Something shook in the trees off to her left and then a black shape tumbled from the top of a pine and fell to the ground. For a brief second, Sadie thought bear until the shape hit the ground and bounced back up into the air, like the earth was a trampoline. She spun and saw it was a man who’d fallen from the tree, and he was dressed like what she imagined Jack the Ripper would have worn.
Spring-Heeled Jack sprung up into the air and then leapt towards Tate.
“What the fuck?” Tate said, his mouth hanging open.
One, two, three leaps and Spring-Heeled Jack had crossed the backyard. He landed at Tate’s feet, grabbed Tate’s collar, and, flush with momentum, flew up into the air, scooping Tate with him. Tate kicked and screamed as Spring-Heeled Jack arced seventy feet in the air, dragging him by his shirt. He sailed through the air, heading for a big oak tree just ahead, Tate’s eyes as big as the moon. Spring-Heeled Jack shoved him forward, impaling him on a broken limb jutting from the tree, and then letting go and falling down into the forest, disappearing from sight.
Sadie screamed.
Tate hung on the limb as it poked out through his stomach, looking like a butterfly pinned to a board. Blood sprayed the air in front of him as he coughed, staring down at the limb sticking through him under his ribs. He coughed more blood and twitched as his fingers scrabbled at the end of the limb, as if to confirm it was real.
Sadie couldn’t move. She stared up at Tate as he hung against the tree, not believing what she was seeing.
A sproing echoed from the forest as Spring-Heeled Jack leapt back into the yard. He landed, the ground absorbing his momentum, and stood still, glaring at Sadie. She held her breath, still unable to move, and stared right back as he studied her. A cold chill ran up her spine as she realized the glittering things she’d confused for eyes were really buttons.
Tate gagged and cried out for help. He stuck his arms towards Sadie, as if somehow she could do something for him. She backed slowly towards the house, her vision riveted to Spring-Heeled Jack. The leaping man stared at her, his head cocked to one side as if he found her a more curious sight than she found him.
Sadie’s hands fumbled on the handle as Jack crouched, ready to spring forward. She threw the door open as he leapt into the air and tossed herself inside as he landed five feet shy of the house. Sadie screamed, sat up, and slammed the sliding glass door shut.
Spring-Heeled Jack jumped another short distance and stood, face pressed against the door, buttons for eyes staring in at Sadie as she stumbled backwards, tripping over a kitchen chair and falling to the floor. Jack’s tongue flicked from his mouth and licked the glass, swirling it around like he was making love to the door. She screamed again and ran from the room. She had to get upstairs, where she kept her shotgun, in the back closet of her work room.
She dashed up the stairs, screaming the whole way. She rushed down the hallway to her work room, flicked on the lights, and tripped over a roll of material she’d left on the floor and forgotten about. Sadie landed on her hands, scraping her palms across the hardwood floor. She cursed as she sat up in time to hear a springing noise. Her head jerked to the right to face the window in the room and she watched as a black shadow crossed up and down in it. She heard the springing sound again and this time she saw Jack, jumping up into the air, passing by the window, looking in at her, then dropping back down out of sight and leaping up again.
Sadie scrambled across the floor and crawled on all fours to her closet. She slammed the door open and slid inside, her fingers clutching at the darkness before her. Her fingers felt cold steel and the shotgun toppled over and cracked her on the side of the head. She groaned and felt a trickle of blood slip down her temple and across her cheek as she fumbled around on the floor until she found the gun again. Behind where it was sitting should have been a box of shells and she’d need those if she was going to shoot that goddamned bastard, hopping around outside like a demented rabbit.
Her hands fell on the box of shells. She loaded the gun, a pump action, single shot weapon, and crawled out of the closet.
There he was, bounce, bounce, bounce, sailing up into the air and looking inside the window at her each time he went up and down. There was something hateful and mocking about him, like he was toying with her and enjoying it. She jacked the shotgun and stood to her feet. Let’s see how much he laughs with buckshot rammed up his ass, she thought.
She stomped over to the window, his body passing by it twice as she went across the room, flicked the lock, and threw the window open. Sadie dropped to a knee and aimed. She blinked and cleared her mind. She held steady and waited. Where was he?
A slight breeze whispered through the open window and Sadie could smell sewer and copper on the air. Tate must have died, she thought. He must have let go and shit himself and was probably still hanging in that tree, slumped over the limb he was impaled on like some kind of obscene scarecrow.
Nothing stirred. Quiet filled the area. No birds chirped and no animals made any noise out in the woods.
She felt light-headed and realized she was holding her breath. She let it out, slow and easy, and breathed in through her nose, filling her lungs and exhaling, slow again.
She listened but heard nothing, not even the sound of his springs coiling and uncoiling. Had he seen the gun and gone away?
The kitchen doors shattered and Sadie screamed and squeezed the trigger, blowing out the top of the window and falling back on her ass. She rolled onto her stomach and pointed the gun at the door behind her, certain that the man was going to appear around the corner, button eyes glittering in the bulb light.
Instead, she heard the sproing behind her and turned just in time to see Spring-Heeled Jack leap in through her ruined window, bounce off the floor, and kick the gun from her hands as she pulled the trigger. Buckshot peppered the wall. The gun clattered to the floor away from her as Sadie screamed and Jack landed, raised his foot, and readied to stomp her face. The soles of his shoes had tiny springs in them, pushing from somewhere deep in his legs and through the heels, and they were sharp and pointed and ugly looking, like the bared teeth of a rabid dog. She knew she was going to die at the end of those springs, torn apart savagely under this monster’s foot, for he was not a man, not in any way other than shape and form. No man could do what he’d done.
Sadie closed her eyes and held her hands up to shield herself. She hoped it would be quick.
Someone yelled across the room as she felt the floor shudder beneath her and her eyes popped open in time to see Sam, beautiful, strong Sam, charge across the room. He lowered his shoulder and rammed Spring-Heeled Jack, knocking him back and out the open window. Sam stumbled and fell, cutting his hands on some of the broken glass. He looked at Sadie, his eyes wide with fear.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded, her neck and body numb.
“Get the gun,” he said, pointing at the shotgun in the corner.
She rolled to grab it when a sproing echoed through the room and a dark shape appeared behind Sam. Its arms snaked around Sam’s neck, grabbed him, and hauled him back towards the open window. He punched and kicked as Jack, having jumped back into the room, drug him to the window, too strong and fierce for Sam to fight against.
Jack lifted him; his head lodged in the crook of Jack’s elbow, and flipped Sam over to throw him out the window as Sadie grabbed the shotgun. She clacked the gun, took a one knee stance, aimed, and fired.
The buckshot tore though Spring-Heeled Jack’s right shoulder like spit through a screen door, ripping out large chunks of flesh and little divots of bone. Jack fell forward, letting go of Sam, and turned to face Sadie, his shoulder pouring blood.
Sadie racked the gun and fired again.
The buckshot caught Jack in his chest and blew him backwards and out the window. She jumped to her feet and ran over, leaned out through the window and sighted the body of Spring-Heeled Jack lying on the ground, an open chest-wound glistening in the fading light of the day. She shot him again,
this time tearing his stomach open. Spring-Heeled Jack twitched twice and did not move again.
Sadie slid back inside and leaned over Sam, exhausted and trembling.
“Are you okay?” she said.
He nodded and climbed to his feet. He looked out the window, saw the dead body, and leaned back inside.
“What in God’s name was that?” he said.
She shrugged. She didn’t know what to say. All she did know was that she was tired, so very tired, and she just wanted to close her eyes for a little while.
Sam pulled out his cell phone and dialed it. He waited, listened as it rang, and began pacing the room, then spoke into the phone.
“Sheriff, this is Sam Drake. I’m over at Sadie Mills’ place and we were attacked by a maniac. We shot him dead and we need you to come out right away. Call me back,” Sam said, and then gave his phone number. He hung up and looked at Sadie, sitting on the floor, curled into a ball. He reached down and took her by her arms and lifted her up. He pulled her to him and put his arm around her, lending his strength and support. She thought he felt damn good and solid next to her and didn’t resist as he guided her towards the door and into the hallway.
“You saved my life,” she said.
“You saved mine, too,” he said.
They shuffled down the hall and reached the steps.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re getting out of here,” he said. “I’m taking you into town to see the Doc and to see if I can find the sheriff. He’s not picking up his phone.”
“Get the shotgun.”
“Damn,” he said. “I’m such an idiot. Will you be okay if I leave you for a minute?”
She nodded and he disappeared back into the room, coming out seconds later with the shotgun. He slipped his free arm around her and helped her down the stairs.
“I must look terrible,” she said.
“You look fine.”
“Hell of a first date, huh?”
“I reckon so,” he smiled. “I don’t know if I can hang around you if it’s always this exciting. My heart won’t be able to take it.”
Sadie laughed. “Thanks for coming for me, Sam Drake.”
“Thanks for being a good shot,” he said. “You could have taken my head off, you know.”
“If I’d of wanted to, I would have,” she said, grinning. They were almost to the front door, still open from where Sam burst into the house and ran up the stairs to save her.
They stepped outside, the sky a hazy gray. It had cooled off somewhat, but the humidity still hung in the air, as wet as a pair of hot gym socks. They made their way to Sam’s truck, parked next to Sadie’s little economy car. He looked up into the tree and spotted Tate, impaled.
“Shit. Is that Tate Stevens?” he said.
“Yes.”
“How the hell did he get way up there?”
“It’s a long story.”
He stared at Tate and looked over at Jack lying dead in the grass. A groan sounded from up above and Sam spun and gazed up again. Tate was moving, his arms and legs thrashing madly as he grunted and moaned.
“He’s still alive?” Sadie said, looking up.
“Jesus.” He stared at Tate, pinned to the tree, struggling to free himself. “I should help him.”
“How? I don’t have a ladder that tall,” Sadie said. She didn’t mean to sound cruel, but Tate Stevens could hang up there and die a slow death as far as she was concerned. She wanted to get away from there right that minute, to drive into town as fast as they could and then to keep driving, leaving this all behind. It was irrational, but the fear surged up into her throat like lurching stomach acid and she couldn’t shake it. Something was wrong here and that same wrongness was blanketing the town; she could feel it in her bones.
“Let’s just go,” she said, her voice shaking.
But Sam didn’t move. He kept gazing up at Tate, watching as he pushed against the tree with his arms, sliding slowly forward on the jagged branch that held him fastened tight.
“Please, Sam,” Sadie said, looking up as well.
Tate kicked off his shoes, a pair of penny loafers, and they fell to the ground, drifting on the air for a second as a small breeze caught them. Tate shook his feet, naked now and pale as a jellyfish, as something small pushed against the skin of his left heel from the inside, as if something was growing out of him. The skin stretched and tore, raining a small spatter of blood down the side of the tree, as a coiled piece of steel drilled through the skin. The same thing happened to Tate’s other foot and it took a couple of seconds for Sadie to realize just exactly what she was seeing.
Tate was growing steel springs out of his heels. Just like the dead man lying in the yard.
“We need to go,” Sadie said. She grabbed his arm and tugged.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of Tate as the man struggled and pushed along the branch, halfway down it now. It was grotesque the way those springs dripped with blood as Tate disengaged from the tree.
Sadie slapped Sam. He spun and stared at her as she caught his face and held it in her hands.
“We have to go,” she said. He nodded and fished for his keys, yanking them from his pocket. They ran for his truck and jumped in. He fumbled trying to get the key into the ignition but he got it, cranked the truck to life, just in time to see Tate plummet from the tree and land on his feet. Only to spring straight up into the air like he’d landed on a trampoline.
“Shit,” Sam said. He grabbed the shift on the column, put the truck in gear, and stomped on the gas. The truck lurched and skidded, roaring down the drive and out onto the road. The last thing Sadie saw was Tate bouncing over to the dead body on the lawn and then they were gone, down the street and on their way.
They didn’t say anything to each other as he drove, taking the road to its end and turning right to head back towards town. She looked at Sam and studied the side of his face for a moment, glad he was here with her. She smiled and reached over, putting her hand on his thigh. He returned her smile.
“Sure beats dinner and a movie, huh?”
He laughed. They were trying to put what they’d seen back there behind them. After all, what could they say? They’d killed one man and seen another dead man grow springs from his feet and chase them. There was really nothing else to say.
Sam looked in the rearview mirror.
“Shit,” he said.
She followed his eyes, saw what he saw, and spun in her seat to look out the window.
“Shit,” she said.
Spring-Heeled Jack leaped after them, covering huge amounts of ground in great hurdles and bounds. It was Tate’s body, but he was dressed as Jack had been, and this time, glittering in the fading light of day, Jack held two long knives in each hand.
A tiny moan slipped from Sadie’s lips. “He’s gaining on us.”
Sam steered the truck, driving fast, but not fast enough.
“Faster, Sam!”
“I can’t,” he said. “The road is too dangerous.”
She turned and watched Sam and the road ahead. He was right, they’d gone from dirt to gravel and it was another two miles before they reached blacktop. The killer would be on them before then, that was certain. She turned again and stared out the back window. Spring-Heeled Jack jumped and leapt, growing closer and closer, advancing on them like a cat about to pounce on a frightened mouse.
Headlights came around the corner and a tiny brown car passed them by. Sam had to swerve to avoid hitting it and skidded off the road for a moment. He corrected his steering and they were back on the road, going as fast as Sam dared.
The brown car belonged to Sadie’s closest neighbor, John Reynolds, and she was sure she saw John cussing them as his car slipped on the gravel road and slid to a stop sideways, blocking half the road.
Sam slowed down.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“He might need our help,” he said. He stopped the truck and they both turned in time to see John unf
old his long, lanky frame from the car, shake his fist at Sam’s truck, and Spring-Heeled Jack land on the roof of the small brown car.
John turned around and Jack slashed his long knives, popping John’s head off at the shoulders. A geyser of foaming blood sprayed straight up into the air. Spring-Heeled Jack stood up on the roof of the brown car as John’s head fell one way and his body—blood spurting from the stump of its neck—fell the other.
Sam hit the gas and roared off down the road.
IV
Burke
Burke stood in the middle of a long row of tobacco plants and handled one of the leaves, rubbing it between his fingers, humming his approval. Matt Blanc, his head worker, stood nearby, nervously waiting to hear what Burke had to say. Matt was in his early thirties, tall and stout, with sandy blonde hair always scooped up under the John Deere Tractor ball cap he perpetually wore. Burke couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Matt without his hat. He turned the leaf over in his hand, chewed on his bottom lip, and smiled.
“Looks good,” he said. The look of relief that spread across Matt’s face brought sunshine to the world.
“Thank you, sir,” Matt said.
“Don’t call me ‘sir,’ goddammit,” Burke said. “You been working for me for what, six years now? I think we’re on better footing than all that ‘sir’ business.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said. He laughed. “Sorry. It’s just a force of habit.”
“Your daddy raised you right, so don’t apologize,” Burke said. “You can go on home now. Give my regards to Becky and the girls.”
“I will,” Matt said. “Back here, usual time tomorrow?”
Men of Perdition Page 13
