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  She considered getting up and calling her mother in Knoxville, but knew it would do no good. She was well aware of what her advice would be: just put up with it like a good wife should, her mother would tell her. And thank your lucky stars that you’ve been blessed with a husband like Wendell. Tammy clenched her eyes and cried even harder. She knew the tears and the trembling would fade eventually, but they seemed to last a little longer with each new incident. Five years. She had endured Wendell’s abusive stone-throwing for five long years now. She knew it would never end, as long as Wendell considered himself God’s sole mouthpiece (with the exception of Billy Graham, of course).

  She thought of his fanaticism and how cruelly it affected her on a daily basis. And she wondered how long it would be before her nerves finally snapped, bringing about the breakdown she had feared for so very long.

  Chapter Six

  Dudley Craven ran, his lungs burning in his chest. He reached the gray-wood barn, passed it, and kept right on going. A barbed-wire fence choked with weeds and blackberry bramble stood a few yards away. The farmer placed a palm on top of a weathered post and hopped the barbed strands clean as a whistle. But he knew he couldn’t keep up that pace for long. A bellyful of food and the liquor he had drunk afterward were bound to catch up with him and slow him down.

  When he landed on the far side of the fence, he groaned at the pain that shot through his right ankle. It was sprained. Dud could tell that for sure. But he had no choice but to ignore it. Fearfully, he glanced over his shoulder. He could see the pickup truck, but there was no sign of the man who had stood there. The bed looked empty except for the coffin, but he could still hear that laughter, that godawful laughter that seemed to echo around him from every imaginable direction, cutting past his eardrums and into his brain.

  Dud made it to the open field and headed across the dark rows in a lurching limp. He breathed in the cool air of the spring night, but the further he went, the less his lungs seemed to pull in. Huffing and puffing, he continued across the stretch of moonlit earth, hoping to reach the heavy woods beyond.

  When he was halfway across the acreage, the laughter stopped. That didn’t ease his terror any, though. Instead, it intensified it even more. He listened but heard nothing. Not even the crickets were singing. They were silent, as though afraid to make the tiniest noise. That was what he intended to do once he reached the thicket—find a dark place to hide and stay put, as quiet as a stone.

  Dud was reaching the fields of newly cleared land when something cried out from above. It sounded like the harsh caw of a carrion crow. Fearfully, he twisted his head and stared up at the night sky. At first he saw nothing. Then came the flutter of oily wings and he spotted the dark form of a large bird flash past the half circle of the moon. It was a crow, but what was it doing out after dark? The question left Dud’s thoughts as quickly as it had come. He had more important things to think about than some stupid crow. As he ran, he had only one purpose in mind, and that was to escape the one he’d unfortunately had a hand in bringing back to life.

  The farmer was returning his eyes to ground level just as he came upon the plow he had abandoned in the field. He tried to stop but was unable to slow down in time. The heavy wooden handle caught him in the side, sending a burst of agony through him. He stumbled, hands outstretched. An instant later he hit the ground. The palm of his left hand landed squarely against the dirt-caked blade of the plowshare. The edge cut deeply, separating the meat and slicing clean to the bone. He screamed out hoarsely and rolled onto his back. Dud cradled his injured hand. He could feel blood spurting from the wound, soaking the bib front of his overalls.

  “Shitfire!” he yelled, then clammed up. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his hand and looked toward the farm. He saw nothing but an empty stretch of furrowed ground. No one appeared to be following him.

  He wasn’t about to take any chances, however. He recalled what had happened after he had pulled the stake free—how a box full of bones and sunken clothing had turned into a living, breathing being. Dud fought the pain that shot the length of his forearm and struggled to his feet. Then he started running again.

  Fifty more feet, that was all that lay between him and the cover of the forest. He covered the distance at a stagger, his side hurting, his breathing labored. He looked back over his shoulder. The slope of the mountainside remained vacant, etched in lines of moonlight and deep shadow.

  Dud was almost to the edge of the woods when he spotted something up ahead. It was a flow of dark motion, separating from the shadows between the tall pines. He stopped dead in his tracks and watched as a form emerged from the forest, stepping into the moonlight.

  “Oh, God,” muttered the farmer, struggling for breath. “How?”

  It was the tall, gray-haired man in the black suit. He took a couple of steps toward him, then stopped. The preacher’s face looked as pale as new cream and his eyes seemed to burn in the dark pits below those bushy brows. They almost appeared to glow, like the last lingering coals of a fire that had burnt itself out hours ago.

  There was fifteen feet of open ground between him and Dud. The farmer looked over his shoulder and gauged the stretch he had just traveled. A good seven acres stood between him and the pickup truck. His heart sank. He knew there was no way he could make that distance again. The man would catch him before he got fifty feet. Resigned to the fact, Dud turned and faced the one who had somehow beaten him to the south side of the pasture.

  The elderly man appraised him sternly. “What is your name?” he asked.

  Dud was a little taken back. “Dudley,” he said. “Dudley Craven.”

  The man nodded. “And your father’s name?”

  “Edgar Craven,” he replied. He looked into those strange eyes with the icy blue irises and the bloodshot whites. They held his gaze like a magnet, refusing to let it stray.

  The preacherman frowned, as if the name was unfamiliar to him. “And your grandfather?”

  That odd feeling of cold numbness threatened to overtake his brain again, making it difficult to think. He had to study on it for a moment. “Peter,” he finally said.

  A thin smile creased the man’s blue lips. “Ah, Peter. My youngest son.”

  Dud simply stared at the preacher, his heart ceasing to beat as frantically as it once had. He was still frightened, but not so much as before.

  “You know who I am, do you not?” asked the old man.

  “Yes,” said Dud without hesitation. “Grandpappy. Grandpappy Craven.”

  The man nodded sagely. His eyes left Dud’s face and settled on the farmer’s left hand. “You are hurt.”

  Dud lifted his hand. It was still bleeding profusely, throbbing in time with his pulse. “I cut it. On the plow.”

  Grandpappy Craven extended a gaunt hand. “Come to me,” he commanded.

  Dud didn’t falter. He walked toward his great-grandfather, his useless hand stretched outward.

  The old man took it when Dud came within reach. He cradled the farmer’s hand in his own. Dud flinched a little. Grandpappy’s touch was as cold as ice. He watched as the preacher gazed at the open pit in the palm of his hand, his eyes feverish. Then, without warning, he raised it to his mouth.

  A jolt of terror cut through the cloud in Dud’s brain and he tried to pull away.

  “Trust me,” said Grandpappy.

  Dud surrendered, watching as the old man’s lips covered the ugly wound. He shuddered. A prickly chill engulfed Dud’s palm, driving away the pain. He felt the preacher’s tongue enter the cut, caressing the raw muscle and exposed bone. Dud closed his eyes, feeling nauseated. But that was even worse. He could still hear the ugly wet sound of the old man lapping up his blood. It sounded like a thirsty coonhound drinking water out of a creek bed.

  For a moment, Dud felt nothing in his hand below the wrist. Then warmth flowed back into his fist and a tightness gripped the flat of his palm. He opened his eyes just as Grandpappy released him.

  Dud withdrew his hand
and stared at it. The nasty wound was gone. The palm was whole once again.

  “See?” said Grandpappy. He smiled softly and Dud could see traces of fresh blood in the creases between his teeth. “I always take care of family.”

  Dud stumbled back, feeling as if he were about to faint. Before he could, however, Grandpappy was standing before him, steadying his balance with a frigid but firm hand. Dud’s eyes locked with the old man’s.

  “You know who I am, Dudley Craven,” said Grandpappy. “But do you know what I am?”

  “I… I think so,” said the farmer. Truthfully, there was no thinking to it. Dud knew exactly what sort of being Grandpappy was. He remembered the stake he had removed and realized its true purpose for being there. A pang of regret surfaced somewhere in the back of his mind, but was immediately swallowed by the dark mist in his brain.

  “Then you know that I have certain needs?” he continued. “Yearnings?”

  Dud swallowed dryly. “Yeah,” was all he said.

  “Excellent,” replied Grandpappy Craven. “Then I trust you will extend me the hospitality of your dwelling, as well as attend to other matters. Matters that are of the utmost importance for someone like myself.”

  Dud nodded. He didn’t possess the will to refuse.

  “Fine,” said Grandpappy. “I knew you’d not let me down. After all, it would be a sin to deny one’s kin. It could prove to be downright fatal, in fact. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” replied Dud. The old man had his hooks in him now and there was no escaping them.

  “Then let us go,” said the fallen preacher.

  Dully, Dud accompanied him across the barren acres toward the dark structures of the mountain farm. His mind was numb and compliant, but his heart was filled with dread. He had a feeling he knew what Grandpappy wanted. And it would be up to him to get it for him.

  Chapter Seven

  Boyd Andrews was heading up a winding stretch of mountain backroad when an unexpected gully appeared ahead. He eased off the gas pedal—which had been pretty much pressed to the floorboard since he’d left town—and jammed on the brakes. The wheels of the Ford locked up, but the clay earth of the roadbed was powdery and loose. The half-ton slid several yards, then lurched to a stop when the front wheels dropped into the gully. They hit bottom with enough force to tighten the seat belt around Boyd’s chest and make his teeth rattle.

  For a moment he sat there stunned, his truck angled sharply downward at the front. Then he fumbled with the buckle of the seat belt, his temper rising. “Damn it!” he growled. Eventually, he felt the latch release and climbed out of the cab. He was afraid to look at the damage that had been done. The truck had hit hard enough to break the front axle, maybe even strip a couple of transmission bolts from their moorings.

  He took a flashlight with him and snapped it on as he crouched next to the gully. It was more like a ditch. Heavy rains earlier in the week had apparently washed across the roadbed and eroded a fair amount of earth away. He stuck his hand down into the gully. It was a good foot-and-a-half deep in some places.

  Boyd examined the truck’s front wheels. The left seemed okay, but the right tire was flatter than a fritter. The force of the drop had split it clean down to the rim. Boyd cussed even more. An all-terrain tire like that would cost him a hundred and twenty dollars, maybe more. And he didn’t have the resources at that point.

  He popped the hood and flashed the light around inside. Everything else looked okay. The transmission was still in its proper place and the radiator wasn’t leaking. He slapped the hood back down and checked beneath the vehicle. He sighed in relief when he found the front axle intact. He was lucky. It could have been worse.

  Boyd stood there and stared at the flat tire for a moment. There was no way he could change it, not with the other tire in the gully. The earth in the bottom of the ditch was loose and unstable. He’d never be able to set up his jack without having it fall on his head. He would have to have some help, and that was all there was to it.

  “What a day,” he sighed. Then he directed the flashlight toward the road that spiraled upward into darkness. A couple of miles further up was the peak of the mountain called Eagle Point. He drew in a breath and smelled the bittersweet scent of wood smoke in the air. Having nowhere else to go, he locked his truck door, then began walking up the steep grade.

  A half hour later, Boyd was approaching the summit of the mountain, when he heard a sound echo from the woods to his right. He recognized it instantly. It was the crisp, metallic click of a hammer being cocked. Boyd stopped dead in the center of the road, afraid to move a muscle.

  “Who goes there?” called a gruff voice. “Answer me quick, or I’ll put a musket ball clean through you! And I ain’t a-kidding, neither.”

  Boyd smiled. He knew the owner of that voice, and he was right—he wasn’t kidding. He had probably shot more men in his time than Boyd had swatted flies.

  “Caleb!” he called, eyes searching the darkness. “It’s just me—Boyd Andrews.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” rumbled the man, stepping from behind a juniper bush. “Boyd, you ol’ rusty-headed son of a bitch! I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age!”

  Boyd watched as the man reached the glow of his flashlight. Caleb Vanleer was like a picture straight out of a history book. He was a tall, gangly fellow in his late fifties, with stringy black hair and a graying beard that hung clear to the bottom of his breastbone. Caleb was decked out in tanned buckskins, complete with Indian beadwork and fringed sleeves, and the boots he wore were knee-length and laced with rawhide. He wore a full coonskin cap on his head, bearing both face and ringed tail. Around his neck dangled a necklace of shiny black bear claws, and a leather possibles bag and powder horn were slung across one broad shoulder. Around his waist was a heavy leather belt sporting a stag-handled Bowie knife on one hip and a holstered .45 flintlock pistol on the other.

  The rifle Caleb held was a replica of a Hawken rifle, .50 caliber, with a stock of curly maple and a blued octagon barrel with iron sights. The rifle was the type with a percussion lock, meaning it was fired with the assistance of a firing cap instead of a striking flint. Boyd was glad Caleb had chosen to give his warning before firing. He had seen Caleb hit a soda pop bottle at two hundred yards with the big-bore musket. The thought of a lead ball slamming into him at even a fraction of that distance made Boyd’s stomach clench a little.

  A moment later, Vanleer had the carpenter in a roaring bear hug that lifted him clean off his feet. Boyd was no small man himself, but the mountain man was a good four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier. When he had finally returned Boyd to solid earth, he stood back and studied the man.

  A hint of a frown showed from beneath the buckskinner’s scraggly beard. “Boyd,” he said. “You look like dog-shit on toast!”

  “That good, huh?” asked Boyd, trying for a smile, but failing miserably.

  “Have yourself a hard day?” asked his friend.

  “That’s putting it mildly.” Boyd looked past the man, toward the top of the mountain. “Let’s go on up to the cabin and I’ll tell you about it.”

  “Over a jug of my high-grade popskull, I’m hoping,” said Caleb with a grin.

  Boyd hesitated for a moment. “Yeah,” he finally said. “That’s one of the things I came for.”

  “Well, then, you’re sure in luck, hoss!” roared Vanleer. “I just brewed me a batch of clear corn that’d burn the chrome plumb off a car bumper. Speaking of rides, where’s that ol’ truck of yours?”

  “I hit a gully across the road a couple miles down,” he told him. “Busted the hell clean out of my tire. I figured maybe you’d help me fix it before I leave.”

  “You figuring on making this a short visit or an all-nighter?”

  Boyd shrugged. “That depends on how strong that moonshine is.”

  Caleb laughed. “You’d best plan on staying ’til morning, then. This batch is as potent as a polecat with bad breath!”

  “Sounds li
ke strong stuff,” said Boyd. “God knows I need it.”

  Vanleer shook his woolly head. “Believe me, son. God ain’t got nothing to do with what I brew in that still up yonder.”

  The buckskinner slapped Boyd on the back and, canting the Hawken over one shoulder, accompanied his visitor up the road to the top of Eagle Point.

  The cabin at the top of the mountain wasn’t much to look at, but it was home for Caleb Vanleer. It was a simple one-room structure constructed of dove-tailed logs with clay mud chinking filling the gaps in between. The roof was covered with cedar shingles and at the far left wall stood a chimney of mortared stones. On the front of the cabin was a simple porch with an overhang, cluttered with a full rick of firewood stacked to one side and a couple of straight-backed rocking chairs sitting on the other.

  The only thing modern in sight was a Chevy Blazer four-by-four parked next to the cabin. It had oversized tires and was jacked a couple of feet off the ground. Boyd knew that the engine beneath the hood was nothing to sneeze at. There was enough horsepower in that engine to pull a wagonload of iron stoves up the steep grade of Eagle Point with no trouble at all. And it was fast on the road, too. Boyd remembered one time when he had gone to town with Caleb during one of his rare trips to civilization. A couple of teenagers in an IROC Camaro pulled up to a red light and challenged Caleb to a drag race. When the light had turned green, Vanleer had given them a big, whiskery grin. He was a half mile down the main stretch before the Camaro’s driver even had a chance to let off the brake.

  As Boyd and Caleb reached the cabin and mounted the rickety steps, they were greeted by Old Nailhead. Nailhead was Caleb’s redbone coonhound, a sorry-looking dog with a coat as red as junkyard rust and drooping folds of loose skin dangling from its skinny frame. Like the cabin and the four-by-four, Old Nailhead wasn’t much to look at either, but then, looks could be deceiving. The redbone was the best coonhound in all of the Smoky Mountains, or at least Caleb claimed he was. Nailhead could track a ringtail thirty miles through a blinding snowstorm and never lose its scent. Boyd knew that for sure, because he had accompanied Caleb on such a hunt when he was eighteen. It had been the longest night of Boyd’s young life, but it had been one of those experiences he wouldn’t have traded for a million dollars. And they had returned with a burlap sack full of good-sized coons, to boot.