by John Saul
Now they were in his eyes and his nose.
His ears were filled with them, and in his head he heard a terrible humming buzz, which he was certain was the sound of their millions of wings.
The torture went on, the nearly invisible creatures swarming around him, burrowing their way through his skin, into the membranes of his mouth and nose, his eyes and ears.
There was no way to escape them, no way to defend himself from them.
He lay squirming on the floor, and as the unbearable horror burgeoned within him, a new terror seized Jeff Larkin’s mind.
He was going to die.
In some way—in some unearthly manner that he didn’t understand at all—Julie Spellman was killing him.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
CHAPTER 13
Marge Larkin’s jaw was throbbing with pain when she woke up the next morning, and even before she got out of bed, she swallowed one of the pills she’d left on her bedside table, washing it down with water that tasted a bit stale after having been in the glass all night. She flopped back on the pillows for a few minutes, waiting for the codeine the dentist had prescribed to take effect.
She could barely even remember coming henne last night. The drive had been pure torture, since she’d refused to take any pain medication, and hadn’t even dared to drive until the effects of both the Novocain and the nitrous oxide had worn off. By the time she’d gotten in, much later than planned, she felt almost delirious with pain, and instantly dosed herself with codeine. Still, she had made it home, and everything seemed to be all right. Though Julie Spellman was no longer there, she had a vague recollection of Jeff telling her that he’d sent Julie home and put Ben to bed. Nodding mutely, she’d stopped only long enough to kiss Ben good night before going to bed herself.
Now, though, she recalled Ben trying to tell her something—something she’d been far too miserable to listen to.
Not that she felt much better this morning.
Still, no matter how much her jaw hurt, she was going to have to get up.
Get up, take care of her kids, and go to work today.
The thought of trying to work made her groan softly to herself. Though her official title at the weekly community newspaper was that of secretary, in fact she and Jim Chapman—owner, publisher, editor-in-chief, and jack-of-all-trades, as he liked to say—were pretty much the whole staff. There were a few people in town who wrote stories now and then, but Jim Chapman and Marge Larkin actually got the paper out. It wasn’t much of a paper, Marge had to admit. In fact, it hadn’t turned a profit in any of the ten years she’d worked for the Pleasant Valley Chronicle.
Not that her boss cared. Jim had plenty of money from his first career, which had involved inventing a complicated computer gadget Marge didn’t even pretend to understand, and brought him checks every month that allowed him easily to make up the losses the Pleasant Valley Chronicle generated. “I’m having a good time, and I can afford it,” he always told her whenever she suggested maybe he ought to stop throwing good money after bad. So who was she to complain? She liked Jim Chapman, and she liked her job, and she hated to miss a day’s work, because all too often it meant they were a day late getting the paper out.
Not, Marge suspected, that anyone in town except she and Jim cared if the Chronicle was late, but it was the principle of the thing.
So, jaw hurting or not, she was going to have to work today.
She climbed out of bed, dressed, and went into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Tentatively exploring the gap in her lower jaw where a molar had been until yesterday afternoon, she opened the refrigerator to get out the milk. As she reached for the carton, she automatically scanned the contents of the refrigerator, putting together a mental list of things to pick up at the store on the way home from work.
Marge frowned. Not only was the leftover pot roast that she’d planned to heat up for dinner tonight no longer there, but other things seemed to be missing as well.
The block of cheddar cheese was almost completely gone.
And the package of bologna that was supposed to serve as sandwich material for the whole week.
It hadn’t even been opened yesterday morning, and now only a couple of slices remained.
And the bread, too.
Hadn’t there been a whole loaf yesterday?
How much could three kids have eaten last night?
Then she remembered that they weren’t supposed to have eaten anything—at the last minute she’d decided to give them money to go to the A&W for hamburgers. Hadn’t they even gone? She couldn’t believe they’d give up a chance to go to the drive-in in favor of staying home and eating leftovers.
Now, as Ben came into the kitchen, still in his pajamas and rubbing sleep from his eyes, she nodded toward the refrigerator. “You guys sure ate us out of house and home yesterday, didn’t you?”
Ben shook his head. “Not me,” he said with such exaggerated innocence that Marge instantly knew there was more to the story, and that she would have to dig it out of him so no one could accuse him of being a tattletale.
“Oh, really?” Marge said. “Well, if it wasn’t you, who was it?”
“Jeff and Julie,” Ben said, climbing onto one of the chairs and reaching for the box of Cheerios.
“Jeff and Julie?” Marge echoed.
“Well, mostly Julie,” Ben said. Under his mother’s prodding, he told her what had happened, up until the time his brother had sent him over to Vic Costas’s house. “Then they finally came and got me,” he finished, emphasizing the word “finally” so hard that Marge almost laughed out loud. “And we went to the A&W and had hamburgers. Can we go there again tonight?”
“No, we can’t,” Marge said automatically as she tried to make sense out of what Ben had just told her.
Memories of things she read about or had seen on television flipped through her mind.
Was Julie one of those girls with that disease—what did they call it, bulimia?—that caused them to gorge themselves with food, then throw it up?
But what about Jeff? If he’d been there, too—
And where was Jeff? Usually he was up before Ben.
In the room the two boys shared, she found Jeff sprawled out on his bed, facedown, covered only with a sheet.
Sunlight was shining through the window, and as she shook Jeff awake, he rolled over and shielded his eyes from the glare with his arm.
“Ma? Jeez, Ma, what are you doing? Is something wrong?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Marge told him. “What on earth was going on around here yesterday? Ben says—” She stopped abruptly when Jeff lowered his arm and she saw his face.
Jeff looked … what?
Not sick, exactly, but not really well, either.
His face seemed to her to be too pale, and despite the coolness of the morning, his forehead was covered with a sheen of perspiration. “Do you feel all right?” she asked.
Jeff groaned and sat up. “I feel fine,” he told her. “Why, do I look sick or something?”
Frowning, Marge pressed her wrist against his forehead, then the palm of her hand.
Despite his pallor, he didn’t feel feverish.
And yet …
Another idea flitted into her mind, one that disturbed her far more than the possibility that Julie Spellman might have some exotic eating disorder.
Didn’t kids on drugs like to eat a lot? The “munchies”—wasn’t that what they called it?
Was that why Jeff sent Ben out of the house? Did Julie have drugs, which she’d shared with Jeff?
“I think you’d better tell me exactly what went on around here yesterday afternoon,” Marge told him. Then, before Jeff could reply, she caught sight of the clock.
In ten minutes she would be late for work, and this was the morning they had to get the final layout files for the paper ready to send to the printer, no later than ten.
If she pursued this with Jeff now—provided, of course, th
at she could get him even to talk about anything that might have happened yesterday afternoon—it could take most of the morning.
She looked at him once more.
The eyes—hadn’t she heard that kids who were on drugs had dilated pupils?
But when? Just when they were high? All the time?
She peered at him, trying to analyze the state of his eyes. They looked normal, yet something, clearly, was wrong.
What was she supposed to do? Just ask him if he was doing drugs? She suddenly realized how totally naive she was about such things.
Maybe the pallor didn’t mean anything at all—maybe it was just because he’d been sound asleep a few minutes ago. “You’re sure you’re all right?” she asked.
“I already told you, Ma, I’m fine,” Jeff replied.
Five minutes later, as she left for work, Marge Larkin knew she’d taken the path of least resistance. Something, obviously, had gone on in her house yesterday afternoon, but right now she was just too busy, and felt too lousy, to deal with it.
Tonight, she told herself as she headed into town. I’ll talk to him tonight, and if I have to, I’ll talk to Karen and Russell, too. But whatever it is, it’ll just have to wait.
Jeff stared into the cracked mirror in the bathroom.
Why had he told his mother he felt fine, when he didn’t at all?
In fact, he had never felt worse in his life.
Last night he’d had chills and fever; all night long he’d gone back and forth between freezing to death and burning up.
He’d felt sick, but hadn’t been able to throw up.
There was a terrible itching feeling, a raw, stinging, maddening sensation so deep it seemed to be rising out of his very bones.
This morning, when his mother had shaken him awake, he felt a little bit better, but not much.
Yet when he tried to tell her how sick he was, he hadn’t been able to. It was as if he were paralyzed, thinking the words but unable to will them from his brain to his mouth. Instead he’d told her he was fine.
Fine!
But he felt terrible! Why hadn’t he told his mother?
Was he going nuts or something?
Then, as he stared at his image in the mirror, he saw another image, one that rose out of the depths of his memory to superimpose itself on the face in the glass.
An image of Julie Spellman, smiling at him.
Beckoning to him.
Luring him.
Enslaving him.
His pulse quickened as he stared past his own reflection to the vision floating beyond the mirror, and he knew that he had to see her.
Had to be near her.
Suddenly, being close to Julie Spellman had become the most important thing in his life.
“Why can’t I ride her?” Molly demanded. She was perched on the top rail of the corral, watching as Kevin, riding Greta bareback, cantered easily around the perimeter of the enclosure, Flicka racing along after her mother, struggling to keep up. “But what if I just walk her?” the little girl pleaded. “How am I supposed to train Flicka when she grows up, if I don’t even know how to ride myself?”
Kevin grinned at Molly as he passed her. “Come on—look at how little you are. Greta’s way too big for you.”
“I bet I could do it,” Molly insisted. Then, as Kevin ignored her, she decided to try a different tactic. “How old were you when you learned to ride?”
“Five or six, I guess,” Kevin replied before he realized his mistake.
“Well, I’m almost ten!” Molly declared.
Kevin reined the mare to a stop, swung his left leg over her neck and dropped to the ground. As he dismounted, Molly jumped off the fence and ran over to take the reins. “Tell you what,” Kevin said as Molly began leading the horse around the corral, walking her just the way he’d taught her to. “We’ll ask your mom, and if she says it’s all right, I’ll put a saddle on Greta after breakfast, and you can try it. But I’ll hold the reins, and you have to promise to do exactly what I tell you. Okay?”
“Really?” Molly asked. She’d been pleading with Kevin to teach her to ride Greta all week, but she hadn’t actually expected him to give in. “I promise! I promise!” Almost trembling with excitement, she finished walking the horse, forcing herself not to rush and give Kevin an excuse to change his mind. Finally, after she’d walked Greta around the corral three times and Kevin agreed that the mare had been properly cooled down, Molly turned the horse loose. Instantly Flicka began nursing at the mare’s nipple, finally reaching the goal she’d been trying to achieve as she’d followed her mother around the enclosure.
Feeding both the horses lumps of sugar, Molly crawled between the two lower rails of the fence and ran up the hill to the house to begin lobbying her mother for permission to ride Greta.
In the kitchen, Karen was feeling better than she had in several days, and she knew exactly why.
Julie.
This morning—indeed, ever since she’d come home from baby-sitting Ben Larkin yesterday—Julie seemed finally to have recovered from her anger over the grounding, and from the strange lethargy that had overcome her since Otto had died.
Her color appeared better to Karen, and at the table last night she’d once again joined in the conversation, as close to her old self as she’d been since they arrived in Pleasant Valley. And this morning Julie had gotten up early to help Molly turn out the horses, then cheerfully volunteered to pitch in with breakfast.
Perhaps, finally, things were going to settle back down to normal.
She was just getting ready to go out and ring the triangle to summon the rest of the family when Molly burst into the kitchen, bubbling over with the news that Kevin had finally agreed to teach her how to ride Greta. “But he says I have to ask you first,” she finished. “But I know I can do it, Mom. Kevin was only five when he learned! And if I’m going to—”
Karen held up her hands in mock protest against the torrent of words. “Will you just slow down, wash your hands, and get to the table? We’ll all talk about it when Russell and Kevin come in. All right?”
Though another torrent of excited words was already building in Molly’s throat, she managed to choke them back until everyone had gathered around the table, but as Karen passed the platter of pancakes to Russell, Molly could stand it no longer. “You said we’d talk about it at the table,” she blurted out. “And we’re all at the table, so you have to talk about it!”
The discussion, as it turned out, lasted only a couple of minutes, and it was Russell who finally summed it up.
“She lives on a farm. She owns a horse. She needs to know how to ride. What’s the big deal?”
“But she’s so young,” Karen protested, though she already knew the issue was decided.
“She’s older than Kevin or I were when we first got on a horse,” Russell told her. Then he faced the little girl directly, his eyes alive with humor for the first time since his father had died. When he spoke again, his voice actually took on the same timbre Otto’s had had. “ ’Course, I ’spose there ain’t no way girls can do some of the things boys can do …” he added in perfect imitation of his father.
Realizing the discussion was essentially over, Karen nonetheless tried one last gambit. “It seems to me Molly’s going to have to convince Julie, too. I mean, Greta’s her horse, isn’t she?” But to her surprise, her older daughter only shrugged.
“It’s okay with me,” Julie said. “Molly’s the one who’s crazy about horses. She should know how to ride.”
“When?” Molly demanded, sensing victory. “This morning? Please? I’ll do the dishes, and clean my room, and everything!”
Karen gave up the fight. “All right, if you all think it’s okay, I’ll go along with it. But if you fall off, don’t come crying to me,” she added, doing her best to glare at Molly but failing completely. “And don’t bother with the dishes or your room. I’ll take care of it myself.”
As the rest of the family began planning the day—arou
nd the kitchen table, instead of in the tack room—Karen leaned back in her chair and almost guiltily savored the moment.
For the first time since the wedding, all of them were together, and all of them—even Julie—seemed to be happy.
Except that Otto is dead, Karen reminded herself. And yet, despite the guilt her feelings caused her, she couldn’t rid herself of the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, Otto’s death might have been for the best in the long run.
He hadn’t been happy about what was happening to his farm, or his family, or even himself.
And he’d died quickly. Ellen Filmore had even suggested that after the first quick sting, he might not have been conscious for more than a few seconds.
And now, finally, the rest of them seemed truly to be turning into a family.
A real family.
“Why are we going over to the Owens’?” Ben asked, still angry at his brother over his banishment the previous afternoon. Now, his fists settled stubbornly on his hips, and his legs spread wide as he glared up at Jeff’s towering height. “I don’t want to go, and you can’t make me!” he declared.
Jeff reached down, picked the much smaller boy up, and held him at arm’s length as Ben struggled to get loose. “We’re going over there because that’s what I say we’re going to do, and I’m a lot bigger than you.”
“I’m telling Mom when she gets home,” Ben shouted. “She said—”
“She said I was supposed to take care of you, and I’m going to,” Jeff told him. “And we’re going over to the Owens’, and you can play with Molly.”
“She’s a girl!” Ben objected. “I hate girls!”
“What about horses?” Jeff asked. “You like them, don’t you?”
Suddenly Ben looked uncertain. “Horses?” he asked, sensing a trap.
“Sure. Molly has a colt, and I bet she’ll let you pet it.”
“Really?” Ben asked, plunging instantly into the snare his brother had laid for him. “Where’d she get a colt?” By the time they started across the field, Ben’s threat to tell his mother about Jeff’s imagined transgression had vanished from his mind, and as they approached the Owens’ corral a few minutes later, he ran ahead to scramble up to the top rail of the fence.
