"Come on," he whispered, taking Maggie by the hand. "You'll enjoy this."
Most everyone was here — slapping knees, clapping hands, playing whatever instrument they could. It seemed to Rourke that God was running a home movie twenty years old: The erratic glow from a roaring fire. Townsfolk, full of kinetic energy and certain of their immortality. Even poor, crippled Louise Polson had chosen to come outside and share in the fun. She looked lovely in the shadow and smoke, as if she were still capable of jumping to her feet and joining husband Hiram for a dance.
Moving closer, Rourke thought the wild celebration had an aura of desperation about it, a sense of gloom beneath. The shrill laughter of a tribe of aborigines attempting to frighten away some evil spirit.
Hiram cut loose on his jaw harp, striking up an infectious rhythm. A distant harmonica joined in as town drunk Spats Rafferty elected to participate. Spats remained hidden off in the rocks somewhere, probably with his bottle close at hand. He played "Dixie" like a virtuoso, but something unnatural kept resonating through the reeds of his harmonica. It came wailing out to put a grating edge on the wheezing, tinny chords. Peter felt his skin crawling. He thought he heard cries for help and grunts of lust; a bizarre assortment of cluttered sounds, all colliding within the music.
Super
, he thought.
Not my night.
Rourke surveyed the crowd. Sherrif Glenn Bates was not present, nor was Robert Reiss. The preacher was probably parked above the Grand Canyon at that very moment, having a blast with a noisy band of youngsters. Peter did spot telephone operator Gladys Pierson chattering with her moody friend Edith, but he wanted to settle somewhere a bit more private. Have Maggie all to himself and wait, with childlike excitement, for her nova of a smile.
Damn, Rourke
, he thought.
You may be in trouble
.
He paused to say hello to Candace Stone and her droll man, Bert.
"How are the chickens?" he offered.
"Not good," Candace shrugged. She appeared nervous, her eyes haunted. "We've had a little problem with a badger."
Bert interrupted, scowling. "Still have," he said.
Candace, flustered, went on. "Well, that's true. You see, Jake's been hunting it for us. We keep losing stock, maybe one or two a week. But other than that, things are fine at the school. Just fine. How about you?"
Rourke, puzzled, nudged Maggie forward. "Can't complain. Candace, Bert, I'd like you to meet Maggie Moore, our newest resident. Maggie inherited Agatha's house."
Candace rose and clasped Maggie's hands. "I'm so pleased to meet you," she said. "It'll be nice to have a new woman around to gossip with. Come by and see us, Maggie. Any old time. Really."
Bert had tuned out, fixed on the sparks thrown high by the blaze. Tiny comets, doomed to flare and fall; return to blacken and smear the parched earth. Candace covered without losing a beat. "Bert's a bit tired. The invitation stands, Maggie. I'll look forward to it."
Maggie, oblivious, responded with enthusiasm. She flashed her most appealing grin. "So will I," she said. "A pleasure meeting you."
Bert grunted, his face sallow and rigid.
"Peter. Peter Rourke!"
Rourke was enveloped in a sweaty bear hug. Hotel owner Hiram Polson, with his stoic Louise's tacit approval, had pickled himself for the evening. Hi was generally a good-natured drunk, playful and affectionate, though sometimes reckless. Peter chuckled, remembering one disastrous stunt jumping onto a bareback horse from a hayloft. Poor Hi had ended up prone for a week, his jewels the size of bowling balls.
"Hi Polson, Maggie Moore."
Hiram sighed. "If I was just a few years younger and a bachelor again, I'd give this ugly Irishman a run for his money. Lass, you're a real beauty."
Maggie patiently allowed him to kiss her hand. She helped him to steady himself when he lost his balance.
"Nice party," she said. "Don't you miss anything, Mr. Polson."
"Damn right!" Hi replied. He looked down briefly, then growled and stomped his foot like a trained mare. "Goddamned spiders," he mumbled. "Nice meeting you, ma'am. Peter is one lucky son of a bitch. Oh, I'm sorry."
He stumbled off, about to cross over into the promised land. Candace Stone forced him to accept a sandwich and a cup of black coffee. She gently steered him over to a redwood stool next to his wife's wheelchair. Polson began, sheepishly, to nibble at the food. Louise patted his hand indulgently, her eyes twinkling with amusement. There would be moans and aspirins come morning.
Urich, having closed up, arrived with a bottle of red wine. The thin, dignified druggist shortly found himself performing some clumsy square dance steps with Gladys Pierson. The grossly overweight telephone operator ran him ragged. It was an amusing spectacle. Cheers and whistles encouraged the clowning couple, and they continued until their legs were rubbery from exhaustion. Peter almost wished he'd brought his guitar.
They looked for Martoni, but the grocer was absent. Rourke and Maggie made the rounds, nodding and smiling, politely refusing a sip of corn liquor or a can of beer. They finally hunkered down near the fire next to a quiet stranger. Rourke extended his hand and introduced himself.
"The confused woman to my left is Maggie Moore. I don't believe we've met."
"No," the man said. He faced the ground, Peter's shoulder, Maggie's knee.
"What's your name?" Maggie asked.
"Langstrom," the man whispered. "Fred Langstrom. I stay over at the Polsons."
Rourke felt a chill and the urge to back away. There was so much loneliness and despair. This man was an imploding star, a black hole. Maggie, unaware, pressed on. "What brings you here, Mr. Langstrom?"
"I... I paint. Things. Desert things."
"So you love the desert, then?"
Langstrom considered. He might have turned pale, though it could have been a trick of the light. "Like I said, I paint things. Whatever I see here, I paint it."
"Oh."
Maggie became aware of the absurdity and of Rourke's subtle tugging at her sleeve. She smiled brightly. "Good luck with your work."
"Uh-huh."
A few steps later, she made a comic face. Peter broke up.
"Are they always like this, or is it the homemade booze?"
"They're just trying to make the best of things," he said. "Stretching life."
She giggled. "Nice phrase. You should try writing lyrics someday."
They left the strangely subdued revelry behind them and ambled slowly down the sidewalk. A long spell of silence, except for the gentle tapping of shoe leather. Their breath created small puffs of cold mist.
"You know," Maggie said, "we could end up with the whole town all to ourselves. That is, unless Michael comes to visit me."
Peter felt a pang of jealousy stab through him like a sliver of broken mirror. She saw his face and laughed. "Hey, Rourke. Michael is my brother. Don't get mentally irregular, okay?"
He reddened and found several interesting things to examine on the pavement. Maggie seemed pleased and proud of herself. Rourke felt like an idiot.
The sky was now a darker shade of blue, and a few stars freckled the horizon.
"We've got some time before dark," he said. "Would you like to come with me to confront some of my demons?"
She didn't answer, just fell into step beside him like a soldier on the way to the front.
The graveyard was empty, still as a sculpture. Evening breeze caressed fragrant sage and carved a pathway through tall, bleached blades of yellow grass. They jumped over the rusty iron fence. Inside, Maggie hugged herself.
"It's like boot hill," she said.
Rourke looked down. She'd gone white. The flesh around her pretty mouth was pinched and dry.
"Sure you want to tag along?"
She nodded. They walked up the narrow path towards a group of headstones.
MELISSA ROURKE.
"My mother," he told her.
"When did she die?"
"Several years ago. Uncle Jeremy brought her back to be buried next to my Grandfather."
"Your uncle?"
Rourke pointed to the next headstone: JEREMY SHARPE. He put his arm around Maggie and pulled her close, "Jeremy was rough, but more of a father to me than my real Dad. He practically raised me."
"Where is your real father?"
"I don't know. We stopped talking when my folks split up. Mom lost touch with him."
"He must have been a louse."
"No," Peter said softly. "Just another fool."
Maggie thought for a moment. "'Rourke' was your father's last name?"
"Yes."
She pointed to the oldest of the carved markers.
PETER SHARPE.
"My Grandfather," he murmured. "A great man in these parts, as they say. I loved him very much."
Ghosts rose in his guts.
"They're gone, Peter," Maggie whispered. "How can they still torment you?"
"I'd rather not answer that, Maggie," Rourke said. "I think I do want to tell you, just not right now. Okay?"
Maggie had her own secrets to protect. She hugged him. "Sure."
Dark drifted down from the sullen sky and settled all around them.
25
JAKE
It was pitch black, only moments after sundown. Jake, the mechanic, was well and truly pissed. He knew he was going to miss the fucking town party. He was hungry and tired, and worse yet he was fucking lost. He had finally found the spoor of a badger near five o'clock and started trailing the critter home. The damned varmint had led him one hell of a merry chase. But Jake, for once, didn't plan on giving up. He wouldn't have quit if his life depended on it.
Somewhere in the corner of his mind he'd realized he was getting awfully far away from Candace and her chickens. It wasn't even likely he'd found the right badger, since they tend to stay pretty close to home. But at least he'd found one. Flushed out something he could shoot. After the frustration of the last several days, that was an accomplishment.
Hell, he'd take Candace any badger. She'd be happy and Jake would be off the hook. He'd get himself a little revenge, too. So what if it wasn't the real culprit. Next time some other poor fool could set out on a snipe hunt. Never again, not even for one helluva good home cooked meal.
He knelt down and cocked his head to study an erratic, layered depression in the sand. A fight, he thought. The badger had run into something her size or a mite bigger. Most likely a bobcat, down from the hills.
Jake had paced in lazy circles until he found her tracks again. A few drops of blood shadowed the trail straight up a draw towards the foothills.
Shitfire
, he thought,
it's nearly dark. I wonder how far away she'll be. Probably not more than a mile.
It wasn't like a badger to stray.
Then he'd gotten screwed up somehow. Now, Jake had lived around Two Trees all his life. He hadn't been lost since he turned ten years old. Yet here he was, suddenly, on another planet. Walking across the surface of the moon. Nothing looked familiar, not for miles in any direction.
And then something else happened. A thing Jake could not recall having witnessed before, and this wasteland was his home: The night fell like a curtain. All at once. The desert just went black as coal, right before his eyes.
At first, things looked as unreal as on some fucking movie set. He couldn't have been more than a mile or two from town, but Jake didn't spot a single landmark. And then, when it was time for sunset (which would have given him West clear as a bell) there was no sunset. Bingo, lights out, nothing but ink.
Whatever was going on here, Jake was damn glad he had his gun with him. Because this was downright wrong. All out of whack. There were different shapes and sizes every place, as if some big sonofabitch was strong enough to shuffle the mountains like a deck of cards. Either that, or he was seeing things.
Or maybe, Jake thought with a chill, bein' made to see things. What some asshole wants me to see.
I shoulda known better, shoulda stuck where I belonged. Sat right there at home like I've always done before. The one time I give in, and look at the cow paddy I've gone and stepped on. I don't fuckin' believe this. I sure can't stay out in momma desert, going around in circles. I'll die that way. If this bastard won't come to me, maybe I gotta go to him.
Dark like the boogey-man's heart. I've never known it to get this dark before. Ain't natural. Somebody's screwing around out here. Maybe government scientists?
Jake tensed. Some atavistic instinct sent a new signal to his brain. One part of him still wanted to find some answers, but another voice began to scream for him to run; get as far away from Two Trees — and this eerie patch of desert — as his tired old legs would carry him. This black night was bad news.
He caught a whiff of an odd odor. It was coming from his left, floating down from the rise just above the foothills.
For some reason the foul smell filled him with revulsion, and panic loosened his bowels. Well, Jake thought dryly, I've had crazier hunches in my time. At least it's an idea.
He'd be stupid to freeze, hoping something would change. And only an idiot would go crashing around pointlessly until he got his ass jumped.
Jake sniffed the air like a hound. He started quietly up the slope feeling blind, clumsy and scared. He'd been dealt some shitty cards, but he'd have to play them out.
He couldn't see three feet in front of him, but the odor wasn't difficult to locate. It was overpowering, disgusting — and somehow familiar. Jake couldn't quite place it, but the closer he got to that stink the more it terrified him.
Given any alternative, he'd have been long gone. This was so unlike him, to be deliberately closing in on a hassle, he could hardly believe it was happening. To Jake, The World's Greatest Avoider?