by Brian Hodge
Steven Adler darted forward, picked up Timmy and cradled him gently. He dabbed at Timmy's bleeding nose with is free hand. "You'll be okay. I don't think it's broken." Like magic, Steven produced a piece of gum from his pocket, handed it to the boy.
Timmy took the gum. It was Wrigley's Doublemint.
Steven licked Timmy's blood off his fingers and smiled absentmindedly. "I'm afraid I've only got one piece, so you'll have to share. Is that okay?"
Timmy nodded, stuck the entire stick of gum in his mouth.
With his freehand, Steven took hold of Elliot and lifted him to a standing position. The guy was really strong. Elliot felt himself picked up as though he were weightless.
Steven ran his fingers through the five-year-old's hair, brushing the dirt from it. "Timmy, I want to talk to your brother alone for a minute. I need you to be brave, can you do that?"
"What are you gonna do?"
"Nothing that will hurt you. I promise. I'm just going to put you in the trunk of the car."
Timmy looked doubtful. "I'm kinda afraid of the dark."
"How about if I give you a flashlight?"
Timmy thought it over. "You ain't gonna leave me there, are you?"
"No, just for a minute while I talk to Elliot."
"Okay, but I gotta go to the bathroom first," Timmy said. He began fidgeting.
Steven sat him down. "So go to the bathroom. Hurry up."
"I can't. Everybody's watching me."
A small tic appeared in Steven's left eye though his voice remained calm. "Come on."
The three of them moved away from the car lights, with Steven holding on to Elliot and Timmy.
"Don't look," Timmy admonished.
"We're not looking," Steven assured him.
The five-year-old unzipped his fly and cut loose, sending a silvery liquid arc out into the moonlit night. The sound of urine splattering in the dust filled the silence, but something was odd about the way Timmy was whizzing. There were breaks in the flow.
"Oh Jesus," Elliot said, "I don't believe this."
Steven tightened his grip on Elliot's ann. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Timmy's just showing off."
Steven looked into the dust and an expression of surprise settled on his face. "I'll be damned…"
Elliot looked frightened and more than a little embarrassed. "Don't be mad, mister, it's my fault. I taught him how to do it. He's been driving me crazy ever since."
Looking at the wet wee in the dust, Steven picked up the small boy and ruffled his hair affectionately. "That's pretty neat, partner. Can you spell any other words?"
"No, but Elliot can spell pussy."
"Shut up, Timmy." Elliot's face turned beet red.
"I'm going to get a big kick out of you, Timmy." Steven was still laughing when he carried the child over to the red Caddy, put him in the trunk, and closed it.
Absolute darkness descended over the five-year-old before he managed to get the flashlight to click on. The trunk was warm, smelling like dust and old rubber from the spare tire nestled there. Timmy listened to footsteps moving away and did his best not to cry. He didn't quite succeed.
Steven led Elliot away from the car, and the blond man was serious now. "Listen close, Elliot, I don't want to have to repeat this."
Flinching from the grip on his arm, Elliot faced Steven. He could barely look into the cold eyes.
Steven pulled him close, until their faces were almost touching. "You get your ass on that bike and you find Louise Warrick. Tell her John Warrick is to meet me at Jake's at three A.M. tomorrow tonight. Tell John to bring the cue stick." Steven walked over and righted the bike, sat Elliot on it. "If I don't see your lights on the main highway in two minutes, something very unpleasant is going happen to your brother. Am I making myself clear?"
"Don't hurt him, mister. He's just a stupid kid."
"You do what I told you and your brother will be fine." Steven looked at his watch. "Your two minutes are running"
Elliot made the highway in a minute and fifty-three seconds. He flashed his high beams off and on several times before setting out for Louise's house.
Steven flicked the Caddy's lights off and on in answer. Then he moved to the white Caddy and pulled its passenger out. Bobby Roberts was sullen, refusing to look at Steven.
"You're not supposed to be here," Steven said. "What were you doing poking around the graveyard?"
"I was only trying to help."
"Were you, really? I wonder."
"What are you talking about?"
Steven produced a knife from beneath his sweatshirt. The handle was a bright red feathered serpent, the blade was polished jade. "This is what you were looking for, isn't it? This is what you killed all those people for? This knife. You were planning to kill me with it." Steven held the blade beneath Bobby's chin, pricked him with the point. "Don't lie, it won't do any good. I'll know the truth in a minute, anyway."
Bobby hung his head, but his voice was defiant. "I want to live. I want you to let me go."
"I can't let you go. You're a killer."
"I'm part of you." Bobby's smile was bitter. "If I'm a killer, what does that make you?"
"I haven't killed anyone. My hands are clean," Steven answered.
"Maybe they are but I see the look on your face when I come back to you. You can't wait to feed on me, to relive everything I've done. Especially the killing."
"It's a good deal for everyone. You get to be human for a while and I get to…," Steven decided not to pursue the thought.
Bobby's face twisted up with hatred. "You pretend you're better than me, but you're not. You just don't have the guts to do your own killing."
"Is that right?" Exasperated, Steven plunged the knife into Bobby's chest. Twisted it. "Why am I standing here in the dark talking to myself?"
Bobby screamed in agony, tried to pull away.
But Steven held Bobby, kept sticking the knife into his body. Over and over. Until the screams fell silent.
"Don't fight me," Steven said. "You know it's useless. You've got to come out."
Bobby slumped against the car hood, his mouth working. "Let me go. Please."
Steven plunged the knife in again, held it there, and Bobby began twisting like a worm on a hook.
"No can do," Steven said. "You might get the urge to tell Earl what I've been up to. He thinks I've stopped the killing. If he found out differently, he would leave, and I can't allow that to happen. It's one of the hazards of staying in one body too long, I guess. You pick up… emotions." Steven slapped away the weakly flailing hands. "Come on out. I haven't got all night."
Wisps of smoke began pouring from the stabbed man's mouth, curling upward. "I'll go away," Bobby promised, "far away from here. You'll never see me again."
"I don't want you to go away. I want us to be together."
Bobby opened his mouth one last time, a barely audible mewling. "I want my own life. I want to be… human." His body arched—and—the black substance poured out of Bobby in streams, coming out of every wound, crawling up over Steven, caressing his body with lover's arms, until it finally converged at his face and disappeared into his open mouth. A huge knot appeared in Steven's throat as the blood poured into him. Steven's eyes fluttered, became glazed with pleasure as he collapsed across the car hood.
As he relived the stolen lives. Taking what he wanted. Discarding the rest.
After a few minutes, Steven came to, and his eyes held that heavy-lidded look that comes from really great sex. He dumped Bobby onto the floorboard of the white car, then moved over to the bushes and unzipped his fly. His teeth flashed a white grin in the moonlight as he guided the black substance that was expelled from him into letters in the dust.
Steven went to the red Caddy and pulled Timmy out, showed him the letters. "Look, Timmy," he said, laughing, still flushed from the pleasure he had just experienced. "I spelled my name, too."
Timmy studied the wet letters, silently mouthing them, until a frown cr
eased his young face. "I thought you said your name was Steven."
Steven looked at the name. He had spelled Bobby.
Chapter 17
Amos Black Eagle's trailer, 9:15 A.M.
John Warrick tasted the peyote at the back of his throat.
Amos looked on, concern on his face. "I don't think this is a good idea. You took five buttons, and peyote is tricky stuff. It can scramble your brains if you're not careful."
"He's right. There's got to be some other way," Louise said. "You're exhausted from driving all night. You go into one of your trances and things go wrong, you could die."
"I know."
"You said your heart stopped the last time."
"Believe me, this is the last thing in the world I want to do, but I have to." John looked at the people huddled around him in the bright clear light, going from face to face. Louise, Amy, Jesse, Amos, Lefty, Boyce, Nash, Kevin, Manny, Ernesto, Jesus, Stuart, and Elliot Cates. All looking at him, all pale, silent, bruised by what they had seen.
Inside the trailer were the bodies they had found in the creek bed by the Navajo burial ground.
Or what was left of them.
The savagery of their deaths was beyond comprehension.
"I have to know what we're up against, or Timmy's going to end up like everyone in there. Maybe all of us." John motioned at the trailer. White sheets covered what lay inside the door, and from where they stood, it looked like Amos'd had some company drop by, that soon the white draped figures would rise up from their sleep and ask for coffee.
But the flies weren't fooled. They knew.
They clustered on the screen door. Waiting. Elliot watched them with dull fascination. He hadn't said a word since he had told his story.
John held the smooth yellowed bone of the cue stick in his hands, heard the sound of something unknown moving toward him, and it reminded him of distant thunder, like maybe a storm brewing just out of sight. A shadow swept past, darkening the morning sky before the thunder gradually faded.
Only he saw it.
"This cue stick can tell me more about Steven Adler," John said, "maybe even what he is, but I have to go into a trance. Open myself up. It's the only way." John's gaze sought out Stuart Johnson and the sheriff dropped his eyes. Something had gone out of him, and for the first time John could ever remember, Stuart looked truly old.
John felt sweat bead up on his forehead. "It almost told me the last time. I just have to go deeper, stay longer, and that's where the peyote will help."
"That stick almost killed you the last time," Amos reminded him. "It could finish the job."
"That's where you and Louise come in. You're going to bring me back if I get into trouble."
"How will we know?" Louise asked.
"That I can't tell you, it's something you'll have to decide for yourselves." John focused on the moth-eaten buffalo in Amos's corral and he felt the wicker chair stir beneath him. It was now a saddle, the cue stick a rifle. "Something's starting to happen. I'm sitting on a horse, and it's hot, damned hot."
Louise gripped his hand.
The people around him were becoming insubstantial. He could see the three buffalo through them.
"Where are you?" Amos asked. "Are you Steven Adler?"
"Kansas, 1872, and my name is Matt Thomas," he said to the open prairie.
Chapter 18
Kansas, the summer of 1872.
It was hotter than hell in July.
Matt Thomas, employed by the Santa Fe Railroad, sat astride his horse and stared into the distance, watching the herd of buffalo he had tracked to a small, meandering creek. His fingers drummed a tattoo on the well-worn rifle butt that jutted from its scabbard. A trickle of sweat wormed its way down his forehead. He pulled out an already soaked handkerchief, mopped at his face, and swore at the heat that was making an unpleasant job even more unpleasant.
His job was killing buffalo. He did his job well.
He'd been a trapper, a scout, a prospector, and a few other things he didn't particularly care to dwell on. A large man, he had been eroded a little by time, but like the mountains he had called home most of his life, he expected to stand a while longer.
Matt waited quietly and finally his patience was rewarded as the herd tired of wallowing in the creek and moved out to graze. He swung down, hobbled his horse, and reached across the saddle to ease out his .50 Sharps, along with a tripod to rest it on. Even though the rifle weighed nearly sixteen pounds, there had been a day when he hadn't needed anything to hold it steady. The years were taking his strength, and he guessed, maybe, they were taking his mind, because the last several nights he'd been having dreams. Bad dreams.
Once again he played out the scene in his mind and fear laid icy hands on his back, causing him to shiver.
Remembering how… it was so much clearer than any dream he'd ever had before. Remembering... standing on a vast plain that was without life of any kind, and beneath his feet, the earth was cracked and dry, untouched by even the memory of rain.
Overhead, the sky was a sullen brass color, cloudless, holding a sun that burned down much too brightly. When he stared at the mountains on the horizon, he saw a distant shadowy figure no larger than a speck moving toward him. The figure appeared to be walking slowly, yet it closed the distance between them with incredible speed as though each step covered many miles.
Then somewhere, farther back, came a sound like distant thunder rolling across the plain, and Matt could make out clouds of darkness billowing up behind the walking man. A huge storm was brewing out there and it, too, was coming toward him with unnatural speed… and Matt had awakened before he could quite make out the distant figure or the blackness moving his way.
He was glad of it, because there was something unnerving about the whole thing, something that left the taste of dust in his throat.
Maybe his mind was going, maybe he didn't sleep too good at night, but right now he had a job to do. He laid the rifle on the tripod. With a motion borne of long practice, he licked his thumb, rubbed it across the bead and sighted in on the shaggy old bull that led the herd.
He squeezed the trigger, hearing the rifle give a flat crack that carried across the prairie. A puff of dust erupted from the animal's hide. The bull, mortally wounded with a bullet through the heart, staggered forward a few feet. Streaks of red spurted from the animal's nose before his legs gave way and he collapsed into a boneless heap.
The rest began bawling and milling around, spooked by the smell of blood, but without a leader they would do nothing.
They kept milling, and Matt kept shooting, picking off the ones standing at the edge of the herd with an almost mechanical accuracy, until they were all dead. He felt no pride in what he had done. A lot of meat was needed to feed the railroad work crews; he was paid to deliver that meat.
Before riding back to camp and sending out the skinners, he thought he might ride over and get himself a tongue or two for cooking. He was tired of beans. His movements were slow as he swung down and hobbled his horse. Too many winters spent wading through icy streams during his days as a trapper had stiffened up his legs. Sitting on the ground made them worse.
He picked out a likely animal, pulled out his knife and started cutting.
A sound floated through the stillness, died. Pausing, he straightened up and looked around. Nothing. His ears must be playing tricks. That old Sharps always made his ears ring, sometimes for days after. He went back to work and after he had the first tongue wrapped, he started in on the second.
After he finished, he started to mount up, but he realized he had to take care of some business. He walked out a discreet distance from the buffalo carcasses, pulled down his pants, and squatted. He knew he might be here awhile. Those damned beans of Corky's bound a man up something awful. He hoped he didn't get his ass sunburned.
A feeling of unease curled up between his shoulder blades. A man didn't get to be old in this part of the country by being careless.
"Damn it, s
omething's wrong." He jabbed the knife into the hard ground and raised up from his task.
Scanned the area.
Dead buffalo carcasses strewn all about. Carrion birds already picking at them.
He pulled out his handkerchief, wiped the sweat from his eyes and saw a huge bull climb to its feet.
The animal was hurt, hurt bad, the fur along its right side was covered by dust and blood appeared from beneath the dust, welling up from a jagged tear on the shoulder like water from an underground spring.
Dazed, Matt watched as it trailed down to spatter softly onto the ground.
Somewhere, far removed, he could hear the sound of flies buzzing. One of the carrion birds raised its wings and screeched in triumph as it took flight with its bloody cargo.
Matt risked a look at his horse, calculating the distance. Too far. Besides, he'd never get the hobbles off in time, but if he could get closer, he might have some chance. He took a step in that direction, realized his pants were still down around his ankles.
His movement was enough to goad the animal into action.
He picked the .44 off the ground and thumbed back the hammer. Taking aim at the bull, he realized there was no chance for a killing shot, especially with his old revolver. He'd be better off throwing rocks. To make matters worse, the animal had its head lowered, protecting the heart and lungs with a skull that was massive bone and almost impossible to penetrate. But the head was the only target he had. The pistol jumped in his hand and the bullet smacked into the skull with a thud, like an axe biting into hard wood. He would have taken a moment to admire his own shooting—except that old bull was still coming on like a high-balling locomotive and Matt figured he looked like the next stop.
"Matt, old son, looks like you done stepped in it good this time." He leveled the pistol back onto its target, pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger again. The bullet struck home and still the bull came forward.
The animal's ragged breathing filled Matt's ears as it chewed up the distance between them. More carrion birds took to the air. Matt hoped the skinning crew found him before the birds got his eyes.
