by David Wood
Clove Breath laughed. “Can you imagine? Right outside the faculty door and nobody saw a thing. How jacked-up is that? Everybody says the cops have got nothing.”
Grant nodded, his mind swimming in glue as he tried to get his head around it. “Well, shit,” he managed. “Poor bastard.”
“Yep.”
Grant pulled away from the curb, knuckles white on the wheel. His breath was fast and shallow, his heart pounded.
“I did see the Stallard boys,” Cassie said in a thin, high voice. “They killed him!”
“They didn’t just kill him,” Grant said. “They beat him to death. In public. What the fuck are we dealing with here? Who can do something like that?” Anger battled terror in his gut. He wanted to lash out and do some beating of his own, but he wanted to run away too.
Cassie began to sob, muttering things Grant couldn’t hear through the blood rushing in his ears.
“We have to go,” he said, staring down the road. “We just have to get the fuck away from here. Fuck everything and everyone in Wallen’s Gap!”
Cassie’s breath hitched. “I can’t! My family, my life, it’s all there.”
Grant turned on her, his eyes dark and furious. “What fucking life?” he demanded, his voice painfully loud in the confines of the car.
Cassie’s anger rose to meet his. “Fuck you! It might not be much but it’s all I know. You can’t just run away from something like this, leave it unfinished, Grant. Don’t you understand that?”
The echo of Suzanne’s words stung him, fuelled his anger. “What the hell should we go back for? To get killed by the fucking Stallards ourselves?”
Cassie pointed out the back window. “That poor man was beaten to death, Grant. Because of us!”
“And what are we supposed to do about that now?” He was still shouting but Cassie’s words were digging in. When she showed vigor like this it transformed her. Perhaps it was the sudden proximity of death as much as her unexpected fury, but Grant found himself battling lust along with his fear and anger.
“I don’t know what we do,” Cassie yelled, “but running away is not the answer!” She devolved into tears again, holding her face in her hands.
Shame rose up in Grant. “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his voice as much as possible. “The last thing we need to do is turn on each other.”
Cassie nodded, saying nothing.
They drove on in heavy silence. Grant breathed deeply, one hand on Cassie's knee as she cried softly. He had no idea what to say to her. When they reached the highway he turned numbly for Wallen's Gap and stared at the road, mind still blank.
Professor McKenzie had known something, was going to share it with them. Grant hammered a punch onto the steering wheel that made Cassie jump. “Fuck! What was he going to tell us?”
“Well, he was clearly very scared and didn't want to talk there,” Cassie said quietly. “Who knows what he might have told us. But if he knew something, perhaps someone else does.”
Grant caught a thought that had been skittering around the edges of his mind. “If those boys followed us up there, and followed us to McKenzie, we have to assume they're going to follow us everywhere.”
Cassie twisted in her seat to look out the back. “They could be following us now!”
“I'm sure they're at least looking for us.”
She took hold of his hand and squeezed so hard it hurt.
He squeezed back, a calm resolve settling over him. Professor McKenzie died because they asked him questions. He needed to honor the man’s death by at least trying to get some answers. But maybe they needed to look for those answers somewhere a long way from Wallen’s Gap. “Nothing is likely to happen right now,” he said. “They wanted to make sure we didn’t ask any more questions and I’m sure they wanted to send us a message. Scare us.”
“They did a fine job of it.”
Grant nodded. “So let’s just keep our heads down and act like it, for now. You can go home, get your things together. I’ll do the same. There’s no rush if they think they’re in control.”
“And leaving Wallen’s Gap?” Cassie asked.
“Only if and when you’re ready.” Grant cursed himself, but the thought persisted that he could leave any time he wanted. If Cassie wouldn’t let him help her, take her away, then he could always simply leave Wallen’s Gap as he had found it. He didn’t really owe anyone anything, though he hated himself for thinking that. And he could try to find out more from afar, safe from the killing fists of the Stallards. But he would do his best to help Cassie first. He admired her resolve. “Don't worry. We'll deal with this.”
“Really? How?” She stared at him, but he couldn't meet her eye.
Thoughts of his father’s funeral, of Suzanne walking out on him, all seemed so far away. He couldn’t still the subtle trembling in his chest. “I don't know yet. But we will.”
Chapter 9
It was dark when they cruised back into Wallen's Gap. The events of the day had taken on a surreal quality, like they had happened to someone else. Grant steered the Camaro up the hill towards Cassie's place: a little house on a dirt road near the church.
Cassie sucked in a sharp breath as they pulled close.
“What?” Grant asked.
She nodded towards her house, where the headlights shone on two men sitting on the porch drinking cans of beer. One was Carl. The other was a rangy, stubbled man with mean eyes plainly visible even from a distance.
“Your dad?”
Cassie nodded, lips pressed into a flat line.
The men were deep in conversation and looked up as the car approached. “I could just drive on by,” Grant said. “Why don't you come and stay with me tonight? No funny business,” he added quickly. “Just for some peace and quiet, you know?”
“It's too late,” she said, her voice dull, her expression flat. “They've seen us.”
Grant cursed under his breath, pulled the car up to the curb. The men on the porch stood, beers held lazily at hip height, eyes narrowed. Grant cut the engine and made to open his door and Cassie put a hand on his thigh. Her touch thrilled him, but her intent made him cold.
“Don't,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
“I just wanted to see you to the door. You know, make sure you're okay.”
“It'll only make them mad if you come with me. Look at them, they're already worked up just because we're together.”
He glanced at the men, who scowled down at him. Carl shifted back and forth, as if summoning the courage to confront Grant.
“If they hurt you...”Grant began.
“It'll be just like any other day.”
Grant hated the casual indifference to physical violence that was clearly a part of Cassie's make-up, but he supposed there had to be some kind of self-preservation system at work. “I can take you away, you know. Are you really that tied to this place?”
Cassie stared into his eyes for a moment, but could not hold the intensity there. “It's not that easy.”
“Why not? Once I'm done here, and I nearly am, I think I’ll put the cabin in the hands of a real estate agent and get the fuck out of Wallen's Gap and never look back. You could come with me.”
A sharp rapping made them both jump. Cassie's dad leered in through the passenger window, Carl’s wiry frame silhouetted behind him.
“Oh my God.” Cassie's voice was quieter than ever as she wound down the window.
“Gonna sit out here in this piece of shit car all night?” her father asked.
Grant knew his car was certainly not a piece of shit, but wasn't about to rise to that bait.
“Grant, this is my father, Graham Brunswick. Daddy, this is Grant Shipman.”
“I know who he is and I don't appreciate him gallivanting around with my daughter.”
“Sorry, Mister Brunswick,” Grant said. “We were just talking.”
The look Brunswick directed his way said mind your own business, but he spared a reply. “Talking is it? That al
l?”
What did that even mean? “I had to go up to Kingsville today and Cassie needed a ride.”
“So you thought you'd just give her a ride, didya?”
“Yes, sir. Just trying to be neighborly.”
“And just what the hell do you know about neighborly, city boy?”
The tension in the air thickened and Brunswick's face hardened. Grant desperately wanted to leap from the car and whip both these idiots' asses, and felt pretty sure he could do it too, but that would only be more trouble for Cassie. “I don't mean to cause any trouble,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Well you done stirred up a whole mess of it. You drive off with my daughter without so much as a by your leave and you say you don't mean no trouble?”
“I don't need your permission if I want to go out,” Cassie said.
Her face whipped aside as her father smacked her cheek. He had moved quicker than a striking rattlesnake. “None of your lip, girl!”
“Hey! Don't you dare hit her!” Grant shifted in his seat, opened his door.
Carl, unnoticed, had circled around behind the car and kicked Grant's door closed, banging it hard into his shoulder. It was all Grant could do to resist rubbing his shoulder, but he wasn't about to give Carl the satisfaction.
“You just get on out of here, now, and you don't so much as talk to my little girl again,” Brunswick said. “Or I'll do more than hit you, boy. I got a deer rifle with your name on it and a right friendly association with the law in this town. Now get your ass on.”
Cassie looked at Grant with tears in her eyes. A bead of blood glistened on her lower lip. “You have to go,” she said. “It was stupid to let you drive me up here. Should have dropped me down the road or something.”
“I can't leave you here.”
Cassie eyes were pleading. “You have to go!” she said loudly.
Her father pulled open her door even as Carl continued to lean heavily against Grant's, trapping him.
As Cassie maneuvered herself to release the seatbelt she leaned close. “I'll sneak out and come tonight,” she whispered quickly and got out of the car without another word or even catching his eye.
Grant was uncertain he had heard her correctly until she looked back as her father dragged her up towards the house and she mouthed Tonight! at him again. He felt a flush of relief, but it was overwhelmed by his concern, his terror, about what Brunswick and Carl might do to her in the meantime.
Carl rapped on his window. With a grimace, he wound it down about two inches.
“Don't even think about sniffing around Cassie no more,” Carl slurred through the gap, his breath pungent with beer and cigarette smoke. “You get your ass on like you're told, you hear?”
Grant felt powerless. He hated the thought of leaving Cassie, but if he stayed he would only make it worse for both of them. Then again, one punch wouldn't make things that much worse, would it?
“Problem here?” a rough voice called out.
Grant looked out the back window and deflated at the sight of the Stallard boys standing on the running boards of their pickup right behind him. He hadn't even heard them pull up.
“No problem,” Carl called out, with a leering grin. “Mister Shipman here was just about hightail it on out of here. Ain't that right, Shipman?”
Grinding his teeth, refusing to answer with even a nod, he started the car and pulled away. He had a tiny moment of satisfaction when Carl had to leap back to avoid having his toes run over. Grant wasn't surprised when the Stallard boys tailed him all the way back home, though they kept their distance. The last thing he saw as he turned up the dirt drive towards his cabin was their headlights, stationary in the road behind. He wondered if they were going to take up residence in his driveway all night again and what that might mean for Cassie if she did try to come to him later. He yelled a curse at the heavens and drove up to the cabin, lost and directionless. What now?
Chapter 10
The first thing Grant did upon arriving back at the cabin was retrieve the old single-shot, bolt-action .22 he'd found in the bedroom closet. He wished for something with more stopping power, but this was the only gun in the house, save the Civil War rifle. Leave it to his dad to be the only man in the southeastern United States without his own personal armory. Not that Grant was dying to shoot someone, but if the Stallards had killed the professor, they could very well kill him too.
He'd found half a box of shells in the kitchen. He slipped one into the chamber, and pocketed a handful before stepping outside. He'd been a decent shot with a rifle when he was a kid, but hadn't touched one in years. His dad had enjoyed small game hunting, mostly squirrels and rabbits, and took pride in his marksmanship with the old .22 that had belonged to Grant's grandfather. To the elder Shipman's disappointment, Grant's interest extended no farther than target shooting. It had been one of the many small differences that served to distance them from one another.
He dismissed the memory with a shake of his head and looked around for a target. He needed to test both his skill and the rifle itself. He assumed his dad had kept it clean and in good order, but what did Grant really know about rifles? Suddenly paranoid that it might, he didn't know, blow up in his face or something, he held it out away from him and fired off a shot into the soft earth up near the smokehouse.
The recoil was minimal, but he was so out of practice that he hadn't expected it, and almost allowed the weapon to slip from his hands. He grabbed hold of it and looked around, fully expecting Carl or the Stallards to be standing somewhere nearby, pointing and laughing. Finding himself alone, he managed a laugh, reloaded the rifle, and picked out a target-- a fat pine cone about fifty yards away, limned in moonlight on the end of a long branch.
He lined up his sights, took a deep breath, relaxed, and searched for his center. Shooting was a bit like the martial arts he so enjoyed studying-- it required focus and control of your body and emotions to do it well. A familiar sense of calm confidence settled on him like a cloak and he squeezed off a measured shot.
He missed.
The bullet clipped the limb an inch to the left of his intended target. He reloaded, adjusted his aim, and grinned when the pine cone exploded in a shower of gray-brown bits. He wanted to keep shooting, but that would be a waste of time and bullets.
Emboldened by his intact skill, he decided to take a walk down the road and see if one or all of the Stallards were camped out on his drive. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he did find them there, but he wanted to at least see if they were still standing guard over him.
Using the moonlight to navigate, he kept to the forested hill above the dirt driveway. No need to provoke a confrontation unless absolutely necessary. He walked all the way to the main road and saw no one. Why had the Stallards suddenly left him alone after following him home? It didn't make sense. It ought to be good news, but it filled him with a sense of dread. Something about the situation had changed, but what?
Movement in the trees to his left made him jump. He turned, swinging the rifle up. A group of figures drifted through the trees, glowing with a soft, spectral light. Five or six of them moved like smoke, insubstantial as they slid over the rough ground. Grant’s hands shook as he gripped the weapon, his eyes wide, mouth open and dry. The group turned towards him, their hands rising, arms outstretched, reaching for him. Grant let out a strangled cry, backing up. The group moaned and wailed, speeding up as they closed the gap between themselves and Grant. He could see the trees behind them through their shimmering forms, their faces twisted in pain and longing as they shot forward, almost flying through the woods. Grant screamed and turned to run. He tripped over tangled roots and slammed into the ground, his breath escaping in a rush, the rifle tumbling from his grip.
Gasping, desperately trying to suck new air into his lungs, he rolled over, hands raised against what ghostly assault might be coming, but nothing was there. The forest was still and dark.
Shaking, nauseated with shock, he got to his feet and retriev
ed the weapon. Just how many strange and frightening things could happen in this godforsaken shithole of a town? He wanted to get back into his car and keep driving until Wallen’s Gap was a distant memory, but all he could see in his mind’s eye was Cassie, looking back and mouthing Tonight! He couldn’t leave her now. What he really needed was answers. Understanding was the only defence against whatever was going on here.
He headed back up towards the cabin and thoughts of the strange book in the smokehouse drifted through his mind. If he wanted to know more about what was going on, perhaps some answer could be found there. He needed something to go on. He grabbed a flashlight from the cabin and trudged up the hill.
He found one answer when he reached the smokehouse, but it was to the question of why the Stallards had stopped camping in his driveway, not what he might do for Cassie. The door was kicked in and the compartment where the book had been now stood open. He could see scrapes and indentations where it had been pried open with a crowbar. The Stallards had taken it. It was too great a coincidence to have been anyone else. Their mother had tried to get it, they'd shown up poking around. It had to be them.
“Son of a bitch!”
Knowing it was futile, he reached inside and felt around inside the hollowed-out space. No book.
And then his fingers fell on something small and hard. It had a waxy feel to it, a short narrow thing, with lumps and a slightly sharp, flat end.
He drew it out carefully and held it up in the beam of the flashlight. With a bark of surprise and disgust, he dropped it on the dirt floor. A finger. Stunned, thinking he must have got that wrong, he crouched for another look. Sure enough, it was a finger, but ancient and blackened, like something from The Mummy. The nail was long and ragged, that must have been the sharp end he felt. The skin was tight across the knuckle bones, and the end that should be attached to a hand was dry and hard, the skin edges flaky around the circle of bone sticking out. A smooth edge on the bone, like the finger had been cut off with a sharp knife. Before or after death? he wondered.
