He pulled a half-empty bottle of tequila from his coat, unscrewed the cap and drank a mouthful, welcoming the familiar sensation as the liquor burned a fiery path to his gut. Then he spat in the puddle, and the rippling water broke his reflection apart.
The package he carried felt as if it weighed a ton. He wanted to be rid of it. He could hardly believe he was carrying it, or what he had done to acquire its miserable contents. But there he was, carrying that bloodstained pouch.
He took a few more steps, and found himself standing in front of the path, took another swig and checked his watch, tightened the cap on the bottle and returned it to his coat. Eleven-thirty, he thought, and then pulled out a flashlight.
Pitch flipped on the light and entered the woods.
He could have taken the old dirt road that wound its way up Ward Rock Mountain, but he wanted to follow the same trail he had taken the last time—the first time. He climbed the path, thinking about that night, thirteen years ago, and remembered the man he had once been running up the trail, knowing if the posse caught him they would hang him on the spot. He would never forget how hopeless he’d felt as they closed in on him, the despair upon hearing them call out his name.
He leaned forward, steadying himself by grabbing a bush, and then climbed onward and upward. The last time he had scrambled haphazardly up the trail, the vines and briars had nearly torn him apart. The going wasn’t quite so hard this time, and he continued with ease, barely breaking a sweat.
Pitch followed the path, aiming the flashlight at the trail ahead of him. When a dense growth of underbrush blocked his way, he stopped and reached out, gasping as the bushes parted before he could manage to lay a hand on them. He walked through the opening and stepped onto a narrow dirt road, turned and the foliage closed ranks, as if guarding him.
Just like the last time, he looked down the road at the old farmhouse, and just like that fateful night all those years ago, heard a guitar and a fiddle, Gospel music floating on the gentle breeze.
He turned and looked up the road, and thought about running back down the mountain. But he didn’t dare. God only knew what might happen if he didn’t keep going. Pitch pointed the flashlight at his watch. It was eleven-fifty. He forced himself to move ahead, up the dirt road until it narrowed into a rock-studded three-foot path.
He walked a little further, paused and leaned against a tree.
Off to his left, no more than fifteen yards away, was the solid stone wall. Goose bumps marched up his spine as he held the beam of light over his watch, and the light winked out, leaving him in total darkness. He flicked the switch a few times, slapped the flashlight against his palm, and then stood quietly in the darkness.
Someone sighed, and then laughed. The laugh became a low growl that emanated from the darkness. Ten yards away, a tiny pinprick of light appeared, and then another, and another, swirling and spinning, round and around, multiplying as they gathered speed. Someone, or some thing, moaned. Pitch turned around. He wanted to flee, to run back down the mountain, but it was so dark he couldn’t see the ground in front of him.
And deep down inside, he knew it was much too late for that.
He turned back around just in time to see the revolving dots collide, forming a bright ball of brilliant white light, pulsating and expanding as it illuminated the clearing. Inside the light a dark mist appeared, and a human shape began to take form. It was there, then it was gone, and as soon as it was gone it returned, appearing and disappearing like a flickering candle’s light, each successive appearance bringing the image more into focus, until Pitch saw what he had known he would see: a dark-haired man, with eyes that were cold, and very blue.
Scratch, Lord of the mountain.
He stood in the middle of the clearing, wearing an expensive suit of clothes, holding a top hat in his hand as if he were standing not in the middle of the wilderness, but in a grand ballroom.
“Ah, Pitch,” the man taunted, his words the deep-throated groans of Pitch’s nightmares. “You’ve returned.” He placed the hat on his head and spread his arms before him, upturned palms flat, thumbs pointing outward. “Come close.”
Pitch stood frozen in place, too frightened to move.
“Come,” he commanded, motioning Pitch forward with a wave of his hand, and Pitch’s legs went numb. His body lifted off the ground, and to his absolute horror, he floated forward.
“So afraid.” Scratch chuckled, smiling as Pitch hovered in front of him. “You don’t really want to see what happens if you fail to complete your journey, do you?” He reached out and touched Pitch’s coat pocket. “Yesssss!” he said, the word the hiss of a snake.
Both hands dropped to his sides, and Pitch’s feet touched the rocky ground.
Scratch picked up an old broken tree branch and waved his hand over it, laughing as its end burst into flames.
Pitch didn’t want to follow, but he had no choice, as he thought back to the last thing Scratch had told him thirteen years ago: “If you don’t return by midnight and fulfill your promise, for every minute that ticks away, so will a year of your life.”
Pitch followed him to the solid rock wall, dreading what might come next.
Scratch pointed a well-manicured finger, and the wall dissolved, melting away until the mouth of a cave was revealed.
And there it is, Pitch thought, as the memories flooded over him: skulls and rotted flesh; Jonathan Smith, the man he had once been, cowering in a corner, groveling on hands and knees; Scratch transforming; Aincil Martin, a hangman’s rope slung over his shoulder, not recognizing Pitch as he ran past him, leading his men into the cave, horrified shrieks as the rocky mouth slammed shut, sealing their fate for all eternity.
Scratch stepped into the cave, grinning. He snapped the branch in half and threw it in the middle of the floor. One piece ignited the other and both burst into flames, casting an eerie glow throughout the gloomy abode. He pointed to the far end of the cave, waving an arm at a group of skulls sitting atop a mound of bleached-white bones.
“Remember them? he said. “Remember him?”
Pitch’s heart fluttered as he stared across the cave at Jonathan Smith, still cowering in his corner, sobbing and muttering to himself. How strange it felt to see the man he once had been crying out in anguish, begging God to save him.
Scratch waved his arms about, laughing gleefully, each movement seeming to inflict some sort of pain on Smith, who rammed his head against the wall, blood exploding from his shattered nose as Scratch’s insane laugh rang through the night, and Smith gnashed his teeth, hands clawing his face as he tore at his eyes, begging and pleading for the pain and torment to stop.
And Pitch knew the pain would never stop, that for all eternity he would find himself returning to this hellhole.
Scratch spun around, grinning. “This is you should you ever fail to live up to your end of the bargain.”
Once again, he spread his arms before him, palms up, thumbs pointed outward.
Wriggling and flexing his fingers, he stared at Pitch, mouthing words that had no sound. “Give it to me!” he finally shouted, his deep-throated growl shaking the rocky walls as Pitch pulled the blood-drenched sack from his coat pocket and held it before him, hands trembling while some indecipherable incantation echoed throughout the cave.
Something moved inside the velvet pouch, and Pitch dropped it. But it didn’t fall.
It hung, suspended in midair, and then floated slowly across the cave toward the hideously long, outstretched fingers of the demonic figure, finally coming to rest in the palm of his hand.
Scratch opened the velvet sack, and carefully removed a small, gray, withered heart, moaning as his hand closed around it. When he opened his hand, the child’s heart became animated, beating as if it was still thriving inside a living chest, pulsating and writhing in the laughing demon’s palm.
Pitch watched the beating organ. It couldn’t be, of course. It wasn’t possible.
But he had learned long ago, that nothing in this life was impossi
ble.
The slender, elegantly dressed demon of a man placed the heart in his mouth, blood spraying as he bit down and chewed, chewed and swallowed. He plucked another from the pouch, held it to his mouth and tore into it, biting and chewing and clamping it between his teeth, ripping it in half and tossing the remainder down his throat.
Scratch shook the sack, and the last remaining heart tumbled into his palm, pulsating as it bounced up and down in his hand, the bloody organ quivering as he brought it closer to his mouth. He leaned back his head, grabbed the tiny little heart and tore it in half; blood spurting onto his face, into his open mouth while gore dripped from his chin and his slender arms bulged, his chest swelled and his muscles rippled, and grew to enormous proportions, tearing his elegant clothes to shreds; his face transforming into a hideous, demonic mask, eyes wide and wild, lips curled back exposing a dangerous looking maw of long and pointed, razor-sharp teeth.
Bloodshot eyes bulging, he reared back his head and howled.
Pitch heard the demon howl, and the man Pitch had once been sobbing uncontrollably. Above all of that, he heard children screaming and crying, pleading for help, and Pitch’s psyche cracked, his sanity leaking out like steam rushing from a teapot as the demon took a step forward, and Pitch staggered back. He looked over his shoulder at the mouth of the cave, which had once again sealed itself shut, and then turned away from the advancing monstrosity and stumbled to the wall, scratching and clawing and begging to be set free.
A clawed hand touched his shoulder, turning him, the laughing demon pressing his body close, as hot, slimy saliva dripped from his snarling mouth, onto Pitch’s face. Then, stepping back and holding the empty pouch before him, Scratch waved his beastly hand over it, and a velvet sack full of glimmering jewels suddenly appeared before him. He reached out, shoving the jewels into Pitch’s hand, and one more time, he spread his arms before him, and the cave opened up one last time.
“Go,” he said, and Pitch, clutching the pouch in his shaking hand, ran through the mouth of the cave, into the clearing and onto the path, where he scrambled down the mountainside as fast he could, and then mounted his horse and galloped off into the night.
Chapter Eighteen
So far it had been a party. No more, no less.
Teddy Levay arrived to find Doc Fletcher, Judge Croft and the rest of the group laughing and joking with their host. There was mine owner, Sid Haines, and his barrel-chested foreman, Jack Colbert—who lived like a king in his big house on the east end of town. Arleta Briscomb stood next to her retarded sixteen-year-old son, Caleb. Ever since her husband’s sudden and unexpected death, the two hillbillies had lived alone deep in the backwoods of Butcher’s Holler. Teddy thought there was more than sleeping going on under that roof at night. Harold and Amos Abbot, identical bowlegged twins who had the area’s only lumber mill, sat across from Frannie Mitchell, the proprietor of the Dime Store, and Evie Miller, who managed a couple of apartment houses over on Dingess Street. Both drunken coal camp whores’ status had been greatly elevated when Levay and Judge Croft started the group thirteen years ago. Now they were a permanent fixture of high society, if there was such a thing in this sleepy little mountain community. Every man in the room had fucked them at least once.
They sat at a long table, eating and drinking and laughing and joking. Amidst the clatter of silverware on china, and glasses sliding on the polished oak table, Pitch finally called out, “How’s that meat? Everybody full, fat, and happy?”
“Good, real damn good,” Evie mumbled, roast beef juice running down her chin, laughing and snorting like a hog as she wiped it off with her forearm.
They moved the party down the hall, where Teddy found himself staring across the room at a canvas painting that hung behind Pitch’s desk. It was The Blue Nude (Souvenir of Biskra) by Henri Matisse, but Levay had no way of knowing this. The country bumpkin, who had rarely ventured out of his home state, had never walked the halls of a great museum, nor had he stood inside an art gallery. He couldn’t admire the classical brush strokes or the striking use of color. He did not see the symbolic references of the environment of Biskra, the palm trees, the lush green grass and flowers. Levay saw a bizarre looking woman with huge tits, and wondered why in the hell someone would pay good money to own such a thing.
“Goddamnit,” he thought, as he touched that ever present lump on the side of his neck. He tore his eyes away from the painting and took a sip of bourbon and water, and then glanced at the master of ceremonies standing behind Robert and Stan Clark. The inbred brothers’ thriving trucking company kept busy hauling goods in and out of the region, and Amos and Harold’s lumber across the country to paper mills and construction companies owned by their benevolent host. Pitch put a hand on Robert’s shoulder, slapped Stan on his back, whispered something into his ear and both men laughed.
Levay wondered what the hell could be so funny, and if they would still be yukking it up by the end of the night. They sure as hell wouldn’t be laughing if they knew what he knew.
But no one besides Doc Fletcher and the judge, Tomlin and Teddy Levay knew the real story behind the kids. The others knew only that Pitch was their benefactor. Something told him that before this night was over, all would know exactly what had happened to those three little boys.
Pitch seemed to have every angle covered. He owned half of Sid Haines’ mines, and his New York based commodities company bought and sold all the coal those mines produced. He held the deed to the Dime Store, the lumber mill and Evie Miller’s apartment houses, and charged each of them a dollar a year for rent. He had Judge Croft and Doc Fletcher by the balls, Jimmy Tomlin shaking in his boots at the mere mention of his name. Levay knew that Pitch owned him, too, right down to his shiny new wingtips. He had every angle covered, except one: the law. And Teddy knew that was a huge burr beneath his saddle. Pitch had always wanted the police under his thumb, but the bible-thumping sheriff and his loyal sidekick had been unapproachable. Levay wondered how Pitch would sink his hooks into Earl Peters.
He was going to do something; Teddy was sure of it.
Sid Haines and his foreman stood by the balcony, and the twins stood at the bar, Amos handing his brother a drink, and then pouring some ice cubes into a glass as he began fixing another. Frannie and Evie sat on the couch, nursing their drinks while Pitch took a seat by the empty fireplace at the far side of the room, drink in hand as he settled back into the antique chair.
“So,” he said. “Now that we have time to talk a little business, let me give you a brief rundown on what’s in store for this quaint little berg. First off, the mines are running strong. Plenty of pay for those toothless miners to spread around town. The lumber mill is doing a bang up job, too. Even with twenty employees, Amos and Harold can barely keep their orders filled.”
The twins clinked their glasses together, smiling as Pitch continued:
“We’ve got a vast supply of timber on the surrounding mountains—all of that land owned by yours truly, I might add. And I’ve been talking to a fellow in New York about putting a Coca Cola bottling plant over here.”
That pronouncement got Teddy’s undivided attention. “That’s great news, Mister Pitch. Great news!”
“And, of course, I’ll let you take full credit for that, Teddy. That should make the voters happy, I should think. More jobs, more people paying taxes, adding more money to the city coffers, providing additional services to your fine constituents.”
“All those people looking for houses and apartments,” Judge Croft added. “Spending their paychecks in town.”
Frannie smiled, apparently thinking of all the new customers flooding the Dime Store’s threshold.
Pitch smiled, too. “Maybe with all those tax dollars you could pave that goddamn gravel road.”
“Hell yes!” Levay said, already picturing himself on a podium announcing the new bottling plant in front of a crowd of cheering townsfolk.
“That’s just the tip of the old iceberg. I’ve been pushing t
he governor to build a hospital right here in Whitley. I’d look for it to happen sometime next year. Growth, ladies and gentlemen. That’s what it’s all about. Times are hard, and believe me, my friends, the worst is yet to come. This country’s going to hell in a hand-basket. But not you—long as you stick with me, we’re going onward and upward.”
Judge Croft stood up and clapped. “Hear hear!” he said, while the others followed suit, cheering and patting each other’s backs.
Pitch smiled and took a drink of whiskey. When the noise subsided, he leaned forward. “Now that we have that out of the way. Is everybody happy? What else can I do for you? Teddy? How’s the town council? Everybody toeing the party line?”
Judge Croft looked at the mayor, rolling his eyes.
“Ah,” Pitch said. “My two favorite Teddies… What? Tell me. I’m here for you.”
“That goddamn preacher’s makin’ trouble,” Croft said, and Levay added, “Son of a bitch preaching against us from the pulpit every Sunday morning. If he’s not talking about the rich man and the camel and the eye of the needle, he’s going on and on about how Jesus threw them merchants outa that goddamn temple.”
“Don’t take no genius to figure out what he’s talkin’ about when he tells folks they ought to follow Christ’s example,” red-faced Judge Croft said.
“No, I guess it doesn’t,” Pitch said, and then rubbed his chin as if deep in thought.
“You should’ve heard him the night we appointed the new sheriff,” Croft said. “Pissing and moaning about how unfair it all was. Getting everybody in the building all worked up, cussing and pointing fingers like we’d done pulled something over on them.”
“Well, you did pull something, didn’t you?” Harold Abbot called out from behind the bar.
“Hey Harold,” Pitch said. “I’ll have another, if you don’t mind.”
“So what?” Croft sneered. “We run this town, not him and his goddamn flock.”
“Not for long, you ask folks ‘round the Holler,” Arleta Briscomb chimed in. “From what I hear, next election preacher-man’s runnin’ for mayor.”
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