Leaping by Diane Munier

Author:Diane Munier [Munier, Diane]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Amazon: B00WYJ3QKQ
Published: 2015-04-29T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

Once Cori left the Rosebud Jordan sat on the bed while the residue of everything died in the room, even the fresh air that blew through when she'd held the door open, even that slowly succumbed to the staleness. Somewhere in there he had laid back…and somewhere in there he'd fallen asleep.

It was three o'clock when he awoke and remembered where he was. He took a shower in the chipped bathroom. He shaved, he changed his shirt. He paid for another night cause he'd slept through checkout, but he packed his shit in his car because it felt right and better to have no ties to Whitney, none at all. Then he drove toward Danville, through the bottoms that flooded in the spring until the road was buried in the swollen creek, but not this evening, not now, but what did happen here, what came of it…James Carson was from this neck of the woods, this nothing place where human beings grew on the quiet, brewed and stewed and came of age.

It made his chest tight to be driving through here, the turn off with those hogs right on the road. It was strange country here, not quaint, not colloquial, just straight-up strange.

He hadn't tried to set the blame…for James Carson's existence. He was a fallen man. He had lent himself to evil…James had. He had opened his heart to the devil.

It was never spoken about…a person embracing the dark…wanting the dark…making plans to kill the way others planned vacations or how to journey through school and achieve a degree.

James chose. He chose it. He wasn't forced. He wasn't encouraged. He took a hundred small steps and he achieved his goal. That's it.

The evil in James Carson was ancient. He wasn't a product of modern times or modern life. He was a product of the original villain, the one whose aim it was to take down mankind from the beginning.

James Carson had committed. That fact remained in Jordan's mind…like a battle-cry.

He stopped on the bridge, the cement stretch of road that went over the creek. He stopped in the middle of it and left his car door open. He stood there and looked at the water moving through, the cold sludge of it, not as magnificent as the ocean, just a creek full of piss and dead things…and he spit in the water. He watched it slog past, all brown, going under his feet, under the road, moving past, moving on, going nowhere.

He looked up and around. A buck was in the tree-line taking a drink. He'd lived through hunting season, good for him. Not everything…everyone was so lucky.

The sky…it held the color of sunset, had held it all-day, twilight blue and gray. The trees were dark, the vegetation leather brown and blowing about. He could hear another vehicle and he got back in his own and slowly pulled off the bridge, but he did not stay the course to Danville, he turned off at the old apple orchard and he took that road, that bent limb of a road and he followed its winding path.

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