The Reaper (2 page)

Humans do it every day. They kill each other. They kill animals for sport. Everything down to a fly swatter kills and they take great pleasure in it. I live on another scale, another plane, one greater than all the others. My pleasure in death is immense. Watching it, causing it, feeling it, being killed myself. Everything to do with it is why I exist.

I am, therefore I kill.

I followed Jacob another fifty yards, with John close behind. We came to a clump of trees and there, scraped into the bark of the largest one was the name
Mark
and the year
1931
.

I looked at John. If he didn’t figure out who he was soon, he would wonder what all this meant. Was his son reincarnated or psychic? John would have questions. We were down to the end. I didn’t want to have to kill him without the knowledge of who he is. It hurt when their last breath came out, their eyes darkened, and they had no idea why. Knowledge is power. I love death when we know why. It’s a rich power. The only kind. That’s why I do what I do and I’m so good at it. The power.

“Can I help you folks?”

Nothing pissed me off more than being startled.

My human body jumped a foot and let out a small squeal as all three of us turned around and stared death in the face. The man standing with the aid of a cane was twenty feet away. He must have been at least ninety years old. The side of his face looked melted, like he’d kissed a fire and paid for it. He was simply gorgeous.

“I’m sorry, we were just looking around,” John said.

Do you realize how dumb that sounds? Oh, we’re just looking around in the middle of the tall grass and huge trees
. We must’ve looked like complete idiots.

“I haven’t seen anyone this far off the road in a long time,” the old man said.

“Is this your property?” John asked.

“My papa owned it and it fell into my hands when he died in the fifties. I’ve lived here since I was born in 1934.”

I looked at Jacob. His head was down as he stared at something on the ground. I could tell he was thinking. Then my eight-year-old son spoke as he looked up at the old man.

“Your name is Kirk Sutton. I remember you because you always played with frogs. You actually had a few pet frogs that you wouldn’t let anyone near. We used to tease you about it.”

The old man looked at Jacob/Mark. He studied my son with a wry smile that turned to a scowl. A few seconds passed before he spoke. “How did you know my name? And how do you know about my frogs?”

“I know because I’m Mark. I used to live just over there in the thirties.” Jacob lifted his arm and pointed. Then he looked back at Kirk Sutton. “I also know about your other obsession.”

“Well, now, that couldn’t be possible, little man, since you’re only a boy. The family who lived in the house that burned down were the founders of our little village: Mr. and Mrs. Novar. They had a boy named Mark, but they all died in a fire in 1944.”

I caught a breath in my throat. In that moment, I recognized Kirk Sutton. It came to me in a flood, like the dam had surrendered. I remembered everything: the tree line, the landscape, even where the train tracks were. I saw men hammering spikes into the rails as they put the tracks in. My mind’s eye showed me the details of their clothes, their tools. What surprised me the most was why I hadn’t known any of this before.

I used to watch my son Mark and his friend Kirk catch frogs as I sat on my porch and sipped lemonade. The yellow dress that I’d worn was the same dress I had torn off on the day of the fire so I could protect my son from the smoke and flames that licked up the walls.

Mark and I died in the fire. I knew that now. We’d failed in our joint mission in that incarnation because of Kirk, the man standing before us. And we came back together to live the life that we never got the chance to. I stepped close to Mark/Jacob and reached for him.

Our eyes met and we could see the secret between us that had lasted seventy-five years. Jacob knew. All those years and he knew. Together we would kill today and together we would be killed.

Jacob stepped away from me. He reached into his pocket and moved farther into the foliage.

“Jacob, where are you going?” John asked.

Jacob ignored him as he moved deeper into the field. I would’ve ignored him too. He was a straggler now, the only one who didn’t know his part in all this.

“I know it was you,” Jacob said loud enough for all of us to hear.

The old man looked from Jacob to me and then back to Jacob.

“You couldn’t help yourself,” Jacob continued. “But you got burned too. I was told all about it, but I had to meet you for myself.”

I had stepped into a new realm and left behind my old reality. The gig was up. No more playing.

“Who told you about me?” the old man asked.

“Your brother. He’s coming today too.”

John, that’s you. Getting it yet?

“I don’t have a brother and I do not have to stand here and listen to this craziness.”

John yelled for Jacob to come back. I turned and rebuked John. “We’ll handle this,” I said.

The old man started away on his cane. I was ten meters away from my son but still close enough to see the matches he pulled out of his pocket. He flipped the top, lit one and touched the rest with it. They flared in his hand.

The old man turned hard to stare at the flames in Jacob’s hand.

“That’s right. Watch the fire. That’s what you did all those years ago. You watched the fire while your brother and I burned along with my mother. You listened to our screams and smiled. You stared so long that you got burned too. It’s mesmerizing, isn’t it? Just watch.”

Jacob tossed the lit matches into the air. I expected John to scream in protest, but heard nothing from behind me. The high grass was seriously dry for this time of year. The old man’s house was too far away for him to escape.

Kirk Sutton used his cane like an expert as he tried to hustle away from the flames. But it wasn’t the fire he ran from, it was my husband. He’d finally gotten it. He knew who he was, or - rather -, is.

“Get him, Danny,” Jacob shouted to his father.

My brain felt bent. Everything was good, as it should be.

I watched as John tackled the ninety-year-old man and was lost to sight in the tall grass.

The fire rose above the waist-high foliage not one meter from Jacob, who was laughing as he watched the flames soar higher and higher.

Something clicked in my head. I actually felt it.
Magical
.

John lifted the old man above the grass and carried him like a surfboard. Kirk shouted something about the police.

I walked closer to the flames to watch. A loud crack resounded across the fields. I spun around to see a man running off the back steps of the old man’s house. He had a gun in his hand.

“Stop what you’re doing or I’ll shoot!”

Then I heard what Kirk Sutton was trying to say. His son was a cop.

The three of us circled the flames that had grown to a small brush fire. John stood the old man up and then, without preamble, shoved him into the center of the flames where he fell on his back and writhed. He squealed and screamed as his flesh melted in areas spared in the fire of 1944.

The joy I felt as Kirk cooked in the flames was immense.

A gun went off as I watched with glee the old man dying before me. John fell to his knees, blood spitting out of his mouth. I turned to see the cop aim his weapon at me.

The gun bucked in his hand. The bullet raced by me and shattered Jacob’s face. What a sight, all the bone and blood shooting into the air, caught by the grass, my son’s soul free.

I stayed low and grabbed John’s hand, and reaching for Jacob’s to form a bond. All three of us lay on our backs and waited. I was the only one left unhurt, but my time was coming and I looked forward to it.

Kirk Sutton had fallen silent in the fire. The wails I heard came from the cop. He stepped over and looked down at me.

“Who are you
fucking
people?” His face told me everything. The red cheeks, the wet eyes, the breathing. He was going into shock after hearing his father’s screams. His mind was slipping into protective mode before he lost it entirely. It was always such a pleasure to see someone crack in front of me. Always a pleasure.

I smiled at him. It inspired him to raise his weapon and point it at me.

“Kirk, your father, murdered people,” I said. “We came to make him pay. Shoot me, and we’ll come back for you too.”

The gun went off and I felt yanked away.

I’ve been at this for eight thousand, two hundred years. It’s time to retire. My son is more powerful than I thought. I’m so proud of him.

Unlike my cousin, we aren’t lazy, waiting for people to die. We take them, but we stick to the tormented souls. We’re like the ultimate cleanser, ridding the world of scum.

Maybe one day I’ll have to come for your soul. I could be your mother, your brother or your friend at school. You’ll never know. But I’ll be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for my chance to end a life.

Waiting for my reward.

The pleasure in murder is too great to stop.

I am, therefore I kill. See you soon.

The Burning - A Preview

An excerpt from The Burning.

Chapter 1

Monday, October 18, 2011…

Jared Tavallo stood in the clearing as his gun’s echo reverberated off the mountainous walls surrounding the valley. The sun shone bright on the bushes into which the doe had scurried, making it impossible to see blood on them from where he stood.

His heart raced and his breathing rasped as Jared ran after his kill. He was certain the doe had taken the bullet about the neck. No way did he miss. Not from that range.

The bushes were thick in the area where the deer had entered. Jared hit them hard and fast in the hopes of finding and securing his kill before anyone could see how close he’d gotten to the city of Banff.

The National Park strictly prohibited hunting. He had a dilemma: he was too close to the park’s border, but the deer was too tempting to let go.

He would locate his prize, cover it in the recently received snow, and that evening, his hunting partners would come and help him haul the carcass out.

No one in the National Park had to know.

The kill was his and his alone. He’d worked too hard for it — fought the cold temperatures and stumbled a long way from home to let the deer go simply because it didn’t follow man’s rules on geography.

He pushed harder through the brush and stumbled, dropping to one knee in the foot-high snow.

“Damn!”

Back on his feet, he slung his rifle over his shoulder and trudged on through the white powder. The deer tracks led deep into the thicker foliage. A line of lodgepole pines were on his right. The fawn’s tracks turned toward them.

A light snow began to descend from the dark gray clouds. Jared stopped and examined his surroundings. A tall tree to his left sat beside a boulder the size of an SUV. He would use that as a marker to find his way back. He had no way of telling how much snow would fall in the next hour and getting lost would only move him one step closer to hypothermia. All he needed to do was get back to the clearing where he had taken the shot. Then he could find his way back to the cabin.

But first he had to locate the wounded deer. The cold had worked on Jared all day, but he was just now starting to shiver. He collected himself, took a deep breath and started toward the line of pines.

The deer’s tracks disappeared beyond the scatter of bark and needles, leading into the darkness beyond. Jared struggled with his left sleeve, lifting it far enough to see his watch. Thirty-five minutes to sundown.

“Shit.”

A slight breeze brought with it the smell of something burning. Jared let his sleeve fall back into place as he looked around to see what was on fire. He stopped breathing and listened. He couldn’t see anything or hear the familiar crackle of a fire.

Maybe it’s a nearby cabin’s wood stove or fireplace.