The man’s expression was changeless. “How long have you dated her?”
Duane shrugged. “Not long. I mean, we’re not officially dating, though I was over there earlier tonight.”
“Yes?”
Duane nodded. “Watching a movie. Bubba Ho-Tep?”
“I’m not familiar with it.”
Duane felt himself relax. The guy wasn’t trying to pick him up. He was just new to the area and starved for some conversation. Maybe Duane was the one who needed to alter his behavior.
“So, uh, you’re not into movies?” Duane asked.
The man shook his head, glanced down at the table. “Not particularly. Mostly, I read.”
Ah, Duane thought. Some common ground. “What kind of books are you into?”
“Nonfiction mostly,” the man said. Duane tried to conceal his disappointment.
The man added, “I can see why someone might read fiction, though.”
“Yeah?” Duane asked, scanning the tables again. About half of them had filled back up. One of the band members had returned to the stage, was messing with an amplifier.
“Absolutely,” the man went on. “Real life can be a horrid thing. Take that terrible business a few nights ago, for example.”
He shot the man a look. Did the guy know Duane had been there? Despite the fact that Duane had just taken a healthy guzzle of beer, his mouth felt cotton dry.
“Indeed,” the man continued, as though Duane had agreed with him. “That Freehafer boy wasn’t yet thirty years old.”
Duane frowned. Whether the man knew of Duane’s association with Mike or not—how could he?—this wasn’t the kind of thing to talk about in a bar. Or anywhere, for that matter.
“I suppose his parents are beside themselves with grief,” the man said.
Duane pursed his lips, forced his tone to remain level. “I’m sure. Of course, they’re not the only ones, right?”
The man went on as though Duane hadn’t spoken. “It’s a good thing Mr. Freehafer wasn’t married.”
Duane raised his chin, stared at the man with narrowed eyes. “And why is that?”
The man spread his hands as though it were self-evident. “Why, because his wife would be a widow, of course. And his children would be fatherless.”
“Mike didn’t have children,” Duane said.
“Not even a girlfriend?”
Duane felt a chill. “No.”
“Hm. I would’ve thought a young man with Mr. Freehafer’s looks would have plenty of girlfriends. And a great many friends too.” The man nodded at Duane. “Other than you, of course.”
For the first time, Duane turned to face the man. “How do you know we were friends?”
The man smiled at him, unabashed, and again the chill whispered down Duane’s spine. “The men at the gas station. The ones who drink coffee there? They said Mike’s friends were named Short Pump and—” He frowned, appeared to consider, “—ah yes, someone named Savannah.”
Duane set down his beer.
The man’s smile broadened. “Savannah was easy enough to locate—after all, it’s a rather uncommon name, isn’t it? Particularly in a town this size?”
“Listen, what are you—”
“But Short Pump, that didn’t help me at all. I had to get a physical description, ask around town. Finally, one of the girls working at the bakery said she knew you, thought your real name was Duane.”
Duane’s body had gone numb.
“She was very helpful,” the man said, “and the cinnamon rolls were delicious.”
Duane scooted back from the table. “I think we’re done here.”
“If you’re certain,” the man said.
Duane stood up, fought off a wave of dizziness.
“Are you well, Mr. McKidd?”
Duane glanced at him, swaying a little. He steadied himself, closed his eyes to rid them of the bleariness. For a moment there, he’d been seeing things. He could’ve sworn the man’s face had grown darker, the sideburns thicker, wilder.
“Please sit down,” the man said.
Was the voice deeper?
“I’ll do what I want,” Duane muttered. He pushed away from the table, tottered down the aisle toward the bar.
“I’ll see you and Savannah soon,” the man said.
Duane hesitated in midstep, but couldn’t bring himself to turn and face the man.
A blast of drums made Duane yelp and throw out his arms. On the stage, Dance Naked had begun Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way.”
And Duane had apparently nailed a guy standing to his left with an errant forearm. The guy—a kid, really—was glaring at him with his arms out. “What’s your problem?”
“Sorry,” Duane muttered and pushed past a group of older couples ranged around a booth. In moments he passed the stage and was almost to the exit when he threw a glance back at the table where he’d been sitting.
The table was empty, Duane’s unfinished beer bottle the only proof anyone had sat there at all.
A chill spreading through his limbs, Duane hurried down the steps toward the boardwalk.
Chapter Seventeen
By the time they were halfway through The Guns of Santa Sangre, which turned out to be a fucking werewolf movie of all things, neither Rebecca nor Mya were showing the slightest inclination toward switching allegiances to him. Far from it. They were treating Weezer like some sort of rock star, from the sickening way they laughed and leaned against him when he told a joke to the way they seemed to hang on his every word.
And the part that drove Glenn craziest was Weezer’s unshakable aplomb. Like he’d been lavished with attention this way his entire life. As if, only three days ago, he hadn’t been slinking up to half a dozen girls—some of them certified skanks—and being shooed away like a starving mongrel.
Glenn sipped his Jack and Coke and watched the trio. Weezer had let down the tailgate of the Ranger and laid out a blanket for them to sit on. Glenn’s view of Mya was impeded, but he could see easily enough how Rebecca had cozied up next to Weezer.
This shit had to end. Pronto.
Glenn moved beside Rebecca. “What do you think of the movie?”
She looked at him with what he interpreted as forced politeness. “I’m not into horror. With so much unhappiness in the world, why create more?”
Shit. This was worse than he’d thought.
He did his best to look unconcerned. “Too bad. The film has great cinematography.”
She gave him a close-lipped smile—still with that forced politeness—and turned back to Weezer.
Glenn resisted the urge to knock their heads together. And slap himself in the face. The film has great cinematography? What kind of stupid-ass comment was that? A remark like that, that was Short Pump territory. Geek City all the way. The kind of comment guaranteed to not get you laid. Why not just ask her about her favorite Lord of the Rings character and make sure she thinks you’re a complete tool?
Man, he was off his game.
So? a voice in his head spoke up. The night’s still young. Regroup and return with your A-game.
If I still have it.
Did that beast take your balls as well as your confidence? the voice chided.
Glenn ground his teeth. Hell no.
He’d just about resolved to steel himself with another Jack and Coke when he picked up the thread of conversation between Weezer and the girls.
“…wasn’t sure, so I kept moving toward the clearing,” Weezer said.
“Weren’t you scared?” Mya asked. She sounded half-soused.
“I was,” Weezer admitted. “But my friends were back there. Glenn had been knocked unconscious, and I had to make sure he was safe.”
Glenn realized with dawning horror that Weezer was talking about the bonfire. Why this was so surprising to him
, he had no idea, but on an instinctive level he felt like Weezer was betraying some sacred trust between them.
“Did you worry about getting hurt?” Rebecca asked. With a hand on Weezer’s arm.
Weezer gave a little shrug. “I suppose I did worry, but it was imperative that I did what I could for my friends.”
“Awww,” Mya said in a voice that made Glenn want to cram the Seagram’s Blue Hawaiian down her throat. “That’s so sweet of you, Weezer.”
“And loyal,” Rebecca added.
And inaccurate, Glenn amended. He listened to Weezer’s account with growing disbelief.
“When I got to the clearing, I couldn’t believe what I saw. The bodies…they were laid out like…like meat at a slaughterhouse.”
That was right, Glenn decided. It had looked like that.
“Then I saw it standing there in the clearing.”
Weezer went on, his voice hushed, his enunciation crisp. As if, in being mauled by the beast, his IQ had risen fifty points. “It was alone. Its muzzle was glistening from its victims.”
“You’re kidding me,” Mya said.
Rebecca looked at her. “Haven’t you read the news? Everybody who was there gave the same account.”
“Most of them,” Weezer corrected. “There were some who were too frightened to talk about it honestly. They claimed it was only a large dog. One woman said it was a bear, even though the last bear in this region was spotted sometime during the 1800s.”
Glenn moved closer so he could see Weezer better. The drive-in screen was crammed with bloody images of werewolves shredding victims from the Old West. But what arrested Glenn’s attention was the way his friend was holding court, Weezer looking more like some graduate student than a white-trash degenerate.
Maybe he’s only white trash because of how he was raised, that new voice muttered.
Of course, Glenn thought distractedly.
And maybe you’ve kept him that way with your relentless condescension.
Bullshit.
Weezer was going on. “I assumed at first it would rush me the way it did Mike. Or maybe throw me in the fire the way it did to poor Dan Clinton.” Weezer shook his head. “Dan left a wife and six children behind…a terrible shame.” And made a tutting noise that sounded not the slightest bit like him.
“So what did you do?” Rebecca asked, her voice even smokier than normal.
“I spoke to it,” Weezer said.
Glenn frowned. Despite the authority with which Weezer was telling the tale, this sounded to Glenn like a sharp left turn into the Merry Old Land of Bullshit. Weezer claimed he spoke to the beast? That implied Weezer had been brave enough—or foolhardy enough—to attract the beast’s attention, and that prospect flew in the face of everything Glenn knew about his friend.
He resolved to let Weezer go on, to shovel more bullshit until the tale became too untenable to support.
“What did you say?” Mya asked. She was sitting cross-legged on the tailgate and leaning toward Weezer, so that her shirt fell open quite a bit at the chest. Her breasts were even better than Glenn had first suspected, and he made a mental note to consider this new development after he’d won back both girls and could choose between them.
Weezer’s voice hardened. “I said, ‘Leave my friends in peace.’”
This was too much. Glenn looked at him dryly. “Come on, man. You’re claiming you asked that thing to leave us alone, and it decided you were right?”
Weezer’s remaining eye pierced Glenn. “Does it look like it left me alone?”
Glenn winced.
“I didn’t ask it to leave,” Weezer corrected. “I asked it to leave my friends alone.”
Rebecca was hugging herself. “You mentioned them by name?”
“That’s right. Short Pump. Jessica Clinton.” Again with the piercing Cyclopean stare. “Glenn.”
This sounded even less believable than the rest of it, but Glenn decided to play along.
“Then what?” Mya prompted.
“Then it walked toward me.”
“Wait a minute,” Glenn said. “You say it ‘walked’?”
“You don’t believe me?” Weezer asked.
Glenn grunted. “I’m sorry, but no, I don’t. That thing didn’t walk anywhere. It moved like a Bengal tiger on crystal meth.”
“It moved like a man.”
“Like a really goddamned agile man, one that was part…” Glenn broke off, the blood rushing to his cheeks.
They all waited. The corners of Weezer’s mouth turned up in an indulgent grin. “Why not say it, Glenn? Does the word frighten you?”
Glenn suppressed an urge to knock the smile off Weezer’s face. It felt like the temperature had risen twenty degrees.
Glenn looked from face to face, knowing he couldn’t just put them off. Forcing himself to make eyes contact with Weezer, he said, “It looked like a wolf.”
“A werewolf,” Rebecca said. “That’s what the Sun-Times called it.”
“Why didn’t I hear about this?” Mya asked.
“Because you get your news from the E! network,” Rebecca said.
“So the werewolf was walking toward you,” Mya prompted.
“And talking,” Glenn added. “Don’t forget that. It was going the route of diplomacy.”
Weezer seemed unperturbed. “It wasn’t speaking at all. I wouldn’t have heard it if it was. The men with guns were all around by that point, shooting and yelling.”
Glenn mentally calculated. Was that before or after Short Pump had saved him? He couldn’t remember. Everything from that night was so muddled in his mind…
“So you ran, right?” Rebecca said. “It had already killed all those people.”
“I stood my ground,” Weezer said.
Glenn tossed back his head and laughed. He couldn’t help it.
When he looked at the three of them ranged along the tailgate, he noticed that Weezer wore the same knowing expression, but Rebecca and Mya were both glaring at him.
“What’s so hilarious?” Rebecca asked.
Glenn nodded at Weezer. “Why don’t you ask the hero here why he wasn’t in the clearing before that?”
Mya scrunched up her eyes. “What are you talking about?”
Glenn indicated Weezer. “This whole wild story began when Weezer entered the clearing.”
“So?” Mya said.
“So, he was there when the beast first attacked. Where was he when the thing was killing everyone?”
The girl turned to Weezer, and Glenn thought, Finally. It had taken long enough, but he’d finally discovered the necessary angle to shed light on the ludicrousness of Weezer’s tale. He crossed his arms, eager to watch his friend squirm.
Weezer nodded. “I was in the woods when the werewolf first appeared. I watched what happened from the forest. When everyone ran, I did too.”
Glenn couldn’t keep the smugness out of his grin.
Rebecca was eyeing Weezer closely. “But you came back.”
“I did,” Weezer agreed. “There had been enough death at that point.”
Glenn’s grin faded a little.
Weezer continued as if his story hadn’t been interrupted. “It said to me, ‘Your lifeblood will flow.’”
Mya’s hands flew to her mouth. “It was threatening to kill you.”
Weezer gave her a funny look. “That’s what I assumed.”
“But you don’t now?” Rebecca asked.
Instead of answering, Weezer glanced up at the sky. The glittering stars. The sliver of moon.
Glenn was sweating hard now, his clothes soaked through. God, he needed water in the worst way.
He asked, “Is that when it attacked you?”
“Just about,” Weezer said. “I was looking at it one moment. The next I was staring up at the tr
ees.”
“And then?” Mya asked.
“And then there was the crack of a rifle report, and the thing fell forward.”
Glenn felt faint, both from the smothering heat and the aching thud of his heart.
“It was only there for a moment,” Weezer said. “It struck me in the face. I’m certain it could have killed me then, but for whatever reason, it didn’t.”
Rebecca tilted her head, perhaps searching Weezer’s face for a lie. “It just…left you?”
“After the shouts erupted from nearby, yes, it left me. I blacked out, but not before seeing it hurry into the darkness, the hunters giving chase.”
Glenn felt his muscles unclench, but the feverish heat remained. He’d go to the restroom, give himself a chance to regroup. He had to take a leak, and though he ordinarily would have done this along the back fence—no one was parked within thirty yards of them anyway—he needed some water, and he needed it right now. And maybe a coney dog. Or whatever else they had at the concession stand that might contain some protein.
“Where are you going, Glenn?” Weezer asked.
“Be right back,” Glenn said, moving away.
“Would you like me to accompany you?” Weezer asked.
Piss off, Glenn thought. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t forget to wipe!” Mya called.
Glenn glowered at the gravel in front of him. What a bimbo. She would definitely be Weezer’s tonight. Good for him. Maybe this newfound confidence would make things easier on Glenn. His friendship with Weezer and Short Pump had lost him many a lay over the years. If this new Weezer was actually attractive to women, Glenn could finally relax a little and not have to worry about playing matchmaker.
Nearing the concession stand, he glanced up at the movie screen and beheld the glowing yellow eyes of a werewolf about to kill a screaming woman.
Shivering, he thrust the image away and lumbered toward the bathroom.
Glenn was hoping the bathroom would be empty, but even that good fortune was denied him when he pushed open the door and discovered the big oaf relieving himself at the urinal. There was another urinal open beside the guy, but Glenn wanted privacy. Plus, the oaf might have BO, and that wouldn’t agree with Glenn’s hypersensitive nose.
Wolf Land Page 15
