They Kill Read online

  tim waggoner

  They Kill

  FLAME TREE PRESS

  London & New York

  Chapter One

  A tall, lean man known only as Corliss – to those who knew of him at all – walked down the middle of County Road 25A, roughly three miles outside the Ohio town of Bishop Hill. Dawn was only beginning to touch the eastern horizon, and the morning air was chilly, more like November than mid-September. Corliss liked the bite in the air, found it rather bracing.

  An invigorating start to the morning, he thought.

  Cornfields flanked the road on either side, the stalks swaying gently in the morning breeze, leaves rustling against each other, making it sound as if the plants were communicating in hushed whispers. Corliss sniffed the air. The corn was almost ready to harvest. Another few weeks. He walked up to the wood-and-wire fence on his right, reached out, and wrapped his fingers around a stalk he selected at random. He concentrated for a moment, then removed his hand, returned to the road, and continued walking. Now, whoever ate the corn from that particular plant would respond in one of two ways, depending on their temperament. They’d either fall into a deep, dark depression and kill themselves, or they would become consumed with homicidal fury and kill whoever was in their immediate vicinity at the time.

  Corliss smiled. It was the little things that made his work worthwhile.

  He wore a black suit and tie, which at first glance appeared perfectly normal. But the longer someone looked at his clothes, the more it seemed like the suit was an open void, a portal to some vast dark place. The observer would be tempted, almost uncontrollably so, to step forward and try to touch the suit, to prove it was nothing more than a garment made of sewn-together fabric. And if that person succumbed to this temptation, he or she would regret it, bitterly, for the few seconds of life remaining to them.

  Corliss was clean-shaven, eyebrows thin, straight blond hair falling halfway down his back. His hair – almost the precise shade of corn silk, coincidentally – made a startling contrast with his dark clothing. More startling was the way his hair was always in motion, if only slightly, even when the air was still.

  A third of the sun was visible by the time Corliss reached his destination. There was nothing immediately apparent about this place that marked it as special. More corn on either side of the road, uncut grass in the ditches, asphalt old, cracked, and in need of repair. Nevertheless, this was the right place. What it wasn’t, however, was the right time. But that was easily rectified.

  He made a languid gesture with his right hand, as if he were half-heartedly shooing away a bothersome insect. Daylight vanished, darkness rushed in, and with it came rain. Not a light shower, but a motherfucking deluge. Water poured from the sky in torrents, wind blasted with gale force, thunder boomed like artillery fire, and lightning crackled as it split the dark, illuminating the area for miles in all directions with stark white strobing flashes. It was only 6:09 p.m., but thanks to the storm, it might as well have been midnight. Corliss’s head and hands became immediately drenched, but the rain that touched his suit simply kept on going, disappearing into the black expanse within. The wind grabbed hold of his wet hair, flung it this way and that, and the strands cried out in a chorus of fear and excitement. Corliss grinned, spread his arms wide, and raised his face toward the sky. This was his kind of weather. He stood like that for several moments, enjoying the sensation of the storm raging around him, but he soon became aware of headlights approaching from the east. He sighed. Time to go to work.

  He lowered his head and arms and stepped to the side of the road. He didn’t do so to avoid being struck by the oncoming vehicle. If the driver managed to hit him – a big if – his void would protect him. This spot simply offered the best vantage point to observe what was about to happen. He looked to the west, and for a moment he saw only darkness disrupted by lightning flashes. But he soon saw another pair of headlights heading this way. Both vehicles were too far away for him to make out any details visually, but he prided himself on the thoroughness of his research, and he already knew everything he needed to.

  The vehicle approaching from the west was a black Dodge pickup, eight years old but still in excellent condition. The driver, thirty-two-year-old Jeffrey Sowell, made sure to keep it that way. Not that his devotion to vehicle maintenance would do him any good this night. The vehicle approaching from the east was a silver Nissan Altima. It had a few years on it as well, but it was also in good condition. The Altima was sixteen-year-old Courtney Marsh’s first car, and she was anal about making sure her vehicle was serviced regularly. She intended the Altima to get her through her last two years of high school and – hopefully – through college as well. Unfortunately for Courtney, her car wasn’t even going to get her home tonight.

  Both drivers were going faster than they should have, given the conditions. Jeffrey and his boyfriend, Marc, had been having dinner out this evening, when they’d had a fight. Upset, Jeffrey had left the restaurant in tears. He’d gotten in his truck and took off, with no particular destination in mind. He’d just wanted to get away and think, so he’d headed out of town on County Road 25A. As he was driving, he’d called his sister to vent some steam, but she’d proven less than sympathetic. How many times have I told you that Marc isn’t the right guy for you? Maybe now you’ll listen to me and break up with that asshole. Before long they’d started arguing too, and Jeffrey ended the call, frustrated and angry.

  Courtney was equally upset, but for a very different reason. She played oboe in the school orchestra and had driven to Ash Creek to have an afterschool lesson with her teacher, Mrs. Olivetti. Courtney had only had her license for a short time, and she’d never driven in inclement weather before. But while the weather app on her phone had predicted rain, the sky had been clear, and since she was a type-A student who intended to graduate valedictorian – although she’d settle for salutatorian if she had to – she hated missing any kind of lesson, and her anal-retentive tendencies warred with her sense of caution. It was no real contest, however, and she’d set out for Ash Creek. It had been a good lesson, but she regretted her choice now. The rain hadn’t been coming down too hard when she’d left Mrs. Olivetti’s house, but the storm had grown stronger and more violent with each mile she drove, until now it seemed as if it might destroy the world. No wonder ancient people had worshipped storm gods. All this wild power…. She’d pray to any god who could get her through this storm safely, if only she knew the right deity to call on.

  She could’ve stayed with Mrs. Olivetti until the worst of the storm passed. She could’ve – should’ve – pulled over to the side of the road and waited it out. But she was also on the girls’ tennis team, and they had practice tonight. Intellectually, she knew she could miss one practice. Hell, their coach might even cancel it if the storm didn’t let up soon. But until she got a text informing her practice was off, she had to assume it was still on. And just as she hadn’t been able to make herself skip her oboe lesson, she was determined not to miss tennis practice – even if it meant having to drive through this hellstorm. The thought of missing practice, combined with the storm’s unrelenting assault on her vehicle, filled her with anxiety, so much so that she was unaware of how fast she was driving. Her subconscious mind goaded her to go fast, faster, so she could get out of the storm and find shelter all the sooner. In response, her right foot slowly increased pressure on the gas pedal, and her Altima picked up speed without her realizing it. Tears filled her eyes – tears of fear and frustration – making it more difficult for her to see the road ahead of her than it already was.

  Both drivers experienced the same awful conditions. Rain coming down so heavy and fast that their wipers, even on the highest setting, couldn’t keep their windshields clear. Gusting winds buffeted their vehicles, punching them this way and that, making it a constant battle to keep them under control. There was so much water on the road that their tires hydroplaned. Courtney didn’t have enough experience driving to recognize what her tires were doing, and she didn’t ease back on her speed. Jeffrey had experienced hydroplaning before, although nothing nearly as bad as this. But he didn’t slow down because he was too pissed off.

  As the vehicles raced toward each other, Courtney’s Altima drifted over the centerline, putting her on a direct collision course with Jeffrey’s pickup. Jeffrey didn’t react at first. Given the poor visibility, it seemed to him as if the Altima had appeared out of nowhere. It took him a couple seconds before he jammed his foot onto the brake and yanked his steering wheel to the right. Courtney didn’t have the presence of mind right then to perform any evasive maneuvers. Her eyes widened in shocked disbelief when she saw Jeffrey’s pickup, and all she had time to do was let out a shrill scream of panic before she saw the other vehicle swerve toward the cornfield on her left. It ran off the road, hit the ditch, and was launched into the air. She slammed on her own brakes then, fishtailing to a stop. She didn’t see the pickup flip over as it started to descend.

  When the pickup began to invert itself, Corliss gestured and the world froze. Millions of swollen icy raindrops became suspended in the air, the wind stilled, and the thunder grew silent. He’d managed to halt time in the midst of an especially bright lightning flash, providing him plenty of illumination. He’d been standing on the opposite side of the road from where Jeffrey’s vehicle was headed, and now he walked toward the other cornfield. The raindrops his face and hands encountered adhered to his skin, caught in his own personal time field. The drops that his su
it touched disappeared into its endless black depths.

  He took a jump-step over the ditch and continued into the cornfield until he was close enough to the pickup to touch it. The vehicle was frozen in midair, making it look as if it were levitating. It amused him to imagine that the pickup was a huge balloon, and if he gave it the smallest push with his hand it would float away. The vehicle’s driver’s side was tilted toward the ground, and Corliss had an excellent view of Jeffrey’s face. The man’s expression was intriguing. Shock mostly, mixed with fear and disbelief. But what really intrigued Corliss was the hint of acceptance in Jeffrey’s widened eyes. Corliss had seen this before – many times, in fact – in the gazes of people who knew they were about to die. He didn’t know if this recognition had a psychic basis, a kind of death-sense that humans possessed, or if the realization was entirely rational. Given the situation Jeffrey found himself in, why wouldn’t he anticipate dying? At this point, it would certainly appear to be the most logical outcome. It was a puzzle that fascinated Corliss, and he took every opportunity to look into the eyes of humans who were only seconds from their death in the hope he would eventually find an answer. But like all the others before him, Jeffrey’s eyes provided none. Corliss hadn’t really expected they would, but he was disappointed nevertheless.

  He stepped back several feet, gestured again, and time resumed its normal course.

  The pickup continued sailing through the air, flipping over as it went. It came down top first, striking the ground at such an angle that the driver’s side took the worst of the impact. The cab crumpled at that spot, the metal smashing upward onto Jeffrey’s head the same instant gravity yanked him downward. The top of his skull caved in, which would’ve been enough to kill him by itself, but his neck snapped as well. The pickup bounced, rolled, then slid to a stop, leaving behind it a swath of flattened cornstalks. The vehicle – glass broken, metal twisted – came to a rest on its passenger side in a soup of mud and smashed plant matter. Corliss waited to see if the pickup would fall to one side or the other, onto its wheels or its roof, but it remained sitting on its side. He walked over to the vehicle, crouched, and peered through the broken windshield. He gazed upon Jeffrey, still held in place by his safety belt. The top of his head was a crushed red ruin, and blood trickled from his ears and nostrils. The man had died almost instantly upon impact, which Corliss supposed Jeffrey would’ve considered a mercy. Corliss, however, viewed it as a missed opportunity. Humans only died once, and it was a shame that Jeffrey had missed out on fully experiencing his demise.

  Corliss didn’t worry about Courtney. She was uninjured – physically, at least – and would remain in her car, hands wrapped around the steering wheel in a death grip, until a power company crew drove by in search of a downed line in the area. It was they who would call 911, bringing state troopers, firefighters, and EMTs to the scene. Corliss had some time before any of that happened, though. More than enough to finish what he’d come here to do.

  Corliss crouched in front of the pickup’s broken windshield. He touched an index finger to the glass, and it became mist that was instantly blown away by the howling wind. Jeffrey hung upside down, still buckled to his seat in an awkward, almost comical position. Corliss touched the belt, and like the glass, it transformed into vaporous wisps. Without the belt to hold him in place, Jeffrey – or rather, his corpse – fell to the passenger-side door with a dull thud. Corliss gazed upon Jeffrey’s corpse. It had come to rest on its shoulders, spine curved, knees down by the face, head twisted at an unnatural angle. Death fascinated Corliss. One moment a collection of meat, blood, and bone was moving, and the next it was motionless. The event always struck him as so… anticlimactic.

  He leaned his face close to Jeffrey’s and breathed upon the man’s open, staring eyes. An instant later the pupils widened and Jeffrey began to stir. Corliss straightened and stepped back to observe. He made no move to help the man extricate himself from the wreck. He’d returned life to Jeffrey – of a sort. The man could manage the rest himself.

  Jeffrey’s limbs twitched slightly, as if his muscles were trying to remember how to move, then he half shoved, half rolled through the opening where the windshield had been. He lay in a crumpled heap for several moments, then slowly, torturously began to stand, rising like a marionette controlled by shaky, uncertain hands. His head rested on his right shoulder, but aside from that – and the bloody dent on the top of his skull – he didn’t look too bad, all things considered. The lashing rain washed the worst of the blood from his head wound, and while he staggered under the assault of the violent wind, he didn’t go down.

  Corliss nodded. Good.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he detected a new pair of headlights approaching. It was the power crew, searching for the downed line but about to discover something much worse.

  Time to be going, he thought.

  “Follow,” Corliss said. His voice was drowned out by the wind and rain, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t have to speak aloud for Jeffrey to hear him. He started walking toward the road, and after a moment’s hesitation, Jeffrey followed. The dead man struggled against the storm, but the moment Corliss set foot on the road, daylight returned, and with it a clear blue morning sky. Corliss turned around and waited for Jeffrey to catch up. There was no sign of the man’s pickup, or of Courtney and her Altima. They’d been left behind in the past.

  Jeffrey might no longer have the storm to contend with, but in the present, the cornfield wasn’t damaged, and he had to shoulder his way between stalks on his way to the road. His movements were slow and halting, which was only to be expected given the state his body was in. Once out of the cornfield, he had trouble negotiating the ditch, and he lost his footing and fell to his knees. Corliss made no move to help him. In a sense, Jeffrey was a newborn, and he needed to learn to walk on his own. When Jeffrey reached Corliss, he stopped, and Corliss examined him. Jeffrey was still wet from the storm, which had blown itself out 365 days ago, but he would dry eventually. His color was good – a little gray-tinged, but overall very lifelike – but something had to be done about that bashed-in head and broken neck. Corliss took hold of Jeffrey’s lolling head and gently straightened it. There was an audible click as bone set and fused, and when Corliss removed his hands, Jeffrey’s head remained upright. It still tilted a bit to the left, but Corliss thought the angle gave Jeffrey a rakish, almost mischievous look that he rather liked, so he decided to leave it that way. He then ran his right hand over the top of Jeffrey’s head, as if he intended to straighten the man’s hair. When he was finished, Jeffrey’s skull had returned to its normal shape. Corliss’s hand was smeared with blood – evidently the rain hadn’t washed all of it away – and he lifted it to his face. He opened his mouth and a long black snakelike tongue emerged. It quickly licked the hand clean and then slithered back into Corliss’s mouth.

  The sun was almost all the way above the horizon now.

  “What’s your name?” Corliss asked.

  Jeffrey frowned, as if he were having trouble remembering, but then he said, “Jeffrey Sowell.”

  “Good. And where do you live?”

  Another frown, and then, “An apartment.”

  Corliss pursed his lips in irritation. “What town?”

  “Bishop Hill.”

  Hardly any hesitation this time. Excellent.

  “What happened to me?” Jeffrey asked. “The last thing I remember….” He trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

  Corliss wasn’t surprised. No one returned from death with all their memories intact, and Jeffrey had suffered severe brain damage. Yes, Corliss had repaired Jeffrey’s injuries, but he wasn’t a neurosurgeon. He might’ve put the pieces of the man’s head back together, but not necessarily in the proper order. No matter. Jeffrey would serve his purpose as he was.

  “All you need to know is Bishop Hill is that way.” Corliss pointed west. “If you start walking now, you can be there in a couple hours.”

  Jeffrey looked at him for a long moment, and Corliss thought the man was going to say something, perhaps question who Corliss was and why he wanted Jeffrey to walk to town. But instead Jeffrey turned away and began plodding westward, one slow, awkward step after another.