Bad Things (37 page)

“Uh, I don't know.”

She nodded brusquely. “Hector, come on. We've gotta make sure nobody's in our house.” She looked at Rick and Dakota. “You two better come along. It's not safe here, not with the
espíritu
loose in the walls.”

“It's not a ghost, Carmen. It tried to rape my daughter. It gave her a black eye.”

“Ghosts can do that, Ricky.” She stared hard at him. “Your brother's dead. He's buried up there in the cemetery. It's his ghost.”

“It must be someone who looks like Robin,” Dakota said, looking at Rick.

“Who has no legs?” Rick asked grimly. “Who walks on his hands and calls himself Robin, and me icky Ricky? That's too much coincidence for me.”

“Robin's dead,” Carmen insisted.

“Maybe my brother is,” Rick said slowly. “But his body isn't. Take Cody, Carmen. We'll be along soon.”

He waited until he heard the back door close, then turned to Dakota. “Are you up for a little visit to Santo Verde Cemetery?”

Dakota regarded him doubtfully. “What for?”

“To see what's in my brother's grave.”

“Grave robbing?”

“No. Just looking.”

“Jesus X. Christ, Piper. That's crazy.”

He flinched at the dreaded word, then composed himself. “No, it's not. I have to know if he's really dead.”

“You didn't see him at the funeral?”

“O'Keefe, I told you, he burned in a fire. It was closed casket.”

“If he burned, how can you tell if it's him?”

“The bones,” he said impatiently.

“I was afraid you'd say that. Look, Piper, can't this wait until morning? We could inquire at the office and—”

“And what? See if we can get a court order to check the grave?” Rick shook his head. “No way. His message was ‘Happy Halloween.' Something's going to happen tomorrow. He has plans, and I have to make sure I know what I'm dealing with. We're going to the cemetery. Now.”

“Look, Piper. There's an intruder in this house. No matter who he is, he's breaking the law. Let's call the cops.”

“What are they going to do? Check every passage in the house? They'd be no match for someone who knows their way around there. They can't do squat.”

“Well, we could go sleep at Carmen's, then, first thing in the morning, call the exterminator and have your house tented.”

Rick smiled, momentarily tickled by the notion. “That's not a bad idea.”

“Good, then it's settled.”

“No, Dakota, it's not settled. Just think how bad that body would smell once it started rotting.”

Dakota made a face. “You could move back to Vegas.”

Rick studied his friend. Even an hour ago, he might have agreed to it, might have jumped at the thought, but there was something so foul and intrusive in the things Cody had told him, combined with the sudden knowledge that he had told and been judged sane, that he couldn't entertain the idea.

“I'm going out to the toolshed for a shovel. I'm going to the cemetery and I'm going to see what's buried in Robin's grave. You can come with me or not. Either way, I'm going.”

Dakota gave him a sick grin. “You were easier to get along with when you weren't so macho, Piper.”

“Are you coming or not?”

“What are friends for?” he said, and followed Rick to the shed.

 

 

Five minutes later, they walked from the house to Rick's car. The greenjacks were going wild, but Rick ignored them.

Five minutes of driving through swirling fog brought them to the cemetery. They'd parked on the lightless street behind it, then hoisted themselves over the wall. It proved easier than expected, especially since the moon had gone down now, and at two in the morning, no one was around to catch them.

Rick had never been here at night. Whereas he found the place soothing and serene in the daytime, the presence of the jacks—not nearly as many as at home, but enough to make him anxious—and the shadowy angles and orbs and crosses poking through the mist made him nervous. He had a second thought, and refused it: He'd finally found some courage, and he was damned if he was going to let go of it now.

They soon found the Piper plots. Rick glanced up at the statue of the piper. “How they hanging, Thomas?” he whispered, then, without allowing himself to think, he began to dig. Soon Dakota fell in alongside. The soil was surprisingly soft, blessedly soft, and before three-thirty, Rick's shovel thunked against wood.

At quarter to four, he sat in the grave on top of the bottom half of the coffin and brushed the dirt off the upper portion. Dakota peered down at him from above, his face a pale moon against the darkness. Rick felt for latches, found one, and worked it until it came undone in his hand. Still the casket wouldn't open. “Hand me the crowbar.”

Silently Dakota passed it down.

He worked it along the edge. Suddenly it gave, letting stale air, smelling faintly of charcoal and nothing else, drift into his nostrils. “Turn on the flashlight,” he told Dakota. A moment later, a shaky beam of light illuminated the coffin from above.

“Here goes.” He pulled the lid up.

At first, the blackened bones contained within told him little. The explosion that had caused the carnival fire had been of tremendous force, and it was obvious that these bones had been close to the center of it. They were unidentifiable: part of a skull, a couple longer bones that might have been arms, and most of a rib cage and the spinal column, whose end he couldn't see. “Give me the light.”

Dakota handed it down. Rick held his breath and bent over, shining the light under the lower half of the coffin. He peered below, his face uncomfortably close to the charred skeleton.

He saw an intact pelvis. One hip cavity was empty, but the other contained a ball joint. Following it down, he saw that the leg bone itself extended into the darkness of the casket, out of sight.

“Well?” Dakota hissed.

“Hip bone's connected to the thigh bone,” Rick said. “This isn't Robin. They probably just put bones into caskets at random.”

“So he's alive?”

“Probably. At least we have no proof that he's dead.”

 

 

“It's no ghost, Carmen,” Rick said an hour later. “He's almost certainly alive.”

It was five-thirty in the morning, and he sat at Carmen's kitchen table, dressed in Hector's robe. He'd already showered the graveyard dirt from his body, and now Dakota was in the bathroom doing the same.

“Madre Dios,”
she said. “He's in the house, and Jade, she knows, doesn't she? All these years, she's known.” She glared.
“Puta.”

“We don't know he's been here the whole time. Chances are he hasn't been.”

“Oh, I think he has. I always thought the ghost was there. How could I be so stupid?”

“We went to the funeral, Carmen, we thought he was dead. A ghost makes more sense.” It felt good to do the comforting for a change.

She shook her head. “I was stupid. I saw things. I always thought Jade ate like a horse. Food disappeared in the night, but I thought it was her.”

Dakota came out of the bathroom dressed in one of Carmen's flannel nightgowns. It ended just above his knees.

“So what are you two talking about?”

“We're wondering if Robin's been living in the house ever since his alleged death,” Rick said sourly. A little voice in the back of his mind congratulated him on continuing to keep his door locked after his brother's “death.”

Dakota leaned forward. “So do you think that every time old Jade moans and groans, it's because your brother's sticking it to her?”

Carmen stood up. “I'm going back to bed.”

Rick watched her go. “She doesn't like dirty talk.”

Dakota ignored him. “So do you think he is?”

“Yes. Let's get some sleep.” He gestured at the sofa bed Carmen had made up for them.

“My dreams come true,” Dakota said, batting his eyelashes.

“Try anything and I'll tell your sister on you.”

After they lay down on the lumpy mattress, Rick stared at the ceiling a long time, wishing sleep would come.

“Piper?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking about my brother. After he changed, Robin became obsessed with leaving his mark on everything. He'd get into other people's clothes, my mother's makeup, the food. Remember, I told you he peed in the lemonade? He'd take my schoolbooks and jerk off on them—I caught him in the act once. After we were twelve or so, he masturbated on anything that moved. And laughed about it. He didn't care if I saw. He used everyone's toothbrushes. I kept mine locked in my room.”

“What a fucker.”

“Yes,” Rick agreed. “His greatest pleasure came from the violation of other people's privacy.”

“A rapist in every sense of the word.”

“That's right.” Memories flooded him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “And now he's doing it again. To my son, my daughter, and to me. I'm going to stop him, Dakota, or die trying. I'm not running anymore. I'm going to take back what's mine.”

 

“I feel like Roddy McDowell standing outside Hell House,” Dakota O'Keefe said.

“I know what you mean.” Rick raised his hand to shield his eyes from the noontime sun, bright and clear on this chilI autumn day. “I don't think anything will happen for a few hours. Not until dark.”

“I still think you should tent the place.” Dakota smirked. “Exterminate the pests.”

“I wish it was that easy.” Rick shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. “Winter's coming.”

Dakota nodded, hugging himself. Like Rick, he'd had to put his grave-robbing clothes back on—a pair of shorts, running shoes with no socks, and a sweatshirt, all filthy. “I'm freezing my nuts off. Hey, is the pool water warm yet?” He glanced across the lawn at the sparkling blue water. “That would help.”

“No. We only finished filling it yesterday. It'll take days before it's warm enough. Listen, I have jackets upstairs. One's a humongous fleece job. It'll fit you.” As he spoke, the cold wind cut through Rick's T-shirt, making him shiver.

“Well, we have to go in, right?”

“Right. It's okay, Carmen's already been inside.”

“Then why don't we ask
her
to get the jackets?”

Rick rolled his eyes. “Are you chicken?” he asked, terribly pleased to be the one delivering the words instead of receiving them.

“I'm a hell of a lot more cold than I am scared, Piper.” Dakota gave him a wobbly smile. “Let's go for it. Hell, let's get crazy and get an entire change of clothes.”

“Good idea.” As he unlocked the front door, Rick felt his nerves giving underneath his newfound bravado.
You can't back out now,
he told himself,
not after you called
O'Keefe
chicken.

Nothing looked out of place as they moved through the living room. Beyond Jade's closed door, he could hear Maury Povich's voice blaring.

“Hector hasn't finished locking the openings up, has he?” Dakota asked when they reached the kitchen.

“I doubt it.” Rick opened the refrigerator and withdrew a carton of milk. He stared at it a moment, then took it to the sink and poured it out.

“Piper? What the hell are you doing?”

“If my brother's really here, you don't want to drink this.” Returning to the fridge, he took out a couple apples, examined them, then washed them thoroughly, just in case. He tossed one to Dakota. “Hector's been out in the yard all morning. I don't think he wants to be alone in here any more than we do. And I don't blame him.”

“Piper, why don't we just call the cops?”

Rick sighed. “I told you, if someone doesn't want to be found in this house, they won't be found.” As true as that was, there was more to it than that, but Rick kept it to himself because he knew O'Keefe would do his best to talk him out of it.

For a long hour at dawn, Rick had lain on the lumpy sofa bed pretending to be asleep while he thought about what he'd told Dakota: that he was going to take back what belonged to him.

When he'd said it, he'd been talking about more than his children, more than his house: He had also been talking about his self-respect. The time had come for him to battle the real monster and leave the windmills behind.

Rick had never stood up for himself, had never ceased to question his own worth. He'd known for years that his lack of fight stemmed from the insecurities that Robin had so carefully instilled in him so long ago, and even now, part of him screamed that if he took a stand, he'd be wrong and everyone would find out how totally inadequate he was.

All his life he had taken the path of least resistance, compromising, making nice, turning the other cheek. His powers of calm persuasion were so considerable that even back in elementary school he could use words to avoid showdowns with school bullies. As an adult, he used them to charm bosses and co-workers, even policemen who wanted to give him speeding tickets. His charm had never failed except where his brother was concerned, but there it had failed miserably, leaving him floundering and helpless to fight back. But now that all had to change.

Returning to Santo Verde and facing the past had been the first step in taking control of his own life. Getting through the last two days without cracking had been the next step. Then, last night, when Dakota and Audrey said they believed he saw the greenjacks and he realized they meant it, the first tingle of real confidence passed through him.

If he called the police now, perhaps they could do something: set a trap, stake out the house, he didn't know what. But chances were, as he told Dakota, they would fail. And if they didn't—if they caught Robin—Rick would again escape the confrontation he had avoided all his life, the final confrontation.

He knew that this was something he had to do on his own, and this morning he began to figure a way to get Carmen to leave for the night. All his life she had been his crutch, and he knew that her presence here tonight might well bring out his old weaknesses. He couldn't take that chance. Instinctively he knew that if he met the confrontation head-on, faced it on his own, with nothing to rely upon but himself, and if he succeeded in overcoming it, he would have control of his own destiny for the first time in his life and would no longer be a prisoner of his own cowardice. He'd been handed a second chance.

And that was something he couldn't explain to Dakota, who lived for confrontations and drama. He would never comprehend how important it was for Rick to fight this battle alone.

“I'm going upstairs,” he told Dakota, who had sat down in a kitchen chair. “Do you want your suitcase? It might be a good idea to take some things over to Carmen's for the night.” He put his hand on the back stairs rail.

Dakota tossed his apple core in the trash can. “I'll come with you.”

The atmosphere in the second-floor hallway seemed as murky as the light filtering in through the windows of the few rooms with open doors. Rick pushed the door to Cody's room wide without allowing himself to indulge the goose bumps rising on his arms.

The closet door stood wide open. Rick saw the closed panel, with the holes where the nails had been, but he ignored it, taking Cody's jacket and the Halloween costume Carmen had helped him make from the hangers. He laid the clothes on his son's bed, then closed the door, using Cody's wooden desk chair to secure the knob.

Across the room, Dakota had hurriedly changed into jeans and a clean shirt, and was now gathering his things and stuffing them in his suitcase. Rick opened Cody's drawers, took underwear, socks, pants, a shirt, and a sweater out, then took the boy's backpack and folded the items and placed them inside it. The costume went on top. A red cape and shorts and blue leotard with a big red
S
sewn on. Rick approved, half wishing he had one just like it.

“Ready?” he asked Dakota.

“Ready.”

He went to Shelly's room and repeated the process, then looked around, curious to see if anything had been disturbed. Nothing had. The chair still blocked the closet door, the bed with the spray of bloodstains and the minuscule piece of dried flesh hadn't been touched.

Maybe he's gone,
Rick thought.
Maybe it never happened.
His confidence declined the tiniest bit. “Let's get my stuff,” he said, heading out the door. Dakota followed quickly.

It was the same here. He extracted the coat for Dakota and another for himself and threw them on the bed. Barely glancing at the closet cabinet in the dressing room, he swiftly changed into fresh clothes, jeans, and a flannel shirt. “Almost done,” he called to Dakota, who stood peering out the window onto the orchard below.

A moment later, he'd gathered his toiletries and a brown cable-knit sweater.

Dakota looked at him. “Can we go now?”

“One more stop. I want my laptop. Come on.”

The study door was closed, and as he opened it, Rick was surprised to see that the little computer was open and turned on. He had left it plugged in to recharge, he remembered, but as he stared at the starburst screen-saver pattern on the screen, he was fairly sure he hadn't forgotten to turn it off yesterday—or was it the day before? He never forgot.
But the last couple days haven't exactly been normal. You could've forgotten.

“What's wrong?” Dakota asked from behind.

“Nothing,” Rick replied, handing his belongings to O'Keefe. Slowly he walked across the room to the desk. “I just don't remember leaving this on.”

If Dakota hadn't been waiting for him, he would have pulled the desk chair out and sat down to check the contents of his article files. As it was, he leaned across the massive desk chair and touched one key, just so that he could make sure everything looked okay on the screen.

The screen bloomed in the dim light, but the desktop didn't appear. Only two white words broke the sea of blue:

He touched my computer. He's probably read my files.
“You little fucker. You son of a bitch.” He nearly laughed as he realized his outrage had restored his confidence.

“Shit, Piper,” Dakota breathed behind him. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

“I'm surprised he figured out how to get into the system.” Rick leaned farther over the back of the chair and pushed the page down button. Nothing else was on the screen, just the file's end mark. “He's probably never had access to a computer.”

“He's here alone with Jade most of the time. He has access to television, magazines, all of that. He could figure it out.”

Rick nodded as he scrolled up the screen. “Shit. He
did
get into my files.” The words had been written below last week's column. “The little shit.” He turned to face O'Keefe. “Maybe he learned how to use this by watching me. He liked to sit in the dressing room and watch our parents make love. He'd be two feet from them, and they didn't know. He could go anywhere, and nobody ever heard him or saw him. Unless he wanted them to. He'd just watch, with this horrible grin plastered across his face.” Involuntarily he shivered. “Let me unplug this and we'll leave.”
For now,
he added silently.

Rick shut down the computer and pulled the jack from the back. He needed the power pack, too, which was a pain because he had to climb under the desk and reach up behind it to get to the electrical outlet and unplug it. “Shit,” he said again, and pulled the chair away from the desk. “This will take a couple minutes.”

He could see Dakota's foot tapping impatiently as he got down on his hands and knees. The massive desk was as deep as it was wide, and as he crawled beneath, his body blocked the light. Wishing he'd remembered the flashlight, he began to feel along the cord, intending to follow it to the outlet.

“What the hell?” he muttered as his fingers hit something cold and hard. Feeling along the floor, he realized it was a curved metal object and that the cord lifted off the floor to feed into it. What the hell was it?

“What's taking you so long?” Dakota asked nervously.

“There's something funny down here.”

“Swell, just swell. For Christ's sake, be careful, Piper!” Dakota ordered. “He was fucking with your computer. You might get electrocuted or something! You've got the adapter, just get the fuck out of there! You can get another cord at the store.”

“You're right.” He grasped the cord just where it fed into the metal, thinking that if he couldn't pull it out of the wall socket from here, he'd do exactly what Dakota said. He yanked the cord.

Metal crashed against metal, so close that the wind of its passing blew into his face. He heard himself scream, felt his skull crash painlessly against the underside of the desk as he scrabbled, frantic to get out of the dark hole. Dakota was yelling something behind him, then suddenly his ankles were grabbed out from under him. He flopped onto his belly as O'Keefe dragged him out from under the desk.

“Rick! Are you okay?” Dakota cried.

“Yeah.” He still held the cord, and now he saw the metal object he pulled along with it. “Holy Christ!”

It was a bear trap. A big rusty bear trap.

“My God,” Dakota whispered as he saw the trap.
“Now
we call the cops.”

Rick sat up, rubbing the back of his head as pain started to set in. “No,” he said, pulling the trap forward.

“Why the fuck not?” Dakota demanded.

“It belonged to Conlin Piper.” The excuse came easily since it held some truth. “It's an heirloom, and I'm not going to let the police take it as evidence. According to family history, he was fond of hunting bear in Holcomb Valley.” He pointed to an area of bare wall to the left. “When I was little, there was a bearskin hanging right there. Supposedly it was Conlin's catch, but personally, I think he bought it.”

“Piper, why in hell are you talking about frigging bearskins?” Dakota exploded suddenly. “You were almost killed just now, and you're acting like nothing happened!”

He didn't know why he was so calm, so instead of answering, Rick found the catch on the trap and released it, opening the jaws just enough to allow him to pull the cord free. “This thing could use a squirt of WD-40,” he told Dakota, letting the jaws close again. The teeth had a quarter-inch gap between them, and he realized that if he'd put his arm in it, as had been intended, it wouldn't have been severed—quite. An unexpected giggle escaped his lips, heralding an impending case of hysterics. He pinched the back of his hand, twisting the skin between his thumb and forefinger until tears sprang to his eyes and the laughter receded.