Revelation

by Wilson, Carter;

  “Let’s find out how much she loves you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  All Harden could picture was more of her fingers falling to the floor, one by one, as Coyote sawed away and Emma just stared straight ahead in her catatonic gaze.

  “Don’t touch her.”

  “Don’t worry,” Coyote said. He leaned into Emma and cut through each shackle of tape, freeing her arms and legs. Then, in one quick movement, he ripped the tape from her mouth, making Harden wince. Yet Emma didn’t react at all. Her body barely seemed able to hold itself up in the chair, and her head lolled gently to one side.

  “She’s shutting down,” Coyote explained. “Happens every night. She gets a nice specialty cocktail in her, then I show her some of my homemade movies while I whisper sweet nothings in her ear.” Coyote looked back and gave Harden a wink. “Then, right about now, we usually head into the bedroom. Or, I should say I drag her there. But not tonight.”

  Harden stared wide-eyed at Emma and tried to will her muscles with his mind. Run.

  Yet she was like a stuffed animal set down in a chair, a lifeless afterthought.

  “What happens tonight?” Harden asked.

  Coyote placed the gun in Emma’s lap.

  “Tonight we see who she loves more.”

  Harden stared at the gun. Emma still didn’t move. The gun sat in her lap, the barrel pointed directly at Harden.

  Coyote’s voice was soothing, as if he were speaking to a child. “Pick up the gun, baby.”

  Emma didn’t move her gaze, but slowly her fingers found their way to the butt of the gun. She put her right hand—the one with all its fingers—limply around the grip.

  “Good, love. Good.”

  Harden didn’t understand. “Shoot him, Emma. Shoot him. Get us out of here.”

  “Don’t listen to him, darling.” He leaned over and stroked her hair, then ran his fingers through it until knots prevented them from going any further. “You know who you’re with now. You know who is taking care of you.”

  Harden saw her fingers squeeze the gun with a little more force, but still she didn’t lift it.

  “Emma, Jesus, listen to me. Coyote’s going to kill us. Shoot him.”

  Another long note escaped her lips, a high, warbling moan directed at no one.

  Coyote turned and walked up to Harden.

  “This is how you get people to believe, Harden. I’ve mastered it. Your whole concept about starting a religion? It’s not hard at all. There’s no revelation. It’s all power of suggestion.”

  He turned back to Emma and lowered his voice, his tone suited for a lullaby.

  “Emma, I want you to pick up the gun now, please.”

  Emma flicked her eyes up for the first time and looked at Coyote. It wasn’t a look of fear. It was a look of understanding. Then she lifted the gun a few inches above her lap.

  “There you go. Good girl.”

  Harden felt the panic rising through his chest. “Emma, he’s brainwashed you. Don’t listen to him.”

  Coyote walked back and stood next to Harden. Emma held the gun with what looked like barely enough strength to keep it in her hands, and it pointed back and forth between them. Harden tensed at the thought of a bullet exploding from the barrel at him; Coyote didn’t seem concerned in the least.

  Coyote reached out and put a hand on Harden’s shoulder.

  “Now, Emma, you have to make a decision. You need to kill one of us. Harden has written a long and eloquent tale about how the two of you are lovers. If you truly love him, then you must kill me.”

  Emma flicked her gaze to him for the slightest of moments as he spoke, her head tilted gently to the side. A ribbon of drool snaked out of the corner of her mouth.

  “But if you don’t love Harden, then you must kill him, because he has come here to steal you away from me. All this . . . this time we have spent together. It is so good, isn’t it? Haven’t I shown you how I can take care of you better than anyone else? Isn’t that what you really need, Emma? To be taken care of ?”

  He didn’t say but if you love me. He said if you don’t love Harden.

  Harden strained against the tape. “Emma, don’t do this. I love you. Do you understand that? I love you. Just like I told you in the cell that day. Don’t listen to him.”

  Emma’s singular note resumed again from the base of her throat, as if calling for help deep under mud. The gun now pointed at Harden.

  “I’m the only thing that’s real here, Emma.” Coyote’s voice was hypnotic. “You must cling to what’s real, because everything else will just leave you numb. You must feel, Emma. Feel it.”

  “Emma, wake up!” Harden thought raising his voice might snap her out of whatever state she had ventured in to. “Wake up! You need to shoot him, Emma. Your . . . your family. They’re all looking for you. They need you. I need you. Shooting him is the only way we’ll get out of here alive. Please. Oh, God, please, Emma.”

  She seemed to consider this, and for a brief moment Harden thought he saw a spark of her old self in her eyes. A twinkle of recognition. A flash of defiance. The gun tilted toward Coyote.

  “Yes,” Harden said. “Good. Good. Now pull the trigger, Emma. You can do it.”

  Harden knew Coyote could lunge and likely snatch the gun from Emma’s grip, but he didn’t. He was completely confident in his power of suggestion.

  Though his voice took on a sharper edge. “Emma, love, listen to me. We have so much left to do. Do what is right. Kill Harden. Don’t let him steal you away.”

  “Emma.” Harden tried to get some momentum, spilling out the words as fast as he could. “He’s scared now, do you hear it? He thinks he’s invincible. He’s only doing this because he’s so convinced in his ability to brainwash you that you’ll do anything he says. But you’re strong. You’re strong. I can see it in you. You’re in there, Emma.”

  Harden didn’t know what else he could do. He couldn’t believe there was actually a chance at getting out of here alive. They were so close.

  “He’s not that smart, Emma. Coyote thinks he’s won. Don’t let him win. This is our only chance. He’ll kill us both if you don’t do something right now.”

  “Shoot him, Emma.” Coyote’s voice had turned commanding. “You must kill him now. I’m running out of patience.”

  Emma seemed to be waking from a paralyzing sleep, her gaze now darting rapidly between the two of them, the gun waving without focus. The guttural sound grew in her throat, a scream that so desperately wanted to come out but couldn’t.

  “I love you, Emma,” Harden said. “I love you.”

  “He doesn’t, Emma. He doesn’t care about you at all. Don’t let him convince you otherwise.”

  Emma’s eyes bulged. Her shoulders shook. The death-rattle moan was finally turning into a terrifying scream.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  “Kill him, Emma. Set us free.”

  “Kill him.”

  “Shoot him!”

  Emma’s scream fully erupted and it tore through her as she stood. Her body shook as she placed her left hand around her right, her fingers all wrapped firmly around the gun. The stub where one finger had once been pointed directly at Harden.

  “Please don’t do this, Emma.”

  “Do it.”

  “No, Emma. Listen to me!”

  The screaming suddenly stopped.

  Emma gasped for air.

  A tear fell from her left eye and rolled down her chin.

  She steadied the gun as she finally spoke, repeating the same three words over and over, both an apology and a declaration.

  “I love you I love you I love you I love you I—”

  Then she fired.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  A sledgehammer slammed into Harden’s chest. The force of the bullet’s impact knocked him backwards in the chair, spilling him to the ground.

  The chair was on its side and his body still strapped to it. He tried to lift his head
, but it weighed a thousand pounds. But he could move his eyes, and it was easy enough for him to see the blood pumping sideways out of him and pooling onto the floor. His whole body was in a vice, slowly being squeezed into a flat piece of nonexistence.

  He heard crying. Then hysteric laughter.

  Coyote’s voice. Close.

  “Good girl.”

  They were behind him. He could only see the projection screen, which silently flashed the images of death, as if mocking him.

  A soldier stepping on a land mine.

  A house in flames.

  A pig in a slaughterhouse, its throat peeled open.

  Harden knew he was dying the moment he stopped caring.

  He didn’t wonder why Emma had chosen to shoot him instead of the man who would surely kill her. He didn’t wonder why he didn’t just drive for help rather than come to the house. He didn’t miss his father. He just wanted to sleep, because sleep would make the pain go away. He was so, so tired.

  He closed one eye, the other one watching the life ooze beneath him. The blood was warm on his skin, but his body started to shake with chills. Heavy fatigue. A spike of nausea.

  Sleep. Just sleep. It’s okay.

  Emma’s crying grew distant, the sound fading into another world.

  Laughter. Light, the kind at a cocktail party. Far away.

  Harden closed his other eye.

  The light in the room became heavy, liquid, a sea of opacity. Images didn’t matter. Shapes had no meaning. There was only sensation, and even that was fading. This wasn’t like sleep. This was the end. Harden had never been so certain of anything as this truth. He had tried and failed. His best wasn’t good enough, but that no longer mattered.

  More laughing.

  The fading image on the screen showed a girl eating cotton candy. Her dress was green.

  Then a foot in front of him.

  Coyote. Knife in his hand.

  Reaching down.

  Cutting.

  Harden waited for the pain, but felt none.

  His body was suddenly free, but not from life. From the chair.

  On the floor. Coyote had cut off his restraints.

  Then, Coyote was in his ear. Inside his head.

  “I’m the last voice you will ever hear. How does that feel?”

  Harden couldn’t answer if he wanted.

  “All that life of yours. So many years. Gone. You have maybe a few minutes left, and then you’ll be nothing for the rest of eternity. And you never did anything with your life.”

  If only he could suck in a deep breath, but Harden sensed he would never feel air enter his lungs again. Then he felt his arm being yanked. Pulled.

  Dragged.

  His body was sliding across the floor. He turned his head.

  He saw Emma.

  Emma saw him.

  She was crying.

  The gun was on the floor next to her chair.

  Harden’s body slid along the floor as Coyote dragged him toward the door. In his mind, Harden could see the smear of blood being left in his wake.

  “Let me get rid of this mess, baby.”

  Harden was sliding on the floor past her. Closer to the door. Coyote was going to dispose of him.

  Harden willed himself alive a few more moments.

  Hand reaching out. He tried to touch Emma. He couldn’t.

  She bowed her head as he passed her.

  He was then sliding next to the gun, but he wasn’t at an angle where he could reach it. In seconds his opportunity would be gone. He had to stop moving.

  “Youuu . . . .” he groaned.

  He stopped. Coyote kept his grip on Harden’s arm and looked down at him.

  “I what?”

  Harden summoned all his strength to talk, and for a moment he actually felt the pain leave his body.

  “You were wrong,” Harden managed to say.

  Coyote let Harden’s arm drop to the floor, then squatted down and leaned into Harden’s face.

  “What was I wrong about? Tell me, Harden.”

  Harden reached out, knowing the gun was close. He stretched his arm as much as he could, then finally felt the nose of the gun. Dull, cold steel.

  “You believed everything I wrote. Back . . . in the cell. You believed all of it.”

  Coyote didn’t even pretend to play down what Harden said. His eyes narrowed—part confusion, part anger—as he said, “What did you make up?”

  Harden’s fingers flicked against the tip of the gun, and he was able to spin the handle toward his hand just a bit before the gun left his reach completely.

  “You’re so . . . so sure of yourself. So certain of your ability to read people,” Harden said. His words came in sputtering gasps, and he was certain his death was near. But he would not die here without taking Coyote with him. “But you can’t see the truth right in front of you.”

  Coyote’s breath warmed Harden’s face. A beautiful, hot wind on his freezing cold skin.

  “Tell me.”

  Harden moaned and stretched, hoping Coyote wouldn’t notice him reaching for the gun. His fingers found it and in one swift motion, he pulled it close to his side. Coyote was too close to him to notice.

  Then Coyote said, “You never were with her, were you?”

  Harden heard Emma sobbing to herself, somewhere an eternity away. His left hand spidered over the gun, twisting it so he could grip the handle. He had never practiced shooting with his left hand.

  Coyote stood and smiled. A genuine, goddamn smile as big as the sun.

  “You never were even with her at all! Well, Harden, I have to give you credit. You—”

  He didn’t get the rest of his words out. He stopped talking when he saw the gun pointed at him, the gun Harden had used all the strength he had left in his body to level at Coyote’s head.

  It lasted just an instant, but an image came to Harden. It was the image of the boy in the woods, the one who had so wanted Coyote’s walkie-talkie. That boy died because he didn’t know the true nature of Coyote. He underestimated him, didn’t think he would fight back. Sometimes people control you, make you promise to do what they say, make you promise to keep the darkest of secrets as they steal away bits of who you are, flaying you one thin layer at a time.

  But sometimes, you fight back.

  Harden pulled the trigger.

  The bullet caught the top of Coyote’s head, which snapped back as if pulled by an invisible wire. A chunk of his skull flew off and hit the wall, then landed on the floor just before the rest of Coyote’s body hit the floor.

  His eyes were open, and they stared directly into Harden’s. But they saw nothing. Harden knew Coyote was dead, because for the first time, there was nothing to see in his eyes. No joy, menace, lust, greed. Just frozen, clouded marbles, as empty as the glass eyes of a doll.

  Harden’s arm collapsed to the ground, and he knew he would soon join Coyote in death.

  He no longer heard Emma crying.

  As he closed his eyes and considered that killing another human would be the last thing he did before leaving this earth, Harden thought he heard something.

  Very distant. A door opening.

  Footsteps.

  Somewhere, in the ether of his consciousness, Harden’s last memory that night was of a voice. Soft. Male.

  “Sweet mother of Jesus.”

  EPILOGUE

  Whatever happens, say we are lovers.

  That’s what I had scratched in the dirt floor of the cell, in the brief moments they put Emma and me together. She had nodded, and then I told her aloud I loved her. It was all an act, but it felt good, like some kind of release. Truth is, I think there was some kind of love between us then. Even if we were doing it all for show, it wasn’t a difficult acting job to pull off.

  It seems a thousand years ago I last saw her. Actually, it’s only been about six months.

  Six months since I killed Coyote in the lake house. Six months since I nearly bled to death on the floor next to his body. Six mont
hs since a local cop burst into the house and saved my life.

  His name was Walter. I have since bought him a very nice case of beer and shared a half-dozen with him as he told me how my father had called the police the morning he found my letter. The police put out a be-on-the-lookout alert, and the cop I ran into at the coffee shop finally remembered where he’d seen my face. That narrowed down my direction and position, and Walter had been patrolling the lake when he’d seen my parked car. When he ran the plates, he found out whose car he’d just found, so he called it in before getting out to look for me.

  Well, he found me, and thank God he did. Later, the doctors told me if Walter had shown up ten minutes later that would have been it for me. As it was, they had given me a 20 percent survival rate for my first three days, all of which I spent in a coma. That 20 percent became 50, and eventually, over a period of a few weeks, 100.

  I had many visitors in the hospital, just as I had when I first escaped from the farmhouse in Iowa. This time it included real FBI agents, who told me there was apparently no major crime Alastair Martin was planning, at least not that they could tell. The working theory was that Alastair convinced his son to start the church as a “first step” in working with the family business, a small, organized crime family with its reach primarily within West Virginia. Coyote, it was assumed, was told to use the church as a tax-free means to launder money. But the FBI thought in reality the father wanted the son to fail, and that failure would diminish Coyote’s ability to eventually usurp power over the business from Alastair. Well, I suppose the father knew the son well, and guessed Coyote would become addicted to anything where he was able to control people. Maybe Alastair thought he succeeded, but he hadn’t planned on me telling everything I knew to the feds. Both Alastair and Vincent were arrested and awaiting trial for a number of charges, and I get the pleasure of testifying, whenever it gets to that point. They are even reopening the case of the death of Coyote’s mother, looking for a link back to Alastair.