Bad Things (8 page)

“Get over here and help me with the potatoes.” Dakota crooked his finger at Rick, then turned and walked to the sink. “I'll peel, you slice.” He handed him the knife, then tossed a peeled potato his way. “Santo Verde, huh? As a recovering Cathaholic, I find the name fascinating. I wonder which saint it refers to. The Green Saint. Saint Patrick?”

“No, it refers to . . .” Rick paused, his stomach twisting into an old, familiar knot.

“Spit it out, Piper.”

“Something more . . . primitive.”

Dakota raised his eyebrows and waited.

“My great-great-grandfather founded the town, and the name has to do with an old family legend. Santo Verde is named for a nature god that some of the Piper clan can supposedly see.”

“I love it,” Dakota said, starting another potato. “Are you talking about Pan?”

Rick considered. “Something similar to Pan and his satyrs, yes. The Pipers called them greenjacks.”

“That's
so
romantic, Piper.” Dakota paused. “Your family's from Scotland, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“So why Santo Verde? Why not McPan or McJack or something?”

Rick chuckled, despite himself. “Conlin Piper used the Spanish words because he had moved to the Southwest and because he loved Mexico. He thought it was more appropriate.” Rick laughed again. “Actually, ‘Santo' is Italian, but he wasn't too far off.”

Dakota nodded. “So what exactly is a greenjack? Does it have hooves and horns?”

This is your chance to talk about this stuff like an adult, Piper. Don't blow it!
“Nothing like that,” Rick said lightly. “They're more like trolls or fairies, They aren't material, except on Halloween night, when they get together and build
the
Big Jack. They build it out of twigs and branches and leaves, and Big Jack can grab you and take you away until midnight, November first.” He smiled nonchalantly, hoping Dakota wouldn't notice that his hands were trembling. “At least that's how Grandfather always told the tale.”

“I guess it's true what they say about you Scotsmen being mystical,” Dakota told him. “That's a marvelous story. I guess Big Jack's a lot like the Green Man in England.”

Rick rooked at him in surprise. “Yeah.”

“I remember him, then.”

“You do?” he asked, the skin on the back of his neck prickling up.

“When I was little we went to the Met in Central Park all the time, and I'd spend hours looking at those English hunt tapestries, you know? I loved them because they were puzzles. If you looked hard enough, you'd see the Green Man somewhere in the art. He was hard to spot because he always had leaves growing out of his mouth and he'd be peeking out from between the trees.” Dakota laughed. “I guess it was the medieval version of
Where's Waldo?”

Rick shivered as the familiar voice played through his mind.

“Piper, what's wrong?”

“We're digging up old memories, O'Keefe. Ones I'd just as soon leave buried.”

“For Christ's sake, Rick, don't tell me you were afraid of the Green Man?” Dakota looked incredulous. “He was into sex and orgies and all the finer things in life.”

“I was terrified,” he confessed. “I grew up on a steady diet of those stories, and the ones my grandfather told weren't about sex, they were about stealing the bodies of little boys. I took them very seriously.” He tried to laugh but it was a sick sound. “I was an overly sensitive child.”

Your body, Ricky, give us your body .
. .

“Body theft,” Dakota mused. “Every time my aunt Irene visited us—she was from Ireland—she told stories about the fairies and leprechauns. They'd take a human child and leave one of their own in its place. There was a name for it—”

“A changeling,” Rick supplied, glad that Dakota knew so much. It was just too juvenile and ridiculous to explain in detail.

“Yeah, that's it,” Dakota agreed. “Maybe you can answer a question for me, Piper.”

“I'll try.”

“What I always wondered when Irene told those stories was
why. Why
would these incredibly nifty beings want anything to do with humans when they were so free the way they were? That just never made any sense to me.”

Rick smiled wanly. “Without physical bodies, they can't feel or taste or smell—”

“Or have orgasms?” Dakota smirked.

“Or have orgasms,” Rick agreed. “They want sensation, like we have. The grass is always greener, you know?”

“Okay. Go on.”

“I don't know about all the other tales, but in the Piper clan stories, anyone's body would do in a pinch, but what the greenjacks really wanted was the body of a person who had the sight. The ability to see and hear them.”

“Why?”

“Grandfather claimed it was because they got very lonely if they couldn't communicate with their own kind.”

“That makes sense,” Dakota said. “So, Piper, did you ever see any of the little devils?”

Rick's cheeks grew hot. “I—I thought I did,” he stammered. “But I had an overactive imagination when I was a kid.”

“You don't sound like you're very eager to move back to the old hometown. Why not go somewhere else? Or do you have family there or something?”

“A senile aunt, but she's not the reason for going back. I own the family estate.”

“Estate? You're rich? Piper, you devil, you never told me—”

“I'm not rich. The family money that my parents left for maintaining the place is about gone. It's more a matter of cutting expenses, if you want the truth. The place is an estate more because of the size of the property than because of the house. It's big, but . . .”

“So sell it.”

“I've thought about it, but with the market so soft, if it sold at all, it wouldn't draw anywhere near what it's worth.”

“So where's Santo Verde?” O'Keefe asked, evidently oblivious to the tremble Rick heard in his own voice.

“It's in San Bernardino County, maybe fifty or sixty miles east of Los Angeles.”

“Nightlife?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Sounds boring.”

“It's a little bourgeois, but it's nice.” He paused. “Well, the Piper house isn't bourgeois. It's decidedly weird. Conlin built what he liked, so it's sort of part Carpenter Gothic and part Spanish hacienda. It has Victorian cabinetry and Spanish wrought iron. Some of the doors are arched, some are square. There're even a couple stained-glass windows.” He chuckled. “Calling it ‘eclectic' wouldn't begin to describe it. Oh, yeah, it's full of secret passages.”

“I
have
to see this place.”

“If I pack up and go, you're more than welcome,” Rick told him. “Its only about four hours from here, but it's very different. It's citrus country, nestled in right up against the mountains. In the thirties and forties a lot of the movie stars used to live out there. It's scenic.
Very
scenic.” His stomach twisted as he heard himself add, “It's the greenest place you'll ever see.”

“Dakota?” The door opened and Cody peered in. “Is dinner almost ready?”

“Another half hour. Why don't you take a banana and watch another cartoon show?”

“Okay.” The boy reached up and took a piece of fruit, then disappeared back into the living room.

Dakota turned back to Rick. “So this house you own is the same one that you grew up in?”

“The very same.”

“So how come you've never mentioned it before?”

“There are some bad memories . . .”

“How do you mean, ‘bad'?”

“Oh, you know, goofy stuff mostly. Kid stuff.”
Boy, does that sound stupid!
His hand trembled as he sliced a potato.

“Goofy? Kid stuff'?” Dakota stopped peeling to stare at him. “Come on, Rick. You think I can't see that this ‘goofy kid stuff' is eating you up? It's why you've never gone back, isn't it?”

Rick said nothing.

“No more bullshit, Piper, dear. What's the real story?”

“There's nothing else, Dakota, really. The place is a little run-down,” he added quickly. “At least that's what my lawyer says, but it's solid. It's in the best part of town, and the schools are excellent, but . . .”

“If it's so great, then what the hell are you raising kids in this hellhole for? Gambling, drinking, drugs, hookers . . .
Mormons,
for Christ's sake . . .”

“Rick! Watch out!”

Startled, Rick jumped, dropping the knife. It clattered into the sink.

“Jesus Christ, Piper! Let me see that.”

Rick recoiled as Dakota's water-cold hand grabbed his left wrist.

The potatoes he'd sliced into the colander were turning red. He watched bright blood splash into the white sink as Dakota pulled Rick's arm toward him.

“You're bleeding like a sieve.” O'Keefe pulled a wad of paper towels from the holder and wrapped them around Rick's fingers. “Jesus, I can't even see which finger you cut. Piper, you're as white as a baby's butt. Are you okay?”

“Not one of my smoother moves,” Rick said as he took charge of his hand, pressing on the towels to stop the bleeding. It was starting to hurt.

“Are you okay?” Dakota repeated.

“Fine. Got any Band-Aids?”

“Just a sec. Let me rinse the blood off these potatoes before it soaks in or something. What Cody doesn't know won't hurt him. Keep hanging on to those towels.”

Rick almost smiled. Dakota was nothing if not practical. He loosened the pressure, but the artery was still pumping. He tightened up again, feeling a little dizzy.

“You're shocky. Sit down,” Dakota ordered as he left the room. A moment later, he was back with a box of adhesive bandages and a bottle of iodine.

Carefully Rick unwrapped the hand, and everything south of his abdomen tried to climb to visceral safety as the pad of his middle finger, nearly severed, started to come away with the towels. Gingerly he loosened it and let it fall back over the wound.

“You need stitches,” Dakota said.

“No, I don't,” Rick answered.

“If that finger was your throat, you'd be dead.”

Rick snorted. “Don't be so dramatic, O'Keefe. It's not my throat.”

“Well, it's gaping. What are you planning to do? Staple it shut?”

“That's a thought,” he said, trying to ignore the throbbing. “But let's try a Band-Aid first.”

“You need stitches. The fucking thing is positively grinning at me.”

“It's cut on the bias,” Rick said, keeping his voice light. “All I need to do is tape it down. It'll glue naturally.” It was everything he could do to control his trembling. “The Band-Aid, please?”

“Suit yourself.” Dakota shrugged and unwrapped several bandages. Wearing a disgusted expression, he handed over one, then another, his lip curling as he watched Rick tape his flesh back together.

“I can't believe you did that yourself,” he said as Rick finished. “I'd pass out. Shit. You forgot the iodine. We'd better—”

“No. I don't need it. I bled out all the impurities.”

“What? Have you got a death wish? If it gets infected—”

“I don't get infections,” Rick said lightly. “I have the constitution of an entire bottle of antibiotics.”

“Piper, you are acting extremely weird. What are you, afraid of doctors?”

Quit'cher fuckin' cryin' boy, and take your whippin' like a man!
a new voice screamed in his ear. Dear God, how could he have forgotten about Uncle Howard? His head spun as he wondered what else he'd forgotten.

“Piper, you need stitches, so quit your macho man act!” Dakota stood up. “Come on. I'll get Cody and we'll run down to the emergency room—”

“Lay off, already!” Rick barked. “I cut my fucking finger, big fucking deal. I'll live.”

His harsh words made Dakota flinch as if he'd been slapped. Instantly Rick felt terrible.

“Sorry,” Rick muttered. “I didn't mean—”

“Mellow out, Rick,” Dakota interrupted. “I've never even heard you say ‘fuck' before, and now you say it twice in one breath. Just a wild guess, hon, but I'd say something's wrong.”

Get out of my face!
he wanted to scream. Instead, he spoke casually. “Nothing's wrong. It was just a stupid accident.” God, it hurt so bad, he could hardly stop clenching his teeth to talk. The only thing worse than the pain was the humiliation.

“If I cut myself like that, I'd be squalling so bad, my face would be puffy for a week, and I'd be getting stitches and pain pills. Look at you, pretending it doesn't even hurt.”

Rick said nothing. It took every ounce of control not to scream at Dakota to shut the hell up or to humiliate himself by admitting it hurt.

“Rick!”

“What?”

“Here! Take these!”

Dakota stood in front of him holding aspirin tablets and a glass of water. Rick hadn't even realized he'd moved.