In Julie's nightmarish view, it would only end when there just wasn't enough... wrapping paper left. Nothing to bind the body together and keep her internal organs in place.
Yechhhh!
It was just a phase Julie had to go through. It would pass eventually. But until then, Paula Baxter was not about to run any risks. I'll just wait it out, she told herself as the two arrived back at the RV. I mean, I'm the grown-up, aren't I?
Don't answer that question, it's a trap!
Julie went directly to bed. Saved by the bell, Paula thought. Odd, when you get right down to it, Julie is the morbid one, not Timmy. Yet he's the horror freak. So go figure.
Paula forced the grisly tale (and the entire topic of burns) from her mind. She began to prepare supper. Things were lovely — for a couple of hours. It was a warm, lazy afternoon: no telephone ringing, no problems, no children screaming for attention...
"Mommy!"
So much for that.
"Mommy!"
Was there a different edge to Julie's voice? Paula dried her hands on a dishtowel and started down the narrow hall. The screen door flapped as Timmy entered. He fell into step behind her.
His sister had the curtains drawn. Her room was gloomy, hot and weird. At least Timmy thought it was weird. His Mom didn't say anything.
"It hurt me," Julie cried.
"What did?"
"The sun. It burned my skin real bad."
Timmy switched on the bedside lamp so his mother could have a look. He winced in sympathy. Wow. For once, no joke. She had red skin in every place she hadn't covered up.
Funny. Now that Julie had every reason to play sick, she was a trooper. She just sat there looking mad, shaking her head like she couldn't believe this had happened.
"I'll get some cream," Paula said. She hurried to the bathroom. The kids heard her opening drawers and moving stuff around on the shelves.
Julie stared at Timmy in a creepy way that made his tummy flutter. She purred like a cat and started to pose, so he knew she was gonna hit him for a favor. If he'd had a trillion guesses what it was, he still would have missed by a mile.
Julie? Never. She flashed her most winning smile. "If I've got to stay in bed, I'll need something to read. May I please borrow a few of your comics?"
The boy left the room with his mouth hanging open. He selected some of his favorite stuff, the real scary ones. He added a few of the silly kind, too. Better play it safe.
Timmy took the pile back to Julie. He never did say a word to her about it. Not that night, not ever.
Paula had opened a tube of burn ointment. She smeared it over her daughter's singed flesh, recoiling at every whimper and twitch. Christ, she thought. The sun must be fierce in these mountains. My poor baby hasn't been rash. She barely went outside.
Julie began to shuffle the comic books around, almost like she was looking for something. She raised her head and winked at her brother: We got a secret, me and you.
Timmy felt scared all of a sudden. He backed up a few steps, closer to the door.
And daylight.
19
SPATS
A little boy, about seven. School sweater and a baseball cap. He's sobbing, tears streaming down those cocoa cheeks. The most beautiful black child Spats Rafferty has ever seen is standing only a few yards away; helpless and alone, no one else in sight. Spats steps out onto the trail.
"Take it easy, son. What's the matter?"
The kid jumps, stops crying.
"It's busted."
"What's busted?"
A bright red bicycle, on its side in the dirt. Rafferty squats and spins the wheels. "Looks like the chain snapped, that's all. No big deal."
Soft brown eyes full of hope: "You mean you can fix it for me?"
"Sure I can."
Pretty lips part to form a smile. The flash of even, white teeth in a tantalizing mouth. "Gee, thanks, mister!"
"Call me John," Spats says. "What's your name?"
He's shy. Delicious. "Owen, sir. My friends call me Scooter, though. I think Owen sounds dumb, don't you?"
"That depends, Scooter. You might like it when you're older. Come on, let's stand this thing up so we can roll it."
Spats grips the handlebars, heads for cover at a brisk pace. The boy remains behind, his gratitude suddenly soured by suspicion.
"Sir?"
Rafferty stops. "John."
"Where are you goin', John?"
"My place," Spats replies. "It's not far, just over this hill." He deliberately waits a beat, lets it dawn on him. "I see. Hey, give me a break, Scooter. You know anybody who takes a box of tools with him every time he goes for a walk?"
"I guess not."
"Relax. Tell you what, if you're really that worried about coming along you can wait here. But you'll be all alone, and I'm not sure how long this is going to take."
The man holds his breath, the boy ponders.
"You mean like an hour?"
"At least. Maybe two or three. Listen, I understand. I'll work as fast as I can and come back. Just be careful, and watch out for the snakes."
Snakes? Scooter runs to catch up, opting for the lesser of two evils. Spats continues chatting, acting casual, weaving his web. "Where are your folks, kid?"
"Down by the highway."
"Do they call you Owen or Scooter?"
A grin. "Scooter most of the time, unless they're mad at me. Then they call me Owen."
Rafferty laughs, pleasing the youngster. "Well, I promise I won't. Cross my heart."
He has never been so turned on. Spats feels separate from his body, an observer as well as a participant. He keeps the conversation going without having the faintest idea what he's saying. Their voices seem blurred, coming from somewhere far away. He starts to stray from the path, leading the boy deeper into the woods.
"John?"
It takes him a moment to react to the name. The boy is clever. He notices the hesitation. Spats is so charged up, so electric, he can almost read the kid's mind. Scooter has finally realized he's in big trouble.
The whole thing has been one lie after another: Repairing his chain. Tools. Call me John. Watch out for snakes.
Spats lunges forward, but Scooter ducks under his arms and races away. Spats trips over the bicycle, falls, loses a few precious seconds. He chases the boy, running hard, legs pounding the earth, knees pumping. He closes the gap and pulls the kid down. Spats feels angry now, as if he has been betrayed. He slaps the kid silly. A thin trickle of blood appears at the corner of Scooter's mouth, that pretty little mouth [no! not this close to the trail!] and he can't wait any longer.
He hugs the dazed child, strokes the curly black hair, kisses his cheek. "Why did you have to go and make me lose my temper like that, Scooter? Huh? I don't want to have to hurt you. I just need a bit of loving, that's all."
The soft brown eyes are vacant: Nobody home. The boy is barely conscious. Spats opens his fly, freeing his engorged penis, intending to brush it against those pouting, moist lips. He is throbbing, boiling hot, hungry to enter.
Something enters Spats, twists its way into his ear. Something round and hard; like a cock, but cold. Ice cold.
"Freeze, motherfucker. Don't even blink."
A large black hand appears, grabs Scooter by the collar and tugs him out of sight. Shaking with terror, Rafferty remains motionless. He watches his gigantic hard-on droop and shrink, trying to find a place to hide.
"Please..."
"Shut up, pervert. Turn your head and face me. Nice and slow."
Spats does, skin crawling, bowels threatening to open. The barrel of the pistol scrapes his cheek and taps his nose. It hovers in the air before him like a bottomless pit; one long, dark tunnel to hell.
"Suck it."
"Please. I'm sorry. I'm sick, see. Sick."
"I said shut up. Maybe I'll blow you away, maybe I won't. Now make like I'm a dentist, asshole. Open wide."
Rafferty closes his eyes. He allows the barrel to slide into his
mouth. It gags him. Unable to control his bladder, he wets his pants. Time grinds to a halt and hangs suspended. An eternity passes from one tortured heartbeat to the next. God. Oh God, make this a bad dream. Let me wake up. Please let me wake up.
CLICK!
The man has thumbed the hammer, cocked the gun, [i have to wake up before it's too late — sweet jesus, please let me wake up!] but when Spats opens his eyes he can see nothing, nothing at all. The world has vanished. He is staring into a blank, colorless, never-ending void. He knows he must now float forever and ever in this silent empty —
He heard himself scream...And found his body.
Light comforted him with color, shape and dimension. It was later the same day. Nothing was wrong. Spats Rafferty moaned and sat up. It had all seemed so real. He'd never experienced such a vivid nightmare.
He remembered reading somewhere that people could actually die from a dream if they didn't snap out of it in time. It's really true, he thought. I couldn't have cut it any closer.
Strange. I'd never treat a kid like that. Shit, I'm no queer. I don't like boys.
Goddamn nightmare.
When he realized he was erect, Spats was shaken to the core and forever changed, yet some part of him remained unwilling to accept the truth. He told himself comforting lies. It was those lies that left him open for Jason. He rolled over in the sand and tried to sink back into the soothing cotton fog of sleep.
20
JASON/VARGAS
An imperceptible splinter of time later, on the opposite side of the same second: Jason's talent pierced through tons of tightly packed dirt and solid rock to watch a frenzied soul, all alone in the dark, scratching signs and hammering senselessly on the wall of a cave. The very first male he had possessed was even more receptive than before. He was hostile, so badly damaged, free of any White force. So beautiful.
Jason Smith explored, and he was greatly pleased with the progress that had been made. This had always been a greedy human, a savage with voracious appetites, but he was stronger now that he had been touched again. Jason could appreciate the untapped potential in such a man. He gathered the particles of electrical energy that were varied thoughts and images; willed them substance, then began to knit that nothingness together into a vision…
Jason gave Anthony Vargas the tantalizing taste of an alternate reality, a haven for the wild and violent. He revealed a world with no laws, no restrictions, where extremes would be encouraged and any pleasure permitted.
[...vargas, the thing could then be done again and again with no one to interfere. yes, go on. hurt her, cut her, bathe in her blood until it bores you. the dawn of chaos will put an end to your bondage. the thing! you would never have to hide that proud, animal nature again. never again...] And the weak soul was captivated, throbbing with desire.
He believed.
Jason caused Vargas to awaken, aroused but unfulfilled. The man was furious, very nearly out of control. Jason withdrew, leaving madness in his wake.
21
ROURKE
Peter Rourke kept straining to steer his mind away from the horror he had skulled up on the mountain. He knew he had to make a decision, at least to stay in Two Trees or leave; knew he was postponing the inevitable, but he simply couldn't do anything but block. Something unutterably wicked had touched him, and Rourke felt lucky to have escaped with his soul. The presence was always there, like some flicker of movement caught from the corner of his mind's eye. A warped power, growing stronger each day — as if it were feeding on fear.
The image of a fetish of human arm and finger bones wrapped in horse hair kept returning. Then Peter saw a cold, alien visage peering out through a black hole in space. Somehow he knew that its dark hunger was insatiable; a lust for blood, bone and pain. He wanted desperately to be wrong. Green things still grew, the sun rose and set, clouds shaped and re-shaped themselves. How could such a thing be? Yet his own unwillingness to go near that imaginary door was enough to prove that the danger had substance. Whatever it was, it had scared the hell out of him.
Then, hours later, his talent left again and with it went the blind, unreasoning panic he'd been carrying around. Rourke gained perspective and some courage. Maybe it had moved on, whatever it was, to do evil somewhere else. Perhaps the problem would solve itself, somehow. One could always hope. Or maybe it had just decided to leave him alone for the time being.
Human bones; forearms, clustered together with the wrists bent and the fingers spread like talons, wrapped in horse hair. He knew he had seen that totem before, but where? And then it came to him. When Rourke was a boy, he and his cousin Rod had been exploring the low cliffs perhaps four miles outside of Two Trees to the west. They had come upon some Native American artifacts near the mouth of a cave. One was a cluster of bleached bones with a hand at the top.
He remembered Rod asking: "I wonder how they kept them together."
It was as if he were possessed. Rourke locked Monday in the cabin, but took the hunting rifle and a flashlight. He got in the vehicle and sped down the hill, his chest tight and his mind racing. The drive down the mountain to the desert floor went by in a blur, reality flickering in and out like a strobe light. He turned right on the highway and searched for the correct trail. He tried to probe, but his talent had gone dormant again. He was on his own.
The land hadn't altered much in twenty-five years. The cliffs were the same, and the dark, low cave entrances still there; the first two, however, had long-ago collapsed. Rourke wiped perspiration from his brow, shifted the rifle to his right hand and moved higher up into the rocks. He shaded his eyes and looked around. A wooden shack of some kind had anchored itself in the sand perhaps a quarter of a mile away. It was the only building in sight, and seemed to be deserted. Peter skipped from boulder to boulder and looked around again. He was about to give up when he accidentally kicked some sage with his boot. The large clump rolled away to reveal a cave opening.
Rourke dropped to one knee. When he leaned forward into the cool darkness, a fly buzzed his face, startling him. He swallowed and tried to relax. It seemed like the same cave. He remembered, now, that he and his cousin Rod had painted a skull and crossbones on the railroad trestle in honor of the cluster of those bones. He couldn't recall why no one from Two Trees had ever gone up to investigate their discovery; he supposed that the two little boys had simply not been believed. The bones they'd found were probably thought to have been from an animal, and the hand the overactive imagination of two young teenagers with too much time to kill on a hot summer day.
He knew he had remembered for a reason, and that the skulling had brought him back to this place. Rourke fingered the rifle and considered driving back down to locate Glen Bates. But what the hell could he tell the Sheriff at this point, that he'd had some kind of a vision?
Peter sighed and crawled into the mouth of the cave. He didn't know what he was looking for, but the vision he'd had on the mountain had contained something from this place. Perhaps a look around would tell him why. He inched forward on his forearms, trying not to imagine his own arms being chopped off and bound together with the bony fingers extended. Trying not to wonder if the victim had been alive and aware when this was done.
Claustrophobia took him immediately, and his heart kicked like an angry mare. He closed his eyes and waited for them to adjust to the darkness. When he opened them again, he could still see very little. He used the flashlight, and noted with irritation that the batteries were weak. He crawled forward.
Now that he was a grown man, the cave seemed tiny. It was hard to believe he'd ever crawled through it with a spirit of adventure. As the light behind him faded, he felt small and defenseless. The rifle was trapped at his side; using it in such a confined space would probably deafen him anyway. He turned the flashlight off to preserve it. He moved further into the dark.
What is that smell? He stopped, struggling to control his breathing, which now seemed absurdly loud and a bit too rapid.
Shit, and not fr
om cattle or birds. The shit of a meat eater, a predator.
Or man.
Rourke didn't want to ponder who or what might have been living in such a place, or risk a meeting. He shook his head at his own foolishness, decided to edge backwards toward the daylight. On impulse, he used the flashlight one last time. The shadows on the far wall seemed deeper, as though the cave expanded at that point. He ran the beam of light along the dirty floor. Thought: What are those?
Symbols of some kind. The odd designs were scratched and scrawled on the floor and the far walls of the cave. The characters were entirely unfamiliar to Rourke, and seemed ridiculously out of place. They were from another time and culture, perhaps a kind of Aramic or even Egyptian. But one looked exactly like the totem he had seen as a child; a bundle of human bones with a hand sticking out, wrapped around with hair.
God, that stench.
And then it finally hit him. He moved the beam around. The designs were drawn everywhere, all over the cave, the ceiling walls and floor. And they were not scrawled in mud or dirt, but excrement. Probably human excrement.
He left the flashlight on and backed out of the cave mouth as rapidly as possible. Someone had gone completely insane, out here all alone. Perhaps a hobo, a paranoid shizophrenic lost in his own world of filth and madness. Rourke didn't breath easily until he was outside again, in the oppressive sunshine. His clothing was soaked through with sweat. That must be what I saw, he thought. Someone demented, seriously ill, living out here in the middle of nowhere. I skulled his madness and paranoia.
The thought brought him some comfort for the first time in hours. Of course that's all that had happened. He had momentarily entered the mind of a madman. It was only natural that he'd been shaken, even overwhelmed. Perhaps he'd tell the Sheriff the next time he saw him; let Bates know that someone had taken up residence out at the edge of the flats. Someone who, though probably harmless enough, was quite mad.
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