Morrison’s truck had been spotted on a turnout near Old State Road. This had caught Haywood’s ear, since he knew John usually hunted west of town. Old State Road ran north and south, as far east of Coldwater as you could go while still being in the county. It was odd for him to be out there. It was sparsely populated, mostly junk forest and swamp. A few houses, one of them Michael’s, though that thought wouldn’t cross Haywood’s mind until after he found his friend.
Haywood drove out and found the turnout after a few back-and-forth runs down the road. He pulled in behind Morrison’s truck and investigated. The driver’s door of his friend’s pickup was closed, but not latched, and he pulled it open without having to engage the handle. There was nothing peculiar sitting in view on the bench seat except for the half-full coffee mug in the cupholder. Haywood dipped his finger in it; it was ice cold. The early-morning dew still coated the vehicle, even though it was almost noon. Nettles from the pines that lined the turnout had fallen on the hood. The truck had been sitting for a while.
“Morse!” Haywood yelled. “Morse!”
He walked into the woods, following the natural contour of the forest floor. There wasn’t a defined path, but it wasn’t that hard going. He kept calling out, but the world was empty, his echo zigzagging through the trees. He kept the truck in sight and called out in all directions. Nothing.
Walking farther, he saw a small flicker of light on the ground. He stopped and moved back a little and let the sun hit the object again. It was a shell casing. He turned to get a bead on where the truck was behind him and plotted a straight line deeper into the woods.
Not more than a hundred yards farther, he found him. From a distance, Haywood could see only two feet stretched out on opposite sides of a tree. Just a man enjoying quiet time in the woods.
“Morse! What are you doing out here?” Haywood said as he approached. “Everyone in town is wondering where you’ve . . .”
His words escaped him as he came around the tree.
There, sitting on the ground, was his friend.
Dead.
In his graying hands lay his shotgun, the barrel of which appeared as if it had blown apart and fragmented. His face was marked with powder burns, at least the parts that were not blown off.
Haywood doubled over and fought the urge to retch out his breakfast. There was no use shaking or attempting to revive Morrison. He was gone, propped up and placed here like a sign.
Haywood pulled out his cell phone but could not get a signal. The walk back to the truck was done in a daze, but when he arrived, he called for an ambulance and then called James to gather up the boys and get out there. The image was too much to bear alone.
And now, as he drove and drove, his mind mixed together the separate scenes of dead townsfolk being loaded into ambulances—Morrison, Old Man Jackson, James. If it hadn’t been for Clinton taking the long way home from Post Road Bridge, Kyle most assuredly would have been the fourth.
The sun started to crest the eastern horizon when he turned south. He returned home and showered, filled his veins with coffee, and set himself for another day of pursuit. But before he did, he had a stop to make down in South Falls. He had to talk to the last man who saw Michael alive, and he had to talk to the man while there was still breath in his body.
Kyle was still alive but didn’t look long for this world when they had carted him off to South Falls, and he might just have some piece of information that would end this whole debacle quick and easy.
nineteen
SIXTY MILES DOWNRIVER FROM COLDWATER, in the city of South Falls, a woman walked into the Gun Club, signed in for a lane, was admitted to the back room, and prepared herself one last time. She put the case on the ledge in front of her and unlocked it. Inside was a standard Glock pistol, the likes of which resided in countless nightstands across America.
She adjusted her ear protection, slid the magazine into the weapon, and aimed downrange.
She felt the recoil in her wrist, but that had become second nature. She fired one shot at the target. She ejected the magazine and cleared the chamber of the next round.
One shot.
That’s all she wanted. Just one.
The weapon secured, she pushed the button that would bring the target up to her.
She had spent many hours over the course of years at this range. Firing and firing until her skill with the pistol was as good as it could possibly get. She wasn’t a marksman and never planned to be one. She wasn’t training to be an assassin, a one-woman army. She was practicing for a solitary moment in time. A moment she felt had come.
Today was nothing more than a reassurance. Verification that she was ready. The next bullet out of the gun would be the one that would bring justice to her and to her family. The next shot would be the one that counted.
As the target came forward, she imagined that the silhouette was a real person, approaching through an alleyway, a wooded trail, the middle of the street. The next time she held the gun aloft, it would be directed at a living, breathing person, and the bullet would have to find its mark and end the story.
One shot. It had to be one shot.
She had never seen what a bullet could do to a body. Paper targets were one thing, flesh and bone something else altogether. She knew herself enough to understand that when her eyes witnessed the exploding face of her target, her will might falter. She might not have the nerve or wherewithal to pull the trigger again. She had no idea the thoughts that would possess her the second after she squeezed the trigger.
The act would transform her into a different creature. But transform her into what? She had thought long and hard on this. Would the woman who was so determined to fire the first shot still be there if a second shot was needed?
It was a mystery that she would not solve until the moment arrived.
By then it would be too late to prepare if she evolved into a coward. If the horror she unleashed rendered her incapable of finishing the business she was setting out to do.
And so, every weekend for the past six weeks, she came to the firing range and fired one shot. The target came and stopped in front of her. A hole dead center on the head of the outline. The same exactitude as the past six Fridays.
She was ready.
Locking the case back up, she headed out of the range, put the case under her driver’s seat, and pulled out of the parking lot. The midday traffic was light, and in fifteen minutes she had navigated out of the city grid of South Falls and was heading north.
North to the woods and backcountry roads. North to the isolated village of Coldwater.
North to the place where the man who had destroyed her family now resided.
The man who would receive the fruits of her practice, and the lead of her pistol.
twenty
THE SOFT GROWL OF A SMALL DOG was Michael’s alarm clock the first day in the north woods. The light coming through the trees was obscured by foliage, but Michael’s internal clock told him it was midday.
He cleared his eyes and saw, not more than ten feet from his head, the shape of a Labrador puppy. The dog was staring at him, its teeth bared minimally, as if it was testing out its new defense mechanisms. Michael didn’t move but simply stared at the animal. From the ridge over top of him, Michael could hear the voice of a boy calling out.
“Otis! Here, Otis!”
The dog’s ears perked up, but its teeth remained exposed. He heard its name called again. This time the dog sat on its haunches but kept vigil over the man lying in the undergrowth.
“Otis! What are you doing, you dumb dog! Get up here!”
The dog looked up the ridge and then back down to Michael. It was a standoff. Michael considered getting up and quickly moving on, but he thought the dog might be naive enough to chase him. The voice lashed out again.
“Now! Otis! Come!”
With no response, the boy ventured down the ridge.
Michael tried to sink more into the hillside, but there was nowhere to go. He d
idn’t want to scare the boy. He decided to wait to make his presence known, hoping that his current posture would be less traumatic.
The boy slid down the hill and reached for the dog’s collar. Otis bared his teeth again, and the boy followed the gaze of his pet to the face of the vagabond in the leaves. He jumped back, frightened, almost losing his balance and tumbling down the hill out of sheer surprise, but the grasp on the dog collar kept him from doing so. Michael didn’t rise. No use scaring the boy even more. He spoke in a slow, clear voice.
“Sorry. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The boy got his feet under him and positioned himself behind the dog, using Otis as a shield, a stance that energized the pup, though the dog would be short work for any man intent on harming the kid.
“That’s a good dog you have there. He’s very brave.”
“He’s vicious too!” the boy blurted, puffing himself up much like a cobra but without the venom.
“I bet he is. You mind if I sit up? The cold from the ground has seeped into my bones and it’s killing me.”
“Let me see your hands first.”
Michael pegged him for nine or ten years old, but he couldn’t be certain. What did it matter to show his hands? If his intention was to strangle the boy, he didn’t need the element of surprise to do so. Michael obliged slowly, in feigned subservience to his captor. “See? Empty.”
“Alright, but move slow, otherwise I’ll sic Otis on you.”
The dog cocked his head like he was asking his owner if he was serious.
Michael nodded and easily pushed himself up. His joints ached with stiffness and he did what he could to stretch them out. He felt like the Tin Man of Oz after a long rainstorm. As he rose to his full height, the boy became uneasy and nervous in his position. Michael posed an imperious figure. His bruised face added to the horror, leaves hanging from his hair, his clothes mired with mud and sweat and blood.
“What now?” Michael asked.
The boy seemed perplexed. His stance said he wanted to run, but there was no place to go. The way uphill, back to the ridge path, was essentially blocked. Below him, the hill descended sharply into a tangle of briars and thornbushes. Either route looked hazardous, and he would have to pull his yapping dog with him. Michael could see scenarios play out on the boy’s face, each one seeming bleaker and bleaker.
“Well, until you decide, know that I am not going to hurt you. There’s nothing I can say that’ll convince you of that, but maybe we can come to an agreement. If you keep your attack dog off me, I won’t hurt you. Deal?”
The boy thought about it. “Deal,” he whispered with total lack of confidence.
“Alright.”
They faced each other for what seemed like an eternity. Otis finally gave up his attempt at ferocity and changed his snarling to panting, his red tongue hanging out the side of his half-smiling mouth.
“So, Otis. Good name. You got a name?”
“Will.”
“Good name too.”
“What about you?”
“Michael.”
The boy nodded. “You been out here long?”
“A while.”
“You homeless?”
“At the moment it would appear that I am.”
“You got food?”
“I got a little.”
The boy reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a granola bar. It was violently smashed in its wrapper by its travels in such tight quarters. Will examined the bar and then tossed it to Michael, who caught it midair with efficiency of motion.
“You sure, Will? I don’t want to take your lunch.”
“It’s just a snack. I tell my mom I don’t like them, but she keeps buying them anyway.”
“Well, I sure do appreciate it.”
Will nodded again. He shuffled on his feet. “Well, I best get home.”
“No problem, Will. Again, thank you for the snack.”
Will grabbed Otis by the collar and half dragged him uphill to the top of the ridge, never taking his eyes off the mysterious man. Michael followed the boy’s movement as well. He watched as the tension in the boy’s body relaxed once he knew he was out of Michael’s orbit. Michael waved a parting salute.
“You know,” the boy yelled down, “I have a fort on the other side of the hill here. It’s hidden from the trail, but if you’re homeless, you can use it if you like.”
“I would appreciate that.”
“Look for the triple-forked tree along the ridge and then turn left, down the hill. It’s a hollow under the bank. I have a tarp in there. You could use that if you want.”
“Thank you.”
“Only thing, I got some toys in there. Don’t take them, otherwise I’d have to sic Otis on you.”
Michael raised his hand in solemn oath. “On my honor, I won’t touch them.”
The boy nodded, and just as quickly disappeared from view.
twenty-one
HAYWOOD STROLLED into South Falls Hospital with acute determination. Clinton and the boys had come upon the accident not long after it happened. James was dead, but after finding Kyle unconscious but alive, they had searched the scene for anything the county cops would find questionable, and then called it in. Haywood arrived as the ambulance was loading Kyle up for transport.
“Busy day for you guys,” he told the paramedics.
“You could say that.What’s going on up here?” the trooper asked, lifting his eyes from the notepad he was using while interviewing one of Haywood’s posse.
“Just bad luck, I guess. Are you able to tell what happened?”
“Speeding. Looks like the driver lost control and rolled it.”
“Is he okay?”
“Driver is deceased. The passenger looks close to it himself.”
Thankfully, that was the extent of the inquiry.
Haywood was there now, making sure the story stayed simple. Kyle had a mouth on him at the most calm of times. Who knew what he would say when he fully came to his senses, and Haywood wanted to make sure he heard it before the police did . . . wanted to make sure this mess didn’t get even more out of control.
The prognosis was bad. Kyle’s back was broken. Most likely never walk again. His face was torn and bruised, and for a minute he looked like Morrison, albeit in a bed rather than sitting next to a tree out in the woods. Seeing Kyle like this and with Old Man Jackson and James dead all on the same day, the suspicion that had driven him to bury Michael now formed a steel resolve. Michael was a killer, as dangerous as Haywood had believed him to be when he heard that he had been released from prison and moved back to town.
Old Man Jackson had been a recluse, but James had been one of his boys just as much as Morrison had been. Brothers of a hick town since childhood. It was James who had convinced the others even more so than Haywood to go along with the plan. To back Haywood. Now with him dead, the others would most likely scatter off like cowards. Kyle being the most likely candidate to turn tail first.
Haywood grabbed a chair and pulled it over close to the bed. The squeal of the legs against the tile woke Kyle from his morphine-induced slumber.
“So what happened up there?”
Kyle slowly and painfully reiterated the events to Haywood—how they saw Michael in the distance crossing the road, how James went manic and sped after him like a lunatic.
“And he lost control?”
“It was more than that. It’s like we were picked up and thrown.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it was like it was all in slow motion, but it wasn’t. We was driving straight for him and then it was like we was pushed sideways. I can still see James’s hands on the wheel. Knuckled down at 10 and 2. He didn’t swerve or nothing. The truck just started spinning and then rolling. I can see James being thrown out his window, the bottom of his boots and the rotating sky and ground. He was there, then he was gone. It’s like still pictures.”
“They say he died instantly.”
&n
bsp; “I hope so,” Kyle said.
“What else?”
“Then I remember pulling myself up to the road. I couldn’t feel my legs, but it didn’t hurt. I was lying there and I saw him come up.”
“Michael?”
“Yeah. He knelt down next to me. I could see his mouth moving but couldn’t hear anything. Then he got up and ran off.”
Haywood exhaled slowly. He stared at Kyle with an intensity as if he was probing his mind for any more facts that he was holding back, but the man’s swollen and bloodshot eyes hid nothing.
“Cops come in here yet?” Haywood asked.
“No.”
“Don’t tell them that last part.”
“About Michael?”
“Yes.”
Kyle strained to keep conscious. “What we did was wrong,” he whispered.
“What’s that?”
“What we did was wrong.”
“What we did was necessary. It was the right thing to do. We just . . . we just didn’t do it right.”
“Right? James is dead! My legs! I can’t move my legs! How is this right?”
Kyle’s monitors started to beep wildly as his heart rate increased. Haywood tried to calm him down and was moderately successful.
“We had no business burying him up in those woods.”
“What should we have done, Kyle? Could you have shot him? Could you have pulled the trigger yourself? Huh? He was dangerous. He is dangerous. After Morrison, we couldn’t just wait for him to kill again. You think Jackson, Morrison . . . you think those were accidents? You think James being dead is an accident?”
“It’s justice.”
“No, it’s not justice. Michael is a killer. He brings death with him. Morrison. Think of Morrison. It’s all Michael's fault. I know that. I know it deep down in my bones. He is dangerous. Dangerous to all of us.”
Coldwater Page 6
