Grave Intent (33 page)

But the casket lid wouldn’t open.

Wilson shrieked and rammed the top of his
fists against the upper lid. He kicked at the bottom cap with the
toes of his shoes. Only the slugs moved.

Slowly, doggedly, they crawled up, up from
his legs to his groin, up from his chest to his throat, up to his
chin, his mouth, his nose.

Clamping his lips together so they wouldn’t
get into his mouth, Wilson thrashed and kicked. He didn’t care if
the dog-man heard him. He didn’t care about anything but getting
out.

The casket rocked with his efforts, but the
darkness remained. Not even a sliver of light appeared from either
lid. Wilson started to cry, hot fat tears that seemed to agitate
the slugs even more. Their squirming grew frenzied, more directed
toward his face.

Wilson clawed two away from his mouth. “I’m
sorry!” he shouted to anyone or anything that might be listening
outside the casket. “Do you hear me? I’ll get it back for you, I
promise! Just get me out of here, please! Please!”

Nothing responded from outside the
claustrophobic space.

“Help, somebody, pl—” Wilson gagged as one of
the slugs slid into his mouth. He coughed, spat, shoved a finger
into his mouth, but before he managed to get the first one out, two
more slithered inside.

Wilson felt them everywhere now, layers of
them over his chest, his arms, his legs, his face. He couldn’t work
his hands fast enough to keep them away from his mouth and nose.
They seemed to stand sentinel to one another, waiting their turn,
forcing their way into every available orifice. He cried harder,
knowing it would only make matters worse, but not able to help
it.

Oh, God, help me!
his mind screamed.
I’m so sorry! Please help me! Help me get out of here and I
swear I’ll be different! Oh, Jesus, I can’t breathe! Jesus, no air!
No—air! Please!

Wilson flailed in the coffin, praying for any
molecule of oxygen. His lungs felt ready to burst, his heart
slamming against his chest. His fingers were sticky and numb,
barely able to close over the layer of slugs on his face. He felt
what little energy he had left draining away. Soon Wilson knew
there would be no more time for prayers.

The weight of remorse that began to settle
over him felt heavier than the darkness and slugs combined. He
finally lay still, no longer able to fight, and for the first time
in Wilson’s life, he believed he knew what it meant to be truly
sorry. Sorry for taking the medallion, sorry for screwing up so
many lives, sorry for having the audacity to believe he always had
tomorrow to make amends. He would trade his soul this moment if he
had the chance to go back and do it all differently, especially
with his son. But there was no going back. And the worst part was
his knowing he would leave this place without anyone hearing how
truly sorry he was. How sad, how empty, how useless it made his
life seem.

Wilson’s quivering fingers signaled the
moment of his release. And when his heart stuttered over its last
beat, he did not see the face of God. No bright light greeted him.
No loved one waited for him at the end of a tunnel or on the shores
of some calm sea. Wilson only saw and felt what he feared would be
the essence of his eternity. Dark, cold, regret.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“Let her go, you bastard!” Janet screamed at
the man—the thing that held onto her daughter. She yanked hard on
Ellie’s shirt and heard it rip.

Janet leaned over until more than half her
body stretched across the tub. “Ellie, grab on!” she yelled. Her
left arm stuck out awkwardly behind her, and Heather, apparently
coming out of her stupor, began pulling in the opposite direction.
The shoestring cut into Janet’s wrist.

With terror-filled eyes, Ellie strained
against the man’s clutches and swung an arm around her mother’s
neck. She still held onto the crystal horse, and it smacked Janet
across the cheek.

Barely flinching from the harsh sting, Janet
shouted, “Hold tight, baby! Tight as you can.” When Janet felt
Ellie’s arm squeeze around her neck, she let go of her daughter’s
shirt and grabbed her around the waist.

The gray-faced man bellowed with fury. His
black eyes blazed, then sunk farther into his head, disappearing
into sockets that glowed pus yellow. His head started to oscillate,
slowly at first, then faster and faster until it was nothing but a
blur. Mucus flew from his face in slimy strands that landed on
Janet and began to suck and crawl over her skin like slick, hungry
worms.

“Pull, Aunt Janet, pull!” Heather cried,
yanking against the tether. “Harder, pull harder!”

“Mama!” Ellie shrieked.

Janet dug her fingers into Ellie’s side and
pulled with every ounce of strength she possessed.

A monstrous wail of outrage erupted from the
vacillating face, and the next thing Janet knew, she, Ellie, and
Heather sat in a heap on the bathroom floor, once again wrapped in
a chrysalis of fog. No longer able to see the man, Janet quickly
rolled to one side and ripped the crawling slime off her body.

Ellie sprang to her feet, grabbed her
mother’s arm and tugged. “Hurry,” she begged.

Not needing a second prompting, Janet
scrambled to her feet and helped Heather to hers. Suddenly, a
horrendous rumbling, like an army of thousands stomping in
formation, reverberated through the fog. Janet scooped Ellie up
with her free arm and propped the child against her, chest to
chest.

“Keep your arms around my neck,” she shouted
over the din. “Wrap your legs around my waist.” Ellie did as she
was told and buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. Janet shoved
a hand between her and her daughter, pushed Ellie’s fanny pack
aside so it wouldn’t poke into her ribs, then yelled down to
Heather, “Walk really close to me. Right up against my leg.”

Crying, Heather nodded and glued herself to
Janet.

Bunched together, they advanced slowly, Janet
sweeping her free hand out in front of them. When her fingers
connected with the bathroom doorframe, she drove the sound of
marching feet out of her mind, double-checked her hold on both
girls, then stepped into the hall. She trailed her fingers along
the wall nearest the bathroom to keep her bearings and counted as
she went. She estimated they had twenty to thirty feet to go before
reaching the stairs. Heather reached over with her free hand and
clutched Janet’s pant leg, doing her best to match her aunt’s
steps. Ellie whimpered and dug her face deeper into her mother’s
shoulder.

On the count of fifteen, Janet slowed her
pace, knowing the stairs wouldn’t be far. The
stomp-boom-stomp
of the marching troop abruptly ceased, and
Janet didn’t know whether to be relieved or more frightened.

Three steps—six—eight. The wall suddenly
disappeared beneath her fingers, and Janet snatched her hand back.
After checking once more to make certain Heather was tethered and
molded against her and that Ellie’s arms and legs were securely
locked around her neck and waist, Janet groped for the stair
railing with her free hand. Finding it, she clumsily maneuvered the
three of them down the first step. Instantly, bolts of pain slammed
into Janet’s knee, and she squeezed the railing tighter to keep
from falling over. Her knee faired far worse on the second step,
and her legs began to tremble. By the third step, however, all
thoughts of pain vanished. Janet stood perplexed, staring down the
length of the staircase.

They’d broken through the fog.

“It’s gone,” Heather said quietly.

Ellie turned her head for a peek, then
quickly hid her face again in Janet’s shoulder.

With her heart thumping louder than two
marching bands, Janet hustled everyone down the stairs as quickly
as her knee allowed. She bit hard into her upper lip to stave off
cries of pain and tasted blood.

When she stumbled past the last step, Janet
glanced back at the landing.

The fog hung over the top of the stairs like
a heavy quilt. It pulsed as though breathing.

“Don’t stop, Mama,” Ellie whispered against
Janet’s neck. Her legs squeezed tighter around her mother’s waist.
“Go, okay? Go fast.”

Kissing her daughter’s head, Janet turned
back to the family room and surveyed the damage. The sofa lay on
its back, the old recliner on its side, every one of their cushions
ripped through and shredded. The top half of the end table rested
in the fireplace, and a mangle of chairs blocked the path to the
kitchen. Glass from the ship picture littered the floor. A sparse
yellow light filtered in from the kitchen, swaddling the chaos in
muted shadows.

Janet choked back a sob. Her mind didn’t want
to process the wreckage; it had already been through too much. This
was surrealism overload. She felt Heather tug on her pant leg.

“Are—are we going to die now?” Heather asked,
her eyes glued to the destruction.

Heather’s question shoved Janet’s protective
instinct back into gear. “
Nobody’s
going to die,” she said
loudly, defiantly, to whomever or whatever threatened them. Just
then, Janet noticed Heather’s bare feet. There was no way the child
would be able to walk across a glass-strewn floor.

She reached for Heather’s right arm, quickly
untied the shoelace attached to her niece’s wrist, then stooped.
“C-Climb on my back,” Janet said, fighting against the spasms of
pain in her knee. “I’m going to try to carry you, too. Wrap your
legs around my waist just like Ellie. Put your legs over hers. Then
both of you hold onto my neck, okay?”

Heather gave a short nod, then scurried
around Janet and jumped on her back. Janet’s knee immediately
buckled, tossing all three to the floor.

Gasping with pain, and with Ellie still
clinging to her neck and waist, Janet struggled to her feet.
Heather, having fallen off, hovered nervously nearby.

“Ellie, y-you’re going to have to let go,”
Janet said. “I can’t—”

“No!” Ellie cried. “Don’t put me down, Mama.
Don’t! They’re going to get me!”

Janet kissed her. “I won’t let them, baby, I
won’t. But you’ve got to get down. I can’t carry both of you.
Heather doesn’t have shoes on, and she’ll cut her feet on the glass
if I don’t carry her.”

Ellie lobbed her head to one side to look at
Heather’s feet. She gave a shivering sigh and looked into her
mother’s eyes. “They’ll get me,” she said sadly.

“They’d have to get me first.”

Ellie’s eyes grew pained. Slowly, she
untangled her feet from around Janet’s waist and slipped to the
floor.

Janet quickly made the switch, pulling
Heather against her chest and tethering Ellie to her with the
shoelace.

“There
are
boogeymans,” Heather
whispered in Janet’s ear.

Janet patted her back.
You’re right,
she thought,
there are.
To her niece she said, “Hold
tight.”

Satisfied that both girls were secure, Janet
peered up at the staircase. The fog still pulsed against the
landing.

Ellie stuttered at the sight. “G-g-go. We
h-h-have to go.”

“I’m with you, kiddo,” Janet said, then
navigated them carefully around the jumbled furniture and broken
glass. She fought off the urge to run. She knew if she did, she
wouldn’t make another five feet without her knee collapsing.

They’d barely made it into the dining room
when Janet heard the deep, throaty growl of an animal behind them.
Ellie’s screams came before she had the chance to look back.

“Go, Mama!” Ellie cried. “Don’t stop!
Don’t!”

“I want my mama!” Heather wailed. She groped
at Janet’s shirt as if she wanted to dive into her aunt’s body.

Janet forced herself to turn around, then
froze, dumbstruck. Twenty feet away in the family room stood an
enormous dog. Its wide body carried a height of over four feet, and
its thick, black head swung low. Something that looked like gristle
dangled from its pointed, yellow-brown teeth. Massive shoulder
muscles rippled and flexed, collecting strength. Its black marble
eyes locked onto Ellie.

“N-n-no!” Janet swooped down and over with
her free hand, grabbed a fistful of Ellie’s shirt and tried
hoisting her daughter up sideways. Janet’s knee refused the extra
weight, and she collapsed.

With the girls wailing in her ear, Janet
fought to get back on her feet, but her damaged joint wouldn’t
cooperate. Teeth snapped vehemently behind her and ferocious snarls
escalated in volume until they melded into one continuous roar.
Janet sensed the animal inches away. Time had run out. After all
the fear, the struggles, the fighting, she’d won the battle for
Ellie. Now they faced losing the whole damn war.

Sobbing, Janet threw her body over the
screaming girls, squeezed her eyes shut, and prayed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Countless mosquitoes drilled into Michael’s
skin while he batted furiously through brush and sagging tree
limbs. The recent storm had left behind a trail of broken branches
and puddles as wide as bayous. It had also stolen the moon, his
only possible source of light. Every one of these obstacles robbed
Michael of time and distance. He’d tripped and fallen so many
times, his body felt like it had been trampled by a herd of
elephants.

He didn’t know how far he had traveled since
leaving the cop. Between running when he reached a clearing, then
doing various combinations of walk, duck, push when he’d reach a
thick outcropping of trees, it felt like no more than two or three
miles. At first, Michael had headed due north, staying just inside
the forest so he wouldn’t be seen. But the patrol car and its
searchlight pushed him east, to a parallel road some distance away.
He’d expected backup police units or track dogs to show up any
minute and join in the search for him, but they never did. The
officer probably figured she’d get her collar soon enough when he
came back to claim the Cadillac.