Grace struggles to break the ropes, but can’t. She screams and screams, but nobody’s listening.

Eric can’t look at her. He doesn’t expect he’s going to live long once he does as he’s told. In a way, it’s comforting. He knows he is going to be double-crossed. He has always been working at a disadvantage. Colchester holds two perfectly innocent hostages.

The only way to save Grace is to hurt Jeremy. Eric would have to kill a little boy. Or let the monster controlling that boy kill the whole town. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

It’s no wonder that Colchester believes he beat Eric even before he showed up. He’s bargained for his life, betrayed his principles, turned his back on all the good he ever did, and led his friends to the slaughter. And they’re going to kill him anyway.

The trick, of course, is knowing when.

Eric looks up and sees they have company now.

Middleton’s children arrive at the parking lot. They trudge up the hill in neat lines. They take their places just below the snake’s head, right below the altar, and keep staring at their phones, waiting obediently for the slaughter.

On the road, Eric sees more lights now. A police car. Followed by a line of other vehicles. Somehow he doubts anyone is coming to the rescue.

28

You Walked Right into It

Carrie is in the back seat of Carl’s squad car, her right wrist cuffed to a restraint ring bolted to the floor. There is no divider between the her and the front seat — Carl doesn’t transport a lot of prisoners in the chief’s car, she guesses — but she cannot quite sit up straight. Her hand is locked close to the ring in the floor, so she’s hunched over.

Carl is driving, staring straight ahead, perfect posture, hands at ten and two. They are on Main, heading north. He turns onto the county highway, the dark of the trees covering the foothills ahead.

Carrie knows this route. They’re going toward Snake Hill.

He beats out a little rhythm on the steering wheel. Shave-and-a-haircut, two bits.

Carrie checks her watch.

“So you’re one of the Followers,” she says.

“No,” he corrects her. “I am the leader of the Followers. I’ve been the Good Son ever since Fred Larson died on New Year’s Eve.”

“Huh. I’m not surprised everyone else had to die for you to step up. I mean, no offense, Carl. But you’re a total joke. You always were.”

Carl’s neck stiffens. “Maybe that’s what I wanted you to think.”

“Sure, Carl.”

He chuckles. “You remember Andrew Goodson?”

“Yeah.”

“Who do you think killed him?”

“You? Come on, Carl.”