Dark Rite

Chapter 16

“Amos, we have to find her!” Grant ignored his body’s screaming pain and jumped to his feet.

“Now, calm down, son. Let's just think a minute.” Amos laid a hand on his shoulder and gently shoved him back toward the bed.

Grant ignored him. “You said the other times this happened, young girls were found mutilated. If they're aiming to do the same thing again tomorrow night, it stands to reason they're going to use Cassie! Why else would they hide her from us?”

Amos shook his head, his face pained. “You really think old man Brunswick would put his own daughter in the hands of them butchers?”

In fact, Grant thought exactly that, and the sudden conviction made him dizzy. He sank back to the bed, one hand pressed to his ribs. “I've looked in his eyes. He's a cold bastard, sure enough. If these Kaletherex people are as crazy as you say they are, then maybe he would. He's one of them, right?”

Amos nodded. “Yep, I reckon he is. And the Stallards. Hell, most of this goddamn town seems to be in on it sometimes.”

“What made you think it was over?”

Amos sank his face into his palms, shook his head. “It was fifty years ago. I thought maybe I'd half imagined the whole thing.” He looked up, his eyes haunted. “I've kept an eye on things and knew there was another conjunction coming. But everything ‘round here seemed to have settled into some kind of normal. I didn't see any signs like something was happening. Most of the people around back then in '62 are dead and gone. But I guess enough of their kids was old enough then and still around now. The Kaletherex thing has been mighty quiet for a long time. I guess I just hoped it was done with.”

“Fifty years ago it was a lot easier to keep stuff covered up,” Grant said. “These days, news can spread pretty quickly.”

Amos nodded sadly and they sat in silence for a while, both lost in their own grim thoughts. Grant pushed the finger back into its tin and the tin back into his jeans pocket. What could they do? Thoughts of his father drifted through his mind. “Hey, did you know my dad?” he asked.

Amos looked up. “Andrew Shipman? Yeah, I knew him a little bit. He was a nice enough fellow. But he started to hang around with the Brunswicks and Stallards and the others. I had a feeling he got pulled into the Kaletherex cult.”

“He did. But I don't think he liked what he found. At least, I think he changed his mind about them.” Grant tried to order his thoughts, hard as it was with every inch of his body aching and throbbing. “I found that finger in a secret safe in his smokehouse. He had an old, leatherbound book stashed away in there too. I think the book was really important to them, because Mrs. Stallard came around asking about it, and then her sons busted in and stole it back.”

“That right?”

“It had to be them. But they didn't find the finger.” Grant pointed to the pocket of his jeans. “I can't really explain why, but I'm pretty sure that thing is important, might even help us somehow. I think my father was collecting information, trying to find out how to stop them and they killed him for it.”

Amos nodded sadly. “That is entirely possible.”

Grant paused. “They said my dad died of a heart attack.”

Amos barked a bitter, humorless laugh. “They can say whatever they like, son. The doctor, the sheriff, the city council. They're all either in that cult or controlled by them. Ain't nothing in this town happens without their say so.” At Grant's raised eyebrow, Amos flapped one hand. “Oh, you can live your life here peacefully enough if you stay out of their way. They need goods and services and all that same as everyone else. A whole bunch of people live peacefully enough in Wallen's Gap and never cross paths with the cult of Kaletherex. But people disappear if they cause trouble and there ain't many crimes in this town that get investigated like they oughta. Everything gets explained away nice and easy like.”

“How can they get away with that?”

“They's all kinds of things can happen to a body in these hills. Hunting accidents, bad falls, snakebites, wild animals, accidental fires, drunk kids running off of winding mountain roads. Everything just common enough to be believed.”

Grant stared disconsolately at the floor between his feet. What was he supposed to do now? He couldn't just walk away and leave, he owed Cassie more than that. Suzanne’s words echoed in his mind, You never finish anything! Well, he fully intended to finish this, one way or another. But he was scared and not too proud to admit it. And he had precious little to go on. Dark shadows flitted around the edges of his vision. A tugging pulled at his chest, seemingly from the inside. He imagined a black stain trying to push its way out through his ribs. The sensation was nauseating and disconcerting.

“You okay, son?” Amos said, leaning forward. “You look kinda pale there. You should lie down, you took quite a beating.”

Grant shook his head. “It's not that.” He took a deep breath. Crazy hillbillies doing evil things in the name of their wacko religious cult was weird, but it still fell within the realm of expected human behavior. What would Amos think about what he was about to tell him? “That finger I found, it has an effect on me that I can't really explain. Like it's trying to guide me.”

Amos stood, paced a small circle around the room. When he finally looked at Grant, there was no scorn, amusement, or disbelief in his eyes. Strangely, Grant found himself thinking he would have preferred that to the old man's sober expression.

“My Jesus, I could have done lived this lifetime and another without ever seeing that accursed thing and been happy about it.”

“Me too,” Grant said. He stood, pulled on his clothes, wincing against aches and stabs of pain. “But it's all we have. Maybe I need to find out more about it.”

“Was that thing…” Amos swallowed, shook his head, tried again. “Was that thing pointing the way somewhere?”

“I think it's guiding me to Cassie. Whenever I think hard enough about her, it… points, like that. Part of me just wants to go now, follow it and save her. But we have no idea what we might be walking into.”

“We, boy?” Amos's eyes were wide.

“Please, Amos. I'm alone in all this. I need some help. I don't know anyone else.”

“I'm an old man, what can I do?”

“I don't know.” Grant slipped his shoes on, rose with difficulty, and stumbled toward the door. “Maybe you can help me learn some stuff. Stuff that can help us?”

“That conjunction happens tomorrow night,” Amos said, offering him a helping hand as he guided Grant out into a single room with a small kitchen and dining area to one side and a living area on the other. “Hell, it's nearly tomorrow already. You've probably only got the day time to figure out what you're going to do. Maybe you need to consider that there ain't nothing you can do.”

“I refuse to accept that! I at least have to try.”

“I'm sorry, son. I don't know what else to tell you. There's maybe one person anywhere near here that knows more about this stuff than me, but she's…”

Headlights cut across the front window, setting the tattered curtains aglow. Grant stood, but Amos made a calming motion.

“It's just my son,” Amos said. “Back from town. He went to get some more bandages and such from the store while I kept an eye on you.”

A rill of fear tickled along Grant's spine. “We're not in town?”

“No, we're on the edge of the woods, a couple of miles from town. After spending all day working in the diner, I like me some peace and quiet.” Amos went to the door and pulled it open.

A young man stood there, tall and lanky with light brown skin and amber eyes, a rifle cradled in his arms. “Sorry about this, Pops, but we want Shipman.”

“What are you talking about, Elijah? Who is we?” He glanced over his son's shoulder and whoever or whatever he saw there made him gasp, his eyes wide.

“Come on out!” another voice yelled. The unmistakable burr of Jesse Stallard. “We got unfinished business with Shipman. Give him over and we'll leave you alone, Amos.”

Through the front door, Grant saw several silhouettes out front, stark against the headlights of a truck.

Elijah gave his father a shove and Amos staggered backward, colliding with a small dining table. He turned to Grant, and pointed at the back door. “Run!” he gasped.

Grant took a step toward the door and froze as Elijah leveled his rifle at him. His son distracted, Amos grabbed a wooden chair and swung it with surprising strength.

The upswing caught Elijah's forearm, knocking the rifle barrel upward as he pulled the trigger. The shot went off with an ear-shattering report, and the ceiling light exploded in a shower of sparks, plunging the small house into darkness.

With a grunt of fear and frustration, Grant turned and groped for the door handle. He cried out as a hand grabbed his upper arm and dragged him to one side. “It's me,” Amos hissed.

The headlights of the truck outside arced through the door, casting long, confusing shadows. People pushed and shoved to get into the house. “Fuckin' shoot 'em both!” someone yelled.

Rather than coming after them, Elijah turned and stumbled toward the door, cradling one arm in the other. “Not my Pops!” he shouted.

Two gunshots rang out and wood chips exploded from the wall by Grant's face. He jumped aside, half-pulled by Amos, and cracked into the door Amos pulled open. They tumbled through with the sounds of scuffling behind them. Three more shots barked out in the darkness accompanied by fiery flashes. Amos yelped, but pushed on, slammed the door behind them. “There!” He pointed across the small yard to a Yamaha trail bike parked up near the tree-line. “Key's in it. You can ride, right?”

Crashing noises came from the house as they ran across the scrub and dirt, ducking into shadows.

“You have to come with me,” Grant said. “They'll hurt you if you stay.”

“My own goddamn son.” Amos's voice dripped pain.

“I know, but it was me he was giving up, not you. He tried to protect you.” Grant jumped onto the bike and turned the key. His thumb found the starter and it roared into life.

“I didn't raise him to fall in with fools like that!” Amos said.

The back door burst open and gun barrels swung towards them.

“Get on!” Grant screamed and the old man swung a leg over the pillion seat. As soon as his weight hit the bike, Grant opened it up and fishtailed across the dirt, wincing at the sound of rifle shots. He headed for the trees, Amos hanging on valiantly, one arm tight around Grant's waist.

The bike slipped and skidded, tires spinning for grip on the loose earth. With sheer force of will and more than a little luck, Grant managed to control it and speed into the woods. He was thankful for the half a dozen sessions of mini-motocross he’d insisted on as a kid. He flicked on the headlight and tipped left and right as guns fired and bullets bit chunks out of the tree trunks by their heads. Hoping he could out-run and out-maneuver their shooting, he powered through the forest, up the mountain.