by Sean Lynch
He reached the porch, where the smell was almost unbearable. Looking around, Kearns found the source of the putrid odor. Dumped along the side of the house, wrapped in plastic, was a large lump of meat. It had once been covered in plastic, but the dog had obviously found the pungent package and elected to feast. Remnants of the meat were what the pit bull had taken back to its lair.
Farrell turned away and backed off the porch. The smell was overpowering, and he needed a moment to catch his breath again. He walked along the opposite side of the house to see if there was another entrance besides the front door.
What he found there startled him. A large object sat under a white tarpaulin, which was constructed of several white sheets tied together. He noticed immediately that the large object had no snow on top of it, unlike every other object outside in the yard. Farrell lifted one corner of the tarp.
What he found made his blood colder than any Iowa winter. Under the sheets was a car; a burgundy-colored Ford Bronco. It wore Colorado license plates and was covered with a layer of road grit that matched the grime on Farrell’s Oldsmobile in depth. He had been right: Vernon Slocum had come home.
He dropped the sheet, biting his lip. Vernon must have obtained the car in Colorado, and beaten him here by at least a day. Slocum could have easily arrived between the sheriff’s patrols, which would only pass by every few hours at best. He’d then cleverly covered the car in white sheets, knowing from the road the sheriff’s deputies would think the car was one of the many snow-covered clunkers dotting the yard.
Farrell’s heart pounded. He ducked behind the car, out of view of the windows on the farmhouse. Vernon and his father would be sleeping inside, if inside at all, and must not have spotted him. He had no doubt that if Vernon or his father had seen him arrive they would have already killed him.
He took a moment to think. It wouldn’t take long for the sheriff’s patrol to spot his car, and even less time for them to put two and two together and surmise he was in the area of Slocum’s farm. There weren’t many places to hide the Oldsmobile, and fewer places for the driver to go on foot. And he’d left footprints in the snow leading from the Oldsmobile directly to Slocum’s farm. If Farrell hesitated, his chance to nail his quarry would vanish.
Farrell was done hesitating.
He made up his mind. He’d stalked Slocum this far, and would see the hunt to its conclusion. It was ironic the trail ended where it began, decades ago, in the place that spawned a monster.
Farrell pocketed his revolver, extracted his flask, and took a long swig of bourbon with hands that might have been trembling from only the cold. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and replaced the flask. Farrell crept again to the porch, a revolver now in each hand. He would go in and find Vernon Slocum, hopefully asleep.
Then he’d kill him.
He crossed the porch. He put his ear up to the cold wood of the door and heard nothing but the beating of his own heart and the roaring of blood in his head. Placing his shoulder tightly against the panel, he pushed.
The wooden door, brittle with age and the Iowa cold, creaked mightily and gave inward. Farrell stepped inside, closed the door, and put his back against it.
Darkness enveloped him, and he waited forever while his eyes adjusted from the relative brightness of the outside. Both his six-guns were in front of him. He listened with all his concentration for sound within the farmhouse.
There was no sound. Instead, his nose was bombarded with a smell so foul as to make the odor he’d experienced outside inconsequential in comparison. It was the aroma of blood, infection, and feces. It was overpowering, and threatened to make the retired cop vomit. He shook his head and stared into the room.
Gradually his eyes adjusted to the dim light. He recognized the same interior he’d visited once before. Indistinct shapes became furniture, and shadows faded into clarity. He felt a presence in the room. He sensed someone very near. He gripped his revolvers tightly, fingers on the triggers.
“Daddy, is that you?”
The eerie sound of the voice chilled Farrell to the bone. It was close; coming from the center of the room. He moved towards it, ready to shoot.
“Daddy, is that you? Please let me go to the bathroom, Daddy. I can’t hold it any more. Daddy?”
The voice, meek and child-like, was coming from a couch with someone lying on it. Farrell got closer, and made out the silhouette of a person lying face up. He was only a few steps away, and trained the barrels of both revolvers directly at the middle of the body on the sofa.
“Daddy, is that you?”
Farrell’s eyes came to rest on the form of Vernon Slocum. The sight shocked him.
Vernon’s eyes were glassy, distant, and unfocused. His face was a ghostly-white, and covered in sweat. His mouth was a toothless slit of shredded flesh, the lips cracked and swollen. But it was the rest of him that Farrell found the most disconcerting.
Vernon lay on the couch, swaddled in filthy, blood-soaked blankets. His chest was a maze of makeshift bandages, and Farrell guessed at least one of the bullets he’d sent Slocum’s way back in California had found its mark. What lay below Vernon’s waist made Farrell’s stomach again lurch and his eyes widen.
Slocum’s left leg was gone. In its place was a blackened, infectious stump, ending above the knee. The couch below what was left of the leg was caked in pus-crusted ooze, mixed with dried blood. It was from there the suffocating odor of decay emanated.
Farrell’s head swam, and his stomach threatened to spew. He fought back waves of nausea and tried not to think about what the dog was feeding on outside in the snow.
Vernon had come home badly wounded, his damaged leg thick with gangrene. His father had done what was necessary to prevent his son’s death. The wrapped meat Farrell found carelessly dumped in the yard outside the house was undoubtedly Vernon Slocum’s amputated leg.
Nightmare visions of the home surgery danced in Farrell’s mind. He struggled against the need to purge, and kept his revolvers pointed at Vernon Slocum.
“Daddy, please,” Slocum mumbled. His eyes stared at Farrell without recognition. “Please don’t let it hurt anymore. It hurts real bad. Please make it go away.”
Farrell’s breath came in rasps. Vernon’s body burned with fever and the trauma of his amputation. He was delirious, and babbled in the voice of a small child.
“Please, Daddy. I have to go to the bathroom. Please.”
Farrell lowered the revolvers, his arms at his side. He felt sick, and weak, and all determination to kill Slocum vanished. His only emotion was pity for the barely human creature before him.
He hardly recognized the thing which lay in writhing agony on the sofa. This was not the Vernon Slocum he’d relentlessly pursued. This wasn’t the killer he’d hunted since Vietnam. The Vernon Slocum he stalked had killed, and maimed, and tortured his fellow human beings with a brutality beyond description. Now, as he finally faced his quarry, Farrell felt nothing but drained. The terrible life Elizabeth, and Cole, and even Wade escaped, had kept Vernon in its grip. It had reduced him to the inhuman wretch decaying on the blood-soaked couch.
Vernon was dying, of that Farrell was certain. Even the invincible former Marine had reached his end, and death hung over him in the squalid farmhouse like a vulture. There was no longer any need to slay the dragon. Farrell stood over the dying monster in silence, his head hanging. He needed a drink.
Suddenly, from the dark recesses of the farmhouse, came movement and sound. They came from behind Farrell, and he wheeled around, fear electrifying his body.
“You leave my boy alone!”
Farrell turned in time to see Emil Slocum descending upon him. He pivoted fast, off-balance, desperately trying to bring his revolvers to bear on the lunging madman.
Emil Slocum was almost on him, a hatchet raised above his head. Farrell’s eyes focused first on the weapon, then on Slocum himself. The old man was wearing a faded bathrobe, and his good leg was bare. His prosthetic leg dragged behind him as h
e pounced on the horrified former cop.
It it hadn’t been for the artificial leg, Farrell would have been killed instantly, his head cleaved by the hatchet. In the split second it took to recognize the threat and react, the hatchet was halfway to his skull.
He threw himself backwards and instinctively raised his left arm to ward off the blow. He saw the maniacal expression on the old man’s face and the glaze of his blind eye. He also saw the glistening blade of the axe.
Farrell’s left forearm intercepted Emil Slocum’s right wrist, where his hand held the axe. The force of the old man’s plummeting arm sent the blade down Farrell’s arm and deep into his left shoulder. The revolver in his left hand fell from his grasp and onto the floor.
An explosion of pain ripped into Farrell’s shoulder, and he stuck the barrel of the remaining Smith & Wesson against Emil Slocum’s chest. He pulled the trigger as fast as he could. The force of the elder Slocum’s lunge sent them both to the ground, the gunshots deafening in the close quarters of the room.
Farrell landed hard, with the greater weight of Slocum on top of him. The impact sent agony through his body to rival the anguish in his left shoulder, tearing his breath away. His right hand pulled the trigger convulsively, though the hammer of the revolver clicked on expended casings.
With great effort Farrell pushed the old man off and crawled out from under his weight. All six of the bullets tore cleanly through the elder Slocum’s chest, leaving gaping exit wounds. Emil Jensen Slocum was dead. His good eye stared vacantly at nothing.
Farrell rose shakily to his feet, gasping for air. He dropped the empty revolver and reached over to find his left arm soaked in blood. He could still raise his arm and make a fist, but this caused darts of anguish in his shoulder. The wound was bleeding profusely, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he passed out from shock and loss of blood.
His ribs were still on fire, and he worried one of them might have broken inward and perforated his lung. But a moment later most of his breath returned, and he was able to stand fully erect, despite the wobbliness of his legs. Farrell withdrew the flask from his pocket, flipped open the cap expertly with the thumb on his good arm, and took a very long pull. Though still in agony, he felt marginally better when the flask was drained. He dropped the empty flask and used his right arm to put pressure on the wound to his left shoulder.
He sensed he was being watched. He looked up, and found Vernon propped up on his elbows, staring at him. His face was caked in oily sweat, but his eyes no longer had the delirious tint to them. They were focused and alert, and staring directly at him. He realized too late that in Vernon’s right hand was the gray metal of a .45 pistol.
Farrell’s right hand went from his bloody shoulder to his waistband, to his .38 revolver, with all the speed he could muster. His eyes remained locked with Vernon’s, as Vernon brought his own gun up and leveled it.
Both men fired; Farrell from the hip. He continued to squeeze the trigger, even as he felt the .45 slug slam into his chest. The distance between the two men was less than ten feet. Farrell tumbled backwards and down as his revolver clicked empty, all five rounds expended.
The room spun around him, and his chest seemed ready to burst. Searing pain consumed his entire being. His limbs were numb, and he fought to remain conscious as he faded in and out of blackness.
Slocum had discharged one round which found its target. Of his return fire, Farrell didn’t know if he’d succeeded in hitting Slocum. He only knew he was flat on his back, shot, and unable to move. He guessed he’d hit Slocum, since his opponent only fired once.
Farrell rolled his head from side to side. His vision cleared a little, and he felt less like he was going to black out. He knew he’d taken a torso hit, and without medical help would expire where he lay. For some reason this didn’t bother him as much as it should have, and he assumed the apathy was a side-effect of the shock.
He was unsure how much time passed when he heard the thud. It was a dull, muffled sound, as if something heavy was dropped, and he felt the vibration from the impact through the floor. That sound was followed by a scraping sound, which he could also feel through the floor. He struggled to sit up and determine the origin of the noise.
It took him several attempts to prop himself up on his elbows. The effort caused the sensation of near-blackout to return. He looked down and saw the right side of his chest covered in blood. He raised his head and looked around the room.
What he saw jolted him instantly to awareness. Vernon Slocum had rolled himself from the couch to the floor; this had produced the thudding sound Farrell had heard. The huge man was crawling towards the retired cop on his stomach, leaving a trail of milky, infected blood behind his stump of a leg. What Farrell could see of his chest and back was covered in fresh blood, and he realized at least some of his bullets found their mark. The scraping sound was the noise he made as he dragged himself towards the supine ex-cop.
Farrell fought to sit up. In Vernon’s right hand was a Ka-Bar knife. His eyes were bright with bloodlust, and he was edging closer with every pull of his arms. He was only a few feet away.
Farrell convulsed in paralyzing agony each time he tried to get up. He felt the void of unconsciousness draw closer, and knew death was certain if he didn’t move. He pushed with all his might, his eyes unable to break the spell of Slocum’s hypnotic stare.
He heaved mightily and sat further upright, shaking his head to clear the dizziness this effort produced. When he returned his gaze to Slocum, not only was the big man nearer, but Farrell could see him smiling through the torn lips surrounding his mouth.
Farrell knew it was over. If Vernon had the strength to crawl across the floor after all he’d suffered, he’d make quick work of Farrell, who was finding it nearly impossible to move at all. Though death was also around the corner for Slocum, he retained more of his faculties than Farrell and would easily overpower him. It was almost humorous; in Farrell’s condition, Slocum wouldn’t even need the knife.
Farrell’s mind scrambled for a way out. It was clear he would never get to his feet, or even move, before Slocum reached him. He remembered the revolver he’d dropped when the old man attacked, but saw it across the room, even farther than Vernon. It might as well have been in California for his chances of reaching it. He tried again to push himself up, to no avail.
This effort almost made Farrell fall back to his original position, flat on his back. He stretched his arms out to prevent this, and to brace himself. Slocum was at his feet. He resigned himself to his death, hoping it would be quick. He took little consolation in knowing his murderer would soon follow.
The outstretched hand of Vernon Slocum touched his right foot. The dizziness returned, and Farrell welcomed it, hoping the merciful blackness would spare him the defeat he was about to endure. He spread his arms out a little wider, lowering himself to the floor, letting the darkness overtake him. The last thing he saw, as he closed his eyes, was the knife in Slocum’s hand and the demonic smile on his lips.
Suddenly his right hand felt something; an object. He explored it with his fingers.
An axe.
It was the weapon Emil Slocum nearly halved his head with. Farrell’s brain jolted to alertness. His fingers locked around the handle of the axe like a drowning man’s hand on a lifeline. He stared at Slocum’s face and felt an iron grip circle his right ankle.
Slocum had reached him. He needed only to pull on Farrell’s right ankle once to close the distance between the blade of his knife and his chest.
Farrell stared directly into Slocum’s face and realized Slocum’s journey from the couch was not without its toll. The veins stood out like snakes on his neck and the strain on his face belied the murderous rage in his eyes. Slocum pulled himself closer and raised the knife. Something like recognition passed across his features.
“Told you I’d see you around someday, Sergeant,” Slocum said. His voice was a gravelly hiss.
“Hey Vernon,” Farrell said, h
is own voice a trembling whisper.
Slocum’s eyes widened at the sound of his name, and he hesitated for an instant.
“Merry Christmas, you fucker,” said Farrell. He buried the hatchet in the left side of Vernon Slocum’s head.
CHAPTER 47
Ames, Iowa. January, 1988.
Bob Farrell sat in a wheelchair in his room in the Mary Greeley Hospital and from his window watched a group of small children build a snowman across the street. The children worked intently to bring shape to a sculpture familiar to winter everywhere.
It had been more than two weeks since the deputies found him, more dead than alive, in the home of Emil Slocum. As he’d suspected, a roving sheriff’s patrol spotted the Oldsmobile with its California plates. It didn’t take long for the sheriff’s department to arrive at the Slocum farm in force.
Farrell was rushed to the emergency room of the county hospital in Nevada by life-flight helicopter, and from there to Ames for surgery. The .45 slug he’d absorbed penetrated his lung and exited cleanly. The wound in his left shoulder was more life-threatening. The laceration was quite deep, and had the deputies arrived any later he wouldn’t be among the living. Farrell was told by the surgeon that if not for his high blood alcohol level and the extreme cold slowing his metabolism, he would have bled out before the paramedics reached him.
After successful operations dealing with both injuries, Farrell made a steady recovery. He was allowed no visitors other than the Story County Sheriff’s deputies and FBI agents who guarded his hospital room. Apparently they were taking no more chances with him.
That was about to change.
The door to Farrell’s room opened, and four men walked in past the guards. He only recognized two of them; Detective Rod Parish, from the Story County Sheriff’s Department, and uniformed Sergeant Dick Evers.
Of the other two, one was obviously a Bureau man. Farrell thought the other newcomer looked like an attorney.
“Good morning, Inspector Farrell,” said the Fed. “My name is Arthur Hoersten. I’m the Special Agent in Charge of the Chicago Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He said it like he expected genuflection. Nodding to the other men, Hoersten said, “This is Mister Keller, with the US Attorney’s Office.” Keller apparently forgot the decade had changed eight years ago, and sported an ear-covering Seventies hairstyle.
