Ed Saunders saw no one else as he made his way back through the municipality. Even at top speed, the Jeep didn’t move that fast and it took him more than forty-five minutes to get near to Rosen’s homestead. With a massive sense of de javu from his last flashback, he slowed the 4x4 down, but this time cruised passed the opening for Rosen’s land and finally parked in the same place that he, Buster and the others had hidden in earlier that evening. Now, as he made his way on foot towards the dwellings, there was just the faintest hint of light coming over the land as dawn approached. He reached under his jacket, pulling out the 9mm Browning from its old leather shoulder holster. He didn’t know if he could actually fire this or any other weapon for that matter. He had vowed to himself on that day in the Vietnamese village when he had watched that little girl die in his arms, to never fire another gun, and so far he had been completely successful. But Rosen was an incredibly dangerous and ruthless killer, so Ed released the safety catch, pulled the slide smoothly back to chamber a round then put the safety back on. The last thing he wanted to do was stumble in the dark and shot his own foot off. Including his flashback, which hadn’t seemed to let him down yet, this was the third time he had walked this route so he knew where he was going, so he made swift progress through the acre or so of Buckeye, firs and occasional oaks until he reached the barbed-wire fence that delineated Rosen’s yard from the woods. He leaned down next to one of the wooden fence posts and noticed that it had a very old hole punched into it that looked a lot like a nick made by a gunshot, and he thought he knew when and how it had got there. He turned his attention back to the job at hand and surveyed the area. In the half-light, he couldn’t see any cars parked outside of the main house or near the barn, but he wasn’t feeling reckless, so he stepped back into the wood line slightly and worked his way around the estate until he could see around back of the building. Nothing but a few rusted out wrecks, including what was left of the old Dodge pick- up he had seen on his first day here in Ludlow. He stopped to look at it for a moment. The picture of Gracie banging at the window as it raced through the intersection still seemed very fresh and very real, and now knowing her fate, very painful. Ed could feel his anger rising but he forced himself to calm down and focus on staying safe. He came across a small gate in the wire fencing held in place by a loop of rope. He unhitched it from the wooden post and silently entered the back yard.
No lights shone from the back of the house, and he had seen none at the front, but Ed wasn’t taking any chances. His army training had told him to zigzag when moving forward but he made a beeline for the back door, crossing the thirty yards in just a few seconds. Half expecting it to be locked, Ed turned the doorknob and the door swung easily inwards. His night vision was enough to let him know that he had entered a utility room attached to the kitchen. He made his way deftly through, seeing glasses, cutlery and plates left where they had been abandoned earlier that evening. A creaky floorboard stopped him in his tracks as he entered the main hallway; he froze and listened. Nothing moved, nothing stirred. With a two-handed grip on the butt of his pistol, the barrel pointed the way he looked, Ed continued on and checked the whole of the downstairs and found it empty. He made his way back to the foot of the stairs and as he stepped onto the first carpeted step the hallway was awash with light as a car’s headlamps flooded through windows, then as quickly as it had become light, darkness returned as the car swung away from the house and headed toward the old Dutch barn. Ed had instinctively ducked down when the lights had faced the building, but now, back in the darkness he moved quickly to the front door and opened it a fraction to peak out. He could just make out one side of the barn. He opened the door wider and noticed the red paint, now dry, that he had applied a lifetime ago it now seemed. He ventured out further onto the wooden veranda and could now see one of the big barn doors but the rest of the building was still out of sight. With his back to the wall, he made his way to the end of the porch and looked around. With the left barn door closed but the other open, Ed could see the nose of the Ford police cruiser was just inside the barn, the driver’s door wide open, engine still running and lights still on. He unclicked the safety catch then vaulted one handed over the wooded rail of the porch onto the compact, dusty earth of the yard. Crouching down he ran for the barn. The lights inside the barn had been turned on and threw long shadows into the old stalls. He slid around the closed door and made for the first stall on the left. Empty. He checked the stalls on the opposite side, they looked empty but the backs were shrouded in darkness. He worked his way down the barn, getting closer and closer to the sacrificial altar at the end. He reached the last stall before the open expanse at the end, as yet undiscovered. He took a deep breath then stepped boldly into the well-lit area, arcing his pistol left to right, searching for a target. It was empty and looked exactly how he had left it on his last visit, except the sacks of grain in the left corner had been moved and the hatch was open that lead down to Rosen’s hideaway. He stepped forwards very slowly to the edge, first pressure on the trigger, pointing the Browning down into the hole. He peered over and could see almost the whole room, and except for a pile of ropes in one corner, and a few wooden boxes in another, it was empty.
“D’ya think I was picked before I was ripe boy?”
Ed swung around to see Sheriff Rosen’s skeletal grin over the top of his revolver. The sheriff had been standing in the shadows of the last stall on the right.
“Drop the weapon and kick it over here.” ordered Rosen. Ed had a millisecond to think about what to do. There was no way that Rosen was going to let him live, whatever he did, so there was little to lose. Ed started to lower his Browning as if to capitulate then quickly snapped it back up and pulled the trigger then darted to the left towards the altar. The crack of the 9mm Browning was matched by the roar of the sheriff’s revolver as he fired back at Ed, the cacophony sounded deafening within the confines of the wooden barn and Ed felt the round whiz past his head. He dived up onto the raised dais and behind the altar. Another shot took a chunk of marble out of the corner of the obscene structure. On hands and knees, Ed crawled across the midnight blue carpet to the other end of the piece of torture equipment, then crouching down he got to his feet. He stood and fired at where Rosen had been standing just a few seconds before but the shot went harmlessly into one of the stall sides. The sheriff had moved more to the left, nearer the entrance of the hideaway and was waiting for Ed to pop up. Too late Ed saw Rosen fire and dived to the right but the bullet had already punched through Ed’s left shoulder, spinning him around while the bullet carried on and hit the wall at the back. The wound felt like nothing more than a bee sting but it had bowled him completely over and caused him to drop his gun. His left arm went limp but he managed to find his weapon and grip it with his right hand, but it was precious seconds too late for Ed. He turned and saw that the sheriff had joined him on the wooden podium, his evil smile not wavering as he raised his revolver and pointed it towards Ed’s head.
“Goodbye Mister Saunders, you have been a royal pain in the ass.” and squeezed the trigger.
THIRTY-EIGHT
“Noooooo!” The scream came from the barn door just as Rosen pulled the trigger. He instinctively jerked in that direction making the shot go high and wide but it still hit Ed’s skull, opening a wound on the left side of his head. His body fell heavily back to the floor once more, blood flowing freely into the blue carpet making it look black. On the wall above the tool bench, an old rusty scythe with a short wooden handle and long curved blade twitched.