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CHAPTER 24
FLORA
DEAD.
The word that Walt Davies shouted hangs in the air. I glance at Keith, who looks as confused as I feel.
“How’d you get here?” Davies asks now. He no longer has the pump-action shotgun pointed at our chests, but is swinging it around in a manner that’s hardly any safer.
“Our ATV...”
“Clipped your way through the barbed wire, then. Been meaning to add more cameras. Damn land. Got too fucking much of it. But my great-granddaddy would come back from the grave if I sold an inch.” Walt jerks his head to the side. I think he might actually be talking to his great-granddaddy. Whatever risks Keith and I thought we were taking, the reality seems far worse.
“Who sent ya?” Walt demands now.
Again, I peer at Keith. I’m not sure how to answer. We came on our own? Does that comfort a loner or seal our doom? Maybe we should say the police are right behind us.
I feel a rising bubble of... something. Hysteria? I don’t get hysterical. I’m Flora Dane, with universal handcuff keys tucked in the knot of my hair and a butterfly blade in the top of my boot and homemade pepper spray in my pants pocket. Time to end this—
“Sir,” Keith says. “Do you recognize her?”
Walt’s rheumy blue eyes fly to my face. “You’re dead,” he whispers.
“No, sir,” Keith speaks up before I have a chance. “But she needs your help. Immediately. We’re in danger. They’re coming. Please. Help us.”
Appealing to the paranoid? The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and Them and They are such powerful enemies, of course we must be very good friends?
“Quick,” Walt says. “Follow me.”
He strides toward the log cabin and just like that we’ve gone from being his latest victims to his newest charges.
“How did you know?” I murmur to Keith as we jog behind a shotgun-wielding lunatic.
“Took my best guess.”
“If he has lampshades made of human skin inside there, I’m going for him.”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
“Are we on a date?” I ask Keith, as Walt clatters up to the front door, grabs the barely attached screen door, and throws it open.
“I hope so,” Keith tells me. “Because let’s face it. This is one helluva story to tell our future children.”
—
WE CROSS THE THRESHOLDINTO Walt Davies’s home, which may just be our final resting place.
No lights are on. Given the sunny day, it shouldn’t be an issue, but—no surprise—thick dusty curtains have been pulled tight. I whack my shin, then my knee, as I realize stuff is everywhere.
Walt is already sidling up to the nearest window. He pulls back the edge of the curtain, which appears to have been fashioned from layers of army surplus blankets, and peers out. He mumbles something, then crosses quickly to the other side of the cluttered room. More squinting and muttering. Then he disappears down the hall, leaving Keith and me to stand alone in the cabin.
Now that my eyes are adjusting to the gloom, I can make out details. We are in the main room, with a massive stone fireplace before us and a significantly smaller dining space to our right. The kitchen features a pump sink and old-fashioned cast-iron stove. It appears to have been installed a hundred years ago and never updated since.
The entire space is low ceilinged, which I understand once upon a time made it easier to heat. Now it makes me feel claustrophobic, especially given that every square inch is filled with broken furniture, jumbled piles of bound newspapers, and of course a massive moth-eaten deer head mounted over the mantel.
“Again, one sign of human skin...” I murmur to Keith.
He squeezes my hand.
