Revenant (10 page)

Now, however, the twigs and rotting leaves and clumps of damp, musky north woods dirt clung to his jeans, dropping off slowly, unnoticed. Keeping his clothes neat and clean had not been included in his instructions and thus was a non-factor for the new but definitely not improved version of Earl Manning.

The orders he
had
received were simple. He was to keep to the cover of the trees fifty or so feet east of the rutted and pothole-strewn dirt track in order to avoid detection, following the obscure road—he had lived his entire life in this area but had never had the slightest inclination this road was here—for a mile or so north. Eventually he would arrive at a brand-new home, a cabin constructed by some billionare software developer from the west coast. Then he would do what he had to do and get the hell out.

The bitch of it was that Earl Manning had no desire to do it.

Any of it.

Earl couldn’t have cared less about some billionaire software developer, unless the guy was having a party and offering free beer and maybe beautiful women, which was clearly not the case. If left to his own devices, Earl would not have been within five miles of this isolated road in this eerie, God-forsaken forest. He would be sleeping one off in his own lumpy bed, waiting for Ma to wake him up with the smell of sizzling bacon and frying eggs.

It wasn’t much of a life, Earl knew that—he might not have been a Rhodes Scholar, but he wasn’t completely stupid, either—but it was
his
life, and certainly far preferable to the nightmare he now found himself thrust into. He ran his hand over the frightening cavity in the middle of his chest, the cotton of his shirt pushed into the hole which had been stitched up so carelessly by his new master, and shuddered.

He had no heart. The asshole jocks he had grown up with, the kids on the Paskagankee High football team who had tortured him mercilessly as a kid, scoring with the prettiest girls while being no or smarter or better looking than he, had told him exactly that thousands of times when he was a kid—“You ain’t got no heart, Manning”—but they had meant it as nothing more than an insult, a nasty and hurtful way of telling him what everyone already knew anyway: that they were better than he was.

But this was different. He literally had no heart.  
His heart was gone.
It was actually gone, carved out of his chest, somehow beating by itself and fueling his body despite being stored inside a plastic bag in that goddamned Max Acton’s special box in the basement of his rented house of horrors a few miles away.

What had Acton called him? “Revenant,” that was it; that was the word he had used. Earl was a revenant. Earl wasn’t sure of the exact dictionary definition of the word, it wasn’t one he had ever heard before and a dictionary wasn’t exactly within reach at the moment, but based on his personal experience of the last few hours Earl thought he was becoming quite the expert on revenants.

He was dead; there was no question about that. That fact was indisputable. His heart had been removed from his body and was being stored in a room miles away.

Dead.

Hard to argue that point.

And yet, here he was, walking (sort of), thinking, feeling more or less like the old Earl, except with one critical difference: Free will was no longer a part of his life. He was no longer calling the shots.

In some small ways he was still able to control his actions, sure, the fact that he had determined on his own how to circumnavigate the fallen birch tree moments ago was testament to his ability to puzzle out problems, but in a much larger sense, Earl was now no better than a marionette. He was nothing more than an empty husk of a former human being whose purpose was being dictated by Max Acton’s string-pulling, as much in charge from miles away as if he were standing right here next to Earl in the forest.

When Earl had awakened in the basement of Acton’s rented home, confused and frightened and knowing something was very wrong but having no idea what it might be, he had had no intention of standing upon command or of walking to Acton when summoned, and yet he had done exactly that, because he had had no choice in the matter.

He cursed at Acton and refused to stand, yet his body performed the activity all on its own. He cursed again and refused to walk, yet his body performed
that
activity all on its own, too. If free will, the ability to determine one’s own future through one’s own independent choices and actions, was what ultimately defined humanity, then Earl Manning was not only dead, he was no longer human.

And that was terrifying. He was on a mission for which he had not volunteered and did not wish to undertake, but still, here he was, plodding along approaching the point where he would either accomplish it unwillingly or die trying, if that was even possible. Could you be killed once you were already dead? Or would a more accurate question be, could you be killed once you were “undead?”

Earl mopped his brow by force of habit. It was an unnecessary and futile gesture, since whatever black fucking magic was powering this whole nightmare had not insinuated itself into his sweat glands. Despite the heat and the intense physical activity—Earl was working harder on his first day as an undead man than he had ever once worked in his last decade as a live one—his skin remained as cold and dry as a stone.

He trudged along and tried to think. Thinking and planning were two things he had never been particularly good at when he was alive, and they seemed like even more elusive concepts now that he was dead. He couldn’t seem to force his mind to focus on any one thought for more than a second or two at a time. It was like there was a mosquito buzzing around his head at night, constantly moving, landing for a second and then disappearing again when he swatted at it.

And that was frustrating, because Earl had the annoying sensation that this inability to focus was important in some way. That it might make a difference, somehow, in his—literally—damned existence. That maybe he could use it to his advantage. He concentrated on that notion as hard as he could. Acton was controlling his existence and his activities like some evil, black-hearted god, but he wasn’t controlling his every precise move right down to every muscle twitch. The Fucking Devil Acton could sense Earl’s
thoughts
and
intentions
but could not control his every precise
action.

Important.

That was an important distinction; maybe a critical one. But why? What the hell difference could that small detail possibly make? And why did it matter, in the long run? He would still be dead no matter what. But there was a significance to that distinction that was eluding him. He tried and tried to concentrate on the question but simply could not make the mosquito stay in one place for more than a second or two.

Earl staggered through the forest, struggling to walk and think at the same time. He caught his foot in a root sticking out of the forest floor and pitched forward, banging his forehead on a tree. He cursed out of habit, despite the fact that what a little over a week ago would have caused a nasty headache and probably a blooming purple bruise had not caused any real pain at all.

It didn’t matter, he was still pissed. He wondered if walking would ever become second nature like it had once been, or whether he would be forced to move like Frankenstein’s monster for the rest of his life, or death, or whatever the hell it was. He wondered if Max Acton, sitting in his broken-down house across town could sense his frustration. He hoped so; it would serve the miserable bastard right.

And then Earl forgot all about the mystery of being a revenant and why it seemed so important that Acton could control his purpose but not his every action, because as he raised his eyes to a shaft of bright sunlight stabbing through the thick forest canopy, Earl spotted a clearing. A man-made clearing.

At the far end of the man-made clearing, in the middle of the thousands of square miles of virgin forest in extreme northern Maine, a log cabin loomed in the distance, shimmering in the heat, massive and impressive and newly constructed.

He was here. And it was time to go to work.

13

“Well, that was pleasant.” Sharon tucked a stray lock of black hair behind her ear as she accelerated out of the Ridge Runner parking lot.

Mike chuckled darkly. “Yeah, that Pellerin’s a real engaging guy. He certainly doesn’t have a whole lot of respect for women, does he?” He thought about the tavern owner’s leering comments to Sharon and pursed his lips angrily.

“I had two strikes against me the moment we walked into the bar,” she said. “My uniform—he’s not a big fan of cops, in case you hadn’t noticed—and the fact that Earl Manning is probably his biggest customer. I’ll bet he was barely exaggerating when he said his sales are down twenty percent since Earl’s gone missing.”

“Well, then, he shouldn’t have been dicking us around. He should have been glad we’re out trying to hunt Earl’s sorry ass down.”

“I’m sure he is, but Earl has spent countless hours sloppy drunk in that bar, undoubtedly pouring his broken heart out to Bo about how I blew him off all those years ago. I’m sure he doesn’t include the part about using alcohol and drugs to get in my pants while he’s telling his sob story. Undoubtedly that part is conveniently overlooked.

“Two strikes,” Sharon repeated. “Actually, the process went much better than I expected it to. At least we walked out with something resembling a lead, which we certainly didn’t have before.”

The atmosphere inside the cruiser was better than it had been on the way to the Ridge Runner. It wasn’t exactly the same as when they were together, but Mike was relieved not to have to sit through the stilted, awkward, tense silence of earlier. It was obvious Sharon was trying to keep the mood light. At least, as light as possible under the circumstances. “So, where are we headed now, boss?”

Mike smiled and cut a look sideways at her. “Where would we be headed if you were in charge of this investigation?”

“Rose Pellerin’s shop,” she answered immediately.

“Right you are.”

***

The air felt dry and somehow brittle, like the inside of an elderly person’s home, as they walked into
Needful Things.
Sharon had always felt the name of the shop—a tiny cubby which had been around as long as she could remember—to be an unnecessary reach, as if its owner might be trying to convince the world Paskagankee was some gothic little New England town of horrors, and that something strange and eerie and otherworldly might be found here.

The reality, Sharon felt, was that the attempt was mostly wasted. Paskagankee was so far off the beaten path in northern New England that visitors and vacationers rarely came around, and when they did it was usually because they had gotten lost and wanted nothing more than directions back to the interstate highway fifteen miles away. The natives of this little town certainly weren’t falling for the Stephen King comparison. They already knew exactly what Paskagankee was—a sleepy little hamlet where nothing much ever happened. At least that’s what it
had
been until last fall, when the murders had begun occurring.

Sharon thought about those bizarre few days and shivered unconsciously. Maybe there was more to the name of Rose Pellerin’s shop than she had previously realized. Maybe when the old lady named this place a couple of decades ago she had smelled the evil coming; had somehow just been better attuned to it than anyone else.

A tiny bell hanging at the end of a brass bracket mounted on top of the door announced their arrival.
The shop was tiny but jam-packed with knick-knacks, greeting cards, collectibles. They were the sorts of items you might expect to find inside the elderly person’s home with the dry and brittle air.

Rose Pellerin stood behind the counter next to the door and stared at them as they entered, her expression guarded. It was as if she had been expecting them, and clearly she had. Undoubtedly, her brother had called as soon as they left the Ridge Runner to warn his sister that she could expect a visit from the police.

Sharon wondered if Rose was any friendlier than Bo and decided she couldn’t very well be any more hostile. She tried to recall whether she had ever spoken to the store owner and didn’t think she had, despite living in Paskagankee virtually her entire life. She had seen her around town, of course, plenty of times—you couldn’t live in a place this small and not know mostly everyone, at least by sight—but their paths had never directly crossed.

“Hello, officers,” the shopkeeper said, and smiled, and it was as if the sun had just peeked out from behind the clouds after a heavy rain. Rose Pellerin’s face turned from wary to welcoming and suddenly she looked nothing like her brother.

Mike extended his hand. “Ms Pellerin, I’m Chief Mike McMahon and this is Officer—“

“—Oh, I know who this young lady is,” she said. “Hello, dear, how are you?”

“I’m fine, Ms Pellerin,” Sharon answered, puzzled. “Have we met?”

“Not officially, I suppose, but you used to go skipping past this very front door every day on your way to school when you were just a little thing. I could tell, even way back then, that you were going to turn into quite the heartbreaker, and good Lord, I was right on the money, wasn’t I?”

Sharon’s could feel her face flush. She decided Bo Pellerin’s blatant hostility and aggression would be preferable to this torture, especially with Mike standing right next to her. He was obviously enjoying the exchange immensely and Sharon knew she would be hearing about it the moment they closed the doors of the cruiser.
Heartbreaker! ‘Good Lord’ was right.

After a few seconds that felt more like hours Mike took pity on Sharon and forged ahead. “Ms Pellerin—“

“Rose, please, everyone calls me Rose,” she interrupted.

“All right then, Rose. I assume Bo called you to tell you we were on our way?”

“Why yes, chief, he did.”

“Then you know why we’re here.”

“I do, but I’m afraid I can’t shed much light on the couple you’re looking for beyond what my brother has already told you. I remember them quite clearly, even though they came into the store only once, and for a fairly short amount of time at that. The young woman was breathtakingly beautiful, almost as pretty as Officer Dupont, here. Unfortunately, the older man paid cash for their purchases, so I don’t even have a credit card receipt I could look up to tell you his last name.”