Authors: Dennis Yates
Will was Robert’s best friend and had been responsible for introducing Robert to Peggy. They’d lived through a lot of things together, and if you added them all up they could have easily filled several lifetimes. He’d felt guilty for just watching Will’s number come up on the caller i.d. and not picking up. But he couldn’t take the chance of calling him back right now—not until he figured out what the hell was going on. He knew from experience that Will possessed an even superior bullshit meter than Ben’s.
“Tell him I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”
“Can do,” Ben said. He wandered back to the crumpled Honda.
Nugget followed Robert to his office, where she crawled onto an old couch and went to sleep. Robert quietly took care of what things he needed to and later tiptoed out of the office. Nugget had heard him leave the room, but she hadn’t raised her head until he’d started the truck. When she realized what was happening, she flew off the couch and skidded across the polished linoleum to catch him before he drove away. But the back door wasn’t propped open as usual—Robert had shut it on his way out. Nugget stood up on her hind legs and scratched at the door with her front paws and whined as the sound of the truck drifted away.
Robert felt terrible about ditching her, but what could he do? Bringing her to the park with him tonight was too risky. She was safer with Ben. If he never returned, Ben would certainly take care of her.
He drove home and spent the next several hours cleaning and straightening the house. At the moment it felt like the only right thing to do. His family would be coming home soon and he didn’t want any horrible reminders of what had happened. It would also give him a chance to take some kind of inventory.
The inside of the house looked like a tornado had torn through. Robert gathered up the unbroken things and placed them back where they belonged. Next came the many items ruined beyond repair, and he stuffed them inside two plastic garbage bags and set them in the garage.
Once finished, he discovered that very few items were actually missing. What was missing made no sense. The photo albums and genealogy book he’d kept stored in a glass cabinet were gone. Also, the old family portraits he’d had framed after his father’s death—grainy pictures going as far back as the turn of the last century—had vanished from the walls.
Why?
He took a hot shower and tried to loosen the knots in his back and shoulder muscles. In less than three hours he would be in a fight for his life, for his family’s life. If he survived, then maybe the men behind this would start to reveal why they were doing this, why they’d taken such an interest in his family history.
It’s really about two families, isn’t it? There’s another father out there just like me, right now, with his own family to protect. What gives you the right to survive and not him?
CHAPTER 9
Robert had taken his share of licks from schoolyard bullies, but by the time he went to high school he’d surpassed most of them in size and strength. He lifted weights and ran during lunch breaks. There was no time in his life for things like football and track. His father needed him at the shop, had refused to hire on another full time employee when he could have his son do it for nearly nothing. The few precious hours he had left in the evenings were spent on studying. Sometimes he’d try painting landscapes with oils, but never seemed able to finish anything he was proud of.
Except for times when he found himself having to protect someone, Robert was mostly left alone by the hot heads and fight-pickers in high school. He was good at avoiding trouble, knew when it was time to give others a wide berth. It wasn’t until years later—when his father came back to work after his stroke—that violent forces came knocking…
He wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror. His reflection caused him to gasp. The bruise on the left side of his face was dark and rubbery. He put some antibacterial cream on his cuts, dressed a gash on his knee with a fresh bandage.
While changing into clean clothes, he became aware of a strange disconnected feeling. How did he really know if he wasn’t still in the hospital? What if the car accident had been much worse? Could I actually be in a coma right now?
He wondered if it were possible that he’d imagined the break-in, that his subconscious mind might have concocted the entire kidnapping scenario, even replaced the doctors who were trying to save him with men in black ski masks…
He sat still on the edge of the bed, listening to the sound of his own blood humming in his ears. At the moment he felt as if he were caught between two competing realities.
Even if it all turns out to be false, you still have to trust that it’s real. Peggy and Connor’s lives could be at stake.
But what if it’s not real?
Stop driving a wedge into your sanity with stupid ideas. You aren’t lying in a hospital bed in a coma. No fucking way…
As he left the house, he noticed a picture taped to the front of Connor’s bedroom door. It was a family portrait the boy had drawn with colored pens. Peggy, Connor and Robert were standing on a sunny beach with big blue waves crashing behind them. Nugget was swimming in the surf of course, while a whiskered sea lion strained its neck to watch.
A smile spread across Robert’s face. Connor’s artwork always had the same affect on him. The boy had a gift for capturing those special moments when they were together as a family, and Robert had bought him scrapbooks to save his drawings in.
I’m not imagining this. Not a chance in hell…
Being careful not to tear the taped edges, he removed the picture from the door and folded it before sticking it in his pocket. If he ended up dying tonight, at least he’d have something to take with him.
After he locked up the house, he drove in search of a quiet dark place where he could eat some dinner and think.
CHAPTER 10
Jared Horn had not always filled his neighbor’s hearts with such hatred. For years he’d led a quiet, idyllic existence just outside Wrath Butte.
On Friday afternoons Horn and his family would ride into Wrath’s main street to conduct their business with the town. While his wife shopped for essentials, Horn and his two sons would deliver the orders they’d filled for their handmade furniture. Many of the locals in Wrath Butte owned things the Horns had made over the years. The quality of their work was stunning. Horn’s porch chairs weren’t only a marvel to look at, but could make you feel so comfortable you’d sooner go hungry than be called from it at suppertime.
After finishing their business, Jared would send his sons away with some spending money while he sipped a few whiskeys with the local men inside a cool saloon. He was well known for having a sense of humor and a deep laugh, and men seemed to gravitate to his table whenever he visited. On the few occasions he might have had trouble with someone, he’d simply pick up his hat and leave and the offender would soon find himself an unwelcomed customer.
As always, some folks in town had the need to find faults in others they deemed unworthy of success. Brandon Dukes had the worst habit of anyone around. At one time a skilled wood craftsman, Dukes’ drinking finally landed him into serious debt problems with a dangerous gang and ultimately the loss of a hand. He referred to the Horn family as “damned Amish” although they were known to be unaffiliated with any religion and never came to church. After he’d once tried to sell Horn a load of pine riddled with beetle damage, Dukes became furious when Horn declined the deal.
Horn had felt sorry for Dukes, and didn’t want any trouble. And despite his offer to allow Dukes to find him a better product, the drunk’s fragile pride could not be mended. From then on the Horn’s weekly visits to town began to deteriorate. Dukes began spreading vicious rumors to anyone who’d listen, manufacturing stories about the Horn family being involved in devil worship and the like. Folks laughed at first, but Dukes’ lurid stories started poisoning opinions and soon the town became edgy when the Horn family came for their Friday visit. Even people Jared considered friends began to look upon him with suspicion. Thanks to Dukes, people stopped buying their wares and often the Horn family would return home with very few provisions to get them through the coming week.
Over the next several years Horn’s visits became less frequent. People had grown tired of the stories Dukes had spread, and began to question why they’d believed him in the first place. They’d seen no evidence to support Duke’s claims that the Horn family was in league with the devil. But it was still too late to change what had happened. The damage was done. The proud family they’d once admired was dying from starvation, their bodies reduced to skin and bone. Mrs. Horn, who’d once turned heads when she walked along the boardwalk, had lost most of her shimmering red hair and now kept her head wrapped tightly with a scarf. Horn’s sons no longer smiled or waved, but cowered with fear of the other children who chased after their wagon and threw stones at them. A jealous drunk had turned them into outcasts. There was no one left they could trust.
Jared, distraught by the betrayal of so many, began to wander alone into the mountains for days at a time, filling his sketchpad with the things he saw. Once, after being gone for several days without food or water, he had a vision that changed everything. Instead of producing a great quantity of tables, cabinets and chairs, he decided to sharpen his focus on images he could engrave in wood.
The strategy paid off. Although in far less quantity than their once popular furniture, the Horns delivered more intricately carved pieces—wall hangings and jewelry boxes, decorative figurines and chests. The townsfolk couldn’t resist them and soon forgot about the ugly past. Most said they were ready to make amends and showed it by opening their purses.
Horn’s new works were a success. When news reached Dukes that several of the wealthier townspeople had standing orders, Dukes’ fury hit the boiling point. His goal to drive Horn permanently away had ultimately failed. He couldn’t believe how quickly his neighbors had gone from treating the Horns like pariahs to going soft headed over his new carvings. Something had to be done before Dukes found himself being run out of town.
It wasn’t too long afterward that Horn’s Trojan horse began to take its toll...
****
A bruised sun dropped toward the serrated outline of the Cascades. Dark purple clouds sat perched on snowy peaks like behemoth gargoyles. Underwood and Logan hitched their horses to a fence post not far from a cottonwood towering next to the Horn farmhouse. The gloaming tonight was eerily devoid of sound. When several crows hiding in the branches of the cottonwood abruptly flew off, Underwood noticed they made no sound. On the other hand, he could hear every sound he made, from the creak of his bad hip to the smallest grains of sand whispering against the heel of his boot.
When they reached the tree, Underwood bent down and passed his palm over a bed of dying coals, determining in his own mind how long the fire had been burning. He glanced up at a branch high above him and noticed a piece of rope still clinging to the blistered bark.
“I reckon Horn is somewhere in this mess,” he said turning over the ash with a stick. “Otherwise, he’d be out here giving us hell by now.”
“You want me to check the house?” asked Logan.
“Might as well be sure of it,” he said without looking up. “But I doubt if there’s any survivors.”
Logan nodded and walked toward the farmhouse, rifle braced against his hip. The likelihood of someone rushing out of the house with a loaded weapon seemed remote indeed. It was just so damned quiet you could almost hear the air pop as you moved.
Underwood picked out a leather strand from the ash pile, a bootlace perhaps, and examined it before throwing it back. When he stood up and backed away from the tree, he almost tripped on an empty bottle. He picked the bottle up and probed the neck with his finger. It was still wet with whisky.
Wrath Butte vigilantes… more like shit for brains.
Underwood shook his head and wondered why on earth they’d brought the boy. The men should’ve had more sense and stayed home. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t known what Horn might be capable of. Did they think the town would have handed out medals for what they did?
Most likely…
He lifted the whiskey bottle and flung it into the brush where it smashed against a rock.
“Jared Horn. Are you in there Jared Horn?” Logan shouted as he approached the doorway to the house. He noticed the windows blown out from fire. The soot-streaked front door was tilted inward, held up only by a lower hinge. Something told him not to go into the house, but he brushed it away like he always did when such warnings came to him. Logan credited his survival to learning long ago how to ignore his fears, especially of the dead. It never made sense to him anyway why a corpse scared people so. What was dead was dead, and if you thought it could still come after you then you were a fool.