by David Wood
It was small, no surprise the Stallards had missed it. And if his dad thought it important enough to hide along with the book, it must have some value. He picked it up again, held it up in the flashlight beam again for a closer look. A sensation drifted through him, like the feeling when a spider runs over your arm. A kind of repulsion that shivers deep in the core. But something else too. A sense almost of power, of direction. Like there was something about the dessicated old finger that reached beyond the obvious and into realms less traveled.
“Where did my dad get you?” Grant said softly to himself. “And why did he keep you?”
The finger flexed at the middle knuckle and twisted, pointed out the door of the smokehouse.
Grant cried out in alarm and the finger hit the dirt again. Panting, heart jackhammering his ribs, he stared at the thing on the floor. A part of him was embarrassed that he had screamed like a little girl. Another part told him to run the hell away and keep going until Wallen's Gap was far in his rear view mirror.
The finger was still and straight on the ground, inert. He crouched and prodded it. Nothing. Surely, he'd imagined it. But somehow, he knew that wasn't the case.
With a trembling hand, he picked it up and held it by the stump of bone. It was hard, dry and immobile again. He felt an urge to ask another question, felt the insane certainty that, in some way, it would answer. The sensation of power swelled inside him. And with it, the revulsion, a blackness soaking into the edges of his soul. This thing was clearly potent, yet it was undoubtedly dangerous too.
Grant tucked it into his shirt pocket, unsure quite why, but reluctant to leave it behind. He grabbed the rifle, and stalked out into the night.
Right now, his most fervent wish was that the Stallards would return. In the mood he was in, he figured he could take all three of them at once.
“Dammit to fucking hell.”
Chapter 11
Grant sat up late into the night, watched the hands of the clock creep past eleven, through midnight, towards one a.m. Cassie had said she would come later, and there were no Stallards camping in the driveway to stop her this time. Or were there?
Exhausted, but too wired to even contemplate sleep, he took the .22 and headed out again. He left the flashlight behind and relied on moonlight to show the way. If anyone was waiting down the drive, no sense in alerting them to his presence. He crept through the trees, all the way to the road and sure enough, the Stallards were nowhere to be seen. So perhaps Cassie was not coming to him after all. He ground his teeth, wondering if she had changed her mind and decided not to come, or if, for some reason, she couldn't come. He remembered the slap through the car window, the anger and hatred plain on Brunswick's face. And Carl's. He imagined Cassie bruised and beaten, locked in her bedroom.
He felt helpless and it only made him more furious. What could he do? He wanted to protect her, but she went willingly with her father. Of course, he couldn't blame her for that. He was her father and she had to make her own decisions. But Grant was falling for her, ached deep in his bones to protect her, and he knew the only way he could really protect her was to take her away from Wallen's Gap. He needed to convince her there really wasn't anything to hold her there. These were big decisions, but Cassie was abused and scared and the only way out was all the way out. That didn't even begin to take into account what else might be happening in her life. The stories about sleepwalking and finding blood on herself, her dreams that matched his vision in that hideous book. Not to mention all the other weird shit that he desperately tried to ignore.
Standing in the deep shadow of a pine, Grant jumped as something squirmed against his chest. The finger was still in his shirt pocket, almost forgotten. Reluctant to reach in, he pulled his pocket forward and leaned out into the moonlight to see. The finger sat in the lint at the bottom of his pocket half curled like a comma. As he looked, it straightened and curled up, straightened and curled up, jabbing at his shirt.
“Shit!” He sprang backward, the severed digit tumbling out onto the dirt. He'd almost managed to convince himself the scene in the smokehouse had been his imagination. Clearly not. As he watched, the digit once again flexed and extended, somehow conveying insistence in its motion.
“Are you pointing me to something?”
The finger fell still. As Grant drew a breath, it flexed again, more insistent than ever. With a small intake of breath, he picked it up and held it by the smooth stub of bone. The thing squirmed in his grip. He turned his body and the finger crooked forward, jabbing at the air. He turned further and the digit twisted and squirmed. When he turned back, it jabbed again, pointed up over the hill in the direction of higher ground, somewhere north of Wallen's Gap.
“There's nothing up there but more freaking trees,” Grant said softly. “What are you trying to tell me?”
The finger stiffened and all sensation of animation left it. Grant held a hard, dead bone wrapped in age-blackened skin once more.
“Am I really talking to a dead man's fucking finger?” he said, and dropped it back into his pocket. Once more the sensation of dread and power washed through him, enhanced him somehow. There was no doubt this ancient bodypart had been alive and moving moments ago, even if it was dead again now. He didn't like anything about it, considered throwing it away into the night-shrouded forest.
Immediately despair swept over him. He could never throw this thing away, he needed it! He took a shuddering breath, the desperation of the feeling made his guts icy. “Dad kept it for a reason,” he said aloud to the night, rationalizing his reasons for holding onto it. At least for the time being. He stomped back up to the cabin, locked the doors and fell into a rough, restless sleep filled with monsters and threats he could not quite recall upon waking.
The morning dawned clear and cool. Grant dragged himself from bed not long after sun up, still dog tired but beyond trying to sleep any more. He felt like he hadn't slept properly since he got to this shithole town. During his tossing and turning he’d come to one conclusion. First thing today he would go to Cassie's house and insist that he talk to her. If he had to beat his way to her through Brunswick and Carl, or any other fucker, so be it. He was at the end of his patience.
Grant downed coffee and toast to quell the hollow rumble in his gut, and drove into town. As he cruised along the main street, it occurred to him that it was still only a little after seven and that was too early to go calling on anyone. He should at least try to start without pissing them all off. The diner was just opening, so Grant pulled up and went inside for more coffee.
As he sat and sipped, he stared into a large mirror on the wall opposite the counter. A crack ran down the wall behind the man, the plaster separating as the line of darkness widened. Grant froze, eyes wide. The crack opened further and flames appeared to flicker inside. Dark fingers with black talons slipped through and gripped the ragged edge, taking hold of the other side, as though they could rip the wall apart so whatever it was could step through. The owner turned from his grill and made to walk right past the yawning fracture.
Grant spun in his seat. “No, look out!”
The diner owner scowled. “Something wrong with you, boy?”
The wall behind him was smooth and unblemished, apart from grease stains on the pale paint. “No, sorry,” Grant said weakly. “It’s nothing.”
The man shook his head, disgust evident in his expression. His eyes seemed to glow momentarily red as he turned away.
Suppressing a shudder, Grant returned to his coffee. The sooner he got to Cassie and out of Wallen’s Gap, the better.
As the clock on the wall ticked past eight o'clock, he went back to his car and drove up to the Brunswick house.
The street was quiet, no people walking and only one or two other vehicles sliding slowly by. He parked along the curb and walked to the front door. Before he lost his nerve, he knocked firmly. Footsteps rang out almost immediately and the door flew open.
Brunswick stood there wearing nothing but striped boxers an
d filthy, stained white t-shirt. “What the hell do you want, city boy? Didn't I tell you to stay away?”
Grant stood tall, refused to be intimidated. “I want to talk to Cassie.”
“What did you say to me?”
“I want to talk to Cassie.”
“Yeah? Well, she don't wanna talk to you. You just run on, now, before I get my shotgun and encourage you along.”
Brunswick began to close the door and Grant put a hand against it. He looked past Brunswick and yelled out, “Cassie! It's Grant. You there?”
Brunswick yanked the door wide open and slapped a palm into Grant's chest, and shoved him back across the porch. “Who the hell do you think you are, boy? Get outta here!”
Grant snarled, grabbed Brunswick's wrist and twisted it away from his chest. Brunswick yelped and half-turned, fell to one knee so his bones wouldn't snap.
“Cassie!” Grant shouted again. “I need to talk to you!”
“She ain't here.” Carl stepped out of the shadow of the hallway onto the porch.
Releasing Brunswick, Grant turned to face the skinny stoner.
Brunswick stood, rubbed at his wrist, as he grinned. “Ain't here,” he echoed.
“Where is she?” Grant asked.
Carl laughed, shook his head, and muttered something under his breath. Grant didn't catch the words, but the tone was amused.
“She's gone to stay with her aunt in Kingsville for a few weeks.” Brunswick grinned. “Said you was getting on her nerves, kind of stalker-like.”
“Bullshit. I dropped her off here last night. You know that. How could she have gone back to Kingsville?”
“I don't know, a car?” Carl, still chuckling, gestured into the house. “You wanna go inside and have a look around, smart guy?”
Brunswick glared at Carl, then his face softened as he cottoned on. “Yeah, that's right. Go on in, have a look around.”
Grant stared at them hard, trying to measure their intent. Were they hoping to lure him in so they could jump him out of the sight of witnesses? Then again, there wasn't anyone around to witness the act, and he doubted anyone in town would lift a finger to help or even call the police. Fuck it, he didn't care if that was their plan, he had no fear of these two stringy losers. Bracing for a brawl, heart pounding and all his senses alive, he strode into the house and started searching room by room. Carl and Brunswick stood in the hall, laughing at him. It didn't take long to search the whole place, small as it was, calling Cassie's name as he went.
He lingered when he got to her bedroom. It certainly looked like she'd packed up and left. The closet stood open, bare hangers dangling skeleton-like in the glow of the cheap lamp on the bedside table. The dresser drawers were similarly empty. There were no personal effects, no pictures on the wall, nothing. Only a door hanger spelling out “Cassie” in spangled script bore testimony to the room's former inhabitant. If she'd been abducted, they wouldn't have stopped to let her pack, would they?
He dismissed the doubts with a shake of his head. “Tell me where she is,” he demanded again.
“At her aunt's,” Brunswick said.
“In Richmond,” Carl said.
“Kingsville,” Brunswick corrected. He put his hand on the stoner's shoulder. “Carl, step outside for a minute, would you?”
Carl sniggered. “Oh yeah, Kingsville. Knew it was something like that.” He shot an unreadable glance at Grant. “Holler if you need me.”
Brunswick turned to face Grant. “Now, you listen good. I don't like you, and I don't owe you the truth, but here it is anyhow. Cassie couldn't decide between you and Carl and she felt like you was both putting too much pressure on her. She left, and I ain't telling you where she is.”
“Bullshit.” Grant felt his anger boiling. “Where the hell is she?”
Brunswick was suddenly serious, his face hard. “She ain't anywhere for you to find, boy. Now, I ain't gonna tell you again. Get outta here.”
A rough voice came from behind. “Problem here?”
Grant's blood ran cold. Jesse Stallard stood in the doorway. Beyond, through the open front door, Grant saw the other two Stallard boys lounging in their truck, parked at the curb.
He grimaced. Five on one odds were not good, especially with all three Stallards. They were a much greater threat than either Carl or Brunswick. Besides, as much as he wanted to bust some skulls, what he really wanted was to find Cassie.
He stiffened, looked from Stallard to Brunswick, and shook his head. “No. I was just leaving.” Summoning as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances, he strode directly at Stallard, who held his ground for only a split-second before giving way. Grant shouldered him aside, rather than brushing past him, but Stallard only chuckled. “City pussy.”
Something inside Grant snapped. “What the fuck did you say?”
Jesse grinned. “I called you a pussy, pussy.”
Grant growled and rushed the tall Stallard, his fist striking out with all his pent up frustrations and fear. The impact across the redneck’s cheek was a rush of satisfaction and Jesse cried out, stumbling drunkenly to one side, eyes wide in surprise. Grant followed him and delivered two more heavy punches and Jesse dropped unconscious to the floor. Cliff and Jed came racing across the lawn as Carl ran from the house, yelling incoherently.
Grant turned on Carl, landing one good shot on the rangy stoner’s chin before he was pummelled from both sides by the remaining Stallard brothers. He roared and spat, struck out left and right, letting all his anger go, beyond caring any more. He felt the impacts from all sides, but refused to go down, stumbling back and forth as he grit his teeth and fought back. No way was he going down without giving them something to remember him by.
“Enough!” The voice was a whip crack in the early morning air.
Grant was stunned when the fight stopped almost instantly. He swung a couple more shots even as all the boys moved away.
“Pastor Edwin,” Graham Brunswick said. “Ain’t nothing to worry about here.”
“That right?” Edwin said. “Get along, boys.”
Jesse Stallard moaned, coming around as his brothers picked him up, held him between them. They nodded at their father, grinning, more amused than chastised.
“This ain’t the time or the place,” Edwin went on. “Now all o’ya get along out of here.”
The Stallard brothers returned to their truck and Carl and Graham strode into the house and closed the door, leaving Grant alone on the front grass with the pastor. Grant panted for breath, his knuckles cut and throbbing, his face and body pulsing with pain. The pastor stared at him for a moment, his expression blank, then returned to his own house next door.
Grant stood alone, confused. What the fuck was that all about? The rush of punching out a Stallard was lost again in the fear and confusion of Wallen’s Gap. Grant limped back to his car. He needed to find Cassie. Nothing else mattered.
Chapter 12
Grant rolled into town, his mood as black as the clouds that hung low on the horizon. He knew Cassie hadn't taken off on her own, but the slightest doubt remained. What if she really had left? He couldn't entirely blame her if she had. Her life sucked. But he was sure he'd felt a connection between them, and she had indicated she was tired of Carl. Then again, she'd also indicated that she couldn't seem to shake the guy.
“What am I doing?” he said aloud. “Pull yourself together, Grant.” He steered the car into a parking space on the main drag and sat for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
He wanted two things: answers about Kaletherex, and to find Cassie. If Cassie had left of her own accord, there probably wasn't much he could do about it. If she hadn’t, he was convinced the key to finding her lay with whatever secret hid behind the sinister name. Maybe he was stuck in Wallen’s Gap for a while longer after all. After a few minutes' contemplation, he decided to give the library another go.
Since he already had a library card, he was able to avoid another annoying question-and-answer session with the
aged librarian, and got right to work. Settling in at one of the computer stations, he decided to take a different tack. McKenzie had known something about Kaletherex, so he decided to start by researching the recently-deceased professor.
The first several results were accounts of the unsolved murder, sudden big news in the area, but at the bottom of the page he found a link to the professor's page on the college website. He skimmed the brief bio and list of publishing credits, and one title leaped out at him. Ancient Mysticism in Appalachia. That sounded promising.
A quick web search revealed the book was out of print and unavailable in electronic form, but when he checked the library catalog, he was surprised to find it listed. His sudden euphoria turned quickly to disappointment when he saw that the book was checked out. He muttered a curse, drawing the attention of the librarian, who frowned and raised a finger to her lips. Since she and Grant were the only people in the place, shushing him was a bit absurd, but he didn't want to get on her bad side just now. He nodded and adopted a duly chastened expression.
He made a few more fruitless web searches and then, on a whim, checked to see if Cassie had a Facebook page. No luck. He sighed. The book was his only possible lead. Time to go for it.
He approached the front desk and waited politely while the librarian pretended not to notice him. She puttered about, shifting items around and opening drawers to inspect their contents. She was clearly doing no actual work. Finally, she let out a deep sigh and looked up.
“I was interested in a particular book,” Grant said, forcing a smile, “but it's checked out. Any chance you could tell me when it's due to be returned?” He handed her a slip of paper with the title and author.
Pursing her lips, she turned the paper over and examined the back for some inexplicable reason. She stared at Grant for five uncomfortable heartbeats before nodding and turning to her computer.
