After Darkness Fell (3 page)

I also noticed that he looked no more than twenty.

“Kind of young,” I said.

“He was old enough to shoot a gun,” Fields said softly.

I squatted, lifted him and carried him over my right shoulder to the truck. I set him down on the tailgate and let him fall backward, his head thumping the bed. I slid him the rest of the way beside his dead partner. When his tennis shoes cleared the bed, I slammed the tailgate shut.

***

I made a right onto the main road and we went west, up the mile-long hill that brought us to the intersection of Bakerstown–Culmerville Road and Deer Creek Road. As I’d suspected, there were no vehicles in sight, and aside from the junk cars and pickups languishing in the abandoned front yards up the hill, we saw nothing. The two men who’d wandered onto our property and tried to kill us had obviously come from a different direction.

I pulled into the deteriorating lot of the old abandoned garage, turned around and sat there a few moments, thinking. Those two had obviously come from somewhere. Had they driven here? Or walked? If they’d driven, they could have come from anywhere. If they’d walked, that meant they’d lived close by.

Two psychos living so close frightened me. I knew it was possible, I just didn’t like it. It meant there could be others. It also meant that what happened this morning could happen again.

For obvious reasons, I didn’t want to tell Fields my fears.

“Where exactly did he say he broke down?” she asked.

“From what he told me, we should have passed their ride on our way up this hill. He said he checked both garages, saw they were abandoned, and walked back down the hill.”

“I think he lied to you.”

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

“If it were me, I would’ve checked those houses up the hill. They all look empty, but you never know. Someone could still be moving around in one of them.”

“We both know what they were after.”

“He and his friend obviously followed us from Bakerstown the other day.”

That made me feel much better than the possibility of a gang of psychos living close. “And they’ve been biding their time, waiting for the right moment.”

“So where do you think they came from?”

I eased back out onto the road and we went back down the hill, past the farm. At the horseshoe curve rounding the barn and front pasture, the road went down a fairly steep decline for about a mile before bottoming out and starting another gradual ascent up the next hill. At the bottom, about sixty feet from the road and in the middle of a narrow dirt road, a battered station wagon sat hidden behind wild brush, its body riddled with dents, scrapes and holes, its windows covered with dust and dirt.

I pulled onto the dirt road and brought the truck to a stop about twenty feet from the front of the vehicle. We sat in tense silence for several minutes, staring at it. I expected dark shapes to suddenly kick open the doors and leap from the cab, guns blazing.

There was no movement and no sign of life, but I knew better than lower my guard. I grabbed the .357 from the console. “I’m gonna check it out.”

“Not alone, you won’t.” She snatched the .45 out of her Uncle Mike’s and cocked the hammer. She meant business. I felt sorry for anyone naive enough to give her trouble.

“Okay. But we do this my way, all right?”

“Unless you plan to do something stupid again.”

I sighed. She wasn’t going to let me live that down. “Let’s get this right, then. We’ll get out the same time and leave both doors open.”

“Why?”

“If someone jumps out of the car or the woods and starts shooting, we can get behind the doors. They’re not bullet-proof, but they’ll provide some protection.”

“All right.”

“We’ll approach the wagon at the same time—me on this side, you on your side. Keep your gun pointed at the wagon. Keep as close to the door as you can while I check out the passenger’s side. If it’s clear, I’ll signal and you can join me. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Now ... before we move, any other questions?”

“Just one. What’s the procedure if we hear another vehicle coming this way?”

I didn’t want to think about that, but I was glad she’d asked. “Get behind the truck, hit the dirt, and be ready to open up if the vehicle slows down.”

“Where will you be?”

“Right beside you.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Any questions about what we do if someone’s hiding in this wagon?”

She shrugged. “I was just gonna blow them away—unless you don’t want me to.”

“Just make sure I’m not in the line of fire when you do.”

“Then make sure you’re out of the way before I start shooting.”

I wanted to smile. “I’ll try to remember that, thanks.”

***

Together, we crept alongside the truck, one cautious step at a time, our gaze fixed on the dirt-smeared windshield. My heart did a drum roll. Twenty years had gone by since my old Army days, when I handled riot control in Little Odessa, hunted down terrorist cells in Pakistani Brighton, and watched for illegals behind a barricade of sand bags near the Arizona Border.

Back then, I’d killed terrorists, suicide bombers, snipers, illegals working for the drug cartels, and innocents caught in the line of fire. I hadn’t thought much about it at the time, attributing my actions to duty, love of country and the rationalization that if I didn’t kill the enemy, the enemy would kill me. Even so, the act of killing had darkened my spirit, and I promised myself that once I was discharged, I would never kill anyone again.

In spite of my promise, I’d killed more than a dozen people in the last few months. Each killing had been necessary for my survival, as well as the survival of Reed and Fields. But even though these killings were completely justified, my spirit continued to darken just as it had twenty years earlier.

Fields kept the .45 trained on the windshield of the station wagon as I crept closer. Due to the dirt and dust covering a good portion of the glass, it was impossible to see inside. This made me wonder if the two had purposely darkened the windows. This could mean they’d been doing some nasty things.

The .357 was a heavy, cumbersome revolver, and often required both hands even for a large man. It delivered a substantial kick, and unless the cylinder was loaded with .38 bullets, the best way of maintaining control was to support the wrist of your firing hand with the palm of your non-firing hand.

Since I had to pull open the passenger door, I didn’t have the luxury of keeping both hands on the gun. As a precaution, I mashed my upper arm tightly against my side for more stability. Taking a deep breath, I reached out, grasped the door handle and yanked it open.

The stench of marijuana, cigarette smoke and stale beer assaulted my nostrils.

The empty interior sneered at me.

The automatic held straight out, Fields moved closer. She pulled open the driver’s door as I stuck my head inside and had a quick look at the interior. Food and candy wrappers, as well as empty beer cans, covered the floor. The dash ashtray overflowed with butts. Plastic bags of what looked like marijuana sat in a heap on the console. The back seat was covered with bundles of clothing. Canned goods and boxes of cereal and other foodstuffs lay in a pile behind the back seat.

I went around to the back of the wagon and lowered the tailgate. Three Styrofoam coolers sat behind the seat. A large open cardboard box sat by itself, toward the tailgate. Curious, I moved closer for a better look.

The box was crammed with hair—and strips of bloody flesh.

Scalps
?

I thought of Carla and her collection of severed penises. This discovery made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

Fields came around. “What’s wrong?”

I just shook my head.

She moved closer; her eyes grew. “
My God!
” She pulled back and turned away. “Those two actually
were
psychos.”

“Looks like it.”

“Well, at least there were only two of them.”

I didn’t want to voice my opinion that there might have been more, or that others could have gone looking for more victims. Judging by the cramped quarters in the wagon, I strongly believed there were only two of them.

“I guess we just pile them in back and leave them here,” she said.

“I have to see what’s in those coolers.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“No ...”

“Why do it, then?”

She was right. There could be something even worse than scalps floating around in them.

“You’re right. We don’t need to know.”

Fifteen minutes later, after I’d pulled the two out of the truck, dragged them back to their ride and stuffed them in back, I closed the tailgate and we went back to the open doors see what else we could find. While Fields checked beneath the driver’s seat, I opened the glove box. It was crammed with wallets. I counted seventeen. They must have taken them from their victims.

“Nothing here but a crack pipe and six or seven bottles of drugs,” she said.

“What sort of drugs?”

She read the labels. “All sorts of meds.”

“Same person?”

“Different people. Uppers. Downers. Tranquillizers. There are even some poppers here.”

I opened two wallets. The second one caught my attention. The driver’s license photo was of the man I’d shot. His name was Willis K. Simpson, he was 29, and lived in Saxonburg. I pulled out his registration, insurance card, and a few other cards. Suddenly things seemed much worse.

“What is it?” Fields asked.

“The man I shot. His name was Willis K. Simpson, and he was a doctor. He’s got a card here from Saxonburg Regional Medical Clinic.”

Fields just shrugged.

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“Nowadays I’m not surprised about anything.”

I didn’t know why this bothered me so much. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to think a doctor capable of doing such horrible things. Or maybe I just didn’t want to admit that I’d shot a doctor in the head. But I had to face facts. He might have been a doctor once, but he’d spent his last days breaking into people’s homes, robbing them, killing them, and taking their scalps as grisly souvenirs.

“It really puts a new light on things.” Fields laughed a humorless laugh. “A doctor robbing, killing, and scalping people. This plague sure has brought out the worst in everyone.”

“This keeps getting more and more difficult.” I didn’t want to know about the other guy; the fact that he was a kid was too much to handle as it was. I dropped the wallets on the seat and slammed the door shut. I wanted to get away from here, drive back to the farm and have a big glass of bourbon.

“Personally, I think...” Fields suddenly stopped.

I froze. We both heard it.

The distant sound of a moving vehicle was coming from the east, down the long hill.

If my guess was right, it would be passing us in less than a minute.

“Get the truck doors closed!
Now!
”

While Fields ran for the truck, I closed the doors of the station wagon and ran up to her just as she pushed the driver’s door shut. Grabbing her by the arm, I pulled her across the dirt road and through the bushes, to the six-foot ditch on the other side that ran parallel to the main road. We slid down the weed-choked slope, landing on the muddy bank just above the creek running through the culvert. The ground was damp and cold. Fields disappeared in the wild growth of the grassy slope and lay on her stomach. I stayed close to her, on my left side, my right hand tightly gripping the .357, which was aimed at the road less than ten feet away.

The sound of the approaching vehicle grew louder.

“What’s the plan?” she whispered. Although most of her was hidden in the tall grass, I could see her eyes, which had grown quite large. She was frightened, as was I.

“If the vehicle stops and someone gets out and comes over to the truck, we drop them, no questions asked.”

“Gotcha.”

Luckily, the high weeds hid us from view, but by pushing some of the heavy growth aside we could see the road surface.

The hum of the vehicle grew louder. As it came down the hill, it began slowing down. I placed the barrel of the .357 on my forearm, which lay on the ground about six inches in front of my face. Then I cocked the hammer.

The vehicle, a light-blue compact, came into view. Judging by its soft, steady whine, it was some sort of hybrid. Its darkly-tinted windows hid the driver from view. It slowed as it drew closer, easing to a crawl as it neared the turnoff, where the truck sat off the main road. When it was about thirty feet away, it stopped.

For long, agonizing minutes, it sat totally still, its engine only slightly louder than the silence. It was a two-door—one of those models manufactured years ago for optimal fuel efficiency, when America began breaking off its ties with OPEC. The back seat was tiny, used mainly to house its many batteries, the trunk much too small to accommodate anything larger than a suitcase, or a bag of groceries. However, that was not the issue. The driver could be armed. And if someone was sitting beside him, he, too, could be armed.