Nephilim: Genesis Of Evil Part 27

"There's no time to lose," Rory answered.

"No," Clinton said. "If any of this is true, it's too dangerous for you."

"We don't have a choice. If there is a chronicle, I have to find it."

"Then I'll go with you," the sheriff said.

"You need to stay here, in case they come," Rory said. "If something happens, it's better that only one of us is taken."

"No!" Anna said.

Rory raised a hand to calm her. "Believe me, I'd rather not go out there alone, but it's better this way. Clinton will be believed more than any of us, and he can get the authorities involved when the time is right. Don't you see, nothing can happen to you."

Clinton looked at Myrtle and Anna, then back at Rory. "Okay," he finally said. "I don't like it, but I can see what you're saying."

"Where will you look?" Desperation crept into Anna's voice.

"I don't know. Do any of you remember hearing where this mine was supposed to be?"

Anna shrugged. "I always thought it was just an old legend."

"Me, too," Myrtle said. "I did hear that it was somewhere north of the cliff face, but that could be just about anywhere."

"That's a place to start." They were all aware of the fading light outside the kitchen window. Rory stood up and went into the living room, followed by everyone but Nicholas, who sat at the table, shoulders hunched, nervously petting Boo. "I'll see what I can find and come back as soon as I can."

"What'll you do if you run into one of them?" Anna asked.

"Where's the pistol?" He looked around the room. Anna fetched it from the kitchen, where it had lain on the counter since their return earlier.

"This'll do," Rory said. He took it from her, and he knew by the look on her face that the memory of the b.l.o.o.d.y battle on the trail was haunting her, too. He suppressed the fear that was creeping into his thoughts. He held up the Colt. "Wish me luck." He tried to smile, but knew it came out halfheartedly. The others nodded reluctantly.

"I should go with you," Clinton repeated.

"You can't. You know that," Rory replied.

"Well..." Clinton left the sentence unfinished. "Be careful." He placed a hand on Rory's shoulder, communicating a confidence that Rory didn't feel.

"When do you check in again?" Rory asked.

"Not until tomorrow. I have no idea what I'll report, though." Clinton gazed at Rory. "I don't understand this paranormal stuff, but I'm trusting that you know what you're doing."

Rory nodded, then looked at Anna and Myrtle. "Just relax. Nothing's going to happen. Have some dinner, watch some TV. Clinton and Nicholas will take care of you." He hoped a lighthearted manner would help ease their fears, but it didn't fool them.

Myrtle tried to appear calm, but her hand quivered as she touched his arm. "Why don't you take my motorboat? It'll be faster."

"No," Rory said. "The noise will draw attention to me. I'll take the rowboat."

"Be careful," Anna said.

Rory unlocked the door and looked outside. Deep shadows, like cold blue steel, had taken over. He glanced back at them. "I'll be back as soon as I can." No one said a word. "Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone but me."

They watched him leave, the look of fright on their faces staying with him as he walked out into the darkness.

CHAPTER 53.

As Rory rowed across Taylor Lake, the moon rained silver crystal droplets across the lake. Around him the mountains loomed in dark relief, a haunting backdrop to all that had played out the past few days. A splash nearby made him jump, his heart rapid-fire in his chest until he realized it was just a fish trolling in the night for unsuspecting insects. He redoubled his rowing efforts and the little rowboat shot smoothly through the water. He wanted nothing more than to get to the cabin, where right now four walls and a roof seemed like welcome protection against the eeriness that clutched at him.

It was funny how isolation played with fear, how they magnified one another in the somber night. The fright built until Rory couldn't stand it, and by the time he docked, he ran full-speed up the path and into the cabin, not stopping until he had bolted the door behind him.

The darkness inside the cabin was just as foreboding. He listened over his heavy breathing, and after a few minutes, concluded that the cabin was empty except for his own sense of trepidation. He flicked a light switch near the door, the sudden brightness making him squint.

The cabin was just as he'd left it when he and Myrtle had gone earlier today. It seemed so long ago that they'd sat at the kitchen table, nervously talking about the Nephilim. And just like Clinton, he hadn't believed either. Rory looked down at the blood on his s.h.i.+rt, touched a spot that had turned an ugly brown. He now believed it was Nephilim, that was for d.a.m.n sure.

As he felt the blood on his s.h.i.+rt, he was transported back into the woods with Anna. The fight. The evil. Suddenly the s.h.i.+rt felt as if it was full of needles. He ripped it off, flung it to the floor, and began frantically unzipping his jeans as he headed to the bathroom. He stripped naked and stepped into a hot shower, aware of nothing else but a need to rid himself of all the vileness. He scrubbed until his skin turned pink, then turned the water to cold. After a minute he got out and toweled himself off, threw on clean jeans and s.h.i.+rt and went into the living room.

Now he could tackle whatever it was that Jimmy had sought. He ran a hand through his still damp hair, feeling a little foolish for taking the time to clean up. He stood in the middle of the room, thinking about what direction to take. His eyes wandered around the room. Would a journal be here somewhere? That didn't seem right. It had to be in the mine that everyone talked about. But where was it?

He closed his eyes. He pictured the mine that he had dreamed about twice. The journal was there, or he wouldn't have dreamed about it. The spirit of the miner had been telling him that, Rory was sure.

His body began to sway subtly, as if he were adrift on Taylor Lake. He could see the miner in his dirt-covered overalls, pickaxe in his hand. He was talking. Rory slowed his breathing and listened, strained for the words spoken in the trance. The miner talked and gestured. He finally raised one hand, waved, and disappeared. A pounding began in Rory's head, and grew louder and more powerful. He covered his ears, but the drumming sound deafened him. With a harsh cry, he fell to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut. The cacophony continued relentlessly. He felt something wet on his upper lip when he brushed a hand over his mouth. It came away with dark liquid on it. His nose was bleeding, but he could do nothing to stop it. Darkness consumed him; the noise drowning him, until he finally blacked out.

His eyes flew open. He was staring at the knots in the wood ceiling. He sat up, aware of the silence, just the dull thumping of his heart. He stood up and wiped the blood from his face. A couple of dark patches of red dotted his s.h.i.+rt, but he didn't care now because he knew where to look for the journal. He took a deep breath. He knew. He wasn't exactly sure how he knew, but he did. And he wasn't going to question things, not with everything that had happened.

He donned a light jacket that was lying on the couch and hurried into the kitchen. He grabbed a powerful flashlight out of a drawer, found a small garden shovel on the porch, and with the Colt tucked into his waistband, he headed out toward the woods behind the cabin. The beam of the flashlight cut a wide path in front of him, and the moonlight created milky shadows all around. The stark cliff face burned a dull yellow.

He trekked his way along the base of the cliff face, soon coming to its jagged northern edge. He stepped into the trees. The stream of light coming out of the cabin windows and the moon's brilliance disappeared behind him. He pointed the flashlight ahead of him, but the darkness sucked away much of its radiance. Beyond the reach of the beam, the blackness felt like an invitation to h.e.l.l.

As he walked, he heard nothing but his breathing and the thumping of his heart in the foreboding stillness. Blackness twisted around the trees. He concentrated on his footsteps, one foot in front of the other, to keep his terror at bay.

He continued on, and similar to his dream a few nights ago, he knew where he was going, even though by all reason he shouldn't. The spirit of Burgess Barton in the woods, walking with him. But there was something else as well, a sinister force on the fringes.

Rory came to clump of trees a few hundred yards from the cabin and s.h.i.+ned the light to his left. The beam strayed upon a huge jagged rock formation. A wall of bushes and bramble covered the base of the formation. He stopped near a towering evergreen that shot up through the bramble and pushed the branches aside. He picked his way through the foliage, the branches seizing his jacket and scratching his face. Ignoring the stinging to his face and hands, Rory emerged into a tiny slit of open s.p.a.ce, with the bushes behind him and the rock face in front. He s.h.i.+ned the flashlight on the rock and let out a laugh that sounded like thunder in the stillness.

The rock face was not what it appeared to be. What first looked like a solid wall was actually two layers of rock with a deep crevice between. He pointed the light into the opening. The beam vanished into nothingness.

He sidled into the crevice, worried that it was too narrow for his body. He let out his breath and shuffled along, feeling the slope under his feet. He squeezed his way farther in and the pa.s.sageway suddenly widened. Large wooden beams supported the opening. Someone, Barton most likely, had widened it to create an entrance, and fortified it with beams.

He s.h.i.+ned the light along the rock face as he continued along. There was no scarring from pickaxes here as there had been near the wooden beams. From what he could tell, the rest of the corridor wasn't man-made. The slope gradually grew steeper until the pa.s.sageway opened into a huge cavern. The beam of his flashlight disappeared before hitting the other side. He flinched at the room's vastness as he worked his way along the edge of the cave. He came to a tributary tunnel and walked it for a few minutes. I'll be in trouble if I'm wrong, he thought, fear tingling up through his legs.

He rounded a bend and stopped short. What he saw made him cry out and drop his flashlight. It clattered to the ground and winked out.

"Ugh," he grunted. He bit his lip to stay in focus and not panic.

He got down on his hands and knees and felt around. His left hand touched the flashlight. He grabbed it and quickly turned it on. Brightness burst into the tunnel again, and he sat back, contemplating what had startled him.

Staring back at him was a skeleton propped against the tunnel wall. He knew it was Burgess Barton. The skeleton was sitting crosswise, leaning his back against the wall, his feet stretched out before him, one leg bent at an odd angle, indicating a broken leg. A ratty pair of overalls and remnants of a red plaid s.h.i.+rt covered the skeleton, pale bones sticking out of the arms and legs of the clothing. One bony hand clutched a rusty revolver, a finger still on the trigger. Rory pointed the light at the skull. Barton stared out at him, yawning holes for his eyes, a gnarly-toothed grin on his face. There was a small hole on the left temple.

"Barton shot himself," he hissed. For reasons he didn't fathom, a wave of sadness spilled over him. He knew a piece of this man's story. Whatever it was out there, it had driven Burgess Barton to take his own life.

Then he saw the miner's other hand, partially obscured by his overalls. Rory leaned forward and gingerly extracted a leather-bound book from the clutches of the skeleton's hand. An old ink pen and bottle lay nearby, the ink long since hardened.

Rory put the flashlight in the crook of his arm. He didn't breathe as he carefully opened the book. He stared at the yellowed paper. Some pages were so damp and old that the ink was faded. But on others, handwritten pa.s.sages covered the pages. He read through some of it, his blood pulsing with excitement. It was a chronicle. And it had answers.

CHAPTER 54.

Old Man Brewster stole through the night, using the moonlight's faint glow to guide him. It had been a long day, trying to find Rory, then losing him. And evading the Nephilim until he could figure out what he needed to do. And listening to his daddy and granddaddy had drained him as well. The joints in his knees ached, and he had a big blister on his left heel that would need attention.

As he neared Taylor Crossing, he noticed the smell in the woods, not the pleasant scent of pine and fresh air, but a musty, damp odor full of death and decay. He grimaced and forced back a gag. They were mighty powerful now, almost ready for their ceremony. Not only that, they were invading the entire mountain area, boxing in those people that remained. There was no escape from the Crossing now. Those left would have to face them.

Brewster plodded up a hill, one part of his mind wary to the dangers in the forest, the other going back over the memories. He laughed to himself. If only he had paid more attention, it wouldn't be so hard now, and maybe the answers would've come easier.

He was with his daddy, kneeling on the hard floor, the knots in the wood poking up into his k.n.o.bby knees, the preacher droning on in a voice surely meant to lull little boys to sleep.

You better pray, boy.

I am, sir. Rubbing his ear where his father flicked him with his finger.

You'll need to know. Just like your granddaddy.

Yes, sir. Whispering. Waiting for another thump over the head.

Listen. You'll need to know these words.

Yes, sir.

Prepare your soul.

Yes, sir.

Brewster had always snickered about that, what learning he got in church he'd never needed. He didn't need that spiritual stuff, until now. Brewster came up over a rise and saw his cabin, stark and lonely in the woods outside the Crossing. He hurried the last hundred yards and went inside, but left the lights out. It felt safer that way.

Brewster sat down at the kitchen table and mused into the darkness. He would need to talk to Rory. Rory was a smart man, and was figuring things out. He would help, Brewster was sure. Brewster had found the mummified body in the woods, with the bullet hole through its chest. It was the wrong way to destroy one of them, but at least the man had tried. Brewster gnawed at his lower lip. He'd have to tell Rory about the water.

He thought long and hard. He would need to get the others, too. He rubbed at his chest. Would they listen to an old man? He grunted. They would have to. He'd make them believe the stories, the same ones he dismissed every time his father thumped him on the chest, telling him he was just like his granddaddy.

He knew he wasn't crazy. Not at all. He knew what they faced. And he would get them to believe.

The time had come. Just like smelling the air and knowing an early frost was coming. He was aware of what was in this air.

Tomorrow. And he was finally ready.

CHAPTER 55.

The clock on the kitchen wall said one-thirty a.m. They were gathered around the kitchen table: Rory, Anna, Clinton, and Myrtle. Nicholas was sprawled facedown on the couch in the living room sleeping, one hand resting on Boo's side, the other tucked under his chest. The dog seemed to be enjoying the role of boy protector, one he'd taken on since earlier in the day.

"There's pages and pages of this stuff!" Anna watched as Rory examined the journal. He's aged ten years in a day, she thought. Rory's earnest expression reminded her of her father and she fought back tears. Her father would've been so pleased to know that Barton had indeed written a journal, and that Rory had found it.

"I read bits and pieces of it when I was in the mine," he said. "But you could tell he was writing about strange things happening in the town." Once Rory had found the journal, he'd made his way back out of the mine and returned to his cabin. He'd spent a few minutes in the seeming safety within the four walls of the structure before deciding that then was not the time to read the journal. He took the journal, and on impulse grabbed his laptop with the research he had on Taylor Crossing and what he'd brought from the University Library in Boulder. He rowed across the lake as excitement mingled with a gnawing fear.

Everyone was relieved to see him. And thrilled at his find.

"The poor man committed suicide," Myrtle made sympathetic noises. "Did he just go crazy?" Rory shrugged his shoulders as he set the journal on the table.

"Too bad so many of the pages are unreadable," Clinton said.

"Let's hope we can find something useful." Rory carefully turned to the first page and started reading the neat, almost formal handwriting: My journey to this G.o.dforsaken part of the West was uneventful, although long. The mountain trails test a man's fort.i.tude. I cannot believe I left a good job at the Boston paper, but I could no longer ignore this strange calling.

"He worked at a paper like you, Rory," Myrtle said, surprised.

He didn't say anything, but a chill swept through him. Did it mean anything? And what did Barton mean by 'this strange calling'?

"Did you know that about Barton, Myrtle?" Anna asked.

"I always heard that he was running from some kind of trouble back East, but no one ever said what he did, or why he came to the Crossing." Myrtle raised her hands in a who knew kind of gesture.

Rory continued: Taylor Crossing has a certain charm about it, but at the same time a chill surrounds the town, even though the summer days are long and hot. Given the circ.u.mstances compelling me here, I am secretive. I can tell this bothers the locals, and rumors have begun to circulate about the stranger who is building a cabin across the lake...

"What does that mean?" Myrtle asked. "What circ.u.mstances?"

"I don't know." Rory pulled the book closer to him. "So much of the writing has faded away."

"Look." Anna pointed to a section without touching the delicate paper. "What's that say?"