Night Of The Beast (20 page)

"Yes, sir."

"Don't let me catch you again."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Relieved, Spats staggered towards the street before Bates had time to reconsider. He'd been lucky, very lucky. He paused to chug down some cheap red wine. That fucker is crazy, he thought. Hell, I got my rights. I live here like everybody else. Spent years balin' hay for the Andersons over in Clover Valley before they went belly up.
Why should I have to leave? This is my town, too. I wanna die right here in Two Trees. No goddamn boozer with a badge is better than me just 'cause he thinks so... Screw him. Screw 'em all.

He still needed a new place to sleep it off. Some safe spot, where he wouldn't be hassled. The tramp moved on, heading for the edge of town, temples throbbing in time with his bruised ribs. Exhausted, he rolled into the cool shade of a clump of sage. He promised himself he'd wake up before dark; find another bottle, maybe someone to talk to.

And fuck the sheriff, anyway.

Spats Rafferty passed out for the second time.

Rourke was swearing in front of his piano, searching for a decent rhyme. No such luck. Everything that came to mind seemed embarrassingly tired. He paced the cabin, sipping lukewarm coffee from a tall, brown mug.

Stumped.

When a song was going well, Rourke almost enjoyed these little hitches. Writing both words and music felt akin to assembling a huge crossword puzzle. This one would work, damn it, once he'd said things properly. The melody was already the shit, and drugs — rainbow— hadn't even crossed his mind.

Well, screw the problem for the moment. Peter decided to wander around. He tucked a rifle under one arm and stepped outside.
Guns show such a perverse side of my nature,
he thought.
I despise the act of killing, just can't see it as a sport, yet I do have this thing for rifles.
Well, maybe it wasn't all that much of an oddity. Probably just a phallic thing. He'd finally resolved the conflict within himself by blasting away at piles of junk and brush. It was hard to get all worked up over killing an empty soft drink can.

Monday was barking down the slope, probably in hot pursuit of a jack rabbit. Rourke strolled off into the tall trees, sawgrass whispering at his boots. It was an exceptional morning.

Peter impulsively climbed to the top of the rock spire overlooking Clover Valley and stood, panting, at the tip of a bleak knoll. He looked down. The wind buffeted him and he had to watch his footing. It was worth it. A seemingly endless spread of blue-green pine lay swaying beneath him, like a watercolor painting set in motion.

Rourke stretched his body flat against the stones and lay still, staring over the edge of the sharp drop at the gully far below. He raised his rifle and casually sighted on a clump of brush. He took his time, squeezed the trigger gently. The bullet whined off a rock face a little to the right.

You're rusty, he thought. Let's try that again
. This time he allowed for the wind whistling down from the north. The brush jumped high in the air and flew apart. Peter thought of antlers.

...They had ridden up into the high country, starting long before sunrise, Jeremy on Blackie and Peter astride a gentle horse named Blaze. Rourke wore a floppy, sweat-stained cowboy hat given him by his Grandfather and a red-and-white dime store bandanna. Flies tried to cling to Blaze's neck. He kept twitching his broad muscles in an effort to dislodge them. Peter brushed the insects away whenever they landed within reach, and the horse seemed grateful.

Later, a wasp dive-bombed the boy. Its sting raised a huge and painful welt on his left wrist. As the day wore on, the exposed skin began to sizzle like crisp bacon in a frying pan. Jeremy pretended not to notice when Rourke nudged Blaze over to try to hide in his uncle's long shadow.

Occasionally, Peter would ache to be like this man, to be as thin and rawhide tough. He would love to have made such an easy compromise with the nature of guns, blood and death. Rourke envied Jeremy his slow, steady eyes and the starbursts of wrinkled skin surrounding them. They were evidence of a lifetime spent riding in this hot, dry country under a working man's sun.

They left the horses two miles below the ridge and climbed, hand over hand, the rest of the way. Peter's ribs hurt and his palms bled, but he managed to keep up. Jeremy settled himself.

"Now we wait, Pinky."

Only Grandpa had called him Pinky. It disturbed him when his uncle used that nickname.

"This may bother you some."

The boy blinked, not understanding.

"It being your first kill."

Peter's mouth went dry. His stomach seemed to tie itself into a large knot.

Time passed.

Hours later, Jeremy elbowed him and pointed to the left. Rourke saw his first buck; so tall, brown and majestic it took his breath away. The animal's thick antlers were a work of art.

No recollection of aiming. He must have taken a deep breath, let half of it out and started to squeeze. Jeremy tapped his shoulder and he fired from reflex, as if the beautiful creature were just one more tin can on the back fence.

A pitiful bleat; dazed, clumsy steps forward. The handsome buck toppled over, kicked once and lay still. Peter found himself crying. He could not eat the meat. "Buck fever," Jeremy called it.

He couldn't have known the truth. Rourke had skulled the animal, purely by accident, just as his bullet buried itself in that tortured flesh. He'd read all the confusion; the pain and fear it felt; suffered until he could summon enough strength to shut his talent down. That's why he'd cried. Rourke had joined with the buck, tasted the horror of death first hand...

Peter snapped back to the present. He skulled something evil. This time he was able to cling to the sensation, refused to let it slip away. He closed his eyes and saw visions, portents, things black and vicious: A pentagram drawn by a roaring fire and deep, harsh voices demanding freedom; murder on wings, merciless and brutal; a huge door of some kind, hidden in a dark cavern, with a smell seeping through from beyond it: Corruption.

The surface bent as if being punched hard from inside. Rourke was stricken with terror. He was certain that door must never be allowed to open, that it led to the lair of an unspeakable monster. He caught a glimpse of a fetish of some kind; human arm bones in a tight cluster, wrapped in horse hair, fleshless fingers extended like talons. It seemed familiar…

[nearby]

…A presence: Malevolent and enormously powerful. It sensed him, noticed his probing. Peter could feel its hostility. He blocked. With a howl, the creature rushed closer.
Hahhauuhah…

Rourke shut down, gasping. He found himself curled in a ball like an infant. He had never in his life felt so afraid. The sensation departed slowly, and left him wondering if he'd gone momentarily psychotic; perhaps a flashback from the drugs?

Monday appeared and began whining with concern. Rourke held onto the dog, savoring the animal's life force. When he felt strong enough to get to his feet, he used the rifle as a walking stick and slowly made his way back down to the cabin. He was struggling to keep his thoughts like an empty movie screen, blank and impossible to read. Whatever he had brushed against had nearly invaded him. He wanted it to think of him as harmless, at least until he could make up his mind about what to do next.

Because he knew there might be another meeting. The creature could come looking for him again, if for no other reason than because he had very nearly seen its face.
Jesus, what the hell was that?

Timmy's mother was worrying again, maybe thinking about the mean way Daddy had left her all alone. She tried hard to hide it, but he could tell by the way she was playing. She barely bothered to look up at the hoop. The boy enjoyed winning, but not when it was just 'cause his Mom had somethin' heavy on her mind. That took all the fun out of it.

Timmy scouted the turf, swung his mallet and tapped the striped wooden ball right through the metal hoop. Smack into the pole — a perfect shot. His mother reached for her cigarettes.

"Mom, what's the matter? You worried about Julie?"

Paula smiled. "I guess."

"She looks okay, doesn't she? I mean, she's tired and stuff, but isn't that what happens?"

"Huh?"

"Isn't that what happens when people get lost and fall down in the woods?"

She laughed and waved him closer. A hug. "You're right, Timmy," Paula said. "It's very natural. Julie is all worn out and still a bit scared. That's probably all it is."

Her cigarette streamed fluffy white in the sunshine.

Timmy figured he'd push his luck, dig a little deeper. He sat next to her, spread his arms and placed his tiny palms flat in the grass.

"Julie was real sick once."

Paula seemed elsewhere. "Yes."

"Before I was born?"

"Just after, Timmy. You were less than a year old."

"You never told me what she had. It must have been awful. Is that why you're so scared right now?"

Paula puffed her cigarette. "She caught something very bad, son. Something with a long name that's hard to pronounce. It knocked her flat for several months. Julie had a tough time with everything — eating, sleeping, even going to the bathroom. She'd get better for a while, and then she'd have a relapse. We'd be right back where we'd started from. It was rough on all of us. Even you."

"Me?"

She kissed his forehead. "Well, you screamed for your dinner when it was late. And it was late pretty often, I'll tell you. For a while, we thought your sister was dying."

"Gosh."

"Yup. But then she went into what they call a remission, and the problem just went away. I couldn't believe it."

"You still don't believe it, do you?"

Paula blinked. "Hey, wise guy, you're a pretty smart kid."

Timmy beamed and adjusted his Dallas Cowboy T-shirt. He tried to imagine how it would feel to have big, wide muscles and broad shoulders. He wondered how tall he'd be when he was a grown-up. Would he be able to play football, like Peter Rourke, or would he be too small? He hoped he wouldn't be short, like his Daddy — or end up that fat.

"You haven't worn that shirt in ages," his mother observed. Timmy looked away and blushed.

"Mister Rourke said he played football in school. That made me think of it again. Is it okay?"

"Oh, sure it's okay," Paula laughed. "I was just asking. I thought that might be the reason."

"I like him, Mom."

"So do I. He's a nice guy."

Timmy hesitated, then plunged in with both feet. "Is there some way I can have him as my Daddy?"

Paula shook her head slowly. "No, son. I'm sorry. He's still your friend, though."

"That's not the same thing."

"I know. But I guess it will have to do, won't it?"

"They should make a law."

"About what?"

Timmy slipped down and worked his way under her arm. He felt a need to snuggle. He listened to the rhythm of her heart. His mother's heart, the first he'd ever heard.

"Never mind."

"No secrets," Paula said. "Come on, what's bugging you?"

"Daddy," he ventured, cringing a bit. "I just wish we had a new Daddy, that's all. Not our real one. I hate him and I hope he never comes back. But somebody. Know what I mean?"

Boy, do I,
Paula thought. Instead: "Those things take time, son. People need time to get to know one another. Getting married is a big commitment. It will be the most important decision you'll ever make in your whole life."

"Blah," the boy said. He made a face to signal his lack of enthusiasm. "I don't like girls. They're a drag."

Paula exploded with laughter. "You are in for a surprise, big fella," she said. "One fine morning you'll wake up with an entirely different attitude, I promise you."

Timmy liked to hear his Mom laugh. It made him feel good. But then all of a sudden she looked sad. Gee, adults were sure hard to figure out.

"I think Mister Rourke is a lot nicer than Daddy."

"I agree with you," his mother said.

"Then why did you marry Daddy?"

Paula gently pushed him away and gripped his hands. She spoke to him as an equal. "That's a tough one, kiddo."

"I know. Here comes the part where you tell me I'm too young or something. I'll understand when I'm older, right?"

She frowned. "Wrong. I want to give you a straight answer, Timmy. It's just not easy to explain."

He was so quick. So adorable. Paula took a deep breath: Oh, please don't let me screw this up. "Listen close, now. First, there are no such things as 'grown ups,' no matter what people tell you. Everybody goes right on learning new things, even when they're older, only it doesn't show as much once we stop being kids. It turns more inside than outside. Change is a private thing, so quiet we sometimes forget it's happening. Are you with me so far?"

Timmy nodded vigorously. He was zeroed in like a launched missile. "Yes, ma'am."

"Now, since we keep changing, we have to be very careful who we choose to spend the rest of our lives with. Because people have to work hard at trying to grow together. If they don't, they lose their friendship and become strangers. But that happens slowly, damn it. We don't even notice, at first, that anything's different. Understand?"

"Sort of. Is that what happened with you and Daddy?"

Paula looked away. Her eyes were damp.
He's such a brave little man
, she thought. He deserves the truth. "All of a sudden I was alone, even when we were together. We were living in the same house, but we didn't really know each other anymore. We just fell out of love, Timmy. Only it took much longer than falling in love. We lost whatever it was that drew us together."