Chapter XIV
The smell of fresh brewed coffee and cinnamon woke her. Cassie came up knowing where she was and in full possession of her senses, not half asleep and logy like some people dragged themselves out of bed in the morning. She awakened early ready to tackle the day and whatever it brought her.
The kitchen was crammed full of kinfolk, all of them wore unhappy faces and she caught the whiff of smoke on some of them. She knew without being told what had happened.
“That bastard burned down my house, didn’t he?” she hissed. “One hundred eighty two years that house stood there. I curse his bones.”
“Didn’t burn all the way down, Miz Elkins. We got it put out before it got too far. ‘Fraid he killed your chickens, and your goats. The cats, too. Shot ‘em all and then burned the barn. Went through your things, found something and then left the others to burn the place. We educated ‘em.”
“He’s gone back for the K-9 team and his bloodhounds. We got to get you out of this area. Bart Junior will take you all over the mountain. Can the boy ride?”
“He won ribbons and rodeos, I reckon,” she was tart.
“Good, cause the trail ain’t for tenderfoots. You’ll need jackets. Gets cold on top of Old Smoky.” The old man relayed orders and a pair of saddlebags were packed with things from her backpack and additional gear. Last in was a handgun, a smaller version of the Federal Sig Sauer made for a woman’s hand. “That’s for you, Cassie,” he told her quietly. “Use it if you have to, damn the consequences.”
She gave him a hug and he grinned self-consciously, and then said, “All you knuckleheads, get outta my kitchen. I got breakfast to make.”
“Sourdough flapjacks?” Was the hopeful question.
“For Cassie and her boy. Rest of you, go on and git McDonald’s.” They laughed and filtered out, leaving the old man, Cassie and Bart Junior.
“I checked on him, Aunt Cassie,” he said. “Still sound asleep.”
“Can’t see why he’d let you touch him, Junior,” she snapped. “I’ve known you all your life and I don’t like to touch you.”
“Our minds run on the same track,” he explained. “I can dampen his sense of touch and he can amp up my own. We’re sort of like positive and negative that cancel each other out. Besides, he’s only a kid and I like kids.”
“Was a man likes kids got him into this mess. Go on, then. Wake him up and bring him in to eat. You’ll have to help him. Sometimes, he seems to forget how to do it.”
He nodded, returned in a few minutes with the boy tucked under his arms. He was yawning, his hair was sticking up everywhere and his face had crease lines on it from the welts on the couch. They saw him take a sniff at the aroma of cooking pancakes and his eyes darted to the table of scarred pine, as he saw the butter, syrups and plates stacked there.
“I suspect you’re hungry, Mark?” She asked.
“Thought his name was Cale?”
“Is. But I’ve called him that for nigh on two weeks. He answers to it and it’s safer.”
He seated himself and waited. Cassie sat next to him, passed the first round of pancakes and busied herself fixing them as she liked them, four to a stack, butter between and on top, syrup drizzled over the stack until evenly coated the pile and welled up around the base. He took one at a time, rolled it up, dipped it into the syrup on his plate and chewed it slowly like a burrito until it was gone. She had tea and after some hesitation, he chose the glass of milk over the OJ and coffee. When he was done, he burped and look surprised. The expression on his face made her laugh.
“Good job, Mark,” she praised. “Neatly, too. Ready to get dressed and ride out of here? On the horse, not an ATV.” She knew he’d been in an accident with his and sustained major injuries. “Let me see your wrists,” she said suddenly and he held out his hands. She unwrapped them to inspect the stitches. They looked clean with no redness or infection but they were pulling, being long past the ten-day mark for removal.
“Glory be,” Beebe Junior whistled. “He wasn’t foolin’ when he did that.”
The boy looked up briefly and unhappiness flickered across his face. “You tell me who made you do that, Mark and I’ll introduce them to my knife.”
“Need a field kit, Cassie? I got one, got a couple instruments in it will remove those stitches. Never seen such fine work.”
“Was microsurgery, I think. Mark, honey. I’m going to take out the stitches. Might pinch a bit.” She laid a clean towel on the table, washed and scrubbed her hands with alcohol, and opened the sterile packet that Kyle handed her. Inside were latex gloves, scalpels, scissors, hemostats and a needle with sutures attached. Everything an Army medic might need for emergency bullet removal in the field. She kept her eye on him and the scalpel but he showed no interest in it so she relaxed and picked up the scissors. The pair had a tiny, sharp point that let her slip it under the pulling sutures and snip them. When it she had cut them all, she pulled them out counting them. Each wrist had 48 tiny stitches, there were more underneath that she could feel but assumed those would dissolve on their own. “Probably won’t even leave a scar,” she wondered.
“And Cassie, did someone…?” Beebe Junior was horrified.
“Rape him? Probably. Why else would he be like this? Imagine a young, delicate mind that can reach your innermost thoughts and desires, can experience those things by touching you. Imagine seeing rapes, murders in your head and as the victim over and over again. What would that do to you? Then, those government people found out and made him do it more. He broke, when into his head to escape and now, he can’t get out.”
“So that’s what the big door is,” Beebe Junior whispered.
“What?” Her tone was sharp and urgent.
“I see a big brass door with a hundred locks on it. It’s the size of a museum door, 10 feet high with dragons and demons carved on it. He stands in front but he can’t push it open or find the right key, even if he had the key. Behind him is a black pit that gibbers and inches closer. On the other side of the door is a little girl calling his name. He knows he can’t stay but he can’t open the door, either.”
“You got the sight, Bart Junior?”
“No. I got a sense but only around him. You reckon I might be able to help him open the door?”
“Why else would he show it to you?” She replied tartly. She wrapped his wrist loosely after applying triple antibiotic ointment and took him back into the bedroom where she helped him dress in jeans, long-sleeved shirt, boots and a washed out Carhartt jacket that was 10 years old. It was worn soft as silk. Last on was a baseball that was marked Deliverance, Arkansas. She dressed alike with clothes taken from her backpack throwing the dirty things into a hamper. “Ready to go, Mark?” He reached for her hand and she noticed the slight trembling as he grasped tightly. “Come on, then.” She gave a last look at the bedroom knowing that she would never see it again. Together, they walked out to the porch were a score of family waited.
Horses couldn’t make it to the Knob, the trail up was too hard for anything other than a mule but a mile farther down the trail held a small corral where three horses waited tacked out in Western gear. Two were chocolate chestnuts with flaxen manes and tails, the third a buckskin Walking horse all three were gaited and smooth riding.
Bart Junior put the boy up in the saddle, adjusted his stirrups and handed him the reins. He helped his great aunt with a leg up and waited until she was settled before hopping on himself. His horse wore a rifle scabbard loaded with a 30-30 bush gun with a laser sight. He nudged his gelding with his boot heels and they ambled off down the rocky trail that skirted the edge of the mountain. The boy looked at everything, handled the reins with an ease that said he was well used to the saddle.
“Be about four hours across country. Let me know when you need a break. Bathroom or otherwise.”
“Won’t be me,” she said. “Keep an eye on him. He broke both legs only months ago in a four wheeler accident. He still tires easily and he’s still too thin. He wouldn’t eat, they had him on a stomach tube.”
“How do you know about that, Aunt Cassie?” He was curious.
“He has the scar on his belly that was sutured in. Still partly open. Read about him on the Internet, too. He solved a couple of open murders for the FBI in Texas, saved several people from dying and saved a little girl from a serial rapist. He also saved a squad of soldiers from a suicide bomber.”
“Is it true that someone out there will pay 150K for him?”
“I suspect they figure raping his mind is worth a lot more than his skinny little ass.”
“Aunt Cassie!”
“Your dad’s in jail, Beebe Junior. What do you think happens in there? Best you stay away from situations that’ll put you in, you got a family to take care of.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
In an hour’s time they had reached the bottoms over the Ridge and were deep into the Cumberland Gap. It was rare that anyone made it that far into the woods, even hunters rarely ventured into the backwoods Piney section. There were still remnants of old cabins that had last seen occupants when the Cherokee lived there, silent reminders of life when it was harsh and unforgiving.
Grass grew as high as their knees in the meadows. The smell of honeysuckle and mountain laurel permeated the air. Bullfrogs croaked in the distance where there must be a sizable pond. She saw wild roses, crape myrtle and sarsaparilla, Jack in the pulpits and blackberries the size of her thumb.
When the black bear rose up on her hind legs out of the thicket, she gasped and Bart Junior went for his rifle but the boy gently pushed the barrel down at as he stared at the bear. She coughed, grunted and dropped to all fours, shuffling off like they were neighbors and she had made her obligatory morning call.
“Well, I’ll be,” Cassie drawled as they stared at the retreating rear end.
“Woof,” said the boy and giggled. He pushed his horse past them, patting his horse on the neck and left them with their mouths hanging open.