The Bulb People

“Well, that’s the end of that,” she’ll say. “Let’s move back to our beautiful home in the suburbs, Ryan.”

  Katie answers the phone after one ring. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “I’m at a friend’s house,” I say. “Ask your dad if I can stay here for dinner.”

  Katie yells something, and Bob yells back. They both sound ticked, as usual. Katie comes back on.

  “He says it’s okay. Now get off the line, I’m expecting a call from somebody important.”

  One thing you can say about Katie, you always know where you stand with her.

  The next hours pass quickly with Morton glued to his computer monitor and me parked in the stuffed chair reading the hardcopy.

  Captive in Terror Orchard is the most horrifying thing I’ve ever read – as if every Stephen King novel has been boiled down into a single, ghastly true story. Compared to what Billy Conner endured four years ago, my experience at Melody Acres seems like party time.

  I devour half the pizza, scarcely tasting it. I just shovel in food with one hand and flip pages with the other. Somebody could have given me the pizza box top and I would have eaten it without even noticing.

  22: Evening Relaxation

  After his usual Monday night dinner at Ruthie’s Kraut House café, Sheriff Bradley Fergueson strode out onto the sidewalk and ripped a tremendous belch into the darkness.

  “Dang,” he said, patting his ample belly, “Ruthie sure knows how to make good roast beef!”

  Not only that, but she always let him eat free, too. She liked having a “strong law enforcement presence” in her establishment, she said, and the least she could do was offer a free meal. Ruthie wasn’t bad looking, either. She waited on him personally and always had plenty of time for pleasant conversation, no matter how many other customers she might have.

  Wouldn’t it be convenient if that dirt bag husband of hers got into trouble with the law again and wound up back in jail? Things could move on to a whole new level with Ruthie then. It was certainly worth thinking about.

  Anyway, it was nice that at least one person in town appreciated the efforts of a dedicated peace officer struggling to maintain law and order. Fergueson chewed his mint-flavored toothpick with authority and let out his belt a notch.

  He was really feeling his oats tonight, or was it the roast beef he was feeling? No matter, he considered himself to be right up there with the great lawmen of history – Wyatt Earp, Matt Dillon, J. Edgar Hoover.

  Of course, sometimes he had to look out for his own financial interests – a little skimmed off the top here and there, the usual thing. But that came with the territory, didn’t it? No lawman was paid fairly. Everybody knew that.

  A gentle wind rustled the leaves and carried the scent of spring flowers. A full moon spread silvery light. Sheriff Fergueson paid little attention to these things, however, as a heap of trouble was starting to occupy his mind. The recent vanishings had really put him on the spot.

  Nobody cared about Elwood Johnson, of course, and people assumed that the Nolan punk had simply run away again. But Leota Thromp was an entirely different matter. She was a long-time resident and a school district employee. Her disappearance had aroused suspicions everywhere. People were connecting the dots and drawing the conclusion that these events were related somehow.

  Sheriff Fergueson was a man who liked things to be quiet and peaceful because he was also a man with much to keep secret – like that nasty business four years ago at the Grech place south of Bridgestock.

  He snapped the toothpick and tossed it away. The pleasant memory of dinner receded into the background. One of his angry, paranoid moods was coming on. If he could only hit somebody, then he’d feel better! He headed for the town square.

  Fergueson walked quietly, with one hand on the butt of his holstered pistol, ready to whip into action. He dearly hoped to find some wrongdoer that he could knock around and toss in jail. He had to settle for a harmless old vagrant who was sleeping on a park bench.

  “You, there!” Fergueson said, flicking on his big flashlight. “What are you up to?”

  The vagrant stared up into the beam, his eyes wide and frightened.

  “N-nothing, sir ... just resting a bit.”

  “Oh yeah,” Fergueson barked, “don’t you know that’s against the law?”

  Fergueson drew his big revolver. This usually did the trick, as far as terrorizing people went. And anybody who wasn’t sufficiently terrified could expect a whack across the face with the gun barrel.

  “Oh Lord,” the man cried, “Please don’t shoot!”

  He tumbled off the bench and scrambled into the darkness, dodging through the bushes as he ran. Fergueson chose not to follow, in consideration of the large pot belly hanging over the belt of his brown sheriff’s uniform pants.

  “Lousy criminal!” He aimed his gun at the fleeing suspect. “I oughtta put a bullet in you.”

  That wouldn’t be too wise, though. He’d have a lot of explaining to do. It seemed like every degenerate bum these days was more important than the decent, law-abiding folks. Fergueson reluctantly put away his gun. This incident, paltry as it was, had lightened his mood. He decided on a stroll to work off his heavy meal.

  He left the downtown and walked into the residential area. He passed block after block of houses. In each one, people lived in safety under his protection – not that anyone appreciated his efforts, of course.

  “Rest easy, folks,” he muttered. “I’m on the job tonight.”

  Without realizing it, he’d turned his steps eastward. By the time he reached the large vacant area on the town outskirts, his thoughts had drifted back to the events of four years ago.

  That had been when Judge Franklin Gulp still controlled the county. The Judge had been in tight with Albert Grech – the old crank who lived in that place south of Bridgestock which had recently been torn down. The two of them had cooked up something big and were keeping it to themselves. Sheriff Fergueson never did find out what was going on out there – something to do with illegal drugs, maybe.

  Then one day Grech’s neighbor, Gregory Ponge, came to him proposing a deal. Sheriff Fergueson had jumped at the chance to cut himself into whatever the action might be and eliminate Judge Gulp at the same time. Ponge had been light on details, however – he said that he’d tell Fergueson more when he found out himself.

  But all of a sudden, the whole lot of them had vanished – Grech, Ponge, their wives, Judge Gulp, even the cook.

  Fortunately, he’d had some dirt on the old Judge. When Gulp disappeared, Fergueson released details of the Judge’s past misdeeds to the press. He accused Gulp and the others of being “fugitives from justice.” In this way he became a public hero and had won reelection as sheriff.

  Fergueson chuckled. These memories never failed to lift his spirits. The good old days! You could have a good time back then.

  He breathed in the night air, enjoying the vast, empty fields spread out around him. Yes, ‘Melody Acres’ was a good name for this place. It made you feel content, in harmony with things. Heavy clouds moved in and smothered the moon, adding to Fergueson’s pleasure. The darkness felt like a comfortable old coat.

  “I wonder whatever happened to Judge Gulp?” he said aloud. “He’s hiding out somewhere, I guess. Probably closer than you think.”

  He moved out into Melody Acres.

  23: A Frightening History Lesson

  By 8:30 we have finished reading Captive in Terror Orchard. We flop back in our chairs, stunned.

  “That’s some story,” I finally say.

  Morton nods. “I knew some of it already, of course, but I didn’t know about those trees – or why Billy was brought to the Grech house.”

  “Those are the most important details,” I say.

  “The Professor thought he was right to hush things up,” Morton says, “but don’t you hate it when people keep things secret – even if it’s supposed to be ‘for your own good?’”

  “Yeah.”
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  I’m thinking of Mom’s big surprise wedding announcement seven months ago. That had been a wonderful event, about as welcome as a root canal or a major flood.

  Morton heads for the door.

  “Man, I could use another beer,” he says. “Do you want anything from the Speedy Mart, Ryan?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Morton clatters down the stairs to the ground floor. I watch him leave the building from the main window. He’s walking kind of hunched over, as if he’s carrying a huge burden on his shoulders.

  I stretch my tensed up muscles and try to digest what I have just read. It doesn’t taste good.

  According to Billy Conner’s diary, Dr. Rackenfauz had been the original nutty professor. He’d spent years in South America developing a bizarre orange tree he believed to be the “Tree of Life.” He was so blinded by his ambition that he didn’t realize he’d gone wacko. Billy quoted the Professor as saying:

  The tree imparts great power and long life. There’s a lot more than science in it; there is evil magic from the dark forest.

  In Brazil, Rackenfauz met Albert and Amitha Grech who were slumming their way through South America. They came back to the U.S. together and planted a grove of these horrible trees outside Bridgestock. Eventually, the Professor came to his senses and tried to destroy the orchard. Albert Grech foiled his plans, though, and buried him alive in the orchard as fertilizer.

  I was supposed to die . . . I fought them in my mind, though.”

  By the time Billy and his friend Cyndy dug him up four months later, Professor Rackenfauz was in terrible shape. The tress were transforming him into something else. He managed to recover, although his skin never lost its greenish tint.

  Billy Conner was a state ward – a “rebellious and defiant” delinquent – whom Albert Grech had obtained under a foster care scam. Grech planned to bury him for live fertilizer, too. Cyndy was the niece of Gregory Ponge, a neighbor with crooked designs of his own.

  Judge Gulp provided legal cover for Albert Grech. The tree sap was supposed to make some super powerful drug, and they hoped to get rich selling it. Gregory Ponge, backed by Sheriff Fergueson, wrecked all these plans. He wanted to be the drug kingpin himself.

  Billy, Cyndy, and Professor Rackenfauz turned the tables on them all. At gun point they forced Grech, Ponge, and Gulp down a tunnel to the tree roots. They also drove three evil women underground: Amitha Grech, Sally Ponge, and Marnie, the cook.

  At the time, Morton Kasinski was a university grad student on summer break. He picked up Billy Conner in his car during Billy’s first escape attempt. Later, he helped Billy, Cyndy, and Rackenfauz get away from the Bridgestock area. End of story.

  Only it isn’t the end, obviously.

  Before he left with Billy, Dr. Rackenfauz poisoned the ‘medicine supply’ of the trees so that nobody could care for them properly. In this way, they’d never develop their lethal sap and would die out.

  This is what happened, but the trees still managed to do a conversion job on the evil people tangled among their roots. Rackenfauz should have counted on this, but he didn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to shoot the people, and he actually thought the trees would finish them off.

  In his own words: “How could I have been such a fool?”

  Then again, it’s easy to sit here, years later and full of pizza, making judgments. I think I know better than most how terrifying circumstances can force you into hasty actions.

  ***

  Morton returns with a large bottle of beer. He pours himself a glass and plops down in his chair.

  “I haven’t drunk so much in one day since I was in college.”

  He drains the glass.

  “Come to think of it, if I hadn’t drunk so much, I might have finished college on time – instead of three years late!”

  “You don’t need to explain anything,” I say.

  “Right.” Morton examines the bottle. “You know, I have a better idea.”

  He goes to the kitchen and dumps the remaining beer down the sink. Somebody knocks at the door.

  “Answer that, will you Ryan?” Morton calls from the kitchen. “Tell whoever it is that I’ve disappeared or something.”

  I open the door.

  A high school aged guy is standing there. He is thin, medium height, and has straight brown hair. He’s dressed all in denim, which makes him appear rather tough, and he has powerful blue eyes – like he can look right through people.

  There’s sadness in his eyes, too, as if he’s seen things that others can only imagine. I move aside, and he steps into the apartment without saying a word.

  Morton returns from the kitchen with a bowl of potato chips. His chin nearly hits the floor with surprise.

  “Billy!”

  “Hello, Morton,” Billy Conner says, “you don’t look very happy to see me.”

  24: The Captive Returns

  Morton strolls rapidly across the room and shuts the door. Then he turns back to our surprise guest.

  “Of course I’m glad to see you, Billy,” he says.

  He grabs Billy’s hand and shakes it warmly. They seem like two long lost brothers.

  “Why did you come here?” Morton says. “This town is dangerous for you.”

  Billy moves to the stuffed chair and plops himself down. He looks suddenly exhausted, his face is tense in the light from the table lamp.

  “I came back because they have come back,” he says.

  The apartment turns deathly silent, as if the word ‘they’ has put a curse on everything.

  “Did Mark tell you about ... them?” I say.

  Billy turns his laser eyes my direction.

  “You must be Ryan Keppen,” he says. “Mark talks about you a lot.”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I say. “How’s Spider, I mean, Mark, doing?”

  “He’s okay,” Billy says. “I saw him at the martial arts club a few hours ago.”

  “And?” Morton says.

  “And he told me that bad things are happening here,” Billy says. “I didn’t need a crystal ball to figure out what’s wrong.”

  “You should’ve called,” Morton says. “We could have met someplace else.”

  Billy shakes his head. “No, Morton. The trouble is here – so I am here, too.”

  He points to the Captive in Terror Orchard manuscript I left on the coffee table.

  “Professor Rackenfauz sent that?”

  “Yeah,” Morton says.

  “You’ve read it?”

  “The whole thing,” Morton says.

  “You know the full history, then,” Billy says. “Let’s make some plans.”

  Morton stands helplessly with his bowl of chips.

  “You shouldn’t be involved, Billy. You know what the cops are like here. What if you run across them?”

  “Forget the cops,” Billy says. “I’m not leaving town until this is over.”

  “All right – do what you want!” Morton flings up his hands, spilling chips on the floor. “Just keep a low profile, okay?”

  Billy moves to the computer and looks at Rackenfauz’s email.

  “What are these ‘antidotes’ the Professor is talking about?” he asks.

  Morton joins him by the laptop.

  “I don’t know, Billy. I just hope he can help us.”

  They both stand at the desk, their backs turned, ignoring me.

  “What can I do?” I ask.

  They turn my direction, then look at each other. They come to a silent agreement, one that freezes me out.

  “I think you’ve done all you can, Ryan,” Morton says.

  “Yeah,” Billy says, “we’ll handle things now. Let me drive you home, okay?”

  A few minutes ago, I was in the thick of things. What I had to say mattered. Now I don’t count at all. I don’t seem to count anywhere, not at home, not here.

  “It’s not fair,” I say. “I mean ... it’s not far. I can walk.”

  That’s the
story of my life. The ‘responsible’ people do whatever they want, and I get shoved aside. For a little while, I actually thought that I could do something important for a change. Silly me.

  “Come on, Ryan,” Billy says. “I have to move my car off the street, anyway.”

  “Yeah, park it in the garage,” Morton says. “Don’t draw unnecessary attention.”

  “Okay, Billy,” I say, “let’s go.”

  25: The Long Drive

  I expect Billy’s car to be tough-looking, like him, but it’s all new and sporty. It looks fast just sitting at the curb.

  “Nice car,” I say as we pull away from the curb.

  “Thanks,” Billy says. “My dad gave it to me.”

  “But your diary said you didn’t know who he is.”

  I immediately regret my stupid comment, but Billy doesn’t seem offended.

  “He showed up a few months ago. Better late than never, huh?”

  “Does he live around here?” I ask.

  “Actually he’s in California,” Billy says. “I’m going out there to spend the summer with him. I might just stay for good.”

  I am totally astonished and can’t keep from pressing him further.

  “How did all this happen?”

  Billy rolls down the window and sticks his elbow outside.

  “Dad’s wife divorced him last year. He was so bummed that he started traveling around the country on a motorcycle, looking up old friends and stuff, trying to figure out what everything meant.”

  “Is that what’s called a ‘mid life crisis?’” I ask.

  “Yeah, something like that,” Billy says. “He actually tracked down Mom at the rehab center. They’d had a brief ‘relationship’ when Dad was in college and Mom was a townie girl.”

  Man, this is like something out of a movie!

  “Dad left school and went to California without knowing that Mom was pregnant. She lost track of him and never told him about me until he found her again.”

  I am totally awe struck. Billy’s dad sure sounds wonderful – not much like mine.

  “I’d been in foster care for years because Mom couldn’t raise me by herself,” Billy says. “Then this complete stranger pops up. ‘I’m your father!’ he says. That was quite an experience, let me tell you.”

  Billy laughs, then he wipes tears from both eyes.

  “I kept thinking ‘this can’t be true!’” Billy says. “But we’ve done the DNA test. He’s my dad alright.”