Fran and Sally each put a hand on her back to comfort her.
“They’ll come for us,” Sally said. “Don’t worry.”
A pounding came at the door. Rocio let off a round, startling them all.
“Holy shit, don’t shoot,” Peter shouted from the other side. “We’re safe for now.”
Rocio let out a sigh as she collapsed on the mattress.
Chapter 22
Louis Blake crept through the dark corridor, pistol in one hand, the other reaching out to feel the space in front of him.
With his eyes closed, reality became nothing more than sounds and smells. He heard every creak of old wood, smelled the oil from the lantern John Meacham had lit, and with effort, he was able to tune out the sharp whistling of the wind entering the cracks in the walls. Instead, he focused on sounds that could possibly be footsteps. In this state, Meacham’s body odor was strong enough to lead him in the right direction.
A snap sounded to his right. He swung around to aim the gun, then ducked as something large and heavy swung through the air. He had smelled it coming, had sensed the shifting of air around him.
The log barreled into the wall, lifting a cloud of dried plaster particles. The place had been outfitted with traps, which must have been why Meacham had led him here.
Blake opened his eyes and searched the area, his vision unadjusted and blurry. The particles of dust and dry wood entered his nose. Dropped straight into his damaged lungs. He let out a barrage of coughs that drowned out all other sound. The tree trunk dangled in front of him, a dark shape against an even darker background, barely visible at all. He could see almost nothing of his surroundings except a few slivers of moonlight through the boarded-up windows.
A sound came from his right. Blake fired the gun three times, making sure to re-aim as each burst of light made the man visible. But Meacham moved quickly out of the way.
Steeped once more in darkness, Blake backed up against the wall, making sure there was space to his left and right in case he had to roll away from gunfire.
A crackling burst lit up the room. The assault rifle went wild, spraying the walls. Blake dove behind a toppled file cabinet.
The rifle silenced, the sound of Meacham’s deep, barreling laughter filling the room. Surrounded by dust and smoke, Blake readied his pistol, about to let loose a torrent of coughs. Too painful to hold back, he released them as he shot three times.
He missed. Meacham ducked into another room.
Blake pulled up into a sitting position against the wall. He coughed again and again, condemning himself with each one. If he died tonight, he would deserve it.
Meacham’s voice reached his ears, along with a metallic fumbling sound as he struggled with what must have been shaking hands to load another clip into the rifle.
“You thought you could beat me, huh, Louis? You are your own worst enemy. If only those cigarettes had done the trick sooner, then I wouldn’t be dealing with this shit.”
“You’ve lost…the town,” Blake said, his lungs about to burst. “Give…up…John.”
Each cough tasted like blood now.
“Think again,” Meacham said. “I’ve already got followers in Lansing and Outridge just waiting for me to give the word. A year from now, this whole mountain range, and every town in it, is going to be mine.”
Blake winced. Lansing and Outridge were peaceful mountain towns to the north and south of here. The assault rifles Kiernan had discovered in the barns weren’t for taking over Gulch. John Meacham had bigger plans than that. Blake had been so concerned with training the boys that he hadn’t even caught a hint of what was really going on around here.
A shoving sensation entered Blake’s mind. He sprang out of the way as Meacham’s rifle blasted bullets all over the spot he had just vacated, tearing the file cabinet apart. His telepathy was becoming effective against the man, which meant the drug was ebbing out of Meacham’s system.
Hoping Meacham was deaf from all the gunfire by now, Blake felt his way through the room in search of an exit. His right foot sank through a rotted floorboard, catching in a hollow space beneath it. He clenched his teeth to keep from groaning as the splinters cut into his leg.
“Where are you, old buddy?” Meacham said from around the corner.
A soft creaking sound reached Blake. Meacham had fallen into a crouch on the other side of the wall, aware he had Blake exactly where he wanted him. He was probably aiming the rifle into the room right now, ready to let out another burst.
Blake tried to pull his leg out, but he couldn’t. A nail had dug into the flesh of his calf, catching on the fabric of his pants. If he tried to break free, the sound would give him away.
“Are you dead, Louis?” Meacham said. “Say yes if you’re dead. Come on, say yes.”
The pain was sharp and cruel, like someone had stabbed a frozen fork into his calf muscle and twisted. Trying to ignore it, Blake arched his back and lowered himself face up—leg still in the hole, pistol in both hands now—until his shoulders and the back of his head touched the floor. He would have been seeing things upside down if the room weren’t so dark. Now, he just needed Meacham to fire another burst—hopefully away from the floor—so Blake could aim his pistol properly.
“Come get me, John,” he said. “If you’re not too stoned.”
The room lit up with gunfire that rattled Blake’s eardrums. Tracking the flashing lights, Blake aimed the pistol and pulled the trigger until the clip was empty.
All gunfire ceased. Blake heard only his own heavy breathing, followed by the metallic clatter of Meacham’s rifle falling to the floor.
“Gotcha,” Blake said.
He remained face-up on the floor, listening.
“John?” he said, grunting as he pulled his calf away from the jutting nail. He lifted his foot out of the hole, somewhat dizzy from the loss of blood. His ears rang from all the gunfire.
Searching the room, he saw nothing but inky blackness. The rays of moonlight coming in through the boarded windows couldn’t penetrate the dark.
A beam of light turned on in the hallway outside the room. Blake ejected the spent clip in his weapon, slipped another one in, and chambered a bullet. He raised the pistol, frowning in confusion as the light moved over the walls. By that light, he saw Meacham’s rifle discarded on the floor.
“Who’s there?” Blake said.
Don’t shoot.
Mike? Is that you?
Keep your gun lowered. Trust me.
Blake lowered the pistol. He watched as John Meacham entered the room, followed by someone with a flashlight.
He raised the pistol at Meacham to shoot, but a force somewhat like invisible hands gripped him and held him back.
“Mike, what are you doing?” Blake asked.
Michael appeared behind Meacham. Stepping around the man, he shone the light into Meacham’s face, which was slack and perfectly still. He appeared to be staring blankly ahead, as if his mind had been wiped, making the man no more than a puppet.
“I can’t…hold it for long,” Michael said.
Blake could sense the weight on the boy’s mind, his struggle to maintain his hold on the incredible spell he had cast on John Meacham.
“You—you sidestepped the drug,” Blake said in disbelief. “John took Selar—”
“That’s what it is,” Michael said. “I’m so close.”
Blake watched Michael’s face. Close to what, exactly? The boy’s lips squirmed as he mentally uttered a series of commands Blake sensed but couldn’t discern.
“What are you doing? Michael, talk to me. Let him go.”
“If I…do that,” Michael said, narrowing his eyes, his breaths shallow, “then he’ll kill us. He’s a…murderer, Louis.”
“You’re talking out loud,” Blake said, “which means your telepathic voice is talking to John. What are you saying to him?”
A gasp tore out of Meacham’s throat. The man visibly shook. His hands shaped themselves into claws before rising
toward his own throat.
“Don’t do it,” Blake said.
Michael’s lips were openly moving. Blake caught a shred of a command passing from Michael’s mind to that of the possessed man in front of him.
…and strangle…
Meacham uttered a sharp cry, his eyes as blank as before. His hands trembled as his curved fingers drifted toward the exposed stretch of his own neck. Blake felt a chill run down his back.
The kid was doing it. The death whisper.
“Mike…” Blake said.
All he could do was watch. He had to admit it—he was awestruck.
Then it all fell apart. Michael bent slightly, breaths rushing out as if an incredible tightness around his chest had been released.
Meacham let his hands fall to his sides. He remained standing, as docile as a puppy, his head slightly cocked.
“Goddamn it,” Michael said.
He raised his pistol.
No, it was Blake’s gun.
Blake stared in shock at his right hand. The gun was gone. Michael had pulled a Dominic, moving so fast—relatively speaking, from Blake’s perspective—that Blake hadn’t noticed the boy relieving him of the weapon.
“No!”
But there was nothing Blake could do to stop him. Michael’s face was a mask of rage. He raised the pistol, aimed it at John Meacham’s skull, and wasted no time in firing a bullet right into the man’s brain.
Chapter 23
Officially, John Meacham had died while attacking another member of the town, which was a crime punishable by death if the intent had been to kill, which it obviously had been. The victimized member in question—Louis Blake—had only shot his aggressor in self-defense.
Officially, Michael hadn’t even been there. He had arrived after the fact.
The lie was easy to swallow, for everyone except Louis Blake. He scolded Michael for fifteen minutes straight in his office above the Matinee. Michael promised never to try something like that again, but Blake didn’t buy it.
After what had happened with Elkin—specifically his horrifying rape attempt—the town had no problem believing John Meacham and his men were corrupt and murderous. Blake was surprised at how ready they were to rid themselves of his influence—though that didn’t mean the townsfolk were eager to embrace Blake and his boys, either.
The very next morning, Blake and Dominic woke the boys up early, before the sun had even risen, to begin cleaning up the town. They gathered the corpses of Meacham and his men, wrapped them in sheets, loaded them into trucks, and drove them to a distant spot east of the mountains. They spent the day digging graves, consuming nothing but crackers, beef jerky, and coffee they boiled over a small fire. They worked mostly in silence.
The people of Gulch stayed in their houses with their families. Only the determined went outside to do any work. Arielle went from house to house, asking if anybody needed help or supplies. She assured them the fighting was over, and that it would be for a very long time.
Blake’s sudden rise in esteem attracted new recruits. Telepathic or not, it didn’t matter—it now appeared every young man wanted to follow the major. And if Louis Blake was to be their commander, it was fitting Michael Cairne be a lieutenant.
Within a week’s time, twelve men and boys between the ages of sixteen and twenty-nine had been initiated into Blake’s ranks. They began referring to Michael as “Sir.” He found he could make them do practically anything he wanted, though he was uncomfortable exercising his newfound authority and mostly stuck to relaying orders already issued by Louis Blake.
Ten days after John Meacham’s death, Blake, Dominic, Midas, and the boys officially set themselves to the task of discovering exactly what the hell John Meacham had been up to, an investigation which soon became the talk of the town. They used hypnosis to get his surviving followers—a few jailed and awaiting trial to determine if they’d be outcast—to spill everything they knew about the supplies locked in his barn and Meacham’s plans for taking over Outridge and Lansing, which eventually surfaced as the man’s primary motivators.
Blake listened in shock at the news of his former friend’s plans to commit horrible atrocities. Any men from outlying towns who resisted Meacham’s takeover would be hung from lampposts on public streets as an example. Girls over the age of fourteen were to be paired with Meacham’s men, with Meacham himself deciding on the pairing. These women and girls would serve to create new followers for Meacham’s regime.
His ultimate goal had been to combine as many as six of the surrounding mountain towns into a united chiefdom, with himself as the chief and men like Warren as his lieutenants.
And where did Louis Blake and his men fit in to this grand scheme?
“He was going to kill you,” one of Meacham followers said, gazing blankly forward in the grip of a powerful hypnotic spell issued by Michael, who required no assistance. “He was just waiting for the right time. He had to make you look bad to the people first, so they would understand. So they wouldn’t rebel.”
The plan made sense to Blake. It ended up happening anyway, but in reverse, with Meacham being the one to fall and Blake remaining the victor, both men’s reputations irrevocably altered in the process.
Sitting in Blake’s office one evening, Blake and Michael discussed what had happened. Midas Ford joined them. He sat in an armchair sipping tea, mostly listening. The old doctor didn’t seem surprised to learn of Michael’s attempt—and near success—at using the death whisper. If it hadn’t been for the Selarix coursing through John’s veins, Michael most likely would have succeeded.
“What did it feel like?” Midas asked, slurping his tea. “Be as detailed as possible.”
Michael didn’t know how to explain it. He had simply told the string in Meacham’s mind exactly what he wanted it to do. But it was like trying to push and maneuver one magnet with another magnet’s opposing force—possible but unwieldy as hell.
“It’s like…” Michael began, sitting on one end of the office’s ratty, cigarette-smelling couch, his hands joined together on his lap, “it’s like I was talking to a part of him behind the man he became, someone he used to be. Maybe the child version of John Meacham…if that’s even possible.”
Blake leaned forward, a forgotten cigarette burning in his hand. “Unbelievable,” was all he could say.
Midas Ford shook his head. “It’s not natural. And for it to come so easily. We never trained you to—”
He was interrupted by a loud, hacking cough. Blake propped his elbows on his knees and bent all the way over, the smoke rising into his face. Shaking his head in disappointment, Midas plucked the cigarette out of Blake’s fingers and put it out in his tea, then set the mug on the floor.
“There,” Michael said, staring at Blake. “I just saw something.”
Blake’s chest shook as he raised his head, stifling a cough.
“What did you see?”
They leaned closer to Michael, listening.
“A flash, like an image that leaked out of your mind. You didn’t mean to send it.”
“What was it, Mike? Say it.”
Michael’s voice shook a little. “My mother, when she was young.”
Blake winced as if suddenly ashamed.
“You loved her,” Michael said. “I just felt how much. Only for a second, but it was there. She was beautiful. That’s why you’re killing yourself with cigarettes. You hate yourself for not saving her life.”
Blake shot out of his chair. “You stay out of my mind, Michael. I mean it.”
“If you tell me why you left her behind, I’ll make it stop.”
“Make what stop?” Blake asked.
“The cravings. The… the taste for it.”
Blake shook his head, dropping into his chair. “Impossible.”
“Try me,” Michael said, sounding oddly confident. “I mean… it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
Midas Ford kept glancing back and forth between them, a stunned expression on his face.
“Midas,” Blake said, irritated, “it’s not your brain we’re talking about. Besides, weren’t you just complaining about the boy’s level of—”
“But this could save your life, you old stubborn bastard. That might not mean anything to you, but some of us—”
“Oh, fine, fine.” Blake threw his hands in the air. “I’ll tell you what you want to hear, Mike, but only because you’ve earned that much.”
“The truth,” Michael said.
“I didn’t abandon your mother,” he said. “She chose to stay because of you.”
Michael flinched. Blake realized how his words probably sounded to the boy.
“It wasn’t your fault, Mike,” Midas Ford interjected. “That’s not what he’s saying.”
“I know,” Michael said. He nodded slightly, though his serious features appeared to have hardened. “Why didn’t you kidnap us both?”
Blake shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible,” Michael said.
The boy sounded angry. Blake wanted to throttle him.
“What you don’t understand, Mike,” Blake said, “is just how heavily fortified that mountain research facility truly was. The children—you—were kept under twenty-four-hour surveillance. I’m talking about armed guards, alarms, motion sensors, gun turrets. It was hard enough reaching your mother—the concubines weren’t nearly as valuable, so she was relatively easy to get to. But I went back for her. I gave her a chance to escape, to come with me.
“You weren’t even two years old by then. I thought you would perish like the rest of your siblings. Like all the children from those spiteful experiments. So, I decided not to risk it.”
“You left her there,” Michael said.
“I had no choice.” Blake shot to his feet again. He was ranting now, but he didn’t care. It felt good to finally let it out. “I tried using force, but she threatened to set off the alarms. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make, and the only thing keeping me alive since then has been the promise I made her—the promise that, one day, I would come back and save you both. I had it all planned out—a suicide mission if I’ve ever seen one, but still. Then your mother succeeded where I most likely would have failed. She broke you out of that place, sacrificing her own life in the process. And here we are—you’re alive, I’ve fulfilled my promise, and if there’s a hell, you and I are going to send Harris Kole there. But not yet. Not until you’re ready.”
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 36