Meg found her way back to the present and looked at William Two-Bears. He was a good man and she was happy to have him looking out for her and the rest of Shard. There was something about him, some deeper responsibility. He didn’t do his job because he felt like he had to; he did it because he was the right person. It was run around thinking, she knew, but it was true. William Two-Bears McFarlan was the Constable. It was simple that way.
“I don’t think that I could leave, William. I’m sorry.”
Will sighed and closed his eyes. He sat back in the rocker and listened to it creek over the old porch wood. His mind wandered a bit. How many times had this chair rocked back and forth? A hundred thousand? A million? What if a little generator had been hooked up to it and the power stored in some kind of long-lasting capacitor—could the accumulated power have run the street lights? He heard Meg take a sip of her coffee, felt her eyes not on him, respectfully giving him his thoughts. The wind soughed through the tree tops across the street. Will opened his eyes and imagined long lines of wind turbines marching along the spines of the mountains, their great rotating blades looking like some kind of alien walkers. They did that in a few places up north in West Virginia. The end age of the coal age was coming. No more fires. No more Shards.
Will patted his thighs. “Meg, I gotta’ get moving.”
“So soon, William?”
“Afraid so,” he said and stood. Will walked to the edge of the porch and paused just before crossing the barrier from shadow to sun. He snugged his cap down and turned to the storekeeper. She winked at him and for a second Will could see a young Meg Tooley sitting there, younger than he was now, in the full bloom of her twenties. The image was gone as quick as it had come, but Will’s blush remained.
“William? Will you tell me what’s troubling you? Mayhap I can take some of the weight off’n your mind.”
He hesitated a moment, considered what good could come of it, what bad, and shook his head. “No, thanks, Meg.” He turned to go and called over his shoulder, “I’ll come back for that brownie mix.”
Meg Tooley watched William Two-Bears walk down the porch steps. The sun painted his shoulders and brought out the red in that old cap of his. She truly felt sorry for him. Sun or not, the Constable looked cold.
* * *
Meg dozed away the rest of the afternoon, slipping in and out of dream and memory. At her age sleep came when it wanted and she wasn’t about to refuse it when she could get it. She skipped through her life and time like a little girl crossing a creek on wobbling stones. For a time, she ran her store, a ten-year-old William Two-Bears McFarlan devouring some classic comic in the storeroom. Then she skipped backward to a hot night with Clemson in the meadow a mile or so into the woods—“Our Place” they’d called it. Then forward to the present and she opened her eyes to long purple shadows and cornflower blue sky.
The first of them shambled over the rise across the street—Meg blinked and sat up in her rocker—a man in jeans and a white-tee shirt, moving like he was drunk or tired or both. But where had he come from? There was nothing on the other side of street beyond the drop-off and creek but miles of deep woods and old mining roads. Another nodded into view, his head bobbing up over the little hill’s horizon line. He was dressed similarly and moved as if only his legs worked, the top half of his body slack, his head lolling to one side. The first one had cleared the little weedy strip on the opposite side of the street and paused at the cracked asphalt of Hill Avenue. Another head bobbed into view, another and another and another. Before she knew it, there were at least ten men all done up in boots and denim and—she squinted—it looked like they were all Mexican or from somewhere south of the border.
They stood, gently swaying at the edge of the road. There was a strange emptiness to their eyes. Meg couldn’t really make eye contact with any of them (not that her eyes were that good anymore anyway) but they seemed to be looking straight at her. That in itself was strange. She knew the afternoon sun was in their faces from that angle and that she was all but invisible back in the shadows on the deep porch. Who in heck were these people?
Meg Tooley ended her long and lustrous life by calling out, “You gents lost?”
A shudder rippled through the group and their boots shuffled across the stone river separating them from the town of Shard. They moved through the yard, long shadows thrown out behind them like capes. They bunched and climbed the porch stairs. Meg was still as they came, she watched and understood. Her hands itched for the twenty-two rifle leaning in the corner behind her rocker but she let it be. Meg had walked the earth long enough to know what was simple and true: you can’t kill what’s already dead. They filled the porch with their weight and emptiness. Meg closed her eyes and felt her Flexible Flyer against her chest and the sharp winter air on her cheeks. She jumped the frozen creek and met Clemson on the other side.
Chapter 30
George Rhodes moaned into his pillow. This had to be the worst hangover of his life. No, wait, that couldn’t be right. He’d quit drinking. He’d quit drinking because he needed to get bright. He needed to get bright because something terrible was coming. Something terrible was coming and he would have to step up, stand up and fight next to Will. Fight for the town and for the people in it. His people. “Erica?” he slurred.
George’s eyes flew open. Orange afternoon light flooded; memory was right behind it. He began to sit up but something held him to the pillow. His blood had congealed and glued him to the bed. His eyes widened. He had bled a lot. A dark patch spread away from his point of view onto the sheets and stopped about a foot away. George could feel his scalp trying to open as he pulled away from the pillow. “Fuck it,” he said and yanked himself upright. The world teetered and grayed on a wave of pain and sick heat from the side of his head. George dug his hands like talons into the bedding as tears squeezed from his eyes. After a few moments the pain subsided down to a low burning. He tried his legs and they worked well enough for him to wobble into the bathroom.
A few minutes later, the world was clearer as was the deep gash running along the left side of his head. The bullet from the Dalton’s kid’s .22 rifle had creased his scalp and knocked him cold, but he was all right. George dabbed alcohol at the edges of the wound and hissed like a broken gas line. He put down the cotton swabs and alcohol and looked deep into his own eyes. Little bastard had said something before he’d shot George in the fucking head. George put on an eerie approximation of T.R.’s backwoods drawl, “She ain’t yours. She’s the Outrider’s.” Outrider. Could the kid have meant the big bad ugly that was coming? George knew in his gut that it was true before he even asked himself the question. Well, Dampf had its agents in Shard. It only made sense that the Pompiliad would too. That white face hanging in his kitchen window the other morning—Maggie Owens, he had thought. Could she have also been part of this? Who was he kidding? They were all part of this coming battle, this last stand, all of Shard.
George gripped the edges of the sink. The ceramic cooled his hot palms. Every inch of him was screaming to get moving, to run outside and find Erica. He felt like a racehorse twitching in the stall before the gate went up. God only knew where that kid had taken her…what me might be doing to her. Nothing. He wouldn’t do a damn thing to Erica except stash her. She’s the Outrider’s. And when he’d said that, T.R. had looked, what, abashed? No, outraged. The little punk had been outraged that George Rhodes had his hands on the Great Outrider’s property. T.R. wasn’t going to lay one unnecessary finger on Erica. But where would he take her?
Again, George focused on the man in the glass: a little worse for wear, but clear-eyed. This man was better, stronger than the man in the glass just a few days ago. You could almost see through that other guy. This George Rhodes was all the way here, but he still wasn’t ready. “I don’t know enough yet,” he said.
* * *
Half an hour later, George hunched over Erica’s laptop and drummed his fingers on the kitchen table while the screen fill
ed at glacial speed. An odor of gun oil and fresh coffee mingled not unpleasantly. The M16 lay on the table next to a steaming cup of nuclear-strength java. He had the computer hooked to his landline and it was like trying to siphon an ocean of information through a coffee straw. You could do it (hell, everyone used to do it and was thrilled about it) but it took forever. Finally, the page loaded and George sat back. Filling the screen was a Wiki entry on the Tarantula Hawk. Order: Hymenoptera, family: Pompilidae, a sleek, blue-black wasp about the size of George’s pinky finger. The wings were a rusty red, the color of dried arterial blood. There were several paragraphs on this charming creature. George began to read, his hand crept over his mouth and his eyes widened. “Holy shit,” he muttered.
Twenty minutes later, the screen was populated with multiple windows: text and pictures of spiders, dragons and wasps, oh my. George had absorbed over fifty pages of text on everything from the emerald wasp and trapdoor spider to the number nine’s significance in Chinese culture as it related to moon dragons. Now he had at least an idea of how Erica might be hidden but not where.
He sat back and absently rubbed his head. The pain from the wound was helpful in keeping his mind straight. George wanted to panic. He wanted to grab the M16 and go roaring out into the golden afternoon sun, but that wouldn’t help him find Erica. He needed help. George leaned forward and started closing windows on the screen. No wait, he paused, not that one. He needed that one for effect. He yanked the landline connection and plugged it back into his telephone. A minute later he was listening to the phone ring at the police station. Three rings, four—the old Bakelite handset creaked in George’s fist, five rings. “C’mon, Two-Bears, you dirty injun, pick up the fucking phone.” George stared out the kitchen window at the fading light. Gold had melted over to molten orange, purple wouldn’t be far behind. Looked like the search for the prettiest lawyer in Shard was going to happen without the aid of the sun. Eight rings, “Shit!” George slammed down the receiver. Looked like it was going to happen without the aid of the Constable as well.
George walked over to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. An almost desperate thirst had crept up on him. He downed the glass in three giant gulps, his Adam’s apple leaping. Through the kitchen window the easy hand of summer dusk had come and drawn out the shadows like taffy. The light was strange now, full of half seen things, thin. George became aware of the sulfur backdrop on the air. He was going to need everyone he could find to help him search. He would go door to fucking door in this burned out little hole and drag them out with their hunting rifles and their flashlights. They’d all tell him “no” at first, thinking it was just George Rhodes on one of his sad benders, but he’d make them listen. Either that, or he’d make such a fucking ruckus that eventually Will would show up and then he could convince the good citizenry to lend a hand.
An image of blood-rusty wings filled his mind like evil smoke. The cruel, stupid eyes of the Dalton kid and his tone of almost prissy disgust, She ain’t yours. She’s the Outrider’s. The little smiles she had tossed at him over breakfast like shining gifts over the last few days. The way she looked at him, Wanna’ join me? Their laughing between moans and sighs. The feel of her smooth shoulders against his chest when she’d tried to block T.R.’s shot. She was in the dark somewhere, some hole, immobilized, terrified. Maybe in pain. George’s hands were shaking. Every little boy plays this game: he’s the handsome knight and must save the beautiful princess from the evil monsters. Half-burned out thirty-something ex-drunk instead of a handsome knight, black M16 instead of a shining sword. The princess was still beautiful and still needed saving. The monsters were probably worse than anything he’d imagined as a child.
George walked over to the hall closet and pulled out a knapsack. He stuffed it full of the spare ammunition clips Will had given him for the M16 and a few boxes of the two and half inch long shells. They reminded him of little rockets. Well, if he ran into T.R. he would do his best to send that little fucker straight to the moon. George slipped on the knapsack and grabbed the heavy flash light off its wall charger next to the phone. He was about to pick up the rifle but stopped himself. Breathe, George, think. What have you forgotten? Don’t feel. Just think. “She’ll be dehydrated,” he muttered, and pulled a plastic water bottle from the cabinet over the fridge, filled it at the tap then slipped it in the pack. What else, what else? George dashed out of the kitchen and up the back steps in four great strides. He swung into the bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit; into the pack. Now, he was ready. George bounded back down the stairs and almost shrieked in surprise to find Will Two-Bears McFarlan standing in the kitchen.
* * *
“Jesus, he fuckin’ shot you, Georgie?” Will said, blinking. “In the head?” They sat at the kitchen table, George’s knapsack next to the rifle. George had given Will the whole story, but Two-Bears kept coming back to that part. George was losing patience. Every time the red plastic second hand on the clock over the stove ticked it felt like a stress bomb going off in his chest. “Yes,” he said, slowly, evenly, “T.R. Dalton shot me in the fuckin’ head.” George exhaled. “He also stole my girl, so can we please, like, mobilize goddamnit?”
Will blinked again. He’d had a pretty strange day himself. He had been all over the populated areas of town taking his census. The results had left him scraped raw and detached. “Mobilize?”
George pounded the table with his big paws. “Yes, damnit! Get moving! You know, fucking get out there with the hounds and shit? WE HAVE TO FIND HER.”
Will sat back and put his hands up. “Well, yeah, right. I mean, of course.”
“What the fuck does that mean, William? Of course? Yeah, right?”
“What do you want me to do, man?”
George stood up so fast his chair fell over with a bang. “Let’s go round up everybody and do a house-to-house search, or whatever the hell you paramilitary motherfuckers call it. We need to get everyone and their mom out lookin’ for Erica.” George saw the look on Will’s face and a deep crease ran through his forehead. “Why’s this so hard for you?”
Will’s shoulders slumped. “’Cuz there ain’t nobody left, man.”
“What? There’s at least twenty or thirty folks still around. We can…” He trailed off as Will shook his head back and forth.
“No, Georgie. I been trying to get my head around it all day. I walked every street in town today—even the one’s with smoke pouring out of ‘em—and I saw three people, not including you.” He counted off his fingers. “Meg Tooley and Loraine and Kiddo. That’s. Fucking. It. After the fourth or fifth empty house—well, outside of the usual empties—I started to get a little freaked out. I was poundin’ on those front doors like it was the end of the world.” Will winced. Talk about your bad choice of words. “After a while I just started walking into people’s houses.” He paused, eyes far away. “George? I found plates of food that had been left out. The TV was still on at Marty Patrick’s place.” He sighed, running his mind over all those empty houses. “Meg Tooley and the Howards. That’s it.”
George shook his head once. “What, seriously?”
“I guess I saw one more if you want to count Darwin.”
George had a crazy image of a stodgy naturalist from the 1800’s. “What? Who?”
“Kiddo’s dog?”
“Right,” George shook his head again and righted his chair. He sat back down. Both men stared at the table, their eyebrows bent in what would have been a comic angle were it not for the gravity of the situation. George said, “Is Amy still here?”
“Don’t know. Saw her this morning, but I didn’t get as far as her Wini on my rounds. I was going to check there after I stopped in on you.” George took a warm hit in the guts from the look on Will’s face as he said, “I’m really happy to see you, Georgie.”
“Where did they all go? I mean the Wilkersons? That fat kid Howie Sams and his folks?”
“Georgia and Rich.”
“Yeah. That old witch Mi
ssus Najarian? Come to think of it, she hasn’t scowled at me in weeks.”
“Hasn’t scowled at anyone. The Pair of Jeans is missing, too.”
She ain’t yours. She’s The Outrider’s. George rubbed his head. “Well, at least we know the fruit of their loins is still around.” The light outside had gone from blue-gray to deep velvet purple. The kitchen should have been full of the sound of crickets tuning up in the yard but there were none. A single firefly flared and streaked like a match, and then the evening was still. George whispered, “Where’d they all go, man?”
Will looked up at him. “Everyone’s cars are still in their driveways.”
George blinked.
“Yeah, man,” Will said. “I think they’re all still here.”
* * *
Will drove Erica’s rental up the street toward the Howard’s house. George sat shotgun with the M16 propped between his legs like the world’s most obvious Freudian joke. He stared through his reflection in the dark glass into all those dark, flowing woods. The glow from the instrument panel turned his face an unhealthy greenish white. The plan, such as it was, was to get the Howards and then collect Amy. They’d regroup at the police station and figure out next steps. Will had jumped up at the kitchen table and blurted this out. Talking about what he’d seen, or rather not seen, during his census of the town helped to purge the weird residue the experience had left behind in his head. George had almost smiled with relief; finally his responsible friend, The Constable, was back in action. Now as they pulled up in front of the little rancher at the edge of the woods, Will muttered under his breath, “Please let them still be okay.”