The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror

by Charles L. Grant

  Her eyes narrowed, and her hands balled into fists. “Why that two-bit country sonofabitch.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” he said. “I wanted to tell you, in case this guy walked in and said something.”

  “I appreciate that,” she said gratefully, though her anger still simmered.

  “My pleasure.” He grinned and leaned toward her awkwardly, and she accepted the kiss with half-closed eyes, thinking that perhaps he wouldn’t propose at all, that tonight they would have fun and maybe screw around a little.

  When they separated, he kept a hand lightly on her shoulder, searching her face, examining her, breathing as though inhaling her very essence. Then, with a rueful sigh, he shook his head.

  “Liz, there’s more.”

  “What more?” she said, touching his cheek.

  “The man, this Parrish guy, he wanted to know if I would be interested in assisting him in selling this estate.”

  She froze, blinked once, and frowned. “You’re mistaken.”

  “Nope. That’s exactly what he said.”

  A burning started in her cheeks. “The bastard,” she said flatly. “The little bastard.”

  Clark held a tenuous smile. “Is that bad, selling this Winterrest?”

  “Clark, I could take or leave that ugly heap of stone, believe me, but it’s practically an historical landmark, not only for the area but for the county, maybe even the state. Jesus, Parrish better head for the hills when this gets out.”

  “He didn’t seem to care.”

  “He didn’t huh? And he doesn’t want a woman lawyer, huh? Well, that overaged land shark is in for a surprise or two. C’mon, Clark,” she said, opening her door. “Let’s have a drink. I believe that’s a custom before you start a war.”

  As she straightened and waited for him to hurry around to help her, two men rushed from the tavern and walked quickly toward the far side of the lot. She paid them little attention, only took Clark’s arm and started for the entrance.

  A woman’s voice shouted then, and they stopped.

  “Oops,” Clark said. “A little excitement, I fear.”

  They were at the steps when the door slammed open and two men barreled out, one of them backwards, the other lunging forward with a knife in his hand. Clark grabbed Liz’s waist and started to pull her away, but the man with the knife was too intent on his charge.

  He lunged with a grunted curse, but he missed the top step and stumble sideways, off balance.

  In a moment slowed by shock, Liz could do little but watch as the blade swung out, flaring gold in the light from the Depot window. She saw the lines of it clearly, and threw up a desperate hand, heard Clark cry a warning, heard her own breath pass her lips in a scream more a hissing.

  She and the man collided, and she fell, vision blurred, her side burning where her hand gripped it against the pain.

  And the last thing she saw was the deep red of fresh blood flowing over her fingers.

  6

  “It must have been the dope,” said Bud, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull on his socks and slacks. He pointed at the ashtray on the nightstand and nodded once. “It must have been laced with something, y’know? I’ve heard about people doing things like that. They get their kicks out of watching people go bananas.”

  Olivia lay behind him, lightly scratching his back, a drowsy smile on her lips while she stared at his shoulders.

  “It’s really sick, y’know, doing stuff like that. I mean, it’s really damned sick.” He grunted when she slipped a finger below his waistband, into the split of his buttocks, and he slapped her hand away, lightly. “Sick. We must’ve had a flash, or flashback, whatever it’s called.”

  “That’s with LSD,” she said dreamily.

  “Yeah, well . . .” He stood, sucked in his stomach and hitched up his pants. Then he looked down at her. The sheet was drawn to her neck, but her unbraided hair lay in a fog over her chest. “I love you,” he said.

  “Good. Then tell me what happened.”

  He sat again and held her hand. It was cold, just as cold as his in spite of the day’s heat and the heat of their lovemaking. “I don’t know. But it must’ve been the grass, Ollie. It had to be. Maybe we’re doing too much, do you think? Maybe we oughta cut down a little.”

  Her cheek floated to his arm. “No, that’s not it. It sounds good, but that’s not it.”

  The telephone rang.

  “Don’t answer it,” she pleaded when he reached for the receiver. “Let’s pretend we’re in Monte Carlo, we’ve broken the bank, and now we’re gonna ball the rest of the night. C’mon, Bud, leave it. Leave it, okay?”

  “Jesus, Ollie,” he said, wondering what the hell had gotten into her. First her lousy mood, then her lousy lovemaking, and now this. He shrugged off her hand, picked up the phone and listened, slammed it down thirty seconds later and lunged for the shirt he’d thrown on the floor. “That was Gil Clay.”

  She punched the mattress. “Damn! There are times, Charles—and this is definitely one of them—when I wish to hell you’d never joined that little club of yours.”

  “It isn’t a little club!” he shouted as he raced from the room and flung himself down the stairwell.

  And it wasn’t. It was the local Emergency Squad, and he felt he owed it to the community to do something besides providing a tourist or two for the restaurant and bar. Anyway, it made him feel good that he was helping people—he had willingly taken all the courses, from lifesaving to first aid, studied every book on practical medicine he could find, and spent hours at the hospital emergency room watching doctors and paramedics treat patients for shock, for bleeding, for cardiac arrest.

  And the first and only time he delivered a baby while the ambulance ran for the hospital, he had cried in awe most of the night.

  At the bottom step he paused to tuck in his shirt, and looked at the Retirement Room, completely bewildered. Obviously, it had been a hallucination, and just as obviously it had been triggered by what they had been smoking, no matter what Ollie said. It just had to be. There was no smoke, no damage, and by the time he had stumbled back into the room to see for himself, his clothes were clean, there was no soot on his hands or face, and his lungs didn’t feel as if he’d been dragged down a clogged chimney.

  Astonishing, he thought as he ran for the front door, what the human mind can do when it’s doped up, or horny.

  He took the steps to the walk at a leap, veered left, and sprinted over the intervening lawns toward the Depot. There were already people spilling out of the doorway, a few more gathered around someone lying on the ground. As he vaulted the low hedge that bordered the blacktop, the red-and-white ambulance van screamed from its place behind the tavern and stopped just beside him as he pushed through the crowd and looked down.

  “Oh god,” he whispered, and dropped to his knees.

  It was Liz Egan, and blood was rapidly staining her filmy blouse. He could hear a scuffling somewhere ahead of him, between two cars, some shouting, some curses, but he tuned it all out as Clay dropped the black bag beside him and rustled up two men to help him fetch the stretcher.

  The blood froze him for a moment, bile rose burning into his throat, but a hard swallow and an oath rid his system of the shock. He worked as gently as he could, cutting away the shards of fabric clinging to the wound, staunching the bleeding with packs of gauze and white tape. Liz was still unconscious, and her skin was clammy and sweating. Pleased that his hands moved without conscious direction, he was smoothing out the last bit of tape when a hand reached suddenly down over his shoulder, brushed over the wound, lingered, and vanished. Perplexed and annoyed, he glanced up and saw Eban Parrish shouldering his way back through the crowd.

  Jeez, he thought; I didn’t know he cared.

  Gil, still in his bartender’s apron, came up with the wheeled stretcher and, the four of them working perfectly and without a sound, soon had Liz up and in the back. Clay instantly raced around to the driver’s seat; Bud had one foot up a
nd in when an overweight man tapped his shoulder.

  “Please,” he said, and pointed to the unconscious woman. “Please. I was with her.”

  Bud shrugged. It didn’t make any difference to him if the guy wanted to tag along, as long as he kept out of the way and didn’t ask stupid questions. When he nodded, the man him gave a tremulous smile and climbed in. Bud slammed the doors shut and the van backed out of the lot, hitting the road with lights flashing and the siren wailing high and low.

  “How is she?” the man asked.

  Bud said nothing. This was the first time he had seen anything this bad, and he wished to hell the town’s doctor wasn’t on his damned vacation. But he knew what to do. First the blanket, then the temperature, then the safeguard IV to be sure she had fluids.

  From behind the wheel, Gil looked around and caught his gaze.

  “A bitch, ain’t it.”

  Bud nodded, and did not sit back until he was sure he had covered everything he could. The rest was up to Gil’s driving and the depth of the wound.

  “How’d it happen?” he asked.

  “Some asshole stabbed her,” the overweight man said. “He came out of that . . . that bar after some other guy, and he just stabbed her.”

  “Casey,” Gil explained when Bud looked to him, puzzled.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “He’s been nuts all week. He’s been under the wagon this time, telling everyone he’s seen lights in Winterrest.”

  “No shit.”

  “He was drunk, like I said.”

  The van swerved onto the highway and headed south toward the hospital, ten miles distant. There was no sound in the back but Liz’s labored breathing, and the overweight man cracking his knuckles.

  “Funny,” Bud said at last, trying to keep his eyes away from the blood-stained arm that had slipped from under the sheet. He reached out, tucked it back in, and wiped his hands on his knees.

  “What is?” the man asked, then introduced himself and asked the question again.

  “Nothing. Nothing really. It’s just been a funny week.”

  “I know,” Davermain said eagerly. “As a matter of fact, there was this weird little guy, called himself Parrish, he—”

  “Parrish?” Bud said. “You know Eban Parrish?”

  “In a way,” said Clark, almost shrugging.

  Liz groaned, her head beginning to drift from side to side.

  “He is funny, a little,” Bud ventured in a whisper.

  “I could tell that.”

  “Came up to me and my lady on Monday, said he had a client who wanted to buy out my store.” He shook his head at the wonder of it all. “Weird, y’know? Wouldn’t say anything but made me an offer that almost blew my mind. Christ, I couldn’t make that much bread in fifteen years.”

  Clark asked if he were taking the offer.

  “Are you kidding? Leave Deerford? No way, Mr. Davermain. No way in hell. This is where I want to spend the rest of my life.”

  FOUR

  1

  Keith had changed from his coveralls to his jeans, had taken his ten-speed from the garage, and was gone before Davermain drove up in his Mercedes. He didn’t want to see this guy, didn’t want to stick around so that his dumb sister could boss him when Mom was gone. There were important things to do, things Heather would never understand as long as she lived. All she cared about was talking about boys and standing in front of the mirror and combing her stupid hair. She was okay, he supposed, but boy was she dumb.

  He rode to the end of the block, bounced up over the curb and onto a narrow bike trail that led across the pasture stretching behind Meadow View. In the distance, almost at the near horizon, he could see the darkening farmhouse, barn, and silo that belonged to the man who had sold Meadow View’s land. A barbed wire fence marked the boundary, and when he reached it he swerved right toward a narrow stand of trees.

  The Gang was already there, waving as he skidded up and leapt from the saddle, letting the bike tip slowly over.

  “Mohawks,” he said as he dropped cross-legged to the ground.

  “Mohawks,” said Dirk Snow, the skinniest kid in the world with the most hair Keith had ever seen.

  “Mohawks,” muttered Artie Mancuso, plucking at grass and dropping it on his fat belly. This was a guy Keith knew he had to watch.

  “Yeah, Mohawks,” said Ian Backster eagerly. At nine, he was the youngest member of the Gang, the only one with glasses, and the only one who sunburned like a lobster instead of tanning like a human being.

  “Gotta plan,” Dirk said, stretching out on the ground, his chin on the backs of his hands.

  “Who cares,” Artie grumbled, and plucked more grass.

  “Oh shut up,” Keith said. “What’s the plan?”

  “Well, there’s two, really, and man, are they both excellent. The first, see, is that we leave the bikes here and go on back, get into Sitter’s house and—”

  “No,” Artie said, thick lips pursed in derision. “That’s dumb. I mean, that’s really dumb. Really dumb. I mean, who the hell cares about that crazy old fart, right?”

  Dirk shrugged the bones that passed for his shoulders. “Okay, then why don’t we go to Winterrest and break a few windows?”

  “All right,” Artie exclaimed. “Now you’re talkin.”

  “No!” Ian said. “No, we can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “ ‘Cause it isn’t right, that’s why. Tell him, Keith. Tell him it isn’t right.”

  Keith rubbed the back of his head patiently while Artie laughed and Dirk whistled shrilly. When they were quiet again, he looked to Ian and wondered how many times he was going to have to explain this before the runt understood—that the Mohawk Gang had been formed to do a lot of good things around town so people would smile at them when they rode by, pat their heads, and say good things to their mothers. Like the time they wasted a whole Saturday helping to paint the Depot, or the time they mowed the church lawn for nothing, or the time they went around taking branches off the streets after a windstorm last fall. Good stuff, that made people like them.

  Then, when they really wanted to have fun, no one would believe that the Mohawk Gang had done it.

  He had seen it on TV; it worked there, and it was working here. No one, but no one believed they had painted the Shade Tree windows red last Halloween, or let the air out of the ambulance tires in back of the Depot, or threw enough cherry bombs on top of creepy Parrish’s office roof last month to start a small fire that had the whole town running around like it was at war or something.

  No one believed it because they were the Mohawks.

  Ian was a new member, and when Keith had finished he shook his head sadly. “I don’t know, Keith. It isn’t right. My father would kill me.”

  “He won’t find out, stupid,” Artie sneered.

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “The only way your old man will find out is if you tell him, stupid.”

  “I’m not stupid!”

  Artie pushed his bulk up until he was kneeling; Ian was standing with his fists at his sides.

  “Take it back,” the boy said, the sun reflecting red in the lenses of his glasses. “Take it back.”

  Artie sniffed and grinned. “Make me.”

  “Oh, knock it off, huh?” Dirk said in disgust. “You guys are sick, you know that? Really stupid.”

  “I . . . am . . . not . . . stupid.”

  “Aw shit.”

  “Shut up!” Keith shouted. “Damnit, you guys, shut up!” They stared at him, shrugged, sat again and waited. It was the heat, he knew. The heat did really weird things to people, made them fight all the time, and this time the heat had lasted nearly all week, making you feel like you lived in an oven. Maybe he should’ve stayed home like Mom told him to. “It’s a great idea, Dirk,” he said with quiet enthusiasm. “Really great. But I can’t do it.”

  “See?” Ian said.

  “Why not?” Artie challenged. “Why not, huh?” Then he po
inted. “I get it! Your momma’s not home, right? You gotta be in by dark. You gotta be babysat by your fairy sister!”

  Ian couldn’t understand why that was such a big deal, but when Keith, looking sour and angry, didn’t deny it, Artie and Dirk started hooting, rolling on the ground, pulling at the grass, and laughing until their faces turned red.

  Keith took it as long as he could, staring at the ground and at the fists on his knees. Then he jumped up with a shout, a shout so loud the others fell immediately silent and saw him standing angrily over them.

  Dirk instantly looked shame-faced, but Artie only said, “Uh oh, the chief’s ticked, men,” and stood up, his attitude a dare that Keith desparately wanted to take. He didn’t. He only met the fat boy’s gaze as long as he could before he was chilled by disgust, shook his head, and walked slowly to his bike. This wasn’t fun; the heat was making them all crazy.

  “Hey, where ya goin?” Ian called.

  “He’s goin home to momma,” Artie explained loudly, shaking off Dirk’s restraining hand. “He’s goin home ‘cause he’s a little pissant, ‘cause he’s chicken.”

  Keith froze, his hands already out to grab the handlebars.

  “Cluck,” Dirk said softly.

  This, Ian understood. “Cluck,” he said gleefully.

  Keith turned around. “I am not chicken.”

  “Pissant,” Artie said. “Pissant chickenshit.”

  “I said I wasn’t,” he insisted, and was ashamed to feel a stinging behind his eyes.

  “Okay, then,” Artie said, “I call for a torture.”

  Ian’s eyes widened; he remembered the torture he had to go through to become part of the Gang, and he knew that calling for one now meant that Artie wanted to be chief instead of Keith. He hoped they wouldn’t make him try to take something from the Mogas station like he had to—god, Mr. Hallman was a giant, hated kids, and had almost caught him. God, he hoped they wouldn’t make him do that.

  Dirk stood beside Artie. “You heard. A torture, Keith. You gonna do it?”

  It wasn’t fair. He had started the Gang; it was his idea and they were having a great time. Now that fat slimeball was trying to take it all away. “Sure,” he said as calmly as he could. “Sure, why not?”