Rafferty whimpered. Someone was moving his way, coming through the cemetery. Footsteps crunching dead grass and pebbles.
A pair of glittering eyes, low to the ground. Fascinating eyes, soothing eyes; Spats found it impossible to look away from them, even for an instant. Someone he'd met, but didn't really know? Shit, he thought, I'm hypnotized or somethin'. Who's gonna believe me when I try and tell 'em about this?
"They have wronged you greatly."
Spats flinched. The voice was loud. It seemed to come from inside his brain. "Yeah," he said bitterly. "You bet your ass they have."
"I understand this, Mr. Rafferty. I can help, if you wish."
"Help me what?"
The eyes twinkled. A chuckle, hollow as an empty tomb. "Take your revenge."
Revenge? On fuckers like Bates? The concept pleased Spats. He smiled. The lonesome coyote wailed again, and Jason's voice continued. "Do you love the creatures who kill? They are beautiful when they sing."
Rafferty became ecstatic. "Yes," he said. "Oh, yes."
He saw the eyes float closer, grow even larger.
"You wish things. I can supply them. Would you like that?"
"Yes."
"Sex. Liquor. Freedom from loneliness?"
"Please."
"The death of your enemies? All of your enemies?"
Spats began to drown in those eyes. It felt nice. Like getting drunk on good, hard whiskey. He craved more.
"More? Look, then," Jason hissed.
Young Beth Reiss, her long brown hair flowing down over smooth, pink shoulders. How fucking weird, Spats thought. I ain't seen Elizabeth since before she and Elmo was buried together.
[whuuump!]
Yet she was here. Now. Floating towards Spats like a transparent porno shot, stark naked. He felt young again. His penis began swelling. She placed his hands on her breasts, opened his pants and dropped to her knees. She reached out to him in her mouth. Spats moaned and stuttered.
Elizabeth had suddenly become the beautiful little black boy.
Something hungry shambled closer, slobbering. It smelled terrible. Rafferty opened his eyes. He jumped away from the erotic vision, just as it dissolved, and saw the truth.
His mind broke.
30
THE BAXTERS
"Julie, for me?" Paula Baxter pleaded. "Try. You've got to eat something, baby."
Her daughter turned the page of the horror comic. "Not now," she said. "I'd just throw up again."
Paula frowned and placed the bowl of cereal on the nightstand next to the bed. Poor Julie was suffering. What a rotten coincidence; sunburn and then stomach flu. Could her awful fantasy, that deep fear of peeling, have caused this illness? No, she was too calm. Children bounce back, Paula told herself for the tenth time that morning. Julie had always been frail.
Christ, Paula thought. What should I do; cut the vacation short and see a doctor, or wait this out?
"Oh, Mommy," Julie sighed. "Take it easy, will you? I'm okay. Really. I just gotta rest until my tummy settles down."
Paula got to her feet. "At least let me pull the drapes and open a window. We've got to got some fresh air in here."
"NO!"
Paula Baxter became a statue. Julie was that formidable. She glared at her mother, flames dancing in her steel blue eyes. Paula felt dominated, rooted to the spot. It was as if she were facing a total stranger. But then the moment shattered; sailed away on the wings of a quick, cool breeze.
Hallucination, a brief burst of paranoia. There was little Julie, all rumpled and yawning, just cranky from the flu and a sunburn. No reason to freak. Jesus, Paula, she told herself, maybe you need to get laid.
"Mom?"
She shook the creepy feeling. "Yes."
"I know it's morning, but good night."
Julie blew her mother a kiss and rolled to one side. She spoke again, her voice muffled by the pillow. "Don't get upset, huh? I'm gonna be fine. I'll grab a bite later tonight. Go enjoy yourself."
"Sure."
Paula watched those eyes close, studied every inch of her daughter's face. Normal, absolutely normal. And yet...
What?
Paula Baxter walked down the RV's cramped hall, carefully and quietly. She stepped through the door and out into the reassuring warmth of sunshine.
Timmy was perfecting a fast draw. He was in his gunslinger stance: cowboy hat at a jaunty angle, legs bowed. Whipping that little plastic gun from its holster with a soft POW! and then starting all over again. Paula was staggered by a sudden rush of love for her son. She decided to take a little hike, alone, and try to put things back together. She tucked her filtered pacifiers into the pocket of her checkered blouse.
"Hey, Mom," Timmy shouted. "Let's play croquet!"
No response.
"You wanna?"
But his mother must not have heard him, 'cause she just sorta wandered off.
31
MARTONI
Anthony Martoni thought Two Trees was a lonely place to die. Hell, even the mortician was gone. Doc had vanished right after the State changed its mind about that new highway. He went off to Chicago looking for more people to bury, the selfish bastard. Up and left the town without a real undertaker, except for that kid Jason Smith. Because Smith wasn't a friend, someone who could give an old man a decent burial. There's no dignity in it this way, Martoni sighed. Just don't seem right.
He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. When he looked around, he felt only mildly curious to find himself sitting right where he'd been all of the previous day. He was even wearing the same rumpled clothing. Had he gone to bed? He could not remember. Old fool, Martoni grimaced, you are goin' senile. So weak, so drained.
God, I miss you Helena. I dream you back to life each night. I can feel your fingers on my skin, smell the fragrance of your perfume.
Flies landed on the front window.
A sudden gust of wind raised a dust devil. It whirled past the store like a miniature tornado before disappearing into the flat, heavy air. Anthony Martoni rubbed his bleary eyes. For a moment the yard seemed carpeted with wildflowers. He almost saw her, heard her laughter. So many years ago...
I was selfish, he thought. I always found some way to avoid the subject of children, and look at me now. We shouldn't have deprived ourselves of that, Helena. It was my fault. I wanted you just as you were, with no marks, no sagging in your tender flesh. I was stupid and unthinking. I could have had a small part of you with me, living on after I'm gone. Is that why I keep dreaming we're making love? Amazing, at my age.
His head felt heavy, so he lowered it. And that's how Rourke found him: Behind the counter like a wax dummy, twitching in his sleep.
When Peter shook him, Martoni opened his eyes. His skin was pale and he was breathing in short, rasping gasps. Rourke used the talent to probe, gingerly. He found an incredibly weary mind filled with lazy images from the distant past. Martoni was oblivious to his own pathetic condition.
"You're sick."
Martoni shook his head and tried to speak. Rourke had to lean forward to hear him.
"No, just tired. Not sleeping right. Dreams, always these funny dreams. I'm fine."
"Yeah? You look like hell."
Rourke touched his friend's forehead, expecting to feel the warmth of a fever. He stepped back. Martoni's skin was as cold as ice. "I'm putting you to bed."
Martoni tried to raise his voice to argue, but it wasn't worth the effort. He shrugged. Rourke carried him through the back of the store and into the bedroom, wondering why there was so little heat left in the frail, old body. Martoni felt frozen to the touch. His skin was like worn parchment; it seemed ready to crack beneath the pressure of Rourke's fingers.
Peter's scalp crawled. He skulled weirdness, a shudder thing. It was hiding in Martoni. A parasite, eating the man alive.
He eased the grocer into bed. Martoni immediately went back to sleep. His room, in direct contrast to the neat little grocery store, was a mess. Half-eaten pieces of blackened fruit littered
the floor, along with scores of empty soft drink cans. Rourke opened a window, almost gagging at the stench of decay.
The bathroom was a wreck as well, the tiles piled high with unwashed clothing. There were traces of dried vomit around the rim of the toilet bowl. Peter threw the dirty clothes in the hamper and started a bath. The closest thing Two Trees had to a doctor was now Urich, the druggist. He'd have to go and fetch him.
Rourke found a thermometer in the medicine chest and shook it down. He placed it in Martoni's mouth, watching carefully to make sure that the old man didn't bite down. Three minutes: No fever.
[inside him... something foul. it's in his mind, his soul. i can almost hear it laughing..]
Martoni slept through the bath and having his clothes changed. Rourke shook him; forced him to stay awake long enough to swallow some beef broth and a few vitamin pills. He closed the window tight and covered Martoni with extra blankets.
The grocer looked up at Rourke with the helplessness of a small child. "I'm embarrassed."
"Don't be," Peter grinned. "I seem to remember you wiping my ass more than once when I was a kid."
Martoni drifted off again.
32
MARTONI/URICH/BATES
"I'm no doctor," Urich whined. The druggist was afraid to shoulder the responsibility.
"Neither am I, but I'm sure it's serious. Please." Urich finished dusting his already spotless counter. "Sounds to me like you've done everything possible for the time being. I'll stop by this evening and see how he's doing."
Rourke's temper flared. "I thought he was your friend, Urich. You don't seem very fucking concerned for his welfare."
Urich sighed. "He's old, Peter. There's nothing we can do about that. Now, don't climb on me with spurs for stating a fact." He turned away. "Pick me up around six. I'll see what I can do."
Glenn Bates was in his office, cleaning a rifle. He had dark circles under his eyes and seemed wound tighter than a Swiss watch. He acknowledged Rourke's presence with a vague grunt.
"Glenn, I need a favor."
Bates waited silently.
"Martoni is sick. I cleaned his place and got him to eat something. Urich's going over a little later on, but do you think you could check on him during the night?"
"Sure."
He went back to work as if Rourke had ceased to exist.
Peter took his cue and left. Jesus, he thought, Bates too. Going sour, something a little bent down deep inside. He's fighting for his life, and the battleground is deep within his own mind.
What the hell is on the loose around here?
33
THE POLSONS
Louise Polson gripped the thick oaken bedpost. She tugged her useless legs into a more comfortable position and adjusted the pillow. It was hot, the air rolling over her skin like warm syrup, and she had fallen asleep again. She'd been talking to her first husband, William. He'd dropped by for a visit. Louise had forgotten most of the conversation, except that she'd been quietly attempting to convince him that he'd have to stay dead.
She laced her fingers to pray.
Heavy boots thumped against the worn carpet and began to climb the stairs. Hiram. His slightly clumsy gait told her he'd been drinking again. It wasn't like him, not this early in the day. Not so often.
"What's wrong, Hi?"
Her husband seemed morose. He sat facing away, shoulders slumped and eyes on the rug. He chuckled without mirth.
"What could be wrong? Hell, we even got us a second guest today. Big fella, red hair. I put him in room 66 just a minute ago. You know, where that little pecker Jason used to stay. Time we used the room again." He fell silent.
Louise waited, giving him space. Hiram circled the bed and stretched out flat at her side. He slid an arm under her head and hugged her. "I reckon I've been into the bottle a bit too much of late."
"That's okay, but why?"
Thoughtful wrinkles. "I don't know exactly. Guess maybe I'm starting to see how you feel, always stuck in here. Trapped. This town makes me sad. It's gonna dry up and blow away any day now, you know what I mean? We're all gettin' old. Oh, ignore me. I'm just depressed."
"Listen, Hi..."
Hiram startled her by leaping to his feet. He stomped the floor with the heel of one boot. "Goddamn spiders," he swore. "I hate those suckers."
Calming down, Hi took her hand. "I was born here, Louise, and I've spent my whole life here. But pretty soon it'll all be gone. Just sand and some sticks of wood and maybe the damn bugs. That hurts."
"I know," she said softly. "I understand."
He sighed. One solitary tear trickled down his tanned, lined cheek. He sought her eyes, an answer. "Babe, did you ever figure it out? Why God does things?"
She shook her head. "No. Nobody knows all that much about God but God."
"And He's not talking, right?"
Louise smiling. "Oh, He's talking. I'm sure about that, Hi. We're just not listening."
Hiram straightened and pulled his arm away. He stared at Louise, perplexed. "You sound pretty darned certain. I thought your faith was shaken."
"It was."
"You said you might have lost it, Lou."
"Maybe I did, or could be it left me for awhile. It might even have had a good reason. All I know is that something is stirring again, something that was hibernating for a long, long time. And faith is all we have to fight it with, Hi. All we have in the whole, wide world."
34
LANGSTROM
Down the hall, Fred Langstrom sat motionless before his easel. He was working on a painting of the desert sunrise. He chose his colors with care and gently mixed them together near the edge of his palette.
Beautiful.
Langstrom turned back to the canvas. He gasped. Something new was in the center of his painting: Once again, it was the coal black shadow of a man. He seemed almost deformed; hunched over and ominous. It was larger than before, and Fred Langstrom could not remember having put it there.
35
MAGGIE & MICHAEL & ROURKE
Michael Moore bore a great resemblance to his sister. He had Maggie's deep, warm eyes and fine features; even a similar smile. But he moved like a caged cat, always restraining himself as if denying some violent impulse. He was a young-looking thirty, very muscular and quick. When Peter met him, Michael was wearing blue-jeans, a brown shirt and tennis shoes with no socks. As he bantered with his sister, Rourke found himself enjoying the Moore's rich irreverence.
Maggie came back from the kitchen carrying a tray of soft drinks. She sat on the carpet between them. "It isn't funny," she chided. "You scared me half to death last night."
"Scared you half to death? I was terrified! First I have to ask hordes of dense farmers for directions to even get near this godforsaken place, and then my car breaks down for no reason just after dark. I have to walk for miles before I see some lights. I find the house, figuring I'm going to surprise and delight my sister, and knock on the door. Nothing. Okay, so she's out on a date or baying at the moon. I use the damned key she mailed me and let myself in, but then I hear somebody sneaking around inside." He chuckled and paused to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes.
"You've got to picture this. I go into this routine, like I'm in some old detective movie. I throw my shoes around — smart, huh? — to try and get the bad guy to move so I can spot him. Believe me, I almost messed my pants before I recognized her and turned on the lights."
Maggie flushed, remembering. "Me too," she said.
"My kid sister in the buff with a meat cleaver. Incredible."
"I'll bet it was," Rourke said. "Shame it was wasted on you."
Michael gave him a broad wink and a winning smile. "Oh, I'll admit that I experienced a certain amount of artistic appreciation. But other than that, you're right."
Maggie threw a magazine. Quick and graceful, Michael dodged out of the way and returned to his former position. "And I'll tell you something, she was going to use that fucking cleaver."
Rourke gl
anced at Maggie, trying to picture her becoming violent. "Somehow I doubt that," he said.
Michael snorted. "Don't underrate Maggie," he said. "She's got brass ovaries. For the unititiated, that's female balls."
"Sounds like there's a story behind that."
"I'll say. When we were younger, I got myself in some serious trouble one time."
"Serious trouble?"
"It's a long story, but Maggie came down to talk me out of robbing a casino."
Rourke blinked. "That's serious, all right."
"So I'm inside loading wads of cash into a canvas sack, and I hear something, so I'm thinking it's the security guard or something. I turn around, and it's my goddamned sister, telling me I'm in trouble and to get on home!"
Rourke grinned. "You broke in too?"
Maggie nodded and then shook her head sadly. "I was an idiot to do that."
"Well, to make the long story shorter, the cops do show up. We're cornered and pretty well fucked, see? But just as I'm about to give up, Maggie stands and puts up her hands like she's in a hand forties movie and says 'you got me, copper."
Rourke gaped at Maggie. "You didn't."
"I kid you not," Michael said. "She turned herself in while I slipped out the back, and took the fall for something she didn't do."
Maggie looked uncomfortable. "I was seventeen and he was twenty," she said. "I did a couple of easy months and got out. They would have been a lot harder on Mike."
"Like I said, brass ovaries. So I knew Maggie would use the cleaver. I damned near fell backwards trying to cover my balls."
"Michael!" Maggie protested, clearly embarassed.
"I'm sorry," he wheezed. "It's only funny because we were both so freaked out."
"When I saw the gun," Maggie moaned, "I almost died."
"Gun?"
Michael shrugged. "I've been working nights as a security guard. I'm used to carrying it with me."
Night of the Beast Page 20
