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He prayed for the strength to be all things in all ways to them that were as dark as the utter darkness in his heart.
Above him the cloud-?free sky rumbled with improbable thunder, like an old echo of the storm come rolling round again.
Ruger, you are my left hand.
The words rang suddenly in his head, clear and strong as if someone had spoken them aloud.
Karl Ruger lay there in the cornfield, feeding the soil with his life and his hate and his black prayers.
In the vastness of the night that overhung the cornfields, something stirred. Something that heard Ruger’s secret murmurings and the rage-?filled screaming of his soul; something that had been given life by the same force that had crash-?landed Karl Ruger in Pine Deep. The thing rose from where it had crouched, dragging horror with it, and slouched through the fields toward the place where Ruger lay, a missionary of hell coming in answer to those prayers.
2
Where was Val? Hadn’t she been there a while ago? Henry thought she had, but now he couldn’t remember. Maybe it had been a dream.
Where was Mark? Mark would help him. Mark was strong, he could carry him back to the house, get an ambulance for him.
Mark…? he thought he called out, but the word echoed only in his head and he knew that he hadn’t found the power to say his son’s name out loud.
Henry Guthrie closed his eyes again, the lids pressing tears out from under the lashes.
Please, God , he prayed. Please, God …
He wanted to say the words out loud. Maybe they would have more power that way, but he was slipping away from that, or any other, ability, sliding down into a long and formless darkness. He tried to conjure images of Val and Mark and Connie, but his mind was going blank, and it broke his heart.
Please, God, he begged. Help them.
Something rustled the corn near where he lay, and Guthrie managed to open his eyes; it was like jacking up a truck. He searched the shadows with his failing vision, hoping, hoping…
But it was not Val come back to help him; it wasn’t Mark. It was a stranger. The man walked slowly toward him and stopped, standing over him. He had a face as gray as the mist that was starting to form in among the cornstalks. His cheap suit was soaked and rainwater glittered like diamonds in his kinky hair.
Guthrie tried to speak, and found he could manage, just a single word: “Who…?”
The man lowered himself slowly to the ground, sitting cross-?legged by Guthrie’s side.
“I won’t hurt you, Henry,” said the gray man.
“…who?” Guthrie croaked.
“Just an old friend. I just come to wait with you awhile. ”
“…need…help…”
The Bone Man shook his head sadly. “No, Henry, no. It’s too late for that. I’m sorry. ”
Guthrie closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the emptiness overwhelm him.
When he opened his eyes, he expected the man to be gone, a phantom conjured by his dying brain. The gray man sat there still.
“Val…?” Guthrie forced the word out past all weakness. He needed to know, but dreaded the answer.
“She’s alive. ”
“Mark?”
“Mark, too. And Connie. All of them. Alive. ”
“Thank…” Guthrie began, but it took him a long time to finish. “…God. ”
