Seeders: A Novel (31 page)

Isabelle stared at the empty peg board. She checked each corner of the room and stepped inside, smelling damp wood and motor oil. It was quiet except for rain on the roof, and it took some time before she felt confident that she was alone in the shed and slid the door closed, leaving a twelve-inch gap to escape.

She walked forward, sweeping the flashlight from one side and then the other, making sure no one was hiding in the corners. Noticeably absent was the loud clang of the generator as she stopped in front of the door. She put her ear against the wood. It smelled of diesel and there was no sound on the other side. Conjuring up her nerve, she grasped the doorknob and turned until it clicked, then went quickly into the room, flashlight raised and rifle ready.

The generator was a sleeping giant in the back of the room. Isabelle circled the beam of light in every direction and walked to the machine, touched the cold metal surface. The switch had been flipped to
off
.

She squatted down, turned the switch back on, and pumped the starter until the engine coughed. She pumped it again, but nothing happened. Her knee brushed something sharp, and a swipe of the flashlight revealed three broken wires on the ground. That’s when she noticed the concrete floor was damp with a trail of rust-colored stains. Her hand reached out and touched the splatters. They smeared red on her fingertips. Isabelle’s heart stuck in her throat.

Someone was breathing behind her.

She swung the light back toward the corner of the room, revealing a black formless shape. Then suddenly—a pair of white eyes. Jules leapt forward with a spear over his head, body covered in mud, dark mouth gaping.

Isabelle instinctively ducked to the ground. Jules fell over her body and they struggled as the flashlight and spear rolled in opposite directions. Isabelle felt Jules’s naked chest on top of her. He was covered in mud so completely that only his eyes could be seen. He pinned her shoulders and lay across the length of her body. The smell of his sweat and hot breath was like an animal’s. She didn’t recognize his scratchy voice.

“I knew you would come find me. This is our moment, Isabelle. This is how it ends. You and I together.”

His hands wrapped around her neck and squeezed tight. She tried to scream but nothing came out of her slackened jaw. Sparks burst behind her eyelids and her body felt weak. Then Jules loosened his grip and she could sense the blood pouring back to her brain. He forced his mouth over hers.

Isabelle struggled to get free, charged with adrenaline and desperation. She managed to release one hand and made a deep scratch with her fingernails, four bloody lines that ran from his shoulders to the base of his spine. That’s where she found a stick protruding from his back, just above his hip. It was Luke’s arrow, snapped in half. The upper half dangled, still attached.

She grabbed the hanging piece of aluminum and tugged it sideways.

Jules let out a cry and rolled off Isabelle, as the piece of arrow broke off in her hand.

He snorted like a bull and was on his feet, arching his back.

She scrambled for the rifle, grasping the stock and getting a finger on the trigger. The barrel pointed straight at Jules as he leapt over her body. The gun went off with an ear-splitting blast that propelled her backward and sent a bullet through the wall.

The door rumbled open and she knew Jules was gone.

She leaned back against the generator, knees hugged to her chest, sobbing. With the back of her hand, she wiped the taste of him from her lips.

*   *   *

Luke lay on his bed with Monica’s body wrapped around him. There were candles around the bed and the fireplace was lit, warming the room with heat and soft lighting.

Monica sat up and reached for a quarter bottle of gin.

“Stop drinking already,” he complained, agitated.

She had nearly finished the bottle and her brain was swimming in alcohol, slurring her speech. “If um goin’ out, um goin’ out sloshed, not scared t’death.”

“You have to stay sharp. In case you need to defend yourself.”

“You can ’fend me. B’sides, he’s dead, you killed him.”

“We don’t know that. It was an arrow, not a bullet.”

“He’s dead. I’m sure.” She yawned, clinging to the gin. “So was it weird, to shoo’ someone?”

Luke remembered the moment. Hearing Monica scream, seeing Jules push her head underwater. He had loaded the bow, his heart pounding like a hammer, and he wanted to hit that target more than anything. He thought of his dad.

“Not really.”

Monica rolled on her back. “Wonder how he knew?”

He rolled with her. “Knew what?”

She looked at him through sleepy lids. “He was right. I never did it.”

“You mean …
it
?”

“S’not true that I’m scared. I would do it. With the right person. Can’t be jus’ anyone.”

“You’re pretty drunk. Maybe you should go to sleep. In a few hours, we’ll be on a boat to Canada.”

“’Less Beecher kills us first.”

“You just said he was dead.”

“Mm, maybe.” She seemed suddenly panicked by a thought. “Wha’f your mom can’t find Canada and we end up los’ at sea? Or the storm goes for days and we get stuck. Goin’ nuts from the trees—”

“Shhh, you’re getting yourself worked up.”

She took another drink.

This time, Luke grabbed the bottle. “Hey, cut it out. You’ve had enough.”

“I was jus’ thinkin’, we really could die. I’d hate to die without ever …
you know
.”

Luke blinked, and his cheeks flushed. He drank from the bottle of gin until his throat burned. This time he didn’t cough. He wiped his mouth and put the gin on the nightstand.

She asked, “You haven’t either, right?”

He shook his head, staring at the candle and thinking. “Are you sure?”

She unsnapped his jeans.

CHAPTER 34

RAIN DRIPPED OVER THE HEADSTONE.
Ginny ran her fingertips over the rough exterior, touching the cross, and a smile curled at the corners of her lips.

With the flashlight propped on a rock, she wasted no time digging for the diamond. But the ground was runny as silt and each scoop only filled the hole with more mud. As she dug in deep, it occurred to her that the diamond might have washed away years ago. Even worse, maybe it was never buried here at all and she’d been sent on a wild-goose chase.

“Damn you, George, to bloody hell.”

Rain pelted her head but she looked at the cross with renewed confidence. “It’s here, I know it. Right here in this grave.”

After she’d removed about a foot of soil, she plunged her hands deep into the muck, working her fingers like backhoes until she was up to her shoulders in mud. Suddenly, she felt the neck of a bottle. She grasped it and tugged, pulling her arms free. Her pulse kicked up a notch as the bottle finally emerged with a sucking sound. In her muddy grip was a dome-shaped liquor bottle. Ginny wiped it clean and chuckled.

George was daft but elegant, burying a rare diamond in a bottle of expensive cognac. She was ready for another battle with the cork, but it loosened and popped with no effort.

The flashlight revealed a gold chain attached to the cork, and she held it up to view. At the end of the chain was the jewel. The diamond spun in the brightness of the flashlight, casting bits of pink sparkle in her muddy hand. It was bigger than she expected—the size of a large pearl.

Ginny grasped it tight and pressed it to her chest.

“Thank you, George darling.” With a heavy sigh she tried to get to her feet, but they were stuck in mud. She squirmed side to side, not wanting to lose either the diamond or the flashlight, but the pain of arthritis caught up to her.

“Oh, blast these old bones.”

Darkness completely enveloped the woods, and the water was still rising. It would be a rough journey back. A loud crack of thunder made Ginny flinch. Lightning illuminated the treetops blowing fierce in the wind.

“Damned weather,” she muttered.

The next burst of light revealed a dark silhouette standing over her. She jolted again, but breathed out relief when she raised the flashlight. He was wearing pants but no shirt, and had stooped shoulders, a round white belly, and black hair that clung like seaweed to his head. He was smiling.

“Sean,” she cried out. “Help me up!”

A hatchet rose over his head.

Ginny shot up a hand and her face contorted into a scream as the blade came down hard. It sliced cleanly into her skull, where it stuck, making the wood handle seem like a protruding horn. Ginny’s head slumped back under its weight, her eyes rolled into her head, mouth opening and closing like a fish; an involuntary movement, as her brain was now cut in half. Blood poured down her face with rain as she hit the muddy ground, fist still clinging tightly around the diamond.

*   *   *

The storm continued in waves of torrent and languor. Monica awoke naked and shivering, caught somewhere between a drunken stupor and a hangover. The candle by the bed flickered from a draft and the house was bitterly cold. It took a long moment to figure out she was in Luke’s room.

Footsteps in the hallway stopped in front of the door and she panicked, stumbling to her feet. She waited until she heard the shoes walking away. It took several tries to step into her underwear and she found it impossible to put on her sweatsuit, so she rolled it into a ball, pressed to her bare chest.

At the edge of the bed she looked down at Luke, and stared at his face that seemed more boyish in sleep. She vaguely remembered having sex with him. He had confident hands, artfully slow, and so in control of their lovemaking that she thought he must have read a book or something.

“Ness time I won’t be so wasted.” She wanted to kiss his cheek, but bending down upset her balance and her stomach. She picked up a candle on the nightstand. “G’night … I’m glad it was you.”

The hallway swayed. Monica took careful steps so as not to fall over, while trying to remember which door was her bedroom. It was definitely by the stairs, just past the landing. The candle led the way as she patted the peeling wallpaper for support.

She could see the flicker of another candle in the stairwell. Her steps slowed as she approached, squinting in the dark.

“Iss-belle?” She craned her neck.

Sean was sitting on the stairs, a candle by his side. His hair was soaking wet and he looked like a corpse with snow-white skin, blue lips, and pupils full and black. He was bare-chested, with dark stains down one arm.

Monica snorted her disgust. He was staring at her legs, smirking, and she stumbled quickly to the door across from him.

“Freak,” she muttered and shut the door behind her.

It was even colder in the room but Monica was too drunk to care. She dropped the candle and the flame blew out as it struck the floor. She fell into bed and was asleep before her face hit the mattress.

Rain splashed against the windowpane. The door opened with a sharp creak and candlelight danced into the room. A pair of feet padded across the wood floor and, as lightning struck, a shadow passed by the window.

Monica rolled onto her back to take a breath. She smiled drunkenly, feeling Luke’s hands on her breasts again, straddling her like before. She opened her eyes into tiny slits to see a figure leaning over her.

Cutting shears came down into her throat.

Her head snapped back with a gasping breath. Eyes wide with terror, she tried to scream but her voice was no more than a gurgle. Her hands yearned to grasp her neck, stop the pain and rush of blood from her throat, but she was paralyzed.

Sean squirmed onto her naked chest, holding her wrists above her head. He looked down, smiling, and the other hand pulled the shears out of her neck with a sloshing sound that sprayed them both with blood.

He snorted with pride. He’d been smart this time. Monica could feel pain, but couldn’t move or make a sound. He could take his time with her and not worry about interruptions. He watched her struggle, while his hands wrapped around the bloody handle of the cutting shears so the blades opened and closed like tiny crab claws in front of her eyes. Sean leaned close to her ear so she could feel each hot breath pass his lips.

“Snip, snip, snip, Monica.”

*   *   *

Isabelle had barely been able to turn the kitchen door handle. After running back from the shed, she had collapsed on the cold kitchen tiles, soaked in mud and the memories of Jules’s squirming body, and then curled up in the shadows and cried.

That was hours ago and now she was asleep, slouched in the library chair with the rifle loosely in her lap. The downpour had become the soothing hypnotic sound of light rain.

A crack of thunder startled her awake and she jolted upright, fumbling for the gun. A burst of lightning lit up the patio, blurry from raindrops that dripped down the windows. Isabelle froze in the chair, getting her bearings. She was still alone in the library. The house was quiet and morning was not far off. She could see the darkest blue in the sky where it had been black hours ago.

Still, it was freezing cold and dark in the room. The fire in the hearth had died and she zipped her coat to her chin, thinking about Jules in the shed. How he sprang from the dark corner like a leopard. She needed more light, more heat. She picked up the last log and threw it onto the embers and the flames sprang to life, warming her hands.

Lightning flashed and she turned to the windows.

A loud bang hit the glass, and Isabelle gasped. For a split second, she saw the silhouette of a giant, his face glowing white and dark eyes staring at her.

Isabelle pointed the rifle, but the figure was gone. She stood fixed as a statue, eyes wide, ice running through her veins. Thunder rumbled and the barrel shook in her grip.

Crrrrkkkk!

Jules crashed through the window with a heavy fuel tank over his head like a battering ram. The sky lit up brilliant white as shattered glass sprayed across the room, sparkling like confetti. Wind swept a frosty rain into the house.

Jules lay on the floor, a table length away from Isabelle’s feet, but she couldn’t move.