Charnel House (35 page)

Bobby closed the drawer and went out the door into the garage, where his bike waited.

Bobby brought his bike to a stop on the gravel shoulder just before he got to the railroad crossing. He had followed the same path the station wagon took on the way to his cousin’s house Saturday morning, and was now at the set of tracks they had gone over a lifetime ago, making sure their feet were raised against bad luck. The guard arms were down and the lights flashing. A discordant bell clanged, warning anyone within earshot. Bobby heard the thrum of the approaching train, felt the rumble through the soles of his shoes.

He was a little surprised he had made it this far without problems, actually. From the stories he heard about truant officers and kids skipping school, he thought for sure he would have been stopped before he even made it out of the populous part of Decatur, much less across the causeway where the traffic was heavy and fast. A kid on a bike riding through town on a school day was a prime target for not only truant officers but policemen, yet he had made it this far without incident. Maybe God was helping him out because he was going to fight the devil.

Or maybe the good luck I missed out on Saturday is with me today.

He worried about his mother, about the way he had slipped away without telling her anything. Did she think he had run away from home because of the gun? He hoped not. When this was over he would tell her—tell both of his parents—everything, and hope that he didn’t end up locked in a room where the walls had protective padding, gibbering about monsters and hobos.

The train blasted its airhorn, the sound nearly deafening without the protection of rolled-up car windows he was used to, and he clapped his hands over his ears. The engine thundered by in a rush of hot wind heavy with the smell of creosote, hurling bits of slag and grit that pelted him like stinging sleet. Watching railcar after railcar pass by, Bobby realized that this track must be the same one he had walked along with Tanner and Joey on Saturday. Tanner’s neighborhood wasn’t more than a couple of miles from here, and hadn’t they walked back this way when they were going to Crossen’s? He thought they had. How many railroads left Decatur coming this way, after all?

When the train had passed he leaned his bike against the guard post and stepped onto the tracks. At his back, traffic thumped over the crossing as things got going again. The train receded in the distance, rocking back and forth like it wanted to tip to either side. It went around a curve and vanished, though he could still hear it—and the curve was in the direction of Tanner’s neighborhood. This had to be the same one, and if he followed it from here he could shave miles off his trip. The more energy he had to fight Norman, the better. More importantly, if he was on the tracks he couldn’t be seen by a cop, or a truant officer, or his parents, who might well be out looking for him by now, he realized with a pang of guilt.

Bobby fetched his bike and climbed on it once he had positioned it between the two rails. The gravel and slag were deep there, almost level with the tops of the railroad ties, and he thought he’d be able to ride if he took it slowly. It would be bumpy and require concentration to keep from falling, but faster than walking. Hopefully he would be off the track on the highway where Crossen’s and the road to the Barlowe house were before another train came.

Several minutes later he recognized where he was. The ground to either side had dropped a little, and he now rode on a plateau atop a raised railbed, seven or eight feet above it. To his right, he saw the sparkle of faraway water through the trees, and when he had gone a little further the line curved and he saw Hickory Hill rising like a boil in the distance.

Coming for you, Norman.

He continued without incident until he reached the crossing where they’d left the tracks on Saturday. Very close now. His stomach rumbled hungrily and his mouth was dry from the long ride. A drink and candy bar would hit the spot right about now, and the energy from the sugar could only help him, not only getting up the hill but when it came time to face the monster.

When he pushed through the door to the store, the gaggle of old men in their cane chairs paused their conversation, looking to see who had come in. Bobby smiled and headed for the cooler where the soft drinks were. He returned with a cold bottle of Coke and found Mr. Crossen waiting at the counter with his arms crossed over his ample belly.

“School out today?”

“No sir,” Bobby said. “I was just—”

He fell silent, unsure of what to say. Part of him wished he were more like his cousin, who could surely come up with a good lie at a moment’s notice without batting an eye.

“Shit, Milt, leave the kid alone,” one of the old men gathered around the potbelly stove said. He held up a newspaper and Bobby felt a weird sense of dissociation when he saw his own tired face smiling wanly back at him from the front page. In the background of the picture, the faux-Disney facade of the dark ride at the carnival was a recognizable blur.
BOY STOPS CHILD PREDATOR
screamed off the paper in thick black letters. “Don’t you recognize him?”

“Watch your mouth, Hink,” Mr. Crossen said, matter-of-factly. He pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted across the space between them. “What are you going on about?”

“That kid’s a hero. Killed a pervert yesterday. Cut him some slack.”

“This is that kid?” Mr. Crossen looked down at Bobby with a mix of surprise and respect, his bushy gray eyebrows smoothing as a smile broadened his mouth. “Good for you, son. What’s your name?”

“Bobby Frank.”

“Milt Crossen.” Mr. Crossen extended his hand over the counter and Bobby shook it cautiously, unsure of what was going on. “Tell you what, Bobby. That drink is on me today. Want a couple of Slim Jims and some candy to go with it?”

“Yes, sir, that would be awesome.”

Mr. Crossen plucked a pair of Slim Jims from the box by the register and handed them over, then stepped over and opened the back of the candy display cabinet. “Just name it.”

“Marathon, please.” His head was reeling, and for a moment he wondered if he was dreaming.

“Listen to me, son,” Mr. Crossen said, holding out the candy bar. “No matter what anyone may tell you, you did a good thing.”

“Damn right!” Hink cried from behind Bobby.

“Mouth, Hink.”

Bobby ate his make-do breakfast sitting on the concrete ledge that supported the footers of the bridge where Tanner told him the story of Jeremiah Barlowe, looking out over the murky waters of the wildlife refuge. The sun was warm on his head and there was no danger of being spotted by anyone down here, and for a few minutes he was almost able to forget about where he was going.

The sagging house waited for him like an old friend in the late morning sun. Bobby lowered his bike to the weedy ground at the top of the driveway, his nervous eyes on the black opening under the front porch. Pushing his bike up the hill—he had very quickly determined that pedaling wasn’t going to be an option on the long climb—had taken more out of him than he had expected, and he was glad he’d stopped for food and a rest break.
Otherwise, I’d be panting as loud as Tanner was and Norman would have heard me at the bottom of the driveway.
He felt like he’d been gone for hours and hours, but when he looked at his wrist to see he realized he had forgotten to put his watch on in his haste to sneak out of the house. Not that knowing the time was all that important where he was going. The house certainly didn’t care about it.

Birds chirped all around him, and he heard the rustle of small animals in the dead leaves that carpeted the floor of the woods surrounding the yard. Slowly, trying to be as quiet as he could, he approached the Barlowe house with a certain trepidation. As it had on Saturday, the building didn’t look scary at all in the light of day... but this time he knew better. He pushed through the privet, wincing every time a branch snapped or leaf crackled underfoot. At the front porch he pulled the paring knife out of his pocket and gripped it tightly. Looking down at it, it occurred to him that the handle was the same ugly shade of green as the linoleum in the Barlowe house kitchen, which was right above the nest where Norman slept on his dirty mattress.

And fittingly, he thought, right above where Norman would die. The thought pleased him.

Bobby dropped to his knees and crawled under the porch, fear making his stomach flutter like a flag in a stiff breeze. His bowels had gone loose and watery again, and he felt the sudden urge to go to the bathroom. He paused and pictured Amy in his head from the moment when they were paused at the top of the Ferris Wheel, the way her head rested on his shoulder, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. When he thought about her that way, he could almost smell the faint strawberry scent of her shampoo, and feel the warmth from her body against his own.

His jangling nerves calmed a little and he went through the opening to the crawlspace.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they did he saw Norman on the far side of the sagging beam, close to his nest. The hobo’s back was to him, and he hunched over something. There was flickery light over that way, like he had the candle in his Coke bottle burning. His arms were moving, but Bobby couldn’t tell what he was doing. He crept a little closer, trying to see.

Norman stopped for a moment and leaned to one side. T
he weak light revealed what lay on the other side of the hobo and Bobby felt a sledgehammer crash down on his chest. Amy sprawled across the ratty mattress in front of the hobo on her back, naked. Wadded clothes lay scattered all around her. Her legs had been roughly forced apart, and bright red blood painted her thighs and belly. She stared at the joists above her without seeing them. Dimly, he thought he heard Norman retching, like he had finally done something so terrible it even made
him
sick. Bobby felt something inside him tear itself apart, and he collapsed in the dust.
Too late
. His stomach clenched and his bowels let go in a hot rush he barely felt.

How had he gotten to her?

“Christ, kid,” the hobo mocked, but his voice sounded weak. “You stink.”

Get up
, Bobby’s mind whispered.
Kill him.

But he couldn’t move. Amy was dead, and it was his fault. If he hadn’t waved the gun and mouthed
soon
back at Norman—full of pride, just like Joey Garraty—she might still be alive, going through her day at school with nothing amiss. Maybe even thinking about him from time to time. To make things even worse, now he didn’t even have the gun. Why even bother trying?

“Come on over here,
Bobby
,” Norman said. There was glee in his voice. “I’ve got something to show you. I think you’re gonna want to see it.”

An image rose in Bobby’s mind, unbidden, of Norman tugging the blistered black thing out of his pants and using it to do something beyond terrible to Amy. To her
corpse
. He bit back a moan and pushed himself to his hands and knees. Whatever happened, the hobo touching her with
that
thing wasn’t going to be one of them.

Norman chuckled wetly. Suggestively.

Bobby crawled toward the sagging beam, the fear beginning to ebb. It left behind a pure clean anger. A
righteous
anger.
Whatever happened, happened. He was going to stop Norman or die trying.
Vengeance belongs to God
, Brother Peavey always said, but right now Bobby didn’t really care what God thought. God wasn’t under here with him, no matter what the Bible said. His grip on the knife tightened.

And it felt
good
in his hand.
Right.

He ducked under the sagging beam.
Not far now.
He could see Amy’s feet, poking obscenely out to either side of the hobo where he hunkered between her legs. Then Norman raised himself and turned, and Bobby had an instant to realize he held a flashlight instead of his Coke bottle and candle. The light played across him, catching the blade of his knife and throwing spots of light up on the floor overhead.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away from me,” Norman said, leering at Bobby over the beam. His yellow eyes gleamed in the backwash, and even from ten feet away Bobby heard the somnolent hum of the flies swarming in his open sinuses. Smelled the fresh blood, which made him think of pennies found in a parking lot. Fury descended over him in a scarlet wave and he charged the hobo, the knife in his hand rising without conscious effort on his part.

Norman tried to skitter away, just like he had the last time they were in the crawlspace, but Bobby lunged forward and brought the knife down into his chest. It buried itself to the handle, sending a thrill of glee through him. The hobo squealed and fell onto his back. When Bobby yanked the knife out, he heard the bubble of breath wheezing through the hole.
Hurt him. Good.
He brought the knife down again but Norman threw up his arm and the knife parted the back of it like a roast.

“What did you do to Amy?” Bobby cried, ramming the knife into the hobo’s exposed throat with every bit of strength he had. Norman coughed up a spray of scarlet mist and backpedaled away from him, but his feet were slow and uncoordinated. Weak.

Die, you bastard,
Bobby thought, and darted forward to plunge the knife into Norman’s thigh. Gouts of blood soaked the dirt. The hobo bleated and wriggled toward the back corner, where the thing that had come out of him went the day before. He left a crimson trail behind.
Damned if you’re getting away again. Your time is over.

Bobby charged forward, expecting the pallid thing to begin tearing itself out of the Norman-husk, but the hobo continued to scrape himself across the ground toward the corner. Bobby had no problem catching up to him. Thinking:
Even when I kill him, Amy will still be dead.
Nothing could change that, or bring her back. The hobo had already had her up here when he appeared in the mirror—the panties had been real and not just one of his mental games—and all he was doing was goading Bobby into acting right away so he could feed on the fresh anguish.

Even though he was about to die, he had already won.

“You ruined me,” Bobby said, and Norman’s sore-covered lips peeled away from his blackened teeth in a final defiant grin.

Bobby brought the knife down one last time and drove it into Norman’s chest. As the hobo’s muscles relaxed and the grin dropped from his grizzled face, Bobby sank to the earth and began to cry.