Fiends (25 page)

24

"I don't want to go home yet," Boyce said. "Not till we locate Duane. I'm kind of responsible for him, because he's on probation and all."

Boyce and Rita Sue were on the porch of the log building that served as park headquarters. Ted Lufford and Enid Waller had arrived at Dante's Mill ten minutes ago, ahead of the deputies from the Wingo County Sheriffs Department. Low-key, no flashing lights to disturb the tucked-in campers. They had a photo of Marjory which Enid kept in her wallet.

Rita Sue said, "I am so uncomfortable from this sunburn, Boyce."

Enid said in a low voice, "I'm not believing you, Rita Sue. Marjory's missing and you want to go home! You two were the last ones to see her."

Rita Sue squirmed a little. "If you ask me—"

"What, Rita Sue?"

"She's not
missing.
I mean, they're probably somewhere, together. You know."

Enid looked as if she wanted to slap her face. "There's something strange has been going on here, from what you all told us. You've got to stay and help us look for them."

"We have to stay," Boyce said emphatically to Rita Sue, who backed off without another word and sat heavily in a rocker on the porch, hands clenched nervously in her lap. She looked both sullen and guilty about something. Enid didn't bother with her; she'd always more or less disliked Rita Sue anyway.

"Ted!"

The Wingo deputies left the porch and Ted came over.

"They're gonna ask around here, show some people Marjory's picture—"

"Isn't that a big waste of time?"

"Okay, now listen, Nuggins, the four of us'll drive down to the mill where they saw her this afternoon. Maybe they're just holed up because of all the rain."

"What about the waterfall?"

"That's what I'm gonna do next, have a look behind there."

"Oh. Oh!"

"Come on, now, let's don't be expecting the worst."

"I thought they were going to bring dogs!"

"Well, Wingo's bloodhounds was off on a prisoner chase the last couple of days and they're not too fresh. It ain't for certain we need them yet anyhow."

Ted took her by the elbow and guided her to the steps, Boyce limping along behind. Rita Sue got up from the rocker with an elaborate sigh and patted her hair.

"I'm going to be skinned alive if I'm not home by eleven-thirty."

"Rita Sue, hush," Boyce said.

"Your car's more comfortable for the four of us," Ted said to Rita Sue. "Just let me get a couple things out of my Torino."

"Is that Marjory's radio?" Enid said when they got into the Ford Fairlane. "She left her purse, too? What's all this other stuff?"

"Oh, that's Duane's. I don't know what all's there, he collects butterflies. Boyce, put that junk in the trunk so we have a place to sit. Is that top leaking again?"

"Looks like."

"Shit," Rita Sue said under her breath. "I'm getting tired of this old car already. I
told
daddy I wanted a Trans-Am."

Boyce drove and Ted sat in the front seat, flashlight out the window in the steady light rain, the powerful beam raking the woods on his side of the road. Boyce drove slowly and operated the side-mounted spotlight. Enid sat in the backseat with Rita Sue and shivered silently.

"Oh," Rita Sue said quietly, "I honestly don't think there's anything to be scared about, Enid."

Down the road a hiker appeared in the headlights. Floppy-brim black hat, a blanket or poncho draped to the knees. Too far away to tell if it was a man or woman. After a couple of seconds' hesitation, the hiker took off at an angle into the woods.

Ted was out of the car waving his flashlight. "Hey! I want to talk to you!"

The hiker didn't stop or even hesitate, and Ted followed on the run, crashing through underbrush with considerable momentum, lighting up a wide patch of the woods in front of him, keeping the hiker in view. The hiker was less mobile in the thick understory. The hat went first and Ted saw that he was chasing a woman. Then she got hung up in a tangle of epiphytic vine and floundered, plastering him with gutter language as he caught up. She had a knife in one hand. Her teeth were bared. Nearly blinded by his light, she stabbed ferociously at the air.

"Cut you! Get away!" '

"No, hey, take it easy, what's the matter with you? I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a deputy sheriff. I just want to ask a couple of questions."

Smidge sagged helplessly in the webbing of vine that had caught on her backpack, ensnared one arm, and tangled her hair.

"You better not be . . . lying! Not be . . . one of them!"

Her face was muddy. Her pupils, he noticed, were large, and slow to react to the bright flash beam. He whisked it far enough away to examine her by sidelight. She was convincingly terrified, not just putting on an act for him.

"You'll be okay. Who you running from, puddin'?"

"Johnny Law?" she asked.

"I'm not lying. Look here at this." Ted held up his shield and flashed the light on it.

"Take off your cap!" she demanded.

Ted hesitated, then lifted the black baseball-style cap with "deputy" inscribed on it in yellow block letters.

Smidge stared, then nodded, her panic ebbing like the tide leaving a beach. "You've got hair. Okay—can you help me get loose, I'm hung up like a bastard."

"Ditch the knife first, sweetness."

"Sure. Here, you take it."

Smidge reversed the blade and handed it to him carefully. Ted tested one edge of the blade with the ball of his thumb. Plenty sharp. Boyce was calling from the road.

"Okay!" Ted yelled back. "Stay there." He used Smidge's knife to cut her loose. She went slowly to her knees, leaving a lot of hair behind on a sticker vine.

"Better hurry," she mumbled.

"Want to tell me your name?"

"Smidge."

"I'm Ted."

"I saw—them do it. One of them anyway. Got Wiley. He's dead for sure."

"Who's Wiley? Who got him?"

"Friend of mine. I don't know—they must be some kind of demonic cult. Human sacrifice."

"You stoned, Smidge?"

"No! I had couple of reds, that's all, I was—look, there's another guy, Deke, he stayed with the woody so maybe they didn't get to him yet! Please! You should've seen Wiley! She blinded him, and she—I don't know, like his skin was all hanging off, God. God!"

Ted put the flashlight under his arm and lifted her to her feet with one hand. "Okay, come on, show me."

"What? Are you
crazy?
I'm not going back there ever! They must be all over the fucking place."

"You're gonna show me, Smidge. You don't have anything to be scared of." With his free hand Ted reached inside his poncho and took his .38 Special from the holster on his belt. She was cold to his touch, Ted noticed. So cold, even after the exercise, that her teeth should have been chattering hard enough to chip them. But he had a lot on his mind and didn't make anything of it. "Let's walk."

Smidge ran a hand distractedly over her head and more hair fell away. "I don't think so. If you want my honest opinion, I don't think you can handle them. You don't know what I
saw.
Why don't you just leave me out of this."

"Smidge—what kind of name is that, nickname?—I'm not letting you out of my sight, sugarbun, so you better cooperate, or I'll cuff you."

"Shit," she cried bitterly.
"Shit.
I can't
remember
the last time I had any luck."

"Lucky if you don't get pneumonia, you're soaked through and cold as a witch's tit." She was also extremely pale, a pallor beyond tired blood.

"I'm not cold! I don't feel anything, fust the back of my neck's a little numb. That damn kid—" She looked around at Ted warily, as if she didn't trust him to believe anything else she might have to say, and folded a bloodless underlip between her teeth. Ted signaled the way with his flashlight. Smidge made adjustments to her backpack and trudged ahead of him to the road.

"Let me have that backpack, and you get in the front seat," Ted told Smidge when they reached the Ford.

"What happened?" Boyce asked.

"We need to drive back to the campground. Smidge here seems to have a problem that needs checking into."

From the backseat Enid wailed, "I thought we were going to look for Marjory!"

Smidge turned and squinted to make her out. "Who did you say?"

"My sister, we're looking for my sister! Her name is Marjory Waller."

"Tall and sort of hefty? Blond kid?"

"That's her," Ted said.

"I know where she is. She was there too, with me. She saw it, what they did to Wiley."

Enid was out of the car in a moment.
"Where's Marjory?"

"Look, I think she's okay. I left her in the barn in that quaintsy town back there. Told her to stay put while—"

"Ted!"

"We'll get over there in a minute, I need to talk to the Wingo—"

"No! I want to go now!"

"Enid, you have to let me handle this and do just what I tell you. Get back in the car."

"No! What's going on? Why don't you want to tell me? Is she hurt?"

"I think she's okay," Smidge said, in a tone of voice that left room for doubt. Enid's jaw dropped. "She was like, in shock. I guess I was, too. We just ran like hell when—"

Without a word Enid began to run down the road toward Dante's Mill.

"Enid!"

"Hey," Smidge said to Ted, "I don't think she ought to go by herself."

"Get in the car!" Ted snarled. "Boyce, you get out. I'm driving.
Enid, goddammit, would you wait for me?"

When Boyce was out from behind the wheel Ted thrust the flashlight into his hand and said, "Boyce, I know you've got problems with that sore foot, but do you think you can make it back to the campground and tell those Wingo deputies I want them over at the village right now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go." Ted climbed into the Ford. On the other side Smidge was a little slow getting settled. Ted reached out and yanked her into the seat, changed gears and took off in a splashy sideways slide after Enid, who was still visible in the headlights. They caught up quickly but Enid wouldn't yield the road or look back as Ted honked the horn. Ted hung out the window.

"Enid, come on, Enid, we'll be there in two minutes!"

She stopped then, out of breath; Ted leaped out and grabbed her. Enid just stared at him, rain dripping down her face, hair matted on her cheeks.

"Ted . . . Ted . . . Ted!"

Rita Sue had opened the door on her side and Ted put Enid in the backseat. Enid's hands moved distractedly, she gasped, she tried to talk.

"I knew. I knew. Something b-b-bad—"

"You don't know anything yet," Smidge said grimly. "Just wait."

"That's enough," Ted told her, and drove straight to the barn at the far end of Dante's Mill. The doors were still open. He parked with the front end of the Fairlane inside and the headlights on high beam.

"Marjory!"

"Over there," Smidge said, pointing out the stalls opposite the smithy. "That's where I left her."

Enid got out of the car slowly as Ted tore through each of the stalls.

They were all calling Marjory as he emerged from the sixth stall, shaking his head in frustration. He had a damp horse blanket in his hands.

"You mean she's not in there?" Smidge said apprehensively, looking up at the loft. "Uh-oh."

Enid ran to the doors at the far end of the barn and wrestled with the crossbar, groaning and sobbing.

Ted started up the ladder to the loft. Smidge drifted that way, then saw something flutter from a nail, disturbed by the momentum of his climb. She picked it loose from the nail.

"I remember
you,"
Rita Sue said, crossing through the wash of the headlights to Smidge. "You were down by the mill this afternoon, looking for somebody—God, what
is
that?"

"Never mind," Smidge said, turning away, balling her find in her fist. She looked back over a shoulder at Rita Sue, face heavily shadowed, eyes glittering. "I remember you, too." She smiled, a mildly flirtatious smile. "Small world. Or maybe it was just meant to be, huh?"

Enid pushed one of the doors open and screamed Marjory's name. Ted was walking around cautiously in the loft. Some chaff drifted down through the light. Rita Sue shuddered slightly, looking at the fist Smidge had made. There was a little smear of blood on the base knuckle of her thumb.

"What have you got there?" Rita Sue said. "Is it something of Marjory's?"

"Listen, it's none of—it's
nothing,
so back off."

Ted was coming back down the ladder. Enid was out in the rain again, calling, calling.

Rita Sue took a deep breath. "Ted, this girl's got something in her hand I think belongs to Marjory."

Smidge started to run and Ted caught her. He held her wrist in a monkey-wrench grip and squeezed. Smidge ranted and spat. Her fingers uncurled slowly. In her palm was a golfball-size wad of tissue and blood.

"What the hell is
that?"

"Ssskinnn!" the girl hissed. "I found it, and I'm keeping it."

"Oh, Lord," Rita Sue moaned. "Oh, Lord! What kind of skin?"

Smidge's expression changed then, a flash of uncertainty and bewilderment canceling all savagery. Looking into her eyes was like watching a squirrel go from tree to tree. She glanced at the shiny viscous wad of human tissue. Then with her free hand she plucked it from her palm and hurled it wildly across the barn.

"Let me go! I can't stay here! Something terrible is
happening
to me!"

Smidge's hair was hanging in her face. When she tried to thrust it back behind an ear some of the hair, a shaggy thick handful, came loose from her scalp and fell to the barn floor.

25

Duane dozed and dreamed of the midnight corridors of the Williamson County jail, where he'd been held with the other boys following their one-night fling at car stealing. dnly this time he was alone: Orby Upshaw, Robert Joe Poston, and Style Nichols had vanished. He was not dreaming in color right now. His dream-purview was of shadows, bars, and concrete with the rough texture of stone. A light flashed here and there in his dream, poking around, and he heard sounds: wailing, gurgling. The lidless toilet in a corner of his cell was like a fat porcelain toadstool. Most of the scary gurgling came from there. The water level was rising, soon it would overflow. He knew, as one knows things in dreams, that it would come in a gush and fill up his cell like an aquarium; he would drown, although one wall of the cell was nothing but bars. The barred door wasn't even closed. But if he went out there, into the corridor-

Better to climb to the top bunk in the cell, out of reach of the coming flood. His stepmother Nannie Dell was lying there naked. That was reasonable, and desirable. He'd glimpsed her naked once, flushed and sweaty, exhausted from childbirth. The slack, emptied belly the size of her purple-veined breasts was astonishing. But, no, that wasn't allowed. His father would punish him severely if Duane saw Nannie Dell naked again. What was he supposed to do with the baby, though? That was the way things happened in dreams—suddenly he was holding Nannie Dell's baby. The baby was crying pathetically. The trouble was, it was black. If he showed a black baby to Nannie Dell—Duane felt like crying, too. All the guilt was his. He had stolen a baby, not a Cadillac. That was why he was in jail.

No . . . it was a courtroom. A long way off the judge was sitting in black robes, rapping judiciously with his wooden gavel. Peals of thunder. Duane couldn't make him out very well. He spoke loudly, in a language Duane had never heard before. Marjory sat on one of the benches for spectators, trying to clean something that had stained her shirt. It might have been a big luna moth. He recognized the colors, so he was dreaming in color again.
"What did you do with the carbon tet?"
she asked, as if she were mad at him.
"It's the only thing that gets them off."
He looked from Marjory to Puff, who was somewhere else in the courtroom draped in rattly shark's teeth and nothing else. The shape of her ass got Duane with an incredible erection. It was so embarrassing. Nannie Dell, wearing her church straw hat with the periwinkle band and sleeveless aqua blue dress he liked so much, smiled at Duane from her pew as if she hadn't noticed his excitation. The organist played a familiar hymn, but the congregation sang in that same perplexing foreign tongue. The altar was decorated with a profusion of green vines that writhed unpleasantly when he noticed them. He tried not to take notice of the coffin in front of the altar with his father lying faceup on the pearl-gray satin, a twist of dried vine around his neck.

"Just bend over," Nannie Dell said behind him. Her fingers were on the nape of his neck. Her touch felt wonderful. But he couldn't look at his father's choked face, that awful blackness. "Don't be afraid. He won't hurt you. We are love, not death. Untie the vine, and you'll find out." The organ was thundering. The choir sang hosannas. Nannie Dell wasn't tickling the back of his neck any more. She was scratching it, like a cat, with needle cat claws. This was mildly hurtful, and mournfully exciting. The sun coming through the middle chancel window was full in his face, its heat and power as much of an aphrodisiac as the cat-scratches on the back of his neck. Unable to control himself, he turned around to thrust his penis thankfully into Nannie Dell, but she wasn't there. Nothing was there but the blackness and cold of a cave. He came anyway, groaning fiercely with the effort, sobbing as the spasms ended. The heat in his balls a vivid contrast to the icy palm on the back of his neck.

"There," Puff said in the dark, "feel better?"

Tears flowed down his cheeks. He couldn't speak.

"Hell of a time for a wet dream," she said. The flashlight flicked on. "I unzipped your pants for you. I guess I could've helped you out, but it's funny, you know? You just don't want to any more, Duane. It was
all
I wanted to do, most of the time, but now I don't feel a thing down there. The only thing I want to do is—"

Duane got awkwardly to his feet and tucked himself in. Awake, he was shivering, his teeth chattering.

"We—we've g-got to f-find a way out of h-here."

"Oh, we don't want to do that yet. There's something else we have to do first."

Puff got up behind him, shark's teeth rattling on her breast.

"W-what?"

"We need to go back where the people are."

"P-people? You m-mean those f-f-fucking m-m-mum—"

"Don't say that, Duane! They're my people. My family. But I can't help them, the way they are. It's too late. I need you to let them go."

He backed away, from the sound of her voice, from the pool of light burning on the rocky floor between them.

"S-s-saying? C-crazy, Puff?"

"Fuck no. I'm not crazy. Do I
look
crazy?" She laughed softly. The flashlight in her hand turned, the beam crossing her smudged bare feet, narrow and so full of bones, the big toes bulging and callused and ugly as fat uncles, moving up her flat prominent shinbones past knees like wrinkled faces without eyes to the smooth strength of thighs and tuck of narrow waist, the humanness of shaved pudenda, navel, thick glossy appendectomy scar, to breasts flattened by a buckler of overlapping shark's teeth. He held his breath, because everywhere, except for the hard walnut-colored burls of her nipples, she was as white and glistening as if modeled in wax, whiter than the array of teeth hung around her neck. And something else: the teeth moved slightly with the movement of her arm as she bathed herself in light, but not from the movement of her breast. Because Puff wasn't breathing, and she let him dwell on the fact that she wasn't, the light centered on her torso and illuminating her throat, the faintly pudgy underside of her chin, the longbow curve of jawline to the lobes of ears slightly akilter on the ivory, almost hairless skull. Puff had a few strands of hair left, dangling to her shoulders. She didn't look sick; her skin was taut, the flesh firm. Obviously she wasn't dead. As he gaped in astonishment and terror, she raised her left hand to rub across shut lids, and what remained of her eyebrows and lashes drifted down across her face.

"I don't need to breathe any more," Puff said. "I don't need food, or water. I don't need any of the things you need, Duane. But as long as you need them, I guess you'd better do what I say."