He ran all the way home.
Mike was headed for the back door when he heard a movement in the darkness behind the outhouse, near the chick-enhouse. He paused, heart pounding but emotions oddly numb. He took out the bottle of holy water and thumbed off the lid, holding it high.
There was movement in the darkness of the chickenhouse.
"Come on, goddamn you," whispered Mike, stepping closer. "Come on if you're coming."
"Hey, O'Rourke," came Jim Harlen's voice. "What the hell kept you?" A lighter flared and Mike could see the faces of Harlen, Kev, Dale, Lawrence, and Cordie Cooke. Even the girl's improbable presence did not surprise him. He stepped into the darkened shed.
Harlen's lighter flicked off and would not relight. Mike let his eyes adjust to the dark.
"You're not going to believe what's been happening," began Dale Stewart, voice taut.
Mike smiled, knowing they couldn't see the smile in the dark. "Try me," he whispered.
TWENTY-FIVE
The boys left for Duane's farm in the morning. They were all on bikes, and there was some nervousness about the ride, but Mike suggested a strategy if the Rendering Truck appeared: half go into the fields on the north side of the road, half on the south. It had been Harlen who said, "Duane was in a field. They got him."
No one had a better idea.
It had been Dale's idea to go out to Duane's farm. They'd talked for over an hour in the chickenhouse on Sunday night, each person telling a story. The rule was that nobody keep any secrets if it had to do with the weird goings-on this summer. Each story seemed stranger than the last, ending with Mike's, but nobody challenged anybody else or called anyone crazy.
"Okey-dokey," Cordie Cooke had said at last,"we heard what everybody had to say. Some goddamn somebody's killed my brother and your friend an's tryin' to kill the rest of us. Whatta we do?"
There'd been general babble at that point. It was Kevin who said, "How come you guys didn't tell the grown-ups?"
"I did!" said Dale. "I told your dad there was something awful in the basement."
"He found a dead cat."
"Yeah, but that's not what I saw…"
"I believe you," said Kevin,"but why didn't you tell him and your mom that it was Tubby Cooke. His body, I mean. Sorry, Cordie."
"I seen him too," said Cordie.
"So why didn't you tell?" Kev asked Dale. "Or you, Jim. Why didn't you show Barney and Dr. Staffney the evidence?"
Harlen hesitated. "I guess I thought they'd think I was nuts, and put me away somewhere. It didn't make any sense. When I said it was just an intruder, they paid attention."
"Yeah," said Dale. "Look, I just got a little crazy in the basement and my mom was ready to send me to a child psychologist in Oak Hill. Think of what she'd've done if I'd…"
"I told my ma," Cordie said softly.
There was a silence in the dark shed while everyone waited.
"She believed me," said Cordie." "Course, the next night, she saw Tubby's corpse alurchin' around the yard, too."
"What'd she do about it?" asked Mike.
Cordie had shrugged. "What could she do about it? She told my old man, but he hit her and told her to shut up. She keeps the little kids inside at night and bars the door. What else can she do? She thinks it's Tubby's spirit tryin' to come home. Ma growed up in the south and heard a lot of them nigger stories about spooks."
Dale winced at the word 'nigger." No one said anything for a minute. Finally Harlen said, "Look, O'Rourke, you told someone. See what good that did."
Mike had sighed. "At least Father C. knows what's going on."
"Yeah, if he doesn't die of worms in his insides," said Harlen.
"Shut up.” Mike had paced back and forth.”I know what you guys mean. My dad believed me when I said there was some guy peeping in our window. If I told him it was an old boyfriend of Memo's, coming back from the cemetery, my dad'd think I was nuts. He'd never believe me."
"We need proof," said Lawrence.
Everyone looked at him in the darkness. Lawrence hadn't spoken since he described the thing from the closet that had run under his bed.
"What do we know?" said Kevin in that little-professor voice of his.
"We know you're a dipshit," volunteered Harlen.
"No, shut up, he's right," said Mike. "Let's think. Who are we fighting?"
"Your soldier," said Dale. "Unless you killed it with your sacred water."
"Holy water," said Mike. "Uh-uh, it wasn't dead… I mean destroyed… I could tell that. He's still out there somewhere." Mike stood and looked through the window toward the house.
"It's OK," Dale said softly. "Your mom and sisters are still up. Your grandma's all right."
Mike nodded. "The Soldier," he said, as if ticking off a list.
"Roon," said Cordie. "That piss-ant."
"Are we sure Roon's in on it?" asked Harlen from the dark mass of the couch.
"Yep," said Cordie. There was no arguing with that tone of voice.
"The Soldier and Roon," said Mike. "Who else?"
"Van Syke," said Dale. "Duane was fairly sure it'd been Van Syke who tried to run him down on the road."
"Maybe it was him who finally got him at home," said Harlen.
Dale made a pained sound from where he sat against the old console radio.
"Roon, the Soldier, Van Syke," said Mike.
"Old Double-Butt and Mrs. Duggan," Harlen said in a strained voice.
"Duggan's like Tubby sort of," said Kevin. "It may be some thing that's being used. We don't know about Mrs. Doubbet."
"I saw them," snapped Harlen. "Together."
Mike paced back and forth. "All right. Old Double-Butt's either one of them or with them."
"What's the difference?" asked Kevin from the back corner.
"Shut up," said Mike, still pacing. "We've got the Soldier, Van Syke, Roon, the Duggan thing, Mrs. Doubbet… who're we forgetting?"
"Terence," said Cordie. Her voice was so soft they could hardly hear her.
"Who?" asked five voices.
"Terence Mulready Cooke," she said. "Tubby."
"Oh, yeah," said Mike. He ticked off the names again, adding Tubby. "That's at least six of them. Who else?"
"Congden," said Dale.
Mike stopped pacing. "J.P. or his kid C. J.?"
Dale shrugged. "Maybe both."
"I don't think so," said Harlen. "At least with C. J. He's too stupid. His old man hangs around Van Syke, but I don't think he's part of whatever's going on."
"We'll put J. P. on the list," said Mike,"until we know. All right, that's at least seven of them. Some of them are human. Some of them are…"
"Dead," furnished Dale. "Things they're using somehow."
"Oh, Jesus Christ," whispered Harlen.
"What?"
" "What if they have Duane McBride come back like Tubby? What if his corpse comes scratching at our windows like Tubby's did?"
"Can't," said Dale. He could barely speak. "His dad cremated the remains."
"You sure?" asked Kevin.
"Yeah."
Mike moved to the centerof the circle and crouched there. "So what do we do?" he whispered.
Dale broke the silence. "I think Duane had figured something out. That's why he wanted to meet with us that Saturday."
Harlen cleared his throat. "But he's…"
"Yes," said Dale. "But you remember how Duane was always writing stuff down?"
Mike snapped his fingers. "His notebooks! But how're we going to get them?"
"Let's go now," said Cordie. "It's not even ten yet."
There was a chorus of reasons no one could go that night. All of them valid-Mike had to stay with Memo, Harlen's mother would skin him if he didn't get home soon, after he had made her stay home, Kevin was out after curfew as it was, and Dale was still on the sick list at home. No one mentioned the real reason they couldn't go then. It was dark.
"Chickenshits," said Cordie.
"We'll go early tomorrow
," said Dale. "Eight at the latest."
"All of us?" said Harlen.
"Why not. They might think twice about jumping us if we're all together. The things are always trying to get us alone. Look at what happened to Duane."
"Yeah," said Harlen. "Or maybe they're just waiting for us to get together in one lump."
Mike ended the debate. "We'll go together in the morning. But only one of us will go up to the house. The rest of us will stand watch and help if we need to."
Cordie cleared her throat and spat on the wood floor. "There's one other thing," she said.
"What's that?"
"I mean, really, one other thing. At least one."
"What the fuck are you talking about, Cooke?" asked Harlen.
Cordie shifted in the sprung armchair. The barrels of the shotgun shifted with her until they were pointed in Jim Harlen's general direction. "Don't go giving me none of your profane mouth," she said to him "What I mean is I seen somethin' else. Somethin' movin' in the ground near the house."
"The Soldier disappeared in the ground," said Mike.
"Uh-uh. This'n was big… longer'n any person… sorta like a snake or somethin'."
The kids looked at each other in the dim light.
"Under the ground?" said Harlen.
"Yep."
"The holes…" Dale said to no one in particular. The idea of something else, something they hadn't seen yet, made him sick to his stomach.
"Maybe it's like the thing that went under my bed," suggested Lawrence.
Dale had heard the conversation from a distance at that point, as if he were eavesdropping on talk in an insane asylum. And he was one of the inmates.
"It's settled," said Mike. "We meet tomorrow at eight to go to Duane's house and see if he left any notes that could help us."
No one had wanted to go home alone in the dark. They'd left in clusters, hanging together as long as they could until one by one they'd run for porch lights and the light behind screen doors. In the end, only Cordie Cooke had gone off in the darkness alone.
Mike pedaled to keep up with the group. As early as it was, the day was very hot, the sky cloudless, and small mirages and heat ripples were rising from the long gravel road ahead of them. And Mike was tired.
He'd been up with Memo much of the night, sneaking down after his mother was asleep. He'd sprinkled some of the holy water on the window frame, although he had no idea if that would help. Did the effect wear off when the water dried up? At any rate, there'd been no visitor in the night, and only one time that Mike had startled himself awake at what might have been a sound from beneath the house and might as easily have been the house settling. The chorus of crickets and buzz of cicadas had been quite loud through the screens, and Mike seemed to remember silence descending before he saw the Soldier at the window before.
Mike had delivered his papers on time, yawning from his hour or two of snatched sleep, and then rushed to the rectory to see Father C. before Mass.
There was no Mass said today. Mrs. McCafferty had hushed Mike and moved the conversation from the rectory kitchen to the back step; the priest was very ill; Dr. Staffney had recommended total bed rest and hospitalization if Father C. weren't better by Tuesday. In the meantime, said the housekeeper, Father Dinmen, the assistant pastor at St. Bona-venture's in Oak Hill, had agreed to come say morning Mass on Wednesday. Mike was to tell the parishioners.
Mike argued that he had to see Father C, that it was extremely urgent, but Mrs. McCafferty had been unrelenting. Perhaps that evening if the Father were feeling better.
So Mike had stayed around the church long enough to inform the half dozen or so elderly parishioners and to restock on holy water-he'd brought his canteen this time, and emptied one of the fonts into it-and then he was off to meet Dale and the others.He had his doubts about going back to the McBride farm-it meant passing the cemetery for one thing-but the bright sunlight and presence of the four other boys made it hard to say no. Besides, Dale might be right: perhaps Duane had left some clue for them.
They pulled the bikes into the cornfield right at the entrance to the McBride driveway and went forward on foot, stopping at the last row of corn and peering at the McBride farm. The house was dark and silent. They couldn't see Mr. McBride's pickup in the lot anywhere, and the barn holding the combine and other equipment was shut and sealed; they could see the heavy padlock and chain on the door.
"I think he's gone," whispered Harlen. The ride out and crouching run through the corn seemed to have worn the smaller boy out; Harlen's face was pale and sheened with sweat. He scratched at his sling and cast every other minute. The heat was worse now, pressing down on the fields like a hot fist.
"Don't bet on it," whispered Mike. "Can I look through those?" he asked Kev, who'd thought to bring his binoculars.
"Let's have a drink," hissed Harlen and reached for the canteen slung over Mike's shoulder.
Mike pulled it away. "Lawrence has a water bottle. Get some of his."
"Greedy asshole," whispered Harlen and made beckoning motions toward Lawrence. Dale's brother shook his head but pulled the plastic bottle from the small Cub Scout pack he was wearing.
"I don't see anything," said Mike, handing the binoculars to Dale. "But we've got to think that he's in there."
Dale took the water bottle from Harlen. After rinsing his mouth out and spitting into the dusty soil, he peered between the cornstalks again. "I'll go in."
Mike shook his head. "We'll all go."
"No," said Dale. "It makes sense that I'd come out. And if there's trouble, I want you guys out here ready to help."
"I'll help," whispered Harlen and pulled a small pistol from the depths of his sling.
"Jesus," hissed Dale. "Is that real?"
"Wow," said Lawrence, leaning closer.
"Oh, shit," sighed Kevin. "Don't point that thing my direction."
"Put it away," ordered Mike, his voice flat.
" "Eat snot and die," said Harlen. But he put the pistol away and said to Dale, "You bet your ass it's real. We should all have something like it. The other side's playing for real. I think…"
"We'll talk about it later," whispered Mike. He handed the binoculars back to Kevin. "Go ahead, Dale. We'll watch."
It was a long twenty yards from the field to the house. Dale couldn't see the pickup in the lot or part of the barnyard that was now visible, but all the way across the yard and driveway he had the feeling he was being watched.
He knocked on the back door just as he had the dozens of times he'd come out to visit Duane. He half expected to hear Wittgenstein barking from the garage, then hobbling quickly forward, his tail wagging as he got Dale's scent. Then Duane would step out of the house, hitching up his corduroys and adjusting his glasses.
No one answered. The door was unlocked. Dale hesitated a second and then opened the screen, cringing at the squeak it let out.
The kitchen was dark but not cool; the heat filled the little space. There was the smell of stale air and heated garbage. Dale could see dirty dishes in the sink, spilling across the counter. The table was cluttered.
Dale moved as softly as he could across the room, walking on the toes of his sneakers. The house had a silent and abandoned feel to it, bolstering his confidence that Duane's father wasn't home. He stopped to look into the dining room before going downstairs to where Duane had slept.
A dark form was sitting in a chair near the workbench that had been the dining room table. He was holding something. Dale could see a shotgun barrel aimed in his direction.
Dale froze, still on his tiptoes, his heart stopping, then giving a thud, then stopping again.
"What do you want, boy?"
It was Mr. McBride's voice-slow, slurred, strangely without emphasis, but definitely his voice.
"I'm sorry," managed Dale, feeling his heart go thud and stop again. "I thought you were gone. I mean, I knocked…" He could see the man now as his eyes adapted to the dark. Mr. McBride sat in his undershirt and a dark p
air of work pants. His shoulders sagged as if there were a great weight on them. There were bottles across the tabletop and on the floor. The gun was a pump shotgun and the muzzle did not waver an inch.
"What do you want, boy?"
Dale considered various lies and discarded them. "I came to see if Duane left a notebook."
"Why?"
Dale felt a great ache in his chest as his heart strained, lurched, and then began to race. He wanted to raise his hands like in the movies, but he was afraid to make any move. "I think Duane had some information that'd help us find out who… who killed him," he said.
"Who's us?" asked the shadow.
–' "Other kids. Friends of his," managed Dale. He could see Mr. McBride's face now. It looked terrible, worse even than when Dale's family had brought the food out a couple of weeks earlier. The gray stubble made Duane's dad look like an old man, and his cheeks and nose were reddened with burst capillaries. The eyes were almost invisible they were so deep in their sockets. Dale could smell the sweat-and-whiskey stink of the man.
"You think somebody killed my Duane?" It was a challenge. The shotgun remained trained on Dale's face.
"Yeah," said Dale. His knees felt funny, as if they couldn't hold him up much longer.
Mr. McBride lowered the shotgun. "Boy, you're the only one who thinks that, besides me." He took a drink from one of the bottles on the table. "I told that sonofabitch constable, told the Oak Hill police, told the State Patrol… told everybody'd who'd listen. Only no one would." He lifted the bottle high, emptied it, then tossed it onto the floor. He belched. "I told 'em to ask that miserable fuck Congden… he stole Art's car, took the door off so we couldn't see the paint…" Dale had no idea what Mr. McBride was talking about, but he had no intention of interrupting to ask a question.
"Told 'em to ask Congden who killed my boy…" Duane's father fumbled through the bottles until he found one that wasn't empty. He drank deeply. "Told 'em Congden knows something about who killed my boy… they said my boy wasn't in his right mind 'cause of Art's death… Did you know my brother died, boy?" "Yessir," breathed Dale.
"They killed him, too. Killed him first. Then they killed my boy. They killed Duane." He raised the shotgun as if he'd forgotten it was on his lap, set it back, patted it, and squinted at Dale.