Back in the house, Mrs. Appleby sat Lisa on a chair in the middle of the kitchen floor beneath the harsh glare of the overhead light as she gently washed Lisa’s head wound with warm, soapy water.
“I think Mrs. Carter was right. These look a lot worse than they are,” Mrs. Appleby told Angie once she had rejoined them in the kitchen. She was standing, tensed, in the kitchen doorway, feeling rotten that she had made something like this happen!
Lisa winced every now and then as her grandmother’s fingers probed the patch of scraped skin. A few scratches started bleeding again, and blood tickled her when one thin stream ran down beside her eye.
“What in the dickens were you two doing, anyway?” Mrs. Appleby said angrily. “You’re both grown-up girls. You should know better than to fool around like this!”
“It was my fault,” Angie started to say, but Lisa quickly cut her off.
“It was an accident! I should never have taken that junky old bike out in the first place!”
“Well, we’ll make sure it goes out with the trash on Wednesday morning, if it’s all the same to you,” Mrs. Appleby said with finality. Lisa nodded agreement, then winced when the motion of her head made her grandmother pull another cut open.
“Other than the cuts, are you feeling all right?” Mrs. Appleby asked. Head wounds may bleed easily, but she also knew that bumps to the head could be quite serious. Her own brother had fallen when he was a boy, and ever since then, due to some kind of scrambling to his brain’s wiring, he had suffered with epilepsy. Head injuries, Mrs. Appleby knew, were nothing to fool around with.
Lisa closed her eyes, taking a silent physical inventory. Although the ringing in her ear was very faint and seemed to be fading, it was still there; it rose in volume now and then, sometimes actually masking what her grandmother was saying to her.
“I—umm,” she started to say, then fell silent when she glanced over at Angie, who still stood in the doorway, nervously biting her lower lip.
Lisa gave her head a tentative shake, and winced with the pain that bolted up the back of her neck. “I think I could use some aspirin or something,” she said as her eyes began to water from the pain.
“If it’s really bad,” Mrs. Appleby said, “we could drive up to the hospital in Houlton. Maybe we should have it X-rayed.”
Lisa protested and shook her head gently, so the pain wouldn’t rocket through her.
“I think I’ll give Doctor LaChance a call. He’ll make a house call if I ask him, I’m sure. I know he has that young man from Houlton working for him now, too. One of them should be able to come out to the house.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Lisa said. “I think if we get the cuts bandaged up, and I take a couple of aspirin, I’ll be just fine in the morning.”
“Well,” Mrs. Appleby said, giving her granddaughter a kiss on the cheek, “you make sure you let me know if it starts hurting any worse. I don’t want to take any chances.” She couldn’t dispel the image of her brother during one of his seizures: eyes rolled back, body stiffened, blood-flecked foam running down his chin. Please God, she prayed silently, don’t make me have to deal with it again!
Lisa promised she would let her know if she started feeling any worse, but when she looked at how guilty-looking Angie seemed, Lisa resolved that she wouldn’t say anything that might get either of them any deeper into trouble, no matter what. In a couple of days, she was sure, the pain would recede and maybe even that high-pitched ringing in her ear would go away.
IV
If there was one thing Winfield prided himself on, it was the goodness of his given word; so as soon as Dale and Donna left the police station, he got into his cruiser to drive out to the old LaPierre house and have a look around. He knew, that with the harvesting just getting started, it was entirely likely that someone had decided to get free housing for a few weeks, to save on renting a room in town. He decided it would be smart to keep his pistol handy, just in case Donna had been right about the prowler.
Once he turned onto Mayall Road from Main Street, the dark night seemed to come crashing in on him. It always struck him as remarkable how, with the town lights lost behind a single curve in the road, the darkness thickened and the stars got intensely brighter. He liked to imagine how the world looked to the Indians who had lived here before Europeans settled the land. He shivered, thinking how stark and lonely it must have been, out beneath the star-sprinkled stretch of sky with nothing more than a campfire to push back the darkness.
For reassurance, he patted the metal tube of his flashlight on the seat beside him. Although he knew it had three fresh batteries, he gave the button a quick flick anyway and grunted satisfaction at the bright yellow oval that lit up the side panel of the door. Even with the security of a powerful flashlight in his hand and his service revolver at his side, though, he couldn’t repress a shiver when he pulled into the driveway of, the abandoned LaPierre farmhouse and looked up at the cold, moon-washed siding.
Winfield flicked the switch on his alley light from inside the car, and aimed the strong beam at the house. Wherever the light went, it lit up the house brighter than daylight, but from the outside, there was no indication of any trouble. There were no broken windows, and the front door wasn’t hanging off its hinges. The screen on the outside door was torn, but it had been like that for a year or more. The house looked secure to him, desolate and lonely as hell, but secure.
Taking a deep breath, he got out of the car and eased the door shut. A peculiar loneliness swept over him as he started up toward the house, his feet crunching the gravel of the walkway sounded like crackling ice. Winter was on its way, he knew, and the weird feeling he had about this place, he told himself, was just that—the quiet, cold, early autumn night. When he reached the steps leading up to the front door, Winfield snapped on his flashlight, flooding the entryway with a harsh, yellow glare. His right hand drifted slowly down to his revolver, undid the snap, and firmly grasped the handgrip. It was reassuring, but not much. There might be something wrong here. He thought he could sense it.
“Yeah,” he said, under his breath as he went up the steps, “that and a quarter will get you a cup of coffee.”
The stairs creaked underfoot, and as he stepped under the shadow of the porch roof, a small gust of wind sprang up. It whistled shrilly in the gutter overhead, sounding like someone calling to a dog from far away.
Winfield’s oval of light darted around the front door, then swept both lengths of the house, pausing to make a quick circle around each window. The windows seemed to suck up and hold, rather than reflect, the light, making them look as though they were made of black marble slabs instead of glass. The land around the house was washed with powdery, gray light as Winfield went slowly down the length of the porch and rounded the corner to the back of the house.
As he was walking past the kitchen window, he thought he saw something moving out in the field, over by the woods to the left. He froze in mid-step and stared, wishing to God he had waited until daylight, to come out here. For a second, he considered going back to the cruiser to radio his location; he could ask Ernie to drive on out, so he’d have a little backup, just in case…
Gettin’ old or somethin’? Winfield thought angrily to himself. Startin’ to let the ole imagination run away on you!
But still he didn’t move as he looked out across the field toward the woods, waiting to see if something else moved.
“Oh, boy,” he muttered when he saw something: it looked like two or three people, walking up the length of the field, away from the house. They kept to the fringe of the woods and moved slowly, so Winfield couldn’t be sure if they had seen him. If they had broken into the house, though, they might plan on returning. Then again, he had driven up in the driveway and walked up to the house with his flashlight on, in clear view. If they had seen him coming, they sure as hell would leave. And if they had half a brain, Winfield thought, they would keep away.
Winfield slowly stood to his full
height and clicked the safety off his revolver. Pointing it off to the side, he shone his flashlight on the moving figures.
“This is the police!” he shouted, his voice echoing back from the woods with a hollow distortion. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
The night swallowed up his light, so it never reached the people at the distance they were away from him. He cursed softly under his breath, knowing that what he had done was foolish. Who the hell, with that kind of lead, was going to stop for one lone cop? But what the hell! He figured they had seen him coming, anyway, so it was worth a try. He also figured—what the hell?—take the next step, too.
He slowly squeezed the trigger. His revolver kicked in his hand as it spit a splinter of orange flame and a lead bullet into the night. The explosion of the gunshot made his ears ring, and he watched in frustration as the figures continued up the hill. They didn’t even increase their pace, so confident were they of the lead they had on him, and that made Winfield all the madder.
He leaped over the railing to the ground as if to follow them, but he knew it was futile to try. They were already cresting the hill, and then the night swallowed them up without a sound. Winfield was left with the impression that they had never really been there, that he had let the night shadows trick his eyes, but he knew better. Donna had said she was sure someone had broken into the house, and that was the proof, disappearing over the hill.
“Might as well take a quick look around,” he said as he went up the back steps to the porch. He knew from what Donna had told him that there weren’t any valuables in the house, at most, some left-behind old furniture and a bunch of rusted old tools in the cellar. Still, he figured he’d better take a look around inside to see if they had done any damage before leaving.
He reached for the doorknob to the back door, and was surprised when it turned in his hand and the door swung slowly open, squeaking loudly on rusted hinges. Again, just before he entered the darkened kitchen, a gust of wind hooted in the eaves. His grip on the flashlight handle tightened when he took one last look up the slope to where those people had disappeared.
Maybe, he thought, they’ll come back when they think it’s safe.
Winfield stepped into the kitchen, letting his flashlight beam sweep the room like a hungry animal. He saw only a few signs that someone had been here: one edge of the rug by the door was flipped over, and there were a few clumps of dirt on the floor. No damage, though, at least not here in the kitchen.
The short hallway to his right led to the living room. As he started in that direction, he suddenly became aware of a shifting noise from behind him. He was just turning around when the closet door beside him slammed open. A dark figure shot out like a jack-in-the-box, but Winfield never saw the lead pipe that came swooping down at him. In the next split second, he felt a sudden explosion of pain that started from his forehead but instantly crashed through every nerve in his body in burning, white splinters.
His last hazy thought was really a question: was that loud explosion the sound of his gun going off in his hand as his fingers clenched from the pain, or was it his head, smashing the floor as he fell? He wouldn’t have his answer until three hours later, when he woke up, bound and gagged, in the old coal bin in the cellar of the LaPierre house.
V
Hocker and Tasha were sitting cross-legged on their spread-out sleeping bags on the living room floor when the cruiser pulled into the driveway. They had spent most of the day rummaging through the house and the barn out back; and now, after a light supper, they were taking it easy before retiring early for the night. Hocker had found a few things worth hanging onto, but the house had been pretty much cleaned out before now.
As soon as they heard the car’s engine at the foot of the driveway, they crept to the front windows and crouched, watching as the cruiser’s high beams swept across the back yard before coming to a stop, pointing up at the house. The headlights winked out, and they heard the engine shut off.
“Get upstairs quick!” Hocker whispered to Tasha.
She could see, in silhouette, the siren and beacon lights on the roof of the car, and she froze like a jacked deer. This is the same cop I nailed yesterday afternoon! she thought. He knows I’m here, and he’s coming to get me! Her hands turned cold and clammy as she gripped the edge of the window. She felt an urgent need to urinate.
Other, even scarier, thoughts flooded into her mind with a rush that sounded like the wind in her ears:
—The old man Hocker had slugged and whose truck they had stolen and now we’re both wanted for questioning!
—Maybe, all along the way from Georgia, Rocker has been killing people! I’m on a cross-country murder spree, and I don’t even know it!
—The truck Hocker had sent over the cliff in a ball of flames had started a major forest fire, and now they want us for arson!
No matter what she thought, it was all bad, so the small part of her mind that had wanted to kiss Hocker’s ass goodbye and be gone barely had a voice. She knew that no matter what happened, she wouldn’t let the cops get her!
“Get the fuck down!” Hocker yelled, slapping her shoulder hard when the spotlight on the side of the cruiser suddenly came on and started waving back and forth across the front of the house. Whenever the beam came through one of the windows, it cast hard bars of light onto the back walls. The light had a laser intensity that, Tasha was convinced, could start a fire if it was focused long enough on one spot. “We’re gonna get nailed!” Tasha said, her voice a twisted whine. Tears had formed in her eyes and shattered the sweeping light into thousands of diamond-sharp pieces.
“Just be cool,” Hocker said. He was crouched under the window by the front door, his hand wrapped around a piece of lead pipe he had picked up in the cellar. “I’ve handled stuff worse than this before.”
I’ll bet you have, Tasha thought, unable to keep from her mind the memory of that old man, unconscious and crumpled on the ground.
“Just get your skinny little ass upstairs,” Hocker whispered. “And don’t come down ’till I tell you it’s all right.”
Tasha knew she didn’t really have a choice. She silently gnawed at her lower lip as she watched the floodlight wash the room, but she didn’t move.
But when she heard the cruiser door open and slam shut, Tasha sprang up and scurried as fast as she could up the stairs. In the dark, she tripped on the top flight and went sprawling onto her face, but she felt for the wall, regained her bearings, and hurried down the hallway to one of the empty bedrooms. She went over to the far wall by the closet, and crouched there, listening in the dark. The only sound she made was a mouse-like squeak when she heard a gunshot go off. It sounded like it was outside, behind the house.
Hocker, meanwhile, had crept over to the stairwell and flattened himself against the wall as he listened, tense, as the cop came up the front steps. A less intense beam of light came in through the front door window and wormed its way back and forth; then the heavy clumping of footsteps went around the side of the house to the back.
Hocker quickly darted back through the living room and into the kitchen, pausing for only a moment to see what the cop was doing out there. He could see the man poised, caught in mid-step as he stared out over the field behind the house. When the man outside shouted, “This is the police! Stop or I’ll shoot!” Hocker thought for a moment that the cop had seen him inside the house, but a quick glance out the kitchen window showed him that wasn’t the case. The cop still had his back to the house and was looking into the back yard.
Hocker’s mind rapidly snapped off the possibilities: who the hell else might be out there? he wondered.
In the hallway between the kitchen and living room, he looked around for the best place to be if the cop came inside. Without thinking, he clicked open the closet door and slipped inside, pulling it closed, leaving a small space open. If this worked, he thought, fine; if not, the cop would just go away and that would be it.
When the gun went off, Hocker thought the cop was sh
ooting the door lock to get inside, but that struck Hocker as ridiculous; no cop would do something like that! Unless, of course, it wasn’t a cop after all. Naw, Hocker thought. The guy shouted out “This is the police!” So what the hell was he doing? Was there really someone else out there?
The pulse in Hocker’s ears was as loud as a drum when he heard the hinges squeal as the kitchen door slowly opened. He tensed, waiting in the darkness, trying to judge exactly where the cop was in the darkened kitchen.
That dumb cunt left the door unlocked! Stupid bitch!
The floorboards creaked underfoot as the cop walked across the kitchen floor. The crack underneath the closet door glowed with yellow light as the cop swept his flashlight beam back and forth. Then the footsteps got closer and closer. Hocker held his breath, hoping to Christ he timed this right because if he didn’t, he was going to be in a world of hurt!
The beam of light bobbed closer, swinging silently from side to side. The floorboards creaked, and Hocker could hear the heavy breathing of the man. Hocker sensed, more than saw, the bulk of the man passing the closet door. Thankfully, the cop didn’t think to check in the closet before starting for the living room.
Hocker took a quick, shallow breath and, heaving his weight forward, suddenly swung the door open, raised the lead pipe up, and brought it swiftly down. He knew he would never be able to describe his satisfaction when he heard the soft thump the pipe made when it connected with the top of the cop’s head. The cop’s revolver dropped to the floor as the cop did a slow, spinning fall, bumping his head on the closet door as he dropped to the floor.
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