Sam pressed her foot down on the accelerator. The Jeep careened along the serpentine road west of town. Its frame creaked and groaned as the vehicle pitched and yawed and lurched, its tires screaming in protest. Gravel ratta-tatted in the wheel wells whenever the tires slipped on to the narrow shoulder before regaining the pavement and launching the Jeep forward again.
Nathan gripped the dash with one hand and the armrest with the other in a futile attempt to remain in contact with his seat.
“I take it you know this road well?” he asked.
She did know the road well. They flew past the landmarks of her childhood: Castle Rock, a craggy escarpment whose silhouette appeared as a medieval castle; Layton’s Fork, where Cherokee Creek had at one time divided; Deadman’s Wash--no one remembered where that name originated.
She glanced over at him. “The three most dangerous things in the world are a loaded gun, a pissed off woman, and a two lane black top. You’ve got all three right here, so don’t press your luck.”
“But...”
“You wanted to see Nita Stillwater.”
“I was hoping to be alive when I saw her.”
Sam wasn’t sure why she was so mad. Probably a combination of frustration, confusion, and a healthy dose of fear. And Garrett, that arrogant son-of-a-bitch. He got to her and that’s what set her off. Or was it the fact that everyone was having the same dream she had had last night. Well, not everyone. Just the ones that had killed or been killed recently.
And what the hell did Garrett mean? When she came to him. Willfully. Did he think she believed all that crap about the kids? He abducted them. They didn't...how did he put it?..."present themselves" to be murdered.
And Nathan pissed her off, too.
Earlier, when she told him about her dream, excluding her little medical problem, and Walter’s and Garrett’s and the children’s dreams, he didn’t act surprised or skeptical or anything. He merely nodded as if she were telling him a campfire story.
When she showed him the three crayon drawings of “Snakeman,” he said, “Now this is a great story.”
“You probably believe Satan did all this,” she said.
“Maybe.”
“Jesus Christ. Has everyone gone insane?”
“Open your mind. Remember, nothing is ever as it seems.”
“Yeah, maybe this place is the new Salem.”
“Possibly. But remember, there are several legitimate explanations for what happened in Salem.”
“I thought the devil took up residence in the local well.”
“I haven’t heard that one,” he laughed. “It may have been mass hysteria. Or, some people believe it was ergotamine poisoning from moldy rye bread.”
“What?”
“Ergotamine. It’s a psychedelic. Like LSD. It’s produced by certain molds that like rye.”
“Must be a Jewish mold.”
He laughed. “I’ll ask my Rabbi.”
“Maybe we should check our water supply? I bet it’s a fluorine conspiracy.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
She slowed only slightly and slid the Jeep through a sharp left turn. The rear fishtailed, but Sam barely noticed.
Maybe she was angry because, despite her earlier skepticism, she actually wanted to talk with Nita Stillwater. Not that she believed Nita’s demon tale, but somehow she felt the old woman might offer some insight into what was going on. Sam only knew she herself didn’t have a clue and it was this feeling of helplessness that grated on every nerve in her body.
Sam whipped the Jeep onto a rutted dirt road. The shocks slammed to full compression, then launched them upward as the Jeep dropped into and out of a creek bed, which crossed the road. Nathan’s head smacked the roof, but he said nothing and tightened his grip on the dash.
Neither the road nor the creek, which crisscrossed one another a dozen times, bore official names. Locals dubbed each Cherokee because the only four Cherokee families in the county lived near where the road dissolved into the desert. Water from the recent rains had collected in ruts and in several low points along the creek’s path. The Jeep plowed through another creek crossing, lifting wings of muddy water to each side.
They neared five trailers that squatted along the road, three on the left, two on the right. Four were occupied, the other a rusted carcass.
Nita Stillwater lived in the second one on the right, a dilapidated doublewide surrounded by a chicken-wire fence, which held a dozen chickens, two goats, and an assortment of dogs and cats. Two partially cannibalized, rusted car skeletons and a tired red pick-up sat in front of the trailer. As Sam pulled the Jeep to a stop, Nita appeared in her doorway as if she had expected them.
Sam and Nathan stepped from the Jeep as an angry red Chow hurtled around the trailer across the road, snarling and leaping against the fence that contained him. A weatherworn Indian woman, holding a baby, appeared at the door of the trailer and said something to the dog that they couldn’t make out. The thick-furred animal sat down, glanced over his shoulder at the woman, than returned his stare to Sam and Nathan.
Two small children peered around the woman, each clinging to her faded turquoise skirt. Nita waved to her as if to say “everything's all right” and the woman disappeared inside her home. One of the children remained, her large dark eyes following Sam and Nathan as they walked toward Nita.
After shooing away a couple of chickens, Nita invited them in. Sam introduced her and Nathan and they sat around a yellow Formica topped kitchen table. Nita offered beer and Mescal, but they opted for soft drinks.
Her face looked like a sun-dried tomato, wrinkled, burned brown by years of exposure to the harsh desert. Her shoulders slumped as if she supported the sun and the heavens. Yet, her eyes were bright, clear, intelligent.
Nita eyed Nathan, then turned to Sam.
“So, now you come to hear what I say?”
“Yes.”
“But, I see in your eyes you still do not believe. Your friend, he knows, but you...you are not yet ready.”
“Nita, it doesn’t matter what I believe. I want to know what you believe.”
Nathan smiled. Sam scowled at him.
Nita poured herself a shot of Mescal and tossed it down. “It is as I said. The demon is here. He has come because people here do not accept the Cherokee spirits, believe in them. They do not respect themselves or their Mother Earth and all life is out of balance. Only the spirits of the Earth, the wind, the sun can restore order and peace. Until that is done, the demon will continue his work.”
“What is this demon?” Sam asked.
“The Demon with the Iron Finger.”
Nathan leaned forward, his eyes locking with Nita’s. She turned to him as she spoke.
“The demon has followed my people for many generations. He reminds us to respect all things. When we do not, he leaves his cave to extract his vengeance.”
“I don’t understand,” Nathan said. “What cave? What is this demon?”
“Long before the white man set foot on the Blue Ridge, what you know as North Carolina, we were there. Living peacefully beneath the Tusquittee Mountain. The demon arose from a cave on that very mountain. He could mimic many forms, usually that of a friend or loved one. In that disguise, he would seduce the victim by stroking their hair with soft fingers until they slept. Then, using his iron finger he would remove their liver and lungs.”
Mental images of Roger and Miriam and Roberto flashed through Sam’s mind. Each had been attacked in their sleep. Each had had their organs ripped from their bodies.
“He would kill them with his iron finger?”
“Not immediately. He is very skillful and able to remove the organs without leaving marks that would signify his intrusion. When they awoke, they would not know what had occurred.
“What happened then?” Sam asked.
“At first they would behave normally, but over the next few weeks or months they would fall into a deep melancholy. They would grow weaker, their flesh would hang from their bones, and finally, they would retreat to their dwelling and die of the consumption.”
A vision of Walter Limpke’s pale, thin face formed in Sam’s mind.
“Does the demon always lull his victim’s to sleep or can he attack someone who is awake?” Nathan asked.
“I don’t know. But, he prefers guile to confrontation.”
“Can he be defeated?” Sam asked.
“Long ago, many warriors went to his cave and attacked him with arrows. He laughed at them, mocked them. Whenever an arrow pierced his flesh, he plucked it out and hurled it at them, leaving no mark where the arrow had been. Many warriors died at his hand that day."
She poured another shot of Mescal. This time, the plump, golden-brown worm that floated in the bottle, slid into the glass. She plucked it out and offered it to them. They waved it away. She popped it in her mouth and swallowed it with the shot she had poured.
"Then," she continued, "a small wren sang to the warriors and told them to aim for his iron finger, which the warriors did. Seeing their ploy, the demon raged against them, but soon an arrow struck his iron finger and he fell dead.”
“His Achilles’ heel, so to speak?” Sam said.
Nita gave her a patient smile. “Except Achilles is a creature of Greek myth. The Demon with the Iron Finger is quite real.”
“But, if he is dead, how can he be here?” Nathan asked.
“After he was slain, none of my people fell prey to the consumption for many years. Then, his descendants arose from the cave and the consumption returned.”
“You believe one of his offspring is responsible for the deaths here?” Sam asked.
Nita stared at her, her dark eyes demanding attention. “Of that, I am certain.”