The Pact (Kate Burkholder #11.5) - Linda Castillo Page 0,1

“What about our mission?”

“We do it tonight.” Aaron remembered perfectly the afternoon they’d sat at a campfire much like this one and mapped out their strategy. At midnight, they were going to sneak over to old man Henderson’s place and free the magnificent ten-point buck the old man kept locked in a pen.

“I brought wire cutters,” Aaron said. “Two pair.”

“I got gloves.” Kevin patted the backpack on the ground next to him. “You know the way?”

“Been there twice now.”

Picking up a stick, Kevin prodded the fire. “I hear the old man’s mean as a snake. Got a rifle, too.”

“Yeah, but old people go to bed early. He’ll be sawing logs by midnight.”

Aaron recalled the first time he laid eyes on the buck. Last summer he and Kevin went hiking on the trail along Painters Creek, looking for a place to fish. They’d ended up at old man Henderson’s place. The man lived alone in a dumpy cabin deep in the woods. Aaron had no idea how the old man had captured the buck. It was a magnificent animal, muscular and proud, with ten points and eyes that looked right through you. It spent its days pacing the confines of its prison and making the most god-awful grunting and bleating sounds. Tonight, Aaron and Kevin were going to set it free.

The boys fell silent, lost in visions of the quest ahead, nerves simmering, anticipation building.

Aaron was thinking about the piece of date-nut cake in his knapsack when the rustle of dried leaves a few yards away drew his attention. He squinted into the darkness, aware that Kevin had cocked his head, too.

“You hear that?” Kevin whispered.

“Deer probably,” Aaron said, his voice sounding more certain than he felt. “Rutting season.”

Kevin laughed, but it was a nervous sound. For a minute, both boys listened, pretending their attention wasn’t on the sound they’d heard just outside the circle of campfire light.

Aaron looked down at his bloodied wrist and smiled despite the sting. He almost couldn’t believe they’d gone through with it; they were part of the brotherhood now. When they were gone, their parents would be sorry they hadn’t been more understanding.

The crackle of winter-dead leaves sounded again. Closer this time. The cadence almost like footsteps, coming toward them.

“My cousin says there are bear in these woods,” Kevin said, his eyes scanning the darkness.

“Bears hibernate this time of year,” Aaron corrected. “Probably a possum or raccoon.”

Rising, trying to play it cool, Kevin rounded the campfire to sit beside him. “Don’t want something sneaking up behind me, man.”

Aaron forced a laugh. “Ain’t nothing going to sn—”

The snap of a branch cut his words short. Just fifteen feet away. Something heavier than a raccoon. Aaron was still processing the thought when the spindly branches of a winter-dead raspberry bramble quivered.

Next to him, Kevin’s foot began to jiggle. “Billy McGriff says there are ghosts out here.”

“Billy’s as dumb as a frickin’ stump.” But Aaron had heard the stories, too. He didn’t want to admit it, but the notion of ghosts—schnell geiste—scared him a lot more than some critter foraging for food. According to Amish lore, Da Butzemann—which was Deitsch for “The Scarecrow”—roamed these woods.

“We probably ought to stop talking about it,” he said.

“Yeah, creeps me out.” Kevin studied the darkness. “Probably bullshit anyway.”

The sound of scraping came at them. Aaron wanted to believe it was a young mule deer testing his antlers against a tree, the way they did this time of year. But the metallic hiss sounded more like the scrape of steel against stone. According to legend, Da Butzemann sharpened the blade of his scythe by scraping it against a flat rock.…

Both boys stood, eyes seeking, breaths quickened and puffing out in front of them. Their eyes met. “Keep your knife handy,” Aaron whispered.

Kevin patted the folding knife strapped to his belt. “I ain’t scared of no damn ghost.” As if to prove it, he cupped his hands on either side of his mouth. “We got knives, asshole!”

The unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed just outside the circle of campfire light.

“That ain’t no deer,” Kevin whispered.

Aaron didn’t scare easily. He was comfortable in the woods, familiar with the sounds. This one wasn’t a natural sound. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was scared spitless. “Maybe we ought to go ahead and head for old man Henderson’s place,” he whispered.

“Yeah.” His friend’s teeth were chattering. Aaron wanted to think it was from the cold, but Kevin looked like he was about to bolt.

Slowly, Aaron picked