Darkling I Listen (55 page)

On her third attempt, she managed it. Sodden and shivering, she lay on the boat bottom with her head resting on a cushion and her gaze fixed on the tree branches that dripped with moss and flower vines. The first flush of dawn crept in vaporish streams through the leaves. Fresh desperation swallowed her. She reached for the oar, struggled to sit up, shouldered away the gritty water running from her hair into her eyes, and began paddling again.

Little by little, the baygall emerged, brown water and gray lily pads; a thick layer of mist hovered just above the surface. Dead or dying trees rose out of the murk, their roots jutting from the water like gnarled, knobby knees. Egrets lifted into the air and soared silently above.

Alyson saw it then, the cross rising out of the mist. It floated in the hazy air like a sign from heaven. Paddling harder and faster, she drove the boat toward
it,
body warming, adrenaline flooding the once exhausted muscles that had threatened to quit on her.

The dilapidated pier appeared unexpectedly out of the haze. The boat rammed it hard. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silence, and a cloud of white birds erupted from the trees. Alyson gently laid the paddle in the boat as her eyes searched the ground that stretched out before her. The compound had the eerie look of a vacated concentration camp. A towering chain-link fence topped by rolled barbed wire surrounded a barren, flat area upon which huts were scattered. In the center sat an ancient building with boarded windows. The cross rising from its roof leaned precariously to one side, as if the slightest wind would topple it.

Alyson removed her life vest,
then
tucked the gun into her jeans. She flipped open the metal tackle box and took the pocketknife, tied the boat to a rotting pier beam, grabbed her boots, stepped into the shallow water, and waded to shore. She wedged her wet feet into the boots,
then
hunkered down to consider her options.

If anyone had recently inhabited the place, it didn't show. It had the appearance of a ghost town, and she thought again of Ruth's Baygall Bogeyman, half expecting to see him materialize from the mist.

She located a gate not far from the pier. It had been secured closed with a length of rusty barbed wire. She pried open the pocketknife and wedged the blade between the strands, rotated the handle toward her until the uncoiled threads popped loose and fell to the ground. The gate swung open with a low, grating groan of metal on metal.

There was obviously no cover in which to hide between here and the chapel, so taking a deep breath to steady the fresh surge of nervousness settling in her stomach, Alyson struck out as fast as her boots and water-weighted clothes would allow, keeping her gaze locked on the closed chapel door, certain that at any moment it would fly open and Billy Boyd would come flying out, prepared to wage war in the name of all Christianity.

He didn't, and upon reaching the building, Alyson flattened her back against it and slid to the ground, fighting for breath and allowing the frantic racing of her heart to ease. Her eyes drifted closed. Her mind remained blank, oddly removed from the reality of what she was doing, or about to do.

*

How long she sat there, she couldn't guess. Rousing, her
shoulders heavy with dread, Alyson removed the gun from her jeans and, with surprisingly steady fingers, eased off the safety. Her mind turned over the memory of the self-defense class she'd taken. The instructor had shown them the basics of preparing to shoot a firearm, the firing of it, and what to expect. Except that the peashooter Alyson had handled that day could hardly compare to the cannon in her hand now. No doubt about it, this monster could stop a bull elephant
in
its tracks. That thought gave her the courage to push herself to her feet and move toward the door.

With the gun pointed up in her right hand, Alyson nudged open the old door, inch by inch to avoid sound, eased her body through the narrow opening and into the cold, shadowed room where dawn intruded only in gray light spears that seeped through the boards over the windows and the holes in the roof. Odd how they all converged near the front of the chapel, as if spotlights were trained purposefully on the dais.

Her gaze swept the rotting pews, the walls, her senses expanding to painful pinpoints. She moved down the aisle, looking right, then left, watching for any motion in the shadows. There were closed doors leading into other rooms. Her gaze swung back to the dais where the streaks of gray light grew brighter. As her eyes focused, a form began to take shape.

Alyson froze.

She felt, in that infinitesimal space of time, that she had actually left her body, that she hovered on a surreal plane of disbelief, like one stumbling through a nightmare, aware they're dreaming but incapable of tearing themselves from the horrible, albeit fascinating, image. Surely what lay before her was the result of her fear and the exhaustion of the last long days—
"Oh, my God," she heard herself say aloud. Her legs moved, cold bones creaking. Forgotten, the gun dropped to her side as her stride lengthened and her eyes focused more clearly on
Brandon
's body stretched out on the cross—
She tripped and nearly fell, stumbled into a run until she fell against his naked torso. She backed away, too horrified to scream, too terrified to touch him. A groan worked up her throat.

His eyes slowly opened.

She stared into them for seconds before reality slugged her. Dear Merciful God in heaven, he was still alive!

"Hurry," he said in a voice dry as dust, "before he comes back."

Her gaze still locked on his, Alyson put the gun aside and dug the knife from her pocket. For the first time since pulling away from the boat docks, she shook so badly that she feared she was incapable of functioning. Her brain felt scrambled. She dropped the knife, fumbled for it before picking it up and managing to spring open the blade.

There were large rusty nails and a hammer on the floor near the crucifix. With fresh fear, Alyson realized that if she hadn't arrived when she did, Billy would have driven them through
Brandon
's hands and feet, completing the crucifixion.

She sawed through the ropes at his ankles, then those looped over his shoulders and passing across his chest. He groaned and twisted in pain as she touched his shoulder and arm, which looked infected and swollen. The dulling knife gnawed pitifully at the bindings at his wrists.

As she cut through the final rope, the breath rushed from him; he reached for her, dragged her into his good arm and held her as fiercely as he could, his face buried in her hair. His body shook.

"I'd given up hope of ever seeing you again," he whispered.

"You're not going to get rid of me that easily, Carlyle." Smiling into his weak eyes, Alyson did her best to steady her voice. He looked like death warmed over: gaunt and pale and filthy. The injury on his shoulder looked bad. Very bad. And smelled even worse. "You promised me the story of a lifetime, and by gosh, I'm going to get it if it kills me."

"Where are the others?" His eyes narrowed. "Aly, where the hell are the others?"

"There are no others."

"You came alone—?"

"Ruth called Jack. I couldn't wait,
Brandon
. I couldn't risk their wasting precious time—"

"How did you know I was here?"

"Nora."

He stared at her in disbelief,
then
his cracked lips curled in a grin. "Remind me to thank her."

"I suspect you'll want to do more than thank her," she said. "Now let's get out of here—"

She knew, even before she turned her head that Billy was back. She saw the horror in
Brandon
's eyes as he looked over her shoulder.

Brandon
drove his hand into Alyson's chest, propelling her away from him. He rolled off the cross just as Billy plunged the spike deep into the wood where
Brandon
's heart would have been. He landed on his feet, spun in time to duck the hammer Billy swung at his head. Dizzied by the movement,
Brandon
stumbled like a drunk, tried to regain his footing as Billy lunged—
Alyson threw herself on Billy's back, sank her fingernails into his cheeks. With a wail of pain, he flung her aside as effortlessly as a rag doll. She crashed into a broken pew, and before she could recover, he lifted her with one hand and drove his fist into her cheek. As if in slow motion,
Brandon
watched her head snap back.

Blood spread across her face like the thick red haze of absolute fury that rose up in
Brandon
's brain as he launched himself into Billy with a force that lifted Billy off his feet. They hit the floor in a cloud of dust and scattering lumber. Billy grunted from the impact. Jagged, lightning pain ripped through
Brandon
's shoulder; consciousness flickered, and his mind desperately fought to hold on. If he succumbed to the blackness, Billy would win. He'd kill them
both
—not Alyson,
he thought, drifting as he rolled onto his back.
Please, not Alyson—

"Jeezus!"

Jack Dillman came barreling down the aisle like a bulldozer, teeth bared and gun drawn. In one fluid move, Billy jumped to his feet, swinging a two-by-four as hard as he could. It slammed into Dillman with the force of a battering ram, knocking him partially to his knees. Billy was on him before he could shake free of his shock. They wrestled for the gun, feet scuffling for a foothold on the dusty, lumber-littered floor.

The gun erupted with an ear-shattering explosion. Jack stumbled back, his face white as paste. Blood pumped from a black hole in his side. He stared down at it dumbly, his blue lips moving soundlessly. Turning his gaze on
Brandon
, he croaked, "Oh, shit," and toppled onto his face.

Lying on his back amid debris, dust dancing in the shafts of yellow light streaming through the holes in the roof,
Brandon
opened his eyes and stared up into the barrel of Jack's gun.

Billy smiled. His teeth were bloody. "There is a better punishment for you than just killing you. Far better. Atonement is attained only through sufficient suffering. Oh, sweet impostor, you shall suffer. Until your dying breath your hell will be walking this earth, knowing that because of you, she is lost." Bending nearer, the blood from his mouth dripping on
Brandon
's cheek, he whispered, "Rest assured that by the time I finish driving the demons from her, she'll welcome death. Say a prayer for her, lover boy. She's going to need it."

Then Billy slung Alyson over his shoulder and was gone.
Brandon
struggled to sit up. The room swam. He shook his head, fighting back unconsciousness. Rocking onto his knees, he focused on Dillman. Blood pooled under his belly—no help there. Grabbing the end of a pew,
Brandon
heaved himself to his feet, tottered. He searched for the gun Alyson had brought with her—no luck, he determined with rising panic. Billy must have taken it. He fixed his gaze on the door and forced himself to move. He stumbled, caught himself, dragged in a deep breath, and ran out of the chapel, into the sunlight.

In the distance Billy climbed into a boat and lowered Alyson into it.

Brandon
ran.

Billy cranked the motor. Nothing. He cranked again.

Brandon
's legs moved faster, eating up the ground. The pain subsided, replaced by the numbing elixir of adrenaline. For an exhilarating time he felt weightless. The world was soundless except for the rush of air in and out of his lungs and the distant deep thump of his heart in his ears. The sunlight pulsated brilliantly, white light flooding with gentle heat on his head and bare shoulders.

Billy cranked a third time. A roar responded. Water rushed up in froth and foam.

Alyson lifted her head, groggy and confused.

Brandon
burst through the gate and hit the pier, which trembled like a dying animal beneath his footfalls. Alyson turned her frightened eyes toward him. He yelled, "Jump, Alyson! Jump! Jump now!"

Alyson glanced horrified,
at
the water, then at Billy, who grabbed for her leg as she scrambled to sit up. She drove the toe of her boot into his arm so that he howled in pain. Then she belly flopped into the water.

Brandon
leaped from the pier.

Billy looked up, his eyes flying wide. He made a fumbling grab for the gun in his pants—managed to clear it just as
Brandon
hit the boat, which heaved dangerously to one side with the impact. Billy swung the gun barrel toward him.
Brandon
grabbed it, threw his weight into Billy so the impetus took them over the side and into the water.

The water closed over his head with a cold shock. He desperately hung on to the gun, shoving the barrel away as he planted his feet on the muddy bottom and stood up.

They erupted from the water with a great gasp for air, struggling for the weapon. Billy's strength was wearing
Brandon
down—he wasn't going to make it, couldn't keep up the fight. Billy knew
it,
the sneer on his mouth turned into a smiling grimace.