by David Haynes
He rolled Mercer onto his back and removed his jacket. He had a plan for that. Removing it would also stop him floating quite so well and hasten the lowering of his temperature. It was a shame Mercer wouldn’t know much about his own death. He’d heard that drowning and freezing to death were quite painful and he’d be unconscious when it arrived. Vinson wished he could witness those last few seconds of life… look into his eyes and see the end arrive. Would Mercer wear the same confused expression as Burgess?
Mercer fell into the water with a heavy splash. Vinson watched the shadow of his profile bob up to the surface as he floated away on his back. That wasn’t good but it didn’t really matter. The water was so cold he would be dead in minutes. Should he have strangled him first? He considered racing down the bank and hauling him out to throttle him. He was no expert on murder but he was learning.
He watched the dark shape float away. Across the bank, something moved in the undergrowth. He looked over. The floodlights didn’t reach that far but the darkness seem to shift as he stared. The dark outlines of the trees shrank away leaving only... leaving a void, a fathomless pit where the darkness was absolute.
And then it appeared. A brooding presence, hunched at a pair of enormous gnarly shoulders, sloping away to a thin, whip-like tail. An elongated snout fixed to the dirt and the sound of something sniffing, inhaling the earth. The festering reek was everywhere, strong and rancid in his nostrils. Nauseating.
Vinson retched, a dry and hacking foulness driven from his body. And then the beast lifted its head. The two of them locked together; brown eyes to red.
The deep and rich glare of eyes, not reflected by some other light source but generating their own luminescence. Piercing through Vinson’s body, ripping through his flesh. Through muscle, sinew, ligament and bone until his viscera was exposed in all its gory glory. These were the eyes he’d seen in his dreams.
But it didn’t stop there. Reaching deeper inside him. Reaching down, down, down into the part of him called soul. Into his being. Into the hell that burned with the sulfuric stench of hatred within. That was what was down there. Pure.
The beast opened its mouth and raised its head to taste him. A long, black serpentine tongue slipped from between its razor teeth, flicking and licking at the frozen air. Steam rose all around it in a vile miasma.
But Vinson felt nothing. No fear, no shock, surprise or wonder. He was kindred with the beast. They were alike, the two of them. Made from the same stock. Created by hatred, envy and greed. It regarded him for a minute more and then turned its head. A gob of something fell from between its jaws, something with pale fingers. An arm. It belonged to Burgess. He knew without question. The giant of a man reduced to little more than a single rotten bone.
Vinson laughed. The beast turned away, the shadow of its dark and hairless back parting to reveal bones, skulls and the flesh of a thousand screaming victims. Forms writhing in ecstatic agony, swimming in their own blood, wailing, sobbing and pleading. To see them all like that was beautiful; like the finest work of art in the world. It was death. It was torture. He would send them all to the beast. All of them.
Then it was gone. Shadow into shadow.
He stood and watched the patch of trees where the beast had walked for an age. He no longer felt the painful stab of ice in his fingertips, or the sting of the wind on his cheeks.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
He walked back to the wash-plant clutching Mercer’s jacket. He put it on the excavator’s seat and walked toward the camp. He had to finish what he’d started.
26
Draper banged on Mercer’s camper and then opened the door.
“Get up you lazy son of a bitch,” he shouted into the darkened cab.
He could see a mound in the bed but it was too dark to see much else. He walked forward.
“Come on, Ray, get up.” He banged on the small table where there was a half-finished bowl of Fruit Loops.
“Snow’s come down pretty hard,” he said. It was still dark and he was the first one awake. Nothing unusual in that. He should have got up a couple of hours ago when he woke up gripping the sheets with white knuckles. His own terrified yelp had driven him from the hellish landscape he seemed to inhabit whenever he closed his eyes. Had he heard one of the others crying too? It sounded like a man had been crying; a deep sobbing echoing from one of the other campers. It had ended abruptly so it was impossible to know where it originated from, but he was sure he had heard it.
He always met Mercer in the saloon for a brief chat first thing in the morning, but he hadn’t been there. The coffee pot was cold. No sign of him down at the wash-plant either.
He needed to talk to him about the snow, to make a decision about how much longer they should stay. Draper wanted to remain. He thought they could continue for another few days. The snow had fallen heavily overnight but it had stopped for the time being. He also knew he might need a reality check. He needed Mercer to rein him in and tell him it was time to leave.
He took another step forward, banged on the bottom of the bed. “Just five minutes and then you can go back to sleep.”
He patted the bed. It was empty. The mound was his blankets, piled up and untidy. So where the hell was he?
He flicked the light on and took a look around the camper. There was nothing out of the ordinary. If his truck hadn’t been parked up beneath, he might have assumed Mercer had done one of his disappearing acts. If he had, he wouldn’t get far on foot. There wasn’t anywhere to go. After what he’d said about hanging around, he knew Mercer wouldn’t have taken off anyway.
Draper switched off the light and stepped into the daylight, such as it was.
In the indentations made by his boots, he could see the snow wasn’t deep enough to worry any of the vehicles on the claim. They would pass over it as if it were asphalt. His boot prints were the only ones leading to Mercer’s truck. The only other prints in the snow led directly to Vinson’s camper. It looked like he’d been up and down a couple of times after the snow had stopped.
Draper took a deep breath, enjoying the bite of the frigid air as it passed down his throat. He let it out slowly, trickling the warmer air between his lips and creating a thin ribbon of steam, then walked toward Vinson’s truck.
He banged on the door and almost instantly it opened. Had he been waiting, watching him at Mercer’s?
“Boss?”
It was clear Vinson hadn’t been to sleep yet. He looked too alert.
“Have you seen Mercer?”
Vinson frowned. “No. He sent me back early, what with all the snow. Said we wouldn’t get much done anyway.”
Vinson wasn’t just alert, there was a gleam in his eyes, something that looked akin to excitement.
“What time was that?” Draper asked.
Vinson looked at his watch. “Not sure, couple of hours ago maybe. You been over to the plant? He might still be there.”
Draper had been down there first. “He’s not there.” A faint unease was turning into something more in his gut. None of them should be working on their own. Mercer knew that as well as anyone else. Sometimes it was unavoidable for short periods, but they were all well aware of the risks working alone could bring.
“Not sure then,” Vinson said. “I’ll put my boots on and come look for him if you think it’ll help.”
Draper nodded. “I’ll get the others.” He turned away from Vinson.
“What’s all this racket?” Flynn was straightening his grubby fur-lined hat. It was nearly as old as he was.
“Mercer’s missing,” Draper replied.
“On one of his missions?” Flynn rubbed his eyes.
Draper walked past him. He wanted to go across to the plant, where Mercer had been working last, and check it over properly this time. He pointed at Mercer’s truck as Flynn walked beside him.
“Won’t get far without that.”
They reached the creek crossing, and behind him Draper could hear Puckett talking to Meg. Norm
ally they would have at least one pot of coffee before starting work but there was no time for that today. As they walked, he told Flynn what Vinson had said about Mercer sending him back early and about the state of his camper.
“Doesn’t sound like Mercer. He knows not to take risks out here.”
“No. No it doesn’t.”
They were halfway across the dirt bridge when Flynn grabbed Draper’s arm. “Do you smell that?”
Draper turned his head. In the half-light, Flynn’s eyes were ringed with red, and the whites had thick ribbons of blood running through them. He looked as bad as Draper felt. Was it Flynn who had cried out earlier? Nightmares weren’t the sort of thing he associated with a man like Flynn.
“It’s bad,” he replied. The stench was ever-present now, stronger than ever. It burned as it passed through his lungs. He’d registered its power a moment before Flynn mentioned it, but the smell was the least of his worries.
Flynn let go of Draper’s arm. “Smells like shit to me.”
Draper thought the reek was somehow worse than that but simply nodded and carried on walking.
The plant was covered in a layer of snow and the sluice boxes were frozen over completely. One of the reasons for keeping it running overnight was to stop this happening. Draper looked over to the far side of the cut. Mist clung to the ground, obscuring all but the very tops of the pines. Their pinnacles were dusted with snow too.
Draper cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Ray!” His voice echoed along the valley, diminishing quickly into nothing. He shouted again. It was a futile gesture, he knew.
He looked at the others gathered around. Vinson was walking toward them, hugging himself to ward off the cold.
“Where did you last see him, Mike?”
Vinson pointed at the excavator closest to the plant. “He was in that.” He reached the others. “I was up on the gantry, a rock got through the bars and jammed the plant. I got it free and he told me to call it a night.”
“Just told you to go to bed, did he?” Flynn asked. There was more than a trace of sarcasm in his tone.
Vinson either chose to ignore it or didn’t detect it. “I didn’t argue. Last I saw he was loading another bucket into the plant.”
“You don’t leave a man on his own. Not out here.”
Vinson shrugged. “I do what I’m told. Especially when the guy who’s doing the telling wants to kill me.”
Flynn grunted and said something under his breath.
“He can’t be far away,” said Meg. “Has anyone checked the container? Maybe he fell asleep in there?”
It was unlikely but it was a better suggestion than Draper had. “Puckett, you go up there and check with Meg. I’ll take an excavator up to the far side of the cut with Flynn and have a look around. Mike, try and get the plant running.”
Just as they all turned to go to their respective jobs, Vinson spoke. His timing was almost theatrical. “There were some bad noises out here last night. Real bad.”
They all stopped and looked at him.
“Sounded to me like something was having his supper just over there.” He pointed toward the creek behind the plant. “Crunching and tearing noises that I don’t mind saying made me feel small.”
“It’s called a bear,” Flynn replied.
“Or a wolf,” Puckett shouted and howled. “Watch out for those boys, Vinson!” He howled again but broke off halfway as Meg slapped the back of his head. He laughed and ran away from her.
Draper caught her eye as she turned. She had known, and been around, Mercer for most of her life. She looked worried. She probably had the same concerns going around in her mind that Draper had. The mention of predators by Vinson wasn’t needed, they all knew what was out there.
He walked around the side of the plant toward the two excavators. Flynn was next to him.
“That son of a bitch is getting close to...”
Draper patted Flynn’s shoulder. “I agree, but we need to...”
He was cut short. Mercer’s fur-lined blue and black tartan jacket was on the seat of the excavator. Draper’s stomach lurched.
“That’s Mercer’s,” Flynn pointed.
“Yep.” Draper climbed into the cab.
There was no mistaking it. The jacket was as old as Flynn’s hat, as old as Draper’s woolen sweater. They were all talismans and had seen them through too many seasons to count. Through too many winters.
Draper grabbed the jacket. The cab smelled of oil, grease and sweat, all of it woven through the fibers of the jacket. He looked down at Flynn. He knew they were both thinking the same thing. Why would he leave it behind if he’d simply gone off somewhere? He wouldn’t. That was the simple answer. He wouldn’t walk off into the bush without it. Not a chance. And that left only one possibility. Wherever Mercer was right now, it wasn’t through choice.
“Shit,” Flynn hissed, putting a word to the feeling they shared.
Draper bundled the jacket up and was about to throw it down to Flynn when he heard a metallic rattle from the pocket. It must be the keys, he thought as he pushed his hand inside the frozen lining.
But his fingers didn’t find a key-chain, they found something else. He withdrew his hand but he knew what it was already.
“Everything all right up there?” Vinson shouted up.
He was standing beside Flynn looking up. Draper wanted to hide what was in his hand, to conceal it from the two men but it was too late, the nugget was already exposed. The uniquely flattened side caught what little hazy light was in the morning and flashed. It was the lost nugget. No doubt about it.
“Is that...?” Vinson started but Draper gave him a look that silenced him immediately.
Flynn looked from Draper to Vinson then back to Draper again. The realization came slowly but when it did, his mouth dropped open. “No,” he said simply.
“Looks like the one I found. The lost one.” Vinson’s emphasis was clear. “Why’s Mercer got it in his pocket?”
It wasn’t a real question, they all knew that. It was about Vinson driving home his point a little further.
“Must’ve found it,” Flynn spoke but his voice was quiet, almost apologetic.
“What’s that?” Vinson turned to him. “Found it, you say?” He shrugged. “Seems a strange place to store something so valuable, especially since everyone looked so hard for it. But then again...”
Flynn turned on him. “I don’t want to hear any more of your theories, Vinson. Just one more word. Just say one more word.” He jabbed a finger into Vinson’s chest.
Draper was stunned. He didn’t know what to say or do. The only thing he knew for sure was that Ray Mercer had not stolen the nugget.
“And you’ll do what?” Vinson started. “Hit me like Mercer did?”
“No, not like he did. That was just a playful tap. I’ll make sure you can’t open your mouth for a week,” Flynn hissed. Draper could see the man’s face was flushed. Steaming vapor streamed from Flynn’s nostrils like an angry bull.
Quick as a flash, Vinson jumped back. His knife held out in front. It was the first time Draper had seen it and it wasn’t a hunting knife. It was a combat knife. The blade was serrated and evil-looking.
“I won’t let anyone hit me again,” Vinson spat. He was hunched at the shoulders, and smiling.
Flynn stood his ground, his fists raised, left leg forward in a boxer’s stance.
“Stop!” Draper jumped down between them, the weight of the Beretta conspicuous on his hip. His heart rate had gone from seventy to over a hundred in less than a second. He raised his hands, palm out to each of them. The smell was so strong, so pervasive, it seemed to be running through his bones. His head swam and the world had taken on an unnatural hue.
“Nobody wants this.” His words were measured but already chemicals were streaming through his bloodstream, trying to take over the primitive parts of his brain. He was fighting to keep them in check.
“Back down.” He looked at them in turn. Vins
on was still smiling but Flynn’s face was emotionless. “Both of you.”
Neither of them raised their eyes from the other. They were locked together.
Draper took a step forward, blocking their view. “I said, back the hell down.” He was faintly aware that snow had started falling silently all around them. Not heavily but enough to start covering their tracks.
He caught Flynn’s red-rimmed eyes and raised his eyebrows. “Flynn? Jim, I’m asking you to step away.”
Flynn’s mustache twitched and then twitched again. He lowered his fists and straightened.
Draper turned to Vinson. “You too, Mike. Put that thing away.”
“What the hell?” Puckett and Meg had returned. Meg crunched across the snow toward them. Puckett followed behind, initially oblivious but as soon as he saw what was happening he ran toward Vinson. The man he considered his surrogate father was being threatened. That’s all he saw, that’s all he thought.
“You...” he snarled at Vinson but Meg thrust her arm forward, knocking him to the side. Puckett slid, falling in a tangled heap. The holster on his hip was clearly visible.
This was turning worse by the second. Draper had seen Puckett and Flynn stand side by side in a bar brawl, taking on all-comers. Whatever their bond, it was no less strong than the one he shared with Mercer. It felt like everyone wanted to fight, to lose control and just start swinging. The need was in him too. All it would take was one move, a flash of something to tip him over the edge into the oblivion he’d felt at Delta Junction.
Over by the rumbling creek he could hear a noise that sounded like panting, like teeth grinding together in expectation of food. He couldn’t afford to look that way, even if he had wanted to.
“Puckett, just calm down. It’s all under control.” He mouthed a thanks at Meg. He turned back to Vinson who still had the ugly blade pointed toward Flynn.
