No Sanctuary (31 page)

“Gotta keep on doin’ the Lord’s work.”

He carries on like this, I’ll kill him, thought Rick.

Interpreting his thoughts, Bert gave a small frown, and shook her head.

Angus was gone. Oblivious to the mental dialogue of his captives, he nursed his rifle lovingly against his chest, his bony fingers caressing the hard steel. He began rocking to and fro. The knife belts in his lap shifted and chittered. The sound roused him from his reverie and he continued his story.

“My daddy and his daddy afore him were strong Scottish Presbyterian. Ministers of the cloth, both. Back in Perthshire, Scotland, my granddaddy ministered to his flock of good folk ... and kept them free from sin. A-men.

“Jist as the good Lord woulda wished.

“When he died, my daddy took over. But, in a wee while, that same flock turned on my daddy, so they did...”

His attention wandered again. Mumbling to himself, he looked up and stared for a long time at a brass crucifix hanging over the door.

Rick coughed. “And then what, Angus?” He looked at his wristwatch. “Whoa. So late? We really must be moving on. What d’you say, Bert?”

Relieved that Rick had broken the tension, Bert said, “Yes, sure thing. We better get going. Mustn’t keep the girls waiting, must we, Rick? Promised we’d be back before dark.”

In a flash, Angus was on his feet. The knives fell to the floor with a clattering thunk. He gripped his gun and shoved it at them with both hands.

“SIT DOWN, FILTH! I haven’t finished yet. You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’ve had my say!”

They all sat down. Angus gave them another crafty smile and resumed his story.

“First off, you can’t fool me. Them girls broke camp a while back. They on their way to somewhere else by now. That means you’re on your lonesome. Two lost sheep who’ve gone astray!” He giggled at his own words, then fell silent, his loose, wet lips pulsating gently beneath his beard. Testing the effect of the pun on his audience.

He leered slyly at Bert.

“See, now, where wus I? Yep. Then my daddy heard that there was a need for God’s ministers over here in the United States of America. So we came over in a sailing ship. My daddy, my mammy and Maire and me. We traveled across the seas to this great country and finally dropped anchor, so to speak, in the Tehachapis.

“My daddy preached an’ he preached till he was blue in the face. He loved his flock, oh my, how he loved them people. Mammy would cry and say that there was no need for him to love and care for them so much. ’Specially the young ’uns. She was there, she said—he didn’t need no more love...

“And then he got to lovin’ Maire. The Lord’s wishes, he swore. An’ my Daddy, he allus carried out the good Lord’s wishes. Praise be to the Lord. A-men.”

If I keep him talking, looking my way, Rick thought, Bert could break out before he gets a chance to use his gun. I could overpower him. And we could be on our way.

As if.

“Anyways. One night, them good church folk held a meetin’ and a whole contingent of them marched over to our house and told my daddy to get out. They said he wus evil. Not fit to be a man of the cloth, they said.

“Daddy told them to go away and he closed the door, right in their faces. Went straight in to Maire’s room and loved her some more. I could hear her pleadin’ an’ cryin.’ She wus saying, Daddy please don’t. Don’t Daddy, you’re hurtin’ me...

“When Mammy went in, she found my sister Maire dead in her bed. A seizure, so my mammy said. She ran out into the night a-screaming for help and daddy got his gun, the one that’s setting on my knee this very minute, and shot her dead.

“My daddy and me gathered up a few family treasures, took to the hills, ’n built us this mighty fine cabin, so we did. My daddy told me we were poor wanderers, a-travelin’ the wilderness with only wild things for company. Jist like the Lord Jesus Christ, he said. Only we stayed more ’n forty days an’ forty nights. We stuck it out for much longer. All of my daddy’s natural born life, turned out...

“An’ I been here since my daddy passed on. Lookin’ after God’s creatures and spreadin’ the word. This ’ere mountain country is my home. It gets a bit lonesome sometimes and I don’t have much truck with outsiders... but, it’s my home...”

“That’s it.” Rick stood up. So did Bert. Grabbing their packs, they started for the door.

A gunshot whined and hit the roof.

“No you don’t. Filthy swine! Foul defilers! I’m not yet done with ye. REPENT AND BE SAVED!”

He marched them through the door, out onto the stoop and around to the back of the cabin.

Bert’s heart sank when she saw where they were headed.

Toward a cage-like pen made from tough, pine staves about twelve feet high and bound together by stout twine.

Angus danced around them, herding, prodding, maneuvering them together with his rifle. The cage door was open.

“Ready and waiting,” Bert muttered.

An almighty crack descended on Rick’s head and a gasp shot from his lips. He groaned, folded and went down on all fours.

What the...?

All in a day’s work for Angus. Suddenly, he was business-like; prodding Rick with the rifle butt, kicking and pushing him into the cage.

Fuck.

Rick slid along the dirt floor, lurched to his knees and tried to stand. His legs gave and he crashed, face down, into the mat of foul-smelling straw.

Angus darted behind Bert and poked her sharply in the back. She stalled. Another vicious poke sent her sprawling onto the floor of the cage. Angus cackled to himself as he quickly secured the cage door with a strong plait of twine.

“Rest awhile my travelin’ friends!” he simpered. “Rest and repent ye of your sins. Praise the Lord!”

“Shit, shit, shit,” wailed Bert. She stood with her hands rattling the staves in angry frustration.

Rick got to his feet. “Okay,” he panted. “He’s got us for now. But we’ll get out. No sweat.” He wasn’t sure how, but they’d make it. If it was the last thing he ...

This is too ridiculous for words. We’re two intelligent, professional people. Doing nobody any harm. All we ever wanted was to be left alone...

This can’t be happening to us. It can’t. I won’t let it ...

Rick bashed the palings with a clenched fist. All the way down one side of the cage, the staves shook in unison. A blinding pain shot through his skull. And his fist. The pain in his head was bad, but now his fist...

He cursed. They both needed his two hands to be in working order. Trust him to go and get a loused-up fist...

The crack on his head, from the rifle butt had raised a fair-sized lump. He groaned and pictured a bottle of Jim Beam, standing on the bar, back in his apartment. A glass, half filled with sparkling rocks was ready and waiting. The amber fluid glinted seductively, beckoning to him ...

Rick closed his eyes against the screeching pain in his head. Oh, for anything, but anything vaguely alcoholic, preferably straight from the bottle. And aspirin. Got some in my pack.

Angus, would you mind fetching me some water and aspirin? The aspirin’s in my pack, by the way.

Christ, give me strength.

When that fuckin’ turd leaves us alone, we’ll find a way out of his goddamn cage.

“Rick,” Bert said quietly. “Look at this.” She pointed to a heap of canvas humps in the comer of the cage.

“Backpacks. Old backpacks, Rick.” She looked at him and the same thought passed between them.

“Huh. Kids who never got around to repenting...” Rick said.

“Looks that way.”

“Probably butchered and got eaten for breakfast.”

Rick’s watch told him it was six o’clock already. “We rest up till dark. Okay?” he whispered. “Meanwhile, we’ll figure out a way to escape.”

Bert was near to tears. “Oh, sure, Rick. What d’you suggest? Please Angus, let us outa here ’cos we want to go home now?”

Rick hadn’t got an answer. Yet. They couldn’t climb over the staves. Too high, too pointed and far too dangerous. They couldn’t try to shake the staves loose from their moorings either. Angus might be watching.

When it got dark, they’d find a way.

They sat together, their backs leaning against the palings. They felt defeated.

Bert huffed loudly. “I’m so hot and sticky. Can’t take my shirt off, our friendly fuckin’ neighborhood creep’d probably get off on it.”

“Rest while we can, Bert, that’s about all we can do.”

As the shadows lengthened around the cage, they fell silent and dozed a little.

A low, throaty snarl brought Rick to his senses.

He lay stretched out on the floor. Eyes closed.

Christ. His head hurt.

What in the name of Jesus happened to us these last few hours?

He remembered this morning, so long ago now, sitting and staring at Bert, thinking that he could do that all day.

Hell, I shoulda just done it. Stayed there. All day.

Bert?

Where is Bert ...

Rick’s hand shot to his head. It felt like it had been kicked around a baseball pitch, non-stop. He groaned and let his hand drop to his side. Easier that way. Just lying there.

Eyes open now.

Staring at the night sky ...

Another low snarl. More like a warning growl, Rick thought. It was deep, throaty and seemed like it was sending him a message.

Coming to getcha, white man ...

Okay. Here I am .....

He watched the clusters of stars above.

Constellations.

Asteroids.

Planets.

They were all up there, in the yawning blackness.

He moved his head—first to one side, then the other.

The lump on it throbbed like crazy. He lifted his left hand to feel it.

Ouch ... maybe I should have a brain scan...

A gut-wrenching stench brought him to. A den of lions?

He sat up.

Flashes of pain shot fresh stars into the hurt already there. He groped his eyes with a hand and saw more bright lights.

Fuck smars. I got big, blinding asteroids.

Rocking to and fro, he remembered where he was. And why.

Small, stifled sobs caught his attention. They broke off, snagging in their owner’s throat. Sobs and waits of frustration.

Louder this time.

“Bert?”

“Rick...” she sniffed. “Thank God you’re awake. You passed out.”

“Yeah. My head’s killing me.”

“Rick, I’ve not heard Angus for a while. But I’ve heard his playmates...”

A low warning snarl was joined by another. And another. And another in a higher key. Then a sharp yelp as if its owner had received a hefty swipe.

“Yeah. Cougars, Rick. They’re here and they’re dose ...”

Rick staggered to his feet and moved forward, hands held before him. God, it was dark.

And that fuckin’ smell...

His outstretched arms touched palings. Placed about four inches apart. He fingered the twine holding them together at intervals, and tugged at the staves.

God, I need a drink. My mouth’s like the bottom of a lion’s cage.

Nice choice of words, Rick. Go to the top of the class.

The staves had been hammered in firmly. Too firmly. There was no moving them. No tools to loosen them with either. Rick’s heart sank.

“Wooden bars all around and goddamn mountain lions waiting for our skins,” he muttered.

“If we could just loosen the staves, perhaps I could slip through ...” Bert muttered, testing each one to see if she could work it free.

A blinding light slashed through the darkness. Covering their eyes against it, the preacher’s high-pitched giggle rang out.

“Welcome to ‘Braeside’ chapel of rest for all ye who are heavy laden. You’re very welcome indeed to lay down your weary bones and tarry here for a wee while.”

The r’s were strongly pronounced—a bizarre parody of a Scottish accent. A pious greeting you might expect from a preacher’s wife.

Angus stood outlined in the yellow glow from the doorway. A gnome-like figure, hopping from one foot to the other in excitement. He held a lighted candle in one hand.

“So that’s what was hiding behind the blanket,” Bert muttered. “Not weapons. Not stove-wood. Another door.”

Another peephole.

Angus was wearing his coyote hat again. It swung about his shoulders as he giggled. Over his free arm he nursed the old rifle. He still hopped from one leg to the other like a maniac.

Scuttling forward, the flickering flame lit up the dog snout from underneath. His straggly beard was in serious danger of going up in smoke.

Angus glared at his prisoners. His eyes, gleaming through the holes in the coyote head, darted gimlet sparks in their direction. His beard moved up and down as he cackled and jibbered an endless stream of profanities.

“Rick,” Bert whispered. “What is this screwball gonna do with us?”

Angus hurried past their cage. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty...” he called softly into the darkness.

A volley of mild growls and snarls came back.

The preacher turned to look at Bert over his shoulder. “Does that answer your question, whore?” he simpered, with sneering emphasis on the last word. “My kitties haven’t had a good meal in quite a wee while. Not since the last godless sinners passed this way. Hee, hee ...”

“He’s crazy.”

“Bert, hold on. Don’t say anything to spook the guy.”

Bert’s eyes flashed with impatience. “What d’ya think I’m nuts or something?”

Rick grinned and kept his eyes on Angus.

Yeah. The guy was crazy. But crazy like a fox, and Rick knew he had to be just as clever. Get into his mindset and play him along at his own game.

“He’s got our knives, so we can’t get physical,” he whispered. “Maybe if we talked him into opening the gate to this place, we could rush him.”

Right on cue, Angus set the lighted candle down on the grass. Then, like a magician performing his best trick, he fumbled at the waist of his trousers and with a flourish, produced two knives. Still in their sheaths. He held them by their belts, one in each hand, and jiggled them in the candlelight.

“You’ll not be needing these little beauties. Filth! Defilers!” he taunted, throwing the belts down onto the grass.

“Okay, Rick. Do your stuff. Start talking,” Bert muttered.