The Sacrifice Read online

  The Sacrifice

  Sandy J Hartwick

  Copyright © 2020 by Sandy J Hartwick

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Laurie Boris

  Cover design by Wicked Good Book Covers

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book contains some gore, violence and profanity.

  Created with Vellum

  For Rex Arthur, my hero, my cowboy, without your support and encouragement this book would not exist.

  "Spiritual warfare is very real.

  There is a furious, fierce, and ferocious battle raging in the realm of the spirit between the forces of Good and the forces of Evil.

  Warfare happens every day, all the time. Whether you believe it or not, you are on a battlefield.

  You are at war."

  ~ Pedro Okoro

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About the book

  Chapter 1

  It was late and Tom was running out of daylight. He pushed his tired horse up this last hill. And it would be the last hill, he promised, although he had said this to himself three times before. It was that damn rogue calf, fat and healthy with a slick coat. It was hard to leave here without it. These days, every calf was needed to keep the ranch in the black. The little shit had eluded him for half an hour now and he was going to find him if …

  Tom’s horse snorted and stopped in his tracks so quickly that Tom hit the swells of his saddle. Surprising, because Chance should have been tired after hauling his gray butt as well as Tom’s through brush and pine trees all day. Surprising too, that Tom had been so lost in his thoughts that his horse would catch him off guard.

  They had reached a large rock formation at the top of the hill—white, granite boulders. Tom doubted he would find the calf there but figured he would have a great view of the country below and might spot the little beast.

  What the hell? He urged Chance forward with a gentle squeeze of his legs. The gelding gave him one step. Tom could see nothing in the rocks. The sun was nearly set; the last rays drifted over his back and colored the country golden, a beautiful time of day. He kicked Chance hard this time. “Come on!” The quarter horse was one of the most sensible that he’d ever known. Why was he acting stupid here?

  The horse was shaking and close to bolting. His ears had not left the alert, forward position. He could hear something Tom could not or … sense something.

  The ground was not good here for a horse wreck. If Chance decided to bolt or freak out, it could be bad. Rocks and downed trees and lots of soil that tended to slide underfoot.

  Tom hopped off and quickly tied the horse to a piñon pine. Chance was still shaking, and although Tom tried to reassure him, stroking his neck, it was as if the horse was not aware of him and could not pull his staring gaze from the rocks.

  A crack of sagebrush behind them made both Tom and Chance jump. Farley. His Border Collie had caught up with them. The dog had left them in the dust in pursuit of that rogue calf and they had become separated. Tom was glad to see him.

  Before Farley could greet Tom, his attitude changed. He stared past Tom and grew bigger as the hair stood up on his spine. Now Tom felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. For God’s sake! What in the hell? First, his horse, now the dog. Tom looked back at the white formation. He could see and hear nothing. But he was going to check it out.

  He began to climb up. It was easy climbing, but cowboy boots are slick and not the desirable shoe for this job. So he was slow and easy. He wrenched his ankle last year and nearly broke it and he had to be careful.

  Farley normally would have been ahead of him, trying to surprise a chipmunk or squirrel, but now he was Tom’s shadow and that was just odd. When he was about to the top, Tom caught some sound. Sort of a hum, a droning? He stopped and listened, but the sound rose and fell and he couldn’t be sure he was really hearing anything. Three more large boulders and he could survey the scene. He made the first, and he realized the sound was voices. Now, that was weird. His stomach fluttered. He was in an extremely remote area; he had not seen a soul all day. It was probably 15 miles from where he had left his truck and trailer back where the road was washed out. Probably hikers. Or someone who had a jeep made it up this far? Motorcyclists, maybe? He wondered at how silly he was being. He would just climb to the top, say howdy, and see if he could locate that calf.

  At the second boulder he could hear much better. There were voices, and they were talking at once in rhythm. Many voices, saying the same words. The words still were inaudible, but Tom felt ill. He stared at his dog. Farley had his tail so far between his legs that it nearly curled up to his belly. His hackles were sky high—he looked like a different dog. What … in … the … hell? He realized his hand was on his pistol. He always carried a weapon of some sort. This was the wilderness, after all. Things happen. He took his hand off the butt of the .22. Now what?

  So some hippies were out having a good time, so what? What the heck was the matter with him?

  But it wasn’t just some hippies singing a song, was it? The rhythm of the voices reminded him of something. Church. The rise and fall of voices, repeating in unison some prayer. His skin was clammy and he felt weak. He hadn’t eaten all day, yet he was nauseated. There was something in the air, the very aura of the place. For Christ’s sake, he couldn’t even see what was going on.

  He didn’t know why, but he knew it to his bones that he needed to see and not be seen. If he went back down the rocks and galloped away on his horse and went home and didn’t worry or think about this day again, it would be okay. But he knew that he would be doing it because he was afraid, and he couldn’t live with that. Every time he looked in the mirror and saw a man he would hear a voice say
, “But are you really a man? You ran away.”

  He could not understand the words; they almost sounded like another language. Tom pushed his cowboy hat off so that it hung down his back from the stampede string round his neck. He flattened himself against the final boulder and slowly climbed to the top.

  He peered over, but could only see brush and trees below him. He had passed these rocks many times and never had cause or time to climb them. The rock formation had appeared to him like so many others, just a pile of rocks. However, this one formed a half circle and Tom realized the people were almost directly below him. To survey the scene he would have to really stick his neck out … so to speak. Why not go around? Why not just wait hidden somewhere else and watch them leave? Why not—a high-pitched cry reached him. It felt like a punch in the gut. It was a baby. The cry sounded as afraid and alone as any he had ever heard.

  Tom popped his head over the boulder and stared down. He could not see the baby for all of the people crowded around the big, flat rock. A tall blond man raised a blade that reflected the last second of daylight, and it came down so hard that he heard it hit stone. The cry ceased. It happened so quickly—Tom could not process what he’d seen. He should have ducked in a flash, but he stared, unable to move. It was only an extra second, but enough. The tall blond sensed him. His eyes locked on Tom’s and again Tom couldn’t move. They were the most horrible eyes he had ever seen. Beautiful, but deeply cold and empty—eyes devoid of light.

  Tom shot him. How the gun got in his hand so quickly, how he pulled the trigger, and how his aim was so dead accurate—these were things for him to ponder later. It was instinctive, like flicking a venomous spider off your sleeve and stomping it to juice or jumping three feet in the air and away when a rattler buzzes next to you in the grass.

  Tom saw the man stagger backward, the bloody knife still in his hand, blood oozing out of a hole in his forehead, but Tom did not stay for more. He slipped and slid down the rocks, forgetting his ankle, and somehow didn’t hurt himself. He untied the horse and didn’t mind that Chance was starting down the hill before he got in the saddle. Farley raced ahead of them. They all wanted out of there.

  It was all downhill to the truck, and Tom was sure they were out of sight before any of those—witches?—could have made it around the rocks and seen his getaway. They ran on, the horse pulling at the bit for more speed and the dog loping at his side. It was dusk, the light was still good and they were all in good shape, though they had worked hard all day. Tom realized he was shaking and in a cold sweat. Here in the still of trees and brush and mountains, he could hardly believe what had just happened. It was like a dream. If it had been real, then the earth could stop spinning and the sky could tear back and anything could happen. Things like this just don’t happen … especially in Sweetwater, Nevada.

  About halfway back he pulled up the horse and made him walk. The gray had calmed some now and settled into a good, ground-covering walk. Tom didn’t doubt that shooting that creep was the right thing to do, and it wasn’t as though he could change it now. If he had had more time, his mind might have had a more rational approach, but as for his body and mind working together in instinctive milliseconds—there had been no reservations on the correct course of action.

  He kept trying to avoid the baby, but he knew the cry would haunt him always. Whose baby? A missing child, a kidnap victim … one of their own? Why? He had thought witches, but now he felt devil worshippers. If only he had been quicker … What? He would have needed a machine gun and the moves of Indiana Jones to have swooped down on a rope and escaped with that baby. Still he felt sick that he could not have saved it. The butcher was no regret and he was glad he had killed him. He would kill him again, yes, that decision was exactly right. It was like killing a mad dog or a rabid skunk. But there had been a whole crowd with the baby killer, and they probably weren’t real happy at the moment. Some of them must have seen his face, although he was sure he hadn’t seen any of theirs.

  He was still out in the brush, but he was heading to the road now. The part of the road he would soon reach was on the other side of the washout from his truck. They could cut him off. He didn’t know how they had gotten there. He hadn’t seen any motorcycle tracks or footprints or a jeep trail. They must have come to the rock formation by another way. Still they must have vehicles of some sort. These were the kind of people that got their jollies out of murdering little babies. They wouldn’t exactly let a person get away with popping off their voodoo chief. They would be after him. The dog and the horse showed no sign of wariness, and they would sense danger long before him. If he could get to his truck and away, how would they ever know him? Then again, how was he going to catch them? His cell wouldn’t work until he got out of these hills. He was still a good two hours from cell service. They would be gone by then. And even if they just hid, night was close and that was on their side. It was dark enough now that Tom didn’t push the horse out of a walk—getting hurt now could be real bad.

  It had been a long time since Tom had been afraid. He had always been a fan of Stephen King and other dark authors, but he rarely read them now. He didn’t have much time, being a husband, father and rancher; life was better when he didn’t think about evil or the fact that it was a part of this world.

  When they reached the trailer, Tom jumped the horse in, tack and all. He and Farley hopped in the front seat of the diesel. He was about to start up when he noticed a faint glimmer back in the hills. Fire. Burning their sacrifice? The evidence? Even further away he could see the flash of lights occasionally. Someone was leaving on motorcycles. Feeling slightly ridiculous, he got out of the truck and grabbed a handful of muck from the meadow bog he had parked next to. He smeared the license plates front and back with a thick coating and then covered the trailer plate as well. He drove through the hills in silence and saw nothing but the occasional deer or jackrabbit.

  Far above on the ridge in the sweet smoke of the offering and burning sage, many eyes saw the headlights of the pickup come on and watched as it turned around and drove away. “He’ll be easy to find,” a short, hooded figure said.

  A young, red-haired man with bolts and dreads asked, “How?”

  “It’s easy. All of these shit kickers have to have a permit for their cattle on government land. All we have to do is find out who the permit holder is … the fucking bastard. He’ll wish he’d never been born.” The woman pulled back her cloak hood with shaking hands that didn’t match her steely voice. The fire glinted off her shiny, long blond hair and revealed a face that was beautiful, marred only by the human blood around the mouth and the hard, green eyes that were as hollow and soulless as her now-dead brother’s.

  The red-haired man smiled and gave a short chuckle. “What now?”

  “We clean the fucking place up. I don’t want a trace. They won’t get the FBI up here, just some fuck-hick, asshole sheriff or dumbass deputy dog.” She turned on her heel, her black cloak spinning around her. Ash’s body was already wrapped up and tied to the back of a four-wheeler. The tiny remains of what was left of the baby were nearly burnt up. Fucking waste! They would have used every bit of it, if that fucking cowboy hadn’t shown up. But now with cops around, it wouldn’t do to be stopped carrying a backpack of baby parts. They would have to leave, for a while anyway. It would give that dumbass cowboy the impression that nothing was going to happen to him. “Cut some brush! I want every track erased within a half-mile radius! I don’t want so much as a gum wrapper left behind, you stupid bastards! Don’t even mess with me tonight!” The blond roared out orders and they rushed to obey. Even Ash, who was cold and dead on the four-wheeler, had been slightly afraid of his sibling, and he had been the coldest, most venomous leader the group had ever known.

  “Come on, Tom, it’s eleven o’clock at night on a Saturday—where and how am I going to get a crew to go out in the hills tonight?” Deputy Doug Nelson asked. Tom had called him directly and asked him to meet in the little town of Sweetwater. Doug and
Tom had known each other for years, but Tom wasn’t sure Doug believed him; hell, he wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

  “I’ll come out to the ranch tomorrow morning as soon as I can and we’ll drive up there.” The deputy’s tone was final, and at this point Tom didn’t feel like arguing. The murderers were probably long gone anyway.

  “You might want to rethink everything you told me … and this is off the record. Let’s just go up there tomorrow and see what we can see and then we’ll write a report. It will save us both a lot of trouble and red tape.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Doug. Goodnight.” Tom reached for the ignition; Doug grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t tell anyone else about this.” Doug’s eyes locked on Tom’s, making sure he understood. “I like you, Tom, and your family. Just wait until we go up there tomorrow. I’ll help you through it.”

  The hairs on Tom’s neck prickled for the second time that day. Doug knew more than he was telling. Tom nodded, started his truck and pulled out on the two-lane highway towards home.