by Brom
“What are you talking about?”
“Been some Charleston boys down here dealing.”
“In Goodhope? You got to be kidding?”
“Wish I was. Overheard the General talking to Dillard. Apparently Dillard caught a few of ’em.”
“Dillard? No shit. Bet that didn’t go so well for ’em.”
“You’d be right on that.”
“Think they ended up in the deep end of Ned’s catfish farm?”
Lynyrd shrugged. “Let’s just say you won’t find me eating anything caught out of that pond.”
“Fuck, that Dillard’s a scary son’bitch.”
Jesse ripped the duct tape from his mouth and let out a gasp. He tugged and tore at the wad around his arm, working to free his hand.
Chet walked over. “Bit of advice, Jesse. Just you let Dillard be. You might think you got a handle on that motherfucker, but you got no idea what he’s capable of.”
“Ain’t none of your business.”
“No, guess not. But I’ve seen firsthand what he’s done to folks that’s gone and got in his way. It ain’t a game with him. He’ll make you disappear.”
Jesse ignored him, kept tearing at the tape.
“Don’t believe me? Ask yourself this, did anyone ever find a trace of his wife? Some folks believe she ran off. Well, I know different.”
“How do you know different?” Lynyrd asked.
“Ain’t gonna say.”
“You’re full of shit.”
Chet hesitated, seemed to be weighing something. “Seen a picture of her dead body.”
Jesse’s blood went cold; he stopped pulling at the tape and looked up at Chet. Chet held Lynyrd’s gaze; he looked serious, as serious as a man could.
“A picture?” Lynyrd asked. “You’re telling me you seen a picture of Dillard’s wife and she was dead?”
“I’d just as soon not have.”
“Where’d you see a picture?”
“Dillard showed it to me.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah, he did.”
“Now why would he do that?”
“Fuck if I know. I still ain’t got that man figured. It was a couple months back when I was helping him move that old freezer into his garage. When we were done he asked if I’d like to have a beer with him. Of course I would. Well, one beer turned into two, then four, then I don’t rightly recall after that. I know we pulled down a couple of lawn chairs and got lit right there in his garage. I know after a bit he starts talking about his wife, how much he misses her. He’s getting all choked up, but I’m smashed by then so I just roll with it. He pulls a sewing box down off the shelf, a fancy one, painted with pretty red roses. Says it used to belong to Ellen, opens it up and there’s a wedding picture of her. Ellen was a right pretty woman in her day I might add. He’s staring at the picture like he wishes he could crawl right into it. I’d always heard she’d cleaned him out, so I muttered something about how sorry I was to hear she done him wrong. Then he says, ‘Yeah she’s sorry, too.’ And something in his tone made me pay attention. He pries the back off that frame and pulls out a Polaroid. He stares at it a long while, his face cold as stone, then shows it to me. It was her, his wife. She was dead. No doubt about that, and it looked like she’d died bad. He says to me, ‘Never was a woman more sorry about anything.’ And the way he said it . . . why, it chilled me right to the bone.”
“Damn,” Lynyrd said. “Ain’t that some creepy shit.”
“Yeah, you’re sure right about that.” Chet looked at Jesse. “And that’s why if I were you, Jesse, I’d stay the fuck away from that guy. Ain’t nothing good gonna come from messing with him . . . not for nobody.”
The blood drummed in Jesse’s ears. He’d heard the rumors, but hearing Chet tell about what he’d seen firsthand sent it home. A chill climbed Jesse’s spine—his little girl was living with a man capable of cold-blooded murder. What else was he capable of? Jesse yanked the last bit of tape off and pulled his hand free. A dark red hole about the diameter of a pencil sat between the bones of his index and middle finger, welling with blood. He opened and closed his hand. It hurt, but all his fingers moved as they should.
“Looks like you got lucky,” Chet said. “Missed your bones. Guess you’re gonna have to whack off left-handed for a while, though.” He snorted. “But who knows . . . you might still be able to play that old guitar of yours.”
For the first time in his life Jesse didn’t care if he could play guitar or not, the only thing he could think about was Abigail being alone in that house with Dillard. Jesse pulled himself to his feet and stumbled out of the bay to his truck. He yanked the door open and got in.
“Hey, Jesse.” Chet walked up to the truck carrying the bag of game consoles. “You forgot something.” Chet pulled a box out. “Mind if I keep one? My nephew’s been begging for one of these all year.”
Jesse ignored him, trying to dig his keys out of his pocket with his left hand.
“Jesse, just so we’re clear. Nobody’s let you off the hook for that pickup tonight.”
Jesse glared at him.
“At the school . . . round back as usual. Say seven o’clock. Don’t leave us hanging. Oh, and do yourself a favor . . . listen up to what the General was saying and don’t do nothing stupid.”
Jesse sneered.
“Look, dipshit, I ain’t telling you for your benefit. I’m telling you ’cause I happen to like Linda and Abigail, and would sure hate for anything bad to happen to either one of ’em. I mean that. Hell, y’know, there was a time I wouldn’t have paid half a mind to the General’s wild rants neither. But Jesse, after what I’ve seen lately, I wouldn’t push the man. If he threatens to put your little girl in a box, you better take him serious. Face it, he’s got your ass coming and going. So just save us all some trouble and play nice. All right?”
Jesse didn’t answer him, didn’t even nod. He turned the ignition, ignoring the sharp pain in his hand as he put the truck in gear and backed out of the alley, leaving Chet standing there holding the sack of toys.
Chapter Four
Devil Men
Santa Claus glanced back over his shoulder. The two boys on their BMX bicycles were still tailing him. Santa had found a string of power lines late in the morning, had been following the trail west. That had taken him past a double-wide mobile home; the two boys had been out jumping on a trampoline when he’d marched by. They’d stared at him until he was out of sight. Now, a couple miles later, here they were, peeking around a thicket, watching his every move.
They will need a little discouragement. Would not do to have children watch dear old Santa hack Krampus and his abominations to death, after all.
A distant screech came to Santa’s ear, a most welcome sound. He searched the sky, found only heavy clouds. He plucked the horn from his belt and gave it one short blast. A second later he was rewarded with another cry and the sight of two dark shapes flying down out of the clouds toward him.
They alighted upon the twisted branch of a fallen oak—the two great ravens, Huginn and Muninn. The magnificent birds were as large as any eagle, their black feathers sleek and shining. They peered at Santa with curious, ageless eyes.
“You remember Krampus? Yes, I know you do. It seems he did not die in darkness as he should have. Somehow he has crawled out from beneath his rock to make mischief, and mischief he has indeed made. Now my Christmas sack is lost—is somewhere out there amongst the near town.”
The two great birds cocked their heads, questioning.
“Search for his beasts, his abominations, the Belsnickels. For they will be on the hunt as well. When you find them, stay with them like a dark omen, lead me to them with your cry . . . for my sword thirsts for their blood.”
The ravens squawked and nodded, nodded as any person might.
“Go my pets, make haste. Find them and show me the way.”
The giant ravens leapt into the air, the wake of their great wings kicking up the frozen leaves as
they flew away down the hill.
Santa heard a clink, turned, found that the boys had dared venture closer, much closer than was wise, sitting on their bikes and staring at him. Santa walked up to them. The younger boy looked about to flee; he glanced anxiously over at the older boy. The older boy, a teenager, maybe thirteen or fourteen, looked unsure as well, but held his ground.
“Whatcha wearing that getup for?” the teenager asked.
“Yeah,” the younger boy chimed in. “Why you dressed up like Santa Claus for?”
“Because I am Santa Claus.”
The older boy snorted. “My ass you are.”
The younger boy followed suit with a snort of his own.
Santa remembered why he hated teenagers—they worked so hard not to believe in anything. Did their very best to spoil the magic for everyone else. “Go home.”
The teenager blinked. “Hey, this here’s a free country. You can’t go telling us what to do.”
“Is that a new bike?”
“Sure is,” the kid said with obvious pride. “Got it for Christmas. Fucking rad.”
“Would you please get off of it?”
“What . . . huh? What for?”
“So you will not be upon it when I toss it down the hillside.” Santa nodded to the steep incline on one side of the trail that bottomed into a ravine of broken rocks.
“Are you threatening me, mister?”
Santa grabbed the teenager’s bike by the handlebars, kicked his boot through the front spokes, and stomped downward, snapping off most of the spokes. The front rim collapsed.
“Hey!” the kid screamed. “Hey, you can’t do that!” He stood up and when he did, Santa snatched the bicycle out from under him. He lifted the bike over his head and chucked it down the hill. The bike tumbled, spun, bounced into the air, and crashed into the rocks below.
The two boys stood, mouths agape, staring down at the bike.
“I believe it would be a bad idea for the two of you to follow me any farther. What do you think?” Santa didn’t wait for an answer—he had urgent business at hand. He turned and headed quickly down the trail.
JESSE SHOT DOWN the highway toward Dillard’s house, his brow in a knot, his jaw tight. Without taking his eyes off the road, he leaned over, popped open the glove compartment, and dug out his pistol, laid it on the seat next to him. “Gonna get my daughter,” he said, said it loud, like he meant it. “Gonna shoot anyone that gets in my way.”
A mile later he pulled into the Gas’n’Go. “Fuck!” He picked up the revolver, glared at it. He heard Dillard again, You won’t do it, Jesse. I know this for a fact. You see, son, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s taking the measure of a man.
Jesse looked at the hole in his hand. “Gonna shoot the General, too,” he snarled. “Shoot every fucking one of ’em!” Only the words rung hollow in the cab, making him feel the worse.
He shut off his truck, got out, headed inside, and found the restroom. He ran warm water over his injured hand, washed the wound out the best he could. He opened and closed his hand. It was becoming stiff, the dark flesh around the wound beginning to swell. He wrapped it in paper towels and wondered if he’d ever be able to play the guitar again. Maybe the General’s done me a favor. Maybe I’m better off if I can’t play. If I just give up on my music altogether.
He climbed back into his truck and decided the best thing for now was to go home and try to figure things out. What’s to figure? he asked himself, and again couldn’t get Dillard out of his head: I’d shoot him dead regardless. Because that’s what a real man does.
Jesse got back on the highway and a few minutes later pulled into the King’s Kastle, splashing through slushy potholes as he drove up the hill, trying his best to clear his head. It was getting late in the day, Chet would be expecting him at the elementary school in a couple of hours, and if he didn’t show up, things would get bad right away. Can’t keep making these runs. Gonna end up in prison. Every way I turn is bad. What am I supposed to do? What the fuck am I supposed to do?
He pulled the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and fished for a smoke, but came up empty. He smacked the pack against the dashboard, knocking out a few crumbs of tobacco. “Perfect. Just perfect.” He wadded up the pack and chucked it to the floorboard. “Well, shit, look at that.” Two enormous birds were circling low over his trailer. At first he thought they might be buzzards, but as he drew closer he could see they looked more like crows or ravens. He glanced at his trailer. “What the fuck’s going on now?”
The door to his trailer hung open. He caught movement within; could just make out a hunched figure inside. It was digging through the boxes near the door, its back to him. It wore a dark jacket with the hood pulled up and though Jesse couldn’t see its face he knew who his visitor was.
He drove past without even slowing, as though he lived farther up the road, hoping to hell it hadn’t seen him. It was a dead end, so Jesse had no choice but to turn around. He pulled into the Tuckers’ drive, then backed out as casually as he could, doing his best not to draw any attention to himself. That’s when he noticed another hooded figure. It shifted through the underbrush, over among the pine trees behind his trailer, its face low to the ground as though sniffing for something. Jesse glanced at the Santa sack on the floorboard and wondered if these creatures could smell it somehow. He grabbed the sack, intending to toss it out the window and just drive off, when the figure stood up, one clawed hand dangling from an outstretched wrist. It sniffed the air, then jerked its head toward him. It wore sunglasses even though the day was gray and overcast. It lifted up the shades and there was no missing those eyes: burning orange and staring at Jesse, following his truck as it crept up the road.
Jesse shoved the sack back down into the foot well and fought the urge to floor it. “Keep cool,” he whispered. “Just keep cool.”
The devil man headed toward the road. Jesse avoided looking its way, but could sense its eyes, those piercing orange eyes staring at him as he passed. Little farther now. Just a little farther. He kept it in his rearview mirror as it stepped out into the lane. It followed him at a fast clip. Jesse returned his eyes to the road and let out a cry. There, in the middle of the road, stood another one, one of the bigger ones, one with horns, all covered in fur and carrying a spear. “Shit!” Jesse yelled, cutting the wheel left.
It slapped a palm on the passenger window, jogging alongside the truck and peering inside, smiling, revealing dirty teeth.
Jesse gunned it. His wheels spun in the snow and gravel, giving him a second to regret pawning his good tires, then they gained traction and the truck took off, quickly picking up speed as it bounced and bounded up the rough road. Jesse glanced in his rearview—they were gone. A heavy thud hit his camper, followed by tromping on the roof of the cab.
The thing slid down the front windshield, gaining a perch on the hood. Again it gave him that crooked smile. Its eyes alighted on the Santa sack, grew wide, and blazed to life like a stoked fire. It set back its head and let loose a long howl, more of a wail, causing all the hair on Jesse’s arms to stand on end. Answering howls came from all around. The creature reared back and drove its fist into the middle of the windshield, punching a hole through the safety glass. Cracks spiderwebbed across the windshield. It yanked its hand free and reared back for another blow when Jesse cut the wheel sharply left, then right, jerking the truck back and forth across the road, throwing the creature from its perch. The creature slid down the hood, catching hold of the wiper.
Up ahead, two more devil men came loping toward the road. “Christ, they’re everywhere!”
The one on the hood began pulling itself up. Jesse swerved, purposely driving through a pothole. The jolt sent the devil man airborne, taking the wiper with him. The devil man hit the snow bank and tumbled from view.
The two ahead of him were coming fast, trying to cut him off. Jesse kept the pedal to the floor. The old V8 rattled and roared as the truck shot up the hill. “C’mon!” he s
houted. “C’mon!” He thought he had it, when the forward beast leapt, flying across the snow, and slammed onto the passenger side of the truck. The whole truck rocked. It caught the side mirror, grabbed the handle, and yanked the door open.
Millie’s garbage cans and nativity scene were just ahead. Jesse jerked the wheel hard right, toward the cans. The devil man and the passenger door slammed into the cans. There came a few surreal seconds when everything seemed to go by in slow motion. Jesse saw the devil man, Joseph, Mary, and the baby Jesus as they all flew through the air accompanied by Millie’s garbage.
The devil man smashed into Millie’s picket fence and tumbled across her yard.
Jesse raced away down the hill toward the highway, the potholes and bumps tossing the truck from one side of the narrow lane to the other. He clipped a row of mailboxes near the bottom of the hill, swerved into a ditch and shot up the other side onto the highway. He slammed the brakes and his rear tires ended up in the ditch on the far side of the road. Jesse found himself looking back the way he’d come, saw all five of them running and leaping as fast and agile as deer toward him, and their eyes—those eerie eyes, blazing and locked on him.
“Crap!” He hit the gas, his wheels spinning in the mud; there came a second when he knew he was stuck and it was all over, but the old Ford came through, the tires bit into the asphalt, and he squealed away.
He caught one more glimpse of them far back down the highway. They showed no sign of slowing, or giving up, and at that moment Jesse understood that no matter how far he ran, he’d never escape those burning eyes, that they would be chasing him through his nightmares for the rest of his life.
JESSE WAS DOING near eighty, oblivious to the cold wind and wet snow drizzling into the cabin through the hole in his windshield. The old V8 roared and whined, threatening to blow a rod. Jesse’s heart still raced. He was ten miles out of town, heading south, would be coming up on the state line soon, and that suited him fine. He didn’t plan on slowing down until he was in Kentucky, or maybe Mexico.
