Prairie Gothic (28 page)

By the time the truck pulled up beside them and threw its door open, Doc reached for its handle as desperately as a drowning man grasps at a flotation device. He pulled Mary in and fought with the door to close it.

“Thanks,” he said. “You're a life saver.” The chubby guy behind the wheel stared at him with an unpleasant scowl.

“This is Doctor Jones,” Mary said. “He's my friend. Please don't be mad at him Uncle Simon.”

***

It was a couple of minutes before Deputy Wynn could get his feet under him. They had assumed a Jello-like consistency, too wobbly to hold him.

“Heathers?” he called.

No one answered. But for the glow from the forge, it was dark in the shed. Dim light filtered through windows that hadn't been cleaned in decades. The illumination behind them was paler than it had been. It must be getting toward sunset.

The flame in the forge was blinding. Looking toward it made seeing what was on the floor, below the level of the firebox, harder. Wynn took a couple of tentative steps.

At least it was warm. He could feel the heat on his face, noticed a little feeling coming back into his hands.

“Heathers?” Still nothing. He bent, shielding his eyes with one arm. The first girl was right at his feet. He dropped to his knees and shook her a little.

“Heather!” He shouted it this time. It was loud in there. Maybe Englishman's daughter hadn't heard him over the roar of the furnace and the cry of the wind.

Jesus! He was kneeling in her blood. He looked for a wound and couldn't see any. Nothing obvious. All of a sudden he didn't want to risk moving her again. She might have a spinal injury.

“Uhh,” somebody said. That somebody sat up slowly on the other side of the forge. She was holding her face in her hands. Even in the ruddy light of the flame she looked pale. Naked to her waist, but pale. Uncharacteristically, Wynn hardly noticed her breasts as he hurried to offer her a hand, even found himself helping her cover herself with her jacket. Later, the deputy who patrolled back roads in search of parked couples so he could sneak up and use his flashlight to peek at a naked prom queen might kick himself for not taking advantage of the chance to extend this viewing time. Just now he was too busy being scared, and not just for himself.

“He socked me,” Heather Lane explained. She had the beginnings of a magnificent shiner. “He grabbed the rifle and popped me with a fist.”

“Heather's out cold,” he told her. “I couldn't find a pulse.”

“What?” She started pulling herself down the aisle, crawling toward the place where her sister lay.

“There's blood all around her,” Wynn said. Two sat on the floor and gently lifted One's head into her lap, hands exploring her skull with a feather-light touch.

“She's breathing. What happened to her?”

Wynn wasn't sure. “Judah Hornbaker musta done it,” he said. “She was already down on the floor when I came in, just before you shot him. He took the gun away from you somehow, then he went out. Said you hurt him and he was gonna tell.”

“Did I hurt him? I thought I missed.”

“Oh no. You got him. High up near the shoulder. He was bleeding bad. The bullet went right through him. Pretty near hit me too.” Wynn turned to point at the hole in the door just in time to watch it open. Judah stood there. There was no wound in his shoulder and the only blood on his coat was on one of his sleeves. His eyes stared at them, absorbing the glow of the forge without reflecting it. It was like there was no soul in there, Wynn thought. Like soul and body had somehow parted, and what was left wasn't truly human. A ghost?

Wynn wanted to open his mouth to demand that this spirit be gone. He didn't manage it. All he was able to produce was a tiny sound even he could hardly hear. “Mama!” he whispered.

***

“It's not loaded,” Judy said. It was, of course, but she thought she was close enough to get to the gun if the hag looked down to check.

The hag didn't seem to care.

“I don't think she believes you,” the lady in the red tennies said. “Lock someone in a cage for forty-odd years and it's not surprising if they have trust issues.”

Judy nodded. Cage? Forty years? It didn't matter, nor did whatever issues the woman might have. Judy didn't even care who the old bags were. Only her daughters mattered.

“Look. I just want to find my girls and get out of here. I don't care about any of this. You can keep the gun if you want.”

“No,” the lady in the tennies said. “I don't think she should do that.” She put out her hand. “Why don't you give it to me, dear?”

The crone backed up a couple of steps, swinging the Beretta to keep both of them covered.

“I'll just leave you two to work this out,” Judy said. She took a tentative step toward the exit to the kitchen. The door across the room creaked as it began to open.

Now, Judy thought. She lunged, snapped her leg up the way Englishman had taught her, and kicked the spot the Beretta occupied. The wild woman swung toward the far door. Judy's foot encountered air. She felt herself losing her balance.

Chairman Wynn was pushing through the door and saying, “Judy, you've got to come look at this. I think we've found Harriet. There's a regular laboratory in here. Dead babies in jars. I mean some weird shit.” She tried to comprehend as she twisted in mid-air so she'd have another chance at the gun. The woman in the red tennies was grabbing for it too.

Judy brushed the pistol with one hand as the lady in the tennies tackled the crone around the shoulders. The gun exploded. Once! Twice!

Someone shrieked and Judy fell in a heap. So did the old women. The gun skittered across the floor, just out of reach.

The far door finished opening. The chairman stumbled into the room. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open. He was the one screaming. His hands clasped the front of his jacket where a crimson stain was spreading. His legs went out from under him and he sat heavily on the floor. He opened his mouth to cry again, only this time hardly any sound emerged. Blood did though. Too much, Judy thought, for a man to lose and live.

***

Most Benteen County deaths were from natural causes. Given the increasing age of the population, and the decreasing economic incentives to keep young people living here, most were simply a matter of organisms wearing out.

You couldn't hang around a brother who was sheriff, though, without running into the exceptions. Mad Dog had come face to face with death in many forms—automobile accidents, farm accidents, suicides, even a brutally murdered preacher a few years back. He'd never faced it quite like this, though.

Death had assumed a persona and it stood just before him. Little puffs of steam exploded from the bull's nostrils. Blood tinged Black Death's horns. Bloody sputum dripped from the corner of his mouth and more blood flowed down his flanks and spoiled the pristine snow.

Mad Dog had left the AK 47 back in the hog shed. That's what you did when you didn't believe in guns. He wished he didn't believe in bulls either.

A lightning bolt. He needed another lightning bolt, only he couldn't begin to concentrate. Not with death so close at hand.

The bull pawed scarlet snow, dipped his head slightly. He was ready to charge.

No point in running, Mad Dog decided. The bull stepped closer. It was as if the monster wanted to look in his eyes as it killed him.

“I'm not going to let you do this,” Mad Dog said. The bull didn't seem interested. “I'm a natural-born shaman,” Mad Dog told it. “I can kill you without touching you.”

The bull twisted his head, as if choosing which horn to use first. Mad Dog was beginning to feel a little desperate. He reached out and pointed a finger at the Brahma. “Begone!” he shouted. “I, Mad Dog, command it.”

The bull nodded. Something changed behind its eyes. The angry spark flickered, dimmed, extinguished. The black giant tilted, toppled, fell, and lay still.

Benteen County's greatest shaman had triumphed again.

***

The sheriff was looking for the house, but when something finally loomed out of the frozen tempest, it was the barn. He didn't mind. The Heathers could be anywhere.

He slipped through the doors, from savage maelstrom into dusky twilight. His daughters didn't leap from the nearest stall to greet him as their savior, not even when he called them. No fresh Hornbakers renewed their efforts to do him harm, either.

Thinking of Hornbakers made him decide to reload. It should have occurred to him earlier. He was going to have to be careful, make himself consider the consequences of every action. His mind wasn't back to normal speed, even if he understood he was an inhabitant of present-day Kansas again. Reloading proved that. He had bullets. He just didn't have anything to put them in. The sheriff was still trying to work out what might have happened to his gun when the voice interrupted him.

“I wondered who stumbled in here. I was hoping you might be Mad Dog, but you'll make good bait for him.”

Becky Hornbaker stood just inside the barn doors. The front of her clothing was spattered with something that looked like a cherry slushie. It was on her face and in her hair too. And all over the AK 47 she pointed his way.

“Or maybe you've succeeded where I haven't,” she continued. “Have you found your demented brother, Sheriff, and relieved him of the key?”

“Key?” The sheriff had a theory about questioning suspects. Unfortunately, he couldn't recall it just then. Puzzled parroting would have to do. He could dazzle a confession out of her later, when he decided whether she'd committed a crime.

“No? Too much to hope for, I suppose. You just want to know about your Heathers and your deputy. You don't care about my key, even if it's what all the rest of this is about.”

He seized on that one. “Where are the Heathers? Why bring them here?”

“We couldn't leave them wandering around Harriet's grave, now could we. What might people think?”

“You know?”

“Nearly every woman in this county knows Harriet, Sheriff.”

“Are you…”

She interrupted him. “Am I Harriet? No. Not with Zeke championing the battle to end abortion in Benteen County. I'm just trying to claim my rightful inheritance, and an exit strategy for a situation that continues to spiral out of control. Too many people here sticking their noses in our family's secrets. And then there's what your brother stole, and what he may have stumbled on.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't seen Mad Dog all day. I know he made off with your brother's body this morning, and I know your family has been looking for something of Tommie's. But that's it. You're going to have to fill me in on the rest.”

“Shall I show you what this is all about? Perhaps I shall. It's heavy, as I recall. I could use your help toting it.”

A moment of dizziness whirled through the sheriff's head, and this time, not just because of the blows it had taken. He had no idea what Becky was talking about, or why she was running around with an automatic rifle. “Look,” he said. “Why don't you let me get my family and my deputy and leave? Then you can continue whatever game you're playing without us spoiling it for you.”

She smiled without humor.

“Oh, Sheriff, I assure you. It's no game. When your brother finds the message I left him, he'll understand just how serious it is.” Her grin widened. “Deadly serious, you might say.”

***

“Wasn't me that hurt you, Judah,” Wynn Some whined. “It was her.” He pointed down where one Heather cradled the bloody head of another.

“You hurt Judah?” The hulk in the doorway seemed to have trouble believing that. Since the kid didn't have a hole in his shoulder, the deputy had trouble believing it too. To be on the safe side, he treated the statement as an accusation.

“Not me, Judah. Her.” If he could just direct Judah's attention somewhere else.

“I'm Levi, you dumbo.” The big guy punctuated his explanation by shoving Wynn against the nearest workbench. Levi sure looked like Judah.

“How could any of you runts hurt Judah?”

“I shot him,” Heather said. “In the shoulder, though that's not where I was aiming.”

Levi shook his head. “What you doing in here? You're supposed to be out there freezing.”

“I could go now, if you like,” Wynn offered.

“Go, stay. Whada I care. Only you hurt Judah. That's not right. Judah shoulda hurt you.”

“He did. He hurt both of them,” Wynn said. “Just look.”

Levi obliged by stepping further into the room and bending down to see in the dim light below the mouth of the forge. It was what Deputy Wynn had both feared and hoped. There was a karate chop he'd seen on TV. You just stepped up behind the villain and hit him with the blade of your open hand where his neck met his skull. It worked every time, except this one. Levi should have dropped like the price of wheat at harvest. Only he didn't.

“You oughtna done that,” Levi said. He picked Wynn up and threw him across the shed. “Now you made me mad.”

Wynn Some would have apologized but he was having trouble with simpler things, like breathing.

Levi didn't come after him, though. He reached into a cabinet by the door and pulled out a plastic jug. He popped the lid off and tossed it in Wynn's lap. Kerosene.

Levi picked up a second jug, opened its lid as well. “You wanna get warm. Fine by me.” He tossed the second jug in the forge. A ball of flame mushroomed out, engulfing everything.

Wynn was on fire. He batted his arms against his chest, trying to extinguish the blaze. He looked for a place that wasn't burning and launched himself for it. Levi got out of his way as he went through the door. He dove in the snow and let its chill engulf him. It took several minutes of rolling around and beating on himself to put it out. By then, the shed was totally engulfed in flame. That was when he remembered the Heathers.