by Liam Jackson
Axthiel pushed away the plate, and leaned back in the chair. His passion rose with thoughts of the coming confrontation.
What is mastery over a world full of pissants compared to the glory of war against a worthy opponent? The Brethren gauge greatness not by the scale of victory, but by the prowess of the adversary. While I have no true peers in battle, I have found in Nathaniel an adversary worthy of my best effort!
He finished his wine in quiet contemplation, then adjourned to the confines of his library to form his strategy. He would let the Runner have his misguided fun. Axthiel had far more pressing matters. His new allies were growing testy over his failure to locate and eliminate the elusive bastard child, Sam Conner. Why do they want the boy so badly? What is he to them?
Not that it really mattered. The Nine Princes of Sitra Akhra wanted the bastard dead, and Axthiel was only too happy to oblige. For now, there was an uneasy alliance between Legion and the Brethren. However, if Axthiel was right, and he was sure that he was, the Nine would eventually challenge the Runner for domination of this Plane. It was only a matter of time and numbers.
The Nine were too powerful to move freely through the Veil. Were even one of the Nine to enter the Plane of Man, this world would cease to exist. However, they could and would flood the Plane with powerful lieutenants. Axthiel intended to solidify his relationship with the Nine before matters truly got out of hand. But first, he needed to track down and kill the boy. Then he would deal with Nathaniel.
CHAPTER 38
Knoxville, Tennessee
The good news was that the Car-Smart rental agency was loaded with cars and trucks of every shape, size, and color. The bad news was that most of them had fallen victim to four continuous nights of near-zero temperature. Frozen radiators and engine blocks, dead batteries, flat tires, the list of automotive casualties was impressive.
It took more than half an hour to find two cars in running condition; a decent looking Chevy Malibu and an Olds Cutlass station wagon with minor body damage. After Janet settled with the clerk, she borrowed a pen and wrote her home and work numbers on the back of the receipt. She folded the paper and handed it to Mark.
"If you guys get stuck and need anything, anything, you call me. I'll do whatever I can."
Mark put the paper into his wallet, next to the stolen cash from the motel. "Thanks, Janet. I... I mean..."
Janet leaned near and kissed him, her lips lingering on his cheek for a extended moment. When she pulled away, she said. "I know, Mark. I know. You'll call me when this is over? To let me know you're both safe?"
Mark slid his arms around her waist and drew her close. "I'll call, don't worry. We'll be fine. Now, you better head north before the next blizzard. From the looks of those clouds, it could start at anytime." Janet slid behind the wheel of the car and seconds later she was on the interstate. Mark watched until she was out of sight, then climbed into the Olds. With Sam navigating from the passenger side, they set a course for the east side of Knoxville. There was a stop to make before leaving town. Sam was adamant on that point.
Thick cloud-cover obscured the afternoon sun, and melt-water caused by heavy midday traffic was rapidly refreezing on the highway. "You can really pick 'em, Mark. Why didn't you just rent us a four-man bobsled?" he chided. "I mean, you've been cleaning out the ditches on both sides of the road for the past two miles!"
Mark adopted a sober expression and said, "Tell you what, Sam. If you want to hitch a ride from here, say the word. Maybe you'll get lucky before your balls freeze and fall off."
Sam clasped both hands over his heart and slumped sideways against the passenger door. "Oh, shit! You got me!"
While Sam talked, Mark silently considered what he knew, or rather, what he didn't know about the boy. Sam was an enigma for sure, a study in contradiction. Frail and unassuming in appearance, yet possessing a character and resolve made of steel. The fearlessness of youth, the fearfulness of experience. The boy was also concerned about his family, and worried sick over the fate of his friend, Charlie. Maybe Charlie was more than just a "friend."
Most of all, Mark wondered about the boy's strange abilities. Sam denied knowing how or when they had come into being. Maybe he's like some sort of psychic. Just how powerful is he? Suddenly, Sam leaned forward and pointed to the left side of the highway. "There it is. That's the sporting-goods store." Mark slowed the car to a crawl.
The large red, white, and blue lettered sign read: Hastings's sporting goods: hunting, fishing and camping supplies
The building, a massive cedar and stone affair, occupied nearly half a city block, and from its outer appearance, was fairly new. Across the highway to Sam's right was a small white cinderblock convenience store, Hastings's Quick Check.
"Yep, this is the place. Pull onto the lot."
Minutes later, Sam stood on the front steps of the store peering inside the darkened interior. The double doors were locked and a handwritten sign taped to the inside read:
closed for vacation until wednesday, january 30th
Painted onto the glass, just beneath the store hours, was another sentence: in case of emergency, call 986-2324.
Dejected, Sam stamped the snow from his sneakers and climbed back into the warmth of the station wagon. The temperature was dropping drastically and a stiff north wind brought with it a hint of additional bad weather.
As they drove away from the store, Sam stared quietly at the passing scenery.
At least I know where to find her later. Now, if I only had some way of contacting Joriel.
The old highway running due east from Knoxville was nearly deserted. But, despite the lack of traffic, Michael was forced to drive along at a crawl. Heavy layers of ice covered the pockmarked asphalt and both shoulders of the highway were littered with stalled and abandoned vehicles. A wild matrix of downed power lines and broken tree limbs crisscrossed the roadway.
Michael glanced at his watch and grimaced. Four hours on the road and he'd come just more than 100 miles. Twice along the way he had stopped at near-deserted truck stops in search of a pay phone only to learn that service had not yet been restored. As his anxiety and fear for Pam increased, so did the temptation to turn the Jeep around. Twice, he actually pointed the Jeep back in the direction of Knoxville.
And twice, he managed to push his fear aside and press on. He cursed himself a thousand times for leaving Pam behind, but what was done was done. It was too late for him to affect anything in Kansas City. Yet the maniacal voice haunted him.
We want you, Mikey. Why won't you let us in? Pam let us in. How had the bastards known about Pam? And now,
Casey. Somehow, they had gotten to the one person that Michael could trust to take care of her. Now there was another player.
The redheaded kid... who is he ... where does he fit in?
Michael had felt a tug on his awareness the minute he walked into the truck stop... his sixth sense was trying to tell him... something. But it wasn't until after he hung up the phone and turned around, locked eyes with the kid, that his inner alarm went haywire. There was no sensation of danger, no warning. But the alarm was loud and clear nonetheless.
There had been an instant and mutual recognition. The kid wasn't an enemy. In fact, Michael found himself looking at the boy as if he were an old friend. He picked up a similar feeling from the thuggish-looking guy sitting across from the kid, though not nearly as intense. Oddly enough, Michael felt nothing when he glanced at the woman. No alarms, bells, or whistles... nothing. Which really wasn't a bad thing considering the circumstances. Maybe no news really is good news, he thought.
Michael supposed he should have been ecstatic to see a friendly, if unfamiliar face. No, not "friendly," exactly. Kindred, maybe? Heh. How hokey is that?
Within seconds, Michael realized that they shared some common, if unspoken, bond. He had wanted to approach them, sit and talk with them, draw strength from them if only for a few minutes. But one look into the boy's eyes stopped Michael dead in his tracks.
>
In a frozen instant, he saw the profound sadness in those ageless, light green eyes, and a wisdom born of tragedy and trial. He saw a companion in spirit, if not in flesh. He also recognized a resigned determination; that some horrible, yet necessary task lay before them all. Michael knew that regardless of the cost, Sam would see this journey through to the end. And finally, Michael saw death in the boy's eyes. Not the place, and not the time, but death, all the same.
A sharp cramp in his shoulders forced Michael to relax his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. He leaned back and felt the reassuring form of the semiautomatic press against the small of his back.
If only things were really that simple. If only I could find this, this evil and kill it with a slug to the brain.
Michael took several deep breaths and glanced at his watch, again. Ten thirty-eight. He quickly calculated time and distance in his head and figured he'd roll, or slide, into Abbotsville a little after midnight. Provided, of course, that road conditions didn't worsen over the next couple of hours.
It began to sleet.
CHAPTER 39
Abbotsville, Tennessee
Sergeant Tuck Sutherland took a deep breath and wiggled out from under the steering wheel of the Chevy Caprice. Once his massive belly was clear, he let out a long, slow breath, then gulped in a lungful of the crisp, night air. Frozen rain fell heavily from low, thick clouds, and Tuck instantly regretted having left his hat at the all-night diner in Coffeyville. But Tuck wasn't one to grumble. He had carved out a nice twenty-year career with the sheriff's department by faithfully adhering to his own adaptation of the golden rule; seek no evil in others, speak no evil of others, hear no evil about others. In short, "Don't rock the boat."
Tuck didn't mind taking calls like this one. Probably nothing more than pine limbs snapping from the weight of frozen rain. Or maybe another black bear had come down out of the hollers looking for an open garbage can, or another pet for an easy meal. Abbotsville had been such a quiet hamlet until recently, most of the deputies didn't bother patrolling the area. The younger deputies only knew Abbotsville by name and its near forgotten reputation as that "weird little town with the old crazy hospital." The recent trouble wasn't much of a big deal, thought Tuck. People could get wrapped around the old axle pretty darned fast when it came to their pets.
Of course, there was always an outside chance that overzealous spook hunters were the cause of recent prowler reports. Usually those folk were little more than quirky tourists, very quiet, and for the most part, respectful of the locals. Though, there was that one time... Tuck chuckled as he recalled the incident.
Old Mrs. Yevelton had awakened in the middle of the night to find a half dozen spook hunters gathered in her kitchen, trying to "raise the spirit" of some long deceased miner... and helping themselves to one of her mincemeat pies. Not that Tuck could blame them for that last transgression. He knew firsthand how good those pies were!
But Tuck remembered a time when Abbotsville wasn't so quiet. Back in the day, it was a rockin' little town, what with all the mines working around the clock. Saloons outnumbered the churches and even a few cathouses sprang up, intent on taking advantage of the prosperity.
Then, there was the time those three crazies escaped from the hospital. God, that had been a real mess, just a real mess! Tuck shuddered and pushed the thought from his mind. He didn't care to dwell on things like that.
There was another reason that Tuck didn't mind working the late shift, out in the middle of nowhere. The sheriff's office was in an uproar, what with all the local missing children reports. Nasty business, that. At least out here, Tuck figured he could stay off the radar and avoid the worst of it.
Standing beside the car, he depressed the switch on the seven-cell Kell flashlight and ran the narrow beam along the length of the Henscheid residence. Nothing seemed out of place. Darn, but this wind is cold! Tuck reached inside the car for his microphone and was about to send an all-clear message to the dispatcher when a scream rose above the shrill wind. Tuck wasn't much of a law officer, but he instinctively recognized the sound for what it was. Someone was dying.
Fighting panic, Tuck tried to key the mic, but instead dropped it onto the floorboard of the cruiser. He leaned inside the car and groped through the clutter of empty fried chicken boxes and diet soda cans until he found it.
"Dispatch! Ten thirty-three! Ten thirty-three! Send help! Send help!"
Sissy" Fletcher was on the other end of the radio, a part-time 911 dispatcher and full-time mother of four. To
Tuck's good fortune, she was a seasoned veteran in the radio room.
"Slow down, Sarge, and talk to me! What's going on?" She was met by a disconcerting silence. As she waited for an answer, she switched to a wideband channel and asked for a "north zone roll call" over the radio. The responses were almost immediate. "Unit Seven, Landsbury Road."
"Unit Twelve, Highway Ninety-one and Claude Pike." And finally, "Unit Twenty, Highway One-twelve and Raintree Road. Whatcha got, Sissy?"
"Thank God!" she whispered. Unit 20 was a seasoned deputy, and not far from Abbotsville.
"Stand by for emergency traffic, Unit Twenty. Net direct!"
She quickly turned her attention back to Tuck. "Dispatch to Unit Eight, come in. Talk to me, Sarge." There was another agonizing moment of silence, then Tuck's quivering voice came in over the speakers, in sporadic, broken pieces. "Se... send... help.... Abbots... Bridge.... Kanis Road hou... ba... real bad." Then, silence.
Sissy had heard enough. She knew his location, having dispatched him to the residence a half hour earlier.
"Unit Twenty, proceed to the Henscheid residence at four thirty-one Kanis Road, in Abbotsville. Unit Eight is on scene. Officer in distress, needs assistance. Code three."
Tuck knelt behind the open door of the Caprice, both hands clamped tightly over his ears. Oh, my God, that scream... it just went onandonand-onand....
Tears spilled from swollen, frightened eyes and rolled down wind-burned cheeks. He was supposed to do something, he knew. But... what? Should he check it out? No! Bad idea! Better to wait for help. Yes, that sounds right! Help is on the way... isn't it?
Tuck was sure Sissy had received some of his transmission, but there was no way of knowing just how much she understood. Up here, in the foothills of the Appalachians, radio contact was iffy at best, with signals constantly fading in and out. The only thing he knew for certain was that at this very moment, he was very much on his own. Alone with the wind... and whatever still lived inside that home. Yes, he decided, it was best that he just sit tight... guard the perimeter! Wait for help.... Wait for... help.
Another cry split the night, a sound far different from the first. This was a shrill, piercing scream filled with absolute terror. This changed everything, he knew. It was too late for the first victim, Tuck was sure of it. But this, this was different. Tuck knew he was hardly hero material, but he couldn't just ignore someone in need of help.
He laid the mic on the seat and crawled into the car, across the front seat. With fingers already feeling the sting of the frigid night air, he fumbled with the magnetic latch that held the 12-gauge shotgun to the front dash. At last, the gun came free. For long seconds Tuck lay in the seat, listening to the tink of sleet as it pelted the roof of the cruiser.
Another scream from within the house jolted him into action. Crawling backwards and dragging the shotgun with him, Tuck fell out of the car and onto the frozen pavement. A third scream sounded, followed closely by the crack of splintering wood.
Pulling himself to his feet, Tuck worked the action on the shotgun, shic-shak, sending a three-inch Magnum 12-gauge slug into the chamber. His breath came in ragged gulps, and Tuck choked down the bile in his throat. With the flashlight in one hand and the shotgun in the other, Tuck made a clumsy dash for the front door.
Michael eased his foot off of the accelerator and allowed the Jeep to roll to a complete stop in the middle of the highway. He hadn't seen another car or tr
uck in more than four hours, and thanks to a fresh blanket of falling ice and snow, he had no idea where the road stopped and the shoulder began. Still, he turned on the emergency flashers.
For several hours the ice had fallen in sheets, outpacing the overworked windshield wipers and the Jeep's meager dash defrost unit. There was nothing to do but stop periodically and remove the ice by hand. Grumbling, he reached into the console storage compartment and retrieved the ice scraper, then opened the door and stepped out into an onslaught of howling wind and frozen rain. Immediately, the hair rose along the nape of his neck. The air should have smelled fresh and clean. Instead, it smelled of death and decay.
As he scraped ice from the glass, his eyes followed the dual beams of halogen headlights into the darkness ahead. Squinting against the wind, he saw what looked to be a green highway sign, the first he had seen in several miles. Finally! Maybe I can figure out where in the hell I'm at.
Excited, he stepped around to the rear of the Jeep and began scraping another layer of heavy ice, when another set of headlights suddenly emerged from the blizzard. Michael looked on as the large truck slowed, and then came to a halt directly behind the Jeep. The cab door flew open and a short, portly fellow stepped out onto the running board.
The driver gave Michael a short wave. When Michael acknowledged him with a wave of his own, the man jumped down onto the icy pavement.
"How do, friend. You havin' troubles?" The man's friendly demeanor took Michael by surprise, and he returned the grin.
Wearing a red down-filled vest and sporting a blond beard streaked with gray that fell nearly to the middle of his barrel chest, the fellow reminded Michael of a truck-driving Santa. The name "Stubby" was monogrammed over the breast pocket of the vest. Santa Stubby. Why not, Michael thought, grinning.
"Nothing serious. Ice falling faster than the wipers can clear the glass." Michael held up the plastic ice scraper. "I have to stop every so often and do it the old-fashioned way."