by Sam Best
Foster hovered over him, smiling. “You’re one of the clumsy ones, aren’t you? I think I can help.” He raised his fist and slammed it down against Moses’s temple.
Moses heard the sharp CRACK of his own skull hitting the floor. His vision dimmed to black as he slipped into unconsciousness.
19
The front door to the house was open when Karen pulled into Blake’s driveway, revealing a slender rectangle of darkness within. No lights shone from any of the windows. His dusty Chevrolet pickup sat parked neatly on the right side of the driveway, rear bumper to the house, as was his habit.
Blake’s house was a one-story, two-bedroom brick with no flair and dull paint, but his yard was another story. The favors he had done through his construction work for landscape companies had yielded professional friendships that allowed for rock-bottom deals on trees and plants for Blake’s own personal projects, and he filled his yard with as many different species of flora that he could find. Small ground-lights popped up from the earth to illuminate certain parts of the yard—Karen thought the shadows they cast over the plants made the entire area look like a miniature forest.
Blake seemed to have an eye for landscaping; there was a pattern to the apparent sloppiness. At first what seemed like an attempt to stuff every type of plant into one small area became, with closer observation, a careful maze of color and shapes in which the designer had clearly placed a great deal of thought.
Two Bird of Paradise plants—Blake had called them Crane Flowers—greeted Karen as she stepped off the concrete driveway and walked toward the house. They sat on both sides of the entrance to a mulched pathway that led past some of the more exotic specimens in his garden. She didn’t know the names of most of the plants, but from earlier conversations with Blake she recognized several Allium flowers with their purple firework bulbs sprouting up at random along the path. Ropey green ground-cover spread beneath the plants like a blanket of thick, loosely-woven vines. Small red flowers dotted the thick carpet lying beneath the canopy of vegetation.
Karen approached the front door to the house and rested her palm on the butt of her holstered revolver.
“Blake?” she called into the house.
She waited, then slowly drew her gun and pushed the door open with her free hand.
“Blake?” she said more quietly.
Behind her came the muffled squawk of her car’s dispatch radio. Someone spoke, then a moment later Foster’s distinctive voice answered. He was supposed to be sleeping, but if he wanted to take calls instead, that was fine with Karen.
The front door to Blake’s house swung open silently and she stepped inside. No lights were on, and no ambient glow spilled out of the long hallway that led to the two bedrooms on the other side of the house.
Karen reached under the broad lampshade atop the ugly yellow lamp sitting on a table next to the front door and twisted the switch several times—nothing. She slipped her heavy flashlight from her belt and clicked it on. The harsh white beam shot through the shadows, overexposing everything it illuminated.
The living room was empty. An old but comfortable couch sat pressed against the wall to her right opposite the hallway and a small dining table rested in the corner of the room with two barstools alongside. Karen walked to the end of the hallway and shined her light to the far end. Both of the bedroom doors were open, as was the bathroom door halfway down the hall. Karen sniffed the air and caught a faint hint of the soap Blake used during his showers.
She heard a loud rustling of branches from the backyard.
Karen turned quickly and walked to the sliding glass door behind the dining table at the back of the living room. She pulled aside the thin white curtain and saw Blake standing half-naked in the backyard with only a towel wrapped around his waist, staring into the woods.
She slid the glass door to the side and holstered her revolver as she stepped out of the house.
“Jesus, Blake!” she said with relief. “You could have answered me, you know?”
He didn’t turn. He didn’t blink. He stared into the woods unmoving, with a look on his face that Karen could not identify. His hair dripped water and a thin sheen of moisture coated his entire body. Small blades of torn grass clung to his wet feet.
She stood next to him and rested her hand on his shoulder.
“Blake. It’s Karen.”
He seemed to breathe for the first time since she saw him and his eyes searched the dense woods lining the edge of his backyard.
Karen had never known Blake to act in such a way. Usually he was confident, if quiet—but never frightened.
“I saw her,” he said at last.
“Saw who?” asked Karen. She shined her light at the woods but could see only trees. “Someone is out there?”
“The lights,” he said. “The lights went out while I was in the shower. I heard a noise.”
Karen looked over the wooden fence separating Blake’s yard from his neighbor’s—a yellow security light shone brightly from the top of their back porch. She remembered seeing that all of the street lamps were on in the neighborhood when she drove up to his house.
“The rest of the neighborhood still has power,” she said.
“Ha,” he said weakly. “I know. Funny.” He raised his arm and pointed at the trees. “My little sister just walked into the woods.”
“Your sister?” Karen looked into the shadows again. “I didn’t know you had a sister, Blake. Is she okay? Should we go after her?”
“She’s dead. She died twenty years ago. Car crash.” He started to shake. “Horrible. The blood. I saw it.”
Karen slid her flashlight into her belt and steered him back toward the house.
“Hey,” she said gently. “It’s okay, Blake. I’m here.”
He jerked away from her, anger flashing across his face. “I’m not an idiot, Karen! I’m not an idiot!”
She held up her hands, palms forward, in a way she hoped he would find non-threatening. “I know, Blake. I know that. No one is saying you are. Let’s go inside and sit down, okay?”
Karen stepped toward him slowly. His shoulders dropped and his face relaxed. He allowed her to guide him inside to the couch where she lowered him down onto one of the cushions.
She lit the small candle on the coffee table in front of the couch, then sat close to him and rested her hand on his thigh.
“Blake,” she said. “I’m right here.”
He sat staring blankly into nothingness. The light from the dancing flame of the candle flickered across his face.
Karen didn’t have much experience dealing with psychological trauma—the rare criminal from Falling Rock with deep mental scars was always referred to one of the clinics in Denver if it was decided the root of his or her problems could possibly be solved with intensive therapy. Some horror from Blake’s past had seemingly come back to haunt him and caught him completely off-guard.
Karen was surprised to find that it hurt her to see him in pain. She tried to distract his mind from whatever was torturing him.
“The lights in your garden are still on,” she said. “Even though your power is out.”
“Solar panels,” he said absently, his eyes unblinking. “Small ones on top of the lights. You know that, Karen.”
She smiled. “Yes, I know that.” He wasn’t completely gone, after all.
“Did you notice the cars?” he asked.
“What cars?”
“Down the street. All of the cars are still parked in front of the houses.”
Karen frowned. “Everyone’s at home asleep, Blake.”
“No. They’re all gone.”
“Then why would their cars still be at their houses?”
“You should ask the preacher.”
She pulled her hand off his thigh. “St. Croix? What do you know about him?”
“I know that he was right.”
She scooted a few inches away so she could turn her body and face him. “Have you been to his church?” she aske
d.
“Once or twice.”
“Blake! Why? You know he’s crazy.”
Blake looked down at his hands and turned his palms upward. “There’s not a lot for me here, you know? Until I met you, I mean. Something was missing inside me and it hurt. There was a…a hole, but it was heavy. I just got so tired. I thought maybe the preacher could help me find an answer. I know how it sounds.”
Karen studied his face. Was it shame in his eyes?
“Blake,” she said, resting her hand on his thigh once again, “we’re okay for each other.”
He looked over at her and she smiled.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Yeah. But listen. Something’s going on in town and the preacher is behind it. He’s killed the sheriff and taken a little girl, Amy Cooke.”
Blake shook his head. “No. No no no.”
“Do you know something, Blake?”
“It isn’t the preacher. He’s a good man and he was right. One time I was down there, at the church, and he said something like this was going to happen.”
“That’s because he was planning it, Blake. He was telling you what he was going to do.”
He looked at her suddenly, his eyes shining in the candlelight. “I saw my sister, Karen. Not a ghost. Not a phantom. She touched my arm as she walked away. It was real. She wanted me to follow her.”
“Blake…” She brushed back a strand of his wet, dark hair. “Why don’t you stick with me for a little while tonight?”
“Are you arresting me, Deputy Raines?”
She smiled. “I’ll let you ride shotgun.”
He looked down at the towel wrapped around his waist. “I should probably put some clothes on.”
“I’d rather you didn’t, but yeah, you probably should.”
He picked up the candle and walked down the hallway into his bedroom. Karen stood up and smoothed down the front of her shirt, then looked into the backyard.
The woods were as still as a painting.
* * *
Karen turned her police cruiser from Cedar onto Main. The bright lights of Marcus’s gas station called to her from down the street.
“You hungry?” she asked Blake.
He had calmed down completely once they got in the car and drove away from his house.
“You wanna buy me dinner?” he said.
“I know a place.”
Karen drove to the end of Main and parked the cruiser next to one of the two gas pumps. She got out of the car and popped open the gas cap, then stuck in the nozzle after she punched the button for the low-grade octane.
“Think I’ll get the steak,” said Blake as he stood from the car.
“Sorry,” said Karen. “Only place in town to grab a bite.”
“I like microwave burritos better anyway.” He winked at her and walked to the front door of the small gas station. He pushed it open and shouted, “Hey, Marcus!”
A shotgun blast answered him.
The window next to the door shattered into a thousand pieces and fell like a curtain of raindrops behind Blake. His arms went up to cover his face as he turned from the noise.
Karen let go of the gas pump and drew her revolver. “Blake!” she shouted as she ran to the front of the store.
“Halsey?” came a voice from inside the station. “Halsey, goddammit, is that you?”
Blake stood slowly, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead.
“It’s me,” he croaked.
“Aww, shit!”
Marcus stood up at the back of the store and strode forward, shotgun in hand. Karen ran inside and went to Blake.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” said Blake hesitantly. He sucked in a sharp intake of breath as he pulled a thin glass shard from his forehead.
Karen holstered her revolver and glared at Marcus. “You blind old bastard,” she said. “I should arrest you right now.”
“I ain’t the problem, sweetheart,” said Marcus. The short old man walked past them and studied the shattered window. His squat but sturdy face turned upward and then nodded. He scratched at the yellowed white stubble on his chin. “Damn thing is gonna get in here for sure.” He slapped Blake on the back. “I’m sorry about that, Halsey.” He looked Blake up and down with rheumy eyes. “You all right, boy?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Marcus nodded. “I got some fixin’s for that cut over here. Not like it’ll matter much anyway.” He set his shotgun down on the front counter next to the register and produced a first aid kit from a small cabinet next to a stack of cigarette cartons.
“Who did you think we were, Marcus?” asked Karen.
“That critter,” he said, pulling out a butterfly bandage from the kit. “I seen it stalking around out there earlier. I been stuck in here a day and a half, dern-blast it.” He pointed at Blake’s forehead. “Karen, you pinch that sucker closed and I’ll slap on this here bandage. Don’t worry, Halsey, I’ll give you some whiskey after.” He winked. “For the pain.”
Karen looked at Blake and he nodded his consent. She reached up and pressed the sides of the inch-long cut together. Blake clenched his teeth but remained silent.
“Atta boy,” said Marcus. “Now hold still.”
He peeled back both sides of the bandage and stretched it over the cut, then pressed it down hard.
“All set,” he said. “You’ll be pretty again in no time.”
Blake ran a light finger over the bandage. “I would say thanks, but…”
“But I shot at ya,” said Marcus. “Water under the bridge. This’ll help.” He reached under the counter and pulled up a half-full bottle of golden whiskey. His thumb expertly unscrewed the cap and popped it off as he handed the bottle to Blake. “Down the hatch, Halsey.”
Blake raised the bottle and took several deep gulps. Karen scooped up the bottle as he lowered it and took a pull herself.
“What did you see, Marcus?” she asked.
“Can’t say for sure,” he said. He snapped open his shotgun and slid a fresh cartridge into the barrel. “But I heard it laughing at me from out there in the trees. Scariest damn thing I ever heard. Like a hundred voices all at once, high-pitched like, and low at the same time.” He nodded slowly to himself, his eyes wide and unfocused. Suddenly he looked at Karen. “I’m glad the both of you is okay. Bein’ here alone, the mind gets to wonderin’. I thought maybe no one was left but me. The end-times and all that. Guess I ain’t Christian enough after all.”
“We’re here,” said Karen. “And there are others—”
Something slammed into the glass window behind the counter and Marcus screamed. He swung the shotgun up and moved to pull the trigger, but Blake grabbed the barrel and shoved it toward the ceiling. The thunderclap of a solid slug exploded from the chamber and pieces of the ceiling fell around them like snow, shredded by the blast.
“It’s a little boy,” said Blake.
A boy stood outside the gas station at the window. His pajamas were soaked with sweat and small trickles of blood crawled from tiny cuts on his arms and neck. A dull yellow stain had dried over his crotch and his body shook with a rapid tremor. He was looking inside but his eyes were distant; unattached.
“I got him,” said Blake.
He went outside and guided the boy into the gas station. Marcus pulled over a stool near the counter and the boy sat on it slowly. Strands of his brown hair clung to his face and Karen said, “It’s okay now,” as she smoothed them back from his eyes. “It’s okay, Tommy.”
He looked up at the sound of his name and his face scrunched into a strained contortion as he sobbed heavily. He covered his eyes with one hand and tightly clenched the other in his lap.
Karen pulled his head to her and cradled him as he cried.
“We need to get him back to his family,” she said to Blake.
Tommy Bridges cried even harder after that.
“What happened, kid?” said Marcus kindly.
Tommy shook his head and continued cryin
g.
“It was that critter, I betcha,” said Marcus. “Damn thing running around out there—”
“Marcus!” interrupted Karen. She gestured down to the boy.
“Right. Sorry.” He walked around to the back of the counter and fed another slug into the shotgun.
“Tommy,” she said, gently pulling him away from her. “We’re going to take you home, okay? Your parents need to—”
Over Tommy’s shoulder she saw a flash of movement dart behind her cruiser outside. Something big ran past, skirting the edge of the light cast down by the overhead fluorescents.
“I know you saw that,” said Marcus. He rested the butt of the shotgun in the crook of his shoulder and walked over to the window. “Even I saw that.”
Tommy cried louder and gripped Karen’s shirt tightly.
“It was a wolf,” she said. A small hint of uncertainty crept into her voice.
“Ain’t no wolf.”
From behind the building came the sound of metal groaning as it was bent and torn, then a loud electric explosion. All of the lights blinked off. The parking lot was plunged into darkness. The outline of the cruiser glowed softly in the ambient moonlight.
“We should leave,” said Blake. “I’ll pull the car up.” He held out his hand for the keys.
“You mind if I go with you folks?” said Marcus.
“Not at all.”
Karen dug into her pocket and tossed the keys to Blake. She offered him her revolver but he shook his head.
“Keep it. I’ll need both hands.”
“Well, hell, son,” said Marcus. “I’ll watch your back.”
He moved to the door and scanned the area just outside. The pumps were roughly twenty feet away and Karen’s police cruiser was on the far side. Dense woods lined all edges of the concrete lot except the one leading to Main Street.
The bushes to the left of the gas pumps moved back and forth.
“Better go now,” said Marcus.
Blake ran from the door toward the car. He became a shadow against a shadow, and Karen had a hard time keeping track of his movements. She heard him slide over the hood of the car—the metal dipped down and sprang back up with a hollow pop as he made it to the far side of the police cruiser.
