Shadows (Ashes Trilogy 2)

Then, across the barn and to the right, something scuffed.

Startled, he pivoted, raised his flashlight, expecting to see the bright coins of the cat’s eyes, or maybe a rat or raccoon. The light broke over a trio of what might once have been long-abandoned horse stalls, with doors on sliders. Something winked from the back corner. Stepping around the freezer, he aimed the light, caught the sparkle again—and frowned. A fourth stall, completely closed off, with a heavy, shiny, stainless-steel padlock dangling from a black ring latch as thick as his thumb.

Scuffling. Then, a low whine.

A puppy. That was his first thought. The Kings had locked up a dog, probably muzzled it. He thought back to that growl Raleigh had aimed toward the barn. No wonder Raleigh wouldn’t stay away; there was another dog locked up in here.

Maybe it was sick. That was possible. When he was a kid, his dad had rented Old Yeller. He remembered how after the wolf fight, when the dog went rabid, the boy had locked Old Yeller in the corncrib and then shot him. Tom must’ve cried for a week. Knowing Wade, Tom thought he’d have gotten rid of a rabid dog, but it would be perfectly in character for the Kings to simply sequester a sick puppy and maybe neglect it to death. Save on a bullet.

Poor thing. “Hey, boy,” he called, softly. The dog responded with another whimper as he crossed to the stall. He played the light over the lock, then the rest of the door and the adjacent wall, looking for a key. Two keys dangled on a thin wire ring from a nail just to the left of the door. He reached—and then paused. This was none of his business. He was leaving. The Kings had the right to run their farm however they wished.

The puppy whined again.

“Hey, boy.” Slipping the ring off the nail, he slotted one of the keys into the lock. “Hang—”

That last word never did leave his mouth.

He saw now that the door was oak, and sturdy but not completely solid. There was a large knothole about two-thirds of the way down, near the level of his right knee. It was dark, and he shouldn’t have been able to see a hole. By definition, no one ever did. A hole existed because of where it wasn’t.

But there was something here: grimy and very thin but completely recognizable.

A finger.

And then, it moved.

55

“Shit!” Tom sucked in a quick, startled gasp. The keys tinkled to the frigid concrete. Every hair on the nape of his neck stood on end. Then he knelt. “Hello? Are you hurt?”

The finger slid away and then he saw a flash of white as the kid—he was convinced it was a child—briefly pressed an eye to the knothole before wincing away from the light.

“Sorry.” Tom aimed the flashlight away. Now that he was closer, he smelled stale flesh and ammonia and moldering straw mixed with feces. “Kid, kid, are you okay? What’s your name?”

The child might’ve said something, but Tom’s heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear. My God, he sounds hurt. He swept his light back and forth over the floor until he found the keys. Get him out, then saddle up Dixie. Find my gear, get the guns and then Raleigh. His hands shook. Clamping the flashlight under an arm, he used both hands to sock the key home. If he had to, he would herd the Kings into a room and lock them up until he was ready to go. Wait until morning when it’s light. His wrist turned. The lock snicked open. Then we get as far from he—

A wide spotlight pinned him in place. On the door, before his eyes, his shadow sprang to life, black and perfectly defined, as if Tom were an actor backlit on a stage.

Then, there came a loud, unmistakable sound of a shotgun being racked: ka-CHUNK-crunch.

In the stall, behind the door, the boy whimpered.

Tom turned, slowly, a hand up to shield his eyes.

“Oh, Tom,” Wade said. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

56

Nikki made him strip. Unlike Wade, his wife was thin as a whippet and brittle as broom straw. Her gray eyes showed absolutely no emotion, but when Tom stopped at his underpants, she said, “No, no. All the way. Every stitch.”

The woodstove kept the kitchen and this small back room very warm. Fear-sweat slicked his body and ran down the sides of his face, but he was shivering. Jed’s tags rattled on their bead chain. “Why?”

“’Cuz we can’t have you running,” Wade said, from the kitchen. Through the open door, Tom watched as Wade withdrew the brand, inspected the iron, then slid it back into the firebox.

“That’s bullshit. I’m not running in my shorts,” Tom snapped. “Oh, I don’t know.” Grunting, Wade planted his hands on his thighs and heaved himself up. “I saw this one National Geographic about this Eskimo who run over the ice for miles with not a stitch.” “Come on, Tom.” Nikki gestured with the shotgun. “Shorts, too.” “No,” Tom said.

“Fine. Right knee or left?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Don’t think I won’t. So long as you’re alive, they don’t care what shape you’re in. It’s all the same to us, but . . .” Her eyes trailed over his body, first down and then up again, her gaze touching on every scar left by shrapnel, lingering on the divot in his right thigh. Her lips curled when she saw the scar on his neck. “That’s a nice hickey. Girlfriend get a little carried away? Well, she probably won’t mind another ding or two, considering that you’re kind of tore up already.” Her face blanked again. “Don’t make me waste a shell, Tom.”

All right, this is about domination. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his underpants. Come on, this is right out of survival training. Don’t let them get on top on you.

But what could he do to stop them? He let his underpants fall to his ankles and then kicked them away. They had the gun, and he’d been an idiot.

“That’s good.” Nikki lifted her chin toward a straight-backed chair bolted to the floor. “Now, you sit down and put on those plastic thingamabobs. First your ankles to the chair legs and then whichever hand you want to do first. Last hand you’ll have to use your teeth.”

God, how many times had they done this before? His heart was trying to thrash its way out of his chest. He didn’t move toward the chair. He might already be finished, but if he put on those plasticuffs, he was as good as dead. “What did you do to Raleigh? Did you kill him?”

“With any luck.” Nikki shrugged. “Shame to waste a good farm dog, but can’t have him barking every time he scents a Chucky.”