John Connolly - Bad Men

Then the spasming stopped, and Joe Dupree’s eyes widened as he died, as though in sudden understanding of the nature of this world.

Moloch ran.

He was conscious of movement around him-branches whipping in the wind, dead leaves pirouetting, and the shapes that lingered at the limits of his perception, not caring now whether he noticed them or not, merely content to shadow his progress through the forest. There was blood on his shirt and face; he could feel it cooling upon him in the night air. His lip ached, the pain like needles in his mouth each time he drew a breath. He heard the sounds of pursuit coming from behind and knew that the female cop was coming after him. He thought of all that he wanted to do to the woman, all of the hurt that he desired to inflict on her and on his wife. At least he’d put an end to the big cop. That was something.

His head struck a broken branch, almost severed by the actions of the storm, and he cried out as he fell back against the tree. When the pain in his mouth and head had subsided, he took a breath and stumbled along a narrow pathway that wound through a patch of marshland, until finally he found himself in a clearing in the middle of the forest. Low stones lay half buried in the ground and a simple stone cross stood at its center. He moved slowly forward until he was facing the monument. It was still possible to read the names on it, and he found his hand reaching out to trace the letters, his bloodied finger outstretched. He touched the stone and-

Men. Forest. Shooting. Women.

Woman.

The fillings in his mouth tingled and he felt suddenly lightheaded. He staggered back as the ground began to crumble under his feet. Visions of suffering and death assailed him. He felt flesh beneath his fingers, and smelled powder on the air. A noise came from below as the earth gave way beneath him, and Moloch tumbled into blackness.

Marianne turned Danny away from Joe Dupree’s body, hiding his face in the folds of her jacket just as days-years?-before she had allowed him to shield himself from the reality of a bird’s death. Willard’s body lay in a corner, partly concealed by the breakfast counter. Danny wouldn’t stop crying. He was holding on to her so tightly that his nails were drawing blood. Behind them, Jack had raised himself and now stood at the kitchen door. She found a knife in a drawer and used it to cut the bindings on his hands, then gently removed Danny’s fingers from her legs.

“I want you to stay here with Jack, okay?”

Danny let out a loud wail and tried to claw his way back to her, but she kept him at arm’s length and pushed him into the old man’s arms. Jack held him as firmly as he could, folding his uninjured arm across Danny’s chest. Marianne picked up Dupree’s gun from the floor, then headed for the front door.

“I’ll be back before you know it, Danny. You look after Jack for me.”

But Danny could only cry, and in the confusion and shock of the moment, none of them noticed that Dexter’s body was gone.

Moloch fell for what seemed like a long, long time, yet the distance could have been only twenty feet, for when he hit the bottom he could still see a ragged hole above him, loose earth spilling down from the edges, snowflakes joining it in its descent. Dim light filtered down, bathing him in a patina of gray, like one who was already fading from this world. The impact made him gag, and he lay for a moment tasting bile and blood in his mouth.

Moloch smelled damp earth. He reached out a hand blindly and felt it brush against ragged hair.

Woman. A woman’s hair.

He instantly drew his hand back, forcing the fear from himself. The cop was coming. If he stayed here and waited to be found, he would be trapped like an animal. He needed to find a way out. He needed to know what was around him.

He advanced into the shadows, grateful now for the improvements forced upon his vision by hours of struggling through the snowstorm without flashlights. He discovered that he had been touching the exposed roots of vegetation. Moloch released a spluttering laugh of relief, then heard it die in his mouth as he began to take in his surroundings.

He was in a semicircular hollow of earth and stone, about fifteen feet in diameter. At its extremities were openings, large enough for a man to crawl through on his belly. Moloch approached the widest of the entrances and carefully reached inside, disturbing some beetles as he felt the ends of more tree roots dangling from the top of the tunnel. He listened. From beyond he could hear the sound of flowing water. He glanced back toward the hole through which he had fallen, then took another look at the walls of earth and stone that descended from it. There was no way that he could climb them. Either he stayed here and waited to be found or he took his chances in one of the tunnels. Moloch had no fear of enclosed spaces-even prison had not troubled him in that way-but he still felt uneasy about committing himself to the hole before him. He might have trouble squeezing through if it narrowed significantly farther on, and he had no idea how, or for what purpose, the tunnels had been constructed. Still, there was the sound of water, which could mean that the tunnel led to the bank of a river or stream, and he thought that he could make out a faint light ahead.

He made his decision.

He got down on his knees and entered the hole.

Twenty feet above, Macy entered the clearing. She was still feeling the shock of Dupree’s death and of her own actions in the tower. Until tonight, she had never fired her gun in the line of duty, and had barely had cause to draw it from its holster. Now a man had died at her hands and another was fleeing from her, and Joe Dupree was dead because she hadn’t been fast enough.

Joe Dupree was dead because of her.

Her foot struck stone. She looked down at the monument protruding from the ground, at the others surrounding it, and at the raised stone cross at the center of the little cemetery. She was reluctant to enter the clearing. Her quarry was still armed, and she was unwilling to risk exposing herself. She crouched down low and tried to scan the forest.

There was blood on the snow by the cross.

She swallowed, then headed toward the middle of the site. She was almost upon it when her foot treaded air and she stumbled, her leg disappearing into the hole. She fell backward, then scuttled away from the gap, anticipating gunfire from below, but no sound came. She counted to five, then inched forward again. The opening was new. She could see damp earth, and the tree roots were moist when she touched her fingers to them. She risked a quick glance below, barely allowing the top of her head to appear over the rim of the hole in order to provide the smallest possible target. She could see nothing but fallen earth, broken branches, and a light dusting of snow down below.

Joe Dupree’s killer was down there. He had to be.

She was about to descend when a hand gripped her shoulder. She looked up to see Marianne Elliot behind her.

“Don’t,” said Marianne. “You have to get out of here. We both have to get out of here. Now.”

Even in the falling snow, the trail left by Moloch and Macy had been easy for Marianne to discern. They were heading toward the Site. Marianne followed them carefully, checking the woods ahead and always trying to use trees for cover, but could not see either of them. They were too far ahead.

She was almost at the clearing when something brushed by her feet. She looked down and saw a gray shape moving swiftly past her, tattered clothing hanging on mummified skin, wisps of hair protruding from beneath the folds of its shroud. It appeared to float slightly above the ground, leaving no trace of its passage, while its thin hands used rocks and tree trunks to pull itself along, like a diver exploring the seabed. Marianne shrank from it and her legs touched another shape as it swept by her, seemingly oblivious to her presence.