Page 37 of Stay Buried

“I guess,” Finn said.

She went on, “Why do you think he let Willy get away?”

“I guess ’cause it wasn’t Willy he wanted,” Finn said.

“Maybe the knackerman had some other reason, maybe—”

“God, Mini, could you just shut up about the knackerman. We gotta get home.”

Willy knew the knackerman was everywhere, whether you talked about him or not—watching from every window, from behind every tree. Each time the children teased him:Hey, Sad Willy, where’d you sleep last night?The knackerman was there each time Willy pulled on his prosthetic foot. Each time he finished a bottle of bourbon and put his eye against the neck, looking down like he couldn’t believe it was really all gone.

As Willy walked, he thought about the mark on the Fitzpatricks’ door, about the candy and coins Mini always offered him, the way she called him “Mr. Willy.”

And an idea began to form in his mind.

A clever idea.

An idea the old Will might have had. Old Will, husband of Anna.

He could feel her, his wife, standing behind him, watching him. He could smell the smoke, the charred flesh.

“You think if you do this you’ll be forgiven?” she whispered.

He turned, but saw only the empty street.

But it wasn’t empty, not quite.

There was a crow perched on the mailbox behind him, its feathers black and oily. It watched him with dark eyes, waiting. For half a second, Sad Willy was sure the crow was going to open its shiny black beak and speak, not caw, but speak actual words in a hoarse, gravelly voice.Willy, he heard it say.What are you going to do?

He thought of his wife. Of how he’d failed her in the worst possible way.

He knew saving Mini Fitzpatrick couldn’t undo the terrible things he’d done. But he had to try. Had to do his best to put an end to this madness, once and for all.

“I can save her,” he told the crow, knowing that if he formed the words into a sentence and said them aloud to this bird, that made it real. And itwasreal. Because, of all the people in Boone’s Ferry, Willy was the only one who just might know a way to stop the knackerman.

The crow made a little clicking sound.Yes. That’s right, you can.

And Sad Willy believed it then. That it just might be possible. But he needed to think about it some more. To let the plan crystallize.

And a drink. Just one little drink to take the edge off, to keep the shakes away, to help lubricate his muscles and mind.

The crow seemed to nod in agreement with a slight tilt of its head, then flew off across the street, disappearing behind the trees.

Willy waved good-bye, then headed for the tavern, knowing someone there would buy him a bourbon.

There was always a drink for Sad Willy.

SEVENTEENASHLEY

October 17, 2016

The road was barely wide enough for two-way traffic. But they didn’t have to worry about traffic. They didn’t pass a single car as they drove into town.

The thick forest came to an abrupt end as the road leveled out. There were open fields on both sides, full of brown grass, dried cornstalks, late-season crops of pumpkins and winter squash adding splashes of vivid orange to the dreary brown landscape. Beyond the fields, the maples and aspens had lost their leaves, the trees naked and skeletal against the gunmetal-gray sky. The foliage back home was still blazing—the elevation made the difference; they were up higher now, though the village itself was in a deep valley. A heavy gray sheet of mist covered the entire landscape, seemed to be held in place by the surrounding hills and mountains, like soup at the bottom of a bowl.

They passed a turnoff on the right called St. James Road, and the only house on it was a dilapidated white farmhouse. Beside it, a red barn listed to the left. Half a dozen Holsteins grazed in a pasture that was more mud and manure than grass and came up to the edge of theroad they were driving down. A rusted tractor with flat tires stood in the middle of the field. The cows looked thin and rheumy-eyed. A large white horse stood in front of the cows, peering over the split-rail fence topped with rusted barbed wire, watching their truck go by warily. Its eyes were large and nearly black, even from this distance, and reminded Ashley of dome-style security cameras in a department store. Something to keep you on guard and make sure you didn’t steal any lipstick.

Horses made Ashley nervous. It wasn’t that Ash didn’t see the beauty, she did—but she also saw their vast size, the rippling of muscles under the sleek coat, their enormous teeth. In Ashley’s version of fairy tales, the Big Bad Wolf would be far worse as a horse.