Bad Things (21 page)

The glass in the back door was shattered, the screen torn, and the door stood wide open. As he raced into the backyard, into the orchard, he heard Robin call his name, heard his hand-slaps, but he kept running, running, running, until he reached Carmen's doorstep.

As he pounded on the door, he glanced back. No one was there.

 

 

Between the grave markers, Rick Piper wept silently. He wept for himself and for his parents.

He wept for what might have been.

The days after the murder had been a blur. He spent the first two in the hospital, and there had been so many questions, so many policemen, so many nightmares. Eventually the police announced that the house had been broken into, nothing stolen, except for a stainless filleting knife from the kitchen that never reappeared. It was presumed to be the murder weapon. Though a few suspects were questioned, no arrests were ever made.

And Robin didn't go away after all.

That was a long time ago.
Wiping his eyes, he stood and brushed grass from his pants.
A very long time.
He moved away, only to stop once more at Robin's grave. “You couldn't get me, so you killed them instead, didn't you?” He kicked a small stone, and it hit Robin's marker with a thunk. “I hated you. I still hate you.”

Admitting it made him feel better. The only thing he still couldn't reconcile was the childish notion that his brother had exchanged bodies with a greenjack, when logic dictated that the handicapped boy had gone mad.

He stared at the grave and tried to understand his brother.
It must have been hard to be handicapped,
he told himself.
It must have been awful to look at me every day and wonder why you were the one without legs. No wonder you hated me.

And no wonder I hated you.
“You told me I was crazy,” he whispered bitterly. “You told me they were going to send me away. You threatened me and called me names. You told me you were going to kill me. And you
tried.
Goddamn you, you
tried.”
Unthinking, he kicked the headstone. It hurt like hell and increased his fury. “Goddamn you, you even said it was my fault they died! Fuck you!” He raised his voice, not caring if anyone heard. “Fuck you! Fuck you!”

The tears came back, hot and furious, tears of anger and hate and frustration. He dropped to the ground, exorcising twenty-six years of anger and hurt.

Finally the tears dried, and then, guiltily, he realized why he had never declared his hate and anger toward Robin before.
He saved my life that Halloween night when we were seven. He let Big Jack take him instead of me.

“Oh, God,” he moaned, falling to his knees, knowing he himself was mad. “Oh, God.”

Finally, slowly, he regained control of himself.
Can't think about this.
Rising, he knew he still couldn't handle the memories, the confusion that went with them. He washed his face at a water fountain and went back to the old Garden of Souls section to lose himself in other people's history.

 

“This house is riddled with secret passages,” Rick told Audrey as they sat at the kitchen table after their date Friday night. “The blueprints disappeared way before my time, so I don't even know how many tunnels there are.” He sipped his coffee. “This morning we had that installed—” he pointed at the new dishwasher “—and the workmen broke into a passage we didn't even know existed.”

“Really? In the kitchen?” Audrey said over her coffee cup. “Maybe your great-grandfather liked to sneak midnight snacks without his wife catching him.”

“You look like you've seen a ghost, Rick. Are you all right?”

“Fine.” He didn't think the raw-meat story would be appropriate. “My brother traveled the tunnels all the time,” he added lamely.

“You didn't?”

“No. I've been in them, but not willingly. When I was very young, my grandfather took me through a few of the main ones, which was okay, but later, Robin knew how to force me to go with him.”

“Most little boys would love secret tunnels in the walls.” She paused, studying him. “I take it your brother made that miserable, too?”

“Yes, that and the fact that I was ridiculously afraid of the dark.” He set his cup down. “I still don't like it. Grandpa Piper's stories about the greenjacks had more effect on me than they should have.”

“Greenjacks,” she repeated. “You mentioned them before. What are they, anyway?”

Over fresh cups of coffee, he told her Grandfather's stories, surprised and rather pleased to find he still knew them word for word. “Pretty silly stuff to be afraid of, huh?”

“No, it's not silly at all. Fairy tales are the worst! I was scared silly by Hansel and Gretel.” She pushed red hair away from her face and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “When I was about five, my favorite uncle, Craig, told me the story. I was okay at first, just really impressed, you know? But then, every time he'd come over, he'd say, ‘Let's see if your fingernails are clean.'

“The first time, I didn't know what was going on. I held out my hands, and he examined my fingers very closely, very seriously. Uncle Craig was a big, tall man with lots of black hair, one long eyebrow, and a very deep voice, so when he looked at me from underneath his brow and intoned, ‘Well, those nails are pretty dirty. I guess we won't have you for dinner . . . this week!' I was sure he meant it.” She looked at Rick. “So can you guess what I did after that?”

Rick shook his head. “What?”

“Every Sunday, before Uncle Craig came over, I'd go out in the backyard and frantically scrape my nails in the dirt until they were caked! I was scared to death of the man, scared to death. And he never even knew it.”

“How old were you when you lost your fear?”

“I didn't. Uncle Craig got killed when I was seven.” She smiled thinly. “It was tragic, really. He worked for CalTrans. They were paving part of I-10, and he had a freak accident with a steam roller.”

Rick decided not to smile.

“The last time I dug in the yard was right before we went to the funeral.” She stifled a giggle. “You know, just in case. At the service, I was sitting next to my mother, and I remember hearing her make this little ‘tsk tsk' sound, you know? I tried to keep my hands hidden for the rest of the day.” She sipped her coffee. “About a month later I overheard her telling my dad how much my hygiene had improved lately.”

“Thank you,” Rick said.

“For what?”

“That story.”

“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows quizzically.

“I've never thought about other people's reactions to fairy tales before.” He shook his head, amazed. “Never. I can't believe how shortsighted I've been. I mean, I knew I overreacted because I judged my reaction against my brother's opposite one. It's never occurred to me that anyone else would take a story as seriously as I did.”

“Well, I sure did. Lots of people do. That's a pretty insulated view you had there, Piper.”

“I never talked to anybody about it. Robin constantly told me I was crazy and if I told about any of it—fear of the greenjacks, fear of my brother—the grown-ups would find out I was nuts and send me to an asylum.”

“What a cruel little monster he was! You must have hated him.”

“When Dakota said that, I denied it. Now I know it's true.” He shook his head. “It just never occurred to me that anyone else might be frightened.”

“Well, plenty are. We all talked about it when we were kids.” She paused. “By ‘we,' I mean girls. I think there's a difference between the sexes. It was okay for us to be afraid and to talk about it, even to enjoy it.” She smiled. “Every time we had a sleep-over, we had a seance and ended up screaming ourselves silly. But little boys have to pretend to be brave. And males don't seem to talk to each other about serious stuff. It's ‘Hey, Bud, pass me a cold one,' or ‘Yo, Jo, lookit da tail on that chick.' ”

Rick laughed. “There's a lot of that. But look at Cody. He's not into impressing anyone with his testosterone yet, but he seems to have no fear of the dark, or anything else in particular. Driving here from Vegas, he wanted to stop up at Madland, you know that old West movie place up on I-15 by Madelyn?”

“Out of Barstow?”

“Yeah.” He paused. “There were ads along the road for the Haunted Mine Ride for a hundred miles before we passed the place, and I was starting to wish I could chloroform the kid.” He pitched his voice up an octave. “ ‘Daddy, I wanna go in the haunted mine! I wanna see ghosts! Are there zombie miners there?' ” He laughed.

“Are you still afraid of things like that?” she asked softly.

“Yes.” He'd never admitted it before, but it seemed fine to tell. “I did not want to go in there. Fortunately, we were on a schedule. But it made me feel funny knowing that if there had been time, I would have found a way out of it.”

“Do things that jump out at you really bother you, like the ghouls in the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland?”

“God, I've never been in there. I'm afraid of making an ass out of myself, squealing or something. I'm a roller coaster man myself,” he added in the deep, stupid voice he equated with rednecks.

She smiled briefly. “You didn't answer my question. Is it the dark or things jumping out at you that you can't handle?”

“Let's put it this way: My brother thought the height of amusement was jumping out of dark corners and yelling boo. He didn't do it too often,” he added, studying his hands. “He always waited until some time had passed and my guard went down, then
‘boo!'
and he'd laugh and laugh. It made me jumpy. I ended up with nerves of cellophane.”

“You learned to always be on your guard. It must have done wonders for your self-confidence, too,” she added dryly.

“Oh yes, wonders.” He drained his cup. “More?”

“Sure.”

He took their cups to the counter and poured more from the Mr. Coffee. “The last thing I meant to do is whine about my past,” he said, sitting back down.

“Lord, you're hard on yourself, Rick!” She paused. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“It's a weird one.”

He laughed. “Go ahead.”

“Those greenjacks. Did you think you could see them, like the boy in the stories?”

Rick slopped his coffee. “What?”

“You did, didn't you?” she pressed. “It's no big deal. Lots of people think they see things. Not just kids. Every other person in Ireland would probably say they've seen a leprechaun or fairy at one time or another.” She smiled. “Nowadays people see little gray aliens, but it's all the same thing. I think.”

“Yeah, I used to think I saw them. I thought—still think—I probably just wasn't too well adjusted.”

“Well, you had a sadistic brother, and a lot of these things are tied up with abuse. A person can't stand thinking that someone who supposedly loves them is hurting them, so they invent something else to take the blame. From what I've read, it happens a lot.”

“That makes a lot of sense.” He paused. “And it probably applies to me. No wonder your brother was always telling me to see a shrink,” he added casually. “Listen, Audrey. Can I ask you a weird question too?”

“Fair's fair.”

“Well, in your practice, have you ever run in to anyone who can see things other people can't? Like infrared rays, for instance?”

“That used to happen to cataract patients, but that's not what you mean, is it?”

“No, I mean naturally. Like cats see infrared.”

She considered. “It's possible, but it would probably be impossible to detect during an eye exam unless it was a person with an ocular deformity. James Thurber had that problem. The brain fills in what the eye doesn't pick up.” She smiled. “But he put it to good use—he put the things he saw into his cartoons.”

“What about someone with twenty-twenty vision? Could they see something?”

“Rick? Do you still see them?”

“No, no, no, of course not,” he replied hastily, then started to skate. “I have a cousin back in Scotland who says he's seen them all his life. He's intelligent, has a good job, and seems perfectly sane. But he sees them. I've just always wondered if maybe he really does.”

“What does he say they look like? Are they solid?”

“No, not at all.” He described them briefly, leaving out all mention of Big Jack.

“Something like that sounds like it's in the realm of light waves, so it's possible.” Audrey studied him a long time. “Let me do a little research.”

“If it's any trouble . . .”

“None at all. It's fascinating. I saw a UFO once, but when I made the mistake of reporting it, the authorities told me I was seeing things.” She gave him a wry smile. “But I know what I saw—I just learned not to tell anyone about it.”

“I believe you,” Rick said sincerely.

“I thought you might,” she replied, giving him a look that made him certain she knew there was no cousin in Scotland.

“Let's talk about something else,” he suggested quickly.

“Okay. The other night you promised to tell me about your old girlfriends.”

“I did?”

“Uh-huh. So who was your first?”

He hesitated only briefly. “Her name was Delia.”

“And how old were you?”

“Ten.”

She smiled. “Tell me all about it”

“It's pretty weird.”

“All the better.”

He smiled and sat back in his chair. “Her full name was Delia Minuet, and I met her at the carnival on Independence Day Weekend in 1975.”

 

 

The Masello Brothers Carnival and Sideshow arrived in Santo Verde just in time for the July Fourth weekend of Ricky's tenth year. According to his dad, the carnival had come to town at this time every year for as far back as he—and even Grandfather Piper—could remember, but this was Ricky's first visit.

Last year they'd been on vacation at the Grand Canyon, and before that, other vacations, chicken pox, and the mumps had made them miss it.

Now Ricky, standing next to Mom on the warm, clear morning, could hardly wait as they stood in line for tickets. The red and gold banner, the colorful pendants waving across the whole front, the smells of popcorn and cotton candy on the warm breeze, and most of all, the rides. Behind the buildings and tents, he could see the top of the Ferris wheel and the dinosaur back of the Wild Mouse, not to mention whirling umbrella chairs and the occasional lift of an octopus arm.

“Lift me higher, Dad! I wanna see!” Robin, already riding high in their father's arms, almost managed to pull himself onto his head before their dad boosted him onto his shoulder.

Inside, it was even better. Ricky played ring toss and won a rubber snake, rode the roller coaster with Dad, then consumed a cone of sticky pink cotton candy and two snow cones.

Only two things marred the first couple of hours. One was when he and Daddy and Robin rode the Ferris wheel together, and Robin, seated between them, whispered to Ricky that he was going to push him off the swinging bench when they reached the top.

That wasn't too bad because he knew his brother wouldn't do it, not with Dad around. It was the horror ride that was the really bad thing.

From the moment he laid eyes on Train to Terror, Robin wanted to ride the little cars into the horrors hidden in the darkness beyond. And he wanted his brother to ride with him. Just the two of them, he kept insisting, It would be fun.

Ricky equally did
not
want to ride, not at all, but especially not with Robin. His lower lip kept trembling and he was afraid he was going to start crying any second now. Just looking at the ride scared him so badly that he could hardly think. He didn't want anyone to know how afraid he was, because at every opportunity Robin reminded him that if they knew, their parents would think he was crazy and send him away. And even though he'd actually heard Mom and Dad say they thought Robin was scaring him and that they were going to send him away to school soon, Ricky realized he wouldn't quite believe it until it happened.

“Come on,” Robin goaded. “Ride with me, Ricky.”

Ricky shook his head no, and his father squatted down and looked him in the eye. “It's just a ride. You love roller coasters, right?”