Dez was quiet.
Smile paused his circular stroll. “See, Joe has this theory. He believes that prejudices never went away at all. In the last century, I mean. He thinks people just got better at hiding it. Racism, homophobia, the rest. Now the prejudices are free to reign, like the monsters.”
The word made Dez tighten. He glanced left and right, fought an urge to look over his shoulder. But what if Smile was just distracting him while Joe stole around behind to knock him down, steal his crossbow and his guns? Maybe even sell him to the cannibals. No reason to believe the pair didn’t work for Keaton. They hung out at his bar, after all. Maybe everyone was part of the operation.
“Chill, Dez,” Smile said. “I’m not out here to trick you. Truth is, I hate the fucking cold. My balls are shrunk to the size of BBs.”
“Why you here then? To give me a sermon on bigotry?”
Smile chuckled louder this time, more genuinely. “I’m not preaching. That’s Weeks’s job. No, I’m just telling you to make sure he kills you.”
“You with Keaton?”
Smile favored him with a look that was at once incredulous and world-weary. “Shit. Maybe Joe was right.”
Dez nodded toward the path. “I’m going.”
“To Keaton’s house?”
Dez nodded.
“Once it starts,” Smile said, “you can’t accept anything other than death.”
Dez lifted his chin. “I can beat him.”
Smile hooked his thumbs in his pockets, shook his head. “In a movie maybe. Not in this world. Unless you get out now, he’s gonna kill you. Him or one of his men.” He sobered. “You need to make sure that’s all he does.”
“You think he’ll sell me like he sold my….”
Smile’s eyebrows rose. “Your what? Your girlfriend? Wife? Your pet rabbit?”
“He won’t get close enough to do that.”
“He’ll get what he wants. It’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“I need to go.”
“Uh-huh,” Smile said. “You gotta go, get the drop on Keaton. Surprise him at his house.”
“You have a better idea, share it.”
Smile took his hat off, brushed the brim. His hair was very short, like he’d just trimmed it. “There’s a basement under the church.”
“Thanks. I’ll know where to hide in case of a tornado.”
Smile went on inspecting his hat. “There’s something under there.”
“Keaton’s man cave? Big screen TV?”
“You don’t want to have it happen to you.”
Dez thought of the penises on the sign, the heads on the wall. “Keaton keeps bodies down there?”
“One body,” Smile answered. “A live one. The Hound.”
“Keaton has a dog?”
Smile ceased his ministrations and fingered the brim of his hat. “That’s not….” He sighed, refitted his hat, the angle not so jaunty this time. “What I’m telling you is don’t let him take you alive.”
Dez saw Smile was about to turn away. He said, “You care about that.”
Smile looked at him. “What, you?”
Dez waited.
Smile’s doleful expression made him look older, his skin slightly bluish in the glow of the sickle moon. “There was a time when I cared about everything and everybody.”
“Not anymore, huh?”
Smile was a long time in answering. At length, he said, “Some things stay with you. Even if you wish they’d go away.”
With that he turned and strolled toward the Four Winds.
His chest hollow, Dez moved in the opposite direction.
Dez was a couple paces from the woods when he stopped, called back, “What the hell kind of a name is Smile?”
“Real name’s Michael.”
Dez paused. “We friends now?”
“Friends, hell,” Michael Summers said. “I’m only telling you because you’ll be dead soon anyway.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Bye-bye, Desi,” Michael said, walking away. “Say hey to Lucy for me.”
Chapter Seventeen
Family
Iris said a few miles, and while that was probably true, to Dez it seemed much farther than that. Maybe it was because he’d driven all day. Maybe it was because he was bone-tired. Maybe it was due to the fact that Michael Summers had scared the bejesus out of him, and he no longer felt so compelled to have it out with Keaton tonight.
Whatever the case, when he finally reached the house, he reckoned it was going on ten o’clock. There was no light at all in the sky now save the fingernail-clipping moon and a smattering of puny stars whose glow brought to mind the old world’s technology, those miniscule TV and DVD lights that remained on no matter the hour. The thought depressed him, but he preferred the emptiness to the crawling fear that had dogged him through the forest.
Cannibals were everywhere, and if rumors were true, vampire country was uncomfortably close to here. But this, he realized, was more than risking trouble – this was courting it. He was venturing onto Keaton’s property, the man
(What is he?)
everyone within hundreds of miles feared.
(A vampire?)
Dez didn’t have a choice though. What else was there? Scraping out an existence alone, scurrying from one hiding place to another in the post-dawn hours. Praying it was too early for the day prowlers to spot him but too light for the vampires to be roving.
(Or a cannibal?)
No, he thought, hunkering on the verge of the yard, the forest ringing the property so dense it strangled all but the starlight directly over the house.
(Maybe Keaton’s something else, something you haven’t seen yet)
Dez pushed to his feet. There was no point in speculating about Bill Keaton’s DNA. Whatever he was, he was a sadistic bastard who’d taken an innocent woman and sold her to monsters.
Keaton was also bold and clever, Dez had to admit as he shook out his arms, attempting to invigorate his body for whatever it was about to endure. Keaton’s trade would make him the most hated man in the region. How many families had been torn asunder by Keaton’s incursions? How many wives given to the satyrs? How many babies had the cannibals purchased? And what of his vampire clients? Did they select Keaton’s largest victims? Did people who weighed more contain more blood?
No matter. All that mattered was this chance. The house was dark, which meant Keaton was either sleeping or away. The house was big enough, he supposed, but prosaic. Just a single-story ranch with brick and wood siding.
Go in, he told himself. No reason to wait.
But he waited. He couldn’t shake the familiarity of Keaton’s house. There was one very much like it in Eastern Indiana, where his son would be attending school if he were still alive.
Maybe he is alive.
The gush of images overtook him. To ride it out he directed his unseeing gaze upward, waited for the choking wet throb in his throat to subside. As usually occurred, images of Will were accompanied by ones of Carly, his ex-wife, and though it awoke a pulsing red knot in his chest, it at least took his mind off Will, off his boy, and the ruinous undertow of sorrow. Hatred, he’d found, was an effective substitute for guilt. He often wondered, even if he lived to be a hundred, if he would ever forgive Carly for what she’d done to him. Somehow, he doubted it.
His hands had knotted into fists.
But the guilt had risen around him like floodwater, submerging him in its merciless embrace. You should have fought harder for him.
I did, dammit! I did. I spent damned near everything I had—
You should have spent it all.
She lied about me! She paid people off because her family could afford it. They never liked me, but they owned half the town. What was I supposed to do?
Anything to s
top them from taking your boy away.
Dez was moaning, shaking his head, but the voices would not be silenced.
You might have saved him.
No.
You might have kept him safe from whatever monster that got to him.
No no no no.
Instead you left that fuckwad of a stepfather in charge. Oh, and Carly too. Let’s not forget the raging bitch who ruined your life.
I can’t think about this.
You have to think about this. Because it’s happening to Susan, or has already happened.
Please.
You started east too late, and by the time you met up with that sad sack of a stepfather, the only thing left was the news that Will and Carly were dead.
No!
You failed again, Dez. You’ll always fail the ones you love.
Dez choked back a sob. To outrun the voices, he got moving. If he could go back and change everything, he would. It just so happened that he couldn’t. He’d fucked up at every turn, and as a result, everything he loved got taken from him. His son, his father. And now Susan.
Dez fought off the thickness in his throat, turned and spat into Keaton’s grass. He looked up and saw how the house was overrun with junipers and yews, its entire bottom half a bloated green snarl.
As Dez approached, his calf began to throb. He remembered being skewered by the butter knife, the delirious battle with Erica and her cronies. On one hand, it was good to have gotten the brawl out of the way. At least the denizens of the Four Winds Bar knew he wouldn’t shy away from a confrontation. But it had taken something out of him. As had his flight from Jim the Werewolf. As had his run-in with Gentry and the cannibals.
Dez stopped, hands on his hips. God, he longed for a little peace.
Is Susan at peace?
He set his jaw, strode forward, drew out the Ruger. He was almost positive Keaton wasn’t home. The house was as dark as a tomb.
Wait for him to show up?
Maybe, though it was too damned cold to wait for him outside. Dez could see his breath, the temperature dipping below forty.
Inside then. He shuffled forward, gun drawn, and tested the screen door. Locked, but it rattled. He took his backpack off and fished out a flashlight. He kept two, but he chose the larger one, the black Maglite of an impractical weight but a brilliant beam.
He clicked on the light, shone it on the crack between the door and the jamb. A sliver of steel was all that kept the door closed, likely a hooked bar that housed in an eyelet. One kick would rip it out of the jamb.
You better hope Keaton’s not home.
“Fuck it,” Dez muttered. He raised a foot, kicked.
The door banged open, the noise like a thunderclap in the October night. Dez listened, sweating despite the cold, but there was no answering sound within.
He moved inside, hoping the next lock would be as flimsy. He reached a sliding glass door, tried it.
It slid easily.
Dez shook his head in disbelief. Keaton wasn’t bold. He was brazen. He was so secure in his superiority that he didn’t even bother to lock his doors, not beyond that silly hook Dez had kicked through.
Dez stiffened. A hook like that, it would have to have been engaged from the inside.
He swallowed, his arms gathering into gooseflesh.
Dez raised the Ruger, edged through the open sliding door. His fingers trembled.
Take it easy, he told himself. Keaton just left through the front door, not the back.
Or he’s booby-trapped this place and welcomes intruders.
This seemed likely, and in keeping with the kind of man Keaton was. Lure someone in, let him think he was getting the drop on him.
Then incapacitate the man, let him wail until Keaton arrived to finish him off. Or torture him.
Shut up, Dez told himself.
He was standing in a kitchen. Nice, but not ritzy. Maybe Keaton had a modest streak after all. Or maybe he had several houses, and this was a lesser one.
Dez quickened his steps, made his way through a short hallway into a family room.
Empty.
He’d crammed the heavy Maglite in a hip pocket, and now he longed to pull it out, strafe the floor for tripwires.
Dez moved into the living room. Beyond that, he could see the foyer and the front door. Dez had enjoyed real estate back in the old world, and crazily, he found himself calculating how much this house would fetch. If Keaton owned the acreage around it, and if the basement were finished, it wouldn’t be a stretch to price it at four hundred grand.
Would you focus?
Dez shook his head, clearing it. He supposed it was a bad time to play real estate appraiser.
He strode toward the hallway, where he assumed the bedrooms would be.
He came to a closed door. The sight of it kindled in him a crawling dread. Why would Keaton close doors?
Because he’s inside, sleeping?
Shit. Dez gripped the Ruger, the handle sweaty and slick. He’d have made a horrible prowler.
He pushed out a tremulous breath, regarded the polished nickel doorknob. He turned it and thrust it open.
Empty.
But tidy. A guest bedroom? The bed was made, the furnishings orderly, but the room had a disused, unaired quality that filled him with desolation. How many people were left in the world now? How many millions of rooms that would never be slept in again?
No time to be philosophical, his practical side reminded. Move your ass.
Dez did and closed the door behind him. He came to a door cattycornered from the closed one, only this door was open. If appearances were accurate, it was inhabited by a young woman.
Dez clicked on the flashlight and swept it around the room. Posters of pop stars, strings of jewelry, a shelf of gymnastics trophies.
The bed unmade.
Did someone still live here?
Jesus Christ, did Keaton have a daughter?
The notion that Bill Keaton, baron of the Northern Indiana flesh trade, might have a family had never occurred to Dez. And though this room proved nothing – Keaton could have left it this way after his daughter was killed or turned – he couldn’t shake the feeling it was currently lived in.
Well, not currently, he amended. No one was in here now.
So get out before someone returns!
Don’t be stupid, he told himself. The whole damned point was to find Keaton, force him to give up Susan’s whereabouts. To kill Keaton if possible.
What about Keaton’s family?
You don’t know he has a family!
Dez passed a hand through his hair, struggled to regain his equilibrium. He’d come here, he realized, with the goal of burning down Keaton’s house if he couldn’t find the man, but if Keaton had a family, that would make Dez no better than Keaton.
Dez plunged on and encountered another open door at the end of the hallway. He went inside, saw this was the master suite, and just as Dez suspected, it was nice.
More importantly, it didn’t look like the home of a bachelor. Though the bedclothes were a trifle rumpled, the bed was made, and the rest of the room was nicely decorated. His flashlight beam picked out ivory curtains, framed silhouettes of children.
Two children.
Dez continued his scan of the room. He shone the light through a doorway across the room, made out a vanity mirror. The master bath. The Maglite picked out another door on the right side of the room, probably a walk-in closet.
You’re wasting your time, Dez thought. He isn’t here. You need to come up with another plan.
He’d turned and was about to make his way back down the hallway when he stopped and regarded a door across the hall from the master suite.
The door was closed. A second guest room?
Dumbass, he thought. No one has two guest
rooms.
But there were two children.
A chill breeze misting over him, Dez opened the door.
The room had been destroyed.
The mattress had been gored, its chalky innards spilled on the floor. A small desk had been reduced to splinters, the chair legless and chucked in a corner. The wallpaper hung in torn skeins, the sheetrock beneath harrowed by what could only have been giant fingernails.
Dread clutching him by the throat, the thought came to Dez again:
What is Keaton?
He wanted to move on, wanted to leave this disaster zone behind, but his eyes, unheeding, lit on several objects. A Chicago Cubs lamp. An overturned RC car. An Xbox trailing a severed cord.
Dez had been so absorbed by the sight of destruction that he hadn’t, until now, noticed the footsteps approaching.
He pivoted, swung the Ruger and the Maglite beam, and pointed both into the faces of a woman and a teenaged girl.
Chapter Eighteen
Remembering Emma Russell
The woman, who was maybe forty, squinted into the light and drew her daughter closer. “Don’t shoot!”
Dez shifted the beam to the girl. She was blond, willowy, and appeared to be fifteen or sixteen.
“Don’t look at her,” the mother said, squeezing her daughter tighter.
Dez aimed the beam at the mother’s midsection so as not to blind her.
“Who are you?” the mother demanded.
Dez had no idea how to respond. The guy who came to kill your husband?
The woman screwed up her eyes, no doubt attempting to make out Dez’s face above the glare, and when she spoke again, her voice was threatening. “You know whose house this is?”
Dez swallowed. “Where is he?”
“He’ll have you killed.”
That’s more like it, he thought. Now he could imagine this woman being married to Keaton. She’d be attractive if not for the haughty callousness in her face.
Dez felt a wintry smile forming. “He out abducting more children?”
Her lips drew a hard line. “Get out of my house.”
“Doesn’t matter at all, does it?” Dez asked. “As long as it’s someone else’s daughter.”
The Raven Page 14