The Masked Family

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Imagining them was the next best thing, though. It was all he'd needed to get him from West Virginia to Puerto Peñasco, and it was all he would need to give him the strength to finish the rescue.

  "So what now?" Drill folded his arms over his chest and stared at the burning clothesline pole. "They got 911 down here?"

  Cary pulled a black ski mask out of the pocket of his jeans and tugged it down over his face. He adjusted the eyeholes so his line of sight was clear.

  Next, he rolled over onto his hands and knees, staying low to the ground and out of Drill's eyeshot. He took a deep breath, then released it, then took another, trying to steady himself.

  As determined as he was, his nerves were still snapping like downed power lines on asphalt.

  "Hey now." Drill leaned down and stared at something in the sand in front of the cross. "What the fuck is this?"

  Every nerve and muscle in Cary's body tensed at once. The object in the sand that Drill was reaching for was something Cary had put there himself.

  It was bait, and Drill was taking it.

  "Check it out." Drill snagged the item and held it up for Crystal to see. It was a plastic ziplock baggie filled with white powder.

  Crystal frowned and fingered the baggie. "Why would the KKK leave us drugs?"

  This is it.

  Cary's heart pounded as he got ready to leap. The bag full of salt had distracted Drill and Crystal for a moment, but they had to know in their hearts it wasn't smack or coke or meth or any kind of drug. There was an element of surprise in the air, but it wouldn't last long.

  As nervous as he was, Cary had to move.

  Rubbing his Starbeam Ring, he made one last wish that he would finally receive his super-powers. E.Q. had promised he'd get them when he needed them most, and this was the most he'd needed them in decades.

  Cary crouched behind the dune, scooping up fistfuls of sand. He imagined he was The Hurry again, because powers or no powers, that was what made him feel brave.

  Then, he bolted out from behind the dune.

  "Go go go go go!" he shouted as he ran toward Crystal and Drill. "Go go go!" It was the signal for El Yucatango to scramble out of his own hiding place and join the fight.

  The only problem was, El Yucatango didn't show.

  As Cary hurtled forward, he saw Drill and Crystal turn toward him, looking shocked. He saw Drill drop the baggie of white powder in the sand.

  But he didn't see El Yucatango. The moment had come, the signal had been given, and exactly what Cary had feared had come to pass.

  El Yucatango had screwed up.

  In the few seconds Cary had to think about it, he realized his options had turned to shit. If he tried to fight Drill and Crystal single-handedly, they would probably beat the crap out of him. If he tried to run away, they would probably chase him down and beat the crap out of him then, too.

  Of course, running away would buy him a few more seconds of not having the crap beaten out of him...but wouldn't it be better at least to try to finish the rescue mission? What if his powers kicked in after all, or Drill and Crystal were stoned enough that he could take them?

  Go for it go for it go for it!

  The decision was made. Without breaking stride, Cary rocketed forward.

  Drill squared his shoulders and stepped out to meet him. Cary pitched a handful of sand in his face, and Drill flung up his huge hands to swipe it out of his eyes.

  "Hey!" Crystal charged at Cary, fists raised overhead, and he tossed sand in her face, too. Sputtering and clawing at the grit in her eyes, she stumbled into Drill.

  "Yucatango!" Cary shouted it like a battlecry on the off chance the luchador was asleep and could still be brought into the fight.

  Then, Cary shoved Crystal as hard as he could. Still fumbling with her eyes, she tumbled into Drill, and both of them went down in the sand.

  As Drill and Crystal struggled to untangle themselves, Cary looked around fast for a weapon. He was just about to grab an aluminum-framed lawn chair when he heard a familiar voice from the direction of the cottage.

  A child's voice.

  "Who are you?" It was the voice of a frightened little girl, a child careening toward full-blown panic.

  Cary recognized the voice in an instant and spun toward it.

  Two children stood just outside the open back door of the cottage. A girl, ten years old, in a giant black t-shirt with a marijuana leaf emblem on the chest. A boy, six, in red pajamas several sizes too small for him, clutching a ragged teddy bear.

  Glo and Late.

  "It's me!" Cary lifted the ski mask to give them a look. He started to take a step toward them.

  That was when something caught hold of his ankle and pulled him down hard on his stomach. Someone pulled him down hard.

  "You're dead, asshole!" Drill's voice roared above him, rippling with rage. "Fucking asshole!"

  Cary heard the kids scream. He felt someone's weight land on his back, pinning him to the sand.

  Twisting around, he raised one arm defensively and looked up. He saw Drill straddling him, both hands locked together and cranked back high over one shoulder, preparing to swing.

  *****

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Johnstown, Pennsylvania, 2006

  "Get off me!" Even as E.Q. pushed Pretzel back, the dog thrust his head forward, getting in a few more slobbering face-licks. "That's enough!" E.Q., who was pinned in his recliner rocker, chided the dog with a half-amused tone in his voice...but he wasn't smiling.

  "BAROOO!" said Pretzel, hopping up and down on his mangled back legs, trying to jump onto E.Q.'s lap. "BA-BAROOO!"

  That was what Celeste saw when she walked into the living room with the letter to Grogan Salt. Like her father, she wasn't smiling.

  The envelope felt like it weighed a hundred pounds in her hand.

  "Pretzel!" Just then, Baron hurried into the room and headed straight for the dog. "Down! Get down!"

  Baron grabbed Pretzel's shoulders and hoisted him off E.Q. As soon as Pretzel was clear, E.Q. jumped to his feet and brushed himself off.

  "Now settle yourself down." Baron still held the dog up and spoke into his ear. "You hear me?"

  "BAROOO!" said Pretzel. "BAROOO!"

  Baron set the dog down. "Sorry about that, Dad. Thanks for watching him."

  "No problem at all." E.Q. smiled half-heartedly and turned to Celeste. "Find anything upstairs?"

  Celeste nodded and held up the envelope. "Is Grogan alive, Dad?"

  E.Q. seemed to shrink away from her without moving a muscle.

  "What?" He stared at the envelope with a blank expression...blank like a storm shutter slamming down in the path of a hurricane.

  "Cary mailed this to Grogan last year." Celeste flapped the envelope in the air. "The address is Lilly, PA."

  "What?" Baron didn't hide his shock at all. His eyes and mouth flew wide open like a cartoon character's. "What did you say?" In his hurry to get across the room, he tripped over Pretzel and whacked his shin on the coffee table.

  "Someone sent it back," said Celeste. "'Return to Sender.'" She ran a fingernail under the words scrawled along the bottom edge of the envelope. "But why would Cary send it addressed to Grogan if he didn't think Grogan would get it?"

  Baron limped over and snatched the envelope from her hands. "Oh my God," he said, reading the front of it. "This must be a joke."

  Then, without hesitation, he tore it open. Celeste made a grab for it, but he twisted around, keeping it out of reach.

  Suddenly, Paisley spoke up. "Grogan's dead."

  Celeste jumped. She hadn't even known Paisley was in the room, yet there she was, looking over Celeste's shoulder.

  "Grogan died in the fire," said Paisley. "Thirty years ago."

  "He always had a way of weaseling out of things." Celeste shrugged. "Maybe he weaseled out of dying, too."

  "'Dear Grogan.'" Baron shook his head slowly in wide-eyed disbelief, then continued reading the letter he'd pulled from the envelope. "'L
eave my father alone.'"

  Celeste looked at E.Q., but the storm shutters were still locked down tight behind his black-framed glasses. His expression remained as unreadable as the trunk of a tree.

  Baron kept reading. "'Haven't you taken enough from him? From all of us? When is it going to be enough?'"

  "Maybe Cary wrote it for therapy," said Paisley. All the bang and bite had gone out of her voice, leaving a strained, shaky mumble. "His way of dealing with the dead."

  "'I listened in when you talked to him on the phone last night,'" read Baron. "'It made me sick to the stomach to hear your voice.'"

  Celeste looked at Paisley and shook her head. "So much for therapy."

  "'As far as I'm concerned, you're the Devil.'" Baron cleared his throat, and Pretzel barked in response. "'All you do is spread suffering and death.'"

  "Cary must've been high when he wrote that," said Paisley. "Don't you think we would've known if Grogan was alive?"

  "I don't know," said Celeste, staring hard at E.Q. "What do you think, Dad?"

  E.Q. just kept listening as Baron read the letter.

  "'My father might forgive you, but I never will. You don't deserve forgiveness, and neither do I. Thanks to you, I let everyone down.

  "'But I won't let them down again. If you don't stay dead, I swear I'll make you wish you were.

  "'I know I wish you were.'" Baron flipped to the second page of the letter. "'Of the two people who died in that fire, I sure wouldn't have wanted you to be the one to turn up alive. I don't think anyone would have.

  "'Anyone except Paisley, maybe.'"

  With that, Baron stopped reading the letter and flashed Paisley a look. "Now I wonder what that's supposed to mean?"

  Paisley sniffed and shrugged. "How should I know?"

  "Let's say Grogan's alive," said Baron. "Does that make you happy? Because this letter makes it sound like you'd be."

  "I'm telling you, Cary was high when he wrote that," said Paisley.

  Baron narrowed his eyes and tapped his lower lip with the tip of a finger. "You didn't answer the question."

  "You know what you can do with this bullshit TV reporter routine of yours, don't you?" said Paisley.

  Baron pointed an index finger at her. "I had a feeling it was you."

  "This is bullshit." Paisley rolled her eyes and turned away.

  Celeste's frown deepened as she looked from Baron to Paisley and back again. "What are you saying, Baron?"

  "Remember when I said I thought Grogan had an accomplice?" said Baron. "It was you, wasn't it, Paisley?"

  "You don't know what you're talking about," said Paisley.

  Still gripping Cary's letter in his fist, Baron stomped around in front of her, forcing her to look at him. "It's the only way Grogan could've stayed a step ahead of us the way he did...more like ten steps ahead of us. You told him what we were going to do before we did it."

  "Shove it up your ass, fuck-man," said Paisley.

  That got a rise out of E.Q. "Hey, that's enough!"

  Celeste could see the level of tension ratcheting up fast. "How about we all take a minute, huh? Take a deep breath."

  Baron ignored her. "Did you know he was alive all along, Paisley? You and Dad? Was it your secret?"

  "Grogan died thirty years ago." Paisley glowered at him, fists balled on either side of her enormous belly.

  "Were you afraid to tell the rest of us?" Baron yanked off his wire-framed glasses and shook them at her. "Were you afraid we'd find out you helped him and covered for him?"

  Suddenly, E.Q. pushed in between them. "I said that's enough, didn't I?" He pressed a hand to Baron's chest. "Now give it a rest, son."

  Baron leaned toward Paisley as if E.Q. wasn't standing between them at all. Though the look on his face wasn't directed at Celeste, even she could feel the waves of rage and hatred radiating from him. "Were you afraid we'd find out you helped him kill Mom?"

  Paisley's eyes shot wide open, brimming with surprise and outrage. She took one faltering step backward and bumped into the arm of the sofa.

  E.Q. gave Baron a shove. "That's it. No more."

  "You did, didn't you?" Baron wouldn't stop talking to Paisley. "You helped him set the fire."

  Celeste glared at Baron. "Have you completely lost it?" she said. "I mean, how could you even think that for a second?"

  "Come on outside." E.Q. propelled Baron toward the front door. "You better cool off for a while."

  "Tell them, Paisley," Baron said as he backed toward the door. "You and Grogan set the fire, didn't you?"

  "No." Paisley's voice was low and cold and strange. "It's worse than that."

  Celeste whirled to face her, unable to believe what she'd just heard.

  Tears streamed down Paisley's cheeks and ran from her jawline. She locked eyes with Celeste, casting a palpable tide of pain and sadness between them.

  "Much worse," said Paisley.

  *****

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Johnstown, Pennsylvania, 1977

  Cary was standing near the top of the stairs, watching the flames and smoke roiling in the living room below, when something slammed into him from behind. He barely had time to register the impact before he hit the floor.

  Jarred but unhurt, he quickly rolled over on his side and saw what had struck him...who had struck him. As soon as Cary saw who it was, he burst into flames inside with an angry heat that exceeded the heat downstairs.

  Grogan Salt lay on his back just inches away, shaking his head hard as if to clear the fog from it.

  Instantly, a single thought flared in Cary's mind:

  He did this. He did all of this.

  Everything bad that had happened in that house had been Grogan's fault. Now, the night before Grogan was supposed to leave for good, the house was on fire...and there he was, sneaking around while everyone else was in bed.

  He did this...and he's not going to get away with it.

  Burning with rage, Cary scrambled to his hands and knees. Grogan caught sight of him just as he lunged.

  With a furious cry, Cary threw himself on top of Grogan and pelted him with a flurry of blows. At first, Grogan barely defended himself, and Cary landed some solid shots...but then Grogan grabbed one of Cary's arms and held it. Cary managed to pump one more punch into Grogan's face before Grogan grabbed his other arm, too.

  Without a word, Grogan heaved Cary off him. As Cary tumbled to the floor on his butt, Grogan fumbled to his feet.

  Then, he headed for the stairs.

  Coughing and waving away smoke, Grogan made his way down the hall. He didn't get far.

  Cary scrambled after him on all fours, grabbed his ankle, and hoisted it back. Flailing, Grogan went over forward.

  As soon as Grogan hit the floor, Cary leaped on top of him and started beating him again. He clasped his hands together into one big fist and pummeled Grogan's back and neck and shoulders. The whole time, smoke curled around him and the flames danced higher downstairs.

  The flames that were Grogan's fault.

  "I hate you!" screamed Cary as he pounded on Grogan again and again. "I hate you!"

  Then, with a single, sudden movement, Grogan bucked him off. Cary fell to one side and bumped his head against the wall just hard enough to hurt.

  Before Cary could get up again, Grogan ran down the stairs. He paused at the bottom, looked right, then cut left and disappeared.

  Cary heard the front door slam shut behind him.

  Cary screamed one more time, though he knew Grogan couldn't hear him anymore. "I hate you!"

  Then, without wasting another second, he got up and ran for the bedroom where his brother and sisters were sleeping.

  *****

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Cresson, Pennsylvania, 1958

  "Forget the greenhouse," Max shouted over the noise from the firehose. "Try to save the shop and apartment."

  Immediately, E.Q. quit spraying the greenhouse, which was completely engulfed in flame, and swung the hose
around to the ground floor rear window, which was coughing out smoke.

  He was getting good at putting out fires at that place. It was the third time the Magic Castle had caught fire in three weeks...the second time that he and Max had fought the fire on their own.

  As E.Q. continued to spray the rear window, he felt someone shake his shoulder, and he turned to see Max standing behind him. That would've been fine, except Max had been out in front of him the last time he'd looked.

  "I said, will you be okay out here while I go in?" said Max.

  "Yeah." E.Q. guessed he must've dozed off on his feet for a second. No surprise, given it was four in the morning and he'd barely stayed awake for more than a few seconds at a time on the ride over.

  Max trotted around the far corner of the back of the building, but he wasn't gone for long. He came back a moment later and shouted at E.Q.

  "I found the dogs," he said, pointing toward the side of the building. Then, he jabbed an index finger at his temple, as if his hand were a gun, and popped it away as if the gun had just fired.

  So that was what had happened to Mary Anne's new guard dogs. That was why they hadn't driven off whoever set the fire.

  Because they'd been shot dead.

  Max waved and disappeared around the corner again.

  E.Q. sprayed the flames for another minute or two before someone else tapped him on the shoulder. Surprised but too tired to jump, he slowly turned to see who was back there.

  "Are you all right, E.Q.?" It was Olenka, his mother. She stood there in a floral print housecoat with a white sweater over it and her hair wrapped in a babushka scarf. She looked as fully alert as if it were the middle of the afternoon instead of four in the morning.

  E.Q. nodded. "What are you doing here?" Not only did Olenka never show up at the scene of a fire, but she hardly ever drove a car anywhere.