The Influence(96)

“Hector. Let me in.”

—occasionally spoke to him, he ignored them both.

Kneeling before the crucifix at the front of the church, bowing his head, he prayed for guidance.



****



Cameron Holt jerked awake just as the gunshot that would have taken his life was fired. The sound of the shot morphed into thunder, and he sat up in bed, inspired by the nightmare, suddenly knowing what he had to do.

Lightning flashed, and the thunder that followed was so loud that it shook the house. He hobbled over to the window, wincing in pain with every step. As he’d hoped, Jorge was standing sentry in front of the smokehouse. Cameron saw no other men with him. Whether they had run off, were sleeping or were dead made no difference to him. The important thing was that Jorge was alone, and before that situation changed, Cameron hurried into the hall and down the stairs, moving as fast as he could, though it took every ounce of determination he had not to cry out in anguish.

Once downstairs, he went directly to his gun case and pulled out his favorite weapon, his Dirty Harry gun, the .357 Magnum he’d bought because of the Clint Eastwood movie and that he’d never been able to use in the way he wanted to. Ammunition was in the drawer below, and he sorted through the boxes of bullets and magazines until he found what he needed.

He walked outside.

It was raining hard, and he probably should have put on a raincoat or, at the very least, a hat, but he walked out barefoot in his long johns. Jorge was standing before the door of the smokehouse. Guarding it, Cameron supposed. For some reason, the cholo was facing the barn, not the house, not the drive, and for that he was grateful. He seemed tense, his body language that of an animal awaiting a predator attack. In the flash of lightning, Cameron saw glistening rain pouring down the foreman’s jacket and could not help smiling. Now Jorge really was a wetback.

The sound of the storm hid the noise of his own awkward movements, but Cameron approached cautiously, aware that even a slight turn of the head by the other man could destroy any advantage he had.

Both hands were holding the Magnum.

He was soaking wet, and the mud beneath his feet made him think of walking through shit. Reaching the edge of the smokehouse, he stopped. He was close but not too close, and he raised the gun. “Jorge!” he shouted.

The foreman turned around.

And Cameron blew his head off.

There was a sound from the smokehouse, an inhuman wail loud enough to be heard even over the clap of thunder that exploded at precisely that second. The thunder faded away, but the wailing continued, a keening that grew louder and higher as Jorge’s body fell into the mud. Cameron covered his ears with the index finger of his left hand and the butt of the Magnum held in his right, the sound boring painfully into his brain before growing thinner and then fading away as it moved beyond the range of human hearing.

Instantly, the storm stopped. It was as though a faucet had been turned off, and while clouds continued to blot out the moon and stars, no rain came down, no lightning flashed, no thunder pealed.

Cameron peered through the darkness. Without the aid of the lightning, he could barely see the smokehouse through the gloom. But this was his big chance, and if he was going to dispose of the body of that thing inside, he needed to do so quickly.

He was afraid to go into the shed, however, afraid even to touch the outside of the door. Burning down the building was still his best option, he thought, but had all the rain inoculated it against fire? Still looking toward the smokehouse entrance, he tried gathering his courage…only he had no courage to gather. For all he knew, that wailing was continuing, moving now beyond the range of dogs’ hearing, a call by the monster to others of its kind.

Cameron backed away from the building before some mysterious power struck him down, or his mind was taken over as Jorge’s had been, or a group of ranch hands emerged from the barn to attack him.

The barn.

Cameron frowned. Why had Jorge been staring at the barn?

He decided to see for himself, and, making a wide circle around the front of the smokehouse, still holding tightly to the gun, he limped through the dimness toward the structure. After the tumult of the storm, the calm was eerie. There were no animal or insect sounds, not even the chirping of crickets or cicadas. But he thought he heard his own name, spoken low, and he looked around the darkened yard, wishing he had brought a flashlight.

“Cameron!”

It was his name, spoken louder this time, and he realized that it was coming from the corral.

That was where Jorge had been looking, not the barn.

Either his eyes were getting used to the dark, or the weak diffused porchlight from the house just happened to fall at the right angle, because when he glanced toward the corral, he thought he saw movement. Hobbling as quickly as he could through the still-squishy mud, he was almost immediately able to make out the lines of the fence. In the center of the open space beyond, in sharp contrast against the pale dirt, he saw figures. Men. Three of them. One said his name again, and all three seemed to be waving their hands, though whether they were beckoning him closer or warning him away, he could not yet tell. His grip on the gun tightened.