Jackals

by Charles L. Grant

  The telephone shrilled on the back wall, but before she could step away from the counter Dorry popped out of the kitchen and grabbed it, turning her skinny back on the room. Then a customer called, it was Rye Harden, and Nola went over. He’d been trying for an hour to get her to dinner, using commiseration for Charlie as what she thought was a piss-poor excuse—in your grief, maybe you shouldn’t be alone.

  Good lord, she wanted to shoot him.

  But he was serious, even earnest, and it was hard not to give him a real smile, some honest chatter, all the while glancing over her shoulder.

  “You waiting for them magazine people to call?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  The undertaker grinned, stroking his handlebar mustache. “You know, the one’s that give away that million dollars every year?”

  “Oh.” She tucked the pad into her apron. “Sure, Rye. I live for that moment.”

  He laughed, and she turned just as Dorry raised a hand to beckon her. But Cider came out of the kitchen, snarled at her, snarled something into the receiver before Nola could get there, and said, “I told you, Nola, this isn’t your private secretary here.” He patted Dorry’s rump to get her back to her station. “You make and take your calls on your own time.”

  Nola glared helplessly.

  Dunn touched her arm, lowered his voice. “Those folks from the church’ll be in here any second. Soon’s you’re done with them, you can take a few minutes.”

  “Oh, thanks, Master,” she said.

  He winked broadly, touched her arm again, and left, and just as she reached for the phone, the hell with him, she heard the sputtering exhaust of a pair of past-prime school buses pull into the lot.

  “Shitfire,” she muttered, and grabbed her order pad again. From the looks of it, the sounds of the unloading, those few minutes weren’t going to come for at least a couple of hours.

  Jonelle watched the two men argue, not very heatedly, one of them still pointing at the house as if he could see her hiding beside the window.

  Now or never, she thought, and had taken one step toward the back, when the younger one came back outside, wiping his hands on a towel.

  He headed straight for the slope.

  Rachel had moved the telephone to the floor beside the couch, and had pulled the plug from the wall.

  Jim had argued that his friends would find a busy line suspicious, or alarming, but all she had done was show him her teeth.

  “Someone will come,” he said for what he thought must have been the hundredth time.

  “Let them,” she answered lazily.

  Maurice was less than twenty minutes from Knoxville center, drifting in the right-hand lane down the long interstate slope that led toward the river, when a stone kicked up from a car just ahead and cracked off the windshield. Startled, he yanked the wheel left, heard a truck blare at him, and yanked the wheel in the opposite direction, leaving the lane for the shoulder, where he finally braked to a halt.

  His hand trembled on the steering wheel.

  The wind of passing traffic punched the old car. What he had intended to do was make a fast raid on his supply houses—candles, some new chairs for the chapel, go to the university and talk to that prissy white boy again about the stained-glass windows he wanted as replacements throughout the house, matching the ones over the front entrance. No more than a couple of hours, back in plenty of time for something to eat before he went over to James’ house.

  Back long before dusk.

  While both he and James had had experiences with the jackals in daylight, especially in winter, he knew they preferred to do their traveling and hunting at night. Yesterday had been a fortunate, foolhardy exception; a major exception because Ruby Modeen hated James so much,

  Maurice was positive she had lost a goodly portion of her mind.

  The others, though … they may not be as clever, nor as ruthless, but they surely knew better than to try to take their hunter when they weren’t at full strength.

  At first he’d had the terrifying, exhilarating, idea that the remnants of Ruby’s pack would seek help at the gathering, wherever that was, and he had almost rushed right over to James to demand they do something, not wait until nightfall.

  The idea passed.

  Ruby’s kin, no matter what, wouldn’t ask for outside help.

  The car shuddered in the wake of a long convoy of trucks.

  He stared at them blindly, then turned his head until they passed, the glare from their sides too much.

  Lord, he thought, if it be Your will, strike those bastards down, they’re gonna kill me one day.

  Another passed, much slower, and though the reflective back was covered with words, and a cartoon of a grinning possum, all he noticed was a red-and-black rectangle down near the bottom.

  For no reason at all, it reminded him of the “Closed” sign Peter used at the gas station.

  Then he knew why.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered, slamming his foot on the accelerator. “Oh, Jesus.”

  Fuck it, Nola thought; I can’t take it anymore.

  She stomped over to the counter, yanked off her apron, and handed Dorry the order pad.

  ”What’s this for?”

  “Something I have to do.”

  “Jeez, Nola, Mr. Dunn’s going to skin you.” Nola stared at her.

  Dorry backed away. “What? What’d I say?”

  “Tell him I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” “Nola!”

  Only one, she thought as she hurried from the restaurant to her car; goddamnit, there was only one.

  Jonelle slipped the belt knife from its sheath, hefted it, and told herself a dozen times that as long as there was only one, she had a reasonable chance.

  He would underestimate her.

  One look at her size, and he’d probably grin, maybe laugh, maybe make some kind of wiseass crack once he realized the kind of figure she had.

  hey, little girl, your momma know you’re out?

  They did it all the time.

  hey, little girl, you want to see something nice?

  Pushover is what he’d think.

  Little gal with a little knife. He wouldn’t know if she could use it until it was too late to learn she could use it very well.

  Better, in fact, than Jim could use his rifle.

  She watched as he paced along the base of the slope, obviously trying to decide if there was a short way up to save time and effort. Then he tossed the towel aside and started to climb, knees bent, arms slightly forward for balance. Halfway up, she realized he was younger than she was, his round face red from exertion and looking redder because his so pale, fair hair was flopping over his eyes. Almost good-looking, probably thought he was handsome, probably thought he could get most anyone into his bed.

  His gaze never left the house, even when he slipped once and went down on his knees.

  She stepped deeper into the room and to one side. The woman stepped out of the office and yelled.

  The man turned and said something, but he didn’t stop.

  Jonelle decided: he’d come to the door, she’d fling it open and gut him before he had a chance to yell.

  The woman called again, and Janelle realized that she, too, was younger; from the looks of her, barely into her twenties.

  The man stopped.

  “C’mon,” Janelle urged in a whisper, turning the knife over and over in her hand.

  He flapped his hands at his sides and shook his head.

  The woman insisted.

  “Please,” Janelle whispered harshly, looked down and realized she had been stabbing at the wall. Looked up and saw the man heading back down the slope, hangdog, shrugging, stopping at the bottom and pointing emphatically at the house.

  At her.

  Christ, Jonelle thought, slipping the knife into its place; Jesus, what the hell are you thinking, girl, you crazy or something? Do him, and that bitch’s up here before you can shut the damn door.

  Then the woman cocked her hea
d as if listening to someone behind her, and waved her hand, and nodded.

  The young man clapped his hands eagerly, blew her a kiss, and took the slope at a run.

  Maurice saw the blue light flashing in his rearview mirror.

  There wasn’t much he could do but pull over, close his eyes, and pray.

  Jonelle charged through the house, slammed through the back door and nearly wrenched her arm as she stopped, whirled, and closed the door as softly as she could. She didn’t wait to see which way the man would come; she raced across the yard and ducked into the garage through the side door, thankful Peter had as usual forgotten to draw the front door down. His car was here, up on blocks, and her motorcycle, off to the side. She wished she knew if he would search the house first, or come straight through and see the garage; she wished she knew if he could smell she had been in there, waiting for him.

  Nervously she tapped the keys in her jeans pocket.

  If she started the bike now, the noise would bring him, and she might not be able to reach the road in time; if she waited until he was on the second floor, the noise wouldn’t matter.

  If she waited, he might find her.

  Her hands trembled as she straddled the seat, keyed the ignition, and heeled the kick stand back.

  No time for the niceties like helmet and jacket. And Peter had no time left at all.

  Don’t wait.

  She started the engine, gunned it once, and Wade Modeen stepped into the doorway. Grinning.

  “Someone’s coming,” Jim said, figuring if it got any hotter in here, he’d melt.

  Rachel uncurled from the sofa, gun in hand.

  Damn, he thought as Nola’s car swung off the road onto the driveway. He made to stand, but the gun waved him down. Rachel’s expression was impassive, her movement almost listless as she walked into the hall and paused by the door.

  “Don’t hurt her.”

  It wasn’t a plea.

  Rachel smiled.

  He sat up and rubbed his hands roughly over his face, trying to spark energy, trying to think of some way to get her before she got Nola.

  The doorbell rang.

  He rose awkwardly, legs not giving him much support, ignoring the threat of the barrel quickly aimed at his chest. His look told her he had to answer, Nola had seen his car outside, and no response would only bring more trouble.

  Rachel backed away.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Nola said when he answered. She pushed past him, straight into the living room, before he could stop her. “What’ve you been doing all day, Jimmy? Christ, it’s hot in here! That damn conditioner break down again?”

  She turned about in the center of the floor, just as Rachel stepped around the corner, one hand behind her, the other taking Jim’s arm and pushing him ahead of her before he could react.

  “Jimmy, I’ve been thinking about what happened last night.”

  He shook his head. He had no idea what she was talking about, but he wanted her out of here. Quickly.

  ”Nola, honey, that was last night. I’ve got a ton of stuff to do, and—”

  “It’s about them,” she insisted, not sure who to look at, faint confusion gathering in a faint frown across her brow. “I tried to tell Maurice, but he had some God business to do and didn’t listen.”

  “Nola,” he said sternly, and reached for her arm.

  ”Jimmy, damnit.” She took a step back, jutting her chin toward the other woman. “You haven’t time for fooling around, you hear me? Ruby’s kin, they’re going to be here any minute, and there’s something I got to .tell you.” She flashed a smile at Rachel. “Honey, you mind fetching me a glass of water? It’s hotter’n an oven in here. My throat feels packed to the gills with sand.”

  “Be glad to,” Rachel said brightly, and left.

  “Jimmy,” the waitress said when they were alone, lowering her voice, not taking her gaze from the hall, “I had a visitor last night.”

  He closed the gap between them and grabbed her arms. “Get out,” he whispered. “Don’t say a word, just get the hell out of here.” But when he tried to push her toward the door, she resisted. “Nola!”

  “Don’t you ‘Nola’ me,” she snapped. “We got trouble, and I’m not leaving until you hear me.”

  “I can hear you,” he answered, barely moving his lips. “But I’m telling you to get out, damnit.”

  She glared.

  He grabbed her upper arm, squeezing until she winced. “Damnit, Nola, get out, she’s one of them.”

  He was surprised when she didn’t argue, didn’t question, but moved smartly to the hall. “Don’t bother with that, honey,” she called as she opened the door. “Jimmy’s being a pain in the ass, I’ll call him later.”

  “No,” Rachel said, sliding out of the kitchen.

  “Little girl,” Wade said, “ain’t that hog a bit big for a tiny thing like you?”

  Rumbling filled the garage.

  Exhaust filled the hot air.

  Even squinting against the glare, she could barely make him out, standing with the sun behind him, a shadowman with his hands propped mockingly on his hips.

  I’m not going to die.

  “Little thing, your brother’s calling.”

  I’m not going to die.

  He looked around slowly. “You want to get off that thing now? Ruthann’s waiting, and she’s got a temper you wouldn’t believe.”

  She wiped her hand nervously over her hip, and he laughed, laughed again when she gripped the handlebars and gunned the engine once again.

  “Now, come on, don’t be doing something stupid,” he told her, almost whining as his hands slipped to his sides. “That thing won’t go fast enough to get by me anyway, you know that, so just shut it down, little girl. Shut it down before you get yourself hurt.”

  He laughed without a sound.

  She picked her feet up and let the tires squeal and smoke, let the bike head for the drive, just to Wade’s left.

  He snarled and reached out.

  She lashed out with the knife and slashed the blade across his eyes.

  His scream.

  The engine’s roar.

  Her own scream, Peter’s name, as the tires spun grit and dust from the blacktop, seeking purchase, finding it, nearly losing it again as she veered left onto Potar Road and let out the throttle, hot wind in her eyes, the knife still in her hand.

  She didn’t look back. She didn’t celebrate. She hadn’t time.

  If the others had heard, if the others knew, they would know where she was going, and they would follow or not, it didn’t matter now because she would get there first. But she couldn’t help the growing feeling they had somehow, magically, appeared right on her tail, an inch behind, no more, laughing, always laughing. Reaching out to take her.

  When she reached the first of the Snake’s sharp curves, the feeling became a rope that tugged at her, demanded, until she couldn’t help it.

  She looked back.

  The road was empty. Looked ahead.

  Just as the bike swerved into the other lane. Screaming again, this time at herself, while she fought the bike’s momentum, wrestling it away from the far shoulder, hot wind in her eyes, the knife still in her hand, feeling everything slow abruptly when she finally lost control.

  It was the sound of Rachel’s voice more than the command that stopped them both.

  Nola turned around on the threshold, one hand still on the door, while Jim, without thinking, took a step toward her.

  Rachel didn’t speak again.

  She only pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Too much noise; too much movement.

  Jim threw an arm over his face and staggered back, expecting another shot that would take him as well. But there was only the mind-echo of the explosion, and Nola’s started cry as she fell back against the jamb.

  He saw her face: why didn’t you stop her?

  He couldn’t move fast enough
to catch her before she slid sitting into the corner, legs outstretched, one hand up as if she could grab the wall and stand, the other limp and pale up on the floor beside her. Her skirt had skidded high over her knees. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the front of her uniform absorbing the blood, when he scrambled to her, knelt beside her, and saw the look again.

  why didn’t you stop her?

  Her lips moved soundlessly, neck muscles taut and corded, a wisp of hair hanging over her left eye.

  He fumbled with the buttons, fingers numb, then slick with blood, and he didn’t say a word, not to her, not to Rachel. He only wanted to get at the wound, staunch the bleeding. One thing at a time. He would take care of the jackal later, the hell with the rest of the Modeens. They wouldn’t go away. And if they did, they’d be back.

  “Jimmy.” Barely heard; bubbling.

  He didn’t look.

  The buttons wouldn’t come undone.

  “Jimmy.”

  The fucking buttons wouldn’t come undone.

  Her hand slipped away from the wall, and flopped into her lap.

  He felt it, he didn’t see it, but he rocked back on his heels and stared at the woman who had probably been his best friend. Her eyes were closed. As he watched, her head slowly sagged forward until her chin rested against her chest. His hand drifted gently to the top of her head, rested there, stroked it once, stroked it again, and pivoted around to let Rachel know.

  She was gone.

  Slowly, to keep his legs from cramping, he rose; slowly, to keep his balance, he took a step forward. The light was dim, almost fuzzy, motes like gnats darting across his vision as he made his way toward the kitchen. Gun or no gun, he wouldn’t let her stop him until he’d taken the life from her. His fingers flexed. No weapons but his own hands. His lower lip trembled until he sucked it between his teeth and bit down, not enough to draw blood, just enough to spark pain.

  He listened, but couldn’t hear her.

  He only heard the gun’s retort, lingering with the stench of cordite in the hall.

  Somewhere outside, he could hear the roar of a distant engine; somewhere inside, he thought he heard the rasp of her breathing as she tried to control it, be silent, wait for him to come to her.