Kin

“Hush now, else they’ll hear you,” the giant advised him, and at first Beau assumed that meant anyone who might come to his rescue—Shut up, or you’ll doom your friends too—but then he looked down at himself and realized the agony had come as a result of whiskey that had been splashed over the wound. Confused, he withheld further complaint until the man stomped off and returned a few moments later with an old- looking needle in one huge hand, a fistful of catgut in the other.

“What are you doin’?” Beau asked him.

“Puttin’ your stuffin’ back in,” the giant said in a low gravelly voice. He pulled a chair up to the table and sat, then gently threaded the fishing line through the eye of the needle, which was as big as a pencil. He started to bend down close to the wound, eyes narrowed as if he was poor-sighted, but then stopped and glanced askance at Beau, the point of the needle raised. “’Less you prefer it hangin’ out?”

Convinced now that he was delirious and imagining it all, Beau shook his head. “Naw. You go right ahead, as long as you’re not fixin’ to tie the wrong parts together.”

The giant frowned, as if he didn’t understand what that was supposed to mean, and went about his work, carefully easing the needle through Beau’s flesh.

“Shiiiit.” Beau bared his teeth, clenched his fists, but the pain, though it was severe, didn’t last long. In what seemed like minutes, the worst of it was over, and this time when the wound was soaked with alcohol, Beau felt the burning, but considerably less agony. Afterward, he lay in silence for a long time, watching as the man lumbered about the cabin looking ill at ease, like a man unsure what to do next. Beau wanted to think of him as his savior, but other than the rudimentary stitch-job and the fact that he was still alive when he’d given the giant ample opportunity to kill him, it was too much of a stretch for the moment. He was, after all, still in enemy territory.

“Why’d you do this?” he asked, wondering if perhaps he’d been fixed just so he’d be in better shape when they tortured him.

For a long time, the man didn’t answer. Then he stalked across the room, grabbed the whiskey bottle from the table and shoved it at Beau, who took it with a half-hearted nod of gratitude and, eyes never leaving the giant’s face, drank deeply.

“You ain’t never done nothin’ to me,” the man said.

Beau waited, the whiskey burning a path straight through him, hewing a route to the pain. When it was clear that was as much of an explanation as he was going to get, he asked, “They won’t like that you did this, you know.”

The man sat, easing his great frame into a chair that seemed unlikely to be able to hold him. It creaked loudly as he settled himself and put a hand out for the bottle. Beau gave it to him.

“I don’t much care for ’em,” he said, and took a draw from the bottle. “Never did. They kilt my sister. She were all I had left in the world. But she didn’t never listen to me when I tried to tell her what she were gettin’ into, and now she’s dead. All because of them crazies. ’Sides, I ain’t scairt of ’em, and after tonight, I don’t reckon I’ll be hearin’ from ’em again.”

“I’m sorry about your sister,” Beau said, because it seemed, for now, about the only appropriate thing to say. They made an odd tableau, the two of them—a wounded black man lying on a table, overseen by a wild- haired giant. But gradually, Beau felt the tension and anxiety ebb from him. If it turned out to be a trap, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it anyway, so he figured it was best to just see where things went and hope for the best.

For the next ten minutes, they shared the bottle in silence. Though feeling a little better, Beau was exhausted. His eyes were drifting shut again when the screech of the chair legs against the floor jarred him back to alertness. In panic, he looked furtively around the room, half-expecting to find that the giant was standing there with a knife or a hatchet or a rifle getting ready to finish him off. But the man had simply pulled his chair closer to the table and was looking intently at Beau.

“I killed a buck one time that was damn near big as myself,” he said.

Beau stared back at him for a long time. Then he raised his eyebrows. “That’s one big motherfuckin’ deer, man. Venison for a year.”

Krall nodded, and the faintest trace of a smile began to creep through the undergrowth of his beard.

-41-

Standing in the flameless epicenter of an inferno as the buildings burned around her, Claire heard the cell phone chirp over the splintering crack of the Merrill House caving in on itself. During the melee inside the room with the sagging bed, the phone’s display had cracked and now showed nothing but inky blotches against the gray screen, veined with milky fissures. She couldn’t see the caller I.D, but answered and held the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Claire?”

“Who’s this?”

“My name’s Beau. I’m…I was a friend of Finch’s.”

“Was? Is he…?”

“Yeah. They got him. But he went down fightin’. Took out a couple of ’em on the way too.”

Tears welled in Claire’s eyes. Pete approached and stopped before her, head tilted questioningly. She swallowed and tried to offer him a smile. “Are they dead?”

“Yes,” Beau told her. “They’re all dead. It’s over.”

The tears came freely, sobs pummeling her chest as she shut the phone and let Pete embrace her.

It’s over.

The acrid smell of the smoke and the heat from the flames soon forced them out of the ring of fire, toward the road, where the truck was waiting.

* * *

As quietly as the woods would allow, Isaac led Papa-In-Gray through the night. The moon was high in the sky and Papa frequently raised his face to it, as if it was nothing short of God’s light, drawing them to their destiny. The need for a sign was great within him now that he had lost so many of his kin, but he resisted the urge to beg. Once they were clear of the killing ground, clear of their hunters, he would have endless time to disseminate the events that had set them running. Was this truly what God had intended for them? That his children should be sacrificed? He shook his head, forcing away the questions. The pain in his knee was making it difficult to walk and he slowed, watching as Isaac pulled ahead.

It weren’t ever supposed to be this hard.

“Son,” he said, breathlessly, and the boy stopped, glanced back. “We should rest up some.” With great effort, he sat himself down on a rough moss-covered rock that protruded from the forest floor like a boil.

The look on Isaac’s face made it clear he did not think this was wise, but he acquiesced, pacing restlessly and jerking his head toward the small clearing they could see through the pine trees ahead. His knife was out and while he stalked, he jabbed at the air and twisted the blade, his young face bejeweled with sweat.

He senses the injustice of it too, Papa thought. The failure. He ain’t satisfied to leave this unfinished. Nor was Papa, but their options were limited. Without knowing the extent of the threat, only a fool would go back. McKindrey had told them there were only two men on their trail, but who knew how many were elsewhere, waiting for the call to arms? That the Sheriff hadn’t seen them did not mean they were not there. It was best to err on the side of caution. There was time. In the coming days, months, however long it took, they would regroup, and plan a strategy. Over time, they would rebuild their ranks. He would find a woman, spiritually vacant, awaiting his love and his knowledge, awaiting God, and she would have sons and daughters he could lead. They would rise again. And perhaps in their new town, the local law would be just as sympathetic to their cause as McKindrey had been. Such minions were hard to find, and McKindrey had proven invaluable. The call Papa had made to him from a payphone on their way here had confirmed that the Men of the World were on their way, allowing them the time to prepare. It had also allowed Papa to perpetuate the belief that he held congress with the angels, bolstering his children’s faith in him. With a smile, he nodded and turned to