"What about the tents?" Nick asked.
"Forget 'em," Mr. Gordon said. "They're ten pounds each, and they're fucked anyway. We can make better time without 'em."
"I'm with you," Dad told him. "Leave the things. Let's pack up fast and — "
"Murderers!" The shrill outcry made Benny jump. Karen jerked her hand away and whirled around. Benny staggered backward a step. Through the sheets of water he saw a woman perched on a boulder near the shore. He felt warm urine spill down his leg, and fought to stop it.
Everyone stood motionless, staring at the woman. She stood with her feet spread apart, dress clinging to her legs, face a thin pale mask streaked with ropes of dark hair, arms raised overhead. The blade of a small knife jutted from one hand. From the other hung a pouch the size of a baby's head.
"Murderers!" she shrieked again. "You're cursed!" She shook the pouch. "I have your blood and hair! You killed my son and you'll die, every one of you! Cursed! My curse is on you!"
She leaped off the rock and took a few steps sideways, waving the pouch. Then she turned away and started to run.
Mr. Gordon lunged forward, but Dad grabbed his arm. "Let go! I'll nail her!"
Benny saw the woman dash behind an outcropping.
"Just wait," Dad told Mr. Gordon. "What if she's not alone? What if someone's waiting to pick you off?"
Mrs. Gordon rushed from her tent, Heather and Rose following close behind. They wore yellow slickers and rain hats, and Benny couldn't tell which was Heather until one of the girls waved at him. "Who was that?" Mrs. Gordon asked.
"Some crazy old bag," said Mr. Gordon.
"Apparently the mother," Dad explained, "of the guy who attacked Karen and Julie."
"A witch," Benny said.
The others acted as if they didn't hear him. "What did she want?" Mrs. Gordon asked.
Her husband shrugged. "God only knows."
"Is she the one who took the body?"
"She didn't say."
"She put a curse on us," Benny said loudly. "A death curse. She's a witch."
"Bullshit," Mr. Gordon said.
"Bullshit or not," Karen told him, "that woman did, in fact, put a curse on us. In a way, though, it's a relief. I don't think she cut us to infect us — just to get blood for her hex or whatever."
"That is how it sounded," Dad admitted. "The gal's obviously a nut case. Unless it was all a show to lure us after her."
Benny took a deep breath. His glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose. He shoved them back into place, and wrinkled his nose to hold them there. "Do you want to know what I think?" he asked.
"I think we'd better get out of here," Mr. Gordon said. "Rabies or no rabies, the quicker we get back to the cars, the better. We don't want to spend another night out here if we can help it. A loony like that gal, there's no telling what she might do."
"Especially," Julie added, "if she's not alone."
"Can I say something?" Benny asked again.
"What's this about rabies?" Mrs. Gordon asked.
"Probably a false alarm, but — "
"Benny has something to say," Karen broke in.
"Shoot," Dad told him.
"I know I'm just a kid and everything, but I think we better not leave here till we get our stuff back."
"What stuff?" Dad asked.
"Our blood and hair. She's got it in that pouch, I think."
"She's welcome to it," Dad said.
"She'll use it. You know, like with a voodoo doll? You need the person's hair or clothes to make it work. If she's got our hair and blood, she can use it like that."
"To make voodoo dolls?" Karen asked.
"Or something. I don't know. I just know she can't mess with us if we take our stuff away from her."
"For cryin' out loud, Benny."
"What if he's right?" Nick asked. "I mean, I'm not saying I believe it, but — "
"You'd certainly better not believe it," Mrs. Gordon scolded. "It's blasphemy."
"It's bullshit."
"Please, Arnold."
"Can't we just get out of here," Julie said, "before anything else happens?"
"We can't get away from a curse," Benny warned. "I'm telling you, we'd better — "
"Spare us, okay?"
"Look, Benny," Dad said, "I understand you're worried about this thing, but a curse is in the same category as zombies and vampires and ghosts. It's make-believe. It doesn't really exist. All it can do is frighten us; it can't really hurt us. Guns and knives and hatchets can hurt us, but a curse is just words. Okay? So let's just try to forget about it and move out of here before we have something real to contend with."
Benny shrugged. He knew it was pointless to argue. "All right," he muttered. "But we'll be sorry."
Part Two__________
Chapter Twenty-five__________
Good grief, hon, you're a wreck."
"Tell me about it," Karen said. She swung her pack to the floor, crossed to the couch, sat down, and started to unlace her boots.
"A disaster, huh?" Meg lowered her husky body into a chair, and hooked a leg over one of its padded armrests. She took a cigarette from the side pocket of her housecoat. "How'd you get the shiner? Bump into a tree, or did Scott smack you around?"
"A guy attacked me." Karen pulled off her boots and leaned back against the soft cushions.
Meg groaned as she lit her cigarette. She inhaled deeply and blew smoke out her nostrils. "How do you mean, attacked?"
"He raped me."
"Good Christ! Are you kidding? Are you okay?"
"Mostly bruises."
"My God," she muttered. "Jesus Almighty Christ, that's ..." She shook her head. Her face was twisted with disgust. "How could it happen? There was a whole army with you."
"I was alone in the tent."
"Must've been . . . Karen, Karen."
"I don't remember any of it. He knocked me unconscious. Scott was with me when I came to."
The cigarette trembled in Meg's fingers as she raised it to her lips. "What happened to the bastard that did it?"
"He was killed."
"Good. I hope he died slowly. I'd have cut off his dick."
"Then I'm glad you weren't there," Karen said. With a moan, she lifted her feet and propped them on the coffee table. She folded her hands on her belly. "I'm sore all over," she muttered. "We hiked out of there in one day — a night and a day. Then spent half a day at the sheriff's office. Then a few hours at some damn hospital for rabies tests."
"Rabies tests? Was the bastard rabid?"
Karen shook her head, wincing at the pull of her stiff neck muscles. "We were worried about his mother's knife."
"His mother?"
"Yeah." She explained about the tents being slashed open, the head cuts on everyone except Flash and Nick, the mother showing herself and cursing them.
"Like a fuckin' horror film," Meg said. "What was she, some kind of witch?"
"That's what Benny says. He's pretty spooked about the whole thing."
"And you're not?"
"I'm not gonna lose any sleep over a curse. Sleep, ha! Wonder what that is. Feel like I haven't slept for a week."
"Maybe you'd better hit the sack."
"Funny, I'm not sleepy. Just kind of shaky and spaced out, and like I might vomit. But, anyway, I've gotta take a bath first. Probably turn the water black."
"Can I do something for you? Fix you something to eat?"
"No, thanks. We ate on the road."
"How about a drink? You could probably use a stiff one."
"Yeah. A good belt of Alka-Seltzer. I'll get it." She pushed herself forward, stood up, and limped toward the kitchen. Meg, hurrying ahead of her, turned on the light and went to a cupboard. "Any trouble with the cops?"
"They're sending out a team to search for the body. I guess there won't be an inquest or anything unless they find something."
Meg ran cold water from the tap, and filled the glass.
"Nobody's really sure the guy's dea
d. We think so, but the way the body disappeared ..."
"Good Christ."
"We think the mother took it. Anyway, they're investigating the whole thing." She accepted the glass from Meg. "They said they'd be in touch."
"What a mess."
"Yeah."
Meg returned to the living room. Karen carried her glass up the short hall to the bathroom. Leaning against the sink, she opened the medicine cabinet and found a packet of Alka-Seltzer. Her hands shook badly as she tried to tear tin- foil. Finally, she ripped it with her teeth. She dumped tin two tablets into her glass.
While she waited for them to dissolve, she stared at herself in the mirror. She looked as bad as she felt. Her blond hair was dark and stringy. Her face was puffy and smudged with bruises. There were shadows under each eye. The eyes themselves were like those of a dazed, haggard stranger. She touched the cut above her right eyebrow, and felt the tiny ridge of scab. Combing her hair down with her fingers, she found a swath that was too short.
I have your blood and hair.
The bitch wasn't kidding.
Karen lifted the glass. The cool fizz tickled her nostrils as she drank. When she was done, she stripped off her filthy clothes. Many of the bruises on her neck and shoulders and breasts were shaped like teeth marks.
Beautiful. That's what the female deputy had said while inspecting the marks. Karen had blushed then, and she blushed now at the memory of it. The surge of blood made the pounding in her head hurt worse.
'Beautiful?" she'd muttered.
"The fella would've been an orthodontist's dream. These are nearly as good as fingerprints." Then the deputy had taken an endless series of photos — long shots and close-ups of each injury. "And you're positive there was no ejaculation?" she asked when she finished.
"Does it make any difference?"
"Yes and no. It's rape irregardless, so long as he penetrated without your consent. A semen specimen can be typed, though, if he's a secreter. By that, I mean his blood type can often be determined from a semen sample. That'd be good evidence in court."
"He didn't ejaculate." Scott had. A specimen, if any traces could still be found, would only serve to confuse the situation.
The deputy had shrugged. "We can live without it."
"We can live without it," Karen muttered to the bruised face in the mirror. "Jeez." She turned away. Her head throbbed as she bent over the bathtub and turned the faucets on. When the water was hot, she twisted the shower handle. There was a pause, then water sprayed down. She stepped over the side of the tub, into the hot rush, and pulled the plastic curtain shut.
The water felt wonderful splashing against her, matting her hair and spraying her face, running hot down her body. She turned slowly, sighing as it struck the back of her head, her sore neck and shoulders. Its gentle force massaged her, eased the pain in her head, brought a languor that made washing seem like too much effort.
Finally, she forced herself to shampoo. Her arms ached as she rubbed the suds into her hair and scrubbed her scalp. When she finished rinsing, she stood motionless, arms hanging limp, letting the spray hit her, feeling the hot streams slide down her body. She didn't want to move, except to lie down in the enveloping heat. But she needed to be clean first, to soap away the grime of the trails, her own sweat, the filth of the man who'd soiled her by his touch.
Stepping away from the shower so the water fell just against her calves, she began to rub herself with a bar of soap. Except for a patch of skin out of reach in the center of her back, she lathered herself from neck to ankle. She set the bar in its dish. She felt as if she wore a suit of slick, hugging suds. With a wet washcloth, she began to scrub herself. She did it hard, despite the flickers of pain as she scoured the bruised areas. Squatting, with the spray on her back, she swabbed between her legs. Tomorrow, she thought, she would stop by the Thrifty and buy a douche. She wished she didn't have to wait that long, but the store would be closed by now, so there was no choice.
She stood up and rinsed, cleaned her face and ears, and was done.
Crouching, she stoppered the drain. The sound of the shower changed immediately: a loud sound, hollow and plopping, not unlike the drum of rain on a tent.
It hadn't been raining when the man entered her tent. It had been raining when she came to. When Scott made love to her, the noise of rain smashing the tent was all around them, part of it all, as close to them as the sound of their heartbeats and breathing.
It was a good memory.
Karen sat down in the pooled water and slid herself backward until the spray enveloped all but her outstretched legs. Drawing them up, she wrapped her arms around her knees. She sat there, huddled under the hot shower, the water level rising, the sound like the rain hitting the tent ;two nights before when Scott was with her, so gentle, so hesitant, afraid of hurting her, finally filling her and making so much of the real hurt go away.
She wished she could be with him now. He'd asked her to come home with him, but it hadn't seemed right. "I'm such a mess," she'd objected. "You'd better take me to my place." Even as the words came out, they'd left a hollow, lonely place inside her. She'd wanted, more than anything, to go home with Scott. She didn't want to leave him. She didn't want to leave Benny or Julie. But they deserved time to be together as a family, time away from her. Even if they wanted her in their home tonight, she knew she would feel like an intruder.
The water splashing on Karen seemed less hot than before. Sliding forward, she twisted the shower handle down. The spray ceased, and water gushed from the faucet. She stopped all the cold, and continued to fill the tub, a hand under the spout until the falling water started to cool. Then she shut it off.
She lay down, her head against the rear of the tub, all but her face submerged in the warmth. The enamel was slick against her back, but she felt the washcloth under her rump. She pulled it free, wrung it out, and spread it over her face.
Wrapped in heat, she felt tranquil and lazy. The soreness seeped from her muscles. Her limp arms were buoyed up. She forced them down, and slid her fingers beneath her buttocks to stop them from rising.
Her mind began to drift. She was crouching by a mountain stream, splashing herself with water so cold it stung. She saw Scott's eager eyes, felt his hand cup her breast. When he pulled off her shirt, she reminded herself that he hadn't done that; they'd kissed and moved on and found the campsite for their first night. But now he did. He pulled off her shirt and kissed the teeth marks on her breasts. There shouldn't be teeth marks, but there were, and he kissed them gently. He plucked open the drawstring of her sweatpants. She'd been wearing shorts that afternoon, but never mind. They were off and she was sprawled naked on a hot granite slab beside the stream, with the spray of the tumbling water icy on her skin, and the sun hot. Scott, standing between her spread legs, wore only a gray sweatshirt. Karen's sweatshirt. It was much too tight. He struggled to take it off, but couldn't, so he slit it up the front with a straight razor. He knelt down. "I've got a surprise for you," he said. Reaching into a bowl, he scooped out a handful of white lather. He spread it on her groin. "Are you going to shave me?" she asked. Scott didn't answer. He rubbed her with the thick, slippery cream, then piled a huge heap of it on her belly. As he smeared it over her skin, he said, "It's not what you think." She asked, "What is it?" He swirled it over her breasts, made tiny white peaks on each nipple, and licked them off. "Whipped cream," he said. "I'm going to eat you up." He raised his face and grinned, but he wasn't Scott anymore but a gaunt, wrinkled old woman with watery eyes and crooked brown teeth. There were dabs of whipped cream on her lips and the tip of her nose. "No! Get away!" Karen gasped. The awful face darted down. She tried to twist away, but the teeth clamped on her breast and sank in. The old woman shook her head like a savaging dog, jerked free, and loomed over Karen's face, chewing a clump of flesh; blood and whipped cream spilled onto Karen's lips. Karen started to scream. Her mouth filled with water.
The choking startled her awake. She spit out a mouthful of wa
ter as she lurched upright. The washcloth peeled away from her face. She curled forward, muscles afire as a lit of coughing racked her body.
Gasping and coughing, she thrust herself out of the water. She swept an arm toward the shower curtain, then crabbed a wet fold as her right foot skidded out from under her. The curtain yanked taut, ripped free. Her legs shot out and she was falling. She heard a heavy splash an instant In-fore her head-seemed to explode. She slid down. Water covered her eyes, and then she saw nothing at all.
Chapter Twenty-six__________
Kneeling on his bedroom floor, Nick unstrapped his sleeping bag from his pack frame and rolled it aside.
Right now, he thought, he would be lying next to Julie high in the mountains, if only . . . "Damn it," he muttered.
He opened his pack and began to empty it, tossing his dirty clothes into a heap for the laundry hamper, setting aside his cook kit, utensils, and water bottle for a trip to the kitchen, making a third pile of equipment — compass, first-aid kit, rope, toilet articles — that would need no attention and could simply be returned to the pack for the next time.
The next time?
After what had happened at Mesquite, he doubted he would ever want to go backpacking again. But you never know. Always in the past, when he stayed away from the mountains too long, he'd been hit with a longing to return, a strong aching need like homesickness. Maybe he wouldn't get that feeling anymore.
Maybe nothing would ever be the same again.
He'd killed a man. He knotted up at the thought of it. Everyone — even the sheriff deputy after hearing the story — had told him it was all right, that the guy had it coming, that Nick had performed a service by ridding the world of him. Nick had told himself the same thing, over and over, and part of him was glad he'd done it — avenged Karen and Julie, stopped the man from attacking Julie's father with the rock, made it so he would never hurt anyone again.
Hut deep inside he felt a steady tight sickness at the knowledge that he had ended a life. The man was dead. Dead. He would never again feel the sun on his face, or . . .