“I know.”
“He lied to me,” he continued. “Told me all sorts of awful things, none of ’em true.” He guided her around the rubble, one hand braced on the buckled hood. “I believed him.”
“You didn’t have a reason not to.”
He nodded, but looked troubled as she wrapped an arm around his shoulders for support. “I know, but I would’ve left if it hadn’t come to me what he said. He kept sayin’ the Doc kilt your friends, but before I left, he said ‘the folks who done this to her are long gone.’ Didn’t realize it then because I guess I ain’t too quick, but soon as I sat in the truck and thought it over, I knew he was lyin’ and he said he ain’t never lied to me. But he did, and I had to come back.”
“It’s all right, Pete,” she said as they emerged into the cool night air. Above them, the stars shone bright and clear. Claire took a deep draw of the crisp air and felt it catch in her throat as the dust rolled around in her lungs. She coughed violently, then wiped her mouth and sighed. “Thank you for coming back.”
He shrugged.
“I mean it, Pete. Thank you for saving me.” She reached out a hand and touched his face, felt a slight peppering of stubble. “Again,” she added, and smiled.
He started to say something then, but she drew him close, slowly, mindful of the pain in every joint, and kissed him softly on the lips. When it was over, he said nothing, though he seemed desperate to find the words. She didn’t wait. Instead she leaned against him and let him put his arm around her this time.
“We need to burn it down,” she said.
* * *
“Hush now, else they’ll hear you,” the giant advised him, and at first Beau assumed that meant anyone who might come to his rescue—Shut up, or you’ll doom your friends too—but then he looked down at himself and realized the agony had come as a result of whiskey that had been splashed over the wound. Confused, he withheld further complaint until the man stomped off and returned a few moments later with an old-looking needle in one huge hand, a fistful of catgut in the other.
“What are you doin’?” Beau asked him.
“Puttin’ your stuffin’ back in,” the giant said in a low gravelly voice. He pulled a chair up to the table and sat, then gently threaded the fishing line through the eye of the needle, which was as big as a pencil. He started to bend down close to the wound, eyes narrowed as if he was poor-sighted, but then stopped and glanced askance at Beau, the point of the needle raised. “’Less you prefer it hangin’ out?”
Convinced now that he was delirious and imagining it all, Beau shook his head. “Naw. You go right ahead, as long as you’re not fixin’ to tie the wrong parts together.”
The giant frowned, as if he didn’t understand what that was supposed to mean, and went about his work, carefully easing the needle through Beau’s flesh.
“Shiiiit.” Beau bared his teeth, clenched his fists, but the pain, though it was severe, didn’t last long. In what seemed like minutes, the worst of it was over, and this time when the wound was soaked with alcohol, Beau felt the burning, but considerably less agony. Afterward, he lay in silence for a long time, watching as the man lumbered about the cabin looking ill at ease, like a man unsure what to do next. Beau wanted to think of him as his savior, but other than the rudimentary stitch-job and the fact that he was still alive when he’d given the giant ample opportunity to kill him, it was too much of a stretch for the moment. He was, after all, still in enemy territory.
“Why’d you do this?” he asked, wondering if perhaps he’d been fixed just so he’d be in better shape when they tortured him.
For a long time, the man didn’t answer. Then he stalked across the room, grabbed the whiskey bottle from the table and shoved it at Beau, who took it with a half-hearted nod of gratitude and, eyes never leaving the giant’s face, drank deeply.
“You ain’t never done nothin’ to me,” the man said.
Beau waited, the whiskey burning a path straight through him, hewing a route to the pain. When it was clear that was as much of an explanation as he was going to get, he asked, “They won’t like that you did this, you know.”
The man sat, easing his great frame into a chair that seemed unlikely to be able to hold him. It creaked loudly as he settled himself and put a hand out for the bottle. Beau gave it to him.
“I don’t much care for ’em,” he said, and took a draw from the bottle. “Never did. They kilt my sister. She were all I had left in the world. But she didn’t never listen to me when I tried to tell her what she were gettin’ into, and now she’s dead. All because of them crazies. ’Sides, I ain’t scairt of ’em, and after tonight, I don’t reckon I’ll be hearin’ from ’em again.”
“I’m sorry about your sister,” Beau said, because it seemed, for now, about the only appropriate thing to say. They made an odd tableau, the two of them—a wounded black man lying on a table, overseen by a wild-haired giant. But gradually, Beau felt the tension and anxiety ebb from him. If it turned out to be a trap, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it anyway, so he figured it was best to just see where things went and hope for the best.
For the next ten minutes, they shared the bottle in silence. Though feeling a little better, Beau was exhausted. His eyes were drifting shut again when the screech of the chair legs against the floor jarred him back to alertness. In panic, he looked furtively around the room, half-expecting to find that the giant was standing there with a knife or a hatchet or a rifle getting ready to finish him off. But the man had simply pulled his chair closer to the table and was looking intently at Beau.
“I killed a buck one time that was damn near big as myself,” he said.
Beau stared back at him for a long time. Then he raised his eyebrows. “That’s one big motherfuckin’ deer, man. Venison for a year.”
Krall nodded, and the faintest trace of a smile began to creep through the undergrowth of his beard.
-41-
Standing in the flameless epicenter of an inferno as the buildings burned around her, Claire heard the cell phone chirp over the splintering crack of the Merrill House caving in on itself. During the melee inside the room with the sagging bed, the phone’s display had cracked and now showed nothing but inky blotches against the gray screen, veined with milky fissures. She couldn’t see the caller I.D, but answered and held the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Claire?”
“Who’s this?”
“My name’s Beau. I’m…I was a friend of Finch’s.”
“Was? Is he…?”
“Yeah. They got him. But he went down fightin’. Took out a couple of ’em on the way too.”
Tears welled in Claire’s eyes. Pete approached and stopped before her, head tilted questioningly. She swallowed and tried to offer him a smile. “Are they dead?”
“Yes,” Beau told her. “They’re all dead. It’s over.”
The tears came freely, sobs pummeling her chest as she shut the phone and let Pete embrace her.
It’s over.
The acrid smell of the smoke and the heat from the flames soon forced them out of the ring of fire, toward the road, where the truck was waiting.
* * *
As quietly as the woods would allow, Isaac led Papa-In-Gray through the night. The moon was high in the sky and Papa frequently raised his face to it, as if it was nothing short of God’s light, drawing them to their destiny. The need for a sign was great within him now that he had lost so many of his kin, but he resisted the urge to beg. Once they were clear of the killing ground, clear of their hunters, he would have endless time to disseminate the events that had set them running. Was this truly what God had intended for them? That his children should be sacrificed? He shook his head, forcing away the questions. The pain in his knee was making it difficult to walk and he slowed, watching as Isaac pulled ahead.
It weren’t ever supposed to be this hard.
“Son,” he said, breathlessly, and the boy stopped, glanced back. “We sho
uld rest up some.” With great effort, he sat himself down on a rough moss-covered rock that protruded from the forest floor like a boil.
The look on Isaac’s face made it clear he did not think this was wise, but he acquiesced, pacing restlessly and jerking his head toward the small clearing they could see through the pine trees ahead. His knife was out and while he stalked, he jabbed at the air and twisted the blade, his young face bejeweled with sweat.
He senses the injustice of it too, Papa thought. The failure. He ain’t satisfied to leave this unfinished. Nor was Papa, but their options were limited. Without knowing the extent of the threat, only a fool would go back. McKindrey had told them there were only two men on their trail, but who knew how many were elsewhere, waiting for the call to arms? That the Sheriff hadn’t seen them did not mean they were not there. It was best to err on the side of caution. There was time. In the coming days, months, however long it took, they would regroup, and plan a strategy. Over time, they would rebuild their ranks. He would find a woman, spiritually vacant, awaiting his love and his knowledge, awaiting God, and she would have sons and daughters he could lead. They would rise again. And perhaps in their new town, the local law would be just as sympathetic to their cause as McKindrey had been. Such minions were hard to find, and McKindrey had proven invaluable. The call Papa had made to him from a payphone on their way here had confirmed that the Men of the World were on their way, allowing them the time to prepare. It had also allowed Papa to perpetuate the belief that he held congress with the angels, bolstering his children’s faith in him. With a smile, he nodded and turned to Isaac, who might be sated, however briefly, by Papa’s new resolve.
The boy was no longer pacing. Now he was standing still and facing the clearing, his body rigid, the hand holding the knife trembling violently.
“Isaac,” Papa whispered, slowly rising from the rock. “What is it?”
Isaac was silent, but something held him in thrall.
Papa limped toward him. “What do you hear?”
Since Papa had taken the child’s tongue for some violation he could hardly recall, the boy had not spoken except for cluttered mumbles, and even these were rare. He employed them now however as his stump of a tongue tried to tell Papa something.
As he came abreast of him, Isaac reached out a finger, pointing in the direction of the clearing. Then, he turned his body sideways, which Papa knew was done to make himself less of a target, just as he had taught all his children. Despite not seeing or hearing whatever had alarmed the boy, he started to do the same himself, at the same time reaching into the lining of his coat for Doctor Wellman’s gun.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “We’ll get ’em.”
A swishing sound reached their ears, and instinctively, Papa stepped back, dropping to a crouch that made his leg feel as if the jaws of a bear trap had snapped shut on it. Grimacing, he scanned the trees ahead. The moonlight revealed nothing, but the strange swishing sound continued.
Isaac started to head for the clearing, the twigs snapping underfoot, his urgency forcing him to betray his location.
For whoever was watching them, it was enough.
A rope sailed out into the dark toward them, the end coiled into a noose that moved through the air like a bubble, the loop wobbling.
“Isaac,” Papa yelled, and the boy raised his head, then his arms, hands splayed as the noose came down and was jerked tight, the rope cinching around the boy’s wrists instead of his neck.
Papa rose and hobbled toward Isaac. “No!”
The boy was jerked off his feet so fast and hard his head snapped back and his legs kicked straight out behind him as he was pulled with impossible speed into the trees.
Cursing, Papa was momentarily paralyzed by indecision. Follow and try to save the boy, or seek cover? It was a trap, he knew. Going after Isaac was just what the coyotes wanted. They would draw him in among them where he would be outnumbered and they would kill him.
From the trees, a muffled moan.
“Isaac,” he whispered.
He had to hide.
He heard a dull thumping sound that changed as he listened, became wet, like someone smacking a rubber glove against a fencepost. Slowly, Papa began to back away, stopping when the sound did. He removed the gun from his coat and readied it, his ears attuned to the slightest of movements from the trees.
The cessation of that sound told him that Isaac was lost. He was alone now, except for Krall and Luke, neither of whom had been seen since the coyotes showed up. For all Papa knew, they might have fallen.
He had to get away from here. The corrupted were encroaching on him from every side. He could sense them now, thought that he could even see them as fleeting shadows between the trees. And he could smell them, the musky putrid scent of poisoned flesh. It was growing stronger and now he turned full circle, catching faint glimpses of their burning ember eyes watching him in amusement from wherever the dark was deepest.
He had to get away, but there was nowhere to go.
“Papa,” a voice said, and startled, he spun, aiming the gun at the trees. A shadow detached from the phalanx of pines. “It’s me.”
“Luke?”
“Yes.”
Papa did not lower the gun. “Where’s your brother?”
“They’re dead, Papa. All of ’em. The coyotes got ’em. Isaac too. I was hidin’ up there on the far side of the clearin’, waitin’ for you. I saw ’em take him. But I got the son of a bitch. He’s trussed up in there, ready for you.”
Papa didn’t move. He wanted to believe what Luke was saying, but the history between them suggested the enemy he should be fearing was not a coyote at all, but his own son, who should have been reborn, but had resisted, as he had resisted Papa all his young life.
“You lyin’ to me boy?” he said, as he thumbed back the hammer and pointed the gun at Luke.
“Why would I lie?”
“’Cuz you’ve changed. Bein’ inside your Momma changed you, but I suspect not the way we all wanted, not the way she wanted.”
“I’m changed all right,” Luke told him and stepped back into the trees. “I seen the light.”
“Well,” Papa said, licking his lips. “That’s good, ain’t it?”
“I reckon it is. I’m just mad I didn’t see it sooner.”
“They did this to us, Luke. This is all their doin’, and there’s only us left standin’ to stop it.”
“The corruption,” Luke said. “The poison.”
“That’s right.”
“Thing is,” said Luke. “The light I seen told me somethin’ different.”
“Oh?” Come out you little shit, Papa thought. Face me like the man I taught you to be.
“Yeah. Angels told me you’re the poison, and always have been. Said you used God as an excuse to hurt people, includin’ your own kin.”
Papa sneered. “Then it weren’t angels you was hearin’ boy.”
Quiet settled in the woods. Papa listened, eyes narrowed, trying to discern Luke’s form from the dark, but he could no longer make him out. Of course, Papa himself had taught the boys how to make use of the night. He’d taught them well. Too well.
“Why don’t you come out here and we can talk face to face? There ain’t no cause for you to be lurkin’ around in the dark. I’m your father. Whatever you need to discuss with me, we can discuss it right here in the open. I won’t hurt you.”
Nothing.
“Luke, I know you got questions, and I know you ain’t yourself. But like it or not, I’m all you got left, and you’re all I got. Time for both of us to make a clean break, son.”
Leaves rustled as something scurried over them, but there was nothing to suggest he wasn’t alone.
Breathing fast, he scanned the trees.
“Son?” Luke said suddenly, coldly, close to Papa’s ear, and with a startled grunt, the old man turned. He had time only to register that Luke was holding a machete before it was buried in his shoulder, all but severing the arm
holding the gun. His hand spasmed. The gun fell to the ground, and he staggered back screaming as Luke, bearing a face far too malevolent to ever be that of a mere devil, yanked the long blade free with a spurt of blood. The world dimmed and Papa clenched his teeth, animal panic paralyzing him. “Stop Luke…stop…for God’s sake…” He raised his good hand, palm out. “Please, just… listen…”
With a short swing, Luke severed the hand. It tumbled into the leaves.
Papa screamed a second time, a hoarse guttural sound of horror and disbelief, the echo of it caught and sent back by the trees and the hills beyond. He dropped to his knees, unable to cradle the severed limb due to the unimaginable agony in the other.
“Stop it,” he told Luke. “Listen…you have to stop. They…they poisoned you—”
“You poisoned me,” Luke said tonelessly.
“No. No, there’s only us. Only us, Luke,” Papa babbled. “Me and you. Ain’t too late. Not yet it ain’t. Only us, Luke.”
He looked up, tears streaming down his face.
Luke, bare-chested and blood-spattered, stood with his body lit by the moonlight, his face a patchwork of shadow. He was breathing calmly, his eyes like black ice.
“There ain’t no us no more,” he said, drawing back the machete like a baseball player aiming for a home run. “Only me.”
The swing took Papa’s head clean off at the shoulders.
For a moment, the old man’s body stayed kneeling, the neck spurting blood upward like an offering to whatever God might thirst for such corrupted wine, then it dropped heavily to the ground.
Afterward, Luke tossed the machete into the brush and set about making a fire, being careful to ring the shallow pit he’d dug with stones to avoid burning down the woods. Then he stripped the old man’s body naked, cut off the genitals and cooked them over the fire.
Under the stars, the eyes of his father still watching, the dead face given the impression of life by the flames, Luke sat alone, lost in thought.
He ate in silence.
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