On this first Sunday night of summer vacation, Lawrence asked Dale to go upstairs to turn on the light for him and Dale had sighed, closed the Tarzan book he was reading, and gone up with his brother.
There were no faces in the dark. Nothing came out from under the bed. When Dale opened the closet door to hang up his brother's striped shirt, nothing leaped out or pulled him in. Lawrence got into his Zorro pajamas and Dale realized that even though it wasn't quite nine p.m., he was sleepy too. He pulled on his own blue pajamas, tossed his dirty stuff in the hamper, and got into bed to read about Tarzan and the lost city of Opar.
They heard footsteps and their dad stood at the door. He had his reading glasses on and the dark frames made him look older and more serious than usual.
"Hi, Dad," said Lawrence from his bed. He'd just finished his ritual of tucking everything in tightly and making sure that there was nothing loose that might fall down and tempt the under-the-bed creatures.
"Hey, tigers. Hitting the sack early tonight, huh?" "Going to read awhile," said Dale and suddenly knew that something was wrong. Their dad didn't usually come up to say goodnight, and this night there was a tightness around his eves and mouth. "What's the matter, Dad?"
Their father came in, removed his glasses as if just remembering they were on, and sat on Lawrence's bed with his left hand bridging the gap to Dale's. "Did you guys hear the phone?"
"Uh-uh," said Dale.
"Yeah," said Lawrence.
"That was Mrs. Grumbacher…" began their dad. He played with his glasses, folding and refolding them. Then he stopped and put them in his pocket. "Mrs. Grumbacher called to say that she saw Miss Jensen over in Oak Hill today…"
"Miss Jensen," said Lawrence. "You mean Jim Harlen's mom?" Lawrence had never understood why Harlen's mom had a different last name… or why she could be a 'miss' and still have a kid.
"Hush," said Dale.
"Yes," said their dad and patted Lawrence's leg under the blanket. "Jim's mom. She told Mrs. Grumbacher that Jim has had an accident."
Dale felt his heart lurch and then sink. He and Kevin had gone up to find Harlen that afternoon-Mike hadn't been around and they wanted enough guys to play ball-but Harlen's house had been dark and locked. They'd figured he'd gone out on some Sunday outing to see relatives or something.
"An accident," Dale repeated after a minute. "Is he dead?" Dale knew intuitively, certainly, that Harlen was dead.
Dale's dad blinked. "Dead? No, kiddo, Jim's not dead. But he was hurt pretty badly. He was still unconscious in the Oak Hill hospital today when Mrs. Grumbacher talked to his mom."
"What happened?" said Dale. His voice sounded dry, raspy.
Their dad rubbed his cheek. "They're not sure. It looks like Jim was climbing around the school…"
"Old Central!" breathed Dale.
"Yes, climbing around on the school across the street and he fell. Mrs. Moon found him this morning. She was looking for newspapers and cans in the dumpster they have over by the school… well, Jim had fallen in there either the night before or early that morning and was unconscious."
Dale licked his lips. "How bad hurt is he?"
Their father seemed to debate the answer for a second. He patted both boys' legs under their covers. "Mrs. Grumbacher says that Miss Jensen says he'll be all right. He's still unconscious-she says that he hit his head and there was a fairly serious concussion…"
"What's a concussion?" asked Lawrence, eyes wide.
"It's like bruising your brain or splitting your skull," whispered Dale. "Now be quiet and let Dad talk."
Their dad smiled slightly. "He's not quite in a coma, but he is still unconscious. The doctors say that that's normal with a serious head injury. I guess he's also got some broken ribs and a multiple fracture of one of his arms… Mrs. G. didn't say which one. Evidently Jim fell quite a ways and hit the rim of the dumpster. If there hadn't been some soft junk in there to break his fall… well…"
Lawrence piped up. "He woulda been like Mike's kitten that got squashed flat on the Hard Road last summer, huh, Dad?"
Dale punched his brother on the arm. Before his dad could snap at him, he said, "Can we go over to Oak Hill to visit him, Dad?"
Their father took his glasses out of his pocket. "Sure. I don't see why not. Of course, it'll be a few days at least. Jim has to regain consciousness and they have to make sure he'll be OK. If he were to get worse or not come to, they might have to transfer him to a hospital in Peoria…" He stood and patted Lawrence's leg a last time. "But we'll go to see him this week if he's feeling better. You guys don't read too long, OK?" He walked to the door.
"Dad?" said Lawrence. "How come Harlen's mom didn't know he was gone last night? How come nobody looked for him until this morning?"
Their dad's face showed anger for just a second. Not anger at Lawrence. "I don't know, kiddo. Maybe his mom thought he was home sleeping. Or maybe Jim went out and climbed onto the school this morning."
"Uh-uh," said Dale. "Harlen sleeps the latest of any kid I know. It was last night. I'd bet on it." Dale thought of the Free Show, of the lightning and first drops of rain that had sent everyone to cars or huddling under trees for several minutes while Rod Taylor fought the Morlocks, and of the second feature that got rained out. He and Lawrence had walked back with one of Mike's sisters and her dumb boyfriend.
What was Harlen doing climbing on Old Central?
"Dad,” said Dale," 'do you know where Harlen was climbing? Which part of the school?"
Their dad frowned. "Well, he fell into the dumpster that's near the parking lot, so I guess it was on the corner on this side. That's where your classroom was this year, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," said Dale. He was imagining the route Harlen would have climbed… the drainpipe probably, maybe the stone ridges on the comer, definitely the ledge outside the classroom. Cripes, that's way up there. Why the hell would Harlen be way up there?
His dad seemed to speak Dale's thoughts aloud. "Do either of you know why Jim might 've tried to climb into his old room over there?"
Lawrence shook his head. He was hugging the ragged panda bear that he called "Teddy. "Dale shook his head and said, "Uh-uh, Dad. It doesn't make any sense."
Their dad nodded. "I'll be traveling tomorrow night and Tuesday, but I'll call to check on you guys… and to see how your friend's doing… and we'll go visit Jim later in the week if you want to."
Both boys nodded.
Later, Dale tried to read, but the adventures of Tarzan in the lost city suddenly seemed pretty silly. When he finally got up to turn out the light, Lawrence extended his hand across the gap between their beds. Lawrence usually wanted to hold hands while falling asleep-it was the one risk he took with something grabbing him-but most times, Dale told him no. Tonight he held his little brother's hand.
The curtains on both windows were open. Leaf-shadow painted silhouettes on the screens. Dale could hear crickets and the rustle of leaves. He couldn't quite see Old Central from this angle, but he saw the pale glow of the single pole light near the north entrance.
Dale closed his eyes, but as soon as he tried to drift off to sleep he imagined Harlen lying there in that dumpster amidst the broken boards and other junk. He imagined Van Syke and Roon and the others gathered around the dumpster in the dark, looking down at the unconscious kid and smiling at each other with their rat's teeth and spidery eyes.
Dale snapped awake. Lawrence was asleep, still clutching Teddy and snoring softly. A thin line of moisture wet the pillow under his mouth.
Dale lay there silently, barely breathing. He did not let go of Lawrence's hand.
NINE
Duane McBride awoke before dawn on Monday morning and thought for a confused second that he had to get his chores done and meet the school bus at the end of the lane. Then he remembered that it was Monday-the first Monday of summer vacation-and that he'd never have to go to Old Central again. A weight lifted from his shoulders, and he went upstairs whistling.
There w
as a note from the Old Man: he'd left early to meet some friends for breakfast at the Parkside Cafe, but he would be home by early afternoon.
Duane did the morning chores. Finding the eggs in the henhouse reminded him of when he was a tiny little kid and terrified of the militant hens, but it was a good memory because it was one of the few he had of his mother-even if the memory was of little more than a polka-dotted apron and a warm voice.
After breakfast of two of the eggs, five strips of bacon, toast, hash browns, and a chocolate donut, Duane was ready to go outside again-the pump on the water tank in the back pasture needed cleaning and a new pulley-when the phone rang. It was Dale Stewart. Duane listened silently to the news about Jim Harlen. After Dale waited a second for a response that did not come, he went on to tell Duane that Mike O'Rourke wanted a meeting of everybody in his chickenhouse at ten o'clock that morning.
"Why not in my chickenhouse?" was Duane's response.
"Your chickenhouse has chickens in it. Besides, we'd all have to ride our bikes way out to your house."
"I don't have a bike," said Duane. "I'll have to walk all the way in. What about meeting in your secret hideout in the culvert?"
"The Cave?" said Dale. Duane could hear the hesitancy in the other eleven-year-old's voice. Duane didn't especially want to go back to the culvert today either.
"OK," he said. "I'll be there at ten o'clock." After Duane hung up, he sat in the kitchen for a moment, thinking of the chores he'd have to double up on that afternoon. Finally he shrugged, found a candy bar to give him energy on the trip, and went outside. Witt met him in the yard, tail wagging, and this time Duane didn't have it in his heart to leave the old dog behind. There was a high cloud cover that day that cut down on the heat a bit-it was in the low eighties-and he thought Witt might like the exercise.
Duane went back in the house, stuffed his pants pockets with dog biscuits, grabbed a second candy bar for lunch, and the two set off down the lane. Duane never thought about it, but from a distance the two made odd companions-Duane with his ambling, loose-jointed semiwaddle; Wittgenstein limping along arthritically, setting his paws carefully like a barefoot quadruped on hot gravel, and peering myopically at things he could smell but not quite see.
The shade at the bottom of the hills was a relief, but Duane was sweating freely under his plaid flannel shirt by the time he climbed the grade to the Black Tree Tavern. There were a few cars there already. His dad's pickup wasn't one of them, but Duane guessed that the 'breakfast' had already moved from the Parkside Cafe to Carl's Tavern in town.
The overcast began to break up by the time the boy and dog had turned west on Jubilee College Road, and the distant water tower shimmered in heat waves. Duane glanced at the fields of corn on either side, comparing their growth to the fields at his own farm-these were a few inches taller-and checking out the yellow signs along the barbed-wire fence to see what the brand and hybrids were. The sunlight was a solid thing now, heavy on his face and shoulders, and Duane cursed himself for forgetting his cap. Witt poked along, occasionally sniffing out an interesting scent trail and careening off blindly into the dust-covered weeds in the ditch alongside the road. The fence would usually stop his investigations and the collie would come limping back to where Duane waited patiently. Duane was less than a quarter of a mile from the water tower and the turn in the road into town when the truck came. He smelled it almost as soon as he heard it; it had to be the Rendering Truck. Witt raised his head, blindly trying to find the source of the scent and noise, and Duane caught him by the collar and pulled him over to the side of the gravel road. Duane hated it when trucks passed while he was walking here; the grit stayed in his eyes and mouth and hair for hours. If too many vehicles passed him, he might even have to take a bath one of these days.
Standing at the edge of the weeds, Duane noticed how fast the truck was coming. It had to be the Rendering Truck-how many trucks were there around here with peeling red paint on the cab and the high slats behind? The windshield was a mirror of sky glare. The thing was not only roaring along at fifty or sixty miles per hour, it wasn't moving to the center or left of the road as most vehicles would. Duane thought of flying gravel and he pulled Witt farther back, onto the verge of the shallow ditch itself.
The truck roared right, whipping weeds under its massive bumper and heading straight for Duane and the dog at fifty miles per hour.
Duane didn't take time to think. He bent, lifted Witt in a single motion, and leaped across the low ditch, almost colliding with the barbed-wire fence. He barely managed to hold on to the panicked and wiggling collie as the truck missed them by three feet, throwing dust, stubble, gravel, and junk from the side of the road into the air around them.
Duane could see the corpses of several cows, a horse, two hogs, and what looked to be a pale dog in the back as the Rendering Truck swerved back onto the gravel road and continued on in a cloud of dust.
"You son of a bitch!" he shouted, stepping out onto the gravel but still holding the terrified old dog in his arms. His hands were occupied, he couldn't shake a fist, so Duane spat after the truck. The gob of saliva was dust-colored.
The truck reached the water tower and turned left, the squealing of tires quite audible as it hit the asphalt there.
"Stupid bastard," muttered Duane. He almost never cursed, but he felt the need now. "Cretinous cowturd motherfucker." Witt was whining and wiggling in his arms, and Duane suddenly realized how heavy the old dog was and how hard Witt's heart was pounding. He could feel the throbs against his forearms. He stepped out onto the packed ruts in the road, set Witt down, and calmed him with long, slow strokes and gentle words.
"It's all right, Witt. It's OK, old friend," he crooned. "That dumb old stupid piss-ant preliterate asshole of a simple-minded custodian didn't hurt us, did he? No." The soothing tones were calming the dog, but his pulse was still visible against his ribs.
Actually, Duane hadn't seen Van Syke at the wheel-he was too busy lifting Witt and backing into barbed wire to check in the cab as the truck roared by-but he had no doubt that the crazy custodian-cum-dead-varmint collector was at the wheel. Well, everybody would know about this soon enough. It was one thing to scare a bunch of kids by dropping a dead monkey in the creek; it was something else to try to kill one of those kids.
Duane suddenly realized that Van Syke-or whoever it was-had tried to kill him. It hadn't been a prank. It hadn't been some sort of insane warning. The truck had aimed at them, and only the vehicle's speed and the certainty of turning over after hitting the low ditch at that speed had kept the driver from moving over the required thirty-six inches to get them. Somebody would've come along and found my body in the weeds, thought Duane. And Witt's. They'd never have known who did it. Just some careless kid and a hit-and-run driver. Duane remembered the barbed wire and felt his back. His hand came away red with blood. Worse than that, there were two large rips in his shirt that he would have to sew up.
Duane continued to pet Witt, but now the boy was shaking worse than the dog had been. With his free hand, Duane dug in his pocket, found a biscuit for Witt, and then got out the candy bar for himself.
The Rendering Truck roared around the corner by the water tower.
Duane stood and stared, the chunk of Butterfingers un-chewed in his mouth. It was the Rendering Truck; he could clearly see the red cab and massive bumper ahead of the cloud of dust. It was going slower now, but was still traveling at least thirty miles per hour. Fast enough to turn Witt and him into instant roadkill when one considered the three tons above those wheels.
"Oh, shit," Duane whispered reverently. Witt whimpered and pulled at Duane's grip on his collar.
Duane dragged the dog to the left side of the road as if headed for the fields on the south side. The ditch was weed-filled but very low there, almost flat. No hindrance to a vehicle.
The Rendering Truck swerved right, filling Duane's side of the road. It had covered half the distance now and Duane could make out the silhouette of a driver i
n the cab. The man was tall but hunched forward, intent on driving… on aiming.
Duane grabbed Witt's collar and dragged the panicked collie across the road-his forelegs were locked and straight, gravel slid beneath his paws-and tugged him into the ditch. The Rendering Truck cut left, coming off the road, bouncing across the ditch until its left wheels were almost scraping the fence. Weeds whipped under the front bumper and the dust cloud filled the air.
Duane glanced over his shoulder, hoping without hope that another car would come the other way, that some adult would intervene… that he would wake up.
The truck was less than a hundred feet away and seemed to be accelerating.
Duane realized that he couldn't get back across the road in time with Witt, and even if he could, the truck could get them while he was trying to climb the fence there.
Wittgenstein barked and jerked, snapping at Duane's wrist in his frenzy. For a fraction of a second, Duane considered letting the collie go-letting him fend for himself-but then he realized that Witt wouldn't have a chance. Even in the adrenaline of panic, the old dog's joints were too stiff, his eyesight too poor.
The truck was twenty yards away and closing. Its left front wheel struck a rotted fence post and snapped it out of the ground. The wire fence hummed like a shattered harp.
Duane bent, lifted Witt, and in one smooth move threw the dog as far over the fence and into the field as he could. Witt landed three rows of corn in, slid on his side, and scrambled to get his feet under him.
Duane had no more time to watch. He grabbed a skinny wooden post and heaved himself up. The entire fence wobbled and sagged. Barbed wire cut into Duane's left hand. His foot was too big for the square of wire he'd stuck it in and his sneaker was stuck.
The Rendering Truck filled the world with roar and dust and an oncoming wall of scabrous red metal. The driver was no longer visible as the windshield glinted blindingly. It was less than thirty feet away and bouncing on, ripping fence posts out of the ground as it came.