Krampus: The Yule Lord (45 page)

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.

D
ILLARD 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.

P
AIN—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.