To his embarrassment, Aaron noticed that Berger had wet himself.
“Maybe they were wrong.” Aaron was fitting the first section of the pole to a catch on the box; then he would fit subsequent sections into the rear of the one in front of it, until he was fifteen feet away. Then he would push the box forward to replace Berger’s weight on the mine. “You set?”
“Not yet, bud. I want you to do me a big favor.”
Peters snapped the last section of pole into place. He looked up quizzically.
Berger said, “I want you to read me that letter from your girl.”
Aaron straightened. “Jeez.”
Berger pleaded, “Please, bud. For luck. Maybe some of the luck you always get will fall on me.”
“You got it.” Aaron put down the pole and pulled the letter out from its place near his heart. He ripped open one edge and pulled the single sheet out, waiting for the whiff of perfume that always accompanied Peggy’s letters to him.
There was no perfume.
He flipped open the letter.
“Read it,” Berger demanded. “Out loud.”
Aaron was scanning the letter, his eyes starting at the signature on the bottom, which read Yours sincerely, instead of All my love, to the top, which started: Dear Aaron, things have happened in the last few weeks…
“Read it, dammit!” Berger begged.
The world drew away from Aaron Peters; suddenly he didn’t see the dusty road, or Berger, or the thin blue sky of Mogadishu, or anything. A hissing came into his head, and the spot next to his heart where the letter had been began to burn as if it was on fire. His hand holding the letter dropped to his side, and the words no longer, and wish you well in the future drained out of him as if a stopcock had been opened on his life. He was suddenly dry, and light as air. The letter floated to earth. He was standing next to Berger, but didn’t see him, or hear his shouting voice.
Then suddenly he did. “What the hell–!” he heard as he put his hands on Berger and pushed, and slid his boots forward to replace himself on the mine, which then went off.
He heard the explosion from far away, and saw Berger cut into parts in front of him, as if drawn and quartered in mid-air – the bottom parts, which had been his legs and thighs, suddenly red, flying one way while the top parts, bloody as well, a severed arm, and the rest of the torso, with something heaving in the open chest and with the other arm still reaching for him and the face still asking “What the hell” flew impossibly the other way. And then as Berger receded everything faded from his face, all emotion and questions, and he turned white and dead. And then there was a burn up Aaron’s own leg and sound came back in a rush like a turned up volume knob and he heard that tearing sound, of meat being ripped off a bone, his own meat and Berger’s, and then another louder sound of all the screams, his own impossibly high screams until something slammed into his chin and up through his mouth….
The impossibly cold hand on the Pumpkin Tender’s head slid away in a retreating caress.
Suddenly the memories were gone.
All of them, as if a switch had clicked off the lights in his head.
He was the Pumpkin Tender, and Frankenstein.
He was no longer Aaron Peters, Private First Class, who had murdered his buddy and tried, unsuccessfully, to murder himself.
He was nothing now, only a mess of a former man – a man who remembered little if anything and took care of pumpkins.
Didn’t I tell you I’d take care of you? Haven’t I always taken care of you?
The touch of the freezing hand came back, and with it one more memory, which flared briefly in his head before dissipating like smoke:
When he came back from Somalia, and after all the time in the V.A. hospital, and then the discharge, an honorable one because the administration didn’t want any more blots on the Somalia campaign, especially not after losing all those men, and those helicopters, when they went after that warlord – after all that time, there was nothing wrong with his memory. He could remember what he had done perfectly well. He had begun to limp around Orangefield, keeping his horrible secret to himself, from his family, from his friends, because he couldn’t live with it.
And then he decided not to live with it.
So one night the first October after he returned, when the moon looked Halloween orange as it rose off the horizon and it was cold, he had gone out to one of the empty pumpkin fields on the outskirts of Orangefield, a field owned by a man named Froelich, and he had stood in that almost empty, almost picked-clean pumpkin field, smelling rotting sweet pumpkin carcasses around him, and facing the moon, and he put his service revolver to his head.
Only, something had risen out of that field in front of him, something like a black cape which blotted the moon from view, and he had lowered the service revolver while the thing made promises.
You already belong to me, the thing said, reasonably. You should have died in Somalia, the way you intended, so you are already mine. You’re living on borrowed time, and in agony, but I will protect you. I will make you forget. Isn’t forgetfulness what you really want, Aaron? Isn’t that why you came out here tonight – to forget?
He nodded, dropping the gun. He began to weep, and tried to talk with his ruined mouth: “I… k-k-killed–”
Yes, Aaron. But I’ll help you to forget, until it’s time for you to help me. Do you understand?
Aaron was weeping. “I…ki…illed…”
And then the freezing had first fallen on his head, and with it blessed forgetfulness.
And then, suddenly, he understood what he could do, what loving service he could perform, and he had become, then and now, the Pumpkin Tender.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Kathy Marks could not stop thinking about Annabeth Turner.
What is it about her?
Ever since Annabeth had taken three restricted books from the library – returning them the next day while Kathy was not on duty, which the librarian was sure had been deliberate – Kathy had felt a strange affinity for the girl, something that went beyond the tug of outsider recognition she had felt for Annabeth initially.
Is it because she lost her father, and I lost my parents?
A brief memory of Aunt Jane and Uncle Ed, who’d taken Kathy in after the car accident, rose into her consciousness, and she shivered.
Or am I afraid for her because of what happened to me afterwards?
Annabeth and her mother had moved to Orangefield, the librarian knew, at the beginning of the summer. Mr. Turner had died the year before. Kathy had deduced that things were not good at home – that Annabeth’s mother, in the girl’s phrase, had “problems.” There had also been the hint of social services involvement, which could mean anything from child neglect to outright abuse. Kathy had driven by the house one evening after work and found it unkempt and lonely-looking – the poor relation on a block of neatly trimmed cape houses.
Why am I so worried about her?
Without really knowing why, she suddenly decided that tonight she would stop by the house and see the girl.
There was something sad and desperate about her, something that reminded her of herself at that age.
And something else that she couldn’t put her finger on, something to do with the voice she had heard in the library that night…
The library was busy, for a Tuesday night, and she was occupied until just before 9:00. And then, suddenly, she was alone. Her student assistant Paul, after turning out most of the lights, was through the door at the stroke of the hour, and with the bang of the closing, locked door Kathy found herself with a little paperwork and a silent library.
The wind had picked up at the windows, making its sound that always reminded her of moaning.
And now there was another sound which drowned out the moan.
It was the voice she had heard the night Annabeth had taken the three restricted books.
Kathy.
Again, as it had that night, the vaguest of dark memories trie
d to rise, then melted away. She felt herself go cold all over.
Kathy. Speak to me.
The voice had moved to one of the other windows, and then she heard it from the darkened back of the library.
Kathy.
She heard the shuffle of steps in one of the aisles, the sound of books being moved aside.
Call me Sam…
The librarian marched to the bank of lights by the front door, threw on the fluorescents in the back of the library.
She felt something cold touch her finger, brush up her left arm and across her neck. There was a whisper in her ear.
It’s me. Samhain…
The windows began to rattle – all of them at once, a sound as if they would all shatter to bits.
The suspended overhead florescent lights began to sway.
Kathy ran to her desk, grabbed for her purse and jacket.
A stack of books, waiting to be checked in, flew off the desk in three directions.
Kathy.
She ran for the door and the newspaper rack came alive as she passed, magazines and the daily newspapers flying up like flapping birds at her.
She covered her face and cried out as newspapers hit her in the face, magazines slapped at her legs.
Annabeth is mine.
The voice was all around her, whispering in her ear and shouting at her from the back of the library simultaneously.
The window rattling rose to a breaking point –
And then stopped.
The library was silent.
The overhead hanging lights swayed to a squeaking halt.
The newspapers fluttered to the floor around her.
Kathy Marks stood by the doorway, panting, eyes wide.
She let out a single, frightened sob.
In her car, she regained her composure. She sat steadying her breath, watching the darkened library building in front of her. The lights were out, the building quiet.
Whoever you are, she thought, you won’t stop me.
As she pulled away, once more determined to visit Annabeth Turner, the lights in the library, unseen to her, blinked on for a moment, and something dark passed before the front windows.
The house was even untidier and sadder looking than she remembered. There were empty garbage cans at the curb that needed taking in. The grass needed mowing and the flower beds to either side of the front door were choked with dry weeds.
The paint on the shutters was peeling, and the front steps groaned with rotted wood when she stepped on them.
She rang the doorbell three times, hearing nothing, and then knocked loudly on the door.
She still heard nothing.
Daring herself, she walked around to the side of the house, almost stepping on a rusted rake left carelessly, tines up.
The first floor windows along the front were all dark, but she detected the glow of faint light in a window on the second floor of the house.
She walked to the back of the house, which was even more overgrown, and looked up – there was a light on in the single second story window.
She went back to the front door and banged on it repeatedly.
She heard the rustle of movement inside the house, followed by a grunt.
She banged again.
She heard more movement, a slurred voice: “Whozzit?”
“Mrs. Turner,” she called, “it’s Kathy Marks, from the Orangefield Library. May I speak with you, please?”
There was a groan, and then silence.
Kathy banged on the door again. “Mrs. Turner, I need to talk with you about Annabeth!”
Another groan from within, and then a sound as if someone falling to the floor. She heard a curse, and then slow, measured steps from behind the door.
The door was yanked open, and a blowzy, angry face appeared.
“What the hell you want?”
The door was thrown all the way open, and the woman, who was dressed in a dirty housecoat and slippers, nearly lurched at her. The librarian was forced to step back by the strong sour smell of gin. Behind her the house was filthy, cluttered and dark, all the way back to the second-story stairway and the kitchen beyond, where a cat crouched, staring at her suspiciously.
“Mrs. Turner –”
“I said what the hell you want! Botherin’ me at all hours! What’d she do? What’d the brat do?”
Kathy took a breath before answering reasonably: “Annabeth didn’t do anything, Mrs. Turner. I’m here because I’m concerned about her–”
“Concerned about wha’? Get out! Leave me alone! I ain’t a bad parent. I can do what has to be done! No goddamn social services bitch is gonna tell me otherwise!”
“I’m not from social services, Mrs. Turner–”
“Dammit! Leave us alone! Leave us all alone!”
Behind Mrs. Turner Kathy saw Annabeth slowly descending the stairs and staring at her intently. She stopped at the bottom.
The librarian took a step forward and tried to reason directly with the girl. “Annabeth, can I speak with you please?”
“I brought the books back,” the girl said defensively.
“It’s not about that–”
Mrs. Turner suddenly lunged forward, holding on to Kathy Marks and breathing directly in her face. Kathy saw Annabeth run back up the stairs.
“It ain’t right! Get out! Get out!”
Kathy moved back, disengaging herself from Mrs. Turner.
“I’m sorry I bothered you, Mrs. Turner.”
“An’ don’t come back!” Mrs. Turner shouted, slamming the door shut.
The librarian stood staring at the front door for a moment.
I told you she’s mine.
It was the voice again, from the library.
Annabeth belongs to me, Kathy.
A swirl of pure cold rose up around her, like a tornado, driving her from the front walk.
Mine.
Kathy Marks turned and ran for her car, opening the door and slamming it behind her.
The dervish of wind was left in the street, where it circled down to nothingness.
Kathy Marks drove slowly away, stopping once, without really knowing why, still breathing hard and trembling, to look back at the second floor of the house.
Chapter Forty
“Dude!”
As Josh got out of the cab of his black Ford truck, Jordie nearly rushed forward to hug him. Josh took a step back, hesitating, but Jordie seemed to be in such a good mood that he gave a short laugh and allowed himself to be nearly picked up off the ground.
Jordie dropped him, looked around him into the truck’s cab.
“Hey, were’s Will?”
“Couldn’t come,” Josh answered. “Had to do some stuff for his mom.”
“Mom. Yeah, cool.”
Josh looked into his friend’s face, and saw that the pupils were wide as dimes.
Shit, hammered again, he thought.
“Maybe I should come back later, Jordie,” he said. He hitched a thumb at the cab. “Truck needs an oil change–”
“Hell, I’ll buy you an oil change, after we move that shit I told you about. We’ll go over to the Jiffy Lube, then pick up Will–”
“I don’t think Will can make it at all today,” Josh said.
“No shit?” A dark cloud passed over Jordie’s face, and Josh thought he heard him mumble, “Not on the list, man…”
“List?”
Jordie seemed to touch earth again. “Shit, man – just you and me, then! Dynamic duo. Just like fifth grade!”
Josh was suddenly uncomfortable. He looked past Jordie at the house. The rest of the driveway was uncluttered by cars, and the open garage was empty. “Your mom and Aunt ever get home?”
“Huh? Sure! Days ago. They went out for lunch or something. You know how these modern couples are…” He laughed, and leaned closer. “Hey, wanna get stoned?” he whispered.
The inside of the house looked as spotless as the last time he’d been in it. In fact, it looked exactly like the las
t time he’d been in it, more than a week and a half ago. There wasn’t even a cereal box out of place in the kitchen. More out of curiosity than hunger, he opened the refrigerator and said, “Got anything to e–”
The fridge was completely empty, not even an egg in its plastic nest – no milk, no butter, no fruit in their bins, no cottage cheese –
A weird chill went up Josh’s back.
“Jeez, Jordie, what the hell have you been living on?”
When he turned around Jordie was right in front of him, grinning as he pushed something long and brightly metallic into Josh’s stomach.
“Sorry, man,” Jordie whispered, “but it’s on the list.”
Josh opened his mouth wide to speak, but Jordie shook his head and ripped the blade viciously up through his middle.
A bright blurt of blood formed in Josh’s open mouth, and then his eyes clouded over and he became a weight against the open refrigerator, which began to hum.
Jordie let him down easily to the floor, then pushed him aside with his booted foot and closed the refrigerator door.
“Have to clean that again, man,” he said, focusing on the drops of red splattered on the door.
Find Will, the voice in his head told him.
Forty minutes later, after bringing Josh’s body to the cellar and lining it up neatly with that of his mother and aunt, which were already limed and tarped, he climbed into the cab of Josh’s truck and pulled it out onto the road. The day was bone chilly, but he wore only his light jacket over a tee-shirt and jeans. In the flatbed was his DJ equipment, carefully wrapped and tied down. On the seat next to him in the cab was an open piece of paper with Will’s name on it, and a pile of pill bottles. On the bottom of the list, after Will’s name, was the phrase, Take your meds, in the proportions I told you.
Will’s house was empty, which started to panic him, but the voice in his head calmed him down, telling him to take one Zyprexa, which he did dry, because he had forgotten to take any vodka with him.
I didn’t want you to take any vodka, the voice said, and he said out loud, “Oh, yeah,” and remembered one of the other things on the list.
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