What Befalls the Children: Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Series

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  “Understood,” Ray replied.

  “Bought these right before it got bad out there. Ain’t never had a credit card, but I got one so I could get these beauties. Ain’t had to use ‘em before now. Been getting’ by with Josie just fine.” The bald head dipped in the direction of the cabin’s door and the ancient shotgun languishing on two wooden posts above it. “This job calls for precision,” he continued, unwrapping the oil cloth. “These here are Mossberg Patriots. Scopes been sighted. Got plenty of shells for ‘em.”

  “No ARs for you, huh?” Ray said.

  “Them newfangled rifles are for pussies. Pardon my language, boys. The Mossies will do the job. Don’t you worry.”

  “Mister Skeeter, can I take Josie? Seems like us boys should have somethin’ ‘sides our blades.”

  “No, you may not. Josie would knock you on your backside. Your knives are fine. Keep ‘em in your pockets, though, ‘less I tell you otherwise.”

  “We can leave the village without a problem?” Ray asked. He had a feeling this small community was run with the efficiency of an imperial Roman outpost.

  “You couldn’t, but I can,” Skeeter replied. “Problem is gonna be the boys. So here’s the plan. You two head on over to the onion field. Take a bushel basket with you. The one next to my porch will do fine. Anybody sees you, they’ll figure you’re fetching some for supper. Wait in the brush on the northeast corner. We’ll catch up to you there. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir!” Cricket said, excited at the prospect of an adventure.

  The boys dashed out the door, slamming it behind them.

  Skeeter gave Ray a level look. “It seems wrong to be taking the boys, exposing them to unnecessary danger. But I have a good reason.”

  “What’s the reason?”

  “My gut. It’s telling me the boys are gonna come out of this just fine.”

  “Uh,” Ray started to say, but Skeeter interrupted.

  “I know how it sounds. Remember when I shook your hand? You felt something, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Kind of like you had one of those joke buzzers in your hand that kids play with.”

  “Exactly. I have some talents that are difficult to explain. Knowing people’s intentions when I touch them is one of them. The other one doesn’t happen consistently, but when it does, it’s always right.”

  The articulate Skeeter was back.

  “And your gut is saying the boys will be safe?”

  “Yes. No question. So if you were wondering why I could be so cavalier about taking them, that’s the reason.”

  “I admit, I was questioning your decision. But I also admit, I’m a numbers and science guy, so if I seem skeptical of your gut, please don’t take offense.”

  “Deal.”

  “So exactly how angry will your daughter be with...us?”

  The blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t think you’re overly concerned with her being mad at me, but don’t worry about it either way. If Willa makes it back home safe and sound, you’ll be her mama’s huckleberry.”

  Ray ignored the sudden increase in his heart rate.

  “You ready?” Skeeter asked.

  “Like a virgin on prom night,” he replied, then a wave of mortification struck. Why had he said something so off-color to a stranger?

  The old man just cackled, though. Ray found the sound vaguely soothing.

  Minutes later, the two of them trudged through the forest on a well-worn trail. At one point in its history, the trail had surely witnessed deer and other wildlife traversing its length; perhaps it still did. Currently, its most regular travelers were humans on their way back and forth from the village to the crops. Skeeter greeted the passersby with a head nod, promptly returned. No words were spoken when they passed.

  Ray’s awe of these mountain people expanded. He more fully understood Serena Jo’s directive about not revealing the contents of his warehouse. And she was right. The extensive, furrowed fields had surely been producing food all summer; even now, a robust crop of autumn vegetables tempted him from their tidy, leafy rows. Fresh veggies weren’t part of his daily menu. All the fruits and vegetables he consumed were either canned, dehydrated, or freeze-dried. Maybe when he returned home, he’d rig up some raised plant beds on the roof.

  Or maybe he would earn himself a permanent place in Whitaker Holler.

  “This is impressive, Skeeter,” he said.

  Countless rows of stubby green scallions hinted at a secret bounty growing just below the surface of a field an acre in size. A young man and an older woman meandered through the furrows, occasionally plucking a weed or squishing a bug.

  “These are Texas Sweets, a short-day variety, which works well for the fall here. You know anything about farming?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “We were doing pretty good before my daughter came home from Knoxville. Whitaker Holler folks been farming and hunting for generations, so it ain’t like she taught us anything we didn’t already know. But what she did do was bring a whole lotta new seeds. ‘Fore, we was just farming the same crops we been farming forever. Now we got kale and parsnips and hardy kiwi and all kinds of exotic stuff. Took me a while to get used to the kale, but it ain’t too bad in a stew. S’pose to be real good for ya.”

  “Your daughter told me about the U-Haul. Wouldn’t tell me what all she had in there, though.”

  “Damn straight. Anyways, the other thing she did was organize the farming. Instead of folks doing their own thing, she came up with something called a work-share system. Nobody seems to mind doing a few hours of hoeing and planting here and there, and everyone gets to feel like they had a hand in making the food that goes in their bellies.”

  “Very nice. She strikes me as a competent, smart lady.”

  Skeeter chuckled. “I’m sure she does. See over yander?” He pointed to a distant field dotted with orange blobs nestled amongst low green foliage. “That one’s pumpkin and butternut squash. Ain’t just for the kids to carve up later this month. There’s all kinds of nutrients in them things. Delicious, too.”

  Ray nodded.

  “Okay, boys!” Skeeter hollered once they were out of sight of the two people in the onion field.

  Harlan and Cricket emerged from a thicket of dense shrubbery speckled with clusters of round, black berries.

  “Better not have eaten too many of them choke berries or you’ll get the chicken-shits while we’re on our mission.”

  Cricket giggled. “No, sir. We only ate a handful.”

  Skeeter sighed. “Let’s get going. North, right?”

  Both boys’ heads bobbed.

  “Harlan, I know you’re a good scout, but I gotta be in front, so you stay just a few feet behind me and tap on my shoulder of the direction we need to go. Cricket, you’re after Harlan. Ray, you bring up the rear. Daylight’s burning. Let’s move.”

  Under different circumstances, the hike would have been pleasant. Autumn had arrived with its usual magnificence in the Smoky Mountains. Before the pandemic, this was the time of year visitors flocked by the tens of thousands to the area, cameras in hand, determined to capture the vibrant orange, gold, and red of the foliage. The cool temperature felt invigorating, not biting, and the aquamarine sky belonged in a painting. Every now and then, Skeeter stopped, then whistled a strange little tune. After a whistled response came from somewhere in the distance, they resumed.

  The beautiful scenery was largely lost on Ray. The physical weight of his stuffed backpack wasn’t intolerable; it was the figurative weight of the Mossberg rifle he carried that felt oppressive. Ominous, even, like gray-green thunderheads building on the horizon. Something about the ‘Mossy’ exuded a vague malevolence that the firearms from his warehouse hadn’t. When he’d been hunting Lizzy on his own, it hadn’t felt like this. He’d been scared, of course; wilderness wasn’t his forte. But the only life in jeopardy had been his own. While he enjoyed having company, the burden of protecting three other people — two of them children — weighed on him.
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  “Don’t you worry, young man,” Skeeter said from a few yards ahead. “I ain’t the tracker and sharpshooter Otis is, but I’m pretty dang handy with a firearm. More so with the Mossy.”

  “How did you...?” Ray said, then stopped himself. Right. The mysterious ‘talents.’

  Maybe there was something to it after all.

  He watched Harlan pat the old man’s left shoulder. Then the boy glanced back at him. The unblinking gaze latched onto him and drifted away. For a few seconds Ray felt like an Alcatraz escapee caught in a guard-tower spotlight. For the next hour, Ray kept his thoughts to himself. Navigating the briars and the brush became increasingly difficult the farther away from the village they forged. Skeeter and Harlan moved soundlessly through the woods. Not so with Cricket or himself. Occasionally Cricket would catch up to Harlan and the two would communicate through whispers and sign language. Then both heads would nod in agreement, Harlan would catch up to his grandfather, and off they’d go again.

  Another hour passed. They had gone left and right so many times, Ray had lost track. Two small hands touched both of Skeeter’s shoulders simultaneously — a silent directive to stop.

  Harlan turned and signed to Cricket. Cricket nodded and pointed to the right. Then the dark-haired boy turned and whispered, “We’re gettin’ close. Prolly about another half mile that-a-way.”

  This part of the plan terrified Ray. The boys would stay behind, hiding like newborn fawns in the forest shadows, while he and Skeeter approached the cabin. At least fawns blended into the sun-dappled foliage and exuded no scent. Virtually silent Harlan would probably be fine, but the noisy Cricket couldn’t be quiet. And two sweaty boys who probably hadn’t had a bath in days certainly exuded scent. Ray could only hope that Lizzy was in residence inside the cabin and not skulking about in the surrounding woods.

  After another ten minutes of brush and briar navigation, a clearing appeared twenty yards ahead. Through the foliage, Ray made out a structure; the mechanical sound of a generator reached his ears. Skeeter tilted back his bald head, nose pointed skyward, scenting the air.

  Ray breathed deeply as well and processed what his olfactory senses revealed: decaying leaves along with a faint tinge of rotten-egg. Propane exhaust. A remote residence like this required off-grid self-sufficiency. A generator would power lights, refrigeration, HVAC units, and hot water tanks — all the modern luxuries — if it had been outfitted to do so. Had Lizzy lived here before the pandemic? Or had she commandeered the place afterward? When he’d first spotted her with the drone, he assumed she’d been on the road like other survivors, looking for food, shelter, and companionship. Of course that hadn’t been true in Lizzy’s case. She had been looking for victims. Maybe this cabin was her home base from which all her deadly excursions originated. Maybe this cabin was where she had lived during her career as a full-time medical examiner and part-time serial killer. Maybe this was, in fact, the lair of a monster.

  Skeeter pointed toward a thicket of dense juniper and motioned for the boys to enter it. Next, he gestured to Ray to follow.

  It was go time.

  Emerging from the forest’s protective shadows felt like stepping from the wings of a live-action theater and into the center-stage spotlight. The rushed strategy the two men had pieced together now felt absurdly inadequate.

  A charming house lay in the center of a sea of brown, knee-high Bermuda, a grass that didn’t grow naturally in the Smoky Mountains. Lizzy had sodded the area at some point. He could imagine how lovely this little country cabin would look surrounded by a lush, green yard. Had she done the work herself or hired a landscaper? How many contractors and laborers had gone missing when their jobs were complete?

  He ran toward the front door, ignoring the two shuttered windows on either side of the porch. Those shutters would make it more difficult for Lizzy to shoot him without some noise; the knowledge gave him a small boost of confidence. Skeeter had already disappeared around the corner.

  So much was riding on Ray’s knowledge of Lizzy and their history together. She hadn’t killed him when she’d had the chance. Actually, she’d had many chances, both inside and outside the warehouse. The fact was significant, and the detail upon which the success of their plan now hinged.

  From the bottom step of the cabin, Ray yelled, “I know you’re in there, Lizzy! Come out and let’s talk.”

  A scuffling sound came from inside the house. Harlan believed Willa and Fergus were in there, constrained in some way, details unknown. Accepting this limited information as fact required a large dose of reality suspension and an even larger leap of faith. Ray desperately hoped Harlan and his astral-plane intel would prove accurate.

  More scuffling sounds.

  Ray charged up the steps and pounded on the wooden door.

  “Lizzy! You know you don’t want to hurt a child. You told me that in the woods. Your rules, remember?”

  The doorknob moved an inch to the left, then another inch. Ray held his breath; the Mossberg’s muzzle pointed toward the ground.

  The door creaked halfway open, just like in a horror flick. Nothing but darkness beyond.

  “Lizzy,” he said, his voice lower and reasonable-sounding now, “Please. We can work something out.”

  “Hi,” a high-pitched voice squeaked from inside. A moment later, a head with flaxen pigtails appeared in the opening.

  “Hi,” Ray replied. “You must be Willadean.”

  “Yep. And you’re the guy who delivered candy to me and the boys. Miss Lizzy said your name is Ray.”

  He smiled. “That’s right. Are you well? Is everything...okay in there?”

  The instant grin looked just like her brother’s. “Oh, yes. We’re being treated very well.”

  “Fergus is with you, then?”

  “Yes, sir. Mister Fergus is also being treated very well.”

  Something about the sing-song quality of the girl’s voice sounded phony, like a child star in a Broadway musical. Leapin’ lizards! Ray wished Skeeter had been standing nearby so he could gauge the grandfather’s reaction to it.

  “I’m happy to hear that. May I speak with Lizzy? Is she in there?”

  “She said she can’t come to the door at the moment. She’s indisposed.”

  Lizzy’s unsettling giggle emerged from somewhere behind the child.

  Willadean’s Adam’s apple bobbed, normally a nervous ‘tell,’ but the little girl sounded casual and unafraid. Perky. “Perhaps you should come back another time.” The sun’ll come out tomorrow...bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow there’ll be sun.

  “I can’t do that, Willadean. Lizzy, I need to talk to you,” he said, projecting his voice above the child, toward the source of the giggle, and loud enough — he hoped — to cover the noise of Skeeter entering through the back.

  “The .380 I took from your warehouse is pointed at the back of the adorable head you’re looking at,” Lizzy said. Her words were slurred, like she was tipsy. Or drugged. The image of her sleeve exploding flashed through his mind. How much damage had Otis’s shot inflicted? “How did you find me, by the way? You’re no woodsman, Ray. That was evident when I captured you and your friend. Someone led you here. Was it the woman you were with? I doubt it was the man. I’m fairly certain I left him in worse shape than he left me.”

  “Just let the girl go. You can keep Fergus. He’s a big boy.” Ray hated hearing himself say those words. Sacrificing Fergus was a calculated risk. If he could get the child to safety, they would come back for his friend.

  Another giggle. This one sounded tired.

  “You read my journal, Ray. Did anything in there give you the impression I’m magnanimous?”

  “No. I know exactly what you are. But I also know what you said about rules. You’re not going to hurt a child.”

  As he spoke to Lizzy, he watched the girl. The intelligent eyes blinked. Then one eyelid dropped and raised. Willadean had winked, but what did it mean? What silent signal was she sending him?

 
; “You have no idea what I’ll do. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’ll do.”

  The consonants softened with each sentence. Whatever drug Lizzy had taken was making her sleepy. There may never be a better opportunity.

  He squatted on the front porch, eye-level with the child, hoping her body would block Lizzy from seeing his face and the words he planned to mouth to her.

  Before he had time to do anything else, the sound of rifle shots followed by the crash of a door bursting from its hinges propelled him to action. Almost without thinking, he grabbed the little girl by her arm, wrapped her in a bear hug, and leaped off the porch. Zig-zagging across the overgrown lawn, feeling like a bull’s eye was pinned to his exposed back, he counted the seconds it took to reach the relative safety of the tree line.

  Five...six...seven...eight...

  Any moment a bullet could slam into his back. All he wanted was to get Willadean to those trees before that happened.

  Another shot fired. This time the bullet shattered one of the front windows. The cacophony of exploding glass and more shots sent a second jolt of adrenaline through his veins.

  Ten seconds later he charged into the forest, but he didn’t slacken his pace until he made it to the juniper bush where the boys hid. He set Willadean on the ground as the boys scurried out through the spiny branches.

  The moment her feet connected with the forest floor, she emitted a low-pitched furious growl, then in a voice that definitely didn’t sound like it belonged in a Broadway production, she said, “Why the hell did you do that?”

  Chapter 21

  Fergus

  A few minutes earlier, Lizzy had come to fetch Willadean, wordlessly indicating her directives with awkward hand motions and grunting noises. She was definitely in pain. After they left, Fergus closed his eyes and sent out his scythen. Something major was going down while he remained chained in a basement cage.

  Bloody hell.

  His scythen picked up disjointed thoughts. Who was out there? Skeeter? Through the back door...gotta be quieter than I ever been. Ray? Let’s talk. You don’t want to hurt a child. Let her go. Keep Fergus...he’s a big boy.