The Boatman, page 21
“What’s the move?” Ezra asked.
I clicked my tongue, feeling a little better despite the black cloud that hung over me. “Go in and ask, I suppose. See if anyone’s seen him.”
“And if they haven’t?”
“Guess we turn back.”
The road bent along the hillside, following the slope down into the low-built sprawl of Tuttle Farm. A few bodies were working in front of the faded red building, along with a half dozen horses tied to a fence along the front.
A man caught us as he turned, waving as we approached. I waved back. The hospitality was a warm change. We rode the rest of the way in silence, our horses braying as we dug our heels in and pulled the reins.
“Howdy!” one of them called out, brushing his hands together and pulling off a pair of gloves. “What brings ya to the farm?”
I slid off the saddle and into the dirt. “Looking for someone, hoped you or someone here may have seen them?”
“Y’all ain’t cops, are ya?” His eyes darted between us, jaw flexing.
“He’s a priest, I’m a bartender,” Ezra said. “And no, this isn’t some dumb joke.”
I smiled. The fresh air felt nice.
“Pinkertons, neither?” He spat on the ground. I figured either habit or out of disdain for authority.
“Nope,” I responded. “We’re from Potter’s Field, we’re just up the road. My fault for not visiting more. Used to come by all the time with Orin.”
“Orin? Hans Orin?” His voice ticked upward..
“Do you know him?” Ezra asked.
Please let it be this easy, I thought. Just this once.
“I do! Haven’t seen him in a while though. He who you lookin’ for?”
“How long ago?” I blurted.
He looked at me, caught off guard by my outburst. “Uh, I don’t know. A couple months maybe?”
Ezra looked at me and I swear his eyes were going to pop out onto the ground. He’d kept the ruse alive long enough to twist the knife if I was wrong. Orin died nearly a decade ago, yet here he was.
“Do you know where we can find him?” I asked, skin buzzing.
He looked over his shoulder, thick neck bulging against his shirt collar. He pointed east, over the ridge. “He’s in a little settlement over that way. Pretty self-sufficient but comes into town occasionally to—” he looked at me, then to Ezra. “You boys sure you ain’t cops?”
I didn’t even acknowledge him. “Thank you, sir. We’ll be back and I’ll be sure to send folks to buy and trade with you.”
Ezra nodded and we mounted our horses, turning them east. With a wave over our shoulders, we were off, a fire devouring every speck of patience I had left.
“Really thought you were full of shit,” Ezra said. “Can’t believe the old man is still alive.”
“I can’t either. Itching to know why.”
I kicked the horse and rode faster, cresting the hill and following a less-made path than the one we trotted in on. It dawned on me that in our haste I’d failed to ask how far. He’d said he was ‘over that way’, which I interpreted as close. With my luck, could easily be another half of a day’s ride.
“How far out you think?” I asked.
“I’d guess a mile, maybe less. If he’s still visiting the farm now and then, he can’t be far. He’s got to be, what? Sixty? Seventy years old?”
I nodded. “Let’s just hope he hasn’t keeled over in the last couple months.”
“Wouldn’t that just be the shit,” Ezra snickered.
We passed through a thin copse, stumps ringing the path like broken teeth. A narrow cut of trail guided us through and up a steep hill. The horses whinnied at the incline, hooves slipping slightly in the soft earth. I clicked my tongue and gave mine a pat.
“Easy, girl.”
At the hill’s crest, we caught sight of the property. A tree-lined lane led to a low wooden gate, beyond which sat a large house. Big enough for two families, maybe three. The place was secluded. Serene, even. Couldn’t imagine a better place to fuck off to.
The path pulled us in, my heart slamming the air from my lungs. Branches overhead knotted into a mimicry of a cathedral arch. We trotted forward, drawn to the property.
“Nice place,” Ezra said.
I let out an exasperated chuckle. “Wonder how he paid for all this.”
“Money doesn’t have a lot of power out here,” he explained. “But if he’s working with the Tuttle’s, I’d assume they built this for him.”
We cantered past the gate, and up to the house, leaving our horses tied to the post. The lush yard was cut low, only broken up by large oaks that cast enough shade to swim in. We walked to the door. A layer of fresh, white paint surrounded a small brass knocker that hang in the center.
I tossed a look at Ezra, who looked just as anxious as I felt. “Here we go.”
Picked up the knocker. Dropped it.
Once. Twice.
And again.
31
Frontier Surgery | Sawyer
The poker shack.
I gripped the horns with one hand, gritting in pain as my shot arm jerked with every jostle of Maggie’s gallop. Leaned forward, trusting her to keep steady. Didn’t have the strength to hold onto her reins. My head spun, pain blurring my vision but propelling me forward.
A tacky, iron-tinged film coated my mouth, lingering in the back of my throat. Yellow still dried on my face, his blood flaking in the folds of my fingers. Needed to get there fast. I couldn’t be seen like this. Didn’t know when the next time the Boatman was going to hijack my body.
Desiree looked at me like I was a monster. She was the only person left in Potter’s Field that was on my side, and she turned a gun on me.
Rightfully so.
Blinding light filtered through the leaves. My eyes pulsed with every pounding step. She told me the shack was up this path. That no one would bother looking. Really hoped that was true.
The horns were getting heavy. Growing inwards. I think. Could only hope I was imagining my brain getting probed by a backwards-growing bone bullet. Had to believe it was the Boatman fucking with me.
Around the bend a small, red shack came into view. A lantern hung on the outside wall, long burnt out. The door sat ajar, but there was no movement in the window. No room in there to hide.
“Slow it,” I groaned, breathing in wild gulps to try to calm the swimming behind my eyes. Tried to listen as we approached. Didn’t have much of an effect. The more I tried to listen the more my ears rang.
Maggie drifted to a stop near a tie up, rolling her lips at me.
“I know, I know. We gotta get you out of sight. Gonna give me away out here.” She brayed, nodding in agreement. If there was anyone I could count on, it was her. “Thanks, Mags. This will be over soon.”
I knew what I had to do. Didn’t have a choice. It was either comply or the Boatman would kill me. Or make me. The only way I was getting out of this was finding out who the other crippled kid was and bringing them to him.
“If you know where the other one is, rabbit-man, I’m all ears!” I shouted. Shouldn’t have, but the rational part of me was shoved to the far back of my head, watching as I moved without my direction.
It didn’t answer me.
Led Maggie around the back, focusing on my head. My neck burned from the added weight. The light diffused into my eyes like a blanket, blotting out any details. Maggie shook her head. Upset with my current state just as much as I was.
Tied her to a tree around the back. She wasn’t completely hidden, but it’d do. She’d warn me if there was any real danger coming.
“You cause a ruckus if someone approaches, okay?”
She huffed.
“Thank you.”
I walked back to the front door and shouldered through. Something wet and foul twisted through the air, turning my nose up. The inside was shrouded in dark despite the daylight, long shadows competing with the one window letting in slicing beams of light.
“S-Sawyer?”
I froze. Squinted through the shadows.
In the corner, a thick silhouette slouched in a chair. The smell was coming from him.
“Is that y-you?”
Larry.
Despite the gargled, chopped voice, he sounded like himself. The curiousness in his voice slithered up my spine and squeezed.
“You’re dead.”
“Boone s-said that, too.” He stood up, dripping on the wood below. A slice of daylight cut across his face, revealing blue-fogged eyes and skin that drooped down his face. His lids hung in shreds, the thread that stitched them before now dangling from the corners. His lips were in the same state.
He took a step forward.
“Wait!” I shouted, holding my palms out to him. He stopped. “Wait. I’m sorry. This isn’t my fault.”
“You d-dug me up.”
“Yes, I did. I shouldn’t have.” I took a step back.
His eyes narrowed. “Where are my t-tolls?”
I took another step back. Patted my pocket.
Fuck.
The sound of the coins spinning to a stop against the stone in the cave sang in my ears.
“I… I lost them.”
In a step, Larry crossed to me, gripping my horns. He pulled, his inhuman strength launching me over the short table in the middle of the room. My ribs cracked the corner, sliding off the far side and crashing against the wall under the window.
He crossed, tossing the table out of the way. I held my hands up but it was too late. He grabbed me by my wrists, lifting me like a pillow and hurling me toward the stove on the other side. Tried to catch my footing but careened into the corner of the metal, glancing my shoulder on it and tumbling over a basket of pokers.
Pain lit up my whole body. My arm was dripping again, vision whiting out. The shadow of Larry lumbered in my periphery.
Now would be a great time to help, I begged the voice in my head.
He grabbed my shirt, yanking me to my feet. Death rode on his breath, choking me as he pulled me closer, mouth and inch from mine.
“Fix me. Or I’ll rip you l-limb from l-limb,” he hissed.
Fists gripped my shirt harder and he pushed, lifting me off my feet and into the wall. The weight of my horns forced my neck and my head cracked on the wall.
A groan escaped me as Larry walked away, the shed fading to black around me.
* * *
I hitched a breath, a lightning bolt of pain striking through my head.
Pulled myself forward, hair and dried blood peeling off the wooden wall behind me and tugging at my scalp. With a rip, I freed myself from the wood. Everything throbbed: my back, my head, my shoulder.
Got my ass handed to me by a dead guy.
At least he didn’t kill me.
My legs wobbled as I stood. Grabbed onto the stove to steady myself, only for my arm to light up like a funeral pyre.
Fuck.
The bullet was still in there.
I rummaged around on the stove, looking for anything that could help, then snatched up a boning knife and a spoon. Frontier surgery, it is. I tossed them on the table behind me and moved to a nearby cabinet, wrenching it open.
A bottle of gin and a sewing kit. Couldn’t have gotten more lucky. Grabbed them out and placed them on the table as well.
Sitting, I popped open the gin and took a long pull. Never was a drinking man but circumstances made for one. Gagged and pulled the bottle away. Looked at it like it slapped me. Foul shit.
Rolled up my sleeve. The wound had mostly quit leaking, which was great news. No arteries hit. But if I didn’t get the bullet out soon it would get infected, if it wasn’t already. A thin layer of crusted blood ringed the puckered hole. I wiped at it with my hand, breaking open the scabs and starting a new flow of red.
Only gonna get worse.
Picked the bottle up again and poured it over the wound. I hissed, the sting radiating down my arm. Slapped it once, the clear liquid going pink in the hole.
Stared at the boning knife. The knife was thin and mean-looking—five inches of curved steel, narrow as a finger and honed to a flexing edge. The blade had a slight bend to it, made for working tight around bone and sinew.
Perfect.
Picked it up, hand trembling as I brought it to my arm. Would have to widen the wound to get the spoon in there. Could try with my fingers but it’d be quicker work with the spoon. Held the knife there, daring myself to do it.
Coward.
The tip of the blade slipped in the hole, carving out one side of the wall. I jerked, the pain lighting up every nerve in my body. Bit down on my cheek. Curled the knife around the edge, flaying a wider hole.
A chunk of flesh fell to the floor, followed by a new stream of blood. Tears welled in my eyes, head airy. I dropped the knife, leaning back in the chair. Goosebumps crawled my body but I couldn’t stop sweating.
Sat forward, taking a deep breath. That was the easy part. I laughed to myself. How far I’d come for two silver coins. That I’d lost.
Picked up the spoon. Didn’t hesitate this time. Jammed it in, growling low under my breath. Twisted it around, waiting to feel it. Maybe hear the slight tink of metal on metal. Blood poured down my arm, dripping from my fingers in soft, wet pats on the floor.
Crammed it to the right. Left.
Tink.
Spun the spoon around, teasing the tip under the bullet. Had to look away to focus. The way my skin was folding and puckering around the spoon made my stomach turn. My vision spun, desperately trying to scoop it before I blacked out.
The spoon landed under the bullet.
I sucked in a breath, braced, and ripped it up. A wet crack—followed by a spray of red across my face.
The bullet skittered across the floor.
Hurrying, I cracked open the sewing kit, pressing a ball of yarn against the wound. Fumbled with the thread and needle, growing colder by the second.
Missed the loop.
Dropped the needle.
“Fuck, fuck,” I whispered, trying to keep my hands steady.
The thread slipped through the loop. Tied it off. Dropped the yarn and started to stitch my arm closed.
One poke. A second. Tighten.
Barely felt it anymore.
Another.
Finished stitching myself up, leaning down to grab the yarn. Pressed it hard against the wound to soak up what leaked. A deep bruise was already blooming around it, but at least the bullet was out. Was going to hurt like a sonofabitch for a while.
Took another long swig off the bottle. And another.
“Fix me. Or I’ll rip you l-limb from l-limb,” Larry warned, his gargled voice echoing in the walls.
The gin’s warmth spread through my body. My pulse slammed in my skull.
At least I could wait out the daylight here.
Then I’d find Reed.
32
Cradle | Desiree
The ground was still wet with blood.
But Yellow was gone, replaced by a shallow divot in the dirt. The spot where he’d fallen was bare—mud now, ringed by crushed grass, as if the earth had been poisoned beneath him.
I stared, an icy numbness crawling over every inch of my body. The red-slicked dirt shimmered under the rain. It reeked, the iron tang of blood mixing with something else, something electric that made my teeth ache. Blood threaded through the water, pooling at the bottom before being swallowed by the earth.
I knew what this was. Didn’t want to.
It happened at Larry’s grave. Those Sheolite tendrils. The smell, the silence, the churned-up ground.
The Boatman had pulled Yellow under.
Ate him.
A sob rocked my chest. I didn’t fight it this time. My tears mixed with the rain, chin turned down and willing his body back to the surface. It was no use. Those purple-black tongues had wrapped him up and swallowed him.
I’d never see him again. We’d never get to bury him.
“I’m sorry,” I cried, crouching and burying my head between my knees. My ribs ached from the pressure, head throbbing with each suck of breath. I didn’t know what to do. Yellow was dead. Boone abandoned me. Even Mabel was being curt, if not offensive. Esther wanted nothing to do with me.
And Reed was being hunted by the same person who killed Yellow.
I stood, wiping the snot from my nose and blinking the tears away. I drew a deep breath and held it, steeling myself.
Or pretended to.
There was no point in standing here. He was gone. Dwelling on what happened or what the Boatman was doing to him wouldn’t help Reed when Sawyer got his hands on him.
Said a quick prayer and apologized again before heading back to town.
If no one else was going to give a fuck, I guess I would have to.
* * *
The river trickled to my left as I crossed behind Mabel’s house. Couldn’t go through town again and risk being stopped by someone at the bar or, God forbid, run into Mabel while passing through her yard.
Decided to take the route through the cemetery to get to the church.
Soggy ground pulled at my boots with every step. Some of the engraved rocks were sinking into the ground, laying crooked and half-buried. The plots themselves sunk even further, like they had lost some dirt in the process of filling the hole.
Very similar to the spot where Alex had died.
The thought wedged under my skin like a splinter. Didn’t dwell on it.
Hurrying through the grounds, I passed Larry’s plot, which still hadn’t been filled. Two piles of dirt lay next to an open hole, now filled halfway with stagnant water.
The bell tower loomed over me. I looked up at it, vertigo taking hold for a second. One good shake and the bell would drop, drive me straight into the mud like a stake. I shook my head and hurried past, bounding up the chapel stairs. The doors pulled open without a fight, dropping me into the thick silence of the church.
“Reed?” I called out, my voice cracking as it echoed back to me. “Are you here?”
Nothing. Only the sound of muted rain from outside.
I walked between the pews, silent as a mouse, eyes darting between rows. Kept waiting for a pair of horns to poke up, Sawyer’s wretched face to grin at me. Each step groaned on the old floor. It smelled of mildew and myrrh, the bitterness of burnt sap curling beneath it.
