Krampus

Chapter Seventeen God’s Wrath

Krampus brought the sleigh down behind the old church. Geri and Freki sat waiting for them on the back porch. The Belsnickels crawled out and stumbled in, leaning heavily upon one another. Krampus strolled up onto the porch, dropped the sack on the steps, and took a moment to rough up the wolves’ thick pelts.

Isabel stoked and fed the potbelly while Vernon, Chet, and the two brothers found their beds and collapsed. Not Jesse: he hustled over to the cardboard box holding the weapons and cash, passing up on the machine pistol, going instead for a Colt revolver, wanting a gun he could depend on. He pocketed one of the stout hunting knives and a box of ammo. He snatched up the keys to Chet’s truck, feeling it would be best to take the pickup. It’d be dawn soon and a flying sleigh wouldn’t be the most inconspicuous means of getting around.

“Where you going?” Isabel asked.

“Taking Krampus on a snipe hunt.”

She scrutinized him for a moment, then shook her head. “Nu-huh?”

“Going to take care of things.”

Her face tightened. “You watch yourself.”

“Try to,” he said and headed out.

Jesse found Krampus sitting on the porch between the two wolves, rubbing their fur and looking up at the fading stars.

“Ready?” Jesse asked.

“Please, here, sit.” Krampus moved the sack over, made a spot. “There are a few words I would share.”

Jesse tried not to show his frustration; he wanted to be off—to get this thing done. He felt a growing sense of dread that he couldn’t explain, and the last thing he wanted to do right now was to be drawn into another one of Krampus’s lengthy conversations.

“I shall keep it brief.”

Jesse sat on the step next to Krampus.

Krampus inhaled deeply. “It was a glorious night. Was it not?”

“It was.”

“Jesse, your songs, they touched my heart . . . and not just me. Did you see them, see their faces? You touched them all. Your muse is full of magic.”

Jesse smiled, nodded. Magic. He liked that. It was the only way to describe how his songs had made him feel last night. “Was that your hand at play?”

“Oh, yes indeed, but the music . . . that was your muse. I only helped you to truly see her, to free yourself from your own fears, to let go. But I promise you, it was your spark that captivated.”

Jesse nodded. He’d never put himself out there like that before, never truly bared his soul. He still felt the rush; still felt one with the melody. And more, he felt no trace of his former misgivings, actually couldn’t wait to play in front of an audience again.

“And my eyes, too, have been opened,” Krampus said. “For I clearly see that mankind has not yet forgotten who they are. That deep down their wild spirit still burns. That they need only a little nudge to be set free.” Krampus grinned, beamed. “And I will always be there to give them that nudge . . . in some shape or form, no matter what games the gods may play.”

Jesse nodded; he hoped so. He’d never felt more alive, more connected with the world around him, and he fully understood that it was Krampus’s Yule magic that had awakened these feelings. He inhaled deeply, savored the feeling, found he still felt the rhythm, that strange primitive beat from last night, it faintly pulsed through his entire being.

“Jesse, when the sun rises it will be a new day . . . the start of a new age of Yule. Yule will spread, my flock will grow, of this I am sure, and I wish only to have those who desire to serve near. Thus, I intend to release the Belsnickels from bondage . . . to return those that wish it back into their human flesh.”

Jesse sat up straight, looked at Krampus in wide-eyed astonishment. “You can do that then? Change them back? Change us back?”

Krampus smiled. “Of course. It is my blood. I can call it back at any time.”

Jesse could hardly believe his ears. He’d resigned himself to dying a Belsnickel. “Wow, no fucking kidding?”

“I intend to offer each of the Belsnickels a choice. I am starting with you. You have paid your debt to me. If you intend to kill this bad man, I believe you would prefer to do that as a free man . . . for him to see the true eyes of his slayer.”

For Jesse, there was nothing to consider. To return to his own flesh, to have another chance with Linda—why, he’d do whatever was asked. He nodded wholeheartedly.

Krampus held out his hand. “Your knife.”

Jesse fumbled in his pocket, plucked out the hunting knife, handed it to Krampus. Krampus pulled the knife from its sheath, tested the tip. “Give me your hand.”

Jesse put his hand out, palm upward, and winced.

Krampus laughed. “Do not fret. It is but a mere drop that I need call home.” Krampus pricked Jesse’s fingertip. Touched the mark with his own finger, and closed his eyes. Jesse’s body tingled from head to toe. Krampus opened his eyes, removed his finger, and there, on the tip, sat a smear of shimmering blood. Krampus licked it clean.

Jesse inspected his own finger. “That’s it?”

“That is all.”

Jesse didn’t feel different. He examined his hands. His flesh was still a blotchy gray.

“It will take a little while,” Krampus said. “For now we should . . .” His voice trailed off. He leaned forward, peering intently upward. His brow furrowed and slowly a look of alarm and confusion spread across his face.

Jesse followed his eyes; saw a star falling earthward.

“What’s that?”

“No,” Krampus said, and stood up fast. Geri and Freki both raised their heads, a low, menacing growl coming from deep in their throats. The shooting star headed their way, growing in size as it approached. Krampus stepped out into the yard, peering up at the pulsing light. “This cannot be so. Not now. Not so soon.”

A voice fell upon them, little more than a whisper. “Krampus,” it called. Jesse felt it more than heard it.

Krampus’s face hardened. “No, this is not fair. Why could they not wait? Why could I not have but a bit longer?”

The two Yule goats snorted and began to stomp about in the snow. Krampus walked to them, snatched the mistletoe spear from its post on the sleigh. Stood a moment, absently stroking their necks, staring at the spear, his face tense, his eyes distant. Finally, he let out a great sigh, nodding as though coming to some profound decision, and walked quickly over to Jesse. “Here.” He picked up the velvet sack, pushing it into Jesse’s arms. “The keys? You still have my skeleton keys?”

Jesse patted his pocket. “Yeah . . . why? What’s—”

“Jesse, it appears that I have misjudged, that my time here is to be far shorter than I had hoped. You must take the sack, get in your carriage, and go far away.” He clutched Jesse’s shoulder. “You are free now, so I must beg this of you. Please, do what you must to keep this sack out of his hands. Go deep into the mountains and bury it somewhere. Burn it if you have to. Just do not let him have it. Please.”

“What? No! Why?”

“Baldr comes now, and with powerful allies.”

“Baldr? But—”

“The game is rigged. A cruel joke. I will not run . . . not this time. There is no escape for me anyway. It should be interesting to see where this will all end.” Krampus smiled. “Do you not agree?”

Jesse tried to say more, but Krampus shook his head. “Jesse, make haste. Go now or the chance will be lost.” Krampus led him down the stairs, pushed him toward the side of the building. “Go!” Krampus called. “Hurry!”

Jesse stumbled around the corner, stopped, and looked back, found himself transfixed by the golden orb-shaped glow. Krampus faced the light, his tall shadow stretching out long behind him. He raised the spear, pointing it at the orb. “I am Krampus,” he stated solemnly. “The Yule Lord. I will hide in caves no longer.” The two wolves slunk over, stiff-legged, fur bristling, and stood on either side of Krampus.

There came a sound, soft and low, yet it blocked out all others, a chorus of a thousand voices joined together in a hymn. Krampus held his ground, pulled himself up to his full height, shoulders back, eyes clear and resolute.

The orb alighted upon the snow between two apple trees, the golden glow fading away, revealing three figures. Santa Claus stood in the center, dressed in heavy white robes trimmed in thick fur. His long beard and hair loose of braid fluttered in the light morning breeze. He was framed on either side by two winged men, or maybe women, impossible for Jesse to tell, as they shared features of both, their faces stern, beautiful, and terrible at the same time. A slight golden aura surrounding each of them, thin, wispy robes fluttered loosely about their lithe, elegant frames and white wings spread out from their backs. Long swords hung in gold scabbards strapped across their chest. Jesse wondered if they were angels, wondered what else they could possibly be.

One of them set eyes on Jesse, cold, penetrating eyes that weighed his very soul, that promised his due. Jesse’s fingers bit into the velvet sack as a chill shot to his core, his throat constricted as though icy hands were about his neck. He stumbled away, struggling for breath, back around the church, out of sight of the terrible angels. The chill faded. He gasped, trying to regain his breath. What the fuck was that?

Go! Go! He heard Krampus’s voice in his head. He didn’t need to be told again, sure that things were going to end badly and there was nothing he could do other than get himself killed.

Jesse sprinted for Chet’s truck, yanking the door open and throwing the sack into the passenger’s seat. He hopped in, fumbled for the truck keys, jammed them into the ignition, and fired up the engine. Jesse shoved it into gear and stomped it. The big wheels spun in the icy mud, caught, and the pickup lurched forward, fishtailing back and forth, spraying mud as it plowed up the small drive.

He could still feel the chill on his neck, still hear that hymn, a thousand voices pursuing him. Jesse focused on keeping the vehicle out of the ditch as he careened onto the gravel road. He floored it and raced away, shooting down the road as fast as he dared, trying to push the voices from his head, wanting only to escape those terrible angels.

CHIEF DILLARD NOTICED the sun peeking at the horizon and glanced at his watch; it was just after seven A.M. Shit, never gonna get out of here. The fire crew was still hosing down parts of the church, which was just a waste of time, in Dillard’s book, at least at this point, as the structure appeared a total loss. He would’ve left several hours ago, if not for the pileup. Seems Billy Tucker had tail-ended some teenage girl’s jeep and then Johnny Elkins came along and plowed into the both of them. None of which would’ve happened if the three of them had been watching the road instead of the fire. Noel had been rushed off to the emergency room after sustaining burns along his arm while trying to keep Mrs. Powell from going back in the church after some precious hymn book. This left Dillard to take care of the mess, all while trying to keep the scene secure.

The sheriff had been no help, leaving a couple of hours earlier, him and his deputies out scouring the area for Jesse and that gang. Fuck, that son of a bitch’s probably snooping around the General’s compound this very minute. And on top of that Dillard still had Linda and Abigail to deal with. Least they ain’t going nowhere . . . least I hope not. He felt his chest tightening. Calm down . . . no way they could’ve gotten out of there. Shit, just too many loose ends . . . too many loose ends. Dillard knew he didn’t do well when things got out of his control and he couldn’t remember things ever being more out of his control. He took off his hat, rubbed the side of his head. Wished he’d brought along a few of those pills.

The fire chief, John Adkins, came walking over. “You seem out of sorts, Dillard. Something bothering you?”

“Yeah . . . got a darn headache that just won’t let up.”

John looked at the burn mark on Dillard’s face. “You ought to get that looked at.”

“I will.”

“Looks like all the bystanders are gone home,” John said. “Don’t see much reason for you to be standing out here in the cold. Why don’t you head on home and get some sleep. A bit of shut-eye is the best thing I’ve found for a headache.”

Shut-eye, Dillard thought. Won’t be getting any of that for a while. Not until I’m done with Linda and Abigail, anyway. “Well, all right, if you think everything’s under control.”

“Looks that way to me.”

Dillard bid the fire chief a good one, got in his patrol car, started up the engine, and got the defrost going, warming his hands up in the heater. He dropped it into gear and started home. Gonna have to make it quick, just get in there and get this mess over and done with.

SANTA CLAUS STEPPED forward. “Krampus, I gave you fair warning. Told you there would be no place to hide. You did not listen.” His voice calm, almost melancholy, contrite even, no hint of anger or malice.

“The dead should not speak, for their words smell of rot,” Krampus replied.

Santa shrugged. “It seems the gods do not wish me dead. It appears my destiny is bound to their whims and I am eternally condemned to play my role.”

“Do not dare blame the gods for your own misdeeds. You have sold your soul. Sold it cheap.”

“Cheap?” Santa replied, his voice somber. “The cost has been more than one can bear.”

Krampus leveled the spear tip at Santa Claus. “How many times is your god willing to resurrect his little dancing dog? Come closer, my spear would like to find out.”

“No, my friend, I will not be the one who dies, not this day. God will not allow it. Maybe one day my servitude will be finished, but until that time my sacrifices are for her glory.”

“Stop playing the martyr, it does not suit you. You, Baldr, you are the villain in this fable. You have committed foul deeds, have stolen that which does not belong to you . . . betrayed all who have aided you. Fate will punish you.”

“Fate? God? What is the difference? Either way, I am afraid it has already doled out plenty of woe. Once, I was as you. I thought I could build my own kingdom. Build it right under the noses of the gods. Instead all I have built is a prison. One from which there is no escape . . . not even through death.”

Krampus snorted. “Should I shed a tear?”

“Death has taught me many things. But here is the truth, the only one that matters. God takes on many faces . . . many guises. But no matter which guise, she is always . . . always before, always after.” Santa laughed harshly. “And that is the joke . . . on me, on you, on all of mankind. There is only the One God, has always been only the One God. All the gods that have been and that are, they are the same, all part of the One God. We are but pawns in her great game. We all serve her . . . even you. Beyond that, there are no answers . . . for that is the only one that matters.”

Krampus mulled this over, then shook his head and spat loudly. “What absolute, utter dung. Losing your head has not been good for you. Go on, concoct tales to try and placate your own guilt, but do not try and sell me your fantasies. The truth, the only one that matters, is that you are a buffoon, a nitwit, a puppet, a tick upon God’s wrinkled scrotum.” Krampus laughed. “How can you even hold your head up? Where is your shame?”

Santa let out a long sigh. “Krampus, my dear old friend, there is no reasoning with you. There never has been. Your arrogance, your single-minded stubbornness makes you blind. All my efforts to save you were wasted, because you cannot leave the past behind, and thus have condemned yourself to extinction. And even now, in the face of all your failings, you are still too bullheaded to know when to call it a day.”

“I am not your friend. And I do not seek an excuse to prostrate myself such as you. I am a lord, I kneel for no one. You, you are but a pathetic ass, and shall always be a pathetic ass, one who suckles upon the end of your god’s cock like a gutter whore. I will kill you as many times as need be to be shed of your stench. Now, come hither. I hunger to taste your blood.”

Santa shook his head, a contemptuous sneer upon his face. “Sadly, you still do not see what is right in front of you.” He nodded to the two angels. They drew their swords, shimmering blades of silver light, and came for Krampus. The wolves shot forward, snarling, leapt for the angels. The angels’ movements were quick, precise, their swords but blurs of silver. The blades passed through the wolves; there came no blood, no wounds, only a loud yelp, and a second later both wolves lay dead upon the ground.

“More death, more murder!” Krampus cried. “How much blood does it take to placate your god?”

“Krampus?” Isabel called. She stood on the porch, clutching the door frame, her eyes wide and terrified. Vernon and Chet leaned out the door behind her. There came a wild cry, and Wipi and Nipi pushed through them, running for the angels, spears raised.

The angels faced the Belsnickels.

“Wait!” Krampus shouted, raising his hand to Wipi and Nipi. “Stay back.” The Shawnee halted, poised, glaring at the angels. “There is nothing here for you but death.”

The Yule Lord pointed his spear at Santa. “So, the son of the great Odin shows his true face at last, hides behind the skirts of angels. Come, coward. Face me!” Krampus came for Santa Claus, tried to dart around the angels. The angels intercepted him, brought their swords up and down in a great arc. Krampus made to block the silver blades, but the swords passed through his spear, through his arm, and down his torso. Searing, biting cold followed their path, yet they clove nothing, not spear, arm, nor torso. Still, the pain was beyond his experience. He grit his teeth, glared at the angels, determined to keep his feet.

The angels exchanged troubled looks.

“I still stand!” Krampus taunted, letting loose a mad laugh. “Seems your great god is not so great!”

They struck him again.

Krampus roared, his voice thundering across the icy landscape, shaking limbs and knocking snow from the church eaves. The sound blocked out the song of the angels. They flinched as though struck. Krampus rushed them, driving into the foremost angel, knocking one into the other, knocking them to the ground.

He headed for Santa, his breath bellowing out in blasts of steam and spittle. “You will never be shed of me,” Krampus snarled. “Not so long as a single man still lives . . . for I am the wild spirit that dwells within their breast. And there is nothing, nothing you nor your god can ever do to change that!” He stumbled onward, spear leveled at Santa’s chest.

Santa Claus backed away, his contemptuous sneer replaced by dread. He stumbled, fell, but before Krampus could close the distance, the angels were upon him. They struck the Yule Lord again, and again, their swords carving paths of numbing cold through his body. The world began to fade, to lose its color and density, sounds muffled as though coming from behind a wall. Still he pushed onward, one step, another—each step harder than the last as they continued to strike and stab.

The Yule Lord dropped to one knee, then to his hands, panting, the world now ghostly shades of gray. Yet he persisted, crawling, one hand after the next, determined to put the spear through Santa’s heart.

Krampus collapsed. The angels did not relent.

“Wait,” Santa called, climbing to his feet and stepping forward.

The angels stopped and Santa Claus knelt, prying the spear from Krampus’s fingers. He stood, slid a boot beneath the Yule Lord, and flipped him onto his back. Krampus glared up at him.

“You are a most mulish beast,” Santa spat. “But your time is done.”

With supreme effort, Krampus managed to laugh—a wild, mocking laugh.

Santa raised the spear high and drove it into Krampus’s heart.

All the pain disappeared. Krampus found himself light as the air. He began to drift. The world now so faint he could barely see the outlines of the figures around him, their voices came as from far down a tunnel.

Wipi let out a wild, mournful howl and attacked. “Stop!” Krampus shouted, but his voice was small, only an echo. No one heard him.

The angels cut Wipi down, came for Nipi.

Krampus didn’t see what happened after that, the gray shapes, the voices, all of it faded away, leaving nothing.

JESSE HIT THE highway and raced north toward Goodhope. Until that very moment, his focus had solely been on getting away, but now he realized he wasn’t getting away, he was going somewhere and that somewhere was Dillard’s house.

He had no idea how much time he had. Was he on Santa’s death list? Had God condemned him for his role? How did one escape the wrath of God? He had no answers, he only knew he was still alive, and so long as he was breathing, he might still have a chance to do something about Dillard.

With the General gone, it was only between them now. Am I gonna shoot him?

Jesse thought back to when Dillard challenged him to do that very thing. How many times had he wished for that chance again? If he did get the chance, what would he do? One thing’s for certain, gonna see to it he never hurts Linda or Abi again. Abigail’s scream echoed in his mind, the terror in her eyes. I’ll at least blow his knees out . . . take him down a notch or two. Hard to beat a woman from a wheelchair. Hell yes, it is.

Jesse drove fast, but not recklessly. It was early Sunday morning, so other than the occasional big rig, the road belonged to him. He made good time, hitting the edge of town just as dawn’s glow began to spread across the eastern sky. This time he slid up the river road that ran behind Dillard’s house, hiding the vehicle in the trees.

He killed the engine, started to get out, stopped. Slow down. Don’t fuck this up again. Jesse slipped out the Colt, double-checked that it was fully loaded, and shoved it into his pocket. His eyes fell upon the velvet sack; he stared at it for a long moment. What am I supposed to do with that? Fuck, for all I know it might lead Santa and his monsters right to me. He shook his head. Have to figure it out later.

He quietly pushed the door shut, moved quickly from tree to tree, toward the back of Dillard’s house, stopping every dozen yards or so to look and listen. He held the gun out, finger on the trigger—steady and ready. Jesse wasn’t counting on God or luck this time; he was counting on himself.

The kitchen and dining room lights were on. His heart sped up—someone was home. He followed the hedges around the shed then up to the garage. He peeked around the front of the house. No sign of the cruiser or the Suburban. Linda’s sad little Ford Escort still sat in the drive and, judging by the clumps of snow around it, hadn’t been moved in a long while.

Jesse returned round the house, deciding the back garage door would make the best entrance. The door was locked. He tugged out the skeleton keys. The first key let him in. He hit the light and found Dillard’s Suburban inside. The hood was cold. Jesse took a deep breath, aware that Dillard may be home after all.

Everything in the garage was neat and tidy, all the tools in their outlined spots on the peg board, the boxes labeled and stacked evenly along the shelves. His eye fell on a sewing box with red roses, and he froze. Chet had at least been telling the truth about the sewing box. Jesse wondered if it were all true. Keep going. He started away, and stopped. I gotta know the truth of it.

Jesse leapt over to the box and popped the lid up. Within sat a jewelry box, a bouquet of dried flowers, folded lace, and a few articles of women’s clothing. The wedding portrait of Ellen Deaton, framed in simple black wood, lay atop the lace. Ellen had indeed been a striking beauty in her day, smiling brightly, the joyful smile of a woman with her entire life ahead of her.

Jesse flipped the frame, twisted the pins, and popped out the back. A Polaroid fell onto the lace. Jesse sucked in a quick breath. “Shit.” It was Ellen, but the woman in the Polaroid lay upon a gold-slate floor in a pool of blood. She stared up with wide blank eyes, her neck slit open. Her top had been torn away and the angry slashes and puncture wounds had turned her breasts into something unrecognizable.

Jesse spun away, leaving Dillard’s morbid shrine behind. “Linda,” he whispered, his heart racing. He’d known Linda was in trouble, but until that very moment he had not believed, had not allowed himself to truly believe that Dillard was capable of such savagery. Jesse tried to push the image from his mind.

He darted to the door leading into the house; it was unlocked and he slipped in. The kitchen light was on. Again he froze, his heart hammering in his chest. A skillet lay on the floor, a glass of milk spilled across the counter. He spotted the overturned chairs in the dining room, darted through the living room, down the hall, gun out and ready. The bedroom doors were open. He eased up, peering into one, then the next, searched every room and every closet, found no one.

He returned to the hall, spotted Linda’s clothes and Abigail’s toys, pushed up in front of the door. The flooring drew his eye and he realized why at once: The tiles were gold slate, just like in the Polaroid. Ellen had died right here, right where he was standing. That picture will hang Dillard. Send him away for a long time. Don’t you dare leave here without it.

Jesse gave the bathroom a fleeting glance, blinked, and looked again. He flipped on the light. Duct tape and a knife sat on the vanity. He gasped, grasping their meaning right away, but he also saw his own hat, his hairbrush, and the screwdriver from his truck. It took him a moment to understand that Dillard planned not only to kill Linda and Abigail, but to pin it on him. It was as though someone had punched him in the gut. Am I too late? He tried to push the thought from his mind, but his eyes kept returning to the duct tape and knife. “No! Oh, fuck no!” He stumbled out of the bathroom and into the living room. Where are they? He spied the door to the basement and his heart went cold. “Oh, God.” He leapt over to the door, threw the bolt, rushed down the steps, thinking of the picture of Ellen the whole way down, of the bloody ribbons of flesh across her chest. No. No. No.

He saw the freezer shoved up against the storm door and had his first shot of hope. He banged on the door. “Linda! Linda! Abigail!”

“Jesse?” He heard her then, it was Linda. “Jesse?”

He shoved the freezer out of the way, yanked the door handle. It was locked. He banged on the metal door. “Linda, it’s me! It’s Jesse!”

The latch turned, the door opened a crack, and Linda’s terrified face peeked out. He yanked the door open and threw his arms around her. She hugged him back, hard and tight. She began to sob.

Jesse saw Abigail, pressed back in the corner, her big eyes scared and unsure. Jesse let go of Linda. “Abi. Abi, honey. It’s all okay. All okay now.” Abigail burst into tears. Jesse scooped her up, held her tight, pressed his face into her hair, and closed his eyes, inhaling her scent. And for that moment, for that second, it was all he needed in the whole world.

DILLARD PULLED INTO his driveway, cut the lights, and killed the engine. He sat there a moment longer, rubbing the bridge of his nose. All he wanted to do was take another dose of Imitrex and curl up in bed for twelve hours, only way he’d found to get rid of a migraine. But that wasn’t gonna happen. Not with the sheriff nosing around Goodhope. He needed to take care of Linda and get back over to the General’s as soon as he could.

Dillard headed inside, stepping softly to avoid any jarring movements as he mounted the front porch and entered the house. He closed the door gently behind him, careful not to make any loud noise that would set off the flare between his eyes. He found his way into the bathroom, pulled the bottle of Imitrex out of the cabinet, and took two. He caught sight of the dark circles under his eyes, at the angry red grease burn along his temple, and doubled the recommended dosage.

He stared at the duct tape and knife. “Fuck, got a lot to do.” Now that he’d had a bit of time to think, Dillard realized he didn’t need a sledgehammer to get the girls out, just a few tools to unscrew the hinges and the steel door should pop right off. He left the bathroom, heading for the garage, made it two steps and stopped cold. He heard voices. Dillard peered into the living room and the air left him—the door to the basement stood wide-open. Footsteps, someone was coming up the stairs. His hand dropped to his pistol. He clicked his radio off and slipped back into the shadow of the hall.

Linda came up first, followed by Jesse carrying Abigail in one arm, a revolver held loosely in his right hand. Abigail clung tightly to Jesse’s neck, the top of her head pressed against his cheek.

Dillard let them walk past, then slipped up behind them, shoving his pistol into Jesse’s back. “Drop it, Jesse! Drop it right now!”

Linda let out a cry.

Jesse tensed and there came a second when Dillard thought sure the fool would try something. He didn’t, just froze and dropped his gun. It hit the carpet with a solid thud.

“All of you, over to the table. Keep your hands out.”

They did as ordered. Dillard tugged his gloves out of his jacket, slipped them on, stooped, and picked up Jesse’s gun, shoving it into his pocket.

Abigail began to cry.

“Dillard,” Linda said. “Oh, God, Dillard. Please think about—”

“Shut the fuck up, Linda.”

Dillard couldn’t believe his luck. He had all three of them, and even through his migraine, the perfectness hit him. He would shoot Jesse first, then use Jesse’s gun to kill the two girls. All he had to tell investigators was he’d come home and found Jesse standing over their dead bodies, then, when Jesse tried to shoot him, he fired first. He couldn’t have arranged it better if he’d planned the whole thing out. Every person who was connected to the General would be dead, there’d be no witnesses, no one left to tie him to the General in any way. Dillard smiled, couldn’t help it. Just needed a clean shot on Jesse; didn’t want to risk screwing everything up by accidentally hitting Abigail with a bullet from his gun, or splattering Jesse’s blood all over her. That would never get past forensics.

“Put her down,” Dillard said calmly.

“Dillard . . . dammit,” Jesse said, his voice tense and tight. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Put . . . her . . . down.”

Keeping his right hand up, Jesse let Abigail slide to the ground. “Go to Mommy,” Jesse whispered. Abigail ran to Linda. Linda pulled her around, shielding her.

“Keep those hands up,” Dillard snapped. Linda brought her hands back up, they were shaking.

“Jesse, turn around . . . nice and slow.” He intended to shoot Jesse from the front, to be sure it looked like self-defense. “Keep them hands up.”

Jesse turned, looked Dillard straight in the eye. “The moment you pull that trigger you’re a dead man.”

“And how’s that?”

“They’re out back, Dillard. The whole group, all heavily armed.”

Dillard felt his blood go cold; the mutilated bodies at the General’s compound flashed in his head. He was certain Jesse was lying, yet couldn’t help a quick glance out the patio window.

“There are three men out back,” Jesse said. “The rest are down on River Road. You pull that trigger and they’ll be all over you. They’ve been looking for you, Dillard. They know it was you that killed their friends.”

Dillard started to pull the trigger. Hesitated. Fought to clear his head. He’s fucking with me.

“We’re all in this shit together, Dillard. Ain’t nobody gonna be singing about any of it. If I was to turn you in I might as well turn myself in. Just let us go.”

Dillard felt flushed, his eyes watery. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, noticed a tremor in his hand, couldn’t tell if it was on account of the migraine, lack of sleep, or just plain nerves. All of the above, he guessed.

“If you head out the front door right now,” Jesse continued, “before they catch on, you just might get out of here alive. But you better make it quick, they could come walking in any second.”

“Bullshit.”

“The General didn’t believe me either . . . he’s dead now. Dillard, you don’t want to fuck with these guys.”

He’s lying, you know it, Dillard thought. Yet Jesse sounded so damn sure of himself. There was steel in his eyes, he seemed deathly calm, his voice steady as though he were the one holding the gun. Dillard became very aware that this wasn’t the same Jesse he’d kicked around for all these years.

“I’ll give you Ellen’s picture back,” Jesse said.

“What? What did you say?”

“I was gonna use it to blackmail you.”

“What picture?”

“You know what picture. The one of your wife. The one where you cut her throat wide-open. The one you kept behind the wedding photo.”

Dillard felt the room reeling, wanted to sit down. He can’t be making this up. Got to be on the inside somehow. A double-cross? Who? They were all dead—Chet? Don’t recall seeing Chet’s body. Had Chet sold them out? The guns, the photo . . . fuck, who else? Chet hated the General. Had he teamed up with those Charleston boys? Was Chet out there right now?

“It’s in my breast pocket.” Jesse nodded with his chin. “You want to get it or you want me to?”

Dillard blinked rapidly, tried to keep his eyes focused, glared at Jesse. “Give it to me,” Dillard hissed. “Give it to me now!”

Jesse lowered his hand slowly to his pocket, slid in a few fingers, a few perfectly sound fingers. What? Dillard did a double take, glanced rapidly back and forth between Jesse’s hands. All of Jesse’s fingers were fine, just fine. How . . . no? That’s not possible. Why, I broke them—felt them snap. Nothing made sense. Blood thundered in Dillard’s ears, he felt sure his head was about to split open.

Jesse pulled out his hand. His fingers were covered in sparkling sand. “Sorry, it’s in my other pocket.”

This is all wrong. Shoot him, just shoot him!

Jesse flicked his fingers, fingers that should have been twisted and broken. Dillard felt a few grains of sand hit his face, his vision blurred, the room began to spin. Jesse moved, and Dillard fired, pulled the trigger two times, then he was falling, falling into darkness.

PAIN—DEEP, SHARP PAIN—PULLED Dillard out of the darkness. He cried out, opened his eyes, found himself on his belly in his living room. He tried to sit up, realized his legs were bound, his hands cuffed behind his back. His finger throbbed, felt on fire, felt like someone had just broken it.

“That was for Abigail.”

Dillard blinked; Jesse came into focus.

Jesse sat on one of the dining-room chairs, staring at him with hard, steely eyes. A large black velvet sack rested against his leg and the plastic bag from the bathroom lay at his feet—the duct tape, knife, and hammer spilling out onto the carpet. Jesse held a gun pointed at Dillard’s face.

Dillard had, at one time, given Jesse a gun and dared him to shoot him; he’d never have given the man before him now a gun. Never.

The barrel of the gun came down on top of Dillard’s skull. Blinding bright pain racked his head. He pressed his eyes shut, squeezing tears down his cheek, the pain drumming in his ears.

“That’s for Linda.”

“Ah . . . fuck!” Dillard cried, tasting his own blood. “Fuck!”

Jesse stood, picked up the black sack, dropped it at Dillard’s feet. Dillard stared dully at the sack, trying to make sense of its purpose.

“Put your legs into the sack,” Jesse ordered, his voice completely devoid of emotion, like that of a hangman with a job to do.

Dillard squinted at Jesse. “What . . . in the sack? I don’t get it.”

“You’re going to hell, Dillard. Gonna go hang out with the dead.”

“Jesse, slow down. Let’s just—”

“I’m gonna repeat myself this one time . . . this one time only. Put your legs in the sack.”

“Jesse, I don’t know what you have in mind, but—”

Jesse drove his boot into Dillard’s ribs.

Dillard screamed. “Fuck! Okay, okay. Whatever the hell you want!” Dillard tried his best to hook his feet into the opening. Jesse grabbed the lip of the sack, keeping the gun trained on Dillard as he lassoed it over Dillard’s feet, tugging it up his legs, all the way up to his waist.

Dillard stopped, froze. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. He felt a chill, not like the air, but like liquid seeping into his flesh. It made his teeth hurt. “Hey, what’s that? What’s going on?” And at that moment he decided he wasn’t going into the sack, that he’d take a bullet before he’d go into that sack. He twisted, kicked out wildly, but found nothing to kick against; it was as though he were floating. Jesse dropped his gun, grabbed hold of Dillard’s collar, and yanked the sack up over Dillard’s arms. Dillard tried to twist free, to throw his weight against Jesse, discovered he had no leverage. Jesse easily shoved him deeper into the sack, up to his neck and then . . . and then, just held him there. The only thing in the world keeping him from sinking all the way down was Jesse’s hold on his collar.

Dillard heard voices, whispers like the sound of insects scuttling across the floor, and wailing, it came from deep within the sack. “What’s that? What’s that sound? What the fuck is it?”

“That’s the dead . . . they’re waiting for you.”

Dillard’s eyes threatened to leave their sockets. “Jesse, don’t let go of me,” he blubbered. “Please, for Christ’s sake. Don’t do this. I’m begging you, Jesse. Please!”

“People can live twenty-eight days without food before they starve to death. But you’re a tough fellow. My money says you can make it at least thirty. That’s thirty days in hell, thirty days with the dead singing you their song. Then . . . why then I guess you’ll get to join their choir.” Jesse let go of Dillard’s collar, gave him a hard shove, pushing him deep into the sack.

There came a moment of darkness, of falling, then Dillard’s feet struck something substantial, there came the chink and clink of metal on metal and he found himself tumbling and sliding. He crashed into something hard, knocking dust and brittle shards onto his chest and face.

He spat, tried to shake the debris from his face, blinked open his eyes, and found a skull, its cranium busted open, lying on his chest and staring sadly back at him. He inhaled sharply, filling his nostrils with the pungent odor of sulfur and dry rot. He glanced wildly about and was greeted by a hundred more toothy grins, skulls and bones of every sort, most black, as though burnt, all covered in gray ashy dust. The very walls and ceilings appeared to be composed of nothing but bones and they went on as far as he could see up and down the gloomy caverns and corridors.

The handcuffs bit into his wrist as he struggled to sit up, his fingers struck cold metal and he glanced down, found he sat atop a mound of coins, not any coins, these were gold and triangular. The pile continued upward, building into a tall pyramid, disappearing into the smoky gloom just above him. It was the way out, he was sure of it. He struggled to get his feet under him, tried to kick and worm his way up the pyramid, but the coins shifted beneath his feet, causing him to slide farther and farther down the cavern. Finally he gave up and just lay there panting, trying to stifle his sobs, trying to get some control of himself.

He felt them. He couldn’t see them but he knew they were there, moving around him. Not much more than a breeze at first, the dust stirring upon the bones. He heard them, the whispers, calling his name. As the sound grew, so did the wind. It began to take substance and as it did, he saw them . . . the dead. He saw their tortured smiles, their woeful eyes. And all those dead eyes were on him, all so very glad to see him.

Dillard screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and the dead . . . the dead screamed along with him.

JESSE STARED INTO the sack, could only see the smoldering darkness, but thought he heard screaming, far away—it sounded a lot like Dillard. He wanted to smile, but found he was too sickened by all of it.

Jesse left the living room, and peeked out the front, making sure Linda hadn’t returned. He’d sent her and Abigail off to Linda’s mother’s in her little Ford while he took care of things. She’d started to protest, but when Abigail began to cry, she’d left.

Jesse went out into the garage, picked up the Polaroid of Ellen, and brought it inside, leaving it on the floor next to the tape and knife. He wanted to be sure the police found it, that they knew just what kind of person Dillard really was. He snatched a hand towel from the kitchen and wiped his prints off the Polaroid, the tape, and the knife, then walked through the house, wiping down any surface he remembered touching. He felt he was being overly cautious, because without a body there was no crime. Unless, that was, some very clever detectives figured out how to search the bowels of hell.

Jesse had taken Dillard’s police radio, gathered it up along with the things Dillard had taken from his truck, grabbed Krampus’s sack, and brought them all with him as he headed out through the garage.

Jesse stepped out into the morning, the sun peeking over the nearby hills, lighting up the river fog. He started for the woods, for the truck, when he heard a snort and froze. There, just across the lawn, stood Santa Claus in front of the Yule goats and sleigh. The two angels, those terrible angels, stood on either side of him.

Jesse glanced to the woods, wondered how far he could get before they caught up with him.

“There is no place to run,” Santa said. “There is no hiding from God.”

Jesse let out a great sigh; at least he’d taken care of Dillard, at least he could die now knowing he’d done that much for Linda and Abigail.

“I waited,” Santa said. “Until you were finished. I did not have to do that.”

Jesse looked at him, puzzled.

“I could have intervened, but your deed needed to be done. Now, there is a little less evil in this world. Despite what Krampus may have told you, I have only love for mankind . . . my charity comes from deep within my heart.”

Santa extended his hand. “The sack.”

Jesse looked at the two angels, their piercing eyes, and swords of light, and knew he had no choices left. He brought the sack to Santa.

“And my keys?”

Jesse tugged the skeleton keys from his jacket, handed those over as well. Santa gave him a nod and climbed aboard the sleigh.

“Is Krampus dead?”

Santa looked Jesse in the eye. “Yes. He is gone from this world.”

“You didn’t have to kill him.”

“You did not have to send that man to Hel.”

Jesse was quiet for a moment. “Yes, I did. That had to be done.”

“You should understand then . . . that there are things that have to be done, no matter how horrible.” Santa gave him a judicious smile and seated himself, popped the reins, and the two goats tromped forward and climbed into the morning sky, leaving Jesse alone with the two terrible angels.

The angels watched him with their ominous, condemning eyes. Jesse knew they were about to take his life, maybe more. But they only lifted their heads heavenward and drifted upward, disappearing into the blinding rays of the morning sun.