Бентли Литтл - The Disappearance

It was Joan who said tiredly, finally, “Stop.”

He paused, watching her get shakily to her feet, his mind still filled with thoughts of the evil this man had done, every fiber of his being focused on punishment and revenge. Gary was shaking, adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream, but slowly he stood, looking down all the while. Father did not move. He did not even appear to be breathing.

Was he dead?

Gary wasn’t sure, but part of him hoped so. He didn’t relish the idea of being a murderer, of killing a man, but the truth was that he would feel much better if Father was no longer alive.

He stepped away from Father’s body toward Joan, who had backed up and was standing near the hallway door. His knuckles hurt, and his fists were covered with blood. He wanted to find a bathroom and wash up, but they had to get out of here before the other Homesteaders returned. If the others came back and found Father dead, they would kill both him and Joan on sight.

“Look out!”

In the split second before Joan’s warning cry, he heard the tap of wood on wood, and his mind instantly put the two together. He reacted instinctively, dropping to the floor and rolling to the side just as Father’s staff slammed onto the floorboards where he’d been only seconds prior. Gary jumped to his feet. Bloody and very much alive, the old man stood there like some unstoppable monster, grinning, the few teeth that remained in his mouth dripping red.

Before Gary’s rattled brain could even contemplate a reaction, Joan had picked up the bucket next to the door, taking several quick steps into the center of the room and throwing the contents of the bucket right into Father’s face. The thick black liquid splashed onto him and around him, causing him to cry out and drop his staff, pitch running viscously down his head and off his flailing arms.

Thinking fast, Joan grabbed the hanging lantern and dashed it onto the spreading puddle.

Glass shattered, and the floor exploded with a whoosh , a breath-sucking vacuum that pulled the air around them into the center of the room, creating a fireball that shot up to the ceiling. Within seconds, everything was in flames, and Father was caught in the middle of it all. His beard was burning, as were his clothes, and he screamed in agony as he staggered around, bumping into a wall, then bouncing back and hitting the table.

He looked like the Burning Man, Gary thought, and recalled the hallucination he’d experienced after being drugged at the desert festival. In his vision, the Burning Man had lurched jerkily, like a Ray Harryhausen figure, and that was the way Father looked now as he headed blindly toward the line of flaming chairs, arms outstretched.

They had to get out quickly, before the fire spread, and Gary pulled Joan by the hand toward the part of the house he had not yet explored. The last room was indeed a kitchen, and next to a dilapidated wood-burning stove was a door that led outside. He pushed Joan ahead of him, and the two of them emerged into the open air, gasping for breath. Without pausing, they hurried around the corner to the front of the building, where smoke was pouring from the window and the doorway, the billowing black backlit by flames. Gary smelled the unique woodsy odor of the fire starter. Abrego’s Pitch, he suddenly remembered.

With a final anguished cry, a sound more monster than man, Father stumbled outside, through the open front door, and fell to the ground. Joan gasped, grabbing Gary’s hand, squeezing it tight, but Gary stood there impassively, watching the old man’s death throes, taking a grim satisfaction in the way the burning figure jerked weakly beneath the flames before collapsing in a charred heap.

Joan was crying, turning her face to his shoulder. He felt her warm tears on his skin. On the other side of her, his eyes registered movement, but he couldn’t make out what it was. Seconds later, he saw Reyn running from the darkness into the light of the flames.

Reyn!

For a second he was confused. Isn’t Reyn dead?

His friend stopped next to him, shouting to be heard over the crackling fire that had almost completely engulfed the house. “Sheriffs are here! A whole group of them!” Reyn was breathing heavily. He didn’t have the lug wrench, Gary noticed. “Williams must have called! They shot one of the Homesteaders who tried to attack! They’re arresting the others!”

“I heard an explosion,” Gary said numbly.

“Me.” Reyn held up a book of matches he took from his shirt pocket. “I made a wick, put it in one of their gas tanks. Just before the sheriffs arrived.”

Was it over? Was that it? Gary didn’t know, but he was still filled with a strong sense of urgency. Reyn, he saw, was politely looking away from Joan, who was no longer holding onto the hem of the T-shirt. She noticed at the same time he did and, embarrassed, pulled the shirt down on both sides until everything was covered.

Gary looked over at Reyn. “Are there a lot of cops?”

“Sheriffs. And there were three cars’ worth. There might have been more coming. I don’t know.”

“Can they handle all those Homesteaders?”

“I think so. They’re armed, they’ve already shot one of them, and these guys don’t seem like they’re willing to be martyrs.” He glanced anxiously around. “What about—”

“Father?” Gary nodded at the burning form in front of them. “You’re looking at him.”

Reyn’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

Gary shook his head. “It’s a long story.” And he stood there, staring silently, watching as the blackened, smoking form lost the last vestiges of its human shape and became a smoldering lump of nothing.

This is for Joan , he thought. This is for Stacy. This is for Brian.

This is for everyone.

Joan pulled away from Gary’s bare shoulder and wiped her eyes. She could not look at Father’s burning body, so she faced the opposite direction, where the darkness of the canyon was suddenly rent by flashing blue and red lights as a sheriff’s car arrived.

The vehicle pulled to a stop several yards away, on a flat section of ground. A deputy not much older than herself emerged from the passenger door, with a heavyset middle-aged man walking around the car from the driver’s side. Both had their weapons drawn, but before they could say anything, Reyn shouted, “She’s the one who was kidnapped! We’re the ones who came after her!”

The deputies approached, still not putting away their guns. “Is anyone else here?”

Gary gestured toward Father’s blackened form. “Just him.”

Joan could not look.

“He’s the one who was in charge of everything, the leader of the cult. They called him ‘Father.’ ”

The deputies were taking no chances. Their weapons were still out as they walked up. The young one could not seem to take his eyes from the fire. “What happened?” he asked, motioning toward the billowing smoke.

Gary told him. From the beginning. It was an abridged version, but it started at Burning Man and hit the highlights. The two deputies listened without commenting, although it seemed pretty clear that they were familiar with at least part of the story, maybe from Williams, maybe from the news. When Gary came to his description of finding her tied up, Joan tuned out, not wanting to hear it. In her mind, she saw Father’s wrinkled, naked body, and her muscles tensed as she recalled the disgust and terror she had felt.

Gary finished talking. The older deputy was calling someone on his walkie-talkie, though there seemed to be no real urgency in the request he made for someone to come and put out the fire. Joan herself didn’t care if the entire canyon burned down.