, and crossed his arms. "Where is Luke?"

  Isaac shrugged.

  "Did they take him?"

  The boy shook his head.

  "If he's alive, he'll find us. Your Uncle Krall knows where we'll be, assuming that fool has come to his senses and ain't so much raw meat scattered by the coyotes."

  Together they walked the bank, following the moon, until they found a spot where the river was shallow and hardly moving at all, a tangle of broken branches and other detritus forming a natural dam, so that the water was only a few feet deep. As quietly as they could, they waded across the freezing water, both of them keeping a vigilant watch on the trees ahead, as well as those behind. Isaac had said two men had fallen, but there might yet be more of them, and if they let themselves relax without being sure, it could be the end of them. Every shadow was a coyote in hiding, every snap of a twig a footfall, every rustle one of them shifting their weight in preparation for ambush.

  They reached the riverbank on the opposite side, and gingerly ascended through the reeds and cattails. Isaac's breath was a low steady hiss, and Papa knew he was eager to have his taste of war with the Men of the World, that he envied the glorious deaths of his brothers. They had fought the fight of angels, felling the demons that had come to corrupt their hearts and souls, and it must have been a magnificent sight to behold. But he would get his chance sooner or later, because on the heels of the coyotes would come others seeking vengeance, seeking an end to Papa and his kind.

  Papa was tired. As he paused a moment to catch his breath, his knee aching, he looked up at the stars above, their glow lessened by the great light of the moon, and felt a pang of sadness at all he had lost. Matthew, Joshua and Aaron were gone, murdered by the Men of the World, and Mama-In-Bed too, killed by her fear of them, and from the heartbreak at seeing Luke contaminated. Luke's own allegiances remained to be seen, though Papa had faith. He had no choice. Alone he was defenseless against the awesome forces which existed to oppose him, and Isaac was young, an efficient killer but naïve, and not strong enough to be of much use if their nemeses came again. He needed Luke now to stand with him.

  Isaac radiated impatience, his dark eyes twinkling in the gloom, and Papa nodded, waved a hand for him to proceed into the dark woods ahead. He watched as the young boy, limbs rigid with tension, hurried into the trees. After a moment, he followed, stowing that sadness, for it was not an emotion that could be used. It was a weakness, and for as long as he'd walked the earth, it had been a flaw easily exploited. He had encouraged his boys to shun it and they had learned to do so. That it should come back now, after all this time, unsettled him, tempted him to question the wisdom of proceeding any further.

  No, he decided, angry at himself. We must.

  He had doubted before and God had punished him.

  He would not doubt again.

  Teeth clenched, he ignored the nagging pain in his leg and willed himself forward into the woods.

  -37-

  The cruiser crept so close that Pete thought for a moment it was going to run him down. With great effort he stood his ground and the vehicle halted, the headlights on either side of him, the grille almost touching his knees. Dust swept out from under the tires, momentarily blinding him. He swallowed, and wiped a hand over his face. He was hungry, tired and dirty, in need of a bath, and he was afraid, though it felt odd to be afraid of Sheriff McKindrey, who had always been decent to him and had treated him with sympathy and kindness once it had been revealed what had happened to his Pa. But back then, Pete hadn't been on the run, had done nothing to give the police reason to track him down. They sure had a reason now, and more than one.

  For a moment, after the car stopped, nothing happened. The engine made the sound of a clock ticking away the seconds as it cooled. The lights were still on, so Pete could only see the vague shape of the man inside the vehicle. It unnerved him further, made him think of running and to hell with the consequences. But he was not alone, and to run would put more than himself at risk. Claire needed him, as she had needed him from the moment he'd first set eyes on her, and nothing she would ever say or do would convince him he was wrong. She was hurt, angry, confused. He knew that now, and realized he should have recognized it before, having felt those same exact emotions in the days after his father's death.

  He loved her, and so would do as she had asked.

  The cruiser door opened and above the lights, Pete saw McKindrey wince and lean on the door for a moment as he put his hat on and tugged the brim down so that it cast a shadow over his eyes. A wide white bandage was taped over his nose and deep bruises ringed his eyes.
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  "Pete," he said by way of acknowledgment.

  "Hi Sheriff," Pete said.

  McKindrey rested his elbows on the door and looked around. "What brings you all the way out here? Last I heard, you'd split town."

  "I come back," Pete told him. "Wanted to see if I could find whoever hurt my Pa."

  McKindrey nodded his understanding. "But we got the man did that, son."

  "No."

  "No?"

  Pete shook his head. "Weren't that doctor did this. He were a decent man. He wouldn'ta hurted no one. He tried to help."

  "That so?"

  "Sure is."

  "They say he was out of his mind. Went crazy after his wife passed."

  "People say whatever they like. I knew him. Saw him that night and he looked fine to me."

  McKindrey nodded at the house behind Pete. "So what was it you was plannin' to do if you found them out here?"

  Pete shrugged. It was an easy question to answer because he hadn't really known from the moment he'd set his sights on the Merrills what he'd hoped to achieve if he ever found himself face to face with them. He wanted them all dead, that was for sure, but it wasn't likely he'd ever be able to do that on his own, and now, they weren't even here and he was probably going to end up in jail just for thinking about it. "Dunno," he said.

  "Well," McKindrey said, finally moving away from the car door and shutting it behind him. He moved only a foot or so before he grimaced and leaned against the hood. "Shit."

  "You all right?"

  "Yep. Busted myself up pretty good down by the creek."

  "Sorry to hear that."

  McKindrey nodded. "My own damn fault. I gotta learn to keep my eyes open." He folded his arms. "Pete…you know you shouldn't be out here."

  "Yes sir."

  "And you know I told you I'd find out all I could about what happened to your daddy and try to put this whole thing to rest, didn't I?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Well, you should've listened to me. Have I ever lied to you?"

  "No sir."

  "Right. Then why do you want to go causin' trouble for me?"

  "I didn't think about it, to tell the truth. I just wanted to come back here and try to teach these people a lesson. They shouldn't be let to kill people like they do, Sheriff."

  McKindrey's gaze was hard. "Well now, that's a mighty big accusation to be puttin' on folks unless you've got proof of some kind. Do you?"

  Pete thought about this, was about to admit that he hadn't any proof other than the memory of waking up to find the Merrill family in his house that night years ago, when he remembered Claire.

  "I reckon I do," he said, and smiled. "The girl who escaped 'em is with me. She knows the doctor didn't do nothin'. She knows who did."

  McKindrey nodded, as if he knew all along that Pete wasn't alone. "Where's she at?"

  "Inside," Pete replied. "But she wants to be let alone for a while. I reckon she's tryin' to find whatever's left of her friends' belongin's."

  "Trespassin's what she's doin', Pete," McKindrey said, but to the boy's relief, didn't make a move. "Now I been sent out here to get her by her sister, who wants her home. She's been through enough without makin' it worse for herself and worryin' everybody else."

  "We didn't want to make it worse," Pete told him. "We just had to come back. Couldn't just let things die the way they did. Nobody knows the truth and I reckon they need to know. And I figure Claire's come back to close the door on some of that bad stuff. I guess once we're done, you probably won't never see her again."

  "That would suit me," McKindrey said. "Goddamn town has enough trouble without folks who was lucky enough to get free of it comin' back to stir up more." He glanced briefly down at his foot, which was wrapped in bandages and shreds of an old shirt, and shook his head. "Now you know I'm real sorry about what happened to your Pa, but you've gotta accept the fact that he weren't a happy man. He took his own life, son, and that's the truth of it right there. Whatever happened with those kids and that doctor, or whoever done it to them, it doesn't involve you and you shouldn't be stuck in the middle of it."

  "But Claire said—"

  McKindrey raised a hand. "It don't concern me what Claire said. Whatever happened to her messed her up real bad and I reckon, between you and me, that she probably ain't been right since. Probably convinced herself that some family she saw passin' by her on the road were the ones that did this to her. It happens, you know. Mind has a funny way of makin' up for lost memory. Happened to my own stepbrother Willard. He went out harvestin' corn, got drunk and fell over, hit his head on a rock. Swore up and down it was the scarecrow had thumped him upside the head. Still believes it too."

  "It ain't like that, Sheriff."

  The Sheriff frowned. "How the hell do you know what it is or ain't, son? Were you there when whatever happened to that girl happened?"

  "No," Pete admitted.

  "So how do you know who done what?"

  "She told me."

  "Don't matter what she told you if her mind's half-gone now does it?"

  Pete shrugged.

  "Hell boy, if I told you a bear chewed on my foot would you believe it?"

  "I guess so."

  "Why?"

  "Because…you're the Sheriff."

  "And you figure I wouldn't lie to you."

  "Sure."

  "You believe everythin' that girl tells you because maybe you got your eye on her, am I right?"

  Pete felt his cheeks grow warm. "I dunno."

  "Yeah," McKindrey said with a grin. "That's it all right. She could tell you the sky's green and the grass's blue and you'd believe it if you thought she were gonna let you into that sweet pink paradise of hers."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Never mind. It don't matter. What does matter, son, is somethin' you may not be aware of."

  "What?"

  "Her sister thinks you kidnapped Claire."

  Pete's mouth dropped open. "No…She asked me to take her here, I swear it!"

  McKindrey hushed him. "I believe you. I do. But a whole lotta folks won't, and the longer you stay down here foolin' around, the deeper the shit you're in's gonna get."

  "I wouldn't kidnap no one."

  "Course you wouldn't, but folks'll suspect you're sweet on that girl, and they'll know she ain't right in the head, so they'll reckon you told her to come down here so you could have her to yourself."

  "That ain't how it is."

  "But that's what they'll say. They'll ask themselves why a rich white Northern gal like that would come all the way down here with a poor young buck like you, and they'll come up with all sorts of awful notions. Then you'll be the bad guy."

  "Claire'll—"

  McKindrey limped away from the car and put his hands on the boy's shoulders. Like a lame dog, he kept his wounded foot slightly raised. "Listen," he said in a quiet voice. "Claire won't do shit for you when you need it. You need to forget about her before she hangs you out to dry. See, the folks who done this to her are long gone, way out of her reach, so she needs to punish someone. That's why she's here. She can't stand the fact that no one's gonna swing for what they did to her, so she'll maybe lead you inside that house, let you fuck her, then she'll cry rape and claim you tried to kill her just like you did before."

  Alarmed, Pete shook his head. "Sheriff…I took care of her. I drove her to the hospital."

  "Sure you did. And she'll say you did it out of guilt for what you did to her after killin' her friends and havin' your way with her. She'll say she was confused, thought someone else did it, but when she saw you at her house it all came back to her. Then she'll say you dragged her into your truck and brought her back here." He shook his head in sadness. "And who's gonna say otherwise? Wellman might have backed you up, but he's dead. Your Pa too. Who else is gonna prove what you say is the truth?"

  No, Pete told himself. You don't know Claire. She wouldn't do that to me. But as he had already realized earlier, though he had committed himself t
o the task of protecting her, at the back of it all, he didn't know her at all, and hadn't liked what he seen since arriving at her house. She was cold, and weren't cold people capable of the kinds of things McKindrey was suggesting now? Nevertheless it seemed impossible that he could be so completely wrong about someone. But why would McKindrey lie?

  His head hurt from the strain of trying to make sense of it. He was torn between the desire to stay and look after Claire, all in the hope that she would show her appreciation for his efforts, and heeding the Sheriff's advice to avoid the kind of nightmare the man had detailed for him as the most likely reward for his loyalty.

  "What do I do?" he asked.

  McKindrey nodded as if Pete had answered a math problem correctly. "You get goin'," he said. "They're only interested in the girl, not you, unless you give them reason to be. Head back into town and wait for me in my office. Stella's there, she'll make you a nice cup of somethin'."

  "What are you goin' to do?"

  The Sheriff sighed and put his hands on his hips. "Talk to her, I expect. See if I can get her to come with me without makin' things hard. We need to get her back to her people."

  "Why can't I wait and get a ride from you?"

  "Because I don't want you around if she decides to make up another one of her stories. Least if you're with Stella, she can vouch for you, you know?"

  Pete shook his head.

  "She can say you were there and not here," McKindrey explained.

  "You ain't gonna hurt her, are you?"

  "No," McKindrey told him. "Not even a little bit."

  *

  Breath trapped in her throat, a hand over her nose to keep the foul stench away, Claire stood by the grime-encrusted window, listening. She hadn't been able to make out what the Sheriff had said to Pete, but whatever it was, it proved enough to convince him that he was better off leaving her. She watched, incredulous, as the boy cast one final longing glance back at the house and started down the path toward the road, and the truck. McKindrey, looking like every hillbilly sheriff she'd ever seen on TV, stood with his hat tipped back away from his forehead, fists clenched on his hips, monitoring the boy's progress. All he was short was some chaw. She could clearly imagine him leaning over and spitting a great gob of tobacco juice into the dirt.