Marty rolled in agony. The bullet had hit a bone and the pain was blinding. He pushed himself to his knees, limbs trembling as he crawled past the dead man, praying he could reach the backpack at the foot of the mound.
The gray dawn was showing pink over the treetops blocking the canyon. He saw the bag and dropped next to it, wiping tears from his eyes with the heels of his hands. He opened a flap and dug for the roll of tape he carried for emergencies. He found it and began to bind the leg above the wound, spooling it tight around his thigh until the tape cut deep into the skin. Suddenly the little Rainfield Bluetick came out of the trees, approached Phillips’ body and sat next to it, watching him with its head cocked to one side.
Marty rose slowly to his feet, grabbed his rifle and hobbled toward the canyon, wondering if they were already there. Wondering if he would make it before they crossed over to the other side.
The light improved as he made his way through the trees. It was difficult and slow, but he kept moving and minutes later saw the clearing. The air was cool and dry and clear. Sunlight was glinting off the peaks, but the canyon was still in shadow.
He stumbled forward to the edge of the trees and fell upon his stomach. He raised the rifle and put his eye to the scope and scanned the shadows until he saw them.
And there they were!
They were only midway to the opposite side. It wasn’t too late. But now he was alone again; there were no trackers behind him or helicopters in the air.
He used his wrist as a fulcrum to steady his shaking hands. Excruciating pain shot up his leg and into his torso. He gritted his teeth and blinked through the tears, put his eyes back to the scope and followed the shapes as they approached sunlight on the far side of the canyon. He would wait until they were visible again, and then he’d have a minute to take the shot.
Sweat poured from his forehead and salt burned his eyes. The shapes continued to move and he judged them at two hundred yards distant. He gripped the stock of his rifle and tried to steady the weapon, but he was cold and his body was beginning to tremble.
Just a few more yards ...
He saw the man step into the sunlight and he put pressure on the trigger. Judy was next to him and the man was dragging her with a tether round her wrist.
He put his sights on the man’s back, the largest mass of body he could find, but before he could pull the trigger there was a deafening roar and the man dropped to his knees as a Blackhawk crossed the peaks above the canyon.
Just as quickly the helicopter was gone. The man pulled Judy to her feet and tried to run. Marty found him in the crosshairs and with every ounce of control squeezed the trigger.
The rifle cracked solidly, followed by countless diminishing echoes that rang between the canyon’s walls as the man and Judy were catapulted into the trees.
Judy heard the echo of the shot. The man’s body jerked sideways before he threw them both into the shadows. As her face slammed into the earth he lost his grip on the strap around her wrist. She started to scramble away but his hand clamped her ankle. She turned and realized he’d been hit, and now he was fumbling with his free hand around the rifle.
His back was arched and there was a look of astonishment on his filthy face. Then she saw it: her Glock pistol had fallen from his open bag. She lunged for it and missed, then drove her foot into his hand, trying to loosen his grip.
He attempted to balance the rifle in four fingers and direct the barrel toward her head, but his body was oddly contorted and there was something wrong with his legs.
Judy kicked again, this time bloodying his knuckles.
The rifle wavered wildly. He pulled the trigger and the bullet nicked her ear. She could feel the superheated combustion and stippling of gunpowder burning her face. But it was a bolt-action rifle and now he had to chamber another round with one hand. Blood was pooling around a wound behind his hip. She could smell it along with the cordite in the air as her eyes rolled back into her head and everything went dark.
She was a little girl again, tracing designs on the wallpaper as she skipped down the steps from her second story bedroom. Her mother had told her to play quietly, but there had been a noise and she had decided to see what fell. The living room was empty like the dining room and the kitchen. The hallway to the sunroom was dark, but there was light under the door to her father’s office.
She ran joyfully, reached for the knob, yanked it open and found him lying on the floor. His eyes were open and there was a gun in his hand, a dark stain of blood spreading from beneath his hair. She would never forget the smell that was in that room; the blood and cordite and the reek of burnt hair. It had always been a lie, she suddenly realized. It was she, not her mother, who had found him dead.
She blinked again and was back in the present, everything like it had been a second before and the man was still fumbling with the bolt on the rifle.
With a deafening roar the helicopter returned, the sun glinting on the metal bay doors. The wounded man was slamming the bolt down on another shell. Once more she lifted the heel of her foot and drove it hard against his fingers, simultaneously throwing herself to one side, swiping for the pistol and in one fluid motion brought it level and pulled the trigger. A bullet ripped into his chest and the rifle fell to the ground just as the helicopter dipped in descent.
Men jumped from the open bays, running with rifles pointed.
Neck still crooked, his eyes wild and confused, he snarled like an animal as they encircled him.
Chapter 34
Marion, West Virginia
It was a morning full of surprises, according to one news reporter standing in the downpour behind the perimeter that kept the press away from the command center activity, deputies in orange vests and clear plastic rain covers on their hats having effectively blocked off traffic around the FBI’s Mobile Command Bus on Mountain Road. A public relations officer for the West Virginia State Police had just announced that the body of a woman found in a cemetery outside of Quills Landing was Jessie Spangler, a prominent Fairfax Virginia attorney reported missing on the Canaan Mountain two days before. He also announced that a manhunt for fugitive Rolfe Ledder had ended in an early morning shooting on the fringe of the Monongahela National Forest, about twenty-three miles south of the Iron Mountain. Ledder, seriously wounded, was airlifted to County General Hospital in nearby Marion. A hostage, Agent Judy Wells of the Drug Enforcement Administration, was alive and being transported by Medflight to the Washington Hospital Center in Washington DC. No word was forthcoming on her condition. Also in serious, but stable condition, was Sheriff Martin Wayne who was evacuated by medical helicopter to West Virginia University Hospital in Morgantown. A civilian, Lance Phillips of Shady Spring, West Virginia was pronounced dead on the scene.
A spokesperson for the Federal Bureau of Investigation would not comment on a report that police recovered what they believe to be the murder weapon in the Spangler case, though they did announce that a joint local and federal law enforcement press conference would be held at noon at the Marion courthouse. Anticipation ran high that there would be a statement about the fugitive being the Mountain State Butcher.
Rolfe Christian Ledder had never been in a hospital before, had never experienced such an odd profusion of sounds and smells. Some of the staff’s accents were unfamiliar, not from any land he had ever visited.
He couldn’t see beyond the walls of his room, but there was significant activity going on around him. He couldn’t raise his head, which was braced, or his arms that were shackled to the bed. As for his legs, he simply couldn’t feel them.
The men and women who visited him over the weeks were generally friendly and not at all threatening. They told him a bullet was pressing against his spine and that someone was going to remove it when he was sufficiently healed from his other surgery. They said he would walk again and that when he was strong enough they would transfer him to a prison.
Most of the time Rolfe lived in a narcotic-induced world; a place where m
emories and dreams intermingled; where he was both a man and a boy from another time.
And as always he dreamed about his childhood and the church.
There were candles burning in the windowsills. The preacher was holding a rattler, its body thick and powerful, its tongue darting beneath two black eyes.
“Sin, brothers and sisters, is as plain as the nose on your face. As evident as the sun or the moon or the thousands of stars in the sky.
“Sin doesn’t sneak up on us in disguise. We aren’t suddenly overtaken by sin and unable to get out of its way.
“Sin is something we do willingly. Our eyes wide open to the choice.
“And how do we know it is sin?” he asked the congregation.
Holland waited a moment, raising his eyebrows into question marks.
“We know because the nearer we get to sin,” he said, raising the snake in the air, “the more uncomfortable we begin to feel. We know because sin has a special place in our human bodies.”
Holland put the snake back in its box and closed the lid. He smiled, strolling between the chairs, stopping midway to put his hand on a young girl’s shoulder. “Do you know where sin lives, young lady?” he asked. “Is it here?” He thumped his chest. “Have you ever felt sin in here before?”
The little girl shook her head and Holland smiled.
“No. Not here in your heart where the Holy Spirit dwells.”
He touched her nose. “You ever felt sin here in your nose?”
She giggled and shook her head.
“No. Not there either.”
He walked on and looked down at Rolfe. “This,” he said, pointing at the boy’s stomach, “is where sin dwells, brothers and sisters.
“Sin lives in our bellies!” he cried. “In the very bowels of our being.
“Amen!
“Sin is that gut-wrenching doubt! Sin is that nauseous feeling after we have disobeyed. Sin is that twisting guilt we feel when we have done something wrong. Ask any child where sin lives!” He pointed his finger at people in the congregation. “Sin is what we feel way down in our bellies when we are no longer on firm ground with God!”
It was late one sunny afternoon and their mother had gone early to meet Reverend Holland at the church. Rolfe was finishing the last of his chores and fetching water from the stream.
Kate was in the creek, standing naked in the hole where they bathed. She looked over her shoulder, but instead of covering herself, turned to face him. He had never seen more than a glimpse of a woman’s body before and had never thought of Kate as a woman until that moment.
Their conversation was awkward that evening, only words to fill a void. The hours of light were long. It was warm outside, yet neither was eager to leave the cabin. They didn’t play their usual games before supper. They didn’t read the Bible. Kate announced she was tired and going to bed early. There was something in her voice that made Rolfe nervous.
He climbed the loft behind her. She stripped to her slip and lay on the horsehair mattress. He took off his clothes and lay next to her, uncertainly. In a while he felt a strand of her hair tickling his cheek. He turned to look at her and her eyes were closed, but she was smiling.
He closed his eyes again, trying not to think about her, but he could not dispel from his mind the image of Kate in the creek.
Then fingers brushed his hand.
Hands touching hands, such an ordinary thing and yet this time was like no other sensation. Everything had changed between them. Nothing would ever be the same.
Rolfe could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
Don’t think about it, he tried to tell himself. Don’t think about the creek.
But her fingers touched again and this time took his hand and brought it slowly to her chest. Then ever so slowly she pulled the slip up to her neck.
God was watching, God saw everything! God knew that he was sinning because he wanted to move his hand. But when he did he couldn’t stop and felt the breasts and explored the nipples that grew hard between his fingers. Hesitant each time he moved because he was afraid she would make him stop. But she didn’t and he left the breasts to trace the curve of her ribs and then her stomach and the mound between her legs. And the wet place as her thighs began to spread in the most extraordinary moment of his life.
Skin touching skin, such an ordinary thing, and yet it had happened with all the potency of a thunderstorm. A force, that in spite of dire warnings was more tempting than anything he imagined. It was impossible to resist and worth all the tortures of Hell.
Rolfe was wheeled from his room one rainy morning and returned asleep that night. He had been told that the operation was a success.
In a week he was taking short walks in the halls under police guard. There was talk that in a month he would be released to a prison.
The police had returned his things, his knapsack and a leather pouch, everything but the gold wristwatch that policemen had confiscated while he was in the emergency room. He had seen his belongings in a metal locker in his room.
An old black man came to wash his floors at night. He had a deep soulful voice that reminded him of the south. The old man hummed, making circles with his mop. One evening Rolfe asked him if he could get his leather bag.
The old man looked at him, expressionless.
“It’s got my luck,” Rolfe pleaded.
The man never spoke, but when he returned to mop the next evening, he opened the locker and brought the bag to his bed. There was nothing in it that could harm anyone: leaves and berries and some odd looking seeds.
That night when the last staffer looked in on him, she thought Rolfe looked pale, but shrugged it off.
No one would ever notice the leather sack that Rolfe dropped in the trashcan next to his bed.
Chapter 35
Quills Landing, West Virginia
The copperhead arched its back and dropped from an empty chair to the floor, gliding toward the back of the room. Holland followed it, picking it up with one of his swollen hands, gently so as not to surprise it because the copperheads would bite you just a little quicker than a rattlesnake.
“Care not what man or woman understands when you speak in tongue.” He held up the snake for all to see. “For tongue is the language of God –”
He watched the man and woman enter at the back of the room. He had known Marty since he was a boy, spent time with his father who liked to fish the creeks in Kettle Hollow. The lady with him, with the cast on her arm, was about as familiar a face as you would see these days – a regular celebrity, you might say.
He had already been through all the questions with the state troopers, and then again with agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. But Marty and Judy Wells would want to know the more personal things about Rolfe. The deeper things. They would want to know what happened to him as a boy. Why he had become what he had become. They would want to know the things he wished could remain buried.
He never doubted that the day would come. It was God’s justice that he bare his sins in what took place. That he be exposed as everyone else was.
He reached to take a snake from a front-row parishioner, and then another and a third that he draped across his arm.
“Strive to receive your spiritual gifts from God.” He raised his arms holding the snakes above his head. “This is what separates us from the sinner. This is how we humble servants of the Lord can demonstrate our faith.”
One by one Holland lowered the snakes into the pine box and closed the lid.
“Go in peace, my brothers and sisters. Do God’s work and until we meet again ... Amen.”
“She was an unusual woman,” Holland said, cleaning his nails with a pocketknife. His hands were large and his skin was blotched purple and black. “She came here most every service I preached and back then I had three a week. She started bringing young Kate and Rolfe to church when they were just old enough to sit. Their father never came. He didn’t care much for religion.”
Holland wal
ked to the open door and put a hand on the frame, looking out over the empty parking lot.
“She was a hard mother, but then she’d been raised by hard parents. She was a striking woman too,” he said. “Her daughter Kate was her spitting image.”
He coughed and dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief, looking away.
“Probably I made a fuss over her, likely a fool of myself as well. She said she wanted to talk about her marriage and in the beginning I went along, but I knew she was coming to see me and not the Lord and then one thing led to another. I think she believed that because I was a preacher it was all right. She had that much faith.” He shook his head. “Looking back I wanted to believe it too.”
Judy glanced at Marty and raised her eyebrows.
“Her husband left her not long afterward.” He coughed. “They hadn’t been … er … well, you know, consummating the marriage for quite a while. Is that the word, consummate?”
He turned and gave them a weak smile.
“She started leaving the children alone on the mountain. After services she’d come to my home. We spent hours together and pretended no one knew. But surely people did. Surely everyone did.” He shook his head and sighed.
“By God, those were troubled times in that home. In this home too.” He thumped his chest and removed his bifocals and cleaned them with the dirty handkerchief. “I knew it was wrong, but the Devil had his grip on me.”
He put the glasses back on and stuffed the handkerchief in his front pocket.
“And as sin breeds sin …” He gave a knowing look and picked up a Bible from a folding table by the door. His eyes began to look glassy and he shook the book in the air. “Anyhow, that summer her daughter Kate came to be with child.”
RATTLEMAN: Praise for 18 Seconds 'Excellent! Stephen King Page 21
