Claire was crawling out of the bedroom behind him. “Where…where… you going?” she said between two broken lips. Her whole face was swollen until both her eyes were just slits and the skin around them was green and bulging like the face of a fly. “Had enough… sissy?”
Elijah shook his head, “You are one twisted woman.” He braced himself against the wall and was able to get up on his good leg to limp into the kitchen. At the edge of the counter, he lost his grip and toppled onto the tile floor. He groaned and wheezed with laughter at his own misfortune. Elijah reached up for the ledge of the countertop and fished around the pile of utensils and pricked his finger on the blade of a sharp knife.
Claire was still coming, calling to him from the hallway, “We’re gonna finish this.”
Elijah rested on his elbow on the floor for a moment before taking the knife down. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and said, “I could not agree more.”
Claire did not respond as Elijah crawled back out of the kitchen. “You fought like a tiger, gorgeous. I hope you still have some fight left in you.” He came into the hallway and came face to face with Claire, who did not look at him. Her eyes were turned toward the other end of the hall, by the front door and she mouthed the name, “Jem.”
Elijah laughed at her and said, “It’s just us, honeypot. And I’m gonna enjoy this more than you can—”
A hand grabbed Elijah Harpe by the ankle of his bad leg and yanked him down to the floor. Elijah looked back in disbelief and saw Jem Clayton standing over him, his eyes blazing with hellfire.
Jem dug into his pocket for the balled-up mask of black fabric. He shook it into the dusty winds that swept through the canyon.
The wrecked ship’s parts were no longer smoking, and were now covered over with dirt and sand. The charred body of the pilot was gone. Jem reasoned that it had been picked over by birds and other scavengers, and the bones were carried off by creatures that were gnawing on them in caves at that very moment.
He unfolded the mask and tied it around the back of his neck, then pulled it up over his mouth and nose. He tapped Elijah Harpe on the cheek and peeled one of his eyes open. “Anybody home, Elijah?”
Elijah tried to speak but couldn’t. He toppled over on his side and shot up on one shoulder to keep the torn flesh of his back off of the scalding sand. There was a rope tied around his waist, and its harsh fibers were thorns digging into his raw wounds. Jem had dragged him from the back of his destrier from Claire’s homestead. His bandages had long-since ripped off and the stitches on his leg had torn open. His old wounds were leaking, and so were all the new ones.
“You recognize where we are, Elijah? Back where we first met. I should have killed you right there. Time to correct that.”
Elijah squinted and looked around at the canyon where the ship had crashed. His shoulder gave out and he rolled over on his back, no longer able to feel the burning sand and rock on his open skin. He smiled at Jem. “None of us can hide from God.”
Jem fished in his shirt pocket for the torn photograph he found on the Sheriff’s desk. “Good thing you left this behind,” he said. “Otherwise, I’d probably still be looking for you.” He dug into Elijah’s pockets for the torn piece, and found it. Jem reached behind his back for the long kitchen knife and drew it out to show Elijah.
The blade reflected light into Elijah’s eyes, but he ignored it and stared straight at the sun’s fiery surface. He forced his eyes to stay open until tears ran down his cheeks and everything around him became opaque. “I can see it,” Elijah gasped. “I see the glory.”
“Well, just keep looking at it. Let me know if you get there.”
Jem stuck the tip of the blade into the soft flesh at the center of Elijah’s throat and pushed until blood bubbled through. He sawed at the skin and tissue until his knife caught on bone. Elijah did not scream or even struggle. He laid there, grunting as Jem worked the blade back and forth, cutting until he was able to grab a handful of Elijah’s hair and tear the head the rest of the way off.
He lifted Elijah’s head and stared into the wide, vacant eyes, watching as the muscles in the face continued to twitch and the mouth worked up and down with no sound coming out of it.
Jem carried the head through the crash site, looking for a place to mount it. There was a length of metal sticking out of the hull, and Jem jammed Elijah’s head onto its tip, twisting until it was firmly seated.
He wiped his hands in the dirt and scrubbed them with sand, wiping away the clumps of blood from his fingers and flicking them into the dirt. He pulled off his mask and wiped off his hands, then balled up the black mask and threw it to the ground. A destrier snorted from the cliff above. Someone was watching him.
The destrier’s rider coughed into his fist and lifted up his hand to wave to Jem. Royce Halladay walked his mount down the cliff and into the canyon, eyeing the burnt equipment littered across the valley, then coming to the place where Jem had spiked Elijah’s head. Halladay smoothed his mustache with the tip of his finger as he admired the sight and said, “Well, now I suppose that I should be angry with you, Jem Clayton. Had I known that you were interesting in barbering, I would never have paid those thieves in Seneca 5 so much money. I fear the finer points of the art may have escaped you, however.” Jem turned away from Halladay and headed back toward his destrier.
“Forgive me if the situation did not call for levity, Jem. Let us not lose our heads over it, what do you say?”
Jem pulled himself into the saddle and looked back, “Twenty years is a long time to be away, Doc. Why the sudden interest in returning to Seneca 6?”
“I heard there might be trouble.”
Jem spurred his ride to close the distance between them. He leaned close to Halladay and said, “Let’s just cut the shit, old man. I know what you are and you know what I am. If you followed me here to try and lure me into a trap, you’re going to suffer for it. I swear on my father’s soul that no reward money in the world is worth the misery I will impart on you for trying.”
Royce Halladay’s eyes narrowed and he said, “Do you recall an incident when you were ten years old? Sam brought you to see me because you had spots all over your face and he was worried you were coming down with the clumps. Do you remember?”
“I remember I bit you.”
“Correct!” Halladay said. “I tried placing a thermometer into your mouth and you bit me because you were an ungrateful, mean little bastard that didn’t know when someone was trying to offer you assistance.”
“That was then. You ain’t a doctor anymore and I ain’t ten. You expect me to believe a vicious killer like you gives a damn about me or anyone else on this rock?”
“I expect you to show me the proper respect due a man who is faster than you, a better shot than you, and only tolerating your continued existence out of respect to a dear, departed friend.”
Jem opened his mouth to speak but found nothing came out. Halladay smirked at him and pulled on his reins, turning away from Jem to head back up the trail.
“You ain’t that fast, old man,” Jem said.
“Fast enough for you, boy. Fast enough for you.”
15. The Air Smelled Like Snakes
Harlan Wells was still twitching when the crowd piled on top of him. His frail limbs retracted and quivered even as the townsfolk stomped him, turning his face to jelly and his body into a bag of crunching bones. “String him up!” a miner announced.