The handcuffs bit into his wrist as he struggled to sit up, his fingers struck cold metal and he glanced down, found he sat atop a mound of coins, not any coins, these were gold and triangular. The pile continued upward, building into a tall pyramid, disappearing into the smoky gloom just above him. It was the way out, he was sure of it. He struggled to get his feet under him, tried to kick and worm his way up the pyramid, but the coins shifted beneath his feet, causing him to slide farther and farther down the cavern. Finally he gave up and just lay there panting, trying to stifle his sobs, trying to get some control of himself.
He felt them. He couldn’t see them but he knew they were there, moving around him. Not much more than a breeze at first, the dust stirring upon the bones. He heard them, the whispers, calling his name. As the sound grew, so did the wind. It began to take substance and as it did, he saw them . . . the dead. He saw their tortured smiles, their woeful eyes. And all those dead eyes were on him, all so very glad to see him.
Dillard screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and the dead . . . the dead screamed along with him.
JESSE STARED INTO the sack, could only see the smoldering darkness, but thought he heard screaming, far away—it sounded a lot like Dillard. He wanted to smile, but found he was too sickened by all of it.
Jesse left the living room, and peeked out the front, making sure Linda hadn’t returned. He’d sent her and Abigail off to Linda’s mother’s in her little Ford while he took care of things. She’d started to protest, but when Abigail began to cry, she’d left.
Jesse went out into the garage, picked up the Polaroid of Ellen, and brought it inside, leaving it on the floor next to the tape and knife. He wanted to be sure the police found it, that they knew just what kind of person Dillard really was. He snatched a hand towel from the kitchen and wiped his prints off the Polaroid, the tape, and the knife, then walked through the house, wiping down any surface he remembered touching. He felt he was being overly cautious, because without a body there was no crime. Unless, that was, some very clever detectives figured out how to search the bowels of hell.
Jesse had taken Dillard’s police radio, gathered it up along with the things Dillard had taken from his truck, grabbed Krampus’s sack, and brought them all with him as he headed out through the garage.
Jesse stepped out into the morning, the sun peeking over the nearby hills, lighting up the river fog. He started for the woods, for the truck, when he heard a snort and froze. There, just across the lawn, stood Santa Claus in front of the Yule goats and sleigh. The two angels, those terrible angels, stood on either side of him.
Jesse glanced to the woods, wondered how far he could get before they caught up with him.
“There is no place to run,” Santa said. “There is no hiding from God.”
Jesse let out a great sigh; at least he’d taken care of Dillard, at least he could die now knowing he’d done that much for Linda and Abigail.
“I waited,” Santa said. “Until you were finished. I did not have to do that.”
Jesse looked at him, puzzled.
“I could have intervened, but your deed needed to be done. Now, there is a little less evil in this world. Despite what Krampus may have told you, I have only love for mankind . . . my charity comes from deep within my heart.”
Santa extended his hand. “The sack.”
Jesse looked at the two angels, their piercing eyes, and swords of light, and knew he had no choices left. He brought the sack to Santa.
“And my keys?”
Jesse tugged the skeleton keys from his jacket, handed those over as well. Santa gave him a nod and climbed aboard the sleigh.
“Is Krampus dead?”
Santa looked Jesse in the eye. “Yes. He is gone from this world.”
“You didn’t have to kill him.”
“You did not have to send that man to Hel.”
Jesse was quiet for a moment. “Yes, I did. That had to be done.”
“You should understand then . . . that there are things that have to be done, no matter how horrible.” Santa gave him a judicious smile and seated himself, popped the reins, and the two goats tromped forward and climbed into the morning sky, leaving Jesse alone with the two terrible angels.
The angels watched him with their ominous, condemning eyes. Jesse knew they were about to take his life, maybe more. But they only lifted their heads heavenward and drifted upward, disappearing into the blinding rays of the morning sun.
Chapter Eighteen
God’s Will
Jesse sprinted through the woods. He’d asked Linda to give him about an hour then call the sheriff, to send him over to Dillard’s. Told her to tell the police the truth, everything exactly as it had happened, except for that last bit with Dillard, to instead say she’d got out of the basement on her own and driven home, and let him worry about filling in the blanks.
Jesse reached Chet’s truck and climbed in. Cranked it up and headed over to the General’s compound. The plan was to trade out Chet’s truck for his own. He knew this could be the tricky part. He had no way of knowing if his truck was even still there or if anyone else might be around.
His truck was still there and he saw not a soul. Jesse wiped his prints off Chet’s keys and steering wheel, grabbed Dillard’s police radio, and got out. He walked quickly up to the side door of the motor bay. Jesse used his sleeve to open the door and headed up the short hall. He hesitated there, knowing what awaited him inside. He swallowed and pushed the door inward.
Jesse tried not to look at them, the mangled bodies, but did. Surprised to find he actually felt bad for many of them, men he’d known most of his life. They’d not all been rotten, at least not so rotten as to deserve what came.
He wiped his prints off Dillard’s radio and dropped it just inside the door. Jesse figured the police would find plenty of evidence connecting Dillard to the General once they started looking, but a little insurance wouldn’t hurt.
Jesse left the building, hopped into his truck. The keys were still in the ignition. He gave them a twist and was rewarded with a grinding noise. “Not good,” he said, knowing the old F-150 had been sitting too long. He held his breath and gave it another go, nursing the gas. It turned over once and quit. “C’mon, you can do it.” It started on the third try and Jesse dropped it into reverse and got out of there.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Jesse turned down the narrow drive to the old church. He pulled around the building and hit the brake. Krampus lay upon his back in the snow, the frost sparkling off his great mane. Wipi lay facedown next to the Yule Lord, stiff and unmoving. Nipi knelt at their side.
Jesse cut the engine, got out, walked slowly up, searching for Isabel. Seeing Nipi still alive gave him hope, but he found no sign of her or any of the others. He stepped round the wolves and over to Nipi. The brothers were human now, their flesh once again butternut-brown. There were no wounds on Wipi, or the wolves, but a great gash glistened across Krampus’s chest and a circle of crimson snow spread round his body.
Jesse knelt next to Nipi. “Sorry about your brother.”
Nipi seemed not to hear.
Jesse studied the Yule Lord’s face, noticed that even in death Krampus kept that half-smile of his, as though he had one trick left up his sleeve yet. But his eyes were pale, all the fire gone. “It’s a shame,” Jesse spat. “A real goddamn shame. Hell if it ain’t.”