CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT1“YOU NEED TO say goodbye,” Katie said, and Richard pulled off the road. Cornfields surrounded them on both sides here at the outskirts of town. The first snow of the season was melting, drifts of white caught between the rows.Reports were breaking over the radio about the previous night’s horrors. A spate of deaths in and around Blackwater Valley, and missing townspeople. Structures burnt to the ground. Palm Clemency had had a lot of questions, but Richard never faltered.Now it was time to leave.After they’d showered and eaten a little, recovered somewhat, Richard had gone to the Deadmond place first thing, found the door unlocked. Found George under the drop cloth in the basement where he and Tom had left him.Moving fast, Richard gathered up Blondie’s things: some toys, bowls, her memory-foam bed, loose cans of pet food and a large bag of dry nuggets, pills prescribed by the veterinarian for her arthritis pain—although he suspected she wouldn’t be need
EPILOGUETHE COLD HANGS on, and on. Sinks in deeper. Lost within it, forsaken, the duped and the defiled wander the streets of the Val in a haze. Wondering what’s happened.One of them, Syd Cholke, enters her Regan Street apartment and drops onto the sofa. Slumps alone in the dark. Much later she hears the front door open and close, hears footsteps enter sheepishly. Then delicate, auburn-haired Alice Granberg sits down. No words are spoken between them. After a time Sydney goes to her and kneels and places her ear against the small hill of Alice’s belly, feels the baby roll lazily there. Soon both are dozing in this position, an empty birdcage on the end table nearby.Mrs. Wintermute shrieks inside her narrow prison below ground, breath hitching in and out. She begs and she wails . . . screaming, screaming . . . and eventually becomes quiet at long last. Meg Bilobran sits propped in her theater balcony seat, draped in sheet plastic, eyes flung wide and staring, as if waiting for the
PROLOGUESomewhere in Germany1945THE MANIAC, MARENBACH thinks within the unyielding darkness, partly in contempt, partly in fear.Mostly in fear.He squints in the musty gloom of his secluded shop at the small man before him, at the slicked-down hair and the dead, terribly vacant eyes. A bit of mustache set above a mouth of bad teeth, the nervous tic in one corner of that mouth. At the large German shepherd heeled by the man’s side.At the armed squadron of SS guards gathered in tight behind him.Marenbach blinks and proceeds Deutsch zu sprechen: “When would you wish it done, my leader?”“As soon as possible,” the little man says with vehemence. He also speaks in German, but the Austrian dialect is unmistakable. “The glory is coming to a close. It is almost over, I’m afraid.” The eyes seem to sadden.“May I see it?” Marenbach asks, holding out his hand. He prays that he doesn’t tremble; the dog is watching his every move.“By all means.” The man reaches inside his long leat
CHAPTER ONE1BECAUSE OF THE skunk, they were marked from the beginning. It’d run out into the highway so suddenly that Richard Franklin had, in turn, run over it before he ever had a chance to brake. Startled, he jerked his foot off the gas pedal, feeling first the resistance and next the sickening give beneath his Bridgestone Firestones, and then the smell had hit. Richard and Katie glanced at each other, noses wrinkling. Franklin had resumed his speed, trying to get away from the invisible pungent wave as fast as he could. But it was already too late.With nothing else that could be done, really, he continued to cruise, approaching an overpass and keying up the power windows on the Chevy Blazer. He shook his head, teeth clenched grimly at the irony of it, letting out a disheartened sigh.“You okay?” he asked his only daughter.Katie nodded, looking down at her activity books. “Yes,” she said. “What was that, Daddy?” She pulled a magenta crayon with slow precision from its box.
CHAPTER TWO1RICHARD DECIDED THEY should probably check into a motel before heading to the house, just in case. No telling what might happen later in the remains of this day, so, ‘better safe than sorry’ became his instant mantra. He drove back out to the rural fringes of town and got them a double room, at a place called the Nightlight Inn, not far from Illinois 72 and the old Penfield Monument Works—where most of the region’s grave markers were still made. Richard carried their luggage in, and sat two leather bags on the beds, opting to leave the third suitcase containing Michelle’s ashes and their emergency cell phone outside, in the vehicle. Then, after pondering a moment, he turned a light on and the television on low, and locked the unit up behind them before pulling away from the cheerless L-shaped motel. He couldn’t explain why, but Richard felt the need to keep his dead wife’s remains nearby for right now. It was just an unseen urge to stay close to her, he guessed, to keep
CHAPTER THREE1REVEREND SIMON JULIAN strode methodically about the inner sanctuary of his church, extinguishing the candles. He didn’t touch them, heavens no, but blew their wicks from a safe distance into smoldering cinder with pursed, wrinkled lips. Some might have found it strange, this, how Julian chose to surround himself with the very things most portentous to him—silver and fire—well, some of his kind would find it strange, assured. Those of his own unique ilk. But the temerity of it never failed to amuse him, even though he did keep his distance.The man named William Salt, still guarding the doors, watched him as he made his way around the perimeter to the four corner alcove tables, each coated in brick-dust residue. He murmured something as he did this, something so soft that the Indian could not make it out, even with his well-honed ears. Salt did hear the last part of it, however, the Reverend’s final utterances.“Relinquish,” whispered Simon Julian, standing now befor
CHAPTER FOUR1“HELLO, RICH,” said Franklin’s father-in-law from behind the screen.“Hi, George.” Richard shifted on the porch, wishing dearly to God that he was someplace else, anyplace—even a few houses over, where he’d heard the White Sox game on the radio, would be better than this. Break out another cold brew, buddy! he felt like yelling. I’ll be right there! Who’s up? What’s the score?Then Deadmond pushed open the screen door and stepped out, extending one liver-spotted hand to him. Richard knew he had to be in his sixties, but the man looked a great deal older than that now. His face seemed haggard and worn, the eyes red and sunken behind his bifocals. He looked almost wizened beyond recognition, as if he’d aged fifteen years since the last time Richard had seen him, a month ago at Michelle’s funeral.He’s going to die pretty soon, Richard thought morbidly. On the heels of that, immediately: Jesus! What a thing to think!“How are you?” Richard said, letting go of Katie to
“THEY POISON THE HEART”by Michelle Brooke Deadmond(an excerpt)This is how it was, the mud and the rivers running red with the blood of the innocents, their many death screams filling the air. This is what it had come to, but it all needn’t have been.In 1832, after being cheated repeatedly on promised land deals and erroneous settlements, Black Sparrow Hawk led the remainder of his people—by now starving and sick, at least half of them women and children—out of Iowa and crossed the Mississippi River one last time back into the Illinois prairie lands. Lands which had been taken unjustly, the land of his ancestors. Together, these dying bedraggled few would be hunted relentlessly and yet would continue to elude capture for several months, until meeting their tragic end. Before that, came the~~ Prelude ~~The scandalous treaty in question was struck in the year 1804 and dictated that the Sauk American Indian tribe vacate their land when eventually it sold, which it did a quarter