by T. L. Hines
They saw more of the whites of the woman’s eyes now. She wasn’t just scared, oh no, she’d gone way past that and on into terrified. They could hear her heart racing inside her chest, almost trying to pound its way out.
She tried to scream, but they were too fast and too strong. They had the chloroform-soaked cloth over her mouth and nose in an instant, and in her terrified state, her lungs betrayed her. She took in huge gulps of air, breathing the fumes. In a few short seconds she stopped struggling, then went limp in their hands. She’d be out for half an hour or so, which would give them more than enough time, but they still had to be careful. They liked to plan for all possible contingencies.
They scanned the houses up and down the street again, looking for activity. No one was outside. They opened the door to the car and jumped out, leaving the door hanging open, the ding ding ding of the door-ajar signal chirping like a lullaby. A fitting soundtrack for accepting.
Up ahead, a car approached, surely slowed by the flashing lights on the cruiser. No one sped by a traffic stop, even though it would be a good time to do so. After all, if officers had stopped another vehicle, they wouldn’t be scoping other cars. Why didn’t people realize that?
The Hunter and the Normal came to the door of the woman’s car and bent down at the driver’s side. Nothing to worry about, nothing in the least. Their back would block the driver’s vision, giving him neither a clear view of their face nor the empty space behind the steering wheel.
As they bent down to the window, they looked into the backseat and smiled at the Quarry. Both of them. ‘‘How’d you boys like to ride in a police car?’’ they asked. Both boys looked back, unblinking.
The car passed down the road. Nothing out of the ordinary here. Just a traffic stop. Just an officer cleaning up the streets. That was what they did in the guise of the Normal: They cleaned the town of filth.
They pulled out the chloroform and the rag again, then opened the rear door of the car. ‘‘Tell you what,’’ they said to the boys, ‘‘we’re gonna have a good time. A real good time.’’ They leaned into the backseat and marveled at how easy it was—how ridiculously easy. The seat belts held both Quarry in place, preventing them from protesting or escaping. And the Quarry were small, small enough to be carried back to the cruiser in one trip.
It wasn’t a long drive to the house. Not a long drive at all.
41
DYING
Rachel gripped the tire iron tightly, so tightly she noticed her knuckles were starting to turn white. She relaxed her grip and then moved into the home. The moon had now risen, offering some silvery light through the windows. But it wasn’t enough. Should she try turning on a light?
Rachel felt the familiar indentation on her lip and unconsciously bit it as she considered. She had to have a light, or she’d trip and break her neck. And if that happened, she wouldn’t help anyone.
She looked at the wall near the door, found an old-style light switch. It wasn’t a lever switch but a button switch: one to turn on the light, one to turn it off. Rachel held her breath and punched the button.
The porch light came on.
She turned off the porch light, then went to the next switch. This time a lamp in the corner illuminated the living room. Rachel stood silent, waiting. She willed her ears to hear any sound, any sound at all.
Nothing.
At the far side of the room, a closed door waited. Jude had said the door would be there, had explained what it would look like, but still, she had been doubtful. Until now. The door, an old barn door kind of thing that seemed out of place inside the home, looked exactly as Jude had described it to her. And what did that mean? Rachel nodded to herself. It meant he was probably right about everything else, too.
She grasped the tire iron as she opened the door to the basement. Here, a string turned on a weak overhead light, barely lighting a path down the stairs. She hated basements, absolutely hated them. They made her claustrophobic.
Somewhere below, Rachel heard a noise. A rustling perhaps. Someone, or something, was in the basement. She swallowed hard and took the first step down.
Jude had to be careful, very careful. He was sitting next to a tanker of gasoline, and he had to light matches. He looked at Odum’s face, still colored by the dash lights.
‘‘I told you a lie, Chief Odum. Told you it was Frank, led you out here to get you away from your home.’’ Jude stopped, closed his eyes, went on. ‘‘It’s been happening for a long time now, hasn’t it?’’ Jude had asked in what he hoped was a soft, sympathetic voice.
Odum stared at the road as he drove, saying nothing.
Jude continued. ‘‘When you first came here, you were very careful. You went to surrounding towns: Cody, Columbus, Billings, even Sheridan a couple of times.’’
Odum licked his lips, looked into the rearview mirror. Was he looking for some kind of cue from Kristina?
Jude glanced into the back, where Kristina sat staring straight ahead. Until she had showed up in Odum’s car, he had never suspected she was involved, too. But when he saw her, it clicked. It made sense in some way, the two of them together.
Kristina acted as if she didn’t notice Jude’s gaze. No matter. It was too late now. He had shown his bottom card to both of them; no chance of folding now.
‘‘But lately,’’ Jude said, ‘‘it’s been eating away at you. And today, you broke your first rule: you hit your own town. You weren’t really planning on doing it, but when you saw both of the boys together, they just kind of pulled you along.’’
Jude stopped, and they drove in silence for several seconds. The pavement ended, and now dust began to rattle through the window next to Jude. He pushed the button to make sure the window was up all the way, but already he could feel a fine grit settling in the car’s interior. The windows were locked, anyway.
‘‘Now, I’m just guessing at this part,’’ Jude said, ‘‘but you were the one who freed Sohler from the hospital, weren’t you? It worked well, gave you a fall guy. Gave you the go-ahead to strike in your own town, because you could just hunt down Sohler, shoot him, be a hero to the world.’’
More silence, except for the rumbling tires on the gravel road.
‘‘It did fit together rather well, didn’t it?’’ Odum finally said. ‘‘I mean, when you led me to Sohler, that was quite providential. His own kids, can you believe that? His wife left him a few years ago, and, well.’’ Odum licked his lips. ‘‘I guess Kenneth has been a bit unbalanced since then. Never sent his kids to school, never let ’em outside the house. A real sicko, huh?’’ Odum turned to look at Jude, actually seeming to enjoy himself.
Jude said nothing, so Odum continued. ‘‘You’ve surprised me, Mr. Gress, you surely have. Maybe there’s something to your psychic vision thing after all. Luckily, though, I’ve prepared for that. I’m a man who likes to prepare.’’
Jude wasn’t sure where Odum’s gun came from, but he found himself looking down the barrel of it.
At the base of the stairs Rachel looked around the dark room and willed her eyes to adjust to the low light. A light, a lamp, there had to be something down here. In the corner she spotted another button switch, walked over, and pressed it.
A single overhead bulb gasped to life. She glanced around and saw built-in shelving on the walls, with a few boxes and jars here and there. On the dirt floor sat an old wooden worktable of some kind, and across the room, on the opposite wall, hung two large burlap bags with something inside. Something that was moving. And . . . was that sobbing she heard?
She started to speak, but her voice caught in her throat as she thought of what the boys had endured that morning: something nearly as bad as what Nicole had endured. Worse in some ways, because they were still conscious, terrified of what would happen to them next. Neither boy had spoken, and she realized why. They thought she was Odum.
Rachel made herself speak: ‘‘Nathan? Bradley?’’
‘‘Mommy?’’ she heard a bewildered voice ask. One
of the bags moved, swaying on the hook.
‘‘It’s me, honey!’’ she said, and now her feet were carrying her across the room. She pulled the bag off the hook. Nathan was a big boy, and she wouldn’t normally be able to lift her son so easily, but the adrenaline and the joy coursing through her veins made the bag as light as new snow. She sat the bag on the floor and fumbled with the knotted rope. It was a tight knot she couldn’t unravel, and it forced a grunt of frustration from her lips. She thought of the tire iron she’d just put down. She picked it up and pushed the blunt, chiseled end into the burlap just below the knot until she had gouged a small hole. With some work she managed to rip a line down the bag along a stitched seam. Inside was Nathan, puffy-eyed and perhaps a bit pale, but as beautiful a sight as she had ever seen in her life.
‘‘Mommy?’’ he said again quizzically, as if still unbelieving this was all happening.
‘‘It’s me, Nathan,’’ she said. ‘‘You’re gonna be just fine.’’ She pulled him close, hugged him, and promised herself she’d never let him go again. ‘‘We’re gonna get Bradley, and then we’re all gonna go home, and everything is going to be just fine.’’ It felt like a lie when she said it; the image of Nicole with tubes and wires sprouting from her body couldn’t possibly be called just fine, but it needed to be said right now. For her, as much as for Nathan.
Nathan pulled away from her hug at the mention of Bradley. ‘‘I . . . I think Bradley’s hurt, Momma.’’
Rachel stiffened. ‘‘What do you mean?’’ she said as she stood and pulled the other bag from the hook, then started working on it with the tire iron.
‘‘We heard you up there, and Bradley said, ‘I’m scared, I’m really scared,’ cuz we thought it was . . . you know . . . the policeman coming back. And it was like he started choking or something.’’
Rachel worked open the bag, pulled out Bradley’s limp body, and laid him on the floor. ‘‘Bradley?’’ she said. ‘‘Sweetie? You okay?’’ His skin felt cold and clammy, his eyes closed. He didn’t respond. She put her ear down over his mouth, turning her head to look at his chest. This was what she had been taught to do in childhood CPR; she had signed up for the class a few years ago. She felt no breath coming from Bradley’s mouth, saw no rising or falling in his chest.
He had stopped breathing.
Jude wondered how Odum intended to drive the car and keep the gun pointed his direction at the same time. But not for long. Odum pulled to the side of the road and put the car in park. ‘‘I’m a little tired of driving,’’ Odum said with a smile. ‘‘How about you take over?’’ Jude nodded and opened his door; Odum did the same, keeping the gun pointed at Jude. ‘‘Stay right there,’’ Odum commanded as he walked around the car to the passenger side where he waved with the gun, indicating Jude should move to the driver’s side. Jude did as instructed. Odum and Jude slid back into the car at the same time, forming an odd mirror image of each other. Neither of them bothered with seat belts.
Odum waved at the road in front of them. ‘‘Anytime you’re ready,’’ he said.
Jude put the car in gear and eased out onto the road again.
They drove in silence for a few minutes. Jude tried to ignore the gun’s muzzle just a few inches from him but couldn’t. He cleared his throat. ‘‘You’re not going to kill me, Chief Odum,’’ Jude tried. ‘‘If you wanted to do that, you would have shot me already.’’
Odum laughed. ‘‘Well, well, an amateur psychologist. Actually, if you’ll take a peek in the back, I think you’ll see I made a stop on the way here.’’
Yes, Kristina was quite a surprise. Jude still hadn’t figured out how or why she was involved in this whole mess, but he was quite sure the answer was about to be revealed to him. The answer, about to be revealed. Revelation. He smiled humorlessly. Those were nice, prophet-like words; Kristina would love them.
Jude reluctantly looked at Kristina in the rearview mirror. This time she returned his gaze, then slowly gave him a level shake of her head. She tilted her head to her right, indicating something on the seat next to her. Jude turned to look in the backseat, and saw what she was indicating: a shovel.
‘‘The shovel?’’ Jude asked, a bit bewildered. ‘‘You mean the shovel?’’
Odum snorted. ‘‘Of course I mean the shovel. Best they sell at Renton’s Hardware. It’s a little surprise for you, a lovely parting gift, as it were.’’
Jude focused his attention on the road ahead, watched the headlights tracing a path along the gravel roadway. ‘‘A parting gift?’’ he said.
‘‘I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to dig in these woods, Mr. Gress,’’ he said. ‘‘Difficult. Lots of roots.’’
Jude continued to watch the road and stayed silent.
‘‘I think you’re starting to see,’’ Odum said, ‘‘that I don’t really like to dig. And maybe you’re also starting to see why I haven’t shot you yet.’’
Jude could tell Odum was looking his way more and more now, getting excited as he talked.
‘‘How tall are you, Mr. Gress?’’
‘‘Just under six feet.’’
‘‘Then a six-foot hole is what you’ll be digging, if you get my drift.’’
Jude got the drift. Got it just fine.
Rachel let the memories of her CPR training take over. She checked Bradley’s airways, tilted his head back, put her mouth over his, and exhaled.
‘‘Mom? Is . . . is Bradley okay?’’ Nathan’s voice sounded pinched, strained. She could tell this was scaring him, but there was no way around it. She needed to get Bradley breathing again. Rachel did the chest compressions, then stopped and placed her ear over Bradley’s mouth again.
‘‘Mom? I’m—’’
‘‘Sweetie, Mommy needs to concentrate right now, okay?’’ Still no breathing from Bradley. Tilt the head, three breaths. This is like Jude, her mind told her. Jude Allman, the guy who was famous for dying. And wasn’t it ironic that it would all come to a scene like this?
Rachel moved to the chest compressions and, under her hands, suddenly pictured Jude. It was Bradley she was bringing back to life, of course, but her mind told her it was also Jude. That was her purpose, her reason.
Still no breathing. Nothing.
She exhaled more breaths into Bradley’s mouth. How long should she keep this up? How long could Bradley go without breathing before he had some brain damage? Like his mother, she thought quickly, then pushed the thought from her mind. Three minutes was the figure that came to her mind. Three minutes. Had it been that long?
She went to the compressions again, and now she could hear Nathan starting to sob and lose control. But when she looked at Nathan, she dimly realized he wasn’t the one sobbing. It was her; she was hearing herself bawling, losing control.
As she held her head over Bradley’s mouth, listening, watching, her body betrayed her. The sobs became huge, wracking gasps that made her convulse. It was as if, in willing Bradley to breathe, just breathe, her own body wanted to suck in more air. But her body also wanted to shut down.
She collapsed her head on Bradley’s chest. It couldn’t happen like this. It couldn’t. She couldn’t come all this way, do all this, only to lose Bradley. She had promised Nicole.
Rachel felt Nathan’s small hand on her back, rubbing. She turned and hugged him tightly again, letting herself cry. The image of Jude crying in Nathan’s arms came to her mind, and she realized now that she’d been lying to herself all along. She was disturbed that Jude hadn’t come to her and shared his problems, but she now saw that she wasn’t the strong one in her family. It was Nathan who was strong, Nathan who gave the comfort. Nathan who was the center.
‘‘It will be okay,’’ she heard Nathan say. But she heard another voice say it in unison—a deeper, more resonant voice. Her internal voice of God. She realized her son, like the voice, was a gift from God. Her son. Her center.
‘‘Don’t be afraid,’’ God’s voice and her son’s voice told her at the same time. A
nd she wasn’t.
With that, Bradley’s mouth opened to draw in a deep, long breath.
‘‘I’m not getting much of a reaction out of you, Mr. Gress,’’ Odum intoned. And as Jude thought about it, he could see the chief was indeed getting a bit upset; Odum had obviously expected a blubbering idiot who would beg for his life. Of course, Odum had no way of knowing he sat next to a man who was quite familiar with death and who was now unafraid of it.
Jude shrugged. ‘‘Not sure what you expected,’’ he said as he looked across the seat. ‘‘But I’m more than willing to die for my son.’’ Odum’s coat, lying on the seat between them, caught his eye. Jude replayed a part of the vision in his head: the part where Odum slipped the bottle of chloroform and cloth inside a coat pocket.
Odum grinned while keeping his eyes on the road. ‘‘It’s a nice thought, but after you dig your hole and occupy it, I still get to go home, Mr. Gress. The Quarry—’’ Odum’s voice shifted. ‘‘Your son— is waiting at home for me.’’
Jude put his left hand on top of the steering wheel. With his right hand he started exploring Odum’s jacket on the seat between them, knowing the darkness of the forest night would hide his actions: the only light in the car was the soft glow of the dash displays. ‘‘Why do you think I asked you to come up here, ten miles away from your home?’’ Jude asked as he blindly slid his hand around the folds of the coat. He felt a bulge, then worked his way around the lining and found the pocket’s opening. Inside, he felt the chloroform and cloth.
Odum went still, quiet. ‘‘What do you mean?’’
Jude carefully grasped the bottle and cloth, slid them out of the coat and behind his back. ‘‘By this time, Chief Odum, my son is probably long gone from your house. My . . . his mother went there while we came here. She’s probably back at the police station now. Your police station. And I’ll bet what they find in your home will be much more interesting than anything they found in Sohler’s.’’