Adam's Woods (34 page)

Eric flew down the stairs, considered calling the police but couldn't risk letting Isaac get away, stopped only to slip on his shoes before running out of the house in a t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. He ran down the short sidewalk to the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of Isaac under one of the few streetlights. He spun around, desperate, jogged towards the grocery store, and stopped again, knowing it was futile. Turning towards his driveway, he caught the faintest movement beyond, through the backyard, through the field, at the edge of the woods. Adam's Woods. It might have been a deer. It might have been nothing but his imagination. But he ran, the dew soaking his feet and his thin pants. Sweat broke out on his forehead and the back of his neck, although he could see his breath plume with each breath expelled.

He stopped at the clearing to get his wind, the entrance now a dark mouth, inviting him in to swallow him whole. And perhaps it would. But he had no choice.

"Isaac!" he shouted.

No answer, but the crash of movement somewhere within. He glanced back at the house once more, felt the presence of Sean at his side, standing in this same spot to go forth for battle, and turned around, half-expecting a ghost, one of Isaac's children. He ran down the path towards the cabin but passed it. He didn't think Isaac lay in wait or in hiding, seemed only intent on escape. If Isaac had wanted to kill him, he could have done it as he slept. Unless that now, unburdened by his need to explain himself, he was also unburdened by a need for restraint. But a man could do worse than die trying to catch a child-killer, he thought.

He continued on, stumbling over roots but staying upright. He came to the fork in the path and paused. Isaac, if in the woods, had probably continued on, towards the larger woods and its promise of greater concealment. The men searching for Isaac twenty years ago had failed even to find the cache of bodies, his graveyard of saints. Or he could have driven his father's stolen car down the service road. Eric strained his ears for the sound of an engine. An owl hooted, and something rustled in the brush but something small. He jogged down the path towards the cornfield for about thirty yards, and stopped. This, considering that Isaac thought rationally, might be exactly what he knew Eric would expect him to do.

He stood undecided, balanced on the balls of his feet like a boxer but in a match where the opponent first must be found before the fight can begin. He knew that time worked against him, knew that Isaac had probably run beyond his grasp, didn't know if he had even entered the woods, and knew that his wisest course of action was to go back to the house and call the police.

He backtracked and came again to the fork, and peered down the swamp path, decided to check this area before returning to the house. Eric slowly followed the narrow trail, looking for footprints or any sign that someone had come this way. He tried to take shallow breaths, the noise of his breathing incredibly loud in his ears. He rounded the bend and could smell the swamp. Heard a bullfrog grunt and splash into the water. He came to stand at the edge of it, a void that appeared bottomless, the substance of the man from the story. He closed his eyes and listened for any noise to betray Isaac.

Running feet sounded on the path somewhere behind him, and he turned to give chase. He had guessed right. Isaac must have come this way to hide and wait him out. Now, nearly discovered, he had gotten behind Eric. Eric followed, but this burst of physical activity proved too much for a too sedentary writer. He stopped, a stitch in is side making breathing difficult, and shouted in desperation.

"Isaac! I will never let you go. Do you hear me? I will always be right behind you! You don't work for God! You're a murderer, nothing more!"

He fell to his knees, felt the water in the damp soil blossom through his thin pants, bowed his head in defeat and prayed for strength. He didn't hear Isaac approach.

"Eric, you don't understand. You're no different than the rest of them. Than my father. I was wrong to send John Thomas, I think. Would you stop my work? Would you strive against God, Himself?"

Eric got up. Isaac stood only a few paces away. He felt the first stab of fear. In the dim light, he could make out the manic expression, an intensity that sanity couldn't mimic. But the anger was there first and best, and he said, "Until I'm dead, Isaac. I will hunt you down. You killed my brother."

"That's too bad. What does your brother Adam think, looking down at you right now from heaven?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but Isaac didn't allow it. He launched himself through the small space between them and Eric found himself caught in a vice, so strong, and gripped around the waist and forced backwards. He backpedaled furiously to keep his feet. He beat on Isaac's back with his fists to no effect. He felt the ground go soft and he slipped. They fell into the dark swamp water, and he twisted and broke Isaac's hold. He stood up, but his feet sank into the hungry mud at the bottom. The water reached his knees. He spun around, sputtering, nauseous from the sewer smell of the gases trapped in the mud and Isaac attacked again, nearly picking him up and throwing him further into the water. He broke the surface again, shivering, the water cold and fetid, a seeming accomplice to Isaac's intent. He faced the back of the swamp, standing in water up to his waist now, and didn't see but felt Isaac's hand on the back of his neck. He had time for one deep breath before his head was forced under the water, then felt a knee in his back, pinning him down. He struggled, but Isaac's strength suggested that he had escaped before only because Isaac had allowed it, to maneuver him into deeper water.

Then he was up, gasping for air, and a voice hissed in his ear. "Such a shame, that you'll never see Adam again. I'm sorry, Eric. If I thought there was hope for you I would let you live. But I did read one of your books. Paul gave it to me. Appalling. The sort of thing that leads these children to hell and makes my work that much more necessary."

Eric didn't waste energy on a reply, only focused on breathing, waited for the pressure that would force him under again and gulped in air when it came. But he knew it was only a matter of time. He forced himself not to fight, to conserve the oxygen his body contained, knowing it would not receive any more, to try and find some way out of this. He had to keep Isaac from killing again. There was no one else, but he a sad excuse for a knight, nowhere near up to the task. His lungs burned. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. He tried fighting again, but his movements were sluggish and Isaac so strong. He clamped and ground his teeth together to refuse his breathing reflex. How long? A minute? Two minutes? A hundred years? It didn't matter. It would end the same.

He dug his hands down in the mud, looking for something hard beneath to push off of, to make one more effort before giving in and filling his lungs with his death. His hand closed on something hard, cold and thin. It's texture was rough, but some sort of metal. In desperation, he swung the object back behind him, aiming at the hands on his neck, praying he wouldn't sever his own spine. It hit something, and he felt no pain but the pressure immediately ceased and Eric pulled his head from the water, gasping, taking in great lungfuls of air. He tried to stand and slipped, immersed again and swallowed some of the swamp. Struggling to his feet again, he looked wildly for Isaac. In panic he turned and swung the object in a wide arc. It stuck in something and torn from his grip. He heard a gasp and turned around.

Isaac was there, behind him. He drew back a fist and punched him in the face, and then there was a splash, Isaac gone down into the water. He danced around crazily, expecting to be knocked off of his feet, his movements winding down when the attack failed to materialize and his feet sunk back down into the bottom.

He made out a shape floating in the water nearby. He spun around again, looking to his blind side but no Isaac. The shape bobbed in the water, agitated by his movement, and he tentatively reached out and touched it, drawing his hand back on recognizing flesh, an arm. It didn't move. He waited a moment more, then slowly waded to Isaac's still form lying face down in the swamp. He put his hand on his back and groped upwards, found the back of his head, slid it around his neck and touched the metal, protruding from below his ear. Felt warmth emanating from it in stark contrast to the frigid water.

Eric turned and threw up, wiped his mouth with his hand, and the vile taste caused him to gag and vomit again. Then he was scrambling for the shore, out of the water to the bank. He fell several times, as if the swamp refused to let him go, slid again as his wet feet and clothing mixed with the dirt and formed new mud on the bank. He turned around, searched one more time for movement, and then accepted that Isaac was dead. Eric stumbled back through the woods, back to the house and called the police.

He stripped off the clothing and threw it into the trash, then sat under scalding hot water until he heard the pounding on the door, got out and dressed for his last trip into Adam's Woods.

"Are you ready, Eric?"

"As I'll ever be, I think."

"Once we get rolling, it'll be just like riding a bicycle. But I promise you like no bicycle you've ever ridden."

That Eric already agreed on. JT had taken him to a small town near Pittsburgh, surprisingly, to buy his first Harley. A touring bike with serious attitude. The saddle bags were packed with clothing and some food, but for the most part they would stop on the way for what they needed. They had ventured out on some practice rides, and Eric felt he was getting the hang of it, but needed more time to feel truly comfortable. The trip to Arizona and beyond should give him that, transform him into a veteran of the road by its end. He needed time to heal, to reflect, and to figure out the next step.

As a horror writer he was through, had made the announcement on his website a week ago. In response, directly to him and on the fan site, he had received many well wishes and sincere expressions of disappointment. The angry fans baffled him somewhat, those that called him names and speculated about his reasons as though privy to his thoughts. He did understand on some level, knew that when releasing made up characters into the world and into the psyches of others, they became something else, characters he no longer controlled, visualized and loved or hated independently by others and made that much more real. And he felt that loss himself, for they were more than just words on a page, but friends that had seen him through this far. But after all, they were just stories, and even the best stories had to end.

His favorite message came from Katy, the girl he had met at the restaurant in Meadville, and had replied personally to her. There had been a response, and, he thought, maybe the kindling of a friendship.

Eric wished again that Mary was coming, but it was done. It hurt and would for some time, the decision mutual, but not without regrets from each of them. Something had kindled between them worth trying to build, and in another time and place, perhaps they would have emerged as Mr. and Mrs. Eric Kane. But in the end, no matter how sincere their efforts, the relationship had fallen casualty to the murders in Lincoln Corners. They both needed time alone to sift and analyze the events, probe the wounds within and seek healing, and could not put them down or away until that time had passed. Each of them would be a constant reminder to the other of what they strove to put behind them.

For all of that, they still might have stood a chance.

But for Eric, the added dimension of newfound faith put his journey down a path that Mary refused to tread, at least for now. He heard echoes of his own anger and mistrust in her harsh reply when he had broached the subject, and knew that her journey back, if made at all, would also come in its own time. From the deaths that had occurred and his own nearly averted, he had come to see time as a precious commodity that he could no longer spend on waiting for what might never come. His own need to nurture his rediscovered faith was a real and present thing; he had come too far and lost too much to risk it again, and would lose Mary for it despite the stab in his heart that came with the goodbye. But he would pray for her everyday on this journey.

So he and JT would ride: on winding roads through state forests, straight tracks through deserts and up over mountain peaks, a pilgrimage to solidify what had begun to grow. They would ride as friends and allies, bound by these events that had shaped their lives and fostered in one another a deep loyalty and respect. Eric had found shame in his heart on realizing that once he had seen JT much as Fisk had. In a milder form, certainly, but once just a kid to play with because there had been no one else. Now, he saw a brave man that had overcome much, a man to whom he owed his life, and couldn't think of a better companion to share this ride.

"Okay, let's go. I'm sure I forgot something, but that's what Wal-Mart's are for, right?"

JT smiled and put on his sunglasses. The sun had just crested the tops of the trees of Adam's Woods, and Eric looked back into it as far as he could see. The forest had begun to leaf, and soon summer would reign for it's brief but glorious season. The shadows the sun worked to dispel didn't appear as dark anymore.