Harvest of Changelings (27 page)

“Yeah, I have,” he said and drained his cup and stood. He wasn't wearing his collar and he didn't look much like a priest. T-shirt, jeans, Nikes. “I've got to get back to St. Mary's. Ben, you'll know when to ask me for help. Be careful. They will kill you and Malachi if they have to, to prevent him crossing over. He's important.”

“He'll die if he stays here. Why is God letting this happen? Why is He letting evil run loose? Why is He changing the pronunciation of this universe's word of creation?”

Father Jamey had no answers.

 

The governor of North Carolina, according to National Public Radio, is considering declaring the state to be under martial law. He declared a state of emergency this morning. He has ordered the National Guard to mobilize, and is consulting with Senators Helms and Sanford and even the White House.

Malachi told me this morning, on the way to school, that he had had a dream of flying over North Carolina, being guided by the twelve-pointed star around his neck. He said the star was pulling him east.

T
HREE DAYS AFTER HILDA'S FUNERAL BEN CAME looking for him.

“Jack, if you don't open this damn door, I will knock it down. I swear I will. I know you are in there.”

Jack sighed, looking at the knife in his hand. He had waited too long. He knew Ben wouldn't go away and that Ben would knock down the damn door.

“The door's not locked; come in.”

“You look like shit. You haven't been eating—damn, Jack, you haven't even changed your clothes since the funeral. And what in the hell are you doing with a knife? Give it to me,” Ben snapped and threw the steak knife across the room. “Are you out of your fucking mind? I don't have time for you to be messing around with a damn knife. Now get up and get some clothes, you're coming with me. I know how it is—remember how I was when Valeria died? Hadn't been for you, and if I hadn't had a baby to look after—never mind, I'll get your clothes,” Ben growled and stomped off down the hall.

“Valeria has been dead for ten years. You've had time to get over it; you've got Malachi,” Jack said to Ben's retreating back. He was sitting in his living room, facing the television. He hadn't bathed or
shaved, let alone changed clothes since coming back from Hilda's parents in Charlotte. Would he have used the knife? He
had
tested it against his skin; it
was
sharp enough.

Ben turned to stare hard at Jack. “No, I'll never get over it; I've just learned to live with it, and you can, too. And I know you haven't had ten years—but I need you now. Alive. Thomas isn't your fault. Where's that duffel bag of yours?”

“In the closet, top shelf. But you have her son.
My
son, my only son, killed Hilda. My only son is a murderer, a black witch, a practitioner of the dark arts and the whole fucking world is going crazy.”

Ben came back in the living room, carrying a stuffed duffel bag. “This should be enough for a few days; we can get some more stuff later. Now, get up.”

“Why?”

“Like I said: I need you. I can't do this alone. I can't protect Malachi and three other kids, and get them to the gate on Halloween—if we can find the gate—and now his teacher is calling. She wants to know why he's been out of school so much. Told me he's already missed too many days. Made some vague comment about reporting these absences, making sure Malachi was really all right. I told her where to get off. Now, come on.”

“What do you want me to do? I can't do anything,” Jack muttered, looking away from Ben. “I can't save my wife; I can't save my son. How can I save my best friend and his son? Who is going to save me?”

“I'm trying to. Now get the fuck up,” Ben said. “Okay, I'll get you up.” He grabbed Jack and pulled him to his feet. “Let's go.”

Jack let Ben haul him next door, untie his tie, pull his jacket and shirt off, shuck off his shoes, and socks, and then shove him in a shower. (“You can take off your pants yourself.”) After standing there, his pants and underwear soaked, water pooling at his feet, Jack started crying for the first time since the funeral. Jack slowly started peeling off his sodden clothes until he was naked. He leaned into the shower then, wanting nothing more than the water to keep beating his head, pounding its way into his brain. He cried for a long time.

 

That had been seven days ago and nothing had happened since the funeral. No more dragons were sighted in the air, no more unicorns wandered out of the woods. No more shadows moved without bodies, no more children disappeared. Schools reopened and parents
started sending their children back to school. Jack met all his classes at State.

Men and women, calling themselves white witches, appeared on local television and warned the public whatever was happening wasn't over, that Samhain was coming, and people should get prepared.

“What,” a bemused Channel Eleven reporter asked, “should we do? Wear garlic?”

“Yes, and rowan,” one of the white witches said. “Burn marjoram; it will help people accept the changes that are coming—”

Psychiatrists also appeared on TV to talk about mob psychology and mass hallucination and to make fun of the white witches. Everywhere, most people sighed in relief and turned the TV off when the white witches came on the air. But garlic and marjoram weren't to be found on the shelves. Rowan trees lost a lot of leaves.

Jack met Ben at the library Thursday afternoon. “Did you see the
News and Observer
this morning? There was another white witch on TV last night and today the paper prints this article on mass psychosis and that everything is all over and we can go about our business as if nothing happened.”

“I saw it; I even called the paper,” Ben said, shaking his head. “I told them it wasn't over and everything really did happen and more is going to happen. The reporter wanted to know how I knew and didn't I think my kind of talk was just going to scare people. I said that people should be scared and that she was an idiot. Then I slammed the phone down. I should have told her that every day three children fly to my house—through the trees, hiding in clouds, walking at strategic points. They are all waiting for Samhain and for me to get to them to that gate. And today—”

“What happened today?” Jack asked.

“I got a call from Malachi's principal. Wants me to come in tomorrow. Very serious, she said, Malachi's welfare.”

Jack looked around the library. Today was the first day it was crowded again. People were trying to believe what the newspaper had said and were coming out of their houses and doing more than just going back and forth to work. Even so, they looked wary, glancing over their shoulders and around the room from time to time. And the library's books on anything remotely connected to magic had to be put on two-hour building-use-only reserve, or the shelves would have been stripped. Staff had to start searching bags and purses and knapsacks at the door to be sure the reserve books were just being used in the building and not borrowed by “mistake.”

“So we had a respite. We rested while the Fomorii and their people gathered their strength,” Jack said.

Ben nodded.

Camille found Malachi Tyson in one of the study carrels in the library asleep over a book. His class was at PE down on the playground.

“He has a doctor's note—but I have my doubts,” Charlotte Collins had said to her that morning. Camille had been in her office, reviewing Russell White's thick file. Hallie Bigelow had asked her to. The boy was doing much better, Hallie had said, and he seemed to have finally made one friend, Jeff.
Jeff Gates
, of all people. How did those two find each other
?
One wounded soul knows another?
Hallie had wondered if maybe she should just let well enough alone, but still, this change seemed a bit too quick.
Jeff certainly needs a friend, too. And here I am, reviewing a bad boy's file because he is now a good boy?
Camille had tried telling Charlotte that maybe if she expected Russell to be good, he might surprise her—kids live up or down to our expectations, she had said. Charlotte had ignored her. Camille tucked her brown hair behind her ears, and pushed her glasses back up her nose. Back to the bad-boy-gone-good's file— “He has a doctor's name—but I have my doubts. Camille?”

Camille had jerked up from Russell's file, her glasses almost falling off.
Note: go to optician's today.
Charlotte Collins stood in the door of her office, a dark frown on her face—and her eyes—surely they weren't red. Odd the room seemed darker with her in it.

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Charlotte. I must have spaced out completely. Who has a doctor's note you doubt?”

 

That had been an hour ago. Camille Bondurant, school social worker, investigating—checking up—Hell. What parent would fake a doctor's name? Just to get a kid out of PE? To the point of faking doctor's stationery? She sighed and leaned down to gently shake Malachi awake. He felt so warm—could he be running a fever?
It's my job to investigate cases of neglect.
She shook Malachi's shoulder again.

“Malachi?”

He slowly looked up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Mrs. Collins said you weren't feeling well and I just thought—”

Malachi looked hard at her, as if he could see something about her she couldn't. “You're not the nurse. You're the counselor.”

“She just mentioned in the lounge and I had to come in the library to pick up a copy of—
Nana Upstairs and Downstairs
—for my grief group and I saw you.”
God, I am a terrible liar and I have no idea if that is the right name for that book.

“I have some sort of flu. My father said it's going around. I'm better; I just get tired easily.”

“What sort of flu?”

“Stomach. I'm okay, Mrs. Bondurant. I just get tired easily.”

“Why aren't you at home? What did the doctor say?”

“I felt okay this morning. My dad didn't want me to come anyway. I had to promise I would call him if I felt sick again.”

Pretty quick with the answers. Rehearsed? And he didn't answer my question about the doctor. He seems to be hiding something. Am I getting paranoid or is Charlotte Collins?

“You feel warm; I think you'd better call him,” Camille said. “You can't even keep your eyes open to read.”

Malachi stared hard at her again, his odd eyes seemingly brighter. She finally had to look away, her skin prickling.
What is this child seeing? And why is he holding on so hard to this carrel? Like he would float away if he let go? What is going on with this kid?

“Okay, if you think so.”

Camille watched Malachi walk out of the library and down the hall to the office. Something was odd, but neglect? The doctor's note looked real. She just didn't know enough.

Above her the fluorescent lights popped and went out.

Hallie Bigelow frowned at the clock in her office. Friday, October 11, 7:45 A.M. In fifteen minutes, Ben Tyson would be sitting in one of the chairs facing her and so would Charlotte Collins, Ben's son's teacher. Hallie didn't want either of them in her office for the reason they were coming. Where was her coffee? She had put her mug down right here on her desk—was she losing her mind? Put something down for a minute and—there it was, below today's breakfast and lunch menu. Hallie picked up her dark blue Duke University mug and took a long swallow. She wondered if she had tried hard enough to talk Charlotte out of all this. At least the woman hadn't called DSS—or had she? Charlotte
had
gotten Camille Bondurant to talk to the boy, but all the social worker had said was that Malachi had thought he was better from some flu and came back to school too early—after arguing with his father. He should have stayed at home. Camille, when pressed, said something
was
odd, but what,
she couldn't figure out. She was adamant that she had no proof of neglect. Hallie shook her head. Damn Charlotte Collins. The woman had always had a mean, self-righteous streak in her, Hallie thought, and she didn't like people brighter than she was—like Malachi and Ben Tyson. Or Hallie Bigelow, for that matter.
If only we paid teachers enough money.

She took another swallow of her cold coffee. If Charlotte had called DSS, Hallie would be furious—just thinking about it made her more than a little irritated. Innocent until proven guilty, right? She got up to pace her office: a neat square enclosing her desk. She just couldn't believe Ben Tyson was guilty of criminal neglect in regard to his son. After Charlotte had talked to her, Hallie had made some calls. Well-respected librarian in Garner, been there for almost fifteen years, pillar of the community, regular church-goer, widower who doted on his only child. Not that any of these were guarantees, she reflected as she flicked open and closed the venetian blinds. Too many well-respected churchgoers had been guilty of child abuse. Hallie had met Ben when he came to check out the school and later, to enroll Malachi. She had been sure then Ben was a good man. And if Hallie Bigelow was anything, she was a good judge of character.

What had possessed Charlotte to even suggest Ben was hurting his child? Had she become one of those born-again fundamentalist Baptists who believed all Catholics were papist idolaters bound for hell? Hallie shook her head: too crazy. And surely she would have noticed that if it had happened to Charlotte. Charlotte didn't even go to church, Hallie remembered. Maybe the craziness that had infected the world had infected Charlotte Collins.

Hallie drained her coffee mug and glanced at her watch: 7:51. Nine more minutes. Her twelve days of grace were over. Nothing weird since the end of September. Until this morning. She had only been half-listening to the radio on her way into school when an excited reporter started describing what was happening between Norfolk and Elizabeth City. Monsters were crawling out of the Dismal Swamp. Godzilla-like monsters. Highway 64 in North Carolina and Highway 58 in Virginia were packed with people running scared, and heading west. She started pacing again, this time pausing to pick up and examine and put back down objects on her desk: the telephone, pencils, pens, a Blue Devil paperweight, the stapler, a Post-it packet identifying her as Boss Lady. Her grandmother had been right: there were unseen things in the world. Spirits and things that did go bump in the night. Never leave a candle to burn out, it
brings bad luck. When Hallie had moved into her new house, a few months before her grandmother had died, the old woman had come over to give her a threshold blessing. Granny had hung three pinecones over the front door, and what had the inscription above them said?
Who comes to me, I keep /Who goes from me, I free lYet against all I stand /Who do not carry my key.

Maybe it was time to hang that inscription back up. People with glowing eyes. People flying, disappearing into thin air. They had never really gone away, had they? We just didn't see them for twelve days because we didn't want to, or we couldn't: shock overload. Just too much that couldn't be explained. Every morning she and her next-door neighbor left for work at the same time. Every morning they would smile at each other and wave as they got into their cars. Today her neighbor's eyes glowed green.

The governor was talking again about declaring martial law, by Saturday; the National Guard was placed on full alert, along with Fort Bragg and Pope Air Force Base and Seymour Johnson and Camp Lejeune. Not that tanks and guns could fight fairy tales. The whole northeast corner of the state was supposed to be in a total panic. The Navy had evacuated dependent families from Norfolk and evidently naval artillery and aircraft had been tried and failed. People were so on the edge, nerves frayed, that she was afraid they were going to fall off. The suicide rate had skyrocketed. So had physical assaults, random violence. Chaos within and without.

Hallie finally stopped pacing at her gift shelves, where she kept all the little things children had given her over the years. Ceramic apples, little school bells, Duke blue devils, dried flowers, clumsy clay handprint ashtrays. She glanced at her watch: 7:59. In a minute the parents of the gift-givers would start calling to tell her their kids were staying home.

There was a knock on the door. Hallie turned around to see the school secretary, Trudy Anderson, standing there, wearing a raincoat and carrying an umbrella.

“Good morning, Trudy. I didn't hear the weather report this morning. Rain?”

“I didn't, either, but the clouds are sure dark. Mr. Tyson's here, Hallie, and so is Mrs. Collins. Both of them are out in the lobby, standing about as far apart as two people can get and still be in the same space. And you should take a look at Charlotte, Hallie. She looks really strange,” Trudy said in a low voice. Then the phone rang.

“You get the phone; I'll ask them in,” Hallie said with a heavy sigh.

“Heard half the buses aren't running, either. Good morning, Nottingham Heights Elementary, can I help you?”

Hallie, wishing she had had at least one more cup of coffee, stepped out into the lobby. “Ben, thanks for coming over this morning. I wish you were here under happier circumstances. But, as I told you over the phone, Charlotte has called some things to my attention that we need to discuss. Come on in and let's sit down and talk. Yes, please, close the door, Charlotte. Thank you. Now, Ben, as I was saying—”

Charlotte did look really strange. What had she done with her hair—spilt a peroxide bottle on it? And her eyes—were they darker and redder?

“Hallie, this man is abusing his son. Call DSS; this little meeting of yours is a waste of time. Camille Bondurant told me the boy was too sick to be at school,” Charlotte Collins said, cutting Hallie off with one slash of her hand. Ben froze, his hands on the chair arm, his body poised above the seat. “That child has been out of school two or three times a week since school started—he's already used up his quota to be able to pass the fifth grade. I am positive it's Mr. Tyson's neglect and maybe worse than that is keeping Malachi out of school—”

“Go ahead, Ben, sit down. Charlotte, stop. I talked to Camille, too. She also said that Malachi had felt better before he left home, persuaded his father he was okay, and then he felt worse,” Hallie said, making an even sharper gesture with her hand. “Let me talk.” What in the hell was going on? This wasn't how this meeting was supposed to go. What was the matter with Charlotte? Was she crazy? The woman had ten years of teaching experience; she knew better. “Ben, Mrs. Collins is concerned because of Malachi's high number of absences and his—well, deteriorating appearance. Just concerned, that's all.”

“He's not behind. He always makes up his work. He did feel better the day Mrs. Collins is talking about. Why is the school social worker interrogating my son? What is going on?” Ben said slowly, not looking at Charlotte, his hands tight around the chair arms.

He looked wary, on guard.
My God,
Hallie thought,
maybe Charlotte hit a nerve. No, not Ben Tyson. He's pissed off—with good reason—for being accused of hurting his boy. I'd be pissed, too.

“He has been having some health problems lately, but he's under a doctor's care, and the doctor assures me he is fine.”

“What doctor, Mr. Tyson?” Charlotte asked. “I checked the name on Malachi's health forms—and while Dr. Todd Tilman does
indeed practice right here in Raleigh, the receptionist told me there are no patient records for a Malachi Tyson in their files. I don't believe that child has even seen any doctor; you're just cooking up some perverted home remedy, some sort of bizarre ritual with your own son—”

“You are out of your mind and how dare you invade our privacy by calling the doctor's office. I take good care of my son. He saw Dr. Tilman, who is one of the most respected pediatricians in the city. God only knows who you talked to in his office—if you talked to anybody, that is. The receptionist wouldn't tell you that—you are lying. The person who is sick and perverted is you—”

Ben hesitated, just a little. Didn't he
?

“Hallie, Miss Bigelow, this man is lying. He's not taking care of his son—you can look at the boy and tell that. The boy is ill and his father is guilty of criminal neglect and abuse. These medical records are fakes—I know that's against the law. If you'd let me call DSS immediately instead of insisting on this innocent until proven guilty crap, Malachi would be safe now.”

“You will not take my son away from me.” Ben stood and stepped back and away from Charlotte Collins, toward the office door. “You're working with the Fomorii, aren't you? You smell like evil, like one who's been to bed with evil. You're not touching my boy. Either that or you've gone completely crazy like everybody else.”

“You are out of your fucking mind,” Charlotte hissed, after a pause that was just a little too long.

“Will you both shut up?” Hallie shouted. “Ben, I don't know what the hell you are talking about, but wait, don't leave. Please.” It will be all over school in a minute, she thought. “Can't we discuss this like adults—no fairy tales, no threats? Please, sit down. Ben.” He stood by the door, one hand on the knob.

“Let him leave, Hallie,” Charlotte said, her voice now cold and measured. “The charge of criminal neglect isn't going away. Or any other charge. I think DSS will want to know why Russell White, Jeff Gates, and Hazel Richards were seen leaving Mr. Tyson's house at odd hours of the night. And why Russell was wearing just a T-shirt and gym shorts. I don't think they will think I am the crazy one.”

“What are you talking about? You are possessed—you are one of their lackeys, aren't you? They own you, body and soul, don't they? What was your price, Mrs. Collins? Remember what happens in the old stories to people who sell their souls?”

Charlotte flinched. Hallie was sure of it: Charlotte had flinched.
Had she really sold her soul to the Devil? What am I thinking? And
Ben—did he pause or did he not, before he answered her—are those kids coming to his house?

Maybe
she
was going crazy.

“Go back to hell,” Ben yelled, jerked the door open, and literally ran. Trudy stared in amazement, her hand frozen over the phone which was ringing and ringing and ringing.

“Charlotte, what the hell is going on? Trudy, get the damn phone. I thought we were going to discuss the child's health and you are accusing Ben Tyson of being a child molester? Are you crazy?” Hallie shouted, knowing she was shouting, wishing she wasn't shouting, and knowing she couldn't stop shouting. The phone started ringing again—this time Trudy got it on the second ring.

“Hallie Bigelow, you will be going to jail along with Mr. Tyson. I am going to go into the health room, pick up the phone, and call DSS,” Charlotte said slowly and then, as slowly, she got up and walked out of the office and into the health room.

“Trudy: the health room line,” Hallie shouted.

“I got it—I got it—” Trudy shouted back.

Charlotte stepped into the doorway between Trudy's office and the health room. Her eyes—they looked as if they were not just red; they looked like they were on fire.

“You can't stop me,” she said and left.

“What just happened? Is everyone crazy?” Hallie said, shaking her head, as she watched Charlotte Collins walk down the hall to her classroom. “That was sure one hell of a waste of time.”

“Yes, everybody is going crazy,” Trudy said as she put the phone down. It started ringing again, almost instantly. “I have never seen anything like it. Nottingham Heights Elementary, please hold. Central Office called, by the way—this will really make your day—they're thinking of closing all the schools for good, until the crazy things stop. Emergency meeting of the school board this morning. Sit down, Hallie honey; let me get you some more coffee. Thank you for holding, may I help you? Yes, Mr. Parker, I will tell Miss Murphy that Danny isn't coming today, thank you. That makes—let me see, I've been keeping score—the fortieth call all about the same thing: why their kid isn't coming or they are coming to pick them up. Give me your cup and don't answer the phone.”

“What time is it?”

“8:17.”

All that had taken only seventeen minutes?

Hallie Bigelow stood very still by her desk, ignoring the ringing phone with its blinking lights. Forty kids and counting. If this kept
up, the school would be closed regardless of what the school board did. Sighing, she picked up the phone.