“Maybe you had better just let me out here,” she said. Middle of nowhere, woods on both sides of the road. She regretted the suggestion as soon as she’d made it. Their street was coming up in less than half a mile, she would be able to see it if not for the snow. But between here and there was open forest.
“My first time, I was scared,” Howie said. “So scared, you wouldn’t believe.”
“First time what?” Christy said. She wanted him to remember that she was there, and who she was. Howie respected Morris, she was sure. He was having some kind of breakdown, but that respect wouldn’t wane.
“She wasn’t the first I’d seen. But after I saw that one, Karen, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. And I knew one day I would have to try it. I just had to.”
“Howie, I really think you should shut up and drive.”
He didn’t seem to notice that she had spoken. He still had control of the vehicle, but his eyes looked glazed. She wondered exactly how much trouble she was in.
“So I found this one who reminded me of Karen. I wasn’t in high school anymore, but she was, and she had that same way about her, that sluttish way like Karen had, jubblies hanging out all over the place, you know. I saw her and I followed her home and there wasn’t anybody else there. I knocked on her door and she opened it and acted like I was some kind of idiot for standing there, so I just up and did it. First with my hands and then when they got sore, with this metal vase they had there. It got pretty messed up, that vase, dented and all and of course blood all over.”
Christy watched the street for a chance. He was going too fast, and if she jumped out on that snow-slick road she would fall and likely split her head open. But he would have to slow to make the turn. She would go then. She’d run to the first house, the Nelson place, and she’d call Morris and tell him that one of his officers had gone completely insane.
Except the phones were off at Town Hall. So she couldn’t.
“But anyhow, it worked, and of course there were knives in the kitchen, and what I really wanted, what I couldn’t do with Karen, was to find out what the taste was like.”
Her stomach gave a flip and her bowels turned to water. She clenched to keep everything inside. The turn was coming up, but he wasn’t slowing, and then he drove right past it, still heading away from town.
“Howie, that’s my street!”
He ignored her, and pressed harder on the gas. His left hand dropped, seemingly unconsciously, to his lap, and he rubbed himself as he talked. She wondered if she could get the shotgun, or unsnap his handgun from its holster. Probably not without killing both of them, at the speed he was reaching.
“It was raw, of course, and it made me sick after. It was kind of chewy and a little bit salty and sour. Of course, organ meat’s better.”
Christy bit her lower lip, fighting a sudden need to vomit. She tasted bile and her body hitched and spasmed.
“Nobody ever caught me, but like I say, I was so scared. Scared of being caught and scared of myself. I never laid a hand on anybody after that, not for years. I moved away so I wouldn’t see the street where Karen was or the house where this other girl was whose name I never knew. I came here and your husband, Mrs. Whoredeeds, he saw what I had in me, saw the greatness that’s in me if only I had a chance to show it, and he gave me a job and I put that all behind me, for so long. I thought I was over it. Up until Mike Hackett, anyhow. And then when I saw him all opened up, well, I remembered those others, Karen and that other girl that I did myself, and then it was back. Those old feelings were back.”
He braked suddenly, causing the Tahoe to fishtail. He maintained control over it, though, and he pointed it up a narrow dirt road. Christy had never been here, had no idea where Howie was taking her, but he had to move more slowly on this road, where the snow was thick and the surface uneven. The act of making the turn seemed to have restored some of Howie’s focus, but she expected that it would lapse again, and as soon as it did she would jump out.
The road led up over a low rise and down into a dip, with a bigger hill on the other side. By the time they hit the downslope, he was talking again. “Your husband, Chief Deeds, he can see what others can’t. He saw the makings of something special in me, that’s for sure. Lot of people can’t but he did. He could do more about it, too, except that he’s blocked by his few blind spots. You’re one of them, too, Mrs. Whoredeeds. He doesn’t know about you spreading yourself for the fucking right fucking reverend. Not yet, anyhow. If he did then he would be free to—”
The urge to vomit was growing in her again and she knew she had to get out. The Tahoe reached the bottom of the slope, and the road was flat for about a dozen feet before it started to rise again. There might have been a stream bed in the low part; she couldn’t see it through the snow but it seemed to meander through the trees, offering an open path back toward town.
She wouldn’t get a better chance.
Just before he started up the far side, Christy undid her seatbelt and threw her door open and jumped. She landed on her feet but off-balance, and she fell forward in the snow, trying to catch herself on hands that sank down. When she got her feet under her again, her front was covered in snow, and the cold—which had been bracing for an instant when she opened the door—was once again stultifying. It would slow her down soon, which meant that she needed to make progress in a hurry.
The Tahoe stopped, its engine shutting off. Christy didn’t look back, but ran as fast as she could through the snow. She heard the sound of Howie’s door opening and then closing. She had reached the nearest trees before she heard the first blast from his shotgun, and although she thought the stream’s course would be more direct, it wouldn’t offer much in the way of protection, and if she fell through into water that would slow her down, possibly finish her.
Shot ripped through the trees all around her and a couple of pellets punched at her clothing but didn’t penetrate. She kept going, weaving from tree to tree.
He fired again, twice, then he swore and started running after her. Christy knew he had a handgun on his belt, and wondered if he remembered it was there. She had put enough distance between them that the shotgun’s blasts were scattering, but if he was any good with a pistol, he could still bring her down.
She had to get away, before he thought of it. She was no athlete, but she was in decent shape. And she was desperate.
She ran.
36
Alex couldn’t stop thinking about Conklin, out there in the store. He was sure the same was true of Robbie. They collapsed together in her big old chair with the busted springs, just long enough to catch their breath. To shift his attention, and hers, he ran his fingers down the scar on her cheek. “What was he like?” he asked. “Your dad.”
Robbie sucked in a breath, then let it out. “He was a simple man, I guess. A country man through and through. He could fix any kind of engine you can name, car, truck, lawnmower, whatever, and that was mostly how he earned his way. We never had much money or nice things, but he didn’t care, and if my mother did I never knew it. She died when I was three, so I never really knew her. But Dad, he could fix things, and he raised a few chickens and kept a milk cow. He could take a knife and peel a whole apple in a single piece. He had a limp from a bullet he took in the hip, in Vietnam, but he never complained about it and if you didn’t know that you wouldn’t think he had ever more than ten miles from home.” She let out a laugh, so sudden it was startling. “And he could hunt. I tell you, people think I’m good? They should have seen him. Everything I know about tracking and shooting, about how animals behave, it all came from him.”
“Sounds like a great guy.” He tried to stifle a yawn, then gave in.
She matched it with her own. He was so tired, and it sounded like she was too. He had to get up, check the peepholes, see if it was safe to go out. But first he had to close his eyes. Just for a minute.
* * *
The tunnel was black and he couldn’t breathe. When the coal dust got this w
ay it went everywhere, and for days after your spit would be black, and you would cough up great blobs of stringy mucus. Every miner got a handkerchief for Christmas if his family could afford it, and they’d all be trash by spring because the black wouldn’t wash out anymore.
This way, boss, Flannery said. His eyes were glowing like the headlights on a truck. Follow me.
Alex followed, unable to see Flannery’s face most of the time, but watching the way those headlight eyes burned through the black fog. Up one sloping, curving tunnel and then down a straight one and then through an opening into another one leading away at an angle, and he wondered if Flannery was just taking him deeper and deeper under the ground. But then they were in a shaft that had no opening, except, no, that was a door, not a solid wall. Alex cringed from it, afraid he would hear the growling and snapping behind it, but he didn’t. Flannery seemed confident. He pressed his ear to it only for a second. This is the way, boss, he said. Trust me here. This is the place you want.
Trust didn’t come easily, but Alex didn’t see much choice. Flannery worked the latch and the door swung slowly open, squealing on seldom-used hinges. Light splashed in and Alex had to close his eyes, had to throw up a hand to shield them. When he lowered it, squinting, he looked for Flannery but the man was gone, so he stepped through the doorway not into the soft hills of Kentucky but into a winter snowscape, jagged and thick with pine trees and standing among them, a little cabin, worn and aged but sturdy enough, he guessed. And it looked familiar, and he wondered where he had seen it before, and why it mattered.
* * *
A thumping noise outside prompted Alden Stewart to get up from his desk and walk to the window. He walked slowly, heavily, afraid that what he would see outside would be bad. He knew Morris had lost all respect for him. He had lost it for himself. He had considered government, public service, a useful profession. But he had harbored certain beliefs about it, about the challenges he would face, the demands that office might make on him.
Wolves had not been one of those. Wolves had not factored into his expectations at all. And yet here he was, facing the worst crisis of his life, and it was wolves after all.
When he got to the window, at first all he could see was fog on the glass and ice around the edges and snow blowing against it from outside. He got closer and looked through the snow and after a few seconds he located the source of the thumping noise, which was—not surprisingly, he thought—wolves.
They were jumping against the big plate glass windows of the Cup & Cow. Over and over. Even from here, he could see the glass shake with every impact.
He returned to his desk, more quickly this time, and snatched up his phone. Eight missed messages. Because Morris had convinced him to silence the thing, and he thought he had it on vibrate but maybe not.
Belinda was inside the restaurant. Probably calling for help.
He wasn’t sure what he could do, but something had to be done. He went to the door. The hallway was quiet. Most of the staffers had already been sent home, if they could be spared. And since no town business was being done today except dealing with wolves, most of them were expendable.
He rushed down the stairs, urgency lending him speed. Maybe courage, as well—he wasn’t sure about that, but he felt that he would charge across the street and battle the wolves with his bare hands, if they threatened Belinda. Maybe at the last moment he would lose his nerve, but he hoped not. “Morris!” he called as he descended. Downstairs, he pushed through the door to police headquarters. “Morris, where are you?”
Morris was in his department’s conference room. Officers Ortega and Jones were in there, as were seven men Alden didn’t know. They were wearing hunting clothes, though, and there were guns all over the place. “Morris, the wolves are trying to get into the Cup & Cow. Belinda’s in there, and some others. You’ve got to do something.”
“We were just hashing out a plan,” the police chief said.
“There’s no more time for a plan. Either you get out there and kill them, or let me have a gun and I’ll do it myself.”
“That’d be suicide, Mayor Stewart,” Jones said. “Pure and simple.”
“I don’t care. I won’t stand here and watch them break the glass and eat my wife.”
“Fine,” Morris said. “Let’s get this done, men. When we finish these ones off we can start working our way through town.”
The men grunted or mumbled their assent. The language of the overtly masculine, the testosterone-fueled, had always been as unfamiliar to him as Greek or Norwegian. But he got the gist when they gathered up their weapons and headed for the door.
“Morris, I need a gun,” Alden said.
“You wouldn’t know what to do with it. Just let us handle it.”
“I’m not staying in here while you go out there,” Alden said. “And I can’t go out without a gun.”
The chief stopped and eyed Alden for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then he went to a gun rack on one wall, unlocked it with a key from his ring, and removed a rifle. Or was it a shotgun? Something long, anyway.
“Is it loaded?”
“It’s loaded.”
“How do I work it?”
Morris turned away and followed the other men out. “Figure it out,” he said as he left.
Alden rushed to catch up, turning the thing over in his hands as he did. The trigger he understood, that was obvious. And it wasn’t like he had never fired a gun. He had, mostly as a boy, plinking at cans. What he didn’t know was whether this gun had a safety, or whether he needed to cock it, or what.
At the Town Hall’s big double front doors, Morris shouldered the right one open and looked out. “Six of them,” he said. “Everybody watch both ways. Keep an eye on each other’s backs.”
He gave a soft three-count and shoved the door wide. He went first with the others right behind, shouting as they went. The wolves across the street spun around to meet the new threat. As the men raced down the stairs they opened fire. Their guns roared again and again. The wolves were beaten back by the assault. One of them, with two bullet holes in it already, tried to slink away, but somebody saw it and unloaded a couple more rounds in its head and it fell, twitching, on the snowy street. Another lunged at the men but at least three of them shot it at the same time. Blood and tissue blew out its other side, spraying across the sidewalk.
When the wolves were all down, Morris crossed to the restaurant’s door. The men were loosely grouped behind him. Alden hurried to be there when Belinda opened up. As he passed, one of the wolves—still twitching, its blood pumping from several wounds, scarlet trails on dark fur—snapped at his leg. The thing’s teeth caught his pants and tore them, and Alden cried out and yanked his leg away. The nearest hunter put another bullet into the beast and it dropped back to the road, quiet at last.
By the time he reached the doorway, Belinda was unlocking it. Morris opened it. She gave him a grateful look and then ran into Alden’s arms. He tried to hold the unused rifle away so it didn’t hit her, but it was awkward and heavy.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine, fine. We were scared, but that’s all.”
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” he said. He looked past her at the people gathered inside. Maybe ten or eleven, most of them looking glad to see the men with all the guns.
“Everybody should go home if you can,” Morris Deeds declared in his loudest police chief voice. “Not alone—you’re not safe out here alone. But if you’ve got a gun and someone who lives close by, and ideally a vehicle, then you’re probably better off locked inside your own house than here. Stay upstairs if you’ve got an upstairs, and keep away from the windows. If you want to stay here and join us, we’re going to sweep the town and kill as many of these damned things as we can.”
A woman who had been inside the restaurant started to ask a question, but she never got to finish it. A racket erupted from the kitchen—what sounded like the rear door banging open, the clatter of cookware, the unmi
stakable growling of wolves, and the click and scrabble of paws on the slick floor.
The people inside the restaurant screamed first, and some of them bolted from chairs and rushed toward the door. But the doorway was blocked by Morris and Belinda and Alden and behind them, the armed men who had shot the wolves. They raised their weapons again, but this time the wolves were behind glass and behind innocent, terrified people trying to get out.
Alden couldn’t keep track of everything that happened next. Somebody opened fire. The big window shattered and glass crashed down like another, noisier snowfall. More guns went off, and inside a couple of people cried out and fell. Alden saw one whose skull erupted in what looked like a gray-pink cloud, and he didn’t think the wolves could have done that. But he didn’t get a chance to try to figure out who did, because the people inside were coming out no matter what, knocking aside Morris and tearing Belinda from Alden’s grip. She fell and he tried to catch her but a shoulder or an elbow or both bowled him over onto his back, the wind knocked from him. He lost his grip on the gun and when he tried to get up, someone else slammed into him and he couldn’t see for a few seconds, could only hear gunfire and terrible, plaintive screams and the sounds of the wolves. When he got his bearings and could make out his surroundings again, he saw Belinda, her face a mask of terror and pain, being whisked back through her doorway by something that had her legs and had incredible strength. Her eyes met his for an instant and then her head was whipped out of sight, and he saw her flopping briefly, like a dog’s tug rope being shaken, and then he didn’t see her at all. He got unsteadily to his feet. Inside the restaurant was blood, blood everywhere, and Morris was dragging him away, saying, “No, Alden, you can’t do anything now.”
They fell back to the Town Hall, taking occasional shots through the restaurant’s windows, one man even taking the time to gather up the guns that had been dropped. But there were only six people now, two who had come from inside, the rest the hunters that Morris had led and officer Ortega. Jones was dead on the street, as were others, and inside the restaurant it was impossible to tell who was alive and who was dead, because the screams could have been anybody’s.
Season of the Wolf Page 23