Off Season - Jack Ketchum [61]
“So we’ve got another potential victim out there,” said Willis. “Somebody they took along for the ride. Hot damn.”
“That’s right,” said Peters. “At least one. For all we know there could be half a dozen of them. As soon as the coroner and backup make it up the hill, let’s go through the house for sets of identification. That should give us some idea.”
He watched a pair of headlights swing around a turn. That would be them. He frowned and let loose a sigh. It was a heavy man’s sigh, half wheeze. “Problem is,” he said, “we still don’t know how many of these sons of bitches are out there, do we? I know I gotta go after ‘em, but I didn’t know whether I’m after ducks or dynamite, so to speak.” He thought for a moment, watching the headlights draw closer. “So I got a suggestion to make,” he said. “See how it sits with you. I suggest we take us an army in there. I suggest we get every car up here we can lay our hands on.”
“That’s damned good,” said Willis, grinning. “That sounds just fine to me.”
Shearing nodded. “I agree.”
The relief in the air was nearly palpable. Both these guys were scared. Well, Peters had seen the bodies. So was he. Only now he had to give them another scare.
“There’s something else that you are not gonna like, though,” he said.
“What’s that?” said Willis.
“I have to play it rough on this. We got a trail here that’s gonna cool down fast. So I’m giving you both exactly ten minutes to get those cars up here. And if they’re not here in ten minutes—say they’re here in eleven—neither one of you boys is gonna be around to greet ‘em. Because I’m going to have to sit here by the car and wait for ‘em and the two of you will have to start out after these folks all by yourselves. We got no time to waste.”
“Jesus, George,” said Shearing.
“Move,” said Peters. He had to teach that boy not to whine. Very important in a policemen. “Move and kick ass if you have to, but get them up here. Fast.” He wished briefly but passionately for a drink, and not a beer, either. He glanced at the thing on the spit.
“Before these folks decide on breakfast.”
4:08 A.M.
There was no doubt that the last man would be found. Their firstborn—the man in red—was a good hunter. All the same, the cave was in a state of turmoil unusual even for them. None of them could remember when a hunt had failed, and now within three nights two had failed one after the other. In the minds of all except the very youngest was the dim fear of discovery, of disaster. Yet mingling with and overwhelming this fear was the sheer excitement of having killed and hunted. Eyes that were flat and colorless sparkled in the light from the fire. Mouths that never smiled, smiled now, and not one among them gave any real thought to their losses.
Near the fire the pregnant woman and a girl-child nursed the big man’s arm, binding the wrist tight a few inches below the elbow and wrapping it in skin. The man was weak from loss of blood, his great bulk tossing and feverish in a dazed half-sleep. A few feet away a small boy watched them for a few moments, then turned to piss against the side of the cave.
All the children had cuts and bruises and some had bad burns from the boiling oil and water. But they gave them no attention. The children were used to pain.
Their legs and arms were already covered with older scabs and sores; a few more meant nothing to them. Much more annoying were the lice and other insects that infested their hair and clothes, but even these were forgotten now. Back near the cage a boy and girl chased a rat into the dark second room with long birch sticks. The pregnant girl walked past them carrying a pail of water. She set it down in front of the fire, where the fat woman in the plain cotton shift crouched low, licking her lips like a coiled snake. The woman was hungry again. She would make soup. She waited for the girl to return with more water and wished she would hurry.
When the girl did return, the woman rose heavily and stretched and padded off to