Jesse turned, looked Dillard straight in the eye. “The moment you pull that trigger you’re a dead man.”
“And how’s that?”
“They’re out back, Dillard. The whole group, all heavily armed.”
Dillard felt his blood go cold; the mutilated bodies at the General’s compound flashed in his head. He was certain Jesse was lying, yet couldn’t help a quick glance out the patio window.
“There are three men out back,” Jesse said. “The rest are down on River Road. You pull that trigger and they’ll be all over you. They’ve been looking for you, Dillard. They know it was you that killed their friends.”
Dillard started to pull the trigger. Hesitated. Fought to clear his head. He’s fucking with me.
“We’re all in this shit together, Dillard. Ain’t nobody gonna be singing about any of it. If I was to turn you in I might as well turn myself in. Just let us go.”
Dillard felt flushed, his eyes watery. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, noticed a tremor in his hand, couldn’t tell if it was on account of the migraine, lack of sleep, or just plain nerves. All of the above, he guessed.
“If you head out the front door right now,” Jesse continued, “before they catch on, you just might get out of here alive. But you better make it quick, they could come walking in any second.”
“Bullshit.”
“The General didn’t believe me either . . . he’s dead now. Dillard, you don’t want to fuck with these guys.”
He’s lying, you know it, Dillard thought. Yet Jesse sounded so damn sure of himself. There was steel in his eyes, he seemed deathly calm, his voice steady as though he were the one holding the gun. Dillard became very aware that this wasn’t the same Jesse he’d kicked around for all these years.
“I’ll give you Ellen’s picture back,” Jesse said.
“What? What did you say?”
“I was gonna use it to blackmail you.”
“What picture?”
“You know what picture. The one of your wife. The one where you cut her throat wide-open. The one you kept behind the wedding photo.”
Dillard felt the room reeling, wanted to sit down. He can’t be making this up. Got to be on the inside somehow. A double-cross? Who? They were all dead—Chet? Don’t recall seeing Chet’s body. Had Chet sold them out? The guns, the photo . . . fuck, who else? Chet hated the General. Had he teamed up with those Charleston boys? Was Chet out there right now?
“It’s in my breast pocket.” Jesse nodded with his chin. “You want to get it or you want me to?”
Dillard blinked rapidly, tried to keep his eyes focused, glared at Jesse. “Give it to me,” Dillard hissed. “Give it to me now!”
Jesse lowered his hand slowly to his pocket, slid in a few fingers, a few perfectly sound fingers. What? Dillard did a double take, glanced rapidly back and forth between Jesse’s hands. All of Jesse’s fingers were fine, just fine. How . . . no? That’s not possible. Why, I broke them—felt them snap. Nothing made sense. Blood thundered in Dillard’s ears, he felt sure his head was about to split open.
Jesse pulled out his hand. His fingers were covered in sparkling sand. “Sorry, it’s in my other pocket.”
This is all wrong. Shoot him, just shoot him!
Jesse flicked his fingers, fingers that should have been twisted and broken. Dillard felt a few grains of sand hit his face, his vision blurred, the room began to spin. Jesse moved, and Dillard fired, pulled the trigger two times, then he was falling, falling into darkness.
PAIN—DEEP, SHARP PAIN—PULLED Dillard out of the darkness. He cried out, opened his eyes, found himself on his belly in his living room. He tried to sit up, realized his legs were bound, his hands cuffed behind his back. His finger throbbed, felt on fire, felt like someone had just broken it.
“That was for Abigail.”
Dillard blinked; Jesse came into focus.
Jesse sat on one of the dining-room chairs, staring at him with hard, steely eyes. A large black velvet sack rested against his leg and the plastic bag from the bathroom lay at his feet—the duct tape, knife, and hammer spilling out onto the carpet. Jesse held a gun pointed at Dillard’s face.
Dillard had, at one time, given Jesse a gun and dared him to shoot him; he’d never have given the man before him now a gun. Never.
The barrel of the gun came down on top of Dillard’s skull. Blinding bright pain racked his head. He pressed his eyes shut, squeezing tears down his cheek, the pain drumming in his ears.
“That’s for Linda.”
“Ah . . . fuck!” Dillard cried, tasting his own blood. “Fuck!”
Jesse stood, picked up the black sack, dropped it at Dillard’s feet. Dillard stared dully at the sack, trying to make sense of its purpose.
“Put your legs into the sack,” Jesse ordered, his voice completely devoid of emotion, like that of a hangman with a job to do.
Dillard squinted at Jesse. “What . . . in the sack? I don’t get it.”
“You’re going to hell, Dillard. Gonna go hang out with the dead.”
“Jesse, slow down. Let’s just—”
“I’m gonna repeat myself this one time . . . this one time only. Put your legs in the sack.”
“Jesse, I don’t know what you have in mind, but—”
Jesse drove his boot into Dillard’s ribs.
Dillard screamed. “Fuck! Okay, okay. Whatever the hell you want!” Dillard tried his best to hook his feet into the opening. Jesse grabbed the lip of the sack, keeping the gun trained on Dillard as he lassoed it over Dillard’s feet, tugging it up his legs, all the way up to his waist.
Dillard stopped, froze. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. He felt a chill, not like the air, but like liquid seeping into his flesh. It made his teeth hurt. “Hey, what’s that? What’s going on?” And at that moment he decided he wasn’t going into the sack, that he’d take a bullet before he’d go into that sack. He twisted, kicked out wildly, but found nothing to kick against; it was as though he were floating. Jesse dropped his gun, grabbed hold of Dillard’s collar, and yanked the sack up over Dillard’s arms. Dillard tried to twist free, to throw his weight against Jesse, discovered he had no leverage. Jesse easily shoved him deeper into the sack, up to his neck and then . . . and then, just held him there. The only thing in the world keeping him from sinking all the way down was Jesse’s hold on his collar.
Dillard heard voices, whispers like the sound of insects scuttling across the floor, and wailing, it came from deep within the sack. “What’s that? What’s that sound? What the fuck is it?”
“That’s the dead . . . they’re waiting for you.”
Dillard’s eyes threatened to leave their sockets. “Jesse, don’t let go of me,” he blubbered. “Please, for Christ’s sake. Don’t do this. I’m begging you, Jesse. Please!”
“People can live twenty-eight days without food before they starve to death. But you’re a tough fellow. My money says you can make it at least thirty. That’s thirty days in hell, thirty days with the dead singing you their song. Then . . . why then I guess you’ll get to join their choir.” Jesse let go of Dillard’s collar, gave him a hard shove, pushing him deep into the sack.
There came a moment of darkness, of falling, then Dillard’s feet struck something substantial, there came the chink and clink of metal on metal and he found himself tumbling and sliding. He crashed into something hard, knocking dust and brittle shards onto his chest and face.
He spat, tried to shake the debris from his face, blinked open his eyes, and found a skull, its cranium busted open, lying on his chest and staring sadly back at him. He inhaled sharply, filling his nostrils with the pungent odor of sulfur and dry rot. He glanced wildly about and was greeted by a hundred more toothy grins, skulls and bones of every sort, most black, as though burnt, all covered in gray ashy dust. The very walls and ceilings appeared to be composed of nothing but bones and they went on as far as he could see up and down the gloomy caverns and corridors.