He was as close to screaming as he’d ever been in his life. “You’re militia, right? But who are you people? What the hell do you want?”
Finn’s expression darkened. “We’re what’s left, and you will show the proper respect, or so help me God, I will carve you into kibbles and feed you to the Chuckies a piece at a time. I’ll save the eyes for last. Eyes, they really like. Something about that little pop.”
The tent’s flaps parted. Through the gap, Peter saw the slant of snow. Mather ducked in, followed a moment later by a man.
Oh my God.
“Where would you like it, sir?” Lang—his man, his runner— snapped a crisp salute. Lang’s snow-salted uniform was identical to Mather’s, and he carried an automatic rifle. He spared Peter not a single glance.
“Right here.” Finn patted an empty gurney, then slipped Peter a wink. “Don’t take it too hard now, boy-o. Lang served under my command in ’Nam.” Finn said it as if the country were a sweet potato. “Imagine how pleased I was when he reported how much you respected his combat skills.”
Lang was Finn’s man. A sweep of dread blackened his brain as he remembered something else. Lang and Weller had served in Vietnam together.
But that doesn’t prove anything. Weller tried to save my life. But wait. Something Weller had said suddenly marched before his inner eye like that electronic ticker tape at Times Square: You remember when your time comes, it was me did this.
Oh Jesus. A deep and darkling sickness crept through his veins like a contagion born on a plague wind. Weller hadn’t saved his life. Weller was under orders to keep him alive. But why?
“Busy putting two and two together?” Finn lifted an eyebrow. “They said you were a smart boy.”
They. So, only Lang and Weller? Or were there more? How many men had Peter thought loyal but who were really working against Rule? And it’s personal for Weller. This is a grudge, something to do with me, but what? “What do you want?” he rasped.
“God moves in a mysterious way, Peter, His wonders to perform. He rides upon the storm and deep in unfathomable mines.” Finn’s eyes sparkled. “Why, I believe you know all about mines, don’t you?”
Mines. All the breath left his lungs, and the words struck him dumb. How did Finn know that? No one outside the Council did, not even Chris. Especially not Chris.
Finn turned as Lang held back the flap and two more people bullied in on a frigid cloud of fresh snow. Finn’s man, bald and bucktoothed, had his hands firmly clamped around a long metal rod Peter recognized at once as an animal control pole, the type with a swivel head. That was important, because no matter how much a wild dog might fight, it could not strangle itself on that nylon noose. A good thing, too, because this animal was putting up quite a fight.
Only . . . it wasn’t a dog.
21
The boy was no older than Tyler, completely naked and so scrawny the birdcage of his ribs showed. His skin was scored with healing cuts and scrapes, angry sores, and frozen mud, and from the smell, shit caked his feet. He made no sound at all, but then again the noose was tight, the fat worms of his veins bulging as he thrashed.
“Come on, ya little bastard.” Bucktooth’s lips peeled back as he gave the cable a vicious tug. Gagging, the boy’s knees hinged.
“Barnes!” Finn snapped. There was a stinging crack as Finn’s open palms connected with Barnes’s ears. Barnes didn’t even manage a scream, and went down in a heap. Finn grabbed up the pole, then loosened the noose until the boy sucked in a long, thin, shrieking breath. Cursing, Finn aimed a kick at the felled Barnes, but the old guy was already unconscious.
“Sir,” Mather said to Finn. “I think this might not be the best—”
“Shut up.” In a flash, Finn had his revolver out. The silvered muzzle hung an inch from Mather’s nose. “Not another word, Doctor.”
“Yes, sir,” Mather said.
“That’s two,” Finn said.
The sound of the shot was enormous. Mather’s skull blew out the back in a red mist. She dropped like a tree.
Finn turned to Lang, who was white-faced and absolutely still. “Get someone in here to clean up the mess. And tell Doctor Grier he’s just been promoted.”
Lang ducked his head once, then scuttled out. Peter lay still as death. He watched Finn turn back to the boy, who was on his knees now. The boy’s filthy hands were still clamped down around the noose, but he was breathing normally. A froth of red spit foamed his lips.
“There now, Davey,” Finn crooned as gently as one might try to calm a feral dog. “That’s better, isn’t it? Are you hungry, boy? Want something to eat?” He looked up as Lang returned with two other men. “Lang, grab hold of Davey here,” he said, handing over the control pole. “You two, hold up with Barnes and Mather a minute. They’re not going anywhere. Help Lang put Davey in restraints.” He patted the empty gurney beside Peter’s. “Right here, next to his new roomie.”
As the guards hurried to comply, Finn turned his attention to the late Mather’s instrument tray. Humming, he finger-walked the instruments, then selected a hefty, thick scalpel. The metal winked a hard, bright yellow as Finn stooped over Mather’s body. The old woman’s eyes were still jammed open. Her mouth gawped in a slack, surprised O. Finn reached in, reeled out Mather’s tongue, and began to saw.
He’s crazy. Peter’s throat convulsed, and then he was rolling his head to one side and vomiting the water he’d just drunk along with a thick gob of sour phlegm and mucus. He gulped air as the room spun. He’s nuts, he’s insane.
“There we go,” Finn said. Peter opened his eyes to find Finn standing over the gurney to his right. The boy was firmly tethered in leather restraints. The boy’s chest heaved. His glittery crow’s eyes were fixed on Finn’s glistening, gore-soaked hands. “Care for a bite, Davey?”
The boy gasped as the first thick, ruby teardrop splashed to his lips. A mad hunger chased over the boy’s face as he tongued the blood then opened wider, craning his neck so the blood could drip directly into his mouth. To Peter, he looked like a baby bird waiting for its mother to cram a worm down its throat. Peter thought of how he must have looked to Finn as the old man offered him water. There was, in fact, no difference.
Then, viper-quick, the boy’s head darted. Finn jerked back just as Davey’s teeth clashed and bit air where Finn’s pinky had been.