Chapter 2 #4
Her voice wasn’t recognizable as she spoke. But it held strength and power, and the vision washed over her with such clarity she almost wept in relief. She saw the end with a mighty force that gave her the strength to go on.
“They are coming for you, and they will find you,” she said without inflection.
“But they will not find you as you are now. I see your end. Your death is near, and it comes with screams of horror and flames. There will be no escape. Only the slow and torturous slide into death. And then there will be nothing for you but hell. Run now. Maybe you can escape your fate.”
He stared at her with fear in his eyes and then he lifted the belt once more, but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Then he turned and walked back to the truck, got inside, threw it in reverse, and drove away.
Two miles she walked. Until her body burned with fever and her feet developed blisters.
Then she stood in front of the ramshackle house in the flood plain of the valley, the white paint peeling and the yard overgrown with weeds.
The lights were out, and if the moon hadn’t been full it would’ve been impossible to see anything.
But she put one foot in front of the other until she was inside. She moved through the house on autopilot, keeping the lights off. Her face throbbed. Her body was a mess, but she couldn’t stomach the thought of standing long enough to take a shower.
She peeled the bloody top from her back, weeping as the dried patches pulled and tore her flesh.
She discarded the shorts and shoes and stole one of her father’s oversized undershirts from the basket of folded laundry on the table.
He wouldn’t be needing it. And then she gingerly crawled into bed and curled into a ball as the tears continued to fall.
Sometimes the visions crept in like fog across the water. But sometimes…sometimes they slapped her with the force of a hurricane.
The truck smelled of whiskey and sweat and fear.
Harley Whitlock gripped the steering wheel hard enough to make his knuckles ache, but it was the only way to keep his hands from shaking.
His heart hammered against his ribs as he pushed the accelerator down, the old pickup eating up the two-lane road that led toward the mountains.
The moon hung full and bright overhead—bright enough he didn’t bother with the headlights.
No point in making it easier for them to spot him.
Not that Sheriff Rafferty would catch him anyway. Old coot had spent too many years behind a desk with his feet propped up, getting fat on coffee and gossip. Besides, if Rafferty did manage to track him down, well. One more body wouldn’t make much difference at this point.
Harley knew these roads like he knew the lines on his own palms. Every curve, every straightaway, every place where the shoulder dropped off into nothing. He’d be over the mountains and across the border into Canada before those idiots back in Laurel Valley got organized enough to put out an alert.
He took another pull from the bottle of Jim Beam in the cup holder and felt the burn slide down his throat. Liquid courage. Liquid clarity. Though the clarity was telling him things he didn’t much want to hear.
Like the fact that Helen was going to be a problem.
He cut his eyes sideways to look at his wife.
She sat pressed against the passenger door, hands twisted together in her lap like she was praying.
Probably was praying, knowing her. Stupid woman.
She’d been waiting for him at the crossroads, her rattletrap car blocking the way, waving her arms to flag him down.
He still didn’t know how she’d found him. Some animal instinct, maybe. Or maybe she just knew his habits better than he’d given her credit for. Helen had never been dumb. Just useless. Weak. The kind of woman who’d stand by and wring her hands while the world fell apart around her.
Though he had to give her credit for one thing—she’d handed over the money she’d made selling her jams and quilts at the carnival without him even having to ask.
It wasn’t much, but combined with what he’d taken from the poker pot after Mitch had the poor sense to die, it would keep him going for a few days.
Long enough to find another game. Long enough to get clear.
But Helen was a liability now. Dead weight. And Harley had never been one to carry dead weight.
He’d kill her once they got up into the mountains. Someplace remote where the animals would find her before any search party could. It was a practical decision, really. Made with the same casual consideration a man might give to choosing what to have for dinner.
She hadn’t asked him what he’d done. Hadn’t asked why they were running. She would’ve heard the whispers at the fair—those old biddies in town knew everything almost before it happened. But Helen was a loyal dog, and she’d come when called.
One last time.
The radio crackled with static as he scanned through the channels, looking for something to fill the oppressive silence in the cab. Helen’s breathing was too loud. Those little whimpering sounds she made when she was scared—they crawled under his skin like insects.
He found a station that came through clear enough and left it there. Some country song about going home. He almost laughed at the irony.
The farther they drove, the more his irritation grew. It built like pressure behind his eyes, made his jaw clench and his shoulders knot. Sweat dripped down his temples despite the cold. That girl’s words kept echoing in his head, no matter how much he drank to drown them out.
Your death is near, and it comes with screams of horror and flames.
Crazy little witch. Always had been. Devil touched from the day she was born.
And then the radio cut to an alert that made his blood run cold.
“—Harley Whitlock, wanted for murder. Considered armed and extremely dangerous. Last seen driving a 1987 Chevy pickup, tan in color—”
His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Dangerous. They got that right, at least. Just ask Mitch Jones. Though Mitch wouldn’t be answering any questions where he was now.
Harley pressed down harder on the accelerator.
The truck responded with a growl, eating up the road as it climbed higher into the mountains.
It wouldn’t be long now until they hit the narrow switchbacks that led up to the pass.
Up there, in the cold and the dark, he’d take care of Helen. Quick and clean. Well—quick, anyway.
He remembered the surprise on Mitch’s face when that first blow landed.
The way his eyes had gone wide, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening.
You could never recapture that first moment of shock.
After that it was all screaming and begging and blood.
But that initial surprise—that was something special.
Helen made another one of those whimpering sounds and his hand shot out before he could think about it, catching her across the mouth with the back of his knuckles. Her head snapped to the side and she pressed herself even harder against the door, one hand coming up to cup her bleeding lip.
Good. Maybe now she’d shut up.
He laughed—a sound with sharp edges and no humor in it. Nobody could touch him. He’d proven that tonight. Mitch had learned. That Hamilton boy had learned. And Helen would learn soon enough.
The heater in the old truck wheezed and rattled, fighting a losing battle against the cold that seeped through the vents. There was already snow up in the mountains. Good place to leave a body. Animals would scatter the bones before spring thaw.
The thought made something dark and eager coil in his gut.
“We’re going to stop up here and take a little break,” he said, glancing at Helen again. Her face was bloody now, a bruise already blooming across her cheekbone. But he didn’t mind that. Never had.
The anticipation had his foot pressing down on the accelerator without him meaning to. The truck surged forward into the next curve—
—and it was sharper than he remembered.
Way sharper.
He pumped the brake and jerked the wheel but the truck was already sliding, the back end fishtailing out as the tires lost their grip on the gravel. Helen screamed—high and thin and useless—as the world tilted sideways.
And then they were falling.
Trees rushed past in a blur of shadow and moonlight.
The truck crashed through branches, bounced off trunks, the sound of tearing metal screaming in his ears.
Helen’s screams cut off abruptly when they hit the first big impact.
Harley caught a glimpse of her face—slack and empty, already gone—before his head cracked against the steering wheel.
Blood ran into his eyes, hot and thick. He tasted copper. His hands scrambled for the door handle, clumsy and uncoordinated, but it wouldn’t budge. The door was crumpled inward, jammed shut by the impact.
That’s when he smelled it.
Gasoline.
The soft whoosh of ignition came from somewhere beneath the hood. Flames licked up through the vents, greedy and bright in the darkness. Smoke filled the cab and Harley yanked at the door handle again, panic finally cutting through the alcohol haze in his brain.
It wouldn’t open.
The heat built fast. Faster than seemed possible. The flames found the upholstery and the old dry foam inside the seats and suddenly everything was burning. His clothes. His skin. The air itself.
He opened his mouth to scream and breathed in fire.
And in that last moment of clarity before the pain consumed everything else, Harley Whitlock thought of his daughter. Of the way she’d looked at him beneath that oak tree, blood running down her back, and spoken his fate with absolute certainty.
Your death is near, and it comes with screams of horror and flames.
The little witch had been right after all.