Lynch
Page 9
Just then a crooked shadow rose up from behind Drake, and a pair of mismatched arms encircled his barrel chest, lifting him off the ground as if he were a child. Startled, Drake dropped the boulder, which bounced harmlessly past Lynch, then sailed off the side of the mountain into the valley below.
“Put me down!” Drake screamed. “Put me down, you red-skinned freak, or I’ll yank your guts out your ass and feed them to you!”
If Sasquatch heard Drake’s threat, he showed no sign of it. The crazy-quilt Indian had his eyes shut and his head thrown back. Lynch could barely make out the sound of ritual chanting over the thunder. Suddenly Sasquatch’s eyes flew open, and his gaze fell on Lynch’s and held it. The giant smiled as best he could and mouthed the words “Forgive me” in English. Then there was flash of blue white light so intense that it transcended sight, followed by a noise so loud it sounded as if the mountain was cracking open.
When Lynch regained the ability to see and hear, the first thing he noticed was that his eyebrows were singed off. The second thing he noticed was that he was alone. He lurched to his feet, trying not to overbalance and slide even further down the side of the mountain.
He scoured the top of the mountain for signs of his friend, but all he found was a blasted patch of rock located roughly where Sasquatch had been standing. Lynch called his name over and over, but there was no answer except the distant rumble of the passing storm.
Epilogue
Lynch knew he should be angry about how he had been used and betrayed, first by Mirablis, who had been secretly in cahoots with his murderer, and then by Sasquatch, who had used him to lure Drake within convenient striking distance so he could avenge himself against the man who slaughtered his tribe. But try as he might, he could not bring himself to hate them. What was done was done. There was no way of changing the past, only learning from it.
He searched through the papers scattered about the floor of the cabin until he found Mirablis’ private journals and the Frankenstein notebooks. The pages were yellowed and filled with cramped handwriting, most of it in a language he did not recognize, and included chemical and mathematical formulae. How was he supposed to decipher this in time to figure out how to make more elixir re-vitae before his supply ran out?
If the notebooks had proven somewhat disappointing, the steamer trunk at the foot of the old man’s bed made up for it. Inside he discovered a variety of glass jars, in which various human body parts were suspended in elixir re-vitae. Lynch lost no time in tossing out the collection of hands, livers, hearts and genitalia, and then decanting the precious elixir into containers more suitable for transportation.
The last jar was also the largest—roughly the size of a three-gallon jug. As Lynch lifted it out of the trunk, he was surprised to find it contained an unborn child. A child with Katie’s cheekbones and his chin. As he leaned forward, the child in the jar jerked, like a sleeper in a dream, and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
All it took was a small keg of black powder to seal off the entrance to Mirablis’ underground laboratory and reduce the cabin to a pile of splinters. Once he was certain all traces of the scientist’s existence had been obliterated, he hitched up Alastor to the old medicine show wagon. He climbed up onto the driver’s box and released the brake. Without being told, the undead horse began to head toward the setting sun and a new beginning.
He had lived the life of the destroyer before and found it empty. Now he had a new mission in life—one that demanded far more of him than killing. It was up to him learn how to defeat the dark hunger that threatened to make him a monster, and find a way to decipher the old man’s journals and help him change his nightmares back into dreams. As much as he missed his beloved Katie, and yearned to rejoin her, it was necessary to postpone their reunion. Somehow, he was certain she would understand.
After all, their son needed him.
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All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Nancy Collins
Cover image © 1998, 2012 by Stephen R. Bissette, used with permission
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1533-2
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