Again, an unusual request. The Bread Man always disposed of the bodies in the ravine. “The power?”
“Yes. From the fear such an act will provoke, the fear of this entire town. I want them all locking their doors and nailing down their windows, in spite of the heat. I want them all too scared to come out at night. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Then The Other said the last thing on earth that The Bread Man wanted to hear. “Now. Open your eyes.”
The Bread Man whimpered, his lower lip trembling as he swallowed the filling and felt it drag down his esophagus.
“What did I say?”
Slowly, deliberately, The Bread Man opened his eyes.
The Other looked as he always did, dressed in his black cloak and tall hat, his face covered in black rags, which were now torn at the mouth, revealing sharp, gnashing, piranha-like teeth.
In his right hand was a lantern.
“You know your father’s in there, don’t you?” The Other said, motioning his head to the lantern as he brought it up to The Bread Man’s face. “Do you want me to let him come out for a visit?”
“No! Please. No!” The Bread Man screamed, clamping his eyes shut again and kicking his heels hard into the ground, toppling his chair backwards.
The world felt upside down for a moment and then The Other was laughing, the contempt of a thousand hateful fathers in his voice.
Then… silence.
Still, The Bread Man waited, petrified, his head hurting and his tooth bleeding, hot crap caking his pants. But he didn’t move. Not one inch.
Only when the crickets began to sing their sad songs again did he allow himself to believe that The Other had really left.
And even then, it took him a full hour to open his eyes to confirm it.
CHAPTER 11
WE CAN’T WIN THIS fight, The Gray Man said.
Napoleon couldn’t even reply. He was struck speechless. Already, over and over again, this place was proving to be more than the human mind could handle. Forget about the constant feeling of being displaced in both space and time, it was the mounting horrors of what he was seeing and being subjected to, framed in an atmosphere made of nothing but suffering.
A strong hand, The Gray Man’s, grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him away from the advancing army and back towards the well.
Where his grandmother—
“No!” Napoleon screamed, trying to pull away. But it was no use. His strength was nothing compared to The Gray Man’s.
Don’t worry. Grab hold of me again, around my waist! The Gray Man ordered.
Napoleon felt his feet coming off the ground. They were taking flight once more, at a hurried pace. As they lifted into the air they were accompanied by a spear which creased by, almost clipping The Gray Man’s leg. Napoleon looked down to see the demons cresting on the hilltop and again felt overcome.
The wall was one thing. The crows another. The creature in the well even worse.
But none of them compared to the demons below, gnashing their fangs and screaming obscenities. Most of them looked to be roughly nine to ten feet tall, some with shaved heads, others with long dreadlocks, all of them humanoid in some fashion, with sunken eye sockets and grossly exaggerated cheekbones. They wore on their faces only three variations of expression: rage, hate and madness.
The front of their ranks, mostly armed with swords and maces, parted to make way from another group.
Archers.
“Gray!” Napoleon shouted in caution.
I know, The Gray Man replied.
It seemed to Napoleon as if flight was now more difficult for The Gray Man. Before, they had crisscrossed the air with some measure of ease and swiftness, but now their ascent was sluggish and erratic. He was about to ask what was wrong when the answer came to him: when they had arrived, they had been descending. They had been gliding, mostly. Now they were attempting to take off from the surface of a place that…
That no one’s meant to leave, The Gray Man said. Correct, Villa.
Two more spears climbed towards them, one of them hurled with great force and accuracy—and heading straight for The Gray Man’s chest. At the last second The Gray Man caught it at the end of the shaft nearest the tip, freezing its motion before he cast it aside.
But Napoleon had seen the tip long enough to see that it was made of sharpened bone.
“What do we do?” Napoleon screamed.
I’m weak. It’s harder to maintain my strength while also trying to hide it. With you I’m mostly concealed, but, remember, every time that we separate we’re both on borrowed time.
“That’s just great.”
They were gaining altitude, the archers below shrinking in size. By the time they launched their arrows, it was too late, but only barely so; one group of arrows peaked just below Napoleon’s feet.
As they pulled away and flew over the barren lands below, The Gray Man continued his explanation.
This is going to be hard. Keep in mind that you have what they want.
“What’s that?”
Your soul. It’s not as visible to them when you’re with me. But, on your own, it shines like a beacon.
“Then do me a favor and don’t go anywhere.”
I’m what they fear. So together I had a feeling we’d be… confusing to them, even somewhat hidden. I think that will still hold true. But, again, when I’m on my own I stand out even more than you do.
“Which makes them fear you less?”
Yes. By way of sheer numbers mostly, but also, I suspect, their fear is easier to handle in light of the possible reward.
“Reward?”
Of capturing one of my kind in hell.
“Oh.”
Their master would no doubt ease the suffering, whatever it may be, for all eternity, to the one who brings him my head.
Napoleon said nothing. He’d never had to rely on anyone this much in his entire life, and he didn’t like it. But there was no getting around it. Without The Gray Man, he would only last minutes in this place, if even that.
Still glad you volunteered? The Gray Man asked.
Napoleon had to be honest. “Not so much. No.”
We’ll make it. Just keep your wits about you.
The Gray Man had flown them some distance away but his wingbeats were labored, and they were gradually descending towards a sandy dune off to their left.
“What now?” Napoleon asked.
We’ve got to find Kyle.
“How?”
He came here with a soul, just like you.
“So, without protection, wouldn’t that mean he’s dead by now?”
Perhaps. But I doubt it. He’s a ‘one.’ And a successful one at that.
“What does that mean?”
It means he’s special. Even more than capturing me, they’d want to capture him. But I doubt they’d kill him.
“Why?”
Because he’s rarer. Chosen. My type may help thousands before we advance. His type has the capability to help, to save, a million.
“I still haven’t met this Fasano guy, but I’m willing to guess he’s not feeling so special right about now,” Napoleon replied.
As they grew closer to the ground, patches of burned-out desert trees, black branches reaching to the sky, came into view. But that was it. So far there were no demons in sight.
The Gray Man was quiet for a long time before he replied. During our journey here, while we were traveling through the stars, how did you feel?
Napoleon thought for a second before he answered, “It was unbelievable. Beautiful.”
Yes. It was. It still is, even to me, and I have been journeying it quite a while.
“Was that heaven?”
The Gray Man chuckled. No. Not even close. If for no other reason than this very sacrifice you’ve made, Villa, your day will come. When it does, you will remember asking me that and laugh. Heaven is far beyond the joy that any universe could ever provide.
They la
nded softly, Napoleon’s shoes sinking in the sand.
Everything was still. There was no wind of any kind. No sound.
“So. Back to Fasano.”
The Gray Man put his hands in his pockets. Yes. Back to Fasano.
“How do we get to him and then get the he—” He broke off. “Get out of here.”
His soul will lead us to him.
“Where is he then? Can you tell?”
Yes. It took a while but I was finally able to sense him. He’s over there, The Gray Man said, pointing off to their right. Somewhere beyond that giant dune with all the tumbleweeds.
“Well, that’s a start. That’s good, right?”
The Gray Man nodded. Yes. But there are only two problems.
“What?”
I’m sorry. But we’ll have to walk. I’m too weak to fly.
“And?”
The Gray Man continued staring in the direction in which he’d pointed, lines of worry creasing his forehead and eyes. It looks like someone else has gotten to him first.
SHERIFF CONCH STOOD outside the home of Matt Barnes and shook his head, still not quite sure of what he’d just seen. He was still waiting on a call back from Hazel Jay, and had at least managed to track down Ely Joslin—a video game nerd with a centerfold big sister—earlier. Now he was trying desperately to get the image of Mr. Barnes, who’d answered the door wearing a dress and holding a pink poodle, out of his mind.
It appeared that Ashley Barton ran with an interesting crowd, to say the least.
Mr. Barnes was startled, like most folks were, to find the law on his doorstep. Instead of inviting Conch in, Barnes immediately asked if they could chat on the porch, citing a need, like some modern day Scarlett O’Hara, for some “fresh air.” The fact that there were two other men inside, one wearing only boxer shorts and the other in a brunette wig and wearing bright red lipstick, had nothing to do with it at all.
Conch agreed, with a suppressed chuckle, reminding himself yet again that the limit to the weirdness never ended. Even in a tiny little town like this there were always going to be surprises. He wasn’t going to judge. Cross-dressing homosexuals had their rights too. But he really, really didn’t want to hear the details of the alibi that he figured was now going to be coming his way.
At first he didn’t have to. Barnes was in his early twenties and obviously not shy about his sexual orientation. After all, he’d just stepped out onto his porch in clear view of his neighbors in a floral dress and white panty hose. No heels though, and Conch couldn’t help but notice that, well, be it a man or a woman, it didn’t matter. A dress without heels? It didn’t work.
He was just beginning to wonder if such an observation could be construed as a gay thought—the idea of which made him instantly uncomfortable—when Barnes began to stammer and yammer on about the weather and the kids in the neighborhood that were stealing people’s mail.
“I’m not here for that,” Conch said gruffly, reasserting his manhood by resting the heel of one hand on his gun.
“Oh. Oh. Oh, okay.”
It was one “oh” too many, and again Conch had to keep from chuckling. It helped that the poodle, its hair dyed pink, was now growling at him. Conch loved dogs, even poodles, but a pink dog of any breed seemed almost as perverse as whatever had been going on inside the house before he arrived. Given what the dog had probably been seeing, it was no wonder he was upset.
“I wanted to know your whereabouts for the past twelve hours.”
“Oh.”
Another “oh.” This was getting tedious.
Mr. Barnes mustered a bit of courage. “Why?”
“It’s regarding a friend of yours, I believe. Ashley Barton?”
No hesitation. Barnes’ eyebrows popped straight up. “Ashley? What’s wrong?”
“She’s missing.”
Conch did as he always did: he watched the eyes. Forget about all that poetic “windows to the soul” bullshit. The eyes were confessionals, absent any priest and almost as good as any polygraph. It wasn’t about any psychological mumbo jumbo of which way they looked or how often. The plain fact of the matter was that a guilty person, almost always looked away when they were trying to hide something. Maybe not for long. Maybe they would recover quickly, and then look you dead in the eye before they started lying and swearing this, that and the other thing on their mother’s soul, but initially? They would look away, the slick ones buying time by nonchalantly looking at passing traffic or their cell phones.
Barnes didn’t look away for even a split second. Instead, his face melted. “Oh my God. What are you saying?”
“Mr. Barnes, I really can’t get into the details of the case, but she’s missing and we’re interviewing as many people who knew her as we can right now to try and get to the bottom of things.”
“Missing? No. Fuck me. This is horrible. Dear Lord.”
Conch grimaced slightly. The whole cursing in conjunction with God’s name always got to him for some reason. It wasn’t that he was a puritan or anything. He was known to let loose with some garbage talk himself from time to time. But using the Lord’s name in vain was supposed to be a biggie, and ever since the day his mother—who was the sweetest woman he ever knew—made him chew a bar of Dial soap for five minutes for doing it, Conch had steered clear.
“So,” Conch tried to continue.
“Shit! This can’t be real!” Barnes exclaimed before tears filled his eyes. Black blobs appeared at the corners. He evidently was wearing mascara or something. The poodle had calmed a bit. It was still growling, but under its breath now.
“There’s no need to panic, sir. We’re still investigating.”
“Ashley is a sweetheart. Bit of a diva, mind you,” Barnes said, wiping at his eyes with his free hand and sniffling, “but a true friend. Ever since junior high she’s accepted me for…”
Now he looked away, but this was no doubt more out of fear of being judged than because he felt guilty about anything.
Conch waited.
Barnes let out a raspy sigh. “She accepts me for who I am.”
Nodding, Conch noticed that he was still speaking of her in the present tense. If he’d killed her he might not. He might slip up with a past tense verb. Still, Conch pressed on. “Good. Still, though, we need to know your recent whereabouts, Mr. Barnes.”
“Well, you can’t think I had anything to do with it. Seriously? She’s like a sister to me!”
“It’s standard procedure.”
Barnes squinted at Conch, hard, and then his demeanor changed. He was angry.
As a result, Conch got what he feared he would. All of the night’s sexual escapades between Barnes and the two men inside vindictively told in great detail.
“Well,” Conch said with an extended sigh, his stomach more than a little upset now, “I’ll have to speak to your two friends to corroborate what you’re saying.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Barnes said with a look of concern, “but I understand that you have to.”
“I will keep everything discreet,” Conch said. “As discreet as I can, at least.”
“I appreciate that. One of them is married. His wife doesn’t know.”
Conch nodded. But of course. “Got it. But first, you said Ashley was a bit of a diva?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Well. You meant something.”
“She’s a good person. Sweet.” He was petting the poodle gently. “There, there, Jeeves.”
Conch bit his tongue. Jeeves? You’re flat out killing me, Mr. Barnes.
“Mr. Barnes. I’m guessing that you had nothing to do with whatever might’ve happened. As such, any information you have or ideas or opinions… whatever… that can help the investigation? You should speak up now.”
Barnes hesitated, then said, “Well. She’s a bit of a tease, you know. The boys all like her, and she knows it. She’s pretty and athletic, yeah, but she can play Xbox and talk shit with the best of them.”
&nb
sp; “Okay. Do you know of any boys who might’ve wanted to hurt her?”
“No. Not really.”
“Any jilted ex-boyfriends?”
This time it was Barnes who chuckled. “Well. They all were.”
“What do you mean?”
Barnes sighed through his nose and scratched his chin. “Well. Okay. I guess she wouldn’t mind me saying, under the circumstances and all. You see, Sheriff, she loved them all and left them all, but she never really loved them, do you get what I’m saying?”
“No. Not really.”
“She, uh, ya know. She didn’t put out.”
“To any of them?”
Barnes nodded, widening his eyes in a way that made it seem like they were trading juicy gossip.
“You mean—”
“Yep. She’s a virgin.”
“So, this made her boyfriends mad then?”
This time Barnes laughed, startling Mr. Jeeves and making him growl again. “Uh. Yah. Just a little.”
“Why’s that?”
“Oh please, Sheriff, straight men are all the same. You all wanna fuck like bunnies until it’s time to get married, then you all want a virgin.”
“And, what, these guys wanted to marry her? As young as she was?”
“Because of what she was, yeah. She figured that out too. Girl knew how to play her cards, but as far as I know, she never did anything mean.”
“No?”
“Certainly nothing she told me about or anything that would make someone hurt her.”
Conch sighed. “A diva, a tease, a smart girl who played the boys. You don’t make her sound like an angel.”
Barnes looked suddenly serious. They stood on the sidewalk as a taco truck pulled down the street and parked at the corner.
“But,” Barnes said, “she was also sweet, loving, kind and considerate.”
“Okay,” Conch replied. He looked Barnes in the eye again.
“It wasn’t her fault that she figured out why they wanted her. And when she broke it off? Somehow she was still the last to get over it.”
“So what’re you saying, Mr. Barnes?”
His eyes filled with tears again, this time over the brim and down his cheeks. Mr. Jeeves craned his neck to lick at one. Conch waited for the meltdown, and when it came, he knew he could cross Barnes off the list. His lip quivered and his voice shook. He looked at Conch, gathered his composure and said, “Don’t you see, Sheriff? I’m saying she was an angel.”
A Million to One: (The Millionth Trilogy Book 2) Page 11
