by J. M. Hayes
A few minutes after midnight, on an otherwise peaceful evening, a pickup truck and camper had exploded in a field near a stream on the west side of the Irons farm. The chief of the Benteen County Volunteer Fire Company said the truck was carrying a large quantity of gasoline. The occupants had paused for a visit at the Irons’ property because the driver was Ezekiel Hornbaker, estranged husband of Becky Hornbaker, who lived there with her brother and her son. Cause of the fire was uncertain, but an unusual winter storm had produced both snow and lightning. It was thought an unfortunate bolt had hit the truck and ignited its contents. That seemed unlikely to Doc, and from the tone of the piece, it had seemed unlikely to Silverstein. His article concluded with ill-defined concerns for the Cheyenne girl and her companions. All of them were safely gone though, or so said Tommie Irons. Their truck had broken down and they’d borrowed his car. They’d left days ago.
Doc had his doubts. A pregnant Cheyenne girl staying on the Irons farm, then she’s gone and the truck she was traveling in has exploded. Doc had an uncomfortable feeling he knew where Mad Dog’s skull originated.
An earlier picture of the truck accompanied the article. Silverstein probably hadn’t wanted to run it before because it showed the girl and two of her companions. They were headed for enough trouble without identifying the radicals among them to the locals.
The girl was dark and pretty, but she wasn’t what caught Doc’s eye. She was standing with a man and a woman. The woman faced away from the camera. The man was looking into the lens with the eyes of a startled bunny just realizing that shadow wasn’t a cloud, it was an eagle’s wings. The caption named him. Ezekiel Hornbaker.
It wasn’t the Zeke Hornbaker Doc knew. This man had a deviated septum, a nose broken badly enough to be noticeable in the photograph. Doc had seen it before, on the battered ID card Mad Dog had found in a collection of bones.
***
Judy reached over and tugged on the chairman’s arm.
“The house, it’s right here,” she shouted, though he probably couldn’t hear her. She pointed and he nodded and they both waded through the snow in that direction.
She had no idea where Englishman had gone. It scared her. Everything about this insane day scared her, but Englishman’s disappearance most of all. She was frantic about the Heathers. And then there was the senseless violence at Mad Dog’s farm. Through it all, Englishman had been her rock. It would all work out because Englishman would see that it did, especially if she made his life sufficiently miserable until he set everything right again.
She couldn’t imagine Englishman abandoning them on purpose, not even as woozy as he was from the blows to his head. Of course, all he would have had to do was fix his attention on something else for a moment while she and the chairman continued on their way. She remembered the stories her father had told, handed down in their family from generation to generation. Her great-great-grandfather had strung ropes from the house to the barn and other outbuildings to keep from getting lost in a Kansas blizzard. You could go thirty feet from the house and never find it again. She should have tied herself to Englishman somehow. Or noticed he was gone sooner, soon enough to backtrack and pick up his trail before the wind erased it.
It really was the house. She hadn’t been sure. There was some drift snow at the edge of the porch, caught in the shrubbery that lined it. She had no patience to search for a break in the drift or the steps that must be somewhere. She just waded through snow and dormant lilacs, nearly hip deep, until she could reach out and grab the railing and hoist herself up and over. The chairman followed.
There wasn’t much to block the storm up here, but the sheer bulk of the house seemed to hold the wind back a little. At least she could make out the words when the chairman cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed in her direction.
“Don’t see a door. There’s one around front.”
“Too far,” she replied, pointing at the row of windows beside them.
The chairman bent and tried one. “Locked,” he told her.
She stuck a boot through it, then used the padded elbow of her parka to clear the frame of shattered glass. “Who cares,” she told him, and stepped into a room filled with scattered piles of books and magazines. Even with a window open on the storm, it was shockingly quiet in here, and incredibly warm.
The chairman was a lot bigger than Judy. It took him longer to crawl in. By the time he arrived, Judy had completed a sweep of the room. There were four cups on a coffee table in front of a working fireplace. Two of them had contained hot chocolate, two coffee. There was just the faintest trace of lipstick on one of the cups. A shade of exotic silvery red that she’d forbidden her Heathers to buy at least three separate times before they finally wore her down. They had been in this room. She recognized the scents of their perfumes, even over the smell of wood smoke that still issued from a blazing fire. They weren’t lost out in that blizzard. They were here. Or had been.
“Heathers!” It came out half shout, half shriek, and brought no response.
“I sort of wish you hadn’t done that,” the chairman told her. “Not that you hadn’t pretty well announced our arrival anyway.”
“They’ve been here,” Judy told him, gesturing at the circle of cups. “I recognize the lipstick.”
He bent and picked up something off the carpet that Judy hadn’t noticed. “And this is Junior’s coat.”
“You’re sure?”
“Ought to be. I gave it to him for Christmas. Imported from Europe off the Internet. Not likely to be another of these in Benteen County.”
“They must be here. We’ve got to search the house.” Judy pointed toward the kitchen. “I’ll go this way, you go the other.”
He looked like he wanted to argue with her, but Judy was following her pistol through the swinging door before he could voice an objection. He didn’t trail after her. Apparently he was taking her suggestion, and an alternate route, through the house.
The kitchen showed signs of recent use. A coffee percolator still issued a delicious aroma, though it no longer had electricity to keep it hot. A sauce pan filled with the dregs of milk and chocolate sat nearby. Judy looked out all the doors and windows. Someone could stand a couple of yards away and she wouldn’t have seen them.
A hall led north. An empty bathroom failed to yield missing children, or clues. The door beyond opened on a wood-paneled den she liked even less than the all too masculine kitchen. There were two other doors from it, one west, one south. She decided to start with the first one. It opened on a dark staircase. Something spectral floated down it, straight at her. She got the pistol up, but not in time, and the thing was on her, knocking her to the floor and screeching in her ear as taloned claws sought her eyes.
“Could I come near your beauty with my nails I’d set my ten commandments in your face.”
Judy waited for her life to replay itself. Instead, another figure emerged behind the first, took it firmly by the shoulder, and pulled it away.
“Not to worry, Mrs. English. She likes to quote things. One of Shakespeare’s bloodiest threats this time, but there’s no harm left in her.”
***
Being anywhere near the black tunnel that was a rifle’s muzzle provided a wonderful focus for the mind. Wynn Some felt a wave of relief when he realized the gun wasn’t aimed at him. It was pointed at the mountain of a man who stood almost straight between him and the bare-breasted Valkyrie who was actually a Heather.
The big guy stepped toward her, between Wynn and his view of her breasts, and there was an explosion. A little hole opened in the door beside Wynn’s head, small and neat and round. Wynn tried to make himself small too.
The big guy swung around. He had the gun now, and the half-naked Heather wasn’t there anymore. Wynn thought he saw something flesh-colored on the floor over where she’d been, only then he noticed there was something else down there as well. Another Heather. This one was clothed, her hair fanned out from her head like a halo on the cold co
ncrete. Something else fanned around her head as well—something dark and wet.
The guy with the gun almost stepped on her as he came at Wynn. Wynn considered getting out of his way and finding some place to hide. No time. He also considered teleportation, sort of a beam-me-out-of-here-Scottie alternative. Mad Dog claimed you could will your body or soul to travel anywhere instantaneously. All you had to do was want it badly enough. Wynn qualified, but his soul and body stayed right were they were.
The big man stopped and looked down at him. It was Judah Hornbaker. Wynn recognized him at last. Just a kid—just a giant kid with a mean streak that terrified most of the other boys at BS High.
“I only wanted to look,” Judah told him.
Wynn nodded enthusiastic agreement. Whatever Judah wanted was fine by him. Judah seemed to want to go out the door so Wynn scrambled aside. Judah pushed on the door, then stopped and turned to Wynn again. He pointed at a stain on his coat. The stain was spreading.
“She hurt me,” Judah said. He seemed surprised. He seemed to think Wynn should maybe do something about it, only Wynn was still trying the teleportation thing.
Judah said something else and shoved the door open. The wind spun a cyclone of snowflakes into the room, where the forge converted them to mist. Or maybe they teleported somewhere and Wynn’s aim was just a little off.
Judah let the door slam behind him. Wynn had to sit down on the floor for a moment and appreciate the fact that he was still alive before he made sense of Judah’s parting words. They’d been a threat.
“I’m gonna tell!” he’d said.
***
“Get his feet.”
Becky Hornbaker had already swung the blanket that held Tommie Irons’ remains away from the wall and had a firm grip on it somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulders. Levi didn’t want to touch it anywhere, but you didn’t deny the old woman what she’d set her mind on. The feet were frozen solid and Simon had a tough time keeping hold of them. His right hand was all chewed up from that wolf. He’d shot it, and he’d managed to get away, but without his AK 47. Becky was more upset about that than what had happened to his hand.
He lost his grip on Tommie before they even got to the door to the shed. Tommie’s feet landed at an angle and one of Tommie’s toes chipped off. Levi just stood there and gaped, wondering whether to pick it up and try to fit it back on or just ignore the missing digit.
“Levi, you damn fool, grab the blanket instead of his feet and you won’t be dropping him.”
Levi obeyed and they began shuffling toward the door again.
“Where we taking him?”
“The garden shed,” she said, using her butt to lever open the door. She said more after that, only he couldn’t hear her over the wind.
The garden shed was between the garage and the house, a small addition that wasn’t big enough to hold much other than yard tools.
On a normal day, Levi could have stepped out of this building, picked up a rock, and flung it over the top of the garden shed without any special effort. Today, he couldn’t see the garden shed, let alone the ground at his feet where there might be suitable rocks. Of course, there was that toe he’d stuck in his pocket, for want of something else to do with it. The thought made him cringe, like somebody had run a fingernail across a blackboard. If anybody else had been on the other end of the macabre package, Levi would have tossed it aside, rid himself of the digit in his pocket, and run off to hide.
In a few steps Levi lost all sense of direction, but Becky didn’t seem to have any doubts. She stopped suddenly and Levi almost lost his hold on Tommie’s feet again. While he puzzled over why she’d stopped, she opened the door to the garden shed and led the way inside. Levi hadn’t seen it.
“Let’s put him over here on the bench.”
The bench was nearly clear and Becky swept out an arm and knocked the handful of tools that rested there onto the concrete floor. She set Tommie’s head on the side nearest the garage and Levi tried to swing his feet up on the other end. It didn’t work. Tommie was taller than the shed was wide.
“Won’t fit,” he complained.
“Don’t matter,” she said. “We’ll fix it so he does.”
Levi couldn’t imagine how until he heard her take the first pull on the starter cord. After that, it didn’t matter who she was anymore. He hit the door hell bent for anywhere else. He never heard the chain saw’s engine catch or what its metal teeth did to Tommie, except in his imagination.
***
Smith led the way. Wesson came next. The sheriff followed. He had half a dozen wad cutters in the cylinder. He was confused about why. He thought they’d been on sale and he remembered hoping he’d never need them. If he did, he wanted close-up stopping power, not range, so wad cutters were perfect. Only where would he have gotten them on sale in Vietnam? And what had become of his Colt M16?
He kept low, ready to dive off the jungle trail—only there didn’t seem to be any jungle, or trail for that matter. Watch out for ambush, he told himself, and booby traps.
And then one of the little Viet Cong was right there in front of him. Squeeze, don’t jerk. He’d forgotten to cock the pistol and the double action was ponderously slow. The little man in the black pajamas dropped his rifle and raised his hands in surrender. He wasn’t wearing pajamas either. He had on a parka, and he was big. Lots bigger than the sheriff, who felt himself go dizzy for a moment.
“Judah?” he said. “Judah Hornbaker?”
Judah didn’t answer. Judah probably couldn’t hear him for the wind. He had the pistol cocked, now, in case this was a trap. He moved closer. Where was he? What was Judah doing in Vietnam? And there was something about a dead baby.
“Where are they?” He shouted it in Judah’s face.
“They’re here. I was supposed to keep an eye on them.”
The sheriff had meant the VC, only this really was Judah and it wasn’t Vietnam. Why did Judah have a bullet wound in his shoulder? The world spun again, or maybe it was just snow spinning in the wind.
“Tell me,” the sheriff yelled, “every damn thing you know. Anything happens to my babies ’cause you left something out, worse’ll happen to you.”
Judah turned just short of chatty, informing the sheriff about how he and Becky had found the kids hiking to Mad Dog’s, then brought them home. How Becky had made sure they couldn’t get in touch with anyone before she left to search for Mary and Mad Dog and Tommie’s ring. How the girls had discovered a secret in the hall upstairs and then Simon decided to shoo them back into the storm in order to let them freeze.
The sheriff had trouble understanding. His brain felt as iced up as this altered Kansas landscape.
For some reason he latched onto the thing about Mary and Mad Dog and the ring. “What’s with the ring? Why’s everybody want it so bad?”
Judah plainly didn’t know. “Maybe it’s got something to do with bringing Jesus back. That’s what Mary was supposed to do, only her baby died. Wasn’t the first time it didn’t work, only this time Becky seemed so sure.”
“Who killed…” The sheriff had been going to ask about the bones Mad Dog found near the pond. Judah’s guilt was elsewhere.
“Wasn’t me done Mad Dog’s animals. That was Becky. When she gets like that, ain’t nothing you can do.”
“How many of you here?” the sheriff asked.
“Simon’s in town looking for your brother. I don’t know about Becky. That leaves just me and Levi.”
The slush in his mind was melting a little. And the ache in his head was coming back with a vengeance. He needed to know all this stuff, but first he needed to find his girls. And his deputy.
“Where are my daughters?”
Judah looked panicky. “I don’t know.” The sheriff instantly knew he was lying. Judah pointed off to the side. “Over there,” he said.
The sheriff looked and couldn’t see a thing. Judah turned and ran. The sheriff was about to follow when, improbably, like Peter Pan or maybe Superman
, Judah began to fly.
***
“Doctor Jones. I don’t understand. What’s this?”
Doc looked up from The Times of Buffalo Springs. Mary was holding an envelope, something she’d discovered inside a book entitled The French Chef which must have been among the children’s books he’d found to keep her occupied.
“Does this have something to do with Mr. Tommie?”
Doc crossed the room to the dusty old sofa on which he’d left her. She handed him the envelope. It was sealed, but there was a symbol on the outside, one of those mirror-image swastikas like the one on the dead baby. He eased down on the cushion beside her.
“Why would you think it has something to do with Mr. Tommie?” He tried to go easy but he badly wanted an answer.
“This.” She pointed at the swastika. “It’s like Mr. Tommie’s magic ring.”
Doc waited, hardly breathing, letting her tell it without prompting.
“Mr. Tommie was nice to me. He showed me his ring. There was a secret place you pressed and it popped open with a thing shaped like this.”
“Is that why you drew it on the baby?” Doc asked.
“Well,” she hesitated and Doc thought he might have pushed too far. “He said it was supposed to be lucky. And it was secret. I couldn’t tell anybody. I thought maybe it would make the baby well again. And, if only Mr. Tommie and I knew about it, that mark would help me find him when he got better. Was I bad? Shouldn’t I have done that?”
“No. What you did was fine, Mary. I’m afraid the ring didn’t have magic powerful enough to bring your baby back, but there was nothing wrong with trying. Do you have the ring?”
“No. I left it for Mr. Mad Dog and Hailey.”
“Why did Tommie have the magic ring, did he tell you?” He opened the clasp and ran a finger under the envelope’s flap.
“For safe keeping. What does that mean?”
There were newspaper clippings in the envelope. Maybe a dozen of them. The first was from a small-town Oklahoma paper. It was yellow and brittle with age. Someone had written the newspaper’s name and the date, May 1957, across the top in a neat hand. The headline just below was a grabber. ABEL HORNBAKER MURDERED, it declared. NAZI TREASURE STOLEN!
