Chapter Eleven

The Doorman

The first sign Dez glimpsed of the Four Winds Bar was a brazen cloud of smoke rising from what appeared to be a broad, shallow valley. One of the most persistent problems of this new age was how to conceal smoke. It could be seen from great distances, scented by all manner of hostile beasts. Yet you needed it for warmth, for cooking meat. So you prayed for a windy day and did your best to shelter it so it wouldn’t be snuffed out. If the wind scattered the smoke ribbon, no one could fix your location visually. Sure, it was possible for the keen, evolved noses to pick up the acrid tang in the air, but if you didn’t linger where you’d built the fire, you’d be safely on your way before predators arrived.

Bill Keaton evidently didn’t worry about predators. Maybe because he was one.

Dez emerged from the copse of trees, but kept to the far edge of the lane. Maybe sixty yards and he’d reach the valley, and from the looks of it, he’d be woefully exposed once he was there. Would Keaton have his henchmen standing sentry over the valley? Or would he, as his cigar smoking suggested, be too arrogant to brood about such precautions?

Dez suspected the latter, but it didn’t make him feel any safer.

Nor did Jim the Werewolf’s suggestion that Keaton was something unnatural. Of course, the notion had occurred to Dez. To reach the top of any hierarchy, particularly one as depraved as the one over which Keaton presided, you had to be ruthless, spiteful, capable of intimidating others who craved power. Though Dez hated to give him credit, it was apparent that Keaton possessed a well-honed species of jungle intelligence.

Did he possess fearsome physical abilities too? Jim had certainly believed so. Dez crunched along the sparse gravel lane and thought of the shudder that had run through Jim’s body when the subject of Keaton had been broached.

Best steer clear of that place, Jim had said.

Ironic advice, Dez thought, considering how Jim had nearly ripped him apart.

He reached the end of the woods and beheld the shallow bowl of valley. On the far side of a vast, grassy meadow lay the Four Winds Bar.

It was nestled against a backdrop of forest, its mammoth chimney broadcasting an unhealthy plume of yellow-brown smoke into the otherwise gorgeous evening sky, which painted the gray shingled roof in hues of pink and orange and indigo. The structure itself was nearly all brick, quite large, with a towering A-framed center flanked in back by a pair of single-story outcroppings. Dez had to laugh as he realized what the Four Winds once was, before the world went to hell.

A church.

Someone had removed the crossbar from the steeple protruding from the building’s roof. The sleek spire now rose to the level of the treetops like a tribute to a pagan god.

Dez realized there was a figure leaning in the alcove of the front porch. A tiny vermilion eye glowed in the shadows of the covered porch, died down, the figure smoking a cigarette, or perhaps a cigar like Keaton.

Whether he’d spotted Dez or not, there was no going back now. And anyway, Dez didn’t plan on storming in and taking Keaton by force. There’d be too much security for that. Besides, who knew if Keaton was here? In his business, a man needed a constant flow of bodies to satisfy his buyers. Chances were good Keaton was out on a collection run, and all of this would come to nothing.

That’s untrue and you know it.

Yes, Dez thought. He did know it. When someone recognized him, they’d know he’d come for Susan or revenge or both, and then they’d kill him. Or try.

Dez’s fingers curled into fists. Let them try.

But the words felt forced, empty. Just what the hell was his plan? To stride into the bar and holler, Old West-style, for Keaton to come on out and settle this man to man? That it was time for a reckoning? That you took my woman, and I aim to get her back?

Hell.

The lurid eye from the porch glowed, dwindled. The figure had surely marked him by now. Dez became aware of a muffled thrum, the steady burr of a generator.

He made the mistake of taking his eyes off the figure on the porch.

To Dez’s immediate right was a flyblown corpse. It had no head. Its midsection was a gory ruin.

Dez shivered. Thank God the grass in the surrounding meadow was so high. He could make out numerous cadavers littering the valley, but they were only shapeless humps on the dismal green landscape. Just objects. Not humans who’d been savaged by monsters.

Dez forced his legs to move. The evening was crisp but not unpleasant. High forties maybe, with little breeze. The gravel lane wasn’t pristine, but someone had evidently been performing minimal upkeep. Unlike many gravel roads he’d encountered, this one featured very few weeds. Which meant Keaton and his men drove it with reasonable frequency.

Dez realized he’d been keeping to the edge of the lane despite being completely exposed out here in the center of the meadow. Annoyed with himself, he angled toward the middle, did his best to ignore the unmoving shadow on the porch and the eerie red eye’s sluggish throb. If he needed to make an escape from here in a hurry, the only option was the southern woods. Approaching as he was from the north, he’d be utterly defenseless if he attempted a straight flight to the truck.

Which was damned inconvenient. He’d need to duck into the sheltering forest, evade capture as he threaded his way through the dense trees, and, if providence was on his side, reach the truck and peel ass out of here. A million things could go wrong. The chances of him living through the night seemed smaller and smaller. Dez felt tiny out here on the lane by himself, incapable of doing what he planned on doing.

What is your plan? a wry voice demanded.

Fifty yards from the bar, Dez shivered as a chill plaited down his back.

The plan is simple, he answered. If Susan is here—

She’s not.

—if Susan is here, I’ll find her, smuggle her out, and if we both live, if that improbable miracle occurs, I’ll keep her safe and apologize to her for the rest of our lives for screwing up and allowing them to take her in the first place.

She’s not here.

Then I’ll find her, goddammit! I’ll ask the patrons or the bartender or—

They won’t know. Or won’t care. You think Susan matters to them? She’s just another body, a piece of livestock they sold off months ago to the highest bidder.

No!

She’s dead and eaten by now, Dez. Digested and shat out and fertilizing the lawn of some cannibal compound. Or her desiccated corpse is lying on some refuse heap outside a vampire’s lair, exsanguinated, then mummified by the sun.

She’s alive.

Uh-huh. Just like Joey’s still alive. Just like your dad and your son and—

Dez stopped, grasped handfuls of hair, and shook his head until the voice ceased taunting him.

He thought he’d outrun it. Then, the words came as clearly as if someone had spoken to him from three feet away: You failed them. You’ll fail everyone in the end.

Heart pounding, he got moving again.

Thirty yards from the bar, Dez spied another sign. At least this one hadn’t been painted black. Half-obscured by a cheerful red X, he made out the words FIRST ASSEMBLY BAPTIST CHURCH. Beneath that, unmarred text read PASTOR BRYCE WEEKS PRESIDING.

But that wasn’t what stopped Dez. What stopped him was the reef of withered mushrooms that formed a ragged border around the sign. Each mushroom had been nailed to the wooden surface, and though some were nothing more than shriveled brown twists an inch long at best, others were longer, and not as dark as the shriveled ones were.

The realization smacked Dez like a brutal cuff to the head. The mushrooms weren’t mushrooms. Their stalks had been pulled not from the ground, but from nests of pubic hair.

Bill Keaton was collecting severed penises. Dez counted thirty-five before he lost track and felt his gorge clench. A few of them were fresh, or relatively so. Their ragged bases indicated they hadn’t been severed cleanly, but either sawed off like pesky willow branches or ripped off by savage hands.

“Think yours would look good up there?” a voice asked.

The smoker on the porch. Dez resisted an urge to look at the man, did his best to form his features into a mask of hardness, as though the severed penises didn’t unnerve him, as if he were confronted with sights this grotesque every day.

The smoker chuckled. “Or maybe you don’t have one. In that case, the nutsack will do. That is, if you’ve got a pair.”

Dez deliberately waited another few seconds before turning and staring at the man. Maybe it was the fact that Dez was down here on the lane, and the smoker stood eight or nine feet higher at the apex of the steps, but from this perspective, the man looked rangy. Six-four at least, but slim. Delicate almost.

The way the man watched him was disconcerting, but Dez couldn’t let it show. He approached the man leisurely, noting as he did how motionless the figure was.

“Looking for a girl,” the man said.

Dez faltered mid-step. He couldn’t help it. Was the man just guessing, or was there, as Dez now feared, something more to the man’s accurate diagnosis?

“You don’t have to talk,” the man said, the cigarette pinched a few inches from his face like a marijuana joint. “I can read you like a billboard.” A pause, the man’s scrutiny a palpable thing. “Sarah,” the man said. Within the shadows, Dez saw the man’s eyes widen. He stabbed the luminous red tip of the cigarette at Dez. “Susan! That’s her name.”

Dez felt his guts curdle.

The man cocked his head, took a slow drag on his cigarette. “Don’t recall a Susan. But then again—” A chuckle. “—there’re so many. You know how it is.”

Dez paused at the base of the steps.

“‘Nevermore’,” the man said.

Dez squinted at him.

The man continued to stare at him. Dez experienced the weirdest sensation…like the man was rummaging around in his head.

“‘The Raven’,” the man said.

“What about it?”

“You…you used to teach it.”

Dez didn’t answer.

“That would make you….” The man’s eyes bored into him. “You taught freshman English.”

“Among other things.”

The man nodded, pleased with himself. “Think I’ll call you the Raven.”

Dez ignored that. “Keaton,” he said.

“This is his place all right,” the man answered. “But I’m not Keaton.”

“I know that.”

“Boss takes the others on his runs, but not me. A couple of us guys have got the touch.” A pull on the cigarette, the white cylinder little more than a stub now. “He doesn’t take me out scouting.” A sly wink. “I’m too valuable. You believe that, Raven?”

Dez became aware of music within the building. It might be loud in there, but the sturdy brick façade dampened it enough that out here it was only a formless murmur. The song was familiar, but Dez couldn’t place it. The thrum of the generator was louder now. Dez wondered what the electricity was being used for. It wasn’t heat, or there wouldn’t be smoke rising from the building. Lights, maybe.

“You don’t belong here,” the man said. “Latent like you.”

“Why do you think that?”

“You’re forty-two years old,” the man went on. “Forty-two and scared.”

“Only fools aren’t scared,” Dez said.

The man nodded. “Name’s Lefebvre,” he said. “And your name is really…McClane?”

Dez couldn’t stifle a grin. “How do you do that?”

“Don’t know,” Lefebvre said. “The ability came on fairly abruptly. At first I thought I was just really perceptive. Or a good guesser. Then I started to see things I knew others would never want me to see.” He sucked the cigarette, exhaled slowly. “That’s when I knew.”

“Bet you found out stuff you didn’t want to.”

“Like my wife was cheating? You bet.” He took a last drag of his cigarette, dropped it, and mashed it with the toe of a black loafer. “Found out who was transforming into what. Neighbors, predators converging on my house at night. It kept me alive. Still keeps me alive. You need to leave.”

“If you’re really so perceptive, you know I can’t do that.”

“Drinking seawater,” Lefebvre remarked. “That’s how revenge is. You think you’ve slaked the thirst, but no matter what you do, no matter who you hurt…or kill, you can’t get back what was taken.” He crossed his arms, leaned against the alcove wall. “Susan’s dead.”

Gastric juices elevatored up Dez’s throat, clogged his airway. He knew how naked and frail his voice sounded, but all he could manage was, “Are you sure?”

For a moment, Lefebvre’s gaze remained oblique. The Stetson hat shadowed his eyes, but to Dez, the man’s expression didn’t seem bereft of feeling.

At length, Lefebvre said, “I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. But if she was taken in March—”

“Late March.”

“—the odds of her still living are—”

“But you don’t know,” Dez said.

A pause, Lefebvre studying him. “No,” he finally admitted. “I don’t know.”

From inside the bar, the music faded to silence. Dez could make out the murmur of voices, but nothing more.

Dez mounted the steps, never taking his eyes off Lefebvre. When he reached the top, he realized he was correct about the man’s tall, slight build. In his Stetson hat, his denim jacket, the red-and-black flannel shirt and dark blue jeans, Lefebvre resembled some ineffectual dandy sheriff from a Hollywood western, the sort of man who’s in league with the outlaws and is usurped by a grittier lawman halfway through the film.

“You’re letting me go in?” Dez said.

“I screen,” Lefebvre said simply. “You’re not a threat to my employer.” The ghost of a smile. “No offense, Raven.”

Dez ignored that. He studied the man’s sardonic face, placed him in his early forties. “You aren’t one of Keaton’s thugs. Why do you work for him?”

“I was a teacher too.”

Dez made sure not to show his surprise. “Yeah?”

“Journalism mostly. It was a small high school, so I also ran the yearbook and the theater program. I work for Keaton to stay alive.”

“By sanctioning murder.”

Lefebvre stiffened. “Go inside.”

Dez grinned. “By allowing them to rip apart the few good lives that are left. By letting them eat decent people.”

Lefebvre’s mouth twitched. His hand moved to a holstered gun.

Dez didn’t go for one of his own weapons. “You won’t kill me.”

Lefebvre licked his lips. “The hell I won’t.”

Dez glanced at the gun on Lefebvre’s hip, the polished walnut handle, another nod to cinematic Westerns. His eyes returned to Lefebvre’s. “I don’t have to be a clairvoyant to know a coward when I see one.” Dez winked. “No offense.”

Lefebvre flinched. “I’m a telepath, not a clairvoyant. Now get the fuck inside, or get out of here.”

Dez stared at the man a moment longer before dismissing him and striding the final few feet to the sturdy wooden double doors. He reached out, grasped a copper handle, and pushed down the thumb lock, which was sticky to the touch.

With one final thought of the severed dicks nailed to the First Assembly Baptist Church sign, Dez opened the door and stepped inside.