The Reaping

CHAPTER FOURTEEN





Out of the shadows stepped a woman. I watched, spellbound and heartbroken, as she glided across the clearing to where Derek stood.

She was petite, her tiny but perfectly-formed body wrapped in snug black jeans and a jacket. Her long blonde hair hung in luxurious waves down her back and even from a distance I could see the classically beautiful features that the moon shone down upon.

When she reached Derek, she spoke. Though I couldn’t make out the words, I could hear the delicate tinkling of her voice. His response was unintelligible as well, just a rumble in the cool night air. The woman threw back her head and laughed, a seductive sound that made my stomach clench in misery.

She stepped closer to Derek, laying one hand on his arm and leaning in to his body. It was such an intimate gesture, I had to look away. And, though my heart was breaking, I had to know what they were saying.

As quietly as I could, I made my way through the trees to a position still hidden from view, but hopefully one that was within earshot.

It was.

“…my brother. I’ve done everything you’ve asked, told you everything you wanted to know.”

“What if I agreed to give you what you want most—your brother—for the small price of your…influence over her?”

I watched Derek’s expression, his lips tightening as an internal debate raged within him. “Why do you want her so badly?”

“She’s going to be one of my greatest weapons,” the woman said excitedly.

“How is that?”

“Why don’t you leave the details to me?”

“I want to know what you have planned for her before I turn her over to you.”

“Nothing you need to worry your handsome head over, Derek,” she purred.

The woman took Derek’s arm and led him to the other side of the clearing, away from me, where I could no longer hear their conversation. It didn’t matter. I’d heard enough.

I leaned back against the tree I was hiding behind and pulled my arms up to my chest. It felt as if someone was literally tearing out something from inside me. I felt the sting of tears at the back of my eyes and knew that I had to get moving before I made a complete fool of myself.

Swallowing back the lump in my throat, I quietly made my way out of the woods and back to the car. When I was safely inside the Camaro, I let the floodgate open, tears falling unchecked down my cheeks.

I sat there for several minutes before my vision cleared enough to drive. I turned the car toward home and pressed lightly on the accelerator. I was in no rush to get there. The excruciating pain of loss after my father’s death had been eased somewhat by the arrival of Derek. But now, with heartache and betrayal marring those memories as well, home seemed more like a place of torture rather than the sanctuary of solace it was supposed to be. If I’d had somewhere else to go, I’d have skipped the house altogether.

I pulled into the garage and got out of the car. Briefly, I considered leaving the garage door open, as Derek had, so he wouldn’t know I’d followed. But then I decided against it. He’d know soon enough anyway.

Once inside, I sat down on the couch in the living room to think. The terrible tearing sensation in my chest had settled to a dull, empty throb and my mind was somewhat clearer.

I debated the best way to handle the situation. Several ideas flitted through my mind, but I quickly discarded them for one reason or another. I thought of my father’s letter and what seemed to be his last request.

I want to find your sister…it’s all up to you.

As I considered this, I heard his voice. Though it was very much just inside my head, it was as if I’d once heard him say the words and was remembering it. Only I was positive I’d never heard him mention the name.

Find Byron Allsley first.

I had never seen or heard of Byron Allsley until the package had arrived after my father’s death. And obviously my father wanted me to go and find him. It was like I was hearing him inside my head and feeling him inside my heart. I didn’t know how he was communicating that to me, but I didn’t doubt that he was.

It only took a moment for me to realize that finding him could eventually lead to finding my sister, which was what my father really wanted. And that was enough for me.

As I worked out the details, my eyes fell on the package beneath the Christmas tree. A shard of sadness sliced through my heart. Though I’d never really planned for the future, what with it being so uncertain and all, I guess I had begun to think of Derek as being a part of whatever hovered out there on the horizon. I’d never really analyzed my feelings for him; I’d just accepted them and went with it. Totally impulsive, like I’d always wanted to be when it came to love. No thoughts, just feelings.

And look at me now. I was learning the wisdom of rationale over rash love, and I was learning it the hard way.

I walked to the tree and knelt to pick up the package. After only a second’s hesitation, I ripped open the paper and tore into the box.

There, beneath several gauzy sheets of white tissue paper, was the sweater I’d tried on at the mall the night I’d gone shopping with Leah and her mom. It was the one I’d been wearing when I’d seen Derek for the first time (outside of a dream that is), when he’d walked by behind me.

I brushed my fingertips over the soft cashmere; it was like touching a cloud. And even in the dim light, I could see the warmth of the deep apricot color, just as beautiful as I remembered.

Gently, I pulled the sweater from the box and held it up. An envelope fell out as the sleeves unfolded. Laying the sweater aside, I picked up the envelope and slid my finger beneath the glued edge to loosen it.

Inside was a card. On the front was a picture of a huge silvery moon as it shone down on a snowy clearing in the woods, much like the one I’d just left (minus the snow). I opened the card and it was blank inside but for a few handwritten words.

You glowed like the moon in this, only much more beautiful.

I thought of my new plan and, for just a moment, reconsidered. I reread the card then held the sweater up to my face, rubbing the fuzzy fabric back and forth across my cheek. Then, with a pang of regret, I laid the sweater back in the box and put the card on top. I slid it back under the tree and went to the kitchen for a pen. I wrote on the blank envelope:

Too many blondes in the clearing. Don’t try to find me, just be gone by the time I get back.

I laid the envelope on top of the card and went into my bedroom to pack a bag. When I’d stuffed some toiletries, several pair of jeans, socks and underwear, a few bras and several sweaters into the bag, I carried it into the kitchen. I quickly added to it my father’s gun, an atlas, two granola bars and the package from Byron Allsley. It had all sorts of information I might need.

I turned down the heat, made sure the doors were locked then, without a backward glance, grabbed my bag and headed for the garage.

I drove through town toward the interstate. When I reached the intersection, I sat staring at the blue I-77 sign. Somewhere deep inside, I knew that if I proceeded, I would be passing the point of no return. Carrying out my father’s wishes would forever change my life, even more than what it had already changed. I could feel it. It buzzed in the air inside the car, like the crackle of destiny.

Images of my father and Leah, the Kirbys and, yes, even Derek drifted through my mind. I thought of the memories I was leaving behind, as well as the possibilities. But I knew it was something I had to do. And now was the time. I might not get a second chance. So, throwing caution to the wind, I pushed on the gas pedal and guided the car up the entrance ramp and set out to find Byron Allsley and my sister.

********

My inner turmoil fueled me all through that day and into the evening. I teetered between devastating heartbreak and iron-clad determination and I let them drive me. I stopped only for gas, refusing to look back or dwell on my decisions. I was going forward, consequences be damned.

When I’d stewed about as long as I could stew, the tears came. I began to cry about half way through West Virginia.

I grieved, grieved like I should have grieved months ago. Only I had more to grieve now. I grieved the loss of my father and Derek. I grieved for my sister and my mother, for Leah and my future, the life I could’ve had, should’ve had, but could never have now. I cried for miles and miles, pushing myself relentlessly.

By the time I started seeing signs for the Ohio state line, I was overcome with fatigue. I watched the billboards for hotels. When I saw a reputable name, I noted the exit number and then watched for the sign.

Once I was off the interstate, the hotel was easy to find. It was a huge monstrosity that sat right off the exit. Relieved, I pulled into the lot, parked, and then made my way into the lobby.

A bell chimed as I pushed through the door. I was instantly assaulted by bright lights. The harsh fluorescents hurt my eyes and worsened the headache that I’d developed half way through West Virginia. I assumed it was a result of the climate and/or altitude change because my nose was stopped up, too. Between that and the puffy face from crying a river of tears, I felt pretty rotten.

As I approached the front desk, I saw the back of a maroon vest-clad attendant as she rounded the corner into the mysterious place behind the reception area. I leaned on the counter to await her return.

Several minutes later, the attendant still had not re-emerged. I had begun to get impatient, my fingers hovering over the little service bell threateningly, when a man materialized through a door behind the desk. He straightened his little maroon bow tie as he approached me at the counter.

“May I help you?”

The man’s face was narrow and pointed. His sloped nose was dramatically exaggerated by a weak chin that resided beneath a row of overly-prominent front teeth. His tongue flicked out to wet his already-glistening lips, making me shiver in revulsion.

He had combed all that was left of oily brown hair over his balding scalp in one long swoop from left to right. I was sure from the looks of it that he couldn’t possibly have washed it even once in the past week. All in all, my immediate impression was one of a weasel (if a weasel was pink, walked on his hind legs and talked in a whiny, nasal voice that is), right down to his beady eyes. They looked out at me from behind thick, black-rimmed glasses, watching me more like those of a hawk, sharp and cunning.

“Yes, I’d like a room please. One night, king bed, non-smoking,” I said confidently, as if I’d done this a thousand times.

The man nodded and asked to see my identification. I handed it over, hoping that he wouldn’t note my date of birth. When he began typing the information into the computer, I slowly released the breath I’d been holding.

When he was finished, a form printed out and he had me sign the bottom. After tearing away the perforated portion of the paper, he handed me a card key and directed me to my room on the third floor.

“Enjoy your stay, Carson,” he said with a creepy smile.

“Th-thank you,” I said. The way he said my name triggered some visceral response that made me distinctly uncomfortable.

I could feel his eyes on me as I walked back out to the car. I shook it off and chastised myself for such ridiculous suspicion. Being alert and aware was one thing; being cripplingly paranoid was quite another.

Dragging from the car my bag that once weighed about twenty pounds but now felt like it weighed about a hundred, I carried it inside to the elevators and punched the number three button.

Once I got to the room, I was thankful it was a Marriott and not a really cheap motel. I’d had the misfortune of staying in those before with Dad and that just wouldn’t do tonight. I ached from sitting most of the day, I was tired of the road already, and I was emotionally exhausted from life in general. The only things I wanted were a hot bath and sleep and I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing either of those in a lesser establishment.

After I’d locked and chained the door, closed the curtains and pushed a chair up against the doorknob, I took my bag to the bathroom and turned on the water in the bathtub.

When the mirror was steamed up from the heat, I peeled my clothes off and slipped into the tub. I sank down as low as I could, which left the water just grazing my chin. I closed my eyes and listened to the steady drip of the water from the leaky spigot, letting the rhythm soothe my overtaxed mind.

I must’ve dozed off because I could’ve sworn I heard someone whisper it’s almost time and touch my cheek. I awakened with a start and looked around. I was relieved to see that I was alone.

After my bath, I put on clean underwear and went around turning on every light in the small room. Much to my surprise, when I laid down, I went to sleep almost instantly.

That night I had the same dream I’d had many times before, the dream about the black house in the field. I would awaken in the hotel room then for some reason I’d go outside and find myself right back in the field, walking toward the house with no windows. It was all part of the dream this time and it ran on an endless loop. Three times I dreamt of waking before I actually woke and the last time, I saw the girl who looked just like me. She was whispering, “It’s almost time.”

When I awakened (for real), it was six minutes after three. I was still tired, but I was edgy, too, like something unpleasant and unavoidable was just around the corner. It was a very unsettling feeling, but one that had plagued me quite regularly for the past few months, only not quite as intensely. I knew after about thirty minutes that I wasn’t going to be getting any more sleep tonight so I got up to hit the road early.

Once I was dressed, I wasted no time packing my bag and heading to the lobby for check out. There was a young girl behind the desk this time. Though she looked bleary-eyed, she gave me a bright smile as I approached.

“How can I help you?”

“I’d like to check out please.”

“And so early, too,” she said pleasantly and waited for me to comment. When I didn’t, she continued. “Your room number?”

I handed her my key and told her my room number. When she punched the number into the computer, a frown came over her face. “Did you say ‘three-o-six’?”

“Yes.”

She typed the number in again and her frown deepened. “We don’t have anyone checked into that room.”

“Can you type in my name and see if it comes up that way?”

“I can try, but it should still be associated with that room number,” she said skeptically. “What’s your name? I’ll give it a try.”

“Carson Porter.”

She typed my name in the computer and still nothing came up. “Who checked you in?”

“Um, I don’t know his name, but he was an older man with glasses.”

“Glasses?”

“Yeah. And thinning brown hair,” I said, opting for that description rather than saying he had a hideous comb-over.

She pursed her glossy lips. “The thing is, I can’t think of one person who works here that wears glasses.”

Something tickled the back of my mind, like I was missing something, but I just couldn’t pin it down.

“Alright, well how can we work this out? Do you want to just check me in again or…?”

The girl looked left and right then leaned across the desk and whispered conspiratorially. “You know, it’s not your fault. And it’ll be a mountain of paperwork for me. Why don’t we just call it even? You can just consider it an early Christmas gift.”

I would’ve sounded like an ungrateful clod had I done anything more than just thank her and be on my way, so that’s what I did. Plus, far be it for me to cause her any extra work. That wouldn’t be very kind at all.

After stopping for a cup of coffee—something I was quickly becoming addicted to—along with a muffin, I turned toward the interstate ramp. By lunch time, I was well into the middle of Ohio. I pulled over on the highway to check the atlas once more before proceeding to Weston, the town where Byron Allsley practiced law.

It wasn’t hard to find and it was just before five o’clock when I turned in to park in front of the brick building that boasted a huge LEWIS, LEWIS & SCHMIDT sign.

I was a little confused by the empty lot. I got out and walked to the door, looking as I went for an employee parking lot that I might’ve missed. When I reached the door, the sign that was taped to the glass told me all I needed to know. CLOSED FOR CHRISTMAS, it read in large, bold print. Then, below it, in smaller letters, WILL REOPEN MONDAY, DEC 27. I realized then that my plan had a couple of fatal flaws. I had been so upset and desperate to get away the previous morning that I hadn’t even considered the weekend, let alone the holiday. It was Thursday, two days before Christmas, and apparently Mr. Allsley had given his employees a nice long holiday break.

Frustrated, I stomped back to the Camaro. I pulled my bag into the front seat and rifled through it, looking for the papers from Mr. Allsley. When I found them, I pulled out the cell phone I’d purchased at a gas station in Charleston, West Virginia and punched Mr. Allsley’s mobile number into it.

It rang and rang until a voice message began to play, informing me that I’d missed Mr. Allsley, but that if I left a message, he would surely return my call by the end of the day.

I left my name and new cell phone number, asking for Mr. Allsley to give me a call as soon as he could, then I hung up and sat back to consider my options. First of all, I had to find something to eat and a place to stay for the immediate future. I’d have plenty of time to think after that.

On my way north toward Toledo, I found a Marriott that looked suitable enough for what I hoped would be a fairly short stay. Across the street were Starbuck’s and McDonald’s, two establishments I’d recently learned were staples in my simple existence.

Later, as I walked back from McDonald’s, I noticed that the street I was on was heavily trafficked, but not by foot traffic. I had the sidewalk all to myself but for the man I saw up ahead jogging toward me. Though he was looking right at me, it was more like he looked right through me. His eyes were focused on something off in the distance. It was obvious he was totally preoccupied.

He was tallish and lean and, despite the cold temperatures, he was dressed in blue shorts and a sweatshirt, which indicated to me that he was a seasoned runner. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short and neat and, though I’d put his age in the mid forties, he was very handsome with his olive skin and aristocratic features. Something about his carriage made me think he was both highly educated and highly successful.

I watched a strong wind whip his short hair and sweatshirt, but, strangely enough, I didn’t feel the slightest breeze ruffling my hair or nipping at my cheeks.

When he was within twenty feet of me, he still didn’t acknowledge that he saw me, that faraway look still in his eyes. Then suddenly, he looked to his right. An expression of sheer panic flitted across his face. He had no more than raised his arms defensively when his body flew across the pavement as if he’d been hit by a car.

I was stunned into immobility, confused by what I’d seen. We were on the sidewalk and no cars had even come close to us. I looked around and saw nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, no passersby seemed even to have seen the accident, if that’s what it really was.

When the initial shock wore off, I ran to the man’s side and knelt on the ground by his head. The whole right side of his body was mutilated. His white sweatshirt was liberally stained with blood and I could see unnatural lumps beneath it, presumably displaced bone and tissue. His bare legs were riddled with cuts and contusions, pieces of bone sticking out in numerous places. His head was crushed beyond recognition. Had I not just seen him, healthy and hale only moments before, I would never have guessed this was the same man.

His body twitched and shook, a gurgling sound bubbling up from his throat. I didn’t know what to do. His injuries were so extensive, I was afraid to touch him. Then, a few short seconds later, he went absolutely still. I watched him carefully for signs of life—for movement, sound, anything—but there were none.

I stood up, knowing I should do something, but not sure what that something was. Internally, I went over what I could’ve done differently, wondering if there was some way I could’ve helped him.

As I stood there, staring down at the man, I suddenly felt a cold, tickling sensation ripple through my entire body.

And then I saw her appear in front of me.

Her back was to me and she was nearly transparent, but I could still make out who she was. Her red hair glistened like fire in the sun. I watched as she stepped over the lifeless body of the runner then turned toward me. She knelt beside his broken and bloodied body then looked up.

Pleasure was evident in her hollow, black eyes. She inhaled deeply, as if savoring her favorite smell. She ran her finger over the indention that used to be the man’s cheekbone then down to his neck where a small trickle of blood still flowed. She brought her finger to her mouth and her tongue flickered out to lick it. Her eyes closed in ecstasy. “It’s what we do,” she said.

I stood helplessly by, paralyzed by fear and revulsion, and watched as her lips curled back, bearing a multitude of long, sharp teeth that she drove into the man’s neck.