Either God or luck was on his side and the knife found the creature’s eye. Paul felt a slight resistance then felt the knife slide home. He wasn’t sure if he actually heard a pop, or just imagined that’s what it would sound like. The beast released him, its tentacles flailing madly at the knife. Paul let go of it and scrambled toward the canoe. With his one good arm and a lot of adrenaline, he pushed the canoe free and dove into it. The vessel rocked wildly for a moment, threatening to dump Paul and the girl back into the lake. Back into the clutches of whatever beast Paul had just battled. When it stabilized, Paul got himself into the middle seat. He grabbed a coil of rope from under the seat and used it to lash his useless arm to the paddle. Grabbing the other oar with his good hand, he began rowing, using his entire body to pull the left oar as his dying arm screamed in agony with every movement. He ignored the pain, rowing like the Devil himself was chasing him. Just maybe it was.
Paul’s mind tried to reject this memory. A wave of terror like nothing he had ever experienced during his panic attacks engulfed him. The dread wrapped itself around him, paralyzing him.
“What the fuck…” Dale muttered.
Paul’s eyes snapped open to see both beams pointing to the opposite end of the cavern where a flickering yellow glow was brightening. One beam clicked off. “Kill the light.” Dale ordered, and the second light blinked out. Paul watched as the glow brightened and his eyes adjusted to where he could make out the shape of another entrance at the far side of the cave.
And before Paul could plan his next move, everything changed.
(98)
Paul watched in silent dread as the glow resolved itself into a lantern, and that lantern was followed into the cave by Denny. He stood in the entrance for a long moment and Paul began to think he had ventured here alone. Then he turned and said something before stepping deeper into the cavern. Two figures followed him, and though Paul could only see silhouettes, he knew one was Billy and figured the other to be Father McCarthy. They spoke in hushed whispers made indistinguishable by the distance and the strange acoustics caused by the walls. Paul ran through a series of ways this scene could play out, and none of them ended well. The three figures were huddled together and Paul saw the spark of a match. Suddenly the three figures were illuminated by the light of a more powerful lantern and as Paul’s eyes adjusted, he realized the third person was not Father McCarthy.
“Well, well, well, look who’s here!”
Denny, Billy and the old man (who is that?) stared in the darkness beyond the reach of the lantern. His mind flashed on that night back in Billy’s house when there was a mysterious third glass on the table. Flashlights clicked and Dale and Buddy were grinning like a couple of demented jack-o-lanterns as they held their flashlights shining up on their faces. They stepped into the circle of the lantern’s glow and snapped their flashlights back off.
The old man spoke, unaware of just how bad this shit was going to get. “Boys, you need to get out of here, it’s not safe.”
Dale turned to Buddy. “Did you hear that? It’s not safe!” Buddy brayed like a jackass as Dale reached into his belt and pulled the gun. “You bet your wrinkly ass it’s not safe, old man.”
The old man took a step toward Crawford. “What the hell are you…”
He was cut off and stopped in his tracks as a gunshot cut the stillness. Dale had fired into the air. It was deafening as it echoed in the rock chamber and Paul made his move. He whispered to Julie to stay put, unsure if she was still conscious or not. He covered the ground quickly, hoping Dale’s ears were still ringing. Either hearing Paul’s footsteps crunching toward him or else alerted by the looks of surprise on Denny, Billy and the old man, Crawford turned as Greymore launched at him. The gun exploded a split second before Greymore hit Crawford. He hit him high, ramming his shoulder square into Dale’s sternum. The blow sent Dale’s arms and head flailing as the two flew through the air. The gun crunched to the cave floor in a small cloud of bone dust as Paul came down hard on top of Crawford. Paul leaped to his feet to retrieve the weapon, but Denny had already pounced on it. Dale moaned and gasped, trying to get precious air into his lungs. Buddy was staring warily at the scene, unable to make a move without orders from his fallen leader. Denny was wildly swinging the gun back and forth between Dale and Buddy while Billy and the old man stood silently, waiting for whatever came next.
Paul had hurt his shoulder in the collision with Dale and tried to move his arm to loosen it up. He went to rub it with his left hand and was confused when he felt the warm, wetness on his shirt. Realizing Crawford’s bullet hadn’t gone astray, he wiped his hand on his pants and took charge, sensing the good guys were in control of the situation. He would deal with his own problem later. “Billy, your sister is over against the cave wall. She’s hurt but she’ll be okay. Take this shit’s light”—he jerked his chin at Buddy—“and go get her. Denny, keep the gun on Crawford while… I’m sorry, who are you?” He was looking at the old man.
Mossy stepped forward. “I’m Moses Blaakman, Denny’s grandfather. Call me Mossy.”
Paul shook the man’s hand, wincing as he did. The old man was looking at Paul’s shoulder with an eyebrow arched. Paul gave a barely discernible shake of his head and the man nodded in understanding. “Paul Greymore, pleased to meet you. Give me a hand with this piece of garbage, if you don’t mind.” The two men forced Buddy to the ground in a sitting position, and with rope from Mossy’s backpack, tied his hands behind his back.
“Dale! Where are you!” The voice echoed insanely through the cavern.
Paul knew immediately it was the third punk that had been left behind when he hurt himself. Before he could react, Buddy yelled. “We’re in here…” Paul silenced him with an elbow to the head.
“Come on, Mossy, more trash to pick up. Denny, are you okay with him?”
Denny only nodded and Paul looked at him for a long moment before deciding he would be okay. Crawford was still not moving. Paul grabbed Mossy’s sleeve and led him back in the direction he and Julie had entered from, knowing that’s where the voice came from.
(99)
Father McCarthy glanced nervously at Cody Crawford. It had crossed his mind more than once as they stumbled through the dark woods that Crawford might just be crazy enough to kill him. The man had ranted about Greymore, pausing only for occasional gulps from his flask. Finally he had raised the flask to his lips and nothing came. He looked at it with a mixture of confusion and anger before grunting and throwing it into the darkness. That had plunged him into a morose silence interrupted by random mumblings that McCarthy could not decipher, yet which chilled him more than the earlier outbursts. One thing was sure, however: they were lost.
“Do you really believe in God, preacher-man? I mean really believe?”
The question and the weird tone with which it was asked put McCarthy on high alert. “Of course I do, Chief, don’t you?” McCarthy waited, thinking Crawford wasn’t going to answer. Finally he did, then McCarthy wished he hadn’t.
“I believe in death. And I believe in evil. But God? No, no god would let things happen the way they do.” He reached for his flask but came up empty. “You also believe Greymore is innocent, so where was your god while he was rotting away up in Braxton? Where was he when I was tossing my dead wife’s body down a well?”