The officer stood to return to his squad car, but Okoya grabbed him by the arm.
“Just one more thing.”
The man turned his eyes to Okoya, and Okoya silently, secretly, lashed out. Fine tendrils of pink light shot from Okoya’s eyes, dancing across the officer’s face, penetrating the pores of his skin. The tendrils reached way down, and drained out the very thing that made the man human:
His consciousness.
His essence.
His soul.
The Bringer devoured this man’s life force—just as he had done to many residents of Shiprock, New Mexico, and a string of others between there and here. Each one small but satisfying, like a plate of hors d’oeuvres.
When it was done, the living shell of the county deputy stumbled for an instant, unable to know or understand what had been torn from him.
“Whoa—must have gotten up too fast,” the man’s shell said, regaining its balance. “Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”
Okoya let go of his arm. “It wasn’t important.”
The officer nodded a quick farewell, and returned to his squad car, never knowing that, although his body went through the motions, he was as lifeless a vessel as the car he drove.
Okoya watched him go, wondering how many human souls he could devour in a single day without feeling too terribly bloated. Forty? Fifty? He’d have to find out.
His smile broadened as he went back into the castle. Yes, things were going very well indeed!
13. Old Man Murder
The Shiprock Chieftains kicked a field goal, putting them eight points ahead of Toadlena, deep into the third quarter. If the streets of Shiprock were quiet on this windy Friday night, it was with good reason: Toadlena and Shiprock Highs had been rivals ever since the game of football came to Navajo land. This had been the Chieftains’ most winning season in years, and the games brought out most of the town.
Radio Joe had arrived during the first quarter, but had little interest in the game. Instead he wandered the bleachers, and loitered around the concession stand, munching on some frybread, biding his time. He watched the evening’s spectators, making brief eye contact with everyone he passed. He made his way through the stands, squeezing through the crowds, taking a seat, then moving, then moving again. By the time the third quarter rolled around, he had worked the crowd well. He knew the faces and the eyes of the spectators—or at least the ones he needed to remember.
He went out to his truck, a rusted old Ford that had seen him through the latter part of his life, then systematically he began to fill the many pockets and compartments of a hunting jacket he had picked up in Flagstaff. The various weapons all fit handily into the jacket—all except the Winchester 1300 he had taken from Mary Wahomigie. That he hid in a trash can closer to the stadium. The band played a familiar fight song, only the drums and brass instruments making it through the baffling of the crowded bleachers. He whistled the tune, trying to clear and purify his mind for the task at hand.
Across the parking lot, a middle-aged man checked unhappily under the hood of his Corolla.
“Engine trouble?” Radio Joe asked as he drew near.
“Fuel pump, I think. Just had the damn thing fixed last month.”
“Mind if I have a look?”
“You a mechanic?” the man asked.
“Electrician,” Radio Joe answered truthfully, “but I’ve fixed an engine or two.” He turned to the engine, but only so he could withdraw the hunting knife from his sleeve pouch.
“What do you think?” the man asked, leaning over Joe’s shoulder.
Radio Joe turned quickly and buried the knife to its hilt between the man’s upper ribs. It slid in silently. Then he twisted it ninety degrees, shredding his aorta and ventricle walls.
The man gasped, and Radio Joe clasped his free hand over his mouth, pushing him back against the side of the car. “Out of respect for your devoured soul, I put this body to rest.” Thick blood, almost black in the dim light, pumped out between Radio Joe’s fingers, but he did not remove the knife. The man groaned, too weak to scream. Radio Joe took his hand from the man’s mouth, then cradled his head, gently helping him to the ground.
“Shh,” he said. “Let it come peacefully.”
The man gurgled out something that sounded like a question, and then went limp. Only then did Radio Joe pull the knife from his heart. He slipped the body into the back seat of the Corolla, then wiped his hands on the parking lot gravel.
At the south end of the stadium, he followed a large woman into the ladies room, and strong-armed his way into her stall. She screamed instantly, alerting any occupants of the stalls around them.
Sloppy, he thought, chiding himself. He had to be quick about this now, but the hunting knife would not do, for she had already begun to fight him, and her arms were longer than his. Instead he slid out the machete he had always used to slash overgrown weeds from his yard. A single hack to the woman’s neck silenced her, but set off a geyser of arterial blood that flooded the floor.
“What’s going on in there?” demanded a woman in the next stall.
Again Radio Joe cursed himself, for the element of stealth was the only advantage he had, and now it was gone.
“Oh my God!” The woman beside them screamed as the floor tiles beneath her slowly grouted red.
Radio Joe ran from the restroom, knowing he could not afford to give the body the respect it deserved. Things had exponentiated much too quickly, and he knew his next stop would have to be the trash can where he had stowed the Winchester.
The concession stand was at the north end of the stadium, and was understaffed for the crowd the game had drawn. The line, fifteen deep, was filled with the type of diehard snack addicts who couldn’t have their game without hot dogs, popcorn, and beer. Radio Joe approached with the rifle by his side—but it was so odd and incongruous a thing, no one took serious notice of it until it was too late. He barged his way to the front of the line.
“Hey, what’s up, Grandpa? Wait your turn!” said the teen behind him.
There was a woman behind the counter with oversized earrings and bleached hair. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Please stand still,” said Radio Joe. He was so close that when he swung up the barrel of the rifle, it struck her on the chin. He pulled the trigger, and the woman’s expression of shock exploded into a spray of brain and blood that seasoned the popcorn, and splattered into the cotton-candy drum, turning the wispy strands of whipped sugar a deep crimson.
The first scream was his own, his mind recoiling from the grisly act just as powerfully as the rifle kicked. Radio Joe turned and fired into the chest of a brawny man beside him, as the screams began to erupt around him. Then he swung the gun around to a couple who had stopped short their approach to the concession, taking them out in two consecutive shots. In the stands, the band blared the school victory march, as the Chieftains scored another touchdown. The cheers from the crowd blended in with the screams.
People close enough to see what had happened scattered from the concession area in a panic, dropping to the ground, crawling into any crevice available. But the panic only erupted in pockets, and those who were out of the concession’s sight line were slow to discover the danger. Joe slipped beneath the stands, where he had noticed a trio of teens drinking beer and listening to music. With his own breath coming out in wheezy cries of grief, Joe pulled out a pistol, and selected two of the three to take out, for those were the two that needed dispatching. The third one stood gawking for a moment at the holes in his dead comrades’ heads, then he ran for cover.