by Sarah Dreher
“I doubt that.” The burning in her hand was receding. She felt Billy attack the other side of the knot. “Want to go a little easy with that?”
“Sorry. He told me you’d been hurt, and you were up at the church, and I fell for it. You ever hear of anything as stupid as that?”
“I fell for the same story.”
“Is that a fact?” She chuckled. “Well, aren’t we a pair?”
Billy got the other end of the rope free and pulled it through. Hard and fast.
“Jesus!” Stoner shouted as red lights flashed behind her eyes. “Take it easy!”
The rasping noise stopped, as if whoever was making it had heard, was listening.
They held their breath.
The sound started up again.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Billy whispered.
“I know you didn’t. My hands are kind of a mess, that’s all.”
“How come?”
“I went into the fire. To get Lolly and Cherry out.”
“God,” Billy breathed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“The subject didn’t come up until now.”
She felt Billy go back to work, more gently this time. “How are Dot and Cherry?”
“Cherry’s taking it pretty hard.”
“I’d imagine. Those girls didn’t have anybody but each other.”
“Billy, why are people so intolerant?”
Billy pulled at the rope. “Aren’t they where you come from?”
“Yes. But out here, where there are so few people, you’d think they’d cherish everyone.”
“Back when we were hiding out in Kentucky,” Billy said, “I used to watch the squirrels.” She laughed a little, remembering. “There wasn’t much else to do. I couldn’t go to school because we were hiders. And my Ma was too busy trying to please my Pa to pay much attention to me. So I was kind of on my own in the world, you might say.”
Another bit of rope came loose. Stoner felt the blood rush back into her hands.
“Anyway, one day these two old squirrels were putting away acorns against the winter. They’d go up the tree, grab a nut, run down the tree, and scoot off into opposite directions. Well, there was this one clump of nuts out at the end of a branch near the ground. First one of them would run out, and the branch’d bend down almost to the ground. But as soon as that old squirrel let go enough to reach for the nut, he’d slip right off and that branch’d go flying back up. Then, while Mr. Number One Squirrel was cussing and thinking it over, old Mr. Two would try it, and the same thing’d happen. Now, if they’d been willing to work together, one of them could have held the branch down while the other pulled off the acorns. But not those two, no sir. They couldn’t put aside their differences if they starved to death.” She pulled the last of the rope away. “I guess people are like that, too.”
Stoner smiled. “That sounds like one of Gwen’s back-home parables,” she said as she stretched her aching wrists and shoulders. “Except hers are always about Georgia.”
“Are you planning to untie me?” Billy asked irritably, “or just sit there enjoying your freedom?”
“I’m sorry.” She turned and set to work on Billy’s knots. “I might be kind of slow. My fingers are stiff.”
There was a hardness in Billy’s silence.
“Is something wrong?” Stoner asked.
Billy replied with an icy stillness.
“Billy? Look, if I upset you somehow…”
“It seems to me,” Billy muttered, “if a person takes the time and effort to tell you personal things about herself, and trusts you even though she hardly knows you and you might be dangerous, and goes out of her way to tell you stories so you won’t think about how much you’re hurting... Well, it seems to me there’s better ways to show your appreciation than throwing some other girl in their face every time you open your mouth.”
Stoner stopped, ashamed of herself. “Oh, Billy, I’m so very sorry.” She put her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. I didn’t mean to be self-centered.”
Billy sighed. “Well, it’s not your fault I love you.”
“I love you, too, Billy. I really do. If I could stay here….”
“You don’t want to stay here.”
Stoner buried her face in the back of Billy’s neck. “No, I don’t. But not because of you. I don’t belong here, Billy.”
The woman’s back was hot. Stoner knew she was crying. She held her tight, and felt tears burning behind her own eyes. “Oh, Billy.”
“This isn’t fair,” Billy said.
I know.”
“You ever try to wipe your nose with your hands tied behind your back?”
Stoner squeezed her. “You don’t have to make light of this.”
“The hell I don’t.” She shifted her shoulders. “At least we finally have some privacy. Are you going to untie me, or not?”
“All right, all right.” She went back to fumbling at the knots. “Aunt Hermione says,” she said, “we all get together between lifetimes—those of us who have a special feeling for one another—and decide what part we’ll play next time around.” She got one end of the rope free. “If she’s right, let’s promise to arrange it better next time.”
As she said it, she felt a funny tingling deep in her stomach. Just about where Aunt Hermione said psychic truth was likely to hang out. It made her go all cold inside her skin for a moment.
She shook it off and finished with Billy’s rope. “There you go. Now what do we do?”
She felt Billy turn toward her in the dark, felt Billy’s arms around her, felt Billy’s mouth pressed against her own.
Mysterious, visceral, a wonderful throbbing stirred within her, like waves felt deep on the ocean’s floor. She pulled Billy tighter and returned her kiss.
Her hands seemed to have a mind of their own, tugging Billy’s shirt out of her jeans, reaching inside to the soft, smooth skin of her back. Then working their way around her sides, feeling the fragile bones, the warm, yielding, satin pillow breasts.
She could feel the pounding of the woman’s heart, the tightening of her muscles. She wanted to make love to her, to touch and move each cell and fiber of her body. To excite her, and comfort her, and melt into her...
“Stoner,” Billy whispered in the darkness.
“Yes?”
“Is this what it’s like?”
It brought her to her senses. “Yes,” she said. “But...”
“You think we better stop?”
“I think…”
“On account of Gwen.”
Stoner considered that. It might not bother Gwen, but it would change her. She knew that. Even if she could believe—really believe and not just suspect it as a rationalization—that Billy would one day be Gwen, it would change her. Little by little, her body would shut down. Little by little, she’d pull into herself, closing Gwen out, closing even herself out. And it wouldn’t have anything to do with Gwen. It would be because she wouldn’t feel right about herself.
“I wasn’t thinking,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Stoner,” Billy said softly, and took her hand, “the important thing isn’t whether or not you make love to me. The important thing is that you wanted to. And I wanted to make love to you. I know what that feels like now. And that’s something I’ll always be grateful to you for.”
Stoner reached out and touched her hair. “You’re a remarkable woman, Billy. I’m awfully glad I met you.”
Chapter Eleven
The grinding sound went on and on, chewing her nerves until she wanted to scream. “What in the world is that?” she muttered.
“I almost have it,” Billy said softly. “I heard something like it back home once or twice.”
“Some kind of wheel?”
“I think…uh-oh.”
Stoner tried to see her through the dark. “Uh-oh what?”
“It’s a grinding wheel.”
“What do you do with a grin
ding wheel?”
Billy’s voice was small. “You sharpen things.”
“Things?”
“Axes. Knives.”
Stoner sat very still, trying not to awaken the anxiety wasps in her stomach. It didn’t work. “I don’t think,” she said at last, “that the Reverend Henry Parnell has taken up knife-sharpening as a hobby.”
“I agree,” Billy said in a frightened voice.
“In that case,” Stoner said, “I have a suggestion.”
“What’s that?”
“That we stop sitting here like a couple of pigs in a pig house and concentrate on getting out of this mess.”
“Suits me.”
“Okay, first we’ll try to find a weak point in these walls.” She got up on her knees and pushed along the boards. They were firm as rock. She could sense Billy testing the walls on the other side. “Any luck?”
“No. It’s solid. Pig houses usually are, you know. We probably can’t knock it over, either.”
Stoner tried to rock the little house. No luck. The corner posts had been set deep in the earth. “Nope.”
“Well, it’d probably make too much noise, anyhow.”
“Probably.” Think, she told herself. There has to be a way out of here.
The grinding stopped suddenly. The silence was even more frightening than the sound had been. She could picture him, sitting back on a stool, testing the edges of the knives with his thumb, smiling...
Someone was coming toward them across the frozen wheat stubble. Crushing the little leaves and hollow stems underfoot. Slowly. Determinedly. No question about destination.
“Billy!” She whispered, feeling around on the dirt floor for the ropes.
“What?”
“Pretend you’re still tied and unconscious. He’ll have to pull us both out. One of us might have a chance to jump him.”
She found one rope, handed it to Billy, ran her hands frantically through the dust and ashes.
He was nearly outside the door now. She couldn’t keep searching. He might hear.
Parnell paused, listening.
She could hear the night, more still than stillness. More silent than silence. An absence of sound where sound should be. Waiting silence.
Then she heard his breathing. Soft at first. Growing heavier, more rapid. Excited.
For God’s sake. It’s bad enough this maniac has us in this mess. Don’t tell me it turns him on.
It was Time now. The ritual knives were sharp as demons’ teeth, laid out on their holy cloth inside his sanctuary. The altar was cleaned and polished, the candles burning, the Word opened to the proper readings.
Time for the Holy Carnage.
He stood by the Containment House and listened.
Careful! The Demon was tricky.
He licked his lips and stuck the torch into the ground. Taking the jug of coal oil into both hands, he drenched the house and the ground around it.
Kerosene.
The smell filled her nose, cutting off her breath.
He was going to burn them.
He struck a match and held it over the glistening ground. Once he began, he would have to act fast. The fire would hold One while he dealt with the Other, but there wouldn’t be time to spare. No time to play with the Beast, no time to torture it beyond the stipulated tortures. No time to be creative.
But before he began, while It was still contained...
He blew out the match and took up the crowbar. With all his strength, he slammed it down on the roof of the pig house.
It fell with the sound of Hell’s thunder. He swung again and imagined it was the Demon he struck with each blow.
Again.
And again.
He slammed the side of the house. “Filth!” he screamed.
Crablike, he scuttled around the perimeter of the tiny building.
“Filth!”
Faster and faster. Striking the wood.
Pounding.
Crash!
Crash!
Stoner felt each blow inside her head. She covered her ears with her hands, but it didn’t help.
Crash!
It struck her chest like an explosion of air from a cannon.
Crash!
She wanted to scream. But she sensed it was what he wanted her to do.
Crash!
She’d be damned if she’d scream.
Crash!
Her brain felt bruised.
Crash!
Stop it, stop it, stop it.
Crash!
Oh, God, make him stop!
Then, suddenly, silence.
She reached out in the darkness and took Billy’s hand. She tried to pass encouragement to her through her touch.
She was afraid all she passed was fear.
Billy squeezed her hand.
Parnell dropped the crowbar and let the night air cool his fevered skin.
He picked up his torch, struck the match, and set the oily rags to burning.
No air to cool the Demon’s skin, he thought as he braced the torch in the ground. He forced the crowbar between the pig house wall and the cross-bar and yanked. The nails squealed like rats in agony.
He smiled.
Orange light from the burning torch glistened from his sweat-soaked face.
Quickly, the other side.
He rammed the crowbar home. The wood screamed. He snatched the falling 4x6 and hurled it away into darkness.
She dropped Billy’s hand.
Scratched frantically through the dirt.
Her fingers found her bit of rope. She twisted it around her wrists. A feeble attempt, but if he let his guard down...
Parnell took a deep breath, snatched up the torch, and threw open the door.
Nothing moved inside.
He leaned down cautiously and peered in, his free hand reaching for his gun.
The two bodies lay entangled in one another, like a pile of waiting snakes.
Carefully, he touched the nearest body with the toe of his boot.
It didn’t move.
He put the torch aside and took out the gun and reached his free hand toward It.
Nothing.
Its foot was near the door. He grabbed It around the ankle and pulled It outside.
The Stranger lay on the ground, unconscious.
The Beast inside hadn’t moved.
He bent to the Creature at his feet and poked his finger into Its carotid artery. Its heart was beating. Fast. Little quick beats that felt the way a centipede would feel, racing over your hand.
For a second he was afraid. That was no human heart-beat pulsing beneath his touch It was the heartbeat of the Thing that lay beneath, the Thing he had to uncover in his basement Sanctuary.
Quick. Before It woke.
He slammed the pig house door and said a quick prayer and touched the torch to the soaked wood.
Flames rose in a “Whump!” and ball of black smoke.
He was burning the house, and Billy was inside.
Stoner pulled herself free from the loosely-tied cord and kicked out. Her heel caught him on the shin and he went down. His gun flew from his hand, out of reach, beyond the firelight. She threw herself on top of him.
Rage stopped her voice in her throat. She wanted to strangle him, to beat his head into the ground, to squeeze his neck in the vise of her hands until his eyes popped from his head.
“Son of a bitch,” she screamed at last, and smashed her fist into his mouth. “You God damn son of a bitch!”
The man spit in her face.
She wrapped her hands around his throat and pressed.
He worked his arm under hers and flung her sideways with a grunt. She landed in hard dirt.
Firelight played over his twisted features. He sucked his cut lip and wiped his mouth. The torch dangled from his hand.
Get out of there, Billy. Please get out of there.
The man’s foot lashed out, catching her in the ribs. Streaks of pain shot through her body. She grabbed f
or him weakly and missed.
He thrust the spear of fire at her face.
She rolled to the side.
He came at her again, poking, stabbing with the torch, driving her backward along the ground.
She scuttled out of his reach.
Back….
...and back...
Something stopped her from behind. Something large and flat.
The side of a barn.
He had It trapped.
He could kill The Creature now. Burn it. Shoot it. Get rid of it before it got its strength back.
But he wanted to cut it apart, piece by piece. He wanted to watch it suffer.
His own strength was Greater than the Creature’s. It was his to torture. Better than the animals. Better than his father. It would be the Ultimate Sacrifice to the Omnipotent and Merciful God.
Reaching into the darkness, he grasped the rusting pitchfork that stood propped against the barn door.
He lifted it up, pressed the tines against the Creature’s throat.
One good thrust and It would be impaled. It wouldn’t die. But it would be caught there, in pain, until he could find the rope.
He pressed against the pitchfork and prepared to ram it home.
“If you’re going to kill me,” she said in a voice so calm it frightened her, “at least look me in the eye.”
He grinned.
She felt the tines dig deep into the skin of her throat.
“Give me the knife,” he rasped, and laughed.
“The knife?”
He pushed the pitchfork deeper. One of the tines punctured skin.
“The knife.”
“Oh, was that your...”
Still pressing the fork against her throat, he reached out with one arm and began pawing at her pockets.
“If you’ll just tell me what you want…”
“Give me the knife.”
The pitchfork dug deeper. Another tine broke through.
“Jesus!” she gasped.
It sent him into a fury. “You dare defile the Holy Name! I should kill you now!”
“Well,” she said, “that does seem to be your intention.”
The man grinned. “Oh, no,” he said in a voice like Vaseline. “I have much more interesting plans for you.”
