Bad Men

It seemed to happen slowly for Joe Dupree. He thought that he could almost see the bullet as it moved, tearing a path through the cold air. It entered his skin in tiny increments, fractions of inches, ripping through flesh and bone, exiting just to the right of his spine. He fell backward through the kitchen door, coming to rest close to Willard’s body. He tried to breathe, but already his throat was flooding with blood. The kitchen door was held open by his feet and he saw Marianne spin and strike at Moloch’s injured mouth, then throw herself against him in an effort to dislodge his gun. He saw Macy moving through the living room, her gun extended, her face turning in horror toward him. He watched Moloch push Marianne away, then run for the door, firing as he did so, his wife scrambling for the cover of the corner as the bullets sent plaster and paint flying from the walls.

Then he was gone, Macy uncertain whether to follow him or tend to her wounded comrade. She ran to Dupree, limping slightly, favoring her right foot.

“Stay with me, Joe,” she began. “We’ll get help.”

He reached out, took her shirt in his hand, then pushed her away.

Still she paused. He could not speak, but he pointed his hand in the direction of the fleeing man. She nodded and headed after Moloch, stopping just once to look back at the dying policeman.

Marianne came to him. She was crying. The boy was behind her, staring at the two men on the kitchen floor.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

She tried to remove her coat in order to lay it on him, but he gripped her hand and brought it instead to his lips.

“No,” she whispered. “We have to keep you warm.”

But then she registered the blood spreading behind his head, flowing from the exit wound hidden from them, and she knew.

“No,” she repeated, softer now. “Don’t do this.”

The giant coughed and began to spasm. She tried to hold him down but his great weight was too much for her. His body jerked as he clawed at the floor, an irregular clicking noise emerging from the back of his throat.

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

Chapter Seventeen

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.”