A loaded Peg-Board was mounted above an elaborate tool bench with two vises. The cave-in had dumped snow over a large electric band saw with a circular blade that Tom thought was used for slicing through meat and bone. If so, that saw hadn’t seen action for a long time.

But the ax and that cleaver had.

Both rested on a freestanding workbench that reminded him of the butcher block his dad had used to hack beef ribs. The hand ax had a thin stainless-steel blade and leather grip: lightweight, easy to swing, well-balanced. The steel was clean but nicked in places, as if the ax had seen heavy use. Purple splotches stained the leather grip, and more blood had seeped into the cleaver’s handle, swelling and then cracking the wood. A slop bucket rested on the concrete next to the butcher block. Stiff rags stained with dark, oily splotches were draped over the rim, and smelled of old gore.

Alongside the workbench was a large white chest freezer. Of course, it wasn’t plugged in. The barn was colder than any meat locker. Rust-red tongues drooled from the freezer’s lip.

Nikki had served pork stew the first night. Wade had offered to feed hamburger to the dog.

No, that’s crazy. He felt his mind flinching away even as the suspicion formed. So the Kings did their own butchering. So what?

But would I know? Aiming the flashlight at the dried blood, he felt suddenly queasy. God, shouldn’t I be able to tell if it hadn’t been pork or beef. . .but a person?

Heart thumping, he levered open the freezer—and his breath left in a white rush.

Empty.

Then, across the barn and to the right, something scuffed.

Startled, he pivoted, raised his flashlight, expecting to see the bright coins of the cat’s eyes, or maybe a rat or raccoon. The light broke over a trio of what might once have been long-abandoned horse stalls, with doors on sliders. Something winked from the back corner. Stepping around the freezer, he aimed the light, caught the sparkle again—and frowned. A fourth stall, completely closed off, with a heavy, shiny, stainless-steel padlock dangling from a black ring latch as thick as his thumb.

Scuffling. Then, a low whine.

A puppy. That was his first thought. The Kings had locked up a dog, probably muzzled it. He thought back to that growl Raleigh had aimed toward the barn. No wonder Raleigh wouldn’t stay away; there was another dog locked up in here.

Maybe it was sick. That was possible. When he was a kid, his dad had rented Old Yeller. He remembered how after the wolf fight, when the dog went rabid, the boy had locked Old Yeller in the corncrib and then shot him. Tom must’ve cried for a week. Knowing Wade, Tom thought he’d have gotten rid of a rabid dog, but it would be perfectly in character for the Kings to simply sequester a sick puppy and maybe neglect it to death. Save on a bullet.

Poor thing. “Hey, boy,” he called, softly. The dog responded with another whimper as he crossed to the stall. He played the light over the lock, then the rest of the door and the adjacent wall, looking for a key. Two keys dangled on a thin wire ring from a nail just to the left of the door. He reached—and then paused. This was none of his business. He was leaving. The Kings had the right to run their farm however they wished.

The puppy whined again.

“Hey, boy.” Slipping the ring off the nail, he slotted one of the keys into the lock. “Hang—”

That last word never did leave his mouth.

He saw now that the door was oak, and sturdy but not completely solid. There was a large knothole about two-thirds of the way down, near the level of his right knee. It was dark, and he shouldn’t have been able to see a hole. By definition, no one ever did. A hole existed because of where it wasn’t.

But there was something here: grimy and very thin but completely recognizable.

A finger.

And then, it moved.

55

“Shit!” Tom sucked in a quick, startled gasp. The keys tinkled to the frigid concrete. Every hair on the nape of his neck stood on end. Then he knelt. “Hello? Are you hurt?”

The finger slid away and then he saw a flash of white as the kid—he was convinced it was a child—briefly pressed an eye to the knothole before wincing away from the light.

“Sorry.” Tom aimed the flashlight away. Now that he was closer, he smelled stale flesh and ammonia and moldering straw mixed with feces. “Kid, kid, are you okay? What’s your name?”

The child might’ve said something, but Tom’s heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear. My God, he sounds hurt. He swept his light back and forth over the floor until he found the keys. Get him out, then saddle up Dixie. Find my gear, get the guns and then Raleigh. His hands shook. Clamping the flashlight under an arm, he used both hands to sock the key home. If he had to, he would herd the Kings into a room and lock them up until he was ready to go. Wait until morning when it’s light. His wrist turned. The lock snicked open. Then we get as far from he—

A wide spotlight pinned him in place. On the door, before his eyes, his shadow sprang to life, black and perfectly defined, as if Tom were an actor backlit on a stage.

Then, there came a loud, unmistakable sound of a shotgun being racked: ka-CHUNK-crunch.

In the stall, behind the door, the boy whimpered.

Tom turned, slowly, a hand up to shield his eyes.

“Oh, Tom,” Wade said. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

56

Nikki made him strip. Unlike Wade, his wife was thin as a whippet and brittle as broom straw. Her gray eyes showed absolutely no emotion, but when Tom stopped at his underpants, she said, “No, no. All the way. Every stitch.”

The woodstove kept the kitchen and this small back room very warm. Fear-sweat slicked his body and ran down the sides of his face, but he was shivering. Jed’s tags rattled on their bead chain. “Why?”

“’Cuz we can’t have you running,” Wade said, from the kitchen. Through the open door, Tom watched as Wade withdrew the brand, inspected the iron, then slid it back into the firebox.

“That’s bullshit. I’m not running in my shorts,” Tom snapped. “Oh, I don’t know.” Grunting, Wade planted his hands on his thighs and heaved himself up. “I saw this one National Geographic about this Eskimo who run over the ice for miles with not a stitch.” “Come on, Tom.” Nikki gestured with the shotgun. “Shorts, too.” “No,” Tom said.

“Fine. Right knee or left?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Don’t think I won’t. So long as you’re alive, they don’t care what shape you’re in. It’s all the same to us, but . . .” Her eyes trailed over his body, first down and then up again, her gaze touching on every scar left by shrapnel, lingering on the divot in his right thigh. Her lips curled when she saw the scar on his neck. “That’s a nice hickey. Girlfriend get a little carried away? Well, she probably won’t mind another ding or two, considering that you’re kind of tore up already.” Her face blanked again. “Don’t make me waste a shell, Tom.”

All right, this is about domination. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his underpants. Come on, this is right out of survival training. Don’t let them get on top on you.

But what could he do to stop them? He let his underpants fall to his ankles and then kicked them away. They had the gun, and he’d been an idiot.

“That’s good.” Nikki lifted her chin toward a straight-backed chair bolted to the floor. “Now, you sit down and put on those plastic thingamabobs. First your ankles to the chair legs and then whichever hand you want to do first. Last hand you’ll have to use your teeth.”

God, how many times had they done this before? His heart was trying to thrash its way out of his chest. He didn’t move toward the chair. He might already be finished, but if he put on those plasticuffs, he was as good as dead. “What did you do to Raleigh? Did you kill him?”

“With any luck.” Nikki shrugged. “Shame to waste a good farm dog, but can’t have him barking every time he scents a Chucky.”

What? Something cold settled in his chest. The ax, the blood on the freezer . . . Oh God, the kid . . . “You’re feeding him.”

“Sure. Get more if you can deliver a Chucky alive.” Then Wade saw his face and hawked out a laugh so hard his belly jiggled. “No, we’re not going to chop you up into burgers, if that’s what you’re worried about. Although we kinda run out a day ago, and I know that little bastard’s hungry. Thing is, you’re worth a lot more alive than in some Chucky’s gullet. He starves to death, I don’t know I care very much. They’ll take him no matter what, and he’ll keep just fine in the cold. Hunters are due real soon anyway.”

“How do they know when to come?” Tom asked. He didn’t really want the answer, but every second he stayed out of that chair was one more when he still had a chance.

“Run up the old flag when we got something. I guess they got spotters.”

The flag. Tom clamped back on a moan. My God, it was so obvious, right there in plain sight. He’d wanted to believe he was safe—and now he was dead.

“I don’t ask a lot of questions. They go about their business, I mind mine.” Wade pulled open the stove’s firebox. “All I care about is getting what’s owed me.”

“That’s where the feed’s coming from, isn’t it?” Tom asked.

“Oh, yeah.” Wade reached into the firebox with a hand sheathed in a thick red leather glove. “I turn you in, I bet I’ll get a nice new wagon and maybe a good dray.”

A barter system, that had to be it. Capture a Chucky or young people who hadn’t turned, and you’d be rewarded. With mounting horror, Tom watched as Wade inspected the brand. The black iron—an open V that Wade said represented a broken bone, which Tom thought very apt—was turning a soft gray. The choke of scorched iron lodged in his throat . . .

It’s the smell of SAWs going cyclic; of spent brass cascading over rock; of a gun barrel so hot it jams and he has to spit into the breech as he works, desperately, to clear his weapon; and there are voices, always the voices, streaming out of the merciless sun and through the speaker in his helmet: “Jesus Christ, cut the wire, cut the fucking wire and grab the kid or you’re dead, you’re dead, you’re—”