He stopped screaming when the first grains of Sand tickled the back of his neck. I ............ There hadn't been a single car on the highway for the past fifteen minutes, and Buford wanted to close up early. He had never closed the stand before ten o'clock in the nine years it had been operating, and he didn't want to start now, but something was wrong here. He could feel it; he could sense it. He glanced over at the clock, but he could see the order window in his peripheral vision, and he looked immediately away. Licking his lips, he started singing.
Military songs. "pick the lock with my enormous cock, said Barnacle Bill the Sailor. "His voice sounded strange in the silence, and he stopped almost immediately. He reached over, flipped on the radio, turned the knob, but there was only static.
Something was definitely wrong. He didn't like the color of the sky or the sound of the breeze or the fact that his was the only business open this late in this part of town.
He scraped the grill with his spatula, oncentrating all of his attention on the square of dark metal and the brown hardened grease, trying not to think of that blackness beyond the order window. There were goose bumps on his arms, and he had to admit that he was spooked.
Hell, a few moments ago, he'd nearly jumped out of his shoes when the phone rang. It had only been Jacy, and for the few moments they talked he'd felt fine, but the second he hung up the receiver the chill had returned.
He'd thought he'd seen movement outside the window, but when he'd looked more closely there'd been nothing there.
He'd avoided looking out the window since then.
He'd pretended to himself that he hadn't heard the noises.
He finished scraping the grill and used the spatula to pick up the congealed grease and drop it in the empty coffee can on the floor. He had never before been this scared. Not in "Nam, not nowhere.
But there was nothing to be frightened of, nothing out there.
Buford reached for his cup on the edge of the grill, picked it up and drank the dregs. He should close up, let Taco Bell or Dairy Queen get the extra business. How much could he make between now and ten anyway?
If he was lucky, a couple of kids would stop by for Cokes and fries after the movie got out, but that was the most he could hope for. And considering the fact that the theater was showing a "serious" film this week, not an action flick or a comedy, and that this was a weeknight, not a weekend, the chance that any kids would come by at all was damn near zip. He could close up now and not notice the difference.
But he didn't want to close up, and he was forced to admit to himself that he was afraid to leave. His truck was parked in the rear, facing the desert, and the outside bulb in the back had burnt out some time ago.
The stand was surrounded by darkness.
He could call Jacy, invent some excuse, tell her to come over and meet him here. But she'd probably taken her bath and was in bed already.
Besides, he wasn't such a pussy that he had to have his wife save him from the monster, was he? found himself thinking of Manuel Torres and those animals lying in the arroyo with the blood sucl out of them. The arroyo stretched only a few dozen Fa behind the stand. He knew that a police had searched area thoroughly, but he also knew that nothing had been found. He imagined the arroyo at night, a huge black gash across the desert, its floor, invisible in the gloom his mind, he saw the top of the arroyo, saw white finl reaching upward from the blackness, grabbing the edge of the cliff, saw the vampire pulling itself upwal
Vampire. Jesus Christ, he was turning into a little lady. What the hell was wrong with him? He should knock this shit off, close up, and get his ass home to
But as he stood next to the grill, he heard rustlin the sagebrush outside, the light whisk sound of mo gravel, and he concentrated once again on the squa the grill, afraid to look up, not knowing when he would build up enough courage to leave the stand and go home.
" After dinner, Rich helped Anna with her spelling flasl cards. Her class was studying "at" words this week--cat hat, fat, and bat--and she could recognize them all excep bat," which for some reason she missed each and ever2 time. She kept confusing it with "fat." He tried to explain the difference between the two, and she could get it correct if he repeated the flash cards in identical order, but the minute he shuffled the cards, she would miss it again
They quit studying after fifteen minutes, when he sensed that Anna was getting restless, her attention starting to wander, and he told her she could watch TV un till bedtime. The two of them sat next to each other on the couch. A few moments later, Corrie came into the room Rich had thought she was in the kitchen doing something but she came in from the hallway.
She walked in front of the television. "Here," she said "I want this in the paper." She tossed two paper clippec pages on the coffee table.
He picked up the pages, glanced at the top one, shool his head. "Can't do it."
"What?"
"Joking," he said, raising his hands in apologetic self defense. "I'm just joking," He read through the copy. fund-raising picnic for Wheeler's church? We don't haw to go to this, do we?"
"I'm going. Anna's going." She looked at him coolly. "I would appreciate it if you would accompany us."
He dropped the papers on the table "I suppose." "It's for a good cause."
"Yeah," he said. "Right. Could you move over a little? You're blocking the screen."
Corrie's mouth hardened into a straight line. "Anna," she said, "I think it's time for you to go to bed."
"But the show's not over yet!"
Rich patted her leg. "Listen to your mother," he said. She hesitated ....... "Anna! " Corrie repeated.
"A story? I thought you said you were too old for me to read you stories."
"I'm not too old anymore."
Rich looked at Anna, but she wouldn't meet his eyes.
He glanced over at Corrie, who was frowning. "Are you afraid to go to sleep by yourself?. Is that it? Have you been having bad dreams? We could leave your light on for you."
She shook her head emphatically. Too emphatically.
"It's all right, honey," Corrie said softly. "We're here to protect you."
"I'm not afraid!" Anna pulled away from her father, jumped off the couch, and stalked out of the room.
Rich and Corrie looked at each other. The anger, the unborn argument that had been building between them had dissipated, and all they saw in each other's faces was concern for their daughter.
He stood. "I'll find out what it is."
"No, I will," Corrie said.
He followed her down the hall. "We both will."
Am Hewett stared into the muzzle of the cocked pis for what seemed like hours before finally turning it a from his face. He slowly uncocked the gun and placed on the table in front of him. His hands were wet sweat, and perspiration streamed down his forehea stinging his eyes, dripping onto his nose.
He really had been planning to kill himself, to bl, his brains out, but at the last minute something has held him back; the feelinguno, the knowledge---that life would be better sacrificed some other way. Donna was going to the police. He had no doubt of that. She'd packed all of her clothes and personal belo ings and had taken Dawn with her, and the two of them were probably in the police station right now, spilling their guts, trying to make him look like some sort of sick perverts.
Or were they?
If Donna had planned to press charges, the cops wot have come to him by now, would have shown up at the store or, at the very least, would have been waiting him when he arrived home. Besides, why would Don pack all of her clothes if she was just going to turn him in? There would be no reason for her and Dawn to go out or find someplace else to stay if he were in jail.
Maybe they weren't going to the police. Maybe they were just running away.
Head pounding, he stood up and walked from the kitchen, through the living room, to Dawn's bedroom. Leaning against the door frame, unwilling to disturb the sanctity of her sanctuary even though she was gone, he took visual inventory o
f her room. She'd taken her clothes and her books. She'd taken her stuffed Winniethe-Pooh. She'd taken her high school photos, the ones she'd taped to the edges of her dresser mirror, as well as her old transistor radio. She'd left her Walkman. And her unicorn picture. And her camera.
Everything he'd bought her........... He felt a twinge of unreasonable hurt, a flash of pain in a vacuum of emptiness, but he was glad of the hurt. It meant that he still loved her.
He stared at the reflection of himself in the newly revealed mirror. He blamed Donna. He would bet a dollar to a donut that it was Donna who'd made her leave all those things behind. The bitch was jealous; that's all it was. She wasn't concerned about her daughter. She didn't give a rat's ass in hell about Dawn's welfare or happiness. She just wanted to get back at him. She was hurt and she wanted to hurt back. It was her own fault. She should have known what to expect. She should've seen it coming. He liked them young. Always had. She knew that.
She'd been sixteen when he'd married her, he'd been twenty-six. She'd known that it was her youth that had been one of the chief attractions for him, and she should have known that when she crossed that line into middle age, he would be forced to look elsewhere for his pleasure.
Only he hadn't meant for it to be their daughter.
He stared at Dawn's bed, remembered all of the good times they'd had there.
It had started innocently enough: he'd seen Dawn masturbating.
It had been a Friday night. He'd gotten out of bed after the ten o'clock news to go to the bathroom, and as he walked by his daughter's room, he saw movement through the crack of the open door. He had not looked closely, but that one quick glimpse had been enough. He'd seen Dawn's hand, massaging between her legs, backlit by the small wall night light.
He had not been able to get that image out of his mind--his daughter rubbing herself---and he began to notice, at breakfast and at dinner, that she was growing up, starting to fill out. That she was becoming a very attractive young woman. He began thinking about her when he was taking off his clothes, when he was taking a shower, when he was with Donna.
One day he came home from work at lunch to find a note from Donna waiting for him, explaining that she'd gone to the store with a friend.
He'd started to make himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when he noticed a rolled up pair of Dawn's white cotton panties on the tile floor next to the washing machine. Putting down the butter knife, he'd walked over to the washing machine and bent to pick up the panties. He stood slowly. They were small, delicate, and they felt soft and sensuous to his touch. He unrolled them, and pressed the thin material to his lips before guiltily dropping them into the washer.
He began coming home at lunch more often after that, secretly hoping that lightning would strike twice, but not daring to admit such a desire even to himself. He ate his lunches at the counter, staring toward the washing machine. His hope soon graduated into an obsession, and after two weeks he gave up all pretext of innocence, contriving as often as he could to get Donna out of the house before quickly sifting through the hamper for Dawn's panties. They hadn't had much of a smell at first, only cloth, but he'd soon begun to discern through the material the faint fishy scent of female arousal.
He hadn't intended to have sex with her, and probably would not have done so had she not caught him. He probably would have continued playing with her panties, fantasizing about her when he was with Donna, masturbating. Perhaps he would have eventually found a girl who looked like her......... But she'd come home one day at lunch, and he'd been sniffing the crotch of her underwear, inhaling the delicious perfume of her panties a she'd walked through the door into his bedroom. Dawn hadn't said anything, hadn't done anything, had simply stood there, staring. He'd slowly lowered his hands, feeling the guilty red heat of embarrassment flush across his face. He'd wanted to say something, wanted to apologize, but he hadn't been able to speak.
She'd backed up, started to move away, but he found his voice and said in his stern Father tone, "Dawn! Stop right there!" She'd stopped, turned ashamedly around to face him, and then he had rushed forward, taken her in his arms and held her, hugged her, pressed against her, kissing her full warm tips. He knew that she could feel his hardness against her and that made him even harder. He slid his hand under her shirt, feeling the tiny nipples of her firm young breasts. She was whimpering, crying, her eyes closed, but she was not fighting back, and he knew that she wanted it, and he pushed her to the floor, slid her shorts down and felt the rough hair of her vagina beneath his fingers.
He'd taken her there, on the carpet next to the bed.
She'd stiffened at one point, and he knew that she'd come.
He'd wanted to roar in triumph; he'd wanted to cry in shame. He'd wanted to hug her with gratitude; he'd wanted to beat her in disgust.
They'd done it regularly after that, at least twice a week for the past year. He had not told Donna; of course, but he had not forbid Dawn to tell her mother, and he'd assumed that she'd known.
More than once, he'd even considered a threesome. But Donna had not known, until yesterday. Despite the extra attention he'd shown Dawn, the extra things he'd bought her, the obviously un paternal kisses he'd bested upon her, the stupid bitch still hadn't figured it out If she hadn't been snooping where she wasn't supposed to, sneaking through Dawn's diary, she probably never would have found out.
But that was all water under the bridge now, and after reading Donna's letter, he'd known that his time was up.
That's when he'd taken out his gun. There was no way in hell that he was going to go to prison. Especially not as a short eyes.
He'd rather just end it before it got that far.
But a bullet in the brain was not for him. He walked back into the kitchen, looked down at the gun lying seductively on top of the table No, he was not to die this way. He was supposed to die, his time had truly come, but the manner and method of his death was not to be so meaningless, so trivial. He knew that. He knew it not as a conscious thought but instinctively, deep inside, the way he knew that tonight the sun would set and tomorrow it would rise. He closed his eyes, feeling a sudden pressure on his brain, fearing a headache. But no headache came.
Instead, he had the impulse to go outside and walk into the desert in back of the house.
He frowned, wondering if his mind was going. His eyes focused again on the gun, and he found himself thinking that there was no reason to kill himself at all. He was safe;
Donna had obviously not gone to the police The pressure kicked in again. He shut his eyes so tightly
" that tears came, and in a clear instant he understood that it was his time to die. '
He walked out of the kitchen, through the back door, through the yard, past the rusted barbecue, and crawled through the hole in the chain-link fence. He stood up on the other side of the barrier, not bothering to dust the sand and burrs from his clothes, and began walking across the open desert, heading in the general direction of Apache Peak. Behind him, the sun was setting, and the ground was bathed in an orangish red glow, the saguaros and ocotillos black shapes against the color.
Death. He stopped walking. The pressure in his mind strengthened but he pushed back against it. He knew he should continue moving forward, keep walking, but he sensed that Death was near, and he was now scared.
Death, he suddenly realized, was not merely the absence of life but the presence of... something else. It was not a natural cessation of mind and body functions but an actual, physical end type. He turned his head, looking toward the darkened north, his terror growing. It was coming, moving across the desert toward him. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it, a blackness on the horizon, and as it drew closer he knew that it was very big. And unbelievably ancient
The pressure in his mind no longer seemed to have any hold over him, and he suddenly gathered his wits, turned, and ran. He ran not toward home, not toward shelter, but away from the onrushing.." thing, away from Death, scrambling madly through the sand in an eff
ort to escape its coming. What the hell had possessed him to come out here in the first place? Temporary insanity? What had compelled him toHe slid, fell, tumbling arms over head over legs down the soft sand to the bottom of the arroyo, still looking behind him. His shin hit a rock, the side of his face a bush, and he landed hard on the arroyo floor, hearing and feeling the bones in his right arm crack beneath him. He was stunned for a moment, but then he remembered what was after him, and he stumbled to his feet. He looked upward, wondering if he should chance a climb up the cliff or run through the gulch.
There was a noise from around the curve behind him. A whooshing hiss.
It was a sound not unlike water, and for a brief second he thought a flash flood was sweeping through the arroyo, though there'd been no rain. He started to stagger away from the sound, then a blanket of peace settled over his mind, and he felt no worry. He stopped, turned around, and began walking toward the noise, growing more docile, more tranquil with each step he took.
He did not even cry out as he rounded the curve and saw the face of Death..
Sue awoke feeling tired, her mind a conflicting jumble of images from several disparate dreams. There was something about a hole in the earthen floor of a building, a hole that led into-a tunnel. There was a man nailed to a willow tree, screaming. There was a river of blood that ran uphill.
She sat up in bed, fluffing the pillow behind her and using it to brace her back against the headboard. She'd gotten to sleep late last night.
Janine had come over after work to talk and had stayed until nearly midnight, ignoring the not-so-subtle hints of Sue's parents, who tried to kick her out at eight, nine, and ten before finally giving up and going to bed.
John had already gone to school by the time Sue walked out into the living room, but her grandmother was still in bed. She found herself wondering, not for the first time, if maybe her grandmother was ill, if she was dying.
She forced herself to think of something else.
The Summoning Page 17
