Harmon set Mr. Chips in the trailer beside Ball Breaker, the prying bar, then removed the extra can of fuel and topped up the snowmobile. He returned the can to the trailer half full and secured the tarp. As he straddled the seat, a ripple of pain shot down his legs. The creatures gnawed just above his knees.
He brought the Ski-Doo to life and steered it through the clearing and around the conflagration. Out front, he stopped.
He sat silently, watching his home burn. The flames rose like yellowed fingers as they crawled to the upstairs. How much easier it would be to simply toss himself into the blaze.
He had told the cop he would lie in his bed with the blind up, watch the sun rise for the last time. That he would cradle that precious picture against his heart, hold his love just a little bit longer.
In his mind, he relished the moment.
But now it was not to be.
He drove past the barn and onto an embankment. The engine sputtered, and he had to give it some gas to keep it from stalling.
He considered his plan. He could still turn around, head north to the Pass.
End the madness. End the pain.
The world was damned anyway. One less black man wouldn’t—couldn’t—make any difference.
Turn around.
End the pain—
… No.
The mine would still be waiting for him … if he made it back.
He felt the eyes watching his every move. The crest of that dreaded moon began to breach the treetops.
He stirred. In his mind’s eye he saw the dead. The Tree Child. The drawing of the wolf and the kid. The grandfather clock, its old hands winding backwards … winding down.
And then he saw the claw marks.
He stole a final memory of his home, and for a moment, a very fleeting one he feared he had imagined, felt the warmth of his son touch his face. Felt the fear.
Then it was gone.
Harmon turned from the flames. It was time. Time to turn back the clock.
Before his nerve abandoned him, he gave more throttle and the snowmobile and its cargo sped into the woods. His thoughts terrified him. Certainly he would die on this night, but where or when, or how, he could not hope to say. All he knew was that his boy was still out there, as were all of the others, past and present, their souls hanging on this chosen child in Key Corners—the one the Dark had finally, mercilessly, turned.
The one the Dark wanted.
The one it needed.