Bad Things (39 page)

Standing on Carmen's side porch in the chill windy night, Rick Piper stared at the back of his house. No lights were on, even though he'd purposely left several burning. Possibly Jade had doused the downstairs lights, but he doubted that she was responsible for the upper floor.

Adrenaline coursing through him, he scanned the yard. The orange trees loomed close around him, and he knew that here, even if Big Jack was standing right beside him, he wouldn't know it. Quickly he walked down the path that led out of the orchard, and as he crossed the small lawn, he could vaguely hear the jacks' taunting calls, though he saw only three or four at the edges of the trees. They were in front, he knew, and many of them were probably busy with Big Jack at the moment.

As he reached the back door and inserted the key in the lock, the wind howled and whistled through the citrus trees behind him.
Big Jack?
he wondered as he fumbled with the lock. “Come on, come on, come on.” The whistling sounds grew nearer, then he heard the crunching of footsteps approaching—the familiar sound of Big Jack's tread, like someone walking in a pile of autumn leaves.

Terrified, he jiggled the knob. Nothing happened, and he twisted it harder. “Come on, goddammit!”

Suddenly the lock gave and he swiftly entered the house, pulling the door closed behind him. He didn't bother locking it—greenjacks couldn't leave their natural habitat without donning a human body. Leaves and bark wouldn't do the trick.

Swallowing, he forced himself to turn and look out the window. Something moved among the liquid amber trees, just a flicker at the edge of his vision.
It's nothing,
he told himself, moving deeper into the house.

He didn't want to turn on the lights, and he realized that, as usual, he'd forgotten to bring a flashlight. Trying to move silently, trying not to knock against anything in the dark, he moved through the dining room and into the living room.

Now what?
Without a clue, he sat down on the couch so that his back was against the wall and he could see all the corners of the room. He waited a moment, then rose and crossed to the picture window. He drew the drapes wide open.
Might as well see everything you're waiting for.

The front lawn was a madhouse of activity, and he had to force the jacks' intrusive voices out of his mind, to refuse to acknowledge their attempts to frighten him with their oozing, shifting shapes. He flipped them the bird.

“That's not nice, icky Ricky.”

The voice drifted down from the top of the stairs, nearly stopping his heart.

He turned and peered up into the darkness. “Robin?” he called softly.

His brother's laugh was a harsh, ugly sound. “You think you've changed, little brother, but you haven't. You're still a chicken, icky Ricky.”

“And you're not my brother.” He approached the stairs and stood in the safety of shadows.

“You tell people that, they'll think you're crazy.”

“Better get a new line, jack-off. That one doesn't work anymore.”

“Oh ho, ho boy, and I thought baby brother was still a scaredy-cat, but he's grown some balls.” Robin cackled to himself. “Or maybe he's just really,
really
crazy. Is that it, icky Ricky? Are you crazy?”

The old taunts still worked. Rick's confidence slipped a notch.
Don't listen to him. This is how he gets you. He's pushing your buttons to get what he wants.

“Baby brother, are you still there?”

“Go to hell.”

Robin only laughed. “You
must
be crazy if your own little girl thinks you tried to fuck her. Have you ever seen your daughter naked, icky Ricky? She's got nice tits and a tight little cunt that—”

“I'm going to kill you, you bastard!” Ricky's cry ricocheted up the stairwell as he stepped onto the bottom riser.

Robin laughed. “You should give your girl a whirl, baby brother. She's hot, she's hot, and she'll beg you for more!”

He's trying to lure you upstairs.
In spite of his overwhelming fury, Rick forced himself to remain where he was. “I'm going to kill you tonight,” he said, his voice shaking with unleashed anger. “You can count on it.”

“Oh boy, icky Ricky really does have balls.” Peals of maniacal laughter floated down. “Your daughter's snatch smells good, did you know that, icky Ricky?”

I will not react, I will not react, I will not react.
But his other foot moved onto the steps of its own accord.

“I watched you fuck your girlfriend. Remember when we watched good old Mom and Dad fuck, dicky Ricky? Remember that?”

Rick didn't reply. Slowly he continued up the stairs, keeping to the shadowy edges, his hand gripping the hilt of the knife.

“Hey, I read your stories, icky Ricky. I guess you think you're a big hotshot, don'tcha, pricky Ricky? Did you like the surprise I left for you under the desk?” He paused. “Jade helped me move it. She's all the snatch I got these days, baby brother. I think you'd better start sharing your daughter
and
your girlfriend.” He cackled evilly. “It's the brotherly thing to do. You with all that nooky, and all I have is that dried-up old douche-bag. I did it to her in your water bed tonight, icky Ricky. It was fun.” He cleared his throat. “Your cock's almost as big as mine, little brother, but you need some lessons. I can show you how to
really
fuck your girlfriend. How about I show you how to fuck your daughter, too?”

“No!”
He couldn't stand it any longer, and suddenly he was tearing blindly up the staircase, the knife out, intent on murder.

Something sharp and cold sliced across his shinbone as he reached the landing. It withdrew, then came again, and this time he could feel the chill of it inside the meat of his calf. The coldness pulled free, and Rick whirled in the dark, stabbing the knife in front of him.

Metal hit metal, the knife deflecting Robin's next thrust, and Rick backed up, feeling for the light switch on the wall. His brother laughed again, then something whizzed through the air, grazing his midriff and clattering to the floor somewhere beyond.

“I'm gonna go play outside, icky Ricky. Why don't you come and play with me?”

The sound of hand-slaps descending the stairs chilled him. His fingers finally found the light switch, flipped it on.

He stepped forward, nearly tripping over his left leg, grabbing the railing for balance. Looking down, he saw that his brother was gone. The front door hung open. “Jesus,” he whispered as the pain hit him. Clutching his leg, he dropped to the floor.

“Sweet Jesus,” he breathed. The side of his leg was sheathed in blood. He couldn't see the wounds, but blood was pumping out of him rapidly, and he had to stop it now. Using the railing for leverage, he pulled himself up and started for his bedroom. Then, a moment later, his foot hit something. He looked down.

The sword Audrey had given him lay on the floor, the blade coated with his own blood.

Grimly he grabbed it by the hilt and took it with him. His brother had managed to climb all the way to the shelf in the dressing room, seven feet off the ground, to get to it.
So what else is new?

Safely inside the bedroom, Rick turned on the light and locked the door behind him, then limped through the dressing room, pausing only to slide the sword through the cabinet doors to ensure that his brother couldn't get in. Entering the bathroom, he flipped the toilet lid down and sat heavily, dizzy from shock and, perhaps, blood loss.

He pulled open the vanity, found the scissors, cut his pant leg off at the knee, then began to pull the material, but it was stuck in his flesh. Gritting his teeth, he pulled it free.

Both wounds were in his lower leg. The saber had run clean through the fleshy part of his calf, and it hurt like hell. The other was near his knee. The blade had glanced off his shinbone, and his stomach turned as he saw the white bone under the meat.
Dakota will be pleased. I'll consent to stitches this time.

Resolutely he pulled a clean towel from the cabinet and began wrapping the leg. As he worked, he purposefully set about building his anger, thinking about the things Robin had said about his daughter, so that by the time he grabbed a roll of adhesive tape and began wrapping it tightly around the towel, his outrage outweighed his pain. “You little fucker,” he whispered, limping into the dressing room. He pulled the sword free. “You're dead, you're dead, you're dead.”

Using the sword as a cane, he entered the bedroom and eyed the phone on the side of the bed. Maybe he should call Dakota or Audrey and let them call the police.

He reached for the phone and stopped as he realized his expensive bedspread was soaking wet.
What the hell?
He grabbed the edge of the comforter and pulled it back, revealing sodden bunched blankets. He pulled those away, too.

“Dear God,” he whispered.

Jade was in the mattress. Not on it, in it, floating in the water and air baffles, her sightless eyes staring at him through a thin covering of water.

He saw the X-shaped slit in the mattress and knew that Robin must have lured her up here onto the bed, then killed her and sliced the mattress open with the sword. The plastic liner and high sides had kept any water from escaping.

He picked up the phone, heard no dial tone, then saw that the cord had been cut. “Shit.”

The lights went out.

Ordering himself to remain calm, he felt for the nightstand, opened the drawer, and grabbed the flashlight. He switched it on, and found that there were only minutes of dim glow left before the batteries failed altogether. Leaning on the sword, holding the light, he hobbled toward the staircase.

“Daddy! Are you okay? Bob said you were hurt.”

The sound of Cody's voice turned Rick's gut to ice.
Don't panic.
He halted and shined the light down the long hallway. His son stood partially visible in the open doorway of his room. “Cody!”

“Daddy! Bob said I had to come!”

“Come here, Cody! Run! Now!”

“Daddy!” the child cried, then Robin's laugh boomed down the corridor as a huge arm thrust Cody farther out into the hallway. Robin's head appeared in the doorway, his silhouette only slightly shorter than Cody's.

“Come and get him, icky Ricky!” Cackling, he yanked the boy back into the room. “Catch him if you can!”

Robin's going for the oak tree!
Swearing, he tried to run. He had to get there before Robin opened the window. “Christ.” His leg twisted painfully and he fell. Biting back a scream, he pulled himself up and continued on, dragging his leg behind him. It seemed to take forever.

Cody screamed. Robin laughed.

“I'll kill you, you son of a bitch,” Rick yelled as he stumbled toward the room. Angrily he shook tears of pain from his eyes.

He made the doorway, only to see that, across the room, the window was already open. “Cody?”

“We're out here, icky Ricky. We're having a little monkey climb.”

Robin rested his short body in the thick crotch of the tree, Cody trapped in his bulging arms.

“Cody!” Rick staggered forward.

“Daddy!”

“Come and get him, icky Ricky!” Robin taunted. “Come out and play!”

Rick made it to the window and pulled himself onto the ledge, memories of that other night so long ago flooding his mind. That night Robin had given up his life to save Rick's.

Tonight Rick had to save his son. “Hold on, Cody. I'm coming.”

“Balls, balls, icky Ricky has balls.” Robin turned to Cody. “Your daddy was a coward, did you know that? Oh yes, we all thought he was crazy. Crazy, crazy, crazy! He had no balls, no balls at all. But now he does. He thinks he does! Look at him coming out here with his sword, just to save little old you.”

Rick edged into the tree, leaving the flashlight behind. The full moon cast plenty of light, and for the first time, he saw his twin's face.

It was like looking in a distorted mirror at a carnival. It was him, but not him, a twisted ugly vision of himself, paper white from living in the tunnels, and warped with anger and hatred. He remembered his grandfather saying that when greenjacks can't communicate with their own kind, their frustration and loneliness overwhelm them and turn them from mischievous, selfish creatures to twisted, evil things.
He's insane, not me.
A tiny thread of pity twisted through him, and was gone.

“You going to stick me with that sword, icky Ricky?” Robin sang as Rick edged closer. “If you do, I'll drop your little baby boy right on the ground, head first, and his head will break open and all his brains will goosh out.”

Cody began to cry.

“Let him go,” Rick said softly. “He can't see them.”

“I know that, you asshole.”

“You want
my
body.”

“Of course I do, and if I let your baby boy go, you're just going to hand it over, right?”

“No. Let him go and I'll fight you for it.”

Robin regarded him, then looked down as a windy whistling sound began below. Foliage crunched.

“He's here, icky Ricky, he's here.”

A skeletal hand appeared on the branch where Robin sat. A second appeared.

Rick stood paralyzed, his pain forgotten.

Big Jack's face appeared, just as he remembered it, brown and green, with huge, leering, fathomless black pits for eyes, and vines growing out from between the bark-chip teeth.