Gasher Creek Part 47

"But what if he does?"

Cole sighed impatiently. "If he does, then I'll hunt him down and kill him myself. Either way, Jack Devlin won't make trial. I give you my word on that."

Andy hesitated, but then nodded.

"Good," Cole said. "I'll speak to Don tomorrow. We'll need his help breaking Devlin out. For now, we have work to finish."

Andy frowned at him. "We have finished."

"Not quite," Cole said. "We have to rough Sally up or it won't look right. A bruised neck and a china doll face don't exactly match."

Liza shut her eyes as Cole laid into Sally with his fists. She heard the smack of skin, the crunch of bone. She shuddered.

"There," Cole said. She opened his eyes to see him shaking his hand, his knuckles b.l.o.o.d.y. "Doc won't question that. Even a stick boy can do some damage when he's drunk. Ain't that right, Jack? Got yourself soaked and beat the poor girl to death?" He giggled. "That'll teach her."

Jack muttered: "I dream ... Jeanie with the light brown ... like vapor on ... the air."

Andy leaned over the bed. "Jack?" he said.

Jack said something else, but it was impossible to make out. His voice was faint, his eyes swimming beneath their lids. "I dream ... Jeanie..."

"It thought you got him good and drunk," Cole said to Andy.

"I did," Andy said. "He drank enough to kill a horse."

"Hey Jack," Cole said, snapping his fingers in front of his face. "Nah, his eyes are open but he's not awake. Unless ... Liza, help me get their clothes off."

"What?" Liza said. "What for?"

"To sweeten the pot," Cole said. "Come on, quick now."

Liza helped him. She didn't know why, but she helped him. A part of her wanted to believe she hadn't been wrong about Cole, that he was doing this for her, that it would all make sense in the morning. But she knew that wouldn't happen. It would be worse in the morning.

Andy was right. They were h.e.l.l bound.

Cole yanked off Jack's trousers and dropped them beside his boots. Liza unb.u.t.toned Sally's dress and pulled it off.

"Well would you look at that," Cole said, staring at Sally's naked body. His eyes crawled over her. Liza backed away from him, her stomach clenching. She turned cold.

"If he's awake," Cole said, "then he might remember some of this. And if he does? He'll dance to the gallows." Rolling Sally's body on top of Jack, he shouted, "G.o.d dammit, Jack, your dream come true! Ride her, Jack, ride her!"

Liza turned and wrenched the door open. She ran to the other end of the hall. She slid into the bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and wailed into her pillow. Her heart pounded in her ears.

Chapter Forty-Five.

"I remember," Jack said. "I remember everything now."

Sally was on top of him, her forehead pressed against his. Her eyes were large and black. Her mouth hung open, her jaw slack. Cole had shouted: "You've wanted her for a long time, haven't you Jack?"

"But you were all wrong," Jack said. "She wasn't dead yet. I could feel her heart. It would beat, and then stop. Beat, and then stop. I thought it was my own heart until it stopped and didn't start again. I felt her die."

Mind if I have a go?

Jack stared past Liza. New memories spread through his mind like a weed. "Then Cole yanked her off me," he said. "And then he-oh G.o.d," he said. "Oh G.o.d!"

"What," Liza said.

Hot tears spilled down Jack's face. "He went wild. He climbed on top of her and-she was dead and he humped her!"

Liza threw her arms around him as he screamed into her neck. "I should have stopped him," she said. "I should have stopped him and I didn't. I wasn't strong enough."

"Get away from me," Jack said, pus.h.i.+ng her off him. "You're no better than Cole or Andy."

"No," she said. "That's not true. I didn't want her to die, but Cole said it was for the best."

"Why didn't you tell the sheriff?"

"Because Cole would have found out," she said. "He would have killed me. I wanted to run that very night, but I was afraid he'd come after me. It was only when I was sure he was gone for good that I dyed my hair and hitched a ride. I didn't want to hang for what he and Andy had done. I thought I could hide." Her hands shook. "I thought I could forget. But then you showed up." She rose onto her knees. "Please forgive me, Jack."

Jack stared down at her and seized her by the chin. "Why did they choose Sally?"

"They needed someone to try the poison on."

"But why her?" Jack demanded. "They could have chosen anyone, why..."

And then he understood. "It was me, wasn't it?" he said. "They picked her because of me."

Liza nodded. "Your fight," she said. "Cole and Andy figured they could try it out on Sally and finger you as the murderer. Who would argue it? The whole town saw her screaming at you. You had every reason to want her dead."

Jack stared out over the prairie. "Andy," he said, the word reverberating in his throat.

Andy Dupois pretended to be his friend after Sally humiliated him, just so he could get him liquored up.

Andy Dupois stood beside his pa, a shocked look on his face as Jack lay in that bed next to Sally's corpse.

Andy Dupois helped carry him to Hannigan's Tree.

It's a done deal.

Andy was the murderer, not him. G.o.d d.a.m.n him. G.o.d and all his angels d.a.m.n him to h.e.l.l- Liza screamed as the black coyote emerged from the long gra.s.s.

Jack dropped to one knee. He held out his hand.

"Jack," Liza said. "What are you doing?"

The coyote approached him, its eyes s.h.i.+ning like copper coins. It bowed its head, and Jack's hand slipped into its thick, black fur. Its heat warmed him like a shot of whiskey. It burned his eyes like a fever. Sweat trickled down his face and replaced the tears.

He stood and walked back to Samson, the coyote at his side like a loyal dog. Liza clutched at the gra.s.s. "Keep it away from me," she cried. "Don't let it eat me!"

Jack climbed into the saddle and looked south.

All that time, he'd thought he was guilty. He thought he'd done the same terrible things to Sally that his pa had done to his sister. Like father like son. He'd tortured himself for nothing, afraid of every thought, every possible action his mind could conceive of. He'd worried about hurting women, about hurting Emily. In her room, he'd had a chance to speak his heart but didn't. He couldn't risk it. After all, he was a monster.

The coyote barked.

Jack snapped the reins.

Samson leapt forward. They sped away, leaving Liza behind.

"Faster," he commanded, leaning into the wind. "Fly!"

Samson tossed his head and snorted. The black coyote's eyes burned like fire.

No more silence. No more running away. Now, he'd do what he should have done to his pa, to Cole Smith, to that army private, to all the real monsters of the world.

He was going to stand.

And Andy Dupois was going to die.

Chapter Forty-Six.

Still no Andy. Tracker would've laughed at the absurdity of it if he wasn't soaked, exhausted, and feeling the kind of hopelessness a man only gets when soaked and exhausted. He thought about calling off the search. He daydreamed about it. He even decided on the perfect I'm-sorry-I-left-and-didn't-say-goodbye apology for Caroline.

But he didn't stop.

Just a little further on.

Up ahead, Tracker spotted a new shape in the storm. It turned out to be a small cottonwood tree. Its trunk grew straight and thick, the signs of a good water source. Sure enough, it stood at the edge of a long narrow stream that snaked its way off to the east. Tracker spotted clumps of dark, green gra.s.s beside it, perfect for Bucko. "Let's say we have ourselves a rest," he said.

Bucko snorted.

"A short one."

After dismounting, Tracker led Bucko down to the stream. Its banks were steep, but the storm had swelled the water so that a horse could easily drink. As Bucko lowered his head to the water, Tracker crouched beside him and rubbed his leg.

Lord, but he was tired. His backside ached and his wrists were sore from holding the reins. He turned to look at the tree, feeling a powerful urge to crawl under its canopy of leaves and lay down. He wouldn't, but that's what he wanted to do.

As he stared at it, his boot slipped.

"Oh," Tracker said, sliding forward. "Oh no!"

He pitched sideways and plunged into the stream. He swallowed a mouthful of water and choked. The water roared in his ears. He couldn't find the bottom. He didn't know which way to swim. He reached out with his arms but found nothing. What a stupid way to die. Kicking frantically, the toe of his boot sc.r.a.ped something hard and he pushed, hoping it was the streambed.

It was. Breaking the surface, he vomited a lungful of water. Gasping, Tracker clutched at a shrub and managed to crawl his way out. Making it as far as the tree trunk, he collapsed.

The rain crackled in the leaves above him. He closed his eyes as the world spun.

"Maybe," he said, coughing up some more water. "Maybe we'll take a long break."

Chapter Forty-Seven.

Andy Dupois was going to pay.

The sun disappeared behind the storm, and Jack rode on. The rain blasted him, but he didn't turn back. Lightning cracked the sky and thunder shook the ground, but Samson was unafraid, and he didn't slow down. He dug his hooves into the earth and pushed harder, his powerful legs fighting the wind.

Faster.

Jack lost the coyote in the dark, but it was still there. The howl of the storm couldn't mask its deep, guttural breath. The wind couldn't steal the heat radiating off its body. Jack still didn't know what it was, but he knew it was powerful, and that was all that mattered now. He'd need that strength to kill.

Snapping the reins, he leaned into the torrent and let it slash his face. Squealing, Samson barreled on into the blackness.

"You gonna gawk at them cards forever?"

Jack opened his eyes and immediately shut them. The brightness hurt his eyes. "Hold on," he said. He tried again, shading his eyes with his hand. He blinked several times. He squinted. Finally, he could see.

Somehow, he didn't remember the hotel restaurant being this bright.

Perhaps it was the sunlight pouring through the windows, or the endless tables draped with their endless white tablecloths. It may have had something to do with the fact that each table held its own burning lamp. Whatever the reason, it was a ridiculous amount of light, and he had half a mind to take it up with Tate and Sylvia.

Across from him and to his right, sat Sally. She leaned on her elbows, the tablecloth littered with flakes of grey skin. Her red hair, once vibrant and thick, now clung to her scalp in wispy strands. A rib poked through the rotten flesh of her chest.

"Come on," she said.

On her left sat an empty chair. On her right, sat Hank. His skin had faded to the color of clay. He was terribly bloated, his fingers like sausages, his head the size of a pumpkin. His s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.tons looked ready to pop. Black scratches stretched across his cheek. "We ain't got forever, boy," he said.

Sheriff Tracker looked all right. He sat next to Jack, his eyes closed and his arms folded. His cards lay face down on the table.

"Don't mind him," Hank said. "He's sitting this one out."