Bad Things (33 page)

Later that afternoon, Carmen, Hector, and Rick buried Delia's bones beneath a willow tree in the front yard. Hector planted a white rose bush on top of the grave to mark it, and Rick stood by the grave between the couple and said a little prayer to a god he didn't know.

The Zapatas were gone now, leaving him to sit beside Delia's grave. He was thankful for that and for Carmen, who had instantly stopped his knee-jerk intention to inform the police, by pointing out that both Delia and her murderer were officially dead and had been for many years. There was no point in stirring things up.

“Oh, Delia,” he whispered. “I wish I could avenge you. I wish I'd known.” His voice broke and he let himself sob out his grief.

At last he got to his feet and walked the overgrown path back to the pond, where he stood by Don Quixote and watched Hector working. They'd gotten a lot done before he'd found the bones, far more than he'd realized—the job was near completion.

Staring into the emptying pool, at its slimy green sides, considering the secret that it had held, he had a sudden thought:

Paulie had started to laugh. It was an unholy sound.

“Dear God,” Rick whispered, “Oh dear God, no.” He grabbed the metal muzzle of the horse to keep from falling.

“Rick?” Hector turned and looked at him. “You okay?”

“I—I—”

“It's bad about Delia,” Hector said gently. “And you've been out in the sun too long already. I can finish up here, no problem. Why don't you go to the cottage? Carmen's got a fresh pitcher of lemonade made up.”

“Thanks,” Rick managed. “I'll do that.”

It took all his willpower to make it to the cottage and knock on the door. Carmen opened it a moment later, took one look at him, and insisted he sit in Hector's easy chair while she fetched the lemonade.

Quint poked his head out of the Zapatas' bedroom, then eeled into the room, flirting and rubbing against the furniture as he made his way across the room. He leapt into Rick's lap an instant before Carmen brought in a huge tumbler full of lemonade and ice.

“Thanks.” He sipped the juice. “Carmen, about Paulie.”

“You remembered,” she said. “I can tell by the look in your eyes.

“I killed him.”

“Yes, you did,” she replied somberly. “You were still holding him under the water when I came out and found you. He was beyond saving.”

“I murdered him,” Rick whispered.

“How did you know the greenjacks got him? How did you know?”

“His laugh. He was sort of half sitting up when I came back to him after Big Jack came apart at midnight. I squatted down and asked him if he was all right. He started laughing.

“He'd changed, like Robin. He sounded like a demon—it was horrible to hear. And then he said, ‘We're gonna getcha, icky Ricky.' He laughed some more, and I remember just staring at him. The greenjacks were everywhere, taunting me, singing their rhymes.” Rick rubbed his temples. “Even in the dark, his eyes looked wrong, and then I remembered what Robin—the greenjack that was Robin—said. He said, ‘Remember Thomas,' and right then I understood what he meant.”

Even as he said the words, he knew they sounded insane, but it was too late now to take them back. “In Grandfather's story about Thomas, he always said that when his parents brought Thomas in, unconscious, his father waited with a sword, ready to run him through if a greenjack had taken his body. That always seemed really horrible, but important, that a father would kill his own son.” He paused. “But really his son would have been already dead. He would have been kicked out of his own body and forced to live with the jacks until his stolen body was killed. So really, if Thomas's father had had to kill his body, it would have been the ultimate act of love.

“That's what I thought about while I held him under the water. While I murdered him.”

Carmen said nothing for a long time. “Ricky, do you still believe that he was taken by the jacks?”

Rick thought of Audrey telling him to give himself the benefit of the doubt until he had proof.
Do I really believe he'd changed?
Finally he looked Carmen in the eye. “Yes, I still believe he was possessed by a jack. Just as my brother was,” he added.

“If that's true, Ricky, then you're no murderer. You committed an act of mercy.”

“What do you think, Carmen? Do you believe me?”

“Frankly, Ricky, I don't know. I've never known. Your brother, he changed, that's for sure. But maybe he just went bad. That happens.”

“Yes, it does.” He took a long swallow of lemonade, but barely felt it go down. “Our secret,” he said softly. “The secret we will carry with us to our graves.”

“We still will, Ricky. We still will.”

He studied her, remembering how she'd coached him on what they would tell the police, and how she'd had him run in the house and call the ambulance while she made a show of resuscitating the lifeless little body. That was their secret.

“You've known that all these years,” he said wonderingly.

“Two days after it happened, you forgot the truth. You believed the story we made up, Ricky. Years later, I thought maybe you never came home because you
had
remembered.”

“No. Not until now. Carmen, why did you cover up for me?”

“Whether he turned into a greenjack or not, you believed he did. That was the important thing.”

“That's more than any person should ever have to do for another.”

“I didn't have to, Ricky. I wanted to. When you love someone, that's how it is.”

He thought again of Audrey and realized the truth in Carmen's words. “I told Audrey,” he said.

Carmen raised her eyebrows.

“She says there are some good scientific reasons why a person could see something like a greenjack.”

“Good.”

“I told her about Big Jack, too.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she's going to stay with me on Halloween and we're going to watch for him together. Carmen, I know it sounds crazy, but at least I'll finally know.”

“It's not crazy,” Carmen said, smiling gently. “It's brave.”

 

“You sure you don't mind, Dad?”

“As long as Leanne's parents are there somewhere, I think it's a great idea, Shel.” He started to swivel his chair back to the computer, then stopped. “No drinking, right?”

Shelly laughed, still shocked that her dad had immediately given her permission to go to an all-night coed Halloween party. “Her parents will be there, and they don't drink or smoke at all.” She gave him a crooked smile. “You met them at back-to-school night. I don't think they even have sex.”

His expression turned stern. “I hope you're not intending—”

“No, Dad. That was a joke.”

“I hope so.” His features softened. “They do look like they probably grew Leanne in a test tube.” He paused. “You're not going to repeat that, are you?”

“No, Daddy.” Was he kidding? She loved it when he talked to her like an equal instead of his little girl. He'd been doing it more and more since they'd moved here, and she loved it. In Vegas he was always asking questions and calling people to see where she was, and now she knew he trusted her a lot more. Of course, he had more reason to; she knew that, too. “Mr. and Mrs. Larson may look like turnips, but they're very nice.”

“Is it a costume party?” he asked.

“Uh-huh. I'm going to be a French maid.” She couldn't resist tweaking him again. He was so predictable.

“No French maids, dear heart. Promoting a sexist im—”

Oh no, she'd pushed the lecture button. “Daa-dd! I was joking. I'm going as a Supreme Court judge, okay? A Democrat.”

He stared at her. “Shel, it's late, I'm tired.”

“Okay. I'm going to be a gypsy fortune-teller. I'm going to ask Carmen to help me. Okay?”

“Okay.” He smiled faintly. “I'm sorry, kiddo. I just want to finish this last paragraph and get some sleep.”

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “I'm sorry I teased. What are you going to do for Halloween? Are you and Audrey going to a party?”

Dad didn't say much about Audrey, but Shelly knew they were getting hot and heavy and was pretty sure they were sleeping together. She was glad: Her dad was much easier to get along with now.

“No parties. We thought we'd take Cody trick-or-treating, then just stay in and watch horror movies.”

“That's a good idea. Get scary ones so Audrey will hang on to you!”

“Shelly . . .”

“Sorry.” She meant it this time. He really did look tired tonight with those dark smudges under his eyes. “I think Audrey's great, Dad.”

It was his turn to stare. “You do?”

“A bunch of us were talking about our parents dating, and some of the kids hate it, like Jenny Morton. Her mom is seeing Bill Manderson's dad, and she's
so
embarrassed. She says her mom never pays any attention to her.”

“But you approve of Audrey?”

“Heck, yes. She's Dakota's sister, and he's one of the best guys in the world. He's kind of one of my best friends.” She called him every week and told him about school and work. Dakota also gave great advice: not quite so prudish as a parent, but more like what she thought an older brother might dispense.

“Dakota's a good guy,” her dad agreed.

“I know.” She really did like Audrey a lot, but there was another reason she wanted them together, one she'd realized on back-to-school night, when Audrey had come along. Her girlfriends didn't try to throw themselves at her dad if he had a woman with him, which was a big relief. Back in Vegas, especially when he had the TV show, she never knew if her girlfriends liked her or just wanted to try to catch his eye.

“Bedtime, Shel,” he said.

“When will the pool be ready?” she asked. At dinner the day after he and Hector drained the koi pond, Dad had told her how it used to be a swimming pool back in the thirties. “It's ready as of today,” he said, smiling at her. “But do we really want to fill it this time of year?”

“Yes!” She turned puppy-dog eyes on him. “We can heat it, can't we?”

“Sure. Why not?” He smiled. “Don Quixote can be the lifeguard.”

He'd said that about a million times too. “What is it with you and Don Quixote, Dad?”

He considered, crossing his arms and tipping back in the chair. Finally he said, “We both tilt at windmills.”

Well,
that
made a whole lot of sense. She decided she'd better read the book sometime. “Good night, Daddy.” She kissed his forehead once more. “Thank you.”

“Night, Shel.” He turned back to his computer as she shut the door behind her.

In her room she dressed for bed, did a quick page of English homework, then climbed into bed and read a Stephen King novel until she was sleepy. Between work and school, that never took too long.

She awoke disoriented, knowing it was the middle of the night, and certain that someone was in her room with her. Flicking on the bedside lamp, she looked around the room but saw nothing unusual, and after a few minutes, she turned off the light and lay back in the big bed, still listening, still hearing absolutely nothing.
I must've been dreaming.

After a few minutes, she closed her eyes. It was silly to worry, because she always locked her bedroom door—at least since those dead poodles had shown up in her room—and only her dad had the extra key.

Right after he finished the sculpture, he'd also gone through the house and nailed a bunch of secret passages shut. She was sorry he'd done it since she'd never had a chance to check them out. Her room had been sealed since her dad was a kid, so he didn't make her drag all her stuff out of her closet. He did all the others, though, telling her how his brother used to use the tunnels to spy on people, but that now they were infested with vermin, maybe even some raccoons and opossums.

She drifted off again and began to have pleasant dreams about Ryan Levine, SVHS's star quarterback and the object of her considerable interest. “Don't open your eyes, Shelly,” he whispered, kissing her neck, stroking her bare arms. “Don't open your eyes.” She sighed as his fingers slipped under her shirt.

“Ryan,” she whispered in her sleep.

Ryan kissed her lips, and she drew his plump lower lip into her mouth, sucking on it as his hands roved lower. He began to pull her panties down her legs.

She raised her buttocks to help him, and as she did, her sleep lightened a little and she passed into a semiconsciousness that allowed her to realize that she was having a very dirty dream.
Safe sex,
she thought, giving herself back to the dream, letting it become a half-waking fantasy as she imagined that Ryan was pushing her legs apart and climbing on top of her. Keeping her eyes closed, she relaxed her legs, her awareness centered on the demanding ache in her crotch. Pushing against him, she felt his erection against her pubis, felt it nudge inward, slowly, gently, deliciously. He would take his time, she told herself, he would take hours if necessary, before he finally and painlessly relieved her of her virginity.

Suddenly there was tremendous pain between her legs. She opened her mouth to scream, but before any sound could escape, a wad of cloth was thrust roughly into her mouth. Choking, she tried vainly to spit it out. Hands pinioned her shoulders, and his penis was like a knife, holding her hips to the bed. She flailed her legs, but that only let him nudge deeper into her. She pulled her legs tightly together, but couldn't push him out. Unmoving, he used his body to hold her prisoner.

In the dim glow of the night-light, she turned her gaze to her attacker's face.

And recognized it.

Her father's face, twisted and cruel, his eyes boring blackly into hers. He smiled broadly.

Blackness swirled into her ears and eyes. She was going to faint.
No!
She forced herself to stay conscious because if she lost it, her legs would relax and he'd start moving again.

Dazed, disbelieving, she struggled to free her arms.

“Let's be a good little girl,” he said in her father's voice. He lowered his face, her father's face, toward her, and stuck his tongue out, played the tip over her lips, teasing them around the gag.

Shelly's mind went coolly calculating. She knew what to do. She moaned. Moaned again.

“If I take the gag out of your mouth, will you be a good girl and not make a sound?” His breath smelled hot and sweet, like candy.

She nodded, and forced herself to moan again as he lowered his mouth to hers and extracted the cloth. He pulled back, eyes glittering, a pair of her panties hanging from his teeth.

Controlling the urge to vomit, she remained silent and hoped her face hadn't betrayed her repulsion.

He dropped the panties and put his mouth back on hers.

His tongue slipped between her lips and thrust against her clenched teeth.

Fighting revulsion, she slowly let her mouth open. Immediately his tongue thrust into it, moving everywhere, along her gums, under her tongue, exploring the soft palate, as if he were tasting her, not kissing her. He tasted of Tootsie Rolls. She forced another moan and slowly drew her tongue to the back of her mouth. He didn't notice. He was moving again, rocking, trying to work his penis in further.

He extended his tongue into a long, narrow dart and thrust it against the inside of her left cheek. She bit down with all her force and held. He groaned.

Suddenly his face snapped back and his hands left her shoulders. Instantly she shoved him off, jabbing at his eyes with her fingers, trying to slam her palm up against his nose.

He hit her on the side of her face. She saw stars and fell back, numb and dumb, expecting him to climb back on and finish his rape before she could regain control.

But he didn't. He said nothing, just made angry little noises that got farther and farther away. Finally there were no sounds. She reached over and flipped on the bedside lamp.

“God,” she whispered, starting to tremble uncontrollably. “Oh God.” She reached up and touched her face where he'd hit it, felt a knot rising already. She touched her mouth and felt stickiness everywhere. Blood.
Oh, God.

Then she realized there was something in her mouth. Horrified, sick to her stomach, she spit it out.

A small piece of pink flesh landed on her bare abdomen. The tip of his tongue. The blood belonged to
him.

Keep your shit together, Shelly!
Not letting herself think, not considering anything but the necessity of getting out of there, she slipped on her robe and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom. In a few minutes she'd cleaned herself up, relieved to find that, not only hadn't he finished his act, but there was no blood. He hadn't even gotten all the way in. Quietly she returned to her room and packed a bag.

As the sun came up, she pulled out of the driveway and headed for the one place she could be sure she was safe: Dakota O'Keefe's. She didn't think about her father as she drove, nor did she wipe away the hot, silent tears leaking from her eyes.