When Death Draws Near

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  I’d have to climb up. With a broken hand and sprained ankle.

  Reluctantly I drew my good arm out of the sweater, leaving my broken hand inside. My slippers were loose-fitting with a smooth bottom. I wouldn’t be able to climb in them, but would need them when I reached level ground. I wound the yarn around the slippers, then wrapped the ends around my waist, creating a shoe fanny pack.

  The yarn was tight enough that it cinched my sweater at the bottom. After I pulled the sweater looser in the front, my broken hand rested in the knitted sling.

  I patted my pockets to be sure the watch, ring, note, and knife were all accounted for.

  Turning toward the hillside, I mapped my route. Although rather steep, a number of shrubs and small trees had taken hold. The real problem could be the wet stone and loose gravel. I stepped to the cave opening, then reached up and grabbed a sturdy shrub. A few test pulls assured me it would hold. I took a deep breath and climbed to the bush. Above that and to my left was a smaller tree. I could reach it, but would have to reach across my body or use my left wrist. Reluctantly I pulled my arm from the sweater sling. My hand was swollen to double its size and my fingers were turning into purple sausages.

  I searched for a foothold with my foot, finally hooking a thin outcropping. Stretching sideways, I reached for the tree and hooked my wrist over it.

  The stone broke under my foot. I let go of the shrub and lunged for the tree. I caught it just as my wrist slipped. I clung there for a moment, breathing quickly. I’d barely climbed a foot above the cave opening.

  The rain slowed to a drizzle. It seemed darker. If night came before I could climb this slope . . .

  The next tree was larger, a pine, and almost directly overhead. I pulled myself up onto the tree I was clinging to, then carefully stood, holding on to a tiny ridge. The tree bent but held my weight. Wrapping my left arm around the pine, I moved upward.

  Another shrub, this one big enough that I risked a glance behind me.

  I clutched the bush harder, not willing to move. I’d traversed the hill far enough that the ledge was no longer under me. If I slipped, I’d drop directly down the cliff to the woods far below. Burying my face in my arm, I closed my eyes. I could smell the tang of the pine and odor of wet earth. “Endure. Just . . . endure.” I stayed motionless for a few moments, until the damp chill started to replace the heat of my exertion.

  “Come on, Gwen, get tough.” I found the next small tree to grab, but loathed letting go of the bush.

  The rocks grew more jagged, providing hand- and footholds, but tearing at my clothing and flesh. I tested each one before committing my weight to it. One outcropping caught my sweater at the shoulder, ripping a hole and stabbing into my skin.

  I gasped at the new assault of pain but didn’t stop to see the damage.

  Slowly, painfully, I scrabbled up the slope until my burning muscles gave out. I’d reached a good-sized maple and I hugged it like a life raft. I couldn’t feel my bare feet, my hand pounded with every heartbeat, and I was soaking wet and freezing. If I just closed my eyes for a moment and rested . . . I was so sleepy . . .

  A stream of images passed through my mind. The sketches I’d done of the snake handlers. Aynslee getting baptized. Blake’s piercing gaze. Ruby and Elijah outside the police station. Blanche telling the story of Octavia Hatcher being buried alive. Junior’s fluttering hands. Clay appearing in my hotel room. Samuel’s ravaged face. Grady’s Bible. Trish’s body. Aynslee at Ruby and Elijah’s—

  A thought slammed into my brain like a steamroller. Devin believed he’d taken care of me, that I was as good as dead. What if, after dumping me into that cave, he’d gone back to the cabin? Sooner or later, Aynslee would show up looking for me.

  “What if Devin is someone she knows?” My voice shook as much as I did. Grady’s Bible didn’t show a birth date for Devin. His mother married in 1978 and died five years later. Devin would be somewhere in his midthirties. That eliminated Clay. Too old. But not his son. Junior was adopted. And that fit Grady’s words The boy was strange. Clay could be protecting his son, maybe even helping. And Clay would be more likely to send the victims away rather than let his son kill them. He had money, or at least acted like he did, according to Beth.

  But Arless had money. Scads of it. And a reputation he needed to protect. He owned the cabin, so that part was easy. And women would find him handsome, so it wouldn’t take much to get them to go with him. Initially. The FBI profile commented on how easily he found his victims, mentioning homeless shelters. Didn’t Trish say the Campbells helped fund a homeless shelter?

  But why would he put up the money to bring me out as a forensic artist?

  Wellington was also in the right age range. He’d arrived at about the same time as the rapes started. But he’d needed a map to find the cabin, a map I’d found under the groceries. Trish was usually with him. But I didn’t cross him off my list.

  You’re forgetting someone. I didn’t want to consider it, but Blake could be added to my list. He had the money, grew up in the area, and was wildly handsome.

  And he wears gold, wire-rimmed glasses. Just like my composite from the surveillance still. And he had a black pickup.

  I didn’t want it to be Blake.

  Let’s face it, Aynslee would easily trust any of them. He’d just tell her he was going to drive her to me. I had to find her.

  I shoved against the maple to sit up. The day was rapidly drawing to a close, and daylight was fading fast. Get to the next tree or bush.

  An oak stood about five feet away. There was something strange about it. I bit my lip and tried to work it out. My brain was full of cotton batting. Let’s see. The oak is . . . slightly above me and . . .

  Slightly above.

  I’d reached the top of the hill.

  Instead of climbing with hands and feet, I could stand and walk. Or hobble. I made it to the oak, then leaned against its bark. The slippers were still fastened around my waist with the yarn. I pulled out the knife to cut the wool, but the blade was folded into the handle. It would take two hands to open it. I stuffed the knife back into my pocket, then pulled on one strand of the yarn. It tightened and squeezed my waist, but didn’t break.

  I sat and leaned against the tree. Just give up.

  No. I had to get to Aynslee. I pulled on the slippers until the yarn was loose around them and tight around my stomach. Working one slipper back and forth, I tugged it out, followed by the second. I dropped them to the ground and jammed my frozen feet into place.

  The drizzle stopped and I stood and looked around. I had no idea where I was. The mountains rolled around me in endless uniformity. No sounds carried in the breeze beyond the shuuusssss of tossing trees and soft plops as rain-drenched leaves dropped. The light was fading, turning the dusky sky to dreary gray.

  Go downhill. Right. I was at the top of the mountain. The only downhill that wasn’t an option was the direction from which I just came. Think about it. Reason it out. The opening to Grady’s tomb was fifteen feet overhead. The tunnel I’d just climbed out was level with the floor. I climbed up a cliff more than fifteen feet to get here. Therefore the way into the cave would be around here somewhere.

  That meant something. I couldn’t concentrate; instead, my brain seemed focused on all the throbbing injuries.

  You are out of time.

  Okay, okay. The opening . . . the opening you were thrown down. Someone had to have brought you up here. Someone dragged you from a car or truck. A car needs a road.

  I scanned the area around me again, this time paying attention to the ground. A grove of trees with an outcropping of limestone boulders stood to my right. I hobbled over to them. At first I didn’t see anything. Circling the area, I discovered what I was looking for: a narrow track where the fallen leaves were thinner. Someone pulled my marginally conscious body through here.

  There wasn’t time to look for the cave entrance. I followed the barely discernible path made by my dragged body into the rising mist
of the evening.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE ROAD—WIDE DIRT TRACK, REALLY—WAS just out of sight of the top of the hill. I slid down the last few feet, raising new shrieks of protest from my gouged bottom. The lane crested the hill at this point, then disappeared downhill in both directions. I kicked four rocks into a line to mark the spot, then listened for any sound of human habitation. An owl hooted somewhere behind me. Who knew how deep in the rolling Appalachian mountains I’d been driven or how far it was to civilization? Squinting in the gathering dusk, I checked for lights. Nothing appeared in either direction. “Lord, anytime now You can send a sign.”

  The faintest whistle of a train blew in the distance to my right. I turned to that route. Even though the road was downhill, I soon panted with the exertion. I tried to put as little weight as possible on my sprained ankle, which meant I walked with a half-hopping step. The jarring motion reverberated up to my broken hand. The minutes crawled by, the last of the rain clouds passed, the temperature dropped, and the daylight faded.

  I tried to get my mind off my situation by thinking about the mummified face of Grady. I’d seen that face before. Or was I just remembering the photograph? Devin might resemble his father. I superimposed the faces of all of my suspects over his image. Nothing.

  Devin grew up in Pikeville, at least until he was in his mid-teens. Wouldn’t he have been easily identified when he returned home? Unless some plastic surgery was involved, which would take money. Surgery plus time. Grady had been in that cave for close to twenty years. A lot could change in twenty years.

  All the murders and rapes began about six months ago. There had to be a trigger that set Devin off. Wellington arrived then. Blake’s fiancée left him. I didn’t know about Junior or Arless, but I’d find out.

  I tried not to think about the time passing as I walked—make that hobbled—off the mountain. I needed transportation.

  The road leveled somewhat, but I found it harder and harder to see. I increased my pace but still seemed to move at a crawl. The moon came out, casting blue light over the landscape.

  A waft of air brought the scent of fresh hay and manure.

  I stopped and listened.

  A horse snorted.

  The road took a sharp left turn. I hurried as fast as I could, then slowed just before the turn. If I found a house, the logical thing to do would be to ask to use their phone and call the sheriff. In this case, though, I wasn’t sure who I could trust.

  Even if no one was home, I’d probably find dogs on guard duty. Fortunately I was downwind of the farm, which bought me time to get the layout of the land.

  I peered around the turn. Instead of a barn, a small clearing with a makeshift corral held two horses. I knew this spot. Those were Blake’s horses.

  The black pickup and two-horse trailer were missing.

  Approaching the corral, my heart sank.

  Blake’s and Aynslee’s horses were gone. Remaining were the packhorse and the high-spirited bay who’d tried to buck me off. Both horses eyed me as I drew near.

  There you go, Gwen. Transportation.

  Blake must have had the saddles and bridles in the horse trailer. How would I ride without a bridle? On an ornery, crow-hopping horse? With a broken hand?

  I could just wait. Blake would return for the remaining two steeds.

  But the amount of hay on the ground looked like the horses could be here for the night. I had to get to my daughter. And Blake would still be mad enough at me that he may simply refuse to help.

  You think he’s angry with you now, just wait until more serpent handlers die, like Ruby and Elijah. His own family members.

  My breath caught at the thought. I couldn’t let that happen.

  The bay wore a halter, but no lead ropes hung conveniently from a fence post. Crossing to where the trailer had been parked, I searched the ground, moving back to the corral. I found what I was looking for: two loops of orange twine that had originally held the bales of hay together. Tied to the halter, the loops were too short to work as reins, but if I cut them open, they’d be long enough.

  Pulling out the pocket knife, I placed it in my broken hand. My sausage fingers refused to close over it. Come on, time’s wasting. I placed the knife on the ground and braced it under my foot. When I tried to pry the blade open, my slippers were too loose and floppy to hold it. I kicked off my slippers, shivering at the feel of the cold earth, and braced the knife with my toes. The blade remained stubbornly closed.

  Grunting with exertion, I tried a different angle. The blade opened partway. I flipped the knife over and used the earth to pry the blade completely open. I sliced the looped baling twine, then entered the corral. The packhorse snorted and moved away, but the bay continued to eat. I quickly caught him and awkwardly tied the twine to his halter.

  I’d have to mount the horse outside the corral. I wouldn’t be able to control my ride and open the gate with one hand. If I failed, or was bucked off, the horse would run.

  “Nice horse, good horse.” I patted his shoulder. Blake had helped me mount before, so getting on Rowdy’s back would be a challenge. He obligingly followed me outside the corral. Climbing up the side of the fence, I threw my leg over his back and slipped on. I had just enough time to grab a chunk of mane before he bolted.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE HORSE PLUNGED AHEAD AT A DEAD GALLOP. I desperately clung to his back with my legs. My one good hand held a chunk of mane. The twine reins were useless for control.

  Night had fallen. I could see nothing and had no idea where we were going except downhill. Cold, damp air whipped past my face and body. Lord, don’t let the horse stumble or fall. I leaned forward for better balance. My broken hand, still inside my sweater, pounded with the drumbeat of the horse’s hooves.

  We raced for what seemed like hours. I tried to picture our route from the day before. Has it just been one day since the revival? Blake had driven a few miles from the corral until he reached the main highway. How far had the horse run? What would happen when we reached the main road?

  The bay’s easy breathing became labored. My strength ebbed, hand cramped, legs felt like cooked spaghetti. If the horse swerved, I wouldn’t be able to hang on. The horse’s sweat warmed my legs, but the salt seeped through my warm-up pants and burned the skin torn in my escape from the cave.

  The headlong gallop became a canter. Car headlights danced through the trees ahead and the sound of engines grew and faded. The scent of wet pavement joined that of woodsmoke.

  The canter became a walk.

  I took a deep, shuddering breath. You’re almost there. Turn right at the highway. Elijah and Ruby’s house is just another mile or so.

  The what-ifs loomed in my brain. What if Junior or Clay were patrolling the highway? Or anyone on my list of suspects? What if the horse bolted again when he saw cars?

  What if it was too late and Devin already had Aynslee? He’d had the time. I’d been gone for over a day.

  Clenching my teeth at the last thought, I urged the bay to a slow trot. The bouncing gait jarred my hand and foot, but it took my mind off useless speculation.

  I stopped the horse behind a line of trees just before the road and watched for a few moments. Only a couple of cars buzzed past.

  Once again I urged the horse forward, crossed the road, and turned toward the oncoming traffic. The dark horse would be hard to see in the inky night. Two trucks drove by, slowed beside me, then sped on. A car also reduced speed when its headlights picked us out. As they drew abreast, they rolled down the windows. Spider-Man and a pirate stuck their heads out.

  I blinked rapidly. Neither Spider-Man nor the pirate disappeared. I was hallucinating.

  “Nice costume,” Spider-Man called out before the car picked up speed.

  Of course. Halloween. People dressed up. I probably looked like the living dead.

  We encountered only one other vehicle, an SUV, before I saw the small turnoff to Ruby and Elijah’s house. I kicked my tire
d mount to a slow canter to cross the road and go up the driveway.

  No lights showed in the windows.

  My heart sank.

  Were they gone? A white Toyota Camry sat in front of the house.

  Maybe everyone had gone to bed. I had no idea what time it was.

  Sliding off the horse, I ended up on the ground, my legs too rubbery to hold me up. The bay sniffed my hair, then lightly bumped my head with his muzzle. I stroked his velvety nose. “Yeah, I know. Give me a minute.”

  Finally I pushed off the ground, then held on to the horse’s withers until I could stand. I limped to the nearby gate that led to the cow pasture and turned Rowdy loose, then hobbled to the house.

  I knocked on the front door. “Hello? Ruby? Elijah? I’m sorry to be so late. It’s me, Gwen.”

  No lights turned on. The house was as still as a tomb. I knocked again, harder. Still no sign of life. I grabbed the doorknob and turned it. Unlocked. Slowly I pushed the door open, encountering slight resistance. The smell of something burning assailed me.

  Directly in front of me I heard a distinctive sound. A slow chchch, then speeding to a continuous cheeeeeeeeeeheeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

  I groped for a light switch on the wall beside me, found it, and flipped it on, illuminating the space like a stage.

  The room was crawling with snakes.

  Lying in the middle of the floor were two bodies. Ruby and Elijah. I recognized them more from the clothing than appearance. The june bug–blue, bloated flesh distorted their faces and exposed skin. Ruby had clutched the rug under her in agony. Elijah had his arm thrown across her body. A large rattlesnake glided across Ruby’s back. A smaller snake, with a flat, triangular head and dark banded body, curled under Elijah’s leg.

  My heart raced. My feet seemed rooted to the floor, my hand frozen on the light switch.