The Hungry Dead (22 page)

Luke was standing over the body of a boy. There was a lot of blood. The steel jaws of the trap had nearly severed the boy's leg, and Luke had apparently split his skull open with Cyrus' shovel.

“Is he . . . is he
dead?
” Abraham managed to gasp out.

Luke was still breathing hard. “Don't know.” He took a rapid series of deep breaths. “No. I guess not. Look! He's still breathing!”

Luke raised the shovel over his head to hit the boy one more time.

“Wait! That's Jimmy Peterson!” Cynthia said.

They all came around to look at the boy's face, trying to see his features through the smeary mask of fresh blood. Jimmy Peterson was the son of the man who operated the country store, several miles up the road. The Barnes family didn't have any love for the Petersons; both father and son, and even Jimmy's little sister, liked to poke fun at Cyrus whenever they saw him, calling him “dum-dum” or “weirdo.” Luke had fought with Jimmy once, and Jimmy had won by giving Luke a bloody nose.

“It's him, all right,” Abraham said.

Cyrus nodded his head, his eyes wide.

“Wonder how long he's been caught,” Abraham mused.

“But it ain't
really
him, is it?” Luke said.

“Don't make no difference anymore,” Abraham intoned in a near-whisper. “He done stopped breathin'.”

They all looked and saw that the boy was dead.

“We all know that it's not really him,” Cynthia said with assuredness. “And now that he's not alive anymore, he doesn't even look like Jimmy.”

“True,” Abraham agreed.

“He must have been sent to us like the others.”

So they dug a grave and buried him, like any of the animals they had caught before—except instead of using the cemetery on their property, they dug a hole in the woods—and Cynthia recited incantations over his grave. His remains were buried deep and out of sight forever, except for a bottle of blood which Cynthia needed, and one of his front teeth—a dead man's tooth—which, according to a passage in a medieval grimoire she had read, was absolutely indispensable to the working of certain powerful spells. In fact, in one of his diaries Grandpa Barnes had written that no magic at all could be entirely dependable without the vital ingredient of a dead man's tooth.

When the children got back to the house for lunch, they told Mama what they had done. Luke started it by saying, “We caught something big today. And we took care of it, like you said.”

 

A few weeks later, the second demon in the guise of a human was caught in a trap out in the same field. This one looked like Jimmy Peterson's sister. For a while it almost tricked them into not killing it. But Mama was behind them this time, and she wasn't fooled—she broke the demon's spell.

“Hit it!” she yelled. “I
told
you, they can take any form they want to!
Hit
it, Luke! Don't let it get the upper hand on you!”

The demon screamed and screamed, till Luke's shovel blade smacked into its face and skull. It fell down, and Abraham and Luke both kept beating it for a long time.

When it was dead, it didn't look like Jimmy Peterson's little sister anymore.

Copying Luke and Abraham, Cyrus took up the shovel and hit it, too.

“You did real good,” said Mama. “Now Cyrus can make a coffin and we'll have a funeral.”

When the thing was buried, Cynthia said the prayer over its grave: “Almighty Tetragrammaton, we ask thee to help us in the destruction of our enemies, as thou has done today. We pledge ourselves to thee, and will continue to be thy faithful servants. Whomsoever thou send to us, we shall destroy, knowing it is thy will. Amen.”

Nancy was afraid of the boys who had picked her up in their van. They both seemed a little wild. Or maybe they were just trying to impress her. They said they were fraternity brothers from some college in Massachusetts—and they were going to Fort Lauderdale for Easter. Thousands of kids would be swarming on the beaches, “having a ball”—according to Tom Riley and Hank Bennet. Tom, the driver, was sort of good looking, with light brown hair parted in the middle, long, sharply etched sideburns, and a touch of acne around his mouth and chin. His buddy, Hank, was a tall, lanky black, with a wary look in his eye and a protruding Adam's apple.

Nancy didn't say much, hoping they'd understand that she was not as free and easy as some girls. It was impossible to carry on any extended conversation, anyway, with the tape deck in the van blasting Rolling Stones music. Nancy liked her music loud, but the volume in the vehicle was so excessive she could envision the cilia in her ears bending like waves of grass in a strong wind; she had read you could permanently impair your hearing that way.

For better than an hour she had stood hitchhiking at an intersection near the outskirts of town. Cars kept passing her by, and each time she was terrified one might contain her mother or her stepfather. She kept her thumb out, looking awkward and feeling that way, for she had never hitchhiked before. Her suitcase was at her feet by the curb, along with her guitar in a leather case.

“Out of sight! You play guitar!” Tom had exclaimed when Nancy first climbed aboard.

She played clarinet in the band at school, but she didn't take any pride in it; instead, she prided herself on her folk singing. A few weeks ago she had entered the annual talent contest for seniors, singing a ballad about true love versus sexual love, self-consciously taking the edge off the understanding and sense of pathos in her voice, afraid of letting students and faculty know that she had personal experience with the song's subject matter. Still, she had won second prize. It meant more to her than her good grades or anything else she had achieved in high school. There was a message in the folk ballad she hoped had penetrated to her ex-boyfriend.

Where was she going to go, and what would she do with herself? Standing on the corner with her thumb out, she wanted to break down crying. By running away from home, she'd miss out on graduation. Could she get a diploma later? She didn't know. She had an older sister, Terri, who had gone off on her own to California a few years back to try to become an actress, and now she was working with a repertory theater group in San Francisco. Nancy supposed she should try to get to the Coast, too, to dump her troubles in her sister's lap and hope Terri wouldn't send her back home. She didn't want to face her stepfather ever again. But she was a minor, under eighteen. Couldn't the authorities make her go back to her mother if they caught up with her before her eighteenth birthday? If so, she would have to tell what had happened, and if her version was believed, she'd be responsible for wrecking her mother's marriage.

With these thoughts tormenting her, she was startled to see that a late-model green Cadillac had pulled over to the curb, and a man leaning across from the driver's side was pressing a button, making the window wind down. He was a fat, balding, middle-aged man in a plaid business suit who reminded her of her stepfather. “How far you goin', honey?” he called out, his voice low and hoarse, as if he had smoked too many cigarettes.

“C-California,” Nancy replied uncertainly.

“That's quite a long trip. What sort of arrangements might we make if I agree to take you as far as six hundred miles of it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don't play
coy
with me, young stuff. I'll make it simple for you. Three hundred miles today; then we share a motel room. Tomorrow another three hundred miles, another motel room . . . and we kiss each other good-bye in the morning with no hard feelings. That way your conscience is clear; you've paid your way. I'm only going as far as Detroit, but you'll be a good chunk closer to where you want to go. You headed for LA. or Frisco?”

“F-Frisco. “

“Better put some flowers in your hair,” the man joked, chuckling coarsely.

“Mister, you better get out of here or I'll call a cop!” Nancy threatened. Then she added, ironically: “My stepfather is on the police force!”

The man sneered. “You smart young slut! If I had hair down to my ass and beads around my neck, you'd jump in here in heat and tear your clothes off!” He hit the gas pedal hard and peeled out, leaving Nancy alone by the curb, backing away, shaken.

Down the block in their van, Tom and Hank were stopped at a red light. Looking in the rearview mirror, Tom said, “Hey, Hank—the young chick is still back there on the corner. The guy in the Cadillac didn't pick her up. I'm going back for her.”

“For Chrissakes! Forget it, Tom! There'll be plenty of chicks in Lauderdale. She'll probably tear open her blouse and threaten to yell rape to the nearest cop if we don't hand her all the money we got in our wallets.”

“You worry too much. She's probably just a nice young chick who needs a lift. I—”

“C'mon, white boy,” chided Hank sarcastically. “Don't be so
naïve.
Most of the time if a fine-looking piece like that has to go begging for something, it means she's in some kind of trouble— either that, or she
is
trouble. Why you want to mess up a good vacation?”

The light changed to green and Tom executed an abrupt right turn instead of going straight ahead. Hank looked dismayed, but Tom ignored him, saying, “If
we
don't pick her up, she's liable to get picked up by some creep.”

“All right, you're the driver. But I sure hope you ain't doin' somethin'
dumb.”

As the van rounded the block, Nancy was standing once more with her thumb out, more timidly than before. Tom smiled brightly when he saw her there. Instead of stopping by the curb, he pulled into the lot behind her so she'd be on his side of the vehicle and he could talk to her without being obstructed by Hank.

“Hi!” Tom called out above the blare of music. “Need a lift?”

Warily, Nancy asked, “Didn't you go around the block once before?”

Tom grinned. “Yeah. I wanted to pick you up the first time. But you appeared to have your problem solved.”

“Oh, sure, all my problems would've been solved for good. All I had to do was let that man take me to a motel. Is that what you're after, too?”

Angrily, Hank scoffed, “I told you, Tom—the chick's nothing but
trouble.”

But Tom persisted, talking to Nancy with sincerity. “Look, me and Hank, we're not creeps. We give you a ride, you don't owe us anything. I'd hate to see you get picked up by a lunatic, that's all. We're heading down to Lauderdale.”

“I wanted to go to my sister's place in California,” said Nancy, wavering.

“Okay, let her
go,”
Hank blurted.

“Wait a minute!” Tom argued. Keeping his eyes on Nancy, he said, “Why don't you come down to Florida with us? Have a really good time for a few days. Lots of college kids down there. After Easter you should easily be able to catch a ride west with someone your own age.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Kids'll be going back to college to finish out the term. A good many of them make the jaunt to Lauderdale from schools in the Midwest, and so on. You'll be able to check out a potential ride for a few days on a personal level—make sure it's somebody safe.”

“Well . . .” Nancy hesitated, biting her lip, telling herself that if these two boys were decent, being with them was probably better than being totally on her own.

“Come on,” Tom said, persuading her.

She made up her mind and got into the van.

Bert Johnson sat at the kitchen table over a cup of black coffee, while his wife prattled on and on about her experience at the hairdresser's. What she was saying made little impression on him. He was too worried about where Nancy might be and what she might do next. He should never have gone after her, whether she was leading him on or not. He had let the booze get hold of him. Now he could lose his marriage, his job, and his reputation—if Nancy opened her mouth about what had happened. Bert was wearing a small bandage on top of his forehead over the spot where his stepdaughter had clouted him with her portable radio, and he hoped the excuse he had ready would suffice when his wife asked about it.

Looking at herself in a mirror in the hallway, Harriet said, “So he cut my hair shoulder length, styled it a little differently, and frosted it less than last time. It's not as light as Nancy's, though. Where did you say she went? I had the impression she wanted to take your car to the mall.”

“As far as I know, she
did
go to the mall,” Bert said. “She wasn't here when I got home. One of her girl friends must have picked her up early.”

Harriet went to the breakfast counter and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Probably she went with Patty. She's not dating anyone new, is she?”

Bert shrugged. “How in the world should I know? I can't pretend to keep track of that wild crowd she hangs around with sometimes.”

Mrs. Johnson brought her cup of coffee to the table and sat down across from her husband. Putting in double cream and two sugars, she said, “I don't think Nancy and her crowd are particularly wild. In fact, they're pretty nice compared to many teen-agers nowadays.”

“Don't worry, they know what it's all about,” Bert said, grimacing. “Some of them could teach you and me a wrinkle or two.”

“Bert, whatever do you
mean
?
”
Harriet purred, the implied meanings in her husband's tone having aroused her sense of curiosity and scandal.

“Don't ask me to tell you, Harriet.”

As he intended, this caused her to crease her brow and pout worriedly.

“Nancy isn't everything you think she is,” he said, as if confessing it reluctantly.

“I think you had better explain yourself,” she challenged.

“Well . . . I've been debating for a long time whether I ought to say anything. But I suppose it's best that you know. She pretends to be very sweet and innocent when you're around, but it's only an act. She's been flaunting her little body at me, rubbing up against me whenever she gets an excuse, and I've been trying to avoid her because I have no idea what her game is. I think she wants to break you and me up.”

While he was talking, Harriet's expression had gone to disbelief and shock, and for a long moment she stared at her husband, stunned, not able to find words to express herself. Her voice came out finally in a near-whisper. “Bert . . . are you saying what I think you're saying—that Nancy has tried to seduce you?”

Skillfully, he backed off from his accusations, rendering them more believable. “I don't think she wants it to go that far. Maybe she's just testing her sex appeal . . . or something . . . in a juvenile way. I have no doubt that she's still a virgin.”

Harriet drew in a deep breath. Then: “I happen to know that she's not. She was heartbroken when her boyfriend dumped her . . . and I happened to overhear one of her phone conversations that made it pretty clear she had given herself to him.”

Bert shook his head sadly.

“She won't confide in me,” Harriet said. “I have to learn everything by accident. Not that I expected her to remain a virgin—she's too pretty. And this isn't the nineteenth century. Sex is out in the open, and our children grow up too fast, way too fast. What was I supposed to do with Nancy, keep her locked in her room?”

“I'm afraid it's too late for that already,” Bert lamented. “It could be that she resents the fact I'm not her real father. Maybe she wants to destroy me—and get back at you, too, Harriet, at the same time.”

“Bert, you must be imagining things! I'm not going to believe this nonsense for one minute. After all, Nancy is my daughter—my flesh and blood.”

“All right, Harriet, if it makes you feel better to bury your head in the sand. Why do you suppose I've had to start hitting the bottle again? It's because of your daughter. Till now I couldn't bring myself to break it to you. It's such a terrible thing to have to face. So I've been trying to shield you from it . . . and doing my best to stay away from her. I was even glad that she wasn't here when I got home.”

Harriet did not reply, her mind in turmoil. Could it be that Nancy was actually the way Bert described? Harriet had been hurt deeply by her first husband, because she had closed her eyes to his infidelities in the face of evidence, intuitive and otherwise, that should have convinced her something was wrong. She was always too trusting, too ready to accept people at face value, especially those close to her; she expected from them the same honesty that she gave. After her divorce, she had learned not to be disappointed by the worst in people when it finally came to light. But her own daughter? The idea of Nancy doing the things Bert said was repugnant, unreal, no matter how hard Harriet tried to allow for the possibility that it might be true. Because of being a working mother for so many years, Harriet didn't feel that she understood her daughter as well as she should.

If push came to shove, who should she believe—Nancy or Bert? She didn't want to lose Bert. Before he came into the picture, loneliness and penny-pinching had taken their toll on Harriet's confidence and self-respect. Bert represented companionship and security for her old age. Offspring couldn't be depended upon; look at Terri, off on her own in California already, and maybe a letter from her once every six months—unless she found herself needing money, and then she suddenly knew how to write. This was the first installment on the reward for working hard to raise two daughters all those years, without a husband and father in the house.