CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
He sat outside the farm and waited, watching her moving about through the windows. She’d only just come back from a long day at work in the fields and running errands in town. She’d soon be taking on new laborers—he knew that, because he’d seen the ad she was drafting up for the local newspaper on the screen of her laptop through the kitchen window. Now was his chance, and it was good that she hadn’t had the time to bring anyone in. It made things perfect for him.
No husband around to protect her, now that he was dead. No children to get in the way. He didn’t want them to have to see the unspeakable horrors of their parents’ deaths, either—even if he was going to have to take care of them, too, eventually. That could happen further down the line. They weren’t able to have children of their own, yet—but the parents still were. Besides, the children were killed later in the day. That was when Ebediah Michaels, having completed his bloody work in the fields, went into the homes and waited for the children to return so that he could make sure he left no soul intact.
He’d been mistaken, of course, in thinking that his duty had been done. But that made his crime no less heinous. No less worth atoning for.
Evil was evil, pure and unchangeable. It couldn’t be allowed to live on as it had. Not even in those innocent children, who would grow up one day to be something else entirely if left unchecked.
He could see her more clearly now, as the light of the sun slowly disappeared from the sky. She had the lights on in her kitchen, where she’d eaten alone. The children, he’d gathered, were with their grandparents. It might not be so easy to get to them now, but he could think about that later. Perhaps with the grandparents thinking all the trouble was happening here in town, they might let their guard down. Imagine that the children were safe. That would help him immensely.
Focus, she told him. You’re getting too distracted. You told me it would be fine for you to take care of the children. Was that a lie?
“No, no,” he muttered quietly. “I’ll do it. I just get bored. These long stretches of waiting and watching. I just like to plan ahead.”
Stop thinking about the future so much and focus on what is right in front of you, she whispered, making him raise his head and look again.
The woman—she was done for the night. Taking a big glass of red wine and draining it empty, setting the glass down by the sink and leaning her hands on the counter for a moment, processing. She raised her head and looked out over the fields like a ghost of a woman. So sad and empty. It made him shudder a little.
Don’t feel sorry for her now, she hissed at him. Remember she wouldn’t even be here if what happened to me had turned out differently!
He nodded silently, just to let her know he had heard and he agreed. He wasn’t going to back out now. Besides, she wouldn’t be sad anymore once she was dead. It was a kindness, really.
He crept forward, staying level with the low hand-built stone wall that separated one of the field boundaries, keeping her in his sights. He needed to make sure she moved to where he needed her. He could have broken in, attacked her inside the farmhouse, but that wasn’t right. That wasn’t where it had happened.
He moved out into the field, crossing the open space quickly, out near a side of the house where the kitchen had no windows. He couldn’t see her, but she couldn’t see him. It was the shortest time he could dare to take without seeing her, unsure otherwise if she would do what he needed her to.
He crouched against the stone wall of the farmhouse, took the sizeable rock he’d picked out earlier and carried in his pocket, and threw it hard against the old stone well that sat near the kitchen. It made a loud clatter, and though he couldn’t see her now, he thought he might be able to picture her: standing at the window, eyes straining into the darkness, trying to make out whether there was someone out there.
There was a long pause; he was about to reach into his pocket for another stone, but then he heard it. The kitchen door opening out onto the night, allowing her to step outside. And another sound—the ch-chink of a shotgun being pumped.
“Whoever you are out there,” she yelled, which meant he was getting to her, even if she was trying to brave her way through it, “I’ve got a gun and I’m not afraid to use it. This is private land. You better get yourself back to the road and get gone.”
There was a long pause. He heard a couple of footsteps and tensed, but there was nothing else. He had to do something to make sure she didn’t just go back inside the house.
He took one of the stones out of his pocket and dropped it against the wall, letting it clatter down against the front of the house, just along from where she must have been standing.
“Right!” she yelled, and he heard her coming toward him.
He smiled to himself. He’d been right. He had thought that she was the kind of woman who wouldn’t just back down and run. The kind of woman who wouldn’t cower inside the house and call the police. No, she was proud and headstrong, willing to risk being killed in order to protect her home and her family. With the death of her husband so fresh in her mind, she was liable to fire that gun at anyone who so much as looked at her funny.
Her feet crunched on the ground as she came near to him, and he raised the scythe, ready to strike her as soon as she turned the corner. Even if she was cautious, even if she came leading with the barrel of the shotgun first, it didn’t matter. He could slash the thing out of her hands before she had the time to aim and fire it.
Her footsteps stopped, and so did his heart for a moment, thinking she wasn’t coming to come his way at all.
The moon had come out from behind a cloud from behind him, and he hadn’t thought of that, had he? He hadn’t considered that as the days went on, the moon was getting brighter, closer to full. So curious that she, who had lived back in a time when the moon was the only light you might expect at night if you couldn’t afford a candle, hadn’t brought it up.
But it didn’t matter who was to blame. Because she was pointing the shotgun at him now, and she pulled the trigger.
There was a click.
An empty click.
Nothing happened.
He stared at her for a moment, her eyes wide—but without warning she was running now, and he sprinted forward, trying to catch her.
Trying to get to her before she went inside.
She was scrambling at the door as he raced down the side of the farmhouse, gasping at something, tugging at something that wouldn’t move. The lock. The lock wouldn’t open! He couldn’t believe his luck!
To almost lose her because he hadn’t thought about something as simple as the moon casting the shadow of his scythe on the ground in front of him, and then to have the chance handed back to him because she was accidentally locked out of her own home!
She turned desperately and started to run again. In the confusion she’d dropped the shotgun while she tried to wrestle with the door, and he almost tripped over it. Now THAT would have been some luck! To trip over the very discarded weapon that left her now defenseless!
He leaned into his stride, pushing himself to run even faster after her, knowing he had the stamina to catch her before she could outrun him or get away to a safe place.
All he had to do was keep chasing, and she would fall before his blade.