Calmly and deliberately, as if tearing down an engine part by part, the mechanic poured gasoline all around the bed. On the drapes. On the walls. He moved beside his daughter and stood over her. He soaked her in gas, and she screamed again. He drowned her with it. She began to choke, coughing up mouthfuls of fuel.
He emptied the can on himself.
He looked down at his little girl. Waved a hand to clear some smoke from her face. Her entire body trembled, her eyes spilling with fear. Only a silent scream escaped her.
“Burn her,” he said, the words coming easily. As if someone else had said them.
His eyes went black.
Ray Bishop took out his matches.
~ 40
Kain had never run as fast in his life. The sky seemed to grow brighter with each drum of his heart. From where he was now, still a quarter mile distant at the crossroad, he could see flames engulfing the farmhouse. Reeling, he doubled his efforts, and as he finally headed up the drive, legs close to buckling, searched in vain for Lynn and her family. He staggered as he screamed their names at the top of his lungs, but the roar from the conflagration drowned him out.
Fire consumed the veranda. The pillar on the right collapsed, and the old awning came crashing down on that side. The heat brushed past him like a great wind, and he had to retreat. Flames attacked the upper level. He moved to the stairs and started up, but a pocket of fire flared above him, driving him back.
He cried out for Lynn once more.
Again the fire raged at him. He ducked down, throwing his arms up to shield his face from the heat. He dashed round the rear of the home, it too, a fiery hell. He stopped dead in his tracks as a cold finger stabbed him.
RYAN.
The boy lay unmoving, face down in the dirt. Half of him was hidden behind the shed, and the way his arms were, crooked and reaching, it was clear he had tried to crawl out from behind it. Kain rushed to him, but he knew.
He was too late.
The boy’s shirt held a sprawling dark stain from the gaping wound in the back of his neck—a knife wound. His fingers were caked with a thick mix of dirt and blood.
He saw the shepherd then, what remained of it, and the madness of it all nearly convinced him it was all just a horrifying nightmare. He felt sick. He took a moment to gather himself, and just as he was about to turn to the farmhouse, he slipped down onto his stomach, in a reaction driven purely by fear.
Gunshot: had it come from the house? He couldn’t be sure, not with the din about him; it could have come from far off. All he really knew, and of this he was absolutely certain, was that what had transpired here was the black work of Ray Bishop. And to underestimate the man would be a grave mistake.
He hesitated for a few precious seconds, then kept low as he made his way to the back door. The kitchen was completely ablaze, as was most of the house itself; how anyone trapped inside could still be alive was impossible. He tried to tell himself there was still a chance, that maybe—
He heard a scream—did he?—and that was enough. He stepped back to ready himself, then charged up the steps. The screen door was unlocked, and he bolted inside and into the fiery corridor. Thick black smoke choked him. It burned his eyes. Lynn lay at the bottom of the stairs, her body crumpled and twisted. He moved quickly through the flames, for they were very nearly upon her. He checked for a pulse. Barely a beat. Blood dribbled from her mouth and her nostrils. She was soaked in gasoline.
Another scream startled him.
Lee.
The stairs reeked of fuel. He looked up, was about to rush up, when a wave of heat swept over him. He grabbed Lynn, her right ankle horribly twisted, clearly broken, and worked her limp body over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He turned to the back door in hope of escape, but all he met was a wall of fire.
He made his way along the burning corridor. Beyond the front screen door, the fire raged. He started to turn back, but again he had no recourse. The awning collapsed further and hung there in flames. He moved up and kicked the door. It struck the awning and stuck half open, leaving him just enough room to squeeze them through. He moved as fast as he could through the fire. The veranda listed at a steep angle, sloping to the left the way it was, and he nearly lost his footing. The deck boards gave beneath them, but just as they did, one great leap sent them forward and airborne. He tried to brace himself for the landing, but when they hit the ground they tumbled headlong into the grass. More of the awning came crashing down, the fire reaching after them, and so he picked Lynn up and scrambled as fast and as far as he could, before his legs simply gave.
Exhausted, his mind spent, he knelt with her, and held her in his arms. Overcome with smoke, she was barely alive.
“Lee,” she croaked. She coughed up some blood.
Kain set her down softly. He was about to return to the house, when a pair of headlights cut through the darkness. The vehicle veered off the road and into the long drive. It slowed quickly, pulling up fifty yards short of him. He put up a hand to block the blinding lights, and a moment later, saw that two men—no, three now, one stood behind them—had gotten out. They stood starkly, unmoving, the headlamps behind them making them look like demons. Two of the men held guns at their sides.
A second vehicle, much faster than the first, roared up the drive. The pickup charged quickly, cutting in front of the brilliant high beams of the car. The way it was racing, it had to be Ben Caldwell.
Kain looked down at Lynn. Her eyes were glassy, as if blind, searching the way they were. He took her head in his hands and held her close. Something sharp stabbed his heart. He didn’t realize he was trembling … how much he loved her.
The house exploded then, the farmhouse ripping itself apart. The din deafened. Glass, wood, shingles, flaming shrapnel—they all came in one immense assault—flew past him. Some of it crashed through the Chevy’s side windows. Something struck him hard in the back, and he nearly cried out. Lynn clutched his hand, and he cradled her, protected her; he would not let her go. The right wall caved, the upstairs collapsing with it. The hellfire took the soul of the home, and when he looked down and saw those precious eyes close for the last time, he screamed and he screamed. And when the driver from the pickup and the men with the guns started rushing his way, Kain Richards, tears bleeding, the will to go on seeping from his heart, brought two fingers to his temple.
~ 41
About twenty minutes after he and Kain had shaken hands, Al Hembruff finished his Schlitz and got up from his rocker. His bum leg was still bum. He stretched it out, waking it from its slumber. He collected the empties they had shared, and as he did, recalled the day they had met on the side road; with that memory came a rich and resonant fondness, and a small grin. He hadn’t wanted to back up the flatbed, hadn’t wanted to give the man a chance. Hell, he hadn’t wanted to give him half a chance. He’d looked like trouble, what with the long hair and all. But looking back, he was glad that he did. The man had changed him deeply, had changed all of them, had opened their eyes to an entirely new world that no one—save that damned Brikker fella—knew existed. He liked Kain Richards. He would miss him.
Georgia called from inside.
He turned to go in, and just as he put a hand to the door, he whirled round.
His hands trembled as he dropped the empties.
Georgia called him again.
Big Al hobbled to the railing.
“Christ Almighty.”
“Allan?”
Big Al started to the stairs, only to realize he didn’t have his keys. He kicked the cans out of his way, scrambled inside as fast as he could, found the keys, and turned for the door. Georgia was halfway down the stairs when she stopped him.
“Allan? What in Heaven’s name is going on?”
“Call the fire department,” he said. “It’s Lynn’s.”
He felt a hard heaving in his chest, a deep burning. He endured it, then made it out to the veranda. He headed for the steps, and his bum leg, still half asleep, nearly made him s
lip on an empty. He kicked it away and rushed to his pickup. Georgia called after him from the deck, her face cold with fear as she stared down the road to her daughter’s home. Big Al was shouting, shouting louder and louder, call the goddamn fire department, call it now, goddamnit, CALL IT NOW.
Big Al put the truck in reverse and backed out with abandon. He nearly struck the John Deere tractor. He raced down the road at nearly seventy, the fire in the sky raging like the fire in his chest.
He slowed quickly as he approached the four-way. He never even saw the pickup racing behind him. It shot out of the darkness, its lights blinding him in the rear-view, and he cursed the driver as the thing whipped out from behind and passed him.
“Ben Caldwell, Christ,” he shouted, but by then it was too late. The youngster had slammed on the brakes trying to stop in time for the intersection, only to fishtail out of control. The truck slid sideways and straightened by the narrowest of margins. It skidded into the intersection, gunning for the black four-door Valiant that had already started through from the left. The Valiant swerved, and the pickup clipped it on the passenger side near the front. The car rocked, spun a bit, and skirted to a stop. The pickup found its way into the ditch across the road and stalled.
Big Al stopped just in time, just shy of the stop. His headlamps beamed into the side of the sedan. There were three people inside, three men, the driver a hulk of a thing. The passenger next to him was burly, too, but smaller. His eyes were wide and bright, the young man scared shitless. He couldn’t see the face of the man in the back.
Ben Caldwell climbed out. He seemed a bit dazed, but unhurt. He straightened his cap. He put up a hand to block the glare of the headlights, and before Big Al knew what was happening, before the young shortstop who had lost his virginity to a screamer named Bonner could get out the words, Is everyone okay, the driver of the black Valiant got out, whipped out a .38, and shot him right between the eyes.
~
The gunman whirled toward the flatbed and fired. Part of the windshield exploded, glass raining down inside the cab. Big Al had ducked down just in time, but a bullet of a different kind threatened to take him. His heart seized, and his hands flew up to his chest; he swallowed the agony in silence. He risked poking his head up over the wheel, saw the gun pointed at him, and ducked down again. He expected to hear the shooter come for him, open his door and put a bullet through his head, but instead he heard a deep voice, a door slam, and a car, pulling away.
His chest ached. He drew deep, precious breaths. He feared this was it, the Big One, but he managed to get a pill under his tongue and ride it out. But only just.
He sat up slowly. Saw the Valiant racing along the road toward his little girl’s home.
Brikker.
He looked at Ben Caldwell. The boy was a lump in the road. His head listed, his stunned face covered in blood. His eyes were still open.
Al Hembruff threw the flatbed in gear, and floored it.
~ 42
“Enough.”
Brikker would not say it twice, nor would he have to.
Strong, starting round the Valiant to put a bullet in the head of the other driver, stopped. He regarded his superior, nodded, then slipped his gun into his leg holster and climbed in behind the wheel.
Christensen was still staring at the boy when they drove off.
“No … I suppose we didn’t,” Brikker said.
Christensen stirred anxiously. “Sir?”
“Didn’t have to kill the boy. Hmmm?”
The private regarded Strong with a glance as if expecting an explanation, but none came to bear; he could only turn round to face the road.
The Valiant sped along at a steady clip, the brilliance from the fire leading them like a beacon. Brikker gave a single word—Strong—and the engine revved as the speedometer slipped past eighty. Doubt seized him, the same that had plagued him lo these many years, that paralyzing uncertainty a man fears most: that his future is already written.
Richards is dead—
The sedan slowed as it carried up the drive, and as it did, Brikker’s eye widened; his pulse quickened. The place was a death-house, all hope lost for those inside. But outside, the future—his future—unfolded. The man holding the woman had long, flowing hair that draped over her, masking his face. That face.
“Quickly,” Brikker said. “I want him alive.”
Strong drew his .38 from his holster, and Christensen followed his cue. They got out. They stood in front of the vehicle, the lights leading them to their target. Brikker took his place and stood between them, just behind them. The good Doctor turned as the flatbed raced off the road and sped across their path. It was one and the same, its windshield in ruin, its driver, quite likely some simple corn farmer, full of surprises. He should have let Strong finish him before, but no matter; Strong would silence this would-be hero. The truck carried on and stopped well short of Richards and the woman, the driver already climbing out. The woman’s eyes flittered open, but only barely; she seemed poised at death’s door. And Richards, the weak fool, held her close.
Brikker felt a rush of anticipation; it nearly consumed him. He would have him, and—
In the next instant the explosion rocked their collective world. The farmhouse came undone, fire and hell raining down as the thing collapsed in one last breath. Strong and Christensen drew back, and he cowered behind them as the right side of the home caved from the strain. The vehicle parked in front bore the worst of it, while Richards and the woman were nearly taken by a flying length of fire. Another narrowly missed the man rushing toward them, her father, perhaps, nonetheless one incredibly stupid hayseed, who would be dead before he reached them.
Amid the chaos, yet still very much in control, he recalled the failures in Florida. How the future there had slipped through his fingers. How the Fates had abandoned him. He would not succumb to Their twists. Not this time. He shouted at Strong above the din, and Strong nodded; the soldier raised his weapon and started running. Christensen followed, and just as they brought their weapons to bear on the farmer—at the exact moment that cursed Richards drew his hand to his temple—Brikker reeled, as that single word, a word he had barely uttered, rammed through his brain like a knife.
NO.
~ 43
All he heard were those crippling words; all he saw was that stark grimness creased across the old man’s face. He was just a little boy, kneeling on that wintry road, a dead wren cupped in his hands … just a little boy.
It’s not our place … it’s not our world.
He cried. He cried then, and he cried now.
~
His brain pounded. He could hardly breathe. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Behind him, all around him, the hellfire raged.
Big Al had come, like him, too late. The man was running as fast as his legs would take him, but the bullets would surely kill him. Kill him as surely as he had killed Lynn and her children.
From fire had Brikker come, too, as he knew he would. And with him, thugs. Strong he knew, how well so; the other he didn’t. But what did it matter.
All that mattered was the now.
His hand trembled, his fingers useless appendages. His mind screamed, and he very nearly lost consciousness. He came out of it, yet only just. He saw Brikker, saw that vile darkness coming for him, and he cried out, drawing his anger and his pain to bear. His mind slipped as his body began to heat up; the temperature inside him spiked and ebbed, spiked and ebbed. His chest heaved, his lungs poised to explode. His every muscle tightened to cold hard knots. He tried to fight it, tried to control it, tried to—
NO.
~ 44
Brikker cowered when the farmhouse exploded. Strong hunkered down, and Christensen hit the dirt as the Earth trembled. Fire and smoke erupted into the sky, roiling in great plumes and swirling arcs. Fiery missiles whipped past the trio in starts and fits, a wave of heat rolling over them. A searing shard of glass struck Strong in the left hand, cutting him deeply, the hulking soldier
cursing to a sin. Another explosion rocked the farm, its potency less powerful than the first salvo, but still strong enough to blow out the rear side window of the Chevrolet wagon. Flaming debris nearly skulled Richards, missing him by mere inches, the luckiest of chance; other projectiles sent the farmer from the flatbed scrambling for cover. A breath later, the three from the Valiant looked up in unison, all of them hearing it. There was a rising groan from the conflagration, an otherworldly sound, and suddenly an entire side of the structure collapsed in one plodding motion, the burning beams crumbling, the place caving in on itself. The home—and all souls trapped within—perished.
Brikker’s mind raced. Despite his best denials, he was certain he had seen this before. The explosion; the collapse; all of it. Yet how could that be? There had been no Turn, no black magic, for the cut on Strong … the second explosion … that sound … he would have remembered that, surely. Would have remembered it all.
What was happening here?
He started to give the order—again the farmer was on the move, hobbling to Richards’ aid—and stopped himself cold. Kill him was what he had started to say, yet the phrase was not what he had said before; he was certain of it. What he had shouted was but the soldier’s name, with its implicit order to kill.
Dizziness shook him. He felt out of sorts, strangely disjointed from reality, as if he had spent the last few seconds comatose. As if he had simply missed them. As if there had been a Turn … but not. He could not put a name to it, but if pressed, what he experienced had felt like a “bump” in time, something akin to a skip on a long-playing record. He was not used to entertaining such folly, and yet, the world had changed. He knew that as surely as he knew that the next precious moments would change it forever.
Still—
Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller Page 42
