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 Isaac, who might be sated, however briefly, by Papa’s new resolve.
The boy was no longer pacing. Now he was standing still and facing the clearing, his body rigid, the hand holding the knife trembling violently.
“Isaac,” Papa whispered, slowly rising from the rock. “What is it?”
Isaac was silent, but something held him in thrall.
Papa limped toward him. “What do you hear?”
Since Papa had taken the child’s tongue for some violation he could hardly recall, the boy had not spoken except for cluttered mumbles, and even these were rare. He employed them now however as his stump of a tongue tried to tell Papa something.
As he came abreast of him, Isaac reached out a finger, pointing in the direction of the clearing. Then, he turned his body sideways, which Papa knew was done to make himself less of a target, just as he had taught all his children. Despite not seeing or hearing whatever had alarmed the boy, he started to do the same himself, at the same time reaching into the lining of his coat for Doctor Wellman’s gun.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “We’ll get ’em.”
A swishing sound reached their ears, and instinctively, Papa stepped back, dropping to a crouch that made his leg feel as if the jaws of a bear trap had snapped shut on it. Grimacing, he scanned the trees ahead. The moonlight revealed nothing, but the strange swishing sound continued.
Isaac started to head for the clearing, the twigs snapping underfoot, his urgency forcing him to betray his location.
For whoever was watching them, it was enough.
A rope sailed out into the dark toward them, the end coiled into a noose that moved through the air like a bubble, the loop wobbling.
“Isaac,” Papa yelled, and the boy raised his head, then his arms, hands splayed as the noose came down and was jerked tight, the rope cinching around the boy’s wrists instead of his neck.
Papa rose and hobbled toward Isaac. “No!”
The boy was jerked off his feet so fast and hard his head snapped back and his legs kicked straight out behind him as he was pulled with impossible speed into the trees.
Cursing, Papa was momentarily paralyzed by indecision. Follow and try to save the boy, or seek cover? It was a trap, he knew. Going after Isaac was just what the coyotes wanted. They would draw him in among them where he would be outnumbered and they would kill him.
From the trees, a muffled moan.
“Isaac,” he whispered.
He had to hide.
He heard a dull thumping sound that changed as he listened, became wet, like someone smacking a rubber glove against a fencepost. Slowly, Papa began to back away, stopping when the sound did. He removed the gun from his coat and readied it, his ears attuned to the slightest of movements from the trees.
The cessation of that sound told him that Isaac was lost. He was alone now, except for Krall and Luke, neither of whom had been seen since the coyotes showed up. For all Papa knew, they might have fallen.
He had to get away from here. The corrupted were encroaching on him from every side. He could sense them now, thought that he could even see them as fleeting shadows between the trees. And he could smell them, the musky putrid scent of poisoned flesh. It was growing stronger and now he turned full circle, catching faint glimpses of their burning ember eyes watching him in amusement from wherever the dark was deepest.
He had to get away, but there was nowhere to go.
“Papa,” a voice said, and startled, he spun, aiming the gun at the trees. A shadow detached from the phalanx of pines. “It’s me.”
“Luke?”
“Yes.”
Papa did not lower the gun. “Where’s your brother?”
“They’re dead, Papa. All of ’em. The coyotes got ’em. Isaac too. I was hidin’ up there on the far side of the clearin’, waitin’ for you. I saw ’em take him. But I got the son of a bitch. He’s trussed up in there, ready for you.”
Papa didn’t move. He wanted to believe what Luke was saying, but the history between them suggested the enemy he should be fearing was not a coyote at all, but his own son, who should have been reborn, but had resisted, as he had resisted Papa all his young life.
“You lyin’ to me boy?” he said, as he thumbed back the hammer and pointed the gun at Luke.
“Why would I lie?”
“’Cuz you’ve changed. Bein’ inside your Momma changed you, but I suspect not the way we all wanted, not the way she wanted.”
“I’m changed all right,” Luke told him and stepped back into the trees. “I seen the light.”
“Well,” Papa said, licking his lips. “That’s good, ain’t it?”
“I reckon it is. I’m just mad I didn’t see it sooner.”
“They did this to us, Luke. This is all their doin’, and there’s only us left standin’ to stop it.”
“The corruption,” Luke said. “The poison.”
“That’s right.”
“Thing is,” said Luke. “The light I seen told me somethin’ different.”
“Oh?” Come out you little shit, Papa thought. Face me like the man I taught you to be.
“Yeah. Angels told me you’re the poison, and always have been. Said you used God as an excuse to hurt people, includin’ your own kin.”
Papa sneered. “Then it weren’t angels you was hearin’ boy.”
Quiet settled in the woods. Papa listened, eyes narrowed, trying to discern Luke’s form from the dark, but he could no longer make him out. Of course, Papa himself had taught the boys how to make use of the night. He’d taught them well. Too well.
“Why don’t you come out here and we can talk face to face? There ain’t no cause for you to be lurkin’ around in the dark. I’m your father. Whatever you need to discuss with me, we can discuss it right here in the open. I won’t hurt you.”