“Shut up, shut up,” Munver sneered, aiming the rifle and almost firing at the back of Garrett’s head. He only held back because he recognized the absurdity of wasting a bullet on a dead man.
“They’re always poor,” the voice continued. “They always died violently, or in sin. Those are a few of the things they always have in common. Beyond that, I’m not sure. But the Lord has been leading me to them for the past few years, across several states. Sometimes I have to steal the bodies, other times I can persuade people to let me take them. And sometimes, like this occasion, I have to make a purchase and buy them. Then I take them home, and my wife and I have worked out what’s the best thing to do with them next. You can’t interrupt that process, Mr. Munver. I need you to give the man his coin back.”
“None of this is true,” Munver replied.
“Really?” Garrett’s voice chuckled again. “You’re telling a dead man that he’s wrong about death?”
“You’re not really talking to me!” Munver yelled angrily. “You’re all in my head!”
“I don’t know what happens when a coin’s taken from one of them,” the voice said. “It’s never happened before, not on my watch. I imagine he’ll be mighty angry, but maybe you can make amends if you just give it back to him. Of course, you didn’t just take the coin, did you? You did other things, things there might be no coming back from. You’re a disgusting little creep, Mr. Munver, and I’m not sure there are any amends you can make that’ll save your skin. But I’m telling you how you can at least try.”
“No!” Munver said, lowering the rifle and then sticking his fingers in his ears. “I’m not hearing any of this.”
“He’s out there waiting,” Garrett’s voice replied, and Munver could still just about hear him. “He’s not going away. You can’t sit it out in here forever, so what are you going to do?”
Munver squeezed his eyes tight shut and pushed his fingers deeper, harder into his ears. Yet he could still hear Garrett’s voice a moment later when the dead man spoke again.
“You’d better pray that he shows you some mercy, Mr. Munver. If he doesn’t, I don’t know what’ll happen to you but I know it’ll be—”
“SHUT UP!” Munver screamed, opening his eyes, grabbing the rifle and firing twice at the back of Garrett’s head. The first shot missed and shattered a pane in the window, and the second shot hit the side of Garrett’s head and blew a chunk of skull and flesh clean away.
Munver got to his feet and stepped forward, taking a moment to aim a little better, but when he pulled the trigger he felt only a faint, impotent clicking sound.
He tried again, but he was all out of shots, and he knew that there was no more ammunition anywhere in the cabin.
Breathlessly, Munver stared at the back of Garrett’s half-exploded head.
“Better get thinking, boy,” Garrett’s voice said, with a hint of a chuckle in his tone. “Time’s a-ticking’…”
He let out a faint, amused whistle, and then he fell silent.
Munver didn’t dare move, not for several minutes. The wind sounded so much louder, now that it could blow straight through the shattered window pane, and flecks of snow were starting to drift into the cabin and fall to the floor. Staring at the window, Munver watched for any hint of movement, but all he saw were swirls of snow dancing in the gale. The night was still dark, and the cabin’s roof still shuddered sometimes as the wind began to swell, and the door rattled a little in its frame, but Munver barely even dared to breathe. Fear had exploded all throughout his body like a plant earlier, and now that plant’s leaves and roots were all dying, threatening to take the rest of his soul with them.
Sixteen
After several hours, glimmers of morning light began to pick out the edges of the broken glass in the window.
Stuart Munver, who still hadn’t dared move since he’d heard Garrett’s voice, remained standing with his rifle aimed forward. The weapon was no use, not anymore, but it still felt good to have its weight in his hands. He told himself that if the worst happened, if he really needed to fire the rifle, then maybe just maybe one last shot would miraculously materialize for him. Deep down, he knew the idea was foolish, but it was the only hope to which he could still cling, so he clung to it desperately.
The gold coin was still in his pocket.
His eyes hadn’t once moved during the night, save for blinking. He’d been staring at the window, waiting in case a figure appeared on the other side, but so far there had been nothing. He’d been listening, too, to the door behind him, just in case there were any more knocks or any sounds that indicated somebody trying to gain entry. This, too, had failed to happen, although he couldn’t yet bring himself to believe that he was alone.
And then there was Garrett’s body.
Munver hadn’t looked directly at the dead man, not since blasting the side of his head clean away. He was just relieved that the relentless, mocking voice had finally stopped speaking to him. That had been part of his madness, he was sure, and its absence now meant that he was clearly recovering from whatever mania had temporarily gripped him during the night. That was what he told himself, anyway, although he could hear Garrett’s last words still echoing in the back of his mind, still teasing and taunting him:
“Better get thinking, boy. Time’s a-ticking’…”
Why wouldn’t that infernal dead man just shut up in his thoughts?
And then there had been that final, haunting whistle.
As he stood and stared at the window, and as he realized he could just about make out the cart in the rising morning light, Munver realized that it was getting past time for him to head out of the valley. The sun was rising behind the tree-line to the east, casting a faint glow that was only getting stronger with each passing minute. Snow was still falling, but not with the same ferocity as before, and in the past half hour the gale had noticeably weakened. Conditions still weren’t ideal, Munver knew that, but at least it was looking possible for a man to make it out of the valley and then reach the main trail, and from there he was certain he could get to the nearest town. And then…
Then riches.
Wealth.
Glory.
It was all within his grasp. All he had to do was get away from the cabin and reach civilization. And, it seemed, keep his mind clear of all the crazy fantasies that had built up during the night.
Finally, suddenly, surprising even himself – Stuart Munver began to laugh.
The laugh became a giggle, and the giggle became a throaty roar, and eventually he had to step back and lean against the wall. This fit of laughter was taking him over now, causing his whole body to roar, and he laughed and laughed even as he wondered why any of this was happening. He supposed that it must be relief, and slowly he slid down until he was sitting on the floor with the rifle resting on his lap, and he allowed himself to keep laughing even as his belly began to hurt. He knew he probably sounded insane, but he figured there was no harm, not with there being no-one else about. Besides, better to get it out now, before setting out on the long journey home.
“Mr. Garrett,” he said finally, once he could speak again, with tears of joy streaming down his face, “I am so very glad that you turned up here yesterday evening. I know things haven’t quite gone too well between us, but really, I will never forget you. I might even raise a drink to you, once I’m rich and fabulous.”