Peeing in the woods was one thing, but when nature called for other affairs, Logan walked into town, careful to stick to areas where he thought the boys were least likely to show up. He used whatever public restrooms he could find, even occasionally splashing his face with water and foaming soap from the dispenser. He knew he looked unkempt physically, but he remained calm and orderly internally—well, at least, with a little help from the Empathizer. Food was something he'd prepared for on the day of the 16th, before he went to move the bikes from near the vet's office. His backpack was full of canned meats and vegetables as well as a few packs of jerky, all purchased with his own savings. He had a water canteen that he refilled at water fountains in town during his few sparing runs to civilization. His backpack also housed an even more essential item for his continued wellbeing: batteries, and he watched that stock more closely than he watched his own water supply.
He had watched in the dark of woods as Skinny was shot on the 14th of July, and, once his past self had fled to attack Parker, fire ax in hand, Logan the Outsider had crept to the cabin's dusty window to watch his former friend expire. He watched himself return and dig a deep grave for the body near the shack. He even watched the following day from a distant hill as past-Logan dragged a deer carcass into the shack and gutted the thing, an attempt to cover up any forensic evidence there. The idea was to drown out blood with blood, making it seem like a hunter had simply used the space, not a murderer. He'd left the pelt and hooves near the shack to complete the scene. Neither Logan had any idea if it would slow police in the slightest.
Later that day, Logan's battery stock ran critically low, and rising dread at what might happen when he ran out meant Logan was using more and more batteries to keep himself level. Vicious cycle, that, he thought. He waited for a time he knew past-Logan was out of the home and took some from his house. Can I steal from myself? he mused, refilling his pack.
Soon, freedom from living in the woods loomed just beyond the horizon. The 16th arrived, that critical day where so much had happened over so many iterations. This would be Logan's third run at the same day: the first time, he had been trapped in the vet's office sting, and the second time, he'd sent Parker back in time, gone shopping for provisions, visited the coffee shop, and moved the bikes before heading to the DeLange residence for dinner. He remembered that as he had fled the DeLange estate, he'd heard shooting and shouting from nearby. As the evening drew nearer, and, with it, the inevitable departure of the Logan who would be journeying to the warehouses to steal and set fire, Logan the Outsider became increasingly certain that the nearby shooting had been him.
It made sense, after all. Logan couldn't let Horace live, as he would surely tell the boys—or possibly police—all that he knew. It was all unraveling too fast to control now. He had to take control. He had to make sure the remaining three loose ends couldn't flee… it was time for him to make his final play. He had the Protectionizer and the Time Watch, so he felt just about invincible. He looked at the stone. Not just 'about' invincible… as invincible as invincible gets.
He loaded all six chambers of his revolver with ammunition from the cabin and even packed additional rounds in each pocket. He next prodded the groove of scabbed tissue under his arm where Horace's bullet had trailed. It stung to the touch. Not good…I might have to get that looked at. He then checked his watch, waiting for the right window of time to leave. And then he was on his way, closing in on the sleepy DeLange home in its peaceful, halcyon road that was about to erupt with gunfire, blood, and violence.
* * *
From outside, he caught glimpses through the window of a group happily dining and chatting and joking. Their blind joviality set Logan's teeth near grinding, and he had to withdraw two batteries' worth of red before he could regain his composure. He sat in perfect stillness just beyond their yard, ears attuned to his surroundings. He heard the rumbling of the garage door as a car sputtered out from the garage… Martha and Clara DeLange have left the building, he thought. He then heard the opening and slamming of the trunk of the car in the driveway. The old man getting his rifle, he remembered. He'd be creeping back into the house now… the fireworks would start soon.
Logan waited until he heard the first gunshot, and then burst to his feet. He walked around the perimeter of the house, positioning himself near the side door where Horace would most likely flee. He then took cover behind a tree and waited.
More gunshots rang out, and then came the shattering of glass. Thirty seconds later, a door was kicked open, and frantic footsteps raced away from the house. Logan rounded the tree and raised his weapon, feeling a twinge of pain from the wound on his arm. It cost him the shot as his bullet flew wide off-right, and his second was overcorrected too far to the left against the sprinting target.
Horace's mind was racing. His blood whooshed against his ears. His feet pounded against the hard dirt of the floor, each footfall a jolting shock that he heard and felt in his jaw, in his teeth as he ran full-tilt to cover. He had been sure he left the Logan boy behind in the kitchen… who was this new shooter? And then his mind settled on that dreadful question: did he kill the other boy?
There was no time for such considerations. Horace couldn't even risk turning his head as he ran for his car. His side burned a raw, wet pain where he was sure he'd been shot by Logan. He couldn't yet tell if it was a killshot or not, but his legs still worked, and so Horace ran, miraculously scrambling but not falling face-first as bullets exploded against the wall around him. Two fired shots had missed, but Horace didn't want to push his luck for a third, so he leapt off and to the side as he rounded the corner of the house, using it as temporary cover. He then ran diagonally, staying within the corner's cover, pushing his way until he had covered the lateral distance to the car. He then crept low and pressed his back against it, opening the doors for additional cover. He then propped himself and his rifle up, aiming down the rear of the car.
Ronnie burst from the front door, quickly seeing Horace's defensive position. He ran over and ducked near his great uncle, also using the car for cover at his back. "Stay low," Horace commanded, watching the corner of the house. He then passed Ronnie the car key from his pocket. "If you can reach the ignition from cover, switch her on." He saw someone begin to turn the corner and shot, his aim steady and true. It struck Logan with deft precision straight to the center of this chest, causing him to stumble backwards into cover. "Not another step!" Horace shouted. "Or I'll put another to knock that rock from your hands and put a third right between your eyes." The engine turned over as the car roared to life.
Logan didn't turn the corner, but he yelled across it. "Ronnie, if you toss me the ring and Shaun's plug, I can be on my way. Nobody else has to get hurt," he said, still mentally deciding if he'd keep his word.
Ronnie twisted the ring on his finger, still struggling to believe any of it. "How could you do this?" Ronnie yelled, but the accusation in his voice felt pitiful, weak. He was confused, he was scared; he was disbelieving, hurt, and perhaps most of all in that moment, he was drained. "How could you do this to us?"
Logan ignored the questions. "There's another way this could shake out," Logan said. "I wait here for your mother to drive back, and maybe I just shoot her instead. How'd that sound?" Logan called.
This was mask-off psychopathy, and to hear such cruelty from a voice once so familiar sent a chill down Ronnie's spine. "You wouldn't," Ronnie shouted in reply, not even sure if he even believed it.
"Would I?" Logan asked.
"She's done nothing wrong!" Ronnie said, his voice cracking with pain. "She's innocent. A sweet woman who never meant anyone any harm."
"Now, now, now, tsk, tsk, Ronnie. You should know better than to try appealing to emotion with me… I. Don't. Have. To. Feel." Whether for dramatic emphasis, or for genuine need, Ronnie heard the hiss of the Empathizer from just around the corner. And Ronnie knew then that his friend was gone, long dead, and this twisted thing meant what it said. It shot Wade, and was likely the person responsible for Skinny's disappearance. It was probably the reason Parker wound up decades in the past scarred to hell and back. All along, the biggest threat hadn't been some interloper… it had been their own friend, and they'd somehow been too blind to see it. Ronnie pulled the ring off his finger and felt the colors go dull, taking the last of his energy with it. The treadmill his thoughts had been flying along had suddenly had its plug pulled, and now he felt his understanding come crashing down against it. He looked at that ring, an unassuming thing with its bands of colored metal. He felt a deep longing for the days before these damned things had entered their lives, and brought their evil with them… and then he swallowed hard, and threw it towards the corner of the house.
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Logan saw the small projectile plop into the green grass just beyond the corner. He walked over, squeezing the protectionizer tight, and was not shot as he rounded the corner. The old man understood the exchange and it seemed he'd tolerate it. Logan dropped to his knees to rummage for the ring, which had gotten lost beneath the high blades of grass.
His hand settled on it and he smiled as he slipped it on, the world seeming to spring to life in vibrant colors and patterns. It was the first true burst of joy he'd felt in a very long time, and Logan basked in its natural, yellow glow as the world sang to him. He was soaking it all in, this incredible spectacle, when the moment shattered. With a crack and a sudden force that blasted him forwards face-first into the grass, Logan realized he'd been shot from behind. Not where the old man and Ronnie were positioned, but from the house next door. He rolled over onto his back, feet pointed towards the threat, and pulled his weapon into a low stance, eyes sweeping low. Another round struck him and sent him rolling. Neither broke the skin, as he continued to hold his Protectionizer, but they certainly set him rattling as the bullet's energy transferred into his body.
"Mr. Lampert!" Ronnie cried, "get back!"
But the neighborhood hero who'd responded to gunfire next door assumed his two shots had neutralized the threat. He lowered his gun and was caught altogether unaware as Logan raised his own yet again and fired his weapon, aiming for the center of his chest. Mr. Lampert's robe blew back as though a sudden gust of wind had gotten underneath it, but this wind was crimson and wet, and Mr. Lampert dropped in its wake. Logan raised himself to a seated position as he heard the squeal of tires on pavement from behind him. They're fleeing, he thought, standing up and assessing the collapsed neighbor. It was only then that he noticed the engine wasn't getting quieter… it was getting louder.
The 1979 Mercury Cougar XR7 smacked into Logan with all the power the screaming engine could generate after gliding backwards down the driveway in neutral and then flooring it. Logan's ring-sharpened reflexes had him squeezing the Protectionizer with every ounce of strength he could muster while he clutched at the gun in his other hand. Miraculously, both held. The collision with the front right of the car's hood had him sprawled against it, face and upper torso along the hood while his hands and legs were pressed to the bumper, but the car seemed to crumple in with the impact more than he did. He clung to the Protectionizer desperately as the car continued forwards, hot engine shaking Logan's entire world as it took him on a merry death ride towards its unknown destination. He couldn't see it, nor could he hear it, but he knew something lay ahead… a destination he'd arrive to with far too much speed.
Car met tree at 35 miles per hour, twisted fragments of metal bursting outwards like a grisly puff of confetti. The sturdy wooden poplar creaked but remained upright, loose leaves shaking free and raining down over the crash site. The car was ruined, smoking and rattling as it died. In the front seat, Ronnie lay unconscious, bleeding from his forehead. And between car and tree, breathing heavily but otherwise unscathed, Logan screamed in primeval rage, the wood of the tree dented around him like the impact crater of an angry meteorite. The loose and hot metal had twisted about his body, pinning him between the car and the tree like a bear in the jaws of a bear trap. His hands were pinned low, still clutching the firearm and Protectionizer, though he could raise neither. He felt the rising tide of despair, of guilt, of that soul-burning helplessness… but Logan couldn't reach his Empathizer. He couldn't move much at all. He could only stand there against the wood and watch Ronnie bleed in the driver's seat, hatred and bile rising up within him.
"I'll kill you for this," he shouted, his voice a screaming parody of what it'd once sounded like. "And your mother. And your grandmother. And her dog, your uncle… everyone." He then looked up and saw Horace standing there, regarding him with something that reeked of pity. Weakness, Logan thought. He should kill me… but he can't. He's chained to his emotions… while I'm chained only to fate. Sirens began their wailing call in the distance. Someone's heard the trouble, it seems.
He watched the old man walk to his car and open the dented trunk, removing a briefcase and a length of rope. He then approached the tree once again, and Logan spat at him with a hateful, burning stare. His rage burned away to fear, however, when the old man set to work. At first, Logan thought he was merely tying him to the tree. He'd started behind the tree, and then had looped the rope around the tree back to the other side. Logan could hear the man tying the rope on the other side into some knot, and could even feel the cord of rope itself move with each twist, but he couldn't see. Then, as he began to pull the rope tighter and tighter, winching it in with his knot, Horace lifted the rope until it sat against Logan's neck. He then returned to the far side of the tree and began to tighten the rope, pulling hard.
The breath squeezed from Logan's body as his head went tight and his vision went red. The pressure against his neck was unbearable, and though it didn't cut his skin, it pressed his windpipe shut all the same. Logan jerked left and right, arms snapping up and down against their unyielding prison as his feet tried to kick free. A halo of dark began to creep in from his periphery.
"Now!" Horace shouted, and Logan felt the gun in his hands beneath the bumper suddenly wrench free. He hadn't seen anyone near, and so he hadn't had his guard up, but it suddenly made perfect sense… Shaun must be down by his feet, reaching under the twisted fender. He fought against the rope held tight to his neck and the rising pressure in his face and head… it seemed he might explode any second. Shaun reached further underneath the twisted fender and found the latch of the watch and managed to slip it off, despite Logan's flailing attempts to stop him. He then started to pry at Logan's balled fist around the Protectionizer.
Tires squealed on the pavement as the approaching police vehicle came to a quick halt and a lone officer jumped out, gun raised. What she saw was surely a grim sight… someone was pinned between a car and a tree with a rope looped around their neck, suffocating. "Drop the rope now or I'll shoot," Nora Campbell shouted. Horace ducked against the tree and recovered his rifle stashed there. He wouldn't peek out and shoot her, because he knew this woman was only upholding the law, which was surely God's work, but he couldn't let her know that… she'd surely charge in and arrest him. Best to shoot wide and get her ducking for cover. That might buy him a chance to escape. Plus, that voice; it was so familiar, he thought. And then he placed it. The woman at the auto repair shop. The woman who had been Jim Duncan's own mother, according to the letters.
The hairs on the back of Horace's neck suddenly stood up as he heard a voice whisper in his ear. "Fourth and Mullover in about an hour," it breathed, before suddenly adding one more thought. "Get ready to run." To his side where the voice had come from, there was nobody at all… the invisible one, he thought. He nodded.
Then, the voice was gone, and Horace was again alone on the back of the tree. "Step away with your hands up!" Nora shouted, voice hoarse. She stepped forwards, eyes looking for a sign of the threat. She could move to the rope, but that would put her at risk… which was more pressing? To relieve the boy's choking, or to catch the man who'd tied him?
"Go!" shouted a sudden, disembodied voice to Nora's right. Horace ran. At that same moment, the gun in her hand was suddenly knocked with an unexpected force, as though someone had tackled it with all their might… but there was nobody present. As the gun flew free from her hand, Nora twisted with its momentum and felt the whoosh of passing air as the invisible form sailed by.
"The hell?" is all she managed as she fell to the grass on her side. She watched her gun glide away and launch across the neighbor's fence, as though it had been thrown. Only then did she see the prone, crumpled form on the ground. She turned her head and watched the man with the rifle and the case vanish into the woods, and though she knew she could chase him down, the boy tied to the tree would soon suffocate to death. Knot first.
She stumbled to her feet, not chasing after her gun, and scrambled over to the rope knot at the rear of the tree. She untied it with trembling fingers and let the slack rope tumble down, feeling a great weight lift from her as she heard the boy's gasping, grateful breath in its wake. She then went to him, checking him for wounds against the car. Miraculously, there were none. "You'll be ok," she said, not quite believing her own words. Surely there was deep, internal trauma, right? "You'll be ok," she repeated, and then began to wonder if she was speaking to the boy or to herself. "You'll be ok."