"We will come soon, Duane, my dear," the voice whispered urgently in his ear. "Wait for us, my dear."
Duane leaned out into darkness, felt for the hanging cord, and tugged on the light.
The earphones were not plugged in. The receiver was off. None of his radios were on.
"Wait for us, my dear."
FIVE
Dale smelled Death before he saw it.
It was Friday, the third of June, their second day of summer, and the bunch of them had been playing ball since just after breakfast-by midafternoon they were caked with dust made muddy by their sweat-when Dale smelled Death coming.
"Je-zuz!" cried Jim Harlen from his place between first and second base. "What is that?"
Dale was just stepping up to the plate to bat, but now he stepped back and pointed.
The smell had come from the east, blowing with the breeze down the dirt road that connected the city ballpark to First Avenue. The smell was Death-corruption, the stench of recent roadkill, the bloated-to-bursting gasses of bacteria working in dead stomachs-and it was coming closer.
"Oh, yechhh," said Donna Lou Perry from the pitcher's mound. She kept the ball in her right hand, raised her baseball mitt to her mouth and nose, and turned to look the direction Dale was pointing.
The Rendering Truck turned slowly from First Avenue and rolled down the hundred yards of dirt road toward them. The truck's cab was scabrous red and the bed behind was shielded by solid wooden slats. Dale could see four legs protruding straight up-a cow perhaps, or a horse, it was hard to tell at this distance-the corpse obviously tossed in among others, the hoofs pointing skyward like a cartoon of a dead animal.
This was no cartoon.
"Aww, give us a break," said Mike from his catcher's position behind the plate. He lifted his t-shirt over his mouth and nose as the stench came on stronger.
Dale took another step away from the plate, his eyes water ing and stomach churning. The Rendering Truck reached the end of the dirt road and pulled into the grassy parking lot behind the bleachers to their right. The air seemed to grow thick around them as the stench of dead things closed over Dale's face like a hand.
Kevin jogged in from third base. "Is that Van Syke?"
Lawrence came off the bench and stood next to Dale as they both squinted toward the truck, the bills of their wool baseball caps pulled low.
"I don't know," said Dale. "Can't see in the cab because of the stupid glare. But Van Syke usually drives it in the summer, doesn't he?"
Gerry Daysinger had been waiting on-deck behind Dale. Now he held his bat like a rifle and made a face. "Yeah, Van Syke drives it… most of the time."
Dale glanced at the shorter boy. All of them knew that Gerry's dad sometimes drove the Rendering Truck or mowed the cemetery… odd jobs around town that Van Syke usually took care of. No one had ever seen Mr. Van Syke with a friend, but Gerry's dad sometimes hung around with him.
As if reading their thoughts, Daysinger said, "It's Van Syke. My old man's up at Oak Hill today working on a construction job."
Donna Lou walked in from the mound, her mitt still over the lower part of her face. "What's he want?"
Mike O'Rourke shrugged. "I don't see any dead things around here, do you?"
"Just Harlen," said Gerry, flicking a clod of dirt at Jim as he loped in to join the group.
The Rendering Truck sat there, ten yards away, the windshield opaqued by glare and the thick layers of paint on the cab looking like caked blood. Through the slats on the side, Dale could catch a glimpse of hides gray and black, another hint of hoof near the tailgate, something large and brown and bloated just behind the cab. The four legs jutting skyward belonged to a cow. Dale pulled the bill of his cap lower and could see white bone showing through rotted hide. The air was thick with the buzzing of the flies that hung over the truck like a blue cloud.
"What's he want?" Donna Lou asked again. The sixth grader had hung around with the Bike Patrol boys for years-she was the best pitcher on their pickup teams-but this summer Dale had noticed how tall she'd grown… that and the curves under her t-shirt.
"Let's go ask him," said Mike. He tossed down his glove and started walking toward the opening in the backstop.
Dale felt his heart lurch. He didn't like Van Syke at the best of times. When he thought of him-even in the context of school with teachers and Dr. Roon within shouting distance-he had the image of long, spidery fingers with dirt under the nails, dirt-lined wrinkles on the back of a blister-reddened neck, and yellow teeth which were much too large. Like the teeth on the rats at the dump.
And the thought of walking closer to that truck-that smell -made Dale's insides quiver again.
Mike had reached the fence and was going through the narrow gap there.
"Hey, wait a minute!" called Harlen. "Look!"
A kid was riding down the dirt road and now the bike swerved into right field and crossed the, dirt infield in a spray of clods. Dale saw that it was a girl's bike, and that the girl riding it was Sandra Whittaker, Donna Lou's friend.
"Oh, peww," said Sandy as she brought the bike to a sliding halt near the group of them. "What died?"
"Mike's dead cousins just drove up," said Harlen. "He was just going over to give them a hug."
Sandy gave Harlen a look and dismissed him with a flounce of her braids. "I've got news. Something weird's going on!"
"What?" said Lawrence and adjusted his glasses. The third grader's voice was tense.
"J.P. and Barney and everybody's over at Old Central. Cordie's there and her weird-looking mom. Roon's out there. Everybody. They're looking for Cordie's stupid brother."
"Tubby?" said Gerry Daysinger. He rubbed his runny nose with his hand and wiped it on his gray t-shirt. "I thought he ran away on Wednesday."
"Yeah," panted Sandy, talking to Donna Lou now,"but Cordie thinks he's still in the school! Weird, huh?"
"Let's go," said Harlen, running for the row of bikes near first base. The others followed, pulling handlebar grips away. from the fence, tucking baseball gloves on their handlebars or onto bats thrown over their shoulders.
"Hey!" called Mike from the other side of the backstop. "What about Van Syke?"
"Give him a kiss for us," yelled Harlen and started pedaling down the dirt road.
Dale followed, Lawrence and Kevin right behind him. Dale pedaled hard, pretending to be excited about Sandy's news. Anything to get away from the stench of Death and the silent Rendering Truck.
Mike waited a minute while the others fled, dust rising behind them. Day singer didn't have a bike but he rode on the front of Grumbacher's, Kevin's long legs rising and falling as he pedaled hard. Donna Lou glanced toward Mike and then got on her aqua and white bike, threw her mitt in the basket, and rode off with Sandy.
For a moment Mike was all alone on the ballfield. Just him and the terrible stench of dead things and the silent truck. Mike stood there, just behind the backstop, and glared at the truck. It was at least ninety degrees out today-the sun so fierce that it made the sweat run in rivulets down his dusty neck and cheeks. How could Van Syke stand it if he was in that cab with the windows closed?
Mike stood there as the gang of kids reached First Avenue and swung right onto the asphalt street. Sandy and Donna Lou were the last to turn out of sight behind the row of elms there.
Flies buzzed. Something in the back of the Rendering Truck shifted with a soft, liquid sound and the stench grew worse, became almost visible in the thickening air. Mike felt panic begin to rise in him the way it did late at night when he heard a scrabbling in his grandmother's room below him and thought it was her soul scratching to get free… or when he knelt too long at High Mass, half-hypnotized by the incense and litany and his own sleepiness, thinking of his sins and the terrible fires of hell and the slimy things waiting for him there…
Mike took another five steps closer to the truck. Grasshoppers jumped away in the dry grass. There was a shadow just visible through the windshield glare.
 
; Mike stopped and gave the truck and its occupants-living and dead-the finger. Then he turned slowly and walked back through the gap in the wood-and-wire backstop, willing himself not to run but waiting for the slam of the cab door and the rush of heavy footsteps.
There was only the sound of flies. Then, softly, unmistakably, there rose from the truckbed a soft mewling which grew to an infant's wail. Mike froze in the act of sliding his mitt onto his handlebars.
No mistake. A baby was crying back there in that crib of death filled with roadkill scraped off asphalt, dead dogs with their guts spilling out, bloated cattle and white-eyed horses, flattened piglets and the rotting offal of a dozen farms.
The crying rose in pitch and intensity, shifted to a wail which perfectly matched Mike's sudden stab of terror, and then fell off to a gurgling… as if whatever was there was feeding. Nursing.
Mike pushed his bike away from the fence with legs gone soft. He pedaled out past first base, turned onto the dirt road, and headed for First Avenue.
He did not stop.
He did not look back.
They saw the cars and commotion a block away. J. P. Cong-den's matte-black Chevy was parked in the school lot next to the constable's car and an old blue panel truck that Dale guessed belonged to Cordie Cooke's mom. Cordie was there, wearing the same shapeless dress she'd worn the entire last month of school, and the overweight, moonfaced woman next to her had to be her mother. Dr. Roon and Mrs. Doubbet stood at the base of the stairs at the north entrance as if blocking the way. The justice of the peace and the town constable-Barney-stood between the two groups like referees.
Dale and the others slid to a stop on the grassy field about twenty-five feet from the group of adults: not so close so they'd be shooed away, not so far away they couldn't hear. Dale looked up as Mike pedaled up and slid to a stop. His friend's face was pale.
"And I say that Terence never came home Wednesday!" shouted Mrs. Cooke. The woman's fat face was browned and wrinkled into folds which made Dale think of Mike's catcher's mitt. Her eyes had the same gray, washed-out, hopeless look that he recognized from his classmate Cordie.
"Terence?" whispered Jim Harlen and made a face.
"Yes, ma'am," said Barney, still standing between the fat woman and the principal and teacher. "Dr. Roon understands that. But they're sure he left the school. We need to find out where he went after school."
"Bullshit!" cried Mrs. Cooke. "My Cordelia says that she didn't see him crossin' the schoolyard… and my Terence wouldna left school without permission nohow. He's a good boy. And I woulda tanned his behind to the bone if he hadda."
Kevin turned toward Dale and raised an eyebrow. Dale didn't look away from the group of intense adults.
"Now, Mrs. Cooke," began the short, bald, mean little justice of the peace,"we all know that Tubby… uh… Terence had his mis-chevious ways about him and…"
Mrs. Cooke rounded on the little man. "Shut your face, J.P. Congden. Everybody knows your boy C.J. is the meanest little asshole who ever carried a switchblade. Don't you be tellin' me about my Terence's ways." She looked back at the skinny constable everyone in town called Barney and thrust a blunt finger toward Dr. Roon and Old Double-Butt. "Constable, these people is hidin' something."
Barney made a gesture with both hands, palms out. "Now, now, Mrs. Cooke. You know they looked everywhere. Mrs. Doubbet saw Terence leaving school that afternoon before the children were dismissed…"
"An' I say bullshit to that!" shouted Cordie's mother. Cordie herself looked over her shoulder, saw the group of kids, and gave them a blank stare.
Mrs. Doubbet seemed to come out of her daze. "No one speaks to me like that. I have been an educator in this district for almost four decades and I…"
"I don't give a pig's ass how long you been teachin'…" began Mrs. Cooke.
"Ma, she's lyin'!" cried Cordie, tugging on her mother's shapeless dress. "I was lookin' out the window and I didn't see Tubby nowhere. Old Double-Butt wasn't even lookin'."
"Just a minute, young lady," began Dr. Roon. His long fingers played with the watch chain across his vest. "We understand you are upset by your brother's… ah… temporary absence, but we cannot allow such…"
"You tell me where my boy is!" cried Mrs. Cooke, pressing forward against the justice of the peace as if trying to get her small, fat hands on the principal.
"Hey! Hey!" cried J. P. Congden, taking a step back.
Barney stepped between the two again, spoke quickly and earnestly to Cordie's mother in tones the kids could not hear, and then said something softly to Dr. Roon.
"I agree that we should continue the discussion out of the…ah… public glare," came Dr. Roon's sepulchral tones.
Barney nodded, said something else, and the group went into Old Central. Cordie looked back over her shoulder once at Dale and the others but there was no hostility in her face now… only sadness and something which might have been fear.
"It would be better if… ah… Mr. Cooke could join us," Dr. Roon was saying as they went inside.
"He's been feelin' poorly all this week," Cordie's mother said in a tired monotone.
"He's been drunk as a junkyard skunk all this week," said Jim Harlen in a passable imitation of Mrs. Cooke's Okie twang. Harlen squinted at the sun and the now-empty parking lot. "Shit, it's getting late and I promised Mom I'd get the yard mowed. I think the fun's over here."
Lawrence pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "Where do you think Tubby went?"
Harlen leaned over the third grader, twisted his face into a terrible grimace, and raised fingers like claws. "Something got him, punko. And tonight it's gonna get you!" He leaned closer, saliva dribbling onto his chin.
"Knock it off," said Dale, stepping between Harlen and his brother.
"Knock it off," Harlen parroted in falsetto. "Don't distoib my wittew brudder!" He minced and pirouetted, all wrists and fluttered fingers.
Dale said nothing.
"You'd better go if you're going to mow the yard," said Mike. There was an edge to his voice.
Harlen glanced at O'Rourke, hesitated, said, "Yeah. See ya, simps," and pedaled away down Depot Street.
"See. I toldya it was weird," said Sandy and rode away with Donna Lou. Donna shouted "Tomorrow!" back over her shoulder as they reached the line of sentinel elms on the southeast side of the schoolyard.
Dale waved.
Gerry Daysinger said, "Hell, nothing else's going to happen. I'm going home to get a soda pop." He ran off toward his frame-and-tarpaper house on cinderblocks across School Street.
"Ke-VIIINNN!" The shrill cry sounded like a Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan shout. Mrs. Grumbacher's head and shoulders were just visible at the front door.
Kevin wasted no time for farewells but spun his bike and was gone.
The shadow of Old Central spread almost to Second Avenue, pulling the color from the playing fields lying green where sunlight touched and shading the lower levels of three great elms.
J.P. Congden emerged a few minutes later, shouted something bullying at the kids, and then drove away in a shower of gravel.
"My dad says that he uses that Chevy to trick people into speeding," said Mike.
"How?" said Lawrence.
Mike sat down in the grass and plucked a blade of grass. "J.P. hides down in the dairy driveway on the hill where the' Hard Road dips down to cross Spoon River. When people come along, he roars out and tries to race them. If they race, he puts his light on top of his car and arrests them for speeding. Drags them to his house and fines them twenty-five dollars. If they don't race…"
"Yeah?"
"He gets in front of them right before the bridge, slows down, and arrests them for passing within a hundred feet of the bridge when they finally go around."
Lawrence chewed on his grass and shook his head. "What a shitheel."
"Hey!" said Dale. "Watch your mouth. If Mom hears you talking like that…"
"Look," said Lawrence, jumping up and running over to a furrowed ridge i
n the soil. "What's this?"
The two boys ambled over to look. "Gopher," said Dale.
Mike shook his head. "Too big."
"They probably dug a ditch to lay in some new sewer pipe or something and the hump's still here," said Dale. He pointed. "See. There's another ridge. They both run to the school."
Mike walked over to the other furrow, followed it until it disappeared under the sidewalk near the school, and chewed on his blade of grass. "Doesn't make much sense to put in new pipes."
"Why not?" said Lawrence.
Mike gestured toward the shaded side of the school. "They're tearing it down. A couple more days, once they get all the junk out, they'll be boarding up the windows. If they…" Mike stopped, squinted up toward the eaves, and backed away.
Dale Walked over to join him. "What is it?"
Mike pointed. "Up there. See in the center window on the high-school floor?"
Dale shielded his eyes. "Uh-uh. What?"
"Somebody looking out," said Lawrence. "I saw a white face before it moved away."
"Not somebody," said Mike. "It was Van Syke."
Dale glanced over his shoulder, past his house, to the fields beyond. Tree shadow and distance kept him from seeing if the Rendering Truck was still out by the ballfield.
Eventually Mrs. Cooke, Cordie, Barney, and Old Double-Butt came out, said a few unheard words, and drove away in different directions. Only Dr. Roon's car remained and just before dark, just before Dale and Lawrence were called in for dinner, he too came out, locked the school door, and drove away in his hearselike Buick.
Dale kept watching from his front door until his mother ordered him to the table, but Van Syke did not emerge.
He checked after dinner. Evening light touched only the tops of the trees and the scabby green cupola. The rest was darkness.
SIX
Saturday morning, the first Saturday of summer, and Mike O'Rourke was up at dawn. He went into the darkened parlor to check on Memo-she hardly slept at all anymore-and when he saw the pale glint of skin and the blink of an eye.in the tangle of comforters and shawls, was sure that she was still alive, he kissed her-smelling the faintest hint of the decay that had come from the Rendering Truck the day before, and then he went out to the kitchen. His father was already up and shaving over the cold-water tap there; he clocked in at seven a.m. at the Pabst brewery in Peoria and the city was more than an hour's drive away. Mike's dad was massive-six feet tall but well over three hundred pounds, most of it in a wide, round belly that kept him far from the sink even while he shaved. His red hair had receded until it was little more than an orange fuzz over his ears, but his forehead was sunburned from weekends working in the garden and broken capillaries in his cheeks and nose added to the general rosiness of his complexion. He shaved with the antique straight razor that had belonged to his grandfather, and he paused now-finger on one stretched cheek, blade poised -to nod at his son as Mike headed for the outhouse. Mike had only recently come to realize that his was the only family in Elm Haven that still had to use an outhouse. There were other outhouses-Mrs. Moon had one behind her old frame house, Gerry Day singer had one behind his toolshed-but those were just remnants, artifacts from an earlier age. The O'Rourkes used their outhouse. For years Mike's mother had been talking about putting in plumbing other than the pump over the sink, but Mike's dad always decided that it was too expensive since the city had no sewer system and septic tanks cost a fortune. Mike suspected that 46 his father didn't want a bathroom inside: with Mike's four sisters and mother always talking, talking, talking in the tiny house, Mike's dad often said that the only place he found true peace and quiet was out back in the John.