The Pale Man Rises

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

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By the time Blue Boy arrived at the Watkins house the awful Luther had come and gone. Again he had disturbed the scene, trying to conceal evidence of the pale man and his slaves' crimes, his other accomplice as it were. But now he had virtually committed murder thereby making himself a full-fledged partner to the evil cabal he was pursuing.

The pale man was aware that the motorcyclist was behind them, helping them perhaps, but to what extent he could not imagine. He knew there was something callous, and cold about the cyclist and that he wished them well and in this assumption he was absolutely correct. It was nearing darkness this Saturday afternoon though barely past four as Blue Boy trotted along this highway. He could sense their odor alongside the road in the dense grass close to the bordering trees. And too it seemed he could tell that the other one, the possessor of the scent apart from those he followed, was about and going in their wake as well.

Sometimes when he'd step from one of the forest he'd catch a whiff of him on the breeze. But it was not cool and refreshing, rather it was odious and repellent. It was the stench of death that crept on this wind. He was a motorized demon blowing down the highway searching nervously like the zealous hound, but evil was his intent and the hound knew this man too would have to be destroyed.

At last he came upon the entrance to the yard of the small yellow house. There were no shrubs or grass in the yard, it was barren save for the large tree that dominated the space. It was an oak, a large oak that was gently shedding its leaves and when the pale man first spied it there the sight of it repulsed him. He recalled the other oak, the giant oak that had essentially been the headstone to his one time tomb.

The hound halted beneath the tree engulfed by the dark shade of the more reluctant leaves. It loomed over him as twilight approached. He looked at the house and even in the narrow scope of his colorless vision he could detect the wretched blood red murder that had occurred there.

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He looked past the house to the rear at the garage, which had a large pecan tree standing on its left side and at this time of the year a pitiful companion for the building. The corrugated door of the structure had rolled down tugged by its lower weight and the counterbalance above. Gravity had virtually won out and the thing hovered about a foot above the ground.

The dog's vision, though lacking in color perception, was still a marvelous tool and when he sharply focused on the faint light there he could see the perverse grasp of death, the right hand of a dead man. The dead man of course was Jasper Watkins. 

 Luther on the other hand had not seen him. He had only seen an out building whose door was drawn down and there was nothing extraordinary about it and thus the biker turned his attention to the house whose front door stood ajar.

He'd seen a white van move off of the property as he came down the rural road. He was sure the pale master of villainy and his accomplices were in that van, however he still withdrew his gun and cautiously approached the porch of the small house. He knew he might lose them now by not following the van, but he had to see what terror they had wrought upon this place. He would hide any evidence certainly, but it was his morbid curiosity that drew him to enter the place.

The chill was rising as he mounted the steps. He was drawn back to Thursday morning when he was doing the same thing at the Reese farm. Recalling that scene he eyed the porch looking for a stain of blood. There was none there. Was there no carnage here, no murder for him to admire?

He pulled open the screen door that led into the hallway of the small house. There was a room on the left just down the hall. He tiptoed to the door of the room and opened it. He was surprised to discover that it was the bathroom. It was hard to imaging that the bathroom would be on the front of the home. It was certainly an odd architecture.