Lineage(122)

The rain soaked him instantly as he stepped out into its stinging embrace. The lake drew his attention as he walked around the back of the Trailblazer. He had never seen it in such turmoil. A calm area could no longer be found on the surface. All was churning and boiling waves that frothed and seethed onto the shore. Foam flew into the air as the waves pounded against the exposed rocks, and for a moment Lance thought the water looked closer than it had that morning. Not from the turbulence that gripped it but just generally higher, a new line on the shore where it refused to relinquish its hold.

As he approached the house, Lance watched the darkened doorway for movement of any kind. He wished more than he ever had before that Ellen would appear with John in the background, smiles of the newly acquainted on their faces. Only an arc of lightning on the far side of the house revealed that the entry was empty, its space devoid of both living and dead.

The rain was a roaring inferno burning atop the house as Lance stepped onto the tile just inside the threshold. He threw a quick look into the bathroom to the right and saw nothing out of place in the dim light. He pushed the entry door shut behind him while his eyes roamed the visible portions of the rooms.

A dark oblong shape sat just past the entry on the floor. It looked flat and had a radiant shine to it like oil in moonlight.

Blood.

Lance edged through the entry and noticed a scent that assaulted his nose.

Gasoline.

The cloying vapors were thick in the house, and some other odor hung just below it. Lance eased forward and peeked into the living room to make sure nothing waited just beyond the archway. When he brought his scrutiny back to the puddle near the kitchen, he saw the boots. They were pointed up at the ceiling, as if the wearer had decided that this was as good as any place to take an overdue rest.

A sinking sensation plunged down to the lowest point in his bowels and his throat constricted. They were John’s boots. He had seen them propped up on the edge of his steps many times over the past month, a beer in the old man’s hand with a story partially told in the air around him. As Lance inched farther into the room, more and more of the scene came into view. The boots were attached to a pair of dark pants. Above the pants a dark shirt lay hiked up over a slice of pale belly. No, he was wrong. He realized the shirt had originally been white, now that he could see the upper section near the shoulders where a few spots still remained untouched. But the rest had been colored black with blood. Lance stepped closer and knelt beside the caretaker’s still form.

A massive wound had been opened just above John’s left shoulder at the meeting with his neck. Lance could see the shattered white of the other man’s collarbone within the cavernous hole that stretched almost all the way to the middle of his chest. Blood had pooled there, a black lake filled with chunks of muscle and pulp. But John’s face had been left untouched. A few speckles of blood stained the underside of his chin, but his cheeks and forehead were free of gore. A gas can lay on its side farther into the kitchen, spilling its volatile contents across the floor and making the air nearly unbreathable. He could see the head of a lighter clutched in John’s left hand. Absently, Lance wondered what John had seen to drive him inside and attempt to carry out the plan that was now clear.

Lance stared at his friend, tears welling up and tightening his eye sockets with their pressure. John’s own eyes were mercifully closed, and as a stroke of lightning gave the kitchen brief refulgence, Lance noticed something that stopped the grief he felt rising out of control. An unmistakable look of peace graced John’s aged features. The worry lines that had been so prominent in life were gone from his brow. The etched frown that had creased the outside of his mouth was smoothed. He’s finally dreaming, Lance thought. The weight of life had been lifted from him and death had released a fist that, until now, had gripped the old man tightly.

Lance swallowed and placed his hand on the inner part of John’s forearm. He felt blood coat his palm, along with the coldness of uninhabited flesh, but Lance felt no revulsion. Instead, a comfort flowed through him. John was no longer here, but the feeling that he had gone somewhere else, past what life had done to him, was all but a certainty.

Lance came back to his surroundings and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see the flash of the ax blade falling toward him. The empty living room was still behind him. Where the hell was Ellen? He listened for a few seconds, holding his breath and trying to make out the familiar features of the house. He stood and walked into the living room. More blood covered the floor there. He turned and looked at the point where John’s blood pool had stopped. The two areas weren’t connected.