I figured I had to keep to the shadows, seeing as how the police were probably looking for me, or my body, more appropriately, and on the other hand, a guy covered in blood and holding a rifle wouldn’t look like the most appealing thing to the townsfolk. I made it to Old Sherman, but kept to the edge of the woods. Behind me, smoke filled the sky. I had to presume that that was my truck, or if not that, then that paranoid sonofabitch Van Buren had torched the car he tried to kill me with.
As I made my way along the side of the road, I realized the whole situation was doomed. Van Buren—an officer of the law—had single-handedly ruined my chance at redemption. His paranoia had muddied the last month of my life, and with this little stunt of his, he had basically guaranteed an innocent person’s death. In the shape I was in, and with no ride to boot, my chance was gone. The moon was going to come and go, and for all I knew, the chances were fifty-fifty that the Rose Killer would once again escape the wrath of the beast. The beast, in turn, would commit the same kind of atrocity that its lost target would. I was thankful I had the rifle. I might get the chance to use it after all.
A couple of hours passed. I’d made it perhaps no more than three or four miles. If I’d had any determination left, I probably would have gotten twice as far, but there was nothing left in me.
Even though my chest was on fire, I desperately needed a cigarette. I felt at my chest pocket, but it was empty. My front pockets were empty too. “Shit,” I said.
I reached around to my back pocket. I didn’t have any cigarettes on me, but I found something else. Anthony’s folded photographs.
I took them out and flipped through them one by one. They were all pictures of the same thing—that stupid tree he’d found in the woods and allegedly wanted to use as his cover shot.
In one of them, a wide shot, something in the far corner caught my eye. It was a shack, a shanty, hardly any bigger than an outhouse. I’d never seen it before, but it clicked in my head. For him to do what he did with those girls, he needed somewhere to go. He couldn’t have done the murders in his car—I had been in it, and it’s not that the car was clean, because it wasn’t. It was lived-in, but there was no blood. He would need someplace private where he had all the time in the world. I was willing to bet that it was that shack.
Just then, a feeling like lightning came over me, and I winced. I squeezed shut my eyes, and when I opened them again, it was nighttime.
The wolf was giving me something. A memory.
It knew where the shack was. The wolf had passed it before on one of its travels. It was not far from where I lived, about a mile into the woods past Old Sherman Road.
I emerged from the woods and crossed the road. The first car I saw was an old Chevy. It had been a long time since I’d had to hotwire a Chevy, but I hadn’t lost my touch.
Berger Street dead-ended at Old Sherman, just like most streets did, and as I pulled up in my stolen Chevy, I saw the Mach 1 parked at the end of the street. I pulled over.
“Jesus,” I mumbled, “knock me the fuck down.”
I came up to the black car slowly, gun raised. I was hoping he’d be in there playing with himself, or doing something that would occupy his hands just as much.
No luck. It was empty. I didn’t see him anywhere. He had to be at the shack. I could feel it in my bones.
If I could, I was going to try to subdue the sonofabitch. If that didn’t work, I’d shoot him in the foot, force him to handcuff himself. Hopefully, he’d cooperate. He wouldn’t be dealing with a girl. He’d be dealing with a very angry man with a rifle. With that, the beast could have its way with him. And if I had to kill him myself, then so be it. I’d never killed a man before, but I was as ready as I’d ever be.
I ducked behind the Mach 1. That way, if he was in the woods, he wouldn’t see me. My heart was beating like a drum, and I was sweating like a pig. The holes in my skin where the bullets went in felt like they were being rubbed with salt. Every breath was an exercise in pain. The flames of hell were licking at me, getting ready for the big burn. I looked through the car’s windows, all frosted and covered over with road dirt, hoping to see something highly incriminating, but all there was was a bunch of designer clothes and a few cameras. A Polaroid camera.
I came around the side of the car slowly, crouching. I had the rifle pointed into the trees, paying great attention as to whether anyone was watching me. Windows. Treetops. Bushes. The barrel of a gun could be pointing at me from anywhere. It made me think of my time in the war.
I had been ambushed once in the green. That was what was on my mind as I crossed the threshold and stepped into the woods on the far side of the road. I was young, then, and I didn’t see it coming. I couldn’t let it happen again.
I measured my paces, and moved carefully into the woods. I didn’t want to step on any branches and give myself away. In ‘Nam, a sound like that would have spelled doom. No one was going to get the drop on me now.
I went in deeper, till the road behind me was a dirty gray line in the distance. The sounds of birds and chipmunks filled the air. Up ahead I saw a squirrel jump from one tree to the next. Light came down in brilliant little bursts. The rest of the ground was hidden in shadow.
I became conscious of the sound of my own labored breathing, the smell of my own sweat. Somewhere, I could smell animal shit. The noises of the town were absent and behind me, and maybe never to be known again.
The tension was palpable. I was working on a level of awareness that made me think of Sergeant Hooper. As I continued forward, ever vigilant, a spiderweb tapped me in the face, and became stuck because of the sweat. I couldn’t blow it off, and in that one moment my senses were so heightened that the feeling of that thing made me crazy.
I rested the rifle in the crook of my right arm and pulled away the webs with my hands. I heard a noise behind me. I knew it wasn’t a deer—it was a man.
I turned quickly and fired blindly.
There was no one there. Taking the rifle in both hands, I stared down the sight and did a scan. I ran in the direction of the noise.
No one in town would have heard the shot, and if they did, they would have paid it no mind. It was just me and Anthony out there. In the distance, through the maze of trees, I could make out the shack. I had one shot left. I had to make it count.
I heard another noise to my side, and I began to turn to fire, but I wasn’t quick enough. I saw a pair of hands holding a log, and the log was speeding toward my face. After that, all I knew was darkness.
Before I found the strength to open my eyes, I was roused from a deep slumber by the screaming of my limbs. I felt as if I were being stretched on a rack. Hell, I was almost
“Wake up,” said the American voice. “Wake the fuck up, you filthy redneck. Or I’ll
My eyelids broke the seal of sweat. My vision was busted in two, but soon joined up again. There was a bright light coming from the front that hurt, but as my eyes adjusted, I saw it was a lantern.
Anthony stood before me, leaning against the wall, and he had a long butcher’s knife in his hand. He was playing with it, twirling it in his fingers, flicking the blade, picking under his manicured nails with it. He was wearing all black, like a burglar. Black running pants, a black sweatshirt. Black sneakers. For all I knew, he was wearing black underwear too.
I tried to move, but I couldn’t. For a second I was worried that I was paralyzed, that he’d done something nasty with my spine. But I could feel, and I became aware that I could move my fingers. I then realized I was tied to a chair. My ankles were taped to the legs of the chair, my chest and waist to the back, and my arms were handcuffed behind me. I could feel the metal digging into my wrists, like old friends who always had to borrow money at the worst possible time. An extension cord was tied around my neck. The cord ran behind me, and the other end was tied to my feet. If I tried to bend forward, I’d choke. The bastard was ingenious. Anthony was smiling.
“Welcome back, Marlowe Higgins,” he said in a low voice that was throbbing with anger.
