Mr Hands Read online

  Mr. Hands

  Book III

  Cedar Hill Series

  by

  Gary A. Braunbeck

  JournalStone

  Original Version Copyright © 2007—Gary A. Braunbeck

  Author’s Preferred version Copyright © 2016 by Gary A. Braunbeck

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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  ISBN: 978-1-945373-24-4 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-945373-26-8 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-945373-25-1 (hc)

  Printed in the United States of America

  2nd Edition

  JournalStone rev. date: August 19, 2016

  Cover Design: M. Wayne Miller

  Edited by: Aaron J. French

  Mr. Hands

  “…when the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.”

  —Oscar Wilde

  Prologue:

  Intersections

  1

  —Shall there be mercy, then?

  —Not for monsters like them, no.

  —Under no circumstances?

  —Anyone who would do such a thing doesn’t deserve it.

  —So, then…under no circumstances?

  —Goddamn right, under no circumstances.

  —So be it.

  2

  The next cliff on the mountain was not as steep as he had first thought, but there was no doubt in his mind that it would probably get steeper before he reached the top. He came to the bulge, went over, placed his foot firmly on the edge, and found a solid hold with his left hand on what felt like a root. Pulling upward, kneeing and toeing into the gold-colored stone, kicking steps into the shale-like rock wherever he could, he positioned both hands and one foot before moving into a new, higher position.

  He thought of his family—all of them now gone back to earth, dirt, rock, soil and dust, the forgotten rot of molding ages—and had to steady himself against tears.

  It wasn’t my fault, really, it wasn’t, I didn’t mean for any of it to happen, ohGod, please, please, can all of you forgive me…?

  The mountain was starting to shudder in his face and against his chest. His own breath was whistling and humming crazily against the stone. The rocks were steepening and he labored backbreakingly for every inch. His shoulders were tiring and his calves ached and the muscles in his arms felt like iron. Panic was courting him, and it was only the thought of what he might find somewhere above that kept him going.

  Proof-positive that what had happened years ago had, indeed, been real.

  That he had not imagined it as the doctors insisted.

  Somewhere above, he would find the remains of the giant, the Terrible Miracle, the Demon, the Thing beyond all Things called Mr. Hands.

  He thought of those years when he’d been a child, afraid of the dark, afraid of the shadows cast by the tree branches and leaves against his window at night, terrified of the scratching noise those branches had made when the wind came up ever so softly and pressed them against the glass, causing them to move back and forth, back and forth, back and forth let me in, let me in, I’m coming for you, always here, I’m coming for you scritchscritchscritch…

  Always he’d cry out for Mommy or Daddy, and always one—or more often than not—both of them would come running into his room, holding him, soothing him, stroking his hair and gently rocking him back and forth, whispering there, there, shhh, c’mon, hon, it’s all right, there’s no such thing as monsters, it’s all right, there, there….

  God, how wrong they had been. So much love in their hearts, such good intentions, but so fucking wrong…

  It occurred to him—not for the first time since he’d began this journey, this climb—that maybe he was doing this as much for his long-gone family as he was for himself.

  He concentrated everything he had to become ultrasensitive to the mountain, feeling it more gently than before, though he was shaking badly. He kept inching upward. With each shift to a newer, higher position, he felt a deeper tenderness toward the mountain. He caught part of a rock with his left hand and started to pull, but could not rise. He let go of his right hand and grabbed onto the wrist of his left, the fingers of his left hand shuddering and popping with the weight.

  “You won’t stop me,” he hissed upward, knowing the creature could hear him.

  He got one toe into the cliff but that was all he could do. He looked up and held on. The mountain was giving him nothing. It no longer sent back any pressure against his body, no longer returned his tender embraces. Something he had come to rely on had been taken away from him by the thing that waited somewhere above.

  So much of life had been denied him because of what it had done.

  “I won’t stop. I won’t. Hear me? I don’t…care if it…kills me...”

  He was just barely hanging on.

  He concentrated all of his strength into the fingers of his left hand, but they were dying on him.

  He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on…

  3

  She came awake around five-thirty in the morning when her bladder announced to her in no uncertain terms that she’d had too much Pepsi with the pizza they made for dinner. She pulled herself up—careful not to jostle the child beside her—and sat on the edge of the sofa. Her side hurt like hell from where the gun and holster had been pressing into it while she slept and her head was screaming for codeine.

  She rose slowly and shuffled toward the bathroom—leaving the door open so she could lean back from the sink to see the child—then she took a Dixie cup from the dispenser on the wall beside the sink, pulled a bottle of water from one of the bags, and found the codeine tablets. Part of her wondered if taking them would be a good idea—they tended to make her feel woozy and shiny—but then realized that if the thing chasing after them did manage to find them, she’d be no good to the child if she were half-blinded with the agony of a migraine.

  Six of one, a half-dozen of the other…damned if you do, damned if you don’t…

  Having exhausted her repertoire of early morning clichés, she thought, To hell with it, and took two of the tablets.

  Gripping the edge of the sink, she leaned forward, eyes closed, and pressed her forehead against the mirror, taking several deep breaths until her heart-rate steadied and her arms and legs stopped trembling. When she was certain she had herself under control, she released a slow, even breath, and opened her eyes to see herself staring back at her.

  Jesus, you look like hell.

  She splashed some cold water on her face, dried off with a towel, and then turned off the bathroom light.

  She checked on the child; sleeping peacefully. God, did you ever sleep so soundly as you did before you turned thirteen? If there were ever to be invented such a thing as a time machine, she’d use it to go back and not only repair the wrongs of the past, but to be thirteen again so she could get a good night’s sleep.

  She wandered over to the front window and stood there, staring out into the night. The moon was full and made the snow shimmer. Light m
oved like glissandos over the treetops in the distance as the wind caused them to sway side to side, sometimes forward, then backward, just once, and—

  —and then she saw him. It.

  He was so still among the towering trees and swirling snow that he’d looked like part of the scenery.

  Mr. Hands just stood there, gigantic, cold, motionless, merciless, staring with his black-pit eyes.

  She moved quickly and quietly, grabbing up the Mossberg, a knife, three road flares, and her coat, disabling the alarm, and marching out onto the porch, pumping a round into the shotgun’s chamber.

  Mr. Hands did not move, only continued staring dispassionately, an entomologist observing the behavior of an insect under glass.

  She looked behind into the cabin only once—I won’t let him harm you—then stepped off the porch, down the steps, and crossed the distance between herself and the thing that had been pursuing them for what seemed years.

  She raised the shotgun and thought about firing but that would wake the child and the last thing she wanted right now was for the child to awaken and be alone in the dark in a strange place.

  Still, she kept her finger near the trigger.

  “Leave us alone,” she said.

  Mr. Hands still did not move or give her any indication that he’d heard…or cared.

  The wind came up again, blowing snow against her face. She blinked, stopped moving, and brushed her eyes clear.

  Mr. Hands began to bend down toward her. For a crazy second, she thought he was falling, the movement was that stiff, but then she didn’t think about it any longer because she knew what it meant when he started to bend down toward a person (sixty seconds left to live, less if you were lucky), she had no choice, so she pumped off three shots from the Mossberg in rapid succession, straight into his gut, and that must have done something because he seemed to explode from the center as he closed the distance between them, falling toward her, and—

  4

  The place is called Hangman’s Tavern, one of the most legendary watering holes in the self-proclaimed “Land of Legend.” It’s located halfway between Cedar Hill and Buckeye Lake, but if you look for a clearly marked sign to guide you there, you’ll never find it; instead, you need to watch for the crossroad two miles after you get off the I-70 exit toward Buckeye Lake. Can’t miss it. If the weather’s bad and visibility is low, then keep an eye peeled for the eight-foot “T” post on the left, the one with the noose sculpted in iron dangling from it. The Ku Klux Klan used to bring their victims out here and hang them, then go on down the road for a few drinks. That’s how the business came by its name.

  Grant McCullers, owner/bartender/sometimes short-order cook (who can play a mean harmonica despite a severely arthritic hand), is the latest—but hopefully not the last—of the men in his family to own the place; although Grant’s great-grandfather was Klan and built this tavern, the rest of Great-Grandpa’s male descendants decided not to pursue membership in that particular boys’ club. Not that it helps erase the shame of the family’s history, or make it any easier to forget that somewhere on the acreage surrounding the tavern there are still dozens—if not hundreds—of undiscovered bodies buried by the Klan during the heyday of their necktie parties.

  While the Hangman’s history will never be fully forgotten (as well it shouldn’t be), Grant, like his father before him, has managed to remove much of the taint from the tavern’s reputation. The Hangman, you see, is the place to go if you’re looking for good company, decent food, homemade brew, and, most of all, stories: all the regulars who patronize the Hangman have one—consider it the unofficial cover charge. Some of these stories will break your heart; some will have you doubled over with laughter; some will leave you shaking your head in wonder; and some—a very exceptional few—will leave you feeling a bit more wary about what lies hidden in the night outside.

  The interior is long and narrow, bar on the right, small round tables on the left, a comfortably scuffed polished-wood dance floor in between, with a stage set against the far wall and an ancient but superbly functioning jukebox off to the side (the selections lean heavily toward old blues standards). Gleaming brass horse rails brace the opposite wall and the bottom of the bar itself, while electric lanterns—anchored on thick wooden shelves just barely wide enough to hold them—keep an air of perpetual twilight inside, regardless of the time of day. The place smells of cigarettes, pipe tobacco, beer, hamburgers, and popcorn, all of the scents mixing with the lemon oil Grant uses to polish the bar. It smells somehow safe and welcoming, a perfect place to tell stories.

  Except this had not been a good night for stories; in fact, it hadn’t been a good night at all, in Grant’s opinion. Oh, business was fine, the drinks were flowing and the kitchen was busy and it was all Grant could do to keep the popcorn machine filled, but everyone was tight-lipped and perfunctory with him, sometimes bordering on the outright rude. Around nine p.m. Grant quietly decided, To hell with it, and stopped trying to make small talk with the customers. Even the regulars seemed out of sorts tonight, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why: the guy at the end of the bar.

  He’d come in around seven-thirty looking and smelling like he’d just crawled out of a grave. At first Grant assumed he was homeless, but after the guy downed two drinks in quick succession, placed a large dinner order, and paid for it up front with a fifty (one of many fifties the guy had in his pocket), that conclusion almost went right out the window. Almost. There was something undeniably disturbing about him, and Grant was glad he’d made the call to the sheriff shortly after the guy came in.

  While waiting for his meal to come out of the kitchen, the guy picked up his backpack and went into the men’s room. No sooner did the door to the restroom close behind him than two more Hangman regulars entered; Sheriff Ted Jackson, perhaps Grant’s best friend in the world, and a man both Jackson and Grant knew only as the Reverend, who ran the Open Shelter in downtown Cedar Hill. The Reverend attracted more than a few uneasy glances himself whenever he entered a place; dressed in a traditional black clergy shirt and white collar, his long dark hair and sharply trimmed beard—both peppered with a not-unbecoming amount of gray—gave him an eerie resemblance to a post-Lithium Grigori Efimovich Rasputin…an eeriness that the Reverend was not above exploiting to the hilt when it came time to ask the city council for additional funding for the shelter every year.

  “So where is he?” said Jackson, scanning the bar.

  “Went into the men’s room just before you came in.” Grant poured the two men their usuals—a Bailey’s Irish Cream (on the rocks) for the Reverend, a Pepsi (with a wedge of lime) for Jackson—and gestured for them to sit down a couple of seats away from the end of the bar.

  “I’m sorry that I had to bother you, Ted,” said Grant, casting a quick glance over toward the restroom doors, “but there’s something about this guy that…well, he doesn’t exactly give me the willies—or, hell, maybe he does, I don’t know—but there’s this…this air about him that’s been making everyone a little uncomfortable.”

  “Hence the traditional bellow of conversation from the room,” said the Reverend. “That was intended as irony, by the way.”

  “Sarcasm,” said Grant. “It wasn’t quite witty or observant enough to qualify as irony.”

  “I beg to differ; in the dictionary sense of the word, ‘irony’ is defined as ‘…a type of humor based on using words to suggest the opposite of their literal meaning.’ I think credit should be given where credit is due. I was being ironic.”

  “You really think so?”

  The Reverend nodded. “‘Further, deponent sayeth not’—or to put it in the vernacular, ‘That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.’”

  Jackson took a sip of his Pepsi and reached for a bowl of popcorn. “Think this guy might be trouble?”

  “I don’t know. I’m tempted to say no, but…” Grant parted his hands before him and shrugged.

  “Gotcha,” replied Jackson.

  “So why
am I here?” asked the Reverend.

  Both Grant and Jackson looked at him.

  “I think that would be obvious,” said Grant.

  “I’m not entirely dim, Grant. I’ve already figured out that part of your anxiety is born from concern—and despite the rumors, that will not be the cause of your downfall someday—so I’m guessing that it’s fairly obvious he has no place to go?”

  Grant nodded. “He’s got a lot of cash on him, but the more I think about it, something tells me he’s…well, lost, I guess. I’d bet the farm on it, if I owned one.”

  “You know there’s always room at the shelter, and I never turn anyone away, so what—?”

  “His eyes,” said Grant. “There’s something about his eyes.”

  The Reverend nodded. “Something in his eyes, or something that’s missing?”

  “Catches on fast, doesn’t he?” said Jackson, smiling at both men.

  “Something missing,” replied Grant. “There’s this awful emptiness in his gaze—not like he’s crazy or anything like that, but you can take one look at this guy and know he’s seen or been through something that just…tore the center right out of him.”

  “A ‘Thousand-Yard-Stare’?” asked Jackson.

  “Something like that, yes.”

  Grant saw Jackson’s hand go to his holster and unsnap the cover.

  The Reverend—who’d seen this, as well—cleared his throat and said: “Either of you guys ever heard of a writer named Gerald Kersh?”

  “Night and the City?” asked Jackson. “That Gerald Kersh?”

  “I never read that one,” said Grant. “But I’ve got a copy of a story collection called Men Without Bones that I’ve read about a dozen times.”