Dark Season: The Complete Box Set (50 page)

Joe Hart

For a moment, I'm back in the blood, mud, rain and cold of Passchendaele, with bodies all around me. I'm a young man again, waiting to get my hands destroyed by a bomb. My friends are dying and we're all caught up in a war that none of us wanted, none of us understand and none of us can stop. Men with machines are fighting each other, and pieces of human bodies are ripped apart and mashed up all around me. As I stay hunched on the ground, rain falls heavily onto me, and bright flashes light up the sky.

Suddenly, things change. The rain is still falling, and the bright flashes are still lighting up the sky, and there are still loud sounds nearby, and I'm still crouched over and hunched up in the mud; but it's 1932, not 1917, and I'm in Kentucky, not Passchendaele. Slowly, I recognize the things around me: thunder, not bombs; lightning, not explosions; my wrecked and deformed hands, the fingers long gone, the wounds healed up...

I look up and find that the dark man from the roof is now standing right in front of me. The burnt man from the hospital, the man who I believed was a nightmare. He's real, and he's here. Except... there's a flash of lightning, and I see that he's no longer burnt at all, and he now has skin and features. It's still him, though. I can tell by the eyes, and by the way that he stands over me. I haven't seen him since I was on the floor in that hospital, but somehow he's found me. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but he's found me and now he's staring down at me. He saved my life all those years ago. Was that a mistake? Has he come back to kill me?

I get to my feet. There's no wound on him, even though I'm sure I shot him off the roof a few moments ago. I look into his eyes and see rain pouring down his face. He has a strange, blank expression as he stares at me. I have no idea what he wants, or even how he found me, but it doesn't even occur to me to run. I just stand there, staring at him and waiting to see what he'll do next. Suddenly, I feel a pair of hands touch my shoulder from behind, and Hamish - the man from earlier - sticks his head around and smiles at me.

"We should go inside," Hamish shouts over the sound of the storm. "You'll catch your death of cold if you stay out in this weather."

Slowly, Hamish leads me back into the farmhouse, with the burnt man following. I'm concerned, of course, but at the same time the whole situation seems so unreal that I can't help but wonder if I'm dreaming. Once we're all inside, Hamish tends to the gaslight and the three of us stand there, soaking wet, with the sound of the storm all around us.

"I think you two have met before," Hamish says. "Joseph Hart, this is Patrick. Patrick, this is Joseph. Or Joe, to his friends. I think perhaps you weren't properly introduced last time."

I stare at Patrick. He has a dark stare, and a calm face. There's something very unusual about the way he looks at me, as if he sees more than just my body. It's almost as if I can feel him picking at the edge of my mind, tugging at the threads and trying to get into my soul.

"It's been a long time," I say, stuttering slightly. "I thought maybe... I mean, I never expected to see you again."

Silence. Patrick says nothing.

"Oh don't mind him," Hamish says brightly. "He's not much of a talker. In fact, he hasn't said a word now for quite some time, but that's nothing to do with you. Anyway, trust me; be glad he keeps his mouth shut. In the old days, it was impossible to shut him up. Always cracking on about this or that. Told a lot of really bad jokes all the time and..." He pauses and looks over at Patrick, who looks back at him with a look of long-suffering displeasure. "Aye," says Hamish slowly. "Well, the point is, Patrick isn't much of a conversationalist. Fortunately, I have that covered enough for the both of us. So shall we sit down and begin the negotiations?"

"Negotiations?" I ask, confused by this latest development.

"Yes," says Hamish, seeming a little concerned. "We have a lot to talk about, and the night's wearing on. We'd better get started."

"I don't..." I pause for a moment. "I don't remember agreeing to negotiate about anything." I turn to Patrick. "No offense, but last time I saw you, you were damn near cutting a guy's head off. I'm not saying you didn't have a good reason, and I'm not saying he didn't have it coming, but still... And then you're up on my roof? What the hell's going on? And... how the hell did you get so well healed? You were covered from head to toe in burns."

Patrick takes a deep breath, but says nothing.

"Let's sit down," says Hamish. "We have a lot to talk about and we have to finish our discussion by sunrise."

Still soaking wet, we all sit at the little wooden table. Hamish pulls a small bottle of whiskey from his bottle and takes a swig, before offering it first to Patrick and then to me. Neither of us takes him up on the offer.

"Suit yourselves," Hamish mutters.

"I'm sorry I don't have anything to offer you," I say to Patrick. "I have water -"

"It's fine," Hamish says. "He doesn't need anything right now. This should really be a quick discussion, and then we'll be on our way. It's certainly not what you'd call a social call. Well, it is, kind of, but -"

"Can you get to the point, please?" I ask, tiring of this Hamish guy's rambling. Sure, Patrick's a little too much the opposite, what with his total lack of speaking, but I prefer a man who cuts out the yapping unless there's something important to say.

Hamish clears his throat. "There are things we have, Joe, that you want. And there are things you have, that we want. So it seems to me - to
us
- that it might be possible to strike a deal."

I consider what he's saying for a moment. "What do you have that I want?" I ask suspiciously.

"Money," Hamish says. He reaches down and pulls a bag from around his waist, opening it up and spilling the contents onto the table. There must be fifty thousand dollars in there, and my eyes widen at the sight. "All of this," Hamish says, "is yours if you want it. Enough to pay off the bank, get the farm up and running properly, get some help with the work and relax."

"I... I... I..." I stammer. I've never seen so much money before; it's astonishing to have it spread over my table.

"There's something else we can do for you, Joe," Hamish says. "Hold out your hands."

I stare at him. "Is this some kind of joke?" I ask. "Where did you get this money from? Are you gangsters?"

"No," Hamish says, suddenly seeming very serious. "There's no joke here, and we're not gangsters. Please, hold out your hands."

I consider what to do, and then - reluctantly - I hold out my fingerless stumps. Slowly, Patrick takes my hands in his. He stares at me, and then I feel my hands becoming hot. I try to pull them away, but he holds on tight, with a kind of strength I've never felt before in a man. Finally, the heat builds and builds until it's getting uncomfortable. It's as if the bones in my hands are growing and shifting every second. All the while, Patrick is staring at me, and it's hard to look away from his eyes.

Suddenly, he lets go of my hands. I look at them, wincing a little at the pain from the heat. It's as if he burned me deep to the bone. As I'm about to tell him to get out of my house, however, I feel a strange sensation deep within the tissue. It's as if something is moving inside my hands, as something is growing, taking form and being renewed.

"What have you done?" I ask.

"Consider it a down-payment on your services," Hamish says, his voice sounding serious for perhaps the first time.

As I look at my hands, I see small lumps of skin start to appear, and they start to grow and stretch, and suddenly it's as if I have four little fingers and a thumb on each hand, and they keep on growing until, after just a minute or so, I have what appears to be a full set of fingers and thumbs. The pain is intense, but bearable, and finally there's no pain at all. I stare in shock at my hands, which are back to how they were all those years ago before the war.

"Feel free to wiggle them," Hamish says.

Slowly, I move my new fingers and thumbs. It's a strange sensation. I grip the table, just to make sure that I can, and I realize that it's as if my injuries have been completely wiped away. In a rush, I'm struck by all the things I can do again: I can work the farm; I can hold a gun; I can write; I can read without trouble; I can fix and repair things; I can make things; damn it, I can scratch my ass again!

I look over at Patrick and Hamish. There are no words to describe how I feel. It's as if... I want to thank them, to praise them and to thank God for this, but at the same time... the Devil can play tricks too, and there's something very foreboding about the look in Patrick's eyes.

"Are you... Him?" I ask, staring at Patrick.

Hamish laughs. "No, mate, he's not Jesus. He just has an ability to help from time to time."

I nod, but I don't really understand. Patrick might not be Jesus, but there's surely the Lord's hand in all of this somewhere. "You killed Doctor Tarmey," I say. "All those years ago, you slaughtered him. Was that because of the evil in his heart?"

Patrick nods.

"You saved my life back then," I say as I hold up my hands, "and you saved my life again today." I look at the money. A few minutes ago, it seemed almost sinister, but now... "I ain't selling," I say guardedly. "I ain't selling this farm, not now -"

"No-one's buying," Hamish says. "It's your farm. It'll always be your farm. And after you're gone, I expect it'll belong to your children, and their children."

"I don't know if there'll be any children," I say. "As you might have noticed, I don't have a wife."

Hamish laughs. "Aye, but you've got land. Money. Fingers. You'll be fighting 'em off in no time."

I look at the money. It's hard to believe this is happening, but I finally have enough to pay off the bank. They'll hold off on the foreclosure, and with my hands back in action I can work the land, and... I look over at the window. It's still pouring with rain outside. More rain that has fallen here in years. The soil will be rich and fertile again soon enough, and I'll be able to grow things, I'll be able to work the land, the way my father and mother worked the land for so many years. I thought I was going to lose the farm, but now I can keep it, now I can make it work again. There's nothing that can stop me. I imagine the rain water sinking deeper and deeper into the soil. But...

But...

I pause.

I swallow hard.

I look over at Patrick and Hamish. There's something about the way that they're looking at me, something that makes me worry. There's a hint of darkness in Patrick's eyes, and a degree of apprehension - perhaps even fear - in Hamish's. It's almost as if the Devil himself has sent two emissaries to tie me into some horrific bargain. With a sickening sense of fear, I realize that I've been a fool. No man receives benefits such as I have received, without being asked to give something of himself in return.

"What do you want from me?" I ask slowly.

Hamish clears his throat. The rain seems to get even harder, even more intense.

"What do you
want
from me?" I ask again. I look at my hands. "If this is the Devil's work -"

"It's not the Devil," Hamish says. "It's..."

I wait, but he seems unable to say what's on his mind. "Spit it out," I tell him. There's a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I close my eyes. Dear Lord, grant me the courage and strength that I will deny these men what they want, if indeed it is the Devil's work that drives them. Give me the courage to return to them their money and - if necessary - to pluck off my new fingers one by one until I am back in the forsaken mess that I was in before these two men arrived at my door. Grant me this strength, Lord, that I shall not sin, for I fear that the price that these two men want, the cost of the blessings that they have bestowed upon me, is to be great indeed.

I open my eyes.

"What do you want from me?" I ask for the final time.

Part Three

March 1955

Kentucky, USA

Joe Hart

"No way!" he says, smiling. "Seriously? Sixty-three years old?"

I laugh and nod. "Not a word of a lie," I reply, "but I've worked every day since I turned fourteen back in 1906."

We're standing in the kitchen of the old farm. Back in the day, this used to be all there was: a little wooden house with a kitchen and a bedroom. I lived here, and I ran the farm from here, and life was simple. Today, the farm is spread over thousands of acres and there's a big new farmhouse with a dozen rooms. This little place is empty now, and no-one ever comes here. But if this Mr. Lancaster guy is going to buy the farm, he'll want the full tour, so here we are. It sure brings back a few memories.

"I guess you're in good shape, then," he says.

I laugh again. "I've got three kids. Youngest is just four."

He's clearly shocked. "Four years old? So you were -"

"Fifty-nine when she was born," I say proudly. "Course, my wife's a lot younger. She was forty when the third one was born. No birth defects or nothing. Just another healthy, happy little girl."

There's silence for a moment. We sit at the table. It's the same little old wooden table that's been here for decades. The table I was born on, the table where I ate my mother's food, the table where we counted up the money from selling produce... The table where I sat that night with Patrick and Hamish. Hell, that was more than twenty years ago now. Hard to believe how the time has passed, really.

Without thinking too much about it, I look at my hands. They look so young still, not a mark on 'em. And the fingers are still strong, like they were just made yesterday.

"You have the hands of a young man," says Lancaster.

"Don't let that fool you, Mr. Lancaster," I reply. "I've worked long and hard on this farm, every day since I returned from the war. Even..." I pause, remembering the years when I tried to work but failed, the years when I had no hands, before things improved.

"I heard a story about you," says Lancaster. "Crazy story, about how you didn't have any hands when you came back from the war. But... It sure looks to me like you've got hands now."

I laugh, but it's a forced laugh. "Sure," I say. "I guess those stories got a little exaggerated over time."

"I guess so," Lancaster says with a sigh. "This is a beautiful farm, Mr. Hart. And the price is certainly acceptable. Can I ask why you're selling?"

"I'm retiring," I say, with considerable satisfaction. "I reckon I'm due some time off, and my wife and I want to go and live nearer her family in Dedston."

"Sounds like you deserve your retirement," Lancaster says. "Well, I'm ready to sign the papers when you are, Mr. Hart, and I can wire the money to you first thing in the morning."

There's a sudden knock at the door. We both look over, and I can see that Mr. Lancaster is a little perturbed by the thought of a new arrival.

"I thought you said we're miles from anywhere," he says cautiously.

"We are," I reply. I get to my feet and go over, opening the door to find a well-dressed young man smiling at me. Damn it, but he can't be a day over twenty-five, but he looks pretty well off and confident, and he has piercing blue eyes.

"Joseph Hart, I presume," he says, reaching out a hand. We shake. "Firm handshake," he continues. "Do you mind if I come in? I have a business proposition to put to you."

To be honest, I'm a little shocked. This guy doesn't look like he's long out of short trousers, but he has the air and confidence of someone with a lot of experience.

"Well..." I say, struggling to find the right words. "I'm in the middle of speaking to another gentleman at the moment..."

"Yes!" the stranger says. He steps right in, without being invited, and approaches Mr. Lancaster. "Tom Lancaster, I believe?" They shake hands. "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Lancaster. Successful property trader, dabbler in the stock-market, all-round family man. Yes?"

Mr. Lancaster smiles. "Well, yes, you do seem to have heard a lot about me. I'm flattered. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Nimrod," the stranger says, smiling at both of us. "Charles Nimrod. You won't have heard of me, I'm afraid, since my family has been very quiet in recent years. However, we're very interested in branching out and increasing our portfolio of property in this area, which is why I'm here, really." He turns to me. "I was wondering if I could take a look around your farm, Mr. Hart? I'd be very interested in -"

"Hang on!" Mr. Lancaster says, getting up from his seat. "Mr. Hart and I have just agreed... well, in principle, anyway... to a sale. Isn't that right, Mr. Hart?"

I nod. "I'm afraid you're a little late, Mr. Nimrod. I can't go back on my word here."

Nimrod smiles. "I'll double whatever Mr. Lancaster is offering you."

I take a deep breath. This kid means business. "It's not just about the money, Mr. Nimrod -"

"Triple."

I laugh uneasily. "It's really not about the money. It's about what's right for the farm and -"

"Are you really going to buy this place, Lancaster?" Nimrod asks, turning to face him. "Is that really your plan? Why? This place is so far from your family. Why would you want to buy a place so far from your natural habitat?"

"Well -" Mr. Lancaster starts to say.

"Oh!" Nimrod interrupts. "Of course, I forgot. I'm sorry. I remember. You have your family in... Kansas, is that correct?"

"Yes..." says Mr. Lancaster cautiously. "We live in Kansas."

"So I suppose it would be convenient," Nimrod continues, "to have this little farm way out here in Kentucky, for you to bring your little
friends
once in a while?"

There's an awkward silence.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Nimrod," Mr. Lancaster says, but he looks extremely uneasy and he's starting to sweat.

"Your little male friends," Nimrod says. He turns to me. "Mr. Lancaster here has a history of being caught in compromising positions with younger boys," he says, smiling. "I suppose he thinks that if he brings them out here, no-one will know."

I look at Mr. Lancaster, expecting him to punch this Nimrod fellow. Instead, he simply grabs his hat and hurries out, muttering something as he goes. The door swings shut after he's left, and a moment later I hear his car start and the tires screech as he heads away as fast as possible.

"I'm sorry," says Nimrod.

I turn back to him.

"I scared your buyer away," he continues. "Still, it's fortunate that I have the ability to more than compensate you."

"Was that true?" I ask. "About Lancaster and little boys?"

"Of course," Nimrod says. "His family know. They've kept it under wraps, but only on the condition that he stops. He can't stop, though, so he thought he'd buy a place like this and bring his victims... sorry, friends... out here." He smiles. "He doesn't kill them. It's nothing like that. He just uses them for his pleasure, and then he drops them off back outside their homes. Most of them end up being somewhat scarred by their experiences, though, so it's not an entirely harmless practice, is it? If you doubt what I'm saying, you can ask around in Topeka, Kansas. Everyone knows about Tom Lancaster, even if they don't want to admit it."

I take a deep breath. "I never would have entertained a sale to him if I'd known."

"Don't worry," says Nimrod. "It can be very hard to know everything about a person. Some people are so good at keeping their true selves hidden. It's an art for some men. Makes it very difficult for a good, honest person such as yourself." He smiles. "Or like me."

I sit back down at the table. "What's your offer, Mr. Nimrod?"

"A real businessman. To the point and direct. I like that." Nimrod takes a seat opposite me. He pulls out a piece of paper and looks at it for a moment, and eventually he folds it away and looks over at me. "Two million dollars," he says. "Cash. It's all waiting."

I take a deep breath. Two million dollars is exactly double what Lancaster offered me, and that in itself was a fair price. Two million is just extreme, over the top. What does this Nimrod guy know that I don't know? There's got to be something. Perhaps he's from an oil company and they think there's a good chance of striking lucky on this land, in which case I'd be a fool to sell at that price.

"It's a good offer, Mr. Hart," says Nimrod. "A very good offer. I want this farm, for... sentimental reasons. It reminds me of good times."

"This farm," I say firmly, "has been in my family for more than a century. You, on the other hand, look like you're barely out of school, so I fail to see how this place could remind you of anything."

Nimrod smiles. "Good point. Nevertheless, I really
do
want this farm, and you really
do
want to sell. And two millions dollars is a lot of money, so it seems to me that it shouldn't be too hard for us to reach an agreement. What do you say?"

I think about it for a moment. It's a lot of money, he's right about that, but something about this seems to be wrong. I can't put my finger on it, but this Nimrod guy doesn't seem quite above board.

"This offer has a time limit," Nimrod says. "I'd very much like to get things agreed by sundown, or... Well, let's just say that I'm a man of action, Mr. Hart. I see something and I go for it, but I know when to quit. Two millions dollars is a lot of money and if you're not going to take my offer now, I see no reason to waste time dancing around the subject. I'm sorry if that seems harsh, but I think it's a good way to do business."

Pausing for a moment, I'm still not sure what to do. I definitely want to sell the land, but this high offer has really got me thinking. We stand up and head over to the door.

"I have the telephone number for your house," Nimrod says. "I'll give you a call this evening, around sundown, and you can let me know your decision."

"Sure," I say. There's something very wrong about this whole arrangement, and I need time to think about it. For one thing, I don't like this Nimrod guy very much at all. Something about him just seems... wrong.

We shake hands, but as we do so, I feel a sudden jolt of heat. The pain makes me try to pull away, but Nimrod keeps my hand firmly gripped in his own. I can feel my flesh melting, and my bones dying. Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, he releases his grip and I clutch my hand to my chest.

"Sorry about that," Nimrod says with a cautious smile.

I look down and see that the fingers and thumb of my right hand are gone. All that's left is a bloody, pulpy mess. The hand is back to how it was before I made the deal with Patrick. I look at my left hand, which is still fine.

"What did you do?" I shout.

"I just reminded you of certain things," Nimrod says. He steps toward me and grabs my left hand. The same pain hits it, and I pull away but it's too late: the fingers and thumb are gone from that hand as well. I drop to my knees, staring in horror at the two stumps. It's like I'm back to how I was after the war.

"I'm offering you a good deal, Mr. Hart," Nimrod says. "A very good deal. And I happen to know that you've made some much worse deals in the past, haven't you?" He towers over me with a look of malevolence in his eyes. "You've given up things that are very precious to you. Am I right? Precious things that haven't even been born yet." He crouches down and puts his face level with mine, eye to eye. "Mr. Hart, you have a history of making devilish deals. Why not add one more to the list?"

I stare at my fingerless hands. How did this happen? "Anything," I say quietly. "I'll give you anything. Just give me back my god-damned hands." I look at him. "Now!" I shout.

Smiling, Nimrod pulls out the piece of paper from his pocket, and a pen. He puts them on the floor. "Sign," he says. "Two million dollars in exchange for your farm, and everything goes back to normal."

I try to pick the pen up, but my stumps can't manage to grab something so small. I struggle, but it just won't work, and the frustration brings tears to my eyes. It's like the old days, when everything seemed to be going to hell.

"Use your fucking teeth, man," Nimrod sneers, leaning in close.

I use my stumps to steady myself, and I carefully pick up the pen with my teeth. Trying to stay calm, I sign the contract, and then I drop the pen.

"There!" I shout. "It's yours!"

"Almost," says Nimrod. He puts another sheet of paper in front of me. "Everything has to be in duplicate. One copy for you, one copy for me."

I sign the second copy.

"Are you satisfied now?" I growl.

"Excellent," says Nimrod, taking the contract, folding it up neatly and putting it in his pocket. "I'll have two million dollars wired to your bank account first thing in the morning."

"And my hands?" I shout. "Fix them!"

"Fix them?" Nimrod asks. "What are you talking about? They're fine."

I look down at my stumps, but the fingers and thumbs are back. Both hands are completely normal again, and he didn't even touch me this time. I stand up and hold my hands out, staring at them. "How..." I ask, but my voice trails off. I don't understand any of this. I wriggle my fingers. Everything works again, just as it should.