the skin down to the wrist. As the skin was peeled back and the raw red muscle exposed to the air, he passed out.
Engel remembered seeing the mill from his last encounter here. Large buildings, capable of holding a small army. Perfect for them. Even better that it was empty. The man had been a nuisance, nothing more. His screams had been exquisite. Engel ordered the skinned corpse impaled on a spear. They would place it outside the gate, near the road, as a warning: The Dark Ones are coming.
After dropping Schuler off, Mike ditched the stolen car in a field near the old Cargill grain elevators. He walked home, holding his coat shut the whole time, hoping to ward off the ever-stiffening October wind. He moved through the old First Ward, occasionally peeking at the houses, wanting to shake his head. They were all pre–World War II, built long and tall and narrow, with eight or so feet between the homes. They were so close it seemed like you could reach over and snatch a morsel of corned beef from your neighbors’ dinner table.
Now most of them had been turned into crack dens. One couple, Sandy and Deke Labin, had been raided by the DEA. Deke had set up a meth lab in his basement. Parrish, who lived across the street, ran a gang called the Seneca Crew. It was sad, and he wondered what the hell he was still doing here. He knew the answer to that: Mom. She was just like the old Polish living down on Memorial Drive, too proud to leave despite the rash of home invasions. Some of them had been tied up, pistol-whipped, and robbed, but still they stayed.
With Hark most likely after him, Mike had good reason to leave, but there was his mother. She wouldn’t make it to the end of the driveway in her current condition. Her breathing was more labored and she had developed a nasty wet rattle in her chest over the past month. Moving her would mean the end. He would have to find a way to avoid Hark, lay low until the whole thing blew over. And there was the life, as Schuler called it. He was growing tired of looking over his shoulder, wondering if someone was waiting to pop him in the back. Wondering if the plain brown and gray cars passing the house were plainclothes or not. Even Schuler had grown old. Mike found himself forcing himself to laugh at the same jokes, feign interest in the same war stories, how they knocked over this place or that.
By now Hark had to have heard about the fire. It would have made the eleven o’clock news. He hoped Schuler got out of town, even if the dirty prick did insult Mike’s mother. He had to admit, the kid did one hell of an Irish brogue, and if Mike’s mom hadn’t been the target of the joke, he would have been bent over the steering wheel laughing.
He turned the corner onto Smith, past Ricotta’s, its windows covered by plywood. The little corner store had moved to Orchard Park. Good for them, Mike thought.
He came up on the house. The first thing he noticed was the dim front window. It struck him as unusual. Mom always left a light on until Mike got home. Maybe she had retired early. Then he started to worry, maybe she’d fallen, or maybe Jasmine, her nurse, hadn’t shown and Mom had slipped into unconsciousness.
He quickened his pace until he reached the front step, which rattled, the one-by-six having loosened over the years. That porch probably hadn’t been fixed since 1985, when his father had still been capable of walking ten feet without sucking from an oxygen mask.
Reaching the porch, he noticed the door cracked open. That was another thing. Mom insisted he lock the door, and in this neighborhood, it was the wise thing to do. He never left it unlocked.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out the .45. He pointed it at the door. It might be nothing. Or maybe he did get careless and leave it open. Or it might be a junkie on the prowl looking to swipe something.
He opened the door and looked inside. The furniture blended with the complete darkness. Mike wanted
Engel remembered seeing the mill from his last encounter here. Large buildings, capable of holding a small army. Perfect for them. Even better that it was empty. The man had been a nuisance, nothing more. His screams had been exquisite. Engel ordered the skinned corpse impaled on a spear. They would place it outside the gate, near the road, as a warning: The Dark Ones are coming.
After dropping Schuler off, Mike ditched the stolen car in a field near the old Cargill grain elevators. He walked home, holding his coat shut the whole time, hoping to ward off the ever-stiffening October wind. He moved through the old First Ward, occasionally peeking at the houses, wanting to shake his head. They were all pre–World War II, built long and tall and narrow, with eight or so feet between the homes. They were so close it seemed like you could reach over and snatch a morsel of corned beef from your neighbors’ dinner table.
Now most of them had been turned into crack dens. One couple, Sandy and Deke Labin, had been raided by the DEA. Deke had set up a meth lab in his basement. Parrish, who lived across the street, ran a gang called the Seneca Crew. It was sad, and he wondered what the hell he was still doing here. He knew the answer to that: Mom. She was just like the old Polish living down on Memorial Drive, too proud to leave despite the rash of home invasions. Some of them had been tied up, pistol-whipped, and robbed, but still they stayed.
With Hark most likely after him, Mike had good reason to leave, but there was his mother. She wouldn’t make it to the end of the driveway in her current condition. Her breathing was more labored and she had developed a nasty wet rattle in her chest over the past month. Moving her would mean the end. He would have to find a way to avoid Hark, lay low until the whole thing blew over. And there was the life, as Schuler called it. He was growing tired of looking over his shoulder, wondering if someone was waiting to pop him in the back. Wondering if the plain brown and gray cars passing the house were plainclothes or not. Even Schuler had grown old. Mike found himself forcing himself to laugh at the same jokes, feign interest in the same war stories, how they knocked over this place or that.
By now Hark had to have heard about the fire. It would have made the eleven o’clock news. He hoped Schuler got out of town, even if the dirty prick did insult Mike’s mother. He had to admit, the kid did one hell of an Irish brogue, and if Mike’s mom hadn’t been the target of the joke, he would have been bent over the steering wheel laughing.
He turned the corner onto Smith, past Ricotta’s, its windows covered by plywood. The little corner store had moved to Orchard Park. Good for them, Mike thought.
He came up on the house. The first thing he noticed was the dim front window. It struck him as unusual. Mom always left a light on until Mike got home. Maybe she had retired early. Then he started to worry, maybe she’d fallen, or maybe Jasmine, her nurse, hadn’t shown and Mom had slipped into unconsciousness.
He quickened his pace until he reached the front step, which rattled, the one-by-six having loosened over the years. That porch probably hadn’t been fixed since 1985, when his father had still been capable of walking ten feet without sucking from an oxygen mask.
Reaching the porch, he noticed the door cracked open. That was another thing. Mom insisted he lock the door, and in this neighborhood, it was the wise thing to do. He never left it unlocked.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out the .45. He pointed it at the door. It might be nothing. Or maybe he did get careless and leave it open. Or it might be a junkie on the prowl looking to swipe something.
He opened the door and looked inside. The furniture blended with the complete darkness. Mike wanted
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