“What’s it all mean, Mr. Kyle?”
“Mean? I don’t think it means anything. It was a dream – pointless, aimless, and totally without purpose. Dreams are like that, you know.”
“Everything has a purpose. Somewhere there’s a meaning, even to this. And, I don’t just mean the dream or the nightmare or whatever it was. I mean what happened to you and my dad and the others.”
He shook his head. “You’re young, Amanda. That’s why you look for meaning in the things life throws your way. When you get older, like me, you’ll discover that life is random. Things happen. Sometimes terrible things. There’s no rhyme, no reason. No great conspiracy. No grand scheme. It all boils down to one thing: shit happens. When it does, you wipe your face and then you deal with it the best you can.”
“Your way is to hide in a bottle and pretend it isn’t there.”
“Don’t knock it. The view’s much better from there.” Fred raised his cup of coffee in a mock toast. “And, the alcohol kills the pain.”
•
They sat in Fred’s room much as they had the day before: Amanda on the chair; Fred on the bed with his back against the headboard. The empty Jim Beam bottle stood on the long table. Next to it was a quart bottle of Kentucky Driver. It’s twin rested on Fred’s lap, seal broken but the contents, as yet, untasted.
“I’ve read all of the reports, of course.” Amanda held a foam cup half full of coffee. The coffee was cold and bitter.
Fred’s eyebrows rose. “All of them?”
“Well, not all of them. I couldn’t get your psych evaluations. Medical privilege and all that. I did get all of the newspaper accounts I could find and transcripts of the grand jury that no-billed you. I had to hire a lawyer to help me get that and some of the police reports.”
“I’ll bet that made exciting reading. The papers got it wrong. You know that, don’t you? They had no clue.”
“They hardly ever get anything right. It’s all slant and innuendo and guesses, really. The grand jury stuff was pretty dry reading and I ended up with more questions afterwards than when I started.”
“Not surprising. They refused to accept the truth, even when the results of all of their forensics made no sense otherwise. The only answer that fit was the one answer they couldn’t – wouldn’t – accept.”
“Can you blame them, Mr. Kyle? I mean, really. A monster in this day and age? It sounds like a bad horror movie.”
“Demon.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a demon, not a monster.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A monster can usually be killed. Sometimes it takes a lot, but it can be done. A demon can only be contained or restrained, usually by magic. Or banished, if you believe the shamans and priests.”
“I see. What do you believe?”
“I don’t know anymore.” He smiled and grabbed the whiskey bottle by the neck, holding it high. “I believe in this.” He uncapped it, took a deep swallow, and replaced the cap. “I believe I’ll have more before the day is over. And, if there is truly a Hell, then I believe I’ll see this thing again. Or, others like him.”
“Did you actually see him?”
Fred paused. “I don’t know. I think I saw him. I saw something. I saw what he did. Enough to make me believe.”
“Believe what?”
At first, she thought he wasn’t going to answer. He sat on the bed staring down at his hands. When he finally began to speak, his voice was low. She leaned forward, straining to hear. His words surprised her. Instead of talking about the demon, he’d returned to the story.
“The guys loved it, of course. It wasn’t really a cabin, but a house. Three stories built into the side of the mountain. A huge deck behind the third floor. A three-car garage with adjoining laundry room, storage, and rec room on the bottom floor. The second floor had the kitchen, dining room, living room, four bedrooms and two bathrooms and a deck overlooking the front yard. On the third floor was the master bedroom and bath, two guest bedrooms with another bath, and a family room and wet bar dividing the master bedroom from the guest rooms. Sliding glass doors opened onto the back deck from the family room as well as the master bedroom. It was fantastic. Like a resort. Throw in the satellite TV and it was the perfect hideaway for five guys looking to have a great hunting trip. Best of all, it was free.”
“Is it still there?”
“What?” Fred thought for a moment. “Yeah, I think so.”
“So, who owns it now?”
“Who owns it now?”
“Yeah. After everything that happened, did your mother sell it? Or, does she still own it?”
“Oh. I see.” Fred opened the bottle and took a couple of swallows. He re-capped it and set it back on his lap. “No, she didn’t sell it. Actually, she died a couple of years ago. I own it, now. I have the keys around here somewhere. Sometimes I want to sell it. Sometimes I want to go back and blow it up. Level it. Bury it under tons of rock and dirt. Spread salt over the whole thing.”
“So, no one lives there?”
Fred shuddered. “No, not now. Nothing human, anyway.”
“What do you mean by that? Nothing human? Are you talking about the demon, again?”
Fred looked at her and then looked quickly away. “No, not really. I mean it’s probably full of skunks, possums, raccoons, that sort of thing. No people.”
Amanda noted the furtive movement, but chose not to pursue it. He’d given her a glimpse. The rest would come. She just had to be patient.
“So, everyone loved the place.”
“Oh, yeah. Everyone loved it. What wasn’t to love? And, it was Thanksgiving. It was great. It was perfect. It was the kind of place and time that dreams are made of…”
CHAPTER NINE
Fred stood on the front deck, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. From here he could see the upper half of the barn and a bit of the satellite dish as they rose ghostly from the early morning fog. Farther away, the treetops marched up the mountainside in dark gray ranks, vanishing quickly into the smoky haze that gave this region its name – the Great Smoky Mountains. Although the front door was closed, the aroma of frying bacon wafted onto the porch. Fred’s stomach rumbled. He smiled and sipped his coffee. It was as fine a morning as any of them could have wanted.
He heard Johnny in the kitchen preparing his trademark Thanksgiving Day breakfast of thick, maple-cured bacon, fat sausage links, eggs – fried and scrambled – with huge fluffy buttermilk biscuits. He could imagine the gravy boat filled with peppered white gravy flavored with bacon renderings and the steam rising from the hash brown potatoes fried with chopped onions and diced bell peppers and topped with shredded sharp cheddar cheese. Thick fluffy buttermilk pancakes made from his secret recipe rounded out the fare.
On Friday morning apples fried in bacon renderings, brown sugar and maple syrup served over biscuits would replace the pancakes. Saturday’s breakfast would feature huge fluffy omelets made with diced ham, onions, chopped bell peppers, shredded sharp cheddar cheese, mushrooms, and crushed potato chips.
Sunday was always the grand finale — a fantastic baked surprise. To hell with the cholesterol! Arteries be damned! Who wanted to live forever? There would be no heart healthy, city slicker, metro-sexual breakfast served on this testosterone-rich weekend. Leaves, twigs and grasses? That’s what food eats!
Fred sipped at his coffee, wincing as the hot liquid burned his lips and tongue. He savored the rich, dark flavor. Johnny didn’t skimp on the coffee, either. This was no mass-market grocery store blend. It was a nutty, earthy brew that had to come from a high-end gourmet shop. Fred didn’t know how Johnny did it every year. They all kicked in a certain amount for food and left the shopping to Johnny. Somehow they always ended up eating like kings. Johnny had to be putting in more of his own money to cover the extra cost, although he never complained or asked for more.
It was funny how each of them had gravitated to certain tasks. Johnny was the c
ook. No, that wasn’t quite right. Calling Johnny the cook was to do him a disservice. He might be an IT man for a local corporation during the rest of the year, but on these trips, he was the master chef.
Charlie was the organizer. Not only did he create and maintain the lists, he also made certain that they had their licenses, permits and any special game stamps. He ordered all of the non-food supplies. He maintained the first aid kits and manuals, making sure that they had the latest and greatest supplies available.
Fred and Dave were the driver/navigator team. With the aid of on line mapping they prepared primary and alternate routes for the trip to and from the cabin. They followed road construction schedules and downloaded the most current weather forecasts available.
Peete was the loadmaster. No matter how much equipment they brought or how many supplies, he not only found a way to pack it into their single vehicle, but also managed to do it in such a way that they had room to ride comfortably. Amazingly, he always knew exactly where every item was located whether inside of or on top of the vehicle. After the first two or three trips they gave up testing him. He always knew.
The door opened. A fresh blast of breakfast aroma washed over the deck as Dave joined him, a steaming mug of coffee in his left hand.
“I see why they call these the Smokies,” he said as the door slammed. “They’re beautiful in a ghostly kind of way. Seeing them reminds me of that Stephen King story — the one about the mist. I think that might’ve even been the title.”
“I know the one you mean. I never read it, but I saw the movie. I’m sure glad there’s nothing like that out here. It can get pretty spooky in these hills without monsters, especially after dark. Wait ‘till the fog burns off. The mountains are incredibly beautiful even now with all the leaves gone. You should have seen it this past summer though. When I was up here with Mom everything was green and full. It was, well, awesome.”
“I’ll bet.” Dave sipped his coffee. His lips smacked and a contented sigh escaped. “I don’t know how he does it. This coffee is excellent.”
“I think it’s one of those secret recipes that involves the proper ritual performed during the correct lunar cycle.”
“There’s probably a sacrifice involved.”
“And, if he told us, he’d have to kill us afterwards.”
“That reminds me. Last night while everyone was putting away their gear I came out here to look at the stars.”
“And grab a smoke, too, I’ll bet. Not that I blame you. It was pretty clear last night. I’ll bet they filled the sky.”
“Oh, they did. I always love to look at the night sky away from the city.” Dave set his mug on the wide wooden rail and slipped a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Anyway, I saw something strange.”
“Strange? Like what?”
He finished lighting his cigarette before speaking. “Do you know about that covered well out there in the yard?”
“Well? Oh, you mean the cistern.”
“Well. Cistern. Whatever it is, it was glowing.”
“Glowing?”
“Yeah. Well, not the cistern, actually. It was more like something on the rocks. It was really faint, at first, but then it got brighter.”
“That is strange.”
“I went closer to check it out. There were these strange markings all around the top of it. It looked like they were, I don’t know, maybe painted on the rock. Anyway, that’s what was glowing. The paint. I tried to scrape one of the marks with my knife – you know, to see what it was made of. But, when I did, all of the marks stopped glowing.”
“Hmmm.” Fred sipped at his coffee as he looked toward the cistern. The low mists obscured it.
“Hmmm is right. It was weird. Do you have any idea what it’s all about?”
“Not a clue. Wait a minute. Last summer when I came out here with my mom I saw some silver marks. I meant to ask her about them but I forgot about it when she started showing me the inside of the house. They weren’t glowing, though.”
“You think it was because it was daylight? Last night it was dark and the glow still wasn’t all that bright.”
“It’s possible.”
“What do you think they are?”
“I don’t know. In Western Pennsylvania, in the old Pennsylvania Dutch country, the farmers put symbols on their barns. Hex marks I think they call them. They’re supposed to bring good luck or keep evil spirits away. I don’t remember which it is. Maybe these are something like that.”
The door opened and Peete’s face appeared. “Johnny says y’all better get your asses inside before your breakfast gets cold.” He looked around. “I thought Charlie was out here with you.”
Dave shook his head as he walked past Peete and into the house. “I haven’t seen him.”
“I think he went up the mountain a little earlier.” Fred followed Dave. “I’ll go up on the back deck and holler for him.”
CHAPTER TEN
Charlie walked down the stairs and into the large central living room. The rich aroma of fresh coffee that filled the whole house was especially strong downstairs. Johnny was busy in the kitchen arranging food and ingredients on the marble-topped island as he prepared to make breakfast. There was no sign of the others, yet, for which Charlie was grateful. He needed some time to himself to sort his thoughts and to decide – mostly to decide.
“Something smells good.” Charlie started opening cabinet doors.
“The mugs are above the sink.” Johnny pointed with a spatula. “As for the smell, I found a dark-roast Nigerian blend when we stopped for coffee back in Chattanooga yesterday. It should make a fine eye opener.”
“It certainly smells potent.” Charlie found a heavy ceramic mug, rinsed it out, and filled it from the carafe.
“Breakfast will be ready in about an hour.”
“That’s fine. I want to take a walk outside and look around some.”
“Better grab your coat. It’s colder’n a witch’s tit out there.”
“Good idea. Thanks.”
Moments later Charlie was outside, walking through the front yard. A dense white fog enveloped everything and reduced visibility to mere feet. Sounds were muffled and eerie, although some – water dripping from the tree limbs and house eaves, for example – seemed magnified.
He walked toward a distant shadow he assumed was the barn. A wide stone circle emerged from the misty ground before him. The top edge was knee high to his stocky legs. A circular sheet of steel plate, its surface smooth except for a hinged square hatch in the center, covered all but a four-inch wide stony strip. The hatch measured about two feet square. A heavy-duty padlock held the hatch in place. He flipped the padlock. It rattled against the metal cover and produced a dull rumble like a kettledrum. Must have been worried about kids messing with it or falling in. If there are kids around, we’ll have to be really careful where we’re shooting.
He straightened up, his knees cracking like gunshots in the eerie silence. A large satellite dish rose from the mists on its tripod mount like an H.G. Wells Martian with its weapon pointed skyward. Charlie skirted it and continued toward the barn. The barn door, too, bore a padlock but the hasp lay over the lock rather than under it.
Charlie opened the door and looked inside. The darkness was impenetrable. He felt along the wall for a light switch. His groping hand encountered a metal box. He felt some more until his fingers located and then flipped a plastic switch. Fluorescent lights blinked and stuttered and then lit with an insectile buzz.
Although the exterior looked like any barn where a farmer might keep cattle or horses, the interior was anything but. Charlie saw no signs that it had ever held stalls of any kind.
A long table with a line of hooded fluorescent lights hanging above it ran along the back wall. Several opaque plastic boxes lined the back of the table. An ammunition-reloading machine rested near the table’s left side. An oven for melting metal and three graphite crucibles rested on ceramic bricks near the center. Several molds hung
from a Masonite pegboard on the back wall.
Six fifty-five gallon drums, their lids tightly sealed, lined the left wall. Along the wall close to him lay three pallets covered with fifty-pound bags full of ammonium nitrate fertilizer. Intrigued, he crossed the room and examined the drums. As he suspected, they were full of diesel fuel.
Looks like Fred’s uncle had quite a little bomb factory here, he thought. Of course, many people who farmed these hills probably used explosives to remove stumps and large boulders. Charlie was sure he’d find plenty of both materials in almost every barn in the area. Still, there was enough ANFO in there to make a pretty good hole in pretty much anything.
Charlie re-crossed the room, turned off the lights, and closed the door behind him. He looked back at the house. It was nearly invisible in the morning fog. His breath plumed in the cold air and disappeared as it blended with the mist. He looked at the mountain and forest rising behind the house. He took a deep breath and started walking.
I wonder what else Fred’s uncle was into? He chuckled as the irony struck him. Here he was fantasizing that Fred’s uncle had been some kind of mad bomber while he, good ol’ Charlie Dobbs, had a dead wife just waiting to be discovered back in his own house. For all he knew Janine’s lover had already found her and called the cops. Fortunately, there were no immediate clues to his whereabouts. That wouldn’t last long. He’d watched enough crime shows on TV to know that. The cops would first figure out who his friends were. A few visits, a few questions; it was only a matter of time before a Tennessee State Trooper would pull into the driveway to bring an end to Charlie’s idyllic getaway weekend.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen. There was no way the cops were going to take him back to stand trial. He was only forty-three years old. He had no intention of spending the next twenty-five years or so as some convict’s butt buddy. When the cops finally came to capture Charlie Dobbs they’d discover – along with everyone else – that he’d already prosecuted himself, passed judgment, and executed the proper sentence.
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